“But why?”
“She has been with Agnes for forty-one years. She was with her when Laura’s father broke their engagement to marry Lilian Ferrers. The present situation bears a misleading resemblance to that unhappy affair—she sees Laura as another Lilian. She hates her, and her hatred puts a twist on everything. As Lord Tennyson so truly says, ‘A lie that is half a truth is ever the hardest to fight.’ I do not think that Perry can be considered at all a reliable witness.”
He had a quizzical, affectionate look for her quotation.
“No,” he said. “But Desborough admits to a good deal of what’s in that statement of hers. They did quarrel, and he was pressing her to tell Miss Fane that there was no engagement between them. She did call him darling and invite him to make love to her. He says that this was sarcasm and over Perry’s head.”
“That is very likely. Tanis Lyle had a cynical, sarcastic vein.”
Randal March made a kind of sweeping gesture with his right hand.
“Well, there you are. It’s like that all through. He admits the bit about saying he’d like to murder her too, only he says it wasn’t a threat, just sarcasm.”
“I expect he felt like wringing her neck,” said Miss Silver placidly. “He had considerable provocation according to Perry. But since he restrained himself at the time, I am unable to believe that he went downstairs more than twenty-four hours later in the middle of the night and shot her in the back. That would imply an assignation, and—”
He interrupted her.
“Not necessarily—in fact not at all. He admits to having seen her go downstairs. Suppose he followed her down, pressed her again about this engagement business—the quarrel flared up. She had a very offensive tongue, you know. That bit in Perry’s statement about Laura Fane and the piece at the end where she twitted him with having lost his nerve—they got him on the raw all right.”
“I am not surprised.”
“Nor am I,” he said. “Well, it might have happened that way.”
“My dear Randal!” Her tone was one of mild reproof.
“And why not?”
“The door,” said Miss Silver more in sorrow than in anger “—the door into the church. If she was quarrelling with Mr. Desborough, can you think of any reason why she should have opened that door and stood there on the top step with her back to him looking out?”
He frowned meditatively.
“I can’t think of one—”
Her needles clicked.
“Nor can I.”
“But neither you nor I are omniscient. We can’t think of everything.”
Miss Silver pressed her lips together. It was not her place to reprove a man of thirty-six, but she considered this use of the word omniscient slightly profane. She allowed the silence to speak for her.
Randal March broke it.
“There’s something else,” he said. “And that’s why I called you in. You know I have just seen Miss Adams. Well, she has made a statement which brings Laura Fane into the picture.”
Miss Silver said nothing. Her lips remained pressed together.
He said in good-humoured exasperation,
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t like it—but there it is. I’ve got to see the girl, and I’d like you to be here, if she doesn’t object. She can of course. Is she likely to?”
Miss Silver said, “No,” and said no more.
They sat in silence after he had rung the bell. A maid came—a dark-eyed girl with a sidelong look, Florrie Mumford the under-housemaid, the girl Agnes didn’t very much care about. She was sent to ask Miss Laura Fane if she would come to the study, and presently Laura came, in the black dress which Agnes Fane had given her.
March said, “Come in.” And then, “I want to ask you some questions, Miss Fane, and if you have no objection, I should like Miss Silver to be here. You are not obliged to answer me, and you are not obliged to have Miss Silver here—you can do just as you please about that.”
Laura stood just inside the door, which she had shut behind her. She looked very white, and there were smudges under her eyes. She said in a young, defenceless way,
“Oh, I should like her to stay. And I’ll tell you—anything I can.”
He pulled up a chair for her, and she came round the table and sat down there with her hands in her lap. He took up one of the papers which lay before him and said,
“Miss Fane, did you leave your room at any time during the night on which the murder took place?”
She lifted those beautiful candid eyes to his and said,
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“Yes. I woke up and remembered that I hadn’t brought my Chinese shawl upstairs. I went down to get it.”
“In the middle of the night?”
Something in his tone brought a little colour to her cheeks.
“I know—it sounds silly. But I couldn’t get to sleep again. I kept wondering where I had left it, and then I remembered, so I went down.”
Miss Silver knitted steadily, but she was watching them both.
“And where had you left it?” said Randal March.
“Hanging on the newel-post at the foot of the stairs.”
He came in very quick with “Right, or left?” But there was no hesitation in her reply.
“The right-hand side going down.”
He glanced at the statement in his hand.
“And you went down, and fetched it, and came back again?”
She shook her head.
“No, I didn’t fetch it. It wasn’t there.”
In a way he was relieved. There had been a moment when he thought she was going to lie, looking him straight in the face with those wide, truthful eyes. Because Lucy Adams had said that Laura Fane came back to her room at three o’clock in the morning, and that she came empty-handed. He said gravely,
“The shawl wasn’t there—”
“No, it wasn’t there.”
“But you went on looking for it—”
“Yes—in the hall, and in the drawing-room.”
“Not anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Not in Miss Lyle’s sitting-room?”
All her colour went, but the eyes did not waver. She thought, “If I had, I should have found that open door—and Tanis dead—”
He saw a shudder go over her. She said,
“No, I didn’t go in there. I was thinking—how dreadful if I had—because I suppose—I should have found her—”
It was disarming, but he must not be disarmed. He said quickly,
“How do you know that you would have found her then? What time was it?”
She wasn’t frightened. She was puzzled.
“The clock struck as I was going upstairs. I think it struck three.”
“Then how do you know that the murder had taken place? How do you know that Miss Lyle was already dead?”
“I suppose I don’t. I didn’t think about that, but—well, I suppose we all thought—it must have been—earlier than that—” Her voice trailed away, like a voice that is being faded out. When it was quite gone March said,
“I see. You are sure you didn’t go into Miss Lyle’s sitting-room?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.”
“You didn’t open the door from the hall?”
“Oh, no.”
“Or the door between the drawing-room and the octagon room? You were in the drawing-room, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was in the drawing-room. But I didn’t open the door.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The question leapt at her, but she only looked puzzled.
“Why should I? I was looking for my shawl. I thought I had left it in the hall, but it might have got back into the drawing-room. I never thought of looking anywhere else.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“You say you thought you left this shawl hanging on the newel-post. Actually, where did you leave it? Where was it found?”
La
ura leaned forward. Colour came into her face and into her voice. She said,
“I did leave it on the newel-post—I’m sure I did. And it hasn’t been found at all.”
“What?”
Miss Silver’s eyes became intent.
Laura repeated her words.
“It hasn’t been found at all.”
CHAPTER 30
WHEN THEY WERE ALONE again March turned in his chair with an abrupt,
“Well?”
During the whole of the time that Laura had been in the room Miss Silver had knitted peacefully. The blue bootee had made considerable progress. The needles had clicked without intermission, but Miss Silver’s lips had not uttered a single word. She unclosed them now.
“What do you expect me to say, my dear Randal?”
He smiled.
“What you think. You always do.”
She gave her little dry cough.
“I hope so. But in this case I would rather hear what you think yourself.”
The smile became a thoughtful one.
“A disarming creature. One would say candour itself—or one would have said so if one hadn’t taken up this horrid trade. Do you remember Milly Morrison?”
“My dear Randal, any woman would have seen through Milly at a glance.”
“She was a very pretty girl.” His tone was drily regretful.
“And a sadly deceitful one,” said Miss Silver. She picked up her ball of wool, which had rolled under the writing-table, and added, “Gentlemen are quite unable to believe any harm of a young woman who has large blue eyes. If Laura Fane’s eyes were blue, you would not be suspecting her now.”
He laughed.
“Oh, she’s got lovely eyes—I grant you that. Easy to look at, and easy to trust. But here we are with a set of awkward facts on our hands. Desborough and his quarrel with Tanis Lyle—a quarrel which drove him into something uncommonly like a threat to murder her. His admission that he saw her go downstairs just before two o’clock on the night of the murder. If he wasn’t the murderer he was the last other person to see her alive. But suppose he is the murderer. We don’t really know what their relations may have been. We do know that he was breaking with her to marry Laura Fane. Just now when you asked me if I could think of any reason why she should have opened the door to the church, I said I couldn’t. It was stupid of me, because there’s a perfectly obvious reason. He was threatening her with the pistol, and she had lost her head and was trying to make a bolt for it.”
Miss Silver shook her head.
“If you had seen Tanis Lyle when she was really being threatened with a pistol you would not entertain that idea for an instant. It is quite absurd. She would have faced him without a tremor.”
He said, “You can’t tell—people lose their nerve suddenly—I’ve seen it happen. But that’s just speculation. This—” he took out an envelope from a drawer and handed it to her—“this is evidence.”
She had laid down her knitting. She now opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of paper. It contained a couple of black silk threads about eight inches long. They appeared to be much discoloured. She looked at them gravely and intently. Then, without speaking, she raised her eyes to the Superintendent’s face.
He said, “Those threads were found clutched between the fingers of Tanis Lyle’s left hand. The stain is blood. Do they suggest anything to you?”
Miss Silver took her time. Then she said,
“What do they suggest to you?”
The quizzical look just showed, and was gone again.
“Quite a lot,” he said. “The silk threads.... My mother had one of those Chinese shawls—she has it still.”
Miss Silver nodded.
“Oh, yes, I remember it. But hers was all white—a very beautiful piece of work.”
“Yes. It had a deep fringe all around it, about eight or nine inches long—in fact about the length of those silk threads. But, as you say, my mother’s shawl is white. Laura Fane’s, I suppose, is not, and I suppose you can describe it to me.”
Her needles clicked.
“Oh, yes. It is black, very beautifully embroidered with coloured flowers and butterflies.”
“And it has a black fringe about eight inches deep?”
“Yes, Randal.”
He threw up a hand in an exasperated gesture.
“You can’t refuse to look facts in the face just because you have taken a fancy to Desborough and Laura Fane! Desborough was out of his room, and the girl out of hers and downstairs, round about the time when the murder must have taken place. Threads from the fringe of her shawl were between the dead woman’s fingers. They are stained with blood. And the shawl itself has disappeared. Why? The obvious answer to that is that it too was stained and had to be disposed of.”
Miss Silver looked up calmly.
“And how do you imagine that it became stained?”
“You mustn’t think that I am convinced of Desborough’s guilt, or of Laura Fane’s. I only say they could be guilty. They had motive, they had opportunity, and those threads from the missing shawl and the fact that the shawl is missing are nasty bits of evidence to explain away. As to how the shawl may have got stained, I think that is quite easy. There is a quarrel between the three of them. Laura Fane may have interposed. There may have been a struggle in which these threads were broken off. They were caught in the setting of a ring which Miss Lyle was wearing. Well, she gets frightened and makes for the door into the church. Desborough shoots her, and she falls, as we know she did fall, from that top step. Laura Fane is horrified—I’ll grant you that. She runs down the steps, kneels beside the body— someone did kneel there—the grass was all pressed down. When she realizes that Miss Lyle is dead she comes back. She is concerned to save Desborough. They wipe the pistol and put it back in the drawer. They wipe the inner handle of the sitting-room door—probably the outer one too, because there are only Dean’s fingerprints on it. Then one of them notices that the shawl is stained. What are they going to do about it? What did they do? Burned it in the furnace most probably, in which case we may whistle for our evidence, though the disappearance of the shawl is in itself a damning piece of evidence. Laura Fane may have gone back to her room and left Desborough to clear up the mess, or they may have done it together. The only thing we know for certain is that she was neither wearing nor carrying the shawl when she returned to her room. She said so herself, and Miss Adams—”
Miss Silver interrupted, a thing quite against her code of manners. She did it quietly and deliberately.
“Oh, yes—may I hear what Lucy has to say about it? I should be interested.”
He said, “Of course. It’s quite short.... Yes, here it is. I’ll read it to you.”
“Thank you. I am just turning the heel of my bootee.”
He read from Lucy Adams’s statement:
“‘It was such a terribly windy night that my sleep was very much disturbed. I kept on waking up. I have a constitutional dislike for the sound of wind.’”
He looked up with half a laugh. “There was a good deal more on those lines, but I’m afraid I cut it out.”
“Lucy has always been inclined to think too much about her feelings,” said Miss Silver.
Randal March resumed.
“‘My rest became more and more broken. I could only sleep in snatches. No, no, no—I did not hear any shot, I only heard that terrible wind. I became too nervous to stay in bed, so I got up and walked about my room.’”
He looked up again. “She explained at considerable length that movement and a drink of cold water had a soothing effect upon her nerves and usually enabled her to go to sleep again, but not on this occasion. After walking about her room for a time, she says, she opened the door. The idea was to walk up and down the passage for a change.”
“Lucy has very little self-control,” said Miss Silver.
March went back to the statement.
“Here we are. She says,
“‘I opened my do
or and heard a footstep coming from the direction of the stairs. I drew the door to, but left a crack because I wanted to see who it was. At the same time I switched out my own light because I did not wish to be seen.’”
“Lucy is a prying old maid,” said Miss Silver.
He very nearly laughed. It might not have been forgiven him if he had. He went on reading rather hastily.
“‘I saw Laura Fane coming along the passage from the stairs. There is a light at the other end outside my cousin’s room, and I could see her quite plainly.’”
Miss Silver coughed.
“The bulb is a fifteen-watt, and the passage is forty-five feet long. The distance between the light and Lucy’s door would be about thirty feet, I should think.”
He murmured, “You are always accurate,” and went on reading,
“‘Laura’s door is very nearly opposite mine. She came along the passage and went into her room. She was wearing her night-gown, and a dressing-gown over it. She had slippers on her feet. She wasn’t carrying a candle, or a book, or anything. I couldn’t imagine why she should be out of her room like that, unless she had been meeting Mr. Desborough. I was very much shocked at the idea. She went into her room and shut the door. I was so much upset that I was quite unable to sleep.’”
Miss Silver’s lips were firmly pressed together. He looked at her with some amusement.
“Well, that’s all.”
“Lucy ought to be ashamed of herself. That is, I am sure, a most unfounded imputation.”
He laughed.
“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t think Laura Fane and Carey Desborough were indulging in a lovers’ meeting. I wish I hadn’t to suspect them of anything worse than that.”
Miss Silver put down her knitting and looked at him earnestly.
“Do you really suspect them, Randal?”
He said very seriously indeed,
“I don’t know, but I’m going to make it my business to know. And the first thing I’m going to do is to find out what has become of that Chinese shawl.”
CHAPTER 31
RANDAL MARCH HAD DONE his best to be as good as his word, but he had failed. The house had been gone through with the proverbial finetooth-comb, but there was no discoverable trace of Laura Fane’s Chinese shawl. With its gaily embroidered blooms, its butterflies, and its torn fringe, it had vanished as completely as if it had possessed only the fantastic substance of a dream. Police superintendents do not readily believe in the fantastic. March set Sergeant Stebbins and Police Constable Pollock to the loathly task of sorting through the dustbins and the furnace ashes.
The Chinese Shawl Page 15
