‘Given how flippant you’ve all been talking about him,’ remarked Chitty, ‘I’d say that, if anyone’s spinning in his grave at this moment, it’s Raymond Gentry.’
‘’E’s not in ’is grave yet, silly,’ Iris pointed out, while powdering the tip of her nose from a pink powder-puff. ‘’E’s still in the attic just where they found ’im. Not decent, I call it, leavin’ a dead body without coverin’ it over or anythin’.’
‘Oh no, Iris!’ little Addie suddenly piped up. ‘That’s what the police tell you to do when there’s a murder.’
‘What?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Nothin’? What you mean, nothin’?’
‘You’re not to do nothin’ at all. I read it in a book.’
Mrs Varley performed what in the films they call a double-take.
‘You read a book!?’
‘I’ve read two books, Mrs Varley,’ Addie answered gamely. ‘Jessie passed ’em on to me when she ’anded in ’er notice. You remember Jessie, mum? ’Er as up an’ married the ’aberdasher’s son an’ went to Great Yarmouth for ’er ’oneymoon.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Varley grimly, ‘I do remember Jessie. I also remember we don’t talk about Jessie around here. Those banns were posted a mite too hastily for my liking. And to think the Vicar allowed her to get married in white! There’s such a thing as being too Christian!’
‘Anyway, mum, Jessie gave me these two books of ’ers. Quite ’ighbrow they was. One was The Vamp of the Pampas. Ooh, was that hot stuff!’
‘Language, Addie, language! This isn’t Paris, you know.’
‘Sorry, Mr Chitty.’
‘And what was the other, dear?’ he asked.
‘Well, that’s the funny thing. It was one o’ that Miss Mount’s that’s one o’ the Master’s guests.’
‘What one was it?’ Dolly asked.
‘Oh, Dolly, now you’re askin’,’ said Addie. ‘I think it was called Murder somethin’ …’
‘Well, that don’t get us much forrader,’ said Tomelty, his eyes swimming heavenward. ‘Just about every one of ’er books ’as “Murder” in the title.’
‘That’s it! That’s the one!’
‘What one?’
‘No Murder in the Title! It was called No Murder in the Title an’ it was really good! The murder takes place in the first chapter – an’ really gory it is, too! The victim – ’e’s some kind of big businessman, Hiram Rittenhouse – Hiram B. Rittenhouse the Third – a Napoleon of Finance, they call ’im – an’ ’e’s found squeezed inside a trouser-press in ’is suit at the Dorchester.’
‘You mean they put ’im inside the trouser-press, suit an’ all?!’ cried Iris.
‘No, ’is suit. Like in one o’ them big ’otels. Not just a room but a suit.’
‘Gerraway! What you mean is a sweet!’
‘No, I don’t. I do so mean a suit. Anyway, all the time you’re readin’ the book, you remember the murder bein’ done in the first chapter an’ you know who done it an’ you can’t work out ’ow the detective – that’s a woman called Alexis Baddeley – you can’t work out ’ow she’s goin’ to save the man who’s been arrested for it – he’s an ’andsome, clean-cut young Yank, Mike somethin’ – I don’t remember ’is second name – no, no, no, call me a liar, I do so remember, it was Mike Rittenhouse, that’s right, ’e was the Napoleon’s penniless nephew – an’ you can’t work out ’ow she’ll save ’im from bein’ ’ung, seein’ as ‘ow he definitely done it cos you read about ’im doin’ it before you read anythin’ else.’
Having been talking, uninterrupted, for probably longer than ever before in her young life, Addie stopped to take a deep breath.
‘Well, don’t leave us all on tintacks, Addie,’ said Mrs Varley. ‘Did he do it or didn’t he?’
‘No, ’e didn’t!’ cried Addie, beaming triumphantly at everybody in turn. ‘That was what was so clever about it. It’s only at the very end you discover that in the first chapter ’e was at the pictures – which ’e told the police again an’ again ’e was – an’ what you read in that chapter is not ’im killin’ ’is uncle as ’e’s supposed to ’ave done but a similar-like murder ’e saw in the picture show that – what’s the word? – inspirated! – that inspirated the real murderer. But cos it’s the first thing you read, an’ cos, after ’e comes out of the picture show, ’e walks along Bond Street worryin’ about this terrible thing ’e’s done an’ you think it’s the murder ’e’s worryin’ about – but it’s atcherly cos he spent all ’is money on this loose woman ’e met at a Lyons Corner ’Ouse – an’ cos you’ve got it in your ’ead for the rest of the book that ’e’s the one that done it, it comes as ever such a surprise that it wasn’t ’im as killed ’is uncle after all!’
Flushed with what she imagined had been the unqualified success of her storytelling, she’d failed to notice that an opaque expression had started to glaze her listeners’ eyes.
‘Blessed if I can understand it,’ said Mrs Varley.
‘No more can I,’ said Dolly, shaking her head.
‘You got the wrong end of the stick as usual, Addie, my dear,’ said Chitty in what he doubtless intended to be a kindly voice.
The kitchen-maid was now close to tears.
‘No, I didn’t. It’s a really clever idea when you think about it.’
‘I don’t hold with ideas,’ said Mrs Varley. ‘Cause of half the problems in the world, ideas are.’
‘But this young Yank, this Mike, you see, everyone says ’e –’
‘Now don’t start all over again,’ said Tomelty. ‘We couldn’t make ’ead or tail of it the first time and, knowing you, you’ll only make things worse. Why’d you have to tell us all that anyway, I’d like to know?’
Her lower lip trembling beneath her protruding teeth like that of a child who’s been scolded, Addie said, ‘I just wanted to say you shouldn’t touch a dead body in a murder case before the doctor tells you it really is dead. It said so in the book, so it must be true.’
‘Well, that’s cleared up,’ said Tomelty. ‘Now what’s the view around the table? Who done it?’
‘Are my ears deceiving me, Tomelty,’ cried an aghast Mrs Varley, ‘or are you asking us who we think murdered Gentry?’
‘An’ why not? They seem to be makin’ a right ’ash of it upstairs.’
Mrs Varley’s eyes narrowed.
‘Would there be a reward, do you suppose?’
‘Reward? Nah! If the ’ole ’ouse was burnin’ down an’ they was all a-screamin’ an’ a-shriekin’ an’ you burst in to try an’ rescue them, they’d make you wipe yer feet ’fore you got ’alf-way through the bleedin’ flames!’
He turned to Dolly.
‘So, Dolly, tell us who you think murdered Raymond Gentry.’
Dolly stuck her forefinger in the dead centre of her brow as though to indicate, for everyone’s benefit, the exact location of her hunch.
‘Well, I was wonderin’,’ she said, ‘seein’ as ’ow angry ’e made ’em all with ’is insinuendoes – I mean, couldn’t it be, you know, all of ’em at once?’
‘All of ’em? At once?’
‘You know, all of ’em in it together? Like in a jury?’
Tomelty made short work of that argument.
‘There’s twelve to a jury, so that won’t do. Iris?’
‘Well, since you ask, Tomelty,’ the upstairs-maid said primly, ‘I do ’ave a theory.’
‘A theory, is it? All right, Miss Alberta Einstein, let’s ’ave it.’