“Of course he did. I thought he'd be rather pleased at getting rid of his responsibilities as a matter of fact, because he's tried often enough to marry me off. So I wrote and told him about it, because though you say I'm unreasonable I quite realise I can't get married, or anything, without his consent till I'm twenty-five. And instead of sending me his blessing, he wrote the filthiest letter, and said he wouldn't hear of it.”
“Why?”
“No reason at all. Snobbery.”
“Now, look here, Tony!” Giles said. “I know Arnold, and I know you. I don't say he was the type of fellow I cultivate, but he wasn't as bad as you and Kenneth thought him. Yes, I know you two had a rotten time with him but it's always been my firm conviction that you brought a lot of it on yourselves. So don't tell me that he refused to give his consent to your marriage without letting you know why. He was much more likely not to care a damn what you did.”
“Well, he didn't like Rudolph,” said Antonia restively. “He wanted me to make a better match.”
Giles sighed. “You'd better let me see his letter. Where is it?”
She pointed to the ashtray at the end of the table, a sort of naughty triumph in her eyes.
Giles looked at the black ashes in it, and then rather sternly at his cousin. “Tony, you little fool, what made you do such a damned silly thing?”
“I had to, Giles; really I had to! You know that awful way we all have of blurting out what we happen to be thinking? Well, I went and told those policemen I'd had a letter from Arnold, and they were instantly mustard keen to see it. And it hadn't anything to do with the murder; it was just private, so I burned it. It's no use asking me what was in it, because I shan't tell you. It just wasn't the sort of letter you want anyone else to see.”
He looked at her frowningly. “You're not making things very easy for me, Tony. I can't help you if you don't trust me.”
She slipped her hand confidingly into one of his. “I know, and I'm awfully sorry, but it's just One of Those Things. We needn't say I've burned the letter. We can chuck the ashes out of the window and pretend it's lost.”
“Go on and tell me the rest of the story,” Giles said.
“When did you receive the letter?”
“Yesterday, at tea-time. And I rang up Eaton Place, but Arnold wasn't there, so I naturally supposed he was coming down to Ashleigh Green, with one of his fancy ladies, and I got the car out, and came after him.”
“For the Lord's sake, Tony, leave out the bit about the fancy-lady! No sane policeman will ever believe you would motor down to argue with Arnold when you thought he had a woman with him.”
She opened her eyes at him. “But I did!”
“Yes, I know you did. You would. But don't say it. You don't know he had a woman with him, do you?”
“No, but it seemed likely.”
“Then leave that out. What happened when you got to the cottage?”
“Nothing. Arnold wasn't there. So I squeezed in through the pantry window, and waited for him. You know how it is when one does that. You keep on saying, "Well, I'll give him another half-hour," and time sort of slips by. And anyway I knew he was coming, because the place was prepared. Well, he didn't turn up, and didn't turn up, and I didn't much fancy motoring back again at that hour, so I went to bed.”
“Can you prove you didn't go out of the cottage again that night?” Giles said.
“No, because I did: I took Bill for a run somewhere about half-past eleven, and he had a dust-up with a retriever.”
“That may be useful. Anyone with the retriever?”
“Yes, a woman like a moulting hen. But it isn't useful, in fact, rather the reverse, because I walked towards the village, as far as the cross-roads, and I was coming back when I met the hen-and-retriever outfit. So I might quite easily have stuck a knife into Arnold before that. And perhaps I ought to tell you that I got retriever-blood on this skirt, and had to wash it. Because when the police came I was drying it. So what with that, and my being a trifle snarkish with them at first, on account of thinking they'd come about the dog-fight, I daresay I may have set them against me.”
“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Giles. “One other question: Does Kenneth know you're here?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he doesn't. He was out when I got Arnold's letter. But you know what he is: I daresay he hasn't even noticed that I'm not at home. If he has, he'll merely suppose I told him I was going away for the night and he forgot.”
“I wasn't worrying about that. Did anyone know you were coming here?”
“Well, I didn't say anything to anyone,” replied Antonia helpfully. She regarded him with a certain amount of anxiety. “Do you suppose they'll think I did it?”
“I hope not. The fact that you spent the night at the cottage ought to tell in your favour. But you must stop fooling about, Tony. The police want you to account for your movements last night. We must trust that they won't inquire too closely into the letter Arnold wrote you. Otherwise you've nothing to conceal, and you must tell them the truth, and answer any questions they put to you.”
“How do you know I've nothing to conceal?” inquired Antonia, eyeing him wickedly. “I wouldn't have minded murdering Arnold last night.”
“I assume you have nothing to conceal,” Giles said a little sharply.
She smiled. “Nice Giles. Do you loathe being dragged into our murky affairs?”
“I can think of things I like better. You'd better come along to the Chief Constable's office and apologise for being such a nuisance.”
“And answer a lot of questions?” she asked doubtfully. “Yes, answer anything you can, but try not to say a lot of unnecessary things.”
She looked rather nervous. “Well, you'd better frown at me if I do. I wish you could make a statement for me.”
“So do I, but I can't,” said Giles, getting up, and opening the door. “I'll find out if the Chief Constable is disengaged. You stay where you are.”
He was gone for several minutes, and when he returned it was with the Superintendent and a Constable. Antonia looked at the Constable with deep misgiving. Her cousin smiled reassuringly and said, “This is Superintendent Hannasyde, Tony, from Scotland Yard.”
“How — how grim!” said Antonia in a small voice. “It's particularly bitter because I've always thought how much I should hate to be mixed up in a murder case, on account of having everything you say turned round till you find you've said something quite different.”
The Superintendent bent to pat Bill. “I won't do that,” he promised. “I only want you to tell me just how you came to visit your brother last night, and what you did.”
Antonia drew in her breath. “He was not my brother,” she said. “I'm sick to death of correcting that mistake. He was nothing more than half!”
“I'm sorry,” said the Superintendent. “You see, I've only just come into this case, so you must forgive me if I quite mastered the details. Will you sit down? I understand from Inspector Jerrold that you came to Ashleigh Green yesterday because you wanted to see your half-brother on a private matter. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Antonia.
“And when you arrived at the cottage what did you do?”
Antonia gave him a concise account of her movements. Once or twice he prompted her with a question, while the Constable, who had seated himself by the door, busily wrote in shorthand. The Superintendent's manner, unlike the Inspector's, was so free from suspicion, and his way of putting his questions so quiet and understanding, that Antonia's wary reserve soon left her. When he asked her if she was on good terms with Arnold Vereker she replied promptly. “No, very bad terms. I know it isn't any use concealing that, because everyone knows it. We both were.”
“Both?”
“My brother Kenneth and I. We live together. He's an artist.”
“I see. Were you on bad terms with your half-brother for any specific reason, or merely on general grounds?”
She wrinkled up her nose. “Well, not so much one specific reason as two or three. He was our guardian - at least he'd stopped being Kenneth's guardian, because Kenneth is over twenty-five. I lived with him till a year ago, when I decided I couldn't stick it any longer, and then I cleared out and joined Kenneth.”