Frank was putting away the stained letter in his pocket-book.
‘And where is this young man to be found? Do you know that?’
Miss Silver said gravely, ‘I have his address.’ She gave it to him, and he wrote it down.
Jenny had gone home. She felt very, very tired, as if she could not think clearly. She did not know what to do, but with every moment she was realising what she had already done. There was no future left for Mac – none at all. And it was she who had destroyed him. She stopped in the road and felt the mists close in on her again. She did not know what to do. She did not think that she could go through with it.
As she stood there it came over her that she ought to have died, then there would not have been any of this trouble. But she was strong and healthy – she had never even had a bad illness – and if she had died on the common it would have been murder. Mac was a murderer. The dreadfulness of what had happened was not hers, but his. Her mind went back to the scene in the court room, to Jimmy Mottingley’s white face. How could she hold her tongue and let him suffer? The answer was plain. She couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible. The mist cleared from her, and she went on walking.
When she came to the door of the house and went in there was no one at home. Richard wasn’t back yet, and she remembered that Miss Danesworth had said that she would go in and see Mrs Merridew – ‘I don’t want to in the least, but I think I ought to. I shan’t stay unless she wants me.’
Jenny went through to the sitting-room. She felt as if she had a great deal to think about. She sat down, and found that the telephone was straight in front of her. She changed her seat, and that was no better. She could not see it any longer, but she knew that it was there. She could give the number and ring him up. She could tell him what she had done. She could tell him that Miss Silver knew. That his dated letter was in her hands. That she had a statement from Dicky Pratt. She could tell him these things. And what was he to do when she had told him? Her mind shuddered away from that. She didn’t know.
After a minute or two she got up, went to the telephone, and asked for Mac’s number in London.
Mac was dressing. He was joining a party for Whoops-a-Daisy, the latest musical from the U.S.A. He whistled cheerfully to himself as he brushed his hair. He was quite at ease in his mind now. Whatever had happened to the note, it wouldn’t turn up at this stage. On the whole he was well out of it. As for the young fool who had been arrested, he wasn’t really likely to come to any harm, or if he did, well, it was just too bad.
The telephone bell rang, and he went into his outer room to answer it.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Jenny. I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Oh, have you?’ His tone was short. What did the girl want?
She told him.
‘Mac, something has happened—’
‘What is it? I’m just going out.’
‘Listen, Mac. That boy you gave the note to—’
A crawling finger of fear touched his heart.
‘What are you talking about?’
Jenny’s voice came back strained and hurrying.
‘I’m talking about you. That boy Dicky Pratt – he had your letter in his pocket.’
‘Oh, that old letter. What of it?’
Jenny’s voice again. It sounded as if she was crying.
‘It’s dated, Mac. You dated it as you always do. Miss Silver – she’s helping Jimmy Mottingley – Dicky gave her the letter, and she has gone up to town with it. And he can swear to the car. He came up the road and got behind it and lifted the sacking. He was just curious, but—’ her voice trailed away – ‘I thought I would let you know—’ There was the click of the receiver as she hung it up, and that was all. That was all.
Mac stood with the receiver in his hand. He was very still, but his thoughts raced. He had time to get away. They could come and look for him, but they wouldn’t find him. He would be gone. Where? And how? He saw at once with a desperate clarity that wherever he went and however he twisted there would be a price upon his head. The very suddenness of the blow shocked him past thought. He did not think these things. They were there, as an accomplished fact is there. They were not things that were going to happen. They were part of a chain of cause and effect which went on without wavering or hesitation to an appointed end. And there was only one end. He knew that.
He became aware that he was still holding the telephone up to his ear. A voice spoke through it. It asked him whether he had finished. He said, ‘Yes,’ and hung up. Then he opened the second drawer of his writing-table and took out the pistol.
Miss Silver was very glad to get home. It had been – she admitted it – a most tiring day. She had not ever been more glad of her comfortable room and of the thoughtful ministrations of her worthy Hannah.
It was when she was resting in front of the fire that her telephone rang. She got up and went across to it. At the first sound of Frank Abbott’s voice she knew why he had rung her up.
‘Is that you, Miss Silver?’
‘Yes, Frank.’
‘We were too late. He had shot himself. The girl must have let him know.’
Miss Silver said, ‘Poor Jenny!’
FORTY-ONE
MRS FORBES SAT at her desk. She had sat there all night and had not moved. Only her thoughts moved, sliding from picture to picture, and when they had come to the end, the terrible remorseless end, they went back again and began at the beginning.
At the birth of her child – that was always how she thought of him, as her child. The little quiet man whom she had married didn’t seem to come into it at all. The other children were his. She had borne them with impatience and without joy. But Mac was hers – hers only. He was like her people, the people from whom she herself derived her good looks, her pride, her independence. There was nothing in the other children that engaged her interest. As he grew, so her pride in him grew. When the war came he was between seven and eight years old. Her mind went back to a day in that first winter. They had just finished breakfast, and she had seen their name in the paper she had been turning over – Richard Alington Forbes. Her husband’s second name was Alington. She said on a sudden impulse of curiosity, ‘Isn’t that a relation of yours – Richard Alington Forbes?’ Her husband said, ‘Yes,’ in his quiet absent way, and she had gone on to ask questions.
‘Weren’t they relations?’
‘Oh, yes – some sort of second or third cousin—’ He really wasn’t sure which.
She remembered her own impatience.
‘But good gracious me, one should keep up with one’s relations!’
He was silent for a moment, and she thought he was not going to answer her, but in the end he said,
‘What did you see about him?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just saw his name. He was being posted to something or other. He’s in the Air Force, isn’t he?’
He said, ‘Yes, I believe he is.’
That was the first time his name came up between them.
Then in the summer there came the landslide in Belgium – Dunkirk and all the excitement about that. Mrs Forbes remembered that she had looked for news – not news of the battle, but news of Richard Alington Forbes. Her husband was the next of kin – she had made it her business to find out about that. Her husband was the next of kin, and Mac was the heir. Hope rose in her. It wasn’t as if she had ever seen the man – and so many were being killed— Was it too much to expect that he wouldn’t survive? She had so entirely made up her mind that he would die that when his name came out in the papers she accepted it as a foregone conclusion. It was perhaps as well for their future relationship that her husband was out of the country. She did not see him again while the war lasted, but she moved to Alington House, and Mac had been brought up there.
Her mind travelled slowly over the years. She remembered the first time she had seen Jenny. Miss Crampton had told her the story. ‘A very shocking thing,’ she had said. ‘But I feel I had better tel
l you about it. We all thought that Miss Garstone would get rid of the child to an orphanage or some institution of that kind. After all, it’s not as if Jennifer Hill was a relation. I believe Miss Garstone had been her governess. Not anything to be proud of in the circumstances, I must say.’ The lift of Miss Crampton’s chin came back with astonishing clearness, and the ring of her stentorian voice. She had thought the matter well over, and then she had gone to see Miss Garstone. She remembered that interview with bitterness, for, say what she would, nothing had had any effect. Miss Garstone owned the cottage, and quite politely but quite firmly Miss Garstone was not going to move.
With a kind of stunned bitterness Mrs Forbes dwelt upon the obstinacy of Miss Garstone. If she had tried harder, if she had held out greater inducements, would Miss Garstone have yielded? If she had known at the time all that was involved? The answer to that stood out clearly. If she had known a thousand times, Miss Garstone wouldn’t have given way. The house was her own. As long as she chose to stay there no one could shift her. She had been quite polite and agreeable about the whole thing, and quite adamant. There was nothing that Mrs Forbes could do. So she had come away and left her.
After that nothing she did would have made any difference. When her husband came home he went to see Miss Garstone. He did not tell his wife what passed between them, and she did not ask. She determined on a certain course of action and she followed it. She didn’t know, therefore, until her husband died that he had undertaken to pay for Jenny’s schooling, and that he had left her enough to bring her in a hundred a year. This had caused her bitter resentment, but there was nothing she could do about it – nothing at all. She had known nothing until her husband was beyond her influence. She had known nothing until it was too late. The only thing that the discovery did for her was to bring into the light her hatred of her husband. She realised that when he was gone where it couldn’t reach him. She had not admitted it even to herself until then.
She had shown nothing. The hurt went too deep for that. The money was paid over to Miss Garstone, and she tried to forget about it. The only person to whom she had spoken about it was Mac, and he had only laughed and told her not to worry. She wondered now what that had meant. Had he had any idea of marrying Jenny even then? She didn’t know, and now she never would know.
Never is the most terrible word in the language. This thought came in upon her, flooding her mind with bitterness. She would never see Mac again. The word rang in her head like the ringing of a bell. Never – never – never – never. Her consciousness became deadened to it. It meant nothing. And then, like a curtain rising, consciousness came back and she saw in an awful perspective, as it were, endless mountain ranges of pain.
Her mind travelled on and on. She went through the last few weeks. Mac calm and sure, with his way out all planned, all ready, and that girl behind the curtain, listening to them. The cards had been stacked against them. Luck was on Jenny’s side. You can’t fight your luck. You can’t fight it, you can’t control it.
Her mind went back to last week-end, to Mac … She hadn’t known … What was there to know? It was already too late. He wouldn’t have killed himself if there was any other way out of it. There wasn’t any other way. There was no other way for her. She did not even think of the children, or of Alan. They had never mattered to her in the way that Mac had. She opened the drawer and took out a loaded revolver.
No one in the house heard the shot.
FORTY-TWO
IT WAS THE next morning. Jenny had not slept at all for the first part of the night, but towards morning she fell into a deep unconsciousness. As she came up from it she heard a bell ringing. It rang, and it ceased, and then it rang again, and ceased again. She dreamed that she was sailing on the sea. It was calm weather and the sun shone. And then suddenly the sun was gone and the day was dark, and above the crashing roar of the waves she could hear the sound of the bell. She was up on her elbow and half awake. And then she heard it again – the sound of the telephone bell in the room below.
She was out of bed in a moment and running down the stairs with her feet bare and her heart pounding. As she reached the telephone she heard Richard’s step on the stair behind her. She heard her own voice, surprisingly steady.
‘Yes – who is it?’
And then the ghost of Carter’s voice.
‘Miss Jenny, is that you?’
‘Yes – yes. What is it?’
‘Oh, Miss Jenny, I don’t know what to do. I thought I’d better ring you.’
Something clutched at her heart. She heard herself say calmly and steadily, ‘What is it, Carter?’
‘Oh, my dear! I didn’t know what to do, but I thought you ought to know. It’s Mrs Forbes, my dear. I found her when I went to town. Sitting at her table she was, and the pistol where it had dropped from her hand.’
Jenny heard herself say, ‘Is she dead?’
‘Oh, my dear, yes! And it’s the little girls I’m thinking of. Mr Alan’s abroad, and we don’t know where to get hold of him – and there’s no one but you, my dear.’
There was a question whose answer was a certainty, but she couldn’t get it across her lips. Couldn’t? She must. You can do anything if you’ve got to, she knew that. Her voice did not even tremble as she said, ‘Mac—’ and listened for Carter’s answer.
When it came it told her nothing which she did not already know, because only one thing would have made Mrs Forbes take her life. She would never willingly have gone and left Mac behind her to face what must be faced. She knew the answer before it came with a burst of tears from Carter.
‘Oh, my dear, he’s gone too! That’s what made her do it! I rang up straight away, and there was a policeman that answered! Mr Mac, he shot himself last night, and she must have heard! I suppose the police would have told her! And she sat there all night, poor thing, and come the early morning, I suppose it got too much for her, and she took out that old revolver of the Colonel’s and shot herself!’
Richard had come up close beside her. He had his arm round her and she leaned against it. His nearness helped her. It made her feel not quite so alone, not quite so friendless. She spoke into the receiver.
‘I’ll come, Carter. Tell the little girls I’ll come this morning.’
She hung up and turned to Richard.
‘They’re both dead – Mrs Forbes and Mac! I can’t take it in. But I must go to the little girls.’
He said, ‘I’ll drive you.’
And then Caroline was there. Jenny turned and saw her standing by the door. She had waited to put on her dressing-gown. She looked calm, and she was a tower of strength.
‘Yes, my dear, you shall go. And I think that Richard and I will come with you. We must dress and have breakfast, and then we will get off. Those poor little girls!’
Jenny said in a strange level voice,
‘Alan ought to be there. He is the other son, you know. He is a year younger than Mac, and he’s just left college. He’s somewhere on the Continent, but they don’t know where. We shall have to try and find him.’
‘Jenny dear, come and dress. We’ll think of all the things we have to do, but not just now. The first thing to do is to get some clothes on.’
Jenny looked down at her nightgown in a surprised sort of way. She had been quite unaware of it, and of her bare feet, but now she began to feel cold. She began to feel very cold. She held out her hands to Miss Danesworth, who put an arm round her and took her to the door. She said over her shoulder to Richard,
‘Make some tea, there’s a good boy, and when it’s made bring it up.’
Jenny went upstairs. She washed and dressed herself and drank some tea when it came. But it all seemed as if it was happening in a dream. Suppose she hadn’t telephoned to Mac – they would both be alive now, he and his mother. And she had killed them? … No, it lay further back than that. She made herself look back, and she saw into Mac’s mind. He had seen the whole thing quite simply. She knew that. His first choice had been to mar
ry her, not because he loved her, but because that was the safe and certain way of getting the property. When she wouldn’t – when she ran away – the only thing he could think of was to kill her. He had planned it very carefully. If Dicky Pratt had been a reliable boy, his scheme would have come off. She would have gone to meet him, and she would have taken the note with her because he had asked her to. And then it would have been she that was killed, not Miriam. Not just there perhaps. He would have stopped the car, and she would have got in, and they would have driven off. He would not have gone very far, she thought – just a few hundred yards. And then he would have stopped the car, and she would be dead. Not Miriam. These thoughts went round and round in her head. Sometimes they were in the front of her mind, quite clear and distinct, and sometimes they were at the back of it, half hidden by a veil that was like mist.
When she had drunk some hot tea she was a little better, but she still felt as if she was in a dream. They had breakfast. Jenny choked hers down and drank two more cups of tea thirstily.
And then they were off. Jenny and Caroline sat behind, and Jenny was grateful because Caroline didn’t talk to her. She sat with her face turned to the window and watched the side of the road. It meant nothing to her. She watched without seeing it. All the time she saw Mac and Mrs Forbes. Not dead but alive, dominant and aggressive. She couldn’t think of them as dead.
When they came to the open gates she stiffened and sat up straight. And then they came to the drive, and up the drive to the front of the house, and with that the whole thing seemed to come to a head, because all the blinds were down. She said, ‘Oh!’ and she caught Miss Danesworth by the arm very tight and hard. From the top of the house to the bottom all the blinds were down. It was a bright sunny day too, and that seemed to make it all much worse. A picture came up in her mind of the inside of the house, all dark, all closed up, all dead. She shuddered violently, and Miss Danesworth put her arm round her and said,
The Alington Inheritance (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 31) Page 22
