The Key (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 8)

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘You knew that Mr Harsch was playing the organ in the church?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was a warm night, and the window was open behind the curtains. I can always hear the organ when the window is open – not the soft bits of course, but when anyone is using the swell.’

  ‘How did you know that it was Mr Harsch who was playing?’

  Miss Sophy looked surprised.

  ‘Miss Brown is the only other person who plays the organ, and she was in the drawing-room with me.’

  ‘And was she with you when you heard the shot?’

  ‘No – I don’t think so – I think she had gone to bed ... Oh, yes, I know she had, because I remember putting out the light in the hall.’

  ‘What time was it when you heard the shot? Do you remember?’

  ‘Oh, I remember perfectly. It was a quarter to ten – because I had just looked at my watch and thought it was rather early to go to bed, but since Miss Brown had gone up I had better go too.’

  ‘Miss Fell – when you heard this shot, did you think it came from the church?’

  ‘Oh, no – indeed I didn’t!’

  ‘What did you think?’

  Miss Sophy put her head on one side, as she always did when she was considering anything. Then she said quite briskly, ‘I thought it was Mr Giles. His fields run right down to the church on the other side of the Cut. I knew that he had been losing some of his fowls – the foxes are terrible now that there is no hunting.’

  From his seat in the fourth row on the left of the hall Mr Giles, a rubicund elderly farmer, was seen to nod emphatically, and heard to ejaculate, ‘That’s right!’

  Miss Fell having been released, he was called to the table and asked whether he had in fact been out with his gun on Tuesday night, to which he replied that he had been up until midnight with a sick cow and much too busy to trouble his head about foxes.

  Miss Brown was the last witness. She was so pale in her deep black that she might have been the chief mourner. It passed through Garth’s mind to wonder whether she was. If he had ever seen a figure of tragedy in his life, he thought he saw one now. And Aunt Sophy talking about happy gifts, and how much ‘My dear friend Miss Brown’ had brightened her life! There seemed to have been a slip-up somewhere. Of course she might have been in love with Harsch – he supposed middle-aged people did fall in love. Somehow he didn’t find the idea convincing.

  He listened to the deep voice taking the oath in a kind of husky whisper. Then the coroner was asking her about Aunt Sophy’s key.

  ‘You were in the habit of using it?’

  Still in that husky whisper, Miss Brown said, ‘Yes.’

  The hall had plain windows set rather high up on both sides. Through the second window on the left, the sun came slanting in, to touch the edge of Miss Brown’s hat, her shoulder, the hand which hung at her side. Garth, watching attentively, saw the hand clench upon itself. There was no glove upon it. The knuckles were as white as bone. Under the brim of the black felt hat the cheek muscles were tense, the skin was bloodless. Between the heavy black hair and the curving arc of the eyebrow there was a gleam of sweat. In some apprehension he thought, ‘Good lord – she’s going to faint!’

  The coroner put his next question.

  ‘Had you occasion to use this key on the day of Mr Harsch’s death?’

  Miss Brown did not faint. She said, ‘I used it in the morning. I went to the church to practise between eleven and twelve. I put the key back in the drawer. I did not go to the church again.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Brown.’

  The words dismissed her. Garth saw the tense muscles relax, the clenched hand fall limp. She got up, came through the shaft of sunlight to the steps, and back to her seat. She had to pass him on the outside of the row, and Miss Sophy next to him. Unlike Mr Madoc, Garth stood up to make way for her, stepping out into the aisle between the rows. As she went by, he heard her take a low sighing breath. To his mind, there was no doubt at all that Miss Brown was very much relieved. He thought her emotion at her release a good deal overdone – much ado about nothing in fact. She had only to answer a couple of harmless questions about Aunt Sophy’s key, and she had been within an ace of passing out. Odd, because she hadn’t struck him as a swooner.

  He began very carefully to consider those two harmless questions, both about the key. ‘You were in the habit of using it?’ – ‘Had you occasion to use this key on the day of Mr Harsch’s death?’

  Nothing in question number one. Everyone in the village knew she was in the habit of using Aunt Sophy’s key. Yet it was immediately after this question that she began to look as if she was going to faint. Quite obviously, she had the wind up. Why? Again quite obviously, she didn’t know what was coming next. She was waiting for question number two exactly as a man might wait for a bullet. But when it came it wasn’t a bullet after all – just a harmless blank cartridge. So far from swooning when it hit her, she was able to get quite a lot of unsolicited information off her chest and depart heaving sighs of relief. Yet this second question in one form or another was just the one question which was bound to be put – inevitable, unescapable. He came back on the words in his own mind – ‘in one form or another’. She had known – she must have known – that she would be asked whether she had used the key. That was why she had the wind up. There couldn’t be any other reason.

  Suppose the second question had been, ‘Did you take the key out of Miss Fell’s drawer on that Tuesday evening?’ Would her hand have unclenched and those tense muscles relaxed? He wondered. But the Coroner had asked, ‘Had you occasion to use this key on the day of Mr Harsch’s death?’ and Miss Brown had replied, ‘I used it in the morning. I went to the church to practise between eleven and twelve. I put the key back in the drawer. I did not go to the church again.’ A very comprehensive answer for a lady who looked as if she was going to swoon.

  He cast his mind back to the previous evening and thought furiously – Miss Brown at the grand piano with her back to them, a Beethoven thunderstorm going on up and down the keyboard, and Aunt Sophy telling him that Eliza Pincott who married a young Braybury from Ledstow had had triplets – ‘So very inconvenient, but she’s as proud as a peacock. But then the Pincotts are like that – everything that happens to them is just what they wanted and quite all right, except that old Ezra turned up drunk at the christening and they didn’t like that. And she sent me a snapshot – just behind you there, dear boy, in the left-hand top drawer of my bureau—’ Well, the snapshot was there all right, but he was prepared to stand up in any court, at any time, and take oath that the key was not. Of course that was Thursday evening and not Tuesday. Mr Harsch had been shot on Tuesday evening. Aunt Sophy might have removed the key. Miss Brown had only sworn that she had put it back in the drawer after practising in the church between eleven and twelve on Tuesday morning.

  He went on wondering furiously.

  NINE

  ON THE OTHER side of the narrow aisle Janice Meade was thinking too. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head a little bent. The chairs were set so close together in the row that if she had not been so slim and lightly built, Miss Madoc’s lumpy grey shoulder would have touched her on the one side and Mr Madoc’s bony one on the other. She sat between them, quite still and withdrawn. After she had given her evidence she had slipped into the quiet place she kept among her thoughts. It was a place which very few people entered. She locked it against everyone except the people whom she really loved. Her father was there. Not the tired, failing man whom she had nursed so devotedly, but the father of her nursery days incomparably strong and omniscient. There was nothing he couldn’t do, nothing he didn’t know. When she could think of him like that, life didn’t feel so lonely. She couldn’t remember her mother at all, but she was there too, a lovely shadow, rather felt than seen, never any older than the miniature which had been painted when she was twenty. A few months ago she had opened the door to Mr Harsch. He came and went. He had been sad, and now he wasn’t sad any more.r />
  There was one other person who was always there – Garth Albany. She had not looked at him yet, beyond the one glance which told her where he was sitting when she entered the hall. She knew, of course, that he was staying with Miss Sophy. Tommy Pincott had delivered the news with the milk at eight o’clock. As long as the milkman delivered and the baker called, you were sure of the village news. It was a long time since she had seen Garth – three years. She had been away at each time he came. There is quite a gap between nineteen and twenty-two. Nineteen hasn’t really quite put off childish things. And how she had adored him when she was a child. She had enough love to go round a dozen brothers and sisters, but there hadn’t been any brothers and sisters, so she had to give it all to Garth. And all her hero-worship, and all the silly romantic dreams which must have a peg to hang on when you are in your teens. Now, of course, everything was quite different. She was twenty-two and quite grown-up. You didn’t despise your old romantic dreams, but you kept them in their place. They were no part of the practical everyday life in which you lifted your eyes and looked across at Garth Albany sitting beside Miss Sophy.

  Her heart turned over, because he was looking at her. Their eyes met and something happened. She didn’t know what it was, because for the moment she couldn’t think, she could do nothing but feel.

  Afterwards she knew only too well what had happened. Garth wasn’t going to be put away with childish things, or shut away in a secret place of dreams. He was most actually alive and there. He wasn’t anyone’s dream. He was Garth on his own, as he had always been, and if she was fool enough to fall in love with him, her folly would be its own reward – she would get hurt. She had an agonised premonition of just how much it would be possible for Garth to hurt her – and she would only have herself to thank.

  Garth’s eyes smiled at her for a moment. Then she was looking down again at her folded hands and the coroner was summing up.

  It was some time before she could listen coherently. Words came and went – ‘services rendered to science ... deplorable persecution ... cruel personal bereavements ...’ She came out of her own thoughts to take in what he was saying.

  ‘Mr Harsch had just completed work to which he had given all his time and energies for a number of years. There is some evidence to show that he had the feeling which would be natural in such a case. On that last evening of his life he spoke to Miss Meade of having brought a child into the world and having now to give it over to others to be brought up. He was, of course, referring to his work, which had reached the stage when it had to be taken out of his hands in order that it might be usefully developed. He also talked at some length about the daughter he had lost in such a tragic manner. When he went out after supper he spoke of blowing the clouds away. I am not musical, but I understand that though music may in some circumstances have a soothing and consoling effect, it has also admittedly the power of heightening the emotions. We have no direct evidence to show the state of Mr Harsch’s mind during the time that he was in the church. We do know that he was there for a considerable time. He left Prior’s End at eight, and according to Miss Fell’s evidence the shot was fired at a quarter to ten. Even if he had walked quite slowly he must have reached the church no later than twenty minutes past eight. For the best part of an hour and a half, therefore, he was in the church playing the organ. As the sexton has explained, there were four keys to the church, and the rector has told us that these keys belonged to a modern lock which had been fitted to the side door of the church, the other two doors being bolted on the inside and their keys no longer in use. Of the four keys to the side door, the rector and the sexton had one each, Miss Fell had one which was used by Miss Brown, and Mr Harsch had one. When Miss Meade and the sexton arrived at the church the door was locked. Behind that locked door Mr Harsch lay dead. When his body was examined by the police the key he had used was found in his left-hand jacket pocket. I am going very fully into this question of the keys, because you will have to decide whether you are satisfied that Mr Harsch locked himself into the church and afterwards shot himself there, or whether it is possible that some other person entered the building and shot him. The sexton’s evidence is to the effect that it was not Mr Harsch’s habit to lock himself in but that he had known him do so. If a man were either in some distress of mind or contemplating suicide, it would, I think, be natural for him to guard against intrusion by locking himself in. As to the possibility that some other person entered the church and shot Mr Harsch, you have to consider how this entry might have been effected. Either Mr Harsch must have admitted his assailant, or one of the other three keys must have been used. If Mr Harsch was engaged in playing the organ, the chance of anyone’s attracting his attention and thus gaining admittance is a slender one. Even if it is a possibility, it leaves unanswered the question as to how this suppositious person managed to quit the church, leaving the door locked and the key in Mr Harsch’s pocket. There remains the question as to whether one of the other three keys could have been used. On this point you have the evidence of the sexton, Frederick Bush, of Miss Brown, and of the rector. Bush says his key was hanging upon the kitchen dresser when he locked up for the night at a quarter past ten. The rector says his key was on his chain, and that he did not go down to the church at all. Miss Brown says she used Miss Fell’s key in the morning, put it back in the drawer where it was kept, and did not return to the church. The police inspector has told us that Mr Harsch’s key shows only one blurred fingerprint, this print being similar to the blurred print left by the forefinger of a set of fingerprints found upon the pistol. These latter prints are unquestionably Mr Harsch’s own, and in the case of the other three fingers and the thumb they are perfectly clear. The blurring of the print upon the key and the printless condition of the other side of it is, I think, accounted for by the fact that the pocket in which it was found contained also a handkerchief, a matchbox, and several other small objects. In these circumstances there would probably be some friction on the surface of the key, especially when it is considered that Mr Harsch was playing the organ, an occupation involving a considerable amount of movement. As regards the pistol, there is no evidence as to ownership. It is of a common German make. Anyone who had been in Germany might have acquired it and brought it to this country. Mr Harsch had no licence to cover this or any other firearm. It is, however, a regrettable fact that there are a great quantity of unlicensed firearms in this country, a large number of which are either service revolvers retained by ex-servicemen after the last war or foreign weapons brought in as souvenirs.’

  The coroner paused.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, that is the evidence. You will now retire and give it your consideration. I may say that the medical evidence will not admit an accident as a basis for your verdict. You have to decide whether Mr Harsch shot himself, or whether someone else shot him.’

  The jury got up and trooped out. They were away for less than five minutes. They returned with the verdict that Michael Harsch had shot himself while the balance of his mind was disturbed.

  TEN

  EVERYBODY CAME OUT of the hall rather as if they were coming away from a funeral. The ceremony being over, you could recognise your friends and converse with them, but in an appropriately subdued manner. Mrs Mottram’s manner could not, unfortunately, be called subdued even by the least candid friend. She was obviously excited, and the bright blue of her dress did nothing to disarm criticism. She rushed, positively rushed – the expression is Miss Doncaster’s – up to Mr Everton and kept him talking on the steps of the hall, her light high-pitched voice making everything she said plainly audible.

  Miss Doncaster’s strictures were what might have been expected. She joined Miss Fell’s party for the short homeward walk, and she had no hesitation in stating that she considered Mrs Mottram’s behaviour brazen.

  ‘Pursuing – positively pursuing Mr Everton! Asking him at the top of her voice whether she had “done it nicely”! Exactly as if she had been taking part in a play
instead of discharging a solemn and most unpleasant duty! I really cannot say what I think of her behaviour!’

  Miss Sophy demurred. She was partial to the young. She liked Mrs Mottram, and she had no objection to her flirting with Mr Everton, whom she considered very well able to look after himself. She even liked the bright blue dress, which she thought gay and becoming, though of course not suitable to an inquest. She armed herself for the fracas which always ensued when you disagreed with Lucy Ellen.

  ‘My dear, you really have managed to say a good deal.’

  Miss Doncaster looked down her long, thin nose.

  ‘If I stated my true opinion—’

  Miss Sophy hastened to interrupt.

  ‘My dear, I shouldn’t. And do you know, I like Mrs Mottram. She is always so pleasant.’

  Miss Doncaster snorted.

  ‘She hasn’t the brain of a hen!’

  ‘Perhaps not – but there are such a lot of clever people, and so few pleasant ones.’

  They had arrived at the gate to the village street. Whatever Miss Doncaster might have replied was lost because Miss Sophy turned to put out a hand to Janice whom she had at that moment discovered to be just behind her with Garth.

  ‘Come to tea, my dear,’ she said. ‘I would ask you to lunch, but you know what it is – Florence would give notice. At least she wouldn’t really, because she has been with us for so many years, but she would talk about it, and that is almost as upsetting.’ She turned back again. ‘You may say what you like, Lucy Ellen, but Mrs Mottram was the only one of us to say straight away that she would take in an evacuee, though in the end she never got one.’

  Irritation passed into cold rage. Miss Doncaster paled and stiffened.

  ‘If you imagine, Sophy—’ she began, but Miss Sophy made haste with an olive branch.

  ‘Now, Lucy Ellen, don’t let us quarrel. No one expects you to take in a child, with Mary Anne in the state she is. And I won’t say I didn’t beg Mrs Pratt not to put one in on me, because I did, and everyone knows it. But by the time the village had taken theirs, and Mr Everton and the Rector, there really were, quite providentially, none left over, otherwise it would have been my duty, and I hope I should have done it whether Florence and Mable gave notice or not.’