Crooked House

‘Look here, Taverner, who am I supposed to be?’

He looked surprised.

‘Who are you supposed to be?’

‘Yes, what am I doing here in this house? If anyone asks me, what do I say?’

‘Oh I see.’ He considered for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘Has anybody asked you?’

‘Well—no.’

‘Then why not leave it at that. Never explain. That’s a very good motto. Especially in a house upset like this house is. Everyone is far too full of their own private worries and fears to be in a questioning mood. They’ll take you for granted so long as you just seem sure of yourself. It’s a great mistake ever to say anything when you needn’t. H’m, now we go through this door and up the stairs. Nothing locked. Of course you realize, I expect, that these questions I’m asking are all a lot of hooey! Doesn’t matter a hoot who was in the house and who wasn’t, or where they all were on that particular day—’

‘Then why—’

He went on: ‘Because it at least gives me a chance to look at them all, and size them up, and hear what they’ve got to say, and to hope that, quite by chance, somebody might give me a useful pointer.’ He was silent a moment and then murmured: ‘I bet Mrs Magda Leonides could spill a mouthful if she chose.’

‘Would it be reliable?’ I asked.

‘Oh no,’ said Taverner, ‘it wouldn’t be reliable. But it might start a possible line of inquiry. Everybody in the damned house had means and opportunity. What I want is a motive.’