Beasts and Super-Beasts Page 14

  THE BLIND SPOT

  “You’ve just come back from Adelaide’s funeral, haven’t you?” said SirLulworth to his nephew; “I suppose it was very like most other funerals?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch,” said Egbert.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. It wouldn’t be respectful either to yourgreat-aunt’s memory or to the lunch. We begin with Spanish olives, thena borshch, then more olives and a bird of some kind, and a ratherenticing Rhenish wine, not at all expensive as wines go in this country,but still quite laudable in its way. Now there’s absolutely nothing inthat menu that harmonises in the least with the subject of yourgreat-aunt Adelaide or her funeral. She was a charming woman, and quiteas intelligent as she had any need to be, but somehow she always remindedme of an English cook’s idea of a Madras curry.”

  “She used to say you were frivolous,” said Egbert. Something in his tonesuggested that he rather endorsed the verdict.

  “I believe I once considerably scandalised her by declaring that clearsoup was a more important factor in life than a clear conscience. Shehad very little sense of proportion. By the way, she made you herprincipal heir, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Egbert, “and executor as well. It’s in that connection thatI particularly want to speak to you.”

  “Business is not my strong point at any time,” said Sir Lulworth, “andcertainly not when we’re on the immediate threshold of lunch.”

  “It isn’t exactly business,” explained Egbert, as he followed his uncleinto the dining-room.

  “It’s something rather serious. Very serious.”

  “Then we can’t possibly speak about it now,” said Sir Lulworth; “no onecould talk seriously during a borshch. A beautifully constructedborshch, such as you are going to experience presently, ought not only tobanish conversation but almost to annihilate thought. Later on, when wearrive at the second stage of olives, I shall be quite ready to discussthat new book on Borrow, or, if you prefer it, the present situation inthe Grand Duchy of Luxemburg. But I absolutely decline to talk anythingapproaching business till we have finished with the bird.”

  For the greater part of the meal Egbert sat in an abstracted silence, thesilence of a man whose mind is focussed on one topic. When the coffeestage had been reached he launched himself suddenly athwart his uncle’sreminiscences of the Court of Luxemburg.

  “I think I told you that great-aunt Adelaide had made me her executor.There wasn’t very much to be done in the way of legal matters, but I hadto go through her papers.”

  “That would be a fairly heavy task in itself. I should imagine therewere reams of family letters.”

  “Stacks of them, and most of them highly uninteresting. There was onepacket, however, which I thought might repay a careful perusal. It was abundle of correspondence from her brother Peter.”

  “The Canon of tragic memory,” said Lulworth.

  “Exactly, of tragic memory, as you say; a tragedy that has never beenfathomed.”

  “Probably the simplest explanation was the correct one,” said SirLulworth; “he slipped on the stone staircase and fractured his skull infalling.”

  Egbert shook his head. “The medical evidence all went to prove that theblow on the head was struck by some one coming up behind him. A woundcaused by violent contact with the steps could not possibly have beeninflicted at that angle of the skull. They experimented with a dummyfigure falling in every conceivable position.”

  “But the motive?” exclaimed Sir Lulworth; “no one had any interest indoing away with him, and the number of people who destroy Canons of theEstablished Church for the mere fun of killing must be extremely limited.Of course there are individuals of weak mental balance who do that sortof thing, but they seldom conceal their handiwork; they are moregenerally inclined to parade it.”

  “His cook was under suspicion,” said Egbert shortly.

  “I know he was,” said Sir Lulworth, “simply because he was about the onlyperson on the premises at the time of the tragedy. But could anything besillier than trying to fasten a charge of murder on to Sebastien? He hadnothing to gain, in fact, a good deal to lose, from the death of hisemployer. The Canon was paying him quite as good wages as I was able tooffer him when I took him over into my service. I have since raised themto something a little more in accordance with his real worth, but at thetime he was glad to find a new place without troubling about an increaseof wages. People were fighting rather shy of him, and he had no friendsin this country. No; if anyone in the world was interested in theprolonged life and unimpaired digestion of the Canon it would certainlybe Sebastien.”

  “People don’t always weigh the consequences of their rash acts,” saidEgbert, “otherwise there would be very few murders committed. Sebastienis a man of hot temper.”

  “He is a southerner,” admitted Sir Lulworth; “to be geographically exactI believe he hails from the French slopes of the Pyrenees. I took thatinto consideration when he nearly killed the gardener’s boy the other dayfor bringing him a spurious substitute for sorrel. One must always makeallowances for origin and locality and early environment; ‘Tell me yourlongitude and I’ll know what latitude to allow you,’ is my motto.”

  “There, you see,” said Egbert, “he nearly killed the gardener’s boy.”

  “My dear Egbert, between nearly killing a gardener’s boy and altogetherkilling a Canon there is a wide difference. No doubt you have often felta temporary desire to kill a gardener’s boy; you have never given way toit, and I respect you for your self-control. But I don’t suppose youhave ever wanted to kill an octogenarian Canon. Besides, as far as weknow, there had never been any quarrel or disagreement between the twomen. The evidence at the inquest brought that out very clearly.”

  “Ah!” said Egbert, with the air of a man coming at last into a deferredinheritance of conversational importance, “that is precisely what I wantto speak to you about.”

  He pushed away his coffee cup and drew a pocket-book from his innerbreast-pocket. From the depths of the pocket-book he produced anenvelope, and from the envelope he extracted a letter, closely written ina small, neat handwriting.

  “One of the Canon’s numerous letters to Aunt Adelaide,” he explained,“written a few days before his death. Her memory was already failingwhen she received it, and I daresay she forgot the contents as soon asshe had read it; otherwise, in the light of what subsequently happened,we should have heard something of this letter before now. If it had beenproduced at the inquest I fancy it would have made some difference in thecourse of affairs. The evidence, as you remarked just now, choked offsuspicion against Sebastien by disclosing an utter absence of anythingthat could be considered a motive or provocation for the crime, if crimethere was.”

  “Oh, read the letter,” said Sir Lulworth impatiently.

  “It’s a long rambling affair, like most of his letters in his lateryears,” said Egbert. “I’ll read the part that bears immediately on themystery.

  “‘I very much fear I shall have to get rid of Sebastien. He cooksdivinely, but he has the temper of a fiend or an anthropoid ape, and I amreally in bodily fear of him. We had a dispute the other day as to thecorrect sort of lunch to be served on Ash Wednesday, and I got soirritated and annoyed at his conceit and obstinacy that at last I threw acupful of coffee in his face and called him at the same time an impudentjackanapes. Very little of the coffee went actually in his face, but Ihave never seen a human being show such deplorable lack of self-control.I laughed at the threat of killing me that he spluttered out in his rage,and thought the whole thing would blow over, but I have several timessince caught him scowling and muttering in a highly unpleasant fashion,and lately I have fancied that he was dogging my footsteps about thegrounds, particularly when I walk of an evening in the Italian Garden.’

  “It was on the steps in the Italian Garden that the body was found,”commented Egbert, and resumed reading.

  “‘I daresay the danger is imag
inary; but I shall feel more at ease whenhe has quitted my service.’”

  Egbert paused for a moment at the conclusion of the extract; then, as hisuncle made no remark, he added: “If lack of motive was the only factorthat saved Sebastien from prosecution I fancy this letter will put adifferent complexion on matters.”

  “Have you shown it to anyone else?” asked Sir Lulworth, reaching out hishand for the incriminating piece of paper.

  “No,” said Egbert, handing it across the table, “I thought I would tellyou about it first. Heavens, what are you doing?”

  Egbert’s voice rose almost to a scream. Sir Lulworth had flung the paperwell and truly into the glowing centre of the grate. The small, neathandwriting shrivelled into black flaky nothingness.

  “What on earth did you do that for?” gasped Egbert. “That letter was ourone piece of evidence to connect Sebastien with the crime.”

  “That is why I destroyed it,” said Sir Lulworth.

  “But why should you want to shield him?” cried Egbert; “the man is acommon murderer.”

  “A common murderer, possibly, but a very uncommon cook.”