Chapter I
âAs 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. Didnât make a haâporth of difference to the party concerned.â
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:
âWell, funerals never worry me. One good point about themâand weddings too, for that matterâis that they do get on with the doingsâpreamble, 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.â
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 Attletonâs drawing-room struck a man as cosy after the raw air outside. A nice room, this of Sybillaâs, 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 womanâs 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 lamé with a short ermine cloak round her shoulders, lighted a Balkan Sobranje, and made a little face at her husband.
âI gather the funeral did make you shed a tear after all, Bruceânot 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.â
âCaustic, what?â Robert Grenville, a little embarrassed by the tone of Sybillaâs voice, decided that jocularity was the vein to follow. âIf itâs not being unreasonably inquisitive, who was the party concerned, so to speak? The bury-ee, or interee, or what you call him.â
âThe âdear departedâ or the âlate lamentedâ is the accepted term,â replied Bruce amiably enough. âOn this occasion, it was a young chap named Anthony Fellâa cousin of sorts, though I canât tell you the exact degree. Family ramifications always beat me. However, this one turned up from Australia a few months agoâarchitect, 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 didnât 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 yearâs racing modelâa yellow sports car that made me sick to look at it. His brakes failed just when he needed âem at a pinch and he somersaultedâwhat ho, she bumps!â He picked his glass up again and looked towards the tantalus. âSo that was that, and we buried what was left of him to-day. Old Neil here, came in as best manâvery sporting of him. Not my idea of a good day, though.â
âMiserable business,â said Rockingham soberly enough. âFell 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.â
âPoor young manâand you grudged him a few hours at his one and only funeral,â 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. âDead in a strange land, and no one to shed a tear. If youâd told me about it, Iâd have come myself, and cast rose leaves on the coffin.â
âAnd what good would that have done, Eliza?â inquired Bruce. âNix, and you know it. Our family doesnât seem to have any staying power. They all pop off early, except the Old Soldier. Heâs 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 heâd a dicky heart. The company he bought it from have written him off as a bad debt. Theyâve given up hoping heâll die, and call him the Old Soldier. They donât, you know.â
âOh, but he must, sometime,â put in Sybilla. âSome one said to me the other day that when youâre born thereâs only one thing which can be said about you with any certainty, and that is that youâll dieâsometime. Nothing else is certain, but that is.â
âCheery thought.â 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, âreeked of moneyââand the rather stout, heavy-jowled Burroughs certainly was not hard-up.
âNice way of greeting the son and heir,â went on the latter. âHere you are, little âun, and youâre for it one of these fine days. Just a matter of time, what?â
âAnd the beautiful part is that no one knows when their time will be up,â said Elizabeth, in her sweetest voice. She disliked Burroughsâone of the few things she had in common with her guardian, Bruce Attleton. âA slip, a skid, a fit, an aneurism, a syncope, and the lustiest becomes a mere bury-ee. I like that word,â she added, her ingenuous blue eyes gazing hard at the wealthy stockbroker.
âFood for worms,â put in Robert Grenville blithely. âI say, jolly topics we seem to be on. All flesh is grass, I know; still, it doesnât do to ponder over it.â
âBy way of cheering you all up a bit, Iâll tell you of a competition thatâs been set for the monthly evening at my club,â went on Elizabeth, averting her eyes from Burroughsâ heavy face with a nicely calculated little moue of distaste. âWe 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.â
There was an outbreak of exclamations. Robert Grenville chuckled, and said, âBy Gad, thatâs a corker!â
Attleton laughed and refilled his glass, saying, âGive us a moment to think it out, Liza.â
Burroughs expostulated. âRotten morbid ideas you modern girls go in for. Club, indeed! You want spanking and sending to bed.â
Sybilla said languidly, âDonât be Victorian, Tommy. Everyone plays these murder games. Just use your wits as though there were money in it.â
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 Elizabethâs problem quite seriously in the manner of one who loves a problem for its own sake.
âWe need some more data,â he said to her. âAre we to assume that weâve corpsed the subject ourselves, or are we just obliging a friend?â
âI asked that too,â said Elizabeth, replying to his friendly twinkle with a smile of angelic virtue. âIt is assumed that one has created the corpse oneself, either by accident or malice aforethought, as may be most convenient.â
âItâs a nice point,â said Bruce. âImagine that Iâd done some one in, here on this hearth-rug, and I wanted to get âem clear out of the way, so as not to leave a traceânot too easy.â
âI think youâre being too casual.â This time it was Grenville who spoke. It was Elizabethâs problem, and he particularly wanted to stand well with Elizabeth. âNever go and murder any one in a hurryâthatâs the first axiom. Think it all out carefully.â
âGo on,â said Elizabeth. âElaborate. I want ideas.â
âAssume that Iâm going to murder a chap named Tom Brown. Iâve got to work it so that no one will know I was the last person whom he was seen with. I canât make an appointment with him in case any one else hears about it.â Grenville was leaning forward now, his chin on his fists, his brow corrugated in thought. âIâd go to one of those dud car-martsâone of the places where you can get something thatâll go for a couple of hundred miles for about ten pounds. Iâd pay a deposit and drive out with some old car one wet evening, and Iâd meet old Tom Brown on his way home from the station or something and say, âRotten evening, old boy. What about a lift?â Once heâd got in. Iâd bat him one on the boko, and drive on to a little place Iâd have taken on the edge of the outer suburbsâsimple life and all that, every tenant builds his own house. Iâd have got the garage up, and a nice hole ready in the floor, and Iâd 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.â
âNot too good,â said Elizabeth; âand rotten as a story. It might work, but I couldnât hope to win a prize with a garage floor as depository.â
âThatâs perfectly true,â said Rockingham; âthough 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. Theyâre said to be almost bottomless.â
âYou tire me.â It was Sybillaâs languid voice which uttered this deflating phrase. âIf there are such things as dene holes, they must be about chock-full with fictitious corpses. Iâm tired of them.â
âWell, whatâs yours?â asked Elizabeth eagerly.
Sybilla drew in a long breath of cigarette smoke.
âIâm not up to batting people over the head,â she said dreamily. âI have a fancy for electricity. Iâd connect up the power to the water in the wash-hand basin and say, âDarling, do have a wash,â and when all that was over...â She tilted her head up meditatively. âA 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.â
âGood God! Sybilla, I wouldnât have believed youâd have thought about anything soâsoââ gasped Burroughs, and Attleton laughed.
âGives you a turn, old boy? Quite in the Borgia and Lady Macbeth tradition, when you thought Sybilla only played drawing-room comedy?â
âNever mind that,â put in Elizabeth. âI think Sybillaâs got more originality than you others.â
âQuite a nice touch, that, about setting old Tom into the permanent fabric of the establishment,â murmured Attleton, and Rockingham, seeing Burroughsâ bulging eyes, put in:
âItâs only a matter of exercising the imagination, Burroughs. Donât you read thrillers?â
âBut I say, Elizabeth, you havenât told us your brain-wave yet,â said Grenville. âOut with it! I bet itâs pretty grim.â
âIt is,â said Elizabeth complacently. âMuch grimmer than Sybillaâs, then. You know there are a lot of those big Georgian churches in London with lovely cryptsâwhere they put people in family vaults? I know one in Bloomsbury. The furnace for heating is in the vaults, and itâs 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 itâs very dark, and you come back next day and hide till night, and then you get busy unscrewing one of the old coffinsâtheyâre on ledges, you know, and just pop Tom in and do it up again.â
âGood lord! The kidâs got ideas, Neil. What about that for a Grand Guignol sketch? Youâre a dramatist. Canât you see the possibilities?â
âI certainly can,â said Rockingham slowly, âbut the themeâs almost too macabre for production. It has the makings of a good short story, Elizabeth. Why not try it?â
âIt wouldnât workânot in practice,â said Burroughs, helping himself to another drink. âYouâd have the deuce of a time getting the screws out of the coffin, and thereâd be a lead lining inside.â
âIâd thought of all that,â said Elizabeth calmly. âA 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?â She smiled impudently at the heavily-built, well-tailored stockbroker, and Bruce put in with a laugh:
âDonât you risk it, Burroughs. She might feel disposed to put her theory into practice. Thanks for the tip, Liza. Iâll bear it in mind in case of need.â
âIf you want to visit the scene of the projected crime, why not invite me?â Grenville pleaded to Elizabeth. âIâd make the perfect collaboratorâand if the actual murder wasnât necessary, we might screw a column out of the idea and share the boodle.â
âIf ever you take to crime, Elizabeth, take my tip and play a lone hand,â said Sybilla severely. âAll this accomplice business is childish. Meantime, if you can bear it, my child, come and read over that new script of Vineâs. Iâm not sure if I like my part. The men can have a rubber of bridge to amuse themselves.â
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.
âGood-night, Tom. I shall be out of town till the end of the month, remember. Half-past one at the Berkeley Grill on the 1stâAll Foolâs Day. Good-night, Mr. Rockingham. Thank you for holding Bruceâs hand at the funeral. Good-night, Mr. Grenville. Leave Elizabeth to her own murders. Come along, angel face.â
She drew Elizabethâs 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.
âIâve got to go down to my club to see a fellowââ he began, and Bruce Attleton cut in:
â...about a dog. Thatâs all right, Thomas. Good-night.â
Burroughs pursed up his mouth in a manner that deepened the heavy lines running from nose to lip and replied, âThatâs about the size of it. Good-night, Attleton. You donât look too fit. Cut up about that young cousin of yours. Shocking thing. Too much wild driving about. Safety firstâs my motto. âNight, Rockingham. âNight.â
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:
âCome along into the library, Neil, and you, Grenville. Itâs more comfortable in there.â
Rockingham shook his head.
âNo. Weâll bung off. You donât want us here, I know that. Iâm 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.â
âOh, rot! Thatâs hair-splitting in an attempt to blame yourself, old man. Besides, I donât believe in theories of accident. Iâm a fatalist. Young Anthony had got his ticket, his time was up, and if it hadnât been faulty brakes on Porlock Hill, itâd have been a train smash or a pneumonia bug. Itâs quite true, I was cut up. I liked the beggar, what I saw of him, and considering how our whole familyâs 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 itâthe Old Soldier. He quarrelled with the whole clan and later generations kept it up. Weâre a nice crowd!â
He turned away from the fire, adding, âI was damn grateful to you for coming. I loathe funerals. Iâll 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.â He turned to Grenville, adding, âAnd look here, young fella me lad, Iâm always glad to see you here, but donât go imagining Iâve changed my mind. I havenât. Cheer ho! Wellerâll let you out.â
Weller was the butler, who presided over his duties in the Attletonsâ picturesque little house...