From the way she spoke it sounded as though she had been rehearsing it. For all she could do, it would come out in little rushes of pre-composed phrasing. And the tenor of it was exactly what they had heard before. With minor variations, it was the identical account given by Somerhayes and Brass. The artist had talked scoffingly of him the day after the lecture had been delivered. On the weekend following, driving a rattle-trap Buick he had borrowed from a friend, Earle had parked on the Place terrace and manfully rung the front-door bell. He had made mixed impressions. The tapissiers were an absorbed and conservative little community, and Earle, though he had charm, had very little tact. But his enthusiasm was genuine enough, and so, too, was his talent, and after another visit or two the tapissiers had taken him to their hearts. Somerhayes had shown a liking for him from the outset.
‘Must interrupt, m’dear, but what about a feller called Hugh Johnson…? What was his attitude to Earle?’
‘Johnson?’ Mrs Page hesitated awkwardly. ‘Well, he might have been the exception, I suppose. He’s a Welshman, you know… very clever and all that, but rather… well, introspective, I suppose you’d call it. He’s apt to sulk a bit.’
‘Nurse a grudge, would he?’
‘I don’t think he would forget one in a hurry.’
‘Sort of feller who might turn nasty?’
‘I… wouldn’t like to say that. He’s quick, of course, soon fires up and all that… and sullen — that’s the word for it. He broods over things for days. But he can be a dear, too, when he likes.’
‘Hah. And he took against Earle?’
‘He was a little surly towards him. He felt that Earle had displaced him with Brass. To a certain extent that was true.’
‘Complained about it, did he?’
‘Oh no, Hugh was much too proud to complain. But he had some things to say about Americans being all talk, and cutting things like that. And he used to snub Earle unmercifully, which was a sheer waste of time… Earle being…’
Mrs Page broke off, and from the sinking movement of her head as well as the sudden rise in her voice, Gently judged that she was again struggling on the verge of tears.
‘There, there,’ mumbled Sir Daynes. ‘Shocking affair, m’dear, shocking. Take your time. Got all day. Dyson, stub that confounded cigar-butt… Smoke’s getting in the lady’s eyes.’
The head rose again, and after a pause Mrs Page was ready to go on. Once more the short-hand constable’s pencil commenced whisking down the page. They had been very much looking forward to having Earle with them at Christmas. At first there was some doubt as to whether he could get leave, but the easing of the current political tension had enabled the Sculton CO to grant one or two passes, Earle’s amongst them. He had long planned his day of Christmas shopping in London. He had wanted Mrs Page to accompany him, but she had been prevented from doing so by the necessity of clearing up the business-end of the workshop before the Christmas break.
On the morning after his arrival he had been at his most exuberant; he had dominated the breakfast-table with his account of his visit to London, and directly afterwards had dragged Les and herself away to the workshop to help him set up the loom for his famous cartoon. After lunch he had wanted to stretch his limbs and look at the park. She had consented to walk with him as far as the folly, from which there was a striking prospect of the house and the lake, and on the way he had talked a great deal about his home in Missouri, and about his people, and about the sort of Christmas they would be spending there. He had also talked of a projected visit to Missouri that he was trying to persuade Les to make with him in the autumn, and which he wanted her to undertake also. His lively behaviour at the party Sir Daynes himself had been witness to. When the party broke up, the various members of it had retired in the order already vouched for, and she had first heard of the tragedy when her personal maid brought in the tea at eight o’clock.
‘Fine,’ exclaimed Sir Daynes at the end of the recital. ‘That’s all we wanted to know, m’dear, you’ve given us a perfect model of a statement. Wish everyone could be so precise, eh? Lots of people can’t. But that’s all we want to know, and you can run along now…’
The words froze on the baronet’s lips as he became aware of Gently looming up on his flank.
‘Yes, Gently?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Just one small point…’
Sir Daynes drew in his breath wickedly, but he could think of no good reason for applying a veto.
‘Well?’ he rapped.
‘At the party last night… Mrs Page, his lordship and the deceased were alone for a short time. Could Mrs Page oblige us with a description of the conversation which took place?’
‘Confound it, man! Already had that from Somerhayes. Young feller was still carrying on about Missouri, wasn’t he, m’dear?’
‘Yes — he was.’ Mrs Page was staring at Gently with something like fear in her large eyes.
‘Mmn… and after that… when you were leaving, and the deceased accompanied you to the door?’
The eyes jumped open wide. ‘My cousin didn’t tell you that! I didn’t — I-’ She broke off, turning imploringly to Sir Daynes. ‘He didn’t accompany me to the door — I left him talking to my cousin. Ask him, Sir Daynes, he’ll tell you that it’s true!’
Nobody in the room could have mistaken the baronet’s slightly delayed reaction. He weighed in quickly, but not quite quickly enough.
‘’Course it’s true, m’dear — suggestion’s downright preposterous!’
‘You’ve only to ask my cousin-’
‘Not necessary, m’dear. Take your word any day.’
‘The inspector is entirely mistaken.’
‘The inspector,’ said Sir Daynes feelingly, ‘has been a mistake all along — hrmp, hrmp! I mean, we’re all human, m’dear, always have to allow a margin for error!’
Mrs Page left the room hastily, and the baronet glared warningly, first at Dyson and then at Gently. By the latter he was met with a far-away smile, and the Central Office man’s lips formed a word which only Sir Daynes could hear: ‘Touche!’
‘What are we waiting for?’ bawled Sir Daynes. ‘Fetch in that feller Johnson, and let’s see if we can’t get a grip on this business!’
CHAPTER SIX
The lights had been on all the afternoon; the atmosphere, grown mild and expansive, was pleasantly tinctured with the smoke of cigars. Before they had drawn the curtains patterns had appeared on the single panes, and the brightness of the fire corroborated this wintry phenomenon.
‘Damned pond’ll get frozen,’ muttered Sir Daynes to Gently, forgetting his antagonism as he remembered their common addiction. ‘Don’t suppose you skate, do you? I can fix you up with a pair. Gwen likes to have her twiddle on the ice, but I’m not much of a skating man myself.’
‘We can fish through a hole, perhaps…’
‘Ha, ha, not on this pond, m’boy. When the ice gets set it’s sacred to Gwen. Woman would never forgive me if I started knocking holes in it.’
‘You can fish more often than you can skate, I suppose.’
‘That’s the argument I’ve had used against me for the past thirty years.’
‘There’s more frost on the way, sir,’ put in Dyson through his teeth. ‘I heard the one o’clock news, sir. There’s a cold airstream moving in from Siberia.’
‘Blasted Russians again… stoke up that fire! D’you reckon the Cold War’s a plot to make us use up our coal reserves?’
The fire was built up to its teeth by the time Johnson arrived. The Welshman gave it an appreciative glance, as though the rigours of a trip through the state apartments had immediately preceded his entry. He was a man of medium height, and his build was that of a boxer. He had broad, slightly rounded shoulders tapering quickly to narrow hips, his arms were long in proportion to his height, and his hands were bony and hard-looking. His head, of which the skull belonged to the long, narrow variety, sat closely on his shoulders; his hair was dark, his eyes darker,
