The last George saw of them, as he looked back from the top of the stairs, was the two pale, unwavering faces, side by side and almost on a level, with wide, wary eyes staring after him; and the two hands gripped together between their bodies, clinging to each other as though they defied the world to tear them apart.
CHAPTER VII.
“I’M INCLINED TO believe him,” said George, frowning over the litter of scribbled notes tucked under his coffee cup. “When his father told him to go across to the barn, he says the old man said: ‘Walk in, the door’s unlocked, I was going over there in any case a bit later on.’ And then about the champagne, which put me off in the first place: ‘This isn’t for you, boy, I’m expecting better company.’ That strikes me as sounding true, and fitting in with the facts. If the champagne had been all part of heaving his triumph in Leslie’s face he’d had time to open it. But it wasn’t opened. And the alternative seems much more probable. He was expecting someone, he was preparing a celebration, but it wasn’t for Leslie. Leslie was just a pleasant interlude of devilment thrown in by sheer luck, to pass the time until the other person arrived. The real business of Armiger’s evening was still to come. And if I’m right, then it was because of this other person, not because of Leslie, that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Why should he care who heard him tormenting his son? He’d have enjoyed it all the better with an audience.”
“Didn’t you say Miss Norris told you he said he’d be only a quarter of an hour or so?” asked Bunty. “That makes his time schedule rather tight, doesn’t it?”
“It does seem so. And as a matter of fact only she used that phrase. According to Miss Hamilton and Shelley he merely said he’d be back, and he hoped they’d be able to wait. Maybe her recollection isn’t quite accurate, maybe he was speaking rather loosely. And important meetings can take place in a quarter of an hour, of course.”
“Supposing Leslie did get back by ten to eleven, would he have had time to be the murderer? He has no car, there’s no bus just then, it must be true that he walked, and even walking fast it would take him fully twenty minutes. So he must have left by half past ten at latest.”
When she was admitted into conference in this way she used a level, quiet voice, careful to break no thread of George’s reasoning. Sometimes she put things into his head, sometimes she showed him things that were already there.
“Yes,” said George, “there was time, though certainly none to spare. The surgeon’s report confirms that death may have taken place any time between ten and eleven-thirty.”
“And it doesn’t take long, of course,” admitted Bunty, “to bash somebody over the head with a bottle and run for it.”
“Well, it’s not quite so simple as that. It wasn’t just one blow that killed him. Seems there were at least nine blows struck, all at the back and left side of the head. There are several fractures, and some splintering of the bone. Then there’s also a large abrasion on his right temple and cheek, apparently from his fall; when he was first struck. That wouldn’t have killed him, in any case, he’d have been stunned but nothing worse. But at least four of the other blows could have been fatal. It may not take long to batter a man’s head to pieces that way, but it takes longer than just hitting out once and running. It must have been quick work if Leslie did it.”
“Very messy work, too,” said Bunty.
“Yes, we’re not forgetting that. And Johnson’s report isn’t much help, except in establishing that somebody must have had some badly soiled gloves to dispose of after the event. No prints on bottle or glasses except Armiger’s own, nothing to be got from that broken statuette, and all the prints lying at random about the room turn out to be Armiger’s or else belonging to some of the decorators and electricians who were working on the place. Only one or two haven’t yet been matched up. Clayton’s prints are on the door handle, but nowhere else, and there are also some on the door we have to check up now with Leslie’s.” He shuffled the sheets of notes together, and reached for the toast. “Well, if the chief agrees I’m going to follow up this odd business of the inn sign. May as well see if there’s anything to it.”
Dominic was standing in the doorway of the room with his school-bag under his arm. He had been there for some time, waiting to be noticed, and unwilling to break into his father’s concentration until he could catch his eye. The morning was bright, and the normality of everything wonderfully reassuring, and they had said not a word that could tend to cast a shadow on Kitty. Not that other people were expendable, of course, but he couldn’t help being glad when Kitty slipped clean out of the discussion.
“Have I to bike to-day, Dad, or are you going in this morning?” he asked, seizing his opportunity.
“Yes, I’m going, I’ll take you. Give me five minutes and I’m ready.”
Dominic had hoped that he would be communicative on the ride, but he wasn’t, he remained preoccupied, and nothing was said between them until they parted at the corner by the police station. It was still an effort not to ask questions, but since the inquiries seemed to be veering well away from Kitty it did not hurt him quite so much to contain his curiosity.
“Can I ride back with you this afternoon? I shall be a bit late myself, because it’s rugger practice. Say quarter to five?”
“I hope to be free by then,” agreed George. “You can call in and see, anyhow. I shall be here.”
He watched his son shoulder his bag and stride away along the street. He was running to length these days, not so far off a man’s height now, but still very slender. He was getting control of his inches, too, and learning to manage his hands and feet and all the other uncoordinated parts of him. Give him a year, and he’d be downright elegant in movement. Odd how they do their growing-up by sudden leaps, so that however constantly and affectionately you watch them they still manage to transmute themselves while your back’s turned, and confront you every third month or so with another daunting stranger. Freckled and chestnut-haired and no beauty, apart, perhaps, from those eyes of his; but like his mother, whom he so engagingly resembled, he didn’t need beauty. George found them both formidable enough as they were.
He went in to his conference with Superintendent Duckett assembling in his mind the details of his evening interview with Jean and Leslie Armiger. Duckett found them no less interesting than George had done, and endorsed his proposition to follow up the curious affair of the inn sign. The dreary, dogged search for bloodstained clothing, the exhaustive interrogation of anyone and everyone who had been present at the opening night of The Jolly Barmaid, would go on all day and probably for a good many more days into the bargain; but if a promising side-track could shorten the journey, so much the better for them all.
George telephoned County Buildings before he set out, to check with Wilson.
“That’s right,” said Wilson amiably, “I offered to pick up the thing for Leslie and take it over to Cranmer’s for him. Oh, yes, I think the chap’s all right, knows his stuff, and all that. He’s had one or two good things in since I’ve known the place. I don’t know a thing about this panel of Leslie’s, no. I’ve seen it, of course, but there’s nothing exceptional about it on sight, except, perhaps, the quality and solidity of the panel it’s painted on. I’d like to see the worm who could get his teeth in that. No, I can’t say I know Cramner, except just from looking round his place occasionally, and buying one or two small things. He’s been there a few years now. Usual sort of antiquary, old and
