Dark Threat

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘You are really sure about its being the morning?’

  ‘Yes, I am now—because of what Miss Netta said about Miss Day making her have the dressing-gown round her. She was very put out about it—said it wouldn’t have got stained only for Miss Day making her have it round her. I must say it was in a fair mess. You see, it wasn’t just the cup of cocoa that went over her, it was the jug.’

  ‘Oh, there was a jug? Why was that?’

  Maggie looked puzzled.

  ‘Miss Day would be having a cup, I suppose. The jug broke all to bits. Miss Netta was put out! And she was putting it on Miss Day. But she said to me afterwards—that’s Miss Day, not Miss Netta—she said, “Well, you know, Maggie, she upset it herself, and my Chinese dressing-gown’s ruined, for it ran all down the front.” ’

  ‘What was the dressing-gown like?’

  Maggie’s face lighted up.

  ‘Oh, it was lovely—all birds and flowers and butterflies, worked on black satin. Done in China, she said. A lady she was with in India gave it to her.’

  ‘It sounds extremely handsome—too good in fact for everyday wear as a dressing-gown.’

  ‘Oh, but it wasn’t—more like one of those house-coats really. She’d wear it for dinner in the evening when it was cold. Lovely and warm it was, with a beautiful silk lining.’

  ‘Then she did not usually wear it as a dressing-gown?’

  ‘Oh, no, she didn’t.’

  ‘Can you remember whether she was wearing it at dinner on the night Mr. Clayton disappeared?’

  Maggie looked doubtful.

  ‘I don’t know—I don’t think so. No, she wasn’t. It was a green dress she had on—rather a bright green.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. I am now.’

  Miss Silver looked at her.

  ‘Did Miss Day say anything to explain why she was wearing that handsome Chinese coat to take in Miss Janetta’s early morning cocoa?’

  Maggie stared.

  ‘Oh, yes. It was because it was such a cold morning. It snowed as I came along. Lovely and warm that coat was, but it never looked the same after the cocoa.’

  ‘Did she send it to be cleaned?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘Oh, no, she didn’t. I asked her what about putting it in the parcel, and she said no, she’d soaked it in water straight away and the worst of it was out, but the satin had rubbed and the colours run—in the embroidery, you know—and she was afraid it wouldn’t ever look the same. And it didn’t either—you could always see the marks. Cocoa’s dreadful stuff to get out—kind of greasy, you know. I always thought it was a pity she put it in water, for Miss Netta’s dressing-gown came back looking like new. But of course once you’ve started in to wash a thing, well, it doesn’t give the cleaners a chance.’

  Miss Silver agreed. In a rather abstracted manner she enquired whether anyone else in the house had sent anything to be cleaned about that time—Mr. Jerome—Mr. Roger—Robbins or Mrs. Robbins—

  Maggie had a quick ‘Oh, no’ for that. She had done up the parcel herself, and no other parcel had gone. No clothes had been missing. As to the Robbins, Mrs. Robbins didn’t hold with cleaners—said they took the nature out of things. ‘If anything needed doing, she’d do it herself, or Mr. Robbins would. And what soap and water and benzine wouldn’t take out, she’d say the cleaners wouldn’t get out either. And I must say she was a very good hand at it.’

  ‘Mrs. Robbins did a good bit of cleaning at home?’

  Maggie Pell nodded emphatically.

  ‘Oh, yes, she did—all her own things, and all Mr. Robbins’. She’d a sister a tailoress, and she learnt it off her. Mr. Robbins’ suits, I’m sure they used to come up like new.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  IT WAS NOW between three and a quarter past. After an interview with Jerome Pilgrim March got into his car and went back to Ledlington, leaving Frank Abbott and the sergeant to conduct a search of the bedrooms.

  Everything that happened during the afternoon was to be important—even the little things. When murder is abroad it is not easy to say which are the little things. A grain or two of dust, the smear of a damp finger, a speck of blood, a shred of torn paper—these weigh down the balance against a man’s life. The murderer does not walk an easy path. He must keep the dust from his shoes, the stains of crime from his garments. He must not touch, he must not handle. But he must not only glove the bare skin lest it leave the mark of his guilty sweat—he must hood his thoughts and heed his tongue, he must mask his eyes from being the mirror of his mind, and walk the naked edge of danger easily. What to others are little things, sifted out afterwards by patient question and answer, are to him all the time an ever present menace—the teeth of the trap which may at any moment spring to and catch him. He must watch everything and everyone. He must not appear to watch at all. With thought at its most abnormal, all that he looks, or says, or does must be so normal as to merge into an accustomed background and provide nothing that will catch even the most scrutinizing eye.

  As Miss Silver stood at her open door to watch Maggie Pell cross to the back stair just over the way, Jerome Pilgrim came along the corridor. He looked pale and haggard, but she discerned a new air of resolution, as if the shocking events of the past few days had roused him—given him some needed impetus. He was wearing a coat and muffler, and informed her as he passed that he was going out into the garden. Miss Silver commended this intention, observing that the air was quite springlike, but that it would be cold as soon as the sun went in.

  He had a faint smile for that.

  ‘Lona will be after me long before then. If it were not for my Aunt Janetta, she would be after me now.’

  Miss Silver hoped politely that Miss Janetta was not feeling worse. He replied that she was completely prostrated, and went on his way. It was Miss Silver’s opinion that the more complete the prostration, the better for Captain Pilgrim. She considered him to be in some need of emancipation, and was pleased to observe that he was taking steps in that direction. She hoped that Miss Janetta would continue to absorb the greater part of Miss Day’s attention.

  As Jerome came through the hall he was aware of Robbins at the front door, his hand just rising to open the catch. At the tap of the stick he turned, stepped back, and said in a voice that sounded aloof and cold, ‘Is it by your orders, sir, that the police are about to search the house?’

  Jerome said, ‘Certainly.’

  Robbins persisted.

  ‘Have they your permission, sir?’

  ‘Yes, they have.’ Then, as if he thought he had been too abrupt, he turned back to say, ‘The sooner they get down to it, the sooner they’ll leave us alone. They asked my consent, but if it had been refused, they would have brought in a search-warrant.’

  ‘What do they expect to find, sir?’

  Jerome said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve said they had better begin at my room, and then I can get back there.’ He went on into the morning-room. ‘If there’s someone at the door, hadn’t you better see about it?’

  From where he stood he could hear the catch click back. A cold air came in, and Lesley Freyne’s voice speaking to Robbins. He came back into the hall at his best pace and called to her, ‘Come in, Les!’

  She had a momentary impression of Robbins looking—what was the word? It teased her because she couldn’t get it. And then, when he had turned away and gone silently back across the hall and Jerome was taking her into the morning-room, it came to her. Remote—yes, that was it—as if he was a long way off and you couldn’t reach him. It came, and went again.

  Jerome shut the door, dropped coat and muffler, and they went over to the fire and sat down on Miss Janetta’s big couch. He said, ‘The police are searching the house. Aunt Collie’s in the garden, and Aunt Netta’s in her room. But you don’t want them, do you? Will I do?’

  She gave him her wide, warm smile and said, ‘This is very comfortable, I think.’

  She was not prepared
for his look.

  ‘You are very comfortable, Les.’

  ‘Am I?’ Her voice was rather sad.

  ‘Yes. You are a halcyon creature—you have a circle of summer round you, very warm and comforting.’

  ‘St. Martin’s summer, I’m afraid—’

  ‘ “Expect St. Martin’s summer, halcyon days”? But we’re not quite into November yet, my dear. I shouldn’t put us farther than July myself.’

  ‘I’m forty-three, Jerome.’

  ‘So am I, as near as makes no difference. It’s a hoary age, but there is worse to come. You’ve no grey hairs, whilst I have thousands.’ His tone, half bantering, changed abruptly. ‘Les—don’t let anyone keep you away from us.’

  ‘I won’t if I can help it.’

  He said, ‘I don’t know how it is—I feel as if I’d been in a dream. Now I’ve waked up. I want you to help me not to go back into the dream again. I think you can. When all this frightful business is over I want to get back to something like a normal life. Lona’s been very good, but I think it’s time she went. Aunt Netta doesn’t need her, and nor do I. There is really no reason why I should be so much of an invalid. I’ll get gradually back to doing things. There’ll be a lot of business to see to—’ He broke off. ‘Some day I’ll write again. I feel as if I’d got a lot of ideas stored up, and they’re beginning to knock on the door and want to get out.’

  ‘I’m so glad. I always thought—’

  He said, ‘Do you think about me, Les?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘As my friend.’ Her voice went deep on the word.

  He turned a little away from her.

  ‘We were friends—great friends, I thought. And then Henry came, and he was something more than a friend.’

  She lifted her steady brown eyes to his averted face.

  ‘He wasn’t in love with me—never.’

  ‘Then why—’

  She said,

  ‘I’d like to tell you—it’s all so long ago—I’d like to. You know what Henry was—he made you feel you were the only person in the world. I don’t think he put it on—at least not much. Do you remember when we were children, if we wanted anything we used to put Henry up to ask for it. He only had to smile and everyone said yes. It didn’t matter who it was—Mr. Pilgrim, the aunts, my father and mother, Mrs. Robbins—it was all the same, and it was very, very bad for him. I ought to have known better, but when he smiled at me, I said yes too.’

  ‘Did you care for him, Les?’ The words were almost inaudible.

  Her voice dropped too.

  ‘Not with my heart. I was charmed and flattered, and—I was very, very lonely. The man I cared for didn’t care for me and—’ the low voice shook—‘I got tired of being unhappy and alone. I wanted a home of my own, and a life of my own, and children of my own. So when Henry smiled at me, I said yes. Only when it came to the point I couldn’t do it, Jerome. Mabel Robbins stuck in my throat.’

  He looked round, startled.

  ‘Was it Henry?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It came out when we were talking about a case in the papers. I don’t mean that he told me—it just came to me. It sounds stupid, but all at once I could see that it wasn’t just Mabel. It was something in Henry—he was like that, he had to have what he wanted, it didn’t matter about anyone else. There would always be women like Mabel, and it wouldn’t matter about any of them any more than it had mattered about her—any more than it would matter about me. The only person who ever had mattered, or ever would matter, was Henry. And I just felt I couldn’t do it. I should have told him so that evening—only he didn’t come—’

  Jerome spoke without looking at her.

  ‘You cared for someone?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Then why—my dear—why—’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  He half turned to look at her, half put out a hand, and drew it back. There was a pause before he said, ‘Who was it?’

  The colour rushed into Lesley’s cheeks. She looked young and defenceless. She said, stumbling over the words,

  ‘Have you—any right—to ask?’

  He looked at her then, to see the Lesley of so many years ago that the colour, the wet dark lashes, might have been because he—and Henry—had pressed her unmercifully, teased her too hard. He—and Henry—there hadn’t been anyone else. It was always he and Henry and Les. He said, ‘That’s for you to say.’ And then, ‘Les—I’ve always cared.’

  ‘You never told me—’

  ‘You had too much money—and I’d too little.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. ‘A hundred a year, and my brains—which were going to make me a fortune! I was going to write a best-seller, or have a smashing success with a play and come back and shove it under your father’s nose and say, “What about it now, sir?” He warned me off, you know.’

  ‘He didn’t!’

  ‘Oh, yes, he did. “Boy and girl nonsense, my dear fellow. She’s going to be an heiress. You wouldn’t like to have it said you were after her money—now would you?” And then a piece about liking me well enough but having other views for his daughter.’

  After twenty years his voice showed just how much his young man’s pride had been pricked. The scene came up before Lesley as if she had been there—her father tactless and blundering, ambitious for her, without any real sense of what would bring her happiness; Jerome as proud as the devil, flinging off to make a fortune. Everything in her wept for twenty wasted years.

  She said, ‘So that’s why you stopped coming down then?’

  ‘Yes. My smashing success didn’t happen, but for a long time I kept thinking it might be round the next corner. I took care not to come down or see too much of you—I wasn’t going to be told a second time that I was after your money. Then your father died—’

  ‘Well?’

  He lifted a hand and let it drop again upon his knee.

  ‘That finished it. By that time I knew just about where I came in the writing line. Anyone who isn’t a fool can measure himself if he will face up to it. I was a decent second-rater, and I wasn’t going to be anything more. I could make five or six hundred a year, but I wouldn’t ever be in a position to go to your father and tell him I wanted to marry you, and that being the case, I wasn’t going to take advantage of the fact that he was dead and go to you. It sounds a bit high-falutin, but I suppose it was just my beastly pride. So I saw less of you than ever. I thought, “What’s the good of getting hurt?” You see, I never thought—I never thought I had a chance.’

  She said, ‘You let it go—’

  ‘I suppose I did. And now—it’s too late—’

  ‘Is it—Jerome?’

  ‘I’m all smashed up—’

  The flush which had made her look like a girl again had died away. She was very pale as she put out her hands to him and said,

  ‘Do you still care for me? That’s the only thing that matters—if you care.’

  He took the hands and held them in a grip that hurt.

  ‘Les—’

  It was half her name, and half a sob.

  THIRTY

  WHEN MAGGIE PELL left Miss Silver she went part of the way down the back stair. At the turn she heard heavy feet coming up. She stepped back into the bathroom and saw Judy Elliot go by with a tall fair young man in plain clothes and a police sergeant. They went up, and into the corridor and along. The sound of their feet died away, a door opened and shut. Judy Elliot didn’t come back.

  Maggie waited a little. A wisp of hair had come loose. She took off her cap and made sure there were no more ends. If there was a thing she was faddy about, it was her hair. All very well for Gloria to go about with it flying every way, but it wasn’t her style at all. Satin-smooth she liked it. The way some girls would go about in uniform with their hair all of a fuzz—well, she didn’t think it ought to be allowed.

  When she was quite satisfied she went on down the stair and made her way to the kitchen. Mrs. Robbins ha
d been busy when she arrived, but she couldn’t go away without seeing her. She might be in the kitchen, or in the house-keeper’s room next door. She tried the kitchen first. It was empty, but the door to the scullery stood half open, and on the far side of it there were voices—Robbins’ and Mrs. Robbins’. Well, Maggie would rather have found her alone, but you can’t always pick and choose.

  She was half way across the kitchen, when she realized that the Robbins were having words. Nothing so very out of the way about that when all was said and done. It was Maggie’s opinion that Mrs. Robbins had done a bad day’s work for herself when she married, and if a girl couldn’t do better than that she’d best stay single. Give and take was one thing, but to have a man lay down the law to you till you couldn’t call your soul your own was what there wasn’t any need to put up with, not if you set a right value on yourself.

  Robbins was undoubtedly laying down the law.

  ‘Police in the house, and everyone knowing about it! And Mr. Jerome giving them leave to carry out a search! If Mr. Pilgrim was here he’d not have let them across the doorstep. They’re in Mr. Jerome’s room now for all I know. “I’ve given them leave”, he says, “and they can start on my room first.” And him the master of the house!’

  Maggie Pell shared his horror. So that was what the police were doing upstairs. A good murder on the front page of your paper was all very well, but when it came down to searching people’s bedrooms in a house like Pilgrim’s Rest—well, it did bring it home to you and no mistake. She wondered if they’d search all the rooms, and if they did, whatever would Miss Netta say? She heard Mrs. Robbins give a sort of sniffing sob. And then Robbins again, very angry.

  ‘What’s the good of that? I tell you it’s the end!’

  ‘Don’t speak like that!’

  ‘I’ll speak how I like, and you’ll listen! And this is what I’ve got to say—you stop all this crying and whining about someone that’s better dead!’

  Her sharp cry stopped him there.