He said so.
“But,” protested Laura, “but you couldn’t take all this away and give it to someone else.” She waved a hand in a comprehensive gesture that included House, park, and—somehow—earldom.
“I couldn’t,” agreed Sloan. “There would have to be a successful claimant through the Law Courts.”
“But,” she wailed, “we don’t even know who the claimant would be.”
“No?” Sloan would have to try to work out the significance of that later. “Mr. Meredith would presumably have known.”
It seemed Laura Cremond had not thought of this.
“He might,” suggested Sloan, “have been the only person who did know.”
She lifted her head sharply at this. There was nothing Cremond about her at all, noted Sloan. Just the touch of fast-fading handsomeness and a good hairdresser.
“You mean,” she ventured cautiously, “that now he’s dead we may never know?”
“I couldn’t say, madam, at this stage. He may have left a written note.”
“No”—quickly.
Too quickly.
“No, madam?”
“I mean”—she flushed—“not that anyone knew about.”
“He might have communicated the result of his researches to someone outside the family.” Sloan’s eyes drifted downwards in the direction of her shoes. He said austerely, “Tell me again about Friday afternoon, madam, please.”
She was beginning to look flustered. “There’s nothing to tell, Inspector. I went to my room after tea-—there wasn’t anything else to do really. Cousin Gertrude had gone off to finish her chandelier, Uncle Harry always has a little sleep just about then, and my husband had gone for a walk.”
“Lord Henry and Lady Eleanor?”
“They went down to Ornum village to see their old nanny—she’s not been well.”
“And the Countess?” It was like a roll-call.
“Aunt Millicent?” Laura Cremond said waspishly, “You can’t really have a conversation with Aunt Millicent.”
“No”—Sloan supposed you couldn’t. Any more than you could talk to a butterfly. He murmured, “I see, madam. So you went to your room?”
“That’s right, Inspector.”
“And stayed there?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Sloan looked down at her for a long moment, and then said soberly, “I think you have had a lucky escape, madam. A very lucky escape indeed.”
Talking to Lady Eleanor Cremond was a refreshing change. Sloan could quite understand why Charles Purvis was smitten.
She was all that a good witness should be.
Simple, direct, sure without being categoric.
“I saw Ossy just before four o’clock,” she repeated.
“Alive and well?”
“Very well, Inspector, if you know what I mean. Almost excited.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t tell me. We just chatted for a moment or two, then I took a book and went away.” She paused. “He was a real enthusiast, you know.”
“Yes.” That hadn’t saved him. Almost the reverse, you might say. He watched her closely. “His tea?”
“No, I didn’t stay for that. I asked him to join us as he wasn’t going up to the great-aunts, but he said he had something he wanted to do and he was expecting Mr. Ames any minute.”
Teatime on Friday had suddenly become immensely important.
Lady Eleanor, though, was thinking about luncheon today.
“You must be famished,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’ll get Dillow to bring you something. Where will you be?”
“Thank you, that would be kind, your Ladyship. The armoury…”
“You don’t want to eat there, Inspector.” She thought for a moment. “I know the very place. The gun room.”
The gun room it was. As appropriate a murder headquarters as anyone could meet.
“They’ve got weapons on the brain here, that’s their trouble,” grumbled Crosby, looking round the small room, which was literally lined with guns. “Look at ’em. I should have thought they’d have got enough downstairs without this little lot.”
“With one notable exception,” Sloan reminded him. “Those downstairs are ornamental. These are for use.”
The guns showed every sign of having as much loving care expended on them as did the china.
“Those deer that the Earl’s so keen about,” said Crosby.
“Yes?”
“Does he shoot them?”
“He breeds them first,” said Sloan.
“Then he shoots them?”
“I expect so.”
Crosby scratched his forehead. “Funny lot, the aristocracy, sir, aren’t they?”
“Government by the best citizens, Constable, that’s what it means.” Sloan took out his pen and got back to business. “It’s one weapon on one brain that’s our trouble, you know.”
Dillow brought them welcome beer and sandwiches, and was word perfect about what he’d said before.
“No, sir, I was not aware until I took tea to their Ladyships upstairs that Mr. Meredith was not taking tea with them as usual on Fridays.”
“What time would that have been?” Sloan discovered there was one exception to the rule that policemen called all other men “sir.” That was when the other chap got it in first.
“About half-past three, sir. They like it early on account of their taking a short nap after luncheon.”
“Thank you, Dillow.”
The phrase constituted dismissal to a butler and Dillow left them.
They went on working while they ate. Inspector Sloan turned over a fresh sheet in his notebook. Outside the window a peacock shrilled harshly.
“Why doesn’t he shoot them instead?” muttered Crosby indistinctly.
“They’re another sort of ornament, that’s why.”
“Give me the gryphons any day.” Crosby took another sandwich. “At least they don’t make a noise.”
Sloan stared at the blank page in front of him. “Now then, how far have we got?”
“Nowhere,” said Crosby.
“We know who the victim is,” said Sloan patiently. That was a head start on some of the cases he’d been on.“ And we know where we think he was killed.”
“Sitting down at the table at the far end of the Library,” agreed Crosby. “Confirmed as probable by the Forensic people.”
“How nearly do we know when?” The inductive method, that’s what this was called. Crosby didn’t seem much good at the deductive sort.
“After Lady Eleanor and Dillow saw him about four o’clock.”
“But before he’d had time to eat his tea.”
“Unless they’re both lying, sir,” said Crosby assiduously.
“True.”
“We don’t know why he was killed.” Crosby was making good headway with the sandwiches.
“Half-why,” said Sloan, taking one himself while they were still there to take. “He’d found out something somebody didn’t want him to know. Mrs. Ames confirms the telephone call, by the way, but you must check on the Vicar’s movements before five-thirty.”
“I have,” said Crosby unexpectedly. “I had a word with the post-mistress. She knows everything. He was in the village until just before half-past five. She saw him going in and out of houses.”
Sloan nodded. “So we know when—within limits.”
“But we don’t really know why, sir, do we?” Pessimistically.
“We know where.”
“But we don’t know who.” Crosby took the last sandwich. “These are jolly good, sir, aren’t they?”
“They were,” said Sloan sarcastically. He was wasting his time.
“We know who it wasn’t, though, sir, don’t we?” mumbled Crosby, undeterred by a mouthful of sandwich.
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t the Earl and Countess because they were together in the drawing-room from teatime onwards.”
“There might have been collusion between them. They’re husband and wife, remember…”