Here Comes a Chopper (16 page)

‘Did you think he would turn quarrelsome again?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t quite know. I was always half afraid of him. He was never violent—at least, not in his actions—but his intensity used to frighten me. I’m rather intense myself, as a matter of fact,
and that’s how I know what he was like. He was like a flare of magnesium to a candle compared with me.’

‘I don’t think you do yourself justice,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But if you were really afraid of him, why were you tempted to go?’

‘Curiosity. I can’t conquer it. I can’t bear not knowing. I never could.’

‘No,’ thought Mrs Bradley, glancing at her companion’s Titian hair, delicious nose and wide, disarming mouth, ‘I can understand that, of course.’

There was nothing secret there, in the
gamine
face, the candid eyes, the good, strong bones of the head. There was nothing secret, either, about the splendid body, the milky skin, the muscular arms, the beautiful, sensitive hands. Mrs Bradley, from the first, had felt a good deal of sympathy for Roger, irresistibly attracted, if only for a while, by all this splendour. This woman would be like flame to his sun-starved youth, and not a candle-flame, either, unless one compared him to a moth.

‘What do you think I ought to tell the inspector?’ asked Claudia, when they reached Mrs Bradley’s house.

‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ Mrs Bradley replied, ‘but, at present, only so far as will serve to answer his questions. It is the inquest we have to think of, not the inspector.’

‘But it wouldn’t be the truth to say that the body I saw was Harry Lingfield’s. I know it wasn’t, and nothing will make me alter my opinion.’

‘There is no need to alter it, my dear Claudia. The only thing is—don’t embroider. Far more people have found themselves in trouble through over-elaboration than for telling a bald and improbable tale.’

‘The inspector won’t believe me.’

‘So much the worse for him.’

‘For me, surely?’

‘No, child, not in the long run. For one thing, even if the inspector doesn’t believe you, there are plenty of people who do, and I am one. As a matter of fact, I know most of the truth already.’

‘You do?’

‘Oh, yes, child.’

‘Well, for my sake, can’t you prove something? Can’t you put the inspector off the track?’

‘No, I hardly think I can—particularly as he is not on it at present. My advice is this: You must try not to worry. And don’t prepare conversations in your mind before the inspector questions you. It is most improbable that you will need your careful sentences, and it will confuse you, you’ll find, when the conversation takes a different turn.’

‘I suppose he won’t come until the morning? I shall pass a wretched night,’ said Claudia, groaning. The first part of this prophecy proved true; the second, thanks to Mrs Bradley’s witch-brewed sleeping draught (administered to the patient in a glass of egg-flip at bed-time), entirely false. Claudia slept well and came down to breakfast at nine.

‘At what time do you think the inspector will
come?’ she asked nervously. Mrs Bradley leaned forward and poked the fire.

‘I haven’t telephoned him yet,’ she replied. ‘There’s something I ought to ask you to be prepared to tell me before he arrives.’

‘I—I don’t think there’s anything at all that I haven’t told you.’

‘Except the real cause of your refusal to identify the body as that of Mr Lingfield.’

‘But I—but you said you believed me!’

‘Yes, I know I did, and so I do. But it would have made things so much easier, after all, if you’d said what everyone expected you to say. I just wondered—’

‘You really want me to—come clean?’

‘I think it might be better if you did, child.’

‘You’re very clever,’ said Claudia Denbies, plucking at one of her ear-rings and taking it off. ‘So clever that you make me nervous.’

‘How so, child?’

‘Well, you believed me when I told you our quarrel was about music.’

‘Yes, I did believe you, but I think it led to something else.’

‘Well, yes, we did talk about something else, but—anyway, it wasn’t anything that mattered.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Claudia, dropping the ear-ring on the floor and groping to pick it up.

‘You told me you had known him since 1917.’

‘Harry Lingfield? Yes.’

‘What happened in 1929, child?’

‘Yes,’ said Claudia, going to the mirror and replacing the ear-ring with great care but trembling fingers.

‘What do you mean—yes?’

‘We had a child.’

‘Ah!’

‘It died. Harry said I poisoned it.’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

‘What name was it buried under?’

‘My married name is Vesper.’

‘Where was it buried?’

‘In Paris. We—it was born there, you see.’

‘Did he really believe you had poisoned it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I thought
he
had.’

‘Did you? Why?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what I had to go on. I felt quite certain at the time. I’ve been afraid of him ever since. I shan’t tell the inspector all this. I needn’t, need I?’

‘It depends how the conversation goes, child. You left Whiteledge fairly late at night….’

‘At half-past twelve.’

‘Went to the
rendezvous
in your own car….’

‘Yes, I hadn’t put it back in the garage. I got Sim to leave it in the woods. I told him my sister was very ill and that I was expecting a telephone call, and would not want to rouse the house with the sound of my car if I were suddenly called away.’

‘Yes, yes, I see. Was Sim surprised?’

‘He didn’t show it. Lady Catherine’s servants
never do. He offered to drive me, but I said it wasn’t necessary.’

‘Where were you to meet Mr Lingfield?’

‘At the station.’

‘And what happened?’

‘He wasn’t there.’

‘You were surprised at that?’

‘Oh, no. I thought he had changed his mind. I was furiously angry, but not surprised in the least.’

‘Isn’t there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

‘No—no, there isn’t!’ said Claudia pleadingly. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you all this. I don’t know why I did. You won’t tell the inspector, will you? He’s such a—such an unsympathetic man.’

‘I’ll say nothing which will implicate you. I promise you that.’

‘There’s one thing you haven’t asked me,’ said Claudia, with a sudden cat-like smile.

‘I know,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But I know the answer to that. You did not attempt to put your car away. There is, however, one more question I would like to put, if I may.’

She grinned at Claudia’s terrified expression.

‘What else?—I don’t see what else you can possibly ask me if you don’t ask me….’

‘Whether the dead man, if he is not Mr Lingfield, is known to you?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. ‘Well, I can guess the answer, and will not press you. No, it is simply this: what was the real relationship between Mr Lingfield and yourself? … Don’t tell me if you would rather not, but I am a psychiatrist,
as you know, and am accustomed to the recital of dark secrets.’

Claudia laughed in so relieved a fashion that Mrs Bradley looked at her in surprise as she answered lightly:

‘Oh, I’ve no objection in the least to telling you all about that. We were, in spite of all our quarrels and my fears, always completely in love.’

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I am glad you are honest about that. And at the present moment?’

‘If he came into this room at this moment I think I should die,’ said Claudia with tragic emphasis.

‘But you say you don’t believe he is dead?’

Claudia glanced at her in the fearful fascination of sheer terror.

‘You mustn’t ask me that!’ she said huskily.

‘Right,’ said Mrs Bradley briskly. ‘Then I shall telephone the inspector—’

‘No! You can’t do that!’

‘—and tell him that I will be responsible for your appearing at the inquest, and that he must save all his questions until after it is over, because you’re in no state to answer them now. It’s perfectly true. You’re not. Now let’s invite those two children out to lunch. It will do you good to have to pass policemen without blenching.’

A
NDREW
M
ARVELL
,
To His Coy Mistress

‘YOU WON’T FORGET
your promise?’ said Roger.

‘No, I won’t forget. I’d love to see you play. What are the Seven-a-Sides? I’ve never been.’

‘Oh, what it says, actually. I mean, seven of us play instead of the usual fifteen; the pitch is the same, more or less—well, actually rather less—and the time is shorter, that’s all. It’s all run on the knock-out system. We’ve drawn a pretty hot lot for the first round, so I rather doubt whether we’ll survive.’

‘Oh, you’re sure to. I’m looking forward to it, awfully.’

‘Wish I could say the same. Actually, I’ve got cold feet. I’m playing wing three-quarter, and I don’t think I’m fast enough, really. Still, we’ve got a good man in the centre. I shall just have to sell the dummy if I can’t get rid of the pill, and hope for the best.’

‘And we get off at Richmond Station?’

‘Well, I think you’d better. Then you only have to push on to that bus that I told you of, and you’re practically on the spot. You can see the ground from the corner. Anyway, old Bob knows it, so he’ll see that you don’t get lost. I’m glad his ankle’s all right.’

Roger had returned to his lodgings. His landlady, he discovered, far from being upset by the unexpected appearance of Claudia Denbies in that haven of refuge and abode of peace, had been greatly flattered by the invasion because she had heard Claudia play ‘over the wireless.’

‘She could have stayed and welcome, Mr Hoskyn. There’s always the spare room, isn’t there?’ she said in hopeful tones.

Roger, who had several times tried in vain to book the spare room at week-ends for hearty and noisy male friends, could do nothing but gawp at her, speechless. He would never understand women, he decided. He had met Dorothy twice since Easter Saturday, once with Bob and once (at lunch in town) by herself. She had been very charming to him, but Roger was sensitive enough to realize that he was being kept at arm’s length, and honest enough to believe that he deserved it.

He was due to return to his post on the Wednesday following the Seven-a-Side Finals on Saturday, but had contrived to push this knowledge to the back of his mind. He did not want to think about that Wednesday because to do so involved thinking about the inquest on the previous day. He was to be called as a witness, and intensely disliked the idea.

Saturday came, however, with the threat of Tuesday to follow, and Roger went down to Twickenham to play in the sevens. In his Rugger shorts and close-fitting blue and white hooped jersey he looked taller and thinner than usual. He trotted modestly on to the field and then proceeded, in a manner that Dorothy found thrilling and surprising, to prove himself the fastest and most enterprising player in the game.

Until almost half-time he had no opportunity to score, but five minutes before the whistle sounded the ball flew loose from a pulled kick and he fled to it, took it in its flight, steadied himself, and kicked for touch. After the line-out he gathered a difficult pass and tore all out for the line.

It was a breath-taking, magnificent run. He concluded it by selling the dummy to the opposing back, and then, running round in almost a complete quarter-circle, he planted the ball between the posts.

There was a hush, as of death, whilst the full back came up to take the kick. The crowd watched the almost unpredictable flight of the ball. It soared, and then seemed to be dropping slightly short; then it
suddenly flew at the cross-bar and fell over it like a high-jumper clearing six feet two or three.

The game improved about half-time, and the opposition had somewhat, but not much, the better of it. They scored a try rather far out which they did not convert, and then another chance came to Roger. He gathered a pass which was meant for one of the opposing forwards and galloped towards the goal-line with the ball held awkwardly. He saw the full back, a good deal more wary this time, cantering across to obstruct him, ducked under an outstretched arm, swerved, ran in, and then, to circumvent the full back, almost doubled on his tracks before going full-out for the line. A welter of the opposition fell on him, but he got the try, far out on the left of the goal posts. He got up, dizzy with the weight of three men who had flung themselves on him just as he went over the line, and then, as he got to his feet, he tripped and fell. He was aware of a sharp, thin pain which seared his right ankle like a hot iron run through the bone. He fell forward, and, at the moment he touched the ground, somebody kicked the back of his head, and he was down and out as the whistle went for time.

He came to in the dressing-room to find the captain of his seven sitting anxiously beside him.

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Roger. He put a hand to his head.

‘I wouldn’t touch it,’ said the captain. ‘You take it easy, old man.’

‘When’s the next round? I suppose we won?’

‘We won all right, but there’s no next round for you. We’ll have to play Bates, and hope for the best, that’s all. I shall shove him in with the forwards, and bring Ralledge out of the pack to outside three-quarter, and leave Serry there in the centre. It
may
work out all right.’

‘When’s the next round? Don’t be foxy.’ Roger sat up, winced at the pain in his head, put his feet to the ground, and then remembered his ankle. Cautiously he stood up. His head swam and he felt sick. ‘I want some fresh air,’ he said, ‘whether I play or not. My ankle’s all right. That’s what really worried me. I thought it might be broken. I suppose I just gave it a twist.’