Джорджетт Хейер: Why Shoot a Butler

Out of deference to Sir Humphrey's dislike of such topics the murder was not discussed at Greythorne. Frank played tennis with his cousin during the afternoon and in the evening motored her to Norton Manor, which was situated seven miles to the east of Upper Nettlefold and about three from Greythorne.

The manor was a house dating from the early eighteenth century. It presented a gracious facade of stone and old red brick, and stood in a small park through which the river Nettle wound its way under overhanging willows. Inside, the house had the finely proportioned rooms of its period, but was furnished in a heavy style that spoke ill for the late Mr. Fountain's taste.

Amberley and his cousin were admitted by a tightlipped man of medium height who was fulfilling the duties of the deceased butler. As she stepped into the hall Felicity said: "Good evening, Collins," and hearing the name Amberley looked him over quickly.

The valet was in no way remarkable. He had a lean, somewhat unhealthily pale face and kept his eyes discreetly lowered.

Felicity was speaking sympathetically to the man about Dawson's murder. She thought that since he had worked with the butler for several years he must feel his loss considerably and was consequently a little dashed by his calm answer.

"You are very kind, miss," Collins said. "A very tragic affair, as you say. But though naturally I should not wish such a thing to have happened, Dawson and I were never what one could call really friendly."

He moved towards one of the doors that opened on to the hall, and feeling rather snubbed Felicity followed him. She gave him her cousin's name, and for a moment the veiled eyes lifted to Amberley's face. They were cold eyes, expressionless, uncomfortably remorseless. They were swiftly hidden again. The valet opened the door and announced the guests.

Joan and her fiance and a large man with a handsome,full-blooded countenance, were gathered round the fire. Amberley was introduced to the large man and sustained a crushing hand-clasp. Basil Fountain was boisterously pleased to welcome visitors to the house. He was one of those men who radiated goodwill. Amberley could understand and appreciate his friend Corkran's revulsion. Fountain's personality was indeed hearty, but under it lay a certain irritability which flared up under small provocation. He bustled about, offering drinks, Dulling up chairs, chaffing Felicity in the most cheerful way, but when his step-sister did not immediately obey leis command to bring her friend near to the fire he spoke roughly, with a flash of temper that was as uncontrollable as it was transient.

He was soon smiling again. He said: "You know Corkran, don't you? He's going to become one of the family, as I've no doubt he told you," and laid an affectionate hand on Anthony's unresponsive shoulder.

He was obviously of a hospitable nature. He pressed refreshment upon his guests, offered cigars and cigarettes, and brought Felicity a cushion. Not until he was perfectly satisfied that everyone was quite comfortable did he broach the subject which must necessarily be engrossing the greater part of his attention. He turned to Amberley and said simply: "I'm particularly glad you came over with your cousin tonight. I understand it was you who found poor Dawson."

"Yes, I found him, but I'm afraid I can't tell you much about it," Amberley replied.

Fountain clipped the end of his cigar. There was trouble in his face; he looked all at once like a man who cannot shake off the memory of a bad nightmare. "I know," he said. "He was shot, wasn't he? You didn't see anyone or find anything? Any clue, I mean."

"No," Amberley answered. "Nothing."

Joan leaned forward. "I wish you would tell us just what you saw," she said. "The police gave us such a bald account, and we feel in a way responsible, because he was our servant."

"Yes, tell us what you can," said Anthony, "and then no more." He smiled across at Joan. "It's no use worrying so much, darling. Much better not think about it."

Fountain looked at him with quick impatience. "It's not easy to forget the murder of one of your own staff," he said. "You take it very lightly, but he was not your servant. It is a most horrible thing to have happened." He gave a little shiver. "I can't get it out of my mind. The fellow being done to death like that —-cold-bloodedly!" He seemed to feel Amberley's gaze upon him and looked up. "You think I'm taking it too hard? Perhaps I am. I don't deny it has upset me." He struck a match and held it to the end of his cigar; Amberley saw the flame quiver. "I can't make out what happened," Fountain said jerkily. "The police spoke of road-bandits. Was he robbed?"

Corkran, one eye on Joan's pale, anxious face, chose to be flippant. "Robbed? Of course he was. I bet a bob you find out that he was making off with the family plate. I say, where is this damned draught coming from?" He looked round and saw that the door was standing ajar. He made as if to get up, but Fountain was before him.

"Don't bother, I'll shut it," he said and walked heavily across the floor towards it. He glanced out into the hall before he shut the door, and Anthony, observing this, said suspiciously that he supposed that fellow Collins was prowling about as usual.

Fountain looked annoyed, but shook his head. "No. But we'd better not talk so loud. Naturally the servants are agog with curiosity." He glanced at Amberley. "Can't blame 'em, can one?"

"I think," said Amberley slowly, "that I might steel myself to the pitch of blaming a servant whom I found listening at keyholes."

"That's Corkran's tale," said Fountain rather angrily. "All moonshine! I don't hold any brief for Collins, but…' He broke off, and reverting suddenly to his jovial manner began to talk about the coming ball.

The door opened softly and the valet came in carrying a tray of drinks. A chill, a feeling of uneasiness, seemed to enter with him. Fountain's voice sounded forced; Joan's laugh held a nervous ring. The valet moved noiselessly across the pile carpet to a table against the wall and set down the tray. He went out again as softly as he had come in. Amberley noticed that he shut the door with quiet firmness behind him.

He looked across at Fountain and said directly: "You don't like that man?"

The others showed some surprise at this sudden, unconventional question. Fountain stared back at Amberley, the laugh dying on his lips. He shook his head. "No. Not much. Shouldn't keep him, only that my uncle wished it."

"Do you know of any enmity between him and Dawson?"

"No. Don't think they hit it off particularly well, but I never saw anything of it."

"You don't think that - Collins had anything to do with it?" The question came from Joan.

"No, Miss Fountain. I only wanted to know."

"Well, he hadn't," said Fountain. "I happen to know that he was here at the time the murder was committed."

"You're quite sure of that, I suppose?" Amberley said.

Fountain gave a laugh. "Fraid so. He does look a typical villain, doesn't he? I say - ought not to joke about it, you know. You were going to tell us just how you found Dawson's body."

Amberley's account, his cousin complained, did not err on the side of sensationalism. It was very brief, even a little bald. He stressed no points and advanced no theories. While he talked he was aware of an atmosphere of almost painful anxiety. It did not come from Felicity, frankly thrilled; nor from Corkran, still flippant; but Joan sat with her eyes fixed on his face, a haunted expression in her own; and Fountain, impatient of Anthony's interruptions, jarred by Felicity's evident enjoyment, listened intently, his cigar held unheeded between his fingers, its long ash fallen on the floor at his feet. That he was honestly upset by the murder nobody looking at him could doubt. He wanted to know everything that Amberley could tell him and again he pressed the question: "Are you sure you passed no one on the road?"