“How would that affect your sister?”
“Eh?”
“Do not make me repeat my questions.”
“Yes, but what’s the use when you know the answers to most of them? She saw her chance, and took it. She—did a deal.”
“With Harvey?”
“Who else? She bargained for a share.”
“Were you in the deal?”
“No! But—no, I wasn’t!”
“Explain the ‘but.’ ”
“Well, Mr. Harvey said—when I got to know—that he’d look after me. Keep me in my job.”
“Wouldn’t William Strange have kept you in your job?”
“I expect so. There you are! What did I get out of it?”
“What did the doctor get out of it?”
“Oh, he was well under her thumb by then. She could have ruined his practice. You see, I’m not keeping anything back——”
“I wouldn’t make a virtue of that,” interrupted Mr. Maltby contemptuously. “How could your sister have ruined Dr. Wick’s practice?”
“She had him under her thumb——”
“Yes, so you said, but how, how?”
Shaw shrugged his shoulders wearily. “This is pleasant for me, isn’t it? If you must know, my sister had her attractions in those days, and the doctor fell for her. Is that enough?”
“You are telling us they had an affair?”
“That’s the polite term for it.”
“And then—not to continue the politeness—she blackmailed him into complicity?”
“Yes, and after that married him to keep him quiet. Now you’ve the lot.”
“No, not quite,” answered Mr. Maltby. “When John Strange, defying his four blackguardly keepers—you talk of one against three, Shaw, but he was one invalid against four—when he cheated them in the small hours of Chrismas morning and struggled down to the hall to spring his surprise upon the company, who was it put the fatal dose in his champagne—the dose that prevented him from completing his speech? Did you?”
“I’ve told you, no!” shouted Shaw.
“And I’ve advised you to control yourself,” answered Mr. Maltby severely. “We are doing so! Who put the fatal dose in the champagne?”
“My sister, damn you!”
“You state that Martha Wick, nee Shaw, murdered John Strange?”
“It’s the truth.”
“And that Harvey Strange, Dr. Wick, and yourself were accessories?”
“They were, yes, but I wasn’t! How many more times am I to tell you that I had nothing to do with it? Even if I’d known I couldn’t have stopped them! I knew afterwards, of course, but not at the time. My God, haven’t I been through enough to-night? How much longer?”
“That will depend largely on yourself. I assume—correct me if I am wrong—that John Strange managed somehow to make a new will, and that its production was to be one of his surprises, but before he could refer to the new will, much less produce it, he died? You do not correct me, so I take it I am not wrong. Where was this new will? Was it found?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Martha.”
“Martha. Always Martha. And Martha is not here to give you the lie. Where did she find it?”
“When he was dead it was her duty to lay him out. She found it in his wig.”
“What’s that?” cried Mr. Maltby sharply.
“His wig. That’s what I said. His wig. He’d written it on thin paper, and that’s where he’d hidden it.”
“I see—I see! What did Martha do with it after she’d found it?”
“She put it back again, and said nothing till he was buried.”
“Why?”
“To continue the blackmail. She told Mr. Harvey later that she’d found it, and if he didn’t keep her in comfort she’d reveal it. Then he’d have nothing, because the new will left everything to Mr. William.”
“Your sister must be a she-devil, Shaw.”
“I’m not denying it,” replied the man.
“Of course, since she and the doctor and Harvey had the arranging of everything, and were all of the same mind, they had no one else to worry about. Did Dr. Wick continue his practice?”
“No. He sold it, and they moved.”
“And bled Harvey.”
“Yes.”
“Did you get any of the—blood?”
“If you mean money, no. That is, I just got my wages for my job here.”
“What happened when Harvey’s money ran out?”
“He learned other ways of making it.”
“Your sister saw to that?”
“I expect so.”
“For twenty years. Until her husband died. And now Harvey is dead. Who killed him?”
Shaw gulped. His throat was dry, and his faint flickers of spirit seemed to be dying.
“She killed him,” he said.
“How?”
“I’m not saying any more.”
“With a hammer?”
“My God, what’s the use? Did you find the hammer?”
“I found it.”
“All right. Yes. With a hammer.”
“Do you remember saying to me, ‘How much longer?’ ”
“Eh?”
“You can shorten the length by telling me now exactly what happened here this afternoon when your sister and Harvey turned up?”
“You read my sister’s letter to me?”
“I did.”
“Then you know some money was hidden here? He’d hidden that somewhere, as well as the will.”
“I know that.”
“We began looking for the money. I didn’t expect Mr. William and his daughter till the evening, and even then I thought the weather would delay them, as it had delayed the others. But Mr. Harvey was out to make trouble. He said if we found the money the whole of it was his. Those two quarrelled all right. My sister was mad, and he was drunk, and at last he left the house, just after I’d made tea to try and get back a little peace. He said he was fed up, and was going to blow the whole show. I don’t expect he was, but Martha got the wind up. She took the hammer and went out after him. Then she came rushing back—I won’t forget it!—and said what she’d done, and that the snow was covering him up. I didn’t wait!”
“You fled.”
“We both did.”
“You did not get far.”
“We lost ourselves.”
“Then what happened?”
“We managed to get into the barn. It’s round the back. I’ve been there nearly ever since.”
“Did you know the house was occupied?”
“We saw the lights. That’s why we went to the barn.”
“What did you think?”
“That Mr. William and his daughter had arrived.”
“They had not arrived. We had, from a snowbound train. Why did you stay so long in the barn? Was it only the weather?”
“No. We wanted my sister’s letter. I knew where I’d left it. When the body was found, we guessed the house would be searched, and—well, that letter might have been awkward.” He paused, then went on in a depressed monotone, “We wanted to see if we’d left anything else around, too, and to try and get a lie on the position. We decided to wait till every one was in bed. But when Martha thought she’d heard a scream, it unnerved her. She went out—it was quite a while afterwards—after the scream, I mean—I’d tried to stop her—and she didn’t come back. I took it that she never meant to come back, or that something had scared her off.”
With a sudden shock David realised that the first footprints he had traced had been Martha’s, and that if he had continued on instead of turning back he would himself have reached the barn. It was he who had scared the woman away when he had tumbled out of the window.
“But you stayed in the barn?” asked Mr. Maltby.
“Yes, for a bit,” replied Shaw.
“Not all the while, then? Between her departure and your coming here?”
“No, not all the while.”
“Well, go on.”
“I tried to find my sister. It worried me, her not coming back. I thought she might be up to some trick or other—doing something to lay the blame on me. It would be like her.”
“She might say the same of you,” Mr. Maltby reminded him.
“She might, but she won’t,” answered Shaw.
“She’ll deny your story that she killed John Strange and Harvey Strange.”
“I’m telling you, she won’t.”
“Why not.”
“She’s dead.”
Nothing appeared to ruffle Mr. Maltby, who had kept up his questions with an insistent crispness from which there seemed no escape. He had never once paused in genuine surprise, and though David had noticed the news about John Strange’s wig had made a deep impression on him, the interest in this case was less surprise than confirmation. Mr. Maltby had frequently referred to the too immaculate hair in the painting. But now, as he learned this fresh startling fact, he made no attempt to conceal his astonishment. In fact, he raised his electric torch to the servant’s face again, as though to seek evidence of the man’s truthfulness. The evidence was clearly written on Shaw’s features.
“Dead,” repeated Mr. Maltby, after a long pause. “Martha Wick is dead.”
“Yes,” muttered her ungrieving brother.
“And Dr. Wick is dead, and Harvey Strange is dead—and the three dead musketeers cannot deny the words of the living fourth, who now charges them with crime.”
“I told you before I started that I couldn’t prove anything,” said the man. “Now you know the reason.”
“And who killed your sister?”
“I didn’t.”
“I asked you who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You came upon her dead?”
“She was alive when I came upon her.”
“Alone?”
“I didn’t see anybody else.”
“Just you two, but you didn’t kill her.”
“That’s right. I’ve never killed any one.”
“Go on.”
“I will if you’ll let me. I saw her, but she didn’t see me. It was along a lane. She was coming back. At least, I thought she was, and I waited, but she took a turning that was between us, and then I realised that she wasn’t coming back, and that she probably hadn’t seen me because I was under some trees. Or else she might have been coming back till she saw something else round that corner. I don’t know. What’s it matter, anyway?”
“What did she see round the corner?”
“A car.”
“Well?”
“In a ditch.”
“Why, that must have been——” began David involuntarily, and then stopped.
“Do you know anything about that car?” asked Shaw, in obvious surprise.
“Whether he does, or whether he does not, is beside the present point,” interposed Mr. Maltby. “Continue, please.”
“P’r’aps it isn’t beside the point!” retorted the man. “Still, let’s get it over! It was a closed car, with one window open. Looked like a derelict, otherwise I expect she’d have given it a wide berth. Even as it was she went up to it cautiously enough—of course, I was coming along again by then, though she still hadn’t seen me yet.... My God!”
Suddenly he laughed. It was the only laughter they ever heard from him, and they would have been better without it. It contained the chill and mockery of death, and formed the grimmest moment in the whole grim memory, apart from that first moment when the electric torch had developed his terrified face like a suspended, neckless head in the blackness.... The laughter ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the dull monotone continued:
“There was somebody in the car. Hiding. Don’t ask me who or why. We neither of us knew while she tiptoed up to that open window. She was right next to it before she got a glimpse. She thought it was me. Funny, eh? She thought it was me. Have you got that? She thought it was me. And she poked her head at the window, and she said, ‘So that’s where you’re hiding, you bloody murderer, well, you can stay there while I fetch the police! Because you did it, see?’
“Then a hand shot out of the window, and a knife went clean through her face.... Next thing I remember, I was outside here.”
“So that,” murmured Mr. Maltby, in a voice so low that it was scarcely audible, “is where Smith comes in!”
CHAPTER XXV
TWENTY YEARS AFTER
“MISS STRANGE!”
Lydia’s voice came down the darkness into the hall, but only Jessie heard it. Nora’s ear was plastered against the keyhole of the kitchen door.
“I think you’re wanted,” Jessie called softly, and Nora turned as Lydia’s voice sounded again.
“Miss Strange! Can you come?”
Nora groped her way quickly up the stairs. Her mind, like her body, was groping through the darkness—groping to steady itself in a whirling world. At the top of the stairs she felt a hand take hers and give it a hasty little squeeze.
“Your father’s waking. I think he ought to see you first, but I’ll be just outside if you want me,” whispered Lydia.
“Yes—thank you,” murmured Nora, and slipped into the bedroom.
In the glow of the fire she saw her father raising his head from the pillow, and she was beside him in the chair lately occupied by Lydia before he realised that any one else had been in her place. He smiled as he recognised her, and then his eyes roamed slowly round the shadowed room.
“Well, Nora—we’re here,” he said. “As I said we should be.”
“Are you feeling better, dear?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I have had a refreshing sleep. And you?”
“I’m quite all right.”
“That’s good. And that young fellow who brought us here?”
“He’s downstairs, with the others. You remember, I told you——”
“Yes, I remember. I remember what you told me. I saw some faces before the explosion.”
“Explosion, dear?”
“It was a snowball. It came over from the enemy lines. And then I went to sleep, and now I am awake again, and I feel considerably rested. How long did I sleep?”
“Not very long.”
“How long? What’s the time? Light the lamp. There used to be one—yes, there it is, on that table. Then we shall be able to see the time.... This is very peaceful.”
Nora hesitated. Then, remembering that there was no longer any need for darkness, she went to the lamp and lit it. She only just managed to repress a shudder as the room glowed into clearness and she thought of a former occupant of the four-poster bed.
“Thirteen to two,” she said, glancing at her watch.
“Then in thirteen minutes ... A happy Christmas, Nora. And it will be. I don’t quite understand all these other people, though. But then, after all, one understands nothing.”
“They were snowbound, as I told you——”
“Yes, yes. A train. That was not what I meant. Where’s Charles?” As she did not answer at once, he added, “The servant here. He used to be a good chap, Charles. He was very upset when I went to the front. But weak—that was his trouble—and after I left I don’t believe your Uncle Harvey ... However, we will not talk about your Uncle Harvey. Is Charles here?”
“I—don’t know,” she murmured.
“Don’t know——?”
“I mean, yes. That is—yes, he’s here.”
“I am glad. I had an idea something was said—but, of course, he should be here. I wrote to him. And he was here twenty years ago.”
“Father, don’t you think you’d better try and go to sleep again?” asked Nora anxiously.
“Sleep again?” exclaimed William Strange. “Indeed not! I have just woken up. What’s the time now? Twelve minutes to? At this time, twenty years ago, I was down in the hall with your mother. Waiting.” He sat bolt upright and suddenly gazed at her. “Have I ever told you, Nora, how like your m
other you are? She had your same—how can one express it?—the same fragility. But strength, too. More strength than you. No one knew how I had to fight her to get her to marry me after the family had disapproved of the match. She only consented when she was convinced that I needed her.... Well, for those four years, I think she was happy ... Nora! I feel I should not be here! I should be downstairs—somebody else should be here in this bed——”
She laid her hand gently on his arm.
“Do go to sleep, dear,” she begged.
“No, no, I must go downstairs! I must hear what he——” He laid his free hand on Nora’s, and patted it. “Don’t worry, my dear. There is something I want to say to you. As a rule, one is dumb—there is a wall between what one knows and what one can express—but to-night it is easy. You struggle and fret till the tide gets you.... This is what I want to say. We are not free agents, you know. My father disliked this philosophy, for he had a strong will, though it was forced underground, and he liked to think it was his own property. That was our only serious difference, apart of course from my marriage—and perhaps that was due more to others than himself. But what has happened had to happen, and what will happen must happen. What we call good and what we call bad are merely the reflections of our personal desires and hatreds. That is where our criticisms are at fault. Criticism is the one thing I cannot understand. In the war, I hated! Then a shell exploded everything, and left the useless husk you have known.... But I went on.... Only in a different world.... I suppose you understand nothing of what I am saying? It is unimportant and trivial?” His voice wavered suddenly, as though doubts had come to him. “We must get down,” he muttered. “Please do nothing to prevent me. Your mother always knew what was best for me, though she fought me till she was certain. I am afraid I made a poor return.”
“Yes, of course we must go down,” answered Nora, giving up her protests, but dreading what they would go down to. “And I do understand. I’ll help you out of bed.... No, wait just one second, will you? Only a second. Then I’ll do everything you want.”
She ran from the room, closing the door behind her. To her relief she found Lydia outside.
“No need to say anything,” whispered Lydia. “I’ve been a pig in a good cause, and listened. Go back—I’ll let them know.”
Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics) Page 19
