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  “The Inns of Court would like them for their empire,” went on his Lordship, “because they see themselves as a profession and they think a profession can have a body. It can’t. It’s only as good as the worst of its members.”

  “Yes, my lord.” As far as the aristocracy was concerned professions were doubtless new jumped-up callings.

  “One of the universities wants them for their empire because they think they represent the Intellectual Man and that that is sufficient reason. It isn’t.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “The Intellectual Man can be swayed by Intellect…”

  “Yes, my lord.” Sloan had thought that was the whole idea.

  “Dangerous, that.”

  “Very possibly, my lord.” Was that the aristocrat pronouncing on the meritocrat?

  “Brains,” pronounced his lordship oracularly, “are all very well in their way. That right, Cossington?”

  Mr. Adrian Cossington was far too clever to admit to having any at all and merely murmured, “A point of view, my lord, a point of view.”

  In a moment, thought Sloan, he’s going to say, “My country, right or wrong.”

  But he didn’t.

  Instead the Earl said, “That’s when you get political arithmetic creeping in, Inspector.”

  “Do you, my lord?” Sloan didn’t know about political arithmetic, but he did know that the Earl was trying to convey a philosophy to him, a philosophy that did not encompass murder.

  “The greatest good of the greatest number.”

  “I see, sir.” Wasn’t that known as “the common weal,” or was that something different?

  “And, Inspector, because they are of historical value I may not sell them to the highest bidder.”

  “No, my lord?”

  “My country which bleeds me white does not allow me the freedom of the marketplace.”

  Sloan was more aware now of Cossington stirring in the background.

  “All I may do, Inspector, is to retrench against a taxation system whose only aim is to deprive me of my inheritance.”

  “Those Court records,” said Sloan, policeman not politician, “would they have been in the Muniments chests?”

  “In the ordinary way,” agreed the Earl.

  “But not on Friday?” Sloan’s view of Ornum was blinkered to Friday.

  The Earl shook his head. “They’ve been on loan to the Greatorex Library since the beginning of June.”

  “Who all knew this?”

  “Anyone who cared to read the papers,” said his Lordship blandly.

  “Cor,” said Constable Crosby expressively as they left the Private Apartments, “he’s agin the government if you like.”

  Inspector Sloan’s mind was elsewhere. He was wondering if hounds felt the same sense of disappointment as he did now when they had been following a scent that turned out to be false. For a moment he had thought he had been on to something.

  Crosby waved a hand. “And he calls this being bled white.”

  “All things are relative, Crosby.”

  Just how relative, though, was all this to a handful of police constables getting a few shillings’ palm oil from a greedy garage proprietor every now and then?

  “I’d like to have his sort of money all the same,” persisted Crosby.

  “No, you wouldn’t.” The mental dichotomy between this investigation and the other was almost too much. They were at the extreme opposite ends of the scale.

  But it was the same scale.

  He knew that.

  And so did Superintendent Leeyes.

  “Try me,” said the constable cheerfully, “that’s all I ask, sir.”

  Sloan looked across at Crosby, trying to see in him the lineal descendent of those early Earls of Ornum. Crosby suppressing tear-aways on motorcycles or calming over-excited yobboes on a Saturday night or pounding the beat mid-week, but that image, too, had faded now.

  “I want to see Lady Alice again,” he said abruptly.

  As before, Lady Maude opened the door and led the way to her sister.

  “Just one more question, your Ladyship,” he began.

  The lorgnette hovered above the Cremond beak again. “Well?”

  “Who all knew you hadn’t invited Mr. Meredith to tea on Friday?”

  From where Sloan was standing the lorgnette magnified the beady eyes.

  “Just,” said her Ladyship balefully, “Mr. Meredith.”

  14

  « ^ »

  Miles Cremond looked as if he could have eaten any number of extra teas at any time. His overweight was of the solid, long-standing variety. He was very willing to talk to Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby. He didn’t often get an audience who hung on his every word like they did.

  “Came down for the cricket,” said Miles, sounding faintly aggrieved. “Not for all this business. Always come for this match. ’S’tradition.”

  Sloan listened carefully. What he was listening for was a clue as to why the murder had happened exactly when it did.

  “I mean to say,” Miles went on, “the poor old chap never did anyone any harm, did he?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.” Sloan went on to establish that Thursday was the first time Miles and Laura had heard about the archivist’s doubts about the earldom.

  “A lot of nonsense, I’m sure, Inspector,” said Miles warmly. “ ’Course Uncle Harry’s the right chap. It stands to reason…”

  Sloan didn’t know if primogeniture was reason.

  “The rest’s history, isn’t it?” said Miles.

  “I couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure.”

  “A lot of families chop and change in the succession, I know, but we’ve been luckier than most.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Because of this thing about battles, what?”

  “What thing?”

  “Never getting there,” said Miles. “Whenever there’s been a war the Cremonds always seem to have been either too old or too young to fight, what?”

  “The General…” said Sloan suddenly, remembering the bust in the Library.

  “That’s right. Him, too. I think one of the other Cremonds got to Blenheim, but his gout held him back from the actual fighting, what?”

  “Quite so, sir.” Where Sloan came from, the word “what” was a simple interrogative. This man used it like a full stop. “Now, about Friday, sir…”

  “Yes?”

  “Where were you at the material… at teatime on Friday?”

  “Had a quick cup with the others.”

  “The others?”

  “Uncle Harry, Aunt Millicent, Henry and Eleanor, Cousin Gertrude, and m’wife. I didn’t stay with them more than five minutes. I wanted to get out-of-doors and Cousin Gertrude wanted to get back to her chandelier, so we went.”

  “What sort of time would this have been, sir?”

  He frowned. “I must have been heading for the ha ha by ten past four.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The ha ha.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Sloan tried it out for himself. Tentatively. “The ha ha?”

  “That’s right, Inspector.”

  “And what”—cautiously—“did you do when you got there?”

  “Walked round it.”

  “I see, sir.” It was like one of those radio parlour games where everyone else knew the object. He suppressed an urge to say, “Can you eat it?” Instead he murmured, “Did you see anyone while you were there?”

  Miles Cremond frowned again. “Purvis. He was talking to Bert Hackle by the orangery.”

  Sloan sighed. It was altogether too simple to suppose that you kept oranges there. “Anyone else?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “And when did you get back?”

  “Late.”

  “Late? Late for what?”

  “Dinner, Inspector. I’d hardly left myself time to change. M’wife was waiting for me and we went down together a bit late.”

 
“And you were walking all the time, sir?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Round the ha ha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very funny,” said Crosby not quite inaudibly enough.

  “What’s that?” Miles Cremond jerked forward.

  “Nothing, sir,” interposed Sloan smoothly. “Now, was there anything else you can tell us about Friday?”

  But the Honourable Miles Cremond couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary that had happened on Friday, or any other day for that matter.

  The whole business was a complete mystery to him, what?

  So it was too, apparently, to his wife, Laura.

  She did, however, think any discoveries of Osborne Meredith’s about the earldom were perfectly absurd.

  “Perfectly absurd,” she repeated for good measure.

  “You didn’t take them seriously, you mean, madam?”

  “I didn’t, Inspector.”

  “It seems,” said Sloan mildly, “as if someone did.”

  There was no denying that someone—someone wearing a woman’s shoe, size six and a half—had taken them seriously enough to have a real go at disturbing the muniments.

  He said so.

  “But,” protested Laura, “but you couldn’t take all this away and give it to someone else.” She waved a hand in a comprehensive gesture that included House, park, and—somehow—earldom.

  “I couldn’t,” agreed Sloan. “There would have to be a successful claimant through the Law Courts.”

  “But,” she wailed, “we don’t even know who the claimant would be.”

  “No?” Sloan would have to try to work out the significance of that later. “Mr. Meredith would presumably have known.”

  It seemed Laura Cremond had not thought of this.

  “He might,” suggested Sloan, “have been the only person who did know.”

  She lifted her head sharply at this. There was nothing Cremond about her at all, noted Sloan. Just the touch of fast-fading handsomeness and a good hairdresser.

  “You mean,” she ventured cautiously, “that now he’s dead we may never know?”

  “I couldn’t say, madam, at this stage. He may have left a written note.”

  “No”—quickly.

  Too quickly.

  “No, madam?”

  “I mean”—she flushed—“not that anyone knew about.”

  “He might have communicated the result of his researches to someone outside the family.” Sloan’s eyes drifted downwards in the direction of her shoes. He said austerely, “Tell me again about Friday afternoon, madam, please.”

  She was beginning to look flustered. “There’s nothing to tell, Inspector. I went to my room after tea-—there wasn’t anything else to do really. Cousin Gertrude had gone off to finish her chandelier, Uncle Harry always has a little sleep just about then, and my husband had gone for a walk.”

  “Lord Henry and Lady Eleanor?”

  “They went down to Ornum village to see their old nanny—she’s not been well.”

  “And the Countess?” It was like a roll-call.

  “Aunt Millicent?” Laura Cremond said waspishly, “You can’t really have a conversation with Aunt Millicent.”

  “No”—Sloan supposed you couldn’t. Any more than you could talk to a butterfly. He murmured, “I see, madam. So you went to your room?”

  “That’s right, Inspector.”

  “And stayed there?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Sloan looked down at her for a long moment, and then said soberly, “I think you have had a lucky escape, madam. A very lucky escape indeed.”

  Talking to Lady Eleanor Cremond was a refreshing change. Sloan could quite understand why Charles Purvis was smitten.

  She was all that a good witness should be.

  Simple, direct, sure without being categoric.

  “I saw Ossy just before four o’clock,” she repeated.

  “Alive and well?”

  “Very well, Inspector, if you know what I mean. Almost excited.”

  “About what?”

  “He didn’t tell me. We just chatted for a moment or two, then I took a book and went away.” She paused. “He was a real enthusiast, you know.”

  “Yes.” That hadn’t saved him. Almost the reverse, you might say. He watched her closely. “His tea?”

  “No, I didn’t stay for that. I asked him to join us as he wasn’t going up to the great-aunts, but he said he had something he wanted to do and he was expecting Mr. Ames any minute.”

  Teatime on Friday had suddenly become immensely important.

  Lady Eleanor, though, was thinking about luncheon today.

  “You must be famished,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’ll get Dillow to bring you something. Where will you be?”

  “Thank you, that would be kind, your Ladyship. The armoury…”

  “You don’t want to eat there, Inspector.” She thought for a moment. “I know the very place. The gun room.”

  The gun room it was. As appropriate a murder headquarters as anyone could meet.

  “They’ve got weapons on the brain here, that’s their trouble,” grumbled Crosby, looking round the small room, which was literally lined with guns. “Look at ’em. I should have thought they’d have got enough downstairs without this little lot.”

  “With one notable exception,” Sloan reminded him. “Those downstairs are ornamental. These are for use.”

  The guns showed every sign of having as much loving care expended on them as did the china.

  “Those deer that the Earl’s so keen about,” said Crosby.

  “Yes?”

  “Does he shoot them?”

  “He breeds them first,” said Sloan.

  “Then he shoots them?”

  “I expect so.”

  Crosby scratched his forehead. “Funny lot, the aristocracy, sir, aren’t they?”

  “Government by the best citizens, Constable, that’s what it means.” Sloan took out his pen and got back to business. “It’s one weapon on one brain that’s our trouble, you know.”

  Dillow brought them welcome beer and sandwiches, and was word perfect about what he’d said before.

  “No, sir, I was not aware until I took tea to their Ladyships upstairs that Mr. Meredith was not taking tea with them as usual on Fridays.”

  “What time would that have been?” Sloan discovered there was one exception to the rule that policemen called all other men “sir.” That was when the other chap got it in first.

  “About half-past three, sir. They like it early on account of their taking a short nap after luncheon.”

  “Thank you, Dillow.”

  The phrase constituted dismissal to a butler and Dillow left them.

  They went on working while they ate. Inspector Sloan turned over a fresh sheet in his notebook. Outside the window a peacock shrilled harshly.

  “Why doesn’t he shoot them instead?” muttered Crosby indistinctly.

  “They’re another sort of ornament, that’s why.”

  “Give me the gryphons any day.” Crosby took another sandwich. “At least they don’t make a noise.”

  Sloan stared at the blank page in front of him. “Now then, how far have we got?”

  “Nowhere,” said Crosby.

  “We know who the victim is,” said Sloan patiently. That was a head start on some of the cases he’d been on.“ And we know where we think he was killed.”

  “Sitting down at the table at the far end of the Library,” agreed Crosby. “Confirmed as probable by the Forensic people.”

  “How nearly do we know when?” The inductive method, that’s what this was called. Crosby didn’t seem much good at the deductive sort.

  “After Lady Eleanor and Dillow saw him about four o’clock.”

  “But before he’d had time to eat his tea.”

  “Unless they’re both lying, sir,” said Crosby assiduously.

  “True.”

  “We do
n’t know why he was killed.” Crosby was making good headway with the sandwiches.

  “Half-why,” said Sloan, taking one himself while they were still there to take. “He’d found out something somebody didn’t want him to know. Mrs. Ames confirms the telephone call, by the way, but you must check on the Vicar’s movements before five-thirty.”

  “I have,” said Crosby unexpectedly. “I had a word with the post-mistress. She knows everything. He was in the village until just before half-past five. She saw him going in and out of houses.”

  Sloan nodded. “So we know when—within limits.”

  “But we don’t really know why, sir, do we?” Pessimistically.

  “We know where.”

  “But we don’t know who.” Crosby took the last sandwich. “These are jolly good, sir, aren’t they?”

  “They were,” said Sloan sarcastically. He was wasting his time.

  “We know who it wasn’t, though, sir, don’t we?” mumbled Crosby, undeterred by a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Oh?”

  “It wasn’t the Earl and Countess because they were together in the drawing-room from teatime onwards.”

  “There might have been collusion between them. They’re husband and wife, remember…”

  Crosby frowned. “I shouldn’t care to collude—colluse—what you said, sir—with the Countess myself. Too risky. Anyway, their son’and daughter didn’t leave them until about twenty past four and I bet old Meredith would have got his teeth into his tea by then if he’d been alive to do it.”

  “Like you fell upon your lunch just now?”

  “Well, sir, he wouldn’t have just sat looking at it, would he?”

  “I agree it’s unlikely.”

  “And if the Honourable Miles is speaking the truth…”

  “If…”

  “Purvis and Hackle were together completely outside the house.”

  “That leaves…” Sloan started to write.

  “Cousin Gertrude, who was on the loose…”

  That was one way of putting it.

  “Miles himself,” said Crosby. “He could have seen the two others from a window.”

  Sloan nodded. “Make a note to ask them if they saw him.”

  “William Murton, who may or who may not have been in Ornum.”

  “And Dillow,” said Sloan.