Title: A Shilling for Candles (1936)
Author: Josephine Tey
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eBook No.: 0800901.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: August 2008
Date most recently updated: August 2008

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Title: A Shilling for Candles (1936)
Author: Josephine Tey




Chapter 1


It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticary
was taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.
Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, lay the Channel, very still and
shining, like a milky opal. All around him hung the bright air, empty as
yet of larks. In all the sunlit world no sound except for the screaming
of some seagulls on the distant beach; no human activity except for the
small lonely figure of Potticary himself, square and dark and
uncompromising. A million dewdrops sparkling on the virgin grass
suggested a world new-come from its Creator's hand. Not to Potticary, of
course. What the dew suggested to Potticary was that the ground fog of
the early hours had not begun to disperse until well after sunrise. His
subconscious noted the fact and tucked it away, while his conscious mind
debated whether, having raised an appetite for breakfast, he should turn
at the Gap and go back to the Coastguard Station, or whether, in view of
the fineness of the morning, he should walk into Westover for the morning
paper, and so hear about the latest murder two hours earlier than he
would otherwise. Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off the
morning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, a
man had to have an objective. You couldn't go into Westover just to look
at the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your arm
made you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town.

The pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, their
shining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these boots
were. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best years
in brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, or
expressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaningless
discipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots. But no,
Potticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had a
slave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him. As for
expressing one's personality, if you described the symptoms to him he
would, of course, recognize them. But not by name; In the Service they
call that "contrariness."

A seagull flashed suddenly above the cliff-top, and dropped screaming
from sight to join its wheeling comrades below. A dreadful row these
gulls were making. Potticary moved over to the cliff edge to see what
jetsam the tide, now beginning to ebb, had left for them to quarrel over.

The white line of the gently creaming surf was broken by a patch of
verdigris green. A bit of cloth. Baize, or something. Funny it should
stay so bright a color after being in the water so--

Potticary's blue eyes widened suddenly, his body becoming strangely
still. Then the square black boots began to run. _Thud, thud, thud,_
on the thick turf, like a heart beating. The Gap was two hundred yards
away, but Potticary's time would not have disgraced a track performer. He
clattered down the rough steps hewn in the chalk of the Gap, gasping;
indignation welling through his excitement. That was what came of going
into cold water before breakfast! Lunacy, so help him. Spoiling other
people's breakfasts, too. Schaefer's best, except where ribs broken. Not
likely to be ribs broken. Perhaps only a faint after all. Assure the
patient in a loud voice that he is safe. Her arms and legs were as brown
as the sand. That was why he had thought the green thing a piece of
cloth. Lunacy, so help him. Who wanted cold water in the dawn unless they
had to swim for it? He'd had to swim for it in his time. In that Red Sea
port. Taking in a landing party to help the Arabs. Though why anyone
wanted to help the lousy bastards--that was the time to swim. When you
had to. Orange juice and thin toast, too. No stamina. Lunacy, so help
him.

It was difficult going on the beach. The large white pebbles slid
maliciously under his feet, and the rare patches of sand, being about
tide level, were soft and yielding. But presently he was within the cloud
of gulls, enveloped by their beating wings and their wild crying.

There was no need for Schaefer's, nor for any other method. He saw that
at a glance. The girl was past all help. And Potticary, who had picked
bodies unemotionally from the Red Sea surf, was strangely moved. It was
all wrong that someone so young should be lying there when all the world
was waking up to a brilliant day; when so much of life lay in front of
her. A pretty girl, too, she must have been. Her hair had a dyed look,
but the rest of her was all right.

A wave washed over her feet and sucked itself away, derisively, through
the scarlet-tipped toes. Potticary, although the tide in another minute
would be yards away, pulled the inanimate heap a little higher up the
beach, beyond reach of the sea's impudence.

Then his mind turned to telephones. He looked around for some garment
which the girl might have left behind when she went in to swim. But there
seemed to be nothing. Perhaps she had left whatever she was wearing below
high-water level and the tide had taken it. Or perhaps it wasn't here
that she had gone into the water. Anyhow, there was nothing now with
which to cover her body, and Potticary turned away and began his hurried
plodding along the beach again, and so back to the Coastguard Station and
the nearest telephone.

"Body on the beach," he said to Bill Gunter as he took the receiver from
the hook and called the police.

Bill clicked his tongue against his front teeth, and jerked his head
back. A gesture which expressed with eloquence and economy the
tiresomeness of circumstances, the unreasonableness of human beings who
get themselves drowned, and his own satisfaction in expecting the worst
of life and being right. "If they want to commit suicide," he said in his
subterranean voice, "why do they have to pick on us? Isn't there the
whole of the south coast?"

"Not a suicide," Potticary gasped in the intervals of hulloing.

Bill took no notice of him. "Just because the fare to the south coast is
more than to here! You'd think when a fellow was tired of life he'd stop
being mean about the fare and bump himself off in style. But no! They
take the cheapest ticket they can get and strew themselves over our
doorstep!"

"Beachy Head get a lot," gasped the fair-minded Potticary. "Not a
suicide, anyhow."

"Course it's a suicide. What do we have cliffs for? Bulwark of England?
No. Just as a convenience to suicides. That makes four this year. And
there'll be more when they get their income tax demands."

He paused, his ear caught by what Potticary was saying.

"--a girl. Well, a woman. In a bright green bathing dress." (Potticary
belonged to a generation which did not know swimsuits.) "Just south of
the Gap. 'Bout a hundred yards. No, no one there. I had to come away to
telephone. But I'm going back right away. Yes, I'll meet you there. Oh,
hullo, Sergeant, is that you? Yes, not the best beginning of a day, but
we're getting used to it. Oh, no, just a bathing fatality. Ambulance? Oh,
yes, you can bring it practically to the Gap. The track goes off the main
Westover road just past the third milestone, and finishes in those trees
just inland from the Gap. All right, I'll be seeing you."

"How can you tell it's just a bathing fatality," Bill said.

"She had a bathing dress on, didn't you hear?"

"Nothing to hinder her putting on a bathing dress to throw herself into
the water. Make it look like accident."

"You can't throw yourself into the water this time of year. You land on
the beach. And there isn't any doubt what you've done."

"Might have walked into the water till she drowned," said Bill, who was a
last-ditcher by nature.

"Ye'? Might have died of an overdose of bull's-eyes," said Potticary, who
approved of last-ditchery in Arabia but found it boring to live with.



Chapter 2


They stood around the body in a solemn little group: Potticary, Bill, the
sergeant, a constable, and the two ambulance men. The younger ambulance
man was worried about his stomach, and the possibility of its disgracing
him, but the others had nothing but business in their minds.

"Know her?" the sergeant asked.

"No," said Potticary. "Never seen her before."

None of them had seen her before.

"Can't be from Westover. No one would come out from town with a perfectly
good beach at their doors. Must have come from inland somewhere."

"Maybe she went into the water at Westover and was washed up here," the
constable suggested.

"Not time for that," Potticary objected. "She hadn't been that long in
the water. Must have been drowned hereabouts."

"Then how did she get here?" the sergeant asked.

"By car, of course," Bill said.

"And where is the car now?"

"Where everyone leaves their car: where the track ends at the trees."

"Yes?" said the sergeant. "Well, there's no car there."

The ambulance men agreed with him. They had come up that way with the
police--the ambulance was waiting there now--but there was no sign of any
other car.

"That's funny," Potticary said. "There's nowhere near enough to be inside
walking distance. Not at this time in the morning."

"Shouldn't think she'd walk anyhow," the older ambulance man observed.
"Expensive," he added, as they seemed to question him.

They considered the body for a moment in silence. Yes, the ambulance man
was right; it was a body expensively cared for.

"And where are her clothes, anyhow?"

The sergeant was worried.

Potticary explained his theory about the clothes; that she had left them
below high-water mark and that they were now somewhere at sea.

"Yes, that's possible," said the sergeant.

"But how did she get here?"

"Funny she should be bathing alone, isn't it?" ventured the young
ambulance man, trying out his stomach.

"Nothing's funny, nowadays," Bill rumbled. "It's a wonder she wasn't
playing jumping off the cliff with a glider. Swimming on an empty
stomach, all alone, is just too ordinary. The young fools make me tired."

"Is that a bracelet around her ankle, or what?" the constable asked.

Yes, it was a bracelet. A chain of platinum links. Curious links, they
were. Each one shaped like a C.

"Well," the sergeant straightened himself, "I suppose there's nothing to
be done but to remove the body to the mortuary, and then find out who she
is. Judging by appearances that shouldn't be difficult. Nothing 'lost,
stolen or strayed' about that one."

"No," agreed the ambulance man. "The butler is probably telephoning the
station now in great agitation."

"Yes." The sergeant was thoughtful. "I still wonder how she came here,
and what--"

His eyes had lifted to the cliff face, and he paused.

"So! We have company!" he said.

They turned to see a man's figure on the cliff-top at the Gap. He was
standing in an attitude of intense eagerness, watching them. As they
turned towards him he did a swift right-about and disappeared.

"A bit early for strollers," the sergeant said. "And what's he running
away for? We'd better have a talk with him."

But before he and the constable had moved more than a pace or two it
became evident that the man, far from running away, had been merely
making for the entrance to the Gap. His thin dark figure shot now from
the mouth of the Gap and came towards them at a shambling run, slipping
and stumbling, and giving the little group watching his advent an
impression of craziness. They could hear the breath panting through his
open mouth as he drew near, although the distance from the Gap was not
long and he was young.

He stumbled into their compact circle without looking at them, pushing
aside the two policemen who had unconsciously interposed their bulk
between him and the body.

"Oh, yes, it is! Oh, it is, it is!" he cried, and without warning sat
down and burst into loud tears.

Six flabbergasted men watched him in silence for a moment. Then the
sergeant patted him kindly on the back and said, idiotically, "It's all
right, son!"

But the young man only rocked himself to and fro and wept the more.

"Come on, come on," rallied the constable, coaxing. (Really, a dreadful
exhibition on a nice bright morning.) "That won't do anyone any good, you
know. Best pull yourself together--sir," he added, noting the quality of
the handkerchief which the young man had produced.

"A relation of yours?" the sergeant inquired, his voice suitably
modulated from its former businesslike pitch.

The young man shook his head.

"Oh, just a friend?"

"She was so good to me, so good!"

"Well, at least you'll be able to help us. We were beginning to wonder
about her. You can tell us who she is."

"She's my--hostess."

"Yes, but I meant, what is her name?"

"I don't know."

"You--don't--know! Look here, sir, pull yourself together. You're the
only one that can help us. You must know the name of the lady you were
staying with."

"No, no; I don't."

"What did you call her, then?"

"Chris."

"Chris, what?"

"Just Chris."

"And what did she call you?"

"Robin."

"Is that your name?"

"Yes, my name's Robert Stannaway. No, Tisdall. It used to be Stannaway,"
he added, catching the sergeant's eye and feeling apparently that
explanation was needed.

What the sergeant's eye said was "God give me patience!" What his tongue
said was "It all sounds a bit strange to me, Mr.--er--"

"Tisdall."

"Tisdall. Can you tell me how the lady got here this morning?"

"Oh, yes. By car."

"By car, eh? Know what became of the car?"

"Yes. I stole it."

"You what?"

"I stole it. I've just brought it back. It was a swinish thing to do. I
felt a cad so I came back. When I found she wasn't anywhere on the road,
I thought I'd find her stamping about here. Then I saw you all standing
around something--oh dear, oh dear!" He began to rock himself again.

"Where were you staying with this lady?" asked the sergeant, in
exceedingly businesslike tones. "In Westover?"

"Oh, no. She has--had, I mean--oh dear!--a cottage. Briars, it's called.
Just outside Medley."

"'Bout a mile and a half inland," supplemented Potticary, as the
sergeant, who was not a native, looked a question.

"Were you alone, or is there a staff there?"

"There's just a woman from the village--Mrs. Pitts--who comes in and
cooks."

"I see."

There was a slight pause.

"All right, boys." The sergeant nodded to the ambulance men, and they
bent to their work with the stretcher. The young man drew in his breath
sharply and once more covered his face with his hands.

"To the mortuary, Sergeant?"

"Yes."

The man's hands came away from his face abruptly.

"Oh, no! Surely not! She had a home. Don't they take people home?"

"We can't take the body of an unknown woman to an uninhabited bungalow."

"It isn't a bungalow," the man automatically corrected. "No. No, I
suppose not. But it seems dreadful--the mortuary. Oh, God in heaven
above!" he burst out, "why did this have to happen!"

"Davis," the sergeant said to the constable, "you go back with the others
and report. I'm going over to--what is it?--Briars? with Mr. Tisdall."

The two ambulance men crunched their heavy way over the pebbles, followed
by Potticary and Bill. The noise of their progress had become distant
before the sergeant spoke again.

"I suppose it didn't occur to you to go swimming with your hostess?"

A spasm of something like embarrassment ran across Tisdall's face. He
hesitated.

"No. I not much in my line, I'm afraid: swimming before breakfast.
I--I've always been a rabbit at games and things like that."

The sergeant nodded, noncommittal. "When did she leave for a swim?"

"I don't know. She told me last night that she was going to the Gap for a
swim if she woke early. I woke early myself, but she was gone."

"I see. Well, Mr. Tisdall, if you've recovered I think we'll be getting
along."

"Yes. Yes, certainly. I'm all right." He got to his feet and together and
in silence they traversed the beach, climbed the steps at the Gap, and
came on the car where Tisdall said he had left it: in the shade of the
trees where the track ended. It was a beautiful car, if a little too
opulent. A cream-colored two-seater with a space between the seats and
the hood for parcels, or, at a pinch, for an extra passenger. From this
space, the sergeant, exploring, produced a woman's coat and a pair of the
sheepskin boots popular with women at winter race-meetings.

"That's what she wore to go down to the beach. Just the coat and boots
over her bathing things. There's a towel, too."

There was. The sergeant produced it: a brilliant object in green and
orange.

"Funny she didn't take it to the beach with her," he said.

"She liked to dry herself in the sun usually."

"You seem to know a lot about the habits of a lady whose name you didn't
know." The sergeant inserted himself into the second seat. "How long have
you been living with her?"

"Staying with her," amended Tisdall, his voice for the first time showing
an edge. "Get this straight, Sergeant, and it may save you a lot of
bother: Chris was my hostess. Not anything else. We stayed in her cottage
unchaperoned, but a regiment of servants couldn't have made our relations
more correct. Does that strike you as so very peculiar?"

"Very," said the sergeant frankly. "What are these doing here?"

He was peering into a paper bag which held two rather jaded buns.

"Oh, I took these along for her to eat. They were all I could find. We
always had a bun when we came out of the water when we were kids. I
thought maybe she'd be glad of something."

The car was slipping down the steep track to the main Westover-Stonegate
road. They crossed the high road and entered a deep lane on the other
side. A signpost said "Medley 1, Liddlestone 3."

"So you had no intention of stealing the car when you set off to follow
her to the beach?"

"Certainly not!" Tisdall said, as indignantly as if it made a difference.
"It didn't even cross my mind till I came up the hill and saw the car
waiting there. Even now I can't believe I really did it. I've been a
fool, but I've never done anything like that before."

"Was she in the sea then?"

"I don't know. I didn't go to look. If I had seen her even in the
distance I couldn't have done it. I just slung the buns in and beat it.
When I came to I was halfway to Canterbury. I just turned her around
without stopping, and came straight back."

The sergeant made no comment.

"You still haven't told me how long you've been staying at the cottage?"

"Since Saturday midnight."

It was now Thursday.

"And you still ask me to believe that you don't know your hostess's last
name?"

"No. It's a bit queer, I know. I thought so, myself, at first. I had a
conventional upbringing. But she made it seem natural. After the first
day we simply accepted each other. It was as if I had known her for
years." As the sergeant said nothing, but sat radiating doubt as a stove
radiates heat, he added with a hint of temper, "Why shouldn't I tell you
her name if I knew it!"

"How should I know?" said the sergeant, unhelpfully. He considered out of
the corner of his eye the young man's pale, if composed, face. He seemed
to have recovered remarkably quickly from his exhibition of nerves and
grief. Lightweights, these moderns. No real emotion about anything. Just
hysteria. What they called love was just a barnyard exercise; they
thought anything else "sentimental." No discipline. No putting up with
things. Every time something got difficult, they ran away. Not slapped
enough in their youth. All this modern idea about giving children their
own way. Look what it led to. Howling on the beach one minute and as cool
as a cucumber the next.

And then the sergeant noticed the trembling of the too fine hands on the
wheel. No, whatever else Robert Tisdall was he wasn't cool.

"This is the place?" the sergeant asked, as they slowed down by a hedged
garden. "This is the place."

It was a half-timbered cottage of about five rooms; shut in from the road
by a seven-foot hedge of briar and honeysuckle, and dripping with roses.
A godsend for Americans, weekenders, and photographers. The little
windows yawned in the quiet, and the bright blue door stood hospitably
open, disclosing in the shadow the gleam of a brass warming pan on the
wall. The cottage had been "discovered."

As they walked up the brick path, a thin small woman appeared on the
doorstep, brilliant in a white apron; her scanty hair drawn to a knob at
the back of her head, and a round bird's-nest affair of black satin set
insecurely at the very top of her arched, shining poll.

Tisdall lagged as he caught sight of her, so that the sergeant's large
official elevation should announce trouble to her with the clarity of a
sandwich board.

But Mrs. Pitts was a policeman's widow, and no apprehension showed on her
tight little face. Buttons coming up the path meant for her a meal in
demand; her mind acted accordingly.

"I've been making some griddle cakes for breakfast. It's going to be hot
later on. Best to let the stove out. Tell Miss Robinson when she comes
in, will you, sir?" Then, realizing that buttons were a badge of office,
"Don't tell me you've been driving without a license, sir!"

"Miss--Robinson, is it? Has met with an accident," the sergeant said.

"The car! Oh, dear! She was always that reckless with it. Is she bad?"

"It wasn't the car. An accident in the water."

"Oh," she said slowly. "_That_ bad!"

"How do you mean: that bad?"

"Accidents in the water only mean one thing."

"Yes," agreed the sergeant.

"Well, well," she said, sadly contemplative. Then, her manner changing
abruptly, "And where were _you_?" she snapped, eyeing the drooping
Tisdall as she eyed Saturday-night fish on a Westover fishmonger's slab.
Her superficial deference to "gentry" had vanished in the presence of
catastrophe. Tisdall appeared as the "bundle of uselessness" she had
privately considered him.

The sergeant was interested but snubbing. "The gentleman wasn't there."

"He ought to have been there. He left just after her."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw him. I live in the cottage down the road."

"Do you know Miss Robinson's other address? I take it for granted this
isn't her permanent home."

"No, of course it isn't. She only has this place for a month. It belongs
to Owen Hughes." She paused, impressively, to let the importance of the
name sink in. "But he's doing a film in Hollywood. About a Spanish count,
it was to be, so he told me. He said he's done Italian counts and French
counts and he thought it would be a new experience for him to be a
Spanish count. Very nice, Mr. Hughes is. Not a bit spoiled in spite of
all the fuss they make of him. You wouldn't believe it, but a girl came
to me once and offered me five pounds if I'd give her the sheets he had
slept in. What I gave her was a piece of my mind. But she wasn't a bit
ashamed. Offered me twenty-five shillings for a pillow slip. I don't know
what the world is coming to, that I don't, what with--"

"What other address had Miss Robinson?"

"I don't know any of her addresses but this one."

"Didn't she write and tell you that she was coming?"

"Write! No! She sent telegrams. I suppose she could write, but I'll take
my alfred davy she never did. About six telegrams a day used to go to the
post office in Liddlestone. My Albert used to take them, mostly; between
school. Some of them used three or four forms, they were that long."

"Do you know any of the people she had down here, then?"

"She didn't have any folks here. 'Cept Mr. Stannaway, that is."

"No one!"

"Not a one. Once--it was when I was showing her the trick of flushing the
W.C.; you have to pull hard and then let go smart-like--once she said:
'Do you ever, Mrs. Pitts,' she said, 'get sick of the sight of people's
faces?' I said I got a bit tired of some. She said: 'Not some, Mrs.
Pitts. All of them. Just sick of people.' I said when I felt like that I
took a dose of castor oil. She laughed and said it wasn't a bad idea.
Only everyone should have one and what a good new world it would be in
two days. 'Mussolini never thought of that one,' she said."

"Was it London she came from?"

"Yes. She went up just once or twice in the three weeks she's been here.
Last time was last weekend, when she brought Mr. Stannaway back." Again
her glance dismissed Tisdall as something less than human. "Doesn't
_he_ know her address?" she asked.

"No one does," the sergeant said. "I'll look through her papers and see
what I can find."

Mrs. Pitts led the way into the living room; cool, low-beamed, and
smelling of sweet peas.

"What have you done with her--with the body, I mean?" she asked.

"At the mortuary."

This seemed to bring home tragedy for the first time.

"Oh, deary me." She moved the end of her apron over a polished table,
slowly. "And me making griddle cakes."

This was not a lament for wasted griddle cakes, but her salute to the
strangeness of life.

"I expect you'll need breakfast," she said to Tisdall, softened by her
unconscious recognition of the fact that the best are but puppets.

But Tisdall wanted no breakfast. He shook his head and turned away to the
window, while the sergeant searched in the desk.

"I wouldn't mind one of those griddle cakes," the sergeant said, turning
over papers.

"You won't get better in Kent, though it's me that's saying it. And
perhaps Mr. Stannaway will swallow some tea."

She went away to the kitchen.

"So you didn't know her name was Robinson?" said the sergeant, glancing
up.

"Mrs. Pitts always addressed her as 'miss.' And anyhow, did she look as
if her name was Robinson?"

The sergeant, too, did not believe for a moment that her name was
Robinson, so he let the subject drop.

Presently Tisdall said: "If you don't need me, I think I'll go into the
garden. It--it's stuffy in here."

"All right. You won't forget I need the car to get back to Westover."

"I've told you. It was a sudden impulse. Anyhow, I couldn't very well
steal it now and hope to get away with it."

Not so dumb, decided the sergeant. Quite a bit of temper, too. Not just a
nonentity, by any means.

The desk was littered with magazines, newspapers, half-finished cartons
of cigarettes, bits of a jigsaw puzzle, a nail file and polish, patterns
of silk, and a dozen more odds and ends; everything, in fact, except
notepaper. The only documents were bills from the local tradesmen, most
of them receipted. If the woman had been untidy and unmethodical, she had
at least had a streak of caution. The receipts might be crumpled and
difficult to find if wanted, but they had never been thrown away.

The sergeant, soothed by the quiet of the early morning, the cheerful
sounds of Mrs. Pitts making tea in the kitchen, and the prospect of
griddle cakes to come, began as he worked at the desk to indulge in his
one vice. He whistled. Very low and round and sweet, the sergeant's
whistling was, but, still--whistling. "Sing to Me Sometimes" he warbled,
not forgetting the grace notes, and his subconscious derived great
satisfaction from the performance. His wife had once shown him a bit in
the Mail that said that whistling was the sign of an empty mind. But it
hadn't cured him.

And then, abruptly, the even tenor of the moment was shattered. Without
warning there came a mock tattoo on the half-open sitting-room
door--_tum-te-ta-tum-tumta-TA!_ A man's voice said, "So this is
where you're hiding out!" The door was flung wide with a flourish and in
the opening stood a short dark stranger.

"_We-e-ell_," he said, making several syllables of it. He stood
staring at the sergeant, amused and smiling broadly. "I thought you were
Chris! What is the Force doing here? Been a burglary?"

"No, no burglary." The sergeant was trying to collect his thoughts.

"Don't tell me Chris has been throwing a wild party! I thought she gave
that up years ago. They don't go with all those highbrow roles."

"No, as a matter of fact, there's--"

"Where is she, anyway?" He raised his voice in a cheerful shout directed
at the upper story. "Yo-hoo! Chris. Come on down, you old so-and-so!
Hiding out on me!" To the sergeant: "Gave us all the slip for nearly
three weeks now. Too much Kleig, I guess. Gives them all the jitters
sooner or later. But then, the last one was such a success they naturally
want to cash in on it." He hummed a bar of "Sing to Me Sometimes," with
mock solemnity. "That's why I thought you were Chris; you were whistling
her song. Whistling darned good, too."

"Her--her song?" Presently, the sergeant hoped, a gleam of light would be
vouchsafed him.

"Yes, her song. Who else's? You didn't think it was mine, my dear good
chap, did you? Not on your life. I wrote the thing, sure. But that
doesn't count. It's her song. And perhaps she didn't put it across!
Eh? Wasn't that a performance?"

"I couldn't really say." If the man would stop talking, he might sort
things out.

"Perhaps you haven't seen _Bars of Iron_ yet?"

"No, I can't say I have."

"That's the worst of wireless and gramophone records and what not: they
take all the pep out of a film. Probably by the time you hear Chris sing
that song you'll be so sick of the sound of it that you'll retch at the
ad lib. It's not fair to a film. All right for songwriters and that sort
of cattle, but rough on a film, very rough. There ought to be some sort
of agreement. Hey, Chris! Isn't she here, after all my trouble in
catching up on her?" His face drooped like a disappointed baby's. "Having
her walk in and find me isn't half such a good one as walking in on her.
Do you think--"

"Just a minute, Mr.--er--I don't know your name."

"I'm Jay Harmer. Jason on the birth certificate. I wrote 'If It Can't Be
in June.' You probably whistle that as--"

"Mr. Harmer. Do I understand that the lady who is--was--staying here is a
film actress?"

"Is she a film actress!" Slow amazement deprived Mr. Harmer for once of
speech. Then it began to dawn on him that he must have made a mistake.
"Say, Chris is staying here, isn't she?"

"The lady's name is Chris, yes. But--well, perhaps you'll be able to help
us. There's been some trouble--very unfortunate--and apparently she said
her name was Robinson."

The man laughed in rich amusement. "Robinson! That's a good one. I always
said she had no imagination. Couldn't write a gag. Did you believe she
was a Robinson?"

"Well, no; it seemed unlikely."

"What did I tell you! Well, just to pay her out for treating me like bits
on the cutting-room floor, I'm going to split on her. She'll probably put
me in the icebox for twenty-four hours, but it'll be worth it. I'm no
gentleman, anyhow, so I won't damage myself in the telling. The lady's
name, Sergeant, is Christine Clay."

"Christine Clay!" said the sergeant. His jaw slackened and dropped, quite
beyond his control.

"Christine Clay!" breathed Mrs. Pitts, standing in the doorway, a
forgotten tray of griddle cakes in her hands.



Chapter 3


"Christine Clay! Christine Clay!" yelled the midday posters.

"Christine Clay!" screamed the headlines. "Christine Clay!" chattered the
wireless. "Christine Clay!" said neighbor to neighbor.

All over the world people paused to speak the words. Christine Clay was
drowned! And in all civilization only one person said, "Who is Christine
Clay?"--a bright young man at a Bloomsbury party. And he was merely being
"bright."

All over the world things happened because one woman had lost her life.
In California a man telephoned a summons to a girl in Greenwich Village.
A Texas airplane pilot did an extra night flight carrying Clay films for
rush showing. A New York firm canceled an order. An Italian nobleman went
bankrupt: he had hoped to sell her his yacht. A man in Philadelphia ate
his first square meal in months, thanks to an "I knew her when" story. A
woman in Le Touquet sang because now her chance had come. And in an
English cathedral town a man thanked God on his knees.

The Press, becalmed in the doldrums of the silly season, leaped to
movement at so unhoped-for a wind. The _Clarion_ recalled Bart
Bartholomew, their "descriptive" man, from a beauty contest in Brighton
(much to Bart's thankfulness--he came back loudly wondering how butchers
ate meat), and "Jammy" Hopkins, their "crime and passion" star, from a
very dull and low-class poker killing in Bradford. (So far had the
_Clarion_ sunk.) News photographers deserted motor race tracks,
reviews, society weddings, cricket, and the man who was going to Mars in
a balloon, and swarmed like beetles over the cottage in Kent, the
maisonette in South Street, and the furnished manor in Hampshire. That,
having rented so charming a country retreat as this last, Christine Clay
had yet run away to an unknown and inconvenient cottage without the
knowledge of her friends made a very pleasant appendage to the main
sensation of her death. Photographs of the manor (garden front, because
of the yews) appeared labeled "The place Christine Clay owned" (she had
only rented it for the season, but there was no emotion in renting a
place); and next to these impressive pictures were placed photographs of
the rose-embowered home of the people, with the caption "The place she
preferred."

Her press agent shed tears over that. Something like that _would_
break when it was too late.

It might have been observed by any student of nature not too actively
engaged in the consequences of it that Christine Clay's death, while it
gave rise to pity, dismay, horror, regret, and half a dozen other
emotions in varying degrees, yet seemed to move no one to grief. The only
outburst of real feeling had been that hysterical crisis of Robert
Tisdall's over her body. And who should say how much of that was
self-pity? Christine was too international a figure to belong to anything
so small as a "set." But among her immediate acquaintances dismay was the
most marked reaction of the dreadful news. And not always that. Coyne,
who was due to direct her third and final picture in England, might be at
the point of despair, but Lejeune (late Tomkins), who had been engaged to
play opposite her, was greatly relieved; a picture with Clay might be a
feather in your cap but it was a jinx in your box office. The Duchess of
Trent, who had arranged a Clay luncheon which was to rehabilitate her as
a hostess in the eyes of London, might be gnashing her teeth, but Lydia
Keats was openly jubilant. She had prophesied the death, and even for a
successful society seer that was a good guess. "Darling, how wonderful of
you!" fluttered her friends. "Darling how wonderful of you!" On and on.
Until Lydia so lost her head with delight that she spent all her days
going from one gathering to another so that she might make that delicious
entrance all over again, hear them say: "Here's Lydia! Darling how--" and
bask in the radiance of their wonder. No, as far as anyone could see, no
hearts were breaking because Christine Clay was no more. The world dusted
off its blacks and hoped for invitations to the funeral.



Chapter 4


But first there was the inquest. And it was at the inquest that the first
faint stirring of a much greater sensation began to appear. It was Jammy
Hopkins who noted the quiver on the smooth surface. He had earned his
nickname because of his glad cry of "Jam! Jam!" when a good story broke,
and his philosophical reflection when times were thin that "all was jam
that came to the rollers." Hopkins had an excellent nose for jam, and so
it was that he stopped suddenly in the middle of analyzing for
Bartholomew's benefit the various sensation seekers crowding the little
Kentish village hall. Stopped dead and stared. Because, between the
flyaway hats of two bright sensationalists, he could see a man's calm
face which was much more sensational than anything in that building.

"Seen something?" Bart asked.

"Have I seen something!" Hopkins slid from the end of the form, just as
the coroner sat down and tapped for silence. "Keep my place," he
whispered, and disappeared out of the building. He entered it again at
the back door, expertly pushed his way to the place he wanted, and sat
down. The man turned his head to view this gate-crasher. "Morning,
Inspector," said Hopkins. The Inspector looked his disgust.

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't need the money," Hopkins said, _vox
humana_.

The coroner tapped again for silence, but the Inspector's face relaxed.

Presently, under cover of the bustle of Potticary's arrival to give
evidence, Hopkins said, "What is Scotland Yard doing here, Inspector?"

"Looking on."

"I see. Just studying inquests as an institution. Crime slack these
days?" As the Inspector showed no sign of being drawn: "Oh, have a heart,
Inspector. What's in the wind? Is there something phony about the death?
Suspicions, eh? If you don't want to talk for publication I'm the
original locked casket."

"You're the original camel fly."

"Oh, well, look at the hides I have to get through!" This produced a grin
and nothing else. "Look here. Just tell me one thing, Inspector. Is this
inquest going to be adjourned?"

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"Thank you. That tells me everything," Hopkins said, half sarcastic, half
serious, as he made his way out again. He prised Mrs. Pitts's Albert away
from the wall where he clung limpetlike by the window, persuaded him that
two shillings were better than a partial view of dull proceedings, and
sent him to Liddlestone with a telegram which set the _Clarion_
office buzzing. Then he went back to Bart.

"Something wrong," he said out of the corner of his mouth in answer to
Bart's eyebrows. "The Yard's here. That's Grant, behind the scarlet hat.
Inquest going to be adjourned. Spot the murderer!"

"Not here," Bart said, having considered the gathering.

"No," agreed Jammy. "Who's the chap in the flannel bags?"

"Boyfriend."

"Thought the boyfriend was Jay Harmer."

"Was. This one newer."

"'Love nest killing'?"

"Wouldn't mind betting."

"Supposed to be cold, I thought?"

"Yes. So they say. Fooled them, seemingly. Good enough reason for murder,
I should think."

The evidence was of the most formal kind the finding and identification
of the body--and as soon as that had been offered the coroner brought the
proceedings to an end, and fixed no date for resumption.

Hopkins had decided that, the Clay death being apparently no accident,
and Scotland Yard not being able so far to make any arrest, the person to
cultivate was undoubtedly the man in the flannel bags. Tisdall, his name
was. Bart said that every newspaper man in England had tried to interview
him the previous day (Hopkins being then en route from the poker murder)
but that he had been exceptionally tough. Called them ghouls, and
vultures, and rats, and other things less easy of specification, and had
altogether seemed unaware of the standing of the Press. No one was rude
to the Press anymore--not with impunity, that was.

But Hopkins had great faith in his power to seduce the human mind.

"Your name Tisdall, by any chance?" he asked casually, "finding" himself
alongside the young man in the crowded procession to the door.

The man's face hardened into instant enmity.

"Yes, it is," he said aggressively.

"Not old Tom Tisdall's nephew?"

The face cleared swiftly.

"Yes. Did you know Uncle Tom?"

"A little," admitted Hopkins, no whit dismayed to find that there
really was a Tom Tisdall.

"You seem to know about my giving up the Stannaway?"

"Yes, someone told me," Hopkins said, wondering if the Stannaway was a
house, or what? "What are you doing now?"

By the time they had reached the door, Hopkins had established himself.
"Can I give you a lift somewhere? Come and have lunch with me?"

A pip! In half an hour he'd have a front-page story. And this was the
baby they said was difficult! No, there was no doubt of it: he, James
Brooke Hopkins, was the greatest newspaper man in the business.

"Sorry, Mr. Hopkins," said Grant's pleasant voice at his shoulder. "I
don't want to spoil your party, but Mr. Tisdall has an appointment with
me." And, since Tisdall betrayed his astonishment and Hopkins his instant
putting two and two together, he added, "We're hoping he can help us."

"I don't understand," Tisdall was beginning. And Hopkins, seeing that
Tisdall was unaware of Grant's identity, rushed in with glad
maliciousness.

"That is Scotland Yard," he said. "Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved
crime to his name."

"I hope you write my obituary," Grant said.

"I hope I do!" the journalist said, with fervor.

And then they noticed Tisdall. His face was like parchment, dry and old
and expressionless. Only the pulse beating hard at his temple suggested a
living being. Journalist and detective stood looking in mutual
astonishment at so unexpected a result of Hopkins's announcement. And
then, seeing the man's knees beginning to sag, Grant took him hastily by
the arm.

"Here! Come and sit down. My car is just here."

He edged the apparently blind Tisdall through the dawdling, chattering
crowd, and pushed him into the rear seat of a dark touring car.

"Westover," he said to the chauffeur, and got in beside Tisdall.

As they went at snail's pace towards the high road, Grant saw Hopkins
still standing where they had left him. That Jammy Hopkins should stay
without moving for more than three consecutive minutes argued that he was
being given furiously to think. From now on--the Inspector sighed--the
camelfly would be a bloodhound.

And the Inspector, too, had food for his wits. He had been called in the
previous night by a worried County Constabulary who had no desire to make
themselves ridiculous by making mountains out of molehills, but who found
themselves unable to explain away satisfactorily one very small, very
puzzling obstacle to their path. They had all viewed the obstacle, from
the Chief Constable down to the sergeant who had taken charge on the
beach, had been rude about each other's theories, and had in the end
agreed on only one thing: that they wanted to push the responsibility on
to someone else's shoulders. It was all very well to hang on to your own
crime, and the kudos of a solution, when there _was_ a crime. But to
decide in cold blood to announce a crime, on the doubtful evidence of
that common little object on the table; to risk, not the disgrace of
failure, but the much worse slings of ridicule, was something they could
not find it in their hearts to do. And so Grant had canceled his seat at
the Criterion and had journeyed down to Westover. He had inspected the
stumbling block, listened with patience to their theories and with
respect to the police surgeon's story, and had gone to bed in the small
hours with a great desire to interview Robert Tisdall. And now here was
Tisdall, beside him, still speechless and half-fainting because he had
been confronted without warning by Scotland Yard. Yes, there was a case;
no doubt of it. Well, there couldn't be any questioning with Cork in the
driving seat, so until they got back to Westover Tisdall might be left to
recover. Grant took a flask from the car pocket and offered it to him.
Tisdall took it shakily but made good use of it. Presently he apologized
for his weakness.

"I don't know what went wrong. This affair has been an awful shock to me.
I haven't been sleeping. Keep going over things in my mind. Or rather, my
mind keeps doing it; I can't stop it. And then, at the inquest it
seemed--I say, is something not right? I mean, was it not a simple
drowning? Why did they postpone the end of the inquest?"

"There are one or two things that the police find puzzling."

"As what, for instance?"

"I think we won't discuss it until we get to Westover."

"Is anything I say to be used in evidence against me?" The smile was wry
but the intention was good.

"You took the words out of my mouth," the Inspector said lightly, and
silence fell between them.

By the time they reached the Chief Constable's room in the County Police
offices, Tisdall was looking normal if a little worn. In fact, so normal
did he look that when Grant said, "This is Mr. Tisdall," the Chief
Constable, who was a genial soul except when someone jumped in his pocket
out hunting, almost shook hands with him, but recollected himself before
any harm was done.

"Howdyudo. Harrump!" He cleared his throat to give himself time. Couldn't
do that, of course. My goodness, no. Fellow suspected of murder. Didn't
look it, no, upon his soul he didn't. But there was no telling these
days. The most charming people were--well, things he hadn't known till
lately existed. Very sad. But couldn't shake hands, of course. No,
definitely not. "Harrump! Fine morning! Bad for racing, of course. Going
very hard. But good for the holiday makers. Mustn't be selfish in our
pleasures. You a racing man? Going to Goodwood? Oh, well, perhaps--No.
Well, I expect you and--and our friend here--" somehow one didn't want to
rub in the fact of Grant's inspectorship. Nice-looking chap. Well brought
up, and all that--"would like to talk in peace. I'm going to lunch. The
Ship," he added, for Grant's benefit, in case the Inspector wanted him.
"Not that the food's very good there, but it's a self-respecting house.
Not like these Marine things. Like to get steak and potatoes without
going through sun lounges for them." And the Chief Constable took himself
out.

"A Freedy Lloyd part," Tisdall said.

Grant looked up appreciatively from pulling forward a chair.

"You're a theater fan."

"I was a fan of most things."

Grant's mind focused on the peculiarity of the phrase. "Why 'was'?" he
asked.

"Because I'm broke. You need money to be a fan."

"You won't forget that formula about 'anything you say,' will you?"

"No, thanks. But it doesn't make any difference. I can only tell you the
truth. If you draw wrong deductions from it then that's your fault, not
mine."

"So it's I who am on trial. A nice point. I appreciate it. Well, try me
out. I want to know how you were living in the same house with a woman
whose name you didn't know? You did tell the County Police that, didn't
you?"

"Yes. I expect it sounds incredible. Silly, too. But it's quite simple.
You see, I was standing on the pavement opposite the Gaiety one night,
very late, wondering what to do. I had fivepence in my pocket, and that
was fivepence too much, because I had aimed at having nothing at all. And
I was wondering whether to have a last go at spending the fivepence
(there isn't much one can do with fivepence) or to cheat, and forget
about the odd pennies. So--"

"Just a moment. You might explain to a dullard just why these five
pennies should have been important."

"They were the end of a fortune, you see. Thirty thousand. I inherited it
from my uncle. My mother's brother. My real name is Stannaway, but Uncle
Tom asked that I should take his name with the money. I didn't mind. The
Tisdalls were a much better lot than the Stannaways, anyhow. Stamina and
ballast and all that. If I'd been a Tisdall I wouldn't be broke now, but
I'm nearly all Stannaway. I've been the perfect fool, the complete Awful
Warning. I was in an architect's office when I inherited the money,
living in rooms and just making do; and it went to my head to have what
seemed more than I could ever spend. I gave up my job and went to see all
the places I'd wanted to see and never hoped to. New York and Hollywood
and Budapest and Rome and Capri and God knows where else. I came back to
London with about two thousand, meaning to bank it and get a job. It
would have been easy enough two years before--I mean, to bank the money.
I hadn't anyone to help spend it then. But in those two years I had
gathered a lot of friends all over the world, and there were never less
than a dozen of them in London at the same time. So I woke up one morning
to find that I was down to my last hundred. It was a bit of a shock. Like
cold water. I sat down and thought for the first time for two years. I
had the choice of two things: sponging--you can live in luxury anywhere
in the world's capitals for six months if you're a good sponger: I know;
I supported dozens of that sort--and disappearing. Disappearing seemed
easier. I could drop out quite easily. People would just say, 'Where's
Bobby Tisdall these days?' and they'd just take it for granted that I was
in some of the other corners of the world where their sort went, and that
they'd run into me one of these days. I was supposed to be suffocatingly
rich, you see, and it was easier to drop out and leave them thinking of
me like that than to stay and be laughed at when the truth began to dawn
on them. I paid my bills, and that left me with fifty-seven pounds. I
thought I'd have one last gamble then, and see if I could pick up enough
to start me off on the new level. So I had thirty pounds--fifteen each
way; that's the bit of Tisdall in me--on Red Rowan in the Eclipse. He
finished fifth. Twenty-odd pounds isn't enough to start anything except a
barrow. There was nothing for it but tramping. I wasn't much put out at
the thought of tramping--it would be a change--but you can't tramp with
twenty-seven pounds in the bank, so I decided to blue it all in one grand
last night. I promised myself that I'd finish up without a penny in my
pocket. Then I'd pawn my evening things for some suitable clothes and hit
the road. What I hadn't reckoned with was that you can't pawn things in
the west-end on a Saturday midnight. And you can't take to the road in
evening things without being conspicuous. So I was standing there, as I
said, feeling resentful about these five pennies and wondering what I was
to do about my clothes and a place to sleep. I was standing by the traffic
lights at the Aldwych, just before you turn around into Lancaster Place,
when a car was pulled up by the red lights. Chris was in it, alone--"

"Chris?"

"I didn't know her name, then. She looked at me for a little. The street
was very quiet. Just us two. And we were so close that it seemed natural
when she smiled and said, 'Take you anywhere, mister?' I said: 'Yes.
Land's End.' She said: 'A bit off my route. Chatham, Faversham,
Canterbury, and points east?' Well, it was one solution. I couldn't go on
standing there, and I couldn't think of a water-tight tale that would get
me a bed in a friend's house. Besides, I felt far away from all that
crowd already. So I got in without thinking much about it. She was
charming to me. I didn't tell her all I'm telling you, but she soon found
out I was broke to the wide. I began to explain, but she said: 'All
right, I don't want to know. Let's accept each other on face value.
You're Robin and I'm Chris.' I'd told her my name was Robert Stannaway,
and without knowing it she used my family pet name. The crowd called me
Bobby. It was sort of comforting to hear someone call me Robin again."

"Why did you say your name was Stannaway?"

"I don't know. A sort of desire to get away from the fortune side of
things. I hadn't been much ornament to the name, anyhow. And in my mind I
always thought of myself as Stannaway."

"All right. Go on."

"There isn't much more to tell. She offered me hospitality. Told me she
was alone, but that--well, that I'd be just a guest. I said wasn't she
taking a chance. She said, 'Yes, but I've taken them all my life and it's
worked out pretty well, so far.' It seemed an awkward arrangement to me,
but it turned out just the opposite. She was right about it. It made
things very easy, just accepting each other. In a way (it was queer, but
it was like that) it was as if we had known each other for years. If we
had had to start at scratch and work up, it would have taken us weeks to
get to the same stage. We liked each other a lot. I don't mean
sentimentally, although she was stunning to look at; I mean I thought her
grand. I had no clothes for the next morning, but I spent that day in a
bathing suit and a dressing gown that someone had left. And on Monday
Mrs. Pitts came in to my room and said, 'Your suitcase, sir,' and dumped
a case I'd never seen before in the middle of the floor. It had a
complete new outfit in it--tweed coat and flannels, socks, shirt,
everything. From a place in Canterbury. The suitcase was old, and had a
label with my name on it. She had even remembered my name. Well, I can't
describe to you what I felt about these things. You see, it was the first
time for years that anyone had given me anything. With the crowd it was
take, take, all the time. 'Bobby'll pay.' 'Bobby'll lend his car.' They
never thought of me at all. I don't think they ever stopped to look at
me. Anyhow, those clothes sort of broke me up. I'd have died for her. She
laughed when she saw me in them--they were reach-me-downs, of course, but
they fitted quite well--and said: 'Not exactly Bruton Street, but they'll
do. Don't say I can't size a man up.' So we settled down to having a good
time together, just lazing around, reading, talking, swimming, cooking
when Mrs. Pitts wasn't there. I put out of my head what was going to
happen after. She said that in about ten days she'd have to leave the
cottage. I tried to go after the first day, out of politeness, but she
wouldn't let me. And after that I didn't try. That's how I came to be
staying there, and that's how I didn't know her name." He drew in his
breath in a sharp sigh as he sat back. "Now I know how these
psychoanalysts make money. It's a long time since I enjoyed anything like
telling you all about myself."

Grant smiled involuntarily. There was an engaging childlikeness about the
boy.

Then he shook himself mentally, like a dog coming out of water.

Charm. The most insidious weapon in all the human armory. And here it
was, being exploited under his nose. He considered the good-natured
feckless face dispassionately. He had known at least one murderer who had
had that type of good looks; blue-eyed, amiable, harmless; and he had
buried his dismembered fiancée in an ash pit. Tisdall's eyes were of that
particular warm opaque blue which Grant had noted so often in men to whom
the society of women was a necessity of existence. Mother's darlings had
those eyes; so sometimes, had womanizers.

Well, presently he would check up on Tisdall. Meanwhile--

"Do you ask me to believe that in your four days together you had no
suspicion at all of Miss Clay's identity?" he asked, marking time until
he could bring Tisdall unsuspecting to the crucial matter.

"I suspected that she was an actress. Partly from things she said, but
mostly because there were such a lot of stage and film magazines in the
house. I asked her about it once, but she said: 'No names, no pack drill.
It's a good motto, Robin. Don't forget.'"

"I see. Did the outfit Miss Clay bought for you include an overcoat?"

"No. A mackintosh. I had a coat."

"You were wearing a coat over your evening things?"

"Yes. It had been drizzling when we set out for dinner--the crowd and I,
I mean."

"And you still have that coat?"

"No. It was stolen from the car one day when we were over at Dymchurch."
His eyes grew alarmed suddenly. "Why? What has the coat got to do with
it?"

"Was it dark- or light-colored?"

"Dark, of course. A sort of gray-black. Why?"

"Did you report its loss?"

"No, neither of us wanted attention called to us. What has it--"

"Just tell me about Thursday morning, will you?" The face opposite him
was steadily losing its ingenuousness and becoming wary and inimical
again. "I understand that you didn't go with Miss Clay to swim. Is that
right?"

"Yes. But I awoke almost as soon as she had gone--"

"How do you know when she went if you were asleep?"

"Because it was still only six. She couldn't have been gone long. And
Mrs. Pitts said afterwards that I had followed down the road on her
heels."

"I see. And in the hour and a half--roughly--between your getting up and
the finding of Miss Clay's body you walked to the Gap, stole the car,
drove it in the direction of Canterbury, regretted what you had done,
came back, and found that Miss Clay had been drowned. Is that a complete
record of your actions?"

"Yes, I think so."

"If you felt so grateful to Miss Clay, it was surely an extraordinary
thing to do."

"Extraordinary isn't the word at all. Even yet I can't believe I did it."

"You are quite sure that you didn't enter the water that morning?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why?"

"When was your last swim? Previous to Thursday morning, I mean?"

"Noon on Wednesday."

"And yet your swimming suit was soaking wet on Thursday morning."

"How do you know that! Yes, it was. But not with salt water. It had been
spread to dry on the roof below my window, and when I was dressing on
Thursday morning I noticed that the birds in the tree--an apple tree
hangs over that gable--had made too free with it. So I washed it in the
water I had been washing in."

"You didn't put it out to dry again, though, apparently?"

"After what happened the last time? No! I put it on the towel rail. For
God's sake, Inspector, tell me what all this has to do with Chris's
death? Can't you see that questions you can't see the reason of are
torture? I've had about all I can stand. The inquest this morning was the
last straw. Everyone describing how they found her. Talking about 'the
body,' when all the time it was Chris. Chris! And now all this mystery
and suspicion. If there was anything not straightforward about her
drowning, what has my coat got to do with it anyway?"

"Because this was found entangled in her hair."

Grant opened a cardboard box on the table and exhibited a black button of
the kind used for men's coats. It had been torn from its proper place,
the worn threads of its attachment still forming a ragged "neck." And
around the neck, close to the button, was twined a thin strand of bright
hair.

Tisdall was on his feet, both hands on the table edge, staring down at
the object.

"You think someone _drowned_ her? I mean--like _that_! But
that isn't mine. There are thousands of buttons like that. What makes you
think it is mine?"

"I don't think anything, Mr. Tisdall. I am only eliminating
possibilities. All I wanted you to do was to account for any garment
owned by you which had buttons like that. You say you had one but that it
was stolen."

Tisdall stared at the Inspector, his mouth opening and shutting
helplessly.

The door breezed open, after the sketchiest of knocks, and in the middle
of the floor stood a small, skinny child of sixteen in shabby tweeds, her
dark head hatless and very untidy.

"Oh, sorry," she said. "I thought my father was here. Sorry."

Tisdall slumped to the floor with a crash.

Grant, who was sitting on the other side of the large table sprang to
action, but the skinny child, with no sign of haste or dismay, was there
first.

"Dear me!" she said, getting the slumped body under the shoulders from
behind and turning it over.

Grant took a cushion from a chair.

"I shouldn't do that," she said. "You let their heads stay back unless
it's apoplexy. And he's a bit young for that, isn't he?"

She was loosening collar and tie and shirt band with the expert
detachment of a cook paring pastry from a pie edge. Grant noticed that
her sunburnt wrists were covered with small scars and scratches of
varying age, and that they stuck too far out of her out-grown sleeves.

"You'll find brandy in the cupboard, I think. Father isn't allowed it,
but he has no self-control."

Grant found the brandy and came back to find her slapping Tisdall's
unconscious face with a light insistent _tapotement_.

"You seem to be good at this sort of thing," Grant said.

"Oh, I ran the Guides at school." She had a voice at once precise and
friendly. "A _ve_-ry silly institution. But it varied the routine.
That is the main thing, to vary the routine."

"Did you learn this from the Guides?" he asked, nodding at her
occupation.

"Oh, no. They burn paper and smell salts and things. I learned this in
Bradford Pete's dressing room."

"Where?"

"You know. The welterweight. I used to have great faith in Pete, but I
think he's lost his speed lately. Don't you? At least, I _hope_ it's
his speed. He's coming to nicely." This last referred to Tisdall. "I
think he'd swallow the brandy now."

While Grant was administering the brandy, she said: "Have you been giving
him the third degree, or something? You're police aren't you?"

"My dear young lady--I don't know your name?"

"Erica. I'm Erica Burgoyne."

"My dear Miss Burgoyne, as the Chief Constable's daughter you must be
aware that the only people in Britain who are subjected to the third
degree are the police."

"Well, what did he faint for? Is he guilty?"

"I don't know," Grant said, before he thought.

"I shouldn't think so." She was considering the now spluttering Tisdall.
"He doesn't look capable of much." This with the same grave detachment as
she used to everything she did.

"Don't let looks influence your judgment, Miss Burgoyne."

"I don't. Not the way you mean. Anyhow, he isn't at all my type. But it's
quite right to judge on looks if you know enough. You wouldn't buy a
washy chestnut narrow across the eyes, would you?"

This, thought Grant, is quite the most amazing conversation.

She was standing up now, her hands pushed into her jacket pockets so much
the much-tried garment sagged to two bulging points. The tweed she wore
was rubbed at the cuffs and covered all over with "pulled" ends of thread
where briars had caught. Her skirt was too short and one stocking was
violently twisted on its stick of leg. Only her shoes--scarred like her
hands, but thick, well-shaped, and expensive--betrayed the fact that she
was not a charity child.

And then Grant's eyes went back to her face. Except her face. The calm
sureness of that sallow little triangular visage was not bred in any
charity school.

"There!" she said encouragingly, as Grant helped Tisdall to his feet and
guided him into a chair. "You'll be all right. Have a little more of
Father's brandy. It's a much better end for it than Father's arteries.
I'm going now. Where is Father, do you know?" This to Grant.

"He has gone to lunch at The Ship."

"Thank you." Turning to the still dazed Tisdall, she said, "That shirt
collar of yours is far too tight." As Grant moved to open the door for
her, she said, "You haven't told me _your_ name?"

"Grant. At your service." He gave her a little bow.

"I don't need anything just now, but I might some day." She considered
him. Grant found himself hoping with a fervor which surprised him that he
was not being placed in the same category as "washy chestnuts."

"You're much more my type. I like people broad across the cheekbones.
Good-bye, Mr. Grant."

"Who was that?" Tisdall asked, in the indifferent tones of the newly
conscious. "Colonel Burgoyne's daughter."

"She was right about my shirt."

"One of the reach-me-downs?"

"Yes. Am I being arrested?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

"It mightn't be a bad idea."

"Oh? Why?"

"It would settle my immediate future. I left the cottage this morning and
now I'm on the road."

"You mean you're serious about tramping?"

"As soon as I have got suitable clothes."

"I'd rather you stayed where I could get information from you if I
wanted."

"I see the point. But how?"

"What about that architect's office? Why not try for a job?"

"I'm never going back to an office. Not an architect's anyhow. I was
shoved there only because I could draw."

"Do I understand that you consider yourself permanently incapacitated
from earning your bread?"

"Phew! That's nasty. No, of course not. I'll have to work. But what kind
of job am I fit for?"

"Two years of hitting the high spots must have educated you to something.
Even if it is only driving a car."

There came a tentative tap at the door, and the sergeant put his head in.

"I'm very sorry indeed to disturb you, Inspector, but I'd like something
from the Chief's files. It's rather urgent."

Permission given, he came in.

"This coast's lively in the season, sir," he said, as he ran through the
files. "Positively continental. Here's the chef at the Marine--it's just
outside the town, so it's our affair--the chef at the Marine's stabbed a
waiter because he had dandruff, it seems. The waiter, I mean, sir. Chef
on the way to prison and waiter on the way to hospital. They think maybe
his lung's touched. Well, thank you, sir. Sorry to disturb you."

Grant eyed Tisdall, who was achieving the knot in his tie with a
melancholy abstraction. Tisdall caught the look, appeared puzzled by it,
and then, comprehension dawning, leaped into action.

"I say, Sergeant, have they a fellow to take the waiter's place, do you
know?"

"That they haven't. Mr. Toselli--he's the manager--he's tearing his
hair."

"Have you finished with me?" he asked Grant.

"For today," Grant said. "Good luck."



Chapter 5


"No. No arrest," said Grant to Superintendent Barker over the telephone
in the early evening. "But I don't think there's any doubt about its
being murder. The surgeon's sure of it. The button in her hair might be
an accident--although if you saw it you'd be convinced it wasn't--but her
fingernails were broken with clawing at something. What was under the
nails has gone to the analyst, but there wasn't much after an hour's
immersion in salt water...'M?...Well, indications point one way
certainly, but they cancel each other out, somehow. Going to be
difficult, I think. I'm leaving Williams here on routine inquiry, and
coming back to town tonight. I want to see her lawyer--Erskine. He
arrived just in time for the inquest, and afterward I had Tisdall on my
hands so I missed him. Would you find out for me when I can talk to him
tonight. They've fixed the funeral for Monday. Golders Green. Yes,
cremation. I'd like to be there, I think. I'd like to look over the
intimates. Yes, I may look in for a drink, but it depends how late I am.
Thanks."

Grant hung up and went to join Williams for a high tea, it being too
early for dinner and Williams having a passion for bacon and eggs
garnished with large pieces of fried bread.

"Tomorrow being Sunday may hold up the button inquiries," Grant said as
they sat down. "Well, what did Mrs. Pitts say?"

"She says she couldn't say whether he was wearing a coat or not. All she
saw was the top of his head over her hedge as he went past. But whether
he wore it or not doesn't much matter, because she says the coat
habitually lay in the back of the car along with that coat that Miss Clay
wore. She doesn't remember when she saw Tisdall's dark coat last. He wore
it a fair amount, it seems. Mornings and evenings. He was a 'chilly
mortal,' she said. Owing to his having come back from foreign parts, she
thought. She hasn't much of an opinion of him."

"You mean she thinks he's a wrong 'un?"

"No. Just no account. You know, sir, has it occurred to you that it was a
clever man who did this job?"

"Why?"

"Well, but for that button coming off no one would ever have suspected
anything. She'd have been found drowned after going to bathe in the early
morning--all quite natural. No footsteps, no weapon, no signs of
violence. Very neat."

"Yes. It's neat."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it."

"It's the coat. If you were going to drown a woman in the sea, would you
wear an overcoat to do it?"

"I don't know. 'Pends how I meant to drown her."

"How _would_ you drown her?"

"Go swimming with her and keep her head under."

"You'd have scratches that way, ten to one. Evidence."

"Not me. I'd catch her by the heels in shallow water and upend her. Just
stand there and hold her till she drowned."

"Williams! What resource. And what ferocity."

"Well, how would you do it, sir?"

"I hadn't thought of aquatic methods. I mightn't be able to swim, or I
mightn't like early-morning dips, or I might want to make a quick getaway
from a stretch of water containing a body. No, I think I'd stand on a
rock in deep water, wait till she came to talk to me, grip her head and
keep it under. The only part of me that she could scratch that way would
be my hands. And I'd wear leather gloves. It takes only a few seconds
before she is unconscious."

"Very nice, sir. But you couldn't use that method anywhere within miles
of the Gap."

"Why not?"

"There aren't any rocks."

"No. Good man. But there are the equivalent. There are stone groins."

"Yes. Yes, so there are! Think that was how it was done, sir?"

"Who knows? It's a theory. But the coat still worries me."

"I don't see why it need, sir. It was a misty morning, a bit chilly at
six. Anyone might have worn a coat."

"Y-es," Grant said doubtfully, and let the matter drop, this being one of
those unreasonable things which occasionally worried his otherwise
logical mind (and had more than once been the means of bringing success
to his efforts when his logic failed).

He gave Williams instructions for his further inquiries, when he himself
should be in town. "I've just had another few minutes with Tisdall," he
finished. "He has got himself a waiter's job at the Marine. I don't
think he'll bolt, but you'd better plant a man. Sanger will do. That's
Tisdall's car route on Thursday morning, according to himself." He
handed a paper to the sergeant. "Check up on it. It was very early but
someone may remember him. Did he wear a coat or not? That's the main
thing. I think, myself, there's no doubt of his taking the car as he
said. Though not for the reason he gave."

"I thought it a silly reason myself, when I read that statement. I just
thought: 'Well, he might have made up a better one!' What's your theory,
sir?"

"I think that when he had drowned her his one idea was to get away. With
a car he could be at the other end of England, or out of the country,
before they found her body! He drove away. And then something made him
realize what a fool he was. Perhaps he missed the button from his cuff.
Anyhow, he realized that he had only to stay where he was and look
innocent. He got rid of the telltale coat--even if he hadn't missed the
button the sleeve almost up to the elbow must have been soaking with salt
water--came back to replace the car, found that the body had been
discovered thanks to an incoming tide, and put on a very good act on the
beach. It wouldn't have been difficult. The very thought of how nearly he
had made a fool of himself would have been enough to make him burst into
tears."

"So you think he did it?"

"I don't know. There seems to be a lack of motive. He was penniless and
she was a liberal woman. That was every reason for keeping her alive. He
was greatly interested in her, certainly. He says he wasn't in love with
her, but we have only his word for it. I think he's telling the truth
when he says there was nothing between them. He may have suffered from
frustration, but if that were so he would be much more likely to beat her
up. It was a queerly cold-blooded murder, Williams."

"It was certainly that, sir. Turns my stomach." Williams laid a large
forkful of best Wiltshire lovingly on a pink tongue.

Grant smiled at him: the smile that made Grant's subordinates "work their
fingers to the bone for him." He and Williams had worked together often,
and always in amity and mutual admiration. Perhaps, in a large measure
because Williams, bless him, coveted no one's shoes. He was much more the
contented husband of a pretty and devoted wife than the ambitious
detective-sergeant.

"I wish I hadn't missed her lawyer after the inquest. There's a lot I
want to ask him, and heaven knows where he'll be for the weekend. I've
asked the Yard for her dossier, but her lawyer would be much more
helpful. Must find out whom her death benefits. It was a misfortune for
Tisdall, but it must have been lucky for a lot of people. Being an
American, I suppose her will's in the States somewhere. The Yard will
know by the time I get up."

"Christine Clay was no American, sir!" Williams said in a
well-I-am-surprised-at-you voice.

"No? What then?"

"Born in Nottingham."

"But everyone refers to her as an American."

"Can't help that. She was born in Nottingham and went to school there.
They do say she worked in a lace factory, but no one knows the truth of
that."

"I forgot you were a film fan, Williams. Tell me more."

"Well, of course, what I know is just by reading _Screenland_ and
_Photoplay_ and magazines like that. A lot of what they write is
hooey, but on the other hand they'll never stop at truth as long as it
makes a good story. She wasn't fond of being interviewed. And she used to
tell a different story each time. When someone pointed out that that
wasn't what she had said last time, she said: 'But that's so dull! I've
thought of a much better one.' No one ever knew where they were with her.
Temperament, they called it, of course."

"And don't you call it that?" asked Grant, always sensitive to an
inflection.

"Well, I don't know. It always seemed to me more like--well, like
protection, if you know what I mean. People can only get at you if they
know what you're like--what matters to you. If you keep them guessing,
they're the victims, not you."

"A girl who'd pushed her way from a lace factory in Nottingham to the top
of the film world couldn't be very vulnerable."

"It's _because_ she was from a lace factory that she was
what-d'you-call-it. Every six months she was in a different social
sphere, she went up at such a rate. That takes a lot of living up
to--like a diver coming up from a long way below. You're continually
adjusting yourself to the pressure. No, I think she needed a shell to get
into, and keeping people guessing was her shell."

"So you were a Clay fan, Williams."

"Sure I was," said Williams in the appropriate idiom. His pink cheeks
grew a shade pinker. He slapped marmalade with venom onto his slab of
toast. "And before this affair's finished I'm going to put bracelets on
the chap that did it. It's a comforting thought."

"Got any theories yourself?"

"Well, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, you've passed over the person
with the obvious motive."

"Who?"

"Jason Harmer. What was he doing snooping around at half past eight of a
morning?"

"He'd come over from Sandwich. Spent the night at the pub there."

"So he said. Did the County people verify that?"

Grant consulted his notes.

"Perhaps they haven't. The statement was volunteered before they found
the button, and so they weren't suspicious. And since then everyone has
concentrated on Tisdall."

"Plenty of motive, Harmer has. Clay walks out on him, and he runs her to
earth in a country cottage, alone with a man."

"Yes, very plausible. Well, you can add Harmer to your list of chores.
Find out about his wardrobe. There's an SOS out for a discarded coat. I
hope it brings in something. A coat's a much easier clue than a button.
Tisdall, by the way, says he sold his wardrobe complete (except for his
evening things) to a man called--appropriately enough--Togger, but
doesn't know where his place of business is. Is that the chap who used to
be in Craven Road?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he now?"

"Westbourne Grove. The far end."

"Thanks. I don't doubt Tisdall's statement. But there's just a chance
there's the duplicate of that button on another coat. It might lead us to
something." He got to his feet. "Well, on with the job of making bricks
without straw! And talking of that Israelitish occupation, here's a grand
sample of it to flavor your third cup." He pulled from his pocket the
afternoon edition of the _Sentinel_, the _Clarion's_ evening
representative, and laid it, with its staring headlines, "Was Clay's
Death an Accident?" upward, by Williams's plate.

"Jammy Hopkins!" Williams said, with feeling, and flung sugar violently
into his black tea.



Chapter 6


Marta Hallard, as befitted a leading lady who alternated between the St.
James's and the Haymarket, lived in the kind of apartment block which has
deep carpet on the stairs and a cloistered hush in the corridors. Grant,
climbing the stairs with weary feet, appreciated the carpet even while
his other self wondered about the vacuum cleaning. The dim pink square of
the lift had fled upward as he came through the revolving door, and
rather than wait for its return he was walking the two flights. The
commissionaire had said that Marta was at home: had arrived about eleven
from the theater with several people. Grant regretted the people, but was
determined that this day was not going to end without his obtaining some
light on Christine Clay and her entourage. Barker had failed to find the
lawyer, Erskine, for him; his man said he was suffering from the shock of
the last three days and had gone into the country over Sunday; address
unknown. ("Ever heard of a lawyer suffering from shock?" Barker had
said.) So the matter which most interested Grant--the contents of
Christine Clay's will--must wait until Monday. At the Yard he had read
through the dossier--still, of course, incomplete--which they had
gathered together in the last twelve hours. In all the five sheets of it
Grant found only two things remarkable.

Her real name, it appeared, was Christina Gotobed.

And she had had no lovers.

No public ones, that is. Even in those crucial years when the little
Broadway hoofer was blossoming into the song-and-dance star, she seemed
to have had no patron. Nor yet when, tiring of song-and-dance pictures,
her ambition had reached out to drama; her rocket had shot to the stars
under its own power, it would seem. This could only mean one of two
things: that she had remained virgin until her marriage at twenty-six (a
state of affairs which Grant, who had a larger experience of life than of
psychology textbooks, found quite possible) or that her favor was given
only when her heart (or her fancy, according to whether you are
sentimentalist or cynic) was touched. Four years ago Lord Edward
Champneis (pronounced Chins), old Bude's fifth son, had met her in
Hollywood, and in a month they were married. She was at that time
shooting her first straight film, and it was generally agreed that she
had "done well for herself" in her marriage. Two years later Lord Edward
was "Christine Clay's husband."

He took it gracefully, it was reported; and the marriage had lasted. It
had become a casual affair of mutual friendliness; partly owing to the
demands of time and space that her profession made on Christine, and
partly to the fact that Edward Champneis's main interest in life (after
Christine) was to invade the uncomfortable interiors of ill-governed and
inaccessible countries and then to write books about them. During the
book-writing solstice he and Christine lived more or less under one roof,
and were apparently very happy. The fact that Edward, although a fifth
son, had nevertheless a large fortune of his own, inherited from his
mother's brother (Bremer, the leather king), had done much to save the
marriage from its most obvious dangers. And Edward's delighted pride in
his wife did the rest.

Now, where in that life, as shown in the dossier, did a murder fit in?
Grant asked himself, toiling up the padded stairs. Harmer? He had been
her constant companion for the three months she had been in England.
True, they had work in common (producers still liked to insert a song
somewhere in the plot of Christine's films: the public felt cheated if
they did not hear her sing), but the world which amuses itself had no
doubt of their relations, whatever their colleagues thought. Or Tisdall?
An ill-balanced boy, picked up in a moment of waywardness or generosity,
at a time when he was reckless and without direction.

Well, he himself would find out more about Tisdall. Meanwhile he would
find out about the Harmers of her life.

As he came to the top of the second flight, he heard the gentle sound of
the lift closing, and he turned the corner to find Jammy Hopkins just
taking his thumb from the bell push.

"Well, well," said Jammy, "it's a party!"

"I hope you have an invitation."

"I hope you have a warrant. People shriek for their lawyer nowadays at
the very sight of a policeman on the mat. Look, Inspector," he said
hurriedly in a different voice, "let's not spoil each other's game. We
both thought of Marta. Let's pool results. No need for crowding."

From which Grant deduced that Hopkins was doubtful of his reception. He
followed Grant into the little hall without giving his name, and Grant,
while appreciating the ingenuity, rebelled at providing a cloak for the
press.

"This gentleman is, I believe, from the _Clarion_," he said to the
servant who had turned away to announce them.

"Oh!" she said, turning back and eyeing Hopkins without favor. "Miss
Hallard is always very tired at night, and she has some friends with her
at the moment--"

But luck saved Hopkins from any necessity for coercion. The double doors
to the living room stood open, and from the room beyond came welcome in
high excited tones.

"Mr. Hopkins! How charming! Now _you_ can tell us what all these
midday editions were talking about. I didn't know you knew Mr. Hopkins,
Marta darling!"

"Who'd have thought I'd ever be glad to hear that voice!" Jammy murmured
to Grant as he moved forward to greet the speaker, and Grant turned to
meet Marta Hallard, who had come from the room into the hall.

"Alan Grant!" she said, smiling at him. "Is this business or pleasure?"

"Both. Do me a favor. Don't tell these people who I am. Just talk as you
were talking before I came. And if you can get rid of them fairly soon,
I'd like to talk to you alone for a little."

"I'd do a lot more than that for you. Every time I tie these around my
neck," she indicated a rope of pearls, "I remember you."

This was not because Grant had given her the pearls but because he had
once recovered them for her.

"Come and meet the others. Who is your friend?"

"Not a friend. Hopkins of the _Clarion_."

"Oh. Now I understand Lydia's welcome. And they say professional people
are publicity hounds!" She led Grant in, introduced people as they came.
The first was Clement Clements, the society photographer, radiant in
purple "tails" and a soft shirt of a pale butter color. He had never
heard of an Alan Grant, and made it perfectly clear. The second was a
Captain Somebody, a nondescript and humble follower of Marta's, who clung
to his glass of whisky and soda as being the only familiar object in an
unknown terrain. The third was Judy Sellers, a sulky fair girl who played
"dumb" blondes from year's end to year's end, and whose life was one long
fight between her greed and her weight. And the fourth was that intimate
of the stars, Miss Lydia Keats, who was now talking all over Jammy
Hopkins and enjoying herself immensely.

"_Mr._ Grant?" Jammy said, nastily, as Grant was introduced.

"_Isn't_ it 'Mr.'?" Lydia asked, her ears pricked, her eyes snapping
with curiosity. "No, it isn't!"

But Hopkins met Grant's eye and lacked the courage of his desire. It
would be folly to make an enemy of a C.I.D. Inspector.

"He has one of those Greek titles, you know, but he's ashamed to own it.
Got it for rescuing a Greek royalist's shirt from a Greek laundry."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Grant. He loves to hear himself
talk. I know, you see. He has interviewed me so often. But he never
listens to a word I say. Not his fault, of course. Aries people are often
talkative. I knew the first time he crossed my threshold that he was
April born. Now you, Mr. Grant, are a Leo person. Am I right? No, you
don't need to tell me. I know. Even if I couldn't feel it--here--" she
thumped her skinny chest, "you have all the stigmata."

"I hope they're not very deadly?" Grant asked, wondering how soon he
could disengage himself from this harpy.

"Deadly! My dear Mr. Grant! Don't you know anything of astrology? To be
born in Leo is to be a king. They are the favorites of the stars. Born to
success, predestined to glory. They are the great ones of the world."

"And when does one have to be born to qualify for a Leo benefit?"

"Between the middle of July and the middle of August. I should say that
you were born in the first weeks of August." Grant hoped he didn't look
as surprised as he felt. He had certainly been born on the 4th of August.

"Lydia's uncanny," Marta broke in, handing Grant a drink. "She did poor
Christine Clay's horoscope about a year ago, you know, and foretold her
death."

"And wasn't that a break!" drawled the Judy girl, poking among the
sandwiches.

Lydia's thin face was convulsed with fury, and Marta hastened to pour
oil. "You know that's not fair, Judy! It isn't the first time Lydia has
been right. She warned Tony Pickin about an accident before he was
smashed up. If he'd listened to her and taken a little more care, he'd
have two legs today. And she told me about not accepting the Clynes'
offer, and she--"

"Don't bother to defend me, Marta darling. The credit is not mine, in any
case. I only read what is there. The stars don't lie. But one does not
expect a Pisces person to have either the vision or the faith!"

"Seconds out of the ring," murmured Jammy, and hit the rim of his glass
with his fingernail so that it made a light "ping."

But there was to be no fight. Clements provided a distraction.

"What I want to know," he drawled, "is not what Lydia found in the stars
but what the police found at Westover."

"What I want to know is who did her in?" Judy said, taking a large bite
of sandwich. "Judy!" Marta protested.

"Oh, bunk!" said Judy. "You know we're all thinking the same thing. Going
around the possibilities. Personally I plump for Jason. Has anyone any
advance on Jason?"

"Why Jason?" Clements asked.

"He's one of these smoldering types, all passion and hot baths."

"Smolder! Jason!" Marta protested. "What nonsense! He simmers. Like a
merry kettle." Grant glanced at her. So she was sticking up for Jason?
How much did she like him? "Jason's much too volatile to smolder."

"Anyhow," Clements said, "men who take hot baths don't commit murder.
It's the cold-plungers who see red. They are possessed by a desire to get
back on life for the suffering they have endured."

"I thought masochists were rarely sadists," Grant said.

"Whether or not, you can put Jason out of it," insisted Marta. "He
wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Oh, wouldn't he," Judy said, and they all paused to look at her.

"What exactly does that mean?" Clements asked.

"Never mind. My bet's on Jason."

"And what was the motive?"

"She was running out, I suspect."

Marta interrupted sharply. "You know that's nonsense, Judy. You know
quite well that there was nothing between them."

"I know nothing of the sort. He was never out of her sight."

"A bitch thinks all the world a bitch," murmured Jammy into Grant's ear.

"I suspect"--it was Lydia's turn to break into a growing squabble--"that
Mr. Hopkins knows much more about it than we do. He's been down at
Westover today for his paper."

Jammy was instantly the center of attraction. What did he think? What had
the police got? Who did they think had done it? Were all these hints in
the evening papers about her living with someone true?

Jammy enjoyed himself. He was suggestive about murderers, illuminating on
murder, discursive about human nature, and libelously rude about the
police and their methods, all with a pleased eye on the helpless Grant.

"They'll arrest the boy she was living with," he finished. "Take it from
me. Tisdall's his name. Good-looking boy. He'll create a sensation in the
dock."

"Tisdall?" they said, puzzled. "Never heard of him."

All but Judy Sellers.

Her mouth opened in dismay, stayed that way helplessly for a moment, and
then shut tightly; and a blind came down over her face. Grant watched the
display in surprised interest.

"I think it's utterly ridiculous," Marta was saying, scornfully. "Can you
imagine Christine Clay in a furtive business like that! It's not in the
part at all. I'd as soon--as soon--I'd as soon believe that Edward could
commit a murder!"

There was a little laugh at that.

"And why not?" asked Judy Sellers. "He comes back to England to find his
adored wife being unfaithful, and is overcome with passion."

"At six of a morning on a cold beach. Can't you see Edward!"

"Champneis didn't arrive in England till Thursday," offered Hopkins, "so
that lets him out."

"I do think this is the most heartless and reprehensible conversation,"
Marta said. "Let's talk of something else."

"Yes, do," said Judy. "It's a profitless subject. Especially since
_you_, of course, murdered her yourself."

"I!" Marta stood motionless in an aura of bewildered silence. Then the
moment broke.

"Of course!" Clement said. "You wanted the part she was due to play in
the new film! We'd forgotten that!"

"Well, if we're looking for motives, Clement, my sweet, you were raving
mad with fury because she refused to be photographed by you. If I
remember rightly, she said your works were like spilt gravy."

"Clement wouldn't drown her. He'd poison her," Judy said. "With a box of
chocolates, Borgia-wise. No, come to think of it, Lejeune did it, in case
he'd have to act with her. He's the virile type. His father was a
butcher, and he probably inherited a callous mentality! Or how about
Coyne? He would have killed her on the Bars of Iron set, if no one had
been looking." She apparently had forgotten about Jason.

"Will you all kindly stop this silly chatter!" Marta said, with angry
emphasis. "I know that after three days a shock wears off. But Christine
was a friend of ours, and it's disgusting to make a game of the death of
a person we all liked."

"Hooey!" said Judy, rudely. She had consumed her fifth drink. "Not one of
us cared a brass farthing for her. Most of us are tickled to death she's
out of the way."



Chapter 7


In the bright cool of Monday morning Grant drove himself down Wigmore
Street. It was still early and the street was quiet; Wigmore Street's
clients do not stay in town for weekends. The flower shops were making up
Saturday's roses into Victorian posies where their errant petals could be
gently corseted. The antique shops were moving that doubtful rug to the
other side of the window out of the too questioning gaze of the morning
sun. The little cafes were eating their own stale buns for their morning
coffee and being pained and haughty with inconsiderates who asked for
fresh scones. And the dress shops took Saturday's bargains out of the
cupboard and restored the original prices.

Grant, who was en route to see Tisdall's tailor, was a little disgruntled
at the perversity of things. If Tisdall's coat had been made by a London
tailor it would have been a simple matter to have the button identified
by them as one used by them for coats, and for Tisdall's coat in
particular. That wouldn't clinch the matter but it would bring the
clinching appreciably nearer. But Tisdall's coat had been made, of all
places, in Los Angeles. "The coat I had," he explained, "was too heavy
for that climate, so I got a new one."

Reasonable, but trying. If the coat had been made by a London firm of
standing, one could walk into their shop at any time in the next fifty
years and be told without fuss and with benevolent politeness (provided
they knew who you were) what kind of buttons had been used. But who was
to say whether a Los Angeles firm would know what buttons they put on a
coat six months ago! Besides, the button in question was wanted here. It
could not very well be sent to Los Angeles. The best one could do was to
ask them to supply a sample of the buttons used. _If_ they
remembered!

Grant's main hope was that the coat itself would turn up. An abandoned
coat which could be identified as Tisdall's, with one button missing,
would be the perfect solution. Tisdall was wearing the coat when he drove
away the car. That was Sergeant Williams's contribution to the cause of
justice and due promotion. He had found a farmer who had seen the car at
the Wedmarsh crossroads a little after six on Thursday morning. About
twenty past, he reckoned, but he hadn't a watch. Didn't need one. Tell
the time any time of day, sun or no sun. He was driving sheep, and the
car slowed down because of them. He was positive that the man driving was
young and wore a dark coat. He didn't think he'd be able to identify the
man, not on his oath, he wouldn't--but he had identified the car. It was
the only car he had seen that morning.

Williams's other contribution had not been so happy. He reported that
Jason Harmer had not stayed at the hotel he had given as his sleeping
place at Sandwich. Had not stayed at Sandwich at all, in fact.

Grant had left his Sunday kidney and bacon untouched and had gone out
without ado to interview Mr. Harmer. He found him in his pinkish flat at
Devonshire House, covered in a purple silk dressing gown, black stubble,
and sheet music.

"It's not often I'm up at this hour," he offered, pushing sheets of
scrawled paper off a chair to make room for Grant. "But I've been sort of
upset about Chris. Very good friends, we were, Inspector. Some people
found her difficult, but me, no. 'Cause why? D'you know why? 'Cause we
both felt no account and were afraid people'd find it out. Humans are
awful bullies, you know. If you look and act like a million dollars
they'll lick your boots. But you let them suspect that you don't think
much of yourself and they're on you like ants on a dying wasp. I knew
Chris was bluffing first time I set eyes on her. You can't tell me
anything about bluffing. I bluffed my way into the States and I bluffed
the publishers into printing my first song. They didn't find out about it
till the song was a wow, and then they sort of thought it might be a good
idea to forget about having one put over on them. Have a drink? Yes, it's
a bit early. I don't usually myself till lunchtime, but it's the next
best thing to sleep. And I've got two songs to finish on contract.
For--for--" his voice died away "for Coyne's new film," he went on with a
rush. "Ever tried writing a song without an idea in your head? No. No, I
suppose you haven't. Well, it's just plain torture. And who's going to
sing them anyhow? That Hallard dame can't sing. Did you hear Chris sing
'Sing to Me Sometimes'?"

Grant had.

"Now that's what I call putting over a song. I've written better songs, I
admit. But she made it sound like the best song that was ever written.
What's the good of writing songs anyway, for that up-stage Hallard bird
to make a mess of?"

He was moving about the room, picking up a pile of papers here only to
set it down in an equally inappropriate place there. Grant watched him
with interest. This was Marta's "merry kettle" and Judy's "smoldering
type." To Grant he seemed neither. Just one of those rather ordinary
specimens of humanity from some poor corner of Europe who believes he's
being continually exploited and persecuted by his fellow men,
self-pitying, ill-educated, emotional, and ruthless. Not good-looking,
but attractive to women, no doubt. Grant remembered that two such widely
differing types as Marta Hallard and Judy Sellers had found him
remarkable; each reading her own meaning into his personality. He
apparently had the ability to be all things to all men. He had been
friendly to the disliked Marta, that was certain: Marta did not hotly
defend indifferent worshippers at her shrine. He spent his life, that is
to say, "putting on an act." He had admitted so much himself a moment
ago. Was he putting on an act now? For Grant?

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but it was a matter of business. You
know that we are investigating Miss Clay's death. And in the course of
investigation it is necessary to check the movements of everyone who knew
her, irrespective of persons or probabilities. Now, you told the sergeant
of the County police force, when you talked to him on Thursday, that you
had spent the night in a hotel at Sandwich. When this was checked in the
ordinary course it was found that you hadn't stayed there."

Harmer fumbled among the music, without looking up.

"Where _did_ you stay, Mr. Harmer?"

Harmer looked up with a small laugh. "You know," he said, "it's pretty
funny at that! Charming gentleman calls in a perfectly friendly way about
breakfast time, apologizing for disturbing you and hopes he isn't going
to be a trouble to you but he's an inspector of police and would you be
so very kind as to give some information because last time your
information wasn't as accurate as it might have been. It's lovely, that's
what it is. And you get results with it, too. Perhaps they just break
down and sob, on account of all the friendliness. Pie like mother made.
What I'd like to know is if that method goes in Pimlico or if you keep it
for Park Lane."

"What I would like to know is where you stayed last Wednesday night, Mr.
Harmer."

"The Mr., too, I guess that's Park Lane as well. In fact, if you'd been
talking to the Jason of ten years back, you'd have had me to the station
and scared hell out of me just like the cops of any other country.
They're all the same; dough worshippers."

"I haven't your experience of the world's police forces, I'm afraid, Mr.
Harmer."

Harmer grinned. "Stung you! A limey's got to be plenty stung before he's
rude-polite like that. Don't get me wrong, though, Inspector. There
aren't any police brands on me. As for last Wednesday night, I spent it
in my car."

"You mean you didn't go to bed at all?"

"That's what I mean."

"And where was the car?"

"In a lane with hedges as high as houses each side, parked on the grass
verge. An awful lot of space goes to waste in England in these verges.
The ones in that lane were about forty feet wide."

"And you say you slept in the car? Have you someone who can bear witness
to that?"

"No. It wasn't that kind of park. I was just sleepy and lost and couldn't
be bothered going any further."

"Lost! In the east of Kent!"

"Yes, anywhere in Kent, if it comes to that. Have you ever tried to find
a village in England after dark? Night in the desert is nothing to it.
You see a sign at last that says Whatsit two and a half miles and you
think: Good old Whatsit! Nearly there! Hurrah for England and signposts!
And then half a mile on you come to a place where three ways fork, and
there's a nice tidy signpost on the little bit of green in the middle and
every blame one of that signpost's arms has got at least three names on
it, but do you think one of them mentions Whatsit? Oh, no! That would
make it far too easy! So you read 'em all several times and hope
someone'll come past before you have to decide, but no one comes. Last
person passed there a week last Tuesday. No houses; nothing but fields,
and an advertisement for a circus that was there the previous April. So
you take one of the three roads, and after passing two more signposts
that don't take any notice of Whatsit, you come to one that says Whatsit,
six and three-quarters. So you start off all over again, four miles to
the bad, as it were, and it happens all over again. And again! And by the
time Whatsit has done that on you half a dozen times, you don't care what
happens as long as you can stop driving around corners and go to sleep.
So I just stopped where I was and went to sleep. It was too late to drop
in on Chris by that time, anyway."

"But not too late to get a bed at an inn."

"Not if you know where an inn is. 'Sides, judging by some of the inns
I've seen here, I'd just as soon sleep in the car."

"You grow a heavy beard, I notice." Grant nodded at Harmer's unshaven
chin.

"Yes. Have to shave twice a day, sometimes. If I'm going to be out late.
Why?"

"You were shaved when you arrived at Miss Clay's cottage. How was that?"

"Carry my shaving things in the car. Have to, when you have a beard like
mine."

"So you had no breakfast that morning?"

"No, I was planning to get breakfast from Chris. I don't eat breakfast
anyway. Just coffee, or orange juice. Orange juice in England. My God,
your coffee--what do you think they do to it? The women, I mean. It's--"

"Leaving the coffee aside for a moment, shall we come to the main point?
Why did you tell the sergeant on duty that you had slept at Sandwich?"

The man's face changed subtly. Until then he had been answering at ease,
automatically; the curves of his broad, normally good-natured face slack
and amiable. Now the slackness went; the face grew wary, and--was
it?--antagonistic.

"Because I felt there was something wrong, and I didn't want to be mixed
up in it."

"That is very extraordinary, surely? I mean, that you should be conscious
of evil before anyone knew that it existed."

"That's not so funny. They told me Chris was drowned. I knew Chris could
swim like an eel. I knew that I had been out all night. And the sergeant
was looking at me with a Who-are-you-and-what-are-you-doing-here
expression."

"But the sergeant had no idea that the drowning was more than an
accident. He had no reason to look at you in that way."

Then he decided to drop the subject of Harmer's lie to the sergeant.

"How did you know, by the way, where to find Miss Clay? I understood that
she kept her retreat a secret."

"Yes, she'd run away. Gave us all the runaround, in fact, including me.
She was tired and not very pleased at the way her last picture had turned
out. On the floor, I mean; it isn't released yet. Coyne didn't know how
to take her. A bit in awe of her, and afraid at the same time she'd put
one over on him. You know. If he'd called her 'kid' and 'chocolate' the
way old Joe Myers used to back in the States, she'd have laughed and
worked like a black for him. But Coyne's full of his own dignity, the
'big director' stuff, and so they didn't get on too good. So she was fed
up, and tired, and everyone wanted her to go to different places for
holidays, and it seemed she couldn't make up her mind, and then one day
we woke up and she wasn't there. Bundle--that's her housekeeper--said she
didn't know where she was, but no letters were to be forwarded and she'd
turn up again in a month, so no one was to worry. Well, for about a
fortnight no one heard of her, and then last Tuesday I met Marta Hallard
at a sherry party at Libby Seemon's--she's going into that new play of
his--and she said that on Saturday she had run into Chris buying
chocolates at a place in Baker Street--Chris never could resist
chocolates between pictures!--and she tried to worm out of Chris where
she was hiding out. But Chris wasn't giving anything away. At least she
thought she wasn't. She said: 'Perhaps I'm never coming back. You know
that old Roman who grew vegetables with his own hands and was so stuck on
the result that he made the arrangement permanent. Well, yesterday I
helped pull the first cherries for Covent Garden market and, believe me,
getting the Academy Award for a picture is nothing to it!'"

Harmer laughed under his breath. "I can hear her," he said,
affectionately. "Well, I went straight from Seemon's to Covent Garden and
found out where those cherries came from. An orchard at a place called
Bird's Green. And on Wednesday morning bright and early Jason sets off
for Bird's Green. That took a bit of finding, but I got there about three
o'clock. Then I had to find the orchard and the people who were working
in it on Friday. I expected to find Chris straightaway, but it seemed
that they didn't know her. They said that when they were picking, early
on Friday morning, a lady passing in a car had stopped to watch and then
asked if she might help. The old boy who owned the place said they didn't
need paid help, but if she liked to amuse herself good and well. 'She
were a good picker,' he said, 'wouldn't mind paying her another time.'
Then his grandson said he'd seen the lady--or thought he'd seen her--one
day lately in the post office at Liddlestone--about six miles away. So I
found Liddlestone, but the post office regular staff was 'home to her
tea' and I had to wait till she came back. She said that the lady who
sent 'all the telegrams'--seems they never saw so many telegrams in their
lives as Chrissent--was living over at Medley. So I set out in the
half-dark to find Medley, and ended by sleeping in a lane. And sleeping
out or no sleeping out, that was a better piece of detective work than
you're doing this morning, Inspector Grant!"

Grant grinned good-humoredly. "Yes? Well, I've nearly done." He got up to
go. "I suppose you had a coat with you in the car?"

"Sure."

"What was it made of?"

"Brown tweed. Why?"

"Have you got it here?"

"Sure." He turned to a wardrobe, built in the passage where the sitting
room led into the bedroom, and pulled the sliding door open. "Have a look
at my whole wardrobe. You're cleverer than I am if you can find the
button."

"What button?" Grant asked, more quickly than he intended.

"It's always a button, isn't it?" Harmer said, the small pansy-brown
eyes, alert under their lazy lids, smiling confidently into Grant's.

Grant found nothing of interest in the wardrobe. He had taken his leave
not knowing how much to believe of Jason Harmer's story, but very sure
that he had "nothing on him." The hopes of the police, so to speak, lay
in Tisdall.

Now, as he pulled up by the curb in the cool bright morning, he
remembered Jason's wardrobe, and smiled in his mind. Jason did not get
his clothes from Stacey and Brackett. As he considered the dark, small,
and shabby interior which was revealed to him as he opened the door, he
could almost hear Jason laugh. The English! They'd had a business for a
hundred and fifty years and this was all they could make of it. The
original counters probably. Certainly the original lighting. But Grant's
heart warmed. This was the England he knew and loved. Fashions might
change, dynasties might fall, horses' shoes in the quiet street change to
the crying of a thousand taxi hooters, but Stacey and Brackett continued
to make clothes with leisured efficiency for leisured and efficient
gentlemen.

There was now neither a Stacey nor a Bracken, but Mr. Trimley--Mr.
Stephen Trimley (as opposed to Mr. Robert and Mr. Thomas!)--saw Inspector
Grant and was entirely at Inspector Grant's service. Yes, they had made
clothes for Mr. Robert Tisdall, Yes, the clothes had included a dark coat
for wear with evening things. No, that certainly was not a button from
the coat in question. That was not a button they had ever put on any
coat. It was not a class of button they were in the habit of using. If
the Inspector would forgive Mr. Trimley (Mr. Stephen Trimley), the button
in question was in his opinion of a very inferior make, and would not be
used by any tailor of any standing. He would not be surprised, indeed, to
find that the button was of foreign origin.

"American, perhaps?" suggested Grant.

Perhaps. Although to Mr. Trimley's eye it suggested the Continent. No, he
certainly had no reason for such a surmise. Entirely instinctive.
Probably wrong. And he hoped the Inspector would not put any weight on
his opinion. He also hoped that there was no question of Mr. Tisdall
being in trouble. A very charming young man, indeed. The Grammar
schools--especially the older Grammar schools of the country--turned out
a very fine type of boy. Better often, didn't the Inspector think so?
than came from the minor public schools. There was a yeoman quality of
permanence about Grammar-school families--generation after generation
going to the same school--that was not matched, outside the great public
schools.

There being, in Grant's opinion, no yeoman quality of permanence whatever
about young Tisdall, he forbore to argue, contenting himself by assuring
Mr. Trimley that as far as he knew Mr. Tisdall was in no trouble up to
date.

Mr. Trimley was glad to hear that. He was getting old, and his faith in
the young generation which was growing up was too often sadly shaken.
Perhaps every generation thought that the rising one lacked due standards
of behavior and spirit, but it did seem to him this one...Ah, well, he
was growing old, and the tragedy of young lives weighed more heavily on
him than it used to. This Monday morning was blackened for him, yes,
entirely blackened, by the thought that all the brightness that was
Christine Clay was at this hour being transformed into ashes. It would be
many years, perhaps generations (Mr. Trimley's mind worked in
generations: the result of having a hundred-and-fifty-year-old business)
before her like would be seen again. She had quality, didn't the
Inspector think so? Amazing quality. It was said that she had a very
humble origin, but there must be breeding somewhere. Something like
Christine Clay did not just happen in space, as it were. Nature must plan
for it. He was not what is known, he believed, as a film fan, but there
was no picture of Miss Clay's which he had not seen since his niece had
taken him to view her first essay in a dramatic role. He had on that
occasion entirely forgotten that he was in a cinema. He was dazed with
delight. Surely if this new medium could produce material of this
strength and richness one need not continue to regret Bernhardt and Duse.

Grant went out into the street, marveling at the all-pervading genius of
Christine Clay. The mind of all the world it seemed was in that building
at Golders Green. A strange end for the little lace-hand from Nottingham.
Strange, too, for the world's idol. "And they put him in an oven just as
if he were--" Oh, no, he mustn't think of that. Hateful. Why should it be
hateful? He didn't know. The suburbanity of it, he supposed. Sensible,
and all that. And probably much less harrowing for everyone. But someone
whose brilliance had flamed across the human firmament as Clay's had
should have a hundred-foot pyre. Something spectacular. A Viking's
funeral. Not ovens n the suburb. Oh, my God, he was growing morbid,
if not sentimental. He pressed the starter, and swung into the traffic.

He had yesterday changed his mind about going to the Clay funeral. The
Tisdall evidence progressing normally, he had seen no need to give
himself a harrowing hour which he could avoid. But only now did he
realize how very glad he was to have escaped it, and (being Grant) began
instantly to wonder whether after all he should have gone. Whether his
subconscious desire to get out of it had influenced his decision. He
decided that it had not. There was no need for him now to study the
psychology of unknown friends of Christine's. He had had a good
cross-section of them at Marta's, and had learned very little, after all.
The party had stubbornly refused to break up. Jammy had begun to talk
again, hoping that they would dance to his piping. But Marta vetoed any
more talk of Christine, and although they had come back to her several
times, not even Jammy's genius for evocation could keep them on the
subject. Lydia, who could never stay off her own subject for long, had
read their palms, chiromancy being a sideline of hers when horoscopes
were not available (she had given a shrewd enough reading of Grant's
character and had warned him about making a mistaken decision in the
immediate future: "a nice safe thing to say to anyone," he had reflected)
and it was not until one o'clock that the hostess had managed to shepherd
them all to the door. Grant had lingered, not, curiously enough, because
he had questions to ask her (the conversation had provided answers for
him), but because she was anxious to question him. Was Scotland Yard
called in to investigate Christine's death? What was wrong? What had they
found? What did they suspect?

Grant had said that yes, they had been called in (so much would by now be
common property) but that so far there was only suspicion. She had wept a
little, becomingly, with not too disastrous effect on the mascara, had
treated him to a short appreciation of Christine as artist and woman. "A
grand person. It must have taken tremendous character to overcome her
initial disadvantages." She enumerated the disadvantages.

And Grant had gone out into the warm night with a sigh for human
nature--and a shrug for the sigh.

But there were bright spots even in human nature. Grant edged in toward
the curb, and came to a halt, his brown face glad and welcoming.

"Good morning!" he called to the little gray figure.

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Grant," Erica said, crossing the pavement to him.
She gave him a brief little smile, but seemed pleased to see him; so much
was apparent through her schoolboy matter-of-factness. She was dressed in
her "town" clothes, he noticed; but they did not seem to be an
improvement on her country ones. They were neat, certainly, but they had
an unused look; and the gray suit she was wearing, although undoubtedly
"good," was dowdy. Her hat had been got to match, and matched also in
dowdiness.

"I didn't know you ever stayed in town."

"I don't. I came up to get a bridge."

"A _bridge_?"

"But it seems you can't get them by the yard. They have to be made to
measure. So I've got to come up another day. All he did today was put a
lot of clay in my mouth."

"Oh, the dentist. I see. I thought only old ladies had bridges."

"Well, you see, the silly thing he put in the last time doesn't hold. I'm
always picking it out of bits of toffee. I lost a lot of side teeth when
Flight fell with me at a post-and-rails last winter. I had a face like a
turnip. So it had to be a bridge, he says."

"A misnomer, Flight."

"In one way. Not in another. He was nearly at the other end of Kent
before they caught him."

"Where are you going now? Can I give you a lift anywhere?"

"I suppose you wouldn't like to show me Scotland Yard?"

"I would. Very much. But in twenty minutes I have an appointment with a
lawyer in the Temple."

"Oh. In that case perhaps you would drop me in Cockspur Street. I have an
errand to do for Nannie."

Yes, he thought, as she inserted herself beside him, it would be a
Nannie. No mother had chosen those clothes. They were ordered from the
tailor just as her school clothes had been. "One gray flannel suit and
hat to match." In spite of her independence and her sureness of spirit,
there was something forlorn about her, he felt.

"This is nice," she said. "They're not very high, but I hate walking in
them."

"What are?"

"My shoes." She held up a foot and exhibited her very modest Cuban heel.
"Nannie thinks they are the right thing to wear in town, but I feel
dreadful in them. Teetery."

"I expect one gets used to them in time. One must conform to the taboos
of the tribe."

"Why must one?"

"Because an unquiet life is a greater misery than wearing the badge of
conformity."

"Oh, well. I don't come to town often. I suppose you haven't time to have
an ice with me?"

"I'm afraid not. Let's postpone it until I'm back in Westover, shall we?"

"Of course, you'll be back. I had forgotten that. I saw your victim
yesterday," she added conversationally.

"My victim?"

"Yes, the man who fainted."

"You saw him! Where?"

"Father took me over to luncheon at the Marine."

"But I thought your father hated the Marine?"

"He does. He said he'd never seen such a set of poisonous bloaters in his
life. I think 'bloaters' is a little strong. They weren't so very bad.
And the melon was very good."

"Did your father tell you that Tisdall was waiting there?"

"No, the sergeant did. He doesn't look very professional. Mr. Tisdall,
not the sergeant. Too friendly and interested. No professional waiter
looks interested. Not really. And he forgets the spoons for the ices. But
I expect you upset him pretty thoroughly the day before."

"_I_ upset him!" Grant took a deep breath and expressed his hope
that Erica was not going to let the plight of a good-looking young man
play havoc with her heart.

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. His nose is too long. Besides, I'm in love
with Togare."

"Who is Togare?"

"The lion tamer, of course." She turned to look at him doubtfully. "Do
you _really_ mean that you haven't heard of Togare?"

Grant was afraid that that was so.

"Don't you go to Olympia at Christmas? But you should! I'll get Mr. Mills
to send you seats."

"Thank you. And how long have you been in love with this Togare?"

"Four years. I'm very faithful."

Grant admitted that she must be.

"Drop me at the Orient office, will you?" she said, in the same tone as
she had announced her faithfulness. And Grant set her down by the
yellow-funneled liner.

"Going cruising?" he asked.

"Oh, no. I go round the offices collecting booklets for Nannie. She loves
them. She's never been out of England because she's terrified of the sea,
but she likes to sit in safety and imagine. I got her some marvelous
mountain ones from the Austrian place in Regent Street in the spring. And
she's very knowledgeable about the German spas. Good-bye. Thank you for
the lift. How shall I know when you come to Westover? For the ice, I
mean."

"I shall send you word through your father. Will that do?"

"Yes. Good-bye." And she disappeared into the office.

And Grant went on his way to meet Christine Clay's lawyer and Christine
Clay's husband, feeling better.



Chapter 8


It was obvious at once why no one called Edward Champneis anything but
Edward. He was a very tall, very dignified, very good-looking, and very
orthodox person, with a manner of grave, if kindly, interest, and a rare
but charming smile. Alongside the fretful movements of the fussy Mr.
Erskine, his composure was like that of a liner suffering the
administrations of a tug.

Grant had not met him before. Edward Champneis had arrived in London on
Thursday afternoon, after nearly three months' absence, only to be
greeted by the news of his wife's death. He had gone down immediately to
Westover and identified the body, and on Friday he had interviewed the
worried County Constabulary, puzzling over the button, and helped them to
make up their minds that it was a case for the Yard. The thousand things
waiting in town to be done as a result of his wife's death and his own
long absence had sent him back to London just as Grant left it.

He looked very tired, now, but showed no emotion. Grant wondered under
what circumstances this orthodox product of five hundred years of
privilege and obligation would show emotion. And then, suddenly, as he
drew the chair under him, it occurred to him that Edward Champneis was
anything but orthodox. Had he conformed to the tribe, as his looks
conformed, he would have married a second cousin, gone into the Service,
looked after an estate, and read the Morning Post. But he had done none
of those things. He had married an artist picked up at the other side of
the world, he explored for fun, and he wrote books. There was something
almost eerie in the thought that an exterior could be so utterly
misleading.

"Lord Edward has, of course, seen the will," Erskine was saying. "He was,
in fact, aware of its most important provisions some time ago, Lady
Edward having acquainted him with her desires at the time the testament
was made. There is, however, one surprise. But perhaps you would like to
read the document for yourself."

He turned the impressive-looking sheet round on the table so that it
faced Grant.

"Lady Edward had made two previous wills, both in the United States, but
they were destroyed, on her instructions, by her American lawyers. She
was anxious that her estate should be administered from England, for the
stability of which she had a great admiration."

Christine had left nothing to her husband. "I leave no money to my
husband, Edward Champneis, because he has always had, and always will
have, more than he can spend, and because he has never greatly cared for
money." Whatever he cared to keep of her personal possessions were to be
his, however, except where legacies specifically provided otherwise.
There were various bequests of money, in bulk or in annuities, to friends
and dependents. To Bundle, her housekeeper and late dresser. To her Negro
chauffeur. To Joe Myers, who had directed her greatest successes. To a
bellhop in Chicago "to buy that gas station with." To nearly thirty
people in all, in all parts of the globe and in all spheres of existence.
But there was no mention of Jason Harmer.

Grant glanced at the date. Eighteen months ago. She had at that time
probably not yet met Harmer.

The legacies, however generous, left the great bulk of her very large
fortune untouched. And that fortune was left, surprisingly, not to any
individual, but "for the preservation of the beauty of England."

There was to be a trust, in which would be embodied the power to buy any
beautiful building or space threatened by extinction and to provide for
its upkeep.

That was Grant's third surprise. The fourth came at the end of the list
of legacies. The last legacy of all read, "To my brother Herbert, a
shilling for candles."

"A brother?" Grant said, and looked up inquiring.

"Lord Edward was unaware that Lady Edward had a brother until the will
was read. Lady Edward's parents died many years ago, and there had been
no mention of any surviving family except for herself."

"A shilling for candles. Does it convey anything to you, sir?" He turned
to Champneis, who shook his head.

"A family feud, I expect. Perhaps something that happened when they were
children. These are often the things one is more unforgiving about." He
glanced toward the lawyer. "The thing I remember when I meet Alicia is
always that she smashed my birds'-egg collection."

"But not _necessarily_ a childhood quarrel," Grant said. "She must
have known him much later."

"Bundle would be the person to ask. She dressed my wife from her early
days in New York. But is it important? After all, the fellow was being
dismissed with a shilling."

"It's important because it is the first sign of real enmity I have
discovered among Miss Clay's relationships. One never knows what it might
lead us to."

"The Inspector may not think it so important when he has seen this,"
Erskine said. "This, which I will give you to read, is the surprise I
spoke of."

So the surprise had not been one of those in the will.

Grant took the paper from the lawyer's dry, slightly trembling hand. It
was a sheet of the shiny, thick, cream-colored notepaper to be obtained
in village shops all over England, and on it was a letter from Christine
Clay to her lawyer. The letter was headed "Briars, Medley, Kent," and
contained instructions for a codicil to her will. She left her ranch in
California, with all stock and implements, together with the sum of five
thousand pounds, to one Robert Stannaway, late of Yeoman's Row, London.

"That," said the lawyer, "was written on Wednesday, as you see. And on
Thursday morning--" He broke off, expressively.

"Is it legal?" Grant asked.

"I should not like to contest it. It is entirely handwritten and properly
signed with her full name. The signature is witnessed by Margaret Pitts.
The provision is perfectly clear, and the style eminently sane."

"No chance of a forgery?"

"Not the slightest. I know Lady Edward's hand very well--you will
observe that it is peculiar and not easy to reproduce--and moreover I am
very well acquainted with her style, which would be still more difficult
to imitate."

"Well!" Grant read the letter again, hardly believing in its existence.
"That alters everything. I must get back to Scotland Yard. This will
probably mean an arrest before night." He stood up.

"I'll come with you," Champneis said.

"Very good, sir," Grant agreed automatically. "If I may, I'll telephone
first to make sure that the Superintendent will be there."

And as he picked up the receiver, the looker-on in him said: Harmer was
right. We do treat people variously. If the husband had been an insurance
agent in Brixton, we wouldn't take it for granted that he could horn in
on a Yard conference!

"Is Superintendent Barker in the Yard, do you know?...Oh...At half past?
That's in about twenty minutes. Well, tell him that Inspector Grant has
important information and wants a conference straightaway. Yes, the
Commissioner, too, if he's there." He hung up.

"Thank you for helping us so greatly," he said, taking farewell of
Erskine. "And by the way, if you unearth the brother, I should be glad to
know."

And he and Champneis went down the dark, narrow stairs and out into the
hot sunshine.

"Do you think," Champneis asked, pausing with one hand on the door of
Grant's car, "there would be time for a drink, I feel the need of some
stiffening. It's been a--a trying morning."

"Yes, certainly. It won't take us longer than ten minutes along the
Embankment. Where would you like to go?"

"Well, my club is in Carlton House Terrace, but I don't want to meet
people I know. The Savoy isn't much better--"

"There's a nice little pub up here," Grant said, and swung the car
around. "Very quiet at this time. Cool, too."

As they turned the corner Grant caught sight of the news-sellers'
posters. CLAY FUNERAL: UNPRECEDENTED SCENES. TEN WOMEN FAINT. LONDON'S
FAREWELL TO CLAY. And (the _Sentinel_) CLAY'S LAST AUDIENCE.

Grant's foot came down on the accelerator.

"It was unbelievably ghastly," said the man beside him, quietly.

"Yes, I can imagine."

"Those women. I think the end of our greatness as a race must be very
near. We came through the war well, but perhaps the effort was too great.
It left us--epileptic. Great shocks do, sometimes." He was silent for a
moment, evidently seeing it all again in his mind's eye. "I've seen
machine guns turned on troops in the open--in China--and rebelled against
the slaughter. But I would have seen that subhuman mass of hysteria
riddled this morning with more joy than I can describe to you. Not
because it was--Chris, but because they made me ashamed of being human,
of belonging to the same species."

"I had hoped that at that early hour there would be very little
demonstration. I know the police were counting on that."

"We counted on it too. That is why we chose that hour. Now that I've seen
with my own eyes, I know that nothing could have prevented it. The people
are insane."

He paused, and gave an unamused laugh. "She never did like people much.
It was because she found people--disappointing that she left her money as
she did. Her fans this morning have vindicated her judgment."

The bar was all that Grant had promised, cool, quiet, and undemanding. No
one took any notice of Champneis. Of the six men present three nodded to
Grant and three looked wary. Champneis, observant even in his pain, said:
"Where do you go when you want to be unrecognized?" and Grant smiled.
"I've not found a place yet," h