Miss Silver shook her head.
“I am not thinking of those things, Randal. Laura had been wearing a black lace dress. Tanis had changed into black pyjamas and a heavy black silk coat. Only a very shortsighted person to whom all black materials look alike at a little distance could have mistaken that heavy silk for so different a material as lace.”
March smiled quizzically.
“How acute—and how feminine! That is where you will always have the advantage of me. I am only a man.”
Miss Silver smiled in return.
“Gentlemen always say that when they are feeling superior,” she said. “It is still a handicap to be a woman, and they know it. You must not grudge us any of the slight advantages it confers.”
He laughed outright.
“Well, you made up your mind that Miss Adams was the murderer because of the difference between a bit of silk and a bit of lace. Anything else?”
The needles clicked. Miss Silver said,
“Oh, yes. It was the difference between the materials that made me suspect Lucy, but it was the behaviour of Florrie Mumford that confirmed those suspicions.”
“I don’t see,” he said.
“Oh, yes, my dear Randal! I could not believe that she would have had the temerity to blackmail Agnes Fane. Agnes is really a very intimidating person. I was sure that Florrie would not have had the courage to threaten her—so soon, and whilst she was still in her service. I think that if it had been Agnes the girl would have held her tongue until she could get away and do her blackmailing from a safer distance, if indeed she dared to do it at all. I was never able to consider Agnes seriously as the criminal, you know. She is a very efficient person, and if she had wished to murder Laura there would have been no bungling. Laura would have been murdered, and Agnes would never have been suspected, let alone blackmailed.”
“Well, that disposes of Miss Fane. What about Perry?”
“The motive was too slight, and as I said before, her eyesight is extremely good. And Florrie would never have expected to get a hundred pounds out of Perry.”
“So you arrived at Miss Adams.”
“So I arrived at Lucy. But I had no evidence—no shred or particle of evidence. I was, I may say, in considerable distress of mind. I did not know what to do. I thought of ringing you up, but the hour was late. I could not have mentioned my suspicions on the telephone, and you were in any case coming over early next morning in order to question Florrie. It seemed to me that our one chance of obtaining any real evidence was from Florrie.”
“I wonder what she knew,” said Randal March. “That flapper friend of hers, Mrs. Slade’s sister, says she was in the habit of slipping through into this part of the house whilst Dean was locking up. Florrie may have heard the shot. She may have seen Miss Adams cross the hall. She may have stood behind the drawing-room curtains and watched her burn the Chinese shawl. We shall never know—unless Miss Adams tells us. She may, or she may not. All this girl Gladys can say is that Florrie was very pleased and excited and told her she knew something that was going to make her a fortune, poor little wretch.”
Miss Silver laid down her knitting and folded her hands upon it.
“Randal, I thought she was safe, for that night at least. In spite of what I said to you I did warn her most seriously. And I knew that Dean locked the connecting doors at night. I thought she would be safe enough until the morning. Well, I was wrong.”
March looked kindly at her.
“You can’t blame yourself—she asked for it.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“I do not blame myself, Randal. I committed an error of judgment, but it is easy to be wise after the event. I had no reasonable grounds for summoning you in the middle of the night, but my mind continued to be so much disturbed that I could not rest. I think it must have been the sound of Florrie’s fall that roused me from a short uneasy sleep. I had not consciously heard the fall, but I became more and more anxious, until at last I felt obliged to investigate. I then roused Mr. Desborough, and we reached the hall in time to hear Lucy’s extraordinary statement. She is of course unhinged.”
“Yes, I suppose she will be pronounced insane.”
Miss Silver looked at him gravely.
“A most unhappy story, Randal. I hope for Laura’s sake that it need not all come out. You see, Lucy was just as much in love with Oliver as Agnes was. Everyone could see that. She made herself quite a laughing-stock over it, poor thing. And of course he never thought of her in that way at all. He used to laugh at her and call her ‘Poor old Lucy,’ and one day I am afraid she heard him. She never quite got over that. And then he ran away with Lilian Ferrers, and she and Agnes were left here together with nothing to do but to think how Oliver had treated them. Lucy had not at all a strong character, but like so many weak people she could hold on to a grudge. Even at school we used to say that she hoarded slights. She would treasure up anything unpleasant, just as other girls treasured up compliments—but then, of course, poor Lucy never had any compliments to treasure. After Oliver’s marriage she just sat down here with Agnes for twenty-two years, whilst Agnes filled the house with hatred and resentment. Is it any wonder that Tanis Lyle grew up as she did, heartless and self-centred? Is it any wonder that Lucy became obsessed? Hatred is a deadly poison. For twenty-two years this house has been full of it.”
March nodded.
“That’s grim,” he said.
“Yes, it is terrible. All those years Agnes was waiting for Laura to come of age. It was her most passionate desire to possess the Priory and to leave it to Tanis Lyle. Laura came of age, and came down here at Agnes’s invitation. And her coming gave all that hatred a focus. But I still believe that nothing might have happened if it had not been for the violent disturbance set up by Jeffrey Hazelton. Into the already overcharged atmosphere of the house he introduced the idea of murder. He also introduced the necessary weapon, and there is no doubt that the scene in which he and Tanis took part excited Lucy’s mind to the point of contemplating murder. Even so she might never have got beyond thinking about it if it had not been for what happened on Thursday night. A high wind has always had an upsetting effect upon her nerves. The gale, combined with the opportunity which she thought had been offered to her, was too much for the balance of her mind. It gave way, and from that moment she cannot, I think, be considered wholly responsible for her actions. When Florrie threatened her she behaved with great cunning. She must have known that the girl sometimes slipped through the connecting doors and got out of the house at night, so she made an appointment with her in the study at midnight, opening the window in order that it might be supposed that Florrie had been attacked by someone from outside. This, I think, goes to prove that she had not then conceived the horrible plan of involving Laura. I think that came later, when she had killed Florrie and had become completely insane. In that state she recognized no restraints and no difficulties. Having got Laura downstairs by a trick, she meant to shoot her at point blank range and leave the pistol in her hand. To her crazy mind it seemed quite certain that Laura would then be held responsible for both the other deaths. The Priory would pass into Agnes’s possession, and the old score against Oliver Fane would have been paid. A dreadful story, Randal. And when I ask myself who is the real criminal, I cannot exonerate Agnes Fane.”
“How much did she know?” said March.
Miss Silver’s eyes met his. They were steady and sad.
“I cannot say. I think that she suspected Lucy. I think so, but I cannot say. And she herself will never speak—I am quite sure of that. She will never tell us what she knew or suspected, or why she told Laura to lock her door last night. But I think—though this is only a conjecture—that she found Florrie lying dead in the study and guessed at who the murderer must be. When she saw Laura at her bedroom door and told her to lock it she was obeying her conscience. She has a conscience, you know, and it would not permit her to expose even Laura whom she hated to what she knew to be a very real dan
ger. I can respect her for that.”
March said, “Yes.” And then, “How has she taken it? Will it break her?”
“Agnes will never break,” said Miss Silver.
CHAPTER 45
CAREY AND LAURA drove away. Petra North had gone. The Maxwells had gone. The days they had spent in the Priory between Wednesday and Sunday were gone, joined with dead days of dead, forgotten years. Perhaps some day they would be forgotten too.
Neither Carey nor Laura looked back, and neither spoke. They had seen Agnes Fane for a brief moment, rigid, indomitable—a courteous hostess bidding two guests farewell. Each in turn touched the ice-cold hand upon which there was still a fine glitter of diamonds. There was no word on either side of any future meeting. The inward shudder which Laura could conceal but not control still shook her as they drove on silently through the grey afternoon.
Presently when the road passed through woodland where great ramparts of holly rose shining and darkly green under the bare boughs of oak and chestnut, Carey drew in to the side and stopped the car. He put his arms round Laura and drew her close.
“Darling, you’re so cold.”
She said in a forlorn whisper,
“I don’t think I shall ever be warm again.”
“Oh, yes, you will. I’ll make you warm. And you’re not to shake—there’s nothing to shake about now.”
She said, “I can’t stop. I don’t feel as if I shall ever be able to stop. I keep seeing her.”
His voice sounded rough and angry.
“You won’t see her again any more—ever. You won’t see any of them again. We’re going to be married on Thursday. Three clear week-days—that’s the quickest you can do it, unless you drag in the Archbishop of Canterbury and pay about thirty pounds for a special licence. So I thought Thursday.”
“Carey, I couldn’t!”
“You just see! You just stop thinking about a lot of bad old women and begin thinking about me, and you, and me—particularly me. We’re going to be married on Thursday—you’re going to be Laura Desborough. We’ll go and set it all in train tomorrow morning. We’ll have to get a wedding ring, you know, and you can choose your engagement ring at the same time—your aunt won’t think it’s legal without one. And you’d better telephone her to come up and give you away.”
“Carey, she won’t!”
“Then we’ll do without her. We’re both of age. Darling, couldn’t you stop shaking? It’s all over. We’re young—we’re in love. You’ve no idea how tremendously I’m in love with you, but you’re going to find out.”
He held her away and looked at her with something in his eyes which drove the cold shaking from Laura’s heart.
“Snap out of it, darling, and kiss me! We’re wasting time.”
THE END
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1943 by Patricia Wentworth Turnbull
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-2366-6
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
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The Chinese Shawl Page 23
