She was perceptibly amused. "Sydney Butterwick! He most certainly is not! I think I first met him at a party given by Mrs. Chetwynd. He came to a ball I gave for my daughter at Claridge's, and I remember, to my cost, that I invited him to a musical soiree at this house about a month ago. The quite ridiculous and revolting scene he created on that occasion because he imagined that Mr. Seaton-Carew was paying too much attention to someone other than himself, made me say I would never again invite him. Nor should I have, but that I was let down yesterday by one of my other guests, and had to fill a gap at a moment's notice!"
"And on the occasion of this musical evening, Mrs. Haddington, do you recall whether the telephone rang?"
She raised her brows. "Good heavens, no! If it did, my butler would have answered the call, and said that I was engaged. I should not, in any event, have heard the bell, because it is muffled. It rings in the hall, and in the butler's pantry, and the call can be taken from any of the instruments I had installed in the house."
"Thank you, madam, I shan't keep you any longer tonight," said Hemingway.
Inspector Grant closed the door behind trailing folds of black velvet, and turned to survey his chief with a troubled look in his eyes. "It is in my mind," he remarked, that she is a bad woman - a verra bad woman! Look you, it is a clach she has in her body, not a heart!"
"I wouldn't wonder!" retorted Hemingway. "Talk English, Sandy, can't you? "
"And all she said to you about that caileag was spite!" pursued the Inspector, disregarding this admonition.
"If;' said Hemingway patiently, "the halleuk, or whatever it was you said, means Miss Beulah Birtley, I'm not at all surprised. What does surprise me is that she gave the girl a job in the first place. Because she's not my idea of a philanthropist, not by a long chalk!"
"What is this?" demanded Grant.
"Well," replied the Chief Inspector, "apart from Terrible Timothy, Miss Beulah Birtley is the only one of this push I ever saw before. And I saw her a matter of eighteen months ago, at the London Sessions. She got sent down for nine months, I think, for robbing her employer. Forgery, I think it was, but it wasn't my case, and I might be mistaken about that. Fetch her down to have a nice heart-to-heart with me, will you?"
Chapter Nine
Mrs. Haddington, sweeping into the drawingroom, found that young Mr. Harte was still seated by the fire, engaging Miss Birtley in desultory conversation. Mrs. Haddington favoured him with her mechanical smile, but addressed herself to her secretary. "I imagine the Chief Inspector will wish to interrogate you, Miss Birtley. I suppose you had better spend the rest of the night here - unless you could get hold of a taxi to take you home. At my expense, of course, but heaven knows what the time is, and whether there are any taxis still on the streets I have really no idea."
"Don't worry!" Timothy said, rising to his feet. "I've got my car outside, and I'll run Miss Birtley home when the Inquisitors have finished with her."
"I wish you wouldn't bother!" Beulah said.
"No bother at all, dear Miss Birtley: a pleasure!" Timothy responded promptly.
"Really, I think it is extremely kind of you!" Mrs. Haddington said, slightly raising her plucked eyebrows. "If you will forgive me, I shall go up to bed."
"Please don't sit up on my account!" Timothy begged. "You must be dropping on your feet!"
"I am very tired," she acknowledged. She turned her head, as the door opened, and said: 'Ah, you want my secretary, I expect!"
"If you please, madam," said Inspector Grant.
Beulah rose jerkily. "I'm quite ready. I - I wish you wouldn't wait, Timothy!"
"You've said that before," he pointed out. "My own conviction is that you ought to be supported by your legal adviser during this interview."
"No, no, really I'd rather not! Please!"
"The Chief Inspector, sir, would like to see Miss Birtley alone, I think," said Inspector Grant.
"What the Chief Inspector would like leaves me very cold," retorted Timothy.
"Timothy, I would much prefer to be alone!"
"That," said Timothy, "is quite another matter. Go with God, my child!"
Upon entering the boudoir, Beulah could not forbear casting one shrinking glance towards the chair beside the telephone-table. It was, of course, empty, and she seemed to breathe more easily. Hemingway, who had equipped himself, at the start of his interrogations, with one of the small tables with which the room was generously provided, rose from behind it, and invited her to take the seat he had placed opposite to his own. He then requested her, in an official tone, to furnish him with her full name.
She said, in her brusque way: 'Beulah Birtley. I've already told the police that once tonight."
"I know you have," replied Hemingway. "What I'm asking you for is your full name." Across the little table, their eyes met, hers challenging, his mildly enquiring. "I remember Beulah," said Hemingway conversationally.
"But there was another Christian name, foreign, I think; and Birtley wasn't the surname."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Yes, you do," Hemingway said. "I've got a good memory for faces, and yours isn't one I'd forget easily."
"You are mistaken. You may think you know me, but I've never seen you before in my life!"
"No, you wouldn't have noticed me: I wasn't concerned in your case. But I happened to be in Court that day. So now let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? It doesn't do you any good to tell me lies, and it's very wearing for me. Name?"
She looked for a moment as though she did not mean to answer, but in the end she said sullenly: 'Francesca Beulah Birtley Meriden."
"I thought there was a foreign name in it," commented Hemingway, writing it down. "You got nine months, didn't you? Embezzlement?"
"Also forgery."
"How old are you?" he asked, glancing shrewdly at her. "Twenty-four."
"Parents?"
"Both dead."
"Any other relatives?"
"I have an uncle - though he would prefer me not to say so. I've neither seen him nor heard from him since my imprisonment. He's probably forgotten my existence by now: he's very good at forgetting unpleasantness." She shot him a darkling look. "What has all this got to do with what happened here tonight? I suppose you think that because I was convicted of theft and forgery you can pin this murder on to me?"
"Not without a bit of evidence I can't. Though it'd be just like the wicked police to fake up a lot of evidence against you, wouldn't it? Let's cut that bit! You'd be surprised the number of times I've listened to it before. How long had you known Seaton-Carew?"
"Since I came out of prison."
"Oh? How did you get to know him?"
She hesitated.
"Come on!" Hemingway said. "What was he up to? Giving a helping hand to lame ducks? Or did you meet him socially?"
"No, I didn't. Someone told me to go to him. Said he'd find me a job."
"Who was that?"
"A woman."
"Probation officer, by any chance?"
"No. A fellow convict!"
"Now, that's very interesting," said Hemingway. "Don't bother to tell me you didn't go to the Probation officer, or report yourself at any police station, because I can guess that, and it isn't what I want to talk about, anyway. What made this woman think Seaton-Carew would find you a job?"
She gave a short laugh. "I don't know. At least, I didn't know at the time. There were still quite a lot of flies on me six months ago! I don't really know now - but it wasn't because he was a philanthropist! She apparently thought he would find a use for me. He did: he sent me to Mrs. Haddington. That was very nice for all of us. He got her gratitude; she got a secretary who wouldn't give notice, however poisonous she was; and I got a fixed wage."
"Well, that sounds like philanthropy, doesn't it? What was Seaton-Carew's job in life?"