The Benevent Treasure

by Patricia Wentworth

  Miss Silver understood very well. She said so with great kindness.

  The case of Joseph Rossi was a considerable headache for the police. Though it was extremely probable that he had murdered Miss Cara to prevent her giving the alarm and bringing Alan Thompson’s death and the whereabouts of the Treasure to light, there really was a conspicuous lack of any evidence likely to secure a verdict of guilty if he were brought before a jury. Miss Silver had heard Miss Olivia accuse him, but he had denied the accusation, and being dead she could not be called upon to substantiate it. It was remembered that she had brought a similar and quite unfounded accusation against her niece Miss Candida Sayle. The papers went to the Public Prosecutor, and they probably gave him a headache too. The whole thing smelled to heaven, but where was the evidence? Miss Cara Benevent had been found dead with her skull smashed in, and the body had certainly been moved. There was the evidence of one witness to a conversation between Miss Olivia Benevent and Joseph Rossi, according to which the moving of the body was admitted between them, but the defence would of course represent this action in quite another light than that of guilt. Confronted by a terrible emergency, an old lady and her devoted servant had taken what steps they might to preserve a long treasured family secret. It had probably never occurred to them that they were doing anything illegal. All very easy and plausible.

  The iron bar, which might have supplied some evidence, was, to put it baldly, a washout. It bore traces of having been used to cause the fatal injury, but it was too deeply rusted to carry any man’s fingerprints. How it came to the place where it was found, there was nothing to show. It could have been snatched up by Joseph Rossi and used to silence a frightened woman, or it could have been in some way part of the trap which guarded the Benevento Treasure. Word went back to the county police that there was not sufficient grounds for a prosecution, and Joseph Rossi was discharged.

  He walked in upon his wife Anna, who was still at the house in Retley where Miss Olivia had died. There was some good furniture there, and Mr. Tampling was paying her a wage as caretaker. She had opened the door, and he was in the hall almost before she realised that it was he.

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me,’ he said.

  She had turned very pale. She went back a step.

  ‘It is just – that I am – surprised.’

  He went through into the kitchen and sat down.

  ‘Well, cook me a meal – and it had better be a good one! How much money have you got in the house?’

  She stood on the other side of the table and stared at him.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The words were slow and reluctant. His came back quick and cold.

  ‘Then find out! I’m not staying here to be pointed at! I’ll take what you’ve got and be off! You can send me more later! Did Miss Olivia leave you anything?’

  She would have liked to lie, but she was too much afraid. Her eyes widened in her dark, anxious face.

  ‘I – she -’

  ‘She did! How much?’

  ‘It was just – some money – in a parcel – ’

  ‘I said, “How much?” ’

  She moistened her lips with her tongue.

  ‘It was – a hundred pounds – in notes.’

  He reached across the table and caught her by the wrist.

  ‘You are lying! Even she wouldn’t do that – after forty years!’

  She tried to step back, but he held her.

  ‘There is money to come when the lawyer has settled everything. An annuity – for me.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I do not know. They say I will be taken care of. There is something for you too – a parcel with money in it. There was one for you and one for me. She gave them to me when she was dying.’

  He let go of her wrist.

  ‘Get them!’

  She went without a word, her mind in a confusion of fear. She had always been afraid of Joseph – always. But at Underhill there had been Miss Olivia over them both, and even Joseph had been afraid of Miss Olivia. Now there was no one but him and her, and the money between them. He would take the money, hers as well as his, and she would be left. That was better than if he made her go with him – much, much better. There was a trembling in her limbs when she thought that he might make her go with him.

  She was talking to herself as she went up the stairs.

  ‘No, Anna, no, he does not want you – he has never wanted you. And you need not go. You can say that you must stay here and get the money that is to come from the lawyer. Yes, you can say that. But he will not want you to come.’

  The money was in the room that she was using, put away under the mattress of the bed. She got it out now. There were two parcels, done up with paper and string and written on in Miss Olivia’s hand, ‘Anna’ on the one, and ‘Joseph’ on the other. The packet marked ‘Anna’ was much thinner and flatter than the other. She had opened it and done it up again, so that she knew exactly what was in it – twenty five-pound notes doubled in half and laid in a little cardboard box. She had seen the box in Miss Olivia’s hand a week before she died.

  The other parcel was much bulkier. It too had been prepared beforehand, only the name had been put on it after Miss Olivia had been taken ill. Anna’s legacy was already addressed, but it was a dying hand that had written Joseph’s name.

  He looked up as she came back into the kitchen with the packages in either hand. He had lighted a cigarette, and the smoke and the acrid smell of it hung upon the air. He rolled his own cigarettes and he liked them strong. He looked at her package first.

  ‘You have opened it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said there was a hundred pounds.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took his own and tore the paper off. A bundle of dirty one-pound notes came into view and he stared at them. They might have come from some low gambling dive. They reeked of tobacco. It was difficult to believe that Miss Olivia could have brought herself to handle them. There was no message, no enclosure of any kind, only his name on the outside wrapping. He laid down his cigarette on the table and began to count them. The notes must have got damp, for they stuck to one another. He licked his forefinger to separate them. He had a trick of it when he counted money, or even when he turned the pages of a book. That the notes were rank did not disturb him unduly. The finger went to his mouth again and again.

  ‘Thirty – thirty-one – thirty-two – ’

  He thought there would be a hundred. With Anna’s hundred, not too bad, and there was the annuity to come.

  He went on with his counting.

  ‘Forty – forty-one – forty-two – ’

  The cigarette smoke came up in his throat and nose. He waved it away.

  ‘Fifty – fifty-one – fifty-two – ’

  He began to lose count.

  ‘Sixty-five – sixty-seven – sixty-nine – ’

  Anna stood on the other side of the table and watched his finger rise and fall. She saw the sweat come on his brow. His voice wandered, and the notes fell from his hand. He said, ‘I’m ill.’ And then, on a gasping breath, ‘I’m – poisoned – ’ His eyes accused her. His voice would have accused Olivia Benevent, but it choked in his throat.

  He was dead before the doctor came.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Retley buzzed. There was another inquest, and another funeral at which there would no doubt have been the usual gathering together of the morbid-minded if it had not taken place at eight o’clock in the morning and the secret very well kept. As it was, a mere handful of people drifted in to watch Anna in a long black veil stand with bowed head above Joseph Rossi’s grave. Miss Silver stood beside her, extending the kindly support she was so well fitted to give. She had removed the bunch of flowers from her second-best hat, which like all her other hats was plain in shape and black in colour, and had further satisfied her sense of decorum by the substitution of a plain black woollen scarf for the yellowish fur tippet which usually comp
leted her winter coat. She would not let Anna go through such an ordeal alone, and nothing could have been kinder than voice and manner as, the ceremony completed, she led her back to where her niece Nellie awaited them with breakfast laid out on the table and a good strong brew of tea. Nellie had been perfectly willing to come down, and she would take Anna back with her, but go to Joseph Rossi’s funeral she would not.

  ‘And I’m sure it’s ever so good of you to do it, Miss Silver, but I couldn’t, not for anything in the world. If ever anyone was well rid of a murdering good-for-nothing, it’s poor Auntie, and the less said about it the better.’

  Candida saw them before they left Retley. Anna was to have a pension, but to her tearful protestations that all she wanted was to come back and serve her dear Miss Candida there was no response.

  Candida Sayle had very little response for anyone during this time. She went to Derek Burdon’s wedding, which was also at eight in the morning, and she kissed him and Jenny and wished them well, but her lips were cold and her eyes looked far away. She sat in Mr. Tampling’s office and discussed the necessary business in what was almost a mechanical manner. Since she would never live at Underhill, would he please suggest what could be done with the place. He looked at her with concern. She was not wearing black, but in her plain grey coat and skirt she had the air of a mourning ghost. The bright colour which he remembered with admiration was all gone. There were violent shadows under the eyes which seemed to look past him.

  ‘The house has been in the family for a very long time.’

  She said, ‘Too long – ’ And then, ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with it – ever. Or with the things that were found there – that horrible Treasure.’

  ‘It is extremely valuable, Miss Sayle.’

  ‘Yes. It has cost people’s lives – I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I thought perhaps the Retley museum – ’

  He felt a secret excitement and satisfaction, but he constrained himself to say soberly,

  ‘It might be considered. But you should not do anything in a hurry. In any case, probate must be obtained before you can make any disposal. Since the things may be considered to be in the nature of heirlooms, it may not be in your power to make an outright gift, but the museum would doubtless be very glad to have them on loan, and meanwhile they are perfectly safe in the County Bank.’

  It was after this interview that Stephen found it increasingly difficult to see her. With arrears of work to be overtaken, his time was not his own, and when he did arrive at Miss Arnold’s house in the evening it would be to find that Candida had gone to bed early, or that she sat through the meal eating practically nothing, only to slip away as soon as it was over.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like talking.’ Or, ‘It’s no good – I’m really too tired.’

  As the door closed behind her, Miss Louisa was voluble in explanation.

  ‘Well, you see, my dear boy, she has had a shock, and you must give her time to get over it. I recollect a cousin of ours who was just the same after her engagement was broken off. You will remember her, Maud – Lily Mottram – really a very sweet creature, but a little inclined to be melancholy. Well, as I said, after her engagement was broken off they really thought she was going into a decline. He had a good deal of money and a nice place in Derbyshire – or was it Dorset – but I’m afraid not very steady, so perhaps it was all for the best. But she didn’t sleep and she didn’t eat, and they really didn’t know what to do with her, only fortunately she met a very nice steady young man who was a partner in a shipping firm, so it all turned out very well in the end, and I think they had six children. At least I know there were five, because when the fifth one arrived she wanted to call him Quintus, but her husband didn’t like the idea at all. I believe they had quite a tiff about it.’

  Just how this rather tactless anecdote could be said to apply to himself and Candida, Stephen could not determine. A little later, Miss Arnold having left the room, he addressed himself to Miss Silver.

  ‘Look here, we can’t go on like this. I’ve got to see her. She goes and sees Tampling – she sees other people. It’s only when I come along that she’s too tired to sit up any longer and has to go to bed.’

  Miss Silver looked at him kindly across Ethel Burkett’s blue jumper.

  ‘She has had a shock.’

  ‘Of course she’s had a shock. We’ve all had shocks, but we don’t go on having them. She ought to want to see me, and she doesn’t. There’s something on her mind, and I want to know what it is. If I could see her – really see her – ’

  ‘Yes, I think it would be advisable.’ She devoted a moment to consideration, and then continued. ‘I think it possible that Louisa and I may be out at tea-time tomorrow. There is an expedition we have talked of making – a visit to the daughter of an old family friend at Laleham. We thought of hiring a car. It is practically settled, and the final details can be arranged on the telephone. Could you be free at tea-time?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to see her.’

  She said very composedly,

  ‘Then it will be best if you just walk in. I will see that the door is left unlocked.’

  He came into his cousin’s drawing-room next day to find Candida behind the tea-table. At the moment of his entry Eliza Peck was setting down a Victorian teapot and hot water-jug.

  ‘Just happened to see him, and the kettle on the boil, so I made the tea and stepped along, for I said to myself, “Well, the door’s not locked, and if he doesn’t know how to let him-self in by now he never will do, and that’s that.” ’

  Candida sat pale and silent until the door was shut and they were alone. Then she said,

  ‘How did she know you were here?’

  Stephen laughed.

  ‘Saw me out of the window, I should think. Now, darling, what is all this?’

  ‘I told you not to come.’

  ‘And Miss Silver told me she and Cousin Louisa would be out to tea.’

  ‘She hadn’t any business to.’

  Stephen insinuated himself on to the sofa beside her.

  ‘Darling, if Miss Silver always confined herself to minding her own business, I’ve got an idea that quite a lot of people would be sorry, ourselves included.’

  Candida edged away from him. When she had got as far as she could she turned to face him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘I didn’t want to see you, because I wanted to think.’

  ‘And have you thought?’

  She had perhaps expected a protest. What she got was a look of grave attention. Perhaps this was going to be easier than she had expected. It was strange that this should make her feel as if nothing mattered any more. She said in a low shaken voice,

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m going away.’

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  She took as deep a breath as she could.

  ‘There’s someone who used to work for Aunt Barbara – she has a room that she lets. I thought I’d go there.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a good place to be married from.’

  She looked at him in a lost kind of way.

  ‘Stephen, I don’t think I can marry you.’

  ‘Is that what you were thinking about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a waste of time. I don’t love you any more – or you don’t love me any more? Which is it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No – it’s not that. It – it’s all the things that have been happening. They are Benevent things – they haven’t got anything to do with you. I don’t think you ought to be dragged into them. I don’t think there ought to be any more Benevents.’

  He nodded.

  ‘A plague-stricken lot. And you propose to go into quarantine for the rest of your life – is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Then it’s about the most morbid thing I ever heard in my life! Do you suppose t
here is a family on this earth who couldn’t rake up a bad hat or two if they really went to work? Look here, darling, I take it you’ve heard Cousin Louisa talk about the Benevent sisters. Your grandmother broke away, and she was all right. Cara was in Olivia’s pocket. She would always have been in somebody’s pocket – it was just too bad that it happened to be Olivia’s. And look at Olivia herself. All that force and determination and will, and no outlet except to boss Miss Cara! Their father paid their bills, but he never gave them a penny to spend for themselves. Louisa says they had to go to him for money to put in the plate at church. That kind of tyranny does things to people – they either break away, or it breaks them. Or they turn into tyrants themselves as soon as they get a chance, and that’s what happened to Olivia. Our children are not going to be like that, if that is what you were thinking about.’

  She said, ‘No – ’ on a long shaken breath. And then, ‘No – they won’t – will they?’

  He took her hands, and felt how cold they were.

  ‘Darling, do come off it! It’s such a waste of time! You’ve had a shock, and we’ve all been through hell, but it’s over. What do you suppose I felt like when I knew you were somewhere under that damned hill and I didn’t know whether you were dead or alive? Do you suppose there is any need for you to rub it in? But it’s over, finished, done with, unless we keep digging it up and making ourselves go through it again. We’ve got our lives before us, and we are going to make a good job of them – together. We’re going to be happy.’

  The resistance had gone out of her. She let him put his arms round her and felt the past slip by them and away.

  Patricia Wentworth

  Born in Mussoorie, India, in 1878, Patricia Wentworth was the daughter of an English general. Educated in England, she returned to India, where she began to write and was first published. She married, but in 1906 was left a widow with four children, and returned again to England where she resumed her writing, this time to earn a living for herself and her family. She married again in 1920 and lived in Surrey until her death in 1961.