A Man of Forty (23 page)

She was very conscious of the man's cool, dispassionate scrutiny. She felt his utter lack of response. And against that coldness, that blankness, that bland disbelief, she had to go on talking.

“Where was he lying? In his room, here?”

“No,” said Lydia, shutting her eyes. “ On the grass. There was blood on the grass. In a field by a river he was, with blood on the bright grass.” She kept her eyes tight shut, the better to believe what she was saying. “ The blood ran into the water,” she heard herself saying. “ The multitudinous seas incarnadine—making the green, one red.”

She could almost, she believed, have fallen asleep where she sat. But Spencer's voice, suddenly rather sharp and emphatic, jerked her eyes open.

“Please don't go to sleep, Mrs. Brome. I won't detain you long, but there are one or two points I want to clear up, if you'll be so good. Please tell me this : it's very important. Did you, in your vision, see who the murderer was?”

“Murderer?”

Her tone was flat. The surprise she had tried to inject into it sounded even to herself unconvincing.

“Yes, it was murder. You knew that, didn't you?”

“No. How could I? Murder! But who——” This time she did a little better.

“Never mind,” said Spencer. “ What made you pick on Dr Grove?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Lydia. “ You talk so fast, you muddle me.”

“What made you choose Dr. Grove?” persisted Spencer.

It was something like chess, a game Lydia had never taken to. She could never see more than two moves ahead, and even in planning those two she had always failed to take account of what her opponent might do to frustrate her. And so she had given up chess altogether, rather to David's relief. The present game, however, was one she had
to play out : at least until the moment when anything, even death itself, would be more welcome to her than going on with it. She was tired out, body and mind, and this policeman knew it. He was playing, she supposed, cat-and-mouse with her. Yet now and again, in an anguish of hope, she allowed herself to imagine that it was not so ; that he knew less, not more, than he pretended, that he was bluffing, and feeling his way, and, if she didn't lose her nerve, would get nothing out of her. What baffled her was the apparent stupidity of the man's tactics. Why did he dance so gingerly round the point? Why did he harp on Dr. Grove and the telephone call? There were two questions she most dreaded, and he had asked neither of them so far. Why had she chosen Dr. Grove? The reiterated question maddened her because it seemed so pointless and for that very reason might contain a trap.

“Because he was the nearest,” she said, plunging.

“The nearest?”

“The nearest to this place.”

“I see,” said Spencer. “ You passed his house on the way, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you call at the house instead of telephoning, since you were passing?”

“In spite of his mild conversational manner she suddenly felt that she had slipped up, though even now, in her weariness, she hardly knew how. Perhaps, after all, it would be safest to lie consistently. And let him tie himself into knots, she thought with a flash of spite.

“Passing? I wasn't passing.” She smiled stubbornly.

“You have just said you were passing his house.”

“No. You're mistaken.”

“You said so a moment ago,” insisted Spencer, dangerously patient. “ I asked you whether you had passed Dr. Grove's house on your way. You answered * Yes.' I now ask you why you didn't call in person, instead of telephoning, since you were passing the house, and you say you didn't pass the house.”

She looked at him with that same faint, vague, stubborn smile. “ It's rather confusing, isn't it?”

“Well, which is it to be? Did you or didn't you pass Dr. Grove's house?”

“Why do we go on talking about Dr. Grove?” Lydia asked.

“My dear Mrs. Brome, you're not being helpful. In your own interest I advise you to answer my question.”

“ Well, well, well,” said Dr. Trewin, with a side glance at his colleague.

“Though I can't, at this stage,” said Spencer, taking the hint, “ oblige you to do so.”

Lydia looked from one to the other. And then looked at Stevenage, who sat very still, avoiding her glance. Weary though she was, her mind was waking up to some degree of alertness. She was at least shrewd enough to be puzzled that Spencer should apparently be labouring to establish á point of fact that must be already known to him, since she could not doubt that Stevenage had been put through the mill.

“We're waiting, Mrs. Brome.”

“Oh, I see,” said Lydia, with an air of sudden enlightenment. “ I'm so sorry. How stupid of me! It's just, don't you see, a silly misunderstanding. I did pass Dr. Grove's house, but not today. I've passed it on several occasions, when I've been visiting Adam.”

Spencer showed no sign of being ruffled, “ Didn't you visit him today?”

“Oh, no.”

“Where do you live, Mrs. Brome?”

“In various places.”

Dr. Trewin intervened. “ Come, come, dear lady, don't trifle with us. Surely to heaven it's a simple question. You have a husband, have you not? And you and your husband have a place of residence, where you eat and sleep and pay taxes, like other citizens. Where is that place of residence : that's what you're being asked. Yes, yes,” cried the doctor, raising his hand as if to command silence, though no one had answered him, “ we know you've had a shock, and a bad one. You're not yourself very likely. We make every allowance for your feelings, every allowance in the world. But, bless my soul, you must answer the question, madam, and not obstruct the course of justice.”

“Very well,” said Lydia. She felt a faint stirring of hope in her heart. It was something that they were losing patience with her : it was Spencer's appalling patience that most frightened her. “ I live at a place you'll never have heard of, I dare say. The nearest station is Chiselbrook, and there's a train at eleven-fifteen. I hope I shall be in time to catch it.”

Spencer consulted his watch. “ You can do it in a taxi if you leave in five minutes. So let's waste no more time. If you didn't come to see Adam Swinford today, what were you doing in Hanford Road this evening?”

“ My dear Mr. Spencer, lots of women come to town without going to see Adam Swinford. Can't you guess why I came? I came to do shopping.”

“In Hanford Road?”

“Yes. There's a draper's shop there. I've sometimes got wonderful bargains.”

“What's the name of the shop?”

“I've never noticed the name.”

“What did you buy today?”

“A length of dress material.”

“Where is it now? Where's your parcel?”

“In the post, I expect.”

“Mrs. Brome, what business had you in Hanford Road at half-past nine this evening?”

She was very near collapse. The quick fire of his questions sickened her, brought her heart into her throat. She was confused and dizzy.

“I've just told you,” she said, with the beginning of a scream in her voice.

“You've told me lies. All shops in this neighbourhood shut at six.” Suddenly he smiled, and the smile unnerved her. “ Never mind. You must have made a mistake. Your memory's not good, is it?”

“No, it isn't.” She spoke in a frightened whisper.

“Why are you so anxious to catch the eleven-fifteen to Chiselbrook? Wouldn't it be simpler, seeing how late it is, to stay at an hotel?”

“My husband,” said Lydia. “ He's waiting up for me. He'll be anxious.”

“Where is your husband?”

“At home. That's why——”

“Didn't he come to town with you today?”

“No.”

“Your husband, Mrs. Brome, was seen to enter this building at half-past seven. Earlier in the day he had telephoned to inquire when Mr. Swinford would be in.”

Ah, now it had come! “ My husband is at home. He's been there all day. I can prove it. There's my daughter, my little son…”

“At half-past seven,” repeated Spencer relentlessly. “ And it was shortly after half-past seven that Mr. Swinford met his death. I think, Mrs. Brome, don't you, that your husband may be able to help us find the man who did it?”

Lydia sat silent, holding herself together like a coiled spring,
and still smiling her weak, painful, contemptuous smile. She raised her eyes to look at this man who tormented her, and the smile became almost a sneer, almost a snarl. So cocksure he was! So clever! And such a pretty little surprise was coming to him!

After a silence Spencer spoke again. “ I take it for granted, Mrs. Brome, that you believe in your husband's innocence, eh?”

She gave a shrug. The edge of her smile sharpened. “ I've very good reason to believe in it.”

“Then you can have no objection to putting us in touch with him.”

“Not the least in the world,” she sneered.

“Well?”

“He's at home. And,” she said, suddenly raising her voice, “ if by any chance he's not at home, no doubt he's run off with his mistress somewhere.”

Spencer got out of his chair and came closer to her.

“How did you know that Mr. Swinford was dead?”

“I didn't.”

“How did you know that Mr. Swinford was dying?”

“I didn't.” She was now past caring. “ You frame your questions very badly, Mr. Spencer. But I'm tired of quibbling. Tired to death. Yes, I
was
here this evening. Yes, I did go to see Adam Swinford. And did I kill him? Yes, of course I did, you poor fool! So now we can all be friends, I hope.”

Three minutes later, Lydia was telling her story. There was now a young policeman in the room, taking notes of what she said. A mere boy he seemed to her; he couldn't have been more than nineteen; and his pale sensitive face suggested an ideal candidate for one of the arts, or for the priesthood. So far, everything expected had happened : there was a routine in these matters which even Spencer, who passed for unconventional among his colleagues, never failed to follow. He had said : “ Do you realize the seriousness of what you are saying?” He had said, making assurance trebly sure : “ Do you wish, of your own free will, to make a voluntary statement?” And he had given the prescribed warning.

To Lydia the calmness of these men added the last incredible touch to a situation horrible beyond anything she could have imagined. It was a calmness indistinguishable, to her, from indifference. It
shocked her, making her feel that she, now confessing to murder, was the only normal person left in a mad, an inhuman world. She was shocked because they, apparently, were not. Her moment of hysterical triumph was past, and her final sarcasm—” So now we can all be friends, I hope “—not only had fallen singularly flat, but now looked like a simple wish that was actually in the process of being fulfilled. The atmosphere of Mr. Hortman's little office was positively cosy. These two men listening with such bland, such temperate interest; and this young aloof Recording Angel, with eyes only for his book ; what could she say to shatter their complacency, since she had already said her worst? Yet the startled horror in Stevenage's eyes distressed her; for in Stevenage, because he had liked her, she felt she had lost a friend, by her confession, at a time when she was in sore need of friendship, from no matter whom it should come.

“You came to town this morning, Mrs. Brome?”

“This afternoon.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband, for example, wasn't with you?”

“No.”

“Did you come straight here?”

“No. I did some shopping in Oxford Street. And I spent an hour in a teashop.”

“An hour?” said Trewin. “ Wasn't that rather a long time?”

“I was thinking. Making my plans.”

“Do you mean your plan to kill Mr. Swinford?” Spencer asked.

“She did not say so,” said Trewin.

Spencer made an impatient gesture. “ Why waste time?”

“With your kind permission,” said Trewin, “ it interests me.”

“Have it your own way,” said Spencer. “ Now, Mrs. Brome. You came here at what time?”

Catching a sarcastic inflection in his voice, she began to suspect that she was not being believed.

“Would it have been half-past seven, or later?” she said. “ Stevenage can tell you that, I expect.”

“Eh? What's this?” At last she had succeeded in surprising Spencer. He turned on Stevenage : “ Did you see this woman enter the building?”

“Did 1?” Stevenage looked extremely confused and unhappy. “ Well, I may have done. Yes, I believe I did.”

“Why didn't you tell me so before?” Spencer demanded.

Stevenage studied the floor. “ It must have slipped my memory. A person can't remember everything. And it's no use asking me what time it was either,” he said, suddenly meeting Spencer's stare with a defiant look, “ because I can't remember.”

“I see,” said Spencer. “ You can't remember. What can you remember, I wonder? Can you remember the answers you gave me half an hour ago, or doesn't your memory extend so far?” Stevenage did not answer. “ Can you remember telling me that Mr. Swinford came to live here in the same week as Mr. Hortman took over the management?”

“That's right, sir,” said Stevenage.

“Did you also say that Mr. Swinford went abroad last year?”

“So I understood, sir.”

“Very well.” With the air of dismissing Stevenage from his thoughts he turned back to Lydia. “ How does our friend Hortman spell his name, Mrs. Brome?”

Lydia stared at him. “ Why do you ask me that?”

“Just a whim,” said Spencer. “ Would you mind answering?”

“I know nothing of Mr. Hortman, except that he's the manager of this building.”