differences and realities of human personality.
Human personalities as such had not previously interested him very much. He liked or disliked, was amused or bored by, the people who surrounded him or whom he met. He had always been a man of action, and not a man of thought. His imagination, which was considerable, had been exercised in devising various schemes for making money. All these schemes had a sound core; but a complete lack of business ability always resulted in their coming to nothing. People, as such, had up till now only been considered by him as pawns in the game. Now, since his illness, cut off from his former active life, he was forced to take account of what people themselves were like.
It had started in the hospital when the love lives of the nurses, the secret warfare and the petty grievances of hospital life had been forced on his attention since there was nothing else to occupy it. And now it was fast becoming a habit with him. People — really that was all that life held for him now. Just people. People to study, to find out about, to sum up. Decide for himself what made them tick and find out if he was right. Really, it could all be very interesting…
Only this very evening, sitting in the library, he had realised how little he really knew about his wife's family. What were they really like? What were they like inside, that is, not their outer appearance which he knew well enough.
Odd, how little you knew about people. Even your own wife?
He had looked thoughtfully over at Mary. How much did he really know about Mary?
He had fallen in love with her because he liked her good looks and her calm serious ways. Also, she had had money and that had mattered to him too. He would have thought twice about marrying a penniless girl. It had all been most suitable and he had married her and teased her and called her Polly and had enjoyed the doubtful look she gave him when he made jokes she could not see. But what, really, did he know about her? Of what she thought and felt? He knew, certainly, that she loved him with a deep and passionate devotion. And at the thought of that devotion he stirred a little uneasily, twisting his shoulders as though to ease them of a burden. Devotion was all very well when you could get away from it for nine or ten hours of the day. It was a nice thing to come home to. But new he was lapped round with it; watched over, cared for, cherished. It made one yearn for a little wholesome neglect… One had, in fact, to find ways of escape. Mental ways — since none other were possible. One had to escape to realms of fancy or speculation.
Speculation. As to who was responsible for his mother-in-law's death, for instance. He had disliked his mother-in-law, and she had disliked him. She had not wanted Mary to marry him (would she have wanted Mary to marry anybody? he wondered), but she had not been able to prevent it. He and Mary had started life happy and independent — and then things had begun to go wrong. First that South American company — and then the Bicycle Accessories Ltd. — good ideas both of them — but the financing of them had been badly judged — and then there had been the Argentine railway strike which had completed the disasters. All purely bad luck, but in some way he felt that somehow Mrs. Argyle was responsible. She hadn't wished him to succeed. Then had come his illness. It had looked as though their only solution was to come and live at Sunny Point where a welcome was assured to them. He wouldn't have minded particularly. A man who was a cripple, only half a man, what did it matter where he was? — but Mary would have minded.
Oh well, it hadn't been necessary to live permanently at Sunny Point. Mrs. Argyle had been killed. The trustees had raised the allowance made to Mary under the trust and they had set up on their own again.
He hadn't felt any particular grief over Mrs. Argyle's death. Pleasanter, of course, if she had died of pneumonia or something like that, in her bed. Murder was a nasty business with its notoriety and its screaming headlines. Still, as murders go, it had been quite a satisfactory murder — the perpetrator obviously having a screw loose in a way that could be served up decently in a lot of psychological jargon. Not Mary's own brother. One of those 'adopted children' with a bad heredity who so often go wrong. But things weren't quite so good now. Tomorrow Superintendent Huish was coming to ask questions in his gentle West Country voice. One ought, perhaps, to think about the answers…
Mary was brushing her long fair hair in front of the mirror. Something about her calm remoteness irritated him.
He said: 'Got your story pat for tomorrow, Polly?' She turned astonished eyes upon him.
'Superintendent Huish is coming. He'll ask you all over again just what your movements were on the evening of November 9th.'
'Oh, I see. It's so long ago now. One can hardly remember.'
'But he can, Polly. That's the point. He can. It's all written down somewhere in a nice little police note- book.'
'Is it? Do they keep these things?'
'Probably keep everything in triplicate for ten years! Well, your movements are very simple, Polly. There weren't any. You were here with me in this room. And if I were you I shouldn't mention that you left it between seven and seven-thirty.'
'But that was only to go to the bathroom. After all,' said Mary reasonably, 'everyone has to go to the bathroom.'
'You didn't mention the fact to him at the time. I do remember that.' 'I suppose I forgot about it.'
'I thought it might have been an instinct of self-preservation… Anyway, I remember backing you up. We were together here, playing picquet from six-thirty until Kirsty gave the alarm. That's our story and we're sticking to it.'
'Very well, darling.' Her agreement was placid — uninterested.
He thought: 'Has she no imagination? Can't she foresee that we're in for a sticky time?'
He leaned forward.
'It's interesting, you know… Aren't you interested in who killed her? We all know— Micky was quite right there — that it's one of us. Aren't you interested to know which?'
'It wasn't you or I,' said Mary.
'And that's all that interests you? Polly, you're wonderful!'
She flushed slightly.
'I don't see what's so odd about that!'
'No, I can see you don't. Well, I'm different. I'm curious.'
'I don't suppose we ever shall know. I don't suppose the police will ever know.'
'Perhaps not. They'll certainly have precious little to go upon. But we're in rather a different position to the police.'
'What do you mean, Philip?'
'Well, we've got a few bits of inside knowledge. We know our little lot from inside — have a fairly good idea of what makes them tick. You should have, anyway. You've grown up with them all. Let's hear your views. Who do you think it was?'
'I've no idea, Philip.' 'Then just make a guess.'
Mary said sharply: 'I'd rather not know who did it. I'd rather not even think about it.'
'Ostrich,' said her husband.
'Honestly, I don't see the point of — guessing. It's much better not to know. Then we can all go on as usual.'
'Oh no, we can't,' said Philip. 'That's where you're wrong, my girl. The tot's set in already.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, take Hester and her young man — earnest young Doctor Donald. Nice chap, serious, worried. He doesn't really think she did it — but he's not really sure she didn't do it! And so he looks at her, anxiously, when he thinks she isn't noticing. But she notices all right. So there you are! Perhaps she did do it — you'd know better than I would — but if she didn't, what the hell can she do about her young man? Keep on saying: 'Please, it wasn't me'? But that's what she'd say anyway.'
'Really, Philip, I think you're imagining things.'
'You can't imagine at all, Polly. Then take poor old Leo. Marriage bells with Gwenda are receding into the distance. The girl's horribly upset about it. Haven't you noticed?'
'I really don't see what Father wants to marry again for at his age.'
'He sees all right! But he also sees that any hint of a love affair with Gwenda gives both of them a first-class motive for murder. Awkward.'
