Inspector Colt was understood to agree that Mrs. Anning would hardly make a reliable witness. “And as far as the daughter is concerned-well, I should say she would stick to her story.”
“Which is just what she produced to Miss Silver. Her mother couldn’t sleep. She went out into the garden for a breath of air, and Darsie heard her, followed her, and brought her back. Neither of them left the garden or went out on the cliff, let alone down the steep path to the beach. Her ‘My mother is an invalid, Inspector,’ was quite effective. Also the matter-of-fact manner in which she explained her mother’s resentment- ‘You see, I was once engaged to Alan Field, and my mother blamed him when it was broken off. As a matter of fact it came to an end by mutual consent, and for the simple reason that neither of us had any money.’ And then all that piece about there being no reason for any resentment, but that Mrs. Anning had a severe illness about that time and it had all got muddled up in her mind. Quite a plausible explanation, you know, Colt.”
“Show me something in this case that isn’t plausible!” said Inspector Colt bitterly.
Miss Silver was devoting what remained of the day to the art of conversation. Mrs. Field had joined her on the beach after Frank Abbott left her, and appeared to derive a good deal of relief and comfort from talking about her husband and stepson.
“In some ways I think they were very much alike,” she said. “I don’t mean in the wrong things that Alan did-you won’t misunderstand me about that, will you? I mean in their dispositions. They both liked things to be beautiful and pleasant. In Alan’s case I think it led him into doing wrong. He had not his father’s artistic gifts, but he had the artistic temperament, and of course that does make people unpractical and careless about money. That is why I did not think it right to lend him any. And then he could not bear to say no. Pen couldn’t bear to either-my husband, you know. It was rather awkward sometimes, because women really were very silly about him. He was as good-looking as Alan, and so gifted. And he didn’t like having to snub them, so it was sometimes just a little awkward. That was what upset me so much when Alan spoke of having his father’s letters published.”
Miss Silver was putting the little pink coatee together. She looked up from it to say,
“Did he talk of doing so?”
“It upset me very much,” said Esther Field. “I was ill, you know, and so he had all the papers to go through. There were some letters-from a very foolish girl. I am afraid she may have fancied herself in love with Pen, and he would be too kind to snub her. He always said it was like measles-it ran its course and they got over it.”
“It happened on more than one occasion, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Esther Field comfortably. “It was just a kind of hero-worship. But I couldn’t get Alan to see how cruel it would be to publish the letters. People are so ready to believe the worst. And in this case-well, Alan didn’t tell me, but I can guess who the girl may have been, and it would have been very, very unkind indeed. Pen ought not to have kept the letters. I didn’t know that he had. How could I? It was very careless of him. It would have given dreadful pain to- to her family if they had been published-terrible pain.”
Miss Silver regarded her gravely.
“You say, ‘to her family.’ But what about herself?”
“That is just it,” said Esther Field. “She is dead. She died ten years ago. It was a terrible shock to Pen.”
“An accident?” enquired Miss Silver.
Esther Field gazed at her doubtfully.
“Oh, I don’t know-I hope so-I do hope so. Oh, yes, it must have been. She was bathing, and she swam out too far. She must have got a cramp, and she was drowned. Such a tragedy!”
Miss Silver said, “Yes indeed.”
Mrs. Field sighed.
“It doesn’t do to think of these old sad things, does it? One needs all one’s courage for the present. Poor, poor Alan!”
They went back to the house almost immediately. Miss Silver having changed into the dark blue artificial silk which Ethel Burkett had persuaded her to buy at Wildings-“Such good style, Auntie, and it will last you for years”-descended to the drawing-room, still shaded by sun-blinds but now admitting a pleasant breeze. She was, as always, meticulously neat-her hair with its deep Edwardian fringe in front, close coils behind, and an overall restraining net; the locket in massive gold with the raised and intertwined initials of her parents and the treasured locks of their hair; the black lisle stockings of her invariable summer wear; and the glacé shoes with their beaded toes. That the whole effect was that of someone who had stepped out of an album of family photographs, she was naturally unaware.
In the drawing-room she found only Mrs. Trevor, turning the leaves of a book in which she did not appear to take any interest. No one could have presented a greater contrast- her hair compelled into the latest style, her dress as near to the last vagary of fashion as collaboration with a local dressmaker could contrive. The result, if not altogether successful, undoubtedly ministered to her morale. Since Miss Silver would be someone to talk to, she was pleased to see her.
Esther Field had also gone to her room to change. As she took off her grey linen for the old black crêpe-de-chine which she had put in because it was cool and comfortable, she was thankful that custom no longer prescribed the mourning of an older day. She remembered Pen’s mother telling her that when their father died she and her sisters wore black with crape on it for six months, plain black for another six, after which a white tucker might be added and a gradual progress made through black and white to grey, and in the last three months of the second year to purple, mauve, and heliotrope. Nowadays people as often as not just wore what they had, not even avoiding the brighter colours. She had been rather shocked herself at seeing a young widow in crimson corduroy slacks. The old observances were oppressive, but there was a happy mean, and in the case of anything so dreadful as a murder one neither had the inclination to go shopping nor to wear anything that would attract attention.
She slipped the old black dress over her head and felt refreshed. The stuff was cool against her skin. Her talk with Miss Silver had done her good. It had been a relief to speak of the things which had lain so heavily upon her heart. It was sometimes easier to talk to a stranger who brought no emotions of her own to cloud the issue. Looking back, she only hoped she had not said too much. All that about Pen and Irene-she had never spoken of it to anyone before. Not that there had been anything to speak about-just hero-worship on her side and kindness on his. And perhaps the letters Alan wanted to publish were from someone quite different. Pen was always getting letters from women, and they meant so little, so very little-she knew that. She hadn’t thought about Irene-not at first-but now she couldn’t get away from her. It was almost as if she was there in the room, or as if at any moment a door might open and let her through. There was nothing frightening in the thought, only the gentle sadness into which all grief must turn as time goes by. She stood for a while by the window with the breeze coming in and let the gentle sadness have its way. Poor, poor Irene, so lovely, so young, and so tragically dead. Whatever foolish things she had written, no one would ever read them now. As soon as all this dreadful business about Alan was over she would go through the papers herself and see that the letters were burned.
Downstairs in the shaded drawing-room Maisie Trevor was indulging in her favourite occupation. Give her a receptive and sympathetic listener and she could be perfectly happy. This she now enjoyed in Miss Silver, and the stream of anecdote and reminiscence never flagged.
Miss Silver, casting on stitches for the first of a pair of bootees to match the little pink coat, was most gratifyingly attentive. Her original remark of “You and Mrs. Field and Lady Castleton are such very old friends,” had, as it were, released the waters, and they now flowed without pause or stay. Miss Silver was able to count her stitches very comfortably during some recollections of Carmona’s parents.
“George Leigh was really the handsomest man! Carmona isn�
��t anything special, but he was. All the girls were in love with him.” She laughed self-consciously. “I know I was. Now that it’s so long ago, I don’t mind saying so. But it was Adela he was in love with-never had eyes for anyone else until she turned him down for Geoffrey Castleton who was a much better match, and he went off and married Monica on the rebound. I don’t know what he saw in her after Adela. She was rather sweet of course, but Adela had everything!”
Miss Silver began to knit the first row of the bootee.
“When people have so much, it is sometimes a little overpowering,” she said.
Maisie Trevor’s blue eyes widened.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever thought of it like that, but I suppose it might be. Of course, there was something hard about Adela. Perhaps it was doing so many things and doing them all so dreadfully well. She did, you know. Dancing, tennis, swimming, fencing-they all seemed to come to her so easily. I remember someone saying to me-I don’t remember if it was Jennifer Rae or Mary Bond, or it might have been Josephine Carstairs, but we were all in the same set and it might have been any of them-only not Esther, because she never said anything unkind about anyone-but it would have been one of the others-Oh, where was I?”
“Something that was said about Lady Castleton.”
“Oh, yes! And now I am pretty sure it was Jean Elliot- because she was terribly in love with George Leigh, and frightfully jealous of Adela. Well, Jean said-I am really practically sure it was Jean-‘You can’t do such a lot and do it all so well and have much time left for the ordinary human feelings.’ And in a way that was true. She didn’t get fond of people, or have crushes, or fall in love like the rest of us did-she just had a raving success, and then made the most suitable marriage that came along. Geoffrey was in the Diplomatic, you know. He was supposed to have a big future, but he died young, and she never married again. She didn’t really care for people- only for Causes. She had a very big job in the war, and she speaks in public, and takes part in debates on the wireless- all that sort of thing. But as to people, I believe the only one she was ever really fond of was Irene.”
Esther Field came into the room with Lady Castleton just as Miss Silver enquired,
“Who is Irene?”
CHAPTER 31
There was one of those silences which bring it home to even the most dull-witted person that something of an unfortunate nature has been said. In this case quite obviously it was the name pronounced by Miss Silver. Seeing no reason to check herself, she had not done so, and Lady Castleton, coming in first, had reached the middle of the room before the sentence was complete.
“Who is Irene?”
Miss Silver’s enunciation, always very clear, seemed especially so on this occasion. Had Lady Castleton been nearer the door, had there been any possibility of ignoring what had been said, it is likely enough that she would have done so, but she was so near, so much exposed to the direct impact of the name-She paused for a moment, tall and graceful in her black dress, and said with perfect dignity of voice and manner,
“I think Mrs. Trevor may have been speaking of my sister who died ten years ago.” And having spoken, she passed on to join Esther Field where the long windows stood open to the terrace.
Maisie Trevor showed signs of confusion. She said, “We were all so fond of her,” and began to talk about something else. But no sooner had Adela Castleton and Esther Field stepped across the threshold and moved slowly out of sight than Miss Silver, usually so full of tact, returned to the subject. Leaning a little nearer, she said,
“I hope I did not embarrass Lady Castleton just now.”
Mrs. Trevor bridled.
“It’s not easy to embarrass Adela-in fact I shouldn’t think it could be done. She just puts on her grand manner and sails past you like she did just now.”
Miss Silver paused to contemplate the tiny frill of pink which had begun to show upon her needles. Then she said,
“It is sometimes quite startling to hear the name of someone very near and dear when one is not expecting to do so. I should be sorry to think that I had inadvertently revived a painful memory.”
Maisie Trevor dropped her voice.
“Well, of course it was a dreadful tragedy. She was so young, and really more beautiful, I think, than Adela-softer, you know, and not so dreadfully good at everything.”
“And she died? How extremely sad.”
“She was drowned. She must have swum out too far. They said it was a cramp.”
Miss Silver was never quite sure whether there was any stress upon the said. If so, it was of the slightest.
Mrs. Trevor’s tongue ran on. Cramp was such a horrid thing. But perhaps they had better not talk about it in case Lady Castleton came back. She really had been devoted to Irene. “No children of her own, you know-and some women seem to mind about that so much, though I really don’t quite see why, and I don’t know that Adela did. Tom and I never had any, and I’ve never minded in the least. Babies are so messy, and when they grow up they date you dreadfully. And then look at how some of them turn out! All these divorces, and boys getting mixed up with the most dreadful sorts of politics, or writing the sort of poetry that means they don’t wash or shave! Well, I shouldn’t have liked it at all-I really shouldn’t!”
Miss Silver agreeing that some of these modern trends were indeed to be depreciated, they were able to have a very comfortable talk upon the subject.
Pippa Maybury came down in a scarlet dress with so little top to it that it really might hardly have been there at all. She was made up after a rather startling fashion too, with a good deal of eye-shadow and mascara, skin of an even pallor, lipstick that matched her dress, and scarlet finger nails. Carmona, overtaking her in the hall, made a sound of dismay.
“Pippa!”
“I know, I know-‘Darling, do go up and put on something nice and quiet and dowdy’! And I’m not going to-not for you or for anyone! If I’m going to be plunged into a prison cell tomorrow, I’m going to have a good last kick tonight- so there!”
James Hardwick came up behind her. Pippa blew him a kiss and ran on. His eyebrows rose as he looked at Carmona.
“Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die?”
Carmona’s eyes were full of tears. She said,
“Yes. James, where is Bill? She wants to keep him out of it, and she can’t. He ought to be here.”
He nodded.
“Come along-we should go in.”
“James, if they arrest her-”
“I don’t think they will.”
“I can’t think why they don’t.”
“Perhaps because she really didn’t do it.”
She had a sudden startled feeling.
“Why did you say that?”
He said, “Second sight!” and walked away from her into the drawing-room.
CHAPTER 32
Miss Silver found it a very interesting evening. Of those present at least three were the objects of her particular attention. She did not talk much, but she listened a good deal, and her needles were busy. When after dinner Lady Castleton laid out her usual game of patience, she moved her chair close up to the table and became a most interested spectator. Her murmured deprecatory “I hope you do not mind” being dismissed with a brief “Oh, no,” she did not speak again. There was the occasional click of a needle, and the pink bootee began to take shape.
Adela Castleton sat there in her filmy black, leaning a little forward over the red and black and white of the cards, her beautiful hand with its ruby ring poised above them, laying down a King here, picking up a Queen, moving diamond and heart, club and spade, bent on the game and ordering it with skill.
Colonel Trevor was reading the Times. He never did anything else in the evenings except on the rare occasions when he was dragged into a game of Bridge. Sometimes he went to sleep behind it, when even Maisie had learned that it was better not to wake him. She was herself engaged in turning over the pages of the latest Vogue, exclaiming at the more extravagant style
s and picturing herself glamourously arrayed in them with the minute waist, the fabulous height, and the last word in hair-does which they demanded.
Esther had discarded her knitting for some fine embroidery. She was working a large ornamental H upon a set of face-towels for Carmona-the material a fine damask, and the design and stitchery really exquisite. She was one of the women to whom needlework is a relaxation. Her soft brown eyes dwelt upon it with pleasure. Her mood was quiet and at peace.
The three younger members of the party sat together. James Hardwick had a magazine, Pippa a book which she did not read. When she had fluttered through the pages she let it drop and picked up another, and rapidly, intermittently, she talked to Carmona, to James, to Maisie Trevor, to Miss Silver, to Esther Field-questions that did not wait for an answer, irrelevancies about this and that, startling because they disclosed the painful hurry with which her thoughts ran here and there and found no shelter. And all the time she was lighting one cigarette from another until the stubs were piled high upon the formidable ash-tray which Octavius Hardwick had won in a golf tournament round about the turn of the century.
There was a moment when James laid down his magazine and went out upon the terrace. Miss Silver, watching him go, observed that the breeze must be most refreshing.
“Such a wonderful spell of warm weather. I feel that one should make the most of it. Perhaps Major Hardwick will not mind if I join him.”
She might have been addressing herself to Carmona, or to the room in general. Carmona murmured, “Oh, yes, of course,” and the pink knitting, the ball of wool, and the needles were slipped into a flowered chintz bag.
Out of the Past Page 18
