“We’ll have to see about the vault, too,” said the Earl.
Death might be the great leveller, noted Sloan silently, but William Murton was wholly family now.
Cromwell T. Fortescue wasn’t used to being overlooked. He said loudly and clearly, “We’re sorry to have arrived at a time like this, my lord…”
The Earl inclined his head.
“And also to be the bearers of such sad news, but Cyrus Phillimore is quite sure of his facts.”
“More bad news?” said Laura Cremond faintly. “I don’t believe it. There can’t be any more.”
“It may not be news, of course,” said Fortescue more tentatively, “but I hardly think the Earl here would subscribe to a deception.”
“Certainly not,” said Adrian Cossington, the solicitor upon the instant, “and should you be inferring this…”
“What,” asked the Earl of Ornum mildly, “is Mr. Fortescue trying to tell us?”
“Among your paintings, Earl,” said Mr. Fortescue, “you have a painting said to be by Hans Holbein the Younger.”
“We have.”
“It’s one of the lesser-known ones because it’s been here since he painted it. One owner, you might say.”
“That is so. My ancestor, the Judge, had it painted in 1532, the year before… before the family tragedy. Holbein was in London then… just beginning to make his name.”
“Cyrus Phillimore agrees with all that,” said Fortescue. “The only thing he doesn’t agree with is that Holbein painted this particular picture. He says it’s a fake.” Dillow pressed a cup and saucer into his hand and the courtly Mr. Fortescue bowed in the direction of the Countess. “I guess it’s not the sort of news that any of you wanted to hear…”
The Countess hadn’t yet remembered to put the teapot back on the tray, but it didn’t stop her talking.
“Tell me, Mr. Fortescue, how long hasn’t it been a Holbein?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you that, Countess. Only that Cyrus Phillimore says…”
Lord Henry said quietly, “Not very long, Mother.” He turned slightly. “That right, Inspector?”
“Yes, my lord. Not very long.”
“Friday?” suggested Lord Henry.
“Very possibly, my lord.”
“Friday afternoon perhaps…”
“Perhaps, my lord.”
“Ossy’s discovery!” cried Lady Eleanor. “That must have been what Ossy discovered! That the Holbein was a fake.”
“We think so, your Ladyship.”
The Countess of Ornum lowered the teapot onto the large silver tray with a clatter. “You mean the picture was actually changed over on Friday afternoon?”
“Yes, your Ladyship.”
“And that little Mr. Meredith knew about the change?”
“We think he spotted it by accident.”
Cromwell T. Fortescue began, “Cyrus Phillimore says it’s a very good fake…”
Nobody took any notice of him.
“And having spotted it,” said Lord Henry, “he dashed to the telephone to ring up his pal the Vicar to ask him to pop along and confirm his worst suspicions.”
“That’s what we think, my lord,” agreed Sloan. “It would be the natural thing to do before he told your father. After all, it is a pretty serious allegation.”
“I’ll say,” said his young Lordship inelegantly. “He’s worth a pretty packet is the old Judge.”
“And where is he now?” demanded Cousin Gertrude.
Laura Cremond said unsteadily, “I know where the picture is.”
Everyone looked towards the sharp-faced woman who sat beside Miles.
“I say,” said Miles. “Do you? Good.”
She ignored him. “It’s lying under a pile of old maps in the Muniments Room. It’s not damaged at all.”
There was an expectant silence.
“I’m afraid,” went on Laura Cremond, not without dignity, “that I have a confession to make, and it’s very kind of the Inspector to give me the chance.”
Miles looked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. “I say, old girl, steady on. This isn’t a revivalist meeting, you know.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” said Laura, “that on Friday evening I behaved rather badly.”
“Not as badly as somebody else,” said the Countess sadly.
“Nearly,” insisted Laura. “I’m afraid I disturbed the Muniments.”
“Good Lord!” said Miles.
“I’m very sorry. I just couldn’t bear the thought of Uncle Harry not being Earl any more.”
Cousin Gertrude had finished winding up the twine. “If Laura saw it there,” she said bluntly, “why didn’t she tell us and save all this trouble?”
Laura flushed and her voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible. “I didn’t like to say…”
“You didn’t like to say!” exclaimed Cousin Gertrude scornfully; Gertrude, who had herself never left anything unsaid.
“I thought perhaps Uncle Harry had arranged to…” Laura faltered and began again. “Owners do change pictures over themselves sometimes, you know, and sell the original without saying anything to anyone.”
“I expect,” murmured the Countess serenely, “he will one day.”
Laura was getting to her feet. “I know I did something I shouldn’t, Uncle Harry and Aunt Millicent, and I’m very sorry. Miles and I are going now and we shan’t be expecting any more invitations to stay at Ornum.”
The Earl was keeping to a more important train of thought. “So Meredith was killed because he knew about the fake picture.”
“And to prevent him telling anyone else, my lord.” A steel-like quality crept into Sloan’s voice. He cleared his throat and everyone turned in his direction. If you cleared your throat in the Berebury Police Station they thought you had a cold coming, but it was different here.
Everything was different here.
“It all happened,” he said, “because he wasn’t invited to tea with your Lordship’s aunts like he usually was on Fridays.”
“You’re joking, Inspector,” Gertrude Cremond said.
“Indeed I’m not, madam. I’m perfectly serious. As a rule Mr. Osborne Meredith always took tea with their Ladyships upstairs on Fridays.”
“You could count on it,” said Lady Eleanor.
“Someone did,” said Sloan soberly, “and it was his undoing.”
The Countess of Ornum picked up the teapot again. Dillow peered into the hot-water jug and, apparently finding it empty, picked it up.
“Don’t go, Dillow.”
“Very well, sir.” He stood with the jug in his hand.
“Friday,” said Sloan, “was an exception. Their Ladyships upstairs did not invite Mr. Meredith to tea as he had offended them by his historical researches. They did not, however, tell anyone they hadn’t done so.”
“So poor old Ossy turns up in the Long Gallery just after the Holbein had been changed over,” concluded Lord Henry, “when by right he should have been pinned between Great Aunt Alice and Great Aunt Maude while they told him how things ain’t what they used to be.”
“Quite so.”
“Then what, Inspector?”
“Then,” said Sloan in a voice devoid of emphasis, “he goes to the telephone where he is overheard ringing the Vicar’s wife.” He turned towards Lord Ornum. “Your telephone isn’t exactly private, your Lordship.”
“It’s the draughtiest place in the House,” responded the Earl. “My father wouldn’t have it anywhere else. Didn’t like it.”
“After that,” said Sloan, “I reckon the murderer had about a quarter of an hour in hand. A quarter of an hour in which to decide what to do and to go down to the armoury and pick his weapon.”
Lady Eleanor shivered. “If only I’d stayed talking to Ossy…”
“No, your Ladyship, that wouldn’t have made any difference. He’d have just waited until you’d gone.”