She appeared to consider this gravely. Then she said, ‘I did not contemplate making the request myself. I seem to remember suggesting that you should do so.’
He broke into unabashed laughter.
‘All right! He’ll bite my head off, but I don’t know that I care. I must remember to tell the Chief when I get back. He thinks I can do with quite a lot of taking down.’
Miss Silver regarded him indulgently, but ignored his last remark. She observed brightly that there was no time like the present, and that if a search was to be effective it must be carried out without delay.
Frank turned to the door.
‘All right, I’ll ask him—play the idiot boy, I think, and assume that the instructions stand. But there are no flies on March. I shan’t get away with it, but no matter.’
THIRTY-NINE
AS FRANK HAD surmised, he did not get away with it. His very creditable assumption that the search of the house would now proceed, and that it would be as well to take Miss Janetta’s room next and get it over, was quite firmly disposed of. March did not exactly say ‘Nothing doing’, but the effect was clearly conveyed. He then passed to his interview with Jerome Pilgrim, and stated that he had asked Miss Day to come down to the study as soon as she was disengaged.
‘She’s doing something for Miss Janetta at the moment, but she said she wouldn’t be very long. When she comes down I shall show her the letter which was found in Clayton’s room and ask her what about it. Miss Silver can be present. Do you know where she is?’
‘Yes—I’ve just left her.’
March did not attempt to conceal a smile.
‘So I imagined! What does she expect to find in Miss Janetta’s room?’
Frank looked over his shoulder. They were in Roger Pilgrim’s room, and he wasn’t certain that the door had latched. When he had made sure, he said, ‘Hashish—bhang—cannabis indica—placed there by Miss Day on the well established principle of hiding a blade of grass in a hay-field. I’m told the place is a regular chemist’s shop.’
‘There is certainly a good deal of what Miss Silver might describe as medical paraphernalia.’
Frank cocked an eyebrow.
‘If you want to quote Miss Silver, I can do it more directly than that. She says if she were Lona she’d be right on the spot at this moment getting rid of the stuff. And right on the spot is just where Lona is. What’s the betting that Miss Netta’s fire is at this moment burning with an exotic eastern flame? I don’t know what hashish burns like, but I should expect it to be something in the green or violet line.’
March looked at him hard.
‘You don’t mean to say you believe this fantastic story!’
He got a shrug of the shoulder.
‘Believe it, or don’t believe it. There isn’t any proof, and I don’t see how there can be. And there is a most convincing scapegoat. Nobody is going to look past Robbins to find a highly chimerical murderer lurking in the background. But it’s rather a staggering thought that perhaps, after all, there is someone there.’
‘It would be.’ March’s tone was studiously quiet.
‘Someone who bumped Henry off in a fit of temper, contrived old Pilgrim’s death, pushed Roger out of the attic window, and then was all ready with her scapegoat. Talk about a ram in a thicket, Robbins fits the part to a hair—hashish in the wash-stand drawer, Henry’s wallet in the chest, and a most convincing suicide to wind up with. Maudie says it happened like that. I don’t say she’s right, but I’ve got a very strong inhibition about saying she’s wrong. And if she isn’t wrong—’ again that slight shrug of the shoulder— ‘if she isn’t—well, we’re letting something loose upon the world. That’s one thing. And here’s another—tigress having tasted blood and got away with it. Cheery prospect, isn’t it? And not a thing that we can do about it so far as I can see, unless that letter knocks her off her balance and she gives herself away.’
March said, ‘That wouldn’t get us very far. She might have written that letter, or twenty others, and yet have no hand in Clayton’s death.’ He changed his tone abruptly. ‘Let’s stick to facts. There’s a case against Robbins that would satisfy any jury in the world. There is no case at all against Lona Day.’
FORTY
LONA DAY OPENED the study door and went in. She saw Superintendent March sitting at the writing-table with the overhead light shining down on his thick light hair and on the well kept hand which was laying down a sheet of foolscap as she entered. On his right, at the short end of the table, was Sergeant Abbott, pencil poised and pad ready. He looked up at her, but he did not rise from his seat. It was a long, cold look. Away to the left, detached, remote, and prim, Miss Silver was completing the third row of a grey stocking destined for her niece Ethel’s eldest boy. The blue jumper, finished off and nicely pressed, was now in a drawer which had once held Henry Clayton’s shirts. Tomorrow, if all was well, it would be packed up and posted. In spite of current events the timing was excellent. If the post office did its part, Mrs. Burkett would receive her birthday present by the first post on the morning of that anniversary.
Miss Day cast a fleeting glance at the ball of grey wool in Miss Silver’s lap. Then she came forward and took the chair she had occupied at a previous interview. As she did so, the telephone bell rang. March picked up the receiver. The ghostly rumble of a bass voice could be heard by the other three people in the room, but only he got more than that. He said, ‘What does she want?’ and the rumble began again.
Presently he said, ‘Oh, well, I’ll be here. What time did you say? ... I see—then she won’t be long. I’m not through yet anyhow.’
He hung up and turned to Frank Abbott. ‘Someone coming out here to see me. They don’t know what she wants.’ Then, ‘Well, Miss Day, I have asked you to come down because I have something to show you. It has been suggested that you may be able to help us with an identification.’
She looked faintly surprised.
‘I? Well, of course if there’s anything I can do—but—I really don’t know—’
‘Thank you.’
He lifted the foolscap and disclosed, lying upon a second piece, the sheet of scorched notepaper. The clumsy pencilled characters caught the light. They were turned towards her so that, if she would, she might read them.
March said, ‘Can you help us at all with this, Miss Day? Have you ever seen it before?’
She had looked down at the paper. Now she looked up, the grey-green eyes wide with what looked like surprise. Frank Abbott, on a hair-trigger of critical attention, could not suspect it of being anything else.
Miss Silver’s needles clicked, but she was watching Lona Day. There was nothing to watch. If a shock was received, it had been absorbed. The hands lay, the one against the dark stuff of her dress, the other lightly on the table edge, no muscle tensed, no bone-white knuckles shown. The small nondescript eyes which saw everything continued to watch.
Lona said, ‘Am I to read this? What does it mean?’
March answered her gravely.
‘It is a letter. Do you know where it was found?’
‘Oh, no. How could I?’
‘I don’t know. It was found lodged in the chimney of what used to be Henry Clayton’s room. Some attempt had been made to burn it, but the draught must have taken it up the chimney. Will you please read the letter.’
She said at once, ‘Oh, I can read it—but what does it mean?’
‘The writing is disguised. The writer appears to be suggesting an assignation for the purpose of saying goodbye. Since no place is mentioned, I think we may take it that this meeting was to be the last of a series.’
She looked at him admiringly.
‘How clever you are!’
Was there the faintest flavour of mockery behind the words? Frank was never sure.
What March thought he kept to himself. He disliked the whole business, and even as he proceeded with it he wondered why he had conceded so much to arguments which his reason derided. Not that he
was beyond his duty if he confronted any or every person present in the house on the night of Henry Clayton’s death with a letter which might be, however remotely, connected with it. But his mind informed him with unsparing clarity that all he now said and did was tinged with theories which he neither accepted nor shared. In other words, Miss Silver was using him, and he was allowing himself to be used. The position irked him beyond measure. What he was doing was all right. The way in which he was doing it would have been all right if it had been his own way, but it wasn’t. He could neither rid himself of his task nor accomplish it to his liking. All he could do was to pursue it with increasing reluctance. Behind everything else there was a compelling determination to have done with the matter once and for all, leaving no possible avenue through which any fresh pressure could be brought to bear.
With these things present in his mind he looked straight into Miss Day’s attractive eyes and said, ‘Did you write this letter?’
The eyes flashed, the hand on the table edge tightened, the voice rang clear with anger.
‘Of course not!’
Well, no one could say that it hadn’t been put to her, and no one could say that her reaction was anything but what was to be expected from an innocent woman. If there had been no flash and no anger, he might have begun to believe what he didn’t believe. But if he had a right to suggest that she had been Henry Clayton’s mistress, and perhaps his murderess too, then an innocent young woman had just as much right to be angry. He said,
‘You know, I have to ask these questions. You were in the house when Clayton was murdered.’
There was a bright patch of colour in either cheek. The eyes were bright too. Anger does not become everyone, but it became Miss Lona Day, who was certainly very angry. She said in a low, ringing voice, ‘I was in the house with a man whose love affairs were notorious, and so—I had an affair with him! I was looking after two very sick people at the time, but that wouldn’t be enough to keep me out of mischief! I was in the house at the time he was murdered, so I suppose I murdered him!’
Miss Silver looked quietly across her clicking needles and said,
‘Yes.’
Miss Day cried out sharply. She burst into hysterical sobbing.
‘Oh! How dare you—how dare you!’ She turned swimming eyes upon March. ‘Oh, she hasn’t any right to say a thing like that!’
March was very much of that opinion himself. He found the situation awkward and unprecedented.
Miss Day continued to sob with a good deal of energy. Between the sobs she could be heard demanding what Miss Silver was doing there, and who she was anyhow—saying things like that about a nurse with her living to earn!
Frank Abbott noted sardonically that a good many layers of social veneer had come off with the tears. Or were there any tears? There was a handkerchief dabbed, or pressed against the eyes, and the eyes were certainly very bright, but he felt some scepticism as to their being wet. At the moment they were fixed upon March as if he were her only hope on earth.
‘Superintendent—I haven’t got to listen to her, have I?’
He said in a grave, reluctant voice, ‘I think you had better hear what she has to say.’ He turned to Miss Silver. ‘I think you must explain or substantiate what you have just said.’
Miss Silver had continued to knit. There were now several rows of dark grey stitches on her needles. She met his severe regard with a placid one, and replied, ‘It was an expression of my personal opinion. Miss Day made a statement in sarcasm. In sober earnest I agreed with her.’
There was a short electric silence. Then Miss Silver added in the same equable tone of voice, ‘Does Miss Day wish us to understand that she did not murder Mr. Clayton?’
Lona sprang to her feet. Her sobs had ceased. She looked only to March, spoke only to him.
‘I have never been so insulted in my life! I came to this house more than three years ago to nurse a sick old woman and a badly wounded man. I have done the best for them that I could. I think I may say that I have earned the respect and affection of everyone in this house. I hardly knew Mr. Clayton. It is wicked to suggest that I had anything to do with his death. She has no right to accuse me and to leave it at that. I could bring an action against her for taking away my character. She ought to be made to prove what she says, and if she can’t do it she ought to give me a written apology. My character is my living, and I have a right to protect it.’
March considered that the proceedings had now reached the border-line of nightmare. Miss Day was in her rights, and Miss Silver as badly in the wrong as if she had been tattling sixteen instead of sober sixty. That she could not substantiate her accusation he knew. That she should make an accusation which she could not substantiate staggered him.
Whilst Frank Abbott leaned back in his chair and put his money on Maudie, March said, ‘Miss Silver—’
She gave her slight cough.
‘Do I understand that Miss Day proposes to sue me for slander? It should prove a most interesting case.’
March regarded her sternly, but she looked, not at him, but at Miss Lona Day, and just for a moment she saw what she was looking for—not anger, for that had been most patently displayed—not fear, for she had never expected fear—but something which it is difficult to put into words. Hate comes nearest—with the driving power of a formidable will behind it. It was like the momentary flash of steel from a velvet sheath, and it was instantly controlled.
Miss Silver continued to look, and saw now only what the other two could see, a pale insulted woman defending herself.
Lona Day stepped back from the table.
‘If she has anything to say, why doesn’t she say it? If she hasn’t I should like to go to my room. And I shall ask Captain Pilgrim if he wishes me to be insulted like this in his house.’
March addressed Miss Silver.
‘Have you anything to say?’
Over the clicking needles she gave him a faint, restrained smile.
‘No, thank you, Superintendent.’
Lona Day walked to the door and made an exit which was not without dignity.
Miss Silver got to her feet with no haste. She appeared to be unaware of the disapproval which now filled the room like a fog. She met her former pupil’s gloomy gaze with unruffled mien and said cheerfully, ‘Do you think she will bring an action, Randall? I do not. But it would be extremely interesting if she did.’
Frank Abbott put up a hand to cover his mouth. He heard March say, ‘What on earth possessed you?’ and Miss Silver answer, ‘A desire to experiment, my dear Randall.’
‘You can’t bring charges of that sort without a shred of evidence!’
Miss Silver smiled.
‘She does not know whether I have any evidence or not. The more she thinks about it, the less secure she will feel. It takes a clear conscience to support an accusation of murder.’
March said with real anger, ‘You cannot accuse a woman of murder without one shred of evidence, and in the teeth of overwhelming evidence against another person! There is only one murderer in this case, and that is Alfred Robbins!’
As he spoke, the door opened, disclosing Judy Elliot. She had a bright patch of colour on either cheek. Her voice hurried and shook. She said,
‘Please, will you see Miss Mabel Robbins?’
FORTY-ONE
THERE WAS ONE of those crowded silences. Four people’s thoughts, shocked into immediate and vital activity, met and clashed there. Then Judy moved, and there came past her into the room a tall, dark girl in a fur coat with a small black hat tilted at a becoming angle. The coat was squirrel, the hat undeniably smart, and the girl would have been very pretty indeed if she had not been so dreadfully pale. She came straight up to Frank Abbott, put out both hands to him, and said, ‘Oh, Mr. Frank—is it true about my father? They told me in Ledlington.’
He took the hands, held them for a moment, and said, ‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes. We thoug
ht that you were too.’
She drew her hands away.
‘My father wanted it that way.’
‘He knew you were alive?’
She had very dark blue eyes. The long black lashes had darkened them still more. They lifted now. She looked full at Frank and said, ‘Oh, yes, he knew.’ Her voice was soft and pretty with no trace of country accent. On those last words it was tinged with bitter feeling.
She turned to Randall March.
‘I beg your pardon—I should have spoken to you. But I am sure you will understand. I have known Mr. Frank since I was a little girl, and I have just heard of my father’s death. It was nice to see a friendly face. But of course I know you too—by sight. I used to work in Ledlington.’
Her manner was perfectly simple and direct. In a situation beset with embarrassments she appeared to be unaware of them. When March asked her to sit down she did so. When he explained Miss Silver her faint smile and the slight inclination of her head had a natural grace. When he enquired if she had something to say to him she lifted her eyes to his face and said, ‘Yes, that is why I’ve come.’
Away to her left Frank Abbott produced writing-pad and pencil. Above her knitting Miss Silver’s eyes were bright and intent. March said, ‘Well, Miss Robbins, what have you to say?’
Those very black lashes dropped. She said, ‘A great deal. But it isn’t very easy to begin. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I am not Miss Robbins. I am married, and—Superintendent March, will it be necessary to bring my married name into it?’
‘I don’t know. It depends on what you have to say.’
She drew a long breath.
‘It has nothing to do with my husband.’
‘Does he know you are here?’
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