Harding shut the door behind Mrs. Twining, and walked slowly back to the table. "Well, Sergeant?"
The Sergeant pursed his lips. "You want to know how it struck me, sir?"
"Very much."
"Well, I'd say she behaved very cool," said the Sergeant, thinking it over. "Very cool indeed. I don't say it didn't happen just as she said, but it would have seemed to me more natural-like if she'd run out of the room just as soon as she saw the General was dead."
"I agree with you. At the same time she gives me the impression of being a woman of considerable strength of character." He hunted through his papers for Fay's statement. "She was keeping something back, of course. from what I can gather, Sir Arthur's temper was not quite so evanescent as she would have had us believe."
" No, sir," said the Sergeant doubtfully.
"So quickly over," Harding said.
"Quickly over? That I will say it was not, sir! I wouldn't like to speak ill of the dead, but Sir Arthur was a fair terror. Quite a byword, you might say."
The door opened; Fay came in, and stood for moment looking across the room at Harding. In a black dress she had a pathetically frail appearance. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, her lips rather bloodless.
"Lady Billington-Smith?" Harding said. "Will come and sit down?" He spoke in a reassuring way, quite unexpected by one who had had experience so far only of Superintendent Lupton's methods.
"Thank you," Fay said in a low voice, and took the chair Mrs. Twining had occupied. "I understand you want to ask me some questions. I — made a statement to the Superintendent yesterday. I don't know — if there is anything more you want to ask me."
"I'm sorry, Lady Billington-Smith, but I'm afraid I must ask you certain questions — some of them perhaps rather distressing to you," Harding said. "Will you try and answer them quite frankly — and believe I wouldn't put them to you unless I considered it necessary?"
Her eyes fluttered to his face again, surprised and grateful. "Yes, of course. I quite understand."
He sat down. "I want to know first, Lady Billington-Smith: were you upon good terms with your husband at the time of his death?"
The suddenness of the question startled her. "What do you mean?" she faltered.
"I am not insinuating anything," he said. "I only want you to tell me the truth."
"My husband — my husband was not an easy man to deal with," Fay said with difficulty. "We had our disagreements sometimes, but we were not on bad terms."
"Your husband was, I understand, a very hot tempered man? You had quarrels fairly frequently?"
"I — I am not a quarrelsome person, Inspector. My husband had a way of — blustering, when he was annoyed. We did not quarrel."
"You mean that your husband was inclined to — may I say — scold you, when anything happened to annoy him?"
"Yes. But it was nothing. He didn't mean it."
"On the morning of July first — yesterday, in fact — did some such scene occur between you?"
"My husband was very angry with Geoffrey — with his son. Not with me."
"Sometimes, Lady Billington-Smith, a man who has been very much angered is apt to vent his feelings on a perfectly innocent person. Is that what happened?"
She hesitated. "He was very angry," she repeated.
"So angry that he upset you?"
"it wasn't that — only partly! It is true I was a little upset yesterday morning. I have not been very well, and I had had a trying week-end. My husband — had a violent way of- of expressing himself. He shouted when he was at all irritated, and — it made my head ache. That is all."
"The cause of this violent irritation was, I think, his son's engagement to Miss de Silva?"
"Yes," Fay replied. "He was dreadfully angry with Geoffrey, and I — rather foolishly — tried to reason with him.,
"I quite understand. You were afraid that a really serious quarrel might spring up between your stepson and his father?"
"Oh no, no!" Fay said quickly. "I knew that Geoffrey would never quarrel with his father. He was too much in awe of him. I was afraid that Arthur — that my husband might turn him out of the house. He was — in some ways — a very hard man."
Harding picked up his pencil, and regarded the point of it. "Lady Billington-Smith, you must forgive me if I distress you, but was this the only cause of the scene which took place between you and Sir Arthur? There was not, on your side, any feeling of jealousy?"
"Jealousy?" she repeated blankly.
He raised his eyes. "You were not yourself angry perhaps hurt — at any undue attention Sir Arthur might have paid to one of your guests?"
She flushed. "No. I was not- angry, or hurt. Certainly not jealous. My husband had a — a playful, gallant way of — of treating women, but it didn't mean anything. Such an idea never entered my head. It was purely on Geoffrey's account, the — the scene."
"Then that is all I wish to know about that, Lady Billington-Smith. At what time did you eventually cone downstairs yesterday morning?"
"I didn't come down till my husband called to me, but I was out of my room before that, speaking to the head housemaid upstairs."
"So that you don't know what happened between Sir Arthur and his son?"
"No."
"When he called to you, what time was that?"
"It must have been just before twelve. He had just come in with — with Mrs. Halliday, and he wanted me to see that she had some roses to take away with her when she left."
"Mrs. Halliday was with him at the time?"
"Yes, but she went upstairs to her room to take her hat off. Then my husband went into his study. He said he did not want to be disturbed. It was the first of the month, you see, and he always made up his accounts, and paid the staff on that day. I remember now, it was ten minutes to twelve, because he — he called my attention to the time, saying he had wasted so much of the morning already. Then I went -"
"One moment," interposed Harding. "Was Sir Arthur still angry with you at this time?"
"He was — a little testy. Nothing, really."
Harding picked up a typewritten-sheet, headed Statement of Charles Thomson, footman. "I will put it to you quite frankly. Lady Billington-Smith: did Sir Arthur, when Mrs. Halliday had gone upstairs, speak to you very roughly, finding fault with the way you behaved towards your guests, and accusing you of lying in bed "till all hours"?"
"I believe he did say something like that," Fay replied in a suffocating voice.
"And did you answer that you couldn't bear it, that he was driving you out of your mind?"
Her eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of wondering dread in them. "I don't remember. If I did, I didn't mean it. Perhaps I said it. I was — momentarily annoyed with my husband for speaking to me rather rudely. One — one does say silly, theatrical things sometimes, when one is at all on edge."
"Yes, very often," Harding agreed, laying the footman's statement down again. "Your husband entered his study, then, at ten minutes to twelve. What did you do?"
"I went into the garden, and through the garden-hall, to find Lester, the head gardener."
"Had you any idea where he was to be found?"
"No, I asked the under-gardener. He was just taking vegetables to the kitchen."
"And he was able to tell you?"
"Yes, he said that Lester was in the kitchen-garden."
"Is that any distance from the house, Lady Billington-Smith?"
She looked at him, a worried frown in her eyes. "No. It's at the side of the house, about two minutes' walk from the garden-hall."
"How long did it take you to deliver Sir Arthur's message to Lester?"
"Well, I don't — A minute, I suppose."
"Did you say anything else to him?"
"I told him that Sir Arthur wanted him to mow the front lawn."
"Nothing else?"
"No. No, I'm sure that was all."
"And when you had delivered both these message. what did you do next?"
"I went through the kitchen-garden to the back of the house. Mrs. Twining and my sister were crossing the lawn, and they called to me."
"Lady Billington-Smith, you left the house by way of the garden-hall just after ten minutes to twelve. Mrs. Twining did not arrive until ten minutes past twelve, and it cannot have been less than twenty-five, or at the minimum twenty minutes past twelve when you joincd her on the lawn. What were you doing during that hall hour?"
Fay's hands crept along the arms of her chair, any I gripped them nervously. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mislead you, Inspector. I didn't go to look for Lesser at once. I went into the orchard."
"Why?" said that calm voice.
She moistened her lips. "I didn't feel I could face anybody just then. I — I was rather upset."
"By what Sir Arthur had just said to you?"
"I — yes, a little. I wasn't feeling at all well. Perhaps I am rather easily upset. I went into the orchard because I wanted to be alone, and — and I knew I should be bound to meet someone in the house, or — or in the gardens."
"Did anyone see you go into the orchard?"
"I — I don't know. I don't think so. I didn't notice anyone." She stared at him. "You don't think — you don't think -"
"I don't think anything yet, Lady Billington-Smith. When you met Mrs. Twining and Miss Fawcett, what did you do?"
"We all went up on to the terrace. Mrs. Halliday was there with Mr. Guest. Mr. Guest is a connection of my husband's. Then Mrs. Chudleigh arrived, to speak to me about the Children's Holiday Fund. Oh, and I think Mrs. Halliday must have come on to the terrace just about then. I'm not quite sure. I had a very bad headache."
"Did anyone leave the terrace between then and one o'clock?"
"Mrs. Chudleigh went away. Oh, and Mr. Guest went indoors for a few minutes to fetch his tobacco."
"Would you say that was before Mrs. Chudleigh left, or after?"
"I don't know. I can't quite remember. Before, I think but I'm not sure."
"Was Mr. Guest gone long?"
"Oh no, not more than a minute or two. He just went up to his room to get his pouch, that was all."
"Had he returned when Mrs. Chudleigh got up to go.?"
"I really can't remember, Inspector. I'm not even sure that she didn't go first. I wasn't paying much attention."Fay said, a little breathlessly.
"Try and remember, Lady Billington-Smith, whether Mr. Guest was on the terrace when the butler came ow with the cocktails."
"Oh, I think he must have been! I don't exactly remember, but I know he was only away a very little while," Fay said. "I'm sorry to be so vague. You must forgive me, but — this has been a dreadful shock to me and I find it very hard to — to think back over what happened yesterday."
"I know, and I'm not going to worry you any more now, Lady Billington-Smith," Harding said, rising, and going towards the door. "I should like to see your stepson next."
"I'll tell him," she said. In the doorway she hesitated. "I — perhaps I ought to warn you that Geoffrey is rather excitable. He was terribly shocked by the news of his father's death. I hope you won't — I hope you need not…"
"I'll be as considerate as I can," Harding promised.
"Thank you," she said, and went out.
When she had gone there was a moment's silence . Harding came back to the table, frowning slightly. The Sergeant scratched his cheek, and presently said: "I never heard anyone say anything against her ladyship, sir. Very well spoken of, she is, and always has been. At the same time, I wouldn't say that the General didn't try her pretty far, because by all one hears that wouldn't be the truth. Very far he tried her."
"You know her better than I do, Sergeant."
"Well, sir, that's a fact, and if you was to ask me, I should say her ladyship wouldn't hurt a flea."
"At the same time," Harding said, "she is in an extremely overwrought condition. If half of what the servants deposed in the statements the Superintendent look is true it wouldn't be very difficult to believe that she was goaded to the pitch of murder."
The Sergeant thought it over. "To my mind, sir, it wasn't her. More likely to be that foreign hussy, or this Mr. Halliday."
At this moment the door opened to admit Geoffrey, who came in with an air of nonchalance only too palpably assumed, and broke straightway into speech. "Oh, I understand you want to see me! The trouble is I can't really be of much use to you, Inspector — I say, I absolutely can't go on calling you Inspector, Mr. Harding. It sounds so utterly wrong — I mean -" He glanced towards the Sergeant, and ended lamely: "Oh well, you know!"
"I think, if you don't mind, we'll stick to Inspector, Mr. Billington-Smith," said Harding unresponsively. "Will you sit down, please?"
"Oh, just as you like!" Geoffrey said, a trifle sulkily. He cast himself into the chair, and began to play with his tie again. "I'm quite ready to answer anything I can — er — Inspector. I expect you've seen my original statement, haven't you?"
"I have it here," replied Harding. "There are one or two things in it that I want you to explain."
"Well, I've nothing to add to it, really, but I'll explain anything you like," said Geoffrey handsomely. "Only, as a matter of fact, I don't see myself what more you could possibly want to know. I mean, considering I wasn't here when my father was killed -"
"Will you tell me, Mr. Billington-Smith, what sort of terms you were on with your father?" said Harding. interrupting this speech without ceremony.
"Look here, what on earth has that got to do with it," expostulated Geoffrey. "I keep on telling you I wasn't here when Father was murdered!"
A certain sternness made Harding's voice less pleasant all at once. "Mr. Billington-Smith, my time is limited. Will you have the goodness to answer the question?"
Geoffrey swallowed. "All right, but I still don't -" He saw the Inspector's face harden, and broke off. "Well, l suppose we didn't hit it off frightfully well. My father was absolutely hide-bound, you know. One just had to make allowances for him."
"When you say that you didn't hit it off, do you mean that you quarrelled?"
"Oh no, we didn't exactly quarrel. My father used to rave a bit at me, but I didn't quarrel with him, because as it happens I'm not the quarrelsome sort, and besides. it wasn't worth while."
"Why did your father rave at you?"
"Good God, I don't know! It was just his way. Well, as a matter of fact, he wanted me to go to Sandhurst, only I wasn't strong enough — not that I would have if I had been, because I should have loathed the Army — and he was frightfully fed-up when I took to writing. Of course. as far as he was concerned, there simply wasn't any other profession but the Army. I've had Army drummed into my ears till I'm sick to death of the sound of it. I've got a cousin who's a cavalryman — well, he was here this weekend, he left soon after breakfast yesterday morning — and all I can say is if he's a fair specimen I'm glad I didn't go to Sandhurst. Only of course, the mere fact of Francis — my cousin — being in the Army was quite enough to make Father think him the devil of a fine fellow. Of course Francis always took jolly good care to keep on the right side of Father. Though as a matter of fact I happen to know that for once in a way he failed to touch Father yesterday. However, that was probably only because father was in such a filthy mood. I've no doubt he'd have stumped up in the end. But because I happened to be a bit delicate, and — well, literary — Father never had the slightest use for me. I may say that the only books he ever read in all his life were Dickens and Scott, so that just shows you the sort of man he was. I mean, he simply knew nothing about art or literature, and he hadn't the slightest sympathy for anyone who was different from himself."
"You must have had a very hard time of it," prompted Harding kindly.
"Well, I did, to be quite honest. Not that it made any odds, really, and I don't want to give you the impression that we were always at loggerheads, because we weren't. Naturally, when I was a kid it was pretty rotten for me, but since I grew up I simply went my way and he went his."
"In fact, there was never much love lost between you?"
"Good lord, no! Father had no time for me at all. Personally, I've always believed it was because of my mother. She ran away with another man when I was a kid — not that I blame her for that, because I'll bet he was a swine to her — but anyway I'm pretty sure that was why he didn't like me."
"Would you describe him as having been "an absolute beast" to you ever since you could remember?"
"Oh, I shouldn't put it as strongly as that!" Geoffrey said. "To me he was more of a joke than anything. though of course he was often frightfully annoying."
At this point the Sergeant's gaze transferred itself to Harding's profile, dwelt there a moment, and fixed itself finally on a blank space on the opposite wall.
"You don't live here, do you, Mr. Billington-Smith:' inquired Harding.
"No, I share a flat with a man I know in town. But that isn't because I don't get on with my father!"
"I wasn't suggesting that," replied Harding equable. "You have recently become engaged to be married, have you not, to a Miss Lola de Silva?"
Geoffrey stirred restlessly. "That's all off now, I can assure you."
Harding looked up from a note he was making. "Indeed? But it was not all off, was it, when you brought Miss de Silva here on Saturday?"
Geoffrey gave a short laugh. "No, it wasn't. But since then — However, that's a subject I prefer not to discuss. "That's a pity," said Harding, "for it is a subject which I'm afraid I must ask you to tell me about. When was this engagement broken off?"
"If you must know, yesterday," said Geoffrey. "Did you break it off, or did Miss de Silva?"
Geoffrey got up quickly. "Look here, I've already said I — I don't want to discuss it! It can't have anything to do with you, and I may as well tell you that I very much object to having my private affairs pried into."
"Sit down, Mr. Billington-Smith," said Harding. Geoffrey hesitated, and obeyed. "There are two ways of giving evidence to the police," continued Harding in his even voice. "One is to answer the questions that are put to you, and the other is to have the truth pumped out of you. I recommend the first of these. You will find it less unpleasant."
Geoffrey looked rather frightened. "I didn't mean — of course, if you assure me it's necessary, that's another matter. Only I don't mind telling you that I've been utterly disillusioned about Lola — Miss de Silva, you know, and I simply don't want to hear her name mentioned again."
"Did she, or did you break off the engagement?" repeated Harding.
Geoffrey ran his hand along the arm of the chair. "Well, it's all rather difficult to explain. In a way, she did."
"What do you mean by "in a way"?"
"Well — I found she was completely mercenary. Of course, I'd been living in a fool's paradise. I see that now.
"You are wandering from the point, Mr. Billington-Smith."
"Oh, I don't know that I meant anything in particular!" said Geoffrey irritably. "She said she wasn't going to marry me, and that opened my eyes, and I can assure you nothing would induce me to marry her now, however much she may think I'm going to."
"Does she think you are going to?"
"God knows what she thinks. She's one of those, beautiful, utterly soulless fiends. I was blinded by her."
"Why has she changed her mind?" asked Harding.
"Because all she cares for is money. Money! Now Father's dead she thinks I shall be frightfully wealthy though he may have left all his money to Francis for all I know. It wouldn't surprise me in the least; it's just the sort of thing he would do."
"Did Miss de Silva, then, break the engagement for pecuniary reasons?"
"Yes," Geoffrey admitted reluctantly.
Harding put down his pencil. "I see. Now, I am not going to ask you whether your father disliked the engagement, because I know that he did. Also -"
"You seem to know the hell of a lot," muttered Geoffrey.
"I'm glad you are beginning to realise that," replied Harding calmly. "It is no use trying to put me off with these half-truths and evasions, you see. You are only giving me an impression I am perfectly sure you don't want me to have. On Monday morning you had a interview with your father, who was very angry with you. That is so, isn't it?"
"Yes," Geoffrey answered, somewhat subdued. "At least, he was angry about Lola."
"What was the result of that interview, Mr. Billington-Smith?"
"Well, we had a bit of a row — more than that, really , because he was absolutely livid with rage — and in the end he said I could get to hell out of his sight, and he going to cut off my allowance, and he never wanted to set eyes on me again. Not that that was likely to worry me , any of it, because as I said, we didn't hit it off, and as for starving in a ditch, which was the way he put it, money simply means nothing to me, and in any case I can support myself with my pen. I can tell you, it was a very jolly interview."
"It seems to have been," agreed Harding. "When it was over, what did you do?"
"Naturally I went up to tell Lola what had happened. It simply didn't occur to me that it would make any difference as far as she was concerned. Of course, being practically disowned was a bit of a bore, but I really wasn't worrying much then."
"You say you went up — I take it Miss de Silva had breakfasted in her room?"
"Oh yes, she never gets up before eleven. In fact she wouldn't let me see her till then, and I had to kick my heels on the landing for ages. And when she did let me into her room, and I told her — well, it was an absolute knock-out. I thought she was joking at first, when she said she wouldn't marry me if I hadn't got a lot of money. Then I saw she wasn't, and I suppose I had a sort of utter revulsion of feeling, because all I could think of was to get out of the house, and away from Lola. I felt I should be sick if I stayed another moment. So that's exactly what I did do."
"What?" said Harding.
"Got out of the house," Geoffrey said impatiently.
"Have you any idea what the time was when you left the house?"
"No, of course I haven't," replied Geoffrey. "When a man's stood up to a blow like that, had his faith in women completely destroyed — well, what I mean is, you don't suppose I stopped to look at the time, do you? All I know, is it was some while after eleven, and before Father came in."
"And when you left the house, Mr. Billington-Smith where did you go?"
"Oh, I don't know! Miles away. I simply walked and walked."
"I quite appreciate the fact that you were extremely upset," said Harding, "but surely you must have some idea of where you went?"
"Yes, well, I went through the woods first, and over to Longshaw Hill, and I suppose I sort of circled round it more or less by instinct, because I found myself on old Carnaby's land — he owns the place on the main road, between us and the village — and I came home by way of the footpath through his park. As a matter of fact, I didnt come out on the main road at all, because you can get from Moorsale Park on to our land without touching the road. There's just a farm-track you have to cross, and then you come to the spinney at the bottom of the garden. That's how I came."
"I see. Did you meet anyone while you were out?"
"To meet anyone was the last thing I wanted!" said Geoffrey bitterly.
"Try to remember, Mr. Billington-Smith. I don't know this countryside, but you have described what sounds to me a very lonely walk."
"Of course it was! I didn't want to run into people. I wanted to be alone!"
"Are you well known here?" Harding asked. "If someone did happen to see you during the course of your walk, would they be likely to recognise you?"
"I don't know. I dare say. It depends." Geoffrey looked defiantly across the table. "I see what you're driving at, but if you think —"
"I am not driving at anything," Harding said gravely, "But I want you, in your own interests, to try and remember whether you did not meet someone."
"I tell you I don't know! My mind was in an absolute turmoil. I'm pretty sure I didn't actually meet anyone, hut how on earth can I know whether anybody saw me or not?"
"Very well, Mr. Billington-Smith," Harding answered. "That is all I want to ask you at present. Will you ask Mr. Halliday to come here, please?"
Geoffrey got up jerkily. "Look here, Inspector!" he burst out. "This is all jolly fine, but if you've marked me down as a suspect simply because I can't bring a lot of witnesses forward to prove I'm speaking the truth — well, I call it a bit thick! There are heaps of people with just as much reason for wanting to kill Father as I had — and if you want to know there's one person in particular with a damned sight more reason — and to single me out —'
Harding glanced up from his notebook. "Mr. Billington-Smith: really, this is not leading us anywhere. Will you send Mr. Halliday in to me, please?"
Geoffrey hesitated, and then flung round on his heel and strode to the door. As he opened it Harding spoke again. "Oh, just one moment! Did the Chief Constable warn you that it would be necessary for the safe in your father's study to be opened in my presence?"
"Yes, he did, and Father's lawyer is coming down tomorrow," snapped Geoffrey, and walked out, banging the door behind him.
Inspector Harding gazed meditatively after him. He said, without turning his head: "You looked at me once I think, Sergeant. What was it?"
"Well, sir, I couldn't help thinking that for Mr. Billington-Smith to say the General was a joke to him was a very different tale from any I ever heard. It didn't seem to me that you could very well rely on anything he said. What I should call a mighty bad witness, sir."
"Atrocious," said Harding.
The Sergeant coughed behind his hand. "Begging your pardon, sir, I thought you was a bit high-handed with him — if I might pass the remark. If he had happened to object to the question he took exception to I couldn't help wondering where we'd have been then."
"We should have apologised gracefully, Sergeant. But if I hadn't bullied him a little I should have got nothing out of him at all. A tiresome young gentleman."
"Yes, sir. And it's a weak story he told you."
"A very weak story," said Harding.
"He's what you might call hasty-tempered too," pondered the Sergeant. "Very excitable, he seemed."
"Excitable, and badly frightened," said Harding, and turned his head as the door opened to admit Basil Halliday.