‘The discovery of Clayton’s body was in all the morning papers, Miss Robbins.’
‘I know. But I hadn’t seen them—I never had time in the morning. I used to listen to the eight o’clock news whilst I was dressing Marion. Then I had breakfast to get. I never have time for the papers—it’s always a rush to get off. I have a friend who looks after Marion with her own little girl, and I have to take her there on my way to the office. I usually only do a half day, but if they have a rush of work, I stay on. We are very busy just now, so I was going to stay.’
‘Your husband saw the papers, I take it.’
‘Yes—after I was gone. He didn’t know what to do—he knew it would be a dreadful shock. Then Jim came in and told him all the things that weren’t in the papers. He said of course there wasn’t the slightest doubt that my father had killed Henry—though of course he didn’t know he was my father. And he said all the newspaper men thought he had killed Roger Pilgrim too, to stop him selling the house, because if it was sold, the cellars would be turned out—’ She put up a hand and gripped the edge of the table. ‘He said, —“Robbins will be arrested today—there’s no doubt about that.” ’
After a short pause she went on.
‘My husband rang up the office and asked if I could come home—urgent private affairs. They said they couldn’t possibly spare me then, but they would try to let me go by four o’clock. They didn’t tell me he had rung up. When I went to fetch Marion my friend told me that John had asked whether she would keep her for the night. That was when I began to think something must have happened. I went home, and John wasn’t there—he had had an urgent call. We have a daily woman—she gave me the message and said would I wait in for him, and he would be back as soon as he could. He didn’t come until half past five. He told me about Henry, and what Jim said about my father being arrested. He said there was no question but that I must tell the police what I had seen and heard. He said I couldn’t possibly stand out of it.’
‘He was quite right.’
She said, ‘Yes—I know that. I told him I would go down. He said he couldn’t come with me, because of the case he had been called to—he would have to go back. But he said my brother-in-law would meet me. I don’t know what he told him—enough to make him say he would keep in touch all day. He rang up again whilst we were talking, and John said I was coming down, and what train to meet. When I got to Ledlington he was there. He told me my father had committed suicide.’
Miss Silver coughed. Mabel Robbins turned to meet her eyes, very bright, very intelligent, very kind.
Miss Silver said, ‘I am afraid I must give you another shock. Your father did not commit suicide. He was murdered.’
If it was a shock, there was no visible effect, just another of those long sighing breaths, and then a low ‘I wondered about that—I couldn’t see why he should kill himself.’
She turned back to March.
‘My mother—Superintendent March, I’ve told you everything I know—may I go to my mother now?’
Miss Silver said, ‘Someone must tell her first, I think. She believes that you are dead.’
March said with authority, ‘I am afraid that must wait. Miss Robbins, you are aware of the implications of this statement you have made. They are very grave.’
She met his look with a perfectly steady one.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘In view of the fact that your father is dead and therefore in no danger of arrest, there is nothing you wish to modify?’
Her voice was tired and sad but as steady as her eyes.
‘I’ve only told you the truth. I can’t alter that.’
He turned to Frank Abbott.
‘Will you ask Miss Day to come down.’
FORTY-TWO
JUDY SHUT THE study door and went back up the stairs. It seemed as if the day would never end, nor all the things that had to be done in it. That was what she had been feeling until the moment when she had gone to the front door and Mabel Robbins had stepped into the hall and given her name. And then everything else had been blown sky-high. It isn’t every day that you open the door to someone who has been dead three years.
As she went upstairs she was still under the influence of that shock and she hadn’t begun to think. Her mind was bubbling with unrelated ideas. How dreadful to come like that and find her father dead. How lovely for Mrs. Robbins to have her daughter back. And, ‘I wonder where she has been all this long time.’
As she turned into the corridor and came to the door of her own room she met Lona Day in her outdoor things—fur coat, small dark hat, handbag swinging from her left wrist. She came up close and said, ‘Who was that you let in just now? I heard the bell. Captain Pilgrim can’t see anyone—not anyone at all. He’s ill.’
Judy said without any thought behind the words, ‘It was Mabel Robbins. She isn’t dead.’
Lona took her by the arm and began to walk her back towards the stairs. As she did so she said in an indifferent voice, ‘I knew that. Didn’t you? Naturally she would come down, but I wasn’t expecting her quite so soon. Hurry, Judy! Captain Pilgrim is very ill. I must fetch Dr. Daly to him. He’s out at Miles’ Farm, and they haven’t a telephone. I must try and catch the taxi which brought that girl.’
Judy hung back.
‘You can’t—it’s gone.’
She was hurried on again.
‘I must get a lift in the police car then. It’s a matter of life and death.’
Past the foot of the stair, across the hall, out into the glass passage. As Lona opened the door to the street, Judy said, ‘Aren’t you going to stay with him?’
The door was open now, a biting cold air came in. The police car stood there at the left, black and empty. Lona said, ‘No, no, no! I must get Dr. Daly! There’s nothing to be done till he comes. You must drive—I’m not good enough in the dark. Get in—get in quick!’
She had the door of the car open now, and she had Judy by the arm.
‘Get in—get in! Do you want him to die?’
With her foot on the step Judy turned.
‘Miss Day, you can’t take a police car like this! You must go back and ask.’
It was Lona’s left hand which was on her arm. The right came up now with something dark in it. They were just shadows, the hand and what it held—frightening shadows out of some horrid dream. They came up close. Something like a cold, deadly O was pressed against Judy’s neck a little below her ear. Lona Day said, ‘If you don’t get in at once and start the car, I’ll shoot. If you call out you’ll be dead before anyone hears you. That’s right! Now start the car!’
With all her heart Judy prayed that the switch-key would be gone, but she put up her hand to feel, and it was there.
The cold pressure was gone from her neck. Afterwards she called herself ‘Fool!’ a dozen times, because just there she had her chance and missed it. But it all happened so quickly between one breath and the next. The door behind her opened and shut, and quick on that the pistol was pressing into her spine and Lona Day was saying, ‘Reach out and shut that front door! If you do anything more you’ll be dead!’
Judy did it. What she ought to have done was to duck and slip out on the right the moment the pistol went. But she had missed her chance.
‘Start the car!’
Judy said, ‘I can’t do it.’
The voice behind her took on a cutting edge.
‘If you don’t, I’ll shoot you here and now. And then I’ll get out and walk back to St. Agnes’ Lodge and tell Miss Freyne you’ve sent me for Penny. She’ll let her come all right—you know that. And what I do to her won’t worry you, because you’ll be dead.’
Judy heard her own voice say slowly and stiffly, ‘What good—would that—do you?’
The voice behind her in the dark laughed—once.
‘Have you never heard of the pleasures of revenge, my dear? If you spoil my chance of getting away, I’ll take Penny with me. I’ll give you till I’ve counted five.’
Judy put up her hand to the switch.
As the car slipped down the street and gathered way, Lona Day spoke again.
‘I’m going to sit back now. That means you won’t feel the pistol, but it will be there. I can see you quite well against the lights, and if you try anything on, I shan’t miss—I’m quite a good shot. We’ll turn off to the right in half a mile.’ After a moment she went on, ‘If you do just what you’re told you won’t come to any harm, and nor will Penny. I’m going to get away, and you are going to help me. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can play any game of your own and get away with it. The other people who thought they could do that are dead. If I have to shoot you, who will look after Penny?’
Judy heard the odd stiff voice which didn’t sound like her own say, ‘Don’t—talk—like—that.’
Lona said, ‘I’m warning you. You couldn’t get away with it—none of them did. Henry Clayton thought he could pick me up and drop me, like he did with the Robbins girl. I’ll tell you about that, because it will show you that you can’t play about with me. We’re coming to that turning. It’s a lane, and there’s a narrow bridge a little farther on. You’ll have to be careful.’
Judy took the corner. The lane was arched by leafless trees rising from a dark hedgerow on either side. The sky was covered with cloud, but a diffused light came through from the hidden moon. The car was a Wolseley, and the lights the best that the black-out regulations allowed. She was a good driver. Up to this moment everything she had done was automatic. Now she began to feel the car and her own command of it.
From behind her Lona Day went on talking.
‘Now I shall tell you about Henry. He was going to marry Lesley Freyne because she had money. After me! She isn’t the sort of woman anyone could be in love with—it was just the money. Henry and I had met in London when I was with my last case, so when I heard a nurse was wanted at Pilgrim’s Rest I applied, and of course, with my testimonials, they snapped me up. And would you believe it, Henry was frightfully put out. But he got over that. His engagement was rather hanging fire about then, and as between me and Lesley Freyne—well, I ask you! And then in February he had the nerve to tell me the wedding-day was fixed— Bear to the left here!’
The lane forked and twisted. Judy took the turn. Lona went on speaking.
‘He came down for the wedding. I sent him a note to come to my room. But he didn’t come, he went to her instead. I heard him tell Robbins and go out. Robbins went away. I ran after Henry and caught him up by the gate to the stable yard. He was angry, but he came back with me. We went into the dining-room. I pulled out one of the knives from the trophy by the sideboard and told him I would kill myself if he didn’t say goodbye to me properly. He told me not to be a fool. I made him think I’d put the knife back, but I didn’t, I put it in my pocket. I was wearing my Chinese coat. He always said it suited me. They don’t have pockets as a rule, but I’d had one made. The knife went into it nicely. I wasn’t sure up till then whether I’d kill Henry. I’d thought about it, but I hadn’t made up my mind. If he’d been very sweet to me, I might have let him off, but he actually told me that Lesley Freyne was the salt of the earth, and that he was going to do his best to make her a good husband. That finished it. I got him to come into the passage behind the dining-room, and when we were there I said, “What’s that?” as if I had heard something. He turned round to look where I was pointing, and I took the knife out of my pocket and stabbed him in the back. It was quite easy— There are cross roads coming now. Go right over and up the lane on the other side!’
Judy had a sick, impotent feeling. She could drive the car, and she could listen. There didn’t seem to be anything else that she could do. Her mind was like a stopped clock—it was there, but it didn’t work. It was just as if she had been switched over from the normal everyday world into a nightmare. She didn’t know her way in it. There wasn’t any law or any kindness, there wasn’t any pity or humanity or feeling. A monstrous ego held the stage, strutting and posturing there.
They went over the cross roads and up a wooded hill to an open heath bare under the clouded sky. Lona Day went on talking. Her voice came and went in Judy’s ears. Sometimes she heard the words as words, sometimes they just went to build up the picture which was slowly forming in her mind—the narrow passage behind the dining-room—the lift with its open door—Henry Clayton lying there, inert, heavy, dreadfully heavy—and Lona dragging him—
The voice behind her said, ‘Nurses learn how to lift, or I couldn’t have done it. And of course the trolley came in very handy.’
The trolley was in the cellar ... Judy sickened, as if the cold of that underground place could reach her here. Thought glanced away at an angle. Cold ... She hadn’t felt her body until now, but suddenly she became aware of it, rigid and chilled in an indoor dress, driving on for mile after mile through the February evening. She tried not to listen to Lona boasting of how she had hidden Henry Clayton’s body in the tin trunk and piled up the furniture in front of it—‘And I locked the front door and put the key back in his pocket, so of course nobody dreamed he had come back into the house.’ But whether the words got through or not, the dreadful picture went on forming in her mind.
‘... and no one suspected anything. At least it turns out now that Robbins did—though he was asleep when I locked the door—because that daughter of his, the one he gave out was dead, was there—running after Henry, the impudent creature! And it seems she saw us in the dining-room, but I didn’t know that until this afternoon. Whatever Robbins may have thought, or whatever he may have guessed, he hated Henry and he held his tongue. So everything was quite all right till Mr. Pilgrim took it into his head to sell the house—and of course I couldn’t have that. I managed very cleverly about him. Even if they had found the thorn under his saddle they couldn’t have traced it to me. And I was lucky too, because the fall proved fatal. And then Roger came home and began the whole stupid business over again. Really men have no sense. Of course he had to go, but I wasn’t so lucky as I had been about Mr. Pilgrim. He really seemed to have a charmed life. I failed twice, but I brought it off the third time. It was quite easy. I just waited for Miss Freyne to come down from the attic, and up I ran. He was looking out of the window. He never even turned round. He thought Miss Freyne had come back. He said, “What is it, Lesley?” in an absent sort of way, and he never knew who pushed him. Of course when they found Henry’s body something had to be done about it. Robbins was the natural person to suspect, so I worked on that. I had kept Henry’s wallet because I had always felt it would be useful if things turned out awkwardly. As soon as I heard the house was going to be searched I ran up and put it in behind the bottom drawer of the chest in the Robbins’ room. And then something happened which might very easily have knocked me off my balance. Only it didn’t. I must say I feel pleased about that. Anyone can plan a thing if they have plenty of time, but it’s how you act in an emergency that shows what you are. When Robbins came to the door and said he wanted to see Captain Pilgrim I knew at once that something had gone wrong. I came out of the room and shut the door behind me. He said, “Look here, I’m not going to hold my tongue any longer. You were in the dining-room with Mr. Henry that night. My daughter Mabel saw you.” I said quite simply, “Your daughter Mabel is dead”—just like that. And he said, “Oh, no, she isn’t. That’s what I gave out to stop the talk. She’s alive, and if I say the word, she’ll come forward and say what she saw and heard. I’d no cause to love Mr. Henry and I’ve held my tongue, but I’m not going to swing for him, and that’s flat. You can have from now till supper-time to get away if it’s any use to you, but that’s as far as I’ll go, and farther than I’ve any right to.” And he turned round and went away upstairs. I gave him a couple of minutes, and then I slipped off my shoes and went after him. I could hear the police in his room. I opened the door a chink and looked in. They had everything out of the chest of drawers, and Henry’s wallet was lying there on the top of a lot of
old papers. They had their backs to me, so I thought it would be a good plan to lock them in. The key was on the inside, but I got it—it didn’t take a moment. Then I went in next door, and there was Robbins over by the window, leaning out. Of course I could see what it was—he was trying to hear what the police were saying there in his room.’
From behind her Judy heard a low rippling laugh. Quite a pretty laugh.
‘Well, he never knew who pushed him either. Let me see—we’re coming to the end of this common, and I must watch the road and not talk so much. There’s rather a steep lane down, and then the road forks and you go to the right. Pretty, wooded country, but the primroses will hardly be out yet, I should think. After that—let me see—’
Judy heard the rustle of paper behind her. A map was being unfolded and hung over the back of her seat. A flash reflected from the windscreen disclosed the presence of a torch. A little flicker of hope sprang up. If Lona Day had to manage a map and a torch, would she be able to keep the pistol aimed? ... The hope flickered out. She felt the pistol again, pressing steadily against her spine. The map hung over the back of the seat, and that left a hand for the torch.
They came off the heath down a short, steep lane that ran between hedges. Judy found herself wondering whether there was a ditch under the hedge. If there was—suppose she ditched the car ... The answer to that one was easy, Lona would shoot her out of hand. She simply couldn’t afford to let her go—not after all the things she had said. But suppose she could back into a ditch—there might be a chance that way. If she could do it quickly enough—if she could make an excuse for reversing and do it then, Lona might be knocked off her balance and there would be just a chance of getting away. It was the only chance she could think of.
There was a click behind her and the torch went out. Lona said in a satisfied voice, ‘Yes—that will be all right. I hope you see how stupid it would be to try any tricks with me—you simply wouldn’t have a chance. I have everything planned. I’ve known for three years that I might have to get away in a hurry, though I didn’t expect to be quite so rushed as this. I didn’t think that Mabel Robbins would have been in such a hurry to give her evidence. After all, she doesn’t come out of it particularly well. I meant to get away later on tonight, but as you see, I can meet an emergency, and now it is going to be quite all right. The police will never find me, because I shall just become someone else. I have my ration-book and my identity-card—and I am sure you would like to know how I got them, but I shan’t tell you. Well, perhaps it doesn’t matter if I just give you a hint, because you’ll never be able to tell anyone, will you? You see, Lona Day isn’t my real name, and there was nothing to prevent my getting my ration-book and identity-card in my own name, was there? And I banked Henry’s fifty pounds in that name too, so you see I thought of everything ... Now this is where the road forks.’
Dark Threat Page 24
