CHAPTER FOUR
King Charles's Stair
'Hullo, there!' the voice continued, coming nearer.
They went out to the front door in time to see a big figure detach itself from the avenue of evergreens some ninety feet ahead, and stroll towards them at an unruffled pace. Jervis Willard. He was flicking powdery snow from the bushes with a stick. It was broad morning; but the light was shadowed by motionless dull-gray clouds, so that they saw him only as a dark shape with a pipe protruding from under the brim of a rakish black hat.
He stopped when he saw the two of them, and took the pipe out of his mouth.
'Keep back!' Bohun shouted. He felt on the inside of the door, found a key, and locked it on the outside. Bennett saw that he was regaining all his old wiry coolness; that the mask was being adjusted, and that it was the public John Bohun who walked up the path. There was even a sort of hard malice in his face as they met Willard.
'You can't go in there, old man,' he continued. 'I dare say nobody can, until the police get here.'
Willard stood motionless. For a second he hardly seemed to breathe. In the winter light there were many more wrinkles in his face: a face that would have been rugged if the hat had not concealed the jutting forehead and heavy grayish hair. The loose mouth, which was half open, closed slowly and tightly. His eyes, a curious shade of yellowish brown, never flickered, never wavered from Bohun's face.
'Yes, Marcia's dead,' said Bohun, as though he were striking blows against this immobility. His shoulders hunched. 'Dead as Babylon, dead as Charles the — yes. Her head's smashed in. Do you hear? Somebody murdered her, and nobody can go in there until the police get here.'
'So that's it,' said Willard, after a pause.
He looked at the ground for some time; as though he were tied there and helpless, and yet with his arms moving under a pain he could hardly stand. The dead immobility was even worse. He fumbled at putting his pipe back into his mouth. Then he began to speak rapidly: 'I met your ostler or groom or somebody. He said something was wrong, but that you wouldn't let him come out. He said you were going riding.'
He looked up, very white.
'I hope she didn't die painfully, John. She was always afraid of that. Shall we go back to the house now? It was my fault. After that poison affair, I shouldn't have allowed her to sleep there. I didn't think she was in danger. But I shouldn't have allowed-'
'You!' Bohun observed softly. 'Who are you to allow?' He walked little ahead, and then turned sharply. 'Do you know what I'm going to do? I’m going to play detective. I'll find out who did it. Then?'
'Listen, John.' Willard stumbled against a bush as they turned round to go, and caught Bohun's arm. `There's something I want to know. What is it like, in there? I mean what does it look like? How did she come to be dead-I can't make clear what I mean-'
'I think I know. She was entertaining somebody.'
They walked on. 'The obvious question,' Willard went on heavily, 'is one I can't ask, even of a friend. But I am afraid the police will. Do you understand me, John?'
'Scandal?' inquired the other. To Bennett's surprise, Bohun did not in the least flare out. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and finding it puzzling; there was almost a sardonic expression on his lean face, but it vanished immediately. 'Possibly. By God, there would be scandal about Marcia Tait if she died in a nunnery. Bound to be. It's a queer thing to say, Willard, but that side of it doesn't bother me at all. She was never jealous of her reputation; neither am I'
Jervis Willard nodded. He seemed to be talking to himself.
'Yes,' he said. 'And I think l know why. You knew she was in love with you, and you knew that if you knew nothing else in this world.' As he turned to look at Bohun, he saw Bennett as though for the first time, and straightened up. The presence of a stranger closed his mouth instantly. 'Sorry, John. You-you must excuse us, Mr. Bennett. Neither of us is at our best this morning.'
They reached the house in silence. Bohun led them up the steps to the side-entrance, where Bennett's car still stood in the drive. At the top of the steps, just drawn back from peering out through the door, they found Thompson: not a stately specimen among butlers, but efficient as a genie. He was small, bald, and wrinkled, with the tolerant eye of one who has known the family too long. His utter respectability masked even the fact that his eyes were red-rimmed and his jaw swollen.
Bohun said, 'Library,' and stopped for a conference with him while Willard led the way. Bennett found himself in a maze of narrow passages, dark and smelling of old wood, with coconut matting underfoot. There were unexpected steps, and diamond-paned windows in deep embrasures. He did not remember that he was chilled through until Willard took him to a big room where one wall was built of these windows after the Tudor fashion, and the other three walls built of books. It was austere enough, with its stone floor and its iron book-gallery circling the walls; but there were electric lights in the twisted-iron chandelier, and the tapestry of upholstered furniture before the fireplace. Books crowded even over this fireplace; but there was a roaring blaze of wood. It dazzled Bennett's eyes, it made him shudder with a removal of the chill and remember how tired he was. He lay back in an overstuffed chair and stared at the groined roof with the red firelight flickering on it. The warmth seeped into him; he wanted to close his eyes. By moving his head slightly he could see the motionless gray clouds outside the windows, and the brown slopes of the Downs rutted with snow. The house was very quiet.
'You saw her?' asked Jervis Willard's voice. Bennett roused himself.
'Yes.'
Willard was standing with his back to the fire, his hands folded behind him. The fire threw a burnished gray gleam on his hair.
'That was opportune, I should think.' His voice grew a shade quicker. 'May I ask how you happened to be there?'
'Accident. I'd just driven from town. I heard Bohun cry out — or call out — something of the sort. There was a dog howling…'
'I know, said Willard, and passed a hand heavily over his eyes. The rumbling voice grew quicker again, soft, and suggestive. 'I should think you were cooler than John. Did you notice anything? Anything that might help us?'
'Not much. She was — ‘
He sketched out a picture, briefly. Willard leaned his arm along the mantelpiece, staring at the fire while the other spoke. Noting the fine if now rather flabby profile, Bennett thought: Matinee idol of pre-war grandeur. Had the sense to move with the times. Something stately, something savored of Shakespeare, in that bearing. Sensible, logical, humorous Friend of the Family; if Bohun had a niece (come to think of it, he had mentioned a niece), she would probably call Willard uncle.
'In all probability,' he heard himself going on, absently, 'she had been taking a glass of port with somebody. There was a short fight'
'It is unwise,' said Willard, smiling and looking sideways, 'to trust to inferences so far as that. As a matter of fact, I drank her health myself.' He straightened up. He began to walk up and down, quickly. 'Joking aside. This is rather worse. You are sure about those burnt matches?'
He paused as a door closed hollowly across the room. John Bohun came up to the fire and spread out his hands. The heavy riding-crop still dangled on a thong from his wrist. He flung it off; then he loosened the wool muffler that was knotted round his throat, and opened his tweed jacket. 'Thompson,' he said to the fire, 'will be in in a moment with coffee. James my lad, your bags have been taken upstairs and your car's in the garage. You can get a hot bath and change the white tie.' Then he turned round. 'By the way, what's this about burnt matches?'
'I was hoping,' said Willard quietly, 'we could still blame it on a burglar.'
'Well?' demanded Bohun. He seemed to hesitate.
'When you looked at Marcia, did you notice a lot of burnt matches scattered about?'
'I was not interested,' said Bohun, 'in burnt matches. No. I didn't turn on the lights. What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? Speak up!'
