you mean?—can’t do anything?’
‘Well, but—who has committed any crime? Bill has bought a tin of stuff for killing wasps: there’s nothing wrong in that? Theo has bought a bottle of peaches—nothing wrong in that either? The doctor—well, I suppose he did put the finger-stall down Cyrus’s throat. But he didn’t poison it. None of them has actually done one wrong action. They can’t even be put in prison?’
‘Only for a very short time,’ acknowledged Cockie.
‘For a short time?’ she said, startled.
‘Till they’re taken out and hanged,’ said Inspector Cockrill.
‘You don’t truly mean that? All three of them could be—executed?’
‘All three,’ said Cockie. ‘For being concerned in a murder: that’s the law. The flight of the queen, Elizabeth— at certain times of the year the drones sit around eating —well, we saw them do that— and gazing with huge eyes upon the virgin queen —well, we saw them do that too. And then, the mass flight after the queen : and that also we’ve seen. But here something goes wrong with the comparison; because only one succeeds in the mating; and therefore—only one dies.’
‘You mean that these three—?’
‘I mean that these three are not going to die. It would be too inartistic an ending to the metaphor.’
‘What can save them?’ said Elizabeth, beginning to tremble.
‘Words can save them: and will save them.’
‘Words?’
‘A dozen words: carelessly spoken, hardly listened to, attended to not at all. Except by me when later I remembered them. Your husband saying, “Why couldn’t I have had smoked salmon?” and you replying, “We got what was easiest.” ’ A plain-clothes man who had all this time sat quietly on a chair by the front door, got up, as quietly, and came forward; and Inspector Cockrill shot out a hand and circled, with steely hard fingers, her narrow wrist. ‘Why should oysters have been easier than smoked salmon, Elizabeth?’ he said.
A very elaborate, long-thought-out, deep-laid, absolutely sure-fire plan…
The ugly collusion between husband and wife, to implant in the household of the dying mother a new bride for the rich widower soon to be. On the husband’s part, probably nothing more—nothing worse intended than an impatient waiting from then on, for the end of a life whose expectations had been somewhat underestimated. On hers—ah! she had been on the spot to recognise in advance the long years she might yet have to serve with a man who at the least sign of rebellion would pare down her inheritance to the limit the law allowed. Had she really confessed to Cyrus Caxton an earlier marriage? Not likely! ‘You are well named Elizabeth—the virgin queen,’ he had said; and added, ‘I hope!’ Of them all, the one who had had most cause to dread Mr. Caxton’s marriage bed had been Elizabeth herself.
The plot then, laid: but in one mind alone. Use the ex-husband, expendable now, as red-herring number one; ensnare with enchantments long proved irresistible, such other poor fools as might serve to confuse the issue. With gentle persistence, no injury pin-pointable, alienate servants too long faithful and now in the way. And, the scene set, sit, sweet and smiling, little hands fluttering, soft eyes mistily blue—and in the back of one’s scheming mind, think and think and plan and plan…
‘You can’t know,’ she said, spitting it out at him, as they drove away from the house, the three men left sick and bewildered, utterly confounded, watching her go: sitting between himself and his sergeant in the smooth black police car, ceaselessly, restlessly struggling against their grip on her wrists. ‘You don’t know. It’s all a trick, trying to lead me up the garden path.’
‘No,’ said Cockrill. ‘Not any more. We’ve been up enough garden paths: with you leading me .’ His arm gave slackly against the tug and pull of her hand, but his fingers never left their firm hold. ‘How well you did
‘Well, but—who has committed any crime? Bill has bought a tin of stuff for killing wasps: there’s nothing wrong in that? Theo has bought a bottle of peaches—nothing wrong in that either? The doctor—well, I suppose he did put the finger-stall down Cyrus’s throat. But he didn’t poison it. None of them has actually done one wrong action. They can’t even be put in prison?’
‘Only for a very short time,’ acknowledged Cockie.
‘For a short time?’ she said, startled.
‘Till they’re taken out and hanged,’ said Inspector Cockrill.
‘You don’t truly mean that? All three of them could be—executed?’
‘All three,’ said Cockie. ‘For being concerned in a murder: that’s the law. The flight of the queen, Elizabeth— at certain times of the year the drones sit around eating —well, we saw them do that— and gazing with huge eyes upon the virgin queen —well, we saw them do that too. And then, the mass flight after the queen : and that also we’ve seen. But here something goes wrong with the comparison; because only one succeeds in the mating; and therefore—only one dies.’
‘You mean that these three—?’
‘I mean that these three are not going to die. It would be too inartistic an ending to the metaphor.’
‘What can save them?’ said Elizabeth, beginning to tremble.
‘Words can save them: and will save them.’
‘Words?’
‘A dozen words: carelessly spoken, hardly listened to, attended to not at all. Except by me when later I remembered them. Your husband saying, “Why couldn’t I have had smoked salmon?” and you replying, “We got what was easiest.” ’ A plain-clothes man who had all this time sat quietly on a chair by the front door, got up, as quietly, and came forward; and Inspector Cockrill shot out a hand and circled, with steely hard fingers, her narrow wrist. ‘Why should oysters have been easier than smoked salmon, Elizabeth?’ he said.
A very elaborate, long-thought-out, deep-laid, absolutely sure-fire plan…
The ugly collusion between husband and wife, to implant in the household of the dying mother a new bride for the rich widower soon to be. On the husband’s part, probably nothing more—nothing worse intended than an impatient waiting from then on, for the end of a life whose expectations had been somewhat underestimated. On hers—ah! she had been on the spot to recognise in advance the long years she might yet have to serve with a man who at the least sign of rebellion would pare down her inheritance to the limit the law allowed. Had she really confessed to Cyrus Caxton an earlier marriage? Not likely! ‘You are well named Elizabeth—the virgin queen,’ he had said; and added, ‘I hope!’ Of them all, the one who had had most cause to dread Mr. Caxton’s marriage bed had been Elizabeth herself.
The plot then, laid: but in one mind alone. Use the ex-husband, expendable now, as red-herring number one; ensnare with enchantments long proved irresistible, such other poor fools as might serve to confuse the issue. With gentle persistence, no injury pin-pointable, alienate servants too long faithful and now in the way. And, the scene set, sit, sweet and smiling, little hands fluttering, soft eyes mistily blue—and in the back of one’s scheming mind, think and think and plan and plan…
‘You can’t know,’ she said, spitting it out at him, as they drove away from the house, the three men left sick and bewildered, utterly confounded, watching her go: sitting between himself and his sergeant in the smooth black police car, ceaselessly, restlessly struggling against their grip on her wrists. ‘You don’t know. It’s all a trick, trying to lead me up the garden path.’
‘No,’ said Cockrill. ‘Not any more. We’ve been up enough garden paths: with you leading me .’ His arm gave slackly against the tug and pull of her hand, but his fingers never left their firm hold. ‘How well you did
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