Frequent Hearses (14 page)

But at this point Humbleby’s meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of the butler.

“They’ll see you,” said the butler, with the air of one whose good news is much against his inclination. “They’ll see you now.” He observed that Humbleby was removing his hat and coat. “Chuck those down anywhere. And get a move on, will you? I’ve got other things than you to attend to.”

“Until I choose to be ready, you most certainly haven’t,” said Humbleby.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” the aged creature snarled, “You just wait till the revolution, that’s all. That’ll finish you and your sort.”

“There is not going to be any revolution.”

“No, I don’t think so either,” said the butler unexpectedly. “And more’s the pity… Don’t you go trying to make a complaint about me,” he warned. “They won’t listen to you, because if they sacked me they’d never get another like me.”

“And thankful,” said Humbleby.

The butler considered this, and when he spoke again his tone was confiding.

“No, you’re wrong there,” he said. “They’re snobs, see? They’d rather have a stinking rotten butler like me,” he said with candour, “than none at all.”

“Yes, well, stop talking and take me to see them.”

“All right, cock.” The advance of old age had apparently induced in the butler that volatility of temperament most commonly associated with youth, and by now he was quite affable. “Keep your wool on. I’ll look after you, never fear. This way, this way. And watch out for the mats, or you’ll trip and do yourself a mischief.” He tottered cheerfully away, and Humbleby followed.

The reception-room into which he was conducted was about the size and shape of an average cinema. The gallery of a mezzanine floor encircled it on three sides. There were more pictures in gilt frames—one of a horse, one of a blurred, crepuscular landscape, one of an eighteenth-century actor, more than twice life-size, starting up in exaggerated terror from a satin-covered couch. These, presumably, represented the taste of the present Lord Boscoign’s grandfather. But there was also, withdrawn in a corner as if attempting to dissociate itself from the general decorative scheme, what looked very much like a Veronese. And there was more statuary—though here it was on an altogether discreeter and less forbidding scale than the nineteenth-century notability who so remorselessly scrutinised the inside of the front door. Faded, indifferent tapestry covered such of the wall-space as the paintings had been able to spare; an eight-foot settee and a variety of chairs stood in front of the fireplace; and in the fireplace itself—at whose sides two nude figures of surprisingly indeterminate sex struggled courageously to sustain, on the napes of their necks, an elaborate overmantel—there was a small log fire which hissed and flared sulkily.

Inside the door the butler halted, made a feeble attempt to look imposing, and after a little thought said:

“‘Ere ’e is. This is ’im.”

This task performed, he retired, inadvertently slamming the door behind him; and across broad acres of carpet Humbleby advanced on the group of people who stood or sat by the fire.

Nicholas Crane, sprawled on the long settee, looked up as he approached.

“Hallo, Inspector,” he said. “Come and join the conference. And have some sherry.”

“I won’t for the moment, thank you, sir.” Humbleby had not intended to speak stiffly, but after the
Mercury’s
revelations he could feel no enthusiasm for Nicholas, and the words sounded unfriendly despite himself. “Not for the moment,” he reiterated in more mollifying tones.

“Well, anyway, sit down.”

Humbleby sat down and surveyed the gathering. Apart from Nicholas, Medesco was the only person present whom he knew—and he was slightly surprised to find Medesco on such intimate terms with the family that he could be admitted to an assembly whose purpose was clearly to discuss the
Mercury’s
thunderbolt. Medesco sat with his great height and bulk overflowing a small chair, and with a cigar in the corner of his mouth; his small saurian eyes, framed between the formidable brow and the smooth, fat cheeks, gazed on Humbleby coldly and unblinkingly.

“Well, Inspector,” he said. “We’re in the thick of it, as you’ll have guessed. You shall sit by and pick up the crumbs.”

Nicholas nodded.

“I’m sorry we’re not able to help you by having Madge here as well,” he said. “If she was here, all the dirty linen could be washed at one go. But she hasn’t got in touch with us, and there’s no reply from the Doon Island number. Probably she hasn’t even seen the blasted paper.”

A little bald man, who was hovering at his side, gave a monitory cough.

“Now, now, Mr. Crane,” he interposed. “We must be careful what we say, mustn’t we? Very,
very
careful indeed.”

Nicholas sighed.

“This is my lawyer,” he said to Humbleby. “Mr. Cloud. He’s quite a nice chap in the normal way, but at the moment he’s just a quivering mass of legal circumspection.”

“In your own interests, Mr. Crane!” Mr. Cloud burst out. “In your own
interests
! If we are going to sue this newspaper—”

“We’re not,” said Nicholas briefly.

“But this is absurd! An action would lie. I can assure you that an action would lie. The greater the truth, the greater the libel. This is to say that—”

Mr. Cloud checked himself, belatedly conscious that in the present context his utterance of this forensic saw had been scarcely tactful. And Nicholas laughed.

“You don’t spare my feelings, do you, Cloud?” he said. “But never mind. The
Mercury’s
imputation is true, and for that reason—”

“Mr. Crane, I beg of you—”

“—for that reason, I shan’t attempt to contest it.” Nicholas smiled wryly. “This scandal is no more than I deserve… Do you believe in atonement, Inspector?”

“As a Christian of sorts,” said Humbleby cautiously, “I must.”

“Well, putting up with this will be my atonement for that wretched girl’s death. Not a very adequate one, I’m afraid, but thoroughly deserved.”

“You think the scandal will affect your career?” Humbleby asked.

“It will finish my career,” said Nicholas simply. “There are a great many very decent people in film business, and they’d no more work with me after this than they’d work with a leper.”

Humbleby looked at him curiously. His reaction was unexpected but inspiriting; it seemed that he was by no means lost to all decent feeling. And Nicholas, perhaps sensing the trend of Humbleby’s thought, shifted and reddened uncomfortably.

“Not that I want to make a great thing about it,” he added. “But you must understand quite clearly, Cloud”—his voice sharpened—“that I’m
not
going to bring an action for libel. That’s definite. If you try to argue about it, you’ll simply be wasting your efforts.”

His mother, who was standing in front of the fire and watching him thoughtfully, for the first time spoke.

“Madge will probably sue,” she said in a naturally husky voice. “And what will happen then?”

Eleanor Crane was a tall woman—as tall, almost, as Medesco, but slim and stately. She had a lean, greyish face, untidy hair in which streaks of white mingled with the dull gold, and pale green eyes with a certain glint of humour in them. Humbleby had expected her to be in mourning for her son Maurice, but in fact she wore a coat and skirt of purplish-brown tweed, with rough wool stockings and brogue shoes.

“No, I’m not in black, Inspector.” She had rightly interpreted his appraising glance. “Maurice was only my step-son, and I had no great liking for him, I’m afraid. He was a rake, and stupid.”

“You agreed,” said Humbleby, “to his bringing Miss Scott to stay here at Christmas.”

“Certainly. But as soon as she arrived I took her aside and warned her directly of what she could expect if she didn’t look out for herself. I told her of Maurice’s habits, and I told her that if she gave in to him she needn’t look forward to either marriage or advancement in films as a reward. She took,” said Eleanor Crane coolly, “very great offence at my suggestions. And I understand that she paid no attention to my warnings. But if she wanted an ally against Maurice’s intentions, she knew where to come, so I don’t consider I shirked my obligations at all… Where apparently I have shirked them is in my children’s upbringing. They’re all deplorable in one way or another—except, of course, David, who is merely dim.”

David Crane was the only person there who had not yet opened his mouth. He was a young, thick-set man, going prematurely bald, of a type that emanates social uncertainty like ectoplasm.

“Oh, l-look here, m-mother,” he protested.

“But let’s get back to the point,” said Eleanor Crane tranquilly; she was more immediately prepossessing, Humbleby thought, than any other member of the family he had encountered so far. “The point is, as I’ve said, that Madge will probably sue. And that means that if you, Nicholas dear, are going to persist in your very creditable policy of self-sacrifice, you’ll have to go into the witness-box against her. It will make a very depressing spectacle, and one which I think ought to be avoided if possible. Mr. Cloud, what line would my daughter’s lawyer be likely to take in a libel action against
The Evening Mercury?”

Mr. Cloud, gratified at being appealed to, puffed himself up importantly.

“The publication of this letter,” he said, “is calculated to bring Miss Crane into hatred, ridicule and contempt. So much is obvious, there would be no difficulty in proving it, and for that reason the action might possibly succeed. I refer, of course, to a civil action only. Alternatively, or in addition, Miss Crane might apply to a police court for a summons for criminal libel. If she does that, then the defendants will not have to prove that the letter is true—since in criminal libel that matter is largely irrelevant—and it is conceivable that Mr. Crane here would not be involved at all. On the other hand—”

“Quite so, Mr. Cloud.” With some address, Eleanor Crane nipped this nascent homilectic in the bud. “But what I’m trying to ascertain is whether a civil action brought by my daughter would be likely to succeed. You say it ‘might possibly’. What could prevent it from succeeding?”

“Proof,” Mr. Cloud answered gloomily, “that the letter was true.”

“Well, you’re acquainted with the circumstances of the affair. Could such proof in fact be produced?”

“Yes, I rather think it could,” said Mr. Cloud even more gloomily. “So long as Mr. Crane persists in asserting the letter’s veracity, that is. Now, if he were to
join
Miss Crane in bringing the action—”

“I am not,” said Nicholas firmly, “going to do anything of the sort.”

“And in that case,” said his mother, “my daughter’s action would probably fail?”

Mr. Cloud nodded. “I’m afraid that that is so, yes.”

“Well, if you think that, no doubt her lawyer will think it also. And I believe she has just sufficient sense to take his advice. The remaining problem is, will she apply for a summons for criminal libel?”

“As an act of vengeance, perhaps,” said Mr. Cloud somewhat histrionically. “She could not, of course, by that method obtain monetary restitution, and I doubt if it would help to salvage her reputation.”

“Then the position is clear at last.” Eleanor Crane took her sherry from a niche in the overmantel and sipped it. “Nicholas is intent on immolation and will not take any sort of action. And Madge cannot succeed in a civil suit without his co-operation, and a summons for criminal libel would do her no earthly good. I think that since that’s so she’ll cut her losses and keep quiet—don’t you, Aubrey?”

Medesco grunted. “The girl’s a conceited, over-sexed little ass,” he opined dispassionately, “and the power she wields over everyone in film business has gone to her head. In my view she’s perfectly capable of cutting off her nose to spite her face. But I suggest that the thing to do is to stop theorising about it and wait until we can get in touch with her.”

“And in the meantime?” Nicholas asked.

“In the meantime,” said Humbleby, “I think you should take certain precautions, Mr. Crane.”

“Precautions…? Oh, ah. Yes, I see what you mean. Your Professor Fen made the same suggestion on Saturday. Your idea is that in view of what the
Mercury
has published I’m likely to be the poisoner’s next victim—or possibly Madge.”

“There is that possibility,” said Humbleby seriously, “and it would be silly to neglect it.” He frowned. “In fact, your failure to get through to Miss Crane at Doon Island is worrying me slightly. If you’ll be so good as to take me to a telephone I think I’ll ring up the Doon Island police and ask them to pay her a visit simply as a precaution.”

It was Nicholas who led him to the telephone. Humbleby returned, having done what was necessary, in five minutes, and found them silent and embarrassed—a consequence, perhaps, of something that had been discussed while he was away.

“So you still have no notion, Inspector,” said Eleanor Crane, “as to who killed Maurice?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Crane. We’re doing everything that can be done.”

“Vengeance.” Almost imperceptibly she shivered. “Is that your theory about the motive?”

“It’s an idea I’m keeping in mind,” said Humbleby reservedly as he sat down again.

Eleanor Crane laughed, suddenly and harshly, but not without amusement.

“Another,” she said, “being that I get control of Maurice’s money. You knew that, didn’t you? Yes, of course you did. I told that pleasant young man you sent here on Saturday afternoon.”

Humbleby remained impassive and said nothing. But:

“Oh, l-look here, m-mother, that’s absurd,” said David Crane. “It’s s-silly to put ideas into p-people’s heads. I know you n-never p-pay any attention to what I say, b-but…”

“David dear, your loyalty does you credit but not, I’m afraid, your intelligence… And I may as well admit, Inspector, that I need that money. I’ve had heavy losses recently on the tracks, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever be able to meet my obligations.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” The investigations of his subordinates had made Humbleby acquainted with this fact twenty-four hours ago, and the admission did not interest him. What did interest him was the presence here of Aubrey Medesco, and he went on to say casually: “I was a little surprised to find this gentleman with you.”