Rehearsals for Murder (8 page)

“You know Mrs Clare well, don't you?” said Toby.

“I've known her for years, if that's what you mean.” Her knitting needles kept on with their feverish twitching. “Well, I'll tell you the truth; I thought I knew her pretty well, but at the moment I'm just bewildered.”

“Aren't her reactions to murder just what you've always expected?” asked Toby.

A grin streaked across her face. “Listen,” she said, “Eve's an egoist—I've always known that. She doesn't really know that anyone exists outside the orbit of her own particular needs. But she's one of those hotheaded, almost warmhearted egoists, not the cold and calculating kind like that girl Druna Merton. She even manages to be extraordinarily kind to people sometimes. I don't mean merely that she's freehanded with money; she is, but if you've got plenty that's as good a way of amusing yourself as any other. But when she's not smothered in problems of her own she's amazingly good at listening to other people's, and even at untangling them. She's intelligent, and sometimes that's as good as being genuinely sympathetic. You see what I mean—she's selfish, all right, but——”

“But all the same, you wouldn't have expected her to be merely angry when somebody's murdered.”

“That's it, that's just it! She was quite fond, in her way, of that poor little girl. At least, I think she was. Anyway, she always made use of her as much as she could, which is one of her substitutes for affection. But the only thing that seems to upset her about Lou's death is that it happened
here
and
now
.”

“You don't know, I suppose,” said Toby, “what else was meant to be happening here and now?”

“No, I don't know.” But she let her knitting drop for a moment to her knees and gazed with brooding thoughtfulness towards the dark line of the wood.

Toby dug at the grass beside him with a twig he had picked up.

He asked: “Is a marriage coming off between her and Max Potter?”

“I suppose so. I think so.”

“You're not sure?”

“Well, she had one phase of saying she'd never get herself tangled up in a marriage tie again. I imagine it 'll be as Max says it's to be.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“Oh, I'm terrified of him!”

“Why?”

“He's so terribly intelligent.” But the voice was as artificial as the words were uninforming.

When Toby spoke next it was on a different subject. “Tell me,” he said, “I'd like to know if you were here when Lou arrived yesterday morning.”

“Yes,” said Lisbeth, “I was sitting out here knitting, and she came along the terrace.”

“What time was that?”

“I think about ten.”

“And was she here all day, or did she go into Larking during the morning?”

“No,” said Lisbeth, “yesterday was one of those hideous sociable days when everybody keeps playing games with everybody. I don't think she'd any chance to get away, though she looked as if she'd like to. She was appallingly depressed all day, poor child, right up to the time when——”

“Yes?” said Toby as she stopped abruptly.

For a moment she hesitated, stabbing with one knitting needle at the canework of her chair.

“This is something Druna pointed out yesterday evening,” she said. “I told you Lou was horribly depressed all day. I thought it was just her cold; it was a frightful cold, enough to depress anybody. But then, in the afternoon, quite suddenly—it was just before she dashed into the house to make those frightful drinks—she turned as radiant as the sun, and——”

“What frightful drinks?” Toby interrupted.

“Frightful?” said a voice just behind the two of them. “Oh, I should think they
were!
”

The little man in shorts and an open-neck shirt dumped himself onto the grass beside Toby.

“Look, Lisbeth,” he said, “my legs are getting browner and browner but they're still a lot paler than my shorts. I don't think they'll ever catch up. I wish they would; I'm so attracted by the idea of having them to match. I've been thinking about bleaching the shorts. D'you think washing them in very hot water would do it?”

She replied drily: “I shouldn't think so.”

Toby put in: “What was the matter with the drinks?”

“Oh, the drinks,” said Reginald Sand. “There wasn't anything the matter with them—I mean, anything that brings them into your province. They didn't do anyone any harm. It was just that they tasted frightful.”

“They were supposed to be Cinzano and soda,” said Lisbeth, “but they tasted of—well, I don't know what—disinfectant or something.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Sand, “out of curiosity I went into the house and tasted the ingredients, but they were perfectly all right, so I think there must have been something wrong with the ice. You know, Lisbeth, what I think I'd better do about these shorts is consult Colin Gillett. There must be some chemical I could put in the water that'd bleach them.”

“That reminds me,” said Toby. “About Lou. Where was she during the afternoon before about half-past four?”

“Out here in the garden with the rest of us,” said Lisbeth.

“All the time?”

She nodded. “Except when she was fetching the drinks.”

“And did either of you happen to notice whether she left her bag lying about anywhere during that time?”

They were both silent, considering.

“No,” said Lisbeth, “as a matter of fact, it struck me that she was clutching the thing as if it contained the whole of her worldly possessions.”

“That's quite true,” said the little man. “I noticed it too. I thought that—Lisbeth, there
is
Colin!”

They all looked round. Along the terrace, still in yesterday's torn shirt and stained flannels, Colin Gillett was coming towards them.

He stood still in front of them. When Lisbeth asked him where he had disappeared to he stared at her blankly. This morning the vividness of his face was transformed into a haggardness that could have been achieved only by a face that was unusually expressive. It was a haggardness that was like a scream, a curse and a supplication for pity. There were triangles of tiredness under his eyes. His chin was bristling with dark stubble.

“You perfect fool,” said Lisbeth with sudden sharpness, “where have you been all this time?”

“In the lab,” he answered sullenly.

“What, all night?”

“Yes, all night.”

“Good heavens, whatever made you do that?”

“I was working.”

“What, all night?” she repeated ironically.

“Yes, all night!” He almost spat the words at her. “I'd left it longer than I ought to have, anyway. When that fool inspector started looking as if he was going to keep us here till God knows when I pushed off.”

“You don't usually work at night, do you?” said Lisbeth. “I think you've been awfully foolish, Colin. Those policemen were hunting for you all over the place.”

“Fools if they couldn't find me, then. I wasn't hiding.”

“Looks as if you might have been,” said Toby.

The young man turned his angry, tired eyes upon him. “Lab's quite a normal place for me to be.”

“Yes, rather,” said the little man in shorts soothingly. “Always having to take readings of experiments and all that sort of thing, aren't you? But I think it was sort of injudicious not to let the experiment alone just this once. Have you been back to the cottage?”

“No,” said Colin Gillett, “I came straight here. I want to see Eve. Where is she?”

“Good gracious”—Lisbeth sounded shocked—“then you haven't had any breakfast?”

He shook his head indifferently.

She rose at once. “No wonder you're hardly lucid. Come on, I'll see about some coffee for you, and the kitchen might rise to some more eggs and bacon if we treat it right.”

But he repeated sullenly: “Where's Eve?”

“In the house somewhere. Come along.”

“Gillett——” said Toby.

The young man checked himself in the act of turning away. Suddenly his face was attentive. “You were there last night. Who the hell are you?”

Lisbeth answered: “He's a kind of third cousin twice removed of the police. The inspector wishes he could be removed altogether. Come along and eat; you'll feel so much better.”

“Gillett,” said Toby, “if I were you I'd go to the police as soon as you've had some breakfast, say you're sorry you disappeared but you didn't realize they'd want you, tell them about that experiment or whatever it was that kept you in the laboratory all night, tell them a lot, tell them a heap more than they can understand, and say now you're ready to answer any questions they want to ask you.”

Without a word Colin Gillett walked off.

Toby, after a moment, withdrew his gaze from the squalor of human affairs and turned it upwards to the sky's warm, summer clarity.

He let himself sink backwards till he lay extended on the grass. Near him the little man in shorts began to fill a pipe. Toby watched the lovely nothingness above him, but he watched it with a certain reserve, refusing quite to drown his thoughts in it.

Presently he inquired: “What are the general ideas about that young man?”

“There, I knew I'd forgotten something,” was the reply. “I was going to ask him about my shorts. The general ideas? Well, when he came here first a few months ago Eve took him up hard and said he was marvellous but now she simply says he's undeveloped. Max Potter says he's a typical modern scientist.”

“Does Gillett say anything about Max Potter?”

“Oh yes, says he's a typical modern scientist.”

Toby chuckled. But before he could say anything the little man went on with a sharp, whispered squeak: “Oh, my God, I wish I were somewhere else!”

“Why, what's the matter with here?” Toby asked lazily.

“It's Max! Oh dear, I feel the most awful emotions when I run into that man. I feel my life has been just a futile dream. Here, you talk to him!” And, jumping up, he dashed off into the house. Toby sat up, stood up, and, before he said good morning, made an open and comprehensive survey of the man who was coming towards him.

Max Potter was about forty-five years old. He was of medium height with a thick-set body, vigorous looking though inclined to fleshiness. He had a large head on a short neck. His clothes were ill-fitting tweeds, his shirt was of navy-blue flannel, his tie was cerise. He had a large, pale face, curiously like a baby's. There was something unformed about the features, something naїve about the eyes, something in the full lips that would not have been out of place in a perambulator. Yet the eyes were exceedingly intelligent, and the mouth was strong. The man looked dynamic, as if he had never known weariness, and restless, as if he had never known repose. A shock of red hair hung round his forehead and bulged untidily over his collar. At the ends of his short and muscular yet finely modelled hands the nails were bitten and edged with black.

Max Potter's survey of Toby was as deliberate as Toby's own.

“You're the detective,” he stated.

“I'm a friend of Lou Capell's,” said Toby.

“Is that so? Well, why did the little man run away the moment I appeared? Was he talking about me?”

“We were talking about young Gillett.”

“Ah yes. Can't make that young man out. Never can make these young men out. All take up science, can't think why. Messy worker, undisciplined mind, adolescent emotions. Plays the piano surprisingly well though, particularly when he's tight. But will play Sibelius. Now why should he? Why should a young man like that play Sibelius?” Max Potter's blue, babyish eyes gazed into Toby's with intent interrogation.

Toby's slow shake of the head showed that the question was beyond his capabilities.

“Can't make that little fellow out either,” Max Potter continued. “Work's remarkable. But the man hasn't got a mind at all. Never can make these artists out. Minds must be there; they can put them down on paper. But talk to them, and they always take it personally. Now how's Eve bearing up? Taking it well?”

“I'm not sure just how one takes a murder well,” said Toby, “but I daresay she's doing it.”

“Ah, that's good, that's good. Can't make her out either, you know. All nerves. Will read psychology, too, to try and find out what's the matter with herself. Why have people swallowed all this psychology stuff? Now, why have they?” Again the blue eyes were eager in their questioning, but the voice went straight on: “Do you know Sandor's in Greek Street? I had a really good goulash there last night. You don't often get a good goulash, not the real thing. But this was good. Yes, I shall go there again. But don't tell that little fellow. I hate running into people I know except by appointment. Now where's Eve? I wonder. I came to see Eve. Don't see what I can do, never can see the point of dragging in all your acquaintances just to hold your hand in a crisis. Doesn't make any difference to the crisis. Still, one comes. Wanted to have dinner with a man last night to pick his brain about high-vacuum pumps; he rang up to say he couldn't come because his wife was ill with whooping cough. Now, what difference could he make to her whooping cough? All the same, shouldn't have discovered that goulash, should I, if he'd come? I'd have had to take him somewhere swell and waste a lot of money. Now why…?” And, inquiring from Toby, or it may have been the universe, why it should be necessary to take people somewhere swell and waste a lot of money just to show you respected their attainments when you could get good goulash at Sandor's in Greek Street, Max Potter turned towards the open French window.

There, on the threshold, he was met by George—George who was standing with a curiously rapt expression on his face, his head tilted a little back, his nostrils twitching.