Police at the Funeral (30 page)

He had insisted that the door of the library should remain open, and his insulting comments leapt after every flying figure which flitted past his blurred line of vision on the way to the stairs or the front door.

The quiet old house was seething. Fifty-year-old customs had been swept ruthlessly aside, habits of a lifetime were shattered, and it seemed as though the very furniture protested against this desecration of its calm.

Uncle William, who had received one of the most violent shocks of his career at the end of a long period of stress, was beside himself. He had reached the stage when he could not bear to remain still. A major revolution in the country would probably have had much the same effect upon him.

Dinner had been a fiasco. Aunt Kitty had not appeared and had remained in her room, where even now Joyce was attempting to get her off to sleep. Cousin George, also, had mercifully decided to stay in the library, where he criticized loudly the
food that was brought to him. Great-aunt Caroline had not been present either, and this perhaps had shaken the morale of the household more than anything else could have done. Except in times of illness, Mrs Faraday had taken the head of her table since the day of her husband's funeral in 1896.

Uncle William burst out again. ‘I can't understand Mother,' he said. ‘If she won't let us chuck him out, why won't she let us send for the police? The fellow comes here with a cock-and-bull story and she takes it seriously. Really, you would almost think she believed in it.'

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. ‘Somehow the bounder put up a very convincing story,' he remarked.

Uncle William stopped in his tracks, and his little blue eyes seemed to be on the verge of popping out of his head.

‘Do you mean to say . . .?' he began, and his voice trailed into silence. He turned to Campion. ‘Do
you
think George knows anything?' he demanded. ‘Good heavens, do you mean to tell me that you think someone in this house – one of us – put old Andrew out of the way, and Julia? I mean, after all that's come out at the inquest?' He sat down suddenly on one of the small chairs by the table. ‘God bless my soul!'

Marcus straightened himself and lounged restlessly down the length of the room.

‘I think it's a great pity Mrs Faraday won't send for the police,' he said. ‘A great pity, and rather extraordinary.'

‘Mother's old,' said Uncle William, jumping to his feet. ‘I think I shall go out and call the police myself. That'll be heaping coals of fire upon their heads after the disgusting way they treated me. I tell you, George is appalling,' he went on, his voice rising unexpectedly. ‘Coming here, behaving like a – drunken anarchist in a house of sorrow. Assaulting people,' he added, rubbing his cheek angrily. ‘If it hadn't been for Mother I'd have taken a dog-whip to the fellow, old as I am. Yes, I shall go for the police. I'd like to see that fellow taken out of here in handcuffs, Faraday or no Faraday,' he added vindictively. ‘Yes, well, I've made up my mind. I'm going.'

‘No,' murmured Mr Campion.

Uncle William turned a baleful eye upon him. ‘What's that, sir?'

‘No,' said Mr Campion again. ‘Don't do that. There's all this mystery to be solved. You let him stay here.'

Uncle William threw himself down in his chair again. ‘Oh, well,' he said resignedly, ‘badger me. Everybody badgers me. Hullo, what's that?'

His last remark was occasioned by an extra loud remark from the library. Marcus strode to the door and threw it open just as Joyce, the colour flaming in her cheeks, came hurrying in. Across the hall Cousin George's voice, thick and inexpressibly vulgar, came clearly to them.

‘Don't be a little stiff. Come and let me have a look at you. Sorry I can't get up. You're the only thing worth looking at in this —— household.'

Marcus, whose carefully cultured langour and sophistication had undergone such a ruthless battering during the last few days, received his final blow. His shoulders stiffened and his head went down. Joyce, who saw his face, threw up an arm, checking for an instant his precipitate rush, an instant that gave Campion time to get across the room and haul his friend back.

‘Not yet,' he pleaded, ‘not yet.'

Joyce shut the door and put her back against it. Marcus, like all men who are very seldom angry, was pig-headed in his wrath. His face had become a dusky red and his eyes were blinded slits.

‘I'm sorry,' he said huskily. ‘I can't stand that chap. I shall break his neck. Get out of my way.'

Joyce began to cry. Apparently she did not realize it, for the tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to hide them.

‘Don't,' she said. ‘Don't make any more trouble. Don't! Don't!'

Uncle William, who had observed this incident with interest, his mind seizing upon it as a relief from his own mental chaos, now rose to a height of which no one had suspected him capable. He produced an immense stiff white handkerchief, and pushing past the two young men, dabbed the girl's face with it.

‘There, there, my dear,' he said. ‘Come along, come along.
We'll soon have the bounder under lock and key – and probably hanged. There, there.'

This intervention saved the situation. Uncle William's persistent belief that the arrest of Cousin George would solve all their difficulties had a humorous element in it which even at this most trying stage of the proceedings appealed to them irresistibly. Marcus put an arm round the girl's shoulders and led her across the room to the fireplace.

Mr Campion and Uncle William remained near the door. ‘Poor little thing,' said Uncle William huskily. ‘Damned shame. If the fellow hadn't got our name I'd see him hanged with pleasure.'

Mr Campion made no comment, for at this moment the door again opened and Alice entered. She shut the door firmly behind her, and, taking a deep breath, burst out with her complaint.

‘'Tisn't right, sir. You've got to stop it. She's in there,' she said.

They stared at her, uncomprehending, and Joyce hurried forward.

‘Who's in where, Alice? What's the matter?'

‘The mistress, Miss.' The woman was nearly in tears. ‘She's gone in to that – that person alone, and he's not in a fit state. Miss. You can see that for yourselves. Why, he might kill her.' She opened the door and pointed across the hall. ‘There. You can see, she's gone in and shut the door.'

Uncle William took advantage of her invitation. He peered across the hall. The library door was visible from the breakfast-room threshold, and he could see that it was indeed shut. He returned to the room.

‘It's a fact,' he said. ‘What ought we to do about it? I suppose she knows what she's doing, and if she does, she won't thank us for interfering. But I don't know . . .'

‘I've listened,' said Alice shamelessly. ‘I've listened at the door. You can hear her talking to him quietly. I heard him swear, too. I'm sure it was that, although I couldn't catch the word. I'd go in myself, only you know how wilful the mistress is.' She paused questioningly.

Instinctively they turned towards Campion. ‘Wait,' he said.
‘It's all we can do. This, I fancy, is Mrs Faraday's idea. After all, if she cannot manage Cousin George, no one can.'

‘By Jove, you're right there,' said Uncle William, brightening up. ‘Leave him to Mother. You mark my words, he'll come skulking out of that room with his tail between his legs like the cur he is.'

Alice appeared unsatisfied, but receiving no assistance from the others, she relinquished her idea of interrupting the interview. She planted herself in the doorway.

‘If you'll excuse me, Miss,' she murmured, ‘I'll wait here. Then if she calls or anything I can go straight in. And if she comes out I can dodge back without her seeing me.'

Fifteen terrible minutes passed. Conversation had ceased and the morning-room was cold and silent. Uncle William sat hunched up in one green arm-chair, Joyce curled up in the other, with Marcus perched on the arm. Mr Campion lounged by the bookcase and Alice stood half in and half out of the open door.

After what seemed an eternity Uncle William stirred. ‘About time that yob came skulking out,' he said, ‘isn't it? Another five minutes and I shall send for the police. What do we pay rates for if a fellow can walk into your house and behave like an animal?'

Alice moved silently back from the door. ‘Someone's coming,' she murmured.

They all listened intently. From across the hall had come the metallic click of the library latch. The question in all their minds would be answered in a moment now: Who would come out of the library, who would remain in possession? Who had triumphed?

And then, shattering all their hopes, Cousin George's voice, thicker and more indistinct than before, was heard shouting: ‘I've got you! You can't shift me, whichever way you turn.' And then, coming towards them over the tiles, they heard the sharp click-clack of Great-aunt Faraday's cane.

With great presence of mind Alice picked up a flower bowl from the sideboard and stood back to allow her mistress to enter. Then she moved silently out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Great-aunt Faraday paused just inside the door and stood looking at them as they rose. She was still wonderfully composed, although the hand which held her cane trembled a little. She had changed her frock; her stiff black gown was the one which she usually wore in the evenings and her cap and fichu were of fine needle-point. She tapped the ground with her stick.

‘I will have a chair here, Marcus,' she said. ‘Just here. I am tired of standing.'

When she was safely seated in her somewhat peculiar position a yard or so inside the doorway, she surveyed her audience and nodded to them to sit down.

‘William,' she said, ‘would you be so good as to go into my writing-room and wait there for me. I shall like a word with you before I go to bed.'

Uncle William rose with a good grace, all things considered, and went off, reserving his muttered protest until he was outside the room. When he had gone the old lady cleared her throat.

‘George will remain here tonight,' she said. ‘However, as I feel I owe you all a little explanation, I thought I would have a word with you before retiring. George, as you have heard, has come here with an extraordinary story. I allowed him to remain because I know him well enough to realize that, odious as he is, he is not a complete fool, and I feared that he would not take such a dangerous line as this unless he had some information to lend weight to his threats. I have just been talking to him,' she continued. ‘I waited until this moment to do so because it occurred to me that the more drunk he became the more likely he would be to betray himself. Unfortunately, I think he has a stronger will than I gave him credit for. He is also very drunk indeed, and apart from getting anything out of him, I am afraid the interview has only served to convince me that the creature knows a great deal.'

Joyce sprang up. ‘You don't mean that you think he really did see who killed Uncle Andrew?' she demanded.

Great-aunt Caroline nodded. ‘Yes, my dear,' she said simply, ‘I do.'

The effect of this gentle statement was startling in the extreme.

‘Well, let's get the police,' said Marcus. ‘They'll make him talk, if he really does know anything.'

The old lady shook her head. ‘My dear boy,' she said, her small voice surprisingly calm after the excitement in his own, ‘not yet. The police cannot detain George, and I feel that we owe it to ourselves to hear what he knows before the officials get hold of him.'

‘Then you think . . .?' Joyce's voice trailed away.

The old lady shot her a swift bird-like glance.

‘George remains in this house tonight, my dear,' she said. ‘Tomorrow, when he is sober, I shall talk to him again. Until then I do not want the police even to know that he is here. For,' she went on deliberately, ‘should the unthinkable occur and we find ourselves involved in a murder trial, I see no way of preventing him from making all the capital he can out of any scandal he may be able to lay his hands upon, and that, I am afraid, is well within his power.'

‘But, Mrs Faraday' – Marcus's tone was scandalized – ‘nothing is worse than murder, surely?'

A grim expression spread over old Mrs Faraday's face. ‘That is a matter of opinion, Marcus,' she said. ‘Now, there are several things I want you to do for me. In the first place, I should consider it a great favour if you would consent to stay in this house tonight.'

Marcus was astonished. ‘Why, certainly, if you wish it, Mrs Faraday,' he said.

Great-aunt Caroline nodded to him. She appeared satisfied.

‘Joyce, my dear,' she said, ‘I want you to sleep in my room. The bed in the alcove has been made up. Marcus, you will have Joyce's room. No doubt William can lend you everything you require. And then,' she went on solemnly, ‘if you and Mr Campion would take George up to his room – that is, Andrew's old room – I should be very grateful. I shall go to bed now. Joyce, will you come with me? First of all, run along and tell William I'll see him in the morning instead of tonight, and then ask Alice to prepare your room for Marcus.'

As Joyce went out the old lady turned once again to the young men.

‘Even in the midst of tribulation such as this, a thought of
general philosophy may occur to one,' she said unexpectedly. ‘If either of you should be forced to listen to one of those misguided enthusiasts who decry the niceties of our conventional system – remember George. There are no doubt many other people in the world quite as wicked as he is, but a modicum of manners prevents them from making such a deplorable display. Now, I am afraid I have given you a most unpleasant task, but I feel that, unhampered by William, the two of you may be able to get George to his room, by whatever method you may think fit, which is more than I or anyone else in the house could possibly do. I shall go to my room now, and perhaps in fifteen minutes' time you will be good enough to make your first attempt. Good night.'