Read The Evil That Men Do.(Inspector Faro Mystery No.11) Online
Authors: Alanna Knight
The Evil That Men Do.(Inspector Faro Mystery No.11) (12 page)
‘I’m particularly interested in Justin Langweil. Especially after what Adrian told you.’
‘Oh, I haven’t given up hope that we’ll unearth him yet.’
‘He is certainly the most likely candidate.’
Vince sounded almost hopeful. After all the lad had a bad reputation, better the black sheep than one of the respectable Langweils.
Faro slept little that night. Eventually he got up and brought up to date his notes on the case. Throwing down his pen, he was no further out of the labyrinth.
All the evidence pointed to Theodore being guilty of murdering Cedric and then the old lawyer because he knew too much.
The other idea, ever growing in magnitude, was that the missing eldest brother was very much alive and well in Priorsfield.
There was one other possibility, so obvious that it never even occurred to him to give it a serious thought.
Returning home preoccupied with the day’s events but determined to set them to one side for Rose’s benefit, he was disagreeably surprised to find that he had a visitor.
McQuinn was sitting in the dining room and Rose was talking to him in her usual animated fashion.
Soft-footed as always, they did not immediately observe his arrival on the scene. But seeing them together smiling and happy, he realised with a pang that whereas twelve years might seem a vast difference between a girl of fifteen and a man of twenty-seven, as a couple grew older so did the odds diminish.
And standing there unobserved he remembered that Lizzie had been Rose’s age when, a servant in the ‘big house’, she had been seduced by one of the aristocratic house guests.
Vince had been the result of that tragic ill-fated episode.
A shiver of apprehension went through Faro. That situation must not be allowed to repeat itself in Rose’s life. And, blessed or cursed with the ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes and walk around in them for a while, he saw for the first time Danny McQuinn through Rose’s eyes.
A more than averagely handsome policeman with a more than average dose of Irish charm, easy with women of all classes and all ages. A man an impressionable schoolgirl could very easily fancy that she was in love with—
He stepped forward sharply. McQuinn looked up, once again the dutiful officer, sprang to his feet.
‘I was on my way back from Priorsfield, sir. As I was passing the house, I thought you’d better see these.’
Faro said nothing and held out his hand for the list containing the servants’ names.
Without looking at his daughter, he said: ‘Thank you, Rose. You may leave us now.’
His stern expression cut short any leave-taking between the two and as the door closed McQuinn said: ‘These are the only two that need concern you, sir. I’ve whittled them down to the butler Gimmond, who has been there longest. You’ve met him. I don’t think he could be our man.’
‘And the other?’
McQuinn frowned. ‘The only possibility would be the stableman who is also the coachman, Jock.’
‘The man we met at the scene of the accident, of course.’
Except that if he’d been guilty he would hardly have been lingering about the place.’
‘He might have wanted to make sure the old man was dead.’
‘True enough.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘Not a great deal. Came from Colinton way about a year ago. Good references and all that sort of thing.’ McQuinn looked at him. ‘I know what you’re thinking, sir, but he’s a bit nondescript to fit the description of the missing heir. I mean, they’re a well set-up handsome lot of men, you must admit that. And no one would call Jock prepossessing. He’s a shambling sort of cove, what we call shilpit-lookin’.’
Jock the stableman certainly seemed an unlikely candidate, unshaven and distinctly unkempt. Yet that could be a disguise in itself.
‘Remember he has been away from home for twenty years – if he is our man - and a lot of physical changes could have taken place. Again I put to you, McQuinn, that employers only glance at their servants. They have only minimal conversations and from what I’ve seen even avoid any kind of contact.
‘Let’s consider opportunity. Tampering with the wheel of Moulton’s carriage was easy. And what was to stop him creeping up into the house when everyone was upstairs asleep and administering the fatal dose to the wine bottle? All he had to do was open the door, the men’s chairs were at the fire, they had high backs which are meant to protect them from draughts - and the presence of whoever is serving them.’
‘You think he intended to poison both of them, sir?’
‘I do.’
‘But why? What had he to gain?’
‘Revenge now seems the most likely motive. I think he intended to get rid of both of them, then disappear. Who would be likely to check a servant who takes off? Then when the noise has all died down he would make a second spectacular reappearance as the heir to Langweils returned from America.’
McQuinn sighed. ‘You make it sound very feasible, sir.’ He grinned. ‘But then you always do. However, there is one more thing. You asked me to get the servants to try to remember anything unusual about the happenings on the night of Mr Cedric’s death?
‘Well, we may have something,’ he continued, excitement creeping into his voice. ‘Seems Mrs Gimmond always counts the glasses when they are brought down for washing. They are real crystal and valuable and the master is very particular about them, especially as there are always extra glasses on the side table during a dinner party in case the guests wish to sample other kinds of wine or spirits.
‘As I’ve said, they are carefully counted afterwards and any breakages have to be paid for out of their wages if any go amissing. Well, on the morning of Mr Cedric’s death, Mrs Gimmond was upset and with the house in uproar, she almost forgot about a glass that had been put out without Gimmond noticing that it was badly chipped.
‘Mr Theodore had admonished him—’
‘What happened to the glass?’ demanded Faro.
‘Mrs Langweil said she would take care of it.’
‘Wait a minute - Mrs Langweil?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Theodore’s wife.’
‘I thought there were just the two men.’
‘Apparently she looked in to say good night when all this was going on.’
McQuinn paused dramatically. ‘I’m sure that something of the sort must have occurred to you, sir. That the poisoner could in fact be Mr Theodore’s wife. Sure, she had time and opportunity—’
But Faro wanted to close his ears to McQuinn’s logical deductions. So Barbara had been present. She could easily have - oh, no. Not Barbara. Not Cedric’s murderer.
‘The glass, McQuinn,’ he gasped. ‘What happened to it?’
‘I imagine it went out with the rest of the rubbish.’
Faro groaned. The one piece of evidence that pointed to the glasses and not the bottle having been poisoned.
If only Barbara Langweil had not been involved.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by McQuinn. ‘Shall I check at Colinton village, on what they know about Jock?’
‘Yes, do that.’
‘What about the lawyer, sir? What are we doing about him?’
Faro had no reason except his own instinct for claiming that the old lawyer’s death had been anything but an accident. A broken wheel on an ancient carriage.
He decided, however, that it might be worth looking in at the funeral. If only to have a few words with the clerk Mr Wailes.
He arrived at the cemetery just as the few mourners were leaving. As Moulton had been a bachelor with no family, he learned that Theodore Langweil had taken care of the arrangements and he wondered if there was any significance in this somewhat hasty committal.
He looked surprised to see Faro.
‘Are you here in your official capacity?’ he asked.
‘I was hoping to have a few words with Wailes.’
‘Wailes? Oh, yes. Moulton’s clerk His young clerk,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Always gave us the impression that he was scarcely out of the nursery, therefore quite irresponsible. Must be fifty, if he’s a day.’ And looking at his waiting carriage, ‘Well, he wasn’t here to pay his last respects either.’
At Faro’s look of concern, he said: ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘There could well be, sir. I went to the office after our talk the other night and the accident. I met Mr Wailes and asked to see the original of that letter from San Francisco.’
He cut short Theodore’s angry retort. ‘We have to check these things, sir, unpleasant though it may be. We cannot take anyone’s word for what may be vital evidence.’
‘Vital evidence? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Faro regarded him steadily. ‘It has never occurred to you then, sir?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The possibility that your brother Justin might still be alive.’
Theodore looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Then suddenly he exploded with laughter. So loud that people turned and stared at him, shocked by such mirth in this place of hushed voices and respectful silences.
‘You’ll be the death of me, Faro. Really you will.’ And seizing him by the sleeve of his cape, he said, ‘Justin is dead. Dead. Believe me, if you don’t believe letters of proof.’
Pausing, he added: ‘Well, did you see it?’
‘No, I didn’t. Wailes searched the papers and it wasn’t there.’
Theodore shrugged. ‘I expect he was looking in the wrong place.’
Maybe so, maybe not, thought Faro as they parted company at the gates. However, he decided to call on Wailes the following morning.
The office was now occupied by two young men who, presuming him to be one of the old lawyer’s clients, explained that they were in charge and asked what they could do for him.
‘It is Mr Wailes I wish to see.’
‘We haven’t seen him for several days,’ said one.
‘Not since he asked us to take over while he went to visit a sick relative,’ said his partner.
‘If you would care to state your business, we assist Mr Moulton from time to time.’
Faro shook his head. ‘Do you have an address for Mr Wailes?’
As they searched in a drawer and eventually produced an address in Fountainbridge, Faro asked the senior of the two, ‘And where does this ailing relative live?’
Puzzled looks were exchanged. Abroad somewhere, America or Canada.’
‘No, Tom,’ said his companion. ‘That’s where she used to live - you’ve got it all wrong.’
Faro decided to avoid the argument that was imminent. ‘He left no address for this person?’
‘Didn’t seem to think that was necessary with us looking after things here.’
‘He didn’t talk much to anyone—’
And in a sudden rush of confidence his companion added: ‘Certainly not to either of us. Kept himself to himself.’
‘Very much so,’ was the final pronouncement.
Wailes’ address led Faro to a cheap lodging-house, shabby and none too clean. A woman wearing a dirty apron directed him grudgingly to the third floor up, left-hand door.
The stone stair smelt of mingled cats and human vomit.
As he expected, there was no reply and the woman was waiting for him. No, she hadn’t seen Mr Wailes for a day or two. ‘Hope he hasna’ done a flit. Owes me two weeks’ rent,’ she added anxiously.
‘Do you happen to have a key to the room?’ The woman nodded uneasily when Faro continued: ‘Then perhaps you would be so kind as to produce Mr Wailes’ key.’ Faro held out his hand. ‘Come along, now, I’m a police officer. We need to talk to Mr Wailes.’
‘Och well, that’s different.’ The information seemed to cheer her considerably and leading the way upstairs rattling her clutch of keys she turned and asked excitedly: ‘Has he done something, Officer? Never much to say for himself. Seems like such a nice quiet respectable-like mannie. But a body can no’ be sure. It’s the quiet-like ones is killers, I’m told—’
And throwing open the door she gave a scream of anguish.
Thrusting her aside, Faro rushed into the room, fully expecting to encounter Wailes’s dead body lying on the floor.
To his relief the room was empty, but even before the woman flung open the wardrobe and drawers it was evident from her wailing and her frantic manner that Mr Wailes had indeed done a flit, leaving his debts behind him.
Was there some other reason for his sudden disappearance apart from a sick relative? More important, was it connected with some vital aspect of the Langweil case?
Back at the Central Office, Faro put his findings to McQuinn, who asked eagerly: ‘Shall we put out a warrant for his arrest, sir?’
‘We can hardly arrest a man for debt just because he owes a couple of pounds for lodgings.’
‘I realise that, sir. But it sounds as if this might be our man.’
‘McQuinn, when you’ve been on this job as long as I have, the first thing you learn is never jump to conclusions, never try to force evidence that isn’t there, just because it would conveniently wrap up a case. There’s been too much of that already,’ he added sternly. ‘A history of innocent men hanged because the detective in charge of the case decided they were guilty and turned a blind eye to the evidence that they weren’t.’
McQuinn looked surprised but impressed as Faro went on: ‘You know my views or you should do by now. I’d rather have a guilty man go free than an innocent man hang.’
McQuinn shrugged. ‘Sure, when you put it that way, sir. I expect you’re right. So where do we start?’
‘A few discreet enquiries at the Law Courts might save us a lot of embarrassment. After all, he might have had some quite legitimate reason for taking off suddenly.’
McQuinn regarded him doubtfully. ‘Like what, sir?’
‘We can’t possibly answer that until we know a little more of his background. Think, McQuinn, there are a hundred different reasons for a man to leave his lodgings without being guilty of his employer’s murder.’
McQuinn’s expression suggested that he couldn’t even think of one good reason.
‘There must have been other people in Moulton’s office too. Cleaners, messengers, for instance. God dammit, he must have talked to someone.’
McQuinn set off grumpily as Faro drew up the papers awaiting his return. To the known facts in the Langweil case, he added two further names.
The stableman, Jock. Was he known at Colinton? Could he be vouched for by family, etc.?
Moulton’s assistant, Wailes. Had he absconded? Could he be vouched for by colleagues and acquaintances at the Sheriff Court?
Faro remembered faces very well. Neither man, he had to confess, had the least resemblance to the Langweil men, who bore a strong family likeness, nor by any stretch of imagination could either be transformed into the missing, presumed dead, brother, Justin.
Yet Jock and Wailes were the most likely - only - possibilities. There was only one thing bothered him about Wailes. In the unlikely event that he was Justin in disguise, then it would have been in his own interests to confirm that the real Justin died in California long ago. But his ignorance seemed quite genuine and Faro remembered how industriously he had searched for the missing document—
Faro shook his head. Perhaps he was on the wrong track altogether and he was making too much of a wild idea that the murderer was a missing brother, killing off members of his family as revenge for his young wife’s death twenty years ago.
Before the possibility of Justin’s existence, all evidence had pointed to Theodore. Or—
There was one other. His hand trembled as he wrote down ‘Barbara Langweil’, and he little guessed that within the next twenty-four hours, he was to discover that she had the best motive of all.
The information came his way quite casually, as did so many damning pieces of evidence.
That night the Edinburgh City Police held their Annual Grand Reunion at the Caledonian Hotel. This was a splendid occasion in which serving policemen and retired officers mingled together. The speeches were often long and tedious, but as compensation there was a considerable amount of ale and spirits, by courtesy of Langweil Ales Ltd.
There were for Faro many old and familiar faces and in the bar he was hailed by Peter Lamont who swayed towards him rather unsteadily.
‘Good to see you again so soon, Faro,’ he said, slapping him on the back. ‘Let’s take a seat. Have a dram. Your young lad not here with you?’
Faro explained that Vince had been invited but was being kept rather busy at the moment.
Peter chuckled. ‘Busy with other matters, eh?’ And nudging him, ‘That’s a right bonny wee lass he’s going to marry. Done well for himself, hasn’t he?’
Faro agreed.
‘I have to apologise for that business at the hotel the other day.’
‘What business was that?’
Peter chuckled again. ‘My missus put her foot right in it, she did.’
Before Faro could comment, Peter looked over his shoulder and leaned across confidentially. ‘That business about Mrs Theodore being mistaken for Grace’s stepmother.’ He chortled. ‘Did you not see me kick her under the table?’
Faro smiled. ‘I don’t think that would upset Grace. And it was a great compliment to her mother.’
‘Her mother!’ Peter exploded. ‘That’s rich.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ said Faro wearily.
‘Of course you don’t, lad. What I’m getting at is that the missus made a perfectly right assumption in the circumstances. You still don’t get my drift, do you?’ And when Faro shook his head, he said: ‘You see when the two couples stayed with us in Perth, well, it was t’other way round. Cedric Langweil’s missus was the young ‘un. We both realised this when they came to the golf course. Naturally none of them remembered us. Visitors rarely remember the staff who serve them, much less the manager and his wife.’
Faro felt a cold chill steal over him. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘Don’t be daft, lad. Of course I’m not mistaken. No one could mistake Mrs Cedric for Mrs Theodore.’
Faro knew with a sick feeling of despair that it was true.
‘What I’m saying to you, Faro, is that Mrs Theodore spent the night with her brother-in-law.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Oh, they shared another bedroom. They weren’t going to be left out in the cold, were they now?’ added Peter with a grin. ‘Way the other half lives, it’s all right if you’re rich—’
‘Are you certain?’ Faro interrupted.
‘Course I’m certain, the maid saw them in bed together.’ Peter dug him gently in the ribs and chuckled again. ‘Thought you’d enjoy that wee piece of scandal. Here, your glass is empty. Have another. One for the road?’
‘Could your maid swear to this in a court of law?’ Faro asked, conscious as he spoke that his lips were suddenly stiff and sore as if the words hurt.
‘Of course she could. She’s still with us. Happened twice, so she wasn’t likely to have made a mistake—’
‘Twice, you say?’
‘Correct. On the two weekends they stayed with us—’
‘Hello, you two - mind if we join you?’
As they made room for McIntosh and his guest, Faro heard little of the ensuing badinage. The party had suddenly gone sour on him, and making his excuses to the Superintendent he left shortly afterwards.
Back in Sheridan Place he did not wait up for Vince. He had no desire to impart to anyone, Vince least of all, the new and damning evidence that had come his way.
It was unlikely that Peter would be mistaken, and if his chambermaid’s observations were true then Barbara and Cedric had been lovers on at least two occasions. His righteous indignation did not extend to Theodore and Maud, who had been similarly guilty.
It seemed impossible that those two unlikely people could have been involved in a passionate intrigue.
But Cedric - whom everyone loved. And Barbara. Barbara, his goddess.
As he fought with rising anger, he realised the necessity for calm consideration of this new evidence in the search for Cedric’s murderer. At last, coolly, he recognised its significance. That it gave Theodore an excellent reason for murdering his brother.
It also provided a signpost to one of the most popular methods known to the police for a mistress ridding herself of an unwanted lover whose attentions were becoming threatening or embarrassing.
With considerable reluctance he underlined thickly: ‘Barbara Langweil’, on his list of suspects.
He slept badly that night and next morning he was still unsure how he was going to handle this new aspect of the Langweil murder. The crime passionnel: for any policeman who has ever been in love himself and who understands the vagaries of the human condition, it is the crime in which it is the most difficult not to regard with compassion the slighted lover.
At the breakfast table Vince and Rose were chattering happily. Both addressed remarks to him which went unheard and therefore unanswered. They exchanged glances and at last Vince remarked upon his being unusually silent.
Faro tried to show an interest in this talk of weddings; through the murk of his own misery he was aware of Vince’s happy mood, more relaxed than he had seemed of late.
He decided against drawing Vince into the further intricacies of this case, knowing that his stepson, strongly influenced by love and loyalty to Grace, had his own most urgent personal reasons for believing with the rest of the Langweils that her father had taken his own life.
‘September isn’t too far off,’ Vince was telling Rose. ‘So much to do—’
Unfortunately for the couple’s revised wedding plans, on the eve of Barbara’s thirtieth birthday party at Priorsfield her husband Theodore and brother-in-law Adrian were poisoned.
Adrian was still alive.
By a miracle, he had taken the merest sip of the Langweil Alba liqueur when a commotion in the hall erupted to reveal Gimmond.
‘Sorry to disturb you. But could Dr Adrian come quickly. One of the housemaids - upset a pan of boiling water—’
Before Adrian had finished attending to the crying maid and had dressed her scalded arm, he became aware of feeling distinctly ill. Leaving the kitchen hastily he vomited, retching with stomach pains.
Returning shakily to the scene he had just left, the door was flung open and Barbara rushed in screaming: ‘For God’s sake, Adrian, come quickly. Theo’s lying on the floor. I think he’s dying.’
‘Get the carriage,’ Adrian ordered Gimmond, and followed her upstairs where he took one look at his brother and decided that he had been poisoned. With Gimmond and Jock’s assistance, while Barbara surveyed the terrible scene weeping and refusing to be parted from her husband, Theodore was bundled into the carriage.
Ten minutes later they delivered their now deeply unconscious burden to the Royal Infirmary. Jock, given instructions to alert Faro and Vince at Sheridan Place, found Faro alone.
The carriage hurtled towards Charlotte Square where Faro expected to find Vince with Grace. As he rushed past the startled maid unannounced, Maud appeared on the upstairs landing.
‘Vince? He left about ten minutes ago.’
Faro cursed under his breath.
‘Is something wrong?’ Maud asked.
Faro considered and then shook his head. No point in alarming Maud at this juncture.
But at his urgent manner and distraught appearance, she said gently: ‘Grace has not yet retired. She’s in the library. She’ll tell you if he was going straight home.’
Conscious that Maud was watching him very curiously, he ran lightly downstairs, and flinging open the library door he found Grace and Stephen Aynsley sitting on a sofa in the lamplight reading what looked like a book of poems.
Their heads were close together. Grace was smiling and Stephen’s face, watching her, wore a look of complete and utter adoration.
They were unaware of his intrusion, like two people captured for ever in a romantic painting by the embers of a dying fire.
Faro felt a moment’s anguish on Vince’s behalf. Did he not realise that Stephen Aynsley, Grace’s second, or was it third, cousin, was also madly in love with her?
Then the spell was broken, and they stood up to greet him.
‘Vince? He went home, I think,’ said Grace. ‘What on earth is wrong?’
‘Your Uncle Theodore has been poisoned.’
Grace gave a small scream of horror. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘No ... Oh, no!’
‘Adrian got him to the hospital. He wanted Vince to know.’
Maud had followed him downstairs. ‘What is wrong?’ she demanded. And leaving Grace to tell her, he fled leaving a scene of consternation behind him.
By the time he reached the hospital, Vince was already leaving the ward. ‘Thank heaven you got here—’
‘Mrs Brook gave me your message—’
‘How is he?’
Vince shook his head. ‘I think this proves your theories, fantastic as they seemed. It really does look as if the missing Justin must be somewhere around. There is no other logical explanation.’
But there was one, thought Faro grimly. Though, like me, you cannot face up to its grim reality. And at the light step behind them, he turned and looked into the tragic eyes of Barbara Langweil.
His mind was full of deadly accusations, but now, even now, he turned away from them, determined with every doubt fading that he was going to see Barbara as innocent until the evidence proved her undeniably guilty.
There was nothing he could do here and he returned to Sheridan Place for what remained of that night of anguish and uncertainty, of dreams turned hollow, and goddesses who were but human after all.
At eight next morning he made his way to the hospital, but as he was entering the gates the Langweil carriage swept past him. Bearing a trio of weeping women, it told him even before he reached Theodore’s bedside that he was already too late.
Theodore’s death suggested his innocence in the murder of his brother Cedric and the questionable fatal accident to the lawyer Moulton who knew too much about the Langweil family.
He found Adrian, pale, dazed and sick-looking, staring down at the sheeted figure on the bed. Faro put his hand on his shoulder. At least he would survive.
Following him into the corridor, Adrian said: ‘We did all we could. Dear God, who would do such a thing? When I think if we’d waited and opened it for the party - it might have been Freda. She has a passion for liqueurs.’
Faro looked at him. Had the amateur murderer got the wrong victim once again? Had Adrian’s pregnant wife been the intended victim?
‘Who would do this? Have you any ideas? For God’s sake, Mr Faro, help us.’
Faro shook his head. All his theories - but one - had come to naught. ‘Can you tell us exactly what happened before the maid came in and you had the glass in your hand?’
‘Maud had left at ten when Barbara retired. We’d finished off the wine, and as it was well past midnight the servants had gone to bed. We were in rather high spirits, however, and Theo went to the cupboard and triumphantly produced Barbara’s bottle.
‘ “She won’t mind. Hates the stuff,” he said as he broke the seal. “Shall we see if it’s at the right temperature for tomorrow’s party? Before Freda spots it. Then none of us will get a look-in.” ’
Adrian groaned. ‘It’s a family joke, just now; part of Freda’s condition is a passion for sweet drinks.’
‘Had the bottle come from the cellars in the usual way?’ Faro asked.
Adrian looked embarrassed. ‘No. According to Theo, it had been a present to Barbara, but liqueurs were far too sweet for her.’
Barbara again.
Faro groaned. ‘I’m going to Priorsfield.’
‘Do you think he might still be on the premises?’
‘I think he might.’
‘Then get him, for all our sakes. Get him, Mr Faro. Show no mercy. It must be one of the servants. It cannot be anyone else.’
Calling a carriage, Faro paused at the Central Office to collect McQuinn. Rapidly filling in the details, he waited for his sergeant’s reactions.
McQuinn, now with the gift of hindsight, nodded eagerly. ‘Always suspected something of the sort, sir. Amazed that you weren’t on to it sooner. Are we to make an arrest?’
‘The usual procedure, McQuinn.’
As the two men waited in the hall at Priorsfield, Faro gave the final instructions.
‘Perhaps we’re too late and the bird has flown,’ whispered McQuinn anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t we—’
‘No.’ And as Gimmond appeared, Faro said: ‘See no one leaves the house.’
He doubted he would be received by Mrs Langweil and was almost surprised when Gimmond led him into the library.
‘If you will wait a moment, Inspector.’
‘Before you go, Gimmond. You have heard about the master?’
Gimmond bowed, his face shadowed. ‘Yes, Inspector. The staff are all devastated. He will be a great loss to us. A fine master—’
‘You are, I take it, in charge of the cellar?’
‘I am. That is solely my responsibility.’ Faro’s expression warned him of danger and he added hastily: ‘There are, however, occasions when the master or the late Mr Cedric might take out bottles without my knowledge. They have their own keys.’
Faro looked thoughtful. ‘And on the night of Mr Cedric’s death?’
Gimmond frowned. ‘I took out the wines required for the meal that evening from the menu prepared by Mrs Langweil and given to my wife.’
‘And none of the bottles had been tampered with?’
‘If you are implying that the seals had been broken, Inspector, I can tell you it would be more than my job’s worth to put such a bottle out for the master’s guests.’
‘Then have you any idea—’
A faint smile touched Gimmond’s lips as he interrupted: ‘Is this in the nature of an official questioning, Inspector?’
‘No. I thought merely that being in the house at the time, you might have seen something unusual—’
‘Or that I might have had a hand in it,’ Gimmond concluded the sentence for him.
Faro regarded him with new interest. This was the first time Gimmond had ever referred, even obliquely, to their old association. And Gimmond had without doubt the best opportunity of all to put arsenic in Cedric’s glass. Was it possible that the butler and his wife might be implicated in both murders? Could they have been the assassin’s accomplices? Had he been too hasty in dismissing Gimmond from his list of suspects?
Watching him closely, Gimmond said softly: ‘If you will cast your mind back, Inspector, you will recall that the verdict in my case was “Not proven”. Otherwise I would not be in this position of trust, serving the family.’ Looking at Faro, he said: ‘I am not ungrateful for your silence, Inspector, especially where Sergeant McQuinn’s enquiries are concerned. So if there is any way I can help you - you have only to ask.’
‘Had Mr Langweil any enemies among the servants?’
‘So you think it might be one of us? Now that would save a very nasty scandal, wouldn’t it? Find a scapegoat below stairs.’ Gimmond laughed mirthlessly. ‘Typical police procedure, ain’t it. Spare the rich master and blame the poor servant, if you can find one to fit the part.’
He sighed. ‘You’ll have your work cut out in this house, if that’s your game, Inspector Faro. Ask Mrs Gimmond, if you won’t take my word for it—’
‘About this bottle of liqueur—’
Again Gimmond shook his head. ‘None of us ever laid eyes on it. I’m told that Mrs Langweil had been given it as a present. So she said,’ he added in mocking tones of disbelief.
Both men jumped when the bell by the fireplace jangled through the room.
‘That’ll be the mistress. If you will come this way, Inspector.’
In the upstairs parlour, Maud and Freda were consoling their sister-in-law.
Seeing him enter, they looked resentfully in his direction.
‘Please, I wish to see Inspector Faro alone,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Please go, my dears. Of course I shall be all right.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Maud. ‘Shall I stay? I really would like to stay.’
‘No, please go. And take Freda with you.’
Bowing the ladies out, Faro closed the door.
‘Sit down, Mr Faro.’ She smiled sadly. ‘We have rather a lot to say to each other, have we not?’
She had been weeping, and weeping copiously. And Faro marvelled how grief enhanced her loveliness, if that was possible, making her vulnerable and ethereal. More desirable.
An angel in tears. And yet this particular angel might he knew with dawning realisation, be a devil in disguise.
Suddenly his mind was cold and clear. He knew, and had known for a long time, but refused to admit it to himself, why the murders had been committed.
He could no longer cling to the hope, the faint possibility of a missing brother. Or a servant with a grievance.
All that remained was a beautiful woman with the most tawdry secret of all. A lover who was her brother-in-law.
Faro drew in a deep breath. ‘Barbara Langweil, it is my duty to inform you that I am here to take you into custody for the murder of your husband Theodore Langweil—’
As he cautioned her he expected her to protest, to soften his heart with womanly tears; he was not kept long in suspense.
Instead she looked at him, dazed, shocked. Then she nodded.
‘Yes, Mr Faro, I am guilty. I did it. I poisoned my husband.’
Faro said nothing. There wasn’t anything he could say, hoping for a miracle, a denial of guilt with some totally unexpected revelation of damning evidence pointing to the real murderer.
But Barbara shook her head and sighed. ‘It is not quite as you are imagining. It so happens that I loved Theodore, I shall always love him.’
