Chapter I
āAs funerals go, it was quite a snappy effort. No dawdling, well up to time and all that, but, my godfathers! What a farce to have to go to it at all. Didnāt make a haāporth of difference to the party concerned.ā
Bruce Attleton mixed himself a whisky and soda calculated to reduce funereal impressions to a minimum, and swallowed it rather more quickly than was customary in such a gathering. Neil Rockingham holding in his own hand a glass containing a milder version of the same drink, raised an angular eyebrow as he replied:
āWell, funerals never worry me. One good point about themāand weddings too, for that matterāis that they do get on with the doingsāpreamble, main theme, and blessing for curtain, and there you are. Snappy, as you say. Not like some of these infernal parties where you stand on one leg and wonder when you can decently depart. I do like a focus-point to an entertainment.ā
Bruce grinned, and his dark, sardonic face lighted up as he threw himself into a comfortable chair by the log fire. It was March, and the evenings were cold, so that the warm, slightly scented air of Sybilla Attletonās drawing-room struck a man as cosy after the raw air outside. A nice room, this of Sybillaās, meditated Rockingham. Peaceful, well-designed, chairs large enough to sit in, and plenty of them, not too many fallals for a man to trip over, and yet definitely a womanās room, with its colour scheme of faint grey and silver, lilac and deep blue. A sociable room, but not the right spot to swill down whisky like that nervy blighter, Bruce, was doing.
Sybilla, an exquisite figure in silver lamƩ with a short ermine cloak round her shoulders, lighted a Balkan Sobranje, and made a little face at her husband.
āI gather the funeral did make you shed a tear after all, Bruceānot for sorrow about our dear departed brother, but a tear of self-indulgent sympathy, that you should have been called upon to make the frightful effort of standing by a graveside.ā
āCaustic, what?ā Robert Grenville, a little embarrassed by the tone of Sybillaās voice, decided that jocularity was the vein to follow. āIf itās not being unreasonably inquisitive, who was the party concerned, so to speak? The bury-ee, or interee, or what you call him.ā
āThe ādear departedā or the ālate lamentedā is the accepted term,ā replied Bruce amiably enough. āOn this occasion, it was a young chap named Anthony Fellāa cousin of sorts, though I canāt tell you the exact degree. Family ramifications always beat me. However, this one turned up from Australia a few months agoāarchitect, hearty sort of chap. Doing quite nicely in the interim, building large-scale blocks on the modern housing principle, complete with the best in plumbing. Unfortunately he didnāt manage the plumbing of his own car as well as he did that of his working-class flats. Came blinding down Porlock Hill in a fog, in a last yearās racing modelāa yellow sports car that made me sick to look at it. His brakes failed just when he needed āem at a pinch and he somersaultedāwhat ho, she bumps!ā He picked his glass up again and looked towards the tantalus. āSo that was that, and we buried what was left of him to-day. Old Neil here, came in as best manāvery sporting of him. Not my idea of a good day, though.ā
āMiserable business,ā said Rockingham soberly enough. āFell only showed me the car a few days ago, gassing about how he always vetted it himself. Whale of a chap with engines according to his own estimate.ā
āPoor young manāand you grudged him a few hours at his one and only funeral,ā put in Elizabeth Leigh. She was sitting on the lilac tuffet, warming her beautiful slim legs at the good heat of the cedarwood fire. Red-headed, white-skinned, with the round face of very young girlhood, Elizabeth appeared fit for a Da Forti halo and lute when she looked pensive, as now. āDead in a strange land, and no one to shed a tear. If youād told me about it, Iād have come myself, and cast rose leaves on the coffin.ā
āAnd what good would that have done, Eliza?ā inquired Bruce. āNix, and you know it. Our family doesnāt seem to have any staying power. They all pop off early, except the Old Soldier. Heās about a hundred, and still going strong. Some one told me he bought an annuity when he was fifty-five, and got it cheap because heād a dicky heart. The company he bought it from have written him off as a bad debt. Theyāve given up hoping heāll die, and call him the Old Soldier. They donāt, you know.ā
āOh, but he must, sometime,ā put in Sybilla. āSome one said to me the other day that when youāre born thereās only one thing which can be said about you with any certainty, and that is that youāll dieāsometime. Nothing else is certain, but that is.ā
āCheery thought.ā Thomas Burroughs had been sitting silent, just behind Sybilla, until that moment, and the sound of his voice made Bruce Attleton scowl. It was a deep voice, and resonant, but Bruce said it sounded fat, āreeked of moneyāāand the rather stout, heavy-jowled Burroughs certainly was not hard-up.
āNice way of greeting the son and heir,ā went on the latter. āHere you are, little āun, and youāre for it one of these fine days. Just a matter of time, what?ā
āAnd the beautiful part is that no one knows when their time will be up,ā said Elizabeth, in her sweetest voice. She disliked Burroughsāone of the few things she had in common with her guardian, Bruce Attleton. āA slip, a skid, a fit, an aneurism, a syncope, and the lustiest becomes a mere bury-ee. I like that word,ā she added, her ingenuous blue eyes gazing hard at the wealthy stockbroker.
āFood for worms,ā put in Robert Grenville blithely. āI say, jolly topics we seem to be on. All flesh is grass, I know; still, it doesnāt do to ponder over it.ā
āBy way of cheering you all up a bit, Iāll tell you of a competition thatās been set for the monthly evening at my club,ā went on Elizabeth, averting her eyes from Burroughsā heavy face with a nicely calculated little moue of distaste. āWe always have an intellectual exercise of sorts, and notice is given of it beforehand. The problem this month is as follows: If you were landed with a corpse on your hands, by what method could you dispose of it so as to avoid any future liabilities? Highest marks will be given for a method which is not only ingenious, but possesses the elements of practical common sense.ā
There was an outbreak of exclamations. Robert Grenville chuckled, and said, āBy Gad, thatās a corker!ā
Attleton laughed and refilled his glass, saying, āGive us a moment to think it out, Liza.ā
Burroughs expostulated. āRotten morbid ideas you modern girls go in for. Club, indeed! You want spanking and sending to bed.ā
Sybilla said languidly, āDonāt be Victorian, Tommy. Everyone plays these murder games. Just use your wits as though there were money in it.ā
Rockingham, standing by the fire, smiled down at Elizabeth. He was a tall fellow, very fair, looking older than his forty-two years by reason of premature baldness. He had a very fine head, and the smooth lofty brow sloped back slightly to meet the magnificent domed skull. His hair, fair and smooth, was thick enough at the back, but his baldness gave him a professorial look, at odds with his fresh-skinned face. Rockingham took Elizabethās problem quite seriously in the manner of one who loves a problem for its own sake.
āWe need some more data,ā he said to her. āAre we to assume that weāve corpsed the subject ourselves, or are we just obliging a friend?ā
āI asked that too,ā said Elizabeth, replying to his friendly twinkle with a smile of angelic virtue. āIt is assumed that one has created the corpse oneself, either by accident or malice aforethought, as may be most convenient.ā
āItās a nice point,ā said Bruce. āImagine that Iād done some one in, here on this hearth-rug, and I wanted to get āem clear out of the way, so as not to leave a traceānot too easy.ā
āI think youāre being too casual.ā This time it was Grenville who spoke. It was Elizabethās problem, and he particularly wanted to stand well with Elizabeth. āNever go and murder any one in a hurryāthatās the first axiom. Think it all out carefully.ā
āGo on,ā said Elizabeth. āElaborate. I want ideas.ā
āAssume that Iām going to murder a chap named Tom Brown. Iāve got to work it so that no one will know I was the last person whom he was seen with. I canāt make an appointment with him in case any one else hears about it.ā Grenville was leaning forward now, his chin on his fists, his brow corrugated in thought. āIād go to one of those dud car-martsāone of the places where you can get something thatāll go for a couple of hundred miles for about ten pounds. Iād pay a deposit and drive out with some old car one wet evening, and Iād meet old Tom Brown on his way home from the station or something and say, āRotten evening, old boy. What about a lift?ā Once heād got in. Iād bat him one on the boko, and drive on to a little place Iād have taken on the edge of the outer suburbsāsimple life and all that, every tenant builds his own house. Iād have got the garage up, and a nice hole ready in the floor, and Iād bring old Tom in and shift a bit of concrete on top of him, and then return the car to the mart and pick up my deposit. No connection between me and Tom, and the car.ā
āNot too good,ā said Elizabeth; āand rotten as a story. It might work, but I couldnāt hope to win a prize with a garage floor as depository.ā
āThatās perfectly true,ā said Rockingham; āthough the touch about giving Tom a lift unexpectedly on a wet evening appeals to me as simple and effective. Pass that, cut out the garage floor, and drive Tom out to one of those dene holes somewhere and just tip him in. Theyāre said to be almost bottomless.ā
āYou tire me.ā It was Sybillaās languid voice which uttered this deflating phrase. āIf there are such things as dene holes, they must be about chock-full with fictitious corpses. Iām tired of them.ā
āWell, whatās yours?ā asked Elizabeth eagerly.
Sybilla drew in a long breath of cigarette smoke.
āIām not up to batting people over the head,ā she said dreamily. āI have a fancy for electricity. Iād connect up the power to the water in the wash-hand basin and say, āDarling, do have a wash,ā and when all that was over...ā She tilted her head up meditatively. āA sunk bath, in the floor, you know. Tilt him in, and then concrete, plenty of it, and the bath mat on top. All quite simple.ā
āGood God! Sybilla, I wouldnāt have believed youād have thought about anything soāsoāā gasped Burroughs, and Attleton laughed.
āGives you a turn, old boy? Quite in the Borgia and Lady Macbeth tradition, when you thought Sybilla only played drawing-room comedy?ā
āNever mind that,ā put in Elizabeth. āI think Sybillaās got more originality than you others.ā
āQuite a nice touch, that, about setting old Tom into the permanent fabric of the establishment,ā murmured Attleton, and Rockingham, seeing Burroughsā bulging eyes, put in:
āItās only a matter of exercising the imagination, Burroughs. Donāt you read thrillers?ā
āBut I say, Elizabeth, you havenāt told us your brain-wave yet,ā said Grenville. āOut with it! I bet itās pretty grim.ā
āIt is,ā said Elizabeth complacently. āMuch grimmer than Sybillaās, then. You know there are a lot of those big Georgian churches in London with lovely cryptsāwhere they put people in family vaults? I know one in Bloomsbury. The furnace for heating is in the vaults, and itās quite easy to find the way down and slip in without being noticed. In my story, you get old Tom to come exploring with you, and bat him over the head at the further end of the vault, where itās very dark, and you come back next day and hide till night, and then you get busy unscrewing one of the old coffinsātheyāre on ledges, you know, and just pop Tom in and do it up again.ā
āGood lord! The kidās got ideas, Neil. What about that for a Grand Guignol sketch? Youāre a dramatist. Canāt you see the possibilities?ā
āI certainly can,ā said Rockingham slowly, ābut the themeās almost too macabre for production. It has the makings of a good short story, Elizabeth. Why not try it?ā
āIt wouldnāt workānot in practice,ā said Burroughs, helping himself to another drink. āYouād have the deuce of a time getting the screws out of the coffin, and thereād be a lead lining inside.ā
āIād thought of all that,ā said Elizabeth calmly. āA drop of oil in the screws, and garden secateurs for the lead lining. Would you like to come there with me just to get the atmosphere?ā She smiled impudently at the heavily-built, well-tailored stockbroker, and Bruce put in with a laugh:
āDonāt you risk it, Burroughs. She might feel disposed to put her theory into practice. Thanks for the tip, Liza. Iāll bear it in mind in case of need.ā
āIf you want to visit the scene of the projected crime, why not invite me?ā Grenville pleaded to Elizabeth. āIād make the perfect collaboratorāand if the actual murder wasnāt necessary, we might screw a column out of the idea and share the boodle.ā
āIf ever you take to crime, Elizabeth, take my tip and play a lone hand,ā said Sybilla severely. āAll this accomplice business is childish. Meantime, if you can bear it, my child, come and read over that new script of Vineās. Iām not sure if I like my part. The men can have a rubber of bridge to amuse themselves.ā
She got up with the deliberate grace characteristic of her, and with the calm determination which Rockingham had long noted as being an essential of her apparently lazy make-up, said good-night to her guests.
āGood-night, Tom. I shall be out of town till the end of the month, remember. Half-past one at the Berkeley Grill on the 1stāAll Foolās Day. Good-night, Mr. Rockingham. Thank you for holding Bruceās hand at the funeral. Good-night, Mr. Grenville. Leave Elizabeth to her own murders. Come along, angel face.ā
She drew Elizabethās arm through her own and they went out of the room, leaving the four men standing by the fire. Burroughs made no bones about taking his departure once Sybilla had gone.
āIāve got to go down to my club to see a fellowāā he began, and Bruce Attleton cut in:
ā...about a dog. Thatās all right, Thomas. Good-night.ā
Burroughs pursed up his mouth in a manner that deepened the heavy lines running from nose to lip and replied, āThatās about the size of it. Good-night, Attleton. You donāt look too fit. Cut up about that young cousin of yours. Shocking thing. Too much wild driving about. Safety firstās my motto. āNight, Rockingham. āNight.ā
He nodded to Grenville and Bruce strolled to the door with him and chatted casually while the stockbroker got into his coat. Returning to the drawing-room, he said:
āCome along into the library, Neil, and you, Grenville. Itās more comfortable in there.ā
Rockingham shook his head.
āNo. Weāll bung off. You donāt want us here, I know that. Iām sorry you were cut up about that accident to young Fell. I feel a bit unhappy about it. He did show me his damned car, and I know a sight more about them than he did. I ought to have looked at his brakes.ā
āOh, rot! Thatās hair-splitting in an attempt to blame yourself, old man. Besides, I donāt believe in theories of accident. Iām a fatalist. Young Anthony had got his ticket, his time was up, and if it hadnāt been faulty brakes on Porlock Hill, itād have been a train smash or a pneumonia bug. Itās quite true, I was cut up. I liked the beggar, what I saw of him, and considering how our whole familyās been at loggerheads for generations, it was rather refreshing to find a cousin I liked. They all quarrelled like Kilkenny cats. Old Uncle Adam began itāthe Old Soldier. He quarrelled with the whole clan and later generations kept it up. Weāre a nice crowd!ā
He turned away from the fire, adding, āI was damn grateful to you for coming. I loathe funerals. Iāll go and wash it off, soak in a Turkish bath for an hour or two. Good-night, old boy. See you in Paris next week.ā He turned to Grenville, adding, āAnd look here, young fella me lad, Iām always glad to see you here, but donāt go imagining Iāve changed my mind. I havenāt. Cheer ho! Wellerāll let you out.ā
Weller was the butler, who presided over his duties in the Attletonsā picturesque little house...