“All right, I'll come along this evening and arrange something,” promised Giles. “Meanwhile Superintendent Hannasyde wants to ask you some questions.”
“I just want to know what your movements were on Saturday evening,” said Hannasyde pleasantly.
“I know you do, but according to Giles you won't believe a word of my story,” replied Kenneth. “My point is that you can't disprove it. If you've got any sense you won't try. You'll simply arrest my sister, and be done with it. I call her behaviour fishy in the extreme. Moreover, any girl who gets engaged to a human wen like Mesurier deserves to be hanged. What did you make of him, Giles?”
“I hardly know him. Try to stick to the point.”
“Well, I think he's a blister,” said Kenneth frankly. Hannasyde said patiently: “May I hear this story which I can't disprove.”
“Sorry, I'd forgotten you for the moment,” said Kenneth, and seating himself on a corner of the desk which happened to be free from litter, related with unexpected conciseness the history of his movements on Saturday. “And that's that,” he concluded, delving in his pocket for an evil-looking meerschaum. “My fiancée says it's such a rotten story you're bound to believe it. She ought to know. She reads about seven detective thrillers a week, so she's pretty well up on crime.”
Hannasyde looked at him rather searchingly. “You don't remember the picture-theatre you visited or even what street it is in, or what the the film was about, Mr Vereker?”
“No,” said Kenneth, unrolling an oilskin tobacco pouch, and beginning, under his uncle's fermenting stare, to fill the meerschaum.
“That argues a singularly bad memory, doesn't it?”
“Vile,” agreed Kenneth. “But anyone'll tell you I've no memory.”
“I'm surprised that with such a memory you are able to tell me so exactly what you did that evening,” said Hannasyde gently.
“Oh, I learned that off by heart,” replied Kenneth, putting his pipe in his mouth, and restoring the pouch to his pocket.
Superintendent Hannasyde was not a man to show surprise readily, but this ingenuous explanation bereft him momentarily of speech. Giles's slow voice filled the gap: “Don't try to be funny, I implore you. What do you mean?”
Charles Carrington, whose attention had been successfully switched from the meerschaum, watched Kenneth with an air of impersonal interest. “Yes, what do you mean?” he inquired.
“Just what I said,” responded Kenneth, striking a match. Between puffs, he continued, “After Giles had gone, last night, it dawned I me that I'd better make sure I didn't forget what I did on Saturday. So I wrote it all down, and learned it by heart in case I lost the book of words.”
The Superintendent, recovering, put rather a stern question: “Do you remember anything at all of what you did, Mr Vereker, or are you merely favouring me with a recitation?”
“Of course I remember,” said Kenneth impatiently. “You can't go on repeating a saga without remembering it. If you mean, Did I make it up? Certainly not! I should have thought out a much better story than that. Something really classy. As a matter of fact, my sister and I concocted a beauty, but we decided against using it, because of the mental strain. If you make a thing up you keep forgetting some of the ramifications, and then you're in the soup.”
“I'm glad you realise that,” said Hannasyde dryly. “Will your memory go back as far as the third of June?”
“What's today? asked Kenneth, willing to oblige, but cautious.
“Today, Mr Vereker, is the nineteenth of June.”
“Then I shouldn't think it would. It all depends. Not if you're going to ask me what I had for breakfast that day, or whether I went out for a walk, or-”
“I am going to ask you whether you remember writing a letter to your half-brother, requesting him to give or lend you five hundred pounds.”
“Did I write that on the third?”
“You remember writing the letter, even though you may not remember the date?”
“You bet I do,” said Kenneth. “I've been kicking myself for having done it ever since I heard about the murder. Didn't I tell you the swine would keep my letter, Giles?”
“Do you also remember a second letter which you wrote your half-brother - presumably on receipt of his refusal to send you any money?”
Kenneth frowned. “No, I'm afraid I don't. Did I write a second time?”
The Superintendent opened his pocket-book and took out a single sheet of notepaper. “Isn't that it, Mr Vereker?”
Kenneth leaned forward to read it, and burst out laughing. “Oh lord, yes! Sorry! I'd forgotten that for the moment.”
“You were angry enough to write a letter telling your half-brother that it would give you great pleasure to wring his neck -”
“Bloody neck,” corrected Kenneth.
“Yes, his bloody neck is the term you used. You felt that strongly enough to write it, and then forgot all about it?”
“No, I forgot I'd written it,” said Kenneth. “I didn't forget that I wanted to wring his neck. My memory's not as bad as that.”
“I see. Am I to understand that this violent desire persisted?”
Giles made a slight movement of protest, but Kenneth spoke before he could be stopped. “More or less, whenever I happened to think about him. But it was only a beautiful dream. I couldn't have pulled it off. Arnold was too beefy for me to tackle single-handed.”
There was an infinitesimal pause. Then the Superintendent said: “I see. I think you said you are engaged to be married?” Kenneth nodded. “Have you been engaged long, Mr Vereker?”
“Three months, more or less.”
“When do you mean to be married, if I may ask?”
“I think you mayn't, Superintendent,” said Giles, shifting his shoulders against the mantelpiece.
“You must advise your client as you see fit, Mr Carrington, but it is a question that will be asked,” Hannasyde said.
“Let him ask me anything he likes,” said Kenneth. vI don't mind. I haven't got any feeling against the police. I don't know when I'm going to be married. My betrothed has religious scruples.”
“Has what?” asked Hannasyde, startled.
Kenneth waved his pipe vaguely in the air. “Religious scruples. Respect due to the dead. All against the funeral baked-meats coldly furnishing forth the marriage tables. Romeo and Juliet,” he added.
“Hamlet,” said the Superintendent coldly. “Shakespeare, anyway.”
“Do you mean that your fiancée wishes to postpone the wedding until you're out of mourning?”
“She can't. She knows perfectly well I'm not going into mourning.”
“Mr Vereker, had you arranged a date for your wedding before Saturday, or not?”
“Not.”
“I'm going to ask a very straightforward question, which your solicitor wont like.” said Hannasyde with a faint smile. “Was the wedding day unsettled because of money troubles?”
“You needn't bother about my solicitor.” said Kenneth amiably. “When a thing stands out a mile, you don't catch me queering my pitch by denying it. Money it was. The lady's not in favour of a two-pair back. By the way, that was something I wanted to ask you, Giles. What is a two-pair back?”
“I don't know,” said Giles.
“Well, it doesn't really matter,” said Kenneth, banishing the question. “Now Arnold's dead the point doesn't arise.”
“No,” agreed Giles, with intent. “Whatever a two-pair back may be it isn't anything like the Eaton Place house.”
Kenneth took his pipe out of his mouth. “Let's get this straight!” he requested. “Nothing would make me live in that high-class mansion, or any other remotely resembling it! That's final, and you may tell Violet so with my loving compliments.”
“All right. Where do you propose to live?”
“Where I'm living now. If Violet wants ropes of pearls, and a brocade bed, and a Rolls-Royce, she can have 'em, but there it ends. I utterly refuse to alter my habits.” He stood up, and pushed the lock of hair back from his forehead. “You can also tell her,” he said, his eyes very bright all at once, “that these hands” - he flung them out, the fingers spread wide - “are worth more than all Arnold's filthy money, and when he's been forgotten for centuries people will still be talking about me!”