Billy’s arms, mouth ajar and uttering peaceful snores.
VI
Maurice’s home was in one of a line of small red-brick terraced houses which, when they were built in the late nine-teenth century, had barely been considered adequate for one lower-middle-class family. Now they were carved into apartments and even single rooms. Maurice had been lucky and secured a whole floor to himself when the widow of the former owner found herself unable to make ends meet. There were a living-room, a bedroom, a study, plus a bathroom and a tiny kitchen: not lavish accommodation for a world-renowned expert in organochemistry, and far too cramped for the library he had accumulated.
There, propped between a salt-cellar and an egg-cup on the huge brown table that dominated the living-room, was an envelope addressed to Kneller.
He was about to snatch it up when Sawyer said sharply, “Just a moment! Dr Randolph, what made you suspect he might have left a note?”
The same question had been troubling Hector, who stood by the doorway trying to soothe the landlady; she was half-hysterical at having her home invaded by pohce, and kept muttering about what a respectable district Hampstead had been before the motorway drew a line of slums across it.
–Right. Since when do murder victims leave notes, like suicides?
“Guesswork!” Randolph snapped. “Pure guesswork!”
And Kneller chimed in, “You mean you won’t let me open it?”
“Certainly, sir. But …” Sawyer selected a clean knife from a pile of cutlery lying untidy on a side-table; Maurice had never been a neat housekeeper. “But we don’t want to spoil any prints, do we? I mean, if Dr Post himself didn’t write that note–”
“It’s his writing on the envelope,” Kneller insisted. “Isn’t it, Campbell?”
Hector nodded. It was spiky and very individual.
“Even so, I’d be obliged if you’d keep your gloves on, and I’ll take charge of the envelope.” Sawyer spoke with finality. Yielding, Kneller used the knife, and extracted a single close-typed sheet, which he studied with a frown before passing it to Randolph.
There was a period of silence. During it Hector could think only of how cold the room was.
Eventually Randolph said, “Campbell, I gather you saw Maurice last Friday evening, right? That must have been a few hours after we last saw him at the Institute. We were expecting him on Monday as usual and he didn’t turn up. Did he seem in any way–well–disturbed?”
“May I?” Sawyer said, holding out his hand for the note. Randolph surrendered it to him.
“Won’t mean much to you! Barely means anything to me. But read it by all means. Well, Campbell?”
“Not disturbed,” Hector said slowly. “Perhaps … agitated? He gave the impression that he had a lot on his mind.”
“What did you talk about?” Kneller demanded.
“Oh … The state of the world!” .
“But did he stress anything in particular?”
Puzzled, Hector cast his mind back. He said after a moment, “I think we spent most of the time wondering whether it would ever be possible for hutnan beings to organise their affairs properly. I recall that he said something … Just a moment, let me get this right. Yes! I recall he asked whether, in my view, someone who had it in his power to change human nature ought to do so, on the grounds that while you couldn’t tell whether it would be a change for the better it was hard to believe it would be for the worse. He’d been going on about this bee he had in his bonnet about a Third World War breaking out next year.”
Kneller whistled between his teeth. “You took him seriously, did you?”
“Well …” Hector hesitated. “I’m not sure. We drank rather a lot that evening, you see. But I mention it because it was a point he kept coming back to, several times.”
“That settles it,” Randolph said with decision. “I’m convinced, Wilfred, even if you’re not. Inspector, you’ll have to have this place searched
VI
Maurice’s home was in one of a line of small red-brick terraced houses which, when they were built in the late nine-teenth century, had barely been considered adequate for one lower-middle-class family. Now they were carved into apartments and even single rooms. Maurice had been lucky and secured a whole floor to himself when the widow of the former owner found herself unable to make ends meet. There were a living-room, a bedroom, a study, plus a bathroom and a tiny kitchen: not lavish accommodation for a world-renowned expert in organochemistry, and far too cramped for the library he had accumulated.
There, propped between a salt-cellar and an egg-cup on the huge brown table that dominated the living-room, was an envelope addressed to Kneller.
He was about to snatch it up when Sawyer said sharply, “Just a moment! Dr Randolph, what made you suspect he might have left a note?”
The same question had been troubling Hector, who stood by the doorway trying to soothe the landlady; she was half-hysterical at having her home invaded by pohce, and kept muttering about what a respectable district Hampstead had been before the motorway drew a line of slums across it.
–Right. Since when do murder victims leave notes, like suicides?
“Guesswork!” Randolph snapped. “Pure guesswork!”
And Kneller chimed in, “You mean you won’t let me open it?”
“Certainly, sir. But …” Sawyer selected a clean knife from a pile of cutlery lying untidy on a side-table; Maurice had never been a neat housekeeper. “But we don’t want to spoil any prints, do we? I mean, if Dr Post himself didn’t write that note–”
“It’s his writing on the envelope,” Kneller insisted. “Isn’t it, Campbell?”
Hector nodded. It was spiky and very individual.
“Even so, I’d be obliged if you’d keep your gloves on, and I’ll take charge of the envelope.” Sawyer spoke with finality. Yielding, Kneller used the knife, and extracted a single close-typed sheet, which he studied with a frown before passing it to Randolph.
There was a period of silence. During it Hector could think only of how cold the room was.
Eventually Randolph said, “Campbell, I gather you saw Maurice last Friday evening, right? That must have been a few hours after we last saw him at the Institute. We were expecting him on Monday as usual and he didn’t turn up. Did he seem in any way–well–disturbed?”
“May I?” Sawyer said, holding out his hand for the note. Randolph surrendered it to him.
“Won’t mean much to you! Barely means anything to me. But read it by all means. Well, Campbell?”
“Not disturbed,” Hector said slowly. “Perhaps … agitated? He gave the impression that he had a lot on his mind.”
“What did you talk about?” Kneller demanded.
“Oh … The state of the world!” .
“But did he stress anything in particular?”
Puzzled, Hector cast his mind back. He said after a moment, “I think we spent most of the time wondering whether it would ever be possible for hutnan beings to organise their affairs properly. I recall that he said something … Just a moment, let me get this right. Yes! I recall he asked whether, in my view, someone who had it in his power to change human nature ought to do so, on the grounds that while you couldn’t tell whether it would be a change for the better it was hard to believe it would be for the worse. He’d been going on about this bee he had in his bonnet about a Third World War breaking out next year.”
Kneller whistled between his teeth. “You took him seriously, did you?”
“Well …” Hector hesitated. “I’m not sure. We drank rather a lot that evening, you see. But I mention it because it was a point he kept coming back to, several times.”
“That settles it,” Randolph said with decision. “I’m convinced, Wilfred, even if you’re not. Inspector, you’ll have to have this place searched
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