Miss Adams sobbed into the pillow. A hand was laid gently but firmly upon her shoulder.
“Come, Lucy, you have only to say yes or no. Did you hear anything?”
The head turned. The eyes blinked against tears. The weak voice said,
“Not a shot—how could I—the windows were shut—I didn’t hear any shot—”
Something in the faint, wavering emphasis upon the twice repeated word made Miss Silver say quickly,
“You didn’t hear the shot? Did you hear anything else?”
As soon as the words were said they seemed absurd, for what else was there to hear?
Lucy Adams became still and rigid under her hand. Then she pushed the hand away with violence.
“I can’t talk about it—I can’t! You mustn’t ask me! I can’t tell you—I can’t tell anyone!”
Miss Silver came out of the room and shut the door behind her.
“You heard what she said, Randal?”
“Yes—no shot—but something else. It seems to have had a very upsetting effect. I wonder what it was.”
Miss Silver said without any noticeable expression,
“She is greatly upset. It has been a severe shock. But she will be better tomorrow. You can question her then.”
CHAPTER 24
RANDAL MARCH FOUND HIMSELF a good deal impressed by Miss Agnes Fane. She was sitting in a large armchair beside her bedroom fire. The curtains were drawn back and the light came in. There was none of the disorder or dishevelment of grief. She sat upright and composed, her hair in its accustomed waves, a string of pearls relieving the plain black of her dress. He received a slight inclination of the head and a request that he would be seated. She understood that he desired to see her, but she was afraid that she could do very little to assist the course of justice. Her voice was deep and strong. She spoke with authority and condescension. But though she carried it with an air she was plainly a woman who had received a very great shock. She held her head high, but the tension of the throat muscles was to be discerned. The hand which had laid down the pen at his entrance now rested upon the wide arm of her chair. The fingers, slightly curved, had an appearance of rigidity. One of them wore a very fine diamond solitaire.
He put his question, and received his answer.
“No—I heard nothing.”
His eyes went to the two south windows, one on either side of the bed. They came back to her expressionless face.
“You are a sound sleeper, Miss Fane?”
There was a faint flicker of a smile.
“A very poor one, I am afraid. So poor that I am sometimes obliged to take a sleeping-draught. I did so last night. I am an invalid, you know.”
She might have been claiming some prerogative. He felt a slight unwilling amusement. Pride, yes—but pride in her own disability? He thought Agnes Fane had been made for better things than that.
He rose to go, but she detained him with a lift of that rigid hand. The diamond flashed.
“Has he been arrested?”
“There has been no arrest as yet. May I ask whose arrest you were expecting?”
A spark like contempt came into her eyes. He found it galling.
“Whose arrest? Why, the murderer’s. Has no one told you that Jeffrey Hazelton would have shot my niece on Wednesday night if she had not saved herself by her own courage and presence of mind? He is, of course, not responsible for his actions and should have been placed under restraint. I am very much to blame for not having insisted on it.”
“You think Mr. Hazelton returned here last night, and that it was he who shot Miss Lyle?”
Again the contempt which set him definitely in the moron class.
“I should say it was obvious.”
He said a little stiffly,
“Mr. Hazelton has naturally not been overlooked. He will have to give an account of his movements after leaving here. I am expecting a call at any time now. You may be quite sure that everything is being done, Miss Fane. But the surgeon’s report and that of the ballistics expert will have to be taken into consideration.”
She regarded him for the first time with interest.
“If the bullet had been fired from the pistol which was taken from Jeffrey Hazelton on Wednesday night, the expert would be able to prove it. That is what you mean?”
“Yes. A bullet is marked by the rifling. No two firearms would mark a bullet in quite the same way.”
Her face changed.
“That proves nothing in this case. He may have shot her with that pistol, or with another one. It proves nothing. He had another.”
“Yes, I remember—Desborough mentioned that in his statement. Miss Lyle said so—didn’t she?”
“Yes.” Her hand clenched on the arm of the chair. Before he could speak she said in an insistent voice, “Mr. Desborough was engaged to my niece. Did he mention that in his statement?”
If Randal March was surprised he contrived not to show it. It had certainly not occurred to him to regard Carey Desborough in the light of a bereaved lover. In their short interview he had displayed the gravity and concern of a friend, but nothing more.
He said, after what he hoped was not a noticeable pause,
“No, he didn’t mention that. Was there an engagement?”
“Yes. They had had an understanding for some time. The engagement would have been announced shortly.”
After a moment he said,
“Why do you tell me this, Miss Fane? Are you suggesting jealousy as a motive for the crime? Was Mr. Hazelton known to be jealous?”
She said, “I don’t know.” And then, “My niece obtained her divorce for infidelity. Mr. Hazelton had no rights where she was concerned.”
Well, he had obviously had feelings. There was no more to be said. He took his leave.
As he passed the maid Perry’s door it opened and she came out. Her pale eyes dwelt on him with a flicker of something which he thought was dislike. She said in her acid voice,
“I’d like to have a word with you if it’s convenient.”
CHAPTER 25
CAREY AND LAURA WALKED across the fields when the day had slipped into afternoon. As far as the light went, it might have been any time between dawn and dusk—low cloud, no visible sun; no colour in sky, or grass, or hedgerow; a desolate greyness everywhere. It was cold. Not with the stinging cold of wind or frost which whips the blood to the cheeks. The wind was all gone, there was no frost. The path was soft and miry. A chilly damp which might be fog by nightfall oozed from the ground and clung about them. But it was better than being indoors. Here at least they could be alone together and could speak freely.
“It’s frightful in the house—like being shut up in the dark, you don’t quite know what’s there.” Laura’s voice was still hushed, as if it hardly realized its freedom. “I wouldn’t mind if one could be any use to anyone, but one can’t. They’d be thankful to be rid of us. How long do you think we shall have to stay?”
“For the inquest—and the funeral. The Maxwells’ leave is up on Sunday night. If the inquest isn’t tomorrow, I suppose they’ll have to come back for it. I don’t know how long these things take.”
“Nor do I. It will be a good thing for the Maxwells to get away. Alistair looks awful, doesn’t he?”
“A dozen murders and he’s done them all. It’s just as well everyone’s so sure it’s Hazelton. Petra and Robin have dragged Alistair out. I don’t envy them their walk. But it’s no use his mooning round, setting everyone talking.”
“No—they had to get him out. But I don’t know about us—I’ve got a feeling that we oughtn’t to have come.”
“What harm is it doing anyone?”
She managed rather a piteous laugh.
“Darling—there are such heaps of things that don’t do any harm and you can’t do them, because it simply isn’t worth upsetting people like Cousin Agnes and Cousin Lucy. I don’t think we’re really supposed to go out before the funeral. Aunt Theresa’s like that, so I know.”
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Carey said something sharp and short. He added that they would have to go to the inquest anyway, so as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
“Anyhow there’s no sense in our all being boxed up there together till we go off our heads.”
Laura nodded.
“Carey, it’s frightful—isn’t it? I don’t mean just about Tanis, but what it does to everyone else. If you speak, you feel as if someone were listening at the door. Perry does, you know—Petra says she’s practically caught her at it. And Cousin Agnes frightens me.”
Carey slipped an arm through hers and held it close. Comforting to feel that strong arm and the rough thickness of his coat.
He said, “Have you seen her?”
A little shiver ran over her as she said, “Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now, when I went up to get my coat. Perry came and knocked on my door and said Cousin Agnes wanted to see me. And there she was, with boxes of things she had had sent out from Ledlington—mourning, you know. And she gave me a black dress—I’ve got it on—and said she would be glad if I would wear it. She said she didn’t expect me to go into mourning for a cousin whom I scarcely knew, but she thought it would be better for me to be in black as long as I was at the Priory. She thought I should have to stay for the inquest, and that she would appreciate my presence at the funeral. It was all frightfully grand and condescending. And right at the end she said that this wasn’t of course the time to talk about business, but she would like me to realize that her plans with regard to the Priory were unchanged.”
“She didn’t!”
“She did.”
“She still wants to buy it? Now—after this?”
He felt her shiver again.
“It’s frightful, isn’t it?”
“It’s a bit inhuman. What will you do—let her have it?”
“Oh, yes—anything she wants! And I’m thankful she wants it. We couldn’t live there, could we—not now—not ever?”
He said in a meditative voice, “I suppose not—” And then, with a lively change of manner, “It doesn’t matter where we live, does it? But let’s plan it. There isn’t any Hitler and there isn’t any war and we’re getting married next week—what sort of house shall we have?”
The cold, dark current which was carrying them sank away out of sight. Their raft of make-believe hid it for one of those short enchanted hours which makes amends for all. That it was still there, that its tide rocked the very fabric of their happiness, that its spray would presently chill them to the bone again, they knew, but for the moment they did not greatly care. There was so much to give, to learn, to share—all those inner treasures of the heart which are increased by such a giving.
They made a wide circuit and were coming home, when a solitary walker passed them at no more than a twenty-foot distance. It was Tim Madison, walking fast and furiously, hands deep in the pockets of a Burberry. He was bare-headed. The red hair flamed. His chin was thrust out and his face lifted. His eyes, blank and blue, stared at the sky. He looked like a blind man, or a man walking in his sleep. He went past them without a sign and on down the reaches of the field.
Carey said, “Poor devil—he’s taking it hard.”
CHAPTER 26
“YES, RANDAL?”
Miss Silver advanced into the singularly bleak room which was so much more like an office than a lady’s study. The floor, doubtless for the convenience of Miss Fane’s invalid chair, was quite uncarpeted, and the furniture, for the same reason, restricted to such stark necessities as a wide, plain table and some bookcases and a number of filing cabinets standing flat against the walls. At ordinary times it also contained a couple of straight-backed chairs. To these a writing-chair had now been added for the Superintendent’s use.
He looked up at the sound of his name and said abruptly,
“You were quite right—he didn’t do it.”
Miss Silver altered the angle of one of the upright chairs and sat down.
“If you are alluding to Mr. Hazelton, Randal, I believe what I said was that it would surprise me to learn that he had returned here last night. He did not seem to me to be in a condition to pursue any course of action which would require premeditation. I suppose from what you say that he has an alibi.”
“An alibi!” He lifted a hand and let it drop again upon the table. “It is more than that. It is a cast-iron physical impossibility. He was taken off to a nursing home raving with D.T. at about eight o’clock yesterday evening, and he’s been there, strapped down to his bed and under a strong narcotic, ever since. Short of a criminal conspiracy on the part of a highly respectable doctor, the matron, a sister, and at least two nurses, it simply couldn’t have been done. Holroyd saw them all. Saw Hazelton—took someone along to identify him. And there we are. You were quite right—it was too easy, too obvious. Now perhaps you will oblige by being right again and telling me who did murder Tanis Lyle.”
She said soberly, “I don’t know, Randal.”
He had a quick sardonic smile for that.
“You surprise me. Who had a motive then? Perhaps you can tell me that.”
She said, “No—” in rather an absent voice.
“What! You can’t tell me anything?”
“I did not say that. I think a good many people might have had a motive.”
“You mean she had enemies—a beautiful young woman like that?”
“Oh, my dear Randal!” She looked at him very much as she had been used to look when he broke down in the multiplication table. “I mean that she made enemies. I would not go out of my way to disparage the dead, but you should, I think, know something of Tanis Lyle’s character. She was brought up to consider nobody but herself. Agnes and Lucy denied her nothing. She was extremely attractive to men, but they only attracted her in so far as they ministered to her vanity and self-esteem. Her aunts were very anxious that she should marry again, but she did not wish to do so. She had just completed a film over here, and she was ambitious of a career in Hollywood. She was one of those people who have a violently disturbing effect on other people’s lives and relationships. The French, I believe, call a woman like that une allumeuse. It is not difficult to imagine that this might have provided a motive for her murder.”
He said, “Love—jealousy—well, it is possible. Do you know of anyone who was in love with her, or jealous on her account besides Hazelton, with his opportune D.T.?”
Miss Silver paused.
“If I answer that question, Randal, you must not think that I am accusing anyone. I am not. I am not even suspecting anyone. I am only informing you of the relationships existing between Tanis Lyle and some other people in this house and in the neighbourhood.”
He smiled.
“You are always scrupulously just. I won’t read anything between the lines of what you tell me—if I can help it. I may not be able to help it, you know.”
“I do not ask for impossibilities. I can give you some facts, or what I believe to be facts, based partly on my own observation and partly on what I have been told. Alistair Maxwell has some understanding with Petra North. It is, I gather, of long standing, and until recently they were exceedingly happy. For this Lucy is my authority. They are now terribly unhappy.”
“On account of Tanis Lyle?”
“Just so. Miss North remained devoted—Mr. Alistair was quite obviously infatuated with Tanis. That is one case. There are also the Madisons—Lieutenant Commander Madison and his wife, living at Grange Cottage about a quarter of a mile away. You probably have their names already, as they dined and spent the evening here last night. Mr. Madison appeared to me to be head over ears in love with Tanis. She danced with him nearly the whole evening, and his wife and Mr. Alistair were both in a state of jealous misery.”
“Yes, Maxwell left the house, didn’t he—went for a solitary walk? It’s in his statement. I thought it odd at the time. But he had returned, I think, before the murder was committed.”
“If you know when
the murder was committed.”
“He is said to have returned at a little after one o’clock.”
She nodded.
“That is correct. I heard him come upstairs with his brother. My room is just across the passage.”
“And Tanis Lyle was last seen alive during the general goodnights at twelve o’clock. The time’s not long enough. She had undressed and got into those fancy black pyjamas. They’d never have risked an assignation so soon. Practically everyone would have been still awake at half past twelve, and you’d have to put the meeting some time before that— time for them to meet, for them to quarrel, for him to shoot her, to wipe the pistol, the door handles—there were no finger marks on either—and then find his way over her dead body and out through the ruins, and come in, as he did, by the front door. I say the time’s too short. It couldn’t have been done then. Besides somebody would have been bound to hear the shot.”
She said, “The wind was very high. But I agree about the time—it must have been later than that. And I have no suspicion of Mr. Alistair. I am merely telling you that he was infatuated with Tanis Lyle.”
He said quickly, “Miss Fane told me she was engaged to Carey Desborough.”
Miss Silver shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
“She was quite positive about it.”
“Agnes is always positive.” Miss Silver’s tone was dry. “She is unable to believe that circumstances may be too strong for her. If she sets her heart on anything, in her opinion the matter is settled. It is, I believe, what is termed wishful thinking.”
Randal March surveyed her with a faintly quizzical smile.
“Having been at some pains to describe Miss Lyle as such a dangerously attractive woman, why are you so sure that Desborough wasn’t in love with her?”
“Because he is in love with Laura Fane.”
“Oh—and what makes you think that?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Love and a cold cannot be hid. It is, I believe, a Spanish proverb.”
“You are sure?”
The Chinese Shawl Page 12
