‘But Mr Appleby is to be commended.’ Mr Greengrave spoke with mild confidence. ‘It is plain to me that in such an affair as this there must be a stage at which nothing is more useful than a facility and fertility in hypothesis. Canon Newton said something of the sort to me only this evening. Only he was speaking – or I
think
he was speaking – of investigation in the field of the higher physics.’
Hyland clasped his head in his hands. ‘Where were we?’ he asked. ‘Just tell me that.’
‘I was going to say that the American brothers are still conceivably shades – convenient shades who have been wished on us for the purpose of obscuring something else.’ Appleby paused. ‘This matter of Mrs Gollifer’s bigamous marriage may be the core of the whole affair. Even if the American brothers are a fact, and were about the place, this may still be true. And we mustn’t forget that more has been destroyed than two lives. A rose has been destroyed as well.’
‘A rose?’ said Mr Greengrave blankly.
‘Yes. A rose is a rose is a rose. And in the presence of Mrs Gollifer. It was after that that Sir Oliver died.’
‘It was after a good many other things as well.’ Hyland was sarcastic. ‘And who destroyed this rose, anyway?’
‘Lucy Dromio. I attach some importance to it as indicating a mental state.’
‘I see no sense in that. A flower may be idly plucked to pieces by any petulant girl…Who the devil is that?’
Again there had been a knock at the study door. It opened to reveal not a constable but the corpse-like face of Swindle. Swindle looked balefully at the three men and then peered despondently at the clock. ‘No baths before breakfast,’ he said.
Hyland stared at him. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘Breakfast we can manage, though there won’t be no heggs. But a bath you can’t ’ave – not without a new boiler.’
‘We don’t want baths and we don’t want breakfast, either. We’re going away presently to get some sleep. Now, don’t come disturbing us again.’
‘As you say – hofficer.’ Swindle’s was a malignant snarl. ‘I just ’as to know. And what of the dead?’
‘The dead? They don’t need baths or breakfast either.’ Hyland checked himself, aware of the peculiar impropriety of this witticism in the presence of Mr Greengrave. ‘And now, go away, my man. Go to bed.’
‘Bed? With ’er ladyship choosing to keep open ’ouse all night? There’s company in the drawing-room now.’ Swindle paused. ‘Gentle-folk,’ he added witheringly.
‘You mean to say that Lady Dromio has visitors at this hour – at three o’clock in the morning?’
‘Mrs Gollifer come back – and young Mr Gollifer come with ’er. I daresay they might like to ’ave Mr Greengrave in, if ’e cares to go along. But they’ll ’ave ’ad enough of the constabulary.’
‘The Gollifers haven’t had the constabulary at all. You can give them my compliments and say I’d be glad to see them. By the way, isn’t Dr Hubbard supposed to be coming?’
‘Dr ’Ubbard be out still delivering some drab of her folly. And what be the use of it, I ask? Wickedness behind a hedge, travail in a hovel – and then it all come to
that
.’ And Swindle pointed at the shrouded form of Grubb. ‘Birth, copulation, death,’ he said, and slammed the door.
Mr Greengrave shook his head. ‘Do you know, I seem to have heard that depressing summary of human existence before. But no doubt the unfortunate old man has been much shaken by these sad events.’
‘Very odd about the Gollifers.’ Hyland frowned at the ashes fluttering in the great fireplace. ‘Can somebody have rung them up? And why should they come straight along in the middle of the night?’
‘For the sake of what used to be called the Unity of Time.’ Appleby moved towards the door. ‘The Dromios’ tragedy has its roots forty years back – or so we are asked to believe. But, as with some classical drama, its action is to be compressed within the space of twenty-four hours.’
Hyland laughed shortly. ‘You think we shall have a tangle like this cleared up by ten o’clock tonight?’
‘It seems not impossible. But, of course, we must keep moving; and I greatly doubt our getting to bed.’ Appleby turned to Mr Greengrave. ‘At the moment I think we might tackle the Gollifers – constabulary and all.’
Lady Dromio, it appeared, had made no attempt to go to bed before the arrival of the Gollifers; she now sat on one side of the empty fireplace in the same deep crimson gown which she had worn earlier that evening. And opposite sat Mrs Gollifer – a woman of the same age and somewhat statelier presence, wrapped in a flowing cloak of white velvet. Between the two stood Geoffrey Gollifer, a handsome young man now so sunk in sombre thought that it was some seconds before he became aware of the three men who had entered the drawing-room.
There was a moment’s silence as the door closed behind them. What, Appleby wondered, had been passing in this room? Had these people been sitting in a stricken silence? Was there some good understanding among them, and had they been engaged in rapid conference – planning an attitude, a story? Or was each an uneasy enigma to the others? Or was there here merely a bereaved and bewildered woman with two sympathizing friends? To some of these questions, at least, it should be possible to arrive at an answer now.
But it was Lady Dromio who took the initiative. ‘Inspector Hyland,’ she said sharply, ‘where is my brother-in-law? Swindle has a fantastic story of his having shot a policeman. I am very much distressed.’
‘Very naturally, Lady Dromio. And I am sorry that you should have further occasion for sorrow. But it is unfortunately true that Mr Sebastian Dromio has acted in a very rash manner.’ Hyland, a monument of caution, was giving nothing away. And now he turned swiftly to Mrs Gollifer. ‘What brought you back?’ he asked.
The question was unprepared for; in the little silence succeeding it Mrs Gollifer could be heard catching her breath. ‘I was afraid–’ she began.
‘Better ask me why
I
came back.’ Geoffrey Gollifer spoke without taking his eyes from the floor – but commandingly nevertheless. ‘And I’ll tell you at once.’
Hyland shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me, Mr Gollifer. Your mother is here for the second time
tonight
. It is about that that I inquire.’
‘So am I.’
‘Geoffrey!’ Mrs Gollifer had sprung to her feet – and there was, Appleby judged, nothing theatrical in the action. This woman had heard something which dumbfounded her. Whatever conference had been going on a few minutes before had not comprehended this signal fact.
‘Do I understand you to mean, Mr Gollifer–’
‘Yes, you do, man. Don’t beat about the bush. I was here, and I was seen – otherwise I would keep quiet about it, no doubt.’
Hyland had produced a notebook. ‘May I ask upon whom you called?’
Geoffrey Gollifer laughed harshly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I may tell you later on. But you may take it that I was here, and that I cleared out hastily, and that – for good or ill – somebody who knows me saw me doing so…I suppose you have a pretty good notion of the hour at which Sir Oliver died?’
Hyland was silent. But Appleby spoke. ‘Between eleven and eleven-thirty, Mr Gollifer.’
Geoffrey Gollifer nodded. ‘Poor devil,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect him to come to quite that end. Sudden too, I suppose. Hardly knew it was happening, so to speak.’
‘Quite so.’ Appleby, despite a protesting mutter from Hyland, was disposed to be conversational. ‘He was hit hard on the head from behind.’
‘Was he, indeed?’ The young man’s tone was heavily ironical. ‘Well, he deserved it, I dare say.’
‘Geoffrey, how can you?’ Mrs Gollifer advanced towards her son. ‘How can you speak so before Oliver’s mother? And what madness has come over you? Of course you were not here earlier tonight? Didn’t you tell me–’
‘Be quiet, Mother.’ Geoffrey Gollifer turned back to Appleby. ‘We might as well have the truth, mightn’t we?’
‘Most certainly – if we can get it.’ Appleby paused. ‘And you assert part of it to be this: that you were here earlier tonight and were then unfortunately observed and identified as you hurried away from what may be called the scene of the crime?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Did you commit the crime?’
Geoffrey Gollifer hesitated. ‘There wouldn’t appear to be much motive, would there?’ he asked.
‘None at all, that I can see.’ Appleby spoke with matter-of-fact conviction. ‘But there well may have been.’
‘Exactly – there well may have been.’ An obscurely growing excitement was in Geoffrey Gollifer’s tone. ‘Anyway, I was seen here. Begin with that.’
‘Perhaps you will tell us who this witness is? Then we can call him in.’
‘Certainly. Send for him right away. It was Sir Oliver’s gardener – a fellow of the name of Grubb.’
Hyland, who had been listening to all this in silence, dropped his notebook wearily on a table. ‘Mr Gollifer,’ he said, ‘do you, or do you not, know that this man Grubb is dead?’
‘Dead?’ Geoffrey Gollifer raised his eyebrows with every appearance of amazement. ‘How the deuce can he be dead?’
‘Lady Dromio here appears not to be apprised of it, and I am sorry to shock her. But the fact must already be pretty widely known in the household, and I think it possible that you are already aware of it. Only a little time ago Mr Sebastian Dromio – with what motive or justification we need not now inquire – shot Grubb dead.’
With a little cry Lady Dromio fell back in her chair. But Geoffrey Gollifer took no notice. ‘Heavens!’ he cried, ‘–then I might have kept quiet and got away with it.’
Mrs Gollifer had crossed to Lady Dromio and was holding her hands in hers. But now she turned to her son and made as if to take him by the shoulders. ‘Geoffrey, are you crazy? You could not possibly–’
‘I killed him.’ Geoffrey Gollifer’s voice was suddenly strident. ‘I killed Oliver Dromio. And I now confess the crime, being troubled in my conscience.’
There was a moment’s stupefied silence. Then Hyland took a step forward. ‘Geoffrey Gollifer,’ he began seriously. ‘I arrest–’
‘And now – stand back!’ As he spoke the young man whipped a revolver from his pocket, vaulted a sofa, threw open a French window with a crash, and disappeared into darkness. ‘Keep still!’ His voice came again, quiet and full of menace. ‘I have you covered. I killed Oliver Dromio. I shall pay for it in my own way.’
‘Mr Gollifer, this is folly.’ Appleby spoke, and as he did so walked quietly to the sofa and sat down on it. ‘But if you must shoot yourself I would suggest that you retire to some remote corner of the grounds – so much consideration your mother surely deserves. Not that you propose to shoot yourself yet – nor us either, I hope. You want to tell us the story – the story of why you killed Sir Oliver Dromio. Why not come in and sit down?’
‘I killed him because of a girl. I heard that he had probably come home and I motored over. There was a light in the study. I called to him from the terrace just on eleven o’clock. We quarrelled. Finally he turned away from me contemptuously and I struck at him from behind with the butt-end of this revolver. As I came away I was seen by the man Grubb, who appeared to be spying or skulking on the terrace.’
‘You say all this was over a girl?’
‘She was my mistress – a girl in a London nightclub. Dromio took her from me. Have you got that down? It’s the whole story.’
‘Mr Gollifer, please listen.’ Appleby’s voice was very much in earnest. ‘You may have killed Sir Oliver. I cannot tell. But you altogether miscalculate the consequences of what you now propose to do. Shooting yourself now, with this abrupt confession on your lips, will not cut short a single inquiry: No magistrate and no officer of police would rest on your story. And the girl of whom you speak is a transparent fiction. The truth – the real truth – will have to come out. Your mother – and everybody concerned – will have to face it. It will be manly in you to face it too. So please come back and talk sense. And put away that gun. There has been enough folly with such things already tonight.’
There was a long silence. Lady Dromio wept quietly. Beside her, Mrs Gollifer sat perfectly still. Mr Greengrave had left the room. Through the open window there came the sound of a motorcar approaching the house. ‘Dr Hubbard,’ Hyland said. And again silence fell.
‘Here I am.’ Geoffrey Gollifer was in the room again, the revolver trailing idly in his hand. ‘And no doubt you are right. But it is pleasant for nobody – this story of why I really killed Oliver Dromio.’
‘I think,’ Appleby said quietly, ‘that we had better hear your mother first.’
‘My son’s confession is wholly false.’ Mrs Gollifer spoke at once. ‘Question him on details of the crime, and you will find that he cannot give information which the real murderer would be bound to have.’
Hyland, whose eyelids were heavy and drooping, roused himself at this. ‘There may be something in that,’ he said. ‘Unless’ – he glanced suspiciously from mother to son – ‘unless the two of you are up to some pretty deep game. Mr Gollifer – just how did you leave the body?’
‘I left it where it fell.’ There was not a moment’s hesitation in Geoffrey Gollifer’s reply. ‘Lying there on the terrace.’
‘Nonsense!’ Appleby spoke quickly. ‘You dragged it into the study – didn’t you?’
‘I did not.’
‘You see? Geoffrey is talking at random.’ Mrs Gollifer leant forward. ‘His whole story is only designed to conceal some very terrible secret which I know is bound to come out.’
Appleby inclined his head. ‘That there is such a secret I am quite willing to believe. But if you, Mrs Gollifer, know that it is bound to come out, it seems likely that your son knows too. Suppose he did not, in fact, kill Sir Oliver. Is he not more likely to be shielding a person than a secret? Now, who is the person whom it is most likely he should wish to shield?’
‘It is a secret, I tell you – and a secret Geoffrey did not even know until some time after this horrible murder had happened. It must have been nearly midnight when his car overtook me as I was driving home.’
‘I am afraid I don’t understand that at all, Mrs Gollifer. It would appear that you took leave of Lady Dromio before eleven o’clock. How, then, can you still have been on your road home at nearly midnight?’