Miss Silver coughed.
“There are four staircases from this floor to the next, and two to the attic floor. It is extremely confusing and makes a great deal of work.”
Randall March agreed.
“It makes it impossible to check what Robbins says. Mrs. Robbins corroborates him, but of course she would-says he was only away a few minutes. The daily girl had gone home. Of course there’s not the slightest reason to suspect the Robbinses of anything. Thirty years service is a character in itself.”
Miss Silver looked up.
“A great many things may happen in thirty years,” she said.
He returned her look with one half startled, half protesting.
“And what do you mean by that?”
“I will tell you presently. Pray proceed.”
“Robbins says that Miss Freyne was still there when he was in his room, which is next door to the attic where the papers were being sorted. I asked him how he knew, and he said he could hear the voices. I said, ‘You could hear people talking, but how do you know that one of them was Miss Freyne? It might have been somebody else.’ He said it was Miss Freyne, because his window was open and he had to lean out to shut it-it’s one of those casements, as you know. He says the next-door window was still open and he could see Miss Freyne. She was sitting on the window-seat with her back to him, and Roger was standing by her. He says he heard her say, ‘Oh, Roger, you can’t do it-you mustn’t!’ and then he shut his window and came downstairs. I asked Miss Freyne what about it, and she said yes, Roger told her he was going to sell, and she felt very upset about it. She doesn’t remember exactly what she said, but it would be something like that. I asked her why the window was open, and she said Roger had an oil stove up there and they got hot. You do, you know, when you’re sorting things. I asked her if there was any quarrel, and she said oh no, of course not. And I asked her how soon after this she came away, and she said almost at once. Which to some extent corroborates Robbins, because she originally said she left at a quarter past six, and Robbins says it was ten past when he went up to his room. The trouble is that we don’t know the actual time of the fall. Nobody seems to have heard anything. And that’s odd.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
“It is not as strange as it appears. The bedrooms which look out upon the garden are old Mr. Pilgrim’s and the one which Roger used to occupy, neither of which is in use, the one into which Roger had moved, and on the other side of the stairs an empty room and the one occupied by Captain Jerome Pilgrim. On the ground floor there are the two unused drawing-rooms and the study. Miss Day’s room and the one I am occupying, Miss Elliot’s and the two Miss Pilgrims’ rooms, all look towards the street.”
He nodded.
“Yes, I have seen the rooms. Jerome should have heard something, but I understand that he had the wireless going. Even so, you would have thought-” He broke off with a frown, looked down at the paper in his hand, and went on again. “Pell found him when he went to lock the gates just before seven. Daly says he might have been dead half an hour or three quarters when he saw him, which was at five minutes past seven, as he happened to be in and had only to walk about a hundred yards down the street when Miss Columba’s call came through. You see how fluid it leaves the time. According to Robbins, Roger was alive and talking to Miss Freyne at ten minutes past six. According to Miss Freyne, he was alive when she looked at her watch and left him at a quarter past. I pressed Daly as to whether he might have been dead before that, and he said it was a thing nobody could swear to one way or the other. He doesn’t think he’d been dead for more than three quarters of an hour, but-he might have been. If it was suicide it probably happened as soon as Miss Freyne had gone. I don’t mind telling you that’s what I’m inclined to think. Daly said he was in a very nervy state. He had screwed himself up to selling the place against a good deal of opposition from the family. What Miss Freyne said about it was the last straw. He waited until she was gone and threw himself out.”
Miss Silver coughed and said,
“No, Randall, it was not suicide.”
“You sound very sure about that.”
“I feel very sure about it.”
“Why?”
“He did not want to die. He wanted to sell this place, get away from it, and live in a small modern house. He was not engaged, but he had an attachment. He looked forward to marrying and settling down. I feel quite sure that it was not suicide.”
“Accident then. Those windows come down to within a few inches of the floor-that window-seat affair is only a low step up. It would be easy enough to over-balance if he had any kind of a turn.”
Miss Silver shook her head again and said,
“No.”
He looked at her with good-tempered exasperation.
“Then I suppose you are going to tell me just what happened.”
She rested her hands upon the now voluminous mass of Ethel’s jumper and said gravely,
“No, I cannot do that. But it was murder, Randall. Roger Pilgrim was murdered.”
chapter 18
There was one of those silences which are not noticed because thought talks so loudly. Murder is a word to which no amount of use can quite accustom us. The voice of blood calling from the earth must always be a dreadful voice, and one before which all others fall to silence.
Randall March broke this one, his voice dry and official as he said,
“What proof have you that it was murder?”
Miss Silver picked up her needles and began to knit again very composedly. She said,
“I have no proof. But I have a good many interesting things to tell you. To begin with, I am here in my professional capacity because Roger Pilgrim believed that two attempts had been made upon his life.”
“What were they?”
She told him very succinctly.
“You can go and look at the two rooms for yourself. The fallen ceiling was attributed to an overflowing sink, the burnt-out room to a spark from the wood fire setting light to the papers which Roger Pilgrim had been sorting. In the first case, the sink is twelve feet away on the other side of a passage the ceiling of which did not come down, and I shall be greatly surprised if you do not agree with me that the amount of wet still traceable under the floor of the room immediately over Roger’s points to water having been deliberately applied there. In the second case, Roger was convinced that he had been drugged. He fell heavily asleep after taking a small whisky and soda, and awoke to find the room blazing and, as he declared to me, the door locked on the outside. He said he had been keeping the key there because of having these confidential papers spread about. It was his habit, apparently, to lock the room as he went out. By the time the fire had been got under, he told me, the door had been unlocked again. But he couldn’t get out that way. He had to break a window.”
“Did you believe that his life had been attempted?”
She was knitting rapidly.
“I kept an open mind. There was no real evidence, as Frank Abbott told him.”
“Abbott?”
“They were at school together. Frank has relatives in the neighbourhood. He advised Roger to come and see me.”
Randall March said abruptly,
“What would the motive be?”
“To prevent him from selling the property.”
“What!”
“He was about to do so. In similar circumstances his father also met with a fatal accident.”
Miss Silver frowned upon an exclamation which she considered profane. In a reproving voice she informed him of what the old groom William had told Roger about the presence of a thorn under his father’s saddle.
“I cannot tell you whether it was true or not. I can only tell you that Roger believed it. I did not think it wise to question William, but you will be able to do so.”
Randall March sat forward with his elbows on the table.
“My dear Miss Silver, are you seriously asking me to believe that two people
have been murdered in order to prevent the sale of this estate?”
“It is what I believe, Randall.”
“But why? Good heavens-you want a motive for that sort of thing! Who had one? The next heir is Jack Pilgrim, who has been out of the country for the last four years-and why should anyone murder Mr. Pilgrim and Roger to put Jack in?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“To prevent the estate from being sold.”
“But why-why-why?”
Miss Silver leaned towards him and said,
“In order to answer that we shall have to go back three years.”
“Three years?”
“Yes, Randall-to the disappearance of Henry Clayton.”
He looked astonished, then quite definitely on his guard.
“Are you going to explain that?”
“Yes. And I will ask you to listen to me with an open mind.”
“I hope I should always do that.”
She inclined her head in acquiescence. After which she led off briskly, sitting up straight and knitting extremely fast.
“I must remind you of the statements made at the time by Robbins and Miss Lesley Freyne. They were, in that order and on their own showing, the last two people to see Henry Clayton. He was staying at Pilgrim’s Rest, being, as you probably know, a nephew of Mr. Pilgrim, and therefore a first cousin to Roger and Captain Jerome, who were also in the house. It was about seven months after Dunkirk where Captain Pilgrim had been wounded, and about three months after he had been allowed to leave the military hospital where he had been treated and come here under the charge of Miss Lona Day, who was already at Pilgrim’s Rest, having nursed Miss Janetta through a tolerably severe illness. Henry Clayton, as you know, was employed in the Ministry of Information in London. He had come down to be married to Miss Freyne, and the wedding was only three days off. On the day of his disappearance he received fifty pounds as a wedding present from his uncle. He asked to have it in cash as he intended to use it for his honeymoon. Mr. Pilgrim was in the habit of keeping fairly large sums in the house-he collected his own rents, and did not bank them. There was no record of the numbers of the notes given to Mr. Clayton.”
Randall March smiled a little grimly.
“That makes it so nice and easy-doesn’t it?”
Miss Silver coughed with a hint of reproach.
“None of it is easy, Randall. Let me proceed. It is not in dispute that Mr. Clayton and Miss Freyne had some disagreement during the afternoon. According to her it was not of a serious nature. Robbins states that at about half past ten that night he heard Henry Clayton at the telephone making an appointment with Miss Freyne, the words, as repeated to me by Frank Abbott, being ‘No, Lesley-of course not! Darling, you couldn’t think a thing like that!’ After which he suggested coming round, and when she evidently demurred he remarked that it was only half past ten. He told Robbins he was going round to see Miss Freyne, and said that he would not be long, but not to sit up for him-he would take the key and put up the chain when he came in. He then walked out of the house just as he was, in a dark lounge suit without hat, coat, or scarf. And according to Robbins that was the last he saw of him.”
“And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“For the moment I should prefer to continue. Robbins said in his statement that he did not like to leave Mr. Henry to lock up, as Mr. Pilgrim was very particular. He went through to the kitchen to tell his wife that he might be late, and then came back to the hall, where he put up the chain on the door and sat down to wait. He heard the clock strike twelve, and nothing more until it waked him by striking six.”
“How long was he away talking to his wife?”
“I do not know. Frank thought a few minutes only. The least time would be five minutes, I should think. Now we come to Miss Freyne’s statement.”
March said,
“I remember that. She was watching for him, and saw him come out of the house and walk a bit along. Then she came away from the window because she didn’t want him to know that she was looking out for him. You know, that rather got under my skin.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” she observed.
“As you say. That was the last anyone saw of Henry Clayton. And now where do we go from there?”
The tempo of the busy needles slackened. She said slowly,
“We have the statements of two people here. If one of them was not telling the truth, the disappearance of Henry Clayton would be less mysterious. Or they might both be telling the truth, and yet not all the truth. Miss Freyne may have seen Mr. Clayton leave the house as she describes, but that may not have been the last she saw of him. The quarrel between them may have been more serious than she was willing to admit. Instead of a reconciliation there may have been a complete breach. I do not incline to this view, because it does not explain the two subsequent deaths, but if you believe these to have been accidental you may perhaps entertain it.”
March nodded.
“Well, as a matter of fact I’ve always had an idea that something of that sort must have happened. By all accounts Clayton was a bit of a rolling stone, and if he’d had a slap in the face like being turned down on the eve of the wedding he might just have gone off into the blue and enlisted or something of that sort.”
“I do not think so. To continue. I would like to put a hypothetical case. Mr. Clayton has been seen to leave Pilgrim’s Rest, and then someone comes down the glass passage to the street door and calls him back. He re-enters the house and is taken into the dining-room, which is the first room on the left as you come in. It is a modern room, but immediately behind it lies a much older part of the house. A door leads from the dining-room into a flagged passage. In this passage Henry Clayton receives a fatal wound. I do not think that firearms would be used. There are two very striking trophies of weapons in the dining-room, comprising a number of swords and daggers. One of these could have been employed. There is a lift going down from the flagged passage to the cellars almost immediately opposite the door from the dining-room. The body could be taken down in it and conveyed to any part of the cellars upon the very convenient wine-trolley.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious indeed. But it is, of course, a hypothetical case.”
“But-the motive… My dear Miss Silver, I suppose you mean Robbins. What motive could Robbins have had?”
She replied soberly.
“There may have been a very strong motive. His daughter had got into trouble and run away. About a month before the disappearance of Henry Clayton, Robbins found out that she was in London and went up to see her. She and her child were killed that night in an air raid, but Robbins saw her in hospital before she died. If she told him that it was Henry Clayton who had seduced her, Robbins would have a motive.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Roger Pilgrim. He said that only he and his father knew about Mabel’s death. The Robbinses didn’t wish it known. Robbins said they had suffered enough and didn’t want it all raked up again.”
“Did Roger tell you that Henry Clayton was the girl’s lover?”
“No, Randall. But Mabel Robbins was brought up in this house. She was given a good education and had an excellent post in Ledlington. She was here for week-ends and for holidays. She was not known to have any special man friend. I asked Roger Pilgrim whether Robbins suspected anyone in this house. He was very nervous and upset. I asked if Robbins suspected him, or Captain Jerome, and he said No… very angrily. I asked if Robbins suspected Henry Clayton, and he walked out of the room.”
“Oh, he did, did he? Well, well!” He looked at her with his mouth pursed up as if he was going to whistle. Perhaps he would have liked to-perhaps the click of the needles restrained him. After a moment he nodded and said, “That’s a pretty lot of rabbits to bring out of your hypothetical hat. What do you expect me to do with them?”
&n
bsp; She shifted the mass of wool in her lap.
“I should like you to make a thorough search of the cellars under this house.”
“You said you were serious-”
“Certainly, Randall.”
“You have presented me with a hypothetical case which offers an ingenious theory. You won’t claim to have produced any evidence in support of it. Do you expect me to apply for a search-warrant in a three-year-old case which I didn’t even handle, without any evidence?”
“No search-warrant would be necessary if you had Miss Columba’s permission.”
He allowed a faint sarcasm to flavour his tone as he enquired,
“Do you suppose that she would give it?”
“I do not know.”
March laughed.
“And you consider yourself a judge of character! Even to my humble powers of observation Miss Columba appears anxious for one thing, and one thing only-‘Let the finger of discretion be placed upon the lip of silence!’ ”
Receiving no reply, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated Miss Silver and the situation. After a little while he said,
Pilgrim’s Rest Page 10
