Dancing Death Page 12

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, sir, I was interested, in a manner of speaking, so I watched from the door, sir, and in a minute Mrs. Fewne came out and Miss Quest slammed the door behind her, sir. I watched Mrs. Fewne as she went along the corridor, sir . . . and her face—well, it absolutely shocked me, sir!” Travers looked suitably sympathetic. “It was awful, sir . . . like a devil, she looked . . . and I thought she was quite a lady, sir.”

  Travers grunted. What it all meant, he couldn’t at the moment see. He knew, of course, the utter difference in temperament of the sisters, and he’d heard the current rumours of friction whenever they came in contact. But there his sympathies were wholly on Brenda’s side. Life with Mirabel, for other than the briefest of moments, must have been an endless grating of nerves and a perpetual subordination of self.

  “Just write that down for me, Palmer—word for word, as you’ve got it written there!” He watched his man as he made his transcript, and put an occasional question.

  “That would be about half-past six?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Where was the maid—Ransome?”

  “In the servants’ hall, sir. There’s something I have to tell you about that, sir.”

  Travers ran his eye over the paper, pocketed it, and nodded to the other to resume.

  “Later in the evening, sir—just after the house supper, I’m told, sir—Ransome showed everybody a ring, a valuable ring, by all accounts, sir, and she made a remark that I’ve since thought rather unusual. She said, sir, her mistress gave it her because of some good news, and when Mabel—she’s the second housemaid, sir—said she’d like one like it, Ransome made the statement, ‘You want to keep your eyes and ears open in this life, if you want to get on.’”

  Travers grunted again. So that was where the missing ring had got to! “You say the remark was unusual. Why was that?”

  “Well, sir, while I was sitting in charge of the gramophone last night it kept coming into my mind; and so it did again this morning, sir, when I was on duty outside the bedroom. I went over it again, sir, and if you’ll pardon the remark, sir, I arrived at certain conclusions.”

  “Yes. Go on!”

  “I thought, sir, that Ransome had been spying on Mrs. Fewne, and she’d seen something and told Miss Quest, and Miss Quest had given her the ring as a sort of present, sir. Mrs. Fewne is a lady—you can see that at first glance, sir—and keeps herself as she ought to be, whereas the other—well, she doesn’t, sir, or she didn’t.”

  “What do you mean by that, precisely?”

  “Well, everybody in the kitchen was talking about it, sir. They say she and Mr. Challis weren’t all they should be, sir, and they say everybody in London knew it.”

  “Don’t go round in circles, Palmer. You won’t shock me. Say straight out what you mean.”

  “Well then, sir, if you’ll pardon the statement, sir, they say it’s common knowledge that Mr. Challis used to keep her, sir, whatever he does now, and it was him that put her where she is now, or was, sir—I mean on the stage, sir.”

  “I see. And you’ve said nothing about this to anybody?”

  “Most certainly not, sir!”

  “There’s no need to be indignant,” said Travers curtly. “After all, however advantageous it may be to ultimate justice, the fact remains that you stuck your nose clean into what didn’t concern you—an interest which I’m prepared to account for by your close contact with a person so curious as myself. And what happened this morning—with Ransome?”

  “The first thing she said to me, sir, in that corridor upstairs, was, ‘She did it, and I’m going to make her pay for it!’ When I asked her who she meant, sort of persuasively, she closed up, sir. She said, ‘Never mind who I mean. You’ll know when the time comes!’ Then, when you told me to find out what she knew, sir, I made one or two excuses to have a word with her, and I ventured to point out to her, sir, that if she approached you, you’d hear everything in strictest confidence—being a gentleman to be trusted, sir, as I told her.”

  “What’d she say to that damfool remark?”

  “She seemed betwixt and between, sir. I saw her just now, sir, before I came in, and I got the impression that she was trying to put me off, sir. Earlier in the day she seemed the other way, sir.”

  “I see. And where’s she now?”

  “Just gone to bed, sir. You see, all the staff were up late last night, sir, and she and Ellen just went up, sir. Everybody’s locking their doors—”

  “Anybody else in the servants’ hall know anything about this quarrel you—er—overheard?”

  “I’ve heard no mention of it, sir. . . . Of course, there was a lot of talk about the changing the rooms, sir.”

  “Rooms! What rooms?”

  “Miss Quest’s and Mrs. Fewne’s, sir.”

  “Yes. Go on! What about them?”

  “Well, sir, the talk is that Miss Quest didn’t like the room she was in originally—too far from the bathroom, she said it was, sir—and all I know is that sometime during the evening she and Mrs. Fewne changed rooms, sir.” He nodded with sudden satisfaction. “I know when it was, sir. Ransome came into the servants’ hall just as I was coming up to your room, as I told you, sir, and she said it’d just been done. She said—rather cheekily, I thought, sir—that Miss Quest had explained to Mrs. Paradine.”

  Travers stared into the fire more grimly than ever. “The fact is that Miss Quest and Mrs. Fewne changed rooms just before you heard that quarrel?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Then there’s the devil to pay! . . . All right, Palmer. You can go now. Bring me a thermos of coffee to the bedroom—and don’t say another word to that maid till I tell you. You understand? That’s an explicit order!”

  Palmer backed nervously out. As for Travers, he was worried out of his wits. If Brenda Fewne had had anything to do with that murder it wouldn’t do to give the slightest hint of suspicion before the police got there. It was incredible, of course, on the face of it—one sister killing another . . . but was it? What corner mightn’t Brenda Fewne have been driven into? Had she got into the other’s debt? Borrowed money on her husband’s credit? He had a look at Palmer’s evidence. “You smug-faced hypocrite!” That might be anything: merely vulgarity fingering its nose at respectability. “You cheap slut!” That rang different—and yet it might be simply the common vocabulary of an infuriated woman.

  He scowled into the fire for a minute or two, then tried another tack. What was the sequence of events, according to Palmer’s statements? Surely, to be logical, something like this:

  Mirabel desires change of rooms. Brenda refuses.

  Ransome tries to curry favour with her mistress by telling her something about B. F. which she can use as a lever.

  Ransome is given the ring as a reward.

  The rooms are changed.

  M. Q. sends for B. F. to the new room and taunts her—or threatens her—as Palmer heard.

  Then what had happened? At the scratch dinner, Brenda had been very distraite and had mentioned a headache. Mirabel had been uproarious. And then, while he’d been dressing—Franklin was in the bathroom—he’d heard words coming from the lower landing. Brenda it was. “Oh, don’t, Myra! Please don’t!” Then he’d closed his door, since the affair had been none of his. Later there must have been another scene, since Mirabel had refused point blank to come down to the dance; said she wasn’t well; that Brenda hadn’t learned her steps; that she wasn’t going to wear the costume, and so on, till Challis went up and talked her round. Then there’d been various sneers during the evening, with Brenda making no retorts whatever.

  But the really vital, the damning thing was, precisely who was aware of the change of rooms? He’d never for a moment believed that burglar-murderer theory. Whatever the provocation, a burglar would never have done a thing like that. If Mirabel had seen him in her room and had looked like screaming, he’d have bolted, or clapped his hand over her mouth,
or threatened her. And above all, he’d never have carried a dagger—or have thrust the body beneath the bed. No! the murderer was an inmate of the house—and in the house at that very moment; and the problem should be solved from the two factors of motive and opportunity. Then who knew of the change of rooms? And that very question showed him something he’d not taken into account. The problem was twofold!

  i. The murderer was ignorant of the change of rooms and therefore intended to kill Brenda Fewne.

  ii. The murderer was aware of the change and therefore intended to kill Mirabel Quest.

  Moreover, running right through the dual problem was the added complication of the identical costumes the sisters had worn, the startling similarity in face and build, and the fact that everything almost certainly occurred when the house was in darkness.

  No wonder he whistled hopelessly. Brenda Fewne couldn’t be questioned till the police got there—the men would never stand for that. In any case, what motive could there possibly have been for killing her? Or had the idea been even more hellish than common sanity suggested—a wiping out of both Denis Fewne and his wife at the same time? And if so—why? What, in God’s name, was the motive? Travers shook his head. A thing like that was too awful to contemplate—and far too tremendous for him to tackle. The thing to do, till the police—or Franklin—arrived, was to walk warily; to keep a courteous distance and yet give no man offence; and as quietly as possible to go on working on the supposition that the murderer had intended to kill the one who was killed, and had therefore known of the change of rooms.

  In the drawing room the men were still grouped round the fire.

  “Hallo!” said George. “We thought you’d turned in!”

  “Gone and quite forgotten, George!” He stoked up his pipe. “One last pipe, and I’m leaving you young people to it. Feeling nervous, Martin?”

  Braishe looked startled for a moment, then smiled. “Oh—the pagoda! Good Lord, no! I’ve slept there heaps of times before to-day.”

  “By the way, I didn’t know that Mirabel and Brenda swapped rooms last night! Did you people know?”

  “I did,” said Paradine. “I happened to be there when Mirabel told Celia.”

  “I thought everybody knew,” said Braishe. “Celia mentioned it down here. Oh! but you and Franklin had gone up; I remember now.”

  “What was the idea, exactly?”

  “Well—er—it’s rather difficult to say. We don’t want to rake up things—seems a pretty rotten thing to do, but—er—Mirabel was just a bit difficult at times. As a matter of fact, I think she rather resented Celia telling her one particular room was to be hers. She probably expected the choice of the house. Still, what’s it matter . . . now?”

  “It’ll matter as far as the police are concerned,” said Travers quietly. “They won’t see things as we do. They may even assume that it wasn’t Mirabel whom the murderer intended to kill. That’ll mean they’ll hunt for a different kind of motive.”

  “You’re getting the wind up, old boy!” remarked Challis nervously.

  “I think he’s being unnecessarily alarmed,” added Paradine.

  “Perhaps I am rather rushing ahead.” That remark was much more true than it sounded. “Still, there’s one thing I would like to know—and it’s going to be the rottenest thing that’s been said during this business. What about Fewne? Did he know the rooms were changed? If I remember rightly, he didn’t come in to dinner till late, and he left early; and he didn’t come over in his costume till after everybody else.”

  “Oh! I expect Brenda told him!”

  “Yes, but did anybody hear anything said? Sorry to be so pertinacious!”

  “Why not ask her direct?” suggested Paradine. “All the same, I don’t quite see the point. It’s unthinkable that Fewne should have killed anybody. He was the most shy and retiring person I’ve ever known.”

  “Yes . . . but he did go mad, George. You’ll admit that.” He knocked out his pipe on the grate. “Still, as Martin said, what’s it matter . . . now?” He looked round at Crashaw. “Rather rough on you, all this?”

  Crashaw smiled gallantly. “Oh! I don’t know. It’s awfully good of everybody to put up with me. I only wish I could do something.”

  “Plenty of time for that! Well, I think I’ll push off upstairs. Hope you all have a good night!”

  “Same to you, old boy. Personally, I shall bolt the door and sleep with one eye open.”

  “Shrewd fellow! Well, cheerio, everybody! You coming, George?”

  Outside the door Braishe joined them, and they stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs.

  “I haven’t been able to find anything out about . . . the one you suggested.” He lowered his voice. “One thing might interest you: he slept last night in the butler’s parlour, owing to a shortage of servants’ rooms. That might account for his hearing the noise and telling nobody about it.”

  Travers nodded. “It does . . . in a way; except that we saw him coming downstairs!”

  “What I’m more worried about is that siphon,” went on Braishe. “Somebody’s running round with enough gas to wipe out the house.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Travers told him. “I’ll bet you a fiver that siphon’s never seen again. And that reminds me: I forgot to tell you that I’ve locked up some things in the safe and reset the combination. And I spoke to Pollock about William sleeping in the dining room tonight. Hope you don’t mind?”

  Paradine was distinctly amused when Travers, having arranged the reading lamp and the thermos, began wading through an issue of The Times.

  “Hallo! Thought you were going to read that manuscript!”

  “So I am—later on. This is a preliminary idea. There must have been something he saw in The Times that made him feel as if he had to write that letter he began—that horrible scrawl on the sheet of paper.”

  The other settled into the bedclothes. “I don’t know. Why do people write to the papers? He probably saw something he violently disagreed with, but outside the paper entirely. He was just writing to air his views.”

  “Maybe!” said Travers cheerfully. “Still, there’s no harm in trying to see if it was in The Times itself he saw it.”

  A few minutes later George’s voice came drowsily from the other end of the room.

  “Something you ought to know. Martin thinks Denis did himself in with that gas. We were talking it over when you came in.”

  Travers grunted. “Was that why he was worried about the whereabouts of the siphon?”

  “Probably.”

  “Hm! And if he did do himself in with the gas, where’s the siphon now? You and I didn’t see it!”

  “I know. That’s just what I told him!”

  Travers muttered something under his breath, then settled to his search through those copies of The Times. But not steadily. More than once he broke off as certain incidents showed themselves in a new light or when he thought he was finding a road through the maze. Most of all, his mind would keep going back to what Paradine had reported after his good-night visit to the other bedroom. Brenda Fewne had not told her husband of the change of rooms. When she had halted on the stairs with Challis, it was because she was looking for her husband to let him know. Later on, just after the lights went out, she remembered she’d left her small bag in the downstairs room and had gone down to get it. At the foot of the stairs, on her way back, she had actually seen Denis and he’d seen her, but before she could speak, he’d uttered a curious sort of exclamation and had disappeared in the darkness, towards the outside door.

  That, as Travers knew, must have been the immediate prelude to that mad rush through the snow. But why had Fewne not spoken to his wife? Possibly he hadn’t really recognized her by the light of a candle that couldn’t have been any too near. Or was he already mad at that moment?

  CHAPTER XI

  TRAVERS FEELS HIS WAY

  PALMER had just left the room after drawing the curtains and depositing the early morning tea when there was
a tap at the door, and Braishe looked in.

  “Hallo! I see you’re up! Had a good night?”

  “Oh, rather! At least, I heard George having one! And you?”

  “Pretty good, thanks . . . only something’s happened!”

  Travers rather guessed that, seeing that Braishe was shaved and dressed half an hour before the official breakfast time.

  “Yes. I’ve found that siphon ... in the pagoda! Can’t make out how you people missed it when you were looking.”

  The other two looked at each other. “We didn’t look for it,” said Travers. “Why should we? All the same, I ought to have seen it if it was there.”

  “Where was it exactly?” asked Paradine.

  “You’d never guess. Remember how that fireplace is built? Sides made of ornamental brickwork—every other brick projecting slightly? Well, it was wedged between two projecting bricks, on the inside of the fireplace!”

  “Good Lord! How the devil did it get there?”

  Braishe was over at the window, looking gloomily at the snow, which in spite of Pollock’s prediction was falling steadily again.

  “There’s only one way it could have got there. He must have put it there!”

  “Just a minute, Martin,” said Paradine rather bewilderedly. “Do I take it that you’re definitely assuming that Denis committed suicide by means of that gas?”

  “What else can I mean?”

  “Yes, but if the gas was as lethal as all that, how could he place the siphon between the bricks and die on the bed?”

  “It sounds silly; I know that. As soon as you’re dressed, come over and see for yourselves—then you’ll understand.” He was looking terribly upset, and Travers wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken down badly. “Do you know, I had it on my mind. I was thinking about it all night. It’s been a nightmare to me ever since I saw his face . . . and knew what had killed him. I had a hunt last night and couldn’t find anything, so I had another go this morning . . . and found it.”