The Key (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 8)

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘Yes, she told me that too. And was Mr Madoc also in Marbury?’

  Janice looked startled. She said, ‘Oh!’ And then, ‘I don’t know where he was.’

  ‘You mean that he was not at home?’

  Janice went on looking startled.

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He went out after lunch on his bicycle, and he didn’t come home until well after seven.’

  ‘And the distance to Marbury is, I believe, no more than twenty miles by road – he could have been there?’

  Janice said, ‘I suppose he could.’ And then, ‘But, Miss Silver, none of these people had anything to do with Mr Harsch’s past. I mean, he wouldn’t have called any of them a ghost, would he? He wouldn’t have meant any of them when he talked about an opening door.’

  Miss Silver said soberly, ‘No, he wouldn’t have meant any of them. But I think perhaps the door he spoke of opened in the Ram, and it is possible that one of them was there.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  SERGEANT ABBOTT ESCORTED Miss Silver to Marbury next morning, having slept the night at the Black Bull upon a bed whose mattress, a genuine antique, appeared to be stuffed with period paving stones. To offset this, he had a new-laid egg for breakfast – the Bull keeping its own hens and being very sharply in competition with Mr Everton in the matter of laying averages. They took the bus to the Halt and caught the 9.40, an exceptionally slow train which not only stopped at everything that could be called a station but occasionally paused by the way and puffed when there was no station at all. They had a carriage to themselves, and beguiled the way with conversation. Miss Silver produced three quotations from Tennyson, two of which were quite unknown to Frank. He was rather pleased with:

  Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloomed with woe

  You all but sicken at the shifting scenes.

  And yet be patient. Our Playwright may show

  In some fifth Act what this wild Drama means.

  and listened respectfully to a eulogy upon the bard. After which Miss Silver opened her shabby handbag and produced an envelope containing half a dozen snapshots which she extracted and handed to him.

  ‘Miss Brown has an excellent camera. I was so pleased to find that Miss Fell had these photographs. They are very good and clear, are they not? The first two were taken at the Mother’s Strawberry Tea in the Rectory garden. It has been an annual treat for the last fifty years, but since the war they just have tea and buns, and the fruit is gathered and taken to the Village Institute to be made into jam. Bush has come out very well in the first photograph, but his wife has turned her head away. Miss Doncaster is very good in both of them. Then there are two excellent snapshots of Mr Madoc. In one of them he is walking with Mr Harsch. In the other he is conversing with Mr Everton. It is really very good of them both, I am told. I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Madoc as yet, but Miss Sophy informs me—’

  ‘Yes, it’s like him.’

  Miss Silver beamed.

  ‘And very like Mr Everton. Most characteristic.’ She displayed the last two photographs. ‘The judges in the competition for the best allotment – Miss Fell, Bush, Mr Everton, and Dr Edwards. They are all great gardeners. Such a healthy pursuit. Two views, both very good and clear, I think.’

  He assembled the photographs fanwise, gazed at her over the top of them, and cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘And what might you be getting at, teacher?’ he enquired.

  Miss Silver gave her faint dry cough.

  ‘I thought, whilst I was talking to Mr Madoc, that it might be of interest if you were to show these photographs at the Ram and enquire whether they recognise anyone in them as having visited their establishment on Monday afternoon last week.’

  ‘The Ram?’

  ‘In Ramford Street. Bush’s sister is married to a man who has an ironmongery shop across the way. He was visiting her on Monday. The name is Grey. Miss Doncaster and Mr Everton were also in Marbury that afternoon. Mr Madoc was absent from Bourne for some hours on his bicycle, but his whereabouts are not known.’

  Frank said, ‘I know I’m stupid, but do you mind telling me what it’s all about? I mean, why Monday, and why the Ram?’

  Miss Silver told him.

  ‘Mr Harsch was also in Marbury that afternoon. He went to the Ram to have tea there, but he came out as soon as he went in. He came home late, and Miss Madoc having apparently been shocked at his appearance, he told her that he had seen a ghost. He did not see Miss Meade at all that night, nor alone until Tuesday evening, when he told her about going into the Ram for tea and coming out again directly. He did not say anything about seeing a ghost, but he made some very interesting remarks which I should like you to read for yourself. I wrote them down, and asked Miss Meade to check them over.’ She extracted a doubled-up exercise-book from the handbag and gave it to him, after which she folded her hands in her lap and watched his face whilst he read the pages she had indicated.

  ‘Well?’ he said when he had finished. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Miss Silver was silent. She appeared to be considering his answer. She said at last in a quiet, serious voice, ‘He went in to get some tea because he was tired and thirsty, but he came out at once without having any. Afterwards he spoke to one person of a ghost, and to another of an opening door. I have wondered whether he saw that door open before him when he went into the Ram – whether he recognised or half recognised someone connected with his past life in Germany. And I have wondered whether someone else may have been there too – someone connected, not with his past, but with his present life in Bourne. To both these persons recognition would have meant extreme of danger. They could not afford to remain in uncertainty on so important a point. I think it probable that one of them would have followed him in order to ascertain whether he went to the police. Discovering that he proceeded to the station to wait for the next train, they would conclude that the danger was not immediate – they would separate. But the matter could hardly be left there. Mr Harsch’s death may already have been decided upon. The chance that he might have recognised an enemy agent may, or may not, have precipitated the event. Sir George Rendal believes that a very determined attempt might have been made either to secure the formula of harschite for the enemy, or to deny the use of it to our own war effort.’

  Frank whistled.

  ‘If Harsch opened a door in the Ram and recognised an enemy agent, why didn’t he go to the police then and there?’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘You have not read my notes attentively. Look at them again and you will see that he said, “But we will not talk of things like that – it is not good. You may come to fancy something that is not there, and to see your own thoughts. That is not good.” You see, he was not sure. I think he had received a severe shock. When he came to think over what he had seen the shock blurred it – he was not sure. He put his impression into words when he said to Miss Madoc, “I have seen a ghost”.’

  Abbott surveyed her oddly.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘the Chief will go batty if you keep on pulling rabbits out of the hat like this. We had a perfectly good case against Madoc until you came along and chucked Bush into the middle of it, and just as we are beginning to pick up the bits and get a good buildup with Bush, you go and drag in our old friend the sinister enemy agent.’

  ‘There are such things as enemy agents,’ said Miss Silver soberly. ‘I should, of course, be extremely sorry to inconvenience the Chief Inspector in any way, but I would not do him the injustice of supposing that he has any other wish than to arrive at the truth. May I rely on you to see whether those photographs are recognised by anyone at the Ram?’

  Frank burst out laughing.

  ‘You may always rely on me, as you very well know. But the Chief will go off the deep end if anything comes of it. Don’t say I didn’t tell you! And I would like to know whether this is really the fifth Act you were quoting about just now, or whether, to mix the metaphors, you’ve still got a wilderness of wild monkeys up your
sleeve.’

  Miss Silver smiled indulgently.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ she said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  MISS SILVER SAT at one end of a long bare table, and Evan Madoc at the other. They were in a small room with linoleum on the floor. There was no furniture except the table, which was of varnished yellow deal, and a few uncompromising chairs with wooden seats. The air resembled the variety commonly found in post offices and railway waiting-rooms, being cold, damp, and highly charged with disinfectant. The door had an eighteen-inch glass panel at the top, through which the warder standing just outside could watch all that passed. Miss Silver was, however, assured that he was out of earshot.

  She had been in the room for some few minutes before Mr Madoc was brought in. Her first impression was that whether he had or had not shot Mr Harsch he certainly looked as if he would like to murder her. He had, in fact, begun a somewhat vehement protest, when the warder tapped him on the shoulder. Take it easy now – take it easy.’ After which he withdrew to his observation post.

  Madoc, glaring after him, heard himself addressed by name in a prim, agreeable voice. It was kind, but it held a note of authority. It reminded him of his Aunt Bronwen Evans whose texts, tips and toffee had profoundly influenced his early years. He turned abruptly and beheld a little dowdy woman in a black jacket with a bunch of purple pansies in her hat.

  She said, ‘Sit down, Mr Madoc. I want to talk to you.’

  As she spoke, he met her eyes, found in them the one thing he respected, intelligence, and dropped into the chair which had been set for him with no more than a protesting frown. He said, ‘I don’t know who you are, and I have nothing to say.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I have not asked you to say anything yet. My name is Maud Silver – Miss Maud Silver – and I am a private enquiry agent. Your friends, who do not believe that you shot Mr Harsch, have retained my services, and Chief Detective Inspector Lamb has kindly facilitated this interview.’

  Evan Madoc pushed back an untidy black lock which was tickling his nose and said, ‘Why?’

  His voice could not very well have been ruder.

  Miss Silver looked at him reprovingly. Her manner indicated that discourtesy relegated one mentally and morally either to the nursery or the slum. A faint flush showed that the intimation had gone home. He said less rudely, but with a show of restrained temper, ‘I have nothing to say. And when you speak of my friends, I am at a loss to imagine—’

  Miss Silver modified her look. It was still hortatory, but it promised forgiveness – like Aunt Bronwen when she had finished her sermon and the toffee came out of her pocket.

  ‘You have some very good friends, Mr Madoc – Miss Fell, with whom I am staying – Miss Meade, who was instrumental in calling me in—’

  He hit the table with the flat of his hand.

  ‘You are not going to make me believe that Janice Meade is crying her eyes out over me! She told me once to my face that I was the most disagreeable man she had ever met, and that she wouldn’t have stayed with me a week if it hadn’t been for Michael Harsch!’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘Quite so. But she does not believe that you shot him. As a scientist, you should be able to understand that there is such a thing as a passion for abstract justice.’

  He gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘And you ask me to believe that she would put her hand in her pocket for that?’

  Miss Silver ignored this sordid theme. She gave him a penetrating look and said, ‘Miss Janice bases her belief in your innocence upon the fact that you cared a good deal for Mr Harsch.’

  His eyes blazed for a moment. The muscles of his face twitched. He said, ‘What has that got to do with her – or with you?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Madoc. I mentioned it as the basis of Miss Meade’s conviction that you are innocent. But to pursue the question of your friends. Your sister is naturally in great distress, and so of course is your wife.’

  His chair was pushed back so sharply as to score the government linoleum. The warder, watching through his glass panel, put a hand to the door knob. But after tensing his muscles as if about to spring up Evan Madoc appeared to change his mind. The impulse failed. He dragged his chair in again and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, propped his chin in his hands, and put up a spread of restless fingers to cover his mouth. He said in a sort of mutter, ‘I have no wife.’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘Confidence from a client is most desirable. As Lord Tennyson so rightly observes, “Oh, trust me not at all, or all in all.” I realise you know so little about me that I cannot expect your confidence, but I do ask you not to complicate the situation by attempting to prevaricate. You were married to Miss Medora Brown on June 17th five years ago at the Marylebone Register Office in London.’

  He put his face right down into his hands. The black lock fell forward over twitching fingers. And then quite suddenly, he jerked it back and sat up, a wry grin twisting his mouth.

  ‘Well, it seems a peculiar moment for Medora to claim me as a husband. I suppose you didn’t find all this out for yourself?’

  ‘Mrs Madoc has been in considerable distress. She informed me of your marriage because she was afraid she might be compelled to give evidence against you.’

  ‘And I suppose it’s all in the papers!’

  ‘The only persons who know of it are the Chief Inspector, Sergeant Abbott, and myself. Publicity at this juncture would be most undersirable.’

  Evan Madoc laughed angrily.

  ‘I quite agree! It would be highly undesirable for her to be known as a murderer’s wife! You know she thinks I did it!’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘Mr Madoc, we have no time for these melodramatics. You are in a serious, even a dangerous position. If you can make up your mind to treat me frankly, I believe that I can help you.’ She broke into a smile of singular sweetness and charm. ‘You see, I am quite sure that you did not shoot Mr Harsch.’

  He flung out his hands as if he were pushing something away and said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you have such a very bad temper.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  She paused for a moment, looking at him with steady composure.

  ‘Mr Harsch was shot by someone who had planned to shoot him. The weapon was taken to the spot for that purpose. After the murder it was carefully wiped and Mr Harsch’s fingerprints imposed upon it. I think you might be capable of violence in a moment of passion, but I do not believe you capable of premeditation or of cool after-thought. If you had killed your best friend in the heat of anger you would, I think, stand by your deed and not allow another man to be accused.’

  He said in a stupefied voice, ‘How do you know?’

  And then, as if waking up, ‘What do you mean – what other man? Is anyone else accused?’

  ‘Frederick Bush is under suspicion. He was seen to come out of the church just before ten o’clock, locking the door behind him. He admits to being there, but says he found the door open and Mr Harsch fallen down dead by the organ stool. He was afraid of being implicated, so he locked the door and came away. He swears that he did not touch the pistol. By showing that Mr Harsch had not locked himself inside the church. Bush’s statement destroys the most damning part of the evidence against you. As you will see, anyone might have walked in and shot him.’

  Madoc hit the table.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, stop talking! I tell you Bush didn’t do it!’

  Miss Silver drew herself up.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to amplify that, Mr Madoc.’

  He pushed long nervous fingers through his hair.

  ‘I tell you he didn’t do it – I tell you he couldn’t have done it! I’ve got to make a statement! They mustn’t arrest him! Get hold of that Chief Inspector! He was anxious enough for me to talk when I didn’t want to! I suppose somebody can produce him now and get me something to write on?’

  In a ca
lming voice Miss Silver said that she had no doubt it could be managed. She then went over to the door and spoke to the warder. If there was triumph in her heart, no discreetest shade of it was discernible in face or manner. She returned to her place, invited attention by her slight habitual cough, and said, ‘Pray, Mr Madoc, continue. I am deeply interested.’

  He stared.

  ‘What do you think I am? I meant to hold my tongue – one isn’t bound to hang oneself! There’s some work I would have liked to finish. But they mustn’t arrest Bush. You see, it’s like this. I came back. After I’d got away with the key I walked all out for five or six minutes. I was going home. And then it came over me that I’d better go back. I didn’t want that key. If I’ve got to dot all the i’s and cross the t’s, I thought I’d made a fool of myself. I was angry. I didn’t want to give Medora the satisfaction of thinking I cared whether she went over to the church to talk to Harsch or not. I’d like to say there wasn’t any question in my mind about there being anything wrong between them, but she liked talking to him, and when we met we always quarrelled. I thought I’d punish her by putting the key down on the study doorstep for the maids to find in the morning.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I knew she’d enjoy explaining how it got there.’

  Miss Silver sat with folded hands. She made no comment.

  Evan Madoc leaned towards her.

  ‘Now listen carefully! I came back across the village street and entered the Cut. When I had come level with the church the clock began to chime for the third quarter.’ He hummed the four descending notes. ‘It does that three times for the quarter to. It had just got into the second chime when I heard the shot. I didn’t know where it came from – there’s a good deal of echo there, off the church and off the wall of the Cut. It’s difficult to remember exactly how one felt. I think, subconsciously, I was afraid it wasn’t Giles shooting at a fox, so I threw up a lot of protective stuff to convince myself that it was. Everything happened very quickly. Immediately after the shot someone in front of me in the Cut began to run. I hadn’t noticed him before – the trees keep the moonlight off the path – yews and hollies, very dense – you’ll have seen them – but I did see him open the door into the churchyard and run in. It was bright when the door was opened. When I got there it was standing a handsbreadth ajar. I looked in, and this is what I saw. The man who had just gone in was half way over to the door which opens on the Green, running fast, and someone else was just going out of that door. I couldn’t see who it was – I couldn’t say if it was man or woman – I just saw someone go out and bang the door. And then the second person got there, still running, and went out too.’