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Twenty
Sitting once more in Sir Henry’s study, Inspector Grange stared at the impassive face of the man
in front of him.
So far, the honours lay with Gudgeon.
“I am very sorry, sir,” he repeated. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned the occurrence, but it
had slipped my memory.”
He looked apologetically from the inspector to Sir Henry.
“It was about 5:30 if I remember rightly, sir. I was crossing the hall to see if there were any
letters for the post when I noticed a revolver lying on the hall table. I presumed it was from the
master’s collection, so I picked it up and brought it in here. There was a gap on the shelf by the
mantelpiece where it had come from, so I replaced it where it belonged.”
“Point it out to me,” said Grange.
Gudgeon rose and went to the shelf in question, the inspector close behind him.
“It was this one, sir.” Gudgeon’s finger indicated a small Mauser pistol at the end of the row.
It was a .25—quite a small weapon. It was certainly not the gun that had killed John Christow.
Grange, with his eyes on Gudgeon’s face, said:
“That’s an automatic pistol, not a revolver.”
Gudgeon coughed.
“Indeed, sir? I’m afraid that I am not at all well-up in firearms. I may have used the term
revolver rather loosely, sir.”
“But you are quite sure that that is the gun you found in the hall and brought in here?”
“Oh, yes, sir, there can be no possible doubt about that.”
Grange stopped him as he was about to stretch out a hand.
“Don’t touch it, please. I must examine it for fingerprints and to see if it is loaded.”
“I don’t think it is loaded, sir. None of Sir Henry’s collection is kept loaded. And, as for
fingerprints, I polished it over with my handkerchief before replacing it, sir, so there will only be
my fingerprints on it.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Grange sharply.
But Gudgeon’s apologetic smile did not waver.
“I fancied it might be dusty, sir.”
The door opened and Lady Angkatell came in. She smiled at the inspector.
“How nice to see you, Inspector Grange! What is all this about a revolver and Gudgeon? That
child in the kitchen is in floods of tears. Mrs. Medway has been bullying her—but of course the
girl was quite right to say what she saw if she thought she ought to do so. I always find right and
wrong so bewildering myself—easy, you know, if right is unpleasant and wrong is agreeable,
because then one knows where one is—but confusing when it is the other way about—and I think,
don’t you, Inspector, that everyone must do what they think right themselves. What have you been
telling them about that pistol, Gudgeon?”
Gudgeon said with respectful emphasis:
“The pistol was in the hall, my lady, on the centre table. I have no idea where it came from. I
brought it in here and put it away in its proper place. That is what I have just told the inspector and
he quite understands.”
Lady Angkatell shook her head. She said gently:
“You really shouldn’t have said that, Gudgeon. I’ll talk to the inspector myself.”
Gudgeon made a slight movement, and Lady Angkatell said very charmingly:
“I do appreciate your motives, Gudgeon. I know how you always try to save us trouble and
annoyance.” She added in gentle dismissal: “That will be all now.”
Gudgeon hesitated, threw a fleeting glance towards Sir Henry and then at the inspector, then
bowed and moved towards the door.
Grange made a motion as though to stop him, but for some reason he was not able to define to
himself, he let his arm fall again. Gudgeon went out and closed the door.
Lady Angkatell dropped into a chair and smiled at the two men. She said conversationally:
“You know, I really do think that was very charming of Gudgeon. Quite feudal, if you know
what I mean. Yes, feudal is the right word.”
Grange said stiffly:
“Am I to understand, Lady Angkatell, that you yourself have some further knowledge about the
matter?”
“Of course. Gudgeon didn’t find it in the hall at all. He found it when he took the eggs out.”
“The eggs?” Inspector Grange stared at her.
“Out of the basket,” said Lady Angkatell.
She seemed to think that everything was now quite clear. Sir Henry said gently:
“You must tell us a little more, my dear. Inspector Grange and I are still at sea.”
“Oh.” Lady Angkatell set herself to be explicit. “The pistol, you see, was in the basket, under
the eggs.”
“What basket and what eggs, Lady Angkatell?”
“The basket I took down to the farm. The pistol was in it, and then I put the eggs in on top of
the pistol and forgot all about it. And when we found poor John Christow dead by the pool, it was
such a shock I let go of the basket and Gudgeon just caught it in time (because of the eggs, I mean.
If I’d dropped it they would have been broken). And he brought it back to the house. And later I
asked him about writing the date on the eggs—a thing I always do—otherwise one eats the fresher
eggs sometimes before the older ones—and he said all that had been attended to—and now that I
remember, he was rather emphatic about it. And that is what I mean by being feudal. He found the
pistol and put it back in here—I suppose really because there were police in the house. Servants
are always so worried by police, I find. Very nice and loyal—but also quite stupid, because of
course, Inspector, it’s the truth you want to hear, isn’t it?”
And Lady Angkatell finished up by giving the inspector a beaming smile.
“The truth is what I mean to get,” said Grange rather grimly.
Lady Angkatell sighed.
“It all seems such a fuss, doesn’t it?” she said. “I mean, all this hounding people down. I don’t
suppose whoever it was who shot John Christow really meant to shoot him—not seriously, I mean.
If it was Gerda, I’m sure she didn’t. In fact, I’m really surprised that she didn’t miss—it’s the sort
of thing that one would expect of Gerda. And she’s really a very nice kind creature. And if you go
and put her in prison and hang her, what on earth is going to happen to the children? If she did
shoot John, she’s probably dreadfully sorry about it now. It’s bad enough for children to have a
father who’s been murdered—but it will make it infinitely worse for them to have their mother
hanged for it. Sometimes I don’t think you policemen think of these things.”
“We are not contemplating arresting anyone at present, Lady Angkatell.”
“Well, that’s sensible at any rate. But I have thought all along, Inspector Grange, that you were
a very sensible sort of man.”
Again that charming, almost dazzling smile.
Inspector Grange blinked a little. He could not help it, but he came firmly to the point at issue.
“As you said just now, Lady Angkatell, it’s the truth I want to get at. You took the pistol from
here—which gun was it, by the way?”
Lady Angkatell nodded her head towards the shelf by the mantelpiece. “The second from the
end. The Mauser .25.” Something in the crisp, technical way she spoke jarred on Grange. He had
not, somehow, expected Lady Angkatell, whom up to now he had labelled in his own mind as
“vague” and “just a bit batty,” to describe a firearm with such technical precision.
“You took the pistol from here and put it in your basket. Why?”
“I knew you’d ask me that,” said Lady Angkatell. Her tone, unexpectedly, was almost
triumphant. “And of course there must be some reason. Don’t you think so, Henry?” She turned to
her husband. “Don’t you think I must have had a reason for taking a pistol out that morning?”
“I should certainly have thought so, my dear,” said Sir Henry stiffly.
“One does things,” said Lady Angkatell, gazing thoughtfully in front of her, “and then one
doesn’t remember why one has done them. But I think, you know, Inspector, that there always is a
reason if one can only get at it. I must have had some idea in my head when I put the Mauser into
my egg basket.” She appealed to him. “What do you think it can have been?”
Grange stared at her. She displayed no embarrassment—just a childlike eagerness. It beat him.
He had never yet met anyone like Lucy Angkatell, and just for the moment he didn’t know what to
do about it.
“My wife,” said Sir Henry, “is extremely absentminded, Inspector.”
“So it seems, sir,” said Grange. He did not say it very nicely.
“Why do you think I took that pistol?” Lady Angkatell asked him confidentially.
“I have no idea, Lady Angkatell.”
“I came in here,” mused Lady Angkatell. “I had been talking to Simmons about the pillowcases
—and I remember dimly crossing over to the fireplace—and thinking we must get a new poker—
the curate, not the rector—”
Inspector Grange stared. He felt his head going round.
“And I remember picking up the Mauser—it was a nice handy little gun, I’ve always liked it—
and dropping it into the basket—I’d just got the basket from the flower room. But there were so
many things in my head—Simmons, you know, and the bindweed in the Michaelmas daisies—and
hoping Mrs. Medway would make a really rich Nigger in his Shirt—”
“A nigger in his shirt?” Inspector Grange had to break in.
“Chocolate, you know, and eggs—and then covered with whipped cream. Just the sort of sweet
a foreigner would like for lunch.”
Inspector Grange spoke fiercely and brusquely, feeling like a man who brushes away fine
spiders’ webs which are impairing his vision.
“Did you load the pistol?”
He had hoped to startle her—perhaps even to frighten her a little, but Lady Angkatell only
considered the question with a kind of desperate thoughtfulness.
“Now did I? That’s so stupid. I can’t remember. But I should think I must have, don’t you,
Inspector? I mean, what’s the good of a pistol without ammunition? I wish I could remember
exactly what was in my head at the time.”
“My dear Lucy,” said Sir Henry. “What goes on or does not go on in your head has been the
despair of everyone who knows you well for years.”
She flashed him a very sweet smile.
“I am trying to remember, Henry dear. One does such curious things. I picked up the telephone
receiver the other morning and found myself looking down at it quite bewildered. I couldn’t
imagine what I wanted with it.”
“Presumably you were going to ring someone up,” said the inspector coldly.
“No, funnily enough, I wasn’t. I remembered afterwards—I’d been wondering why Mrs. Mears,
the gardener’s wife, held her baby in such an odd way, and I picked up the telephone receiver to
try, you know, just how one would hold a baby, and of course I realized that it had looked odd
because Mrs. Mears was left-handed and had its head the other way round.”
She looked triumphantly from one to the other of the two men.
“Well,” thought the inspector, “I suppose it’s possible that there are people like this.”
But he did not feel very sure about it.
The whole thing, he realized, might be a tissue of lies. The kitchen maid, for instance, had
distinctly stated that it was a revolver Gudgeon had been holding. Still, you couldn’t set much
store by that. The girl knew nothing of firearms. She had heard a revolver talked about in
connection with the crime, and revolver or pistol would be all one to her.
Both Gudgeon and Lady Angkatell had specified the Mauser pistol—but there was nothing to
prove their statement. It might actually have been the missing revolver that Gudgeon had been
handling and he might have returned it, not to the study, but to Lady Angkatell herself. The
servants all seemed absolutely besotted about the damned woman.
Supposing it was actually she who had shot John Christow? (But why should she? He couldn’t
see why.) Would they still back her up and tell lies for her? He had an uncomfortable feeling that
that was just what they would do.
And now this fantastic story of hers about not being able to remember—surely she could think
up something better than that. And looking so natural about it—not in the least embarrassed or
apprehensive. Damn it all, she gave you the impression that she was speaking the literal truth.
He got up.
“When you remember a little more, perhaps you’ll tell me, Lady Angkatell,” he said dryly.
She answered: “Of course I will, Inspector. Things come to one quite suddenly sometimes.”
Grange went out of the study. In the hall he put a finger round the inside of a collar and drew a
deep breath.
He felt all tangled up in the thistledown. What he needed was his oldest and foulest pipe, a pint
of ale and a good steak and chips. Something plain and objective.
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