Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty-Three

I haven't seen my father for a few days.Finding him busy with other things than the Leonides case, I went to Taverner. Taverner was rarely at leisure and was willing to go out for a drink with me.I congratulated him for solving the crime, and he accepted my congratulations, but he didn't look happy. "Well, it's over," he said. "We made the case and prosecuted it. No one can deny that we made the case." "Do you think you can get them convicted?" "It can't be said. The evidence we have is circumstantial--almost always the case with murders--and it must be. Much depends on the impression they make on the jury."

"How far are those letters?" "At first glance, Charlie, they're pretty darn good, and the letters deal with their life together after her husband's death, like—'Not much longer.' Trying to put the words another way--the husband is so old, of course it is reasonable for them to expect him to die. There is no actual reference to poison--it's not written in black and white--but there are a few passages that might mean it. Depends on who the judge is, old Carberry, he'll go all the way, he's always hated illegitimate love. I think they'll probably have Eagles or Humphrey Cole as their defense attorney - Humphrey Adept at this kind of case -- but he likes the defendant to have some wartime heroism to defend him. A conscientious anti-war would spoil his style. The question is, will the jury like them? Jury Both are elusive. You know, Charlie, those two aren't very sympathetic characters. She's a pretty woman who's married to a very old man for money, and Brown's a neurotic anti-war. The crime is so familiar--so typical, you can't really believe they didn't do it. Of course, they might conclude he did it and she didn't know--or conversely, she did it and he didn't Unaware - or they may have concluded that they all did it together."

"So what do you think?" I asked. He put on a rigid, expressionless face and looked at me. "I don't think anything. I've put the facts in, and it's in the prosecutor's hands, and the case is established. That's it, I've done my job, and it's no business. You see now, Charlie." However, I don't get it.I could see that, for some reason, Taverner was not happy. It was not until three days later that I told my father what was in my heart.He himself never mentioned the case to me again.There's a tension between us - and I think I know what's causing it, but I've got to break the barrier.

"We've got to make it clear," I said. "It's those two who are dissatisfied with Taverner—and neither are you." My father shook his head, saying the same thing as Taverner: "It's nothing to do with us. The case has already been established and is pending trial. This is not a problem." "But you don't--Taverner doesn't--don't think they're guilty?" "That's for the jury." "For heaven's sake," I said, "don't put me in such jargon. What do you—you two—think personally?" "My personal opinion is no better than yours, Charlie."

"Yes, better than me. You are more experienced." "Then I'll tell you the truth. I just—don't know!" "They may be guilty?" "Oh yes." "But you're not convinced they're guilty?" My father shrugged. "How can you be sure?" "Don't put me off, Father. You've been sure before, haven't you? Very sure? No doubt?" "Sometimes, yes, not always." "I hope you are convinced this time." "me too." We fell silent.I thought of those two figures floating in the garden in the twilight, lonely, scared, like ghosts.They were afraid in the first place. Isn't that the expression of guilt?

But I answered myself, "Not really." Both Brenda and Lawrence were afraid of life--they had no confidence in themselves, in their ability to avoid danger and failure, and they could see too clearly that illegal The type of crime in which love leads to murder can involve them at any time. My father spoke, his voice heavy and kind: "Well, Charlie," he said, "let's face it, in the back of your mind you still think one of the Leonides family is the real murderer, don't you?" "Not really. I just suspect—" "You do think so. Maybe you think it's wrong, but you do think so."

"Yes." I said. "why?" "Because—" I thought, trying to figure it out—racking my brains—"because" (yes, that's it) "because they thought so." "They themselves think so? That's interesting, very interesting. You mean they suspect each other, or do they actually know who did it?" "I'm not sure," I said. "It's all very hazy. I think—in general—they're trying to hide that from themselves." My father nodded. "Except Roger," I said. "Roger totally and genuinely believed it was Brenda. And he wanted her hanged with all his heart. It was a relief to be with—to be with Roger, because he was simple, sure, and had nothing hidden in his heart."

"Not so with the others. They were upset. They apologized—they urged me to make sure Brenda got the best defense—give her every possible defense—why?" My father replied: "Because in their minds, they don't really believe she's guilty ... Well, that makes sense." Then he asked calmly: "Who could have done it? Have you talked to them all? Who's most likely?" "'Dial Yehui'," I said. "And it's driving me nuts. None of them fit your 'murderer sketch,' and yet I feel—I really feel—one of us is a murderer." "Sophia?"

"No, my God, no!" "It's a possibility in your mind. Charlie—yes, it's possible, don't deny it. Because if you don't admit it, the possibility becomes stronger. What about the others? Philip?" "Just for the most fanciful motives." "The motive may be fanciful - or it may be very underwhelming. What was his motive?" "He was very jealous of Roger—had been jealous all his life. His father's preference for Roger forced Philip to hide in his inner world. When Roger was going bankrupt, his father heard, and he promised to let Luo come. Get up again. Assuming Philip knows. If the old man dies that night, Roger can't be helped. Roger's going to fail. Oh! I know it's absurd—"

"Oh, no, it's not ridiculous. It's abnormal. But it happens, it's human. Where's Magda?" "She's a little childish. She--can't measure things. But if she hadn't suddenly wanted to send Josephine to Switzerland, I wouldn't have thought of her involvement. I can't help but feel that she is afraid that Josephine will know What or might say..." "Then Josephine was knocked out?" "Oh, that can't be her mother!" "Why is it impossible?" "But, Daddy, a mother can't—" "Charlie, Charlie, don't you ever watch the police news? It happens over and over again that a mother doesn't like one of her children. There's only one—she probably loves the other very much. There's some connection, some reason, But it's often hard to find it. Not liking to be present is an unjustified distaste, and it's very strong."

"She said Josephine was an ugly trade for a goblin," I admitted reluctantly. "Does the kid mind?" "I do not think so." "Who else? Roger?" "Roger didn't kill his father, I'm pretty sure." "Except Roger, then. His wife—what's her name?—Clemency?" "Yes," I said. "If she killed old Leonides, it was for a very curious reason." I told him about my conversation with Clemency.I said I thought maybe she poisoned the old man on purpose in a hurry to get Roger out of England. "She persuaded Roger not to tell his father, and left quietly. Then the old man found out, and he was planning to back up the United Catering Company. All Clemency's hopes and plans were thwarted, and she really liked it very much. Roger one by one beyond the level of blind admiration and doting." "You're repeating what Edith Haviland said!" "Yes. And Edith is another person I think--could do. But I don't know why. I can only believe that she might take the law into her own hands, for what she thinks is a good reason." Come on. She's that kind of person." "And she's also very anxious to get Brenda a proper defense?" "Yes. I think this may be a discovery of conscience. I don't think at all that if she did it, she would deliberately set them up." "Probably not. But is she going to knock that Josephine kid out?" "No," I said slowly, "I can't believe it. It reminds me of something Josephine said to me and it keeps haunting me, but I can't remember what it is. I forgot Yes. It's just something that's not quite right, if I can remember—" "Never mind, I'll remember. Is there anyone or anything else in your mind?" "Yes," I said. "What do you know about polio? I mean, what it does to character?" "Eustace?" "Yes. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that Eustace might be the murderer. His disgust and anger at his grandpa, his weirdness and moodiness, he's not normal." "He's the only one in the family who I think could have knocked Josephine out quite ruthlessly, if she knew anything about him--and she's pretty likely to. That kid knows it all, and she keeps it all in a book In the little book—" I stopped. "My God," I said. "Why am I so stupid." "What's the matter?" "I now know what's wrong. We concluded, Taverner and I, that Josephine's room had been turned upside down, and that the blind search was for the letters. I thought she had them, and she hid them." In the sink room. But when she talked to me the other day, she made it quite clear that it was Lawrence who hid the letter there. She saw him come out of the sink room, so she went to spy and found The letters. And then, of course, she reads the letters. She will! But she leaves them where they are." "How about it?" "Don't you understand? It can't be those letters that someone is looking for in Josephine's room. It must be something else." "And this so-called other thing—" "It's the little black book in which she wrote down the results of her investigation. That's what the man was looking for! And, I don't think, whoever the man was. I think it's still in Josephine hand. But if—” I half stood up. "If so," my father said, "then she's still not safe. Is that what you're trying to say?" "Yes. She won't be out of danger until she leaves for Switzerland. They're planning to send her there, you know." "Does she want to go?" I thought about it. "I don't think she wants to go." "Then maybe she hasn't gone yet," my father said dryly. "But I think you're right about the danger. You'd better go there." "Eustace?" I cried in despair. "Clemency?" My father said gently: "In my mind, all the facts point so clearly in one direction... I doubt you can see it yourself. I..." Grover opened the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. Charlie. Your call is from Miss Leonides from Sven. It's urgent." This looks like a terrible history repeating itself.Was Josephine killed again?And this time the murderer didn't make any more mistakes? I hurried to answer the phone. "Sophia? I'm Charlie." Sophia's voice came over with a heavy sense of despair. "Charlie, the matter is not over yet, the murderer is still here." "What the hell do you mean? What's wrong? Isn't it—Josephine?" "It's not Josephine, it's Lanny." "Lanny?" "Yes, there was some cocoa—Josephine's, she didn't drink it, she left it on the table, and Lanny thought it was a waste, so she drank it." "Poor Lanny. Is she serious?" Sophia's voice cracked. "Oh, Charlie, she's dead."