Murder of a Snob (19 page)

“Miss Lofting is here, sir, and asks to see you.”

“Show her up right away.”

Not until Claudia was being shown in did Crisp remember that Fenchurch's pictures were still on the shelf, upright against the wall.

From the doorway her eyes sought him. She came directly to his desk, not noticing the pictures, a letter in her hand. She was in a state of tension: if she had been any other woman he would have suspected that she had been crying.

“This came by the evening post. It's from Ralph. Will you read it, please?”

He placed a chair for her, so that her back was towards the pictures. From the envelope he took a single sheet.

‘Goodbye, Claudia. You were wonderful while you were alive and I loved you with all my strength. As you are dead, I cannot live with you. And it is still true that I cannot live without you. Ralph.'

There was no address. The letter had been posted in West Central London early that afternoon.

“I must ask you to let me keep this,” said Crisp. “The handwriting is steady, though the words are maniacal.”

“The words are self-conscious and slushy. But the meaning is unpleasantly clear. He is not insane, Colonel. But I don't think he is well enough to be roaming about by himself. That threat of suicide—”

“Such threats are very common.”

“But he did try to kill himself once. And he may try again.”

“The meaning doesn't seem very sensible to me—that was written within three hours of his going with you to the Registrar.”

“That was my fault. I practically dragged him along. Because I was afraid of his suicidal impulse.”

“Is he sane enough to realise that if he doesn't tell us where he is by to-morrow morning, we shall have to take measures?”

“He is perfectly sane!” she asserted doggedly. “But everything to do with the murder is out of proportion in his mind. It's as if he felt that, after offering a confession and having it rejected, you and he washed your hands of each other. That's stupid, but it isn't insane, when you remember how the hallucination distorts everything.”

While she was speaking he was watching her face—unconsciously trying to see it as the artist saw it. ‘I paint the spirit, not the flesh.' Studio jargon, meaning one must not be misled by appearances. The disturbing thing about this girl was that her appearance always bore out whatever she was putting over. Her voice, her muscles, her very features seemed to dress the part. At the moment, she looked almost plain, hard-up, stranded through no fault of her own, but courageously determined to ask nothing for herself.

“When someone makes a statement to us,” said Crisp, “we try to prove that the statement must be true—or must be false. Sometimes a statement, proved to be false, has been made in good faith—you can call such a statement an hallucination if you like—we don't care.” He dropped the dogmatic tone as he continued: “I wish you would tell me—does Ralph honestly believe he killed his uncle—as and when he says he did?”

“I think there are moments when he doubts it,” she answered thoughtfully. “When you say something you're sure of and everyone says you're mistaken, you begin to have doubt of yourself. But, of course, he wobbles between the two extremes. That letter to me is a wobble.”

Crisp glanced down at the letter. The moment he took his eyes off her he felt that she was leading him. Let her go on leading him until she tripped!

“Why does he pretend in this letter that you are dead?”

“Dead to him, he means. It's a wobble over the hallucination. The sense of it is—if he didn't kill his uncle, I did, and he doesn't want to see me again.”

“But we don't take that line. Why should he?”

“Because he believes I stole those wretched letters from the safe. If you could only prove that I didn't, I believe we could dispel the hallucination.”

Crisp held his breath as she put to him the very case he had intended to put to her. There came to him, too, the reflection that the two men who had loved this woman both believed her capable of murder.

“Couldn't you have settled his doubts about those letters?”

“No, because my own good faith was in question. To begin with, Ralph thought I was lying when I said I didn't notice that Watlington put them in the envelope with the Will. I made it worse when I said later that I did remember it—after Querk had reminded me of exactly what happened.”

She was putting up a smoke screen, he decided. If Fenchurch's story was true, he must surely have told Claudia he had destroyed the letters.

“Leave Ralph's mentality for a moment. Haven't you yourself any theory as to how those letters vanished?”

“I still think Watlington destroyed them himself. Otherwise, he would have given them back to me when he told me he had dropped his objection to our marrying—even though I didn't ask for them.”

Crisp could afford to ignore that explanation. If Watlington had destroyed them he could only have burnt them. And there were no ashes in the library. She was losing ground, letting him work her into a corner.

“I can tell you definitely that Watlington did not destroy those letters.”

“Oh?” She registered eager surprise. “I am glad you have found out something about them. I know I mustn't ask you who did destroy them.”

“I am asking you, Miss Lofting.”

“But I can't even begin to guess. As I see it, only Ralph and I would have cared whether the letters were there or not.”

“What about the man to whom the letters were written?”

“Arthur? Oh no! He would have told me. Apart from a telephone chat this morning, I had a long talk with him in the garden on Saturday night. That was before you interviewed us and brought the murder into the family, as it were. I told him Watlington had got the letters, that they were in his safe, and that, now that he had been murdered, they would probably be read by all sorts of people. He was very apologetic, and said he didn't think they would be read, and that he'd see you and ask you to keep them out.”

Crisp had the sensation of falling over himself. With it he became aware of an unreasonable resentment. Fenchurch's infernal cleverness with a paint brush was making this girl seem larger than life size—a spiritual chameleon, able to colour her personality from the colour of those about her. For young Benscombe a straight sex appeal, the more potent for being screened with modesty and good manners. For himself a naif defencelessness, a subtle flattery of his powers by treating him as a kind, clever uncle who would make everything turn out nicely for her, provided she trusted him without reserve.

“Suppose he did recover those letters? And didn't want to tell you for fear of alarming you?”

“That isn't Arthur's style!” She laughed. “He never wonders what others think. He doesn't take any notice of persons as persons. Even when he was in love with me he hadn't the least idea what kind of person I was.”

“Hadn't he?” Without intention, Crisp's eyes were drawn to the picture. Claudia followed his glance.

She looked back at Crisp, revealing her astonishment. He was prepared for the obvious question. Instead, she found her own explanation of the presence of those pictures at police headquarters.

“So Watlington got hold of those, too?” Crisp did not correct her assumption. “That explains a lot!”

“Not to me!” Crisp was puzzled.

“He must have assumed that I sat in the nude. That would set a man like that sniggering and telling dirty stories. That kind always thinks that artist's models are immoral. I wish he had mentioned it—we'd have had none of that dreadful bother with Ralph.”

“But it
is
you, isn't it?” Crisp got up and went over to the shelf. Claudia followed.

“The head is mine. And I'm the inspiration, in a left-handed sort of way. One day, I saw an Italian beating a child, and I felt sick. Arthur raved about my expression and made several charcoal sketches. They weren't very successful. But he couldn't leave the idea alone. Months later, back in London, he ‘saw' it as an allegorical study, and set to work in the ordinary way with a professional model. He actually used two. So there are three of us in that picture.”

“I don't believe you looked sick.”

She turned sharply, surprised and resentful of his tone.

His eyes met hers.

“Fenchurch admitted this evening that he was at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon and that he recovered those letters.”

At last! With profound satisfaction, he watched her crumple under the blow, watched bewilderment give way to fear. She was making no attempt to conceal her distress. Her colour had gone. She moved one foot unsteadily.

He took her by the arm, led her back to her chair.

“When you feel well enough, perhaps you will tell me what really happened.”

“I am trying to think.” Crisp would not prompt her. “Why didn't he tell me? Because of the murder, of course! He didn't want anybody to know he had been there. I expect he only told you because you frightened him.”

“I never frighten anybody!” bellowed Crisp.

She ignored him, continued to utter her thoughts aloud.

“He got my letter in the morning, and felt ashamed of himself. He guessed what had happened to the letters.
Oh!
”

The exclamation was so sharp that Crisp jumped.

“I see what must have happened!” she cried.

“I don't want to know what you think must have happened. I want to know what
did
happen.”

She looked at him with mild reproof. Her confidence had come back and gaiety had been added.

“What did happen was that at about half-past two I was the kind of hussy who will sit about in the nude to oblige her male friends. And at about five past five I had become a thoroughly nice girl, in every way suitable to be the ancestress of a long line of barons Watlington. That's what
did
happen.

“If I were allowed to tell what
must
have happened, I would point out that Arthur must have left Watlington a few minutes before I turned up. He explained about the nude, and made Watlington see that it is not a social crime to fall in love twice—consecutively, of course—nor even to write the sort of letters that sound appalling when read out in court.”

Crisp drew down the corners of his mouth.

“Preceded or followed by a discussion of rival wine merchants in Casa Flavia?”

“Arthur will tell you when you've made him see there's nothing to be afraid of. This is splendid, Colonel. When Ralph sends you his address, I hope you will let me go to him at once. Then we can try to clear that up, too!”

“We have cleared nothing up.”

Crisp let the silence lengthen. The only evidence that Watlington had changed his mind about her by five o'clock was her own statement—virtually contradicted by Querk's statement. For the rest, it was certain that she would talk to Fenchurch, and that he would tell her that his flat had been searched.

“Miss Lofting!” He swivelled in his chair so that he faced her, directly. “You stated that, when you picked up that die-stamp from the hall table, there was a registered package beside it. Do you confirm that statement?”

“Yes.” Her voice held apprehension.

“That was at a few minutes past five?”

“Yes. Please hurry on.”

“This piece of brown paper—as you will see if you care to examine it—was the wrapping of that registered package.” He paused for emphasis. “This piece of brown paper was found in Fenchurch's flat.”

Again, her reaction startled him.

“How perfectly ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “As if Arthur would steal somebody's parcel! He never steals anything. When he's hard up, he borrows money. And he isn't particularly hard up now.”

“I didn't suggest that he stole the package. I said only that this piece of brown paper—”

“Did he tell you what he wanted a piece of brown paper for?”

“He did not,” said Crisp. “That is beside the point—”

“Not with Arthur Fenchurch! He never wraps anything up. He'll walk through the streets with the most blush-making things in his hand, if you let him.”

“Will you kindly fix your mind on the time at which—”

“I can't, Colonel! If you were to tell me that you thought Arthur had murdered Watlington, I should be horribly afraid you might be right, even if you were wrong. But if the whole thing begins with Arthur picking up a piece of brown paper, I just laugh until you stop.”

“You are very rude!” grunted Crisp. He was having no luck with that brown paper clue.

She gave him an apology that was very nearly demure. It was she who ended the interview, and it was he who got up and bowed her out, not having intended to do anything of the kind.

When she had gone, he took stock.

Following the formula, he had let himself be impressed and must now rub out the impression. Not too easy! His impression of honesty on her part might turn out to be justified. To reject a good impression blindly would be as unreasonable as to accept it blindly. On the other hand, if Fenchurch had phoned her that the police had been quizzing him about a piece of brown paper—

“Pure guesswork!” ejaculated Crisp. He turned to the basket of nominally urgent reports. “Better have another dip in the fact box!”

Presently, he was studying a report marked with the code number of Ralph Cornboise, with a cross reference to the Three Witches.

‘
Statement by John Elderman, 16, cycle delivery boy
—' There were details of the boy's parents and employers.
‘I was passing the gates of Watlington Lodge in company with my friend, Albert Saunders, who was also delivering, when we saw a large two-seater car with gold and red bodywork standing just inside the gates. I recognised it as a Reindert which is a rare car which my friend did not know about. We stopped and looked at it from our cycles. I did not see anybody in the car nor standing near. When it struck half past five my friend said he must be getting on and I said I must, too.'