“The trouble is,” remarked the Sergeant at length, “there's too many people with good motives. I never like that kind of case, Super. Do you remember the Ottershaw murder? Took ten years off my life, that did.” He prodded one of the buns which the waitress had set before them, and shook his head. “Not at my age,” he said. “You ought to be able to have 'em up for foisting that kind of food on the public. Keep me awake all night, that would. Take this young Vereker chap. He's a new one on me, Super. Make anything of him?”
“No,” said Hannasyde slowly. “Nothing at all yet. He's a new one on me too. I suspect, a mighty slippery customer.”
“He's got the biggest motive of the lot, I know that. Here, miss, you take these buns back where they came from, which was the dustbin, I should think, judging from the look of them, and bring me a nice plate of bread-and-butter, there's a good girl.”
“Sauce!” said the waitress, tossing her head.
The Sergeant winked at her, and turned back to Hannasyde. “Smart-looking girl, that. Well, now, I've got something for you. I went round to this studio, according to your instructions, and got talking to the skivvy there. Regular old cough-drop she is, too. Name of Murgatroyd. Used to be personal maid to the second Mrs Vereker before she was married, and after. Stopped on after Mrs Vereker died, and acted nurse to the kids. You get the layout, Super. She's the devoted family retainer all right. Well, I did what I could, jollying her along, but she was close as an oyster - Thank you, miss.” He waited until the waitress had removed herself out of earshot, and then continued: “Close as an oyster. Suspicious and wary. But one thing she did say and stuck to.”
“What was it?”
The Sergeant folded one the slices of bread-and butter in half, and put it into his mouth. When it was possible for him to speak intelligibly, he said: “She told me that whatever anyone might say to the contrary she was ready to get up and swear her Master Kenneth was safely tucked up in his bed and sleeping like a lamb at midnight on Saturday.”
“Did she really say that?” inquired Hannasyde, mildly curious.
“I won't swear to it those were her exact words,” replied the Sergeant, unabashed. “I may have made it a bit more poetic. But that was the gist of it. Now you tell me that the said Master Kenneth admits he was rampaging round town up till four o'clock. Bit of a departmental muddle, Super. Looks like they haven't got together enough over the question of alibis.”
“I don't make much of it,” said Hannasyde. 'It's obvious that young Vereker's position is very weak, and if this Murgatroyd is a devoted old servant, that's just the sort of gallant attempt to protect him you'd expect her to make.”
“I'm not saying it isn't, Super. I'll go so far as to say it is. But what I'll say is that the old girl's scared. She's afraid young Vereker did it. If she was plumb-sure he didn't she'd have bitten my head off for daring to come round suspecting her darling boy.”
Hannasyde put down his cup. “Look here, did she talk like that or not?”
“She did not,” said the Sergeant. “That's my point, Super. I figured she would.”
“Why?”
“Psychology,” said the Sergeant, vaguely waving his fourth slice of bread-and-butter in the air.
“Cut it out,” said his superior unkindly. “What did you find out about Vereker's chauffeur?”
“It wasn't him. You'll have to rule him out, Super. No good at all. I'll tell you what he was doing on Saturday.”
“You needn't bother. Put it in a report. I think I'll pay a call on Miss Vereker.”
The Sergeant cocked a wise eyebrow, “All on account of Light-fingered Rudolph? She gets a letter from Arnold, spilling the beans about him cooking the accounts, and threatening to ruin him, so down she goes to plead for Rudolph, and when that turns out to be no use, sticks a knife in the cruel half-brother. I haven't worked out how she got him in the stocks, but from what I can make out about these Verekers that's just the sort of joke they would pull, and think a proper scream. Myself, I haven't got that type of humour, but it takes all sorts to make a world. It's a wonder anyone ever gets out of these tea and bun bazaars, the trouble it is to get the girls to come across with the bill. I've been trying to catch Hennaed Hannah's eye for the past ten minutes. I know what my job is now, Super. I've got to check up on Friend Rudolph.” He looked shrewdly at his chief, for he had worked with him often before, and knew him. “Worried about Rudolph, aren't you, Super?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Hannasyde. “He fits, and yet he doesn't fit. See what you can find out, Hemingway.”
The Sergeant nodded. “I will that, sir. But he can't have done it. Not to my way of thinking. Here, Gladys - Maud - Gwendolyn, whatever your name is - tell me this: Are you standing us this tea?”
“I never did! You haven't half got a nerve!” said the waitress, giggling.
“I only asked because you seemed kind of shy of bringing the bill,” said the Sergeant.
“You are a one!” said the waitress, greatly diverted.
Chapter Nine
Murgatroyd, opening the door to Superintendent Hannasyde, stood squarely in the aperture and asked him aggressively what he wanted. He asked if Miss Vereker was in and she said: “That's as may be. Your name, please, and business.”
His eyes twinkled. “My name is Hannasyde, and my business is with Miss Vereker.”
“I know very well what you are,” said Murgatroyd. “I've had another of you here today, and I've had enough. If the police would let well alone it would be a good thing for everyone.” She stood aside to allow him to enter, and led him across the tiny hall to the studio. “It's the police again, Miss Tony,” she announced. “I suppose you'd better see him.”
Antonia was sitting by the window with two of her dogs at her feet. One of them, Bill, recognised an acquaintance in the Superintendent, and wildly thumped his tail; his daughter, Juno, however, got up growling.
“Ah, who says dogs have no sense?” said Murgatroyd darkly.
“Shut up, Juno!” commanded Antonia. “Oh, it's the Superintendent! That means I'm going to be interrogated all over again. Have some tea?”
“Thank you, Miss Vereker, but I've had tea,” said Hannasyde, his eyes on a big canvas on the easel.
Antonia said kindly: “Dawn Wind, but it isn't finished yet. My brother's new picture.”
Hannasyde went up to look more closely at it. “Your brother told me today that his hands are worth more than all your half-brother's money,” he remarked.
“Yes, he does think a lot of himself,” agreed Antonia. “You'll have to get used to that sort of swank if you mean to see much of him.”
“Well, I was thinking that he's probably right,” said Hannasyde. “I don't pretend to know much about art, but -”
“Don't say that!” besought Antonia. “Every well meaning idiot says it. What on earth are you standing there for, Murgatroyd?”
“You may be glad of me staying,” said Murgatroyd grimly.
“Well, I shan't. Not after the way you shoved your finger into Kenneth's pie with all that rot about him being in bed at midnight.”
“What I've said I stand by,” replied Murgatroyd.
“What's the use of standing by it when nobody believes you?” said Antonia reasonably. “Anyway, don't stand there, because it puts me off.”
“Well, you know where I am if you want me,” Murgatroyd replied, and withdrew.
“Sit down,” invited Antonia. “What do you want to know?”
“What was in that letter,” replied the Superintendent promptly.
“Which letter? - Oh, Arnold's! Nothing much.”
“If there was nothing much in it why did you destroy it?” asked Hannasyde.
“It was that sort of a letter.”
“What sort of a letter?”
“The sort you destroy - Look here, we're beginning to sound like a pair of cross-talk comedians!” Antonia pointed out.