Fair Warning (9 page)

But he didn’t. The doctor lighted another cigarette, and the match sputtered sharply; Beatrice’s long fingers stopped plaiting; Rob looked down at Marcia, and Verity said as if she did not know she was speaking:

“So it’s murder!”

She must do something about the letter; now, at once, before the police found it. Beatrice had not spoken; had not accused Marcia. Why? But the pressing and urgent thing just now was to recover Rob’s letter, and the police were, of course, in the library. Something was happening in the hall outside; there were muffled footsteps, and someone called out, “Hold the door open, will you?”

Dr. Blakie listened and went to the hall door, and said to Marcia, “Do you want me to see to—things?”

Things? What things? Beyond him she had an instant’s glimpse of something like a basket, except that it was very large, being carried through the hall. She knew then what he meant, and Beatrice said harshly, “Please do, Graham. Brown and Fielding, tell them.”

He looked uneasy. “They’ll have to do a P.M. probably,” he said. “They may not need to get your permission; I don’t know; haven’t had much to do with police cases—but it’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you may as well give your consent—not offer any opposition. Right, Marcia?”

She nodded. Beatrice said, “We’ll have to do as they say, I suppose.”

The doctor opened the door further. They heard him say, “Oh—it’s you. They are all in there. Want to go in?”

“Good God, what’s happened? I reached Copley’s about a half an hour ago and was promptly nabbed by a policeman and trundled over here and put there in the dining room along with Ancill and Emma and the Copleys’ servants, staring at each other, with two policemen watching us all like hawks and nobody saying a word.” It was Gally, of course; words tumbling out in a rush. “Then one of ’em got me in a corner and asked me everything I knew. Who I was, where’d I come from, why—wouldn’t tell me a thing and was hipped on time. What’s it all about? And what’s that basket for and the lads in white and—”

His voice stopped as suddenly as if a hand had been put not too gently across his babbling mouth.

“Ivan Godden has been murdered,” said Dr. Blakie with neat and impersonal precision, and added as neatly, “Shut up.”

“Murdered? Oh, my God—who did it?”

“Nobody knows. Go on in there. I’ll be back.”

He put Gally deftly inside the door and closed it. Gally was in evening dress, with his ears and his freckles standing out and his stringy hair looking tousled, as if he had been running his hands through it, and his eyes black and excited. In spite of the inquisition he’d complained of, he had managed to get about one drink too many. He said jerkily and not too distinctly, “My God, Marcia, what’s been going on?” and then Lieutenant Davies came in again, talking rapidly about something they were to do.

“… and thus fix the time of the murder,” he said. “It’s only a matter of form. Please be brief. And it’s better to tell the exact truth; we can almost always check statements. Inaccuracies only bother us. Will you begin, Miss Godden.”

Lieutenant Davies had a pad of paper and a pencil in his hands. Gally looked at him, said resentfully, “At it again, are you?” and wavered to a chair. And Marcia must get away; she must go to the library, find that letter. Already the things they had asked Rob were beginning to take on weight, hideous importance. The letter would add so terrifically to it.

Beatrice said tersely, brooding upon the plaits on her knee, “I left the house, I should say, about seven-twenty. I came downstairs; the library door was closed, and I heard nothing from beyond it. I let myself out the front door and went to Mrs. Copley’s.”

“Arriving there when?”

“It’s next door; I suppose a moment or two afterward. Stella—that’s Mrs. Copley’s housemaid—let me in. I left my wrap upstairs; came down and went into the living room. I was the first one there; though Dr. Blakie arrived shortly after. Mrs. Copley came in a moment or two. After about ten minutes I came across the garden way to see what was delaying my sister, Mrs. Godden.”

“The garden way?”

“There’s a gate. It’s a little shorter; I rather imagined she was talking to my brother in the library. That was, I suppose, about thirty-five or forty minutes after seven. I had looked at my watch at seven thirty-five and particularly noted the time, of course, since she was late.”

“And then?”

It was coming. Marcia watched Beatrice’s mouth in a very fascination of horror and couldn’t move or speak or stop the thing.

Beatrice’s fingers made a deliberate, slow fold. Something about her was undecided; she said, finally, not looking at anyone, “My brother was dead. Mrs. Godden was kneeling beside him. We called the doctor …”

She wasn’t going to tell. Beatrice, who had never liked her, still wasn’t going to tell what she had seen and what she thought. A sudden warm rush of gratitude that was almost affection surged over Marcia. After all those years of unremitting hatred, of spiderlike watchfulness, Beatrice was at last and in time of tragic need friendly. Loyal. Even if it was due merely to family pride, it was still loyalty which Marcia hadn’t expected.

She did not then consider the curious and unlikely inconsistency of that premise.

She looked at Beatrice. Beatrice looked up suddenly and met her eyes for one baleful, unguarded flash, and immediately Marcia knew she was wrong.

There was no friendliness in that lightning look. It was knowing, purposeful, gleaming with something that for that one instant pierced the dark cloudiness of her eyes. But it was not friendly. Why, then?

Verity was talking now, crisply. Miss Godden had arrived; yes, about seven-twenty or twenty-five. Dr. Blakie shortly after. She hadn’t noted the exact time. Yes, Rob had come home from a walk about—oh, just after seven, perhaps ten minutes after.

“Can’t you be more exact about time?”

“I’m afraid not. I didn’t know there was going to be a murder.”

Lieutenant Davies’s busy pencil jerked, and he gave her a disapproving glance. Verity, however, was looking very small and feminine and helpless except for her nose, and he let it pass.

“What then?”

“Well, let me see. Stella came to say the appetizers were getting soggy—Rob shouted that he’d be dressed in a minute. It began to look as if dinner might be delayed, so I went to the kitchen to speak to cook about holding up things. It must have been about that time that Miss Godden decided to return for Marcia—Mrs. Godden, that is. Anyway, I was delayed a bit—one of those minor domestic catastrophes. When I came out everybody was gone and Stella was very excited and saying something had happened to Mr. Godden, she didn’t know what, but it must be serious, the way Ancill looked and the way Dr. Blakie and my son hurried away. After a while I came, too. That’s all.”

“That was when?”

“I don’t know exactly. Around seven-thirty, I suppose.”

“Not very definite, Mrs. Copley. You see, the murder had to be done about then—” He hesitated, his pencil hovering above the pad, then said more decisively, “Mrs. Godden.”

“Yes.” She must be very steady; answer just what he asked.

Dr. Blakie came in again, quietly, and beyond him in the hall were sounds, and a glimpse of blue uniforms. A faint acrid odor drifted across the chill mustiness of the room, then he closed the door behind him and Lieutenant Davies said, “When did you last see Mr. Godden alive?”

“About dinnertime. I think it was about a quarter to seven. I remember because I was thinking of Mrs. Copley’s dinner party and how long I had to dress.”

“And what time was it when you found him dead?”

“It was about seven thirty-five. I had looked at my watch before coming downstairs.”

“That’s fifty minutes. During that time did you hear or see anything suspicious? I mean, was there any sound of anyone entering the house—anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did you see Miss Godden leave?”

“She stopped in my room as she was leaving. I heard the lower door close immediately afterward.”

He referred to something already written on the pad of paper, frowned a little, said, “That would be about seven-twenty?”

“I—I believe so.”

“Then you were entirely alone in the house between seven-twenty and seven thirty-five when you—found your husband dead.”

“I—I don’t know. Ancill and the cook were here.”

“How do you know?”

“I assumed it. There was no reason to think either was gone.”

Rob said suddenly, “See here, are we to understand that this is an official inquiry into alibis—”

“I explained that we needed to fix the time of the murder.”

Rob hesitated, certain of his objection but uncertain of his ground, and Lieutenant Davies continued briskly: “I believe we have your statement, Mr. Copley; you passed the house at about ten minutes to seven—just after Mrs. Godden had left her husband alone, that would be—stopped to speak to her, went for a walk, got home at about ten after seven. Anything to add to that?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t happen to meet someone you knew during that walk, did you, Mr. Copley?”

Rob hesitated, bit his lip, said abruptly, “No.”

Gally, his eyes faintly glassy, was wriggling in his chair and breathing very hard, as he always did in moments of excitement. The lieutenant looked at him, referred to his pad and said, “Oh, yes, Galway Trench. Left home at half-past six; had a breakdown near Harlem and 59th—arrived here at eight. Well, we have your account, too. Anything to add?”

Gally, breathing harder, had nothing to add.

Lieutenant Davies studied his notes and looked at Graham Blakie.

“How about you, Doctor? We’re trying to fix the time of the murder.”

“It sounds rather like something else,” observed Dr. Blakie, somewhat grimly.

“Take it that way if you want to,” said the lieutenant. “Somebody murdered him, and it wasn’t likely a total stranger.”

“Look here, Graham,” said Rob hotly, “have they any right to question us like this? I think we ought to have some rights in the matter.”

The doctor looked at the lieutenant, who returned his look steadily, and shrugged. “We can refuse to answer, but I don’t advise it. It only makes things—more difficult. Murder’s murder. You want my story, Lieutenant. Very well, I saw Mr. Godden this morning—brought him back from the hospital —”

“Yeah, we know all that. How about the time between, say, about six-thirty and seven-thirty?”

“I beg your pardon. I left my apartment in town at about six-thirty. Stopped to see a patient in Evanston. Arrived at Copley’s at about—I don’t know exactly. Didn’t Miss Godden say it was about the time she arrived? Anyway, it was a little after seven-thirty—must have been about—oh, a quarter to eight when Ancill came. Mr. Copley and I were having a drink in the small sitting room. He told me what had happened. We found the dead man, as you know. I examined him, found —”

“We got that, too.”

He looked at his sheaf of notes and left them as abruptly as the detective had done.

Verity said something to Graham, and he approached her, and the little shifting left Rob and Marcia unobserved for the moment, for Beatrice, too, moved toward Verity.

Marcia turned in swift desperation to Robert.

“Rob, the letter you wrote me! It—it’s in the library. It was a—a terrible mistake to leave it. But it’s there now— the police—”

“Where?”

“In the cupboard, beside the french doors. The left one —on the east side, I mean. Oh, Rob—”

“They may not let me in. I’ll try.”

The opening door made a sort of silhouette of his tall body and brown hair against the stronger light in the hall. No one stopped him.

But police were still in the library—or were they? Didn’t they immediately search the place and search it minutely? Perhaps they had already found the note; were only biding their time until they had so strong a case that Rob could be formally charged with murder. Or both of them—for there was that motive.

It was an ugly irony that it was Rob’s only letter to her and that it was written because she had refused his love. She had been wrong; divorce, anything, was better than this. But it was too late.

Verity’s voice rose rather sharp and thin: “… I’m going home. They can’t keep me here. I don’t know anything of it. It’s terrible, of course. But we can’t help it now.”

“It was my brother,” said Beatrice.

“Forgive me, Beatrice. I didn’t mean to be unkind. Is there anything I can do for you? Any telephoning—telegrams?”

“No, thank you. I’ll attend to it. Besides, everyone will know. The papers will be full of it by morning.”

Jacob Wait’s bored, sallow face appeared in the doorway against a sort of haze of blue smoke and blurred sound of voices and motion, and Beatrice stopped abruptly.

“There’ll be an inquest tomorrow at twelve,” he said.

“We’ll let you know the place.”

“Inquest!” exclaimed Gally Trench, suddenly articulate. “Have we all got to go?”

The detective didn’t trouble himself to reply. He added, as if as an afterthought: “You can leave, if you want to, now. Probably there won’t be much more questioning till tomorrow.”

He disappeared again. Verity put her arm around Marcia and said, “Good night, my dear. Or would you like me to stay here with you?”

Beatrice heard her and replied for Marcia: “Thank you, no. Ancill is here. We are not at all afraid.”

Policemen were in the hall; all the lights were on; voices were coming from behind closed dining-room doors. There was cigarette smoke in blue clouds, and groups of strange men, and Rob was suddenly there beside Marcia.

“Rob —”

His dark eyes warned her. His face was taut and white in that bright light; his hair ruffled above his gleaming white shirt front and smooth black shoulders. He said nothing; he couldn’t speak because so many people were all around them. But he shook his head just a little.

He hadn’t found it, then.

He couldn’t have found it. For she was going upstairs, and the library door was open, and Jacob Wait was standing there while two men took pictures of some yellowish powder which was sprinkled in light layers over the big mahogany desk. There was a chalked oval on the carpet. The cupboard doors were closed.