| |||||
|
Seventeen
Sir Henry stared curiously at Inspector Grange.
He said slowly: “I’m not quite sure that I understand you, Inspector.”
“It’s quite simple, Sir Henry. I’m asking you to check over your collection of firearms. I
presume they are catalogued and indexed?”
“Naturally. But I have already identified the revolver as part of my collection.”
“It isn’t quite so simple as that, Sir Henry.” Grange paused a moment. His instincts were always
against giving out any information, but his hand was being forced in this particular instance. Sir
Henry was a person of importance. He would doubtless comply with the request that was being
made to him, but he would also require a reason. The inspector decided that he had got to give him
the reason.
He said quietly:
“Dr. Christow was not shot with the revolver you identified this morning.”
Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose.
“Remarkable!” he said.
Grange felt vaguely comforted. Remarkable was exactly what he felt himself. He was grateful
to Sir Henry for saying so, and equally grateful for his not saying any more. It was as far as they
could go at the moment. The thing was remarkable—and beyond that simply did not make sense.
Sir Henry asked:
“Have you any reason to believe that the weapon from which the fatal shot was fired comes
from my collection?”
“No reason at all. But I have got to make sure, shall we say, that it doesn’t.”
Sir Henry nodded his head in confirmation.
“I appreciate your point. Well, we will get to work. It will take a little time.”
He opened the desk and took out a leather-bound volume.
As he opened it he repeated:
“It will take a little time to check up—”
Grange’s attention was held by something in his voice. He looked up sharply. Sir Henry’s
shoulders sagged a little—he seemed suddenly an older and more tired man.
Inspector Grange frowned.
He thought: “Devil if I know what to make of these people down here.”
“Ah—”
Grange spun round. His eyes noted the time by the clock, thirty minutes—twenty minutes—
since Sir Henry had said, “It will take a little time.”
Grange said sharply:
“Yes, sir?”
“A .38 Smith and Wesson is missing. It was in a brown leather holster and was at the end of the
rack in this drawer.”
“Ah!” The inspector kept his voice calm, but he was excited. “And when, sir, to your certain
knowledge, did you last see it in its proper place?”
Sir Henry reflected for a moment or two.
“That is not very easy to say, Inspector. I last had this drawer open about a week ago and I think
—I am almost certain—that if the revolver had been missing then I should have noticed the gap.
But I should not like to swear definitely that I saw it there.”
Inspector Grange nodded his head.
“Thank you, sir, I quite understand. Well, I must be getting on with things.”
He left the room, a busy, purposeful man.
Sir Henry stood motionless for a while after the inspector had gone, then he went out slowly
through the french windows on to the terrace. His wife was busy with a gardening basket and
gloves. She was pruning some rare shrubs with a pair of secateurs.
She waved to him brightly.
“What did the inspector want? I hope he is not going to worry the servants again. You know,
Henry, they don’t like it. They can’t see it as amusing or as a novelty like we do.”
“Do we see it like that?”
His tone attracted her attention. She smiled up at him sweetly.
“How tired you look, Henry. Must you let all this worry you so much?”
“Murder is worrying, Lucy.”
Lady Angkatell considered a moment, absently clipping off some branches, then her face
clouded over.
“Oh, dear—that is the worst of secateurs, they are so fascinating—one can’t stop and one
always clips off more than one means. What was it you were saying—something about murder
being worrying? But really, Henry, I have never seen why. I mean, if one has to die, it may be
cancer, or tuberculosis in one of those dreadful bright sanatoriums, or a stroke—horrid, with one’s
face all on one side—or else one is shot or stabbed or strangled perhaps. But the whole thing
comes to the same in the end. There one is, I mean, dead! Out of it all. And all the worry over.
And the relations have all the difficulties—money quarrels and whether to wear black or not—and
who was to have Aunt Selina’s writing desk—things like that!”
Sir Henry sat down on the stone coping. He said:
“This is all going to be more upsetting than we thought, Lucy.”
“Well, darling, we shall have to bear it. And when it’s all over we might go away somewhere.
Let’s not bother about present troubles but look forward to the future. I really am happy about that.
I’ve been wondering whether it would be nice to go to Ainswick for Christmas—or leave it until
Easter. What do you think?”
“Plenty of time to make plans for Christmas.”
“Yes, but I like to see things in my mind. Easter, perhaps…yes.” Lucy smiled happily. “She will
certainly have got over it by then.”
“Who?” Sir Henry was startled.
Lady Angkatell said calmly:
“Henrietta. I think if they were to have the wedding in October—October of next year, I mean,
then we could go and stop for that Christmas. I’ve been thinking, Henry—”
“I wish you wouldn’t, my dear. You think too much.”
“You know the barn? It will make a perfect studio. And Henrietta will need a studio. She has
real talent, you know. Edward, I am sure, will be immensely proud of her. Two boys and a girl
would be nice—or two boys and two girls.”
“Lucy—Lucy! How you run on.”
“But, darling,” Lady Angkatell opened wide, beautiful eyes. “Edward will never marry anyone
but Henrietta. He is very, very obstinate. Rather like my father in that way. He gets an idea in his
head! So of course Henrietta must marry him—and she will now that John Christow is out of the
way. He was really the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened to her.”
“Poor devil!”
“Why? Oh, you mean because he’s dead? Oh, well, everyone has to die sometime. I never
worry over people dying….”
He looked at her curiously.
“I always thought you liked Christow, Lucy?”
“I found him amusing. And he had charm. But I never think one ought to attach too much
importance to anybody.”
And gently, with a smiling face, Lady Angkatell clipped remorselessly at a Viburnum Carlesii.
|
|||||
上一篇：空幻之屋24 下一篇：没有了 |
- 发表评论
-
- 最新评论 进入详细评论页>>
