Ingram looked disconcerted by this forthright speech, and muttered: “Never thought of such things! All the same, I shouldn’t want to get rid of the rest of the family if I were the heir!”
“Well, my opinion is that it may be the saving of the family to be obliged to fend for themselves.”
As Ingram chose to take this as a reflection upon himself, the interview came to an abrupt end. Charmian went away to write her nightly letter to Leila Morpeth; and Ingram returned to the Yellow drawing-room to propound his views to Eugene.
Eugene, who was more worried than he cared to admit, would have subscribed to any theory which exonerated Vivian; and although he privately considered it unlikely that Raymond would have descended to such a weapon as poison, he did not like Raymond, knew very well that he would receive little, if any, pecuniary assistance from him in the future, and so experienced no difficulty in suppressing his inner scepticism, and discovering a number of good reasons for believing him to be guilty. Clara was distressed, and made several attempts to put an end to the discussion, maintaining stoutly her conviction that it was Jimmy who had killed Penhallow; but Vivian, who for all her brazen attitude was haunted by dread, supported Ingram, rather in the manner of one catching at a straw. Clay, who had come back into the room, also added his mite, with more eagerness than was seemly; but he was speedily reduced to silence by Aubrey, who looked up from his needlework to say kindly: “Dear little fellow, we all feel sure you believe Ray did it, but you must learn to be seen and not heard. Besides, it’s very dangerous to draw attention to yourself. What with one thing and another — well, you see my point, don’t you?”
This had the effect, first of shutting Clay up, and then of making him leave the room to seek reassurance of his mother.
Faith, coaxed by Loveday to eat some dinner, feeling better, and had begun to argue herself into the belief that the police would never discover the authors of the crime; but a very little of her son’s companionship sufficed to throw her back into a condition of extreme terror. Clay’s account of the discussion at present in progress downstairs made her eyes dilate. She sail faintly: “No, no! Of course it wasn’t Ray! How can they say such a thing?”
“Well, but Mother, you must admit it does look fishy. I mean, we know he went for Father yesterday morning_
he didn’t deny it. And, on top of that, we know he had rows with Father about his spending so much. Then, too, he’s the heir. What’s more, he’s behaving damned queerly, you know. Of course, I know he’s always a surly sort of a chap, but honestly, Mother, ever since Father was killed-’
“Stop!” Faith exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed. “You mustn’t say such things, Clay! I — I forbid you! It’s wicked! I know Ray didn’t do it!”
“It’s all very well to say that, but you can’t know it,” objected Clay. “It’s obvious the police have got their eyes on him. He’s the one who stands to gain the most. And what about all that business with Uncle Phin? It stood out a mile that there was something up between the pair of them. Why was Ray so anxious to squash the idea that Uncle Phin could have had anything to do with it? For he was: no getting away from that! What did Uncle Phin come up here for today? I’ll bet it wasn’t just to inquire after you! No: he and Ray have got some kind of an understanding.”