‘Mrs Mercer knows,’ said Hilary. Her own words startled her so much that she felt herself shaking. She had not known that she was going to say that. She hadn’t even known that she was thinking it.
‘Why do you say that?’ said Henry quickly.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must. You can’t say a thing like that without knowing why you said it.’
Henry was riding the high horse. Its trampling had a reviving effect upon Hilary. She might marry Henry, or she might not marry Henry, but she simply wasn’t going to be trampled on. She stuck her chin in the air and said, ‘I can. I don’t know why I said it, because it just popped out. I didn’t first think, “Mrs Mercer knows,” and then say it—I just said it, and then I felt perfectly certain that she did know. That’s the way my mind works—things I’ve never thought about at all come banging out, and then when I do start thinking about them they are true.’
Henry came down off the high horse with a bump. She was so comic when she talked like that with her colour glowing again, and her eyes as bright as a bird’s, and the little brown curls all shining under her perky hat. She wanted shaking and she wanted kissing. Meanwhile he burst out laughing at her.
‘It’s all very well to laugh!’ But in her inside mind she laughed too and sang a little shouting song of joy, because once you begin to laugh together, how can you go on quarrelling? You simply can’t. And she was tired right through to the very marrow of her bones of quarrelling with Henry.
‘Prize fool!’ said Henry, no longer strangely polite.
Hilary shook her head and caught the inside corner of her lip between her teeth, because she wasn’t going to laugh for Henry to see—not yet.
‘That’s only because you can’t do it yourself. And you’ve got a nasty jealous disposition—I’ve told you about it before—and if you ever marry anyone, Henry, you’ll have to watch it because she’ll either walk out on you or else turn into a dreep because you’ve broken her spirit by giving her an ingrowing inferiority complex.’
Henry’s gaze rested on her with something disturbing in it. This was the Henry who could laugh at you with his eyes, and make your heart beat suddenly and hard.
‘I haven’t noticed any signs of it,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m the sort that walks out,’ said Hilary, and met his eyes with a hardy sparkle in her own.
Henry said nothing. He didn’t intend to be drawn. He continued to look at her, and in a panic Hilary returned to Mrs Mercer.
‘Don’t you see, Henry, if you don’t believe Mrs Mercer’s evidence—and I don’t—well then, she must know who did it. She wouldn’t just go telling all those lies to amuse herself—because she wasn’t amused, she was frightfully, frightfully miserable—or to spite Geoff, because she was frightfully, frightfully miserable about Geoff and about Marion. So if she was telling lies—and I’m sure she was—it was because she wanted to screen somebody else. And we’ve got to find out who it is—we’ve simply got to.’
THIRTEEN
HENRY STOPPED LAUGHING at Hilary with his eyes and frowned instead, not at her, but past her at the Mercers, and the Everton Case, and the problem of finding about a quarter of a needle in several hypothetical bundles of hay. It was all very well for Hilary to propose a game of Spot the Murderer, but the trouble was that so far as he himself was concerned he had a conviction amounting to certainty that the murderer had already been spotted, and was now expiating his exasperated shot at the uncle who had cut him out of his will. It was, and had been all along, his opinion that Geoffrey Grey had got off lightly and was uncommonly lucky not to have been hanged.
Henry’s regiment was in Egypt, and after a leave spent very pleasantly in the Tyrol he had gone back to Cairo. James Everton was shot a couple of days before his leave was up. He had, at the time, been a good deal preoccupied with trying to make Hilary see the question of an engagement in the same light as he did. In the end they more or less split the difference, Henry asserting that they were engaged, whilst Hilary maintained that being engaged was stuffy. Snippets about the case filtered through to Egypt. Hilary wrote voluminously about it from a passionately personal and partisan point of view, but he had never really read the evidence. He accepted the verdict, was sorry for Marion Grey, and counted the days till he could get home and make Hilary marry him. And here she was, without any intention of marrying him at all and every intention of trying to drag him into a wild goose attempt at re-opening the Everton Case. He reacted in the most obstinate and natural manner, focused the frown on Hilary, and said in his most dogmatic voice, ‘You’d better let it alone—the case is closed.’
Hilary beat her hands together again.
‘It isn’t—it can’t be! It won’t ever be closed until the real murderer is found and Geoff is free—and the more I think of it, the more I feel quite, quite sure that Mrs Mercer knows who it is. Henry, it’s a hunch!’
Henry frowned upon the hunch.
‘What’s the good of talking like that? You say yourself that your first impression of the woman was that she was mad. I don’t mean to say she’s a raving lunatic, but she is obviously a morbid, hysterical person. If she was fond of the Greys she would naturally feel having to give evidence against Geoffrey. I can’t see anything in what you told me except that having given the evidence she apparently tried to crash in on Marion and make a scene about it.’
‘No,’ said Hilary, ‘no. No, it wasn’t that. She’d got something eating into her—I’m sure she had. Why did she say, “If I’d only seen her”?’
‘Why does a hysterical person say anything?’
‘And why did she say things like “I didn’t get another chance—he took care of that,” and the bit about thanking God Mercer didn’t recognise me, because he wouldn’t ever have left us alone together. Why did she say that?’
Henry shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you’ve got a mad wife, you do your best to stop her annoying people—I don’t see anything in that. As a matter of fact I believe she really is unhinged.’
‘I should hate to be married to Mercer,’ said Hilary.
Henry burst out laughing.
‘Hilary, you really are!’
Hilary looked at him in a melting manner which it had taken her a good deal of time and trouble to acquire. She had copied it from a leading film star, and she wanted to see what effect it would have on Henry. It didn’t seem to have any effect at all, and as she began to feel that it was going to bring on a squint, she permitted a natural sparkle of anger to take its place.
When you make eyes at Henry, he
Behaves as if he didn’t see,
said Hilary’s imp in a sort of piercing mosquito whisper. The angry sparkle became a shade brighter. Henry was a beast—he really was. The man in the film had gone down like a ninepin. It really wasn’t the slightest use making eyes at Henry, and if he was the last man left in London she wouldn’t marry him. She would almost rather be married to Mercer. No, she wouldn’t. A shiver went all down the back of her neck, and she said in a hurry, ‘You know what I mean. It would be enough to drive anyone into a lunatic asylum, I should think.’
‘Then you agree that she’s mad.’
‘No, I don’t. And the more Mercer follows me round and tells me she is about twice in every sentence, the less I’m going to believe it.’
Henry got up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mercer. Henry, his name’s Alfred. Isn’t it awful?’
‘Hilary—has he been following you?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, darling—I told you he had—most persistent. I should think he probably followed me all the way from Solway Lodge to Pinman’s Lane to where I got on to my bus, because he was talking to me most of the way and telling me about Mrs Mercer being out of her mind, and when he’d said it more than six times I began to wonder why he was saying it.’
Henry sat down on the arm of the chair beside her. There was just room and no more.
‘Pe
rhaps because it was true,’ he said.
‘Or perhaps because it wasn’t.’
Their shoulders were touching. She looked round at him with a defiant gleam in her eye and prepared to do battle. But Henry had dropped his point. He put his arm round her in a sort of matter-of-course way as if they were still engaged and said, ‘That’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘Mercer’s following you round like that.’
Hilary nodded: Henry’s arm made a good back—something nice to lean against.
She said, ‘He’d found out that it was me in the train. I expect he bullied it out of her, poor thing. And he wasn’t quite sure what she’d said to me, but he was going to make sure that whatever it was, I wasn’t going to believe it. Now if he could make me believe that she was mad—Henry, don’t you see?’
Henry’s arm tightened a little.
‘I don’t know—she might really be mad,’ he said. ‘But it’s funny—was it today he followed you?’
‘Just now—just before I came here. Why, Henry?’
‘Well, it’s funny that he should have been saying it to you just about the same time that Bertie Everton was saying it to me.’
Hilary whisked round so suddenly that she would have fallen off if Henry hadn’t clutched her.
‘Here—hold up!’
‘Bertie Everton!’ said Hilary, taking no notice of being clutched.
‘That’s what I said. He went out as you came in. Didn’t you see him?’
‘Of course I did—he’s not the sort of person you can miss. Did he tell you Mrs Mercer was out of her mind?’
‘Several times—same as Mercer did to you.’
‘Henry, you’re not making it up to pull my leg or anything of that sort? Because if you are—’
‘What?’ said Henry with interest.
Hilary wrinkled the top of her nose at him.
‘I don’t know, but it’ll probably begin with never speaking to you again.’
‘That would give you lots of time to think out what you were going to do next! All right, I’m not for it this time. And I’m not pulling your leg.’
‘Bertie Everton came here on purpose to tell you Mrs Mercer was out of her mind?’
‘Not ostensibly—nothing so crude as that. He knew old Henry Eustatius—said he’d bought a set of Chippendale chairs from him and was doing needlework covers for the seats—petit point or something of that sort. And I was afraid he’d find out that I had only a very hazy idea of what petit point was, so I tried to switch him off on to china—I’ve been burning a lot of midnight oil over china lately—and he said, “Oh, yes,” and “Quite”. And then he mentioned you, and said were you a friend of mine, and I said “Yes”—which was a bit of a lie, of course.’ Here Henry paused, the obvious intention being that Hilary should (a) burst into tears, (b) contradict him, or (c) fall into his arms.
Hilary didn’t do any of these things. Her colour rose brightly and her tongue flicked out to him and back again.
Henry frowned and went on as if he had never stopped.
‘And then, I think, he got me to mention Marion, and after that it was all plain sailing—something on the lines of what an unpleasant thing it was for the whole family, and a bit about Geoffrey’s temper, and then to Mrs Mercer by way of everyone liking him, and—“My uncle’s housekeeper has never got over having to give evidence against him. She’s gone clean off her head, I believe.” And then he went off at a tangent about that big blue jar in the shop, but after a bit Mrs Mercer cropped up again, and he said what a queer thing it was that she should have got so worked up over the Everton Case. “She can’t think or talk about anything else,” he said, “pretty bad luck on her husband, and all that.” And then a piece about what a decent soul Mercer was, and then a bit more about the blue jar. And then you came in and he went out. And there we are.’
‘Um—’ said Hilary.
She began to rock gently to and fro. She was trying to get Henry to rock, too, but Henry wouldn’t. His arm had about as much resilience as a crowbar, but it was fortunately not quite so hard to lean against. She stopped trying to rock, and became mournful and earnest on the subject of Bertie Everton.
‘He would have done so beautifully for the murderer if it hadn’t been for his alibi. Darling, don’t you simply hate alibis? I do.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Bertie Everton, of course.’
‘Has he got an alibi?’
‘Dozens,’ said Hilary. ‘He’s simply stuck all over with them. And, mind you, Henry, he wanted them, because poor old James had just made a will in his favour after not being on speaking terms with him for years, or practically not, so Bertie had a pretty strong motive. But with all the motives in the world, you can’t shoot anyone if they’re in Putney and you’re in Edinburgh.’
‘And Bertie was in Edinburgh?’
Hilary gave a dejected nod.
‘Sworn to by rows of people in the Caledonian Hotel. James was shot at eight o’clock in the evening on July 16th. Bertie dined with him on the evening of the 15th—just about twenty-four hours too soon to have been the murderer. He then caught a train at King’s Cross and fetched up at the Caledonian Hotel in time for a late breakfast on the morning of the 16th. From then till a quarter past four half the people in the hotel seem to have seen him. He made a fuss about the bell in his room, and the chambermaid saw him writing letters there, and soon after four he was in the office asking about a telephone call. And then he went out and had too much to drink. And the chambermaid saw him again at about half-past eight, because he rang for biscuits, and then she saw him again next morning at nine o’clock when she brought his tea. And if you can think of any way he could possibly have shot poor old James, I wish you’d tell me. I sat up the best part of last night reading the inquest and the trial all over again, and I can’t see how anyone could have done it except Geoff. And today I ferreted out the daily help who used to work at Solway Lodge, and she told me something that makes it all look worse than ever. And yet I don’t believe it was Geoff. Henry, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!’
‘What did she tell you?’ said Henry quickly.
‘I can’t tell you—I can’t tell, and I made her, so I can’t tell anyone.’
‘Hilary,’ said Henry with a good deal of vehemence, ‘you’ve got to drop it! You’re only stirring up mud, and Marion won’t thank you for that. What do you think you’re doing?’
She pulled away from him and stood up.
‘I want to find out what Mrs Mercer knows.’
‘Drop it!’ said Henry, getting up too. ‘Let the mud settle. You won’t help Geoff, you won’t help Marion. Let it alone!’
‘I can’t,’ said Hilary.
FOURTEEN
HILARY CAME AWAY from Henry Eustatius, Antiques, with a flaming colour and a determination not to be downed by Henry Cunningham. If she once let Henry down her, her spirit would be broken and she would rapidly become a dreep. Like Mrs Mercer. Like Mrs Ashley. Horrible and repellent prospect. They had both probably started quite young and pretty—the Ashley daily help certainly had—and some man had downed them and trampled on them until they had just given up and gone quietly down the drain. She could imagine Mercer breaking any woman’s spirit if she was fool enough to let him, and the other poor creature had probably had a husband who trampled on her, too. That was what was the matter with Henry—he was a trampler born, and bred, and burned right in. But she wasn’t going to be the person he trampled on. If he wanted a door-mat he could go and marry a door-mat, and it wasn’t going to be Hilary Carew.
She had walked nearly a quarter of a mile before her cheeks cooled. She stopped being angry, and thought what a pity it was that they couldn’t have had lunch before they quarrelled. Henry was a hearty breakfast eater. He had probably had eggs, and sausages and bacon, and things like that no longer ago than nine o’clock, but Hilary had had toast and tea at eight, and it seemed so long ago that she had forgotten all about th
em. Prowling round Putney, and interviewing housekeepers and daily helps, and quarrelling with Henry were all things that made you very hungry, especially quarrelling with Henry. If Henry hadn’t been determined to quarrel he would have taken her out to lunch first, and now she would have to go and have a glass of milk and a bun in a creamery with a lot of other women who were having buns and milk, or Bovril, or milk with a dash of coffee, or a nice cup of tea. It was a most frightfully depressing thought, because one bun was going to make very little impression on her hunger, and she certainly couldn’t afford any more. Extraordinarily stupid of Henry not to have given her lunch first. They could have quarrelled comfortably over their coffee if he was absolutely set on quarrelling, instead of uncomfortably in the Den with nothing inside you and no prospect of anything except a bun. It was a bad, bleak, bitter, and unbearable business. And it was all Henry’s fault.
Hilary found her creamery and ate her bun—a peculiarly arid specimen. There were little black things in it which might once have been currants but were now quite definitely fossils. Not a good bun. Hilary’s imp chanted mournfully:
How bitter when your only bun
Is not at all a recent one.
When she had finished it she got out her purse and counted up her money. There was just enough to buy a third-class return to Ledlington. She looked at the coins and wondered whether it was the slightest use for her to go there. There was no reason to suppose that it would be any use at all. She tossed her head. There are always such a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t do a thing that if it were not that something pushed you along in spite of yourself, you would never do anything at all. She was unaware that Dr Johnson had moralised upon this theme to Boswell, or that he had called the something which impels you the pressure of necessity. There are many necessities, to each his own—a driving force which will not be denied. Hilary’s necessity was to find out what Mrs Mercer knew. She didn’t reason about it. If she had, common sense would have urged her that Ledlington was a considerable distance, and that she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to find the Mercers—she hadn’t even the slightest idea of how to begin to look for them. To all this she opposed a firm and unreasoning purpose. She was going to buy a third-class ticket, go down to Ledlington, and look for Mrs Mercer.
Case Is Closed Page 10
