A Christmas Party: A Seasonal Murder Mystery/Envious Casca
A Christmas Party: Chapter 11

Stephen, fetched from the billiard-room, came with an ill-grace, disclaiming the slightest interest in the contents of his uncle’s desk. Mottisfont, who had followed him, surprised everyone by declaring that as Nathaniel’s partner he considered he had a right to be present. Joseph seemed to feel that this was mere officiousness, and said that he hardly thought Nat’s private papers could be of interest to his business partner. However, the Inspector, whose obliging demeanour was making Valerie open her eyes wider and wider, said that he had no objection to Mottisfont’s presence either.

‘It seems to me that it is my presence which is entirely superfluous,’ said Stephen. ‘If you expect me to be able to throw any light on obscurities I can tell you now that I shan’t be able to.’

‘No, no, Stephen; of course you must be present!’ Joseph said, taking his arm.

Valerie said, as soon as they were out of earshot: ‘Well! I never expected a Scotland Yard person to be so decent!’

‘Too decent by half,’ said Paula scornfully.

‘Yes,’ agreed Roydon. ‘You want to be very much on your guard with those smooth-spoken chaps. They’re simply trying to trap you.’

Mrs Dean laughed in a very robust way, and said that there were no traps for her girlie to fall into, she thanked God. This had the effect of making everyone recall duties that would remove them to widely distant parts of the house, and the party disintegrated.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel’s study, which was situated in the west wing, and approached by a wide corridor, had been unlocked, and entered. Stephen switched on the electric stove, and began to fill his pipe. Joseph permitted himself a slight shudder at the sight of Nathaniel’s sanctum, and pulled himself together with an obvious effort. He turned to Blyth, and said: ‘I think you know why my nephew sent for you. There is one very important matter –’

‘I had better tell you at once that no will was ever drawn up by my firm for your brother, Mr Herriard,’ interrupted the solicitor.

‘So that’s that,’ said Stephen.

‘In the absence of any will –’

‘But there is a will!’ Joseph said.

Everyone looked at him, Hemingway not less intently than the rest.

‘How do you know?’ demanded Mottisfont. ‘I only know that Nat had a stupid dislike of making a will!’

‘Yes, yes, but he did make one. I helped him to draw it up.’ Joseph looked towards the Inspector, adding: ‘I ought to mention, perhaps, that when I was a young man my father mapped out a legal career for me. I’m afraid I was always a feckless creature, however, and –’

‘You can spare us the story of your life,’ said Stephen. ‘Most of us know it already. When did you help Uncle Nat to draw up a will?’

‘When he had pleurisy so badly in the spring,’ replied Joseph. ‘It was on his mind, and, indeed, it had for long been on mine. You mustn’t think that I coerced him in any way. I only put it to him that the thing ought to be done, and saw to it that it was all legal, as far as my little knowledge went. I quite thought he’d have deposited it with you, Blyth.’

The solicitor shook his head.

‘Well, that accounts for his dark threats yesterday,’ remarked Stephen.

‘What were they, sir?’ asked Hemingway.

Stephen’s mocking eyes lifted momentarily to his face. ‘Something about making changes. I thought it was mere rhetoric.’

‘The question is, if Mr Blyth hasn’t got the will, where is it?’ asked Mottisfont.

Stephen shrugged. ‘Probably in the incinerator.’

‘No, no; he wouldn’t have done that!’ Joseph said. ‘Don’t talk of him in that cruel way, Stephen! You know there was no one, not even me, he cared for as much as he cared for you!’

‘Are you trying to say that I had reason to know there was a will in my favour?’ demanded Stephen.

‘You ought to have guessed as much, I should have thought,’ said Mottisfont spitefully. ‘Joseph’s been hinting at it ever since I came down here!’

At this attack, Joseph instantly ranged himself on the side of his nephew. ‘I don’t wish to speak harshly at such a time, Edgar, but that is a – a monstrous suggestion! Stephen, did I ever, at any time, tell you anything about poor Nat’s will?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I haven’t known your family for all these years without learning that you always stick together!’ Mottisfont said. ‘All I can say is that I for one got the impression that Stephen was Nat’s heir, and I got it from the remarks you let fall, Joe!’

The Inspector, though not unappreciative of this interchange, intervened, saying apologetically: ‘I don’t want to interfere with you gentlemen, but if there is a will I’d like to see it.’

‘There isn’t one,’ Stephen said shortly.

The Inspector’s eyes were on Joseph’s troubled face. ‘What do you say to that, sir?’

‘My brother did make a will,’ Joseph answered. ‘Perhaps he subsequently destroyed it. I don’t know. But there’s a safe in this room, and I think it might be there.’

‘A safe in this room?’ repeated Stephen.

‘Yes, it’s hidden behind that picture,’ replied Joseph. ‘I don’t suppose you knew about it. Nat only told me when he was ill, and wanted me to get something out of it.’

‘Can you open it?’

‘Yes, if the combination hasn’t been changed.’

Stephen walked over to the picture Joseph had indicated, and took it down, revealing a small wall-safe. After a good deal of fussing and fumbling, Joseph succeeded in opening it. He then invited Blyth to see what it contained, and stood back, looking anxious.

Blyth drew two bundles of documents out of the safe, and brought them to the desk, where he and Hemingway went through them. Stephen stood frowning by the fireplace, while Mottisfont, who seemed to replace it difficult to sit still, polished his spectacles.

After a pause, Blyth said in his precise way: ‘Most of these papers are share-certificates, and can have no bearing on the case. I replace that there is a will.’ He added in a disparaging tone: ‘It would appear to be in order.’

‘For God’s sake – !’ said Stephen irritably. ‘Since there is a will, let’s know how we stand! Who’s the heir?’

The solicitor looked austerely at him over the top of his pince-nez. ‘It is, as you no doubt perceive, a brief document,’ he said. ‘Had I been consulted – But I was not.’

‘I think it’s all right,’ Joseph said guiltily. ‘My brother wouldn’t let me send for you, but I think I remembered enough of my early training to draw it up correctly.’

‘It will of course have to be proved,’ said Blyth in a cold tone. ‘Where such a large sum of money is involved, I should naturally have advised the employment of a solicitor. But I am well aware of the late Mr Herriard’s peculiarities.’

‘Who – is – the – heir?’ demanded Stephen.

Blyth looked affronted, and Mottisfont muttered something about observing a little decency. The Inspector, however, supported Stephen, and said that he too would like to know who was the heir.

‘There are two bequests,’ said Blyth. ‘Miss Paula Herriard inherits fifteen thousand pounds; Mr Joseph Herriard, ten thousand pounds. The residue, including the house and estate, is left to Mr Stephen Herriard, unconditionally.’

There was a moment’s silence. Stephen jerked his head round to stare at his uncle. ‘What in hell’s name did you do that for?’ he asked angrily.

Even Blyth looked surprised. The Inspector stood watching Stephen with the interest of a connoisseur. Joseph said: ‘It was Nat, old man, not I. I only helped him to draw it up.’

‘Encouraged him to leave a fortune to me, I suppose!’

The savage, gibing note in Stephen’s voice made Mottisfont’s jaw drop. The Inspector looked from Stephen’s harsh face to Joseph’s worried one, and waited.

‘Stephen, I can’t bear you to speak so bitterly of Nat!’ Joseph said. ‘You know he thought the world of you! I didn’t have to encourage him to make you his heir! He always meant it to be that way. The only thing I did was to persuade him to make a proper will.’

‘Well, I call it very decent of you, Joe!’ said Mottisfont, unable to contain himself. ‘It isn’t everyone who’d have behaved as you’ve done.’

‘My dear Edgar, I hope you didn’t think I was the Wicked Uncle of the fairy-stories!’

‘No; but I should have expected – You were Nat’s brother, after all! Ten thousand only! Well, I never would have believed it!’

Joseph gave one of his whimsical smiles. ‘I’m afraid it seems a dreadfully large sum to me. I never could cope with money. You can say I am an impractical old fool, if you like, but I should have been very uncomfortable if Nat had left me more.’

This was so unusual a point of view that no one could think of anything to say. After a pause, Blyth cleared his throat, and enquired whether the Inspector wished to go through his late client’s papers.

Joseph sighed. ‘If you must, I suppose you must,’ he said. ‘Somehow one hates the thought of poor Nat’s papers being tampered with!’

‘I can’t see the least sense in it,’ said Mottisfont. ‘They aren’t likely to throw any light on the murder.’

‘You never know, sir,’ said Hemingway, polite but discouraging.

The contents of Nathaniel’s desk, however, afforded little of interest. Evidently Nathaniel had been a methodical man who kept his papers neatly docketed, and did not hoard correspondence. A letter from Paula was discovered, bearing a recent date. Paula’s wild handwriting covered four pages, but apart from one petulant reference to her uncle’s meanness in not instantly agreeing to support Willoughby Roydon’s works there was nothing in the letter to indicate that she felt any animosity towards him. None of the other private letters seemed to have any bearing on the case, and after glancing through them the Inspector turned to the business letters, which Blyth was sorting. These too were uninteresting from Hemingway’s point of view, but while he was running through them, Blyth, who had been studying some papers which were clipped together, glanced fleetingly towards Mottisfont, and then silently laid the papers before Hemingway.

‘Ah!’ said Mottisfont, with a slight laugh. ‘I fancy I see my own fist! I can guess what that is!’

Hemingway paid no heed to this remark, but picked up the sheaf, and began to read the first letter.

It had apparently been written in reply to a demand for information, and the terms in which it was couched were too guarded to afford the Inspector any very precise idea of the business the firm of Herriard and Mottisfont had been conducting. Attached to it was the rough draft of a further letter from Nathaniel. Such intemperate expressions as crass folly, unjustifiable risks, and staggering impudence abounded, and had called forth a second letter from Mottisfont, in which he suggested rather stiffly that his partner was behind the times, and had, in fact, been out of the business for too long to realise the exigencies of modern times, or the necessity of seizing any opportunity that offered for lucrative trading.

The fourth and last letter in the clip was again a copy, and in Nathaniel’s hand. It was quite short. It stated with crushing finality that ‘this business’ would be brought to an immediate conclusion. Plainly, although Nathaniel might of late years have taken but little share in the working activities of the business which bore his name, his veto was final, admitting of no argument.

The Inspector laid these papers to one side, and would have continued to run through the dwindling pile before him had not Mottisfont said, with another of his mirthless laughs: ‘Well, if that’s my correspondence with Mr Herriard over the China business, as I can see it is, I’ve no doubt you must want to know what the devil it’s all about, Inspector!’

‘Not now!’ Joseph said. ‘This isn’t quite the moment, do you think?’

‘Oh, so Nat told you about it, did he?’

‘Good heavens, no! Nat knew me too well to do that! I knew you’d had some sort of a disagreement, of course.’

‘Well, I’ve no objection to having the thing out now, or at any other time.’

‘If you feel like that, sir, what is it all about?’ asked Hemingway.

Mottisfont drew a breath. ‘My firm – it’s a private company – deals with the East Indies trade.’

‘Just what is the composition of the company, sir?’

‘Private limited liability. The shares were held by the three of us: Nathaniel Herriard, Stephen Herriard, and myself.’

‘In what proportion, sir?’

‘Nathaniel Herriard held seventy per cent of the shares, myself twenty, and Stephen Herriard ten. When Nathaniel virtually retired from active partnership, I became managing director.’

‘And you, sir?’ asked Hemingway, looking at Stephen.

‘Nothing to do with it. Shares wished on to me when I was twenty-one.’

‘Oh no, the business was just Nathaniel and me!’ said Mottisfont. ‘Well, he more or less retired some years ago, leaving me to carry on.’

‘What does more or less mean, sir?’

‘Less,’ said Stephen.

Mottisfont pointedly ignored this interruption. ‘Well, I don’t suppose anyone who knew Nathaniel will deny that he was by nature an autocrat. He never could keep his fingers out of any pie.’

Joseph protested at this. ‘Edgar, I must point out to you that this pie was of his own making!’

‘Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t a very clever business man in his day! But you know as well as I do that he was getting past it. Couldn’t keep up with the times: lost his vision.’

‘Any disagreements between you and Mr Herriard on the firm’s policy?’ asked Hemingway.

‘Yes, many. Trade has been very bad during the last few years, particularly bad for our business. The Sino-Japanese war was a crippling blow. Nathaniel had been out of things for too long to be able to cope with the new situation. I always had to fight to get my own way. Dear me, I can recall occasions when he’s threatened me with every kind of disaster! But that was just his way. If you let him bluster himself out, in the end he always listened to reason. Those letters you have under your hand refer to a deal I wanted to put through, and which he was frightened of. I could show you dozens of others just like them, if I hadn’t destroyed them.’

‘What was this deal, sir?’

‘Well, unless you’re a business man, I don’t suppose you’d understand it,’ said Mottisfont.

Stephen’s bitter mouth curled. ‘Nothing very difficult to understand about it,’ he said, his voice harsh enough to make Mottisfont start.

‘I was not aware that you were in Nathaniel’s confidence!’ Mottisfont said, his eyes snapping behind their spectacles.

Stephen laughed. Joseph laid a hand on his arm. ‘Gently, old man! We don’t want to make mischief, do we?’

‘Damn you, don’t paw me about!’ Stephen said, shaking him off. ‘I’ve been quite sufficiently nauseated by Mottisfont’s pretty picture of his own totally non-existent influence over Uncle Nat. So you could handle him, could you? You just let him bluster himself out, did you? By God, I won’t have the old devil belittled by a damned little worm like you! You went in mortal dread of him, and well you know it!’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ stammered Mottisfont. ‘You know nothing about my relationship with Nat! Nothing! Because you knew no better than to quarrel with him, you think no one had more sense! Well, I was dealing with Nat when you were at a kindergarten! Puppy!’

‘Edgar! Stephen!’ implored Joseph, wringing his hands. ‘This isn’t worthy of either of you! What must the Inspector think?’

The futility of this agonised enquiry drew a sound like a snarl from Stephen, but only made Hemingway say cheerfully: ‘Oh, you don’t want to worry about me, sir! Perhaps, since Mr Stephen Herriard seems to know all about it, he’d like to tell me what this new deal was that his uncle didn’t hold with?’

‘Gun-running,’ said Stephen.

Mottisfont grasped the arms of the chair he was sitting in as though he were about to jump up, and then relaxed again. ‘It isn’t difficult to believe that you’d stab a man in the back!’ he said, in a trembling voice.

‘I’d already noticed that you found no difficulty in believing it!’ retorted Stephen.

‘Stephen, Stephen, don’t let your tongue betray you into saying what you can only regret! That was unpardonable of you, Edgar, unpardonable!’ Joseph said.

‘Oh yes, what I say is unpardonable, but what your precious nephew says is quite another matter, isn’t it?’ Mottisfont sneered.

‘Edgar, you know what Stephen is just as well as I do! I’m not excusing him. But as for letting him get a rise out of you with his absurd, nonsense about gun-running – ! For shame, Edgar! Of course, no one believes you were mixed up with anything of the sort! Why, it sounds like one of those lurid films which I, alas, am too much of an old stager to enjoy!’

‘Only it happens to be true,’ said Stephen.

‘Really, Stephen! I hope I’m as fond of a joke as anyone, but is this quite the time, my boy?’

The Inspector, who had been watching Mottisfont, said: ‘I don’t want to interrupt you gentlemen, but perhaps we’d all of us get along better if I made it plain that I’m not at the moment interested in gun-running, which is what I thought this “China business” of yours might be, Mr Mottisfont.’

Stephen found Mottisfont’s expression of mingled relief and uncertainty comic, and began to laugh. Joseph flung up a hand. ‘Stephen, please! Edgar, is this thing possible?’

‘Good heavens, Joseph, there’s nothing to be so tragic about!’ said Mottisfont. ‘A great many people consider that we are making a criminal mistake not to allow the shipment of arms to China!’

‘But it’s illegal!’ said Joseph, quite horrified. ‘You mean to say you wanted to engage in an illegal business?’

‘Was engaged in it. Is engaged in it,’ said Stephen. ‘Lucrative pursuit, gun-running.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said the Inspector.

‘Not me, no. Only what my uncle told me. You have Mr Mottisfont’s word for it that I have nothing to do with the management of the firm.’

‘Well, it is a lucrative business,’ said Mottisfont, with sudden candour. ‘Of course, it’s frowned on by the authorities, but we needn’t go into that now. There are always two ways of looking at a thing, and I’m not at all ashamed of selling arms to China. What’s more, Nat would soon have come round to my point of view.’

‘Nat,’ said Joseph, in a deep voice, ‘was the Soul of Honour. He would never have consented.’

The Inspector looked at him. ‘You weren’t in his confidence, sir?’

‘Not about business matters,’ confessed Joseph. ‘You see, I’ve never had the least head for that sort of thing. I chose to follow Art, and though I daresay many people would think me a fool, I’ve never regretted it.’

‘And you, sir?’ asked Hemingway, addressing Stephen. ‘Just what did you know about this?’

‘The bare facts. My uncle had discovered the gun-running racket, and he wasn’t pleased about it. In fact, he was damned angry.’

‘Nathaniel was too good a business man not to have seen reason, in face of the balance-sheets during the past three or four years!’ said Mottisfont. ‘I don’t mind admitting that we hadn’t been doing well.’

The Inspector said: ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to know how things stand. What are your Articles of Association? What happens to Mr Herriard’s shares?’

‘They were to be offered to the remaining shareholders pro rata,’ replied Mottisfont. ‘A very ordinary arrangement.’

‘That is to say that you would then have a two-thirds interest in the company, and Mr Stephen Herriard one-third?’

‘Certainly.’

‘What about the valuation?’

Stephen removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘On the last three years’ trading. Doesn’t the plot thicken?’

‘I suppose you know what you mean by that! I can only say that I don’t!’ snapped Mottisfont.

‘I just think that things have panned out very luckily for you,’ smiled Stephen.

This remark provoked Mottisfont to such an explosion of wrath that not only Joseph, but Blyth too, intervened. While these three voices strove against each other, Stephen stood smoking his pipe, and grinning sardonically, and the Inspector divided his attention between his demeanour and those of Mottisfont’s agitated utterances which he was able to hear.

Again and again, and with tears in his voice, Joseph begged Mottisfont not to say what he must later regret; but the only effect this had on Mottisfont was to make him shout that he had had enough of Joseph’s meddling ways, and would not be surprised to replace that he had been in league with Stephen from the start.

The obvious inference not only shocked Joseph, but gave him an opportunity of showing his audience that he could enact a tragic rôle just as well as the character-parts in which his wife said he was so good. Horror, grief, and righteous indignation all infused his voice as he refuted this accusation; and, as he turned away from Mottisfont, he almost tottered.

The Inspector, though not unappreciative of the spirited scene he was witnessing, thought it time to bring it to a close. He said that he did not think he need trouble the actors any more at present. Stephen at once strolled out of the room; and after delivering himself of a few trembling remarks about the entire Herriard family, Mottisfont also went away. The Inspector looked at Joseph, but Joseph showed no disposition to follow suit. He said, when the door had shut behind Mottisfont: ‘Nerves play strange tricks on us poor humans! I think you, Inspector, must have seen too much to attach importance to the foolish things a man will say under nervous stress. This has been a severe shock to my old friend Mottisfont. It has thrown him off his balance. You must believe that!’

‘I do,’ replied Hemingway.

‘I consider there was a good deal of provocation,’ said Blyth dryly.

‘Yes, yes, I know there was!’ Joseph agreed. ‘Stephen has a wicked tongue. I’m not excusing him. But I think I may claim to know him better than most people and I can’t let this pass without saying that that remark of his was not by any means unprovoked. Mottisfont’s attitude to him ever since my poor brother’s death has been little short of hostile.’

‘Do you know why?’ asked Hemingway.

Joseph shook his head. ‘There’s no reason, except that I’m afraid my nephew doesn’t lay himself out to be very agreeable. He wants knowing, if you understand what I mean. I can’t deny that he has – well, an unfortunate manner, very often, but it doesn’t mean anything. Then, too, I daresay Mottisfont was inclined to be jealous of him, the silly fellow!’

‘Would you say that he had an influence over your brother, sir?’

‘Well, hardly that, perhaps. But my brother was very fond of him. And Stephen cared a good deal for my brother too, whatever Mottisfont may choose to think. You know how it is, Inspector! My nephew is not the sort of man to show what he feels, and people are inclined to think him callous. Poor Mottisfont was terribly shocked by my brother’s death! Of course, Stephen was too, but he won’t show it, and that misled Mottisfont into thinking – well, I’m sure I don’t know what he thinks, but that unfortunate business of the cigarette-case made him say one or two things that were quite uncalled-for. But I think I put a stop to that. The old uncle has his uses!’

‘Mr Mottisfont thought the replaceing of that case in Mr Herriard’s room suspicious?’

‘Oh, I don’t know that he went as far as that! In any event, I feel sure the cigarette-case means nothing at all. There are probably a dozen explanations to account for its having been found in my brother’s room.’

‘Mr Herriard,’ said Hemingway, ‘did you at any time tell your nephew about the will you helped your brother to draw up?’

‘No, indeed I didn’t!’ Joseph said quickly. ‘Why, it would have been most improper of me! You mustn’t pay any heed to what poor Mottisfont said! That I’d been hinting that Stephen was the heir! Now, I do assure you, Inspector, that I never did anything of the kind. The only person I ever said anything to – and then only in the most general terms – was Miss Dean.’

‘What did you say to her, sir?’

‘Really, I can’t recall my exact words! It was nothing you could possibly construe into – in fact, I told her my lips were sealed. And I shouldn’t have said that, only that – oh dear, oh dear, one tries to act for the best, never imagining that the most innocent motives may lead to all sorts of hideous complications! You’ll think me a sentimental old fool, I expect, but my one idea was to smooth out a few wrinkles, if I could.’

‘Between Mr Stephen and the deceased?’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Joseph. ‘It’s no use trying to conceal from you that my poor brother was in a very bad humour, for I’m sure you’ve already been told that. His lumbago was troubling him, and there was this business of Mottisfont’s, besides the rather unfortunate affair of young Roydon’s play. I did my best to pour oil, and I will readily admit that I was on tenterhooks lest Stephen should upset all his chances by – by irritating his uncle. That’s why I spoke to Miss Dean.’

‘So that unless Miss Dean told him, you don’t think he had any knowledge of his uncle’s having made this will?’

‘Not from me! I don’t know what my brother may have told him, but I can assure you I never said anything about it.’

The Inspector’s excellent memory again proved disconcerting. ‘But when Mr Herriard and his nephew had words after the reading of Mr Roydon’s play, didn’t Mr Herriard speak of making a few changes?’

‘Really, I don’t think I heard him! In any case, it was the sort of thing he might say if he was in a temper.’

‘But it would imply, wouldn’t it, that he had reason to believe that Mr Stephen knew of the provisions of this will?’

‘I suppose it would,’ agreed Joseph unhappily. ‘But you can’t mean to suggest that Stephen – Oh no, no! I won’t believe such a horrible thing!’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir; I’m only trying to get at the truth.’

Joseph wrung his hands in one of his agitated gestures. ‘Ah, you think me a foolish old fellow, but I can’t but see what you suspect! I know that things do look black against my nephew, but I for one am convinced that the murder wasn’t committed by anyone under this roof!’

‘How’s that, sir? What reason have you to think that?’ asked the Inspector quickly.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Joseph, ‘intuition proves to be sounder than reason, Inspector!’

‘I’ll have to take your word for that, sir,’ replied the disillusioned Inspector. ‘I haven’t found it so myself. Of course, that’s not to say I won’t.’

‘Try to keep an open mind!’ Joseph begged.

‘I’m paid to do that, sir,’ said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll finish what I have to do here with Mr Blyth.’

This was too pointed to be ignored. Joseph went away, his seraphic brow creased with worry. Blyth said, with a slight smile: ‘He means well, Inspector.’

‘Yes, that’s a vice that makes more trouble than any other,’ said Hemingway. ‘If you ask me, there very likely wouldn’t have been a murder at all if it hadn’t been for him getting ideas about peace and goodwill, and assembling all these highly uncongenial people under the same roof at the same time.’

‘I fear you are a cynic, Inspector.’

‘You get to be in my profession,’ replied Hemingway.

The inspection of the rest of Nathaniel’s papers did not take long, nor was anything of further interest discovered amongst them. The solicitor was soon at liberty to join the rest of the house-party in the library; and Hemingway went off in search of his Sergeant.

Ware met him in the hall, and looked a question.

‘Nothing much,’ Hemingway said. ‘Young Stephen’s the heir all right. You have any success?’

‘Well, I can’t say I have,’ Ware replied. ‘Can’t get much out of the servants – much sense, I mean. But one thing struck me as a bit funny. I was having a look round, and went into the billiard-room, and I found an old lady there. Mrs Joseph Herriard, I believe.’

‘I don’t see anything funny about that.’

‘No, sir, but she was fair turning the room upside-down, looking for something. I watched her for quite a minute before she saw me. One end of the room’s fitted out like a small lounge, and she was looking under all the cushions, and running her hands down the sides of the chairs, as though she thought something might have slipped down between the upholstery. She gave a bit of a start when she saw me, but of course that’s nothing in itself.’

‘Hunting for something, was she? Well, that might be interesting.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, but when I asked her if she’d lost something I’m bound to say she didn’t seem at all discomposed, as you might say. She said she’d lost her book.’

‘Well, I daresay she had, but I’d like to meet her,’ said Hemingway.

‘She’s still there, sir.’

When Joseph had begun to dismantle the Christmas tree, he had had a small wooden tub brought into the billiard-room. It was half-full of tinsel decorations and crackers, and when the Sergeant showed Hemingway into the room, Maud was engaged in turning these over in her search for the Life of the Empress of Austria. She acknowledged the Inspector’s arrival with a nod and a small smile. She seemed to think that the Sergeant had fetched him to assist her, for she thanked him for coming, and said that it was extraordinary how things could get mislaid.

‘A book, is it, madam?’ asked Hemingway.

‘Yes, and it is a library book, so it must be found,’ said Maud. ‘Of course, I expect it will turn up, because things very often do, and in the most unexpected places.’

‘Such as in a tub full of Christmas decorations?’ suggested Hemingway, with a quizzical look.

‘You never know,’ said Maud vaguely. ‘I once mislaid a shoehorn for three days, and it was eventually found in a coal-scuttle, though how it came there I never could discover. I daresay you will be searching the house yourself, and if you should happen to come upon my book I should be very grateful if you would tell me. It is called the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. A most interesting character: really, I had no idea! It is most annoying that I should have lost it, because I hadn’t finished it. She must have been very lovely, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her husband. He seems to have been a handsome man when he was young, but of course he grew those whiskers in later life. And then so fat! Not that I think that excused her altogether. No, the book isn’t here. So tiresome!’

She smiled, and nodded again, and went out of the room, returning, however, in a few moments to tell the Inspector not to make a special point of looking for the book, as she knew he had other things to think about.

The astonished Sergeant exchanged a glance with his superior, but Hemingway assured Maud that he would keep his eyes open.

‘Well!’ ejaculated the Sergeant, when Maud had gone away again. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘I’d say she was looking for her book.’

The Sergeant was disappointed. ‘It struck me she might be looking for the weapon that killed the old man. Seemed fishy to me.’

‘She wouldn’t have had to look far,’ said the Inspector. ‘Not if it’s in this room. What’s wrong with your eyesight, my lad?’

The Sergeant blinked, and gazed about him. Hemingway pointed a finger at the wall above the fireplace. Flanking the head of an antlered deer were two old flint-lock pistols, a pair of knives in ornate sheaths, and various other weapons, ranging from a Zulu knobkerrie to a seventeenth-century halberd.

‘Just about as much gumption as the locals, that’s what you’ve got!’ said Hemingway scornfully. ‘Get up on a chair, and take a look at those two daggers! And don’t go fingering them!’

Swallowing this insult, the Sergeant pulled a chair forward, and said that it was funny how you could miss a thing that was right under your nose.

‘I don’t know what you mean by “you”!’ retorted Hemingway. ‘I know what I’d mean by it, but that’s different. And funny isn’t the word I’d use, either. Any dust on those daggers?’

The Sergeant, standing on the chair, reached up, leaning a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘No. At least, yes: on the undersides,’ he said, peering at them.

‘Both free from dust on the outside?’

‘Pretty well. So’s this pike-affair. Careful servants in this house. I expect they do ’em with one of those feather dusters on the end of a long stick.’

‘Never mind what they do them with! Hand those daggers down to me!’

The Sergeant obeyed, using his handkerchief. Hemingway took them, and closely scrutinised them. It was plain that the sheaths at least had not been taken down recently, since dust clung to the undersides, and a few wispy cobwebs on the wall were revealed by their removal. Indeed, the Sergeant, descending from his perch, and studying the knives, gave it as his opinion that neither had been handled.

‘Take another look,’ advised Hemingway. ‘Notice anything about the hilts?’

The Sergeant glanced quickly at him, and then once more bent over the weapons. As Hemingway held them up the dust on them was clearly visible. Each sheath, where it had lain against the wall, was thinly coated with dust, and so was one hilt. The other hilt had no speck of dust on it, on either side.

The Sergeant drew in his breath. ‘My lord, Chief, you’re quick!’ he said respectfully.

‘You can put this one back,’ said Hemingway, unmoved by the compliment, and handing him the knife with the dusty hilt. ‘It hasn’t been touched. But this little fellow has been drawn out of its sheath very recently, or I’m a Dutchman!’ He held it up to the light, closely inspecting the hilt for finger-prints. No smudge on its polished surface was visible to the naked eye, and he added disgustedly: ‘What’s more, when the experts get on to it, they’ll replace that it’s been carefully wiped. However, we won’t take any chances. Lend me that handkerchief of yours, will you?’

The Sergeant gave it to him. Carefully grasping the base of the hilt between his finger and thumb through the folds of the linen, Hemingway drew the knife from the sheath. It slid easily, a thin blade which revealed a slight stain close to the hilt. The Sergeant pointed a finger at this, and Hemingway nodded. ‘Overlooked that, didn’t he? Well, I fancy we have here the weapon that killed Nathaniel Herriard.’ Perceiving a look of elation on his subordinate’s face, he added dampingly: ‘Not that it’s likely to help us, but it’s nice to know.’

‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t help us,’ objected Ware. ‘It proves the murder was an inside job, anyway.’

‘Well, if that’s your idea of help, it isn’t mine,’ said Hemingway. ‘Of course it was an inside job! And a nice, high-class bit of work too! There won’t be any finger-prints on this. You have to hand it to our unknown friend. Thinks of everything. He chooses a weapon which nine people out of ten would stare at every day of their lives without attaching any importance to. He chooses a time when the house is full of visitors who all have their reasons for wanting old Herriard out of the way; and seizes the moment when everyone’s dressing for dinner to stab his host, and restore the knife at his leisure. It’s an education to have to do with this bird.’

The Sergeant gazed meditatively up at the wall over the fireplace. ‘Yes, and what’s more, he might have taken the knife at any time,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign he took the sheath as well.’

‘There’s every sign he didn’t.’

‘That’s what I mean. I daresay no one would have noticed if that knife had been taken out of the sheath quite a while before the murder was committed. It isn’t even as if it was on a line with your eyes: you have to look up to catch sight of it.’

‘What’s more important,’ said Hemingway, ‘is that it could have been put back at any time. After everyone had gone to bed, as like as not. So now perhaps you begin to see that the chances are that this nasty-looking dagger is going to rank as a matter of purely academic interest.’