Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.
"I think it would be an excellent thing," he said at last. "She's a queer, nervous sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wonders – she's an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. He's quite broken up – bewildered."
"It was" – I hesitated – "suicide?"
Griffith nodded.
"Oh, yes. No question of accident. She wrote, 'I can't go on,' on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoon's post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace."
"What did -"
I stopped, rather horrified at myself.
"I beg your pardon," I said.
Griffith gave a quick, unhappy smile.
"You needn't mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, more's the pity. It was the usual kind of thing – couched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmington's child."
"Do you think that was true?" I exclaimed incredulously.
Griffith shrugged his shoulders.
"I've no means of forming a judgement. I've only been here five years. As far as I've ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. It's true that the boy doesn't particularly resemble his parents – he's got bright red hair, for one thing – but a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother."
"That lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled-for blow at a venture."
"But it happened to hit the bull's-eye," said Joanna. "After all, she wouldn't have killed herself otherwise, would she?"
Griffith said doubtfully:
"I'm not quite sure. She's been ailing in health for some time – neurotic, hysterical. I've been treating her for a nervous condition. It's possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to unbalance her judgement temporarily."
"Suicide while of unsound mind," said Joanna.
"Exactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest."
Joanna and I went on into the house.
The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Holland's voice inside.
She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.
"No, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven't had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, you'll be getting ill yourself, and you'll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left."
Symmington said in a toneless voice, "You're very kind, Miss Holland, but -"
"A nice cup of hot tea," said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.
Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky-and-soda. He looked as though he needed it. However he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:
"I can't thank you for all you've done and are doing, Miss Holland. You've been perfectly splendid."
The girl flushed and looked pleased.
"It's nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Don't worry about the children – I'll see to them, and I've got the servants calmed down, and if there's anything I can do, letter-writing or telephoning, don't hesitate to ask me."
"You're very kind," Symmington said again.
Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.
"Isn't it terrible?" she said in a hushed whisper.
I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been soft-hearted enough to shed tears for her employer's death.
"Can we speak to you a minute?" asked Joanna. "We don't want to disturb Mr. Symmington."
Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.
"It's been awful for him," she said. "Such a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervous and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldn't know just how to take her."
"What we really came for," said Joanna, "was to know whether we could have Megan for a few days – that is, if she'd like to come."
Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.
"Megan?" she said doubtfully. "I don't know, I'm sure. I mean, it's ever so kind of you, but she's such a queer girl. One never knows what she's going to say or feel about things."
Joanna said rather vaguely, "We thought it might be a help, perhaps."
"Oh, well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I've got the boys to look after (they're with cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington – he really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really haven't had time to say much to Megan. I think she's upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I don't know if -"
Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs.
The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.
Through a dim gray gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.
"Megan," I said.
I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal.
I'm really surprised I didn't hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.
She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.
"Megan," I said again. "Joanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little."
Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight:
"Stay with you? In your house?"
"Yes."
"You mean, you'll take me away from here?"
"Yes, my dear."
Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.
"Oh, do take me away! Please do. It's so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked."
I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.
"I'm an awful coward. I didn't know what a coward I was."
"It's all right, funny-face," I said. "These things are a bit shattering. Come along."
"Can we go at once? Without waiting a minute?"
"Well, you'll have to put a few things together, I suppose."
"What sort of things? Why?"
"My dear girl," I said. "We can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but I'm darned if I lend you my toothbrush."
She gave a very faint weak little laugh.
"I see. I think I'm stupid today. You mustn't mind. I'll go and pack some things. You – you won't go away? You'll wait for me?"
"I'll be on the mat."
"Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm sorry I'm so stupid. But you see it's rather dreadful when your mother dies."
"I know," I said.
I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.
"I' ound Megan," I said. "She's coming."
"Oh, now, that is a good thing," exclaimed Elsie Holland. "It will take her out of herself. She's rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I haven't got her on my mind as well as everything else. It's very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she won't be a nuisance. Oh, dear, there's the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isn't fit."
She hurried out of the room.
Joanna said, "Quite the ministering angel!"
"You said that rather nastily," I observed. "She's a nice, kind girl, and obviously most capable."
"Most. And she knows it."
"This is unworthy of you, Joanna," I said.
"Meaning why shouldn't the girl do her stuff?"
"Exactly."
"I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves," said Joanna. "It arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?"
"Crouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle."
"Poor kid. She was quite willing to come?"
"She leaped at it."
A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan and her suitcase. I went out and took it from her.
Joanna, behind me, said urgently, "Come on. I've already refused some nice hot tea twice."
We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldn't do any athletic feats.
"Get in," I said to Megan.
She got in, I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.
We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room. Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a child – bawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.
Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice, "I'm sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic."
Joanna said kindly, "Not at all. Have another handkerchief."
I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.
"What is it?"
"A cocktail," I said.
"Is it? Is it really?!" Megan's tears were instantly dried. "I've never drunk a cocktail."
"Everything has to have a beginning," I said.
Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.
"It's lovely," she said. "Can I have another?"
"No," I said.
"Why not?"
"In about ten minutes you'll probably know."
"Oh!"
Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.
"I really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I can't think why. It seems awfully silly when I'm so glad to be here."
"That's all right," said Joanna. "We're very pleased to have you."
"You can't be really. It's just kindness on your part. But I am grateful."
"Please don't be grateful," said Joanna, "it will embarrass me. You're our friend and we're glad to have you here. That's all there is to it… "
She took Megan upstairs to unpack.
Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?
The inquest was held three days later.
The time of Mrs. Symmington's death was put at between three and four o'clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.
The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it – and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps' nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, "I can't go on…"
Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington's nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet.
He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict: Suicide while temporarily insane.
The coroner had done his best – Owen Griffith also, but afterward, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well:
"No smoke without fire, that's what I say!… Must 'a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn't never have done it otherwise… "
Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossipping whispering women.
Outside, Aimée Griffith said with a sigh:
"Well, that's over. Bad luck on Dick Symmington, its all having to come out. I wonder whether he'd ever had any suspicion."
I was startled.
"But surely you heard him say most emphatically that there wasn't a word of truth in that lying letter?"
"Of course he said so. Quite right. A man's got to stick up for his wife. Dick would." She paused and then explained:
"You see, I've known Dick Symmington a long time."
"Really?" I said surprised. "I understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago."
"Yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. I've known him for years."
I looked at Aimée curiously. She went on, still in that softened tone, "I know Dick very well… He's a proud man and very reserved. But he's the sort of man who could be very jealous."
"That would explain," I said deliberately, "why Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials."
Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully. "Good Lord," she said. "Do you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasn't true?"
"The coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, too -"
Aimée interrupted me:
"Men are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you don't catch me believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. That's what I -" she paused suddenly, and then finished – "would do."
But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was, "That's what I did."
I decided to take the war into the enemy's country.
"I see," I said pleasantly. "So you've had one, too?"
Aimée Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie.
She paused a minute – flushed, then said, "Well, yes. But I didn't let it worry me!"
"Nasty?" I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.
"Naturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic! I read a few words of it, realized what it was and chucked it straight into the wastepaper basket."
"You didn't think of taking it to the police?"
"Not then. Least said soonest mended – that's what I felt."
An urge came over me to say solemnly, "No smoke without fire!" but I restrained myself.
I asked her if she had any idea how her mother's death would affect Megan financially. Would it be necessary for the girl to earn her own living?
"I believe she has a small income left her by her grandmother and of course Dick would always give her a home. But it would be much better for her to do someth
ing – not just slack about the way she does."
"I should have said Megan is at the age when a girl wants to enjoy herself – not to work."
Aimée flushed and said sharply, "You're like all men – you dislike the idea of women competing. It is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study for a doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made a better doctor than my brother."
"I'm sorry about that," I said. "It was tough on you. If one wants to do a thing -"
She went on quickly.
"Oh, I've got over it now. I've plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. I'm one of the happiest people in Lymstock. Plenty to do. But I go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that woman's place is always the home."
"I'm sorry if I offended you," I said. I had had no idea that Aimée Griffith could be so vehement.
Chapter 3
I met Symmington in the town later in the day.
"Is it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?" I asked. "It's company for Joanna – she's rather lonely sometimes with none of her own friends."
"Oh – er – Megan? Oh, yes, very good of you."
I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldn't have minded if he had actively disliked the girl – a man may sometimes be jealous of a first husband's child – but he didn't dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt toward her much as a man who doesn't care much for dogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmington's complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyed me very much.
I said, "What are you planning to do with her?"
"With Megan?" He seemed rather startled. "Well, she'll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home."
My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remember, ended thus:
"Oh, maid most dear, I am not here,
I have no place, no part,
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