A Night of Errors Read online

  ‘Urrr.’

  ‘Surely sixteen or seventeen would be the age for such an awkward stratagem? What attractions could it have for an experienced man of the world?’

  Swindle’s face fell into an evil leer. ‘There be no reckoning the queer turns will give an edge to that sort of thing. Why, ’e might have had a fancy for that there rug.’

  Hyland glanced down at the gaping polar bear – and at the shrouded body sprawled on it. His expression indicated severe disapprobation of this unwholesome erotic lore. ‘But I understood,’ he said, ‘that the footman Joseph heard Sir Oliver in conversation not with a woman but a man?’

  ‘I’m not saying what happened. I’m saying what I thought ’ud be happening. Like enough Sir Oliver had some private business ’e wanted quiet for. Like enough it was urgent and ’e thought to join the family later.’

  ‘Very well. You had left the window here unfastened. When the news was brought to you that Sir Oliver had returned you were, of course, not surprised. And you told Robert to go about his business. This was at half past ten. What happened later?’

  ‘Nothink till an hour later, or just short of that, when I was thinking of going to bed. The family was still up, it seemed, and so young Robert ’e was on duty still. Well, ’e heard a great crash from this room ’ere, and ’e hurried to it and tried the handle and found it locked. And at the same time ’e noticed the smell. Like somebody had charred a steak bad, ’e said. Well, I sent him round to the window, expecting it might be open still – which it were, so in ’e came and unlocked the door. There was Sir Oliver in the same clothes ’e sailed in, a-lying in the fireplace with his feet on the rug and his head in the coal-scuttle as you might say and his arms a-roasting as you seen them. I got him out – Robert being good for nout but whimpering – and there were no life in him, that were plain. So I went out and told her ladyship and Mr Dromio.’

  ‘You say that Robert heard a crash. How would you account for that?’

  ‘It would be the tantalus, of course.’ And Swindle pointed to a remote corner of the room. ‘And not just knocked over, either. Hurled bodily, as you might say.’

  Appleby had already taken stock of the appearance to which the butler referred. Lying where he pointed was the splintered debris of a rosewood tantalus designed to hold three decanters; it lay amid a litter of thick shattered crystal.

  ‘It would certainly make enough noise.’ Appleby turned to Hyland. ‘And it was hurled across the room about an hour after voices were first heard here.’

  ‘And when there was already a smell of burning flesh from the body.’ Hyland frowned. ‘There’s something uncommonly odd in that.’

  ‘Then within a couple of minutes the butler and footman were in the room. Whoever threw that tantalus must virtually have passed Robert on the terrace. But why should this unknown person, presumably alone with the dead man, pick up a heavy object and hurl it with what must have been tremendous force across the room?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Hyland, ‘there was a third person as well.’

  ‘More like ’e were seeing things.’ Swindle croaked out this reading of the matter unexpectedly. ‘And who wouldn’t be seeing things after doing the like of that?’ He poked out a clawlike hand towards the rug. ‘That were it. The fire it would be flicking and flaring and casting shadows. And the killer ’e would think there were someone moving there in the far corner of the room. And ’e would panic and up with the tantalus and ’url it. Same as ’im in the Bible did with the ink-pot at the Devil.’

  Swindle, Appleby reflected, did Martin Luther too much honour. Nevertheless his suggestion hinted unlooked-for imaginative powers. It conjured up a real picture of something which might have happened in this sinister room.

  Appleby looked down at the remains of the tantalus. ‘There’s not enough glass,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hyland was startled.

  ‘It’s made to hold three decanters. There’s about enough glass there to reconstitute two.’

  ‘Perhaps one had been broken long ago.’

  ‘That it had not!’ Swindle was suddenly indignant. ‘Three there were, as ’twas fit and proper there should be.’

  Hyland slapped his white-gloved hand on the table. ‘The weapon!’ he exclaimed. ‘The blow might have been given with just such a thing as a decanter. It mightn’t even break if it was the heavy square sort.’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ Appleby considered this for a moment. ‘But why should he make off with it? Remember he didn’t simply hit Sir Oliver and bolt in a panic. He was here for long enough after his deed to permit of all the burning of the arms. And then, for whatever reason, to hurl the tantalus. Would he then pick up again the decanter he had committed the crime with, and carry it away with him? I don’t see that.’

  ‘I think I do.’ And Hyland, always suggestible, nodded with conviction. ‘Panic overcame him, not at first, but slowly. And then he threw the tantalus for the reason Swindle suggests. In the confusion of that moment he might well think of the third decanter as incriminating – fingerprints on it, for instance. Indeed, there’s a rational motive in that.’

  ‘So there is.’ Appleby nodded. And as he did so the litter of crystal on the floor gleamed like split diamonds. ‘Hyland,’ he said, ‘do you know I may have seen the fellow – decanter and all?’

  7

  Had Appleby wanted Inspector Hyland out of the way (and it is not inconceivable that he did) he could not have done it better than retail at this point his encounter with the slumbering man with the glittering object at his feet. Instantly Hyland’s picture of a dark domestic tragedy went by the board and he addressed himself with all his energies to organizing a hunt for this prowler in the environs of Sherris. Whereupon Appleby decided that, unearthly as was the hour, he would endeavour to introduce himself to the family. And Swindle, approached on this, thought it possible that Mr Sebastian Dromio might be still available.

  And presently Appleby was shown into the library, a gloomy room full of ancient books arrayed behind latticed doors, and suggesting that some eccentric Dromio had been fond of reading perhaps a couple of hundred years ago. At the moment it contained a Dromio who seemed fond of drinking, for Sebastian sat before the cheerless fireplace plying himself from, a syphon and a half-empty bottle of whisky. He received Appleby matter-of-factly and without inquiry as to his status. ‘Nasty thing,’ he said. ‘Hard on the women. But then young Oliver never was the thoughtful sort. Have a spot.’

  Because he was no longer a policeman Appleby had a spot. ‘Who’s the heir?’ he enquired.

  ‘To the title, you mean? Dashed if I know much about that sort of thing. If it dodges backwards I suppose it comes to me. But probably it just fades out. I must ask some fellow at the club.’ Sebastian looked sharply at Appleby and appeared to see that he found this ignorance surprising. ‘Never inquired,’ he said, ‘because I was just not interested. No money nowadays in a handle to your name. And it’s money I’d like to see – particularly after this mess, which is likely to give the last blow to the family business. Young Oliver couldn’t have got himself killed at a more awkward moment. Forgive my talking like this. No use, you know, putting too fine a point upon matters in an affair of this sort.’

  ‘None at all,’ agreed Appleby. ‘So you don’t stand to gain by what has happened, Mr Dromio?’

  Upon this, at least, Sebastian did for a moment seem to feel that a finer point might have been put. But he shook his head confidently. ‘Quite the other way. I’ve been holding things together for years and filling my own modest nose-bag on the strength of it. But I’m dashed if I see myself doing it any longer. Have to retire to lodgings in Cheltenham – that sort of thing.’ Sebastian picked up the bottle. ‘And the simplest comforts are so deuced expensive these days. Take whisky.’ And Sebastian took whisky. ‘Or take–’

  ‘I think it would be better to take care.’ And Appleby pointed frankly to the bottle. ‘The police, you know. I was one of them myself–�
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  ‘A policeman!’ Sebastian Dromio was startled. ‘I thought you might be the under – the doctor, that is to say.’

  Appleby shook his head, not at all offended at having been taken for someone sent to measure the body. ‘I know their ways, and presently they’ll be back badgering you again. So it would be just as well to keep a clear head.’

  A fleeting gleam as of sharp calculation passed over Sebastian Dromio’s face. Then he looked impressed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for the tip. And I won’t take more than two fingers.’ He tilted the bottle. ‘Not that they have anything on me.’

  ‘Of course not. But they’ll ask some nasty questions. By the way, what were you doing when this thing happened?’

  ‘Doing? Mucking about the grounds with a cigar, I’d say. Warm night. A deuced disagreeable old woman came to dinner. Name of Gollifer. But I looked in on the drawing-room in a civil way round about half past eleven and found her gone. We took a stroll in the garden and got the news as we came back. Nasty thing. Hard on the women.’

  Appleby nodded. ‘But then,’ he asked, ‘young Oliver never was the thoughtful sort, was he?’

  Sebastian Dromio frowned, as if finding this observation dimly familiar. ‘Thoughtful?’ he said. ‘Selfish, trivial chap. Vain as an eighteen-year-old lad buying his first ties in the Burlington Arcade. Not that I don’t go there myself. Little shop half-way up.’

  ‘What was Sir Oliver doing in America?’

  ‘Trying to marry money, as far as I could find out. Project had my blessing, I must admit. Girl with pots of it and lost her head to him entirely. Family was the difficulty. Merchants in Amsterdam long before the Dromios came to England. And a bit particular, as Americans of that sort are apt to be. Made enquiries, no doubt, and found that Oliver was a bit of a blackguard, poor chap. You know, he treated Lucy–’ Sebastian, who had suddenly flushed darkly, checked himself. ‘Mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Have a spot, doctor?’

  ‘Thank you, no. Inspector Hyland tells me that when you rang him up you said something about a fire – some fire that occurred here long ago.’

  ‘Did I do that?’ Sebastian was startled and crafty. ‘Well, there was a fire, and a mystery of sorts, when Oliver was a baby. But I must have been a bit upset to talk rot like that. More the sort of thing the women would say.’

  ‘No doubt. And of course this crime is likely to be the consequence of troubles much more recent than that.’ Appleby paused. ‘Money, I should say.’

  ‘Money?’ Sebastian’s voice was sharp. ‘What d’you mean by that? Only effect of Oliver’s death, I tell you, will be to see what money there is fly out at the window.’

  ‘He was the head of the firm, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course he was.’

  ‘But you had more or less to manage it for him?’

  ‘I’ve done it for years. Deuced intricate, I can tell you.’

  ‘The money is intricate? You mean you are about the only person who has been seeing his way through it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s so.’ Sebastian smiled uneasily. ‘I say, colonel, what about a spot?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Appleby was unimpressed by this sudden dignity conferred upon him. ‘Had Sir Oliver been showing any curiosity to see his way through it as well? If he was thinking of getting married, and the lady’s family was of consequence, they might want to know–’

  ‘Dash it all!’ Sebastian Dromio lurched to his feet, and Appleby saw that he was older than he had supposed. ‘Do you know, I don’t believe Kate and young Lucy have gone to bed? Ought to go in, I think, and do what I can.’ And Sebastian moved towards the door.

  Appleby picked up the whisky bottle. ‘I think,’ he said gravely, ‘you’d better have another spot first. And, if you like, I’ll go in instead.’

  Sebastian sat down again. ‘Deuced kind of you. No, I can pour it out for myself, my dear chap. Straight along the corridor and the drawing-room’s on the right.’ And as Appleby reached the door he raised his glass and stared at him with a glassy eye. ‘Chin-chin!’ he called.

  Two ladies sat in the drawing-room. They appeared to be listening to the tick of the clock, which stood at twenty minutes to two. And when Appleby entered they looked at him in some surprise.

  This was natural enough. The intrusion, he thought, was not decent, and would scarcely have been so in a fully accredited officer. He had better tell the simple truth.

  ‘My name is Appleby and I have been brought here by Inspector Hyland because I used to be at Scotland Yard and responsible for such inquiries as must unfortunately be made here. May I come in?’

  The elder lady bowed and with a hand which trembled slightly pointed to a chair. The younger lady looked at him fixedly and suddenly her eyes widened. ‘Did you marry Judith Raven?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes – nearly twelve months ago.’

  ‘Mama’ – and the younger lady turned to the elder – ’this is very odd. Here, for the first time, is somebody who may well discover the truth. And you have asked him to sit down.’

  ‘Lucy, dear, I don’t know what you mean.’ Lady Dromio’s voice was plaintive, vague – but her eye upon Appleby was appraising nevertheless. ‘Would you prefer me to stand up?’

  ‘The gentleman has a great reputation. He is clever at finding out about all sorts of abominable things. Do you really want him around the place?’

  Lady Dromio flushed. ‘You are unkind,’ she said.

  ‘We go in for foul secrets.’ Lucy Dromio turned an expressionless face to Appleby, and he suddenly saw that quite recently this young woman’s whole being had been overthrown. ‘I was speaking of it only this afternoon, when I went for a walk with a clergyman.’

  There was a silence, Lucy Dromio apparently judging this an effective speech by itself. And she looked at Appleby out of a sort of mocking misery which he found himself disliking very much. ‘Would that be Mr Greengrave?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Yes, it was he. Mama, I told him that we camped outside the cupboard with the family skeleton, and that you took your pleasure in leaning forward and making the door creak. But how was I to know that it would fly open tonight?’

  The young lady, Appleby thought, should write mediocre novels. She would then probably not be a nuisance again. As it was, she had to give this sort of little quirk to grave matters. ‘You had no idea,’ he asked her, ‘that Sir Oliver Dromio might be killed?’

  ‘I threatened to kill him.’

  ‘When in conversation with a clergyman?’

  ‘No. Later this evening. Not long before it really did happen.’

  ‘I see. Would that, Miss Dromio, have been as the result of the painful emotional scene that took place after dinner in this room?’

  Lucy Dromio caught her breath sharply. Lady Dromio reached out for a crumpled object which might have been a fragment of embroidery. The clock ticked. Then the elder lady spoke. ‘Was some calamity expected?’ she asked. ‘Was there a spy?’

  ‘I cannot say. But certainly there was no police spy. The police knew nothing until Mr Dromio telephoned.’

  Lucy Dromio had gone very pale and she was looking at Appleby as if he must indeed have prescience in abominable things. ‘Then how do you know that in this room–’

  ‘Because of that rose.’ And Appleby pointed to a little heap of twisted and shredded petals on a table. ‘It is what a woman does when her unhappiness – her despair – is very great. And, had it been done before dinner, the debris would probably have been cleared away when servants went through the room.’

  Rather unsteadily, Lucy Dromio laughed. ‘Mama,’ she said, ‘did I not tell you? Everything is crumbling about us. Oliver is dead. And the secret of Sherris is on its last legs – or perhaps I should say bones.’

  Lady Dromio drew herself up and turned to Appleby. ‘Our misfortune has been heavy, sir, and my daughter is overwrought. Perhaps–’

  And Appleby stood up. Suddenly Lucy Dromio sprang across the room, picked up the torn petals in her
cupped hand and sent them over him in a little shower. ‘Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,’ she cried, ‘are heaped for the beloved’s bed.’ She ran to the door and paused by it for a moment. ‘A rose is a rose,’ she called. ‘A rose is a rose is a rose.’ She was gone.

  Appleby brushed rose leaves from his hair. ‘You say, Lady Dromio, that your daughter is overwrought. She appears to seize upon the remark as a cue, and goes off like mad Ophelia with snatches of song. Casually, one would say she is acting a part. And yet she is, obviously, greatly upset. Can you tell me if there is anything that she is trying to conceal?’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘But this evening, and in this room, there was some distressing scene? And Miss Dromio’s talk of a family skeleton in the cupboard and of the door creaking as it stirred, has some meaning?’

  ‘There are things that I must tell you.’ Lady Dromio took up her fragment of embroidery and turned to a basket beside her. For a moment her hand hovered irresolutely between two contrasting shades of silk, and she was silent. ‘What I must tell you is this.’ And Lady Dromio’s hand went decisively down on one skein. ‘Three sons were born to me when Oliver came. Now Oliver is dead, and it will be thought that I am childless – that I have only Lucy. It will be thought that the property should go to Sebastian. But now I must tell you something which I have told nobody. There is no reason to suppose that my other sons are not alive.’

  ‘The children who were thought to have perished in a fire?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Appleby.’ And Lady Dromio inclined her head. ‘My own boys. And they are still alive and may come back to me.’

  ‘And it is your knowledge of this that Miss Lucy has referred to as a skeleton in the cupboard?’

  ‘Lucy knows nothing of it. Nobody does. But she feels that I have always been…waiting.’

  ‘I see.’ But Appleby looked at Lady Dromio doubtfully, not at all sure of what light had in fact come to him. So far, extreme reticence had marked the Dromios. And now this story – which nobody knew – was pitched at him. Was there something odd in that? The story itself was certainly odd. Its simplest explanation was merely that this old lady was mad. The world is full of crazy old souls who believe that dead sons are alive and coming back to them. And yet, if Hyland was to be believed, there really had been some mystery attaching to that fatal fire forty years ago. Was it possible that Lady Dromio’s persuasion had at least some basis in fact?