CHAPTER 30

Philip Jocelyn came out into the open air with the unpleasant sense that he had made a fool of himself. Whatever he had had in his coffee last night had left him with a swimming head. He must have been crazy to walk into Lilla’s room and say a thing like that without so much as waiting to make sure that he and Lyndall were alone before he blurted it out.

“Anne’s dead.” He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t even meant to go there. He had just found himself so near that it had seemed all at once an imperative necessity to see her. He had planned nothing. The drug and his disordered thoughts had betrayed him.

As he walked away he had no idea where he was going. Not back to the flat. Not yet-not before he must. Let them get on with it. He became aware that he had had no food all day. A meal would probably stop his head going round. He turned out of a side road into a busy street full of shops and entered the first restaurant he came to.

Half an hour later he walked in at his own front door, and was met by Chief Inspector Lamb.

“This is a bad business, Sir Philip.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you if I did. She hasn’t gone?”

Lamb looked at him out of an expressionless face.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Philip’s head was steady now. He said rather sharply,

“What has happened?”

Lamb said, “This,” and moved away from the study door.

Philip came forward a step or two and stood there looking in. There were three men in the room. One of them had a camera. Annie Joyce still lay where she had fallen. Philip thought of her like that-Annie Joyce-not Anne Jocelyn- not his wife. They hadn’t moved her yet. He looked at her lying there, and knew that she was dead. He had a brief stab of compunction. Then his face hardened. He stepped back and said in a controlled voice,

“Shot herself? Before you came-or afterwards?”

Lamb shook his head.

“Neither. She didn’t shoot herself-someone shot her. There’s no weapon.”

“Someone shot her?”

“Undoubtedly. We’d better come in here.” The Chief Inspector led the way to the living-room; “They’re just going to take her away, and I should be glad of a word with you. This is Sergeant Abbott. If you don’t mind, he’ll take a few notes. We shall want your statement. I suppose you have no objection to making one.”

Frank Abbott shut the door and got out his notebook. The sun had left the room. It was cold. They sat down. Lamb said,

“We have been instructed that this is a very confidential affair-a matter of attempting to obtain information for the enemy. But it seems to have turned into a murder case.”

Philip said, “Are you sure it isn’t suicide?”

“No question about it. Position of the wound-absence of any weapon. Somebody shot her. Now I’m going to ask you straight out-was she alive when you left the flat this morning?”

Philip Jocelyn’s eyebrows went up.

“Of course she was!”

Lamb went on in his solid, serious voice, his eyes bulging a little but shrewd, his gaze fixed and unwinking. Not a twitch of the eyelids, not a change of expression in all the big florid face. Above it, the stiff black hair stood up round a bald patch. He had taken off his overcoat, but even without it he filled his chair, sitting rather stiffly upright with a big capable hand on either knee.

“The police surgeon says she’s been dead a matter of hours. What time did you leave this morning?”

“Twenty to nine.”

Lamb nodded.

“Have any breakfast?”

Philip was as laconic as he.

“Coffee.”

Lamb grunted.

“Something about your being drugged last night, wasn’t there?” His tone conceded that as a medicament coffee might have its uses.

Philip said, “Yes.”

“And whilst you were asleep the case which you had brought back with you from the War Office was opened with your own key and the contents tampered with?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Jocelyn’s fingerprints-”

Philip interrupted sharply.

“She was neither Lady Jocelyn nor my wife. She was an enemy agent called Annie Joyce.”

“But she had been passing as Lady Jocelyn?”

“Yes.”

“Her fingerprints were found on your keys and upon the papers inside the case?”

“Yes.”

“Were these papers of a secret nature?”

“They appeared to be. They were not actually so. There was a code-book, but the code it contained has been superseded. There was nothing which could be of any value to the enemy.”

“Then you suspected that an attempt would be made to tamper with the case?”

“I thought it probable-I wasn’t taking any chances. As you know, I put myself in the hands of the Intelligence. I acted under their instructions.”

“Did you anticipate that an attempt would be made to drug you?”

“No. But it didn’t matter, except that my head is only just beginning to come round. Of course it was on the cards- but I’m a fairly sound sleeper, and she might have chanced it.”

“Would she have been in a position to know how soundly you slept?”

“No, she would not.”

Frank Abbott wrote, leaning forward over a table with a satinwood edge, his hair as pale and shining as the polished wood. Everything in the flat shone with polish except the dusty grate with its wreck of last night’s fire. He thought, “He’s on the spot all right now. If she was alive when he went out, how did he know that she was dead at a quarter to one? He didn’t leave the War Office until just before half-past twelve. We were in the flat before he could possibly have got here.”

Lamb said, “To come back to the deceased. The case was in the papers of course-I mean her coming over from France and claiming to be Lady Jocelyn. May I ask if the accounts which appeared in the press were substantially correct?”

“I think so. I didn’t read them all.”

“You accepted her story-you believed her to be Lady Jocelyn?”

“No.”

“Will you kindly amplify that?”

“Yes. I didn’t think she was my wife. She looked like her, and seemed to know all the things my wife would have known, but I felt she was a stranger. The rest of the family had no doubts at all. They couldn’t understand why I should have any.”

“The likeness was very strong?”

“Very strong, and-very carefully cultivated.”

“How do you account for it?”

“Quite easily. My father succeeded his uncle, Sir Ambrose Jocelyn. Ambrose had an illegitimate son who was the father of Annie Joyce, and a legitimate daughter who was the mother of my wife. The Jocelyns run very much to type, but even so, the likeness was remarkable.”

“Annie Joyce and Lady Jocelyn were first cousins?”

“Yes.”

Lamb shifted in his chair, leaning forward a little.

“If you believed the deceased woman to be Annie Joyce, why did you allow her to pass as Lady Jocelyn? She was living here under that name, wasn’t she?”

Anger and pride cut deeper lines on Philip’s face. He answered because he must, because reluctance would betray him, because the only defence he had left was to appear indifferent. He said,

“I came to believe that she was what she claimed to be. The evidence was too strong.”

“What evidence, Sir Philip?”

“She appeared to know things that only my wife and I could know. After that I had no choice. I thought I owed it to her to meet her wishes. She wanted to be under my roof.”

“So you were convinced of her identity?”

“I was for a time.”

“What happened to change your opinion?”

“I learned from an old friend of my wife’s, one of her bridesmaids, that she had kept a very intimate and detailed diary. I realized at once that this diary might be the source from which Annie Joyce had drawn the information that had convinced me.”

“When did this happen?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Did you then approach the Military Intelligence?”