In Spite of Thunder (11 page)

“
Any young fool of a player can humbug the town by appearing in tragedy, but comedy’s a serious matter. You’re not ready for comedy yet.
”

—
DAVID GARRICK

S
OME TWENTY MINUTES
later, with the shock still on his wits, Brian left the study.

He left by the door to the upstairs hall, which had been locked and bolted on the inside. Pain burnt up through his hand when he unlocked it.

Both his hands and his clothes were torn and dirt-stained from climbing down the side of a gully to see what must be seen there among the trees. Heart and lungs ached from the strain of climbing back. But physical shock counted for very little.

The lies in the story he now meant to tell—that is, if he could get away with it—had been planned already. At the door he took a last glance behind him.

“Is there anything contradictory here?” he was thinking desperately. “Anything at all? Anything that might trip me up?”

No!

Still the storm would not break. A wink of lightning opened outside the two open windows, beyond a green-glimmering balcony. Thunder shocked and tumbled up and down the sky.

But nothing in the study, with its apple-green walls and its many books and pictures, had been altered or even touched. On the writing-table, between a glass ashtray and a bowl of roses, the chromium desk-lamp shed down yellow light on that curious pile of manuscript-sheets written in dark blue ink. Eve’s uncapped fountain pen lay beside them.

A strong draught rushed through the room, belling out white window-curtains, when he opened the door. A few manuscript-sheets fluttered to the carpet. That didn’t matter, he decided. Brian glanced at the mantelpiece, where a clock showed twenty minutes past nine.

Then he closed the door behind him and went to the head of the stairs.

“Dr. Fell!” he called clearly. “Dr. Fell!”

His voice was shaky; he cleared his throat.

But for a moment only the thunder answered.

The upstairs hall was almost dark. From what he had been told, from what he now knew, he could understand the arrangement of rooms on this floor; he could try to remember who slept (or did not sleep) in each one.

At the front of the villa were two bedrooms separated by an enormous bathroom with that bull’s-eye window of coloured glass. One bedroom had been Eve Ferrier’s, one her husband’s; the groping of his wits couldn’t place them or straighten them out.

Then the oblong body of the hall, with a bedroom to the left and a bedroom to the right of it. One was Philip Ferrier’s, one was Paula Catford’s. Then the transverse passage which had a small bathroom at each end; and, behind that, the three rooms with Gerald Hathaway’s at the left, the study in the middle, and Audrey Page’s to the right.

And all this, Brian reflected, was aside from Dr. Fell’s bedroom on the ground floor. The hardwood floor up here, a pale lake, vibrated to the hollow concussion of the thunder.

“
Dr. Fell!
”

“Hey?”

“Come up here, will you?”

Brian backed away from the head of the stairs.

Then, close at hand, a door opened almost in his face.

Paula Catford, in a close-fitting silk dressing-gown, her black hair tumbled from sleep, loomed up ghostlike with towel over her arm and a sponge-bag in her hand. The image she in torn most have seen, of death-pale face and taut jaws, sent her first forwards in a rush and then back with a start.

“You’re not Desmond. You’re not Desmond at all! Who are you?”

“Miss Catford, please go back to your room.”

“Of course; I know! You’re Brian Innes.” Her eyes dilated. “What is it? There’s blood on your hands.”

“There’s blood on somebody’s hands. Keep out of this.”

He saw her shocked look; she did not deserve it. But Paula, for all her gentle ways, had a femininity almost as overpowering as Audrey’s.

“I’ll keep out of it. I won’t ask questions. But not unless you wash those cuts and put iodine on them.”

“Miss Catford, for God’s sake!”

The bathrom at the end of the passage was only ten steps away. Hot water rushed into the wash-bowl. There was no iodine in the medicine-cabinet, but Paula found a bottle of T.C.P. and used nearly half of it on his hands. A whole convulsion of creaks and cracks animated the staircase as Dr. Fell lumbered up. Paula glanced towards him, and back at Brian.

“Now, please! What is it?”

She flung down towel and sponge-bag on the edge of the tub as Brian went out, slamming the door after him. He halted Dr. Fell long enough to take the key from the inside of the study-door, lock it on the outside, and keep the key before hustling the Gargantuan doctor into Hathaway’s bedroom on the left of the study as you faced the back.

Once more a door slammed, with its echoes in thunder outside. Even a less observant man than Gideon Fell would have read his companion’s face.

“Mrs. Ferrier is dead. She went over the balcony out there,” Brian pointed, “and she’s as smashed up as anything I ever saw in World War Two. I’m going to tell you what happened; I’m going to confide in you. Then, I warn you, I’m going to tell the police every reasonable lie I can think of.”

Dr. Fell, who had been standing with head lowered in a mood between incredulous shock and dismay, opened his mouth to roar. Brian stopped him.

“Wait!” he said curtly.

“But, my dear sir—!”

“
Wait.
This was murder. They’re going to hear it was murder. That poor damned woman, and I say poor damned woman in more ways than one, was still breathing when I found her. You can’t forget things like that.”

“Then why should you lie?”

“I’ll tell you just what I saw and heard when I ran up here.”

Brian did so, from the first sleepwalker’s cry of, ‘You shan’t have him,’ to the fall headforemost with Audrey’s hand stretched out in touching-distance. Again he saw Eve’s back and hands as she plunged over.

The bed in Hathaway’s room was still unmade. A large ivory crucifix hung over it. Dr. Fell, wheezing heavily, sat down on the bed.

“Miss Page, then, did not go out for a walk?”

“Yes. She went for a walk. But she came back hardly five minutes before I got here. She was too frightened not to go out, and yet too frightened to stay out when she had gone.”

“Sir, will anybody believe that?”

“No. They won’t believe a word she says. That’s why—” Brian stopped.

“But who saw her return? Did Stephanie see her?”

“Nobody saw her. Look here!”

He strode towards the windows, both of which were closed and locked. He unlocked and raised one of them, so that a gush of air dispelled mustiness as well as a faintly sweetish odour. Dr. Fell, whose shock appeared to be passing as his scatterbrain awoke to ghoulish activity, struggled up from the bed and joined him.

Brian pointed along the balcony towards the far bedroom. He also indicated the green-painted wooden staircase going down through the balcony floor to the terrace below.

“As I understand it, Audrey arrived here for the first time at well before two o’clock this morning. Desmond Ferrier drove her in the Rolls. Mrs. Ferrier gave her that bedroom there.”

“I am aware of it, sir.”

Anger kindled in Brian Innes like the pain of torn hands and a wrenched shoulder.

“These aren’t statements; they’re questions. As I also understand it, five of you had breakfast by seven-thirty. You and Audrey couldn’t sleep; Hathaway had some errand in Geneva; Philip had to go to work; and Eve was mad-obsessed by the book that ‘told all.’ Is that true?”

“Oh, ah. Quite true.”

“Then listen!” Brian snapped. “At eight o’clock Audrey rang me up from an extension-’phone in that bedroom. She had been frightened to death ever since she saw Mrs. Ferrier’s altered behaviour towards her when she got here.”

“One moment.” Very gently, poised as though hanging there and hardly breathing, Dr. Fell touched his companion’s arm. “Miss Page, then, was not frightened of Mrs. Ferrier before she arrived?”

“Yes; she was frightened before.” Brian looked him in the eyes. “It began at the night-club, when we heard Desmond Ferrier tell you—what he did tell you.”

And he recounted it, together with everything Audrey had told him at
La Boule Noire
.

“Then why did she consent to come here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Miss Page refuse to explain?”

“No, she did not refuse. But a few minutes ago she was so hysterical that she barely made sense.” Brian paused. “You may say, of course, that she has been having an affair with Desmond Ferrier. That she couldn’t resist him. That he had only to whistle and she ran here immediately, after promising me she wouldn’t. That’s what they’ll all say.”

“Gently! Go gently!”

Brian clenched his fist, feeling blood ooze between the fingers with the odour of antiseptic stinging his nostrils.

“She denies,” he said, “that there was anything, anything at all, between her and Desmond Ferrier or any other man. She denies it incoherently but absolutely.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes. I believe it.”

“Yet it must have been a powerful reason which brought her here?”

“Yes. It must have been. I suppose so.”

Brian’s gaze did not waver. Dr. Fell, fiercely intent, made a little gesture as of one who encourages. And Brian went on.

“At eight o’clock, I repeat, she was in that bedroom there. Audrey knew Mrs. Ferrier was in the study, writing furiously at this book which ‘tells all.’ Audrey says she could ‘feel her.’ She says she couldn’t bear to be near her. You see that outside staircase?”

“I see it.”

“Audrey put on shoes with heavy crêpe soles. She crept out and down the stairs: inches at a time, she says, aching in case she made a noise. By the time she had reached the terrace down there, she tried to act defiantly in spite of the fact that she ran. She hummed or sang; she isn’t sure what it was, as you or I might whistle in a graveyard. That must have been the singing Stephanie spoke about.

“Anyway, she ran. She walked along the main road, south-west, towards the French border and the Haute-Savoie. She couldn’t stay away, because she was expecting me. At the same time, when she returned, she couldn’t resist the frightening fascination of Mrs. Ferrier’s presence. She couldn’t resist torturing herself, as you or I might press an aching tooth to feel it hurt. She returned by way of the balcony. She crept along to peer in at the window unobserved. And Mrs. Ferrier caught her.”

“Caught her,” repeated Dr. Fell.

Smoky, wet-looking clouds moved along a grey horizon above the tossing of the trees. Brian stared at the balcony. In imagination he saw Audrey there: he saw her eyes and her mouth, and the brown tweed suit and the tan stockings and crêpe-soled shoes.

Brian drew a deep breath.

“Caught her,” muttered Dr. Fell, who seemed miles away in a tense dream. “Go on!”

“Mrs. Ferrier had been writing. She looked up and saw Audrey. She shouted at Audrey, and dragged her into the study by main force. I interrupted while that lunatic scene was still going on. When Audrey heard me pound at the door and call out, she ran for the balcony. Mrs. Ferrier ran after her.”

“And then?”

“Let me quote Audrey’s exact words. ‘
I never touched her. It was as though the lightning struck her, and she threw out her arms and went over.
’ That’s the end of it. That’s how Eve Ferrier died.”

“Where is Miss Page now?”

“She’s gone. I sent her away.”

“Where did you send her?”

“Look here: Audrey was in no fit state to talk to anyone, let alone the police. She said they wouldn’t believe her. She said they wouldn’t believe me. She was quite right.”

“Sir,” and the ferrule of Dr. Fell’s stick banged on the floor, “they would NOT believe her. That is true; but it is not the point now. Where did you send her?”

“To my flat. I gave her the key. And I sent her by way of the Hotel Metropole.”

“By way of the Hotel Metropole?”

“Yes. For some reason, when Desmond Ferrier picked her up at the hotel, she didn’t give up her room. She left her luggage there: everything except one suitcase, which is in the bedroom here. She said she was going back—”

“Going back? Did the young lady explain why she did that?”

“No. Don’t snort! It gave me the way out to provide her with a story.”

Dr. Fell waited. Brian moved away from the window, closing his eyes and then opening them again.

“Eve Ferrier’s manner towards Audrey changed from the moment she got here. Audrey was scared; and everybody saw it. Correct?”

“And if it is?”

“So her story is that she bolted away from here at not much past eight o’clock this morning. She was seen to go out; nobody saw her return. Or, at least, we hope nobody saw her. Officially, she was never in that study at all. She doesn’t deny Eve Ferrier had a lot of mad ideas, because they’ll question her about it; her story is that she ran away before anything had happened. And I testify Mrs. Ferrier was alone in the study.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“But you heard two women quarreling in there. That was why you banged on the door and ran through the other bedroom to the balcony. How do you account for your own conduct?”

“Don’t you see? My story is that Mrs. Ferrier was talking to herself, rather wildly—I couldn’t distinguish any words—and didn’t answer my knocking. So I ran through in time to see her fall.”

“Oh, ah? Suppose the police ask how anybody could have pushed or thrown her from the balcony, if she was all alone there?”

“Dr. Fell, nobody
did
push or throw her!”

“Nevertheless, suppose they ask that? Or think you yourself must have attacked her?”

“Then they’ve just got to think so, that’s all. But it isn’t what happened. That woman was poisoned: just as, in some mysterious way, Hector Matthews was poisoned at Berchtesgaden seventeen years ago! With an honest investigation, and there’ll be an honest investigation in this country, they’ll discover the truth.”

“Purely for the sake of argument, what if they find no drug or poison was used? What then?”