The Beast Must Die (14 page)

Felix was a little startled to realise how much he already seemed to have found out about his guest. He realised that the perilous nature of his present position must have sharpened all his faculties. He said, with a sidelong half smile:

‘Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’

‘St Paul, if I remember rightly. You’d better tell me all about it.’

So Felix told him the essentials of the story, as he had set it down in his diary: the death of Martie, his own growing preoccupation with the idea of revenge, the combination of reasoning and lucky accident by which he had arrived at George Rattery, the plan to drown George in the dinghy and the way the tables had been turned upon him at the last moment. At this point Nigel, who had been sitting quiet, staring down at the toes of his shoes, interrupted.

‘Why did he leave it so late to spring upon you the fact that he’d found out all about you?’

‘I can’t really be sure,’ said Felix after a pause. ‘Partly cat-and-mouse fun on his part, I dare say; he was an obvious sadist type. Partly, perhaps, that he wanted to make quite sure I was going to go through with it – I mean, he couldn’t have wanted a showdown, because he must have known it would lay him open to the charge of manslaughter over Martie. I don’t know, though: actually he tried to blackmail me in the boat – said he’d sell the diary back to me; he seemed thoroughly taken aback when I pointed out to him that he’d never dare to hand the diary over to the police.’

‘Mm. What happened next?’

‘Well, I came straight back here, to the Angler’s Arms. George was to have sent my luggage over. He
refused
to have me back for a moment in his home, not unnaturally. This all happened yesterday, by the way. About half-past ten Lena rang up to say that George had died. It gave me a hell of a turn, as you can imagine. He had been taken ill after dinner. Lena described the symptoms; it sounded to me exactly like strychnine. I went straight over to the Ratterys’ house; the doctor was still there and he confirmed it. I was properly caught. There was my diary, in the hands of his solicitors, to be opened in the event of his death. It was going to tell the police that I had set out to murder George, and there was George murdered; an open-and-shut case for them.’

The rigid posture of Felix’s body and the staring anxiety in his eyes belied his steady, almost indifferent tones.

‘I damned nearly went and chucked myself in the river,’ he said. ‘It seemed so utterly hopeless. Then I remembered Michael Evans telling me you’d got him out of a similar jam, so I phoned him up and asked him to put me in touch with you. And there we are.’

‘You’ve not told the police about this diary yet?’

‘No no. I was waiting till—’

‘That must be done at once. I’d better do it myself.’

‘Yes. Please, if you would. I’d rather—’

‘And this must be understood between us.’ Nigel gazed speculatively and impersonally into Felix’s eyes. ‘From what you’ve told me, I should say it’s most improbable that you killed George Rattery, and I’ll do
all
I can to prove that you didn’t. But, of course, if by any chance you did, and my investigations convince me of it, I shall not attempt to conceal it.’

‘That seems reasonable enough,’ said Felix with a tentative smile. ‘I’ve written so much about amateur detectives, it’ll be interesting to see how one really goes to work. Oh God, this is awful,’ he went on in a different voice, ‘I must have been mad these last six months. Little Martie. I keep on wondering whether I would really have tipped George into the river and let him drown, if he hadn’t –’

‘Never mind. You didn’t – that’s the point. No use crying over spilt milk.’

Nigel’s cool, astringent, but not unfriendly tones were more effective than sympathy in pulling Felix together.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Not that one ought to feel any qualms even if one had murdered George. He was a most unmitigated swine all round.’

‘By the way,’ asked Nigel, ‘how do you know it wasn’t suicide?’

Felix looked startled. ‘Suicide? I’d never thought – I mean, I’ve thought about George for so long in the – er – context of murder, it never occurred to me it might have been suicide. No, it couldn’t have been. He was far too insensitive and complacent a creature to – besides, why should he?’

‘Who would you say might have killed him then? Any local candidates?’

‘My dear Strangeways,’ said Felix uneasily, ‘you really can’t ask the chief suspect to start slinging dirt at all and sundry.’

‘The Queensberry rules don’t apply here. You can’t go all chivalrous on me – there’s too much at stake.’

‘In that case, I should say that anyone who had anything to do with George was potentially his murderer. He bullied his wife and son, Phil, unspeakably. He was also a womaniser. The only person he didn’t bully and couldn’t corrupt was his mother, and she’s a very grim old harridan indeed. Do you want me to tell you all about these people?’

‘No. Not yet, at least. I’d rather get my own impressions about them first. Well, I don’t think there’s anything more to be done tonight. Let’s go along and talk to my wife.’

‘Oh, look here, there’s one thing. This kid Phil: he’s a very decent kid, only twelve years old. We must get him out of that house, if we can. He’s a thoroughly nervous subject, and this business might tip him over the edge. I don’t like to ask Violet myself, considering what she’s very soon going to find out about me. I was wondering could your wife perhaps –’

‘I expect we can arrange something about that. I’ll have a talk to Mrs Rattery about it tomorrow.’

3

WHEN NIGEL ARRIVED
at the Ratterys’ house next morning, he found a policeman leaning over the gate and gazing phlegmatically across the street at a flustered driver who was trying to extricate his car from the almost empty car park opposite.

‘Good morning,’ said Nigel. ‘Is this –?’

‘It’s pathetic. Just pathetic, isn’t it, sir?’ said the policeman unexpectedly. It took Nigel a few seconds to realise that the constable was speaking, not of the recent events in this house, but of the erratic manoeuvres of the motorist. Severnbridge was already living up to its reputation for honest, yeoman stolidity. The constable jerked his thumb towards the car park. ‘He’s been at it for five minutes,’ he said. ‘Pathetic, I call it.’

Nigel agreed that the situation contained elements of pathos. Then he asked could he come in, as he had business with Mrs Rattery.

‘Mrs Rattery?’

‘Yes. This is her house, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, that is so. Terrible tragedy, isn’t it, sir? Prominent figure in our town. Why, only last Thursday he was passing the time of day with me and—’

‘Yes, a terrible tragedy, as you say. That’s really what I want to see Mrs Rattery about.’

‘Friend of the family?’ asked the constable, still leaning massively across the gate.

‘Well, not exactly, but—’

‘One of these reporters. I guessed it. You’ll have to cool your heels a bit longer, sonnie,’ said the constable, with an abrupt change of front. ‘Inspector Blount’s orders. That’s what I’m here—’

‘Inspector Blount? Oh, he’s an old friend of mine.’

‘That’s what they all say, son.’ The constable’s voice was tolerant but lugubrious.

‘Tell him Nigel Strangeways – no, take him this card. I’ll lay you seven to one he sees me at once.’

‘I’m not a betting man. Not regular, that is. A mug’s game, and I don’t care who hears me say it. Mind you, I’ve had my little flutter on the Derby; but what I say –’

After five minutes more of this passive resistance, the constable agreed to take Nigel’s card to Inspector Blount. They’ve been prompt enough about calling in the Yard, thought Nigel as he waited, fancy running into Blount again. With mixed feelings he recalled his last encounter with that bland-faced, granite-hearted Scot; Nigel had been Perseus then to Georgia’s Andromeda, and Blount had been dangerously near playing the role of the sea monster; it was at Chatcombe, too, that the legendary airman, Fergus O’Brien, had set Nigel the knottiest problem of his career.

When a somewhat less talkative constable showed Nigel into the house, Blount was sitting – as Nigel best remembered him – behind a desk, giving a perfect imitation of a bank manager about to interview a
client
on the subject of his overdraft. The bald head, the gold-rimmed pince-nez, the smooth face, the discreet dark suit spelt affluence, tact, respectability. He looked quite absurdly unlike the remorseless hunter of criminals that Nigel only too well knew him to be. Fortunately he had a sense of humour – the extra-dry-sherry, not the Burns Night type.

‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure, Mr Strangeways,’ he said, rising and extending a pontifical hand. ‘And your lady wife, is she very well?’

‘Yes, thanks. She came down with me, as a matter of fact. Quite a gathering of the clans. Or should I say, a gathering of the vultures?’

Inspector Blount permitted himself the driest, frostiest twinkle of the eye. ‘Vultures? You’re not going to tell me, Mr Strangeways, that you’ve got yourself mixed up with crime again?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well now, isn’t that a – well now indeed! And you’re going to spring some surprise on me, I can see it written all over you.’

Nigel played for time. He was never above a nice piece of exhibitionism, but, when he had a good curtain line, he liked to lead up to it.

‘So this is a crime?’ he said. ‘Murder, I mean, not one of your two-a-penny suicides.’

‘Suicides,’ remarked Blount a trifle sententiously, ‘do not generally swallow the bottle as well as the poison.’

‘You mean, the vehicle, or whatever you call it, has disappeared? You’d better tell me all about it, if you will. I don’t know a thing about Rattery’s death so far, except that a chap who’s been living here, Felix Lane – his real name’s Frank Cairnes, as I expect you know, but everyone’s so used to calling him “Felix” that we’d better call him Felix Cairnes in future – anyway, this chap intended to murder George Rattery, but, according to him, it didn’t come off, so somebody else must have stepped into the breach.’

Inspector Blount received this bombshell with an aplomb worthy of the Old Guard. He removed his pince-nez with great deliberation, blew on the glasses, polished them, and replaced them on his nose. Then he said:

‘Felix Cairnes? Ye-es, ye-es. The wee man with the beard. He writes these detective novels, doesn’t he? Now that’s very interesting.’

He glanced at Nigel with mild indulgence.

‘Shall we toss for first innings?’ asked Nigel.

‘Are you – e-eh – in any sense acting for this Mr Cairnes?’ Inspector Blount was treading delicately, but very firmly.

‘Yes. Until he is proved guilty, of course.’

‘Uh-huh. I see. And you are convinced he’s innocent. I think you had better put your cards on the table first.’

So Nigel told him the gist of Felix’s confession. When he arrived at Felix’s plan to drown George
Rattery
, Blount for once failed to conceal perfectly his excitement.

‘The dead man’s solicitors rang us up just now. They said they had something in their possession which would interest us. That will be this diary you mention, I’ve no doubt. Very damaging for your – e-eh – client, Mr Strangeways.’

‘You can’t tell that till you’ve read it. I’m not at all sure that it won’t save him.’

‘Eh well, they’re sending it by special messenger, so we’ll know soon enough.’

‘I won’t argue it yet. You tell me a story now.’

Inspector Blount picked up a ruler from the desk, and sighted along it with one eye screwed up. Then he suddenly sat up straight, speaking with remarkable incisiveness.

‘George Rattery was poisoned by strychnine. Can’t enlarge upon that till after the autopsy – be finished by midday. He, Mrs Rattery, Lena Lawson, old Mrs Rattery, his mother, and his son Philip – a wee boy – had dinner together. They all ate the same food. The deceased and his mother took whisky with their food, the rest water. None of the others suffered any ill effects. They left the dinner table about quarter-past eight, the women and the wee boy first, the deceased following them in a minute’s time. They all repaired to the drawing room with the exception of Master Philip. George Rattery was seized with severe pains between ten and fifteen minutes later. The women folk, poor souls, were helpless. They gave him a mustard emetic,
but
that only aggravated the seizure; the symptoms, of course, are very horrifying. Their own medical man, whom they rang up first, was out to a road accident, and by the time they had got hold of another, it was too late. Dr Clarkson arrived a little before ten – he’d been out on a maternity case – and applied the usual chloroform treatment, but Rattery was too far gone then. He died five or ten minutes later. I’ll not bother you with the details. I’ve assured myself, however, that the poison could not have been introduced through any of the food or drink taken at dinner. The symptoms of strychnine poisoning, moreover, rarely take longer than an hour to supervene. The company sat down to dinner at quarter-past seven, therefore Rattery could not likely have taken the poison before dinner. There remains the interval of one minute between the time the others left the dining room and the time Rattery rejoined them in the drawing room.’

‘Coffee? Port? No, of course it couldn’t have been in the port. Nobody gulps that down and strychnine’s got such a bitter taste, anyone’d spit it out at once unless he was expecting a bitter taste.’

‘Just so. And the family did not take coffee on Saturday night – the parlourmaid had broken the percolator.’

‘It sounds to me like suicide, then.’

Inspector Blount’s face betrayed a slight impatience. ‘My dear Mr Strangeways,’ he said, ‘a suicide does not take poison and then walk into the drawing room – into the bosom of his family – so that they can all
watch
the poison taking effect. In the second place, Colesby could find no trace of
how
he took it.’

‘Had the dinner things been washed up?’

‘The glass and silver. Not all the crockery, though. Mind you, Colesby – he’s the local chap – may have missed something. I didn’t get down here till this morning myself, but –’