He examined the problem from every aspect as he swung abstractedly into Victoria Street, making his way towards Sloane Square, where he had his engagement. The unpleasant notoriety that would attach to his name weighed lightly with him; lawyers early become hardened to obloquy.
“Of course, it is significant that Brand should falsify the hour of going to bed,” he told himself, “and that he should further cover himself by saying he saw Eustace on the stairs. And it does seem rather unlikely that Eustace would deny seeing him, if he’d really been there. And he did deny it from the start. Just as Brand said he went to bed before midnight, before officially any of us knew anything about the murder. His story is precisely the kind of thing you would expect if he were guilty. Let’s follow on from this new scrap of evidence. Allow that Brand was downstairs, in the library, at two o’clock. Where does that lead us? Romford said that Gray was killed in the early hours, probably between one and two, but possibly later, as the open window would induce rigor mortis unusually early. It’s easy to assume that there was a row. But what about the cheque? Why should Brand want to quarrel with his father when he had got the one thing he came down for? And would he be likely to strike out because of some chance insult, when, for the first time for years, he had an opportunity of shaping his life according to his own desire?”
There was also, he reflected, the problem of the cheque made out to Eustace, that had been drawn on the morning of Christmas Day. If Brand had slain his father, that cheque must have been drawn before his (Brand’s) arrival. Had Eustace, then, visited the library before his brother-in-law? And if so, how was it his cheque had been drawn later than Brand’s?
Between this Scylla and Charybdis of evidence Miles endeavoured to guide his craft. He came back again and again to the problem of the cheque. Brand must have received his cheque on Christmas Eve; then suppose he went up to his room before midnight, while Eustace took his place downstairs. Then imagine Brand going down for the second time. Reason instantly asserted itself, demanding “Why?” He had the cheque. So much, in the circumstances, must be allowed. He would not, Miles was convinced, even want to destroy that extraordinary document he had signed, since it strengthened his position. Without it, it might be difficult to make anyone believe that Adrian had parted voluntarily with so large a sum. Then—what excuse could he have had for his return? Moreover, there was Eustace’s own story of descending to the library at three o’clock. Since Gray could clearly never have left the room, Eustace must have examined the safe after his death. Which brought Miles wearily back to his first point.
Had Eustace or Brand committed the crime?
4
His arrival at Sloane Square drove the problem for the time being from his mind. He had an entertaining and spirited evening, and returned home at midnight. He said nothing to Ruth at that stage, although the problem continued to torment himself. Two days later the second brick of the wall to be reared against Brand was slid unobtrusively into position.
Still having taken no steps to correspond with the authorities, Miles was walking down Charing Cross Road under a sunny sky. The wind, that had been piercing the previous day, had dropped, and the afternoon was pleasantly warm and cheerful. A sense of gaiety was infused by the bright air and the eager appearance of the men and women strolling up and down the road; at every second-hand book-store stood men turning over the volumes in the shelves that stood on the pavement. In the book-lined intimate interiors an occasional figure, as indefinite as a shadow, could be spied stretching an arm to abstract a book from a high shelf or stooping nearer the door or infrequent window that the light might fall on a certain page. Miles, desire stronger than any sense of duty or expediency, paused with them. He presently bought a volume of letters, edited by Mr. L——, and, seduced by haunting coloured plates in bright purples, yellows, and dark reds, a book on French painting. In the shop, waiting to have these wrapped up, he pulled out an illustrated edition of Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales, with entrancing coloured pictures and innumerable designs in black and white. Moira and Pat, he thought, would be crazy with delight if he took it back to them. But the price was high—half a guinea. He hesitated, turning the pages with renewed pleasure and recollection.
He was still undecided when a cheerful voice observed in his ear, “Hullo, Miles. That looks rather jolly.”
Lifting an astonished head, he saw Isobel smiling at him. But an Isobel transfigured. Gone were the languor, the timidity, the apathy that had characterised her for years. In their place was an assurance, a charm, a sense of health and expectancy that warmed the air and his heart.
He said, “Hullo! Is this one of your haunts, too?” and Isobel laughed and replied, “It’s one of the many new vices I’m acquiring—virtues, you’d call them, of course. I’ve got a job now, so I can afford to indulge them.”
He asked her what it was. She told him, “Nothing terribly important. I’m cataloguing a library for a bewildered elderly spinster who’s been left an enormous legacy of literature by a scholarly brother. Poor dear, she’s quite terrified by the weight of learning, and she’s torn between a contempt of anyone who can waste his life absorbing other people’s thoughts, and a feeling that so many books, so sombre, so heavy, and so difficult to read, must be immensely valuable. So I’m cataloguing them, and when that job’s done she’s
