Crooked House

‘I know you’re a very busy gentleman and I don’t want to disturb you for long. But I may mention to you in confidence that our suspicions are confirmed. Your father did not die a natural death. His death was the result of an overdose of physostigmine—more usually known as eserine.’

Philip bowed his head. He showed no particular emotion.

‘I don’t know whether that suggests anything to you?’ Taverner went on.

‘What should it suggest? My own view is that my father must have taken the poison by accident.’

‘You really think so, Mr Leonides?’

‘Yes, it seems to me perfectly possible. He was close on ninety, remember, and with very imperfect eyesight.’

‘So he emptied the contents of his eyedrop bottle into an insulin bottle. Does that really seem to you a credible suggestion, Mr Leonides?’

Philip did not reply. His face became even more impassive.

Taverner went on:

‘We have found the eyedrop bottle, empty—in the dustbin, with no fingerprints on it. That in itself is curious. In the normal way there should have been fingerprints. Certainly your father’s, possibly his wife’s, or the valet …’

Philip Leonides looked up.

‘What about the valet?’ he said. ‘What about Johnson?’

‘You are suggesting Johnson as the possible criminal? He certainly had opportunity. But when we come to motive it is different. It was your father’s custom to pay him a bonus every year—each year the bonus was increased. Your father made it clear to him that this was in lieu of any sum that he might otherwise have left him in his will. The bonus now, after seven years’ service, has reached a very considerable sum every year and is still rising. It was obviously to Johnson’s interest that your father should live as long as possible. Moreover, they were on excellent terms, and Johnson’s record of past service is unimpeachable—he is a thoroughly skilled and faithful valet attendant.’ He paused. ‘We do not suspect Johnson.’

Philip replied tonelessly: ‘I see.’

‘Now, Mr Leonides, perhaps you will give me a detailed account of your own movements on the day of your father’s death?’

‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. I was here, in this room, all that day—with the exception of meals, of course.’

‘Did you see your father at all?’

‘I said good morning to him after breakfast as was my custom.’

‘Were you alone with him then?’

‘My—er—stepmother was in the room.’

‘Did he seem quite as usual?’

With a slight hint of irony, Philip replied:

‘He showed no foreknowledge that he was to be murdered that day.’

‘Is your father’s portion of the house entirely separate from this?’

‘Yes, the only access to it is through the door in the hall.’

‘Is that door kept locked?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘I have never known it to be so.’

‘Anyone could go freely between that part of the house and this?’

‘Certainly. It was only separate from the point of view of domestic convenience.’

‘How did you first hear of your father’s death?’

‘My brother Roger, who occupies the west wing of the floor above, came rushing down to tell me that my father had had a sudden seizure. He had difficulty in breathing and seemed very ill.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I telephoned through to the doctor, which nobody seemed to have thought of doing. The doctor was out—but I left a message for him to come as soon as possible. I then went upstairs.’

‘And then?’

‘My father was clearly very ill. He died before the doctor came.’

There was no emotion in Philip’s voice. It was a simple statement of fact.

‘Where was the rest of your family?’

‘My wife was in London. She returned shortly afterwards. Sophia was also absent, I believe. The two younger ones, Eustace and Josephine, were at home.’

‘I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Mr Leonides, if I ask you exactly how your father’s death will affect your financial position.’

‘I quite appreciate that you want to know all the facts. My father made us financially independent a great many years ago. My brother he made chairman and principal shareholder of Associated Catering—his largest company, and put the management of it entirely in his hands. He made over to me what he considered an equivalent sum—actually I think it was a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in various bonds and securities—so that I could use the capital as I chose. He also settled very generous amounts on my two sisters, who have since died.’

‘But he left himself still a very rich man?’

‘No, actually he only retained for himself a comparatively modest income. He said it would give him an interest in life. Since that time’—for the first time a faint smile creased Philip’s lips—‘he has become, as the result of various undertakings, an even richer man than he was before.’

‘Your brother and yourself came here to live. That was not the result of any financial—difficulties?’

‘Certainly not. It was a mere matter of convenience. My father always told us that we were welcome to make a home with him. For various domestic reasons this was a convenient thing for me to do.

‘I was also,’ added Philip deliberately, ‘extremely fond of my father. I came here with my family in 1937. I pay no rent, but I pay my proportion of the rates.’

‘And your brother?’

‘My brother came here as a result of the blitz, when his house in London was bombed in 1943.’

‘Now, Mr Leonides, have you any idea what your father’s testamentary dispositions are?’