agreed. “But I don't suppose,” I said, “that she'd murder anyone just because she didn't approve of their aims and mode of life. Perhaps, if she really hated the old man - but are any murders committed just out of pure hate?”
“Precious few,” said Taverner. “I've never come across one myself. No, I think we're a good deal safer to stick to Mrs Brenda. But God knows if we'll ever get any evidence.”
Crooked House
Chapter 8
A parlourmaid opened the door of the opposite wing to us. She looked scared but slightly contemptuous when she saw Taverner.
“You want to see the mistress?”
“Yes, please.”
She showed us into a big drawing room and went out.
Its proportions were the same as the drawing room on the ground floor below.
There were coloured cretonnes, very gay in colour and striped silk curtains. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait that held my gaze riveted - not only because of the master hand that had painted it, but also because of the arresting face of the subject.
It was the portrait of a little old man with dark piercing eyes. He wore a black velvet skull cap and his head was sunk down in his shoulders, but the vitality and power of the man radiated forth from the canvas. The twinkling eyes seemed to hold mine.
“That's him,” said Chief Inspector Taverner ungrammatically. “Painted by Augustus John. Got a personality, hasn't he?”
“Yes,” I said and felt the monosyllable was inadequate.
I understood now just what Edith de Haviland had meant when she said the house seemed so empty without him. This was the Original Crooked Little Man who had built the Crooked Little House - and without him the Crooked Little House had lost its meaning.
“That's his first wife over there, painted by Sargent,” said Taverner.
I examined the picture on the wall between the windows. It had a certain cruelty like many of Sargent's portraits. The length of the face was exaggerated, I thought - so was the faint suggestion of horsiness - the indisputable correctness - it was a portrait of a typical English Lady - in Country (not Smart) Society. Handsome, but rather lifeless. A most unlikely wife for the grinning powerful little despot over the mantelpiece.
The door opened and Sergeant Lamb stepped in.
“I've done what I could with the servants, sir,” he said. “Didn't get anything.”
Taverner sighed.
Sergeant Lamb took out his notebook and retreated to the far end of the room where he seated himself unobtrusively.
The door opened again and Aristide Leonides's second wife came into the room. She wore black - very expensive black and a good deal of it. It swathed her up to the neck and down to the wrists. She moved easily and indolently, and black certainly suited her. Her face was mildly pretty and she had rather nice brown hair arranged in somewhat too elaborate a style. Her face was well powdered and she had on lipstick and rouge, but she had clearly been crying. She was wearing a string of very large pearls and she had a big emerald ring on one hand and an enormous ruby on the other.
There was one other thing I noticed about her. She looked frightened.
“Good morning, Mrs Leonides,” said Taverner easily. “I'm sorry to have to trouble you again.”
She said in a flat voice: “I suppose it can't be helped.”
“You understand, don't you, Mrs Leonides, that if you wish your solicitor to be present, that is perfectly in order.”
I wondered if she did understand the significance of those words. Apparently not.
She merely said rather sulkily: “I don't like Mr Gaitskill. I don't want him.”
“You could have your own solicitor, Mrs Leonides.”
“Must I? I don't like solicitors. They confuse me.”
“It's entirely for you to decide,” said Taverner, producing an automatic smile. “Shall we go on, then?”
Sergeant Lamb licked his pencil. Brenda Leonides sat down on a sofa facing Taverner.
“Have you found out anything?” she asked.
I noticed her fingers nervously
“Precious few,” said Taverner. “I've never come across one myself. No, I think we're a good deal safer to stick to Mrs Brenda. But God knows if we'll ever get any evidence.”
Crooked House
Chapter 8
A parlourmaid opened the door of the opposite wing to us. She looked scared but slightly contemptuous when she saw Taverner.
“You want to see the mistress?”
“Yes, please.”
She showed us into a big drawing room and went out.
Its proportions were the same as the drawing room on the ground floor below.
There were coloured cretonnes, very gay in colour and striped silk curtains. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait that held my gaze riveted - not only because of the master hand that had painted it, but also because of the arresting face of the subject.
It was the portrait of a little old man with dark piercing eyes. He wore a black velvet skull cap and his head was sunk down in his shoulders, but the vitality and power of the man radiated forth from the canvas. The twinkling eyes seemed to hold mine.
“That's him,” said Chief Inspector Taverner ungrammatically. “Painted by Augustus John. Got a personality, hasn't he?”
“Yes,” I said and felt the monosyllable was inadequate.
I understood now just what Edith de Haviland had meant when she said the house seemed so empty without him. This was the Original Crooked Little Man who had built the Crooked Little House - and without him the Crooked Little House had lost its meaning.
“That's his first wife over there, painted by Sargent,” said Taverner.
I examined the picture on the wall between the windows. It had a certain cruelty like many of Sargent's portraits. The length of the face was exaggerated, I thought - so was the faint suggestion of horsiness - the indisputable correctness - it was a portrait of a typical English Lady - in Country (not Smart) Society. Handsome, but rather lifeless. A most unlikely wife for the grinning powerful little despot over the mantelpiece.
The door opened and Sergeant Lamb stepped in.
“I've done what I could with the servants, sir,” he said. “Didn't get anything.”
Taverner sighed.
Sergeant Lamb took out his notebook and retreated to the far end of the room where he seated himself unobtrusively.
The door opened again and Aristide Leonides's second wife came into the room. She wore black - very expensive black and a good deal of it. It swathed her up to the neck and down to the wrists. She moved easily and indolently, and black certainly suited her. Her face was mildly pretty and she had rather nice brown hair arranged in somewhat too elaborate a style. Her face was well powdered and she had on lipstick and rouge, but she had clearly been crying. She was wearing a string of very large pearls and she had a big emerald ring on one hand and an enormous ruby on the other.
There was one other thing I noticed about her. She looked frightened.
“Good morning, Mrs Leonides,” said Taverner easily. “I'm sorry to have to trouble you again.”
She said in a flat voice: “I suppose it can't be helped.”
“You understand, don't you, Mrs Leonides, that if you wish your solicitor to be present, that is perfectly in order.”
I wondered if she did understand the significance of those words. Apparently not.
She merely said rather sulkily: “I don't like Mr Gaitskill. I don't want him.”
“You could have your own solicitor, Mrs Leonides.”
“Must I? I don't like solicitors. They confuse me.”
“It's entirely for you to decide,” said Taverner, producing an automatic smile. “Shall we go on, then?”
Sergeant Lamb licked his pencil. Brenda Leonides sat down on a sofa facing Taverner.
“Have you found out anything?” she asked.
I noticed her fingers nervously
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