Patricia Wentworth - The Key

All the blood was gone from Janice’s face. He thought, ‘She’s like a little sunburned ghost.’ A momentary amusement stirred, a momentary compunction.

She stared at him, her eyes quite round with horror, and said, ‘Oh, no! He couldn’t – he wouldn’t! Why should he?’

His shoulder jerked.

‘Lots of reasons. Take your choice. He had a secret pash for Medora, and he was jealous of Harsch. That’s a bit fictional, but you never know, do you? Then there’s the stone-cold, cast-iron fact that he is Harsch’s sole executor and legatee.’

‘Garth, there isn’t any money. Mr Harsch hadn’t anything to leave.’

‘Who’s talking about money? He left Madoc all his notes, his papers, his formulae. That means harschite . He left it to Madoc. There might be quite a lot of money in it, or there might be just the kind of case of conscience a crank would revel in. I gather that Madoc is going to revel all right. His conscience won’t let him loose what he calls “a devil’s agent” upon “an already tormented world”. Putting the money on one side – and I believe murder has been done for as little as twopence halfpenny in cash – don’t you think the chance of restraining a number-one-size devil’s agent like harschite might be too much for Madoc?’

Janice shook her head.

‘He wouldn’t – he wouldn’t!’

‘My dear, a crank will do anything. I can see Madoc enjoying martyrdom, holding the right hand in the fire in the best traditional manner. He’s got zealot written all over him – you’ve just said yourself that he’s the genuine article. Well then, he’d burn for his convictions, and it’s not a very long step from that to burning the other fellow. Don’t forget that the same century which produced the martyrs produced the Grand Inquisitors too. I doubt if there was anything to choose in the fanatical temper of their minds between Savonarola and Torquemada.’

‘Don’t – don’t – it’s horrible!’

‘Of course it is. That’s not my business. I’m here to find out whether it’s true. There’s more at stake than just catching a murderer, Jan. Harsch was shot immediately after he had completed his last experiment, and immediately before he could hand on the results. The margin of time is a very narrow one. He came in about six o’clock on Tuesday. He telephoned to Sir George, who was expecting a message, and made an appointment for Wednesday morning. In less than four hours he was dead. Who knew how near his work was to completion? There had been a paragraph in some of the papers. No one seems to know how it got there, but it was the usual vague gossipy puff – it didn’t really give much away. The only people who knew how near he was to success were Sir George and the experts he was bringing down, but they didn’t know that the last experiment had succeeded until Harsch rang up at half-past six. Anyone else who knew must have been someone directly in touch with Harsch himself and deeply in his confidence. It comes back to Madoc again – a fellow scientist living in the same house, a trusted friend.’

‘No-no!’

‘Who else could have known?’

She beat her hands together.

‘You’ve forgotten about the telephone.’

‘You mean someone might have listened in. Well, who was there? The housekeeper – Miss Madoc – Madoc himself – you. By the way, what’s the sister like? She looks harmless.’

‘She is. Kind – woolly – devoted to her brother – dreadfully afraid of offending him.’

‘And the housekeeper?’

‘Oh, no. She’s a lamb.’

‘Then we’re back at Madoc – unless you did it yourself. There wasn’t anyone else to listen in, was there?’ Then quite suddenly his jaw dropped. ‘Gosh – I’d forgotten!’

There was a touch of defiant malice about the tilt of Janice’s chin and the sparkle in her eyes.

‘Yes, I thought you had. We’ve still got the old party line, and any one of the subscribers could have taken up its receiver and heard what Mr Harsch was saying to Sir George Rendal.’

‘That’s torn it! Do you mean to say that there’s still only the one line, and everybody who has a telephone can tap it?’

She nodded.

‘Miss Mary Anne Doncaster listens in all the time, like some people do with their wireless. She always took a passionate interest, and now she doesn’t go out it’s the one thing she lives for. Perhaps you think she shot Mr Harsch.’

He said quickly, ‘She doesn’t go out – but do people come in?’

‘Oh, yes. What do you mean?’

He said slowly, ‘I think I would like to find out who saw Miss Doncaster between half-past six and a quarter to ten.’

AS HE AND Janice came into the hall at exactly half-past four, a buzz of voices proceeding from the drawing-room informed them that Miss Sophy. was having a tea-party. She had, in fact, been quite busy asking people to tea before Janice got her invitation.

They entered upon an early Edwardian tea. The table decked with an embroidered cloth, supported a massive tray and full panoply of silver. In a three-tiered metal cake stand to the right of the table plates of Royal Worcester china offered microscopic sandwiches of fish paste, lettuce, and nasturtium leaves. On the left a similar cake-basket carried out in wicker-work supported gingerbread biscuits, Marie biscuits, and rock buns – a wartime product made with egg powder. Behind the table in a large upright chair, Miss Sophy beamed upon her guests and poured out a great many cups of very weak tea. She received Garth and Janice with enthusiasm.

‘There you are, my dears! And just in time for tea – though it’s so weak it wouldn’t matter if it did stand. Florence says we are using a great deal more than our ration, but with tea you can always put in more water and make it go round like that. I only wish you could do that with eggs – such a convenience. Garth, I don’t think you’ve met Mr Everton. He has the most delightful hens – they really never stop laying.’

Mr Everton, round-cheeked and ruddy, bowed an acknowledgement and said, ‘That is because I know how to manage them.’

On his other side Mrs Mottram said plaintively, ‘I wish you’d tell me how you do it.’

Before he could answer, Miss Sophy struck in.

‘Mrs Mottram – my nephew, Major Albany.’

Garth got a full roll of the blue eyes.

‘Oh, I’ve heard so much about you! You will find us very stupid down here – always talking about food – but it’s so difficult, isn’t it? I’ve got six hens, but we haven’t had an egg for a fortnight. Now Mr Everton-’

Mr Everton beamed upon her.

‘You have no method. Everyone thinks that method is not necessary with the hen, and then you are surprised that the hen also is unmethodical. But I tell you it is your own fault. She is careless because you are careless. You must set her a good example. Hot mash not later than eight o’clock in the morning. Do you do that?’

Mrs Mottram gazed at him in a soulful manner.

‘Oh, no .’

‘Then you should.’

‘Should I?’

‘Certainly you should. Look, I will write you out a diet-sheet, and you shall keep to it. After a fortnight you shall tell me whether you are still getting no eggs.’

They moved off together. Garth took a cup of tea and a cakestand to Miss Doncaster, who helped herself to a nasturtium sandwich and said she disapproved of tea-parties in wartime. He sat down beside her and prepared to make himself agreeable.

‘I’m so sorry to hear that Miss Mary Anne is such an invalid.’

Miss Lucy Ellen helped herself to another sandwich.

‘She has every attention,’ she said. ‘If you ask me, I think I am the one to be pitied. If I go up and down stairs once I go up and down half a dozen times in an hour. We have turned the front bedroom into a sitting-room, and she is wheeled in there from her room. She can see everyone who is passing, and we have a great many visitors – too many, if you ask me – tracking up and down the stairs and bringing a lot of dirt into the house. Well, with only one maid, I’m the one that has to clear it up. I’m sure I never sit down. Are you here for long? I shouldn’t have thought you could be spared from your duties. If you ask me, I should say that everyone was getting too much leave. There’s Frederick Bush – his son was home for seven days last week.’