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Chapter XVII
Departure
The rain fell steadily over Highfold all through that night. When in the dead light of dawn Alleyn shaved and washed in the downstairs cloak-room, the house still drummed faintly to the inexorable onslaught of the rain. At five o’clock the Great Chipping police had telephoned to say they were coming through by the Pen-Gidding road and that an ambulance was already on its way. At half-past five, Nicholas Compline lifted a blotched face from his arm and, breaking a silence of six hours, told Fox he wished to make a statement. At six o’clock, Dr. Francis Hart had an interview with Alleyn. He arrived fully dressed and said that with the permission of the authorities he would attempt to drive home by the long route. “My wife has asked me to take her with me,” he said. “I have agreed to do so, if you allow.” Alleyn consented readily. Dr. Hart then made him a formal speech, causing him acute embarrassment by many references to the courtesy and integrity of the British police.
“Never for a moment,” Dr. Hart said, “was I in doubt of the issue. As soon as I heard of William Compline’s death I knew that it must be his brother.”
“You seem to have been the only member of the party who refused to be bamboozled by fancy touches,” said Alleyn. “Why were you so certain?”
“I understand my wife,” said Dr. Hart simply. He clasped his hands over his waistcoat, frowned judicially, and continued: “My wife is extremely mercenary and an almost perfect egoist. She was in love with Nicholas Compline. That I perceived and with that knowledge I tortured myself. She loved him as much as she could love anyone other than herself and obviously he was quite determined to have her. Whether she was his mistress or not I am unable to decide, but in any case my own suspicious attitude and the scenes I created so continually must have been very irksome. I have no doubt he wished to see her break with me and if possible obtain a divorce. That, of course, she would refuse to do. A young man with little money would never persuade her to embark on a damaging scandal. But a young man with a large estate and fine prospects — how different! No doubt she told him so. I do not believe she was aware of his guilt, still less that she was a partner in his crime. She would never risk such a proceeding. No. She thought I killed William Compline, and that when I was hanged she would wait for a discreet period and then marry his brother. She will now strain every nerve to disassociate herself from Nicholas.”
“I’m afraid,” said Alleyn grimly, “that she will not succeed.”
“Of course not. But if you interview her she will try to persuade you that his motive was purely mercenary and that she was the victim of his importunities. She will also offer to return to me.”
Alleyn glanced up quickly. “No,” said Dr. Hart. “I have recovered from that sickness. She would have betrayed me. In our last interview before the crime she told me that if anything happened to Compline she would accuse me. I said she would not have the courage and she replied that where much was at stake she would dare much. I felt as a man might feel if some possession he had treasured was suddenly proved to be worthless. I have lost all desire for my wife.”
“You have been very frank,” said Alleyn, after a pause. “When this is all over what do you mean to do?”
“I am a surgeon. I think in a little while there will be a need for many surgeons in England. Perhaps, who knows, I may do more admirable work than the patching-up of faded women’s faces.” Dr. Hart pulled at his lips with his finger. “All the same,” he said, “I wish I had been able to save her life.”
“It would have been no great service to her, you know.”
“I suppose not.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Chief-Inspector,” he said, and bowed stiffly from the waist. Alleyn watched him go, an almost arrogantly foreign figure in his English tweeds. A little while later he heard a car drive round the house. Bailey came in to say that Madame Lisse wished to see him before she left. Alleyn grimaced. “I’m engaged,” he said. “Tell her Mr. Fox will see her. I think she’ll say it doesn’t matter.”
At half-past six, Mandrake and Chloris, came into the library with their top-coats over their arms, and asked if they too might leave Highfold.
“Yes,” Alleyn said. “You’ll be asked to attend the inquest, you know, so I’ll have to keep in touch with you.”
“I know,” Mandrake agreed, “we’d thought of that. When will it be?”
“Wednesday, I should think.”
“Jonathan’s asked us to stay but we thought we’d like to go up to London for a slight change of scene. We might look in at the rectory. The road’ll be all right now. Can we take a message for you?”
Alleyn gave his message. Mandrake and Chloris still hung off and on.
“We also thought,” said Mandrake at last, “that we’d like a few of the worst knots unravelled by a master hand. Or doesn’t one ask?”
“What knots?” said Alleyn with a smile.
“Well,” said Chloris, “why Aubrey was shoved in the pond, for one. Did Nicholas shove him?”
“He did.”
“But he recognized Aubrey.”
“Because he recognized him.”
“Oh.”
“But,” said Mandrake, “we’d worked that out quite differently. After the evidence of the footprints and her letter, we decided that Mrs. Compline had followed out to stop Nicholas taking the plunge and had thought I was William gloating and, on a wave of long pent-up resentment, had shoved me overboard.”
“And then,” said Chloris, “we thought that when she heard Bill was dead, she’d gone out of her mind and imagined that in some way she had killed him. That’s how we read the letter.”
“It’s a very ingenious reading,” said Alleyn with the ghost of a smile, “but it doesn’t quite fit. How could she have gone down the steps without your seeing her? And even suppose she did manage to do that, she would have had a very clear view of you, as you stood facing the pond. Moreover she watched William go downstairs. And, finally, she had a full account of the whole affair afterwards and heard you being brought upstairs and all the rest of it. Even if she had pushed you overboard she must have very soon heard of her mistake, so how on earth could she think she’d killed William?”
“But the letter?” said Chloris.
“The letter is more tragic and less demented than you thought. The evidence of the footprints tells us that Mrs. Compline stood on the terrace and looked down. A few moments later a housemaid saw her return looking terribly upset. I believe that Mrs. Compline saw her son Nicholas make his assault upon you, Mandrake. At the time she may have thought it a dangerous piece of horseplay, but what was she to think when she heard him declare that Hart had done it, believing the victim to be Nicholas himself? And what was she to think when the booby-trap was set and again Nicholas accused Hart? Don’t you think that through the hysteria she displayed, ran some inkling of the truth? Last of all, when Nicholas went to her last night and told her William had been killed in mistake for himself, what was she to think then? With her secret knowledge how could she escape the terrible conclusion? Her adored son had murdered his brother. She made her last effort to save him and the legend she had made round his character. She wrote a letter that told him she knew and at the same time accused herself to us. She could not quite bring herself to say, in so many words, that she had killed her son; but Nicholas understood — and so did we.”
“I never thought,” said Mandrake after a long silence, “that Nicholas did it.”
“I must say I’d have thought you’d have guessed. Compline gave you the cape, Mandrake, didn’t he? He looked out of the pavilion window and recognized you as you came down. He might have been looking at himself when you stood there in the other cloak. I think at that moment he saw his chance to bring off his tom-fool idea.”