NORA LEPLEY’S EXPLANATION
“AND now,” Lady Clevedon said, “who was it killed Sir Philip? You
promised to tell us, you know.”
“I will,” I responded, “but I am not yet quite ready.”
“No, but dinner is,” the younger Lady Clevedon interrupted. “Suppose we
have that first.”
“And after that,” I added, “I should like to see Nora Lepley again, but
alone this time.”
“That is easily arranged,” was the reply. “She is staying in the house
to-night. But dinner first. Are you really going, though, to tell us—?”
“I have every hope of it,” I responded and there I left it, though during
dinner I was subjected to a sort of oblique catechism, chiefly by the two
ladies, which I parried as best I could. Not that they addressed many
questions directly to me but their conversation, ostensibly between
themselves, really amounted to that.
My interview with Nora Lepley took place in the study, the room wherein
Sir Philip Clevedon had been found dead, though I don’t think Lady Billy
had any particular thought in mind when she sent us there; it merely
happened to be convenient. I was not sorry the room had been chosen,
though it had not occurred to me to suggest it.
“Now sit down, Miss Lepley,” I said, “and let us talk. But first of all
I want you to understand that I mean you no harm if you are frank with
me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she responded a little sullenly, giving me
a flashing glance from her black eyes that was at least three parts
anger. “What harm could you do me? I am not afraid of you. This is the
second time you have wanted me. Didn’t you believe me? Is it about Mary
again?”
“No,” I replied, “it is about yourself this time. Did you know that some
time ago the police took out a warrant for your arrest?”
“Arrest!”—she sat back in her chair and regarded me smilingly—“Why should
they want to arrest me?”
If Nora Lepley was in any way afraid of me or even unusually disturbed
she did not show it. Her dark eyes, full of slumbrous fires and
undefined passions, regarded me frankly, and a queer, rather mocking
smile hovered about her finely modelled lips. She was beautiful in an
unexpected, unusual fashion, but her loveliness lacked softness and
charm, at least that was my reading of it. She might fascinate or
infatuate many men but few of them would love her.
There was not the faintest sign or touch of weakness about her and one
could hardly imagine her reduced to tears. Whatever the trouble she was
facing, she would fight to the end. One could only try to entrap her
with the odds rather in favour of failure unless one were very well
equipped indeed. I had to try it anyway.
“They want to arrest you,” I said, speaking carelessly, though I was
watching her closely, “for the murder of Sir Philip Clevedon.”
“Sir Philip Clevedon! Murder!” she cried. “Oh, but I had nothing to do
with that.”
“You stabbed him with a hatpin.”
“But he was dead before—I mean—I don’t know anything about it—I don’t
know what you mean.”
“How did you know he was dead when you stabbed him?” I asked.
“I—but I didn’t stab him—I know nothing about it—I never saw the hatpin—I
never had one like it.”
“Sometimes,” I went on remorselessly, “the police do not tell all they
know. Sir Philip Clevedon was murdered with a hatpin—just so. But we
mustn’t say that. Let us suppose he died of poison and that will throw
the real murderer of her guard. Or suppose he had taken poison and was
still living when you stabbed him. If a doctor had been promptly brought
he might have been saved. Or he may have been dying and you merely
finished him. How you would stand then, legally, I mean, I am not quite
sure. An interesting query would arise over which the lawyers would
waste many words. Did he die from poison or from the hatpin? Either
would have been sufficient, but which was first—hatpin or poison? You
see, Miss Lepley, the case is not simple. If the police arrest you it
may not be easy for you to wriggle out.”
“But I tell you I know nothing of it!” she cried, her voice rising a
little.
“Well,” I went on, “let me tell you one or two things I have learned, one
or two facts, just to refresh your memory. In France, you know, the
reconstruction of a crime is part of their criminal procedure. It is not
often adopted in this country—no, sit down, please—but it may be useful
now. I think you must hear me out—for your own sake and your parents’—”
“Leave my parents out of it,” she cried, her face reddening violently.
“Unfortunately, we can’t do that,” I rejoined equably. “What affects you
touches them, also. You cannot separate yourself from them. But we
won’t quarrel over that. Let us go back to the morning of February 24th,
when you discovered Sir Philip’s body—”
“He was dead when I saw him,” she said, “and I know nothing of—”
“You went through your aunt’s sitting-room,” I continued, as if I had not
heard her, “and you noticed the hatpin which Miss Clevedon had left there
the previous night. You recognised it and picked it up.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she muttered sullenly.
“It was in your hand when you entered the study and saw Sir Philip asleep
on the—”
“He was dead, I tell you dead!” she cried shrilly.
“Well, perhaps—you say so, anyway. You went up to the couch and plunged
the hatpin into his body in such a way that had he been asleep, it would
have killed him.”
“He was dead,” she repeated.
“Before you stabbed him with the hatpin?” I inquired softly.
“I didn’t—I know nothing of the hatpin—I don’t know what you mean.”
The words came out a little incoherently. Even her finely balanced
nerves were becoming a little jangled. For the moment I thought she was
on the verge of collapse. But she pulled herself together again, and sat
facing me rigidly alert.
“Then you looked round you. On a little table by Sir Philip’s side was a
small bottle. Your first thought was that Sir Philip had poisoned
himself—”
“I knew he had,” she interrupted.
“You mean it was suicide?”
“Of course it was suicide.”
“Then why did you stab him?”
“I did not.”
“And more important still”—I slowed down very perceptibly here—“why did
you carry away the bottle and hide it in a small opening in the rock wall
of the passage beneath the ruined wing?”
Her face whitened a little, but she did not lose her self-control, and
sat resolutely facing me.
“You wanted the world to believe that Sir Philip Clevedon had been
stabbed to death. Why?”
She faced me unflinchingly—determined, as I could see, not to utter a
word.
“Why did you want the world to believe that Sir Philip Clevedon had been
stabbed to death?”
She did not move so much as an eyelid.
“Was it in order that suspicion might be cast on Miss Kitty, who had been
wearing that hatpin?”
She rose from her seat and passed her left hand with a gesture of utter
weariness across her forehead.
“Send for your policeman,” she said, “and let me be arrested. You have
no right to torture me. I would sooner go to prison. I would rather be
hanged than listen to you any longer.”
I stood up, too, and going towards her, laid a hand on her arm.
“I have not willingly tortured you,” I said gently, “but I had to learn
the truth.”
“I have denied everything,” she replied. “I admit nothing.”
“You have denied everything—and admitted everything,” I said.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“Tell me,” I said softly, “what made you think that Ronald Thoyne had
killed Clevedon? You were quite wrong, you know.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes, he had nothing to do with it.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all—in the way you mean.”
“But—”
“I know what I am saying—nothing at all.”
“Is that—?”
“It is the absolute truth.”
There came an interruption in the form of a low knocking at the door,
followed by the entry of Detective Pepster.
“Well?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said grimly, “both well and bad. I was too late.”
He handed me a document he had been carrying in his hand.
“Grainger’s confession,” he said.
“Grainger!” Nora Lepley cried, springing forward as if with intent to
seize the paper. “What do you mean by that? And where is Mr. Grainger?”
“Dead,” Pepster returned laconically. “A dose of the medicine he gave
Clevedon. Dead in his own office, and with this paper left on the
table.”
“Sit down,” I said, turning to Nora Lepley, “and listen. This will
interest you.”
I read aloud what Grainger had written, and after that we had no
difficulty in persuading the girl to talk.