Джорджетт Хейер - Envious Casca

The key, however, revealed no new clue. It was a large key, and it had been lately smeared with vaseline. "Which makes it still more unlikely that it could have been turned from outside," said Hemingway. "To start with, I doubt if any oustiti would have gripped such a greasy surface; and to go on with, we'd be bound to see the imprint of the grooving on the grease. It's disheartening, that's what it is." He scrutinised the handle through a magnifying glass, and shook his head. "Nothing doing. I'd say it hasn't been tampered with in any way."

"Which means," said the Sergeant weightily, "that whoever locked that door did it from the inside."

"And then dematerialised himself like the spooks you read about. Talk sense!"

"What was to stop him hiding in the room until the body had been found, and then slipping out unnoticed, sir?"

"Nothing at all. In fact, you might have got something there, except for one circumstance. All the members of the household were accounted for at the time of the discovery. Think again!"

"I can't," said the Sergeant frankly. "Seems as though we've got to come back to the ventilator."

"The more I think of it, the more that ventilator looks to me like a snare and a delusion," said Hemingway. "It's a good seven foot above the floor, to start with, and too small to allow an average-sized man to squeeze through it, to go on with."

"The valet," said the Sergeant.

"Yes, I've thought of him, but I still don't see it. Even supposing he could have got through, how did he reach the floor?"

"Supposing he didn't come in that way, but was there all the time, and escaped through the ventilator?"

"Worse!" said Hemingway emphatically. "Did he go head first down a ladder?"

"Not the way I see it," said the Sergeant, ignoring this sarcasm. "I've got an idea he and young Herriard were in this together. It seems to me that if he'd had a chair to stand on he might, if he was clever, have got out through the ventilator. Once his shoulders were through, he could have wormed himself round, and maybe got hold of a drain-pipe, or a bit of that wistaria over the window, to give himself a purchase while he got a leg out. Once he'd got one foot on the ladder he'd be all right."

"Seems to me he'd have to be a ruddy contortionist," said the Inspector. "And what about the chair under the ventilator?"

"He could have moved that back when the door was forced open. Who'd have noticed? The old fellow would have been taken up with his brother's body, and if Stephen was in it he doesn't count."

"I can't see what you want with young Stephen in this Arabian Nights story of yours. Why don't you let the valet have the whole stage?" demanded the sceptical Inspector.

"Because if Stephen wasn't in it, there wasn't a motive," replied the Sergeant. "My idea is that Stephen bribed the valet to help him. I don't say the valet did the killing: that's going too far."

"Well, I'm glad to know you draw the line somewhere," said Hemingway. "And don't you run away with the notion that I'm not pleased with this theory of yours! I've always told you that you haven't got enough imagination, so it's very gratifying to me to see you taking my words to heart, which is a thing I never thought you did. And if it weren't for all the circumstances you've overlooked, it would be a good theory."

The Sergeant said in a resigned voice: "I know there are some loose ends, but -"

"Who set the ladder up to be handy?"

"Either of them."

"When?"

"Any time," said the Sergeant, adding after a moment's reflection: "No, perhaps not any time. As soon as it was dark."

"Have you ever tried to set a ladder up against a particular window in the dark?"

"No, sir, I haven't; but if there was a light in that particular window I'd back myself to do it," retorted the Sergeant.

"You win," said Hemingway handsomely. "I'll give you the ladder. And if you can tell me how Ford managed to be in his master's room and flirting with one of the housemaids at one and the same time, I'll go straight off and arrest him."

"The way I see it, the murder had been committed by the time he came up the backstairs, and went into the sewing-room."

"It may have been, but not by him. He was in the servants' hall."

"That's what he said."

"Exactly. And if he was as smart as you seem to think, he wouldn't have said that if he couldn't have proved it. You can check up on it: in fact, you must; but if you don't find that he's borne out by the other servants I'll be surprised."

"Well, I can't get it out of my head that he's the one person who could have gone in and out of the deceased's room as he pleased, and, what's more, have left his finger-prints about without occasioning any suspicion. I suppose no one could have monkeyed about with the bedroom windows?"

Hemingway shook his head. "You can't slip a knifeblade in between that kind of casement-window and its frame, if that's what you're thinking of." He frowned suddenly. "I wonder, though?… My lad, we'll go back to the house! Then you can nose round for a handy garden-ladder, while I have a heart-to-heart with old Joseph Herriard."

Unaware of the ordeal before him, Joseph had been trying, throughout luncheon, to second Mrs. Dean's attempts to introduce what she called a normal note into the party's conversation. Having announced brightly that they must try not to be morbid, Mrs. Dean had favoured the company with some anecdotes of a winter spent in the south of France; but as these seemed to lack any other point than the introdction of the names of the well-born people she had met in Nice, no discussion was engendered, and the subject petered out. Maud contributed her mite by recalling that the Archduchess Sophia removed the Empress's children from her care, and shut them up in a wing of the palace. Stephen was heard to groan, and although Mrs. Dean, with what Mathilda could not but consider very good manners, showed herself willing to search her memory for further details of the Empress's ill-starred career, Joseph evidently felt that no one else would have the patience to endure more Imperial reminiscences, and hastily changed the subject.

But neither his nor Mrs. Dean's efforts could avail to keep the talk away from Nathaniel's murder. It loomed too large in everyone's minds; and although Stephen was taciturn, and Maud detached, it was not long before it had become the sole topic of any sustained conversation. Even Joseph succumbed, and said, for perhaps the sixth time, that he felt sure someone from outside had committed the murder. This led to a discussion on the possible ways by which anyone could have gained access to Nathaniel's bedroom, and Valerie propounded the suggestion that there must be a secret passage behind the oak-panelling. This idea, thrown out on the spur of the moment, took such instant possession of her mind that she reiterated her dread of spending another night under this ill-omened roof; and it might even have induced her to consent to share her mother's bedroom, had she not reflected in time that she would not, in this event, be allowed to smoke in bed, or to read into the small hours.

"My little girl mustn't let her nerves run away with her," said Mrs. Dean bracingly. "Who could possibly want to murder you, my pet?"

A glance at Stephen's face might have provided her with a possible answer, but happily she did not look in his direction.

Paula, somewhat unexpectedly, said: "I wonder if there is a way into Uncle's room which we don't know about? Is there, Joe?"

"My dear, don't ask me!" said Joseph, laughing at her. "You know your old uncle has no taste for antiques! For all I know, the house may be riddled with secret passages, and priest-holes, and hidden doors! Or isn't it the right period for those delightfully romantic things? Stephen, you're a bit of an archaeologist! - set your sister's mind at rest!"