his boodle.’
‘You contemptible little mannikin!’ she flashed back at him. ‘There
are
things in the world more valuable than money, though you may not be capable of understanding them.’
Starling flushed angrily. ‘Oh, for God’s sake stop play-acting, my good girl. You never were a success on the stage, and you’re a bit old now for a comeback.’
Bleakley hastily interposed. Lucilla looked like committing physical assault. ‘Now, now,’ he said soothingly, ‘we’re all a little overwrought. I take it you know nothing of a will, Mr Starling?’
‘You take it correctly,’ the little don snorted, and stumped off upstairs. Bleakley next met Edward and Georgia Cavendish coming in from their walk. To them he put the same question. Edward denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of the document. Georgia was silent for a moment, and then said:
‘I don’t know where he kept it, but he did tell me once that he was leaving me some of his money.’
‘Why not ask his solicitor?’ said her brother.
‘We shall get into touch with him in due course, sir.’
Cavendish looked at him in a puzzled way. Bleakley went on hastily:
‘Do you know of any relatives of the deceased with whom we should get into touch?’
‘Afraid I don’t. He never told any of us about his relations, I don’t think, except that his father and mother had been dead for some time. Oh, I believe he once said something about some cousins who lived in Gloucestershire.’
A few minutes later Knott-Sloman arrived back. The superintendent met him in the yard. ‘Just been out for a spin in the Cavendishes’ car,’ he volunteered. ‘Blow away the cobwebs and all that. Stopped for a drink in the village. I can recommend the Beehive.’
‘I just wanted to ask if you knew anything about O’Brien’s will. We can’t find it,’ said Bleakley.
‘No, I don’t know. What’s the idea?’
‘Well, sir, you being a friend of the deceased, I thought you might have perhaps witnessed it.’
‘See here, what are you getting at?’ said Knott-Sloman, his eyes cold and guarded. ‘Are you suggesting I am trying to suppress something? Because—let me tell you—’
‘Oh, no, sir. Of course not; it’s simply a routine inquiry.’
But Knott-Sloman went off looking both offended and thoughtful; and Bleakley kicked himself for the tactical error. That question about the witnesses to the will might set minds working and tongues talking—might suggest to someone, once it got about, that the police were not so satisfied with the suicide theory as they pretended to be.
On his return after lunch, Nigel dragged Philip Starling away from a peculiarly savage article he had begun to write exposing the imbecilities committed by a recent editor of the
Pythian Odes
, and brought him to his own room.
‘Look here, Philip, I’ve got to have the dirt on all these chaps, and you can probably give me some of it. In return I’ll give you an exclusive story—which’ll damned well have to remain exclusive for the present. But first I’ll have to ask you a question. What’s all this between you and Lucilla?’
Starling’s cynical, arrogant, yet oddly appealing face grew tense. His eyes turned away. Then he said lightly:
‘I like thumping great blondes. Lucilla does not like small men.’
He spoke in identically the same tones as he used in relating his most fantastic scandals; but Nigel knew that he was being serious now.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Not that I think you’re missing much.’
‘Lord, no. She’s a bitch, all right. And one of the world’s most barefaced self-deceivers. Look at the way she’s acting up now. The field marshal’s widow walking in the funeral cortege. Couldn’t get O’Brien to sign her marriage lines on earth, so her marriage has got to be made in heaven. Gah! She makes me sick.’
‘O’Brien likely to have left her some money?’
‘Might have. She was pretty thick with him. And at the very top of the
‘You contemptible little mannikin!’ she flashed back at him. ‘There
are
things in the world more valuable than money, though you may not be capable of understanding them.’
Starling flushed angrily. ‘Oh, for God’s sake stop play-acting, my good girl. You never were a success on the stage, and you’re a bit old now for a comeback.’
Bleakley hastily interposed. Lucilla looked like committing physical assault. ‘Now, now,’ he said soothingly, ‘we’re all a little overwrought. I take it you know nothing of a will, Mr Starling?’
‘You take it correctly,’ the little don snorted, and stumped off upstairs. Bleakley next met Edward and Georgia Cavendish coming in from their walk. To them he put the same question. Edward denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of the document. Georgia was silent for a moment, and then said:
‘I don’t know where he kept it, but he did tell me once that he was leaving me some of his money.’
‘Why not ask his solicitor?’ said her brother.
‘We shall get into touch with him in due course, sir.’
Cavendish looked at him in a puzzled way. Bleakley went on hastily:
‘Do you know of any relatives of the deceased with whom we should get into touch?’
‘Afraid I don’t. He never told any of us about his relations, I don’t think, except that his father and mother had been dead for some time. Oh, I believe he once said something about some cousins who lived in Gloucestershire.’
A few minutes later Knott-Sloman arrived back. The superintendent met him in the yard. ‘Just been out for a spin in the Cavendishes’ car,’ he volunteered. ‘Blow away the cobwebs and all that. Stopped for a drink in the village. I can recommend the Beehive.’
‘I just wanted to ask if you knew anything about O’Brien’s will. We can’t find it,’ said Bleakley.
‘No, I don’t know. What’s the idea?’
‘Well, sir, you being a friend of the deceased, I thought you might have perhaps witnessed it.’
‘See here, what are you getting at?’ said Knott-Sloman, his eyes cold and guarded. ‘Are you suggesting I am trying to suppress something? Because—let me tell you—’
‘Oh, no, sir. Of course not; it’s simply a routine inquiry.’
But Knott-Sloman went off looking both offended and thoughtful; and Bleakley kicked himself for the tactical error. That question about the witnesses to the will might set minds working and tongues talking—might suggest to someone, once it got about, that the police were not so satisfied with the suicide theory as they pretended to be.
On his return after lunch, Nigel dragged Philip Starling away from a peculiarly savage article he had begun to write exposing the imbecilities committed by a recent editor of the
Pythian Odes
, and brought him to his own room.
‘Look here, Philip, I’ve got to have the dirt on all these chaps, and you can probably give me some of it. In return I’ll give you an exclusive story—which’ll damned well have to remain exclusive for the present. But first I’ll have to ask you a question. What’s all this between you and Lucilla?’
Starling’s cynical, arrogant, yet oddly appealing face grew tense. His eyes turned away. Then he said lightly:
‘I like thumping great blondes. Lucilla does not like small men.’
He spoke in identically the same tones as he used in relating his most fantastic scandals; but Nigel knew that he was being serious now.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Not that I think you’re missing much.’
‘Lord, no. She’s a bitch, all right. And one of the world’s most barefaced self-deceivers. Look at the way she’s acting up now. The field marshal’s widow walking in the funeral cortege. Couldn’t get O’Brien to sign her marriage lines on earth, so her marriage has got to be made in heaven. Gah! She makes me sick.’
‘O’Brien likely to have left her some money?’
‘Might have. She was pretty thick with him. And at the very top of the
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