Джорджетт Хейер - Envious Casca

"Ill-mannered cub!" he muttered. "Taking things into his own hands, without so much as a by-your=leave! I call it thoroughly officious, and why on earth he must needs drag Nat's solicitor down here on Christmas Day, God alone knows! Anxious to get his hands on Nat's will, I suppose. Indecent, I call it!"

"The solicitor ought to come at once," she replied rather shortly. "The police are bound to want to go through Nat's papers, for one thing."

It struck her that he winced slightly at this. He said: "They aren't likely to find anything."

"You never know," Mathilda said.

"Everyone knows that Nat was a hot-tempered old - a hot-tempered man who said a lot of things he didn't mean. Why, I, for instance, have had dozens of quarrels with him! They always blew over. That's what the police don't understand. They'll go picking on things that have no bearing on the murder at all, and try to make out a case from them against some unfortunate person who had nothing to do with it."

She had a strong suspicion that the unfortunate person he had in mind was himself. "Oh, I shouldn't think they'd do that!" she said, in a reassuring tone. "After all, they must have realised by now that Nat quarrelled with everyone."

"Yes, but -" He stopped, reddening, and took off his glasses, and began to polish them. "I haven't any opinion of that Inspector we had here last night. Unimaginative fool, I thought. Rather offensive too. What do you think of his locking Nat's study? As though any of us would dream of touching anything in it! Very uncalled-for! Sheer officialdom!"

Mathilda now felt reasonably certain that there was in existence some document which Mottisfont wanted to get his hands on. She returned a noncommittal answer, and was relieved of the necessity of sustaining any more of a difficult dialogue by the entrance of Roydon.

Edgar Mottisfont looked at him in an exasperated kind of way, but Roydon seemed to have come in search of Mathilda, and took no notice of him. "Oh, there you are, Miss Clare! Are you really going to church?"

"Yes," said Mathilda firmly.

"Well, could I have a word with you before you go? It isn't important! - at least, it doesn't really matter - but I thought I'd like to."

Mathilda reflected that fright had had an appalling effect upon Mr. Roydon's powers of self-expression. "All right, as long as it hasn't anything to do with the murder," she said.

"Oh no, nothing to do with that!" he assured her.

"I suppose you want me to go?" said Mottisfont.

Roydon disclaimed, not very convincingly, but Mottisfont said with a short laugh that he knew how to take a hint, and left the room.

"Well?" said Mathilda.

"It's nothing much, but you took such an intelligent interest in my work that I wanted to tell you that I've thought over what you said, and come to the conclusion you were right. Either Wormwood is good enough to stand on its own merits, or it had better be chucked into the incinerator. I daresay that you heard Paula say that she would put it on. Well, I shan't let her. The whole idea of getting a backer was wrong."

"I see," said Mathilda, more than a hint of dryness in her voice.

"I felt I'd like you to know."

"Yes, I quite see."

"Of course, Paula doesn't quite understand. She's so keen to play the part. As a matter of fact, the idea of getting her uncle to back the play was hers, not mine. I don't really think I ought to have let her talk me into it. I never was quite happy about it, and then when you said what you did, I made up my mind that I wouldn't be under an obligation to anyone over it. Paula doesn't see it in that light yet. Of course, it's very generous of her, but -"

"But equally embarrassing," supplied Mathilda.

"Oh, I don't know about that exactly! Only, I thought that you might be able to make her understand my point of view. I mean, if she says anything to you about it."

"I should think," said Mathilda, extracting the butt of her cigarette from its holder, and throwing it into the fire, "that she would be quite capable of appreciating your point of view without any assistance."

He looked sharply at her; she met his challenging stare steadily, and after a few moments his eyes shifted from hers, and he said lamely: "You see, she's tremendously keen on the play. It's rather difficult for me to say anything."

"Yes, I should think it might be," she agreed.

He said in an injured tone: "I thought you would understand the way I feel."

"I do."

"Well, then -" he began uncertainly. He did not seem to know how to continue, and started again. "Besides which, I don't think it's altogether wise of her to talk so openly about what she means to do with her legacy, do you? I mean, it might so easily give people a totally wrong impression."

"Of her, or of you?"

The colour rushed up into his face; he looked very much discomposed, but after a moment blurted out: "Of both of us, I suppose."

"Yes," said Mathilda. "I like you so much better when you're honest, Mr. Roydon."

"I wasn't aware that I had ever been anything else," he said stiffly.

She saw that she had deeply offended him, and was not sorry that Paula should choose that moment to stalk into the room.

"Why," demanded Paula, in her deep, throbbing voice, "are the police letting us alone this morning?"

"I can't think. I was merely thankful," replied Mathilda.

"There's nothing to be thankful for. I believe it means Scotland Yard."

Roydon gazed at her with something of the expression of a fascinated rabbit. "Why should it mean that?"

"My dear Willoughby, can't you see how obvious it was from the start that Scotland Yard would be called in? Think! Uncle Nat was murdered in a locked room! Do you imagine that the local police can cope with that? If I weren't so closely connected with the crime, I think I should find it absorbingly interesting," she added, considering the matter dispassionately.

"Anyone is welcome to my ring-seat," said Mathilda. "I do hope you're wrong about Scotland Yard."

"You know I'm not."

"Well, if you're not, I do think you ought to be more careful of what you say, Paula!" said Roydon.

Her brilliant gaze drifted to his face. "Why? In what way?"

"About my play, for instance. I was just saying to Miss Clare, when you came in, that you might easily give people a wrong impression by talking of backing it. Besides, though I'm awfully grateful, I've changed my mind about it. Miss Clare made me see yesterday that it would be a mistake to rely on a backer."

The expression of contempt which swept over Paula's face made her look suddenly like Stephen. "You've got cold feet," she said. "Whether you like it, or whether you don't, I'm going to put your play on."

"It's extremely generous of you, but -"

"It's nothing of the kind. I'm not doing it from any personal motive, but because I believe in the play. I don't know how you came to write it, but you did, and that's all that concerns me."

He did not know how to interpret these remarks, and merely said: "Yes, but it's sheer folly to tell everyone what you mean to do."

"You're wrong! Stupidly wrong! Everyone knows that I care desperately about Wormwood. I made no secret of it. You heard what I said to Uncle Nat! I should be a fool to change my tune now that Uncle's dead. As big a fool as you, Willoughby!"

"I very much resent that implication!" he said.

"Oh, go to hell!" Paula threw at him, over her shoulder.

He walked out of the room with an air of wounded dignity which gave promise of a day of sulks to come.

"You shouldn't have said that," Mathilda told Paula. "People not out of the top-drawer are always inclined to be touchy."

But Paula had as little consideration for the sensibilities of others as Stephen, and she said disdainfully: "He's yellow. Odd, how clever he can be on paper, yet how inept in conversation!"