“Why did she kill him?”
“Because he’d lost his nerve. This morning we questioned him about the lift and about his legacy. He went to pieces. He was a stupid fellow, ready enough to act quickly when the brains of the party shoved the weapon in his hand and egged him on, but wildly incapable of keeping his head afterwards, when the mental rot set in. No doubt he returned to Brummell Street in a state of terror and Tinkerton decided he was dangerous. She’s a clever, a desperate and a courageous woman. Moreover she is in her mistress’ confidence. I’ll bet you anything you like that Tinkerton is the buyer of whatever drug Lady Wutherwood takes and that she gets a little commission on the side. As Lady Wutherwood’s confidante, she undoubtedly knows a great deal about the witchcraft business. We shall only find Lady Wutherwood’s prints on the—” Alleyn checked himself—“on the objects connected with this last crime, but I’ll stake my life that Tinkerton visited the kitchen sometime during the night and brought away an instrument which she laid ready to hand in the green drawing-room. You may be sure Tinkerton knew very well what her mistress meant to do during the small hours. You may be sure it was Tinkerton who suggested that Lady Wutherwood should test the power of the Hand of Glory and Tinkerton who slipped down the backstairs and pulled out the fuse plug. One can imagine the instructions that were poured into that demented ear. First she was to secure the hand, then take it up to the top landing and down the deserted passage to the end room. There she would find a sleeping man. Let her make any noise she could think of, drop his heavy boots on the floor, scream, shake the bed. No one would stir, said Tinkerton, for all would be under the soporific spell of the severed hand.”
“So poor Aunt V. was the cat’s-paw.”
“Yes. Tinkerton may even have persuaded her that her Little Master required the death of the chauffeur. She may have told her where to find the razor. Her prints on the razor would be useful and her reaction when she found Giggle already murdered wouldn’t matter. Let her make whatever noise she liked. Let her be found there, with the razor in her hand. I’m sorry, Miss Grey, it’s a beastly story but I think you’ll feel better if you know exactly what happened, however unpleasant the recital.”
“Yes,” said Roberta. “But I still don’t quite see.”
“It may be Aunt V., after all,” said Henry. “Egged on by Tinkerton.”
“No. Only a left-handed person could have done it. I shan’t describe the nature of the injury.”
“I’d rather you did,” said Henry. “Robin, dear, perhaps if you—”
“I’d rather know, too, Henry. It’s beastly to wonder.”
“Well,” said Alleyn, “the murderer stood behind the head of the bed and the angle and position of the injury precludes any possibility of it being a right-handed attack. That’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”
“But why didn’t she arrange it to look like suicide?” asked Henry and Alleyn saw with astonishment that the passionate interest of the amateur had already replaced in Henry’s mind the horror of the scene with Lady Wutherwood. Henry had not seen Giggle and so, though he lay upstairs with his throat slit, his injury had an academic interest and Henry was prepared to discuss it.
“Tinkerton was very careful that it should not look like suicide,” Alleyn said. “A theory of suicide might have led to the possibility of Giggle’s complicity and that would have come altogether too close to Tinkerton. No. Tinkerton was desperate. With Giggle in a state of terror, blundering in his statements to the police, threatening perhaps to confess and be hanged, she had to revise her plans drastically and disastrously. We must now be led to plump for Lady Wutherwood as a homicidal maniac. The whole object of the first crime went west but Tinkerton was in terror of her life. She made up her mind to cut her losses and Giggle’s throat.”
“Won’t it be very hard to prove all this, sir?”
“If Miss Grey hadn’t heard the lift and if you both had slept through the night, we should have had little against her beyond the left-handed evidence and her earlier lies. As it is you heard Lady Wutherwood downstairs and saw her come upstairs and go to the top landing on the errand that was to be thought murderous. But when Campbell followed her to the chauffeur’s bedroom and found her there with the body Giggle had been dead for over two hours. We’ve medical evidence for that. It was half past two then. The nurse will swear that at one o’clock Lady Wutherwood was in bed and had not stirred. The nurse had her cocoa in a thermos flask. Tinkerton brought it to her at eleven o’clock. The previous night she drank it immediately. To-night she was about to drink it, she had actually set out her cup and saucer before Tinkerton went away, when the storm reminded her that she had left the window open in the next room. She shut the window, decided to write a letter and forgot her cocoa. She did not drink it until two hours later. In the meantime Tinkerton had killed Giggle. The nurse drank her cocoa at two o’clock and immediately fell into a deep sleep.”
“How much did Aunt V. know?”
“She knew, at least, that she must keep still and pretend to be asleep for as long as the nurse was waking. She had been well instructed, it seems. She has made one statement. I’m afraid it will not be much use as evidence but it is illuminating. Dr. Curtis tells me she has said over and over again: ‘Why were they not asleep? She said they would all sleep like the dead.’ And when he asks her: ‘Who said this?’ she answers ‘Tinkerton’!”
“Well, that’s over,” said Charlot, raising her black hat until it perched on her grey curls and tipped over her nose. “I must say that we do look a collection of old black crows.”
“We always turn rather peculiar at funerals,” said Frid. “I suppose it’s because we all wear each other’s clothes. Where did you get that hat, Mummy?”
“It’s Nanny’s. I haven’t got a black. And these are Nanny’s gloves. Aren’t they frightful?”
“Really, it’s rather as if we were dressed up for another charade,” said Stephen. “Robin’s the only girl among you who doesn’t look p-peculiar.” And perhaps remembering that Roberta’s black clothes were rather tragically her own, Stephen hurried on. “Why didn’t you all b-buy yourselves funeral garments, darling?”
“Much too expensive,” said Charlot. “And that reminds me. You’ve all got to pay the greatest attention. I’m going to speak seriously to you.”
“Immy,” said Lord Charles suddenly, “where is Aunt Kit?”
“For pity’s sake, Charlie, don’t tell me Aunt Kit is lost again.”
“No, Mummy,” said Patch. “She’s just ‘disappeared’ into 26.”
“Well, you know what happened the last time she did that.”
“Talking about hats,” said Frid, “did you ever see anything to equal hers?”
“We are not talking about hats,” said Charlot seriously. “We are talking about money.”
“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearth-rug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.
“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don’t you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let’s face it; we’re poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta’s astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We’re going to be very hard up for a long time.”
“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”
“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.
“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you are so sweet. But in the meantime…” She broke off. “What are you doing, Mike?”
“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.
“To whom, darling?”
“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“What about?” asked Colin.
“Oh, something. As a matter of fact I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”