Lamb said heartily.
‘Good thing for her she wasn’t born a couple of hundred years ago, or she’d have been ducked for a witch, if it didn’t get farther than that.’
Frank laughed.
‘Makes you feel that way – doesn’t she? Well, here’s something else. There’s a disreputable old chap called Ezra Pincott – leading light in poaching circles, strong persevering upholder of the local bar – Maudie says he’s been shooting off his face to all and sundry in the Bull about knowing something that would put money in his pocket if somebody knew what was what. She takes this to mean he’s got a low-down on the Harsch business, and she feels we ought to keep an eye on Ezra in case somebody thinks it would be simpler to do him in than to start paying blackmail.’
Lamb grunted.
That all? Nothing else she’d like? She’s about to say of course. All right, all right – you can see about it tomorrow.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
MISS SILVER HAD a busy afternoon. Lunch was not a comfortable meal. Florence had taken a great deal of trouble and everything was very nice, with good country vegetables, a plum tart, and the best she could do with the meat ration, but however well balanced you are, it is difficult to enjoy a meal with someone sitting opposite who looks as if she had just received a death sentence and has braced herself to endure its instant execution.
Miss Brown was more like Medusa than ever. Her eyes remained fixed upon her plate, but she did not eat. She merely pushed the food about in a jerky, mechanical manner. When it was apparent that the plum tart with its really very nice custard made from egg substitute was to share the same fate as the curried mince, the baked tomatoes, the beans and potatoes of the first course, Miss Sophy could bear it no longer. She said, ‘Medora—’ in a pleading voice.
Miss Brown’s face remained blank – eyes cast down, heavy black hair shading the marmorial brow, heavy black lashes shading the marmorial cheek. It certainly was exasperating to the last degree. Quite suddenly Miss Sophy lost her temper. Her voice, incapable of being loud, shook with vexation.
‘Medora, you’ll be ill, and nothing puts Florence out like leaving what she has cooked – and I’m sure I don’t wonder when you think about the Navy having to bring everything hundreds of thousands of miles, except the plums and the vegetables which are out of the garden, but it would be all the same if they weren’t! And what good you think you do, making yourself ill like this, I don’t know, but you are making me very unhappy – very unhappy indeed!’ She screwed up her eyes, and two bright little tears popped out.
Miss Brown’s black lashes lifted, disclosing sombre eyes. She said in a deep whisper, ‘I am sorry – I had better go,’ and with that pushed back her chair and went out of the room in an unhurried, sleepwalking sort of way.
Miss Sophy burst into tears.
When she had been consoled, and lunch concluded, Miss Silver betook herself upstairs. Her tap upon Miss Brown’s door was so briskly followed up that she was well into the room before her entry was perceived. It occasioned so much surprise as to shake that cold control.
Miss Silver coughed in a deprecating manner.
‘I have come to have a little talk with you. Shall we sit down?’
Miss Brown shook her head.
‘You are a detective. I have nothing to say.’
Miss Silver surveyed her compassionately.
‘You are very unhappy, are you not?’
Miss Brown turned abruptly and walked over to the window. She stood there looking out, but she saw nothing. A sudden rush of tears blinded her. She neither moved nor did anything to wipe them away. They remained a distorting crystal through which the outside world had no form nor meaning.
Miss Silver stood where she was and waited. After a moment she said, it will be more comfortable if you will sit down. It does not matter if you are crying, but I think we must talk.’
There was a slow negative movement.
Miss Silver said briskly, ‘Let us be practical. When something has happened it is no use trying to remain in the past, or to refuse to accept what the present demands of us. I think Mr Harsch was your friend. He is dead, and you cannot bring him back. Mr Madoc is not dead – yet. He is alive, but he is in a very serious position. For some reason you have made up your mind that he shot Mr Harsch. I want you to tell me why you think so.’
Without turning round, without moving at all, Miss Brown repeated what they were all so tired of hearing.
‘I have nothing to say.’
Miss Silver sighed.
‘That is not at all practical, I am afraid. If Mr Madoc is guilty, your silence will not prove him innocent. There is a strong case against him. If he is innocent, any fact you can contribute will help to prove him so. One is not always the best judge of what is helpful to a person in whom one is interested. I beg of you to give me the chance of arriving at the truth. There is a good deal about this case which cannot be explained on the supposition of Mr Madoc’s guilt. Be frank with me, and I do not believe that you will regret it.’
Miss Brown continued to stare at a formless world through the distorting crystal of those un-fallen tears. She made again the faint movement of the head which said ‘No.’
Miss Silver said in her quiet, pleasant voice, ‘You are making a grave mistake. Have you considered that the prosecution can call you as a witness, and that you can be compelled to speak? Even if you were prepared to refuse and to incur the penalty for contempt of court, your very refusal would tell most terribly against Mr Madoc. Prosecuting counsel would be able to put questions which, in the absence of an answer, would strengthen the case for the Crown. You have no means of escaping this. You cannot avoid being called as a witness.’
Miss Brown turned round with a sudden quick movement. The tears which had blinded her fell unregarded. Her eyes blazed with something like triumph. She said in her deep, full voice, ‘They can’t call me as a witness. I’m his wife.’
Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ and then, ‘Pray let me beg you to sit down. It will be so much more comfortable for us both. I have always noticed that when a conversation of any importance is carried on standing it tends to become dramatic. Let me beg of you to be seated.’
Miss Brown walked over to a chair and sat down. Quite suddenly she was glad to do so. The stiffness had gone from her limbs, she felt relaxed and weak. She became aware that she had had very little food for days. She leaned back and shut her eyes. She heard Miss Silver leave the room, and presently she heard her come back again. A cup of soup was held to her lips. When she had drunk it she was encouraged in a kind, matter-of-fact way to partake of warmed-up mince and vegetables. After which she found Miss Silver looking at her in a friendly manner.
‘Now why did you not tell Sergeant Abbott what you have just told me?’
‘I don’t know.’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘It was not very wise. But when one has kept a secret for a long time it tends to become a habit.’
Miss Brown said, ‘Yes.’
‘Will you tell me when you were married, and where? There must be proof, or you cannot be protected from giving evidence.’
‘Five years ago – in London – the Marylebone Register Office – June 17th. We didn’t give it out because he was waiting for a job. We couldn’t really afford to get married, but we were very much in love. It wasn’t anyone’s business but our own. He had his sister to support. I went on with my work, and he went on with his. We met when we could. Sometimes there were weekends.’ She spoke in short, detached sentences, and in an absent voice as if she were looking back over those five years and remembering bit by bit. What no one could have known was just how much relief it brought her to remember and to speak.
She pushed back her heavy hair and let her hands fall again in her lap.
‘We quarrelled of course. We weren’t young enough to live that sort of life. When you are not young you want a home, companionship – everything that is normal. We couldn’t have it. Some
body else got the job that he was hoping for. He couldn’t support me unless he stopped supporting his sister. He couldn’t do that. The quarrels got worse. He has a very bad temper, but I could have managed if we had had a normal life. We couldn’t have it. It all came to an end about three years ago. He didn’t even write. Then I heard he had got this government job. I thought if we could meet again. But I couldn’t leave my post – I couldn’t afford to do that. Then the old lady I was with died and left me some money – enough to have made all the difference if it had come before. I went on thinking about coming here. A friend of mine helped me to meet Miss Fell, and I came here just over a year ago. At first I thought it was going to be all right. Then we quarrelled again. He began to make scenes about Mr Harsch.’ She pushed back her hair again and looked wretchedly at Miss Silver. ‘There wasn’t any reason for it – there wasn’t indeed. We talked about music, and sometimes about Evan – we both loved him. But he is so difficult. I think he was jealous of both of us. That evening he knew Mr Harsch had gone to the church to play the organ. He came down to see if I was there, and he took my key just as that boy says he did.
And I don’t know – I don’t know what happened after that.
Then we must find out,’ said Miss Silver in a brisk, and cheerful voice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘WHO IS EZRA Pincott?’ enquired Miss Silver. She had the mild expectant look of a teacher addressing her class. For the moment this consisted of Miss Fell, Major Albany, and Miss Janice Meade. Miss Brown had been persuaded to go to bed. Her absence was felt to be a relief.
All three of them said, ‘Ezra Pincott?’
‘Dear me,’ said Miss Silver, ‘there seems to be a great many Pincotts in Bourne.’
There was nothing in her manner to show that she had already acquired a considerable amount of information about the Pincotts in general and about Ezra in particular.
Miss Sophy stopped pouring out tea, but kept the teapot poised.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Old Jeremiah Pincott had eighteen children. Susannah Bush is one of them, and they have mostly had large families themselves. Not Susannah – she has only two without counting the twins who died. Jeremiah was a well-to-do farmer, but Ezra is the son of his brother Hezekiah who ran away to sea.’
‘He’s the local bad hat,’ said Garth.
Miss Silver accepted a cup of tea, produced her own bottle of saccharin, and dropped in one tablet.
‘I see—’ she said. And then, ‘I should like very much to speak to him.’
Garth laughed.
‘Then you’d better let me catch him for you tomorrow before the pubs are open.’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘He drinks?’
‘As much as he can get. What do you want him for?’
He wondered if he was going to be snubbed, but it appeared that the teacher would answer his question.
‘I hear he was boasting last night in the Black Bull that he knew something that would put money in his pocket. No names were mentioned, but I received the impression that the reference was to Mr Harsch and the manner of his death. You do not think it would be possible for me to see him before tomorrow?’
‘I don’t think so. You see, he’s by way of working for Giles who farms the land on the other side of the Church Cut. The minute he gets off he goes down to the Bull and stays there till it shuts. The only time I could get hold of him for you would be during his dinner hour – that is, if you want him sober.’
Miss Silver looked grave.
‘I should prefer it. I should also prefer to see him today, but it cannot be helped.’ She coughed and continued, ‘I should also be glad to have some information about Gladys Brewer.’
Miss Sophy looked mildly shocked. She helped herself to a rock bun and said in a soft, distressed voice, ‘Not at all a satisfactory girl, I am afraid. She does daily work up at Giles’, and her mother has very little control over her.’
Janice leaned forward with an appealing look.
‘I don’t really think she’s as bad as they make out.’ She turned to Miss Silver. ‘She’s one of those giggling, bouncing girls who get themselves talked about. She likes boys, and she’ll do anything for a lark, but she’s not bad – really.’
‘I would like very much to see her,’ said Miss Silver. ‘I wonder if it could be managed. When is she likely to be free – about six o’clock?’
‘Yes, I should think so.’
‘She lives with her mother?... Then perhaps we might take a walk in that direction and look in.’
‘Oh, yes, but—’ Janice hesitated ‘– I wouldn’t like to get her into trouble.’
Miss Silver smiled.
‘There is a country proverb which says, “If you don’t trouble trouble – trouble won’t trouble you.”’
Garth Albany gave her a direct look.
‘What do you mean by that?’
She turned the smile on him.
‘Gladys won’t get into trouble – from the law – if she hasn’t broken the law. I do not for a moment imagine that she has done so, but if she was in the churchyard on Tuesday night she may have seen or heard something. I should like to know whether she did.’
Janice said, still in that hesitating voice, ‘I could take you to see Mrs Brewer. I know them quite well.’
At a little before six Miss Silver and Janice turned off the main street into a narrow lane where half a dozen old cottages mouldered. They were of the kind which are called picturesque, with old tiled roofs, minute windows, and a general air of dilapidation. Mrs Brewer’s cottage was the smallest and the most dilapidated. It had sunflowers and hollyhocks in the garden, and a few ragged gooseberry and currant bushes. The doorstep was freshly whitened.
When Mrs Brewer opened the door Miss Silver thought she looked rather like the cottage, battered, and as if time had been too much for her. She had lost most of her front teeth, the late Mr Brewer having knocked them out when ‘under the influence’. She had told Janice all about it whilst obliging at Prior’s End. She seemed to feel a kind of gloomy pride in her husband’s prowess – ‘Life and soul of a party he was, and no harm in him as long as he wasn’t crossed. And Gladys is as like him as two peas, but a bit tiring, if you know what I mean, miss.’
She invited them into her spotless kitchen. The door opened directly upon it, and disclosed very old uneven flagstones on the floor, and very old sagging beams not very far overhead. In the corner a narrow ladder-like stair led up to the bedroom. With the exception of a lean-to at the back to hold fuel and store vegetables, there were only these two rooms. Bathrooms and indoor sanitation were unguessed at when these cottages were built, and the petrifying dictum was that what was good enough in the past was good enough for the present had never been disputed.
Mrs Brewer pulled forward a couple of chairs and invited her visitors to be seated.
‘Was it about me coming up to Prior’s End, miss? If there was anything extra, I’d be very pleased—’
But even as she spoke, the horrid fear took hold of her that Miss Madoc might have sent to say that she needn’t come any more, and then she’d be two days short, and nowhere to fill them unless she went back to the Miss Doncasters that never stopped telling you what to do and what not to do until you didn’t know one from the other. And as like as not some of the china got broken. There was a cup with a blue border and little bunches of flowers the last time she was there, and such an upset as never was.
But Miss Janice wasn’t saying anything like that. It was just, ‘Miss Silver is staying with Miss Sophy, and I was showing her the village. She was saying your cottage must be very old.’
Mrs Brewer looked relieved.
‘Mr Brewer’s grandfather lived here,’ she said, as if imagination could go no farther back. She turned to Janice. ‘Oh, miss, what a dreadful thing about Mr Madoc! I’m sure I never slept a wink after I heard. Oh, miss, he never done it!’
Janice said, ‘No, we don’t think he did.’
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p; And with that the door swung in with a clatter and Gladys Brewer bounced into the room – a large plump girl with a bright colour and a fine head of chestnut hair piled up in front and hanging in a bush behind. She had bright blue eyes, very good teeth, and an exuberant air of health and jollity.
She said, ‘Hello, Mum!’ and then caught sight of the visitors and giggled, voice and laugh at full stretch. ‘Hello, Miss Janice!’ She giggled again.
Miss Silver said, ‘How do you do?’ and then went on talking to Mrs Brewer about the cottage.
‘So picturesque – but sadly inconvenient.’
Gladys let off another loud giggle.
‘I’m sure you’d say so if you’d bumped your head as often as I have going upstairs! Well, I’ll go up and change. I’m going out. You can expect me when you see me. We’re going into Marbury to the pictures.’
Miss Silver addressed her directly.
‘It must be rather dull for you in Bourne. What do you do in the evenings when you do not go to the pictures?’
Gladys giggled twice as loudly as before.
‘What does any girl do if she gets the chance?’
Miss Silver smiled affably.
‘You have a boyfriend, I expect – or perhaps more than one, which is quite the best way when you are young. You will not want to settle down until you are older, and meanwhile, I expect, there are lots of boys of your own age to go about with?’
Mrs Brewer fidgeted with her fingers, twisting them in and out. She looked from Gladys to Miss Silver.
‘Oh, miss – she don’t want any encouragement with the boys!’
Gladys seemed to take this as a compliment.
‘Oh, get on with you, Mum!’
Miss Silver continued to smile indulgently.
‘I am afraid you have spoiled her, Mrs Brewer.’
By this time Gladys was in high good humour.
She felt herself the centre of attention, and was duly flattered. She thought Miss Silver ever such a kind old lady. Most of them expected a girl to behave as if she was dead and buried. That there Miss Doncaster with her ‘Does your mother know you’re out, Gladys?’ – she never had no boyfriends in her life. You could tell that as easy as easy – looked as if she’d been brought up on vinegar and never got rid of the taste of it.
The Key (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 8) Page 15
