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  The Sergeant, who had been thinking deeply, said: ‘Chief, if it’s true – why did he stab him in the back? That wasn’t how that chap killed the Empress, according to what you read out!’

  ‘Because, for one thing, any sharp pain in the back Nathaniel would think was his lumbago. For another, I’d say kind Uncle Joseph put in a bit of anatomical research, and chose the best place for his purpose.’

  ‘But what a risk!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Suppose it hadn’t come off ? Suppose the old man had dropped down there?’

  ‘He wasn’t likely to do that. If he’d turned faint at once, no doubt Joseph would have helped him up to his room, and left him there. Don’t forget he thought he’d got rid of the rest of the house-party! He had to take a risk. Keep your eye on him!’

  He left the house, and a minute later the Sergeant heard the police-car outside start up and drive away.

  It was nearly three hours later when Inspector Hemingway again entered Lexham Manor. He was admitted by Sturry, who said, in a portentous voice, that he was glad to see him.

  ‘Well, that’s something new,’ said Hemingway. ‘Quite brightens up my day. Ask Mr Stephen if he can spare me a moment, will you?’

  ‘I will inform Mr Stephen that you are here, Inspector,’ said Sturry. ‘In the meantime, a very Peculiar Thing has occurred, of which I feel you should be instantly apprised.’

  ‘You can’t apprise me of anything I don’t already know, so don’t try!’ said Hemingway briskly. ‘Get hold of Mr Stephen for me!’

  Swelling with affronted majesty, Sturry walked away.

  In a very few minutes Stephen came into the hall. ‘Thank the lord you’re back!’ he said. ‘Joseph’s disappeared. We’ve no idea where he is. Hasn’t been seen since he went up to wash his hands before tea.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about him, sir, because I know where he is, which is all that matters.’

  ‘Where?’ Stephen demanded.

  ‘Locked up,’ replied Hemingway. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Stephen. ‘I hand it to you, Inspector: I thought you had let him slip through your fingers. He must have heard what we were saying in the library, and made a bolt for it. Where did you pick him up?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t pick him up!’ Hemingway answered. ‘Sergeant Ware arrested him at Frickley Junction nearly a couple of hours ago. Somehow I thought he might have been doing a bit of eavesdropping, so I left Ware to keep an eye on him. And a very instructive time he had, doing it. Your Uncle Joseph, sir, left the house by the garden-door, all unobtrusive-like, and carrying a suitcase, not twenty minutes after I’d gone myself. I won’t bother you with all the details, but I’ll tell you this: when he came out of one of the potting-sheds, which was where he made for first, poor Ware thought he was seeing things, or else it was a lot darker than what he’d thought it was. Talk of talented performances! Why, by the time your Uncle Joseph had dolled himself up in a nice brown wig, and moustache, and had darkened his eyebrows, Ware tells me you wouldn’t have believed it could be the same man.’

  ‘Old theatrical props!’ said Stephen.

  ‘I wouldn’t wonder. Luckily, Ware’s sure, even if he isn’t quick, and as soon as he found that there weren’t any snakes or pink rats about, he kept right on after your uncle. The first chance he had to telephone through to me was at Frickley Junction, where they’d got to by a slow train. Not properly heated either, judging by Ware’s remarks. By that time, I’d had a highly instructive chat with the police-surgeon, not to mention another highly instructive chat with a pathologist, who’d been putting some scraps of that stair-carpet of yours through a few tests. And what that chap had to say about being dragged out on Boxing Day is nobody’s business!’

  ‘Blood?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Same group as Mr Herriard’s, found by me where the blow was struck. Probably a couple of drops from the knife, since Mr Herriard hardly bled at all externally. That being that, and various items adding up to the required total, I told Ware to arrest your Uncle Joseph on a charge of murdering his brother, and to bring him along, instead of catching another slow train up to London, which was what he’d been afraid he’d have to do. And now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’ve got to see Mrs Herriard, and break the news to her.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ said Stephen. ‘How the devil did you get on to it?’

  ‘You read the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria instead of grumbling at other people for doing so, and maybe you’ll find out,’ said Hemingway. ‘Your Uncle Joseph read it – all of it, which is more than he allowed his wife to do. Where is she, sir?’

  ‘In the drawing-room. Miss Clare’s with her. Was the Empress murdered, then?’

  ‘I’m not going to spoil the story for you,’ said the Inspector firmly. ‘Besides, I haven’t time. You’ll find it all in the encyclopedia.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Stephen said, and took him to the drawing-room.

  When she saw the Inspector, Maud looked steadily at him, her hands folded in her lap, her face quite expressionless. Mathilda moved instinctively to her side, but when the Inspector told her briefly, but as gently as he could, that her husband was under arrest, she showed no sign of agitation. For a moment she did not speak. Then she said: ‘I did not see how Joseph could have done it.’

  Taken aback, Mathilda exclaimed: ‘You thought he might have?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Maud replied matter-of-factly. ‘You see, I have lived with Joseph for nearly thirty years. You none of you understood him.’

  Mathilda looked at her in blank astonishment. ‘Didn’t you – didn’t you like him?’ she asked.

  ‘I liked him when I married him, naturally,’ Maud answered. ‘I have disliked him very much for many years now, however.’

  ‘Yet you went on living with him!’

  Maud rose, rearranging the scarf she wore round her shoulders. A small, tight smile just widened her little mouth. ‘I was brought up to believe that one married for better or for worse,’ she said. ‘I daresay you thought that because I used to be an actress I didn’t care about such things. But I have always believed in doing one’s duty. Joseph was not unfaithful to me, you see.’ She walked across the room to the door. ‘I shall not come down to dinner,’ she stated. ‘It would make you all feel uncomfortable, if I did. Is there anything more you wish to say to me, Inspector?’

  ‘No, madam, nothing more,’ Hemingway said, as astonished as Mathilda.

  ‘Would you like me to come up with you?’ asked Mathilda.

  ‘No, thank you, dear. Just tell them to send dinner to my room, please, and don’t worry about me. I shall be quite happy, making plans for the little house I’ve always wanted to live in.’ She paused, and glanced up at Stephen, who was holding the door open for her. She smiled again. ‘By myself!’ she said simply, and walked out of the room.

  About the Author

  Georgette Heyer wrote over fifty books, including Regency romances, mysteries, and historical fiction. Her barrister husband, Ronald Rougier, provided many of the plots for her detective novels, which are classic English country house mysteries reminiscent of Agatha Christie. Heyer was legendary for her research, historical accuracy, and her inventive plots and sparkling characterization.

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  Table of Contents

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