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"I think there is. I think, when your children have grown up, that you should cut away from them, efface yourself, slink away, force them to forget you."
"Force them? That's rather drastic, isn't it? Isn't coercion as bad one way as another?"
"If he hadn't made himself such a personality -"
"You can't make yourself a personality," I said. "He was a personality."
"He was too much of a personality for Roger. Roger worshipped him. He wanted to do everything his father wanted him to do, he wanted to be the kind of son his father wanted. And he couldn't. His father made over Associated Catering to him - it was the old man's particular joy and pride, and Roger tried hard to carry on in his father's footsteps. But he hadn't got that kind of ability. In business matters Roger is - yes, I'll say it plainly - a fool. And it nearly broke his heart. He's been miserable for years, struggling, seeing the whole thing go down the hill, having sudden wonderful 'ideas' and 'schemes' which always went wrong and made it worse than ever. It's a terrible thing to feel you're a failure year after year. You don't know how unhappy he's been. I do."
Again she turned and faced me.
"You thought, you actually suggested to the police, that Roger would have killed his father - for money! You don't know how - how absolutely ridiculous that is!"
"I do know it now," I said humbly.
"When Roger knew he couldn't stave it off any more - that the crash was bound to come, he was actually relieved. Yes, he was. He worried about his father's knowing - but not about anything else. He was looking forward to the new life we were going to live."
Her face quivered a little and her voice softened.
"Where were you going?" I asked.
"To Barbados. A distant cousin of mine died a short time ago and left me a tiny estate out there - oh, nothing much. But it was somewhere to go. We'd have been desperately poor, but we'd have scratched a living - it costs very little just to live. We'd have been together - unworried, away from them all."
She sighed.
"Roger is a ridiculous person. He would worry about me - about my being poor. I suppose he's got the Leonides attitude to money too firmly in his mind. When my first husband was alive, we were terribly poor - and Roger thinks it was so brave and wonderful of me! He doesn't realise that I was happy - really happy! I've never been so happy since. And yet - I never loved Richard as I love Roger."
Her eyes half-closed. I was aware of the intensity of her feeling.
She opened her eyes, looked at me and said:
"So you see, I would never have killed anyone for money. I don't like money."
I was quite sure that she meant exactly what she said. Clemency Leonides was one of those rare people to whom money does not appeal. They dislike luxury, prefer austerity, and are suspicious of possessions.
Still, there are many to whom money has no personal appeal, but who can be tempted by the power it confers.
I said, "You mightn't want money for yourself - but wisely directed, money may do a lot of interesting things. It can endow research, for example."
I had suspected that Clemency might be a fanatic about her work, but she merely said:
"I doubt if endowments ever do much good. They're usually spent in the wrong way. The things that are worth while are usually accomplished by someone with enthusiasm and drive - and with natural vision. Expensive equipment and training and experiment never does what you'd imagine it might do. The spending of it usually gets into the wrong hands."
"Will you mind giving up your work when you go to Barbados?" I asked. "You're still going, I presume?"
"Oh yes, as soon as the police will let us. No, I shan't mind giving up my work at all. Why should I? I wouldn't like to be idle, but I shan't be idle in Barbados."
She added impatiently:
"Oh, if only this could all be cleared up quickly and we could get away."
"Clemency," I said, "have you any idea at all who did do this? Granting that you and Roger had no hand in it, (and really I can't see any reason to think you had) surely, with your intelligence, you must have some idea of who did?"
She gave me a rather peculiar look, a darting sideways glance. When she spoke her voice had lost its spontaneity. It was awkward, rather embarrassed.
"One can't make guesses, it's unscientific," she said. "One can only say that Brenda and Laurence are the obvious suspects."
"So you think they did it?"
Clemency shrugged her shoulders.
She stood for a moment as though listening, then she went out of the room, passing Edith de Haviland in the doorway.
Edith came straight over to me. "I want to talk to you," she said.
My father's words leapt into my mind.
Was this -
But Edith de Haviland was going on:
"I hope you didn't get the wrong impression," she said. "About Philip, I mean. Philip is rather difficult to understand. He may seem to you reserved and cold, but that is not so at all. It's just a manner. He can't help it."
"I really hadn't thought -" I began.
But she swept on.
"Just now - about Roger. It isn't really that he's grudging. He's never been mean about money. And he's really a dear - he's always been a dear - but he needs understanding."
I looked at her with the air, I hope, of one who was willing to understand. She went on:
"It's partly, I think, from having been the second of the family. There's often something about a second child - they often come uncalled for. He adored his father, you see. Of course, all the children adored Aristide and he adored them. But Roger was his especial pride and joy. Being the eldest - the first. And I think Philip felt it. He drew back right into himself. He began to like books and the past and things that were well divorced from everyday life. I think he suffered - children do suffer -"
She paused and went on:
"What I really mean, I suppose, is that he's always been jealous of Roger. I think perhaps he doesn't know it himself. But I think the fact that Roger has come a cropper - oh, it seems an odious thing to say and really I'm sure he doesn't realise it himself - but I think perhaps Philip isn't as sorry about it as he ought to be."
"You mean really that he's rather pleased Roger has made a fool of himself."
"Yes," said Miss de Haviland. "I mean just exactly that."
She added, frowning a little:
"It distressed me, you know, that he didn't at once offer help to his brother."
"Why should he?" I said. "After all, Roger has made a muck of things. He's a grown man. There are no children to consider. If he were ill or in real want, of course his family would help - but I've no doubt Roger would really much prefer to start afresh entirely on his own."
"Oh! he would. It's only Clemency he minds about. And Clemency is an extraordinary creature. She really likes being uncomfortable and having only one utility teacup to drink out of. Modern, I suppose. She's no sense of the past, no sense of beauty."
