Celia Calthrop gave Reckless the resigned, slightly apologetic look of a mother whose child is about to make a nuisance of himself but not altogether without excuse. She muttered confidentially: “Arabella. His Siamese cat. Mr. Bryce thought that Maurice had killed the animal.”
“One didn’t think, Celia. One knew.” He turned to Reckless. “I ran over his dog about three months ago. It was the purest accident. I like animals. I like them, I tell you! Even Towser who, admit it, Celia, was the most disagreeable, ill-bred and unattractive mongrel. It was the most horrible experience! He ran straight under my wheels. Seton was utterly devoted to him. He practically accused me of deliberately running the dog down. And then, four days later, he murdered Arabella. That’s the kind of man he was! Do you wonder someone has put a stop to him?”
Miss Calthrop, Miss Dalgliesh and Latham all spoke at once, thus effectively defeating their good intentions.
“Justin dear, there really wasn’t a particle of proof…”
“Mr. Bryce, no one is going to suppose that Arabella has anything to do with it.”
“For God’s sake, Justin, why drag up…”
Reckless broke in quietly: “And when did you arrive at Monksmere, Sir?”
“Wednesday afternoon. Just before four. And I didn’t have Seton’s body in the car with me either. Luckily for me, I had trouble with the gear box all the way from Ipswich and had to leave it in Baines garage just outside Saxmundham. I came on by taxi. Young Baines brought me. So if you want to check the car for blood and fingerprints you’ll find it with Baines. And good luck to you.”
Latham said: “Why the hell are we bothering, anyway? What about the next-of-kin? Dear Maurice’s half-brother. Shouldn’t the police be trying to trace him? After all, he’s the heir. He’s the one with the explaining to do.”
Eliza Marley said quietly: “Digby was at Seton House last night. I drove him there.” It was only the second time she had spoken since the Inspector’s arrival and Dalgliesh sensed that she wasn’t anxious to speak now. But no one hoping for a sensation could have wished for a more gratifying response.
There was an astounded silence broken by Miss Calthrop’s sharp, inquisitorial voice: “What do you mean, drove him there?” It was, thought Dalgliesh, a predictable question.
The girl shrugged: “What I said. I drove Digby Seton home last night. He telephoned from Ipswich Station before catching the connection and asked me to meet him off the eight-thirty train at Saxmundham. He knew Maurice wouldn’t be at home and I suppose he wanted to save the cost of a taxi. Anyway, I went. I took the Mini.”
“You never told me about this when I got home,” said Miss Calthrop accusingly.
The rest of the party shifted uneasily, apprehensive that they might be in for a family row. Only the dark figure sitting against the wall seemed utterly unconcerned: “I didn’t think you would be particularly interested. Anyway, you were pretty late back, weren’t you?”
“But what about tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier.”
“Why should I? If Digby wanted to beetle off again somewhere it’s no business of mine. Anyway, that was before we knew that Maurice Seton was dead.”
“So you met Digby at his request off the eight-thirty?” asked Latham, as if anxious to set the record straight.
“That’s right. And what’s more, Oliver, he was on the train when it pulled in. He wasn’t lurking in the waiting room or hanging about outside the station. I bought a platform ticket, saw him get off the train and was with him when he gave up his ticket. A London ticket, incidentally; he was complaining about the cost. The ticket collector will remember him, anyway. There were only about half a dozen other passengers.”
“And presumably he hadn’t a body with him?” asked Latham.
“Not unless he was carrying it in a hold-all measuring about three feet by two.”
“And you drove him straight home?”
“Of course. That was the idea. Sax is hardly a haunt of gaiety after eight o’clock and Digby isn’t my favourite drinking companion. I was just saving him the cost of a taxi. I told you.”
“Well, go on, Eliza,” encouraged Bryce. “You drove Digby to Seton House. And then?”
“Nothing. I left him at the front door. The house was quiet and there were no lights. Well, naturally. Everyone knows that Maurice stays in London during mid-October. Digby asked me in for a drink but I said that I was tired and wanted to get home and that Aunt Celia would probably be home and waiting up for me. We said goodnight and Digby let himself in with his own key.”
“He had a key, then?” interposed Reckless. “He and his brother were on those terms?”
“I don’t know what terms they were on. I only know that Digby has a key.”
Reckless turned to Sylvia Kedge. “You knew about this? That Mr. Digby Seton had open access to the house?”
Sylvia Kedge replied: “Mr. Maurice Seton gave his brother a key about two years ago. From time to time he did mention asking for it back but Mr. Digby used it so seldom when his brother wasn’t at home that I suppose he thought it didn’t matter letting him keep it.”
“Why, as a matter of interest, did he want it back?” enquired Bryce.
Miss Calthrop obviously considered this the kind of question that Sylvia should not be expected to answer. With an expression and voice clearly indicating “not in front of the servants,” she replied: “Maurice did mention the key to me on one occasion and said that he might ask for it to be returned. There was no question of not trusting Digby. He was merely a little worried in case it got lost or stolen at one of those nightclubs Digby is so fond of.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t get it back,” said Latham.
“Digby used it to get into the house at about nine o’clock last night. And no one has seen him since. Are you sure the house was empty, Eliza?”
“How could I be? I didn’t go in. But I heard no one and there were no lights.”
“I was there at half past nine this morning,” said Sylvia Kedge. “The front door was locked as usual and the house was empty. None of the beds had been slept in. Mr. Digby hadn’t even poured himself a drink.”
There was an unspoken comment that something sudden and drastic must indeed have occurred. There were surely few crises which Digby Seton would not suitably fortify himself to meet.
But Celia was speaking. “That’s nothing to go by. Digby always carries a hip flask. It was one of those little idiosyncrasies of his that used to irritate Maurice so. But where on earth can he have gone?”
“He didn’t say anything to you about going out again?” Latham turned to Eliza Marley. “How did he seem?”
“No, he didn’t say anything; I’m not particularly perceptive of Digby’s moods but he seemed much as usual.”
“It’s ridiculous!” proclaimed Miss Calthrop. “Digby surely wouldn’t go out again when he’d only just arrived. And where is there for anyone to go? Are you sure he didn’t mention his plans?”
Elizabeth Marley said: “He may have been called out.”
Her aunt’s voice was sharp. “Called out! Nobody knew he was there! Called out by whom?”
“I don’t know. I only mention it as a possibility. As I was walking back to the car I heard the telephone ring.”
“Are you sure?” asked Latham.
“Why do you keep on asking me if I’m sure? You know what it’s like up there on the headland; the quietness; the loneliness and mystery of the place; the way sound travels at night. I tell you, I heard the phone ring!”
They fell silent. She was right, of course. They knew what it was like on the headland at night. And the same silence, the same loneliness and mystery waited for them outside. Despite the heat of the room Celia Calthrop shivered. But the heat was really getting intolerable.
Bryce had been crouching on a low stool in front of the fire feeding it compulsively from the wood basket like some demonic stoker. The great tongues of flame leapt and hissed around the driftwood; the stone walls of the sitting room looked as if they were sweating blood. Dalgliesh went over to one of the windows and wrestled with the shutters. As he pushed open the pane the waves of sweet cold air passed over him, lifting the rugs on the floor and bringing in like a clap of thunder the surge of the sea.