"Had the rest of the household retired to bed?"
"I don't remember, sir."
"What exactly did you do in the kitchen?"
"All I recall of the kitchen is what I already..."
The sensation was oddly like being called to walk the carpet, but he had not been in serious trouble at Fallow since his wild youth in the Upper Fourth, and he knew the stakes now were considerably higher than a breeching or a few hours’ detention. His neck was growing devilish stiff. He addressed his next few answers to the ceiling, aware that the foe was still watching him and he could not see the foe.
Of course the most likely explanation of the tragedy was that the two of them had blundered into a gang of burglars and tried to be heroes. In the resulting fracas the intruders had stabbed Bagpipe, thrown Edward down the stairs, and departed. But if Ginger's information was correct, they had not escaped out the back door, which had been bolted, but had gone through into the main house, locking the door and taking the key. Although Ginger had not mentioned the front door and other means of escape, there must be a possibility that the killer or killers had not been intruders at all, but someone in General Bodgley's household. As Bodgley was practically lord of the manor around Greyfriars, this investigation must be much more than a routine for Inspector Leatherdale. He would be under terrific pressure; he would play every trick he knew. Even a romantic, starry-eyed idealist knew the googlies must start soon.
The voices droned, the constable's pen squeaked, and faint sounds of carts and motors drifted in through the open window. Visitors’ voices wandered up and down the corridor, and Leatherdale continued to use up Edward's visiting hours. Quite possibly Ginger Jones or others might be cooling their heels outside there somewhere, waiting to be admitted.
"But you had never seen this woman before?"
"I'm not sure I even saw her then, Inspector. I have only a few very vague images. She may have been a delusion.” Should he have admitted that?
"You threw something at your uncle yesterday?"
Googly!
Edward turned to look at Leatherdale quizzically, and then reached up to the bedside table.
"No. I did heave this dish, or one just like it."
"Why?"
He resisted the temptation to say, “I didn't know what else it was for.” Instead he explained calmly, “I threw it at the book he was holding. Had I wanted to hit him instead, I would have hit him. I can hit a sixpence at the far end of a cricket pitch.” He raised the dish. “Choose any flower in the room and I'll hit it for you, even lying flat like this."
"That won't be necessary. Why did you throw the dish at Dr. Exeter?"
"I didn't."
"Why did you throw the dish at the Bible, then?"
"Because my uncle is a religious fanatic. I'd say a religious maniac, but I'm not qualified to judge that. For years he has been trying to convert me to his beliefs, and he is absolutely unstoppable when he gets going. I could not leave, and the only way I could think of to get rid of his ranting was to make a scene. So I made a scene."
"You did not just ask him to leave?"
"I did try, sir."
"You could have rung for a nurse and asked her to show him out."
"He is my legal guardian and a well-known divine. He would have resisted and probably won."
"Trying to convert you from what?” Leatherdale changed topics like a juggler moved balls.
"From believing what my parents believed."
"And what is that?"
"My father told me, ‘Don't talk about your faith, show it.’”
"You refuse to answer the question?"
"I did answer the question.” What on earth did this have to do with Bagpipe's death? “I was taught that deeds count and words don't. The guv'nor was convinced that rabid, bigoted missionaries like my uncle Roland did incalculable harm to innumerable people by thrusting an alien set of beliefs and values on them. They finish up confused and adrift, with their tribal ways in a shambles and no real understanding of what they are expected to put in their place. He used to quote..."
May be used as evidence ... Even if Leatherdale himself was broad-minded and tolerant—and there was no evidence of that—the average English jury would certainly contain some dogmatic, literal-minded Christians. Edward took a long breath, cursing his folly at letting his tongue run away with him. “He believed a man should advertise his beliefs by making his life an example to others and to himself and to whatever god or gods he believed in. You don't really want a sermon, do you, Inspector?"
"And this provoked you to throw the dish?"
Another curved one! “He insulted my father.” As Leatherdale was about to speak, Edward decided to get the words on the record. “He accused him of worshiping Satan.” Try putting that before twelve honest men and true!
"Those exact words, ‘worshiping Satan'?"
"Close enough. How would you react if someone—"
"It is your reactions we are investigating, sir. Do you normally become violent when someone makes an insulting remark about your father?"
"I don't recall anyone else ever being such a boor."
As the interrogation continued, Leatherdale's West Country growl seemed to be growing broader and broader. Edward wondered if his own public school drawl was also becoming more marked. He ought to try and curb it, but he had no spare brain cells to put in charge of the attempt. He had also realized that the policeman disliked him for some reason, and was enjoying this.
"Why would your uncle have made such an accusation?"
Edward rubbed his stiffening neck. “Ask him. I do not understand my uncle's thinking."
"In his youth he was a missionary himself."
"I know that much."
"Where were you born, Mr. Exeter?"
What did this have to do with Bagpipe's murder? “In British East Africa. Kenya."
The questions jumped like frogs—Kenya, Fallow, the Grange. Any time Edward questioned a question for relevancy, Leatherdale would change the subject and then work his way back again. The ceiling could do with a coat of paint.
"And how did your father treat missionaries in Nyagatha?"
"I have no idea. I was only twelve when I left there. I was only twelve when I last spoke to my father. Boys of that age barely regard their parents as mortals, let alone question them on such topics."
"That was not what you said earlier."
"That's true,” Edward admitted, angry with himself. “I know what he said to me about missionaries, but I don't know what he did about them in practice. I remember missionaries visiting the station and being made welcome."
"Can you name any of them?"
"No. It was a long time—"
"And the Reverend Dr. Exeter is your father's brother?"
"Was my father's brother. My father died when I was sixteen."
Leatherdale twirled his mustache. “Your father's younger brother?"
"Hardly! Much older."
"Have you any evidence of that, Mr. Exeter?"
"I knew them both very well."
"Any documentary evidence?"
Edward stared. “Sir, what does this have to do with what happened at Greyfriars Grange?"
"Answer the question, please."
"I expect the guv'nor's age is recorded on my birth certificate. I don't remember. I don't read my birth certificate very often."
Manners! He was growing snippy. Was that a glint in Leatherdale's eye? He was against the light, so it was hard to tell.