Agatha Christie - Crooked House The characters, places, incidents and situations in I this hook are imaginary and have no relation to any person, place, or actual happening Copyright 1948, 1949 by Agatha Christie MaUowan. © renewed 1976, 1977 by Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved. Published in Large Print by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series. Set in 18 pt Plantin. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Christie, Agatha, 18901976. Crooked house / Agatha Christie. p. cm.--(G.K. Hall large print book series) ISBN 0-8161-4463-X (Ig. print) ISBN 0-8161-4502-4 (Ig. print.-pb) 1. Large type books. I. Tide. [PR6005.H66C76 1988] 823'.912--dcl9 87-32146 CIP To PUNKIE, who likes an orthodox detective story, murder, inquest, and suspicion falling on everyone in turn! CROOKED HOUSE ^ One I first came to know Sophia Leonides in Egypt towards the end of the war. She held a fairly high administrative post in one of the Foreign Office departments out there. I knew her first in an official capacity, and I soon appreciated the efficiency that had brought her to the position she held, in spite of her youth (she was at that time just twenty two). 4 Besides being extremely easy to look at, she had a clear mind and a dry sense of humour that I found very delightful. We became friends. She was a person whom it was extraordinarily easy to talk to and we enjoyed our dinners and occasional dances very much. All this I knew; it was not until I was ordered East at the close of the European war that I knew something else — that I loved Sophia and that I wanted to marry her. We were dining at Shepheard's when I made this discovery. It did not come to me with any shock of surprise, but more as the recognition of a fact with which I had been long familiar. I looked at her with new eyes -- but I saw what I had already known for a long time. I liked everything I saw. The dark crisp hair that sprang up proudly from her forehead, the vivid blue eyes, the small square fighting chin, and the straight nose. I liked the well cut light grey tailormade, and the crisp white shirt. She looked refreshingly English and that appealed to me strongly after three years without seeing my native land. Nobody, I thought, could be more English -- and even as I was thinking exactly that, I suddenly wondered if, in fact, she was, or indeed could be, as English as she looked. Does the real thing ever have the perfection of a stage performance? I realised that much and freely as we had talked together, discussing ideas, our likes and dislikes, the future, our immediate friends and acquaintances -- Sophia had never mentioned her home or her family. She knew all about me (she was, as I have indicated, a good listener) but about her I knew nothing. She had, I supposed, the usual background, but she had never talked about it. And until this moment I had never realised the fact. Sophia asked me what I was thinking about. I replied truthfully: "You." "I see," she said. And she sounded as though she did see. "We may not meet again for a couple of years," I said. "I don't know when I shall get back to England. But as soon as I do get back, the first thing I shall do will be to come and see you and ask you to marry me." She took it without batting an eyelash. She sat there, smoking, not looking at me. For a moment or two I was nervous that she might not understand. "Listen," I said. "The one thing I'm determined not to do, is to ask you to marry me now. That wouldn't work out anyway. First you might turn me down, and then I'd go off miserable and probably tie up with some ghastly woman just to restore my vanity. And if you didn't turn me down what could we do about it? Get married and part at once? Get engaged and settle down to a long waiting period. I couldn't stand your doing that. You might meet someone else and feel bound to be 'loyal5 to me. We've been living in a queer hectic get-on-with-it-quickly atmosphere. Marriages and love affairs making and breaking all round us. I'd like to feel you'd gone home, free and independent, to look round f you and size up the new post-war world and decide what you want out of it. What is between you and me, Sophia, has got to be permanent. I've no use for any other kind of marriage." "No more have I," said Sophia. "On the other hand," I said, "I think I I'm entitled to let you know how I -- well --how I feel." "But without undue lyrical expression?" murmured Sophia. "Darling -- don't you understand? I've tried not to say I love you --" She stopped me. "I do understand, Charles. And I like your funny way of doing things. And you may come and see me when you come back -- if you still want to --" It was my turn to interrupt. "There's do doubt about that." "There's always a doubt about everything, Charles. There may always be some incalculable factor that upsets the apple cart. For one thing, you don't know much about me, do you?" "I don't even know where you live in England." "I live at Swinly Dean." I I nodded at the mention of the wellknown outer suburb of London which boasts three excellent golf courses for the city financier. She added softly in a musing voice: "In a little crooked house ..." I must have looked slightly startled, for she seemed amused, and explained by elaborating the quotation " 'And they all lived together in a little crooked house.' That's us. Not really such a little house either. But definitely crooked — running to gables and halftimbering!" ^ "Are you one of a large family? Brothers and sisters?" "One brother, one sister, a mother, a father, an uncle, an aunt by marriage, a grandfather, a great aunt and a step grandmother." "Good gracious!" I exclaimed, slightly overwhelmed. She laughed.^ "Of course we don't normally all live together. The war and blitzes have brought that about — but I don't know —" she frowned reflectively — "perhaps spiritually the family has always lived together — under my grandfather's eye and protection. He's rather a Person, my grandfather. He's over eighty, about four foot ten, and everybody else looks rather dim beside him." "He sounds interesting," I said. "He is interesting. He's a Greek from Smyrna. Aristide Leonides." She added, with a twinkle, "He's extremely rich." "Will anybody be rich after this is over?" "My grandfather will," said Sophia with assurance. "No Soak-the-rich tactics would have any effect on him. He'd just soak the soakers. "I wonder," she added, "if you'll like him?" "Do you?" I asked. "Better than anyone in the world," said Sophia. Two It was over two years before I returned to England. They were not easy years. I wrote to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently. Her letters, like mine, were not love letters. They were letters written to each other by close friends -- they dealt with ideas and thoughts and with comments on the daily trend of life. Yet I know that as far as I was concerned, and I believed as far as Sophia was concerned too, our feeling for each other grew and strengthened. I returned to England on a soft grey day in September. The leaves on the trees were golden in the evening light. There were playful gusts of wind. From the airfield I sent a telegram to Sophia. "Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening Mario's nine o'clock Charles^ A couple of hours later I was sitting reading the Times; and scanning the Births Marriages and Death column my eye was caught by the name Leonides: On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides, beloved husband of Brenda Leonides 5 in his eighty fifth year. Deeply regretted. There was another announcement immediately below: Leonides. Suddenly, at his residence Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides. Deeply mourned by his loving children and grandchildren. Flowers to St. Eldred's Church, Swinly Dean. I found the two announcements rather curious. There seemed to have been some faulty staff work resulting in overlapping. But my main preoccupation was Sophia. I hastily sent her a second telegram: "Just seen news of your grandfather's death. Very sorry. Let me know when I can see you. Charles." A telegram from Sophia reached me at six o'clock at my father's house. It said: "Will be at Mario's nine o'clock. Sophia." The thought of meeting Sophia again made me both nervous and excited. The time crept by with maddening slowness. I was at Mario's waiting twenty minutes too early. Sophia herself was only five minutes late. It is always a shock to meet again someone whom you have not seen for a long time but who has been very much present in your mind during that period. When at last Sophia came through the swing doors our meeting seemed completely unreal. She was wearing black, and that, in some curious way, startled me! Most other women were wearing black, but I got it into my head that it was definitely mourning -- and it surprised me that Sophia should be the kind of person who did wear black -- even for a near relative. We had cocktails -- then went and found our table. We talked rather fast and feverishly -- asking after old friends of the Cairo days. It was artificial conversation but it tided us over the first awkwardness. I expressed commiseration for her grandfather's death and Sophia said quietly that it had been "very sudden." Then we started off again reminiscing. I began to feel, uneasily, that something was the matter -- something, I mean, other than the first natural awkwardnesses of meeting again. There was something wrong, definitely wrong, with Sophia herself. Was she, perhaps, going to tell me that she had found some other man whom she cared for more than she did for me? That her feeling for me had been "all a mistake"? Somehow I didn't think it was that — I didn't know what it was. Meanwhile we continued our artificial talk. Then, quite suddenly, as the waiter placed coffee on the table and retired bowing, everything swung into focus. Here were Sophia and I sitting together as so often before at a small table in a restaurant. The years of our separation might never have been. - "Sophia," I said. And immediately she said, "Charles!" I drew a deep breath of relief. "Thank goodness that's over," I said. "What's been the matter with us?" "Probably my fault. I was stupid." "But it's all right now?" "Yes, it's all right now." We smiled at each other. "Darling!" I said. And then: "How soon will you marry me?" Her smile died. The something, whatever it was, was back. "I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure, Charles, that I can ever marry you." "But, Sophia! Why not? Is it because you feel I'm a stranger? Do you want time to get used to me again? Is there someone else? No —" I broke off. "I'm a fool. It's none of those things." "No, it isn't." She shook her head. I waited. She said in a low voice: "It's my grandfather's death." "Your grandfather's death? But why? What earthly difference can that make? You don't mean — surely you can't imagine — is it money? Hasn't he left any? But surely, dearest—" "It isn't money." She gave a fleeting smile. "I think you'd be quite willing to 'take me in my shift' as the old saying goes. And grandfather never lost any money in his life." "Then what is it?" "It's just his death — you see, I think, Charles, that he didn't just — die. I think he may have been — killed ..." I stared at her. "But — what a fantastic idea. What made you think of it?" "I didn't think of it. The doctor was queer to begin with. He wouldn't sign a certificate. They're going to have a post mortem. It's quite clear that they suspect something is wrong." I didn't dispute that with her. Sophia had plenty of brains; any conclusions she had drawn could be relied upon. Instead I said earnestly: "Their suspicions may be quite unjustified. But putting that aside, supposing that they are justified, how does that affect you and me?" "It might under certain circumstances. You're in the Diplomatic Service. They're rather particular about wives. No -- please don't say all the things that you're just bursting to say. You're bound to say them -- and I believe you really think them -- and theoretically I quite agree with them. But I'm proud -- I'm devilishly proud. I want our marriage to be a good thing for everyone -- I don't want to represent one half of a sacrifice for love! And, as I say, it may be all right ..." "You mean the doctor -- may have made a mistake?" "Even if he hasn't made a mistake, it won't matter -- so long as the right person killed him." "What do you mean, Sophia?" J "It was a beastly thing to say. But, after all, one might as well be honest." She forestalled my next words. "No, Charles, I'm not going to say any more. I've probably said too much already. But I was determined to come and meet you tonight -- to see you myself and make you understand. We can't settle anything until this is cleared up." "At least tell me about it." & "Yes " Using the scarf he picked up the block of marble carefully. . , „ , ., "There mav be fi^rprmts, he said, u <- k^ o^/.i .1- t much hope. "But I but he spoke withou ,., . ' r , „ rather think whoever ^lr was - careful He said to me: "Whac are you looking at? t ,,roo i^^ ^ i,,roken backed wooden I was looking at a V , , ,. i^'^k^/.ko^ u-u as among the derelicts. kitchen chair which w^ r r n n^ tk^ o i- c ^ J^ a Ie\v fragments of On the seat of it wei^ "r'^^o '» ^ .Taverner. "Someone Curious, said . , ,, r . xr ci-r^ri ^r, tko^ i, ifh muddy feet. Now stood on that chair w why was that?" He shook his head.- , r i u "w/^nr t,r^ . when you found her, What time was it Miss Leonides?" p. "Tt ^^ot i, i- ^n Ilve minutes past it must have be^ " one." "And your Nannie saw hergolng out about twenty minuted earher- wh0 wasthe la<;t r^^o^r, k f ^ ^ known to have been last person before tha) in the wash house?" "I've no idea. Probably Josephine herself. Josephine was swinging on the door this morning after breakfast, I know." Taverner nodded. "So between then and a quarter to one someone set the trap. You say that bit of marble is the door stop you use for the front door? Any idea when that was missing?" Sophia shook her head. "The door hasn't been propped open at all to-day. It's been too cold." "Any idea where everyone was all the morning?" ? "I went out for a walk. Eustace and Josephine did lessons until half past twelve — with a break at half past ten. Father 5 I think, has been in the library all the morning." "Your mother?" "She was just coming out of her bedroom when I came in from my walk — that was about a quarter past twelve. She doesn't get up very early." We re-entered the house. I followed Sophia to the library. Philip 5 looking white and haggard, sat in his usual chair. Magda crouched against his knees, crying quietly. Sophia asked: "Have they telephoned yet from the hospital?" Philip shook his head. Magda sobbed: "Why wouldn't they let me go with her? My baby -- my funny ugly baby. And I used to call her a changeling and make her so angry. How could I be so cruel? And now she'll die. I know she'll die." "Hush, my dear," said Philip. "Hush." I felt that I had no place in this family scene of anxiety and grief. I withdrew quietly and went to find Nannie. She was sitting in the kitchen crying quietly. "It's a judgement on me, Mr. Charles, for the hard things I've been thinking. A judgement, that's what it is." I did not try and fathom her meaning. "There's wickedness in this house. That's what there is. I didn't wish to see it or believe it. But seeing's believing. Somebody killed the master and the same somebody must have tried to kill Josephine." "Why should they try and kill Josephine?" Nannie removed a corner of her handkerchief from her eye and gave me a shrewd glance. "You know well enough what she was like, Mr. Charles. She liked to know things. She was always like that, even as a tiny thing. Used to hide under the dinner table and listen to the maids talking and then she'd hold it over them. Made her feel important. You see, she was passed over, as it were, by the mistress. She wasn't a handsome child, like the other two. She was always a plain little thing. A changeling, the mistress used to call her. I blame the mistress for that, for it's my belief it turned the child sour. But in a funny sort of way she got her own back by finding out things about people and letting them know she knew them. But it isn't safe to do that when there's a poisoner about!" No, it hadn't been safe. And that brought something else to my mind. I asked Nannie: "Do you know where she kept a little black book — a notebook of some kind where she used to write down things?" "I know what you mean, Mr. Charles. Very sly about it, she was. I've seen her sucking her pencil and writing in the book and sucking her pencil again. And 'don't do that,' I'd say, 'you'll get lead poisoning' and 'oh no, I shan't,' she said, 'because it isn't really lead in a pencil. It's carbon, though I don't see how that could be so, for if you call a thing a lead pencil it stands to reason that that's because there's lead in '^ 5? It. "You'd think so," I agreed. "But as a matter of fact she was right." (Josephine was always right!) "What about this notebook? Do you know where she kept it?" "I've no idea at all, sir. It was one of the things she was sly about." "She hadn't got it with her when she was found?" "Oh no, Mr. Charles, there was no notebook." Had someone taken the notebook? Or had she hidden it in her own room? The idea came to me to look and see. I was not sure which Josephine's room was, but as I stood hesitating in the passage Taverner's voice called me: "Come in here," he said. "I'm in the kid's room. Did you ever see such a sight?" I stepped over the threshold and stopped dead. The small room looked as though it had been visited by a tornado. The drawers of the chest of drawers were pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor. The niattress and bedding had been pulled from the small bed. The rugs were tossed into heaps. The chairs had been turned upside down 5 the pictures taken down from the wall, the photographs wrenched out of their tfqi-ppO "Good Lord," I exclaimed. "What was the big idea?" i "What do you think?" "Someone was looking for something." "Exactly." I looked round and whistled. "But who on earth -- Surely nobody could come in here and do all this and not be heard -- or seen?" "Why not? Mrs. Leonides spends the morning in her bedroom doing her nails and ringing up her friends on the telephone and playing with her clothes. Philip sits in the library browsing over books. The nurse woman is in the kitchen peeling potatoes and stringing beans. In a family that knows each other's habits it would be easy enough. And I'll tell you this. Anyone in the house could have done our little job -- could have set the trap for the child and wrecked her room. But it was someone in a hurry? someone who hadn't the time to search quietly." "Anvone in the house, you say?" "Yes, I've checked up. Everyone has some time or other unaccounted for. Philip, Magda, the nurse, your girl. The same upstairs. Brenda spent most of the morning alone. Laurence and Eustace had a half hour break — from ten thirty to eleven — you were with them part of that time — but not all of it. Miss de Haviland was in the garden alone. Roger was in his study." "Only Clemency was in London at her job." "No, even she isn't out of it. She stayed at home today with a headache — she was alone in her room having that headache. Any of them — any blinking one of them! And I don't know which! I've no idea. If I knew what they were looking for in here —" His eyes went round the wrecked room. "And if I knew whether they'd found it •1*-. ... Something stirred in my brain — a memory ... Taverner clinched it by asking me: "What was the kid doing when you last saw her?" "Wait," I said. ». I dashed out of the room and up the stairs. I passed through the left hand door and went up to the top floor. I pushed open the door of the cistern room, mounted the two steps and bending my head, since the ceiling was low and sloping, I looked round me. Josephine had said when I asked her what she was doing there that she was "detecting." I didn't see what there could be to detect in a cobwebby attic full of water tanks. But such an attic would make a good hiding place. I considered it probable that Josephine had been hiding something there, something that she knew quite well she had no business to have. If so, it oughtn't to take long to find it. It took me just three minutes. Tucked away behind the largest tank, from the interior of which a sibilant hissing added an eerie note to the atmosphere, I found a packet of letters wrapped in a torn piece of brown paper. I read the first letter. Oh Laurence -- my darling, my own dear love ... It was wonderful last night when you quoted that verse of t Vnpw it was meant for me, though you didn't look at me. Aristide said, "You read verse well." He didn't guess what we were both feeling. My darling, I feel convinced that soon everything will come right. We shall be glad that he never knew, that he died happy. He's been good to me. I don't want him to suffer. But I don't really think that it can be any pleasure to live after you're eighty. I shouldn't want to! Soon we shall be together for always. How wonderful it will be when I can say to you: My dear dear husband .... Dearest, we were made for each other. I love you, love you, love you — I can see no end to our love, I — There was a good deal more, but I had no wish to go on. Grimly I went downstairs and thrust my parcel into Taverner's hands. "It's possible," I said, "that that's what our unknown friend was looking for." Taverner read a few passages, whistled and shuffled through the various letters. Then he looked at me with the expression of a cat who has been fed with the best cream. "Well," he said softly. "This pretty well cooks Mrs. Brenda Leonides's goose. And Mr. Laurence Brown's. So it was them, all the time. ..." Nineteen It seems odd to me, looking back, how suddenly and completely my pity and sympathy for Brenda Leonides vanished with the discovery of her letters, the letters she had written to Laurence Brown. Was my vanity unable to stand up to the revelation that she loved Laurence Brown with a doting and sugarly infatuation and had deliberately lied to me? I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. I prefer to believe that it was the thought of the child Josephine, struck down in ruthless self preservation that dried up the springs of my sympathy. "Brown fixed that booby trap, if you ask me," said Taverner, "and it explains what puzzled me about it." "What did puzzle you?" "Well, it was such a sappy thing to do. Look here, say the kid's got hold of these letters -- letters that are absolutely damn ing! The first thing to do is to try and get them back — (after all, if the kid talks about them, but has got nothing to show, it can be put down as mere romancing) but you can't get them back because you can't find them. Then the only thing to do is to put the kid out of action for good. You've done one murder and you're not squeamish about doing another. You know she's fond of swinging on a door in a disused yard. The ideal thing to do is wait behind the door and lay her out as she comes through with a poker, or an iron bar, or a nice bit of hose-pipe. They're all there ready to hand. Why fiddle about with a marble lion perched on top of a door which is as likely as not to miss her altogether and which even if it does fall on her may not do the job properly (which actually is how it turns out)? I ask you — why?" "Well," I said, "what's the answer?" "The only idea I got to begin with was that it was intended to tie in with someone's alibi. Somebody would have a nice fat alibi for the time when Josephine was being slugged. But that doesn't wash because, to begin with, nobody seems to have any kind of alibi, and secondly someone's bound to look for the child at lunchtime, and they'll find the booby trap and the marble b100^3 the whole modus operand! will be ^u1 e plain to see. Of course, if the murder^ removed the block before the chiP was found, then we might have been pu22 ,' But as it is the whole thing just d068111 make sense." He stretched out his hands. .,„ ' «"i < "And what's your present explanat^01 "The personal element. Personal id^05^" crasy. Laurence Brown's idiosyncrasy- e doesn't like violence — he can't Iorce himself to do physical violence. He [[i^ y couldn't have stood behind the doo^ an socked the kid on the head. He cou^ n^ -*- c f^f~^ up a booby trap and go away and n^1 it happen." "Yes, I see," I said slowly. "It^. me eserine in the insulin bottle all over a^^11' "Exactly." "Do you think he did that w^0^ Brenda's knowing?" "It would explain why she didn't /throw away the insulin bottle. Of course, y /~\T* may have fixed it up between them ~^~. , she may have thought up the poison trlcK all by herself — a nice easy death fc^ er tired old husband and all for the b^1 m the best of possible worlds! But I b^ she didn't fix the booby trap. Women never have any faith in mechanical things working properly. And are they right. I think myself the eserine was her idea, but that she made her besotted slave do the switch. She's the kind that usually manages to avoid doing anything equi vocable themselves. Then they keep a nice happy conscience." He paused then went on: "With these letters I think the D.P.P. will say we have a case. They'll take a bit of explaining away! Then 5 if the kid gets through all right everything in the garden will be lovely." He gave me a sideways glance. "How does it feel to be engaged to about a million pounds sterling?" I winced. In the excitement of the last few hours, I had forgotten the developments about the will. "Sophia doesn't know yet," I said. "Do you want me to tell her?" "I understand Gaitskill is going to break the sad (or glad) news after the inquest tomorrow." Taverner paused and looked at me thoughtfully. "I wonder," he said, "what the reactions will be from the family?" Twenty The inquest went off much as I had prophesied. It was adjourned at the request of the police. We were in good spirits for news had come through the night before from the hospital that Josephine's injuries were much less serious than had been feared and that her recovery would be rapid. For the moment. Dr. Gray said, she was to be allowed no visitors -- not even her mother. "Particularly not her mother," Sophia murmured to me. "I made that quite clear to Dr. Gray. Anyway, he knows Mother." I must have looked rather doubtful for Sophia said sharply: "Why the disapproving look?" "Well -- surely a mother --" "I'm glad you've got a few nice old fashioned ideas, Charles. But you don't quite know what my mother is capable of yet. The darling can't help it, but there would simply have to be a grand dramatic scene. And dramatic scenes aren't the best things for anyone recovering from head injuries." "You do think of everything, don't you, my sweet." "Well, somebody's got to do the thinking now that grandfather's gone." I looked at her speculatively. I saw that old Leonides's acumen had not deserted him. The mantle of his responsibilities was already on Sophia's shoulders. After the inquest, Gaitskill accompanied us back to Three Gables. He cleared his throat and said pontifically: "There is an announcement it is my duty to make to you all." For this purpose the family assembled in Magda's drawing room. I had on this occasion the rather pleasurable sensations of the man behind the scenes. I knew in advance what Gaitskill had to say. I prepared myself to observe the reactions of everyone. Gaitskill was brief and dry. Any signs of personal feeling and annoyance were well held in check. He read first Aristide Leonides's letter and then the will itself. t+ woe ^rv interestine to watch. I only wished my eyes could be everywhere at once. I did not pay much attention to Brenda and Laurence. The provision for Brenda in this will was the same. I watched primarily Roger and Philip, and after them Magda and Clemency. My first impression was that they all behaved very well. Philip's lips were pressed closely together, his handsome head was thrown back against the tall chair in which he was sitting. He did not speak. Magda, on the contrary, burst into speech as soon as Mr. Gaitskill finished, her rich voice surging over his thin tones like an incoming tide drowning a rivulet. "Darling Sophia — how extraordinary .... How romantic. . . . Fancy old Sweetie Pie being so cunning and deceitful — just like a dear old baby. Didn't he trust us? Did he think we'd be cross? He never seemed to be fonder of Sophia than of the rest of us. But really, it's most dramatic." Suddenly Magda jumped lightly to her feet, danced over to Sophia and swept her a very grand court curtsey. "Madame Sophia, your penniless and broken down old mother begs you for alms." Her voice took on a cockney whine. "Spare us a copper, old dear. Your Ma wants to go to the pictures." Her hand, crooked into a claw, twitched urgently at Sophia. Philip, without moving, said through stiff lips: "Please Magda, there's no call for any unnecessary clowning.'' "Oh, but, Roger," cried Magda, suddenly turning to Roger. "Poor darling Roger. Sweetie was going to come to the rescue and then, before he could do it, he died. And now Roger doesn't get anything. Sophia," she turned imperiously, "you simply must do something about Roger." "No," said Clemency. She had moved forward a step. Her face was defiant. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Roger came shambling over to Sophia like a large amiable bear. He took her hands affectionately. "I don't want a penny, my dear girl. As soon as this business is cleared up — or has died down, which is more what it looks like — then Clemency and I are off to the West Indies and the simple life. If I'm ever in extremis I'll apply to the head of the f^m\}\T —" }-i{^ crrinnpd at hpr enffarinelv — "but until then I don't want a penny. I'm a very simple person really, my dear — you ask Clemency if I'm not." An unexpected voice broke in. It was Edith de Haviland's. "That's all very well," she said. "But you've to pay some attention to the look of the thing. If you go bankrupt, Roger, and then slink off to the ends of the earth without Sophia's holding out a helping hand, there will be a good deal of ill natured talk that will not be pleasant for Sophia." "What does public opinion matter?" asked Clemency scornfully. "We know it doesn't to you. Clemency," said Edith de Haviland sharply, "but Sophia lives in this world. She's a girl with good brains and a good heart, and I've no doubt that Aristide was quite right in his selection of her to hold the family fortunes — though to pass over your two sons in their lifetime seems odd to our English ideas — but I think it would be very unfortunate if it got about that she behaved greedily over this — and had let Roger crash without trying to help him." Roger went over to his aunt. He put his arms round her and hugged her. "Aunt Edith," he said. "You are a darling -- and a stubborn fighter, but you don't begin to understand. Clemency and I know what we want -- and what we don't want!" Clemency, a sudden spot of colour showing in each thin cheek, stood defiantly facing them. "None of you," she said, "understand Roger. You never have! I don't suppose you ever will! Come on, Roger." They left the room as Mr. Gaitskill began clearing his throat and arranging his papers. His countenance was one of deep disapprobation. He disliked the foregoing scenes very much. That was clear. My eyes came at last to Sophia herself. She stood straight and handsome by the fireplace, her chin up, her eyes steady. She had just been left an immense fortune, but my principal thought was how alone she had suddenly become. Between her and her family a barrier had been erected. Henceforth she was divided from them, and I fancied that she already knew and faced that fact. Old Leonides had laid a burden upon her shoulders -- he had been aware of that and she knew it herself. He had believed that her shoulders were strong enough to bear it, but just at this moment I felt unutterably sorry for her. So far she had not spoken -- indeed she had been given no chance, but very soon now speech would be forced from her. Already, beneath the affection of her family 3 I could sense latent hostility. Even in Magda's graceful playacting there had been, I fancied, a subtle malice. And there were other darker undercurrents that had not yet come to the surface. Mr. Gaitskill's throat clearings gave way to precise and measured speech. "Allow me to congratulate you, Sophia," he said. "You are a very wealthy woman. I should not advise any -- er -- precipitate action. I can advance you what ready money is needed for current expenses. If you wish to discuss future arrangements I shall be happy to give you the best advice in my power. Make an appointment with me at Lincoln's Inn when you have had plenty of time to think things over." "Roger," began Edith de Haviland obstinately. Mr. Gaitskill snapped in quickly. "Roger," he said, "must fend for himself. He's a grown man -- er, fifty four, I believe. And Aristide Leonides was quite right, you know. He isn't a businessman. Never will be." He looked at Sophia. "If you put Associated Catering on its legs again, don't be under any illusions that Roger can run it successfully." "I shouldn't dream of putting Associated Catering on its legs again," said Sophia. It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice was crisp and businesslike. "It would be an idiotic thing to do," she added. Gaitskill shot a glance at her from under his brows, and smiled to himself. Then he wished everyone goodbye and went out. There were a few moments of silence, a realisation that the family circle was alone with itself. Then Philip got up stiffly. "I must get back to the library," he said. "I have lost a lot of time." "Father --" Sophia spoke uncertainly, almost pleadingly. I felt her quiver and draw back as Philip turned cold hostile eyes on her. "You must forgive me for not congratulating you," he said. "But this has been rather a shock to me. I would not have believed that my father would so have humiliated me -- that he would have disregarded my lifetime's devotion -- yes -- devotion." For the first time, the natural man broke K through the crust of icy restraint. "My God," he cried. "How could he do this to me? He was always unfair to me -- always." "Oh no, Philip, no, you mustn't think that," cried Edith de Haviland. "Don't regard this as another slight. It isn't. When people get old, they turn naturally to a younger generation. ... I assure you it's only that. . . . And besides, Aristide had a very keen business sense. I've often heard him say that two lots of death duties --" "He never cared for me," said Philip. His voice was low and hoarse. "It was always Roger -- Roger. Well, at least --" an extraordinary expression of spite suddenly marred his handsome features, "father realised that Roger was a fool and a failure. He cut Roger out, too." "What about me?" said Eustace. I had hardly noticed Eustace until now, but I perceived that he was trembling with some violent emotion. His face was crimson, there were, I thought, tears in his eyes. His voice shook as it rose hysterically. "It's a shame!" said Eustace. "It's a damned shame! How dare Grandfather do this to me? How dare he? I was his only grandson. How dare he pass me over for Sophia? It's not fair. I hate him. I hate him. I'll never forgive him as long as I live. Beastly tyrannical old man. I wanted him to die. I wanted to get out of this house. I wanted to be my own master. And now I've got to be bullied and messed around by Sophia, and made to look a fool. I wish I was dead. ..." His voice broke and he rushed out of the room. Edith de Haviland gave a sharp click of her tongue. "No self control 5" she murmured. "I know just how he feels," cried Magda. "I'm sure you do," said Edith with acidity in her tone. "The poor sweet! I must go after him." "Now, Magda --" Edith hurried after her. Their voices died away. Sophia remained looking at Philip. There was, I think, a certain pleading in her glance. If so, it got no response. He looked at her coldly, quite in control of himself once more. "You played your cards very well, Sophia," he said and went out of the room. "That was a cruel thing to say," I cried. "Sophia --" She stretched out her hands to me. I took her in my arms. "This is too much for you, my sweet." "I know just how they feel," said Sophia. "That old devil, your grandfather, shouldn't have let you in for this." She straightened her shoulders. "He believed I could take it. And so I can. I wish -- I wish Eustace didn't mind so much." "He'll get over it." "Will he? I wonder. He's the kind that broods terribly. And I hate father being hurt." "Your mother's all right." "She minds a bit. It goes against the grain to have to come and ask your daughter for money to put on plays. She'll be after me to put on the Edith Thompson one before you can turn round." "And what will you say? If it keeps her happy ..." Sophia pulled herself right out of my arms, her head went back. "I shall say No! It's a rotten play and mother couldn't play the part. It would be throwing the money away." I laughed softly. I couldn't help it. "What is it?" Sophia demanded suspiciously. «T». 'I'm beginning to understand why your grandfather left you his money. You're a chip off the old block, Sophia." Twenty-one My one feeling of regret at this time was that Josephine was out of it all. She would have enjoyed it all so much. Her recovery was rapid and she was expected to be back any day now, but nevertheless she missed another event of importance. I was in the rock garden one morning with Sophia and Brenda when a car drew up to the front door. Taverner and Sergeant Lamb got out of it. They went up the steps and into the house. Brenda stood still, staring at the car. "It's those men," she said. "They've come back, and I thought they'd given up _ — I thought it was all over." K I saw her shiver. She had joined us about ten minutes s before. Wrapped in her chinchilla coat, she had said "If I don't get some air and — exercise, I shall go mad. If I go outside the gate there's always a reporter waiting to pounce on me. It's like being besieged. Will it go on for ever?" Sophia said that she supposed the reporters would soon get tired of it. "You can go out in the car," she added. "I tell you I want to get some exercise." Then she said abruptly: "You've given Laurence the sack, Sophia. Why?" Sophia answered quietly: "We're making other arrangements for Eustace. And Josephine is going to Switzerland." "Well, you've upset Laurence very much. He feels you don't trust him." Sophia did not reply and it was at that moment that Taverner's car had arrived. Standing there, shivering in the moist autumn air, Brenda muttered, "What do they want? Why have they come?" I thought I knew why they had come. I had said nothing to Sophia of the letters I had found by the cistern, but I knew that they had gone to the Director of Public Prosecutions. Taverner came out of the house again. He walked across the drive and the lawn towards us. Brenda shivered more violently. "What does he want?" she repeated nervously. "What does he want?" Then Taverner was with us. He spoke curtly in his official voice using the official phrases. "I have a warrant here for your arrest — you are charged with administering eserine to Aristide Leonides on September 19th last. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence at your trial." And then Brenda went to pieces. She screamed. She clung to me. She cried out, "No, no, no, it isn't true! Charles, tell them it isn't true! I didn't do it. I didn't know f anything about it. It's all a plot. Don't let them take me away. It isn't true, I tell you. ... It isn't true. ... I haven't done anything. ..." It was horrible — unbelievably horrible. I tried to soothe her, I unfastened her fingers from my arm. I told her that I would arrange for a lawyer for her — that she was to keep calm — that a lawyer would arrange everything. . . . Taverner took her gently under the elbow. "Come along, Mrs. Leonides," he said. "You don't want a hat, do you? No? Then we'll go off right away." She pulled back, staring at him with enormous cat's eyes. "Laurence," she said. "What have you done to Laurence?" "Mr. Laurence Brown is also under arrest," said Taverner. She wilted then. Her body seemed to collapse and shrink. The tears poured down her face. She went away quietly with Taverner across the lawn to the car. I saw Laurence Brown and Sergeant Lamb come out of the house. They all got into the car. . . . The car drove away. I drew a deep breath and turned to Sophia. She was very pale and there was a look of distress on her face. "It's horrible, Charles," she said. "It's quite horrible." "I know." "You must get her a really first class solicitor — the best there is. She — she must have all the help possible." "One doesn't realise," I said, "what these things are like. I've never seen anyone arrested before." "I know. One has no idea." We were both silent. I was thinking of the desperate terror on Brenda's face. It had seemed familiar to me and suddenly I realised why. It was the same expression that I had seen on Magda Leonides's face the first day I had come to the Crooked House when she had been talking about the Edith Thompson play. "And then," she had said, "sheer terror, don't you think so?" Sheer terror -- that was what had been on Brenda's face. Brenda was not a fighter. I wondered that she had ever had the nerve to do murder. But possibly she had not. Possibly it had been Laurence Brown, with his persecution mania, his unstable personality who had put the contents of one little bottle into another little bottle -- a simple easy act -- to free the woman he loved. "So it's over," said Sophia. She sighed deeply, then asked: "But why arrest them now? I thought there wasn't enough evidence." "A certain amount of evidence has come to light. Letters." "You mean love letters between them?" "Yes." "What fools people are to keep these things!" Yes, indeed. Fools. The kind of folly which never seemed to profit by the experience of others. You couldn't open a daily newspaper without coming across some instance of that folly — the passion to keep the written word, the written assurance of love. "It's quite beastly, Sophia," I said. "But it's no good minding about it. After all, it's what we've been hoping all along, isn't it? It's what you said that first night at Mario's. You said it would be all right if the right person had killed your grandfather. Brenda was the right person, wasn't she? Brenda or Laurence?" "Don't. Charles, you make me feel awful." "But we must be sensible. We can marry now, Sophia. You can't hold me off any longer. The Leonides family are out of it." She stared at me. I had never realised before the vivid blue of her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I suppose we're out of it now. We are out of it, aren't we? You're sure?" "My dear girl, none of you really had a shadow of motive." Her face went suddenly white. "Except me, Charles. I had a motive." "Yes, of course —" I was taken aback. "But not really. You didn't know, you see, about the will." "But I did, Charles," she whispered. •| "What?" I stared at her. I felt suddenly cold. "I knew all the time that grandfather had left his money to me." "But how?" "He told me. About a fortnight before he was killed. He said to me quite suddenly 5 'I've left all my money to you, Sophia. You must look after the family when I'm gone.' " I stared. "You never told me." "No. You see, when they all explained about the will and his signing it, I thought perhaps he had made a mistake — that he was just imagining that he had left it to me. Or that if he had made a will leaving it to me, then it had got lost and would never turn up. I didn't want it to turn up — I was afraid." "Afraid? Why?" "I suppose — because of murder." I remembered the look of terror on Brenda's face — the wild unreasoning panic. I remembered the sheer panic that Magda had conjured up at will when she considered playing the part of a murderess. There would be no panic in Sophia's mind, but she was a realist, and she could see clearly enough that Leonides's will made her a suspect. I understood better now (or thought I did) her refusal to become engaged to me and her insistence that I should find out the truth. Nothing but the truth, she had said, was any good to her. I remembered the passion, the earnestness with which she had said it. We had turned to walk towards the house and suddenly, at a certain spot, I remembered something else she had said. She had said that she supposed she could murder someone, but if so, she had added, it must be for something really worth while. Twenty-two Round a turn of the rock garden Roger and Clemency came walking briskly towards us. Roger's flapping tweeds suited him better than his City clothes. He looked eager and excited. Clemency was frowning. "Hullo, you two," said Roger. "At last! I thought they were never going to arrest that foul woman. What they've been waiting for, I don't know. Well, they've pinched her now, and her miserable boy friend — and I hope they hang them both." Clemency's frown increased. She said: "Don't be so uncivilised, Roger." "Uncivilised? Bosh! Deliberate coldblooded poisoning of a helpless trusting old man — and when I'm glad the murderers are caught and will pay the penalty you say I'm uncivilised! I tell you I'd willingly strangle that woman myself." He added: "She was with you, wasn't she, when the police came for her? How did she take it?" "It was horrible," said Sophia in a low voice. "She was scared out of her wits.55 "Serves her right.55 "Doi^t be vindictive,55 said Clemency. "Oh I know, dearest, but you can5! understand. It wasn5! your father. I loved my father. Don5! you understand? I loved him!55 "I should understand by now,55 said Clemency. Roger said to her, half jokingly: "You^e no imagination. Clemency. Suppose it had been I who had been poisoned --?55 I saw the quick droop of her lids, her half-clenched hands. She said sharply: "Don5! say things like that even in fun.55 "Never mind darling, we5!! soon be away from all this.55 We moved towards the house. Roger and Sophia walked ahead and Clemency and I brought up the rear. She said: "I suppose now -- they5!! let us go?'5 "Are you so anxious to get off?551 asked. " It5 s wearing me out.55 I looked at her in surprise. She met my glance with a faint desperate smile and a nod of the head. "Haven't you seen, Charles, that I'm fighting all the time? Fighting for my happiness. For Roger's. I've been so afraid the family would persuade him to stop in England. That we'd go on tangled up in the midst of them, stifled with family ties. I was afraid Sophia would offer him an hcome and that he'd stay in England because it would mean greater comfort and amenities for me. The trouble with Roger is that he will not listen. He gets ideas in his head -- and they're never the right ideas. He doesn't know anything. And he's enough of a Leonides to think that happiness for a woman is bound up with comfort and money. But I will fight for my happiness -- I will. I will get Roger away and give him the life that suits him where he won't feel a failure. I want him to myself-- away from them all -- right away. ..." She had spoken in a low hurried voice with a kind of desperation that startled me. I had not realised how much on edge she was. I had not realised, either, quite how desperate and possessive was her feeling for Roger. It brought back to my mind that odd quotation of Edith de Haviland's. She had quoted the line "this side of idolatry" with a peculiar intonation. I wondered if she had been thinking of Clemency. Roger, I thought, had loved his father better than he would ever love anyone else, better even than his wife, devoted though he was to her. I realised for the first time how urgent was Clemency's desire to get her husband to herself. Love for Roger, I saw, made up her entire existence. He was her child, as well as her husband and her lover. A car drove up to the front door. "Hullo," I said. "Here's Josephine back." Josephine and Magda got out of the car. Josephine had a bandage round her head but otherwise looked remarkably well. She said at once: "I want to see my goldfish," and started towards us and the pond. "Darling," cried Magda, "you'd better come in first and lie down a little, and perhaps have a little nourishing soup." "Don't fuss, mother," said Josephine. "I'm quite all right, and I hate nourishing soup." Magda looked irresolute. I knew that Josephine had really been fit to depart from the hospital for some days, and that it was _J only a hint from Taverner that had kept her there. He was taking no chances on Josephine's safety until his suspects were safe under lock and key. I said to Magda: "I daresay fresh air will do her good. I'll go and keep an eye on her." I caught Josephine up before she got to the pond. "All sorts of things have been happening while you've been away," I said. Josephine did not reply. She peered with her short-sighted eyes into the pond. "I don't see Ferdinand," she said. "Which is Ferdinand?" "The one with four tails." "That kind is rather amusing. I like that bright gold one." "It's quite a common one." "I don't much care for that motheaten white one." Josephine cast me a scornful glance. "That's a shebunkin. They cost a lot — far more than goldfish." "Don't you want to hear what's been happening, Josephine?" "I expect I know about it." "Did you know that another will has been found and that your grandfather left all his money to Sophia?" Josephine nodded in a bored kind of way. "Mother told me. Anyway, I knew it already." "Do you mean you heard it in the hospital?" "No, I mean I knew that grandfather had left his money to Sophia. I heard him tell her so." "Were you listening again?" "Yes. I like listening." "It's a disgraceful thing to do, and remember this, listeners hear no good of themselves." Josephine gave me a peculiar glance. "I heard what he said about me to her, if that's what you mean." She added: "Nannie gets wild if she catches me listening at doors. She says it's not the sort of thing a little lady does." "She's quite right." "Pooh," said Josephine. "Nobody's a lady nowadays. They say so on the Brains Trust. They said it was — ob-so-lete." She pronounced the word carefully. I changed the subject. "You've got home a bit late for the big event," I said. "Chief Inspector Taverner has arrested Brenda and Laurence." I expected that Josephine, in her character of young detective, would be thrilled by this information, but she merely repeated in her maddening bored fashion: "Yes, I know." "You can't know. It's only just happened." "The car passed us on the road. Inspector Taverner and the detective with the suede shoes were inside with Brenda and Laurence, so of course I knew they must have been arrested. I hope he gave them the proper caution. You have to, you know." I assured her that Taverner had acted strictly according to etiquette. "I had to tell him about the letters," I said apologetically. "I found them behind the cistern. I'd have let you tell him only you were knocked out." Josephine's hand went gingerly to her head. "I ought to have been killed," she said with complacency. "I told you it was about the time for the second murder. The cistern was a rotten place to hide those letters. I guessed at once when I saw Laurence coming out of there one day. I mean he's not a useful kind of man who does things with ball taps, or pipes or fuses, so I knew he must have been hiding something." "But I thought --" I broke off as Edith de Haviland's voice called authoritatively: "Josephine. Josephine, come here at once." Josephine sighed. "More fuss," she said. "But I'd better go. You have to, if it's Aunt Edith." She ran across the lawn. I followed more slowly. After a brief interchange of words Josephine went into the house. I joined Edith de Haviland on the terrace. This morning she looked fully her age. I was startled by the lines of weariness and suffering on her face. She looked exhausted and defeated. She saw the concern in my face and tried to smile. "That child seems none the worse for her adventure," she said. "We must look after her better in future. Still -- I suppose now it won't be necessary?" She sighed and said: "I'm glad it's over. But what an exhibition. If you are arrested for murder, you might at least have some dignity. I've no patience with people like Brenda who go to pieces and squeal. No guts, these people. Laurence Brown looked like a cornered rabbit." An obscure instinct of pity rose in me. "Poor devils," I said. "Yes -- poor devils. She'll have the sense to look after herself, I suppose? I mean the right lawyers -- all that sort of thing." It was queer, I thought, the dislike they all had for Brenda, and their scrupulous care for her to have all the advantages for defence. Edith de Haviland went on: "How long will it be? How long will the whole thing take?" I said I didn't know exactly. They would be charged at the police court and presumably sent for trial. Three or four months, I estimated -- and if convicted, there would be the appeal. "Do you think they will be convicted?" she asked. "I don't know. I don't know exactly how much evidence the police have. There are letters." "Love letters? They were lovers then?" "They were in love with each other." Her face grew grimmer. "I'm not happy about this, Charles. I ^ don't like Brenda. In the past, I've disliked her very much. I've said sharp things about her. But now -- I do feel that I want her to have every chance -- every possible chance. Aristide would have wished that. I feel it's up to me to see that -- that Brenda gets a square deal." "And Laurence?" "Oh Laurence!" she shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Men must look after themselves. But Aristide would never forgive us if --" She left the sentence unfinished. Then she said: "It must be almost lunch time. We'd better go in." I explained that I was going up to London. "In your car?" "Yes." . , "H'm. I wonder if you'd take me with you. I gather we're allowed off the lead now." "Of course I will, but I believe Magda and Sophia are going up after lunch. You'll be more comfortable with them than in my two seater." "I don't want to go with them. Take me with you, and don't say much about it." I was surprised, but I did as she asked. We did not speak much on the way to town. I asked her where I should put her down. "Harley Street.55 I felt some faint apprehension, but I didn5! like to say anything. She continued: "No, it's too early. Drop me at Debenhams. I can have some lunch there and go to Harley Street afterwards.55 "I hope --55 I began and stopped. "That^ why I didn't want to go up with Magda. She dramatizes things. Lot of fuss.55 "I'm very sorry,55 I said. "You needn5! be. Fve had a good life. A very good life.55 She gave a sudden grin. "And it's not over yet.55 Twenty-three I had not seen my father for some days. I found him busy with things other than the Leonides case, and I went in search of Taverner. Taverner was enjoying a short spell of leisure and was willing to come out and have a drink with me.. I congratulated him on having cleared up the case and he accepted my congratulations, but his manner remained far from jubilant. "Well, that's over," he said. "We've got a case. Nobody can deny that we've got a case." "Do you think you'll get a conviction?" "Impossible to say. The evidence is circumstantial -- it nearly always is in a murder case -- bound to be. A lot depends on the impression they make on the jury." "How far do the letters go?" "At first sight, Charles, they're pretty damning. There are references to their life together when her husband's dead. Phrases like -- 'it won't be long now.' Mind you, defence counsel will try and twist it the other way -- the husband was so old that of course they could reasonably expect him to die. There's no actual mention of poisoning -- not down in black or white -- but there are some passages that could mean that. It depends what judge we get. If it's old Carberry he'll be down on them all through. He's always very righteous about illicit love. I suppose they'll have Eagles or Humphrey Kerr for the defence -- Humphrey is magnificent in these cases -- but he likes a gallant war record or something of that kind to help him do his stuff. A conscientious objector is going to cramp his style. The question is going to be will the jury like them? You can never tell with juries. You know, Charles, those two are not really sympathetic characters. She's a good looking woman who married a very old man for his money, and Brown is a neurotic conscientious objector. The crime is so familiar -- so according to pattern that you can't really believe they didn't do it. Of course, they may decide that he did it and she knew nothing about it -- or alternatively that she did it, and he didn't know about it -- or they may decide that they were both in it together." "And what do you yourself think?" I asked. He looked at me with a wooden expressionless face. "I don't think anything. I've turned in the facts and they went to the D.P.P. and it was decided that there was a case. That's all. I've done my duty and I'm out of it. So now you know, Charles." But I didn't know. I saw that for some reason Taverner was unhappy. It was not until three days later that I unburdened myself to my father. He himself had never mentioned the case to me. There had been a kind of restraint between us -- and I thought I knew the reason for it. But I had to break down that barrier. "We've got to have this out," I said. "Taverner's not satisfied that those two did it -- and you're not satisfied either." My father shook his head. He said what Taverner had said: "It's out of our hands. There is a case to answer. No question about that." "But you don't -- Taverner doesn't -- think that they're guilty?" "That's for a jury to decide." "For God's sake," I said, "don't put me off with technical terms. What do you think -- both of you -- personally?" "My personal opinion is no better than yours, Charles." "Yes, it is. You've more experience." "Then I'll be honest with you. I just -- don't know!" "They could be guilty?" "Oh yes." "But you don't feel sure that they are?" My father shrugged his shoulders. "How can one be sure?" "Don't fence with me, dad. You've been sure other times, haven't you? Dead sure? No doubt in your mind at all?" "Sometimes, yes. Not always." "I wish to God you were sure this time." "So do I." We were silent. I was thinking of those two figures drifting in from the garden in the dusk. Lonely and haunted and afraid. They had been afraid from the start. Didn't that show a guilty conscience? But I answered myself: "Not necessarily." Both Brenda and Laurence were afraid of life -- they had no confidence in themselves, in their ability to avoid danger and defeat, and they could see, only too clearlv. the pattern of illicit love leading to murder which might involve them at any moment. My father spoke, and his voice was grave and kind: "Come, Charles," he said, "let's face it. You've still got it in your mind, haven't you, that one of the Leonides family is the real culprit?" "Not really. I only wonder --" "You do think so. You may be wrong, but you do think so." "Yes," I said. "Why?" "Because --" I thought about it, trying to see clearly -- to bring my wits to bear -- "because" (yes, that was it) "because they think so themselves." "They think so themselves? That's interesting. That's very interesting. Do you mean that they all suspect each other, or that they know, actually, who did do it." "I'm not sure," I said. "It's all very nebulous and confused. I think -- on the whole -- that they try to cover up the knowledge from themselves." ^My father nodded. "Not Roger," I said. "Roger wholeheartedly believes it was Brenda and he wholeheartedly wants her hanged. It's -- it's a relief to be with Roger because he's simple and positive, and hasn't any reservations in the back of his mind. "But the others are apologetic, they're uneasy — they urge me to be sure that Brenda has the best defence — that every possible advantage is given her — why?" My father answered: "Because they don't really, in their hearts, believe she is guilty. . . . Yes, that's sound." Then he asked quietly: K "Who could have done it? You've talked to them all? Who's the best bet?" "I don't know," I said. "And it's driving me frantic. None of them fits your 'sketch of a murderer' and yet I feel — I do feel — that one of them is a murderer." "Sophia?" "No. Good God, no!" "The possibility's in your mind, Charles — yes, it is, don't deny it. All the more potently because you won't acknowledge it. What about the others? Philip?" "Only for the most fantastic motive." "Motives can be fantastic — or they can be absurdly slight. What's his motive?" "He is bitterly jealous of Roger — always has been all his life. His father's preference for Roger drove Philip in upon himself. Roger was about to crash, then the old man heard of it. He promised to put Roger on his feet again. Supposing Philip learnt that. If the old man died that night there would be no assistance for Roger. Roger would be down and out. Oh! I know it's absurd —" "Oh no, it isn't. It's abnormal, but it happens. It's human. What about Magda?" "She's rather childish. She — gets things out of proportion. But I would never have thought twice about her being involved if it hadn't been for the sudden way she wanted to pack Josephine off to Switzerland. I couldn't help feeling she was afraid of something that Josephine knew or might say . . ." "And then Josephine was conked on the head?" "Well, that couldn't be her mother!" "Why not?" "But, dad, a mother wouldn't —" "Charles, Charles, don't you ever read the police news. Again and again a mother takes a dislike to one of her children. Only one — she may be devoted to the others. There's some association, some reason, but it's often hard to get at. But when it exists, it's an unreasoning aversion, and it's very strong." "She called Josephine a changeling," I admitted unwillingly. "Did the child mind?" "I don't think so." "Who else is there? Roger?" "Roger didn't kill his father. I'm quite sure of that." "Wash out Roger then. His wife -- what's her name -- Clemency?" "Yes," I said. "If she killed old Leonides it was for a very odd reason." ^ I told him of my conversations with Clemency. I said I thought it possible that in her passion to get Roger away from England she might have deliberately poisoned the old man. "She'd persuaded Roger to go without telling his father. Then the old man found out. He was going to back up Associated Catering. All Clemency's hopes and plans were frustrated. And she really does care desperately for Roger -- beyond idolatry." "You're repeating what Edith de Haviland said!" "Yes. And Edith's another who I think -- might have done it. But I don't know why. I can only believe that for what she considered good and sufficient reason she might take the law into her own hand. She's that kind of a person." "And she also was very anxious that Brenda should be adequately defended?" "Yes. That, I suppose, might be conscience. I don't think for a moment that if she did do it, she intended them to be accused of the crime." "Probably not. But would she knock out the child Josephine?" "No," I said slowly, "I can't believe that. Which reminds me that there's something that Josephine said to me that keeps nagging at my mind, and I can't remember what it is. It's slipped my memory. But it's something that doesn't fit in where it should. If only I could remember --" "Never mind. It will come back. Anything or anyone else on your mind?" "Yes," I said. "Very much so. How much do you know about infantile paralysis. Its after effects on character, I mean?" "Eustace?" "Yes. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that Eustace might fit the bill. His dislikes and resentment against his grandfather. His queerness and moodiness. He's not normal. "He's the only one of the family who I can see knocking out Josephine quite callously if she knew something about him -- and she's quite likely to know. That child knows everything. She writes it down in a little book --" I stopped. "Good Lord," I said. "What a fool I am." "What's the matter?" "I know now what was wrong. We assumed, Taverner and I, that the wrecking of Josephine's room, the frantic search, was for those letters. I thought that she'd got hold of them and that she'd hidden them up in the cistern room. But when she was talking to me the other day she made it quite clear that it was Laurence who had hidden them there. She saw him coming out of the cistern room and went snooping around and found the letters. Then, of course she read them. She would! But she left them where they were." "Well?" "Don't you see? It couldn't have been the letters someone was looking for in Josephine's room. It must have been something else." "And that something --" "Was the little black book she writes down her 'detection5 in. That's what someone was looking for! I think, too, that whoever it was didn't find it. I think Josephine has it. But if so --" I half rose. "If so," said my father, "she still isn't safe. Is that what you were going to say?" "Yes. She won't be out of danger until she's actually started for Switzerland. They're planning to send her there, you know." "Does she want to go?" I considered. "I don't think she does." "Then she probably hasn't gone," said my father drily. "But I think you're right about the danger. You'd better go down there." "Eustace?" I cried desperately. "Clemency?" My father said gently: "To my mind the facts point clearly in one direction. ... I wonder you don't see it yourself. I ..." Glover opened the door. "Beg pardon, Mr. Charles, the telephone. Miss Leonides speaking from Swinly. It's urgent." It seemed like a horrible repetition. Had Josephine again fallen a victim. And had the murderer this time made no mistake? . . . I hurried to the telephone. "Sophia? It's Charles here." Sophia's voice came with a kind of hard desperation in it. "Charles, it isn't all over. The murderer is still here." "What on earth do you mean? What's wrong? Is it -- Josephine?" "It's not Josephine. It's Nannie." "Nannie?" "Yes, there was some cocoa -- Josephine's cocoa, she didn't drink it. She left it on the table. Nannie thought it was a pity to waste it. So she drank it." "Poor Nannie. Is she very bad?" Sophia's voice broke. "Oh, Charles, she's dead." Twenty-four We were back again in the nightmare. That is what I thought as Taverner and I drove out of London. It was a repetition of our former journey. At intervals, Taverner swore. As for me, I repeated from time to time, stupidly, unprofitably: "So it wasn't Brenda and Laurence. It wasn't Brenda and Laurence." Had I ever really thought it was? I had been so glad to think it. So glad to escape from other, more sinister, possibilities . . . They had fallen in love with each other. They had written silly sentimental romantic letters to each other. They had indulged in hopes that Brenda5 s old husband might soon die peacefully and happily — but I wondered really if they had even acutely desired his death. I had a feeling that the despairs and longings of an unhappy love affair suited them as well or better than commonplace married life together. I didn't think Brenda was really passionate. She was too anaemic, too apathetic. It was romance she craved for. And I thought Laurence, too, was the type to enjoy frustration and vague future dreams of bliss rather than the concrete satisfactions of the flesh. They had been caught in a trap and, terrified, they had not had the wit to find their way out. Laurence with incredible stupidity, had not even destroyed Brenda5 s letters. Presumably Brenda had destroyed his, since they had not been found. And it was not Laurence who had balanced the marble door stop on the wash house door. It was someone else whose face was still hidden behind a mask. We drove up to the door. Taverner got out and I followed him. There was a plain clothes man in the hall whom I didn't know. He saluted Taverner and Taverner drew him aside. My attention was taken by a pile of luggage in the hall. It was labelled and ready for departure. As I looked at it Clemency came down the stairs and through the open door at the bottom. She was dressed in her same red dress with a tweed coat over it and a red felt hat. '*. , 'f'f .IPfeY •"•air'.^—. '•• . • '• •' ' ^A-'ft^A? - •aSKN.'^1^- ' "S-S^W: "You're in time to say goodbye, Charles," she said. "You're leaving?" "We go to London tonight. Our plane goes early tomorrow morning." She was quiet and smiling, but I thought her eyes were watchful. "But surely you can't go now?" "Why not?" Her voice was hard. "With this death —" "Nannie's death has nothing to do with us." "Perhaps not. But all the same —" "Why do you say 'perhaps not'? It has nothing to do with us. Roger and I have been upstairs, finishing packing up. We did not come down at all during the time that the cocoa was left on the hall table." "Can you prove that?" "I can answer for Roger. And Roger can answer for me." "No more than that . . . You're man and wife, remember." Her anger flamed out. "You're impossible, Charles! Roger and I are going away — to lead our own life. Why on earth should we want to poison a nice stupid old woman who had never done us any harm?" "It mightn't have been her you meant to poison." "Still less are we likely to poison a child." "It depends rather on the child, doesn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Josephine isn't quite the ordinary child. She knows a good deal about people. She --" I broke off. Josephine had emerged from the door leading to the drawing room. She was eating the inevitable apple, and over its round rosiness her eyes sparkled with a kind of ghoulish enjoyment. "Nannie's been poisoned," she said. "Just like grandfather. It's awfully exciting, isn't it?" "Aren't you at all upset about it?" I demanded severely. "You were fond of her, weren't you?" "Not particularly. She was always scolding me about something or other. She fussed." "Are you fond of anybody, Josephine?" asked Clemency. Josephine turned her ghoulish eyes towards Clemency. "I love Aunt Edith," she said. "I love Aunt Edith very much. And I could love Eustace, only he's always such a beast to me and won't be interested in finding out who did all this." "You'd better stop finding things out, Josephine," I said. "It isn't very safe." "I don't need to find out any more," said Josephine. "I know." There was a moment's silence. Josephine's eyes, solemn and unwinking, were fixed on Clemency. A sound like a long sigh, reached my ears. I swung sharply round. Edith de Haviland stood half way down the staircase -- but I did not think it was she who had sighed. The sound had come from behind the door through which Josephine had just come. I stepped sharply across to it and yanked it open. There was no one to be seen. Nevertheless I was seriously disturbed. Someone had stood just within that door and had heard those words of Josephine's. I went back and took Josephine by the arm. She was eating her apple and staring stolidly at Clemency. Behind the solemnity there was, I thought, a certain malignant satisfaction. "Come on, Josephine," I said. "We're going to have a little talk." I think Josephine might have protested, but I was not standing any nonsense. I ran her along forcibly into her own part of the house. There was a small unused morning room where we could be reasonably sure of being undisturbed. I took her in there, closed the door firmly, and made her sit on a chair. I took another chair and drew it forward so that I faced her. "Now, Josephine," I said, "we're going to have a show down. What exactly do you know?" "Lots of things." "That I have no doubt about. That noddle of yours is probably crammed to overflowing with relevant and irrelevant information. But you know perfectly what I mean. Don't you?" "Of course I do. I'm not stupid." I didn't know whether the disparagement was for me or the police, but I paid no attention to it and went on: "You know who put something in your cocoa?" Josephine nodded. "You know who poisoned your grandfather?" Josephine nodded again. "And who knocked you on the head?" Again Josephine nodded. "Then you're going to come across with what you know. You're going to tell me all about it — now." "Shan't." "You've got to. Every bit of information you've got or ferret out has got to be given to the police." "I won't tell the police anything. They're stupid. They thought Brenda had done it — or Laurence. I wasn't stupid like that. I knew jolly well they hadn't done it. I've had an idea who it was all along, and then I made a kind of test — and now I know I'm right." She finished on a triumphant note. I prayed to Heaven for patience and started again. "Listen, Josephine, I daresay you're extremely clever —" Josephine looked gratified. "But it won't be much good to you to be clever if you're not alive to enjoy the fact. Don't you see, you little fool, that as long as you keep your secrets in this silly way you're in imminent danger?" Josephine nodded approvingly. "Of course I am." "Already you've had two very narrow escapes. One attempt nearly did for you. The other has cost somebody else their life. Don't you see if you go on strutting about the house and proclaiming at the top of your voice you know who the killer is, there will be more attempts made — and that either you'll die or somebody else will?" "In some books person after person is killed," Josephine informed me with gusto. "You end by spotting the murderer because he or she is practically the only person left." "This isn't a detective story. This is Three Gables, Swinly Dean, and you're a silly little girl who's read more than is good for her. I'll make you tell me what you know if I have to shake you till your teeth rattle." "I could always tell you something that wasn't true." "You could, but you won't. What are you waiting for, anyway?" "You don't understand," said Josephine. "Perhaps I may never tell. You see, I might be — fond of the person." She paused as though to let this sink in. "And if I do tell," she went on, "I shall do it properly. I shall have everybody sitting round, and then I'll go over it all — with the clues, and then I shall say, quite suddenly: "And it was you ..." She thrust out a dramatic forefinger just as Edith de Haviland entered the room. "Put that core in the waste paper basket, Josephine," said Edith. "Have you got a handkerchief? Your fingers are sticky. I'm taking you out in the car." Her eyes met mine with significance as she said: "She'll be safer out of here for the next hour or so." As Josephine looked mutinous, Edith added: "We'll go into Longbridge and have an ice cream soda." Josephine's eyes brightened and she said: "Two." "Perhaps," said Edith. "Now go and get your hat and coat on and your dark blue scarf. It's cold out today. Charles, you had better go with her while she gets them. Don't leave her. I have just a couple of notes to write." She sat down at the desk, and I escorted Josephine out of the room. Even without Edith's warning, I would have stuck to Josephine like a leech. I was convinced that there was danger to the child very near at hand. As I finished superintending Josephine's toilet, Sophia came into the room. She seemed astonished to see me. "Why, Charles, have you turned nursemaid? I didn't know you were here." "I'm going in to Longbridge with Aunt Edith," said Josephine importantly. "We're going to have icecreams." "Brrrr, on a day like this?" "Ice cream sodas are always lovely," said Josephine. "When you're cold inside, it makes you feel hotter outside." Sophia frowned. She looked worried, and I was shocked by her pallor and the circles under her eyes. We went back to the morning room. Edith was just blotting a couple of envelopes. She got up briskly. "We'll start now," she said. "I told Evans to bring round the Ford." She swept out to the hall. We followed her. My eye was again caught by the suitcases and their blue labels. For some reason they aroused in me a vague disquietude. "It's quite a nice day," said Edith de Haviland, pulling on her gloves and glancing up at the sky. The Ford 10 was waiting in front of the house. "Cold -- but bracing. A real English autumn day. How beautiful trees look with their bare branches against the sky — and just a golden leaf or two still hanging . . ." She was silent a moment or two, then she turned and kissed Sophia. "Goodbye, dear," she said. "Don't worry too much. Certain things have to be faced and endured." Then she said, "Come, Josephine," and got into the car. Josephine climbed in beside her. They both waved as the car drove off. "I suppose she's right, and it's better to keep Josephine out of this for a while. But we've got to make that child tell what she knows, Sophia." "She probably doesn't know anything. She's just showing off. Josephine likes to make herself look important, you know." "It's more than that. Do they know what poison it was in the cocoa?" "They think it's digitalin. Aunt Edith takes digitalin for her heart. She has a whole bottle full of little tablets up in her room. Now the bottle's empty." "She ought to keep things like that locked up." "She did. I suppose it wouldn't be difficult for someone to find out where she hid the key." "Someone? Who?" I looked again at the pile of luggage. I said suddenly and loudly: "They can't go away. They mustn't be allowed to." Sophia looked surprised. "Roger and Clemency? Charles, you don't think —" "Well, what do you think?" Sophia stretched out her hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Charles," she whispered. "I only know that I'm back — back in the nightmare —" "I know. Those were the very words I used to myself as I drove down with Taverner." "Because this is just what a nightmare is. Walking about among people you know, looking in their faces — and suddenly the faces change — and it's not someone you know any longer — it's a stranger — a cruel stranger. ..." She cried: "Come outside, Charles — come outside. It's safer outside . . . I'm afraid to stay in this house. . . ." Twenty-five We stayed in the garden a long time. By a kind of tacit consent, we did not discuss the horror that was weighing upon us. Instead Sophia talked affectionately of the dead woman, of things they had done, and games they had played as children with Nannie -- and tales that the old woman used to tell them about Roger and their father and the other brothers and sisters. "They were her real children, you see. She only came back to us to help during the war when Josephine was a baby and Eustace was a funny little boy." There was a certain balm for Sophia in these memories and I encouraged her to talk. I wondered what Taverner was doing. Questioning the household, I suppose. A car drove away with the police photographer and two other men, and presently an ambulance drove up. ^ Sophia shivered a little. Presently the ambulance left and we knew that Nannie's body had been taken away in preparation for an autopsy. And still we sat or walked in the garden and talked — our words becoming more and more of a cloak for our real thoughts. Finally, with a shiver, Sophia said: "It must be very late — it's almost dark. We've got to go in. Aunt Edith and Josephine haven't come back . . . Surely they ought to be back by now?" ( A vague uneasiness woke in me. What had happened? Was Edith deliberately keeping the child away from the Crooked House? We went in. Sophia drew all the curtains. The fire was lit and the big drawing room looked harmonious with an unreal air of bygone luxury. Great bowls of bronze chrysanthemums stood on the tables. Sophia rang and a maid who I recognised as having been formerly upstairs brought in tea. She had red eyes and sniffed continuously. Also I noticed that she had a frightened way of glancing quickly over her shoulder. Magda joined us, but Philip's tea was sent in to him in the library. Magda's role was a stiff frozen image of grief. She spoke little or not at all. She said once: "Where are Edith and Josephine? They're out very late." But she said it in a preoccupied kind of way. But I myself was becoming increasingly uneasy. I asked if Taverner were still in the house and Magda replied that she thought so. I went in search of him. I told him that I was worried about Miss de Haviland and the child. He went immediately to the telephone and gave certain instructions. "I'll let you know when I have news," he said. I thanked him and went back to the drawing room. Sophia was there with Eustace. Magda had gone. "He'll let us know if he hears anything," I said to Sophia. She said in a low voice: "Something's happened, Charles, something must have happened." "My dear Sophia, it's not really late yet." "What are you bothering about?" said Eustace. "They've probably gone to the cinema." He lounged out of the room. I said to Sophia: "She may have taken Josephine to a hotel -- or up to London. I think she fully realised that the child was in danger -- perhaps she realised it better than we did." Sophia replied with a sombre look that I could not quite fathom. "She kissed me goodbye. ..." I did not see quite what she meant by that disconnected remark, or what it was r supposed to show. I asked if Magda was worried. "Mother? No, she's all right. She's no sense of time. She's reading a new play of Vavasour Jones called 'The Woman Disposes5. It's a funny play about murder -- a | female Bluebeard -- cribbed from 'Arsenic and Old Lace' if you ask me, but it's got a good woman's part, a woman who's got a mania for being a widow." I said no more. We sat, pretending to read. I It was half past six when Taverner opened the door and came in. His face prepared us for what he had to say. Sophia got up. "Yes?" she said. "I'm sorry. I've got bad news for you. I sent out a general alarm for the car. A motorist reported having seen a Ford car with a number something like that turning off the main road at Flackspur Heath — through the woods." "Not — the track to the Flackspur Quarry?" "Yes, Miss Leonides." He paused and went on: "The car's been found in the quarry. Both the occupants were dead. You'll be glad to know they were killed outright." "Josephine!" It was Magda standing in the doorway. Her voice rose in a wail. "Josephine . . . My baby." Sophia went to her and put her arms round her. I said: "Wait a minute." I had remembered something! Edith de Haviland writing a couple of letters at the desk, going out into the hall with them in her hand. But they had not been in her hand when she got into the car. I dashed out into the hall and went to the long oak chest. I found the letters — pushed inconspicuously to the back behind a brass tea urn. The uppermost was addressed to Chief Inspector Taverner. Taverner had followed me. I handed the letter to him and he tore it open. Standing beside him I read its brief contents. k My expectation is that this will be opened after my death. I wish to enter into no details, but I accept full responsibility for the deaths of my brother-inlaw Aristide Leonides and Janet Rowe B (Nannie). I hereby solemnly declare that Brenda Leonides and Laurence Brown are innocent of the murder of Aristide Leonides. Enquiry of Dr Michael Chavasse, 783 Harley Street will confirm that my life could only have been prolonged for a few months. I prefer to take this way out and to spare two innocent people the ordeal of being charged with a murder they did not commit. I am of sound mind and fully conscious of what I write. Edith Elfrida de Haviland. As I finished the letter I was aware that Sophia, too, had read it -- whether with Taverner's concurrence or not, I don't know. "Aunt Edith .t". ." murmured Sophia. I remembered Edith de Haviland's ruthless foot grinding bindweed into the earth. I remembered my early, almost fanciful, suspicions of her. But why -- Sophia spoke the thought in my mind before I came to it. "But why Josephine? Why did she take Josephine with her?" "Why did she do it at all?" I demanded. "What was her motive?" But even as I said that, I knew the truth. I saw the whole thing clearly. I realised that I was still holding her second letter in my hand. I looked down and saw my own name on it. It was thicker and harder than the other one. I think I knew what was in it before I opened it. I tore the envelope along and Josephine's little black notebook fell out. I picked it up off the floor -- it came open in my hand and I saw the entry on the first page . . . Sounding from a long way away, I heard Sophia's voice, clear and self controlled. "We've got it all wrong," she said. "Edith didn't do it." "No," I said. Sophia came closer to me -- she whispered: "It was -- Josephine -- wasn't it? That was it, Josephine." j Together we looked down on the first entry in the little black book, written in an unformed childish hand. "Today I killed grandfather" Twenty-six I was to wonder afterwards that I could have been so blind. The truth had stuck out so clearly all along. Josephine and only Josephine fitted in with all the necessary qualifications. Her vanity, her persistent self importance, her delight in talking, her reiteration on how clever she was, and how stupid the police were. I had never considered her because she was a child. But children have committed murders, and this particular murder had been well within a child's compass. Her grandfather himself had indicated the precise method -- he had practically handed her a blue print. All she had to do was to avoid leaving fingerprints and the slightest knowledge of detective fiction would teach her that. And everything else had been a mere hotch potch, culled at random from stock mystery stories. The notebook -- the sleuthing -- her pretended suspicions, her insistence that she was not going to tell till she was sure. . . . And finally the attack on herself. An almost incredible performance considering that she might easily have killed herself. But then, childlike, she never considered such a possibility. She was the heroine. The heroine isn't killed. Yet there had been a clue there — the traces of earth on the seat of the old chair in the wash house. Josephine k was the only person who would have had to climb up on a chair to balance the block I of marble on the top of the door. Obviously it had missed her more than once, (the dints in the floor) and patiently she had E - climbed up again and replaced it, handling | it with her scarf to avoid fingerprints. And I then it had fallen — and she had had a near escape from death. It had been the perfect set up — the impression she was aiming for! She was in danger, she "knew something," she had • been attacked! I saw how that had deliberately drawn | my attention to her presence in the cylinder I room. And she had completed the artistic I disorder of her room before going out to the wash house. | But when she had returned from hospital, when she had found Brenda and Laurence arrested, she must have become dissatisfied. The case was over -- and she -- Josephine, was out of the lime light. So she stole the digitalin from Edith's room and put it in her own cup of cocoa and left the cup untouched on the hall table. Did she know that Nannie would drink it? Possibly. From her words that morning, she had resented Nannie's criticisms of her. Did Nannie, perhaps, wise from a lifetime of experience with children, suspect? I think that Nannie knew, had always known, that Josephine was not normal. With her precocious mental development had gone a retarded moral sense. Perhaps, too, the various factors of heredity -- what Sophia had called the "ruthlessness" of the family had met together. She had had an authoritarian ruthlessness of her grandmother's family, and the ruthless egoism of Magda, seeing only her own point of view. She had also presumably suffered, sensitive like Philip, from the stigma of being the unattractive -- the changeling child -- of the family. Finally, in her very marrow, had run the essential crooked strain of old Leonides. She had been Leonides's grandchild, she had resembled him in brain and in cunning -- but his love had gone outwards to family and friends, hers had turned to herself. I thought that old Leonides had realised what none of the rest of the family had realised, that Josephine might be a source of danger to others and to herself. He had kept her from school life because he was afraid of what she might do. He had shielded her, and guarded her in the home, and I understood now his urgency to Sophia to look after Josephine. Magda's sudden decision to send Josephine abroad had that, too, been due to a fear for the child? Not, perhaps, a conscious fear, but some vague maternal instinct. And Edith de Haviland? Had she first suspected, then feared -- and finally known? I looked down at the letter in my hand. Dear Charles. This is in confidence for you -- and for Sophia if you so decide. It is imperative that someone should know the truth. I found the enclosed in the disused dog kennel I outside the back door. She kept it there. It confirms what I already suspected. The action I am about to take may be right or wrong — I do not know. But my life, in any case, is close to its end, and I do not want the child to suffer as I believe she would suffer if called to earthly account for what she has done. There is often one of the litter who is "not quite right". If I do wrong. God forgive me — but I do it out of love. God bless you both. Edith de Haviland I hesitated for only a moment, then I handed the letter to Sophia. Together we again opened Josephine's little black book. Today I killed grandfather. We turned the pages. It was an amazing production. Interesting, I should imagine, to a psychologist. It set out, with such terrible clarity, the fury of thwarted egoism. The motive for the crime was set down, pitifully childish and inadequate. Grandfather wouldn't let me do bally dancing so I made up my mind I would kill him. Then we would go to London and live and mother wouldn't mind me doing bally. I give only a few entries. They are all significant. I don't want to go to Switzerland -- I won't go. If mother makes me I will kill her too -- only I can't get any poison. Perhaps I could make it with youberries. They are poisonous, the book says so. Eustace has made me very cross to day. He says I am only a girl and no use and that its silly my detecting. He wouldn't think me silly if he knew it was me did the murder. I like Charles -- but he is rather stupid. I have not decided yet who I shall make have done the crime. Perhaps Brenda and Laurence -- Brenda is nasty to me -- she says I am not all there but I like Laurence -- he told me about Chariot Korday -- she killed someone in his bath. She was not very clever about it. The last entry was revealing. I hate Nannie ... I hate her ... I hate her . . . She says I am only a little girl. She says I show off. She's making mother send me abroad . . . I'm going to kill her too — I think Aunt Edith's medicine would do it. If there is another murder 5 then the police will come back and it will all be exciting again. Nannie's dead. I am glad. I haven't decided yet where I'll hide the bottle with the little pill things. Perhaps in Aunt Clemency's room — or else Eustace. When I am dead as an old woman I shall leave this behind me addressed to the Chief of the Police and they will see what a really great criminal I was. I closed the book. Sophia's tears were flowing fast. "Oh Charles — oh Charles — it's so dreadful. She's such a little monster — and yet — and yet it's so terribly pathetic." I had felt the same. I had liked Josephine ... I still felt a fondness for her . . . You do not like anyone less because they have tuberculosis or some other fatal disease. Josephine was, as Sophia had said, a little monster, but she was a pathetic little monster. She had been born with a kink — the crooked child of the little crooked house. Sophia asked: "If — she had lived — what would have happened?" "I suppose she would have been sent to a reformatory or a special school. Later she would have been released — or possibly certified, I don't know." Sophia shuddered. "It's better the way it is. But Aunt Edith — I don't like to think of her taking the blame." "She chose to do so. I don't suppose it will be made public. I imagine that when Brenda and Laurence come to trial, no case will be brought against them and they will be discharged. "And you, Sophia," I said, this time on a different note and taking both her hands in mine, "will marry me. I've just heard I'm appointed to Persia. We will go out there together, and you will forget the little Crooked House. Your mother can put on plays and your father can buy more books and Eustace will soon go to a university. Don't worry about them any more. Think of me." Sophia looked at me straight in the eyes. "Aren't you afraid, Charles, to marry me?" "Why should I be? In poor little Josephine all the worst of the family came together. In you, Sophia, I fully believe that all that is bravest and best in the Leonides family has been handed down to you. Your grandfather thought highly of you and he seems to have been a man who was usually right. Hold up your head, my darling. The future is ours." "I will, Charles. I love you and I'll marry you and make you happy." She looked down at the notebook. "Poor Josephine." "Poor Josephine," I said. "What's the truth of it, Charles?" said my father. I never lie to the Old Man. "It wasn't Edith de Haviland, sir," I said. "It was Josephine." My father nodded his head gently. "Yes," he said. "I've thought so for some time. Poor child . . ."