“You were left with that impression?”
“Very decidedly so. Having received it, I made some remark upon the competence of the police, adding that you were an extremely intelligent officer, and that you would, I was sure, be most zealous in following up any clue which had come into your possession.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He asked if you had any clue.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I allowed myself to appear confused, and said I would not like it to be supposed that I had said anything of the sort. I think you must remember that he considered me to be a humble dependent, inclined to gossip but nervous and uncertain of my position. He imagined, in fact, that I had just given something away, and since he saw no necessity for being on his guard with me he betrayed the interest, and I think I may say the concern, which it occasioned him.”
“You allowed him to think we had a clue?”
Miss Silver pulled again upon the soft white ball in her knitting-bag.
“I believe that he was under that impression.”
“What happened after that?”
“People were beginning to go away. He saw a chance of approaching Mirrie Field, an opportunity for which, I think, he had been waiting. He followed her out of the room, and they afterwards went into the study together.”
There was a somewhat prolonged pause. Miss Silver continued to knit, the intricate lacy pattern apparently presenting no difficulties. Frank Abbott was leaning back in the writing-chair. He wore a beautiful dark suit and the black tie which he had put on for the funeral. His pale, smooth hair took the light from the overhead bowl and reflected it. The high forehead and bony nose emphasized an appearance of being plunged in thought. He emerged rather suddenly to say,
“A pinch of evidence would be worth a peck of horsefeathers.”
It was the first time that Miss Silver had encountered the term. She repeated it.in a mildly interrogative tone.
“Horsefeathers?”
There was a sardonic gleam in his eye.
“A transatlantic expression and quite expressive. They are to be found in the neighbourhood of mares’-nests. But to continue. What, if anything, do you suggest?”
“Nothing that you will not already have thought of for yourself. Some enquiries about Sid Turner. His whereabouts on Tuesday night. The possibility that he might have heard, perhaps from Mirrie, of the story Mr. Field related a fortnight ago. You were present yourself, and so were some other people, including Mirrie. Did she seem particularly struck by it?”
“She did. A good deal of bright girlish excitement, and, ‘Oh, dear Uncle Jonathan, you must go on!’-when Georgina came along and wanted him to meet the arriving guests.”
“She could have mentioned the story to Sid Turner in a letter, or during a conversation.”
Frank had a curious irrelevant flash-back to the night of the dance. Or was it irrelevant? He began to wonder about it. Cicely had left a handkerchief in the study and had asked him to get it for her. As he put it in his pocket there had been a sound from the direction of the windows. The glass door on to the terrace had moved, as it had moved on the night of Jonathan’s death. And when he pulled back the curtain, there was Mirrie on the step outside in her white fluffy dress with her eyes like saucers. She had been frightened- there was no doubt about that. Startling, of course, to have the curtain swung back on you, but all she had to say was “I -I was hot-I just went out.” They had gone along into the supper room together, and she had paired off with Johnny. But who had she been meeting in the garden, and why hadn’t he come in with her? Could it have been Sid Turner? He wondered, and kept his thoughts to himself. Aloud he said, “Was she in the habit of telephoning to Sid?”
“I do not know, but I can make some discreet enquiries. I think perhaps you had better leave them to me.” Frank was frowning.
“As a matter of fact I happen to know that the story did actually reach Pigeon Hill. One of the people who was in the room when Jonathan told it was a Mr. Vincent, recently settled in the neighbourhood but previously in South America. If you ever happen to want to pass right out with boredom, ask him to tell you what he did in Venezuela in ’35- or was it ’37? He will take at least twenty minutes to determine the point. It appears that he has a friend at Pigeon Hill. He runs a boys’ club, and last week Vincent went there, repeated Jonathan’s tale to several people, and finished up by incorporating it in a speech which, I gather, he insisted on delivering. I shouldn’t expect Sid Turner to frequent that kind of club, but the story having been launched in Pigeon Hill, it could have reached him. Or, of course, Mirrie may have imparted it. What, unfortunately, seems to be the fact is that there isn’t a single solitary shred of evidence to show that she or anybody else imparted anything at all.” Miss Silver said in a gently immovable tone, “He knew that a page had been torn out of the album. He was anxious to link the missing fingerprints with the crime.”
Frank Abbott said, “Why?”
She directed upon him the glance which she would have bestowed upon a pupil who was failing to do himself justice.
“It might have been a red herring.”
Whether it was her lapse into the vernacular, or the idea which it presented, he was certainly startled.
“My dear ma’am!”
“He might have desired to distract attention from the subject of the change in Mr. Field’s will.”
There was a prolonged silence. It was broken by Frank Abbott with a certain air of determination.
“Well, that is a point of view, and I won’t forget it. At the moment there is something which is exercising me a good deal, and I would like to know whether you have given it your attention. It seems to me to be the point upon which the whole case turns.”
Miss Silver gazed at him in an interested manner and said,
“Yes?”
“That door on to the terrace-who opened it?”
“Since it is of the type fastened by a bolt running down to a socket in the floor and controlled by the mere turning of a handle on the inside, there is no question of a key having been stolen or fabricated. A door of that type can only be opened from within. You will, of course, have considered these points. Since Mr. Field was in occupation of his study from about half-past-eight onwards, the natural conclusion would be that he expected a visitor, and that he himself opened the door. There might, of course, have been some occasion when he was out of the room for a few minutes and when a member of the household could have slipped into the study and withdrawn the bolt, but I cannot bring myself to believe that this took place. It would be risky, since the unfastened door would be liable to bang, as indeed it did later on in the night when it waked Georgina Grey. And it would be unnecessary, since there are three other doors, front, side and back, besides innumerable windows on the ground floor, any one of which could have been left unfastened if someone in the house had planned to admit an intruder.”
“I see you have thought it all out. I agree that Jonathan himself probably admitted the person who shot him if-I say if-it was an outside job. I haven’t altogether given up Georgina, you know. After what had happened she could have had no certainty as to how many more times Jonathan might change his will, or what her position would be at the end of it. There is one thing-you will have noticed that Anthony Hallam is avoiding her. What you may not know is that he has been devoted to her for years, and that when I was down here before he didn’t seem able to keep his eyes off her. But leaving that on one side, and supposing that Jonathan himself let someone in, I think we are bound to assume that this person probably came by appointment. His presence had obviously caused no alarm. There is no shred of evidence to show that the revolver which was found here was Jonathan’s own. There is no evidence that he expected any attack. He was shot while he was sitting quietly at his desk. I find it impossible to believe that he was not completely taken by surprise. This suggests a friendly conversation, and a friendly conversation at that hour sug
gests an appointment. Then how was it made? By letter? Highly improbable. I don’t think a man on such an errand would commit himself on paper or give Jonathan the opportunity of telling anyone that he expected a visitor. I think he would telephone as late as possible on the Tuesday evening. It wouldn’t be difficult to think up an excuse. Suppose someone did that and spun a yarn about having some fingerprints in which he might be interested. If the tale was only an excuse for getting into the house, he could think up something pretty sensational and know that his bluff would never be called. Now it’s common knowledge that Jonathan would go through fire and water to get a really good specimen for his collection. This will business is a proof of the extent to which he was prepared to act on impulse. Knowing what I do about him, I can see him making an appointment like that on the spur of the moment. It would account for the album being there on the table. In fact it would account for pretty nearly everything, including the torn-out page in the album and the removal of Jonathan’s notes on the story of the man in the bombed building who, he says, confessed to two murders.”
Miss Silver had been listening attentively. She said,
“Is it possible to ascertain what calls Field End received during Tuesday evening?”
“ Georgina says my cousin Cicely rang her up just before ten-something about a dress pattern she wanted to borrow. She said no other calls were received before they went up to bed. The Lenton exchange says a call was put through at about half-past-ten. If that was so, Jonathan must have taken it. It is said to have come from a call-box in Lenton. So you see, there is at least a possibility that this was when the appointment was made.”
“One would expect so late an appointment to be regarded with suspicion.”
Frank shook his head.
“I don’t think Jonathan Field would let anything of that sort come between him and a specimen he really wanted.”
Chapter XXX
THE FOLLOWING DAY being Sunday, Miss Silver attended morning service in the church at Deeping. Georgina did not come with her, and Mirrie was much divided in her mind. She would have liked to wear her new black coat and skirt and the little hat with the veiling. Since the funeral was over, she wouldn’t need to be all over dead black right up to the neck. Mrs. Fabian said she could wear a white jumper or a white blouse and the string of pearls that Jonathan had given her. And she needn’t wear black gloves. That was the funny thing about Mrs. Fabian, she wore the oddest things herself, years out of fashion and quite dreadfully ugly, but she knew what was all right for a girl to wear, and what simply wasn’t done. It didn’t matter how old your clothes were in the country so long as they were the right sort of clothes, and she could wear her little black hat to go to church in because of it being church and Sunday, but it wouldn’t do for every day. In the end she didn’t go to church, because Johnny said he would take her out in his car.
Miss Silver enjoyed the quiet service, listened attentively to a kind, practical sermon, and came out into a blowing wind and the threat of rain. She was going to lunch with the Abbotts, and was relieved to find that they were able to reach the shelter of the house before a really heavy shower came down.
Lunch over and Colonel Abbott retired to the study with the Sunday papers, the two ladies, esconced themselves comfortably in the morning-room.
It was some time later, after a full and frank discussion of village affairs, that Maggie Bell’s name came up. Monica Abbott was never quite sure which of them had mentioned it, but all at once it was there, and she was saying,
“I don’t suppose she has had the receiver away from her ear for more than five minutes since Wednesday morning.”
Miss Silver coughed in a noncommittal manner.
“Ah, yes-the party line.”
“One doesn’t grudge it to her,” said Monica, “because really I don’t know what she would do without it. It prevents her feeling out of things, if you know what I mean. And it would be all right if one could remember that she was probably listening, but of course one is so terribly apt to forget. I know I have always said I didn’t care who heard me ordering the fish, but of course there are times! When Cicely was so unhappy, for instance, and Grant used to ring her up and she wouldn’t speak to him. I’m quite sure Maggie didn’t miss a single word of it. Oh dear, what a miserable time that was.”
Miss Silver said in her kindest voice, “But so happily over now, my dear.”
Monica Abbott whisked away a tear.
“Oh, yes! And Grant is so good for her. She is a proud, obstinate little thing, you know, and it would be fatal if he were to give way to her. She would only despise him, and she might get to be quite like her grandmother, which would be dreadful for us all.”
Miss Silver smiled.
“Cicely has too warm a heart for that. And she is happy. Have you ever considered that Lady Evelyn must have been a most unhappy woman?”
A spark replaced the tear.
“She was a very cruel and mischief-making one. And it’s no use your trying to make me feel sorry for her, because I can’t. Oh, I suppose I can, but she was so horrid to Reg, and to Frank’s father and mother, and to Frank. Don’t let’s talk about her any more.”
Miss Silver said,
“I was going to ask you whether it would be possible for me to pay a short visit to Maggie Bell.”
Monica gazed. Her eyes were the same sherry-brown as Cicely’s, but she was much better-looking. In place of Cicely’s wayward charm she diffused an atmosphere of warmth and kindness. She said quickly,
“Oh, but she’d love it! She adores having visitors, and especially on a Sunday afternoon, because if she is well enough to be left, Mrs. Bell goes over to see a sister in Lenton and Maggie is alone.”
“So I understood from Georgina. She has provided me with some magazines and picture papers as an introduction-if one is needed.”
At half-past-three Miss Silver rang the bell of Mr. Bisset’s private door. If she had depended on Mr. Bisset answering it, her errand would have been a fruitless one, since by two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon at the latest he was plunged in a slumber too deep to be broken by any bell. It was Mrs. Bisset, whose repose was of a lighter character, who came to the door and found Miss Silver standing there. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, because everyone in Deeping knew that she and Mr. Bisset liked to take it easy of a Sunday afternoon. And she wasn’t best pleased when she saw who it was, because sleep as tidily as you will, there isn’t anybody that looks as neat when they wake up as what they did before they dropped off. She put up a hand to pat her hair, repressed an inclination to yawn, and was about to ask what she could do for Miss Silver, when she was forestalled.
“Pray forgive me for disturbing you, Mrs. Bisset, but I heard from Mrs. Abbott that Miss Bell was likely to be alone this afternoon, and I wondered if she would care for a visitor. I have some magazines for her from Miss Georgina Grey.”
There was something so warm and friendly in the way this was said that Mrs. Bisset relaxed. Stepping back a yard, she raised a rather strident voice and called up the stairway,
“Lady to see you, Maggie! Are you awake?”
It appeared that she was, and Miss Silver being encouraged to go right up, Mrs. Bisset returned to her comfortable easy chair and to the rhythmic snores of Mr. Bisset.
Maggie Bell was on her sofa by the window. Sunday afternoon was a dreadfully dull time. Mum went over to see Aunt Ag at Lenton, and the telephone might just as well have been dead for all anyone used it. There was the wireless she could turn on, but she wasn’t all that fond of music, or of talks either for the matter of that. It was people she liked- people she knew and who knew her-what they said to each other when they didn’t think anyone was listening-the appointments they made, and the things they ordered from the shops. You found out quite a lot about people when you listened to what they said on the telephone, but Sunday afternoon was a wash-out. She had a magazine, which she called a book, lying open in her lap, but she had lost interest in it. There was a gir
l in the serial that she didn’t have the patience to read about. There was ever such a good-looking young man after her, with money and a nice place and all, and all she did was to bite his nose off every time he spoke to her. Just plain silly was what Maggie called it. If it hadn’t been in a story, he’d have gone off and never given her another thought, same as Annie White’s young man did when she cheeked him once too often.
Miss Silver’s knock was a most welcome sound. She brought two magazines and three picture papers from Georgina and a book from Mrs. Abbott, who had had it given to her for Christmas and thought Maggie might like to look at it. It was called Dress Through The Ages and there were a great many pictures, so Maggie thought she would. Meanwhile she set herself to make the most of her visitor. Miss Silver had been at the funeral, she had lunched at the Abbotts’, and she was actually staying at Field End, all of which combined to make her a most desirable source of information.
Miss Silver was so amiable in her response that they were soon launched upon one of those long, comfortable conversations which cover a great deal of ground and are trammeled by no special rules. At first the questions were mostly Maggie’s, and the replies, nicely calculated to maintain the interest of the proceedings whilst adding very little to what had already appeared in the Press, were Miss Silver’s. It thrilled Maggie Bell to be told what Miss Georgina and Miss Mirrie had worn at the funeral-everything new, the both of them.
“And time some of the ladies did the same, if you ask me. There’s Mrs. Fabian-you wouldn’t credit it, but that black costume of hers, well, it’s one she had when Mr. Fabian died twenty years ago! That’s what Mum says, and she ought to know, seeing she’s had it in I don’t know how often, letting it out when Mrs. Fabian puts on and taking it in when she goes down again, to say nothing of lifting the hem when skirts go up and dropping it again when they come down. And last time she had it in, she took and told her straight, Mum did. ‘Mrs. Fabian,’ she said, ‘it isn’t worth what I’ll have to charge you for the alterations, and that’s the fact,’ she said.”
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