Reckless must have driven back to Monksmere late on Saturday. When dawn broke his car was already outside the Green Man, and soon after nine o’clock Sergeant Courtney had rung most of the suspects to request their presence at the inn. The invitation was perfectly polite but no one was under the illusion that there was any choice in the matter. They took their time about arriving and, once again, there was a tacit understanding that they wouldn’t arrive together. Sylvia Kedge was collected as usual in a police car by Sergeant Courtney. There was a feeling that Sylvia was, on the whole, quite enjoying herself.
Maurice Seton’s portable typewriter was ready for them at the inn, placed squat and shining on the edge of a small oak table in the saloon bar. The attentions of the fingerprint men and the typewriter experts seemed to have given it an added lustre. It looked at once ordinary and menacing, innocent and dangerous. It was, perhaps, the most intimate object that Seton had owned. Looking at the gleaming keyboard it was impossible not to think with repugnance of those bleeding stumps, to wonder what had happened to the severed hands. They knew at once why it was there. They were required to type two passages of prose: the description of Carruthers’ visit to the nightclub and of the handless corpse, drifting out to sea.
Sergeant Courtney, who was in charge of the exercise, was beginning to fancy himself as a student of human nature and the different reactions of his suspects provided gratifying material. Sylvia Kedge took some time to settle herself but once started, the strong fingers, bony as a man’s, danced above the keys to produce, in an incredibly short time, two accurate copies elegantly set out and perfectly typed. It is always satisfying to see a job performed perfectly and Sergeant Courtney received Miss Kedge’s effort in respectful silence. Miss Dalgliesh, who arrived at the inn twenty minutes later, was unexpectedly competent. She had been used to typing her father’s sermons and the church magazine and had taught herself with the aid of a manual. She used all five fingers correctly although her speed was only moderate and, unlike Miss Kedge, she kept her eyes firmly on the keys. Miss Calthrop, staring at the machine as if she hadn’t seen one before, protested shortly that she couldn’t type-all her work was dictated on tape-and didn’t see why she should waste her time trying. Eventually she was persuaded to make a start and after thirty minutes’ effort, produced an appallingly typed two pages which she flourished at the Sergeant with the air of a vindicated martyr. Observing the length of Miss Calthrop’s nails, Courtney was only surprised that she had managed to depress the keys. Bryce, when he could bring himself to touch the typewriter, was surprisingly quick and accurate although he found it necessary to keep up a scathing commentary on the style of the prose. Latham was almost as expert as Miss Kedge and rattled away in sullen silence. Miss Marley said briefly that she couldn’t type but had no objection to trying. She refused Courtney’s help, spent about five minutes examining the keyboard and the carriage and settled down to the laborious task of copying the passage, word by word. The result was quite creditable and Sergeant Courtney privately marked Miss Marley as an intelligent worker, in contrast to her aunt’s assessment of “Could do better if she tried.” Digby Seton was hopeless, but even Courtney couldn’t believe that the man was faking. In the end, to everyone’s relief he was allowed to give up. Predictably, none of the copies, including Digby’s abortive effort, bore any resemblance to the originals. Sergeant Courtney, who believed that the second, and probably the first also, had been typed by Maurice Seton, would have been surprised if they had. But the final verdict would not be his. The copies would now be sent to an expert and examined for more subtle similarities. He didn’t tell his suspects this; but then, he didn’t need to. They hadn’t read their Maurice Seton for nothing.
Before they left the inn their fingerprints were taken. When her turn came, Miss Calthrop was outraged. She began for the first time to regret the desire to economise which had made her earlier decide not to seek the help of her solicitor. But she mentioned his name freely, together with that of her Member of Parliament, and the Chief Constable. Sergeant Courtney, however, was so reassuring, so understanding of her feelings, so anxious for her help, so different in every way from that uncouth Inspector, that she was at last persuaded to co-operate. “Silly old bitch,” thought the Sergeant as he directed the pudgy fingers. “If the rest of them make half this fuss I’ll be lucky to be through before the old man gets back.”
But the rest of them made no fuss at all. Digby Seton was tediously facetious about the whole proceedings, attempting to hide his nervousness by an exaggerated interest in the technique. Eliza Marley was sulkily acquiescent, and Jane Dalgliesh’s thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. Bryce disliked it most. There was something portentous and irrevocable about parting with a symbol so uniquely peculiar to himself. He understood why primitive tribes were so careful that no scraps of their hair should fall into an enemy’s hand. As he pressed his fingers on the pad with a moue of distaste he felt that virtue had gone out of him.
Oliver Latham jabbed his fingers into the pad as if it were Reckless’s eye. When he looked up, he saw that the Inspector had come quietly in and was watching him. Sergeant Courtney got to his feet.
Reckless said: “Good evening, Sir. That’s just a formality.”
“Oh, I know all about that, thank you. The Sergeant has trotted out all the routine reassurance. I was wondering where you’d got to after your trip to town. I hope you enjoyed yourself questioning-as you would no doubt term her-‘my lady friend.’ And the porter at the flat? Duncombe was cooperative, I hope?”
“Everyone was very helpful, thank you, Sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure they were! I’ve no doubt they enjoyed themselves immensely. Things are a bit quiet in town at present. I must be providing the best bit of gossip in weeks. And as we’re all being so co-operative, what about a little co-operation from your end? I suppose there’s no objection to my knowing how Seton died?”
“None at all, Sir-in due course. But we haven’t got the PM report yet.”
“Your chap’s being a bit slow, isn’t he?”
“On the contrary, Sir. Dr. Sydenham is very quick. But there are still a number of tests to be done. This isn’t a straightforward case.”
“I should rank that remark, Inspector, as the understatement of the year.” Taking his handkerchief from his pocket Latham carefully wiped his already clean fingers.
Watching him the Inspector said quietly: “If you’re so impatient, Mr. Latham, why not ask some of your friends? You know as well as I do that someone at Monksmere could tell you precisely how Maurice Seton died.”
14
Since his half-brother’s death Digby Seton had taken to dropping in at Rosemary Cottage for meals, and his neighbours didn’t fail to remark with wry amusement on just how often the Vauxhall was seen parked on the grass verge outside the cottage. They conceded that Celia was unlikely to discourage the company of a very rich young man but Digby’s motives were less obvious. No one assumed that the charms of Eliza attracted him or that he saw in her sullen gracelessness a means of getting his hands on Maurice’s capital. On the whole, people thought that he probably preferred Celia’s food, uninteresting though it was, to the tedium of driving twice a day into Southwold or the effort of cooking for himself and that he was glad to get out of the way of Sylvia Kedge. Since the murder the girl had haunted Seton House with the persistence of a funeral mute waiting for her pay. The obsessional care which she had given to Maurice’s work now seemed to be devoted to his house and she tidied, polished, cleaned, counted linen and dragged herself about on her crutches, duster in hand as if she expected the late owner to appear at any minute and run his fingers over the window ledges. As Digby told Eliza Marley, it made him nervous. He had never liked Seton House which, despite its bright modernity, he found curiously sinister and depressing. Now, when those smouldering black eyes were liable to turn on him from every corner and cupboard, he felt he was living in one of the gloomier Greek dramas with the Eumenides lurking outside ready to make their entrance.