Murder of a Snob (7 page)

Benscombe came quietly into the room and sat down. Ralph continued:

“I saw her go into the house by the front door, not the window, which was nearer. I hoped she had decided to take my advice and do nothing. I hung about a bit. I admit I was rather worked up about it. When I felt I could stand the suspense no longer, I went to the library window and opened it.”

He paused, looked Crisp in the face, and added:

“Then I was very relieved to see that Miss Lofting had not gone to the library after all.”

That was Crisp's second surprise—that Ralph and Claudia had not put their heads together and agreed on their tale, though they had had ample time and opportunity to do so.

“How could you tell? She might have gone to the library and left before you arrived?”

“My uncle was asleep.” Ralph's tone had become sulky.

“He wouldn't have had time to go to sleep if she had been talking to him a few minutes before I came in.”

“Go on. Don't leave it to me to pull the facts out of you.”

“You want such tiny details!” Ralph sank back in the easy chair and covered his eyes with his hands. “I was uncertain what I wished to do. It's a bit of an effort to remember every single thing … I saw a metal thing on the floor, near his feet, as if he had knocked it off the writing table. I picked it up. It was an address die-stamp, I think.”

His voice tailed off into silence.

“Was it this one on the table here?” asked Crisp.

Ralph did not remove his hands from his eyes.

“Yes. I saw it just now. That's the one.” He added querulously: “Why shouldn't it be?”

The effect of the sedative drug seemed to be wearing off, leaving him irritable and suspicious.

“What did you do with it?”

“I'll tell you in a minute—it's no good hurrying me! I put it on the table with a bit of a clatter. But it didn't wake him up. Then I hoped he wouldn't wake up, as I'd forgotten what I meant to say to him. I went out by the window just as that beastly clock was chiming a quarter past five. I tripped on the lawn and fell down. Then I remembered that I had decided to have a swim. So I went and had the swim.”

“That's better!” approved Crisp. “I gather you were in a somewhat agitated state from about two-thirty onwards, weren't you?”

“I certainly was!”

“Why?”

Ralph dropped his hands and stared at Crisp.

“Why?” repeated Crisp. “You've told me that your uncle made some disparaging remark about Miss Lofting. It must have been a very mild remark, or Miss Lofting would have walked out of the house. But she intended to stay on for the weekend. Surely the remark can't have been worth all that hullabaloo! She didn't seem to think herself insulted when she was talking to me just now.”

“In my own mind I may have exaggerated the insult element,” admitted Ralph. “But I didn't exaggerate the practical element. If his Will left me penniless in the event of my marrying Miss Lofting—”

“
If!
But I understand from Miss Lofting that he read the Will to the three of you: then locked it up and put it in his safe, sealed and addressed to his solicitors?”

Ralph groped for an answer. “You don't understand the atmosphere—”

“I don't!” Crisp frowned. “But that Will is growing more and more mysterious. Do you object to my seeing it?”

“Yes, I do!” cried Ralph. “I'm very sorry, Colonel, but I definitely object. I can tell you the contents!”

“Then why not let me read 'em?”

Ralph pouted and fidgetted like a resentful child.

“I wish we could leave that Will alone!” he whined. “Besides, I don't know where it is. You're talking as if I had it in my pocket.”

Crisp took the sealed envelope from the mantelpiece.

“Is this the Will?”

Ralph stopped fidgetting.

“That?”
He took the envelope, ran his fingers the length of it, as Crisp had done in the library. “No,” he said. “At least—that is—I don't think it is.” And then that vacuous little question again: “Why should it be?”

Crisp's eyes were on the envelope as he asked:

“Did your uncle produce some letters written by Miss Lofting?”

“Yes. An abominable trick! But there was nothing in it as far as I was concerned. Miss Lofting had told me all there was to tell.”

“What did he do with those letters?”

“I don't know.” The words were uttered with sulky defiance.

“We'll see what's in that envelope.”

Crisp opened the door and called Inspector Sanson.

“You and Benscombe witness this,” he ordered. “I'm going to open a sealed document.”

The envelope was still in Ralph's hand.

“Perhaps you would prefer to open it yourself, Mr. Cornboise?”

Ralph made no move. His expression was vacant and listless. Crisp took the envelope from his fingers, slit the flap and removed the contents, a single folio sheet, folded. He unfolded it, spread it on the table.

He read the Will aloud, in summary, addressing Ralph.

“Hm! Residuary estate left to you, Mr. Cornboise, ‘provided that … he shall hold himself in readiness to marry and shall so marry before his fortieth year a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.' Witnessed by the housemaid and the caretaker two days ago.” Crisp looked up. “I don't see that that is an insult to Miss Lofting.”

The remains of the sedative drug proved ineffective. From Ralph Cornboise came a burst of high-pitched laughter—and another.

Crisp watched him with almost clinical interest. So this was why Claudia had begged him to be gentle—she knew that he was subject to hysteria. Moreover, the hysterical attack had been brought on at sight of a Will, of which Ralph already knew the contents—taken from an envelope in which he had, presumably, seen the Will sealed up.

Ralph had recovered and was lighting a cigarette. His cheeks glistened with tears he had already forgotten.

“You're steady enough now to answer a question. You expected me to find something in that envelope beside the Will—”

“That's not a question. It's a statement. And it's not true.”

“My mistake,” grinned Crisp. “Here comes a proper question for a plain yes-or-no answer. But take your time.”

“Go ahead, Colonel.” Ralph had swung to the other extreme, and was now unnaturally calm.

“When you entered the library through the window, at a quarter past five—” Crisp held himself ready for another outburst “—was your uncle
already dead?
”

There was no more than a slight catch of the breath before Ralph answered:

“No. He was not dead until I killed him.”

“Ah!” sighed Crisp. “I was afraid you'd say that!”

“The worst of it is,” continued Crisp, “I have to pretend to take you seriously. Benscombe, you might bring the typewriter in here for Inspector Sanson.”

Ralph was wearing an expression of arrested determination, so that he suggested the still photograph of a film star in his big scene. Crisp knew that the hysteric perpetually dramatises himself and that his statements should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, the young man was forcing police procedure along a line Crisp had wished to avoid.

“Well, Cornboise, how did you do this murder of yours?”

“So you don't believe me!”

“My dear fellow, you can't stop a police investigation by accusing yourself. What's to prevent you withdrawing your confession when we've packed up?”

Sanson inserted paper and carbon in his typewriter.

“I'll make you believe me. I'll give all the tiny details you're so fond of,” said Ralph. “My uncle was asleep, as I said he was. That thing—” he pointed to the die-stamp—“was on the floor, as I said it was. I picked it up. At first I intended only to put it on the table. And then—well, I didn't see any red as is supposed, but there was the illusion of a kind of mist: yet the physical eye could see through the mist.”

“Well?” prompted Crisp. “What did you
do?
”

“I swung that die-stamp thing to his head and killed him instantly.”

“Did you indeed!” grinned Crisp. “What did he look like the moment after you killed him?”

“Oh—” Ralph shuddered elaborately. “The blow damaged the wig. It stuck out behind his ears like—like a bat's wings.”

Crisp glanced at Benscombe before asking his next question.

“Apart from the wig, what did he look like?”

“I don't know. I felt—spiritually sick. I wanted to run away from myself.”

“What did you do with the thing you call the diestamp?”

Ralph's mouth twitched violently.

“I don't remember. Oh yes, I do! I let it drop on the floor—where it was when I picked it up!”

“Before you left—by the window—did you lock the door?”

“No!”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Crisp. “A most unfortunate thing has happened. I forgot to warn you, when you started confessing, that what you said might be used in evidence. That means we can't use any of your confession. The judge would strike it out.”

“I don't know why you're fooling with me, unless it's sadism,” whined Ralph. “Anyhow, you've warned me now. I'll dictate to that officer what I've said.”

Crisp let him dictate and sign his confession.

“I still don't understand why you murdered him,” continued Crisp.

“I hadn't any clear cut motive. I was a swine to accept his money, because I've always hated him. But surely the confession lets me off all this catechism!”

Crisp shrugged.

“Very well, Cornboise. We shall have to detain you on suspicion, pending further investigation.” He turned to Sanson. “Take him with you, please. Let him pack his things, but send an orderly with him.”

When Cornboise had left the room with Inspector Sanson, Crisp lit a cigarette—a comparatively rare occurrence. No one had ever seen him smoke one to a finish. His eye rested on Benscombe.

“Did you get anything out of that artist's girl?”

“Nothing striking, sir. Fenchurch left their flat about three, telling her he was going to Watlington Lodge to rout out Ralph. Presumably, he changed his mind.”

“Why presume it? He may have come here and murdered Watlington.”

He became aware that Benscombe was watching him like an expectant puppy.

“Well, boy, what is it?”

“Are you sure that confession is only a stunt, sir?”

“Not sure, but extremely suspicious,” answered Crisp. “Work it out for yourself. His account of his movements, outside the library, is true. He says Watlington was asleep when he went in. Possible but unlikely, because Cornboise must have entered by the window within two minutes or so of Miss Lofting leaving by the door.”

He outlined Claudia Lofting's evidence.

“Next, he says he struck through the wig. Untrue. The doctor says the wig was removed and replaced after the fatal blow had been struck. Also, I saw the wig myself. It was a bit awry, but undamaged. I was looking for signs of violence and found none.

“Next, he says he dropped the die-stamp on the floor. It was found on the mantelpiece. Admittedly, he revealed knowledge that death had been caused by a single blow, but he dodged my question about the appearance after death.

“Further, my question as to whether Watlington was already dead when Cornboise entered the study suggested that Miss Lofting might be guilty. As she warned me, he promptly confessed.”

“Yes, sir. But assuming he's innocent, he wouldn't know about the murder until we turned up. I'm putting myself in his place and assuming I'm innocent. The first thing I'd do when the police turned up would be to talk it over with my fiancée—there were about a couple of hours for this purpose. I'd say: ‘The police are bound to quiz us. Where were we when it happened? We'd better tell 'em the same tale or they'll think we're fishy.' That's what I'd say, sir—if I were innocent. But if I were guilty I'd avoid discussing it with her. Cornboise did avoid discussing it with her.”

“That would equally prove her guilty instead of him,” Crisp pointed out, “since she did not discuss it with him. The only inference you can draw from the fact that their tales conflict is that they are not in conspiracy.”

“And another thing, sir!” continued Benscombe unabashed. “What about that Will? When you handed him the envelope he fingered it and said it wasn't the Will. When you opened up and showed it was, he threw his laughing fit. There was something there that shook his nerve. And it wasn't the text of the Will.”

“Hm! You've got something there, boy!” It was part of Crisp's policy to encourage bright juniors. “We'll have to get to the bottom of this Will business—see who that is knocking.”

Benscombe opened the door to Andrew Querk in an advanced state of alarm.

“Pray forgive me for this intrusion, Chief Constable. I have just seen Ralph Cornboise going upstairs, apparently in—ah—custody. As he passed me he called out: ‘Goodbye, Mr. Querk. I'm done for.' My imagination attached an appalling meaning to those words—”

“He has confessed that he murdered his uncle, and has signed the confession—”

“I feared it! I
knew
it!” wailed Querk. “Lacking a shred of proof, I was nevertheless positive, though I refused to admit it to myself.”

“Come in, please, Mr. Querk.”

Querk came in, but not as other men come into a room. He walked as a man walks when he is leading a procession. He came to a halt when he had reached a position from which he could address the. Chief Constable and his aide as an audience.

“This is tragedy. Stark tragedy!” he proclaimed. He removed his pince-nez, deemed to have been obscured by the effects of his emotion. When he replaced them, he abandoned his office as a symbolic figure and became a provincial mayor in distress. “Forgive me! We were old friends, Lord Watlington and I. I was ‘dear old Andrew' to him and he was ‘old pal Samuel' to me—though, of course, he was considerably my senior in years.”