The Belting Inheritance by Julian Symons Page A

curtains were not drawn. Outside I could see the velvety dark. I yawned. “What time is it?”
    “A quarter to ten. I thought you might like a drink.” I saw the glass of lemonade in his hand, and realised that I was thirsty.
    It was not like Stephen to be so solicitous, and even as I thanked him I understood the reason. He had not heard how I had got on in London. Now I told him.
    He rubbed his hands. “Coming down tomorrow. By tomorrow night we’ll have him behind bars. But that’s not the only reason why I came up. The police are here and they’d like to see you. That is, if you’re feeling up to it.”
    “I’m all right.” In fact, as I jumped out of bed and washed my face I felt extremely well and alert.
    “You never told me Betty Urquhart had been Uncle Miles’ wife.”
    He tossed his head in an almost girlish way. “Didn’t I?”
    “I think you might have told me.”
    “Oh well, I’m sorry.”
    When I got down into the drawing-room I saw that Lady W had taken charge. She looked ill, her face yellow as a digestive biscuit and her eyes cloudy with pain, but she sat bolt upright in her own particular chair, and everybody else in the room seemed cowed by the mantle of authority that she had resumed. It might be Stephen who had telephoned the police, but it was Mamma who would deal with them. At my entrance she tapped the floor with a malacca stick beside the chair, a little like a conductor calling for attention.
    “Christopher. This is Inspector Arbuthnot. He seems to think it necessary that he should question you. I said that I could not object if you were sufficiently recovered.”
    I said that I had. I don’t know what the inspector would have done if I had said anything else. He was a large man, large but not fat, and everything about him was grey. He had grey curly hair, a greyish face, a grey suit, a grey tie and grey socks. I should like to add that he wore a grey shirt and grey shoes, but that would not be true. He listened to Lady W with no sign of impatience, and when I spoke gave me an encouraging nod. With him was Sergeant Hasty, whom I knew. He smiled sheepishly.
    “Do you want to talk to him alone? Very well, you may use the morning-room.” She said it as if she were making a large concession to this member of the lower orders who by some unlucky chance had moved within her ken. “You will bear in mind that it is really very late.”
    “I will, Lady Wainwright.”
    “Anything else can be left until the morning, I hope.”
    “I should like to talk to other members of the household,” the inspector said stolidly.
    “Do you wish to talk to me? I have not seen Thorne today. If you wish to see me it must be in my room. I am going to bed.”
    “I shan’t need to worry you tonight, Lady Wainwright.”
    “Poor Thorne. He would be unhappy to know that he is causing so much trouble.” It was an epitaph. She rose. Stephen moved towards her, but she took David’s arm. There was silence until they had gone. Then Markle was on his feet.
    “Look here, Inspector, I told you that I’m Mr David Wainwright’s solicitor. I came down with him because he thought there might be legal problems I could help with, but everything seems to be quite straightforward – ”
    There was a protesting murmur from Stephen, but it was the inspector who spoke. “Somebody in this household has been murdered. Do you call that quite straightforward?”
    Markle spread out his hands. “That’s nothing to do
with me.”
    “I still have some questions, Mr Markle.”
    “Then can’t you ask them now? I want to get back to London tonight.”
    “I am afraid that may not be possible.”
    “I don’t see why not.” There was anger in Markle’s voice. Then David came back and said quietly that he would like Markle to stay overnight. The solicitor subsided, grumbling.
    The morning-room faced north and east and was a cold inhospitable kind of room with a lot of lumpy Victorian furniture in it. The inspector bestowed