“And how many ever do the right thing, when they get into a jam like that? Try it, some day, and see if you don’t do what I did – run. There wasn’t a thing I could do for him. He was dead. I pulled him to the edge of the river, and threw him as far out as I could, into the current, and I saw it take him downstream over the weir. I threw the sword-stick and the latch in the pool there. And I remembered that he was supposed to start for Birmingham, and his car was out in the yard ready. So I took it. Nobody’d look for him again until Sunday night. But you can’t get money out of banks or turn other assets into cash on a Sunday, I had to wait over until to-day. If it hadn’t been for that, you wouldn’t have caught up with me.”
“And how,” asked the sergeant mildly, “did you know that we were inquiring into this death, then? You say nobody’d be expecting him back until last night, and nobody’d panic at one extra night, would they? Or did somebody tip you off? Did you hear from somebody that his body’d been found?”
Lucien took his hands away from his drawn face, and stared him steadily in the eye. “No, how could I? I thought I was still ahead of you until they dropped on me at the airport. After that, I couldn’t help knowing you’d either found him, or found traces that were just as good. You wouldn’t have known about the car being stolen, otherwise. And what you didn’t know before,” he said wearily, “you know now. Have you got it all down?”
“Yes, Mr. Galt, I’ve got it all down.”
“Good! I should hate to go through all that again.”
“I’m sure you would, sir,” agreed Rapier serenely.
“I don’t want anybody else to be pestered,” said Lucien, leaning back in his corner with a drained sigh, “when nobody but me had anything to do with it. I didn’t have a thing against him, I hardly even knew him. But I killed him.”
“Yes, Mr. Galt,” agreed Rapier, accommodatingly, watching the stillness of the pure, dark profile against the streaming world outside, “yes, you’ve made that quite clear.”
CHAPTER X
« ^ »
AUDREY ARUNDALE emerged from her privacy to preside at the final gala tea. She wore black, but like many primrose-and-silver blondes, she very frequently did wear black, and there was nothing to remark on in that. She was pale, her eyes a little remote, and shadowed by bluish rings that made them look larger and more lustrous; but there was nothing in her appearance to give rise to comment or curiosity. Her manner was as it had always been, but at one remove more, and the wall of glass that separated her from the rest of the world, even while she touched and conversed and was patently present in the flesh, was so thin and clear that happy people never noticed it.
She was about again on Follymead’s business, and had a couple of calls to make. On her way to the small drawing-room she looked in at the deputy warden’s office. Henry Marshall looked up from his laden desk as she entered, and came to his feet in quick concern.
“Mrs. Arundale, I’d no idea… You’re not going in to tea?”
“Yes, I must. I’m quite all right, I assure you, there’s no need to worry about me. I just wondered if there was anything I could help you with. I’m so sorry to have left everything to you, like this.”
“You mustn’t trouble about the running of the place at all, that’s what I’m here for.”
“I know,” she said, “and I know how well you can do it. I hope… I hope they’ll give you the job, Harry.”
“Thank you!” he said uncomfortably. He hadn’t thought of her bereavement, until then, as his opportunity. “I think we’ve got everything in order. It’s lucky that we had no special fixtures for the next few days. We’re circulating all the people who’ve booked for the course next week-end, and cancelling the arrangements. I thought it would be impossible to go through with it. I have it from the police that no statement will be given to the press until to-morrow, and I very much hope it will only affect the local and regional press at the moment.”
“But there’ll have to be an inquest, won’t there?” she said, contemplating the complexities of death with eyes of stunned distaste.
“It’s to open on Wednesday morning, I’m told. But Inspector Felse says it will be only a formal opening, and the police will be asking for an adjournment. At least that will allow time for the public to forget about us a little.”
“And find some newer sensations,” she said with the blanched ghost of a smile. “Yes… And what about the subscription concert, on Monday evening of next week? So difficult to cancel a thing like that, when all the tickets have been sold, and then it’s hardly fair to the artists…”
“I think we ought to go through with that. A whole week will have passed, and the public who do use Follymead will know by then what’s happened here, and I think they’ll be reassured to find that the work is to go on. I’m sure the governors will approve.”
“Good,” said Audrey. “I’m glad you feel that way about it, too. I thought myself we ought to honour the arrangements. It’s certainly what Edward would have wanted us to do. I’m so glad you’re here to look after everything, Harry. I see you don’t need me at all. Now I must go along and have a word with Inspector Felse before tea.”
He sprang to open the door for her, his anxious eyes searching her face, but there was nothing to be seen but a white calm. “I don’t think you should attempt too much. The social load is taking care of itself, you know, you’ve only to listen to them. And it’ll soon be over now. You weren’t thinking of attending this last concert, were you?”
“Yes, I feel I must. Edward would have wished it.”
She went along the corridor from the gallery to the warden’s private office. George Felse was sitting behind the desk with his head propped in his hands, the telephone silent now, the photograph of Audrey in her party dress, Audrey at sixteen, leaning against a trough of Edward’s books. George could look from the girl to the woman, and feel time whirl past over his head, and she, since the picture was hidden from her, would not even be able to guess at the reason for the look of wonder and compunction in his eyes.
“Mr. Felse, I hope I haven’t done something I shouldn’t have done, but it seemed to be my job. I’ve told Felicity, in confidence, that her uncle is dead; and I’ve telephoned her mother, and told her that I’m sending the child home by the half past five train. Wilson will drive her to the station. If you have no objection? I know you’ll probably need her, later on, but you’ll find Mrs. Cope’s address there in the book, and Felicity will be available whenever necessary.”
“I’m glad,” said George. “It’s the best thing you could have done. You may be sure we shall spare her as much as we can. It may not even be necessary to bring her into it at all. If we can avoid it, we will.”
“I know. She told me… she said you’ve been very kind to her. She… we have never understood each other, I know that. I feel guilty towards her.”
“So does she,” said George quietly, “towards you.”
“Yes… we can hardly take a step, it seems, without infringing someone else’s liberties. I’ve suggested to Mrs. Cope that she should try sending Felicity abroad for a time, perhaps even to school abroad. A completely new environment, new companions…”
“It would be the very best thing for her. And I believe she could make good use of it, now.”
“I believe she could. Thank you, I’m glad you think I’ve done right.”
She closed the door gently after her, and went towards the hubbub in the drawing-room. And there she dispensed tea, and made conversation, and was everything the hostess of Follymead should be, always with the invisible and impenetrable veil between her and reality.