darling,” Madge answered sweetly. “Or if I was, it was only because I was afraid that Gloria might damage her chances by not being quite up to standard. You see, Inspector, you have to be so awfully careful in the film business; because if you fail just once you’re never forgiven.”
“And you didn’t”—Humbleby’s tones flattered like an unguent—“you didn’t at all resent Mr. North’s attentions to her?”
For a fraction of a second there was hatred in Madge’s eyes; then, as though a lantern-slide had been whisked from a screen and another substituted for it, she was all amazement.
“But why should I? I didn’t even know that Stuart was interested in her.” She looked up at him. “Were you, darling?”
Mr. North vociferously sneezed.
“I don’t quite know how you’d define ‘interested’,” he said peevishly. “I took her out once or twice, if that’s what you mean, but there was nothing serious about it… How the hell have we got on to this dreary topic, anyway? What does it matter?”
He looked at Capstick, who nodded haplessly—and then, resipiscently and with equal ambiguity, shook his head.
“Anyway, it provides us with a sequitur” —Humbleby was unperturbed—“to my final questions: which concern the relationship between Miss Scott and Mr. Maurice Crane.”
“Final,” echoed Medesco. “Let’s hope they are. I want my lunch.”
“I believe”—once more Humbleby was addressing himself to Nicholas—“I believe that last Christmas Miss Scott was staying in your household. Is that right?”
“She stayed at my mother’s house.”
“You yourself don’t live there?”
“No. Nor Madge. Maurice and David do.”
“I should like to know who invited her.”
“Maurice did.”
“Were you there at the time of this visit?”
“No. David and I were away sailing in Bermuda.”
“And in that case your brother Maurice would be the only man in the house—unless your father—”
“My father died years ago… Yes, Maurice would have been the only man in the house. Was Gloria going to have a baby?”
“She was, yes… And now, Mr. Crane, if you’ll just let me have a complete list of the guests at your party…”
It was done; and presently the assembly dispersed. Nicholas, Madge and Stuart North were the last to leave the room, and Nicholas nodded to Fen as he went.
“This is very much your element, isn’t it?” he said in passing.
“Perhaps,” said Fen non-committally. “May I give you a word of advice?”
“Please do.”
“For a few days,” said Fen, “don’t eat or drink anything that other people aren’t eating and drinking. That goes for your sister, too… And suppose you wanted to break an actress’s contract without getting into legal trouble—how would you set about it?”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well,” he murmured. “There’s a law of slander, Professor Fen. If you should think of making any rash accusations, I’m sure it could be brought into service against you. So be careful, there’s a good man…and good-bye for now. We shall meet again, I hope.” With a quick smile he went.
An hour later, after a hurried ale-and-sandwich lunch at “The Bear”, Fen was on his way back to Oxford. He gave little thought to the morning’s events, for he realised that without more data speculation would yield nothing new. Instead, he fell to conceiving and casting a film about Wordsworth and Annette, and this, combined with occasional sanitary draughts of Jamesian hyperbole, kept his mind occupied until he arrived home.
On the morning of the following day—which was the Sunday—he was removing his gown in his rooms in College after attending Matins when the telephone rang, and with a civility begotten probably of awe the operator announced a Personal Call from New Scotland Yard.
“Gervase Fen speaking,” said Fen.
“Mr. Gervase Fen?”
“Speaking.”
“One moment, please, Mr. Fen.” The diaphragm of the receiver
“And you didn’t”—Humbleby’s tones flattered like an unguent—“you didn’t at all resent Mr. North’s attentions to her?”
For a fraction of a second there was hatred in Madge’s eyes; then, as though a lantern-slide had been whisked from a screen and another substituted for it, she was all amazement.
“But why should I? I didn’t even know that Stuart was interested in her.” She looked up at him. “Were you, darling?”
Mr. North vociferously sneezed.
“I don’t quite know how you’d define ‘interested’,” he said peevishly. “I took her out once or twice, if that’s what you mean, but there was nothing serious about it… How the hell have we got on to this dreary topic, anyway? What does it matter?”
He looked at Capstick, who nodded haplessly—and then, resipiscently and with equal ambiguity, shook his head.
“Anyway, it provides us with a sequitur” —Humbleby was unperturbed—“to my final questions: which concern the relationship between Miss Scott and Mr. Maurice Crane.”
“Final,” echoed Medesco. “Let’s hope they are. I want my lunch.”
“I believe”—once more Humbleby was addressing himself to Nicholas—“I believe that last Christmas Miss Scott was staying in your household. Is that right?”
“She stayed at my mother’s house.”
“You yourself don’t live there?”
“No. Nor Madge. Maurice and David do.”
“I should like to know who invited her.”
“Maurice did.”
“Were you there at the time of this visit?”
“No. David and I were away sailing in Bermuda.”
“And in that case your brother Maurice would be the only man in the house—unless your father—”
“My father died years ago… Yes, Maurice would have been the only man in the house. Was Gloria going to have a baby?”
“She was, yes… And now, Mr. Crane, if you’ll just let me have a complete list of the guests at your party…”
It was done; and presently the assembly dispersed. Nicholas, Madge and Stuart North were the last to leave the room, and Nicholas nodded to Fen as he went.
“This is very much your element, isn’t it?” he said in passing.
“Perhaps,” said Fen non-committally. “May I give you a word of advice?”
“Please do.”
“For a few days,” said Fen, “don’t eat or drink anything that other people aren’t eating and drinking. That goes for your sister, too… And suppose you wanted to break an actress’s contract without getting into legal trouble—how would you set about it?”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well,” he murmured. “There’s a law of slander, Professor Fen. If you should think of making any rash accusations, I’m sure it could be brought into service against you. So be careful, there’s a good man…and good-bye for now. We shall meet again, I hope.” With a quick smile he went.
An hour later, after a hurried ale-and-sandwich lunch at “The Bear”, Fen was on his way back to Oxford. He gave little thought to the morning’s events, for he realised that without more data speculation would yield nothing new. Instead, he fell to conceiving and casting a film about Wordsworth and Annette, and this, combined with occasional sanitary draughts of Jamesian hyperbole, kept his mind occupied until he arrived home.
On the morning of the following day—which was the Sunday—he was removing his gown in his rooms in College after attending Matins when the telephone rang, and with a civility begotten probably of awe the operator announced a Personal Call from New Scotland Yard.
“Gervase Fen speaking,” said Fen.
“Mr. Gervase Fen?”
“Speaking.”
“One moment, please, Mr. Fen.” The diaphragm of the receiver
Similar Books
