Kirsten sighed unhappily. What was going to happen to them all? To Micky, who had borne that deep, almost pathological grudge against his adopted mother. To Hester, so unsure of herself, so wild. Hester, who had been on the point of finding peace and security with that nice stolid young doctor. To Leo and Gwenda, who had had motive and, yes, it had to be faced, opportunity, as they both must realise. To Tina, that sleek little catlike creature. To selfish, cold-hearted Mary, who until she had married had never shown affection for anybody.
Once, Kirsten thought, she herself had been full of affection for her employer, full of admiration. She couldn't remember exactly when she had begun to dislike her, when she had begun to judge her and find her wanting. So sure of herself, benevolent, tyrannical - a kind of living walking embodiment of Mother Knows Best.
And not really even a mother! If she had ever borne a child, it might have kept her humble.
But why go on thinking of Rachel Argyle? Rachel Argyle was dead. She had to think of herself - and the others. And of what might happen tomorrow.
Mary Durrant woke with a start.
She had been dreaming - dreaming that she was a child, back again in New York.
How odd. She hadn't thought of those days for years.
It was really surprising that she could remember anything at all. How old had she been? Five? Six?
She had dreamed that she was being taken home to the tenement from the hotel. The Argyles were sailing for England and not taking her with them after all. Anger and rage filled her heart for a moment or two until the realisation came that it had only been a dream.
How wonderful it had been. Taken into the car, going up in the elevator of the hotel to the eighteenth floor. The big suite, that wonderful bathroom; the revelation of what things there were in the world if you were rich! If she could stay here, if she could keep all this for ever... Actually, there had been no difficulty at all. All that was needed was a show of affection; never easy for her, for she was not affectionate by disposition, but she had managed it. And there she was, established for life!
A rich father and mother, clothes, cars, ships, aeroplanes, servants to wait on her, expensive dolls and toys. A fairy tale comes true...
A pity that all those other children had had to be there, too. That was the war, of course. Or would it have happened anyway? That insatiable mother love! Really something unnatural in it. So animal.
She had always felt a faint contempt for her adopted mother. Stupid in any case to choose the children she had chosen. The under-privileged! Criminal tendencies like Jacko's. Unbalanced like Hester. A savage like Micky. And Tina, a half-caste! No wonder they had all turned out badly. Though she couldn't really blame them for rebelling. She, herself, had rebelled. She remembered her meeting with Philip, a dashing young pilot. Her mother's disapproval. "These hurried marriages. Wait until the war is over." But she hadn't wanted to wait. She had as strong a will as her mother's, and her father had backed her up. They had married, and the war had ended soon afterwards.
She had wanted to have Philip all to herself - to get away out of her mother's shadow. It was Fate that had defeated her, not her mother. First the failure of Philip's financial schemes and then that horrifying blow - polio of the paralytic type. As soon as Philip was able to leave hospital they had come to Sunny Point. It had seemed inevitable that they would have to make their home there. Philip himself had seemed to think it inevitable. He had gone through all his money and her allowance from the Trust was not so very big. She had asked for a larger one, but the answer had been that perhaps for a while it would be wise to live at Sunny Point. But she wanted Philip to herself, all to herself, she didn't want him to be the last of Rachel Argyle's "children." She had not wanted a child of her own - she only wanted Philip.
But Philip himself had seemed quite agreeable to the idea of coming to Sunny Point.
"Easier for you," he said. "And people always coming and going there makes a distraction. Besides, I always find your father very good company."
Why didn't he want only to be with her as she wanted only to be with him? Why did he crave for other company - her father's, Hester's?
And Mary had felt a wave of futile rage sweep over her. Her mother, as usual, would get her own way. But she hadn't got her own way... she had died.
And now it was going to be all raked up again. Why, oh, why?
And why was Philip being so trying about it all? Questioning, trying to find out, mixing himself up in what was none of his business?
Laying traps...
What kind of traps?
Ill
Leo Argyle watched the morning light fill the room slowly with dim grey light.
He had thought out everything very carefully.
It was quite clear to him - exactly what they were up against, he and Gwenda.
He lay looking at the whole thing as Superintendent Huish would look at it. Rachel coming in and telling them about Jacko - his wildness and his threats. Gwenda had tactfully gone into the next room, and he had tried to comfort Rachel, had told her she was quite right to have been firm, that helping Jacko in the past had done no good - that for better or worse he must take what was coming to him. And she had gone away easier in her mind.
And then Gwenda had come back into the room, and gathered up the letters for the post and had asked if there was anything that she could do, her voice saying more than the actual words. And he had thanked her and said no. And she had said good night and gone out of the room. Along the passage and down the stairs and past the room where Rachel was sitting at her desk and so out of the house with no one to watch her go...
And he himself had sat on alone in the library, and there had been nobody to check whether he left it and went down to Rachel's room.
It was like that - opportunity for either of them.
And motive, because already by then he loved Gwenda and she loved him.
And there was nobody, ever, who could prove the guilt or innocence of either of them.
IV
A quarter of a mile away, Gwenda lay dry-eyed and sleepless.
Her hands clenched, she was thinking how much she had hated Rachel Argyle.
And now in the darkness, Rachel Argyle was saying: "You thought you could have my husband once I was dead. But you can't - you can't. You will never have my husband."
Hester was dreaming. She dreamt that she was with Donald Craig and that he had left her suddenly at the edge of an abyss. She had cried out in fear and then, on the other side of it, she saw that Arthur Calgary was standing, holding out his hands to her.
She cried out to him reproachfully.
"Why have you done this to me?" and he answered: "But I've come to help you..."
She woke up.
VI
Lying quietly in the small spare-room bed, Tina breathed gently and regularly, but sleep did not come. She thought of Mrs. Argyle, without gratitude and without resentment - simply with love. Because of Mrs. Argyle she had had food and drink and warmth and toys and comfort. She had loved Mrs. Argyle. She was sorry she was dead...
But it wasn't quite as simple as that. It hadn't mattered when it was Jacko...
But now...
Chapter 13
Superintendent Huish looked round on them all, gently and politely. His tone when he spoke was persuasive and apologetic.
"I know it must be very painful to you all," he said, "to have to go over the whole thing again. But really, we've no choice in the matter. You saw the notice, I expect? It was in all the morning papers."
"A free pardon," said Leo.
"The phraseology always grates on people," said Huish. "An anachronism, like so much of legal terminology. But its meaning is quite clear."
"It means that you made a mistake," said Leo.
"Yes." Huish acknowledged it simply. "We made a mistake."
He added, after a minute, "Of course, without Dr. Calgary's evidence it was really inevitable."
Leo said coldly: "My son told you, when you arrested him, that he had been given a lift that night."
"Oh, yes. He told us. And we did our best to check - but we couldn't find any confirmation of the story. I quite realise, Mr. Argyle, that you must feel exceedingly bitter about the whole business. I'm not making excuses and apologies. All we police officers have to do is to collect the evidence. The evidence goes to the Public Prosecutor and he decides if there is a case. In this case he decided there was. If it's possible, I'd ask you to put as much bitterness as you can out of your mind and just run over the facts and times again."
"What's the use now?" Hester spoke up sharply. "Whoever did it is miles away and you'll never find him."
Superintendent Huish turned to look at her. "That may be - and it may not," he said mildly.
"You'd be surprised at the times we do get our man - sometimes after several years. It's patience does it, patience and never letting up."
Hester turned her head away, and Gwenda gave a quick shiver as though a cold wind had passed over her. Her lively imagination felt the menace behind the quiet words.
"Now if you please," said Huish. He looked expectantly at Leo. "We'll start with you, Mr. Argyle."
"What do you want to know exactly? You must have my original statement? I shall probably be less accurate now. Exact times are apt to slip one's memory."
"Oh, we realise that. But there's always the chance that some little fact may come to light, something overlooked at the time."
"Isn't it even possible," asked Philip, "that one might see things in better proportion looking back after the lapse of years?"
"It's a possibility, yes," said Huish, turning his head to look at Philip with some interest.
"Intelligent chap," he thought. "I wonder if he's got any ideas of his own about this..."
"Now, Mr. Argyle, if you'll just run through the sequence of events. You'd had tea?"
"Yes. Tea had been in the dining-room at five o'clock as usual. We were all there for it with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Durrant. Mrs. Durrant took tea for herself and her husband up to their own sitting-room."
"I was even more of a cripple then than I am now," said Philip. "I'd only just got out of hospital."
"Quite so." Huish turned back to Leo. "All of you - being?"
"My wife and myself, my daughter Hester, Miss Vaughan and Miss Lindstrom."
"And then? Just tell me in your own words."
"After tea I came back in here with Miss Vaughan. We were at work upon a chapter of my book on Medieval Economics which I was revising. My wife went to her sitting-room and office, which is on the ground floor. She was, as you know, a very busy woman. She was looking over some plans for a new children's play-ground which she was intending to present to the Council here."
"Did you hear your son Jack's arrival?"
"No. That is, I did not know that it was he. I heard, we both heard, the front-door bell. We did not know who it was."
"Who did you think it was, Mr. Argyle?" Leo looked faintly amused.
"I was in the fifteenth century at the time, not the twentieth. I didn't think at all. It could have been anybody or anything. My wife and Miss Lindstrom and Hester and possibly one of our daily helps would all be downstairs. Nobody," said Leo simply, "ever expected me to answer a bell."
"After that?"
"Nothing. Until my wife came in a good deal later."
"How much later?"
Leo frowned.
"By now I really couldn't tell you. I must have given you my estimate at the time. Half an hour - no, more - perhaps three-quarters."
"We finished tea just after half past five," said Gwenda. "I think it was about twenty minutes to seven when Mrs. Argyle came into the library."
"And she said?"
Leo sighed. He spoke distastefully.
"We have had all this so many times. She said Jacko had been with her, that he was in trouble, that he had been violent and abusive, demanding money and saying that unless he had some money at once it would be a matter of prison. That she had refused definitely to give him a penny. She was worried as to whether she had done right or not."
"Mr. Argyle, may I ask you a question. Why, when the boy made these demands for money, did your wife not call you? Why only tell you afterwards? Did that not seem odd to you?"
"No, it did not."
"It seems to me that that would have been the natural thing to do. You were not - on bad terms?"
"Oh no. It was simply that my wife was accustomed to dealing with all practical decisions single-handed. She would often consult me beforehand as to what I thought and she usually discussed the decisions she had taken with me afterwards. In this particular matter she and I had talked very seriously together about the problem of Jacko - what to do for the best. So far, we had been singularly unfortunate in our handling of the boy. She had paid out very considerable sums of money several times to protect him from the consequences of his actions. We had decided that if there was a next time, it would be best for Jacko to learn the hard way."
"Nevertheless, she was upset?"
"Yes. She was upset. If he had been less violent and threatening, I think she might have been broken down and helped him once more, but his attitude only stiffened her resolution."
"Had Jacko left the house by then?"
"Oh, yes."
"Do you know that of your own knowledge, or did Mrs. Argyle tell you?"
"She told me. She said he had gone away swearing, and threatening to come back, and that he'd said she'd better have some cash ready for him then."
"Were you - this is important - were you alarmed at the thought of the boy's return?"
"Of course not. We were quite used to what I can only call Jacko's bluster." "It never entered your head that he would return and attack her." "No. I told you so at the time. I was dumbfounded."
"And it seems you were quite right," said Huish softly. "It wasn't he who attacked her. Mrs. Argyle left you - when exactly?"
