The Clock Strikes Twelve

Chapter 16

The family were just across the passage in Phyllida’s sitting-room. The instinct to keep together, to avoid being singled out, had taken them there-the old primitive herd instinct. This time no one sat down. Mark leaned on the mantelpiece and looked into the fire, his shoulder turned upon the room. Dicky still twisted a bit of string. There was one of those horrid silences which no one breaks because no one wants to be the first to voice the common thought. The fact that Albert was at a loss for words was enough to keep anyone else from speaking. It had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. He stood there, the last into the room, looking for all the world like something out of the family album. There was the same stiffness, the fixed regard, the attempt at an easy pose.

It was Brenda who spoke for everyone present. In blunt and heartfelt tones she exclaimed,

“I wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying to him.”

Her brother turned a frowning look upon her.

“She’ll say what we agreed to say-why shouldn’t she?”

Albert Pearson came a little farther into the room.

“It’s most unfortunate that we hadn’t a little longer to talk things over. Dr. Frith was being very positive about its not being an accident, and when they got it out of Lane how early the party had broken up, I could see they were going to ask a lot of questions. Of course we don’t want to say what isn’t true, but we don’t want to stir up trouble either.”

Brenda said, “What about Irene-and Lydia? Suppose he goes and talks to them? Hadn’t you better ring up and tell them to be careful what they say?”

Frank Ambrose said, “No.”

“Well, I should.”

“Too risky. Besides, the telephone’s out of order-at least it was last night.”

Brenda hunched her shoulder.

“Then I don’t mind betting they give the show away.”

“ Lydia ’s got too much sense,” said Dicky.

She laughed unpleasantly.

“And Irene hasn’t any sense at all!”

In quite a quiet undertone, Frank Ambrose said,

“Hold your tongue, will you!”

Elliot Wray surveyed the room with a sense of impending disaster-Phyllida’s pretty pastel room which he hated because it wasn’t Phyllida’s room at all. It was the setting devised by Grace Paradine-her taste, her furniture, her idea of what a young girl’s room should be; sweet pea colouring, a little mauve, a little pink, a touch of purple, and a great deal of blue. He thought, “We’ve bitten off more than we can chew-that’s about the size of it. If he goes through the whole ten of us one at a time, somebody’s bound to crash.”

Then Phyllida had her hand on his arm and was saying in a voice which was only meant for him,

“Elliot, I’m no good at telling lies-I don’t think I can.”

He turned his eyes on her with a spark of angry humour.

“Oh, you can’t, can’t you?”

She shook her head.

“Why can’t we just tell the truth?”

His hand came down over hers. He said almost inaudibly, but with an extraordinary effect of anger,

“You’re not to say you went down to the study- do you hear?”

“Well, I won’t unless he asks me.”

“He won’t ask you-why should he?”

“I don’t know-he might.”

“Then you’ll say ‘No’!”

She shook her head.

“I can’t, Elliot-honest I can’t.”

“George Washington complex?” His grip was hurting her. “Don’t be a damned fool, Phyl!”

She said, “You’re hurting me,” and got a hard “I’d like to wring your neck!”

He was not prepared for her looking up at him with a smile. What can you do when a creature looks at you like that? And what business had she to smile at him when he had just called her a damned fool and said he would like to wring her neck? He let go of her abruptly as Brenda repeated her opening remark,

“I do wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying.”

Superintendent Vyner, having finished with Miss Paradine, was considering whom he would see next. He had no intention of allowing her to rejoin the rest of the family, and had devised a plan for preventing it. Sergeant Manners was called in and told that Miss Paradine had kindly consented to make a statement. Even without previous instructions Manners could be relied upon to take an almost unbelievable time over this routine exercise, being a slow writer and very punctilious about getting everything down correctly. People who tried to hustle him came out of the encounter rather the worse for wear.

The Superintendent’s own plan was to select the next person to be interviewed and proceed to the study. But he had only taken a couple of steps along the passage, when he heard the sound of voices from the hall. What he saw when he looked over the balustrade sent him downstairs without further ado. As he came down the last of the flight he encountered Mrs. Frank Ambrose and her sister coming up. Both ladies had made some attempt at mourning, Mrs. Ambrose wearing a fur coat and a small black turban, and Miss Pennington having on a grey tweed coat and skirt and a white scarf. She had nothing on her head but her own bright copper curls. The Superintendent stopped them, blocking the way.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Ambrose. I am very sorry to be here on such a painful errand. Can you spare me a few minutes of your time? If you will do so, I can take your statement and get it over.”

Irene’s eyes opened very widely indeed.

“My statement?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Ambrose. In the case of a sudden death like this I would like to have a statement from everyone who was dining here last night. If you wouldn’t mind coming into the study-I needn’t detain you for more than a few minutes-”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. Two steps higher up Lydia looked down at them. She was pale and she wore no make-up. Without it she appeared a little, insignificant creature. The thought passed through the Superintendent’s head. Then he met the steady grey-green eyes and changed his mind. She was all there, and she’d got spunk. Not so much change to be got out of Miss Lydia Pennington. He turned back to Irene, standing there with her mouth a little open, and considered that he’d picked the right sister. Well, he’d best get her along to the study before anyone had a chance of telling her what to say.

Lydia’s voice pursued him.

“Don’t you want me too?”

It gave him a good deal of pleasure to reply,

“Not at present, thank you, Miss Pennington.”