Two
It was over two years before I returned to England. They were not easy years. I wrote to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently.
Her letters, like mine, were not love letters. They were letters written to each other by close friends - they dealt with ideas and thoughts and with comments on the daily trend of life. Yet I know that as far as I was concerned, and I believed as far as Sophia was concerned too, our feeling for each other grew and strengthened.
I returned to England on a soft grey day in September. The leaves on the trees were golden in the evening light. There were playful gusts of wind. From the airfield I sent a telegram to Sophia.
"Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening Mario's nine o'clock Charles^ A couple of hours later I was sitting reading the Times; and scanning the Births Marriages and Death column my eye was caught by the name Leonides:
On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides, beloved husband of Brenda Leonides 5 in his eighty fifth year. Deeply regretted.
There was another announcement immediately below:
Leonides. Suddenly, at his residence Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides.
Deeply mourned by his loving children and grandchildren. Flowers to St.
Eldred's Church, Swinly Dean.
I found the two announcements rather curious. There seemed to have been some faulty staff work resulting in overlapping.
But my main preoccupation was Sophia. I hastily sent her a second telegram:
"Just seen news of your grandfather's death.
Very sorry. Let me know when I can see you.
Charles."
A telegram from Sophia reached me at six o'clock at my father's house. It said:
"Will be at Mario's nine o'clock. Sophia."
The thought of meeting Sophia again made me both nervous and excited. The time crept by with maddening slowness. I was at Mario's waiting twenty minutes too early. Sophia herself was only five minutes late.
It is always a shock to meet again someone whom you have not seen for a long time but who has been very much present in your mind during that period. When at last Sophia came through the swing doors our meeting seemed completely unreal. She was wearing black, and that, in some curious way, startled me! Most other women were wearing black, but I got it into my head that it was definitely mourning - and it surprised me that Sophia should be the kind of person who did wear black - even for a near relative.
We had cocktails - then went and found our table. We talked rather fast and feverishly - asking after old friends of the Cairo days. It was artificial conversation but it tided us over the first awkwardness.
I expressed commiseration for her grandfather's death and Sophia said quietly that it had been "very sudden." Then we started off again reminiscing. I began to feel, uneasily, that something was the matter -something, I mean, other than the first natural awkwardnesses of meeting again.
There was something wrong, definitely wrong, with Sophia herself. Was she, perhaps, going to tell me that she had found some other man whom she cared for more than she did for me? That her feeling for me had been "all a mistake"?
Somehow I didn't think it was that - I didn't know what it was. Meanwhile we continued our artificial talk.
Then, quite suddenly, as the waiter placed coffee on the table and retired bowing, everything swung into focus. Here were Sophia and I sitting together as so often before at a small table in a restaurant. The years of our separation might never have been. - "Sophia," I said.
And immediately she said, "Charles!"
I drew a deep breath of relief.
"Thank goodness that's over," I said.
"What's been the matter with us?"
"Probably my fault. I was stupid."
"But it's all right now?"
"Yes, it's all right now."
We smiled at each other.
"Darling!" I said. And then: "How soon will you marry me?"
Her smile died. The something, whatever it was, was back.
"I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure, Charles, that I can ever marry you."
"But, Sophia! Why not? Is it because you feel I'm a stranger? Do you want time to get used to me again? Is there someone else? No -" I broke off. "I'm a fool. It's none of those things."
"No, it isn't." She shook her head. I waited. She said in a low voice:
"It's my grandfather's death."
"Your grandfather's death? But why?
What earthly difference can that make? You don't mean - surely you can't imagine - is it money? Hasn't he left any? But surely, dearest-"
"It isn't money." She gave a fleeting smile. "I think you'd be quite willing to 'take me in my shift' as the old saying goes.
And grandfather never lost any money in his life."
"Then what is it?"
"It's just his death - you see, I think, Charles, that he didn't just - die. I think he may have been - killed…"
I stared at her.
"But - what a fantastic idea. What made you think of it?"
"I didn't think of it. The doctor was queer to begin with. He wouldn't sign a certificate. They're going to have a post mortem. It's quite clear that they suspect something is wrong."
I didn't dispute that with her. Sophia had plenty of brains; any conclusions she had drawn could be relied upon.
Instead I said earnestly:
"Their suspicions may be quite unjustified.
But putting that aside, supposing that they are justified, how does that affect you and me?"
"It might under certain circumstances.
You're in the Diplomatic Service. They're rather particular about wives. No - please don't say all the things that you're just bursting to say. You're bound to say them - and I believe you really think them -and theoretically I quite agree with them.
But I'm proud - I'm devilishly proud. I want our marriage to be a good thing for everyone - I don't want to represent one half of a sacrifice for love! And, as I say, it may be all right…"
"You mean the doctor - may have made a mistake?"
"Even if he hasn't made a mistake, it won't matter - so long as the right person killed him."
"What do you mean, Sophia?" J "It was a beastly thing to say. But, after all, one might as well be honest."
She forestalled my next words.
"No, Charles, I'm not going to say any more. I've probably said too much already.
But I was determined to come and meet you tonight - to see you myself and make you understand. We can't settle anything until this is cleared up."
"At least tell me about it." amp;«She shook her head.
"I don't want to."
"But-Sophia-" r m u "No, Charles. I don't want you to see us from my angle. I want you to see us unbiassed from the outside point of view."
"And how am I to do that?"
She looked at me, a queer light in her brilliant blue eyes.
"You'll get that from your father," she said.
I had told Sophia in Cairo that my father was Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He still held that office. At her words, I felt a cold weight settling down on me.
"It's as bad as that, then?"
"I think so. Do you see a man sitting at a table by the door all alone - rather a nice-looking stolid ex-Army type?"
"Yes."
"He was on Swinly Dean platform this evening when I got into the train."
"You mean he's followed you here?"
"Yes. I think we're all - how does one put it? - under observation. They more or less hinted that we'd all better not leave the house. But I was determined to see you."
Her small square chin shot out pugnaciously.
"I got out of the bathroom window and shinned down the water pipe."
"Darling!"
"But the police are very efficient. And of course there was the telegram I sent you.
Well - never mind - we're here -together… But from now on, we've both got to play a lone hand."
She paused and then added:
"Unfortunately - there's no doubt -about our loving each other."
"No doubt at all," I said. "And don't say unfortunately. You and I have survived a world war, we've had plenty of near escapes from sudden death - and I don't see why the sudden death of just one old man - how old was he, by the way?"
"Eighty five."
"Of course. It was in the Times. If you | ask me, he just died of old age, and any self-respecting G.P. would accept the fact."
"If you'd known my grandfather," said Sophia, "you'd have been surprised at his dying of anything!"
Three
I'd always taken a certain amount of interest in my father's police work, but nothing had prepared me for the moment when I should come to take a direct and personal interest in it.
I had not yet seen the Old Man. He had been out when I arrived, and after a bath, a shave and a change I had gone out to meet Sophia. When I returned to the house, however. Glover told me that he was in his study.
He was at his desk, frowning over a lot of papers. He jumped up when I came in.
"Charles! Well, well, it's been a long time."
Our meeting, after five years of war, would have disappointed a Frenchman.
Actually all the emotion of reunion was there all right. The Old Man and I are very fond of each other, and we understand each other pretty well.
"I've got some whisky," he said. "Say when. Sorry I was out when you got here.
I'm up to the ears in work. Hell of a case just unfolding."
I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette.
"Aristide Leonides?" I asked.
His brows came down quickly over his eyes. He shot me a quick appraising glance.
His voice was polite and steely.
"Now what makes you say that, Charles?"
"I'm right then?"
"How did you know about this?"
"Information received.''
The Old Man waited.
"My information," I said, "came from the stable itself."
"Come on, Charles, let's have it."
"You mayn't like it," I said. "I met Sophia Leonides out in Cairo. I fell in love with her. I'm going to marry her. I met her tonight. She dined with me."
"Dined with you? In London? I wonder just how she managed to do that? The family were asked - oh, quite politely, to stay put." ^ "Quite so. She shinned down a pipe from the bathroom window."
The Old Man's lips twitched for a moment into a smile.
"She seems," he said, "to be a young lady of some resource."
"But your police force is fully efficient,"
I said. "A nice Army type tracked her to, Mario's. I shall figure in the reports you get. Five foot eleven, brown hair, brown eyes, dark blue pinstripe suit etc."
The Old Man looked at me hard.
"Is this - serious?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "It's serious, dad."
There was a moment's silence.
"Do you mind?" I asked.
"I shouldn't have minded - a week ago.
They're a well established family - the girl will have money - and I know you. You i don't lose your head easily. As it is -"
"Yes, dad?"
"It may be all right, if -"
"If what?"
"If the right person did it."
It was the second time that night I had heard that phrase. I began to be interested.
"Just who is the right person?"
He threw a sharp glance at me.
"How much do you know about it all?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" He looked surprised. "Didn't j the girl tell you?"
"No… She said she'd rather I saw it all - from an outside point of view."
"Now I wonder why that was?"
"Isn't it rather obvious?"
"No, Charles. I don't think it is."
He walked up and down frowning. He had lit a cigar and the cigar had gone out.
That showed me just how disturbed the old boy was.
"How much do you know about the family?" he shot at me.
"Damnall! I know there was the old man and a lot of sons and grandchildren and inlaws.
I haven't got the ramifications clear."
I paused and then said, "You'd better put me in the picture, dad."
"Yes." He sat down. "Very well then - I'll begin at the beginning - with Aristide Leonides. He arrived in England when he was twenty four."
"A Greek from Smyrna."
"You do know that much?"
"Yes, but it's about all I do know."
The door opened and Glover came in to say that Chief Inspector Taverner was here.
"He's in charge of the case," said my father. "We'd better have him in. He's been checking up on the family. Knows more about them than I do." ? I asked if the local police had called in the Yard. , "It's in our jurisdiction. Swinly Dean is Greater London."
I nodded as Chief Inspector Taverner came into the room. I knew Taverner from many years back. He greeted me warmly and congratulated me on my safe return.
"I'm putting Charles in the picture," said the Old Man. "Correct me if I go wrong, Taverner. Leonides came to London in 1884. He started up a little restaurant in Soho. It paid. He started up another. Soon he owned seven or eight of them. They all paid hand over fist."
"Never made any mistakes in anything he handled," said Chief Inspector Taverner.
"He'd got a natural flair," said my father.
"In the end he was behind most of the well known restaurants in London. Then he went into the catering business in a big way."
"He was behind a lot of other businesses as well," said Taverner. "Second hand clothes trade, cheap jewellery stores, lots of things. Of course," he added thoughtfully.
"He was always a twister."
"You mean he was a crook?" I asked.
Taverner shook his head.
"No, I don't mean that. Crooked, yes - but not a crook. Never anything outside the law. But he was the sort of chap that thought up all the ways you can get round the law. He's cleaned up a packet that way even in this last war, and old as he was.
Nothing he did was ever illegal - but as soon as he'd got on to it, you had to have a law about it, if you know what I mean.
But by that time he'd gone on to the next thing.".
"He doesn't sound a very attractive character," I said.
"Funnily enough, he was attractive. He'd got personality, you know. You could feel it. Nothing much to look at. Just a gnome - ugly little fellow - but magnetic - women always fell for him."
"He made a rather astonishing marriage," said my father. "Married the daughter of a country squire - an M.F.H."
I raised my eyebrows. "Money?"
The Old Man shook his head.
"No, it was a love match. She met him over some catering arrangements for a friend's wedding - and she fell for him.
Her parents cut up rough, but she was determined to have him. I tell you, the man had charm - there was something exotic and dynamic about him that appealed to her. She was bored stiff with her own kind."
"And the marriage was happy?"
"It was very happy, oddly enough. Of course their respective friends didn't mix (those were the days before money swept aside all class distinctions) but that didn't seem to worry them. They did without friends. He built a rather preposterous house at Swinly Dean and they lived there and had eight children."
"This is indeed a family chronicle."
"Old Leonides was rather clever to choose Swinly Dean. It was only beginning to be fashionable then. The second and third golf courses hadn't been made. There was a mixture there of Old Inhabitants who were passionately fond of their gardens and who liked Mrs. Leonides, and rich City men who wanted to be in with Leonides, so they could take their choice of acquaintances.
They were perfectly happy, I believe, until she died of pneumonia in 1905." ^ "Leaving him with eight children?"
"One died in infancy. Two of the sons were killed in the last war. One daughter married and went to Australia and died there. An unmarried daughter was killed in a motor accident. Another died a year or two ago. There are two still living - the eldest son, Roger, who is married but has no children, and Philip who married a well known actress and has three children. Your Sophia, Eustace and Josephine."
"And they are all living at - what is it?
— Three Gables?"
"Yes. The Roger Leonides were bombed out early in the war. Philip and his family I have lived there since 1938. And there's an elderly aunt. Miss de Haviland, sister of the first Mrs. Leonides. She always loathed her brother-in-law apparently, but when her sister died she considered it her duty I to accept her brother-in-law's invitation to live with him and bring up the children."
"She's very hot on duty," said Inspector Taverner. "But she's not the kind that changes her mind about people. She always disapproved of Leonides and his methods -"
"Well," I said, "it seems a pretty good house full. Who do you think killed him?"
Taverner shook his head.
"Early days," he said, "early days to say that." | "Come on, Taverner," I said. "I bet you think you know who did it. We're not in court, man."
"No," said Taverner gloomily. "And we never may be."
"You mean he may not have been murdered?"
"Oh, he was murdered all right. Poisoned.
But you know what these poisoning cases are like. It's very tricky getting the evidence.
Very tricky. All the possibilities may point one way -" amp; "That's what I'm trying to get at. You've got it all taped out in your mind, haven't you?"
"It's a case of very strong probability.
It's one of those obvious things. The perfect set-up. But I don't know, I'm sure. It's tricky."
I looked appealingly at the Old Man.
He said slowly:
"In murder cases, as you know, Charles, the obvious is usually the right solution.
Old Leonides married again, ten years ago."
"When he was seventy five?"
"Yes, he married a young woman of twenty four." t I whistled.
"What sort of a young woman."
"A young woman out of a tea shop. A perfectly respectable young woman - good looking in an anaemic 5 apathetic sort of way."
"And she's the strong probability?"
"I ask you, sir," said Taverner. "She's only thirty four now - and that's a dangerous age. She likes living soft. And there's a young man in the house. Tutor to the grandchildren. Not been in the war - got a bad heart or something. They're as thick as thieves."^ | I looked at him thoughtfully. It was, certainly, an old and familiar pattern. The mixture as before. And the second Mrs. | Leonides was, my father had emphasized, very respectable. In the name of respectabi| lity many murders have been committed.