Suddenly all emotion was wiped away as though by a sponge and, turning to me, she asked in a businesslike tone:

‘Don’t you think that would be the way to play Edith Thompson?’

I said I thought that would be exactly the way to play Edith Thompson. At the moment I could only remember very vaguely who Edith Thompson was, but I was anxious to start off well with Sophia’s mother.

‘Rather like Brenda, really, wasn’t she?’ said Magda. ‘D’you know, I never thought of that. It’s very interesting. Shall I point that out to the inspector?’

The man behind the desk frowned very slightly.

‘There’s really no need, Magda,’ he said, ‘for you to see him at all. I can tell him anything he wants to know.’

‘Not see him?’ Her voice went up. ‘But of course I must see him! Darling, darling, you’re so terribly unimaginative! You don’t realize the importance of details. He’ll want to know exactly how and when everything happened, all the little things one noticed and wondered about at the time—’

‘Mother,’ said Sophia, coming through the open door, ‘you’re not to tell the inspector a lot of lies.’

‘Sophia—darling…’

‘I know, precious, that you’ve got it all set and that you’re ready to give a most beautiful performance. But you’ve got it wrong. Quite wrong.’

‘Nonsense. You don’t know—’

‘I do know. You’ve got to play it quite differently, darling. Subdued—saying very little—holding it all back—on your guard—protecting the family.’

Magda Leonides’ face showed the naive perplexi ty of a child.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘do you really think—’

‘Yes, I do. Throw it away. That’s the idea.’

Sophia added, as a little pleased smile began to show on her mother’s face:

‘I’ve made you some chocolate. It’s in the drawing-room.’

‘Oh—good—I’m starving—’

She paused in the doorway.

‘You don’t know,’ she said, and the words appeared to be addressed either to me or to the bookshelf behind my head, ‘how lovely it is to have a daughter!’

On this exit line she went out.

‘God knows,’ said Miss de Haviland, ‘what she will say to the police!’

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Sophia.

‘She might say anything.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Sophia. ‘She’ll play it the way the producer says. Fm the producer!’

She went out after her mother, then wheeled back to say:

‘Here’s Chief Inspector Taverner to see you, Father. You don’t mind if Charles stays, do you?’

I thought that a very faint air of bewilderment showed on Philip Leonides’ face. It well might! But his incurious habit served me in good stead. He murmured:

‘Oh certainly—certainly,’ in a rather vague voice.

Chief Inspector Taverner came in, solid, dependable, and with an air of businesslike promptitude that was somehow soothing.

‘Just a little unpleasantness,’ his manner seemed to say, ‘and then we shall be out of the house for good—and nobody will be more pleased than I shall. We don’t want to hang about, I can assure you…

I don’t know how he managed, without any words at all, but merely by drawing up a chair to the desk, to convey what he did, but it worked. I sat down unobtrusively a little way off.

‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ said Philip.

Miss de Haviland said abruptly:

‘You don’t want me, Chief Inspector?’

‘Not just at the moment, Miss de Haviland. Later, if I might have a few words with you—’

‘Of course. I shall be upstairs.’

She went out, shutting the door behind her.

‘Well, Chief Inspector?’ Philip repeated.

I know you’re a very busy gentleman and I don’t want to disturb you for long. But I may mention to you in confidence that our suspicions are confirmed. Your father did not die a natural death. His death was the result of an overdose of physostigmine—more usually known as eserine.’

Philip bowed his head. He showed no particular emotion.

‘I don’t know whether that suggests anything to you?’ Taverner went on.

‘What should it suggest? My own view is that my father must have taken the poison by accident.’

‘You really think so, Mr Leonides?’

‘Yes, it seems to me perfectly possible. He was close on ninety, remember, and with very imperfect eyesight.’

‘So he emptied the contents of his eyedrop bottle into an insulin bottle. Does that really seem to you a credible suggestion, Mr Leonides?’

Philip did not reply. His face became even more impassive.

Taverner went on:

‘We have found the eyedrop bottle, empty—in the dustbin, with no fingerprints on it. That in itself is curious. In the normal way there should have been fingerprints. Certainly your father’s, possibly his wife’s, or the valet…’

Philip Leonides looked up.

‘What about the valet?’ he said. ‘What about Johnson?’

‘You are suggesting Johnson as the possible criminal? He certainly had opportunity. But when we come to motive it is different. It was your father’s custom to pay him a bonus every year—each year the bonus was increased. Your father made it clear to him that this was in lieu of any sum that he might otherwise have left him in his will. The bonus now, after seven years’ service, has reached a very considerable sum every year and is still rising. It was obviously to Johnson’s interest that your father should live as long as possible. Moreover, they were on excellent terms, and Johnson’s record of past service is unimpeachable— he is a thoroughly skilled and faithful valet attendant.’ He paused. ‘We do not suspect Johnson.’

Philip replied tonelessly: ‘I see.’

‘Now, Mr Leonides, perhaps you will give me a detailed account of your own movements on the day of your father’s death?’

‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. I was here, in this room, all that day—with the exception of meals, of course.’

‘Did you see your father at all?’

‘I said good morning to him after breakfast as was my custom.’

‘Were you alone with him then?’

‘My—er—stepmother was in the room.’

‘Did he seem quite as usual?’

With a slight hint of irony, Philip replied:

‘He showed no foreknowledge that he was to be murdered that day.’

‘Is your father’s portion of the house entirely separate from this?’

‘Yes, the only access to it is through the door in the hall.’

‘Is that door kept locked?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘I have never known it to be so.’

‘Anyone could go freely between that part of the house and this?’

‘Certainly. It was only separate from the point of view of domestic convenience.’

‘How did you first hear of your father’s death?’

‘My brother Roger, who occupies the west wing of the floor above, came rushing down to tell me that my father had had a sudden seizure. He had difficulty in breathing and seemed very ill.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I telephoned through to the doctor, which nobody seemed to have thought of doing. The doctor was out—but I left a message for him to come as soon as possible. I then went upstairs.’

‘And then?’

‘My father was clearly very ill. He died before the doctor came.’

There was no emotion in Philip’s voice. It was a simple statement of fact.

‘Where was the rest of your family?’

‘My wife was in London. She returned shortly afterwards. Sophia was also absent, I believe. The two younger ones, Eustace and Josephine, were at home.’

I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Mr Leonides, if I ask you exactly how your father’s death will affect your financial position.’

I quite appreciate that you want to know all the facts. My father made us financially independent a great many years ago. My brother he made chairman and principal shareholder of Associated Catering—his largest company, and put the management of it entirely in his hands. He made over ^[56]to me what he considered an equivalent sum— actually I think it was a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in various bonds and securities—so that I could use the capital as I chose. He also settled very generous amounts on my two sisters, who have since died.’

‘But he left himself still a very rich man?’

‘No, actually he only retained for himself a comparatively modest income. He said it would give him an interest in life. Since that time’—for the first time a faint smile creased Philip’s lips—‘he has become, as the result of various undertakings, an even richer man than he was before.’

‘Your brother and yourself came here to live. That was not the result of any financial—difficulties?’

‘Certainly not. It was a mere matter of convenience. My father always told us that we were welcome to make a home with him. For various domestic reasons this was a convenient thing for me to do.

‘I was also,’ added Philip deliberately, ‘extremely fond of my father. I came here with my family in 1937. I pay no rent, but I pay my proportion of the rates.’

‘And your brother?’

‘My brother came here as a result of the blitz, when his house in London was bombed in 1943.’

‘Now, Mr Leonides, have you any idea what your father’s testamentary dispositions^[57] are?’

‘A very clear idea. He re-made his will in 1945. My father was not a secretive man. He had a great sense of family. He held a family conclave at which his solicitor was also present and who, at his request, made clear to us the terms of the will. These terms I expect you already know. Mr Gaitskill will doubtless have informed you. Roughly, a sum of a hundred thousand pounds free of duty^[58] was left to my stepmother in addition to her already very generous marriage settlement. The residue of his property was divided into three portions, one to myself, one to my brother, and a third in trust for the three grandchildren. The estate is a large one, but the death duties, of course, will be very heavy.’

‘Any bequests to servants or to charity?’

‘No bequests of any kind. The wages paid to servants were increased annually if they remained in his service.’

‘You are not—you will excuse my asking—in actual need of money, Mr Leonides?’

‘Income tax^[59], as you know, is somewhat heavy, Chief Inspector—but my income amply suffices for my needs— and for my wife’s. Moreover, my father frequently made us all very generous gifts, and had any emergency arisen, he would have come to the rescue immediately.’

Philip added coldly and clearly:

‘I can assure you that I had no financial reason for desiring my father’s death, Chief Inspector.’

‘I am very sorry, Mr Leonides, if you think I suggested anything of the kind. But we have to get at all the facts. Now I’m afraid I must ask you some rather delicate questions. They refer to the relations between your father and his wife. Were they on happy terms together?’

‘As far as I know, perfectly.’

‘No quarrels?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘There was a—great disparity in age?’

‘There was.’

‘Did you—excuse me—approve of your father’s second marriage?’

‘My approval was not asked.’

‘That is not an answer, Mr Leonides.’

‘Since you press the point, I will say that I considered the marriage unwise.’

‘Did you remonstrate with your father about it?’ ‘When I heard of it, it was an accomplished fact.’

‘Rather a shock to you—eh?’

Philip did not reply.

‘Was there any bad feeling about the matter?’

‘My father was at perfect liberty to do as he pleased.’

‘Your relations with Mrs Leonides have been amicable?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘You are on friendly terms with her?’

‘We very seldom meet.’

Chief Inspector Taverner shifted his ground^[60].

‘Can you tell me something about Mr Laurence Brown?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t. He was engaged by my father.’

‘But he was engaged to teach your children, Mr Leonides.’

‘True. My son was a sufferer from infantile paralysis^[61]– fortunately a light case—and it was considered not advisable to send him to a public school. My father suggested that he and my young daughter Josephine should have a private tutor—the choice at the time was rather limited— since the tutor in question must be ineligible for military service. This young man’s credentials were satisfactory, my father and my aunt (who has always looked after the children’s welfare) were satisfied, and I acquiesced. I may add that I have no fault to find with his teaching, which has been conscientious and adequate.’

‘His living quarters are in your father’s part of the house, not here?’

‘There was more room up there.’

‘Have you ever noticed—I am sorry to ask this— any signs of intimacy between Laurence Brown and your stepmother?’

I have had no opportunity of observing anything of the kind.’

‘Have you heard any gossip or tittle-tattle on the subject?’

‘I don’t listen to gossip or tittle-tattle, Chief Inspector.’

‘Very creditable,’ said Inspector Taverner. ‘So you’ve seen no evil, heard no evil, and aren’t speaking any evil?’

‘If you like to put it that way, Chief Inspector.’ Inspector Taverner got up.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you very much, Mr Leonides.’

I followed him unobtrusively out of the room.

‘Whew,’ said Taverner, ‘he’s a cold fish!’