Violet accepted this offer with one of her demure smiles, and in spite of Kenneth's loud and indignant protests the pair insisted on taking their leave. Murgatroyd came in to clear away the glasses when they had gone, and interrupted Kenneth, who was cursing his cousin for breaking up the party, by saying:
“That's enough from you, Master Kenneth. You listen to what Mr Giles has to say, and keep a still tongue in your head. And if you want anything I'll be in the kitchen.”
She went out, and they heard her go into the kitchen and shut the door. Kenneth sat down again on the divan, and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I'm sick of this murder already,” he said. “They'll never find out who did it, so why worry?”
Giles took out his pipe, and began to fill it. “Get this into your head,” he said. “If the police don't discover any clue to the identity of the murderer your position's going to be serious.”
Kenneth looked up. “Why? I thought Tony was the chief suspect.”
“What do you suppose is the first thing the police will look for?” Giles said. “Motive. Tony's motive is merely one of revenge, of spite, or whatever you like to call it. Your motive is a good deal stronger. You're hard up, you tried to get money out of Arnold, and by his death you inherit a large fortune.”
“Yes, but I didn't think of that for quite some time after Tony had told me Arnold was dead. Did I, Tony?”
“I doubt whether that would impress a jury,” said Giles. “What were you doing last night?”
“I went to look Violet up.”
“At what time?”
“Not sure. Half-past eightish. Murgatroyd was out, and Tony seemed to have waltzed off for the night, so I wandered out on my own.”
“Did you go to Miss Williams' house?”
“Flat. Yes, but she was out. No one answered the bell, so I drifted along to some cinema or other. No, I don't know which one it was and I don't know what the film was called, because I went in after it had started, and it was so dull I slept through most of it.”
“Well, what did you do when you left the cinema?”
“Went for a walk,” replied Kenneth.
“Where to?”
“Richmond.”
“Why on earth did you do that?” said Giles, patient but despairing.
“Why not?” retorted Kenneth. “It was a fine night, and very warm, and I'd had a nice nap in the cinema. It seemed an obvious thing to do.”
“Did it!” said Giles.
“But he does go for walks at night, Giles!” Antonia put in anxiously. “We both do, when it's too hot to go to bed.”
Giles sighed. “When did you get home?”
“Oh, somewhere about three or four, I suppose. I didn't notice the time.”
“And you can't think of anyone who saw you come in or out of the cinema, or on your way to Richmond, and who would be able to recognise you? Didn't you meet a policeman?”
“No, I don't think so. One or two cars passed, but I don't remember meeting anyone.”
“In fact, not one word of this story can you prove,” said Giles.
“No,” replied Kenneth blandly, “and not one word of it can the police disprove.”
Chapter Six
Giles's car drew up outside Arnold Vereker's house in Eaton Place just as Superintendent Hannasyde ascended the stone steps. The Superintendent turned, and when he saw Giles get out of the car, smiled, and said: “Good-morning, Mr Carrington. You're very punctual.”
“It saves trouble, don't you think?” said Giles. “Have you rung?”
“Not yet,” replied Hannasyde, pressing the electric button.
The door was opened almost immediately by a thin butler who had a sour expression and looked as though he suffered from dyspepsia. His gaze swept the Superintendent by, and came to rest on Giles. He gave a slight bow, and opened the door wider.
“Morning, Taylor,” Giles said. “Superintendent Hannasyde and I want to go through Mr Vereker's papers.”
“Yes, sir?” The butler eyed Hannasyde for one disapproving minute. “The library is locked, as the Superintendent left it yesterday, I understand.”
It was plain that the butler had no opinion of policemen who walked into well-ordered houses, and locked up rooms as they pleased.
“A bad business about Mr Vereker,” Giles said, handing him his hat and gloves.
“Extremely distasteful, sir.”
“I should like to have a word with you, please,” said Hannasyde, taking a key out of his pocket, and fitting it into the lock of a door on the right of the front door.
“Certainly, sir,” said Taylor, frigidly. “I regret having been out when you called yesterday, but Sunday is my Day.”
“Yes, I understand. Come in here, will you? Mr Carrington, will you take these?” He held out a collection of keys on a ring, which Giles took, while the butler walked over to the window and drew back the curtains.
The library had the same air of conscious opulence that pervaded every room in Arnold Vereker's house. It had expensive leather chairs, and expensive sets of calfbound volumes in oak bookshelves. There was a very thick pile carpet, and a very richly carved desk. Everything spoke aloud the unguided taste of a high-class firm of decorators; nothing gave any indication of the owner's personality.
Hannasyde waited until Taylor had arranged the curtains to his satisfaction, and then asked: “How long have you been in Mr Vereker's employment?”
“I have been here for three years, sir,” replied Taylor, in a voice that informed the Superintendent that that was a record.
“Then you are probably acquainted with Mr Vereker's habits. Was it his custom to spend the week-ends at his country cottage?”
“He occasionally did so, sir.”
“And when he did was it usual for him to drive himself down, or did he take his chauffeur?”
“Sometimes the one and sometimes the other, sir.”
“Upon Saturday, when he left town, was the chauffeur with him?”
“I believe not, sir. There had been a little unpleasantness.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Between Mr Vereker and Jackson, the chauffeur, sir. Mr Vereker gave Jackson his notice on Saturday morning, Jackson having brought the car round five minutes late again. There was a highly unpleasant scene upon the front-steps. I regret to say that Jackson so far forgot himself as to answer Mr Vereker back. It was quite a brawl, not what one would expect in a gentleman's house at all. Jackson talked extremely wildly, Mr Vereker hardly less so. Both being hot tempered, if I may say so.”
“And when Mr Vereker left the house on Saturday evening, Jackson was not driving the car?”
“No, sir. It was merely brought round to the door - Mr Vereker having stated that he did not wish to see Jackson's face again.”
“I see. At what hour did Mr Vereker leave this house?”
“He left at ten minutes to eight, sir.”
“You seem sure of that. What fixed the time in your memory?”
“Mr Vereker himself, sir. He remarked on it. I understood him to have a dinner engagement. He was not - ahem - pleased at being detained.”
“What detained him?”
The butler drew in his breath, for this was the moment for which he had been waiting. “A visitor, sir.”
“Who was this visitor?”
“I could not say, sir. He was not a person I had ever seen before. In fact, I should not describe him as the type of gentleman I have been in the habit of admitting to the house. Very down-at-heel, he was, and most determined to see Mr Vereker. Upon my informing him that Mr Vereker was not at home, he set his foot in the door, and replied that he should not leave until he had seen him.”
“Do you mean that his attitude was threatening?”
The butler considered. “Hardly that, sir. Oh no, not threatening! Very affable, he was, in a silly kind of way. Stood there smiling. I formed the impression that he was under the influence of drink. I was about to summon Matthew - the footman, sir - to assist in putting him outside when Mr Vereker came down the stairs ready to go out.”
“In evening-dress?”