Envious Casca (32 page)

Chapter Sixteen

When the uneasy house-party at Lexham arose from the luncheon-table that afternoon, Maud, as usual, went upstairs for her rest, and Mottisfont took possession of the library by the simple expedient of stretching himself out in the easiest armchair and disposing himself to slumber. Paula dragged Roydon away to discuss the casting of Wormwood. Mrs. Dean, in whom the events of the morning had induced a reflective mood, said that she must have a talk with dear Stephen, now that things were so mercifully altered, and suggested that they should go to the morning-room for a cosy little chat. Even Valerie seemed to feel that this was a trifle blatant, for she said frankly: "Oh, Mummy, you are the limit!" Stephen said, with more presence of mind than courtesy, that he was going for a walk with Mathilda, at the same time directing such a menacing look at Mathilda that she meekly acquiesced in this arbitrary plan for her entertainment, and went upstairs to put on a pair of heavy shoes and a thick coat.

They left the house by the garden-room door, and traversing the gardens struck out into the small park. The melting snow had made the ground spongy under their feet; the sky was dull; and the bare tree-branches dripped moisture; but Mathilda drew a long breath, and said: "It's good to get out into the fresh air again. I find the atmosphere in the house rather too oppressive for my taste. Do you think you are definitely in the clear, Stephen?"

"Mrs. Dean does," he replied. "Do you realise that that she-wolf was going to tie me up to Valerie again?"

"Of course, you're such a defenceless creature, aren't you?" she retorted.

"Against battering-rams, I am."

"What did you do it for?" she asked.

"Get engaged to Valerie? I never meant to."

"Little gentleman! A fairly raw deal for her, wasn't it?"

"I don't flatter myself she's broken-hearted."

"No," she conceded. "You treated her pretty rough, though. You're not everybody's money, you know, Stephen."

"By no means." He turned his head, and looked down at her. "Am I yours, Mathilda?"

She did not answer for a moment or two, but strode on beside him, her hands dug into the pockets of her coat. When she thought she could trust her voice, she said: "Is that a declaration?"

"Don't come the ingenue, Mathilda, my love! Of course it is!"

"A bit sudden, isn't it?"

"No, it's belated. I ought to have made it five years ago."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. Took you for granted, I suppose."

"Just a good sort," she remarked.

"You are - a damned good sort. I always looked on you as a second sister."

"You are a fool, Stephen," she said crossly.

"Yes, I knew that as soon as I saw you beside my pretty half-wit."

"Game on you in a flash, no doubt."

"More or less. I never realised until this hellish house party. I don't want to have to live without you."

"I suppose," said Mathilda, staring gloomily ahead, "I might have known that when you did propose you'd do it in some graceless fashion peculiarly your own. What makes you think I want Valerie's leavings?"

"My God, you are a vulgar wench!" Stephen exclaimed, grinning.

"Well?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't think you would want me. But I want you."

"Why? To save you from further entanglements with glamorous blondes?"

"Hell, no! Because I love you."

"Since when?"

"Always, I think. Consciously, since Christmas Eve. I've never quarrelled with you, Mathilda, have I? Do you know, I've never wanted to?"

"That must be a record."

"It is. I won't ever quarrel with you, my sweet. That's a promise."

"It's irresistible."

He stopped, and swung her round to face him, holding her by the shoulders. "Does that mean you'll marry me?"

She nodded, looking up at him with a faint flush in her cheeks. "Somebody's clearly got to keep you in order. It may as well be me."

He pulled her rather roughly into his arms. "O God, Mathilda, do keep me in order!" he said, in a suddenly thickened voice. "I need you! I need you damnably!"

She found that her own voice was unsteady. "I know. You are such a fool, Stephen: such a dear, impossible fool!"

"So are you, to care a damn for me," he said. "I never thought you did. I can't think why you do."

She took his face between her hands, looking up at him a little mistily. "I like savage creatures."

"Bull-terriers and Stephen Herriard."

"That's it. What do you see in me? I'm an ill-favoured woman, my love, and you will have to confront my ugly mug across your breakfast-table all the days of your life."

"You have a beautiful plainness, Mathilda. Your eyes laugh, too. Did you know?"

"No, I didn't know. Tell me more!"

He laughed, and, pulling her hand through his arm, held it, and strolled on with her across the spongy turf. "I shan't be able to offer you this for your home."

"It's all right with me. But you love it. You ought to have it."

"Don't think I could keep it up as things are. It will be sold, anyway, and the proceeds split between the three Of us."

"You couldn't buy it in?"

He shook his head. "Couldn't run it on what was left if I did. I don't mind. I've got you."

They walked on. "If Paula and Joe didn't want it sold - if they were willing to forgo their share of the price, you could keep it. Nat meant you to have it. I always thought that was why he bought it."

"It was, originally. It's all right, Mathilda. I shan't mind - much. The only thing I couldn't bear would be to see Joe here."

"Well, you won't: he doesn't like the place."

The saturnine look came back into his lace. "You know nothing of what Joe likes or dislikes. None of us does."

"He's never made any secret of the fact that historic houses don't appeal to him."

"Reason enough to assume they do. I fancy Joe would like enormously to be Lord of the Manor. But he shan't be. Not unless he chooses to buy it. I'll stand out for a sale - and run the bidding up, too!"

"Why do you hate Joe so bitterly, Stephen?" she asked quietly.

He glanced down at her, a derisive expression in his hard eyes. "I hate Joe for his hypocrisy."

"Do you think he can help acting? It's second nature, I believe."

"My God, Mathilda, can't you see the truth? Are you fooled too?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't like Joe," she confessed. "He means well, but he's an ass."

"He is not an ass, and he doesn't mean well. You think he likes me, don't you? Well, I tell you that Joe hates me as much as I hate him!"

"Stephen!" she exclaimed.

He laughed. "Think I'm brutal to Joe, don't you, Mathilda? When he tries to paw me about, and mouths his sickening platitudes, and drips affection all over me! You don't see that Joe's out to do me down. He nearly managed it, too."

"But he's always trying to convince everyone that you couldn't have killed Nat!"

"Oh no, Mathilda! Oh no, my love! That's only the facade. Think it over! Think of all that Joseph's said in my defence, and ask yourself if it was helpful, or if it only served to make the police think that he was desperately trying to shield a man whom he knew to be guilty. Who do you think planted my cigarette-case in Uncle Nat's room? Have you any doubt? I haven't."

Her fingers tightened on his. "Stephen, are you sure you're not letting your dislike of Joe run away with you?"

"I'm quite sure. Joe was my enemy from the moment he set foot in this house, and discovered that I was Uncle Nat's blue-eyed boy. I was, you know."

"But you quarrelled with Nat! Always, Stephen!"

"Sure I did, but without prejudice, until Joe came."

She was silent for a moment, not doubting his sincerity, yet unable to believe that he was not regarding Joseph with a distorted vision. "He got Nat to make a will in your favour."

"Do you always believe what Joe tells you?" asked Stephen. "He worried him into making a will. I don't know what happened: I wasn't there. Joe saw to that. But I can imagine Uncle Nat giving in to Joe, and then making the will out in my favour. That would have been a joke he'd have appreciated. Only Joe was clever, and he saw to it that the will should be invalid."

"You've never spoken a word of this!"

His lips curled. "No. Only to you, and you think I'm unhinged, don't you? What do you suppose everyone else would think? I can tell you, if you don't know."

She looked up at him, dawning horror in her eyes. "Yes, of course I know. If you're right, it puts a hideous complexion on so much that has happened! I haven't stayed here often enough to be able to judge. I always ascribed the trouble that Joe has such a knack of starting to incurable tactlessness. But I see that your explanation might be correct."

"You can take it from me that it is. If anyone but you had provided Joe with his alibi, I would, moreover, have been ready to swear that it was he who murdered Uncle Nat."

"It isn't possible, Stephen. When he wasn't chatting to me he was humming snatches of song."

He lifted her hand to his lips, and fleetingly kissed it. "All right, my sweet. Yours is the only word I would take for that."

They had come in sight of the house again by this time, and in a few minutes they entered it, through the front door, just as Inspector Hemingway was seeing a finger-print expert and a photographer off the premises.

The Inspector was looking more bird-like than ever, and there was a satisfied gleam in his eye, for under a dusting of powder the panel above the billiard-room mantelpiece had revealed the imprints of four fingers and a thumb. He cocked an intelligent eyebrow at Stephen and Mathilda, and drew his own conclusions.

"You are quite right, of course," said Stephen, correctly interpreting the look in the Inspector's eye. "But we feel - at least, Miss Clare does - that an announcement at present would not be in the best of good taste. Why the camera-man?"

"Just a bit of work I wanted done, sir. If I may say so, you don't waste your time, do you?"

Stephen laughed. "As a matter of fact, I've wasted too much time, Inspector. How are you doing?"

"Not so badly, sir," replied Hemingway. He turned to Mathilda. "I want to have a talk with you, miss, if you please."

"Very well," she replied, rather surprised. "I'll join you in the morning-room as soon as I've changed my shoes."

This did not take her long, and she presently walked into the morning-room to find not only the Inspector there, but Stephen also, looking dangerous. She said at once: "Take that scowl off your face, Stephen: you're frightening the Inspector."

"That's right, miss," said Hemingway. "I'm all over goose-flesh."

"I can see you are. No one is going to convict me of murder, Stephen, so relax! What is it, Inspector?"

"Well, miss, in checking over the details of this case, I find that I omitted to take your evidence. That won't do at all: in fact, it's a wonder to me how I came to leave you out. So, if you don't mind, I'd like you to tell me, please, just what you did when you went upstairs to change for dinner on Christmas Eve."

"She gave her evidence to Inspector Colwall," Stephen said.

"Ah, but that won't do for the Department, sir!" said Hemingway mendaciously. "Very strict we are, at Scotland Yard."

"I'll tell you what I did with pleasure," Mathilda said. "But I'm afraid it isn't helpful. First I had a bath, then I dressed, and lastly I came down to the drawing-room."

"And I think Mr. Joseph Herriard was able to corroborate that, wasn't he, miss?"

"Yes. We went upstairs together, and while I had my bath he continued to talk to me from his dressing-room. In fact, I don't recall that he ever stopped talking, except now and then, when he hummed instead."

"Even when you had gone back into your bedroom? Did you go on talking to each other?"

"He went on talking to me," corrected Mathilda.

"Do you mean that you didn't answer him?"

"I said Oh! at intervals. Occasionally I said Yes, when he asked me if I was listening."

"Were you in the habit of talking to Mr. Joseph while you were in your room, miss?"

"I didn't do it the night before, and I haven't done it since, but three days isn't really long enough for one to contract a habit, do you think?"