Find the Innocent (11 page)

“Well, I'm damned!” Again the comic bewilderment. “It doesn't make sense. If she told you that, how on earth can you believe she was not at the lockhouse with me?”

“Don't answer, Miss Aspland,” said Curwen quickly. “Mr. Canvey, we are satisfied that Mrs. Brengast is wearing her own wedding ring.”

“That sounds devilish official. I have to accept it. I'll merely add that Mrs. Brengast told me that her own ring—the one I threw into the lock—was engraved.”

“What's the inscription?”

“I didn't stop off to read it.”

“Quite so!” said Curwen. “We're satisfied, Mr. Canvey.”

The silence that followed was embarrassing to Jill. Canvey had stultified himself with that wretched wedding ring story! Something which appeared to be happening but was not happening!

Starting out of his abstraction Canvey looked at her and smiled.

“You win, Portia!”

On the way to the door he stopped by Veronica's chair.

“I shall probably be arrested now—and possibly convicted.” When Veronica made no acknowledgement he added: “You
are
fond of money, aren't you!”

Jill flinched as the door was shut behind Canvey. Somehow, an opportunity, undefined, had been missed. That Inspector looked like a well-fed cat.

“Hadn't we better have the other man in while we're about it?” said Veronica, petulantly.

“Eddis is taking care of the lock,” answered Curwen. “And we haven't quite finished with Canvey. Have you any idea, Mrs. Brengast, how he got to know that your ring is engraved?”

“None,” answered Veronica. “But I often take it off and leave it about—it doesn't fit me very well—and he might have got the information from my maid.”

“He's hardly that kind of man!” protested Jill.

“He couldn't have used your maid, because he didn't know your name,” objected Curwen.

“He said he didn't!”

“If you've never met before, how would he know who you were?”

“Strangers often recognise me. My photo appears fairly regularly in the fashion papers.” Veronica failed to avoid a suggestion of superiority. “There's a full page one in
The Prattler
this week.”

“Quite right!” approved Curwen. “As a matter o' fact we found a copy of
The Prattler
in the lockhouse. Only it hadn't got your photo.”

“It was probably last week's,” said Veronica.

“Your photo had been torn out.”

Jill scented trouble. In vain, she signalled Veronica to keep her mouth shut.

“I suppose I ought to feel flattered—”

“Not this time, Mrs. Brengast! Your photo had been destroyed. Not burnt. Not thrown in the waste basket. It had been torn in small pieces. By a gloved hand. And the gloved hand had stuffed the pieces into the folds of the sofa—just as though someone had wanted to get rid of that photo quickly and quietly without someone else seeing it.”

“Cat-and-mouse, Inspector!” cried Jill. “Can we have it straight, please?”

“Try this, Miss Aspland. We know that in that lockhouse last night there was one man, one woman and a photo of Mrs. Brengast. We are told that the two called each other fancy names—perhaps because the woman did not want the man to know her real name. Tell me as straight as you like who tore up that photo of Mrs. Brengast.”

“Mrs. Brengast!”
cried Veronica.

Jill froze. Curwen looked like a man who intends to count his change.

“It proves conclusively that I was alone in that lockhouse with Stranack!” Veronica had raised her voice. “Also alone with Canvey! And we mustn't forget Eddis! And I hereby confess that all three threw my wedding ring into the lock!
This
wedding ring!”

“Well done, Mrs. Brengast!” Curwen laughed, but it was a stage laugh and a poor one, to Jill's ear. “Very funny, as you put it! Three men, each of 'em claiming to have been alone with you at that lockhouse, you said!” He stood up. “But, you see—only two of those three are telling lies about where they were and what they were doing last night. The third is telling the truth.”

At the door, he added:

“Talk it over with Miss Aspland.”

When Curwen had gone Veronica sighed elaborately.

“After all that, I need a drink. Shall I pour you one?”

“No thanks!”

“That Inspector is a disappointment … He's all right while he's being an inspector. It's when he tries to be an uncle that he's intolerable … Obsequious one minute and impertinent the next … Don't you think so?”

“Sorry, I wasn't listening!” Jill had been trying to adjust her own conception of WillyBee's marriage. Veronica's beauty may have been the main factor, but it was not the only one. He had esteemed her enough to teach her a lot—had lent her personality a dignity which had vanished at his death. It may have been a synthetic dignity, but it was effective, in that she had to live up to it.

“Veronica, I wish you hadn't funked telling me you had slept with that man—”

“Which man?”

“‘Which man?'” echoed Jill, scornfully. “For your own sake, try to stop behaving like a naughty schoolgirl. The Inspector knows you were at that lockhouse. So do I. Let's start from there. By far the best thing would be to call the Inspector back and tell him the truth.”

While she was speaking Jill perceived she was making no impression.

“So you've turned against me, just because I've had bad luck with cars and trains! All those things add up to nothing—or that Inspector would do something instead of being wistful about it.”

“You think he's doing nothing?” challenged Jill. “Because he has not arrested you for shielding the men who killed WillyBee?”

“What an utterly beastly thing to say to me!”

“I know you didn't intend to do that—but that is what you are doing. You didn't give it a thought. Never mind now! There may still be time to stop the whole thing and avoid the scandal—”

“There will be no scandal touching me. I've never been inside that lockhouse. I've never seen those men before. Those silly tales about this and that—my wedding ring, for instance—”

“There's some trick in that wedding ring. The Inspector can't see what the trick is, nor can I—”

“And how you wish you could!” Veronica's eyes flashed. “To run with it to the police and get my marriage settlement cancelled. Another £100,000 for the residuary legatee!”

Jill's stunned silence left her exposed.

“You've planned it all out haven't you, Jill? You'll be ever so nice about it, and make me an allowance out of my own money while I'm training for some beastly job.”

“Take hold of yourself, Veronica! You've not had time to get drunk. You're hysterical.”

“I've never been more clear-headed in my life. Nor have you. You've always hated me for taking the attention of your beloved uncle—who wasn't quite such a nice man as you thought him, if you want to know.”

“I've never hated you. I have always thought of you as I believe he did—as a rather nice kitten. Now you're biting and scratching, but it doesn't hurt much and I can't be as angry as I feel I ought to be … But I shall leave this hotel tomorrow—”

“And relay all this to the police!”

“I have nothing to say to the police. I shall tackle each of those three men in turn. And alone. With no police to cramp their style.”

Veronica, like anybody else who has attained total success in the early twenties, possessed a self-esteem which could be opened like an umbrella to protect her in a sudden shower of criticism.

On the following morning she awoke in a spirit of wide tolerance of her own weaknesses and those of others, particularly Inspector Curwen—a worthy man doing his duty according to his lights. She refused to think harshly of poor Jill. “When I have an enemy,” WillyBee used to say, quite often, “the first blow I strike is to ask myself what I would do in his place.” If she were in Jill's place she would have a try for that £100,000. Therefore Jill must not be blamed. It was poor WillyBee's fault, really, for making her residuary legatee.

Everything would come right in the end—she could feel it in her bones. The end, however, was not yet in sight. There was still a lion in her path, in the form of that eminent solicitor, Sir Ernest Maenton. He had been very nice and sympathetic while he was telling her about the Will—but perhaps he had not then heard of the “Mystery Girl”. It might be his duty to ask questions about anything touching the marriage settlement. She was frightened of him.

Again WillyBee pointed the way. During those dreadful talks about business, slogans and oddities sometimes penetrated to her consciousness. It was always at night. He would get out of bed, turn on the light and talk to her while he paced the room in his pyjamas which never suited him, making him look a little funny. She would exaggerate the funniness to help keep her awake and prevent her from saying “yes” when she ought to say “oh!”.

“When I'm frightened of something I run at it, not away from it. It's not bravery. It's system.”

System! WillyBee was always right. She would run at Sir Ernest immediately after the inquest.

She had breakfast alone and enjoyed a new feeling of independence. She no longer dreaded the inquest. Why did people think that she could not manage her own affairs?

Shortly after ten Jill came into the sitting-room.

“You haven't forgotten that the inquest is at eleven? I'll come with you if you like?”

Veronica controlled herself. Jill, she remembered, must not be blamed.

“It's kind of you to offer, but I shan't need any help … Jill, I'm sorry I was so beastly last night.”

“That's all right, Veronica. But I'm afraid you meant what you said. Did you? Do you believe that I am intriguing to get your settlement annulled?”

“We don't need to go into all that, Jill. I meant I'm sorry I lost my temper about it. Thanks again for offering to come to the inquest, but I think we'd better keep out of each other's way until all this has blown over.”

So that was the end of Jill, thought Veronica, and was strengthened by the vision of a freedom she had never experienced. In her married life WillyBee had taken pleasure in indulging her whims—but, really, they had to be the kind of whims he thought charming! Untroublesome whims! He liked giving her things she wanted, but she had to want the right things. Which, when she came to think of it, was not freedom at all.

The only freedom she had ever enjoyed was the freedom she had snatched for herself when she slipped into her dream personality of Caroline, to find her Peter. The freedom to take a lover on impulse and the freedom to forget him—the freedom to do dozens and dozens of small, harmless things which would have interfered with WillyBee's comfort. All this would be hers provided she could keep her nerve and protect that marriage settlement.

Veronica, in short, was propagandising herself—a technique she had unconsciously picked up from the pyjama talks. She was in the stage which WillyBee called “the constructive approach”, which included “canalisation of energy” and “suspension of disbelief in the certainty of success”. Or—as Veronica expressed it—“It will all come right in the end—I feel it in my bones.”

Jill Aspland's first act, after leaving Veronica, was to hire a drive-yourself car. From the garage she learnt that there was only one lockhouse between Renchester and Diddington, so she need make no mistake.

She was not given to probing her own feelings but she was aware of an inner conflict. Veronica had forced a quarrel for some reason—or more probably for none. Why bother about her? That was easy—she was not bothering about her. She was bothering about WillyBee's wife.

Not that she had put WillyBee on a pedestal. She knew that he had raised hypocrisy to the level of a religious exercise—but without himself being a hypocrite. He had been a high-spirited, able, kind-hearted man. His personality had a tang—she could feel it now. Without committing herself to the supernatural she had the illusion of WillyBee plucking at her sleeve.

“All right! I'll do what I can.” Her thoughts formed the words. “You understood her nature, so she hasn't really cheated you.”

She could peep behind the facade of him now that he was dead. There must have been phases in which he had despised himself for buying Veronica—injuring her, when she could see only that he was pampering her.

Veronica was not vicious but silly—silly enough to flop into a major scandal and the abomination of shielding the men who had killed WillyBee. Solely because she was ashamed—stupidly ashamed, not of deceiving her husband but of an undignified bed-hopping episode.

WillyBee's wife would have to be saved in spite of herself. If the truth could be wormed out of one of these men, it might still be possible to satisfy the police without dragging in Veronica.

To the newspapers the lockhouse itself was an inelastic subject, worth no more than a single photograph. When Jill arrived the normal desolation was broken only by a single constable from Renchester. He took her name and address but did not turn her away.

Jill avoided the front door as she wished to reconnoitre. As she passed the side window, still open, she heard Eddis speaking on the telephone. Consistently with her view of her purpose she stopped and listened.

“Certainly not! Canvey is relieving me the day after tomorrow. We said, three days each … There's no need to report it to the police. They are tapping this telephone … What sort of a girl? … I will not co-operate in anything … As a matter of civility only, I will answer: No. She is not here … She would not be allowed. There's a police guard on the house. I can see him from here.” He turned to the window and saw Jill—smiling at him. “I don't know why there is a guard. Goodbye!”