Out of the Past

by Patricia Wentworth

  As Miss Silver crossed to the window she glanced back. Carmona and Pippa were looking in her direction. Esther Field had lifted her eyes from her embroidery. Adela Castleton looked down at the pattern of her game. The hand that was poised above it held the ace of spades.

  The air upon the terrace was delightful. Turning at the sound of a footstep, James Hardwick was considerably surprised to see who it was that had followed him. She came up to him and said,

  “You would prefer to be alone, but I would very much appreciate a short talk with you. Perhaps we might walk down the garden and out upon the cliff path. The breeze will be most refreshing.”

  “And we need refreshing?”

  “I think we do.”

  They walked down the cement path between Uncle Octavius’ figureheads, but until they emerged upon the cliff neither of them spoke. Then James Hardwick said,

  “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “About Mrs. Maybury.”

  “What is there to say?”

  “A good deal, I think.”

  “Well?”

  If his words were abrupt, they somehow did not offend. The impression she had been forming was deepened. She said with gravity,

  “I do not think that she can stand very much more.”

  He threw away the cigarette he had been smoking.

  “Abbott is a friend of yours. Are they going to arrest her?”

  “Not immediately.”

  “What is holding them off?”

  “I believe her story to be true. Truth makes its own impression. And”-she made a slight pause-“there are other avenues to be explored.”

  “They suspect someone else?”

  “It is a disturbing and complicated case. Where is Major Maybury? He should be here.”

  “He may be at any moment. I got on to him this morning. He is flying over.”

  “I am glad. The strain is too much for her. One has to think of that. It is not just a matter of whether she can escape arrest. There has been a severe shock and a prolonged strain. I think you must consider that.”

  “I?”

  “You, Major Hardwick.”

  They had been strolling along the cliff path. He stopped now and turned to face her.

  “And just what do you mean by that?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I assure you that I do not.”

  “Then there is no more to be said.”

  “But I should like to know what you meant.”

  “Something very simple. You know something that you have not told to the police, and I think the time has come when you have no right to withhold it.”

  “That is quite a large assumption on your part, isn’t it?”

  “But it is true, is it not?”

  “What makes you think so? I should really like to know.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You are, of course, acquainted with the process by which a coral reef is formed. Infinitesimal living particles combine in it. You ask me how I have arrived at a certain conclusion, and this simile presents itself. I do not think I can give you a better answer. An infinite number of small things combine, and an opinion is formed. Since I have undertaken to give Mrs. Maybury my professional help, it has become my duty to observe the other people in the house.”

  “And you have been observing me?”

  “Yes, Major Hardwick.”

  “And where did your observations lead you?”

  “I could see that you were profoundly disturbed.”

  “You think that strange, when a man has been murdered practically on my doorstep?”

  “Oh, no. There would have been nothing strange about the disturbance.” There was some slight emphasis on the word. “Mrs. Field was under your roof. Mrs. Hardwick and Mr. Field had been very closely connected-”

  “Then may I ask-”

  “Certainly you may. It was not that you were disturbed, but that this disturbance was producing a conflict in your mind, which struck me. I had to consider what this conflict might be. There could be but one answer-you had seen or heard something which you must either disclose to the police or withhold from them. For a time I had to consider whether you yourself were involved. Your wife was obviously under a considerable strain, not only on account of her friend Pippa, but also on your account. I was aware of this continually, until her return from the drive which she took with you this afternoon, when it was apparent that a weight had been lifted from her mind. It was plain that whatever her misgivings had been, you had succeeded in removing them. Yet you yourself showed no sign of relief.”

  He said drily,

  “I cannot, of course, prevent you from exercising your imagination in my direction, or in that of anyone else, but do you really believe that by doing so you will be helping Pippa Maybury?”

  “I hope that I may do so.”

  Her tone at this point arrested his attention. He had been prepared for offence, anger, justification-for anything but the deep, almost sad gravity with which she spoke. It was in the same vein that she now continued.

  “Major Hardwick, will you listen to me, and as far as possible without resentment? You ask me why I should think you have some knowledge which you have not shared with the police. I should like to answer that question in more detail. On that Wednesday night when Mrs. Maybury went to keep her appointment with Alan Field she did so by way of the path we have used tonight. Your dressing-room window overlooks the garden and commands a view of the path. The same applies to the adjoining bedroom. Upon so hot a night all the windows would be open.”

  “My dear Miss Silver, I had been travelling all day. Do you imagine that I spent the night looking out of the window?”

  “You are quick to perceive my point. I will not labour it. You could have seen, or heard, Mrs. Maybury as she went down the garden. She tells me that she heard what might have been a footstep on the terrace as she turned to close the garden door behind her. It startled her very much, and she ran the rest of the way to the path that goes down to the beach. When she was returning in a terrible state of distress after seeing Alan Field lying dead she had the very strong impression that there was someone not very far from the top of the path, and that this someone was watching her. She thought it was the murderer, and again she ran in terror.”

  “And can you supply any reason why this ‘murderer’ should hang about on the cliff path instead of getting away?”

  “I was about to raise that point, Major Hardwick. I am quite certain that the person on the cliff path was not the murderer-and for the reason which you have just put forward. Whoever killed Alan Field would be under the necessity of getting away as quickly as possible. The only thing which would oblige this person to remain in the vicinity would be the descent of the path to the beach by someone else before he or she had time to get away. This might render it necessary to remain at the foot of the cliff until the coast was clear. I am unable to see that it could compel the murderer to run the risk of loitering at the top of the cliff. I have, therefore, some grounds for supposing that it was you who stood there watching. If you did so, your evidence must be of the very highest importance.”

  “Miss Silver, you have a very vivid imagination.”

  “I am telling you what I think. Pray allow me to proceed. I think you followed Pippa Maybury when she left the house. When she went down to the beach you did not like to go after her lest you should seem to be intruding upon her private affairs, but on the other hand, neither did you like to go in and leave her there. She has a volatile character and is capable of very foolish actions. She is an old friend of your wife’s. I think you felt a certain responsibility.”

  James Hardwick was experiencing what clients of Miss Silver not infrequently did experience-surprise, anger, respect, and the odd sensation of being exposed to an observation so acute that it was useless to put up any defense against it. She had described not only his actions but the motives which had prompted them. He found himself without anything to say, but contin
uing to listen.

  After a momentary pause she went on.

  “The crucial importance of any evidence you may have to give comes from the fact of your position at the junction of the two paths. The person who was watching on the cliff commanded the approach from the beach. If you were that person-and I believe you were-you and you alone can say whether more than one person came up that way. It is clear from the state of Pippa Maybury’s dress and from her other evidence that the murder had only just taken place. It is possible that the murderer had not had time to get away before she could be heard descending the path. A person with so strong a reason for haste would lose no time once the way was clear. Pippa Maybury went down the path and over the beach to the hut. I believe you were waiting up here. Did anyone else come up the path before her return?”

  He had no refuge but silence. It was some little time before he said,

  “This is all the purest conjecture.”

  “Major Hardwick, if you did not follow Pippa Maybury, where were you? I do not think that you were in the house. Your wife was out of her room for a considerable time. She and Mrs. Maybury were backwards and forwards-to the bathroom, to the kitchen. During all this time your wife never mentioned you. She neither suggested asking for your help nor expressed any fear lest you should wake. I think she already knew that you were not in her room.”

  “The house was full of people who did not wake.”

  “The Trevors are down the passage on the left of the main landing, Mrs. Field in the corresponding room on the right. Lady Castleton, whose room was next to Mrs. Maybury’s, had taken a sleeping-draught.”

  “Had she?”

  “She had been complaining of headache. Your wife went up with her and saw her take a couple of tablets. She also looked in later on when the others came up in order to make sure that they had had the desired effect.”

  He had no comment to make. Miss Silver said,

  “I will not press you any farther now. Whatever your motive for silence may be, I ask you to weigh it against these facts. Pippa Maybury would have been arrested tonight if it had not been for a piece of evidence which the police have felt obliged to investigate. But unless there is some further development I am afraid that the arrest may take place. I ask you to consider the consequences. Even if it were not she but some other innocent person who was arrested, what must the effect be? Unhappiness-ruin! And in the end you would be forced to speak. There is also another aspect of which you probably do not know. Alan Field was, I believe, murdered because he was blackmailing a person who was prepared to go to any length to protect the secret which he threatened. I have some reason to suppose that this person is being blackmailed again. Do you imagine that someone already proved to be ruthless would hesitate at a second crime? Pray think of what I have said.”

  As she spoke she turned and began to walk back towards the house. The interview was over.

  James Hardwick found himself a little dazed. Frank Abbott had once remarked that as far as Miss Maud Silver was concerned the human race was glass-fronted. To find one’s thoughts and actions suddenly laid bare to a probing eye is a good deal too like the Day of Judgment to be a comfortable experience. When, as in this case, the experience is quite unexpected and the things revealed not such as one would wish to have exposed to view, the result is apt to be confounding.

  They walked in silence until they reached the garden door. Here Miss Silver turned to him.

  “Are you by any chance an admirer of Lord Tennyson?”

  He considered this to be a social digression. He hastened to respond.

  “I think I am. He has had quite a vogue again lately, you know.”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “A great man, too much neglected. May I for a moment quote from one of his poems?

  ‘…to live by law,

  Acting the law we live by without fear;

  And, because right is right, to follow right

  Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’ ”

  Once more James Hardwick found that he had nothing to say. Fortunately, it did not appear that he was expected to say anything. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was to have the last word. They went up the garden together in silence.

  When they had come to the glass door, they stood for a moment looking in upon the lighted room. They might hardly have left it. Nothing had changed. And to James Hardwick there seemed to be a strangeness about this. When thought has been strongly moved, there is an instinctive feeling that the world about us should also have suffered change. But this room and its occupants might have been here for time indefinite. The light from an overhead chandelier shone down with a mellow glow. Behind the Times Colonel Trevor was undoubtedly asleep. Over her magazine Maisie Trevor yawned. Lady Castleton was still at her game-or it might be that one had been swept away and another begun. Esther Field took the fine stitches of her embroidery. And on the stiff Victorian sofa the two girls sat together, the scarlet of Pippa’s dress, her floating ash-blonde hair, in vivid contrast to Carmona’s dark waves and flowing white.

  And then all in a moment the scene broke up. Beeston opened the door on the farther side and a man came past him into the room-a strongly built man, square-faced, sunburnt, and in a hurry-“Never gave me time to announce him nor anything-just said, ‘My name’s Maybury-I think my wife’s staying here,’ and walked right past.”

  Pippa looked up and caught her breath. Then she was on her feet, gasping his name and running down the room to throw herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill-Bill-Bill!”

  CHAPTER 33

  The night closed down. The earth gave out its heat. The water lay dark under a sky which never quite lost a faint mysterious light. In the houses there were some that slept, and some who could not sleep because of the weight upon the heart or the restless procession of thoughts which passed ceaselessly before the tired mind. There were some who could have slept if they had dared, but did not dare because of what might wait for them in dreams. There were some who waked because they had that to do which could not be done in the day.

  Marie Bonnet had very little difficulty in keeping herself awake. She was in a complacent and confident frame of mind, and in a state of great satisfaction with the cleverness, the competence, the efficiency, and the prudence of Marie Bonnet. It was, of course, to be seen at a glance that the affair must be conducted in a private manner. Such things could not be discussed in the street, upon the beach, or in a tea-shop. It was of, the first importance that the two persons concerned should not be seen to meet at all. If the matter was to be safe, it must be private. With José she was on a different footing. A girl may meet a lover and incur no more than a little scandal, but with this one it was different. There could be no meeting that would not set every tongue in Cliffton asking why.

  So the meeting must be private. But if that one had had the idea that Marie Bonnet, prudent Marie Bonnet, would come to a meeting on the cliff for example, where a push would be enough to send one over, or on the beach-perhaps even in the very hut where a man had died already…No, no, no-she was not born yesterday! She knew how to look after herself, and from this house she did not go! They could talk through the window, and after all what was there to be said? She had seen what she had seen, and the money must be paid, or she would go to the police. One-pound notes, and within the week. Just how and where, was one of the things to be arranged at the meeting.

  The clock of St. Mark’s struck twelve. Another half hour and there would be a tap on the dining-room window. Marie would open it. Not wide, it is understood-there would be no need for that, since there would be neither going out or coming in. A little pushing up of the old-fashioned sash, a few minutes whispered talk, and the whole thing would be settled. Mrs. Anning’s room looked out to sea, Miss Anning’s to the side of the house. On this side only one bedroom occupied for the moment, and by old Miss Crouch who would not hear if the house fell down.

  At five minutes to the half hour Marie went down the stairs in
her stocking feet. The curtains in the dining-room had not been drawn, and the two big windows showed up against the darkness of the room. She skirted the table, made her way to the one on the left, and pushed back the catch. She had done it often enough before to be assured that there would be no sound. No sound from the catch, no sound from the cords of the big sash window as she lifted it. It ran up a little over a foot from the bottom and stopped there. She took her hands away. The space would be enough. They could talk through it very well, but if anyone had the idea that they could get in, it would be easy enough to push the window down. Marie Bonnet knew how to look after herself.

  The air from outside came in, cooler and fresher than the air in the house. Kneeling in front of the window, Marie’s head came just about level with the open space. With the person she was expecting kneeling or stooping on the other side, they would be able to converse very well, and there would be no noise-no noise at all. No need to waste time. She would say what she must have, and what could the other do except agree? Whatever she liked to ask, it must be paid, because it was the price of the murderer’s life, and what is the use of money when you are dead? One must be practical.

  She began to wonder whether she was going to ask enough. But if one put the price too high, there might be at least delay, perhaps even danger. The movement of a too large sum of money-it might occasion suspicion. No, better to take what she had fixed in her own mind, and then see what could be done when one came back again. Because naturally one would come back again. When a dish is so tempting, it is to be expected that the plate will return for more than one helping.

  Clear and sharp upon the soft air came the two strokes of the half hour from the church of St. Mark. The bell was always a loud one. Now it sounded as if it must wake everyone in the house. Before the air had ceased to tingle a voice spoke from the other side of the window. In a deep quiet monotone it said,

  “Are you there?”

  Involuntarily Marie drew back. The striking of the clock had made her start, but the quiet voice startled her more sharply still. Because there had been no warning of it. She had been listening for a footstep upon the road, upon the path-for the groping of a hand, the catch of a hurrying breath. And there had been nothing-nothing at all-but quite suddenly out of nowhere the sound of that quiet voice.