Heads You Lose (14 page)

“In other words the thing was done before the snow stopped falling?”

“Yes, exactly. And it stopped snowing at midnight. Pippi was seen alive at eleven, so that leaves an hour. For about forty minutes of that hour, Lady Hart and Fran and Venetia and James and I were together in the drawing-room, and saying good-night on the stairs; besides, the house was locked up and I really don’t see how any of us could have got out or in. But you could, old boy. You had the key. And what’s more, you had a whole hour.”

“Thanks very much,” said Pendock, liking it a trifle less. “What am I supposed to have done with my hour?”

“This is only what I was thinking,” said Henry hastily. “At least, I wasn’t even thinking it, but it was at the back of my mind. Because of course you
could
have got out and done the girl in and dumped her in the summer-house, and been back in bed by the time we all came upstairs.” He glanced at Pendock with his disarming smile.

“What did I do with the weapons?” said Pendock coldly.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Pen,” said Henry, venturing upon the shortened form of his name for the first time in their acquaintance. “We were only saying what we had in our minds before the cobwebs got blown away. I mean, it was obviously the only solution, unless there was some unknown person involved. We’ve agreed that there
was
someone else in the house; someone was telephoning in the library when you went upstairs.”

“But they couldn’t have got out,” said Pendock irritably. “You said so yourself, half an hour ago. And how did they know Miss Morland had said that she wouldn’t be seen dead in Fran’s hat? And what about Pippi’s scarf? No one could have known it was in that drawer—except us six…”

The village closed about them. As they turned in to its little main street Pendock was thinking that “in the back of his mind” Henry had been entertaining some remarkably well-formulated theories against himself; walking past the pub, Henry told himself that, dash it all, he hardly knew the fellow, had never set eyes on him until last year, though he had heard so much about him from Venetia; turning in at the gates of Pigeonsford House, it occurred to them both that James, though they had thought they knew him so well, had proved to be a bit of a mystery, marrying that frightful le May girl behind all their backs; and as they trudged up the drive, cross and out of sorts, they remembered what an imperious, self-willed woman was Lady Hart. Pendock thought of Venetia, docile and gentle, and easily led by those she loved, doting on this wretched little Jew; Henry thought of Fran, petted, high-tempered, wayward, resolute; and as they mounted the steps to the big front door, the network of uneasy suspicion was about them once again. The gods had come back to the ant-heap and were making themselves at home.

Lady Hart and James asked for no favours but walked up and down the terrace, side by side. James muttered something under his breath. “What did you say?” asked Lady Hart sharply.

“Did I say something?” said James, mildly astonished. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about the snow; I must have been quoting.”

“Well, don’t quote,” said Lady Hart irritably, for she had brought James out to tell him what she thought of him, and this was not the beginning she had prepared. “And there are rather more important things to be thought about than the snow.”

“The police don’t seem to agree with you,” suggested James, pointing to where the constabulary of Torrington revolved uneasily about the summer-house. “They’ve measured the distance between the railway and the summer-house fourteen times, to my certain knowledge.”

“You’re playing for time, James,” said Lady Hart severely and, as it happened, unjustly. “I came out here to say something to you, and it was this: I think you have been very cruel to Fran and most deceitful to us all.”

“In what way, Lady Hart?” asked James politely.

“In not telling us that you were married to Pippi, of course. After all, we were your friends.”

“There were very good reasons why I shouldn’t tell my friends,” said James coolly.

“Not all your friends, perhaps. But you might have told
us”

“That’s what all my friends will say.”

She moved her shoulders impatiently, and began again: “Here you were, making love to Fran—”

But he interrupted her, pointing out mildly: “If you’ll forgive my contradicting you, Lady Hart, I was
not
making love to Fran. In fact I was nearly killing myself not making love to her, because I knew I wasn’t in a position to do so. I meant to see Pippi directly my leave was over, and arrange with her about the divorce we had promised each other, if ever either side wanted it; but in the meantime I suddenly realised that Pendock would ask Fran to marry him, long before I was free, and I thought it was at least fair to myself and to Fran, and even to him, perhaps, to tell her that I loved her too. Before I did so, I told her all about Pippi. She said she’d told you…”

She caught his arm with a swift gesture, looking round her anxiously: “For God’s sake don’t talk so loud, James; someone might hear you…”

“What does it matter if they do?” said James, who had been speaking in his own soft, lazy drawl.

“Don’t you see, James, that if the police knew that you had told Francesca about your marriage, they’d connect her with Pippi’s murder. They’d think Fran killed her because she was your wife.”

“It seems a very unlikely course for Fran to have taken,” said James nonchalantly, walking along beside her, tossing a penny up and down. “I mean, I know she’s an impatient person, but wouldn’t she just have waited for a divorce?”

“She knew I would never let her marry you if you were divorced,” said Lady Hart swiftly.

The penny missed a beat. He suggested diffidently: “After all—Fran’s twenty-four.”

“She would never have gone directly against my wishes.” She added, as though to herself: “Besides, there was more to it than that. They’ll think that when Grace Morland looked out of her window that night, and said she had someone in ‘the hollow of her hand’—it was Fran she meant. Miss Morland hated Fran. I saw it that day in the drawing-room… not for herself, of course, but because she represented so many things that Miss Morland had never had and never known—and one of those things was Pen’s love. The police will say that she saw you with Pippi in the orchard, James, and perhaps heard what you said; and that she saw how she could injure you and Fran, and that Fran silenced her.”

He looked at her curiously. “Why Fran? Why not me?” and as she did not reply, he stopped walking and put away his penny and said earnestly: “Lady Hart—do you believe that I truly love Fran?”

She stopped also, and faced him squarely. “Yes, James, I do believe that.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what’s in your mind?” he said. “What do you know about Fran that’s frightening you? Couldn’t you tell me? I might be able to help.”

She eyed him dubiously and seemed to be taking a big resolution. She said at last slowly: “Very well. James, while Miss Morland was being killed down by the drive—Fran was not in her room!”

He swung round upon her. “Good God! Have you known that all this time?”

“Yes, all this time. I looked into her room before I went to call Pen, and she wasn’t there. And afterwards she told us lies and said that she’d been asleep all the time. I’ve wanted to ask her, and I haven’t dared… James! It’s haunted me night and day… where can she have been?”

He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. After a pause he said: “If I tell you the answer to that question, will you answer a question of my own?”

She caught at his arm. “Anything, James, anything.”

“Then why,” said James, with great deliberation, “did you deny to Cockrill that you knew about my marriage to Pippi? You did know, didn’t you? Fran herself had told you the day before.”

She shrugged it aside indifferently. “I’ve already explained that to you. It was imperative that Fran shouldn’t let Cockie know that she’d been aware of your marriage. He was separating us up and was going to interview us each, before we could say anything to one another; I took a leaf out of Pippi’s book and tried to tell Fran, right under his nose, that I would keep silent about the whole affair…”

James began to laugh. “You honestly don’t know what a worry it’s been to me…”

“But Fran!” she said urgently. “Where can she have been that night, James? What can she have been doing? If you can tell me anything to set my mind at rest…”

“I don’t know if it’ll exactly set your mind at
rest,”
said James, grinning, and he took out the penny and started to toss it again. “In fact it may worry you a good deal more than ever. You see she was sitting in the library canoodling with me!”

T
HE INQUESTS UPON THE
two victims were arranged to follow immediately after one another. Pendock and his guests were summoned to attend at ten o’clock the following morning, and there followed an anxious discussion as to whether or not Aziz would be permitted to enter. “Because if not, then either Venetia or I will have to stay at home with him,” said Fran. “He can’t be left alone, possibly.”

“The servants’ll look after him,” said Pendock.

“He wouldn’t stay with them,” said Venetia earnestly. “He’d simply howl the place down. He won’t be left with anyone except Fran or me; or Henry or Granny—he doesn’t mind them.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Hart. “It’s very good of him, I’m sure:”

“People don’t understand about dachshunds,” explained Fran to the world in general. “They just love a selected few and they won’t put up with anyone else. Will they, Venetia?”

“Aziz won’t,” agreed Venetia; “and Esmiss Esmoor wouldn’t. She howled worse than Aziz.”

“She did not,” said Lady Hart indignantly.

“Oh, Granny, you only say that because Esmiss Esmoor was yours. She was simply frightful…”

“Well, I’m quite sure that Aziz won’t be allowed into the inquest,” said Pendock, interrupting what threatened to develop into a heated argument. “And I don’t think you’d better try and take him. The people here would think it was disrespectful.”

They protested against any such suggestion. “By the way, ought we all to wear black?” asked Lady Hart, weary of Aziz and all his complications. “Would it look silly? I don’t know what one does on these occasions.”

“Of course we oughtn’t to wear it,” said Fran immediately. “It would be nothing but hypocrisy; we didn’t like Miss Morland particularly and we didn’t like Pippi at all…”

Lady Hart sighed. “I shall wear my blue,” said Fran.

Venetia quelled the storm of protest that followed this declaration. She said in her firm little voice: “That’s going too far, Fran. That’s making a parade of not being hypocritical, and it’s almost worse. Nobody wants you to wear black cotton stockings and a long crape veil, but you must put on something quiet. Wear your fur coat and have a black hat and gloves and things…”

It felt like going to church on a Sunday morning to be walking down the drive, all dressed up: the men in dark overcoats, Lady Hart in black, carrying her handbag like a prayer book, the girls in simple things, with the more cheerful notes removed from their hats. Bunsen walked at a respectful distance behind, and as they went through the village they were met with stares of interest and some hostility. Their reactions were characteristic, for Lady Hart was infuriated by it, Pendock contemptuous of it, Henry was made supremely uncomfortable by it, and Fran and Venetia did not recognise it at all; only James was both aware of the ill-feeling and totally indifferent to it.

They were met at the door of the tiny schoolhouse by the Vicar, a muscular young man, his clerical wings still damp from the seminarial egg. He advanced upon them, rather like the host at a garden party. “Good morning, Mr. Pendock. A very—ah—melancholy occasion; that’s the correct phrase, I believe?” He affected a deprecatory smile, a jolly young fellow trying to do his Christian best with the indulgence of kind Mr. Pendock. Fran entertained the rest of the party with an almost imperceptible pantomime of being sick.

Pendock was a simple man at heart. He saw only a bumptious young chap doing his rather facetious best, and he shook hands and said that it was all a dreadful business, and he hoped it would soon be cleared up. “You can imagine that it’s not very pleasant for me, Mr. Plover, or for my friends…”

Mr. Plover was by now goggling at the two lovely sisters, and he heard very little of what Pendock said, and contented himself by replying automatically: “Oh, very pleasant! Delightful!” which considerably astonished them all. At this juncture a car arrived bearing Mr. Ablett, the solicitor from Torrington, whom Pendock had requested to watch the proceedings on behalf of himself and his friends.

Mr. Ablett was a waggish, indiscreet little man, with a coarse, jolly laugh; he dug Mr. Plover in the ribs and asked him what he had been up to. “All for Mother Church, eh?” said Mr. Ablett in a gale of laughter.

“Mother Church?” echoed Mr. Plover faintly.

“Done pretty well out of poor Miss M., haven’t you?” continued Mr. Ablett. “And now that Miss le May’s followed her, you’ll get her share too. No use suggesting, I suppose, that you should spend it on pulling down the church tower?”

Neither on the rugger field nor in his ecclesiastical college had Mr. Plover learnt to deal with jolly, common little lawyers. Pendock came to his rescue by taking Mr. Ablett gently aside and informing him that Miss le May’s husband happened to make one of the party; and further asking, with curiosity, whether he were referring to the will.

Miss Morland’s property had been divided into three legacies: a small life interest to Pippi, with reversion of the capital to the Church; a tiny income for Trotty under similar conditions; and the not inconsiderable rest to Pigeonsford Village Church, where her dear father had for so many years devoted himself to the souls of the parishioners. (Miss Morland’s dear father had devoted himself to both soul and body of one of his flock in particular, a certain Miss Flossie Port, but had naturally not confided in his daughter Grace.) Mr. Plover looked smug, and Lady Hart said that it was no business of hers, but she did think the Church could have waited until poor, faithful Trotty had been seen a little more comfortably into her grave. Cockie, his new felt hat already crushed out of shape, appeared on the steps of the hall with the Coroner, Dr. Mear.