Bodies from the Library 2. Группа авторов

evening after tea, Inspector Swallow and his elderly colleague saw Dr Sanderson, the dead woman’s brother.

      The old man started the ball rolling with typical charm.

      ‘Well, sir. You’ve lost a sister and made £15,000. Some people would consider that you have made a profit on the day’s activities. What do you think?’

      Doctor Sanderson, balding, eagle-nosed and tubby, was indignant.

      ‘Really, Mr Verity, I do resent that most earnestly. After all, I was very fond—’

      ‘I know all about it. Your sister left it to you. I saw Riggs the lawyer before tea. And don’t say you didn’t know … Looks of incredulity are lost on me. I have seen too many of them to be deceived into thinking that you only expected a little something … an extra pipe of tobacco a week maybe, or that odd pint.’

      ‘But it’s true—’

      Inspector Swallow interposed tactfully.

      ‘Oh, come now, sir. It is our duty to check up on people, and we have discovered that you’ve been borrowing money on the strength of your expectations. Considerable sums, too.’

      Doctor Sanderson paled.

      ‘Oh, so you know about that. You certainly work fast.’

      His face set defiantly; assumed pain gave way to spleen.

      ‘All right, then, if you know so much about me, what about the others? Have you seen my sanctimonious brother-in-law? He’s not the sort of man to be chained to a hopeless invalid all his life and do nothing about it.’

      Mr Verity was yawning hugely.

      ‘In the words of the vulgar, do you imply that we cherchez la femme?’

      ‘And not so far either.’

      ‘You refer, of course, to the angel of mercy. You could be right.’

      ‘No “could be” about it. And there’s Sandra. Money in trust. Love’s young dream, and the missing parental consent. Why not have a look at all that before picking on me?’

      ‘It’s not a question of picking on anybody,’ murmured Mr Verity sweetly. ‘I just always like to take suspects in order of repulsion.’

      Doctor Sanderson stormed out of the library in a fury.

      Both detectives stayed to dinner. It was a homely little meal, marred perhaps for the hypersensitive by the arrival of the mortuary van. Mr Verity was in great form and talked incessantly about a portrait of an old man in polychromed clay executed by Guido Mazzoni in the late fifteenth century which he had just purchased for his collection of statuary at his Sussex home ‘Persepolis’. The company, with the exception of Sandra, Carmichael’s stepdaughter, bore his recondite conversation with fortitude. She, however, was noticeably distressed, and it was with some diffidence that the two men set out after dinner to find out exactly why.

      ‘Believe it or not,’ she began, when at last they were alone together in the library, ‘I had a great affection for my mother.’

      ‘That is not the voice of vulgar rumour,’ said the old man.

      ‘You can love a person and not always get on with them, Mr Verity.’

      ‘So the Bible continually reminds us.’

      Swallow scratched his head and said gently:

      ‘Your mother had £20,000 in trust for you. I understand you were to receive this sum, or the income thereof, on your marriage, provided your mother gave her consent. Is that correct?’

      ‘Perfectly. Have you ever heard anything so monstrous? It was my father’s idea.’

      She said this as if her father’s death had been no great loss to her.

      ‘And the position was that, having hunted down one Harry Logan as your intended mate, you could not persuade your mother that the alliance of Harry and £20,000 was a holy one.’

      Mr Verity smiled benevolently at her over his black cigar, and patted his inflated stomach affectionately.

      Sandra Collins was almost crying. Her top lip trembled mutinously.

      ‘So—?’

      ‘So, if I might say it without offence, my dear Miss Collins, murder for money is still a highly favoured motive, not only amongst those who write on matters of crime, but amongst those who investigate it.’

      Wishing to avoid an hysterical scene, Inspector Swallow left the world of conjecture conjured up by his colleague, and returned to the world of fact.

      ‘Tell me, Miss Collins,’ he began suavely, ‘what did you do last night?’

      ‘I went out to dinner with the others. You can soon find out whether that’s true or not.’

      ‘I have already done so.’

      Sandra was openly weeping now.

      ‘I didn’t kill her, Inspector,’ she sobbed, ‘… my own mother … You can’t say I did.’

      ‘Which at the moment of speaking is perfectly true,’ grunted Mr Verity, blowing a smoke-ring.

      ‘Oh, you’re impossible,’ she cried, and with the tears pouring down her face hurried from the room.

      ‘Mr Verity, I don’t like this case,’ Swallow said when they were alone. ‘All of them had motives for killing her, yet none of them could have done it.’

      Mr Verity beamed.

      ‘Don’t let it prey on you. 10.30 to 11 o’clock is the time to keep in mind. Surely we can punch a hole in one of their well-rehearsed narratives.’

      ‘It seems impossible. They were all over at Colonel Longford’s between 7.30 p.m. and 1 a.m. He lives twelve miles from here and there was absolutely no opportunity for one of them to take an unnoticed hour off, to drive back here, do the murder and drive back again. I checked up on it and no one left. Besides, the excellent Nurse Wimple was on duty in the passage outside Mrs Carmichael’s room the whole night, so no one could have got in.’

      Mr Verity looked glum.

      ‘Oh lord! Not another locked room. My last locked-room case was a shattering business … all centring round some dreadful woman in a wardrobe. Besides, the excellent Wimple probably spent half the night dreaming she was in the arms of Tarzan.’

      ‘I’m afraid she claims all-night consciousness. And, further, she had no motive to kill the old lady.’

      ‘Of course she didn’t do it. If she had, she would have taken good care to provide herself with an alibi.’ The old detective yawned. ‘Come, Inspector, adjourn with me to the local hostelry. A pint or two of good ale, a cigar and a little light discussion on the terra-cotta work of Antonio Pollaiulo will do wonders for our tired brains.’

      The next morning Inspector Swallow, calling on Mr Verity, found him in a state of high excitement.

      ‘Here, Inspector, look at this. Interesting, eh?’

      He pointed with a well-manicured forefinger at the centre-page advertisement in the morning’s copy of the Daily Grind. It showed two photographs of Mrs Carmichael ‘Before and After Taking Toneup, the wonderful restorative for Invalids … “I felt absolutely washed out until I started taking Toneup,” says Mrs Carmichael, a chronic invalid of Delver Park …’

      ‘Yes, I know all about it.’ Inspector Swallow said. ‘It was Mrs Carmichael’s idea. I asked her husband. He sent it off the same night she got killed. Just another manifestation of the invalid’s craving to be noticed, I suppose.’

      ‘I suppose so,’ Verity replied, thoughtfully brushing his Vandyke with the back of a huge hand. ‘But I