“Well—we have to be careful,” he said. “You think it’s obvious?”
“Of course. That dreadful American husband of poor Gina’s. He’s the only stranger here. We know absolutely nothing about him. He’s probably one of these dreadful American gangsters.”
“But that wouldn’t quite account for his killing Christian Gulbrandsen, would it? Why should he?”
“Because Christian had found out something about him. That’s what he came here for so soon after his last visit.”
“Are you sure of that, Mrs. Strete?”
“Again it seems to me quite obvious. He let it be thought his visit was in connection with the Trust—but that’s nonsense. He was here for that only a month ago. And nothing of importance has arisen since. So he must have come on some private business. He saw Walter on his last visit, and he may have recognised him—or perhaps made inquiries about him in the States—naturally he has agents all over the world—and found out something really damaging. Gina is a very silly girl. She always has been. It is just like her to marry a man she knows nothing about—she’s always been man mad! A man wanted by the police, perhaps, or a man who’s already married, or some bad character in the underworld. But my brother Christian wasn’t an easy man to deceive. He came here, I’m sure, to settle the whole business. Expose Walter and show him up for what he is. And so, naturally, Walter shot him.”
Inspector Curry, adding some out-sized whiskers to one of the cats on his blotting pad, said:
“Ye—es.”
“Don’t you agree with me that that’s what must have happened?”
“It could be—yes,” admitted the Inspector.
“What other solution could there be? Christian had no enemies. What I can’t understand is why you haven’t already arrested Walter?”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Strete, we have to have evidence.”
“You could probably get that easily enough. If you wired to America—”
“Oh yes, we shall check up on Mr. Walter Hudd. You can be sure of that. But until we can prove motive, there’s not very much to go upon. There’s opportunity, of course—”
“He went out just after Christian, pretending the lights had fused—”
“They did fuse.”
“He could easily arrange that.”
“True.”
“That gave him his excuse. He followed Christian to his room, shot him and then repaired the fuse and came back to the Hall.”
“His wife says he came back before you heard the shot from outside.”
“Not a bit of it! Gina would say anything. The Italians are never truthful. And she’s a Roman Catholic, of course.”
Inspector Curry sidestepped the ecclesiastical angle.
“You think his wife was in it with him?”
Mildred Strete hesitated for a moment.
“No—no, I don’t think that.” She seemed rather disappointed not to think so. She went on, “That must have been partly the motive—to prevent Gina’s learning the truth about him. After all, Gina is his bread and butter.”
“And a very beautiful girl.”
“Oh yes. I’ve always said Gina is good-looking. A very common type in Italy, of course. But if you ask me, it’s money that Walter Hudd is after. That’s why he came over here and has settled down living on the Serrocolds.”
“Mrs. Hudd is very well off, I understand?”
“Not at present. My father settled the same sum on Gina’s mother, as he did on me. But, of course, she took her husband’s nationality (I believe the law is altered now) and what with the war and his being a Fascist, Gina has very little of her own. My mother spoils her, and her American aunt, Mrs. Van Rydock, spent fabulous sums on her and bought her everything she wanted during the war years. Nevertheless, from Walter’s point of view, he can’t lay his hands on much until my mother’s death when a very large fortune will come to Gina.”
“And to you, Mrs. Strete.”
A faint colour came into Mildred Strete’s cheek.
“And to me, as you say. My husband and myself always lived quietly. He spent very little money except on books—he was a great scholar. My own money has almost doubled itself. It is more than enough for my simple needs. Still one can always use money for benefit of others. Any money that comes to me, I shall regard as a sacred trust.”
“But it won’t be in a Trust, will it?” said Curry, wilfully misunderstanding. “It will come to you, absolutely.”
“Oh yes—in that sense. Yes, it will be mine absolutely.”
Something in the ring of that last word made Inspector Curry raise his head sharply. Mrs. Strete was not looking at him. Her eyes were shining, and her long thin mouth was curved in a triumphant smile.
Inspector Curry said in a considering voice:
“So in your view—and, of course, you’ve had ample opportunities of judging—Mr. Walter Hudd wants the money that will come to his wife when Mrs. Serrocold dies. By the way, she’s not very strong is she, Mrs. Strete?”
“My mother has always been delicate.”
“Quite so. But delicate people often live as long or longer than people who have robust health.”
“Yes, I suppose they do.”
“You haven’t noticed your mother’s health failing just lately?”
“She suffers from rheumatism. But then one must have something as one grows older. I’ve no sympathy with people who make a fuss over inevitable aches and pains.”
“Does Mrs. Serrocold make a fuss?”
Mildred Strete was silent for a moment. She said at last:
“She does not make a fuss herself, but she is used to being made a fuss of. My stepfather is far too solicitous. And as for Miss Bellever, she makes herself positively ridiculous. In any case, Miss Bellever has had a very bad influence in this house. She came here many years ago, and her devotion to my mother, though admirable in itself, has really become somewhat of an infliction. She literally tyrannises over my mother. She runs the whole house and takes far too much upon herself. I think it annoys Lewis sometimes. I should never be surprised if he told her to go. She has no tact—no tact whatever, and it is trying for a man to find his wife completely dominated by a bossy woman.”
Inspector Curry nodded his head gently.
“I see … I see….”
He watched her speculatively.
“There’s one thing I don’t quite get, Mrs. Strete. The position of the two Restarick brothers?”
“More foolish sentiment. Their father married my poor mother for her money. Two years afterwards, he ran away with a Yugoslavian singer of the lowest morals. He was a very unworthy person. My mother was softhearted enough to be sorry for these two boys. Since it was out of the question for them to spend their holidays with a woman of such notorious morals, she more or less adopted them. They have been hangers-on here ever since. Oh yes, we’ve plenty of spongers in this house, I can tell you that.”
“Alex Restarick had an opportunity of killing Christian Gulbrandsen. He was in his car alone—driving from the lodge to the house—what about Stephen?”
“Stephen was in the Hall with us. I don’t approve of Alex Restarick—he is getting to look very coarse and I imagine he leads an irregular life—but I don’t really see him as a murderer. Besides, why should he kill my brother?”
“That’s what we always come back to, isn’t it?” said Inspector Curry genially. “What did Christian Gulbrandsen know—about someone—that made it necessary for that someone to kill him?”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Strete triumphantly. “It must be Walter Hudd.”
“Unless it’s someone nearer home.”
Mildred said sharply:
“What did you mean by that?”
Inspector Curry
said slowly:
“Mr. Gulbrandsen seemed very concerned about Mrs. Serrocold’s health whilst he was here.”
Mrs. Strete frowned.
“Men always fuss over Mother because she looks fragile. I think she likes them to! Or else Christian had been listening to Juliet Bellever.”
“You’re not worried about your mother’s health yourself, Mrs. Strete?”
“No. I hope I’m sensible. Naturally Mother is not young—”
“And death comes to all of us,” said Inspector Curry. “But not ahead of its appointed time. That’s what we have to prevent.”
He spoke meaningly. Mildred Strete flared into sudden animation.
“Oh it’s wicked—wicked. No one else here really seems to care. Why should they? I’m the only person who was a blood relation to Christian. To Mother, he was only a grown-up stepson. To Gina, he isn’t really any relation at all. But he was my own brother.”
“Half brother,” suggested Inspector Curry.
“Half brother, yes. But we were both Gulbrandsens in spite of the difference in age.”
Curry said gently, “Yes—yes, I see your point….”
Tears in her eyes, Mildred Strete marched out. Curry looked at Lake.
“So she’s quite sure it’s Walter Hudd,” he said. “Won’t entertain for a moment the idea of its being anybody else.”
“And she may be right.”
“She certainly may. Wally fits. Opportunity—and motive. Because if he wants money quick, his wife’s grandmother would have to die. So Wally tampers with her tonic, and Christian Gulbrandsen sees him do it—or hears about it in some way. Yes, it fits very nicely.”
He paused and said:
“By the way, Mildred Strete likes money … She mayn’t spend it, but she likes it. I’m not sure why … She may be a miser—with a miser’s passion. Or she may like the power that money gives. Money for benevolence, perhaps? She’s a Gulbrandsen. She may want to emulate Father.”
“Complex, isn’t it?” said Sergeant Lake, and scratched his head.
Inspector Curry said:
“We’d better see this screwy young man, Lawson, and after that we’ll go to the Great Hall and work out who was where—and if and why—and when … we’ve heard one or two rather interesting things this morning.”