“How do you mean, then?”
A frightened look came over her face. She came nearer.
“It was afterwards. I went to sleep-and I woke up-I had a horrid dream-and just as I woke up I thought there was a cry. Oh, Elliot, do you think-”
He said quickly,
“Did you look at the clock then? What time was it?”
“Just after twelve-about half a minute past. I put on the light and looked. Oh-was it then?”
“Sounds like it. Now look here-you hold your tongue about all this. You went to your room just before ten, and you went to your bed, and you slept all night. You didn’t hear anything and you don’t know anything-that’s you. Close as a clam-do you hear?”
She said, “I-don’t-know-”
He took her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Oh, yes, you do! You hear what I say, and you’ll do what you’re told! I’m not going to have you mixed up in this, and that’s flat!”
Something inside Phyllida began to sing. If he didn’t care he wouldn’t be angry like this. He was frightfully angry. His chin stuck out about a mile, and he had bruised her shoulder. She looked down to hide the something in her eyes which she didn’t want him to see. And right at that moment the door opened and Grace Paradine came in.
She had knotted up her hair, but she wore a plum-coloured dressing-gown and bedroom slippers trimmed with fur. What she saw was certainly capable of misconstruction-Phyllida with her eyes cast down and Elliot’s hands just dropping from her shoulders. It might have been the end of an embrace-or the beginning. Her eyes fairly blazed as she said,
“What does this mean?”
It was a source of some regret to Elliot that decency forbade any of the replies which sprang readily enough to his mind. You cannot score off a woman who is just going to be told that her brother has met with a fatal accident. He said, “Phyllida will tell you, Miss Paradine,” and walked past her out of the room.
Grace Paradine came up to Phyllida and put her arms round her.
“Oh, my darling, don’t look like that! I never dreamed-How dare he come in here-it’s outrageous! But you mustn’t let it upset you. I shall see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Phyllida did not look up. She said quite gently,
“It wasn’t Elliot who upset me, Aunt Grace.”
Grace Paradine stiffened.
“What do you mean?”
Phyllida made an effort. If she had to do it she must do it quickly. She steadied herself and said,
“Something has happened. Elliot came to tell me. It’s something dreadful. It’s-it’s-Uncle James-”
“What?” said Grace Paradine on a sharp note of fear.
Phyllida said,
“Oh, Aunt Grace-he’s dead!”
Chapter 14
The family had assembled in Miss Paradine’s sitting-room, a pleasantly furnished room with deep blue curtains and upholstery. There was a fine old walnut bureau and some Queen Anne chairs, and half a dozen moderately good watercolours on the plain cream walls. But what took the eye and held it were the photographs in every size and aspect, from babyhood to what magazine articles call present day, of Phyllida. There was, to be sure, one remarkable omission. Phyllida in her wedding dress was not represented by so much as a snapshot. The photographs ceased with Phyllida Paradine. There were none of Phyllida Wray. It was only a stranger, however, who would have been struck with this. The family were too used to it to take any notice, and it was the family who were assembled-Grace Paradine, Frank and Brenda Ambrose, Mark and Richard Paradine-sister, stepson and daughter, nephews-and Phyllida.
Miss Paradine was speaking as Elliot Wray came into the room. He shut the door behind him and surveyed the scene-Grace Paradine and Phyllida on the sofa; Mark at the window with his back to the room; Frank Ambrose and Dicky on the hearth, Frank with an elbow on the mantelpiece, Dicky fiddling with a bit of string, both of them shocked and strained; Brenda bolt upright in one of the Queen Anne chairs, her black felt hat tipped crooked.
Grace Paradine took no notice of the opening and shutting of the door. She went on with what she was saying in her deep, full voice.
“I don’t see how there can be any question about it. He wasn’t himself at all. I don’t know when I was so shocked. It is not only quite unnecessary for it to be mentioned-it would really be a great injustice to his memory. He could never have said what he did if he had been himself. It was”-the deep voice vibrated as if it were about to break-“it was terribly painful. We all felt that, and I think we want to forget about it as soon as we can. We don’t want to remember him like that.” She forced a tremulous smile and looked from one to the other.
Mark’s back gave no clue to what he was thinking. Brenda looked obstinate, Frank Ambrose grave and doubtful. In Dicky alone she discerned a response. Elliot had been very markedly excluded, but it was he who spoke. He came forward, joined the group by the fire, and said,
“I gather that you are discussing whether to say anything about what happened at dinner last night.”
“Why should we?” said Brenda defiantly. This was so unexpected that everyone stared at her. “I don’t see that it’s anyone’s business.”
Dicky nodded.
“Of course it isn’t. Why should it be? The whole thing’s perfectly ridiculous-I don’t know why we’re discussing it. Aunt Grace has said anything that needs to be said. He wasn’t himself last night-anyone could see that. I thought he’d gone off his head- I suppose we all did. Very painful and upsetting-the sort of thing they call a brain-storm, I suppose. Then he went out on the terrace like he always does to have a look at the river and fell over. Turned giddy or something. It’s a bad business, but we don’t want to make it worse, cooking things up.”
Frank Ambrose said,
“Yes, it’s a bad business.” And then, “I don’t suppose they’ll ask any questions that would be difficult to answer-why should they?” There was no ring in his voice, and no conviction behind the words. They fell discouragingly upon the room.
There was a flat silence which lasted until Elliot said,
“They’ll ask whether he was just as usual last night, and they’ll want to know who saw him last.”
This time the silence was not flat, but electric. Again it was Elliot who broke it. He said what he had said to Phyllida.
“If we’re going to hold our tongues, we’ll all have to hold them. Better look at it squarely. There were ten of us at dinner last night besides Mr. Paradine. He made a serious charge against one of us. He didn’t say who it was, but he said he knew. He also said he meant to punish the person in his own way, and that the amount of punishment would depend on whether he got a full confession before midnight. He said he would be in his study until then. Everyone knows that he didn’t say things unless he meant them. If he said he was going to stay in his study until twelve, then he did stay there until twelve. And everyone knows that he never went to bed without crossing the terrace to look at the view. We’ve all heard him talk about it and say that he hadn’t missed a night for fifty years except when he was away from home. Well, if those three things are put together, I think we’re all going to be asked some questions we don’t particularly want to answer. We would all rather hold our tongues, but the thing is, if one of us doesn’t we are all going to be in the soup. The thing that’s got to be decided here and now is whether those ten people can be depended upon.”
Grace Paradine looked past him and said with a good deal of emphasis,
“It is a matter for the family to decide.”
The implication was too plain to be missed-Elliot Wray was mixing in matters which did not concern him. It took him no time at all to understand and accept the challenge.
“It’s a matter which will have to be agreed upon by all the ten people to whom Mr. Paradine spoke last night. Pearson’s making himself useful-he’ll be along presently. What about Irene and Lydia? Can you answer for them, Frank? There isn’t much time, you know-the Superintendent will be wanting to see Miss Paradine. What about it?”