“I said, ‘Why aren’t you working?’ ”
He waved his right hand in her direction.
“I still have a strained thumb, and if you’ve any idea of pointing out that it is all imagination, I come back at you with ‘If I imagine my thumb is strained, I shall also imagine that I can’t draw with it.’ Vantage to me!”
Alicia blew out a delicate cloud of smoke.
“Do you draw with your thumb?”
“Try drawing without it, darling. Game and set! A kipper—I thought I smelt a kipper. Lisle, what are you having—coffee? That’s your American blood.” He brought his kipper to the table and sat down beside her. “Good Queen Bess breakfasted off a baron of beef and several bumpers of beer. It’s a degenerate age. You are continental—pick your continent. Alicia is definitely decadent—there’s something sinister about nicotine and orange juice. I am supporting the herring industry. What is everyone going to do today?”
Alicia stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of his plate.
“Try nicotine and kipper—that’s decadent if you like! Lisle and I are walking down into the village all wreathed in friendship.”
Lisle looked up.
“I’m afraid I can’t this morning.”
“Oh?” Alicia stared. “And why not?”
“I’ve got to go into Ledlington.”
Alicia laughed.
“Dale’s taken the car,” she said.
“Oh—” It was no more than an escaping breath. A feeling of panic invaded her. Suppose Alicia were to offer to drive her into Ledlington. She would have to go—she must telephone to Miss Silver. Suppose Alicia didn’t offer. William Crisp had a car which he hired out—she might take that. But then everyone in the village would wonder why she had to hire.
“I think I’m bored with Ledlington,” said Alicia. “We can show ourselves there another day. We had better start with the village.”
“Obliging creature, aren’t you?” said Rafe. “Everyone seems to forget that I possess a car. Lisle and I will go to Ledlington, and you can walk into the village all by yourself. What time do you want to start, honey-sweet?”
Alicia’s colour flared.
“That’s a perfectly ridiculous name! If I were Dale—”
Rafe burst out laughing.
“You’d eat a proper breakfast. I don’t mind betting he went right through everything.” He turned to Lisle. “Well, when do we start?”
She looked at him gratefully.
“Could it be rather soon?”
“It could.”
“Are you going to buy a new car?” said Alicia in a taunting voice.
“I don’t know—I might. It’s difficult not having one—”
“Oh, Rafe’s at your disposal—whilst he’s got a sprained thumb.”
Rafe got up to put away his plate. He came back reciting, “ ‘Let me malinger and I’ll dare, e’en that to drive for thee—’ To Anthea who may command him in anything!”
Alicia broke into sudden laughter.
“Are you trying to make Lisle believe you’re fond of her? What a hope!”
Rafe smiled.
“She’s a credulous creature—she might be taken in. You had better warn her—I can see you are going to anyhow.” He turned a laughing look on Lisle. “I’m not a prophet in my own country. Alicia is just going to tell you that I’ve never been fond of anyone in my life. I’m a philanderer, a specialist in flirtation, an unreliable poacher on other people’s preserves. I rob hen-roosts and don’t even want to eat the eggs. I throw them away because I like breaking things. It is well known that I have no heart. In fact, You Have Been Warned.”
Lisle made herself smile too. Beneath the chaff there ran a swift, secret current. She didn’t know what it was, but it made her afraid.
She said as lightly as she could, “Would that be true?” and Alicia laughed again.
“Of course it’s true. He’s a cold fish. No, fish isn’t the right creature—I believe they are quite affectionate.”
“Try serpent,” said Rafe in an interested voice. “I rather fancy that. ‘He sleeked his soul in a serpent’s skin, and buttoned it up and buttoned it in.’ Strictly original and impromptu effort by Rafe Jerningham. And what she really means, honey-sweet, is, don’t trust me an inch, because I might take an ell, and on no account let me drive you into Ledlington, because it interferes with her own plans for this morning.”
“I’ll go and get ready,” said Lisle.
The mist was drawing up as they came on to the Ledlington road. Warmth came through it, and a veiled sunlight prophesying heat. She said suddenly,
“Why does Alicia say that sort of thing?”
Rafe flashed her a quick, enigmatic look.
“Don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t think I do. She sounded angry.”
“Oh, yes, she was angry.”
“Why?”
His shoulder lifted.
“Why is anybody angry?”
She left it at that. No knowing where that current would take you if you ventured in too far. She drew back and sat in silence all the way into Ledlington. After a little she found the silence restful.
“Where do you want to go?”
They were amongst houses now, straggling outposts of the town, raw and new, with brightly coloured tiles, unfinished gardens, vivid window curtains, and names like My’ome, Maryzone, and Wyshcumtru.
“Oh, the High Street—Ashley’s. I shan’t be long.”
She heard him laugh.
“When every woman lies! I’ll expect you when I see you. Shall I have time to get my hair cut?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Several times over, I expect! Don’t hurry.”
Lisle went up to the ladies’ rest room. Ashley’s did their customers very well. They catered for women who came in from the country round and made a day of it, shopping in the morning and paying visits in the afternoon. You could have your hair shampooed and waved, you could take a facial treatment, you could rest in a comfortable armchair and look through the latest magazines, you could ring up your friends from a telephone box which ensured privacy.
It was the telephone box which had brought Lisle to Ashley’s. She entered it, took care to shut the door, and asked for a London number. Ledlington has not arrived at automatic telephones. The frequently expressed view is that it has no desire to be bothered with them.
Lisle, waiting for her call, was glad to see how empty the rest-room was. A vague attendant just visible through the archway into the dressing-room was polishing a mirror over one of the wash-basins. There was no one else in sight.
The voice of the telephone operator said, “Here you are,” and with a little click the prim, reliable voice of Miss Maud Silver took its place.
“Hullo!”
Queer how the one word took Lisle back to the train and a dumpy figure in drab shantung and a brown hat with a bunch of mignonette and pansies. She had no need to ask who was on the line.
“Miss Silver—Lisle Jerningham speaking. I can’t come up and see you today. I’ve had to change my plans.”
There was the sound of a faint cough.
“Dear me—that’s a pity—really a great pity. You are sure you cannot manage to come?”
Lisle said, “Quite sure,” and did not know how the words sounded to Miss Silver’s ear.
The prim, reliable voice said, “Dear me!” again. And then, “Could you come up tomorrow?”
Lisle wanted to say yes so much that she began to shake. She wanted to say yes, and she mustn’t. She must say no. She said it in a failing voice, and then she said goodbye and hung up the receiver before she could be tempted to say anything more. Then she went quickly back to the car and sat there to wait for Rafe. She had to wait some time.
When he came, her heart knocked suddenly against her side. She thought something had happened, and then wondered what had put the thought into her mind, because he smiled and looked just as usual. But when they were clear of t
he High Street and drawing away from the town he said in a conversational tone,
“They’ve got Pell.”
Why should that make her heart knock? But it did. She said,
“How do you know?”
“I met March. They’re having the inquest tomorrow.”
Lisle leaned back and closed her eyes. The mist was gone. The wet road dazzled her under the sun. Her heart beat. She said,
“Did he do it—Pell? Did he push Cissie over the cliff?”
Rafe put his foot down on the accelerator. The new houses streamed away on either side and were gone. The green fields streamed away. He said in his casual voice,
“That’ll be for a jury to say. He swears he didn’t.”
27
MISS SILVER LAID down the telephone receiver and picked up her knitting. She was engaged upon a rather elaborate blue jumper designed by herself and intended for her niece Ethel. Purl two—knit two—slip one—purl two ... It was absolutely necessary to keep the mind unwaveringly fixed on this part of the pattern. But after ten minutes or so the clicking needles slowed down, the pale, plump hands came to rest upon the blue wool. It was always annoying when a client broke an appointment—annoying and unsatisfactory. It indicated a wavering purpose—that much was certain. A purpose might waver because of a naturally unstable character. With some people, to act on impulse provoked an immediate reaction; the impulse was regretted and reversed. Another cause would be fear. The girl who had spoken to her in the train had been quite desperately shocked and afraid. If she had made her appointment then, Miss Silver would not have been at all surprised at its being cancelled later on when she had had time to recover and reflect. But it was after this time for reflection had elapsed that the appointment had been made, and made urgently under some pressure of necessity and fear. Made—and now cancelled. If the reason for making it had been fear, that reason still existed. The voice that had cancelled the appointment had trembled with fear. The girl who spoke was afraid of her own voice. She was afraid of saying too much. She could not stay for the ordinary courtesies. Mrs Dale Jerningham had been gently bred. If fear had not driven her, she would have softened the breach of her appointment with apology and regret. She had not tried to soften anything. There had been no room in her mind for any other thing than her own fear and haste.
Miss Silver considered these points at length. Then she took out of a drawer on her right a bright blue exercise-book with a shiny cover. Opened and laid out flat on the convenient mound produced by Ethel’s jumper, it disclosed under the heading “Mrs Dale Jerningham” an account of her conversation with Lisle in the train. There were also a number of newspaper cuttings. To these Miss Silver paid a very particular attention. The room about her settled into silence.
It was a cheerfully Victorian apartment with a brightly flowered Brussels carpet and plush curtains of a particularly cheerful shade of peacock--blue. In front of the empty grate stood a fire--screen with a frame of the same yellow walnut as the writing--table and carved in the same regrettably ornate manner. On the front of the screen was a pattern of poppies, cornflowers and wheat ears worked in cross--stitch upon canvas, with a background of olive green. In front of the fire--screen there was a black woolly mat. The mantelpiece supported a row of photographs in silver frames, whilst above them, against a flowered wallpaper, hung a steel engraving of Millais’ “Black Brunswicker”, in a border of yellow maple. Similar engravings of “Bubbles”, “The Soul’s Awakening”, and Landseer’s “Monarch of the Glen” adorned the other walls. On either side of the hearth there was one of those odd old--fashioned chairs with bow legs profusely carved, upholstered laps, and curving waists.
Miss Silver herself, neat, drab, and elderly, her hair in a knob behind and a fuzzy fringe covered with a net in front, fitted perfectly into these surroundings. The only jarring note was struck by the telephone standing incongruously upon the faded green leather top of the writing-table. New, workmanlike, shiny, without curve, colour or carving, it proclaimed an era removed by nearly four decades from that in which Victoria lived and died.
A small clock wreathed with wooden edelweiss which lurked among the photograph frames on the mantelpiece struck the half hour. Miss Silver put the exercise--book back into the drawer from which she had taken it, laid Ethel’s jumper carefully on the left--hand side of the table, and drawing in her chair, proceeded to dial “Trunks”. There was a little delay, during which her thoughts continued to be busy. Then a click heralded a booming bass. It said,
“Police Station, Ledlington.”
Miss Silver cleared her throat and said precisely,
“Thank you. Good morning. I should like to speak to Inspector March.”
“What name, please?”
“Miss Maud Silver.”
The bass voice appeared to be allied to extremely heavy boots. They could be heard receding with a measured tread. After an interval other, less resounding footsteps and a familiar voice.
“Miss Silver? How are you? What can I do for you?”
Miss Silver’s faint cough travelled along the line. It took Randal March a long way back to a schoolroom where a little inky boy and two much tidier little girls had absorbed instruction in reading, writing, and arithmetic from a Miss Silver who must in those days have been a good deal younger than she was now, but who never seemed to him to have changed in any way with the passage of years. Kind, dowdy, prim, intelligent—oh, very intelligent—and firm. That was Miss Silver twenty--seven years ago, and that was Miss Silver today. They had always kept up with her, his mother, his sisters, and at long intervals himself. Recently however they had been rather closely associated, for it was from Matchley that he had just been transferred to Ledlington, and it was in Matchley that the horrible dénouement of the affair of the poisoned caterpillars had taken place. If it had not been for Miss Silver, he might very well have been occupying a grave in the family plot instead of listening with grateful attention whilst she replied to his questions.
“Thank you, Randal, I am quite well. I hope you are settling down comfortably. Ledlington is a charming, old-fashioned place, though rather spoilt by some of the newer buildings.”
“What does she want?” thought Randal March. “She didn’t ring me up to discuss architecture. What is she on to?”
“I hope you have good news of your dear mother,” pursued Miss Silver.
“Oh, yes—very. She never gets any older.”
“And dear Margaret and Isabel?”
“Blooming.”
“Please give them my love when you write—but I shall be seeing you.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” He did not say this aloud, but he grinned.
Miss Silver went on speaking.
“I thought of taking a little holiday in Ledlington.”
“A holiday?” said Randal severely.
“I hope so. And I really rang up to know whether you could recommend me a quiet boarding-house, not too expensive. I am sure you will know what would suit me.”
“Well—I don’t know—”
“I thought of coming down this afternoon. If you would be so kind as to make some enquiries about a boarding-house—”
“Yes, of course—”
“I could call in at the station, and if you should not be there, perhaps you would leave a note.”
Inspector March said that he would. He hung up, wondering what Miss Silver had got hold of. It couldn’t be the Cole case—or could it? He felt a pringling in his bones. If Maud Silver was coming to Ledlington, it was because she had got her nose down on a trail. All that about a holiday and “your dear mother,” and “dear Margaret and Isabel,” and a nice boarding-house, was camouflage. She had just had a holiday with her niece Ethel. Not only did he know that, but he knew that she knew that he knew it. And she didn’t throw any dust in his eyes. He knew his Miss Silver. He went off to enquire about boarding-houses.
28
THE INQUEST TOOK place next day in the village hall. The village atten
ded in force. Miss Cole in black between her brother James and his plump, emotional wife. The party from Tanfield Court. William, uplifted by his own importance as the last person with the exception of Pell, whom he and every one else was already calling the murderer, to see Cissie alive. Inspector March, very smart and upright. The Coroner, old Dr William Creek who had brought Cissie into the world and knew most things about nearly everybody in the room. Pell, sitting beside a stolid young constable, incredibly tousled, sallow and unshaven, with red-rimmed eyes and a jutting, obstinate jaw. He sat there and took no notice of anyone. Every now and then he yawned, showing yellow teeth.
Miss Silver in the third row reflected, not for the first time in her professional career, that girls really did fall in love with the most extraordinary people. A woman beside her said in an indignant whisper, “Look at him sitting there and yawning! Don’t care what he done to the poor girl! But he won’t get out of it that way. A real murdering face he’s got.” Someone else said “Ssh!”
Miss Silver was watching Pell’s left hand. It hung down beside him and grasped the edge of the bench on which he sat with such a desperate force that the knuckles looked as if they were about to split the skin. She saw it pale, stretched, straining, a mute witness to the man’s tortured mind, and then lifted her eyes again to his unwitnessing face.
She looked next at the Tanfield party. After a moment she leaned to the woman beside her and with a faint preliminary cough enquired which of the two gentlemen was Mr Dale Jerningham. On receiving the whispered reply she sat back again and resumed her survey. A good-looking man—oh, yes, very decidedly. He and Mrs Jerningham made a very handsome couple —though of course handsome was scarcely the word one would use to describe anyone so slender and sweet-looking as she was. No—lovely would be a much truer description. And Lady Steyne now—how should she be described? Very pretty—very pretty indeed. Very simply and suitably dressed in white linen, with a black riband round her hat, and black and white shoes. On such a very hot day nothing could be more suitable, and the touches of black would be appreciated by the village. Mrs Jerningham was in white too, but without any black. Of course Lady Steyne, being a widow and a fairly recent one, would have had the black by her, whereas Mrs Jerningham would probably have only a choice between white and some colour, and a colour would not be suitable to the occasion—oh, no, not at all.
In the Balance Page 13
