Dark Threat

by Patricia Wentworth

  The questions went on, but they brought out no fresh evidence. Just at the end Miss Silver asked one which seemed quite irrelevant.

  ‘You served in the last war, did you not? Were you in France, or did you go out to the east at all?’

  He said in a surprised voice,

  ‘I was a Territorial, miss. I got sent to India.’

  She inclined her head.

  ‘I remember—Territorial regiments were sent out there. You were there for the duration, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Mr. Pilgrim kept my place open, and I come back to it.’

  As Robbins turned to leave the room, March called him back.

  ‘Ever see this before?’

  He was taking a key out of the piece of brown paper in which it had been wrapped. When it was free he laid it down on a sheet of paper—a handsome and distinctive piece of work, beautifully wrought with three lobes and a cockle shell in each.

  Robbins stared at it gloomily and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Old front door key?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused, and added, ‘May I ask where it was found, sir?’

  March looked at him very straight.

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘I suppose we could all make a guess, sir, but it isn’t a matter for guessing.’

  ‘No—quite right, Robbins. It was found in Mr. Clayton’s pocket.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE FIRST JUDY saw of Frank Abbott was when she met him in the upstair corridor. They stood and looked at each other for a moment before he said, ‘March wants to interview Miss Janetta. I told him she’d want notice.’ There was a fleeting spark of amusement. ‘There was an old lady in Dickens who expired murmuring “Rose-coloured curtains for the doctors”, wasn’t there? Perhaps she was an ancestress.’

  ‘Miss Janetta isn’t dying,’ said Judy demurely. Then all of a sudden she shuddered. ‘Don’t talk about people dying—I just can’t bear it.’

  ‘Well, she isn’t going to. You’ve just said so.’

  He put an arm round her, took her along to the big empty state bedroom, and shut the door. When he had done that he put his other arm round her too and kissed her a good many times.

  ‘Silly—aren’t you?’ he said in an odd unsteady voice.

  ‘It’s been horrid—’

  ‘My child, I told you so, but you would come.’

  He kissed her again. This time she pushed him away.

  ‘Frank—who did it? Do they know?’

  ‘Not yet. Look here, Judy, I want you to clear out.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can. You can come and do your work, but I won’t have you here at night. I’ll fix it up with Lesley Freyne—she’ll take you in.’

  She said, ‘Penny is there. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Well, you matter to me. I’ll fix it for you.’

  ‘No—I won’t go. I’m next to Miss Silver, and I can lock my door. Besides, who’s going to want to murder me?’ Another of those shudders ran over her. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going.’

  He said soberly, ‘I think you’re being stupid. If Jerome gets one of his attacks, you have a bad night. I hear he had one a couple of nights ago.’

  ‘He didn’t have one last night.’

  ‘Perhaps they gave him something to keep him quiet.’

  ‘So they did the other night, but he had one just the same.’

  He looked at her attentively.

  ‘What was supposed to set him off?’

  ‘Seeing Miss Freyne.’ Judy’s voice was quite expressionless.

  ‘He has one after seeing Lesley, but he doesn’t have one after Roger falls out of the window, and he doesn’t have one after they find Henry’s body. Does that seem odd to you?’

  ‘Very odd.’

  He kissed her again, lightly this time, and turned to the door.

  ‘I mustn’t dally. There are moments when being a policeman palls. Go in and ask Miss Janetta when she will be ready to see March. And it’s no good her saying she isn’t well or anything like that, because he means to see her, and Daly won’t back her up.’

  He waited, and he had to wait some time, but in the end she came out to say that Miss Janetta would see Superintendent March in twenty minutes, and she hoped that he would make his visit as short as possible, as she was feeling terribly prostrated.

  Frank Abbott got back to the study to find Lesley Freyne there. She gave him her hand and a friendly smile, and he thought, as he always thought, what a nice woman she was, and what a pity she hadn’t married and had a pack of children of her own instead of having to make do with evacuees. Of course it was very nice for the evacuees.

  He went to his place, took up his pad, and wrote down an interminable string of questions and answers. Sometimes he could have flinched for her, but she kept her quiet dignity and gave no sign however near the quick the question must have cut. March was as considerate as he could be, but he had his duty to do, and to establish a motive for Henry Clayton’s death was part of that duty.

  ‘Miss Freyne, you will appreciate that I have to ask you questions which you may find it painful to answer. In the statements which were made at the time of Clayton’s disappearance there were references to a disagreement which had taken place between you during the afternoon. Can you indicate the nature of that disagreement?’

  ‘I am afraid not. It was a private matter.’

  ‘A good many private matters have to be disclosed in the course of a murder case. When you made your original statement there was no reason to suppose that Clayton was dead. Now things are different. The body which was found in the cellars yesterday has been identified as that of Henry Clayton. His name is on a tab on the coat, and his signet ring has been identified by Jerome Pilgrim. There is no doubt at all that he was murdered. It seems likely that, for some reason, he returned to the house after having left it, and that he was stabbed in or near the lift going down to the cellars. The weapon was probably taken from one of the trophies in the dining-room and subsequently replaced. Examination has disclosed traces of blood close up to the hilt of one of the daggers. Scrapings from the floor of the lift show similar traces. In these circumstances, you must see that I have no choice but to press you. Anything that caused a disagreement between you and Clayton might throw some light on the motive for this crime.’

  ‘I don’t think it could possibly do that.’

  ‘You might not be the best judge. Will you not change your mind?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair to do so. It might cause distress to an innocent person.’

  ‘You mean that your quarrel was about a woman?’

  ‘It wasn’t really a quarrel. It wouldn’t help you to know about it. We took different points of view about something—that was all.’

  ‘Can you not particularize a little more than that? You need not mention names.’

  She seemed to be considering. After a while she said, ‘Yes, I could do that. A case came up in conversation—I took one point of view, and Henry took another.’

  ‘What kind of case was it?’

  ‘The case of the unmarried woman who has a child. I took the point of view that the child had claims upon both the parents which should override everything else.’

  ‘And Clayton?’

  ‘He didn’t agree. He said of course the man must pay, but he didn’t admit any responsibility beyond that. It is what a great many men would say. There wasn’t any quarrel.’

  March looked at her.

  ‘Was the case you were discussing that of Mabel Robbins?’

  She had a momentary colour in her face.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘I don’t know why you should say “of course”. You must have known the girl.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I knew her. She was very pretty and charming.’

  ‘Then it would have been natural that you should have her case in mind—wouldn’t it?’

 
‘It was another case—a case in the papers.’

  ‘It might have been another case, and yet you might have had Mabel Robbins in your mind. That would be natural, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Mr. March, do you really expect me to be able to tell you just what was in my mind three years ago.’

  ‘I think you would know whether you had thought about Mabel Robbins. Come, Miss Freyne—you were reluctant to speak of this disagreement because you didn’t want to involve an innocent person. Will you assert that this person had no connection with the Robbins family?’

  She said with composure, ‘No. I had better tell you. I was thinking about Mrs. Robbins. I have always been so sorry for her—I didn’t want to say anything to revive Mabel’s story. Please don’t misunderstand me. The case I discussed with Henry had nothing to do with the Robbins, but I knew if I mentioned it that the Robbins would be dragged in—as they have been now.’

  He looked at her hard.

  ‘Miss Freyne—did you know that Mabel Robbins was dead?’

  ‘Yes—Mr. Pilgrim told me. He said the Robbins did not want it spoken of. I never mentioned it.’

  ‘But you knew. Did you know at the time of this disagreement?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I did. I think Mr. Pilgrim told me afterwards.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure that it was afterwards.’

  ‘Did you know who was the father of Mabel Robbins’ child?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mr. Pilgrim tell you anything about that?’

  There was a long pause before she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he tell you that he thought Clayton was the father?’

  ‘He said he was afraid of it.’

  ‘Did he give you any reason for thinking so?’

  She turned very pale indeed. She kept her voice steady, but it was very low.

  ‘He said Robbins told him.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  WHEN MARCH KNOCKED at Miss Janetta’s door and went in he found Miss Lona Day in attendance. He was aware that the stage had been set and his part mapped out for him. He was undoubtedly the crude policeman blundering into a lady’s sick-room. The curtains, half drawn across the windows, were flowered in roses and forget-me-nots. Pink linen blinds half down converted the cold daylight into a rosy glow.

  Just at first he couldn’t see anything. Miss Day conducted him deviously amidst furniture until he reached the bed, where he was provided with a seat. After a minute or two his eyes cleared and he discerned Miss Janetta amidst pink bed-linen with an embroidered coverlet drawn up to her waist. She appeared to have sufficient strength to sit up. She wore a bed-jacket trimmed with a great many yards of lace, and not a hair of her elaborate curls was out of place. A boudoir cap composed of about two inches of lace, a rosebud and a bunch of forget-me-nots nestled coquettishly amongst them, and she wore several valuable rings. He reflected that she looked a good deal more like a Dresden shepherdess than a mourning invalid.

  She was speaking to him out of the pink haze.

  ‘You must forgive me if I have kept you waiting. It has been such a terrible shock. I am not as strong as my sister. You will not mind if my nurse stays in the room.’

  ‘I would rather see you alone, Miss Pilgrim.’

  She gave a fluttered sigh.

  ‘Do you know—I don’t really feel—I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to let her stay. Lona dear—my smelling-salts—’

  Miss Day’s eyes met his with sympathy. She said, ‘I think you’d better let me stay.’

  He gave up. If he pressed her, she would probably swoon, and then it would all be to do again.

  After producing a vinaigrette Miss Day had drifted tactfully over to the window. Miss Janetta addressed him.

  ‘Just tell me what you want to know, and I will do my best. But I must save my strength—you will help me to do that?’

  ‘I won’t keep you longer than I can help. I wondered whether you could tell me what was the general feeling in the family with regard to the sale of the estate—when it was first suggested.’

  Miss Janetta forgot all about being prostrated. She said with surprising energy, ‘It was my brother. I can’t think how he came to think of such a thing. I never was so shocked in my life. And getting Roger to break the entail! I can’t think what either of them were thinking about. We were all quite horrified.’

  ‘When you say we, to whom do you refer?’

  The curls were lightly tossed.

  ‘All of us—the whole family. Why, my sister would simply have broken her heart. She lives for the garden, and—of course you couldn’t be expected to understand, but there have always been Pilgrims at Pilgrim’s Rest.’

  He produced a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Yes, it is very sad when these old places pass into other hands. But I gather Mr. Pilgrim intended to proceed with the sale.’

  Miss Janetta heaved a sigh.

  ‘He was very, very obstinate about it. He had a very obstinate character. If he hadn’t died when he did, we should all have been turned out.’

  Miss Day had come back from the window. She said in a soothing voice, ‘Are you sure you are not talking too much, dear?’

  It didn’t go down at all well. There was an acid edge on the voice that snubbed her.

  ‘I think you had better go and see if Jerome wants anything. You can come back presently.’

  March felt a little sorry for Miss Day, but she was probably used to it. What a life!

  She faded from the room, and he resumed.

  ‘The sale fell through owing to your brother’s death?’

  She heaved another sigh.

  ‘Yes. It was quite providential. A terrible accident of course, but he was in failing health, and he has been spared all these terrible things—Roger, and poor Jack—and now Henry.’ A lace-edged handkerchief touched her eyes for a moment.

  March would have bet his last sixpence that the gesture was purely ritual. He said, ‘Yes.’ And then, ‘Roger was about to sell, wasn’t he?’

  A natural flush deepened the colour in her cheeks.

  ‘And look what came of it!’ she said.

  ‘My dear Miss Pilgrim—’

  The curls were tossed with vigour.

  ‘I suppose you don’t believe in things like that, but I do. My brother was going to sell, and he died. And Roger was going to sell, and he died. There’s a verse about it. It’s carved over the mantelpiece in the hall—

  If Pilgrim fare upon the Pilgrims’ Way,

  And leave his Rest, he’ll find nor rest nor stay.

  Stay Pilgrim in thy Rest, or thou shalt find

  Ill luck before, Death but one pace behind.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ said March drily. ‘Henry Clayton wasn’t selling the estate though, was he? How do you account for him?’

  The brightness went out of her eyes. They looked vague.

  ‘My brother was trying to sell—it stirs up ill luck—you don’t know where it will strike next. You mayn’t believe in things like that, but I know they’re true. If Jerome tries to sell, something will happen to him.’

  ‘I don’t think it will,’ said March grimly.

  ‘There must always be a Pilgrim at Pilgrim’s Rest,’ said Miss Janetta.

  He got nothing from her of any more value than that. She remembered the evening her nephew Henry disappeared. She had been very much fatigued by the large family party, and had gone to her room at half past nine. But not to sleep—oh dear no! She was a perfect martyr to insomnia.

  ‘Your windows look out to the street, Miss Pilgrim. Did you hear Clayton go out?’

  It transpired that she had heard nothing.

  ‘I feel the cold too much to have my windows open. Dr. Daly doesn’t advise it.’

  March found it impossible to resist the belief that the insomnia existed only in her imagination. Anyone who was awake in this room would surely have heard that big front door fall to.

  He came downstairs a l
ittle later and went on with his interviews.

  Miss Columba had taken her heavy heart to the garden. It was very heavy indeed. It was a relief to dibble in another row of peas under Pell’s disapproving eye. He laid his peas in a trench and raked the earth over them. It aroused all his worst passions to see her using her middle finger as a dibber and making a separate hole for every pea. The fact that her rows usually did better than his was an old and gnawing grievance—one of the things which added bitterness to the tone in which he talked to William about ‘females’. ‘Females wasn’t never intended to garden—stands to reason they wasn’t. ’Twas Adam was set to till the ground, not that flighty piece Eve. Childer and cooking—that’s all that females are fit for. Getting in trousis and doing a man’s job is clean flying in the face of Providence, and you can’t get from it.’

  The dead weight which Miss Columba carried lifted perceptibly as she put in her peas. In the house they were all sorry for her. All except Janetta, who never thought of anyone but herself. Even Robbins—no, she wasn’t sure about Robbins. Dark—secret. Like a plant that has run to root. She remembered an apple-tree when she was a girl. Never bloomed or fruited. And her father had it taken up. Six foot of tap root. Dark—secret. Going down and down. They planted it again with a paving stone under it. It did all right after that.

  Pell’s voice came up out of the wordless grumbling which had accompanied his digging.

  ‘That grand-daughter of mine’s home.’

  Miss Columba poked a hole with her finger and dropped a pea into it.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Maggie. Looks a show in her uniform. Against nature, I call it.’

  ‘Leave?’

  Pell cleared his throat.

  ‘Peck of rubbish! Calls herself a corporal—two stripes on her arm! Flying in the face of Providence, that’s what I call it!’

  Miss Columba put in another pea.

  ‘Maggie’s a good girl.’

  ‘She wus. No saying what she is now. Paints her mouth!’

  ‘Girls do.’

  He gave a crowing laugh.

  ‘Same as Jezebel! And what come of her?—answer me that!’

  Miss Columba made two more holes, dropped in two more peas, and said with finality, ‘Maggie’s a good girl.’