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  “You’ve got there! I hate stupid people. Most women are stupid—they think too much about themselves.” He relapsed into gloom again. “Fact is, I’ve come here to ask you a lot of questions.”

  “Why should you mind that?” said Rosalind gently. She picked up a bright green hand-screen and held it between her and the fire.

  “I’ve got to rake up all that business about Gilbert,” said Garrett at his jerkiest.

  Rosalind turned a little paler. She said,

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you why—at least not in detail. I can tell you as much as this—there’s a question of someone else being involved in the same way.”

  Rosalind moved the green screen slowly to and fro.

  “You can ask me anything you like,” she said. Then suddenly the colour came into her face. “You say someone else may be ‘involved.’ What do you mean? I told you Gilbert was murdered, and you wouldn’t believe me. Now you say someone else may be ‘involved’ in the same way. Do you mean murdered?”

  Garrett came bolt upright.

  “No, I don’t. For the Lord’s sake don’t get off on to that tack! Now look here—I don’t like this, but I’ve got to do it. Let’s get on with it. I want to ask my questions, and I want you to answer them and keep to the point.”

  Rosalind’s left hand clenched on itself. The colour left her face. She said,

  “Very well.”

  If her words agreed, her voice protested. She looked away from him and down. Her lids and the lashes which were so much darker than her hair hid her eyes. If there were tears in them, Garrett was none the wiser. He said,

  “I want you to go right back. When did you first notice that Gilbert was worried?”

  “I don’t know. He was working very hard—there was the election—I thought it was that.”

  “You noticed that he was worried about the time of the nineteen twenty-nine election?”

  “I didn’t really think he was worried. I thought—he was—overdoing it—frightfully.”

  “And after the election was over? Did he still seem worried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “No.”

  The question and her own answer cut like knives. If she had asked him, he might have told her—he might be here now.

  “Why?” said Garrett sharply.

  “I thought he was tired—I thought he wanted to be let alone.” Her voice had become almost inaudible.

  “When did you begin to think there was something more in it than that?”

  “He got a telephone call one day. I came into the room as he was hanging up the receiver.”

  “He looked disturbed—agitated?”

  “Yes.”

  How put into words what had been in Gilbert’s face? She woke sometimes in the night and saw that look. It stopped her heart to think of it.

  Garrett was speaking again.

  “Didn’t you ask him anything then?”

  She shook her head very slightly.

  “I couldn’t.”

  He shot another “Why?” at her, and she turned on him.

  “You’re not married, Frank. There are places everyone keeps to themselves. Gilbert had his locked doors. We were happy because I respected them. If I had pushed my way in, he wouldn’t have forgotten it. I thought—I thought—he would open the door when he wanted me.”

  Garrett scowled at the fire. Married? Thank the Lord, no! Emotion was the very devil.

  “And after that?” he said.

  “I thought him ill and—very troubled. I thought—he was being blackmailed.”

  “Why?”

  “He talked in his sleep.”

  Her voice was almost gone. Gilbert—defenceless in his sleep—defenceless against her—the barriers down! She heard his rapid muttering voice tumbling and hurrying over the words: “I’ll see you damned first!” He said that over and over again; and, “Blackmail—blackmail—blackmailing swine!”

  “What did he say?”

  She told him, and with the spoken words the past was there in her mind like a picture on a screen—faint moonlight outside, and their curtains drawn back; a light air moving in the room; herself between sleeping and waking, propped on an elbow; and Gilbert, one arm flung out, and that rapid mutter breaking upon the stillness.

  “He never told you who was blackmailing him?” Garrett’s voice shattered the picture.

  “No.”

  “What happened next?”

  She laid the hand-screen across her knees. The flame had dropped in the fire. A shiver went over her. She did not look at Garrett; she looked down at a point between them.

  “He told me he was going to take a holiday. I was pleased—but he didn’t seem to be pleased. He told me in a strange way—”

  “Yes?” The word came short and sharp.

  Rosalind’s hand moved on the pale grey stuff of her skirt.

  “He came into my room and stood in front of the fire, and just as I was wondering why he had come, he said, ‘I saw a fortune-teller yesterday. She told me I was going on a long journey. Would you like to go round the world?’”

  Garrett banged on the seat of the sofa.

  “A fortune-teller? You’re sure of that?”

  She nodded.

  “Was he in the habit of going to fortune-tellers?”

  “Of course he wasn’t! He thought it was all rubbish.”

  “Go on,” said Garrett—“go on! Tell me exactly what he said!”

  Rosalind looked up at him and down again. Her look questioned him, but got no answer.

  “I can’t remember,” she said. “Everything happened so quickly. We were to go round the world—India first, and then Japan. Our tickets were taken. We got rid of our house and stored the furniture. Gilbert sold his boat—you know he had a passion for sailing. It was when he was taking her round to Minehead to hand her over that it happened.”

  “You weren’t there?”

  She said in a dull voice,

  “No—I don’t like sailing.”

  During how many sleepless nights had she lain in the aching dark and wondered whether Gilbert would be alive now if she had liked sailing. Would he have gone overboard if she had been there?

  “What crew did the boat carry?” said Garrett briskly.

  “Three.”

  “Can you give me the names and addresses?”

  She shook her head.

  “I can show you their statements.”

  He nodded, and she went out of the room, coming back presently with a handful of cuttings.

  “It’s all there,” she said, and sat down again, leaning her head on her hand and looking away into the sunk fire.

  The room was very silent whilst Garrett read.

  It was a plain tragic tale. Gilbert Denny had sailed the Zest from Plymouth, and was making for Polperro. At sundown they had still a couple of hours’ run before them. The day had been fine with a fresh breeze, but when the sun went down the wind went too, and the sky clouded. Denny left the wheel to the skipper and went below. It was dark when he came on deck again. They were then passing Talland, and about three quarters of a mile out. Denny said, “You’ll take her in.” He went over to the starboard side and leaned on the rail. No one noticed him after that, but about five minutes later there was a splash and he was gone. They threw a buoy over and got the dinghy out. They never found a trace of him. When they had done all they could, they put into Polperro. They were all much distressed. It seemed, on the face of it, a clear enough case of suicide. The body was never recovered, though the loose jacket which Denny had been wearing was washed up between Talland and Polperro calm, deep sea. How many times had she died with him, and yet could never reach him? Garrett’s voice had brought her back too quickly. Her eyes had a da
rkened faraway look. She said in a stumbling voice, “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why? Because I do—because it’s important—because. … Why can’t you answer a plain question?”

  Rosalind had come back now. Talland was in Cornwall, and Gilbert was dead, and someone else was sailing the Zest on other seas. She looked at the bluegreen snail on Garrett’s palm and said,

  “It’s a wonderful bit of work. I don’t know where Gilbert got it.”

  “Gilbert got it, did he?”

  “I think he must have meant it for my birthday. It came just after he left for Plymouth. He was there two days before he sailed.”

  “It came in a parcel?”

  “Yes. I opened it—afterwards.”

  “And you don’t know where it came from?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Garrett took no notice of her question.

  “Never seen anything like it before?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, I have—that’s all.”

  “Where?”

  “Ellinger’s got one—a toad swallowing a worm.”

  “Ellinger?”

  “Ellinger wasn’t drowned,” said Garrett—“he only had a nervous breakdown. Same thing as far as his career was concerned. He grows roses in Kent, and he’s got a green toad swallowing a worm on his smoking-room mantelpiece. You don’t know the Ellingers, but I think you knew Tip Reddington. He had a nervous breakdown too. He’s gone to see a daughter in Australia. I wonder whether he’s got one of these beasts in his baggage. And then there’s Lemare, and Masterson—”

  He stopped speaking with a singular abruptness, flung round, and went over to the writing-table, where he put the snail back between the left-hand candlestick and the bowl of anemones. Then he came over to the hearth with his hands in his pockets, jingling the oddments which he always carried there. His small grey eyes fixed Rosalind sharply.

  “I’ve let my tongue run away. Can you hold yours?”

  “Women always can.”

  He stuck out his chin.

  “I’m damned serious.”

  “So am I, Frank.” She was looking up at him, elbow on knee and chin in hand, her dark blue eyes fixed steadily on his. After a moment she said, “I’m safe.”

  “Well, you’d better be.” He went on jingling. “You can help—” He paused, frowning horribly. “I take it you believe Gilbert cut loose because he was being blackmailed?”

  “Yes.” She steadied her voice and said, “He told me so.”

  “What?”

  “I had a letter. Don’t tell anyone. From Plymouth—that morning. I got it next day. He said—he couldn’t stand it—and that I—should be better—free—”

  Garrett walked away across the room and stood looking out of the window. What a mess! What was behind it? Who was behind it?

  He came back again to the fire.

  “What’s your opinion of young Ware?” He was jingling horribly.

  Rosalind leaned back into the sofa corner. She felt drained and exhausted.

  “He’s a friend of mine. Gilbert was very fond of him.”

  “Is he in love with you?” said Garrett, and kicked the fire.

  Rosalind broke into rather a shaky laugh.

  “My dear Frank—what do you expect me to say?”

  “Lies aren’t going to be much use.”

  She laughed again.

  “Let’s play at telling the truth. What was it you wanted to know?”

  “Whether Ware is in love with you—or rather whether he was in love with you two years ago.”

  Rosalind’s expression changed. It became serious. She said in a gentle, serious voice,

  “No, Frank—not in the way you mean.”

  “Are you splitting hairs?”

  She shook her head.

  “Jeremy adored Gilbert—he’d have done anything for him. He loves me, but he’s not in love with me. It would never occur to him to be in love with Gilbert’s wife.”

  “Hair-splitting!” said Garrett with contempt. “Damn highfalutin hair-splitting!”

  Rosalind Denny’s colour rose.

  “You really are a little bit uncivilized, Frank,” she said.

  “I say what I think!”

  “A very savage thing to do.” Her tone was gentle, but her eyes were not. They held a bright spark of anger.

  “Tchah!” said Garrett with a grimace. “I’m serious!” He took his hands out of his pockets and brought one down upon the other with a clapping sound. “Fact is, I’m too civilized. I want to put something to you, and I don’t like doing it.”

  Rosalind’s eyebrows rose.

  “My dear Frank, it must be something pretty bad!”

  Garrett grunted.

  “It’s something based on reason and logic. Women ain’t reasonable, and they’ve got no use for logic, so you won’t like it.”

  Rosalind’s smile lit up her face.

  “What is it, Frank?”

  “Take it this way,” said Garrett. “Lady X. has a butler. Someone goes off with her silver spoons. The butler goes on to Mrs Y. The same thing happens—Mrs Y’s silver spoons are cleared out. Which of the servants would you suspect?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Rosalind Denny.

  “Well, you will in a minute, but you won’t like it. Perhaps I’d better not go on.”

  “I think you must go on.”

  “Gilbert had a secretary called Jeremy Ware. Gilbert was driven out of public life. Jeremy Ware gets himself another job—I expect you know what it is. He’s Mannister’s secretary now, and Mannister comes to me and says there’s a plot to drive him out of public life. That’s the sort of coincidence that worries me.”

  Rosalind had turned very pale. She said,

  “How horrible!”

  “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

  Her colour came back with a rush. She was angry and beautiful.

  “It’s not true!” she said. “It’s not true!”

  CHAPTER VII

  MR SMITH FINISHED HIS coffee and began to eat the granulated sugar which remained at the bottom of the cup. It was a performance rather after the manner of the celebrated Amine as recounted by Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights. Mr Benbow Smith took up the saturated sugar a grain at a time and absorbed it in a delicate, abstracted manner.

  Colonel Garrett, sitting opposite him, poured himself out a second cup, drank it at a gulp sugarless and black, and thumped the Worcester cup and saucer back upon the silver tray.

  “Beastly stuff coffee! Don’t know why we drink it!” He sat forward and put his chin in his hands. “I want to talk to you about Denny.”

  Mr Smith went on eating sugar. The hour was a quarter to nine. In the window Ananias snored faintly, his cage shrouded in green baize.

  “Denny has cropped up,” said Garrett with a prodigious frown.

  “Yes?” said Mr Smith. “You know, I disagree with you about coffee. It is one of the blessings of civilization. To eat the sugar afterwards is undoubtedly a vice. But then I have so few vices. If I had none, I am afraid Ananias would not feel comfortable. To—er—judge by his language, his more impressionable years were passed in circles where vice was at a premium.”

  “I want to talk about Denny,” said Garrett.

  “So you—er—said.”

  “He’s cropped up. I want to tell you the whole thing.”

  Mr Smith leaned back in his chair. Garrett went on speaking in his odd jerky way.

  “You remember the Engelberg Note?”

  “September the twentieth, ’twenty-nine—” Mr Smith’s tone was dreamy.

  “Gilbert Denny was Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the time. The Foreign Office got the Note. In the touchy state of the markets a good deal depended on what o
ur answer was going to be. That answer was, let us say—forecast—so accurately in Paris that someone must have made a lot of money. Put that in a watertight compartment—” He broke off. Then he said, “I suppose you know Rosalind Denny’s a cousin of mine? She’s three-quarters American, but I’m cousin to the other quarter.”

  “Er—yes—now you speak of it.”

  Garrett grinned at the admission. In all their long association he had never known the absent-minded Mr Smith to be at a loss for a name, a date, or any other fact once heard. He was frowning again in a minute.

  “Rosalind says Gilbert was worried from that time on. She thought the election. Later Denny talked in his sleep about blackmail. The whole thing was spread over several months, you understand. In May he walked in and told her a fortune-teller had said he was going round the world. On that, made arrangements to go. He had a sailing boat at Plymouth. On the eighteenth of June he went down there—his wife to an aunt of his in Somerset. On the twentieth he took his boat out of Plymouth to sail her round to Polperro on the way to Minehead, where he was handing her over. At eleven o’clock that night he went overboard. They were about three-quarters of a mile out and not far from Polperro. He wrote his wife a letter to say she’d be better free. No one knows that except you and me. The body wasn’t found, so there wasn’t an inquest. Well, that’s chapter two. Then I come on.” He paused.

  Mr Smith said nothing. He was looking at the fire. The log which lay uppermost had burned to a shell. It was the glowing wraith of a log. Fire pulsed at its heart. It quivered in the wind of its own burning.

  “Gilbert made me sole executor,” said Garrett. “When I went into his affairs, I came on these isolated facts. On the eighth of October ’twenty-nine he was considerably overdrawn. Someone paid in a thousand pounds to his account. It was paid in over the counter in one-pound Treasury notes. I’m not asking you to connect that with the Engelberg Note, but there it is. Rosalind didn’t know anything about it. The blackmail started some time after that. In February Gilbert sold out two thousand pounds of War Loan. He drew two hundred pounds in one-pound Treasury notes. In March he drew another two hundred. In April he drew five hundred. In May six hundred. On the fifteenth of June another five hundred. All in one-pound Treasury notes.”

  He got up, walked over to the hearth and pitched a log upon the fire. The burning shell fell in with an upward rush of spark and flame.