Then we came to a door which Clemency opened saying: "This is my husband's special room."

 

"Come in," said Roger. "Come in."

 

I drew a faint breath of relief. Something in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been getting me down. This was an intensely personal room. There was a large roll top desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes and tobacco ash. There were big shabby easy chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor.

 

On the walls were groups, their photography somewhat faded. School groups, cricket groups, military groups. Water colour sketches of deserts and minarets, and of sailing boats and sea effects and sunsets. It was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room of a lovable friendly companionable man.

 

Roger, clumsily, was pouring out drinks from a tantalus, sweeping books and papers off one of the chairs.

 

"Place is in a mess. I was turning out. Clearing up old papers. Say when." The Inspector declined a drink. I accepted.

 

"You must forgive me just now," went on Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he did so. "My feelings ran away with me."

 

He looked around almost guiltily, but Clemency Leonides had not accompanied us into the room.

 

"She's so wonderful," he said. "My wife, I mean. All through this, she's been splendid - splendid! I can't tell you how I admire that woman. And she's had such a hard time - a terrible time. I'd like to tell you about it. Before we were married, I mean. Her first husband was a fine chap - fine mind, I mean - but terribly delicate - tubercular as a matter of fact. He was doing some very valuable research work on crystallography, I believe. Poorly paid and very exacting, but he wouldn't give up. She slaved for him, practically kept him, knowing all the time that he was dying. And never a complaint - never a murmur of wanness. She always said she was happy. Then he died, and she was terribly cut up. At last she agreed to marry me. I was glad to be able to give her some rest, some happiness, I wished she would stop working, but of course she felt it her duty in war time, and she still seems to feel she should go on. She's been a wonderful wife - the most wonderful wife a man ever had. Gosh, I've been lucky! I'd do anything for her."

 

Taverner made a suitable rejoinder. Then he embarked once more on the familiar routine questions. When had he first heard of his father's illness?

 

"Brenda had rushed over to call me. My father was ill - she said he had had a seizure of some sort.

 

"I'd been sitting with the dear old boy only about half an hour earlier. He'd been perfectly all right then. I rushed over. He was blue in the face, gasping. I dashed down to Philip. He rang up the doctor. I - we couldn't do anything. Of course I never dreamed for a moment then that there had been any funny business. Funny? Did I say funny? God, what a word to use."

 

With a little difficulty, Taverner and I disentangled ourselves from the emotional atmosphere of Roger Leonides's room and found ourselves outside the door, once more at the top of the stairs.

 

"Whew!" said Taverner. "What a contrast from the other brother." He added, rather inconsequently "Curious things, rooms. Tell you quite a lot about the people who live in them."

 

I agreed and he went on.

 

"Curious the people who marry each other, too, isn't it?"

 

I was not quite sure if he was referring to Clemency and Roger, or to Philip and Magda. His words applied equally well to either. Yet it seemed to me that both the marriages might be classed as happy ones. Roger's and Clemency's certainly was.

 

"I shouldn't say he was a poisoner, would you?" asked Taverner. "Not off hand, I wouldn't. Of course, you never know. Now she's more the type. Remorseless sort of woman. Might be a bit mad."

 

Again I agreed. "But I don't suppose," I said, "that she'd murder anyone just because she didn't approve of their aims and mode of life. Perhaps, if she really hated the old man - but are any murders committed just out of pure hate?"

 

"Precious few," said Taverner. "I've never come across one myself. No, I think we're a good deal safer to stick to Mrs Brenda. But God knows if we'll ever get any evidence."

 

 

Chapter 8

 

 

A parlourmaid opened the door of the opposite wing to us. She looked scared but slightly contemptuous when she saw Taverner.

 

"You want to see the mistress?"

 

"Yes, please."

 

She showed us into a big drawing room and went out.

 

Its proportions were the same as the drawing room on the ground floor below.

 

There were coloured cretonnes, very gay in colour and striped silk curtains. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait that held my gaze riveted - not only because of the master hand that had painted it, but also because of the arresting face of the subject.

 

It was the portrait of a little old man with dark piercing eyes. He wore a black velvet skull cap and his head was sunk down in his shoulders, but the vitality and power of the man radiated forth from the canvas. The twinkling eyes seemed to hold mine.

 

"That's him," said Chief Inspector Taverner ungrammatically. "Painted by Augustus John. Got a personality, hasn't he?"

 

"Yes," I said and felt the monosyllable was inadequate.

 

I understood now just what Edith de Haviland had meant when she said the house seemed so empty without him. This was the Original Crooked Little Man who had built the Crooked Little House - and without him the Crooked Little House had lost its meaning.

 

"That's his first wife over there, painted by Sargent," said Taverner.

 

I examined the picture on the wall between the windows. It had a certain cruelty like many of Sargent's portraits. The length of the face was exaggerated, I thought - so was the faint suggestion of horsiness - the indisputable correctness - it was a portrait of a typical English Lady - in Country (not Smart) Society. Handsome, but rather lifeless. A most unlikely wife for the grinning powerful little despot over the mantelpiece.

 

The door opened and Sergeant Lamb stepped in.

 

"I've done what I could with the servants, sir," he said. "Didn't get anything."

 

Taverner sighed.

 

Sergeant Lamb took out his notebook and retreated to the far end of the room where he seated himself unobtrusively.

 

The door opened again and Aristide Leonides's second wife came into the room. She wore black - very expensive black and a good deal of it. It swathed her up to the neck and down to the wrists. She moved easily and indolently, and black certainly suited her. Her face was mildly pretty and she had rather nice brown hair arranged in somewhat too elaborate a style. Her face was well powdered and she had on lipstick and rouge, but she had clearly been crying. She was wearing a string of very large pearls and she had a big emerald ring on one hand and an enormous ruby on the other.

 

There was one other thing I noticed about her. She looked frightened.

 

"Good morning, Mrs Leonides," said Taverner easily. "I'm sorry to have to trouble you again."

 

She said in a flat voice: "I suppose it can't be helped."

 

"You understand, don't you, Mrs Leonides, that if you wish your solicitor to be present, that is perfectly in order."

 

I wondered if she did understand the significance of those words. Apparently not.

 

She merely said rather sulkily: "I don't like Mr Gaitskill. I don't want him."

 

"You could have your own solicitor, Mrs Leonides."

 

"Must I? I don't like solicitors. They confuse me."

 

"It's entirely for you to decide," said Taverner, producing an automatic smile. "Shall we go on, then?"

 

Sergeant Lamb licked his pencil. Brenda Leonides sat down on a sofa facing Taverner.

 

"Have you found out anything?" she asked.

 

I noticed her fingers nervously twisting and untwisting a pleat of the chiffon of her dress.

 

"We can state definitely now that your husband died as a result of eserine poisoning."

 

"You mean those eyedrops killed him?"

 

"It seems quite certain that when you gave Mr Leonides that last injection, it was eserine that you injected and not insulin."

 

"But I didn't know that. I didn't have anything to do with it. Really I didn't, Inspector."

 

"Then somebody must have deliberately replaced the insulin by the eyedrops."

 

"What a wicked thing to do!"

 

"Yes, Mrs Leonides."

 

"Do you think - someone did it on purpose? Or by accident? It couldn't have been a - a joke, could it?"

 

Taverner said smoothly: "We don't think it was a joke, Mrs Leonides."

 

"It must have been one of the servants."

 

Taverner did not answer.

 

"It must. I don't see who else could have done it."

 

"Are you sure? Think, Mrs Leonides. Haven't you any ideas at all? There's been no ill feeling anywhere? No quarrel? No grudge?"

 

She still stared at him with large defiant eyes.

 

"I've no idea at all," she said.

 

"You had been at the cinema that afternoon, you said?"

 

"Yes - I came in at half past six - it was time for the insulin - I - I - gave him the injection just the same as usual and he went all queer. I was terrified - I rushed over to Roger - I've told you all this before. Have I got to go over it again and again?" Her voice rose hysterically.

 

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Leonides. Now can I speak to Mr Brown?"

 

"To Laurence? Why? He doesn't know anything about it."

 

"I'd like to speak to him all the same."

 

She stared at him suspiciously.

 

"Eustace is doing Latin with him in the schoolroom. Do you want him to come here?"

 

"No - we'll go to him."

 

Taverner went quickly out of the room. The Sergeant and I followed.

 

"You've put the wind up her, sir," said Sergeant Lamb.

 

Taverner grunted. He led the way up a short flight of steps and along a passage into a big room looking over the garden.

 

There a fair haired young man of about thirty and a handsome dark boy of sixteen were sitting at a table.

 

They looked up at our entrance. Sophia's brother Eustace looked at me, Laurence Brown fixed an agonised gaze on Chief Inspector Taverner.

 

I have never seen a man look so completely paralysed with fright. He stood up, then sat down again. He said, and his voice was almost a squeak,

 

"Oh - er - good morning. Inspector."

 

"Good morning," Taverner was curt. "Can I have a word with you?"

 

"Yes, of course. Only too pleased. At least -"

 

Eustace got up.

 

"Do you want me to go away. Chief Inspector?" His voice was pleasant with a faintly arrogant note.

 

"We - we can continue our studies later," said the tutor.

 

Eustace strolled negligently towards the door. He walked rather stiffly. Just as he went through the door, he caught my eye, drew a forefinger across the front of his throat and grinned. Then he shut the door behind him.

 

"Well, Mr Brown," said Taverner. "The analysis is quite definite. It was eserine that caused Mr Leonides's death."

 

"I - you mean - Mr Leonides was really poisoned? I have been hoping -"

 

"He was poisoned," said Taverner curtly. "Someone substituted eserine eyedrops for insulin."

 

"I can't believe it... It's incredible."

 

"The question is, who had a motive?"

 

"Nobody. Nobody at all!" The young man's voice rose excitedly.

 

"You wouldn't like to have your solicitor present, would you?" inquired Taverner.

 

"I haven't got a solicitor. I don't want one. I have nothing to hide - nothing..."

 

"And you quite understand that what you say is about to be taken down."

 

"I'm innocent - I assure you, I'm innocent."

 

"I have not suggested anything else."

 

Taverner paused. "Mrs Leonides was a good deal younger than her husband, was she not?"

 

"I - I suppose so - I mean, well, yes."

 

"She must have felt lonely sometimes?"

 

Laurence Brown did not answer. He passed his tongue over his dry lips.

 

"To have a companion of more or less her own age living here must have been agreeable to her?"

 

"I - no, not at all - I mean - I don't know."

 

"It seems to me quite natural that an attachment should have sprung up between you."

 

The young man protested vehemently.

 

"It didn't! It wasn't! Nothing of the kind! I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't so! Mrs Leonides was very kind to me always and I had the greatest - the greatest respect for her - but nothing more - nothing more, I do assure you. It's monstrous to suggest things of that kind! Monstrous! I wouldn't kill anybody - or tamper with bottles - or anything like that. I'm very sensitive and highly strung. I - the very idea of killing is a nightmare to me - they quite understood that at the tribunal - I have religious objections to killing. I did hospital work instead - stoking boilers - terribly heavy work - I couldn't go on with it - but they let me take up educational work. I have done my best here with Eustace and with Josephine - a very intelligent child, but difficult. And everybody has been most kind to me - Mr Leonides and Mrs Leonides and Miss de Haviland. And now this awful thing happens... And you suspect me - me - of murder!"

 

Inspector Taverner looked at him with a slow appraising interest.

 

"I haven't said so," he remarked.

 

"But you think so! I know you think so! They all think so! They look at me. I - I can't go on talking to you. I'm not well."

 

He hurried out of the room. Taverner turned his head slowly to look at me.

 

"Well, what do you think of him?"

 

"He's scared stiff."

 

"Yes, I know, but is he a murderer?"

 

"If you ask me," said Sergeant Lamb, "he'd never have had the nerve."

 

"He'd never have bashed anyone on the head, or shot off a pistol," agreed the Chief Inspector, "But in this particular crime what is there to do? Just monkey about with a couple of bottles... Just help a very old man out of the world in a comparatively painless manner."

 

"Practically euthanasia," said the Sergeant. "And then, perhaps, after a decent interval, marriage with a woman who inherits a hundred thousand pounds free of legacy duty, who already has about the same amount settled upon her, and who has in addition pearls and rubies and emeralds the size of what's-its-name eggs!

 

"Ah well -" Taverner sighed. "It's all theory and conjecture! I managed to scare him all right, but that doesn't prove anything. He's just as likely to be scared if he's innocent. And anyway, I rather doubt if he was the one actually to do it. More likely to have been the woman - only why on earth didn't she throw away the insulin bottle, or rinse it out?" He turned to the Sergeant. "No evidence from the servants about any goings on?"

 

"The parlourmaid says they're sweet on each other."

 

"What grounds?"

 

"The way he looks at her when she pours out his coffee."

 

"Fat lot of good that would be in a court of law! Definitely no carryings on?"

 

"Not that anybody's seen."

 

"I bet they would have seen, too, if there had been anything to see. You know I'm beginning to believe there really is nothing between them." He looked at me. "Go back and talk to her. I'd like your impression of her."

 

I went half reluctantly, yet I was interested.