Well, he thought as he drove slowly and thoughtfully homeward, he hadn’t come out of that encounter quite empty-handed, even if there were some annoying loose ends that didn’t tie in anywhere. Chief among them was The Joyful Woman, that unpromising work of art, of such commonplace provenance and ungainly appearance, for which nonetheless a shrewd dealer was willing to pay six hundred pounds. Had she anything to do with Armiger’s death, or had she not? She didn’t fit in with the theory which had been devouring him ever since his visit to Kitty yesterday, but if she was going to turn out to be extremely valuable the possibility became worth considering.
Yet if money was the motive for this murder there was surely a greater prize to be considered than the few thousands which might be involved even in an important art find. Not the money Armiger had been playing for at the end of his life, but all the money he already had, the quarter of a million or so that young Leslie had always lightheartedly assumed would come to him. Had he really resigned himself to doing without it? And even if he had been on the point of coming to terms with his new poverty, for want of the means to change it, what would be his reaction if fate had suddenly presented him with a wonderful, a unique opportunity of regaining his fortune?
No doubt about it, Leslie had left The Jolly Barmaid that night with no intention of doing anything more reprehensible than walking home. That was what he had meant to do, and that was what he had done; the collier’s evidence proved that quite conclusively. There was no question of his having hung about outside and witnessed Kitty’s panic flight, and then returned to finish the job she had accidentally begun. He had been in Comerbourne at that moment, a mile and a quarter away from the scene. If he had killed he had gone back to kill, and the intent had been conceived as instantaneously as a flash of lightning, or, say, a cry for help. A cry from Kitty.
George had arrived at this point when it dawned upon him at last that he was thinking in terms which indicated that he no longer entertained the slightest doubt of Kitty’s innocence. Whether that was Kitty’s own doing or Dominic’s was something he couldn’t determine. But it didn’t surprise him; he was only belatedly recognising something which had been true for at least twenty-four hours.
Not Kitty. Someone else. Someone to whom she had telephoned from Wood’s End? Supposing, for the sake of the argument, that someone had found out from an agitated Kitty that Armiger was lying unconscious in the barn, and supposing that someone had, or abruptly discovered at that moment, an overwhelming reason for wanting the job finished. There was Kitty all set up ready to take the blame, and herself alerting the murderer to his unique opportunity. A chance like that comes only once in a lifetime.
It was Kitty herself who had put the idea into George’s head, without the slightest conception of the kind of seed she was sowing, merely clutching at a small satisfaction in her desolation of sadness: “If I’m convicted I can’t inherit from my victim, can I? So what becomes of the money?” And again, reassured and consoled: “Good! Then Leslie and Jean won’t have to worry any more, they’ll be loaded.”
The set-up, however accidental, was perfect. It didn’t even involve the killer in conniving at Kitty’s death, since, as she had said, this wasn’t capital murder; but the division of murder into capital and simple murder did not affect the law that a murderer cannot inherit from his victim. Kitty convicted could forfeit her inheritance and still come out of prison at the end of her term a rich and comparatively young woman. With a quarter of a million at stake he might even have been able to persuade himself that he wasn’t doing her such a terrible wrong. That much money can often drown out the voice of conscience only too effectively.
There had been, in fact, only two snags when George had set out to pay this unexpected Sunday morning visit. Leslie had no car he could have taken out that night to hurry back to the barn; and as he had so suggestively reported Kitty herself as reminding them, he wasn’t on the telephone any more. He could be reached only during working hours, at the warehouse. Insurmountable obstacles both; except that one of them had already been surmounted, for it seemed he had the use of Barney Wilson’s van whenever its owner didn’t need it. The spare key was in his charge and the van was close at hand in the yard of the depot. Now if the other obstacle should prove equally illusory?
The thing had been getting more complicated by the hour, and yet George had felt all along that in reality the truth must be one single thread that passed through the tangle as straight as a ruled line, and only by accident formed part of this proliferated web of motives and feelings. And here it was, the clear thread, the convincing motive, the irresistible temptation. A man who has a quarter of a million in his sights can afford to turn down a mere six hundred pounds.
But, Leslie wasn’t on the telephone.
CHAPTER XI.
DOMINIC SOUGHT our his father on Sunday evening with a face so determined that it was plain he was bent on a serious conference. Bunty had gone to church; George wouldn’t have minded having her sit in on their counsels, but in all probability Dominic would, considering that mothers should be shielded from too close consideration of such shocking things as murder. In his present mood of newly appreciated responsibility he probably blamed George for subjecting her to his confidences all these years.
“Dad, I’ve been thinking about this glove business,” he began, squaring his elbows purposefully on the table opposite George’s chair.
“Yes?” said George. It was not the precise opening he had expected, but it was apposite enough; there was no getting away from the gloves.
“You know what I mean. Those gloves of Leslie’s were O.K., but somebody must have had some pretty fouled- up gloves to dispose of after that night, mustn’t they? The bottle was plastered right to the cork. And I could tell, the way you all pounced on even the possibility of those old painting gloves being the ones, that that was what you were looking for and hoping for. I mean, anything else the murderer had on might be marked, but his gloves definitely would, and he definitely was wearing gloves. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. So?”
“Well, you never did say, but was Kitty wearing gloves that night?” He didn’t ask it with any sense that the answer was going to prove anything, he wasn’t as simple as that. But it was a necessary part of the development of his ideas.
“Not indoors,” said George at once. “But she could very well have had some in the car. When she was dressed up for the evening she’d probably wear them for driving.”
“Yes, but you’ve never found any stained gloves among her things.” He didn’t ask, he asserted, waiting with sharp eyes levelled for a reaction, and whatever he got satisfied him. “Well, bearing this glove question in mind, I’ve been thinking exactly what happened that evening. If I’ve got it right, she dashed out of the barn to run home, and in a few hundred yards she ran out of petrol. There she is in a panic, she thinks she’s done something dreadful, injured him badly, maybe even fatally, she’s got to get away, she daren’t call a garage or anything. She runs to the telephone box and calls up some friend she can trust, says where she is, says come and bring me some petrol, a can, or even a tube to siphon it, anything, just to get me home. Don’t say a word to anyone, she says, and come quickly. I’ve done something terrible. And she blurts out all about it; she’d be in such a state she wouldn’t be able to help it. Now suppose this person she calls has good reason to want Armiger dead. He might not ever have thought of doing anything about it until now, but now it suddenly strikes him, this is it, this is for me! There’s Armiger knocked cold in the barn, a sitting target if only he stays out until I can get round there, and there’s somebody else all lined up to take the blame. I don’t say he’s absolutely made up his mind to kill him, but it’s just too good to miss having a close look at the set-up. Obviously there are risks, he may only have been knocked out for
