The Beast Must Die (22 page)

‘Where’s Phil?’ asked Felix at once.

‘Down at the house. His mother’ll bring him up later, I expect. There’ve been some goings-on.’ Nigel gave an account of Phil’s exploits on the roof and his attempt to destroy the evidence of the bottle. While he was talking, Felix grew more and more fidgety, and at last could contain himself no longer.

‘Damn it all,’ he exclaimed, ‘can’t you keep Phil out of this. It’s absolutely sickening – a boy like that being chivvied about. I don’t mean you. But this man Blount, he can’t understand what damage it may do to a highly strung child.’

Nigel had not realised before how Felix Cairnes’ nerves were on edge. He had seen him strolling around the garden, reading with Phil, talking to Georgia about politics; a quiet, amiable man whose natural reserve alternated with sudden confidences and flicks of sardonic humour. An uncomfortable man to live with, perhaps, but likeable even in his prickliest, most unapproachable moods. Nigel was reminded by this outburst of Felix’s how heavily the cloud of suspicion must be weighing upon him.

He said gently, ‘Blount’s all right. He’s quite human, at least, fairly. I’m afraid it was my fault that Phil had to go through this. It’s extraordinarily difficult at times to remember how young he is. One starts treating him as a contemporary, almost. And he pretty well dragged me on to that roof.’

There was an easy silence. Georgia took a cigarette out of the box of fifty which she always carried about with her. The bees hummed amongst the dahlias in the round bed opposite. In the distance they could hear a prolonged, mournful hoot from a barge warning the lock-keeper of its approach.

‘The last I saw of George Rattery,’ said Felix, half to himself, ‘he was walking through the lock garden over there, trampling on the flowers. He was in a very
bad
temper. He’d trample on anything that got in his way.’

‘Something ought to be done about people like that,’ said Georgia sympathetically.

‘Something
was
done about him.’ Felix’s mouth set in a grim line.

‘How are things going, Nigel?’ asked Georgia. The pallor of her husband’s face, the puckered frown on the brow over which a lock of hair hung childishly, the childish, obstinate jut of his underlip – all moved her unbearably. He was tired out, he should never have taken this case. She wished Blount, the Ratterys, Lena, Felix, even Phil, at the bottom of the sea. But she kept her voice cool and impersonal. Nigel did not like being mothered, and there was Felix Cairnes, who had lost his wife and then his only son – Georgia felt she could not allow him to hear in her voice the kind of affection which was not for him any longer.

‘Going? Not too well. This seems to be one of those nasty, straightforward cases, where no one has an alibi and everyone could have done it. Still, we’ll sort it, as Blount would say. By the way, Felix, do you realise that George Rattery was not subject to vertigo at all?’

Felix Cairnes blinked. His head cocked to one side, like the head of a thrush considering some movement it has seen out of the corner of its eye.

‘Not subject to vertigo? But who said he was? Oh Lord, I’d forgotten. Yes. That quarry business. But
why
did he say so, then? I don’t understand. Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. You see the implication?’

‘The implication is, I suppose, that I told a naughty lie in my diary,’ said Felix, gazing at Nigel with a kind of wary, timorous candour.

‘There’s another possibility – that George already suspected your intentions, or began to suspect them then, and said he had no head for heights so as to keep out of your reach without letting you suspect that he suspected you.’

Felix turned to Georgia. ‘This must be all very cryptic to you. The reference is to an occasion when I tried to push George over the edge of a quarry, but at the last moment he failed to come up to scratch. Pity, it would have saved us all a lot of trouble.’

His levity jarred on Georgia. But poor chap, she thought, his nerves are raw, he can’t help it. She remembered too vividly how she herself had once stood in the same predicament, and Nigel had got her out of it. Nigel would save Felix, too, if anyone could. She glanced at her husband; he was staring down his nose in the rather boiled manner that meant his brain was working at extra pressure. Darling Nigel, she said to herself, darling, darling Nigel.

‘Do you know anything about old Mrs Rattery’s husband?’ Nigel asked Felix.

‘No. Except he was a soldier. Killed in the South African War. A merciful release from Ethel Rattery, I should say.’

‘Quite. I wonder where I could find out about him. I haven’t got any acquaintance in retired military circles. I say, what about that friend of yours? – you mentioned him early in your diary – Chippenham, Shrivellem, Shrivenham – that’s it, General Shrivenham.’

‘That’s like, “Oh, you come from Australia? Have you met a friend of mine called Brown over there?”’ jeered Felix. ‘I shouldn’t think for a moment that Shrivenham would know anything about Cyril Rattery.’

‘Still it might be worth trying.’

‘But why? I don’t see what’s the point?’

‘I’ve a queer feeling that it’d be worth going into the history of the Rattery family. I’d like to know why old Mrs R. got all seized up when I asked her a harmless question about her husband this afternoon.’

‘The nose you have for skeletons in family cupboards is really too indecent,’ said Georgia. ‘I might have married a blackmailer.’

‘Look here,’ said Felix thoughtfully, ‘if you want to get information, I know a chap in the War Office who’d look up the records for you.’

Nigel’s reply to this kindly offer was ungrateful, to say the least. In the friendliest, but most serious tones possible he said,

‘Why don’t you want me to meet General Shrivenham, Felix?’

‘I – you’re being absolutely ridiculous. I haven’t the least objection to your meeting him. I was merely
suggesting
a more practical way of getting the information you want.’

‘All right. Sorry. No umbrage taken, I hope, where none meant.’

There was an awkward pause. Nigel was quite obviously unconvinced, and knew that Felix knew it. After a moment Felix smiled.

‘I’m afraid that wasn’t quite true. The fact of the matter is, I’m rather fond of the old boy. I suppose I was unconsciously fighting against the idea of his finding out the sort of person I really am.’ Felix laughed bitterly. ‘A murderer who can’t even pull it off.’

‘Well, I’m afraid it will become public sooner or later,’ said Nigel reasonably. ‘But, if you don’t want Shrivenham to know about it yet, I can easily ask him about Cyril Rattery without dragging you into it. If you’ll just give me an introduction to him.’

‘All right. When were you thinking of going over there?’

‘Tomorrow some time, I expect.’

There was another long silence – the uneasy silence that weights the air when a thunderstorm has threatened and passed over without breaking, but is already on its way back again. Georgia could see Felix trembling all over. At last, flushing painfully, his voice burst out unnaturally loud as though he were a lover who had at last screwed up his courage to declare his love.

He said, ‘Blount. Is he going to arrest me? I can’t stand this suspense much longer.’ His fingers curled and uncurled, hanging down on either side of his chair. ‘I’ll start confessing soon, just to get it over.’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Nigel ruminatively. ‘You confess and, as you didn’t do it, Blount’ll be able to pull your confession to pieces, and thus convince himself you’re not the murderer.’

‘Nigel, for God’s sake don’t be so cold-blooded!’ exclaimed Georgia sharply.

‘It’s just a game to him. Like spillikins.’ Felix grinned. He seemed to have recovered his composure. Nigel felt rather ashamed; he must cure himself of this habit of thinking out loud.

He said, ‘I don’t think Blount has any idea of arrest yet. He’s very painstaking and likes to be sure of his ground. You’ve got to remember, a policeman’s not allowed to forget it if he arrests the wrong man – it doesn’t do him any good at all, at all.’

‘Well, I hope when he does make up his mind, you’ll send up a Very light or something, and then I can shave off my beard and put on a limp and slip through the police cordon and take a boat for South America – that’s where escaping criminals all go in detective novels.’

Georgia felt tears pricking her eyes. There was something intolerably pathetic in the way Felix tried to joke about his predicament. Yet it was embarrassing too. He had courage, but not the kind of gallantry needed to carry off a joke like that. It was too near the
bone
, and he showed that he felt it. He was obviously in dreadful need of reassurance; why didn’t Nigel give it to him? It wouldn’t cost very much. An association of thought made Georgia say, ‘Felix, why don’t you ask Lena to come up this evening. I was talking to her – today. She believes in you, you know. She loves you, and she’s simply wearing herself away wanting to help you.’

‘I can’t have anything to do with her while I’m under suspicion of murder. It’s not fair to her,’ said Felix, obstinately and a little aloofly.

‘But surely it’s her job to decide what’s fair on her. She wouldn’t care a hoot even if you had killed Rattery, she just wants to be with you, and – honestly – you’re hurting her horribly. She doesn’t want your chivalry, she wants
you
.’

While she was speaking, Felix’s head twisted from side to side, as though his body was bound fast to the chair and her words were stones flung in his face. But he would not admit how they hurt him. He withdrew into himself, saying stiffly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about that.’

Georgia shot an imploring glance at Nigel. But just then there was the sound of feet on the gravel drive, and all three looked up, secretly relieved by the interruption. Inspector Blount, with Phil at his side, was walking up the drive.

Georgia thought, Thank goodness here’s Phil; he’s the David to charm the surly mood of our Saul here.

Nigel thought, Why has Blount brought Phil? Violet Rattery was going to. Does this mean that Blount has found out something about Violet?

Felix thought, Phil – what’s the policeman doing with him? God! he can’t have arrested Phil? Of course he hasn’t, don’t be absurd, he wouldn’t be bringing him here if he had. But the mere sight of those two together – I shall go mad if this lasts much longer.

14

‘I HAD A
very interesting talk with Mrs Rattery,’ said Blount when he and Nigel were alone.

‘Violet? What did she say?’

‘Well, I asked her first about this quarrel she had with her husband. She was quite open about it – at least, that was the impression I got. They quarrelled, apparently, on the subject of Mrs Carfax.’

Blount paused for dramatic emphasis. Nigel examined attentively the end of his cigarette.

‘Mrs Rattery asked her husband to give up his liaison – or whatever it was – with Rhoda Carfax. According to her account of it, she stressed not her own personal feelings, but the harm it was doing to Phil, who – it seems – knew what was going on, though no doubt he couldn’t understand it all. Rattery then asked her point-blank if she wanted a divorce. Now Violet Rattery, so she says, had just been reading
a
book, a novel about two children whose parents were divorced – she’s a woman, I’d say, who took fiction very seriously; there
are
people like that, aren’t there? Anyway, the children – these two children in the book I’m referring to – suffered a great deal of mental torture as a result of their parents’ divorce; one of them was a wee boy, who reminded her of Phil. So she told her husband that on no account would she consent to a divorce.’

Blount took a deep breath. Nigel waited patiently. He was only too well aware that Blount, being a Scotsman, would leave nothing to the imagination in his narrative.

‘This attitude of Mrs Rattery’s made her husband become exceedingly violent. Particularly about Phil. He resented, no doubt, the way the boy’s affections were all given to Violet. But I think he resented even more the fact that Phil was so different from himself – of finer clay, if I may put it that way. He wanted to hit at Violet, and he knew he could hit at her best through Phil. So he suddenly said he’d decided not to send Phil to a public school, but to put him into the garage as soon as his legal period of education had expired. Whether Rattery meant this seriously, I don’t know but his wife took it seriously, and that was where the real quarrel began. At one point she said she’d see him dead before she let him spoil Phil’s chances in life – and this, no doubt, is what old Mrs Rattery overheard. At any rate, there was a fearful dust-up and in the end Rattery lost his temper altogether and began to beat
his
wife. Phil heard her crying out, and rushed into the room and tried to stop his father. There were terrible ructions. Uh-huh,’ Blount concluded unemotionally.

‘So Violet is still in the running?’

‘Well, no, I’d say not. You see, it’s like this. After that scene, she appealed to old Mrs Rattery to persuade George not to go through with this scheme of putting the wee boy into the garage. The old lady is a bit of a snob, as I daresay you’ve noticed, so for once she was of the same mind as Violet. I asked her about it, and she says she got George to promise to let Phil continue with his education. So that motive for Violet’s killing her husband no longer holds good.’

‘And it wasn’t likely to have been jealousy of Mrs Carfax for, if so, she’d have poisoned her, surely, and not George?’

‘That is reasonable, though of course it’s only theory.’ Blount continued on his ponderous progress. ‘In the course of my interview with Violet Rattery another piece of information came to hand. I was asking her about Saturday afternoon. Apparently, after his talk with old Mrs Rattery, Carfax had a few words with Violet, and she saw him off the premises. So he had no opportunity of poisoning Rattery’s tonic just then.’

‘But why did he tell us an unnecessary lie, in that case, about his having gone straight out of the house?’

‘Well, he didn’t exactly. You remember, he said, “If you mean, did I make a detour on the way, for the
purpose
of putting strychnine into Rattery’s medicine, the answer is in the negative.”’