The Layton Court Mystery quotes

William, the gardener at Layton Court, was a man of melancholy deliberation.

It did not pay, William held, to rush things; especially the important things of life, such as the removal of greenfly from roses. Before action was taken, the matter should be studied, carefully and unhappily, from every possible point of view, particularly the worst.

On this summer’s morning William had been gazing despondently at the roses for just over three quarters of an hour. Pretty soon now he would feel himself sufficiently fortified to begin operations on them.

“Do you always count the greenfly before you slaughter them, friend William?” asked a sudden voice behind him.

William, who had been bending forward to peer gloomily into the greenfly-blown intricacies of a Caroline Testout, slewed hastily about.

the latter so resolutely natural as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to smoothe over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of nonsense.

Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense judiciously applied.

“Morning, Barbara,” he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for bohemianism, and it saved trouble.

“Coffee, please.

Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a mouth organ. It doesn’t go.

Well, what’s the programme today? Tennis from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like that?”

Inspector Mansfield, of the Elchester police, was a methodical person. He knew exactly what he had to do, and just how to do it. And he had precisely as much imagination as was required for his job, and not a fraction more.

Too much imagination can be a very severe handicap to a conscientious policeman, in spite of what the detective stories may say.

As the inspector entered the library with Jefferson from the hall, Roger, who had heard his arrival and was determined to miss no more of this interesting situation than he could possibly help, contrived to present himself at the French windows, the faithful Alec still …

Alec copied his action. “Well, yes, I might. It seems the natural way to do it.”

“Exactly,” said Roger slowly. “Then why the devil is that wound in the centre of Stanworth’s forehead?”

“Because now I come to realise it, I remember an impression of well-balanced orderliness about that chimneypiece. It was a typical man’s room chimneypiece.

Women are the unsymmetrical sex, you know.

The fact of there being only one vase alters its whole appearance.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?”

Roger had an excellent though somewhat irritating sense of the dramatic.

He paused impressively.

It would be just like Alec to throw up the whole affair and insist on all cards being laid upon the table; and that would have broken Roger’s heart just at the moment.

Inspector Mansfield was regrettably lacking in an appreciation of dramatic effects.

He did not gaze around him from beneath lowered brows. He did not mutter to himself so that everyone could strain forward to catch his ominous words. He did not even make a speech.

All he did was to observe cheerfully, “Well, let’s get this business over,” and casually open the safe.

He could not have made less fuss had it been a tin of sardines.

But in spite of the inspector’s lamentable behaviour, drama was not altogether lacking. As the heavy door swung open, there was an involuntary catching of breath and heads were craned anxiously forward.

“We have,” Roger returned, and plunged happily into the smell. “Can’t expect to get through a job like ours without a certain amount of dirty work, you know.”

“Personally, I prefer my dirty work at the crossroads,” Alec murmured, following his intrepid leader with the greatest reluctance.

“They’re cleaner. Dirty work at the ash pit doesn’t seem to appeal to me in the least.” He began gingerly to handle the cleanest pieces of paper he could see, which happened to be old newspapers.

“And just when I was getting along so nicely!” Roger mourned.

“You make a rotten Watson, Alec. I can’t think why I ever took you on in the part.”

“A jolly good thing for you that you did,” Alec said grimly. “I can see fair play, at any rate.

“Hardly done, is it?” he said at last. “Fellow’s private papers and all that, I mean, what?”

“Alec, you sponge-headed parrot!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the liveliest exasperation.

“Really, you are a most maddening person! Here’s a chap murdered under your very nose, and you’re prepared to let the murderer walk away scot-free because you think it isn’t ‘done’ to look through the wretched victim’s private papers.

“You’re still convinced, then, in spite of what she said, that those three are in league together?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

“Run along to bed, little Alexander,” said Roger kindly, “and don’t be childish.”

He smote the table softly with his fist by way of preparation. Then:

“Old Stanworth was a professional blackmailer!” he said in vibrant tones.

“What did you say, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Mrs. Plant curiously.

Roger’s dazed and slightly incoherent reply is not recorded.

Then Roger, glancing curiously across at his companion, remarked very airily:

“Just to satisfy my natural curiosity, Alec, why exactly did you kill Stanworth?”