The remark had interested Eliza since it suggested that Digby might be more perceptive and sensitive than was commonly assumed. Without being in the least attracted to him physically she was beginning to find him interesting, even a little intriguing. It was surprising what the possession of £200,000 could do for a man. Already she could detect the subtle patina of success, the assurance and complacency which the possession of power or money invariably gives. The glandular fever had left her depressed and fatigued. In this mood, without the energy to work and fretted by boredom, almost any company was better than none. Despising the easy capitulation to self-interest which had changed her aunt’s opinion of him overnight from Maurice’s problem brother to a perfectly charming young man, she nevertheless was beginning to admit that there might be more in Digby Seton than met the eye. But not much more.
He hadn’t accepted Miss Calthrop’s invitation to dinner on Sunday night but he turned up at Rosemary Cottage shortly after nine and having arrived was apparently in no hurry to leave. It was now nearly eleven but he was still there, swivelling himself to and fro on the piano stool and spasmodically playing snatches of his own or other people’s tunes. Eliza, curled into her fireside chair, watched and listened and was in no hurry for him to go. He didn’t play badly. There was no real talent there, of course, but when he was taking trouble, which was seldom, he was agreeably competent. She remembered that there had once been talk by Maurice of making a pianist out of Digby. Poor Maurice! That was when he was still desperately trying to persuade himself that his only living relative had some qualities to justify the relationship. Even when Digby was still at school his modest successes, the time he had won the boxing championship, for example, had been trumpeted by Maurice as major achievements. It was unthinkable that Maurice Seton’s halfbrother should be entirely without some talent. And nor was he. He had, single-handed, designed and built Sheldrake and had sailed her with competence even if his enthusiasm had only lasted a couple of seasons. But this hearty gamesmanship, in some way so untypical of Digby, was hardly likely to impress an intellectual snob like Maurice. In the end, of course, he had given up pretending, just as Celia had given up hope that her niece was pretty, that she was going to have an orthodox success as a woman. Eliza glanced across at the large coloured photograph of herself that bore witness to Celia’s humiliating and ludicrous ambitions. It had been taken when she was eleven, three years after the death of her parents. The thick dark hair was preposterously curled and ribboned, the white organdie dress with its pink sash looked vulgarly inappropriate to such a heavy-featured and graceless child. No, it hadn’t taken her aunt long to shed that particular delusion. But then, of course, it had been succeeded by another; dear Eliza, if she couldn’t be pretty, had to be clever. Now the theme was: “My niece has a brilliant brain. She’s at Cambridge, you know.” Poor Aunt Celia! It was petty to grudge her this vicarious intellectual pleasure. After all she was paying hard cash for it. But Eliza felt some sympathy with Digby Seton. To an extent both of them had suffered from the pressure of another’s personality, both had been accepted for qualities which they had no hope of ever possessing, both had been marked down as a bad buy.
On impulse she suddenly asked him: “Which of us do you think killed your brother?”
He was syncopating a number from one of the recent London shows, inaccurately and rather too loudly for comfort. He had almost to shout above the noise of his own row: “You tell me. You’re the one who’s supposed to be clever.”
“Not as clever as Aunt makes out. But clever enough to wonder why it was I you phoned to meet you at Saxmundham. We’ve never been particularly friendly.”
“Perhaps I thought it was time we were. Anyway, assuming I wanted a free lift to Monksmere, who else could I phone?”
“There is that. And, assuming you wanted an alibi for the time of the train journey.”
“I had an alibi. The ticket collector recognised me; and I had an interesting chat with an old gentleman in the carriage about the naughtiness of the modern generation. I expect he would remember me. I can prove I was on that train, darling, without your help.”
“But can you prove where you got on?”
“Liverpool Street. It was pretty crowded so I don’t suppose anyone noticed me; but let Reckless try to prove that I didn’t. Why are you so suspicious all of a sudden?”
“I’m not really. I don’t see how you could have done it.”
“Thank you for nothing. Nor do the police at West Central Station.”
The girl shivered and said with sudden force: “Those hands-it was a horrible thing to do. Horrible! Don’t you feel that? Particularly to a writer. Horrible and significant. I don’t think you hated him that much.”
He dropped his hands from the keys and swung round to face her. “I didn’t hate him at all. Damn it, Eliza! Do I look like a murderer?”
“How should I know? You’re the one with the motive.
£200,000 worth.”
“Not until I get a wife. What about applying for the job?”
“No thank you. I like men to have an IQ at least approximate to mine. We wouldn’t suit. What you want for the club, surely, is a glamorous blonde with a forty-inch bust, a heart of low-carat gold and a mind like a calculating machine.”
“Oh no!” he said seriously. “I know what I want for the club. And now I’ve got the money I can pay for it. I want class.”
The door into the study opened and Miss Calthrop poked her head through and gave them a vaguely puzzled look. She spoke to Eliza: “I seem to have lost one of my new tapes. You haven’t seen it, I suppose?”
Her niece’s only response was a disinterested shrug but Digby sprang to his feet and peered hopefully around the room as if expecting the reel to materialize on top of the piano or pop out from under the cushions. Watching his ineffectual antics Eliza thought: “Quite the little gentleman, aren’t we? He’s never bothered with Auntie before. What the hell is he playing at, anyway?”
The search was, of course, unsuccessful and Digby turned his charming deprecatory smile on Miss Calthrop. “So sorry. It doesn’t seem to be here.”
Celia, who had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience, thanked him and went back to her work.
As soon as the door closed behind her Digby said: “She’s taking it rather well, isn’t she?”
“Taking what?”
“Maurice’s will. After all, if it weren’t for me she’d be a very wealthy woman.”
Did the fool really imagine that they didn’t know it, that the arithmetic had somehow escaped them? She glanced across at him and caught his look of secret satisfaction, complacent, amused. It came to her suddenly that he must know something about Maurice’s death, that the secret smile meant more than a momentary satisfaction at their disappointment and his own good luck. It was on the tip of her tongue to utter a warning. If he really had discovered something he would be in danger. He was typical of the fool who stumbles on part of the truth and hasn’t the sense to keep his mouth shut. But she checked herself, irritated by that glimpse of secret satisfaction. Probably she was only being fanciful. Probably he had guessed nothing. And if he had? Well, Digby Seton would have to look after himself, would have to take his chance like the rest of them.