Free The Silk Stocking Murders by Anthony Berkeley Page B

Moresby carried on most of his share of the conversation by echoing, in an interrogatory form, the last two or three words of his companion’s last speech. It was a good method, for it saved him from sitting dumbly and it also saved him from contributing anything of his own to the conversation. Moreover, it is an excellent way of drawing out one’s interlocutor.
    “Yes.” Now that his outburst was over and Pleydell had got his chief trouble off his chest, his calm was returning. “I’m convinced there’s something behind all this, Inspector. My fiancée must have had some good reason for doing what she did. She must have been threatened or blackmailed, or—or something horrible. I want the police to find out what that reason was.”
    “I see, sir.” Moresby continued to drum absently on his table. “But that’s really hardly a matter for us, is it?” he suggested.
    “How do you mean?” Pleydell retorted, his voice indignant. “I tell you, Lady Ursula must have been hounded into taking her life. She was driven into suicide. She must have been. And isn’t that tantamount to murder? Supposing it was blackmail, for instance. That’s a matter for you, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, quite, sir, if you put it like that. What I mean is, this is all too vague. It’s only what you think, after all, isn’t it? Now if you could give us some evidence, to support what you’re saying—well, that might be a different matter.”
    Roger smiled. He appreciated the Chief Inspector’s method. By pretending to make light of his visitor’s suspicions he was hoping to goad him into revelations concerning his fiancée which otherwise he might be most reluctant to make.
    It seemed, however, as if Moresby’s subtlety was not to be rewarded. “Evidence?” said Pleydell, more calmly. “That’s difficult. I don’t think I’ve got any evidence to give you. Lady Ursula never gave me the slightest hint that anything was amiss. In fact, the whole dreadful business is a complete mystery to me. All I know is that she wouldn’t have done a thing like that without reason, and we don’t know of any reason. Therefore that reason ought to be found. Surely it’s up to you to unearth the evidence, not me.”
    Roger reflected that, up to the present, Pleydell’s suspicions almost exactly corresponded with his own concerning Janet Manners. Indeed, had not that chance bombshell flung vaguely in Moresby’s direction blown away the cobwebs from his own brain in its bursting, they would probably be the suspicions that he still held. And what would Pleydell say when he found that it was not a case of hidden reasons for suicide at all, but of simple murder?
    Roger studied him carefully through the little aperture. Under that normally composed, almost cold exterior, no doubt the fires of passion could burn as fiercely as anywhere else. More fiercely perhaps; for it is those who habitually keep a tight hand on their emotions, whose outburst, when it does occur, is far more violent than that of the normal individual. And after all, in this case the blood was Oriental in origin, however remote that origin might be. With the lust for vengeance which must sweep over him as he learnt the truth, Pleydell might prove a useful help in the investigation. Roger decided that he ought to be told the truth at once.
    The Chief Inspector was ambling gently round the question at issue. “But do you think the Countess would like Scotland Yard called in, sir?” he was asking. “Now that everything’s settled, wouldn’t it be better to leave it like that, and not rake up what may turn out to be a nasty scandal?”
    Pleydell flushed. “I’m not necessarily ‘calling you in,’” he replied. “One only does that when there’s something definite to call you in for, I suppose. I’ve merely come here, after considerable reflection, to report to you my personal opinion that there is something behind the scenes here which ought to be brought into the light. You