To a child’s questions there could only be a child’s answer, “Because.” The answer had walked across her mind so often that the track was worn deep, the “Because,” was there without even the “Why?”
These things are, have been, will be, must be. Let yourself be acted upon by the fates, keep your face blank, don’t squirm, if you move, the finger will move after you.
She closed the door of her father’s room and walked away. She made no conscious attempt to forget that moment of uncertainty when she had almost reached over to comfort her father and demand comfort in return. But she did forget. The skin of her heart was loose like a lion’s skin, and when the lion is wounded, the skin moves to cover the wound and stop the bleeding.
At the bottom of the stairs she met Maurice carrying a silver tray with a pot of coffee and a little pitcher of Cream and a silver fingerbowl, floating two yellow rosebuds. He saw her staring at the rosebuds.
“I... I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.”
“No, of course not,” Alice said. Yet she did mind. The rosebuds were a symbol to her of all the futile gestures that had been made in the house.
“How did he take the news, Miss Alice?”
“Very well,” Alice said automatically. “You must stay with him until he has his coffee and then help him dress. The policeman is waiting to talk to him.”
Maurice made clucking noises of sympathy. “It’s a shame, Miss Alice, for the police to come bothering him at his age.”
Alice looked at him, smiling slightly. “At his age, Maurice? Father is your age, fifty-three, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maurice returned her smile, but he looked shocked and he unconsciously straightened his shoulders. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll help him dress.”
He went up the steps, trying to sound very brisk and youthful. The springy patter of his steps said, I may be fifty-three but how am I doing?
But when he reached the third floor he was panting and some of the cream had spilled out of the pitcher and the rosebuds had dived and come up gleaming with water. He stopped a minute to catch his breath and wipe away the cream with his handkerchief. There was a damp stain on the napkin but Mr. Heath wouldn’t notice, he was too old.
Mr. Heath didn’t notice the stain or the rosebuds or even Maurice until Maurice cleared his throat loudly and said, “Your coffee, sir.”
“Ah?”
“Your coffee, sir.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah.”
Maurice set the tray on the small table beside the bed. He moved calmly, but there was a panic bubbling up inside him. I’m not that old, I’m not that old.
“Cream, sir?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Heath said. “Thank you, sir.” Maurice’s hands were shaking. Some more cream jumped out of the pitcher.
“Miss Alice asked me to stay and help you dress,” Maurice said. “If you prefer I’ll wait out in the hall until you finish your coffee.”
Mr. Heath looked at him over the rim of the coffee cup. His eyes were pleasantly puzzled like the eyes of a man who has just heard a joke he doesn’t understand but is willing to laugh anyway.
“Why?” he said.
“Well, I thought you might like to be alone, sir,” Maurice said weakly, “in view of — in view of your grief.”
Mr. Heath bent his head and Maurice saw that he was chuckling silently to himself. He turned his back, flushing with vicarious shame. There was no grief here, there was nothing.
He stood stiffly at the window while Mr. Heath finished his coffee. Then he brought out the clothes from the closet, laying them carefully across a chair, while Mr. Heath watched him with an expression of wary interest. He looked more alive than he had for a long time and he refused to let Maurice help him remove his pajamas.
“Do you think I can’t even dress myself?”
In the end Maurice had to help him with his tie. They went downstairs together, Maurice staying a little way behind. During the whole two flights of stairs Maurice kept his hand out in front of him like a watchful mother ready to rescue a tottering infant. The gesture was partly protective but it was defensive too, another deniaclass="underline" I’m as old as he is but compare the two of us.
Inspector Sands was waiting for them in the drawing room. Alice was with him and Mr. Heath knew when he walked in, shaking off Maurice’s hand, that Alice had been talking about him.
She said, “My father. Inspector Sands.” There was a faint note of apology in her voice, and a half-smug, half-embarrassed expression in her eyes when she looked at Sands. She might have been saying: Here he is, what did I tell you? You’re wasting your time.
“Do you want me to stay with you, Father?”
“No, I don’t.” He glanced at her with distaste and motioned toward the door. When the door had opened and closed again he turned to Sands and smiled.
“Alice talks too much,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “Don’t you think so? However. You may smoke if you like. We have all had to give up smoking in this house because of Kelsey, but now that Kelsey is dead, go right ahead.”
It was the longest speech he had made in years. It exhilarated him and whipped the blood into his cheeks. Whatever Alice had told this policeman about him was canceled out now by the urbanity of this speech. Very urbane. Even the policeman was impressed by it, almost awed, in fact.
“Thanks,” Sands said. He did not reach for his cigarettes. “I noticed there were no ashtrays. Your daughter objected to smoking?”
Mr. Heath leaned forward eagerly in his chair. “Yes, and I know why. Nobody else does. But perhaps you’re not interested. It’s difficult to talk when nobody listens to you.”
“I’ll listen.”
“Well, you see my wife didn’t like smoking. It all goes back to Isobel; you will find that nearly everything goes back to Isobel. She was an amazing woman. Kelsey is... was... like her. Isobel objected to smoking but Kelsey objected to Isobel’s objection and smoked anyway. Then when Isobel died Kelsey objected again.” He smiled anxiously at Sands. “You see? Kelsey was carrying on for her mother. There was some nonsense talked about Kelsey objecting to smoking because Philip was lighting a cigarette at the time of the accident. But it really goes back to Isobel, as everything does.”
“Even the murder?” Sands said.
“Murder?” Mr. Heath repeated. “Kelsey was murdered?”
“She was killed with the fruit knife that lay on the table beside her bed.”
“Murdered in this house?”
“She was in bed,” Sands said. “It was the middle of the night.”
Mr. Heath leaned his head back against the chair. His color was gone and his voice was faint and querulous. “I’m tired. I’m too tired to talk.”
“Your wife left her money all to Kelsey, I understand.”
“Yes. All of it.”
“Outright?”
“No,” Mr. Heath said wearily. “That was not Isobel’s way. She left the money to Kelsey and when Kelsey died the money was to go to all of us.”
“Including Philip James?”
“Philip was to get a little of it, a monthly allowance, as long as he continued with his music. Isobel liked to think of herself as a patroness of the arts.”
“The servants?”
“Bequests for all, except the new girl Ida.”
Sands opened his notebook. There was no evidence of disappointment in his expression, but he thought, Kelsey Heath had no will and couldn’t have made one, so Loring couldn’t have been used for the purpose of overthrowing a will.
A sentence from the notebook struck his eyes: “He went out because I heard him, and he wasn’t in when I went to bed because I looked and he wasn’t.”