If Miss Silver considered this speech to be conclusive evidence of the faulty upbringing which she suspected she did not allow this to appear.
“Your sister-in-law and your wife are two young girls. I hope that my presence is some comfort and support to them. Mrs. Felton has had a great shock.”
He stared and said,
“It’s been a shock to us all. Why pick out Ina? It’s not as if she and Helen were friends. They never set eyes on each other before this week, and no love lost when they did.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“That is not a very prudent remark, Mr. Felton.”
He made a pettish gesture.
“Oh, well, I didn’t mean anything. Ina wouldn’t murder a mouse-she’d be much too scared of hurting it. Nobody but a fool would imagine she’d do anything to Helen. She just didn’t like her. Other girls didn’t, you know. She got off with their men, and you couldn’t expect them to like it. Jealous, you know, and wondering what she’d got that they hadn’t. Not that I went in off the deep end about her myself. Not my type, if you know what I mean-and certainly not Ina’s.” He was getting out a cigarette and lighting it as he spoke, pitching the match in the direction of the fireplace without bothering where it fell. He inhaled a mouthful of smoke and let it out again slowly. “Now that chap Felix-he was in off the deep end all right. Funny thing his coming back like that. I mean it’s practically committing suicide, isn’t it? And if he was going to commit suicide, why didn’t he just let himself drown instead of coming back here and waiting to be arrested-and then all that filthy business of being stood up in the dock, and all the stuff in the papers. Something odd about it, don’t you think? I mean, why bother? Much simpler and easier to drown, don’t you think?”
Miss Silver was knitting briskly.
“People do not always do the simplest and easiest thing, Mr. Felton. Sometimes they do what they believe to be right. That surprises you?”
He hardly troubled to put a hand to hide a yawn.
“Oh, no-no-no. What I mean is, it’s all very odd. I mean, why don’t the police arrest him?”
“They may not believe that there is sufficient evidence.”
He was leaning back in the sofa corner. With his eyes half shut, he drew in another mouthful of smoke.
“Oh, well, I just thought it was odd.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Mr. Felton, do you believe that Miss Adrian was murdered by Felix Brand?”
The eyes opened vaguely.
“Don’t ask me. Anybody’s guess is as good as mine.”
The eyes closed again. The hand with the cigarette drooped towards the floor. Ash fell upon the carpet. The cigarette fell too. Miss Silver rose, picked it up, and dropped it on to the unlighted fire. She also picked up the match. Then she sat down again and went on knitting. Mr. Felton was asleep.
He was not, however, permitted to repose in peace. Sunday afternoon or no Sunday afternoon, Inspector Crisp was on the doorstep, the news of Mr. Felton’s return having reached him at one o’clock. Cyril was obliged to wake up and answer a great many questions, which he did with the utmost vagueness and inattention. He yawned, he smoked, he fidgeted. He had constantly to be recalled to the point.
Crisp got nothing out of him.
“He’s either much sharper than he looks, or he doesn’t know a thing,” he told the Chief Constable, who had arrived a little later.
March said thoughtfully,
“Well-he’s an actor-”
“Not much of a one by all accounts.”
“You never know-he may be better off the stage than he is on it. He didn’t show any signs of nervousness?”
“Not a sign. Smoked and yawned most of the time. Didn’t even seem interested.”
March’s look became alert.
“That’s not natural.”
“Well-”
“Overplaying the part. I’d say there’s more in Cyril than meets the eye. Hang it all, man, he’s blackmailing a woman, she’s murdered within a stone’s throw of him, and the police have got him on the mat-he ought to be nervous. And he simply can’t help being interested. Indifference to the extent you describe just isn’t possible. If it isn’t genuine it’s a smokescreen. And if it is a smoke-screen, what is behind it? You didn’t mention the blackmail?”
“No-I thought I’d hold that up. There’s no evidence of course. She must have destroyed those two letters Miss Silver describes. She was going to get married, and she wouldn’t want them about. No, I just took him through the picnic, the return to the house, the business about the doors and windows, and whether he had heard anything in the night.”
“And what has he got to say to all that?”
“Nothing that amounts to anything. He saw Felix Brand go off with Miss Adrian at the picnic and noticed him coming back alone, but didn’t see Miss Adrian come back. Says there were some raincoats and rugs about down on the beach, but doesn’t know who they belonged to, and doesn’t remember who brought any of them in. Says he only got up once during the night to go across to the bathroom and went straight off to sleep again. Says everything was quiet-no unusual sounds anywhere.”
“What does he mean by unusual?”
“I asked him that. He said he could hear the sea.”
“That means he was up somewhere between twelve and two. Do you know, I’m wondering about this visit to the bathroom. It’s just the sort of story he might put up if he’d been out meeting Helen Adrian and was afraid he might have been heard. There’s a creaking board just outside the room he was in then. He is new to the house, and might easily have stepped on it coming or going. If he did he’d be afraid and look round for a cover up. Which is just a lot of theory without a square inch of fact to balance on. We want to dig up some facts. What about this fellow Mount Helen Adrian was engaged to?”
Crisp nodded.
“He’s been on the telephone. He was up in Scotland on business and didn’t know a thing till he saw it in the papers this morning. Very upset and all that, but I gather he doesn’t mean to come down. There was a lot about his business, and their not being officially engaged. If you ask me, I’d say he wanted to keep out of the limelight. You can’t blame him of course-a business man doesn’t want to get mixed up in a murder case. And there’s no question of his being implicated. I asked Glasgow to check up on what he said about his movements, and it’s all right. He registered at the Central Hotel on Thursday morning before breakfast, and he’s been there ever since. Well, she was murdered between twelve and two on Thursday night, so it wasn’t Mr. Mount that did it. Not that he was a very likely suspect, but just as well to get him out of the way.”
March said, “Nice to get somebody out of the way. Well, we’d better get on with Cyril Felton. Let’s have him in.”
Chapter 30
The interview with Cyril Felton produced very little result. Regarded as a performance, Mr. Felton had profited by his rehearsal. It made the Inspector’s description sound just a little crude. The lack of interest was less obvious. There was no more than a single yawn, carefully suppressed and apologized for with a “Sorry-I was up most of the night.” Pressed as to how well he knew Helen Adrian, he assumed an agreeable frankness.
“Well, you know how it is-you knock up against people. We were in the same concert-party years ago, and we’ve come across each other at intervals on and off. Nothing much in it-always very good friends.”
March said, “Were you lovers?”
“Oh, come, sir!”
“Were you?”
“No. I give you my word of honour we weren’t.”
March wondered how much it was worth.