gold-digging profession. You and Bleakley seem curiously interested in his will. What’s the hurry?’
‘O’Brien was murdered,’ said Nigel negligently, lighting a cigarette.
Philip Starling gave a long-drawn whistle.
‘Well, you should know,’ he said at last.
‘And if you pass the news on there’ll be another murder,’ smiled Nigel. ‘Now tell me more about La Thrale.’
‘She turned up at Oxford a few years ago, acting in the Thespians Repertory Company. And what a ham-actress, too. However, she compensated for her failure on the boards by her success in the bed. Drove the proctors silly. They had to intrigue to get her out of the place finally. Her face was launching too many overdrafts among the undergraduates.’
‘And then?’
‘She went up to London. No visible means of support, but a series of guardian angels. Cavendish was the last of the angelic succession. She turned him down for O’Brien. Always did have an incredible nose for the sinking ship, the little rat. Cavendish has been getting into rather a sticky position financially this year, you know. I’m not sure she didn’t really fall for O’Brien. First time she’d had to do the chasing, and she had to like it. He’d got her properly taped, and she was beginning to realise he didn’t give any more for her than she’d given for her previous playmates. Lucilla in the role of cast-off glove would have been an interesting spectacle—and she wouldn’t take it lying down, either—’
‘Stop, stop, stop!’ cried Nigel, clapping his hands to his ears in mock desperation. ‘I can’t stand more than one motive at a time, and you’ve already given me three. Edward Cavendish might have killed O’Brien because (
a
) he’d taken away his girl, or (
b
) he wanted to expedite his legacy, or both; Lucilla might have killed him on the hell-has-no-fury-like-a-womans-corned cue. It only needs you to tell me that Georgia is O’Brien’s cast-off mistress and Knott-Sloman an agent of the OGPU and we shall have a perfect case against everyone in the household. Oh, I’d forgotten Mrs Grant. Her motive could be religious mania.’
‘What about me? It’s rather humiliating to be left out like this. I’ve always fancied myself as a potential murderer. The trained mind applying itself to the practical problems of life, you know.’ Starling’s face wore its most irresponsible and babyish expression, but his eyes were sharp; he looked like an overgrown infant prodigy.
‘I should head the list of suspects with your name, Philip, only that I can’t conceive any possible motive for you.’
‘No. If I had felt the need to bump off anyone in this outfit, my dear Nigel, it would have been Knott-Sloman. A really squalid fellow. Was a brass-hat in the war and runs a roadhouse in the peace, and if you can tell me a more nauseating combination of activities I’ll eat my hat. Add to that the fact that he is an anecdote-addict and eats nuts between meals, and Dante would have had to think out a special circle of hell for him. Woof!’
‘Where’s his roadhouse?’
‘Near London. Kingston bypass or somewhere. Very posh and popular. He’s just the sort of fellow to make a success of a thing like that. Smacks the women on the bottom and wears all his medals on his dinner-jacket, no doubt.’
‘I wonder how O‘Brien came to take up with him.’
‘You may well ask, old boy. Blackmail, probably. Sloman and Lucy are suspected by the cognoscenti of working in partnership over something or other, and blackmail would be just about his mark.’
‘Ah,’ said Nigel ironically, ‘I was waiting for something like that. Now you’ve only to give me a nice , succulent motive for Georgia, and I shall be quite happy.’
‘No, no. I yield to no one in my love of scandal for scandal’s sake. But Georgia is a good stick. Everything that a woman should be—attractively ugly, eccentric without being a frump, witty, a good cook, sensible and sensual,
‘O’Brien was murdered,’ said Nigel negligently, lighting a cigarette.
Philip Starling gave a long-drawn whistle.
‘Well, you should know,’ he said at last.
‘And if you pass the news on there’ll be another murder,’ smiled Nigel. ‘Now tell me more about La Thrale.’
‘She turned up at Oxford a few years ago, acting in the Thespians Repertory Company. And what a ham-actress, too. However, she compensated for her failure on the boards by her success in the bed. Drove the proctors silly. They had to intrigue to get her out of the place finally. Her face was launching too many overdrafts among the undergraduates.’
‘And then?’
‘She went up to London. No visible means of support, but a series of guardian angels. Cavendish was the last of the angelic succession. She turned him down for O’Brien. Always did have an incredible nose for the sinking ship, the little rat. Cavendish has been getting into rather a sticky position financially this year, you know. I’m not sure she didn’t really fall for O’Brien. First time she’d had to do the chasing, and she had to like it. He’d got her properly taped, and she was beginning to realise he didn’t give any more for her than she’d given for her previous playmates. Lucilla in the role of cast-off glove would have been an interesting spectacle—and she wouldn’t take it lying down, either—’
‘Stop, stop, stop!’ cried Nigel, clapping his hands to his ears in mock desperation. ‘I can’t stand more than one motive at a time, and you’ve already given me three. Edward Cavendish might have killed O’Brien because (
a
) he’d taken away his girl, or (
b
) he wanted to expedite his legacy, or both; Lucilla might have killed him on the hell-has-no-fury-like-a-womans-corned cue. It only needs you to tell me that Georgia is O’Brien’s cast-off mistress and Knott-Sloman an agent of the OGPU and we shall have a perfect case against everyone in the household. Oh, I’d forgotten Mrs Grant. Her motive could be religious mania.’
‘What about me? It’s rather humiliating to be left out like this. I’ve always fancied myself as a potential murderer. The trained mind applying itself to the practical problems of life, you know.’ Starling’s face wore its most irresponsible and babyish expression, but his eyes were sharp; he looked like an overgrown infant prodigy.
‘I should head the list of suspects with your name, Philip, only that I can’t conceive any possible motive for you.’
‘No. If I had felt the need to bump off anyone in this outfit, my dear Nigel, it would have been Knott-Sloman. A really squalid fellow. Was a brass-hat in the war and runs a roadhouse in the peace, and if you can tell me a more nauseating combination of activities I’ll eat my hat. Add to that the fact that he is an anecdote-addict and eats nuts between meals, and Dante would have had to think out a special circle of hell for him. Woof!’
‘Where’s his roadhouse?’
‘Near London. Kingston bypass or somewhere. Very posh and popular. He’s just the sort of fellow to make a success of a thing like that. Smacks the women on the bottom and wears all his medals on his dinner-jacket, no doubt.’
‘I wonder how O‘Brien came to take up with him.’
‘You may well ask, old boy. Blackmail, probably. Sloman and Lucy are suspected by the cognoscenti of working in partnership over something or other, and blackmail would be just about his mark.’
‘Ah,’ said Nigel ironically, ‘I was waiting for something like that. Now you’ve only to give me a nice , succulent motive for Georgia, and I shall be quite happy.’
‘No, no. I yield to no one in my love of scandal for scandal’s sake. But Georgia is a good stick. Everything that a woman should be—attractively ugly, eccentric without being a frump, witty, a good cook, sensible and sensual,
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