Miss Silver corrected him with decision.
“Oh, dear me no—it wasn’t that. It would be impossible for anyone who saw them together to believe such a thing. I cannot repeat too emphatically that Mr. Desborough was most evidently and completely in love with Laura and that if he ever had been in love with Tanis it was entirely a thing of the past. I remember assuring Agnes on Wednesday evening that she was quite mistaken in imagining that there was any warmer feeling between them than friendship.”
March began to put his papers together.
“Well, I accept your judgment on that point. What remains to be disproved is my original theory that Desborough did have an interview with her on Thursday—at the time when he admits to seeing her go downstairs, and when Laura Fane also admits to having been out of her room. I am afraid that they still head my list of suspects, with Maxwell as second string.”
Miss Silver folded her hands and pursed her lips for a moment. Then she said,
“And where does Mr. Madison come on this list of yours, Randal?”
He paused, then turned to face her.
“Madison?”
Miss Silver inclined her head.
March frowned.
“Well, the evidence is quite clear as to his having left the house.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Tanis Lyle’s appointment was not with anyone in this house, Randal—I have been convinced of that all along. The fact that the door leading to the ruined church was open is not subsidiary but integral. The door was open because she herself had opened it—and she had opened it because she was going to admit someone with whom she had an assignation. There is to my mind no other explanation of the fact that this door was open, and that she herself was standing there on the top step when she was shot. Now who was she expecting? Not her former husband, because he was in a London nursing home, strapped down in bed and under constant observation. Not Mr. Desborough or Mr. Maxwell, because they were both inside the house, and if she had had an appointment with either of them he would have come down the stairs and entered her sitting-room by way of the hall. Then who was it? I do not see how we can avoid the conclusion that it was Mr. Madison. I certainly do not assert that he shot her, but I think it is more than probable that he was the visitor she was expecting.”
March regarded her with interest.
“You don’t exonerate either Desborough or Maxwell that way,” he said. “I suppose you know that. In fact you are providing them with a motive—especially Maxwell. A jealous young man who has followed the woman with whom he is infatuated, only to find that she is opening her door to someone else, might easily lose his self-control.”
Miss Silver shook her head.
“You forget that according to the fingerprints it was Tanis herself who opened the drawer in which the pistol was. The pistol had been wiped, but not the drawer. Tanis’s prints were plain upon it. Dean says the drawer was shut when he went his rounds before going to bed. He found it open next morning, and the pistol lying in full view. If anyone except Tanis handled that drawer, it must have been done very cleverly and carefully by a gloved hand or one with a handkerchief wrapped round it, and great care must have been taken not to disturb the existing fingerprints. This would mean both an intention to murder and a knowledge of the exact whereabouts of the pistol. I cannot myself see either Mr. Desborough or Mr. Maxwell combining the sudden frenzy which prompts a man to murder with this skilful precaution against discovery.”
March made an impatient gesture.
“The fact is we don’t know what happened, and probably we never shall. As for what a murderer will do and won’t do, you know very well that a man who is off his balance—and I suppose no one murders unless he is off his balance—is incalculable. You can guess at the actions and reactions of a reasonable human being because reason is a common denominator, but the madman is outside reason—there isn’t a common denominator any more, and there’s simply no saying what he may or may not do. He swings on to his balance, and he does a sane thing. You say, ‘Yes, that’s in character—that’s all right—I might have done that myself.’ He swings off it, and you say, ‘I can’t fit that bit in—it’s all wrong—he wouldn’t do that.’ And yet it may be quite true. The sane, controlled self wouldn’t have done it, but the criminal, unbalanced self has done it. There’s your explanation.”
Miss Silver smiled indulgently.
“Able but fallacious, my dear Randal,” she said. “What I was pointing out to you was that we have here the evidence of a controlled intention to murder and, having murdered, to avoid the consequences. I find this incompatible with either Mr. Desborough’s or Mr. Maxwell’s frame of mind, or even with what you suppose to have been their frame of mind, on Thursday night. And you do not account for the disappearance of the Chinese shawl.”
March half frowned, half laughed.
“You want to hoist me with my own petard. How like a woman! Because, as you very well know, I did account for it on the supposition that Laura Fane was an accessory either during or after the fact, and that the shawl became stained and had to be destroyed. That is, of course, presuming that Desborough was the murderer. If it was Maxwell, you may have your point—the shawl eludes me. But I am very nearly sure that it wasn’t Maxwell, and that the shawl has been destroyed because—”
It was at this moment that a hesitating tap upon the door was followed by its partial opening. Florrie Mumford was disclosed. At Miss Silver’s crisp, “Come in!” she advanced into the room with an odd sidelong movement. Her cap was over one eye, she was smudged with coal dust, and she held a dirty crumpled-up newspaper in her hand.
“What is it, Florrie?” said Miss Silver in her most governessy tone. Really the girl was scandalously untidy. Mrs. Dean ought to pull her up.
Florrie sent a bright, uneasy glance in the direction of the Superintendent. He repeated Miss Silver’s enquiry.
“What is it? What do you want?”
She came edging up to the writing-table and plumped the newspaper down in front of him.
“If you please, sir, the sergeant and the constable have been going through the ashbins and things—” She paused, her eyes going to and fro, looking at him sideways, looking away again.
He said, “Yes?” in an encouraging voice.
“They said as how it was Miss Laura’s shawl they was looking for. And I didn’t say nothing to them—I’ve nothing against Miss Laura—but it kep’ on coming into my mind and I thought as how I’d better bring it along.”
March’s hands were on the paper, unfolding it, spreading it out. It was grimed with coal dust. It contained a little ash and some charred fragments of stuff. The stuff was a thick, lustreless black silk with a remnant of ruined embroidery clinging to it here and there. One bright butterfly survived the flames. By some erratic chance his jewelled wings had kept their turquoise sheen.
Florrie pointed with a smudged finger.
“I thought it would be ever so pretty cut out and sewed on again on a ribbon or something, and seeing I’d raked it out of the fire, I didn’t think there’d be any harm.”
March’s question came sharply.
“What fire did you rake it out of?”
“The drawing-room.” She gave her head a toss. “I’ve all the fires to do before breakfast—drawing-room, dining-room, Miss Lyle’s room, and this.”
After a good deal of questioning the story emerged, such as it was. Florrie went round doing fires before the black-out was taken down. She was supposed to start at seven, but on the morning after the murder she had been late, very late indeed—so late in fact that she had only done the drawing-room and dining-room when the bell went for breakfast in the servants’ hall. Shaking in her shoes, she had slipped into the study at a quarter past eight after Dean had admitted the daylight, and was doing the grate there when the alarm was given and the house raised. Because of her hurry in the drawing-room she hadn’t taken very much notice of what she bundled into her pan, but it did cross her mi
nd to think there was something odd about the ash, and when she came to turn it out, there were these bits of stuff, and she wondered whatever Miss Laura had been and burned that lovely shawl for, and she thought it wouldn’t hurt no one if she was to keep the butterfly, seeing it was put in the fire to be burned and no manner of use to no one.
When she was gone March got up. Face and voice were grave as he said,
“The analyst must have these at once. They’re stained— something besides the burning. If, as I expect, that stain is blood, we have the reason why they survived the fire. The wet patch wouldn’t burn, and somehow it must have screened the butterfly. Queer how the little things survive, isn’t it?”
Miss Silver was as grave as he. She said,
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 33
CAREY TOOK LAURA to the Grange cottage to see Sylvia Madison after lunch. Tim, it appeared, had been out ever since breakfast—“and then he only drank some coffee and went off.” Sylvia, on the telephone, was very, very worried.
“It’s all a damned nightmare,” Carey said soberly as they walked down the drive—“and nightmares are a bit outside Sylvia’s form. She’s rather sweet, you know, and they used to be most awfully happy, but she wants propping, and Tim has let her down flat.”
Laura gave a shaky laugh.
“Darling, am I a chaperon?”
He nodded.
“Tim’s as jealous as they’re made. If he found me propping Sylvia, there might be the hell of a row.”
There was a sound of tapping footsteps behind them. Turning, they beheld Miss Silver hurrying down the drive in an antique black cloth jacket shaped to the waist and a grey and black checked scarf which only partially covered the coat’s own collar of nibbled, yellowish fur. A felt hat, from which she had removed a bunch of purple pansies, was secured by a jetted hatpin of portentous size. She came up with them, holding the scarf.
“Agnes very kindly lent me this, but the ends fly out so. I am not really accustomed to wearing a scarf. My fur collar keeps me very snug, but the colour is perhaps a little bright for present circumstances. May I join you as far as our ways lie together? I thought of paying a call upon Mrs. Madison. I fear that she may be feeling very much upset by what has occurred.”
There was a slight dismayed pause. Carey’s frown came down. He said bluntly,
“Laura and I were going there. If she is upset—”
Miss Silver broke in brightly.
“Oh, but I should not dream of staying. Do you know, I guessed that you might be going there, and I rather welcomed the opportunity of accompanying you. But I have no intention of staying. I have something of Mrs. Madison’s which I should like to return to her—that is all.”
Stepping out briskly between two silent young people, she discoursed upon the weather, the beauties of a winter landscape, the difficulties of providing sufficient workers for the land in wartime, the duty of growing as many carrots and potatoes as possible, and, without any appearance of being inconsequent, the loneliness of life in the depths of the country for those who have not been brought up to it.
“Mrs. Madison now—she hardly seems to be a country type, if you know what I mean, Mr. Desborough.”
Mr. Desborough knew very well. Until things had gone wrong for her Sylvia had played at living in the country as charmingly as she had played at being Tim Madison’s petted bride. Now the play was done.
He replied briefly, “No.”
Miss Silver continued her bright conversation.
“No? I thought not. She has too sheltered a look, if I may say so. Of course it is all right when her husband is here, but how does she manage when he is away? The lane between the cottage and the village is a lonely one, and I think she only has daily help, does she not?”
This time it was impossible to be quite monosyllabic. Carey said, “Yes,” and then added, “Her sister comes when Madison is away.”
Miss Silver beamed.
“Very nice of her. An older sister, I presume. Mrs. Madison looks so very young, and so timid—I really could not imagine her walking about these lanes by herself after dark.”
Carey couldn’t either. He said so bluntly.
“She’s always lived in a town. They were bombed out of their flat, and she hasn’t really got over it. Things frighten her—loud noises, the dark, being alone, all that sort of thing.”
Miss Silver’s smile became sympathetic.
“Well, that is just what I thought.”
She went on talking about life in the country until they arrived within a stone’s throw of the Cottage. Behind her flow of talk she was reflecting that Mr. Desborough was a very good-looking young man in spite of a deepening air of gloom—just a little like Manfred, though of course one didn’t really read Lord Byron’s poems; so apt to be coarse, though undeniably witty—when he turned and addressed her.
“One moment, Miss Silver. I don’t want you to think me rude, but—”
He paused, and she said “Yes?” in an encouraging voice. That this increased his difficulty in proceeding was plain. The dark colour rose. He plunged in a determined manner.
“The Madisons are my friends—I’ve known them a long time. Sylvia is a nervous, delicate sort of girl—she can’t stand up for herself. She’s very much upset about this business. I can’t help knowing that you’ve got some connection with the police—”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Not with the police, Mr. Desborough—I am a private detective. Superintendent March is kind enough to allow me certain facilities. He is an old friend, and he is aware that I should not abuse his indulgence. But my position in this affair is that my professional services have been engaged by Miss Fane.”
“And you were going to see Sylvia Madison in your professional capacity?”
Miss Silver paused for a moment before she replied.
“To some extent, yes.” Then, seeing that Carey was about to speak, she stopped him. “Mr. Desborough, I appreciate your point. You are going to see Mrs. Madison as a friend. I am paying her a visit of a different character, though I hope not an unfriendly one. You are naturally unwilling to appear to sponsor me in any way by arriving in my company. I propose, therefore, that you and Miss Laura should precede me. You can tell Mrs. Madison whatever you please. If she does not wish to see me she has only to shut her door. I shall not force myself upon her. It is, however, my belief that it would be to her own interest to see me. I do not press the point, and I may be wrong, but that is my present belief. If she decides to see me, I should like it to be in your presence and Miss Laura’s.”
As she spoke, Carey’s mood cleared. He was experiencing what so many of Miss Silver’s clients had experienced before, a transition from irritation and criticism to a sense that here was something extraordinarily solid and reliable. He said in quite a different tone,
“Very well, I’ll tell her. But she may say no.”
“Dear me, I hope she won’t,” said Miss Silver placidly. “It would really be a great pity.”
Ten minutes later she was entering Sylvia Madison’s drawing-room, the old living-room of the cottage with a bay thrown out and a good deal more light admitted. The low black beams and the deep hearts remained, contrasting with Sylvia’s pretty frilly curtains and pale flowery chintzes. Everything except the cottage itself was pathetically new. Lamps, a chromium clock, a shagreen cigarette-box, the ash trays freshly inscribed, were obviously wedding-presents and of no long standing. Sylvia’s grey-blue tweed skirt and hand-knitted pullover were certainly part of her trousseau. She stood, holding tightly to Laura, and gazed at Miss Silver out of terrified blue eyes.
Miss Silver came forward with a small tissue-paper packet in her hand. Look and tone were kind but grave as she said,
“I’m so glad that you have felt able to see me. I think this belongs to you.”
Harmless words and few enough, but they drained the remaining colour from Sylvia’s milky skin. She took the packet, let go of Laura, and sat down sudden
ly upon the couch from which she had risen at Miss Silver’s entrance. In a nervous, indeterminate manner her fingers plucked at the paper. A sharper movement tilted the contents into her lap—a stained and crumpled handkerchief with an elaborately embroidered “Sylvia” across a corner.
She looked at it. They all looked at it. The stains were of a pale brownish red like washed-out blood. The sheer linen was a mass of crumples and smears.
Miss Silver sat down upon the couch beside her and said in a crisp but friendly tone,
“That is your handkerchief, is it not? I expect you knew that you had dropped it, even if you were not quite sure of the exact spot. The wind had carried it to where I found it, wedged into a hole in one of the ruined arches.”
Laura said, “Oh—” It was more a sighing breath than a word. She felt behind her for a chair and sat down.
Carey said quickly, “Don’t say anything, Sylvia—don’t say anything at all—don’t speak!”
Miss Silver smiled faintly. Her eyes were shrewd and kind.
“I am not trying to trap Mrs. Madison,” she said. “If I were I should not have allowed you to prepare her for my visit.” She turned to Sylvia. “There are questions that I should naturally like to ask you, but I will refrain. Instead I will tell you how I think you came to lose your handkerchief.”
Sylvia lifted desperately frightened eyes.
“My dear,” said Miss Silver, “will you not try and be brave? I might have gone to the police with this handkerchief—strictly speaking it was my duty to do so—but I have brought it to you, and instead of trying to find you alone I have been careful to secure the presence of two of your friends. What I have to say will be painful, but it will be better for you, and I think for everyone, if you will control yourself and listen to me.”
Sylvia’s lips moved, but no sound came. She continued to gaze at Miss Silver with the look of a creature that is caught in a trap. She was most desperately afraid, and the thing she was afraid of was coming nearer and nearer. She could neither help nor hinder it. She had just to sit there and see the knife come nearer, nearer, nearer....
The Chinese Shawl Page 17
