Latter End

by Patricia Wentworth

  The clock in the hall downstairs struck twelve-first four strokes to mark the house, and then after a pause twelve more, the strokes solemnly spaced, not noisy or ringing but with a quiet, deep tone which enriched the silence of the house without jarring it. If anyone slept, it would not waken him. If anyone waked, it would be a friendly, companionable sound.

  Of the nine people at Latter End only Miss Silver counted the twelve strokes on this particular night. Jimmy Latter would say in the morning that he had not slept. There is a borderland state in which, whilst consciousness remains, control is lost. The mind drifts without aim or rest. In a shifting world between waking and sleeping his thoughts had slipped the leash and went questing after shadows, themselves too shadowy to know what they followed or why they followed it. Only always there was the sense of strain, of effort, of something lost beyond recall, of fevered striving to bring back what was gone. Shadow play on the broken surface of consciousness-broken shadows passing, dissolving, coming again-nothing stable-nothing clearly seen-just shadows-

  Ellie Street was dreaming, her body relaxed, her left hand under her cheek, as she had slept ever since she was a child. Her dreamself walked in a garden. She didn’t know the place, it was quite strange to her. At first it was sunny and pleasant, but after a little she came to a high thorn hedge, and she knew that she couldn’t get out. The hedge was twenty feet high, and she couldn’t get out. Ronnie was on the other side, and she couldn’t get to him. She began to break the thorns with her hands. The twigs snapped like sticks on a frosty day. They tore her hands and the blood ran down, and all at once they were not thorns any more, but icicles-the whole hedge was made of ice. She stood in snow up to her knees, and the blood ran down upon the snow and froze, so that some of the icicles were white and some were red. She couldn’t get to Ronnie.

  In the bed beside her Julia was dreaming too. She had on a white dress and a long white veil. She was being married to Antony. An unbearable joy filled her. He lifted her veil and bent to kiss her lips, and a great roaring wind came and carried her away into a dark place where she was quite alone.

  On the other side of the swing-door Gladys Marsh was asleep, with her face well creamed and her hair in curlers. She had taken the cream out of Mrs. Latter’s bathroom together with a good many other oddments. If questions were asked-why, Mrs. Latter had given them to her, and no one could prove she hadn’t. She was having a really vivid and exciting dream in which she was wearing a diamond necklace with ever such big stones and standing up in a high thing like a pulpit to give her evidence. There was a judge in scarlet with a great grey wig, just like she’d seen him when they had the assizes at Crampton. He looked at her over his glasses, the way any man looks at a pretty girl, no matter whether he’s a judge or a juryman. The jury were on the other side. They looked at her too. Everybody looked at her…

  Mrs. Maniple was also sleeping. She wore a voluminous calico nightgown which was five yards round the hem and fearful to behold with gussets and stitchery. In her young days a nightgown was an undertaking. She still undertook her own, which she made on her grandmother’s pattern. From the same source she had accepted the conviction that an open window after nightfall induced an early death. Night air wasn’t wholesome, and you shut it out except perhaps in what she called the “heighth” of summer. This being the autumnal season, her window was hermetically sealed. The room smelled strongly of camphor, furniture polish, and lavender.

  In Mrs. Maniple’s dream the smell was transmuted into a mingled scent of bergamot and rosemary, of which she held a tight bunch in a small, plump hand. The hand belonged to little Lizzie Maniple who was six years old. It was hot as well as plump, and the herbs smelled lovely. Most of the children brought bunches to Sunday school and gave them to the teacher, who was old Miss Addison. She lived in a small square house on the Crampton Road, and she was young Dr. Addison’s aunt and very much respected. She was teaching the children their catechism, and they were doing the long, difficult answer to the question, “What is my duty to my neighbour?” Echoes floated through Mrs. Maniple’s mind. “Learn and labour truly to get my own living-” Melia Parsons was getting that bit. “Do my duty in that state of life-I’ve always done that. I don’t care what anyone says, I’ve always done that.” In the dream Miss Addison was looking at her with those very bright blue eyes. She said, “Now, Lizzie-” and little Lizzie Maniple piped up-“To hurt nobody by word or deed, to bear no malice or hatred in my heart.”

  In the room next door Polly Pell lay flat on her back. Her thin childish body hardly raised the bedclothes. Her window stood wide to the night. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the tree outside. The sound passed into Polly’s dream and became the rustling of hundreds of newspapers. She tried to run away from them, because they all had her picture right up on the front page for everyone to see. Everyone looking at her, everyone staring. She couldn’t bear it-she really couldn’t. She tried to run away, but her feet wouldn’t carry her. They had grown into the ground. When she looked down she couldn’t see them any more, and she couldn’t move. The rustling papers came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. She gasped, and woke to hear the wind moving the leaves of the chestnut tree. The summer had dried and ripened them. They rustled in the wind with a papery sound. Her forehead and her hands were wet.

  Antony did not dream at all. He lay in a profound sleep which blotted out yesterday and veiled tomorrow. Perhaps there is something in us which does not sleep-some spark of consciousness burning on amid the surrounding dark, unknown even to ourselves. If we could see by its light we should know the innermost thought and intent of the heart. Sometimes without sight this knowledge comes to us in sleep.

  Minnie Mercer was dreaming-

  At the first sound from the room next to hers Miss Silver threw back the bedclothes and stepped down on to the floor, sliding each foot expertly into a waiting slipper. She left the bedside lamp burning, and reached the door, which she had set ajar, as the clock in the hall struck the quarter after midnight. For a moment its vibrations drowned everything else. Then, as the air settled back into quiet, the same sound that had brought her out of her bed was heard again-the sound of bare feet on a polished floor, the sound of a hand sliding over a polished surface.

  Miss Silver stood on the threshold of her room and heard Minnie Mercer’s hand go groping in the dark. It must be very dark in her dream. Her hand went feeling in this darkness for the handle of her door. Miss Silver saw it turn, slowly, slowly. Then the door opened. Miss Mercer came out, barefoot in a white nightgown, her fair hair hanging over it. Her eyes were open and set. They were so widely open that they caught the light. It made them look very blue. Now that the door was out of her way, her hands hung down. She walked slowly across the landing, stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, and then began to descend them, taking one step at a time with the right foot, and bringing the left down after it like a child who is afraid that it may fall. She did not touch the balustrade, but kept the middle of the stair, and so went slowly down.

  Miss Silver followed her, but not too closely. She was, of all things in the world, most anxious not to encroach upon this dream or break it. At the foot of the stairs Miss Mercer stood quite still. Perhaps she would turn, as she had yesterday, and come back.

  It was while she was waiting in some anxiety that Miss Silver heard a door open on the landing above. She turned with her finger on her lips and saw Julia Vane looking over the head of the stair. Julia nodded and began to come down. She was barefoot and made no noise. Before she could reach them, Minnie Mercer moved, walking slowly across the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. It was all dark down here, with the light from the upstairs landing dwindling and dying as they moved away from it.

  Miss Silver made a swift decision. To the sleep-walker, hall and drawing-room would be light or dark according to the colour of her dream, but if she herself and Julia Vane were to see what happened they must have light to see it by. It was not difficult to out-distance those hesi
tating feet. She reached the drawing-room door and went in, leaving it open behind her. The first switch she tried gave too bright a light, full in the face of anyone coming into the room. The next set two pairs of shaded candles glowing, one on either side of the mirror above the mantelpiece. The light was reflected in the glass. It showed the whole room in a kind of golden twilight.

  Minnie Mercer came as far as the open door and stood there. She looked into the room, her hands caught together, the fingers twisting. All at once she said in a low, distressed voice, “No, no-he doesn’t like it.” Then she lifted her head and stared at the curtained windows. In her dream there were no curtains there. It was a fine sunny evening and the glass door to the terrace stood wide. Someone was moving towards that open door. She watched the moving figure pass out on to the terrace, pass out of sight. Then she herself began to move. Past the table where Julia had set down the coffee tray. Standing beside it for a moment and then going on. Turning a little to the right and standing by Jimmy Latter’s chair. The small table beside it was the one upon which someone had placed his cup of coffee on Wednesday night. Minnie’s hand went out to it now with a groping movement. She might have been putting down a cup. She might have been taking one up. She lifted her hand, turned back, paused for a moment by the table where the tray had stood, and again put out her hand. When she had drawn it back she took a sighing breath that was almost a groan and said in a shuddering voice, “What have I done! Oh, God-what have I done!”

  Miss Silver stood before the hearth. She could see the open doorway, and Julia Vane with one hand touching the jamb. They could both see Minnie Mercer, and they had both heard what she said. Julia had a stunned look. As Minnie left the table and came towards her, she drew back into the dark hall. Minnie went past with a sighing breath and an indistinguishable murmur of sound. In her dream she was grieving, grieving-She crossed the hall and went up into the light of the landing, and so to her own room.

  Miss Silver came out of the drawing-room, switching off the light and shutting the door. She touched Julia’s arm and found it cold.

  “Go back to bed, my dear.”

  She felt rather than saw the intensity of Julia’s gaze.

  “Miss Silver, she couldn’t!”

  “Go back to bed, my dear.”

  “It isn’t true!”

  Miss Silver said very kindly,

  “What is not true will not harm her or anyone else. We want the truth for everyone’s sake. What has happened tonight has, I believe, brought us nearer to it. Will you trust me when I tell you not to be so much afraid of it? The truth sometimes inflicts a shock, but no one is really benefitted by a state of deception. Believe me, it is better to see clearly, even if what we see is somewhat unexpected. Go back to bed. And pray do not be afraid. Miss Mercer will sleep now, and you should do the same.”

  Julia opened her lips to speak, and closed them again. What was there to say? Better say nothing at all. Better go back to bed and wait for the morning. The morning-and Jimmy’s arrest? A long, slow shudder went over her. She turned away, went up the stairs, and into the room where Ellie lay asleep.

  Miss Silver followed. When she was in her own room she took off the red woollen dressing-gown and laid it neatly across the chair upon which her clothes were folded. Then she dropped her slippers side by side and got into bed, all very deliberately and rather as if her thoughts were somewhere else. Before she put out the light she took up the shabby black Bible in which it was her custom to read, and turned to the thirty-seventh psalm. She perused it with gravity, giving particular attention to the seventh and fifteenth verses:-

  “Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.

  Their sword shall enter into their own heart, and their bows shall be broken.”

  CHAPTER 35

  It was half-past seven next morning when Polly Pell knocked lightly and came in to draw the curtains and set down an early morning tea tray. The room had two windows, but only the nearer one had been screened. As Polly turned round from it, there was plenty of light to show how pale she was, with no colour anywhere except in the reddened lids.

  Miss Silver turned her thoughts away from the consideration of early morning tea as an indulgence-but such a very pleasant one-and focussed them upon Polly Pell. She had already wished her good morning and received a shy response. She now said,

  “Please come here for a minute.”

  Polly wanted to run out of the room, but she had not had two years training under Mrs. Maniple for nothing. She blinked at the light, wished it a good deal less bright, and came to stand by the bed and pleat her apron.

  “You’ve been crying, Polly. What is the matter?”

  Polly blinked again, but a tear got past her lashes and began to trickle very slowly towards her chin.

  “It’s all so dreadful, miss!”

  Miss Silver looked at her kindly and searchingly.

  “Yes-murder is dreadful. But it lays a duty upon us all. If everyone does his duty and tells all he knows, the truth will come to light. If anyone does not do his duty, an innocent person may suffer.”

  She had spoken in general terms, but now the expression in Polly’s eyes arrested her very particular attention. She had seen fear too often to mistake it. The child was sick with terror. No girl looks like that unless she has something to hide. If there was one thing overwhelmingly obvious besides the fear, it was Polly’s anguished desire to get out of the room. She said in a small, breathless voice, “If you’ll excuse me, miss,” and then stopped short with a quiver, because Miss Silver had taken her by the hand.

  “Sit down, Polly-I want to talk to you. Yes, here on the edge of the bed. I shall only keep you a very short time. And pray do not be frightened. If you have done nothing wrong you have nothing to be afraid of. You know that.”

  The original tear was now quite drowned by those which followed it. In a choking whisper Polly was heard to say,

  “It’s not true they’re going to arrest Mr. Latter? They couldn’t do a thing like that, could they-not to Mr. Latter?”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “I cannot tell you that. Why are you so frightened, my dear? Is it because you know something and have been keeping it back? If you are doing that, it is very wrong of you, and I do not wonder that you are very unhappy. What will you feel like if Mr. Latter is arrested?”

  Polly choked back her tears, sniffed desperately, and whispered,

  “They’d put my picture in the papers-”

  “What did you say, my dear?”

  The sobs broke out again.

  “Gladys-said-they would-Gladys Marsh. She wants- to have-her photo took and put in the papers. But I never. I feel as if I’d die-having everyone look at me-and having to stand up and swear. Oh, miss, I couldn’t. Oh, miss, don’t make me!”

  Miss Silver patted the hand she was holding. Then she took her own away, produced a clean folded handkerchief from under her pillow, and gave it to Polly.

  “Blow your nose, my child, and wipe your eyes. And stop thinking about yourself. We have to think of Mr. Latter, who is in a very dangerous position, and we have to find out whether you know anything which will make his position less dangerous.”

  Polly blew, dabbed, sniffed, and dabbed again.

  “Oh, miss!”

  “That’s a good girl. Now listen to me. What would you feel like if Mr. Latter should be arrested?”

  “Oh, miss!”

  “And because you were only thinking about yourself you let him go to prison-”

  Polly was past words. She could only gulp.

  “Are you going to let him be hanged?”

  The gulp turned to an anguished sob.

  “Oh, no! Oh, miss!”

  Miss Silver let her cry until she thought she had cried enough. Then she said very briskly indeed,

  “Now, my dear, that is quite sufficient. Crying will not help you. If you know anything that might prevent his arrest
, do you not think it would be more sensible to tell me what it is?”

  Polly scrubbed at her reddened eyes and nose. The handkerchief was quite wet through.

  “I dunno if it would stop them taking him to prison. Gladys, she says she wants to have her photo in the papers, but-Oh, miss!”

  Miss Silver said in a kind, firm voice,

  “You have not to worry about that. You have to think about Mr. Latter, and to tell me what you know, then you will have done what is right, and you will feel a great deal happier.”

  Polly gave a last sob and said,

  “It wasn’t none of my doing. Mrs. Maniple sent me up.”

  Miss Silver’s mind worked quickly at all times. It worked very quickly indeed now. Without any appreciable pause, she had gone back to the Chief Inspector’s interview with Mrs. Maniple, detached one piece of evidence, assimilated it, and was saying,

  “Mrs. Maniple sent you upstairs on Wednesday morning just before lunch to ask Mrs. Latter whether she was coming down.”

  It was no bow drawn at a venture. It was the result of rapid, accurate deduction. At that moment and no other would Polly have been brought into contact with Lois Latter. At that time, and at no other time, would she have had the opportunity of seeing or hearing something which might throw a light upon the impending tragedy.

  Polly stared at her and said,

  “Oh, yes, she did.”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “Then you had better tell me just what happened. No, you are not going to cry any more-you are going to be a sensible girl. Just tell me exactly what you did.”

  Polly managed to stop everything except the sniff.

  “Mrs. Maniple, she told me to go up and find out whether Mrs. Latter would be wanting a tray took up, so I come upstairs and I knocked on the door. I knocked twice and there wasn’t any answer. There was a kind of a hammering sound going on like as if it was in the bathroom. There’s a door through from Mrs. Latter’s bedroom, you know. It’s her own bathroom and nobody else doesn’t use it. Well, I thought, ‘She’s in the bathroom hammering something, and she won’t hear me knock.’ ”