Henry had a much better lunch than Hilary. He felt a kind of gloomy satisfaction in having held his own. Once he let Hilary think that she could take her way without reference to him and in disregard of his opinion and of his advice, and their married life would become quite impossible. The trouble about Hilary was that she always wanted her own way, and just because it was her own way it had to be the right one. She didn’t listen to reason, and she wouldn’t listen to him. She just took the bit between her teeth and bolted. It was a pity, because—here Henry faltered a little—she was—well, she was Hilary, and at her silliest and most obstinate he loved her better than he had ever loved anyone in all his life. Even when she was being supremely aggravating there was something about her which put her on a different footing to everyone else. That was why he was simply bound to keep his end up. If he didn’t, she’d be trying to run him, twisting him round her little finger, making a fool of him. It was when he felt all this most acutely that Henry’s voice took its hardest tone and his eye its most dominant stare. And behind all this protective armour there was a Henry who shrank appalled from the picture of a world without Hilary, a life without Hilary. How could she leave him when she was his, and knew, as he must know, that he was hers? They belonged to each other and could not be divided.
Henry frowned at his chop and considered what he was going to do next. Hilary would come back. He could let her run foot-loose now, because she was bound to come back in the end. Meanwhile there was this damned Everton Case. It had been closed a year ago, and here it came, cropping up again and making trouble, and if Hilary insisted on going grubbing into it, there was going to be more trouble. His frown deepened. Infernal cheek of that man Mercer to go following her in the street. Something fishy about it too—something fishy about the Mercers—though he’d see Hilary at Jericho before he encouraged her in this insensate nonsense by admitting it.
He went on frowning and finishing the chop whilst he considered the possibility of turning some expert eye upon the Mercers and their doings. One might find out where they were, and what they had been doing since James Everton’s death. One might direct the expert attention to the question of their financial position. Was there anything to suggest that it had been improved by James Everton’s death? He seemed to remember that there had been some small legacy which would be neither here nor there, but if there were any solid financial improvement, it would bear looking into. The expert might also be instructed to delve into the Mercers’ past. He supposed that this would have been done at the time of the inquest, but with Geoffrey Grey so compromisingly in the limelight as the guilty person, it was possible that these enquiries had not gone very far. He thought there was undoubtedly work for an expert here.
He went back to the shop and rang up Charles Moray, who was some sort of seventeenth cousin and a very good friend.
‘That you, Charles?...Henry speaking.’
‘Which of them?’ said Charles with a slight agreeable tinge of laughter in his voice. A very good telephone voice. It sounded exactly as if he was in the room.
‘Cunningham,’ said Henry.
‘Hullo—’ullo—’ullo! How’s the antique business?’
Henry frowned impatiently.
‘That’s not what I rang you up about. I wanted to know—that is, didn’t you say the other day—’
‘Get it off the chest!’ said Charles.
‘Well, you were talking about a detective the other day—’
Charles gave an appreciative whistle.
‘Somebody been pinching the stock?’
‘No, it’s not for myself—that is, it’s for someone I’m interested in. I want to have some enquiries made, and I want to be sure that the person who makes them is all right. I mean, I don’t want someone who’ll go round opening his mouth.’
‘Our Miss Silver will do you a treat,’ said Charles Moray.
‘A woman? I don’t know—’
‘Wait till you’ve seen her—or rather wait till she’s delivered the goods. She does, you know. She pulled me out of the tightest corner I ever was in in my life—and that wasn’t in the wilds of South America, but here in London. If your business is confidential, you can trust her all the way. Her address—hang on a minute and be ready with a pencil...Yes, here you are—16 Montague Mansions, West Leaham Street, S.W....And her telephone number?...No, I haven’t got it—this is an old one. You’ll find it in the book—Maud Silver. Have you got that?’ ‘Yes, thanks very much.’
‘Come round and see us,’ said Charles affably. ‘Margaret says what about dinner? Monday or Wednesday next week.’
Henry accepted for Monday and rang off. Then he went out to the British Museum, where he spent an intensive two hours over the Everton Case. He read the inquest and he read the trial. He came away with the conviction that Geoffrey Grey must have been born very lucky indeed to have escaped being hanged. As he read it, there had never been a clearer case. It was as plain as a pikestaff. James Everton had three nephews. He loved Geoffrey Grey. He didn’t love Bertie Everton. And Frank Everton was neither here nor there—a mere remittance man. Everything was for Geoffrey—the place in his uncle’s firm, the place in his uncle’s home, the place in his uncle’s will. And then, quite obviously, Bertie comes along and tells a tale out of school. He dines with his uncle, and in the most almighty hurry James Everton cuts out Geoffrey and puts in Bertie in his place. Incidentally, he cuts out poor old Frank too, but probably that hasn’t got anything to do with it. The cutting out of Geoffrey is the peg on which everything hangs. Geoffrey must have gone off the rails somewhere, and Bertie had tumbled over himself to give him away. Result, Uncle James changes his will, sends for Geoffrey to tell him what he has done, and Geoffrey shoots him in a sudden murderous fit of rage. No knowing just how serious Geoffrey’s misdemeanour may have been. It may have been so serious that he couldn’t afford to have it come out. His uncle may have threatened him with exposure. Geoffrey wouldn’t necessarily know that Bertie Everton had split on him—he might never know that Bertie knew. He loses his head and shoots, and Bertie comes in for everything.
Henry wondered idly whether Bertie was continuing Frank’s allowance. There didn’t seem to be any other doubt about the case. There didn’t seem to be any reason at all for calling in Miss Maud Silver. After which Henry went to the telephone and called her up.
FIFTEEN
HE CAME INTO her waiting-room and after a very short pause found himself being ushered into a most curiously old-fashioned office. There was a good deal more furniture than there had been in Charles Moray’s day, and the chairs were not modern chairs. They looked to Henry like the ones he had sat in as a schoolboy when he visited his grandmother and his grandmother’s friends. The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs in gimcrack frames.
Miss Silver herself sat at a good solid writing-table of the mid-Victorian period. She was a little person with a great deal of mousey grey hair which was done up in a bun at the back and arranged in a curled fringe in front. Having worn her hair in this way through a period of practically universal shingling varied only by the bob and the Eton crop, she had become aware with complete indifference that she now approximated to the current fashion.
Yet however she had done her hair, it would have appeared, as she herself appeared, to be out of date. She was very neatly dressed in an unbecoming shade of drab. Her indeterminate features gave no indication of talent or character. Her smooth sallow skin was innocent of powder. She was knitting a small white woolly sock, and at the moment of Henry’s entrance she was engaged in counting her stitches. After a minute she looked up, inclined her head, and said in a quiet toneless voice, ‘Pray be seated.’ Henry wished with all his heart that he hadn’t come. He couldn’t imagine why he had asked for this woman’s address, or rung her up, or come to see her. The whole thing seemed to him to be absolutely pointless. If he had the nerve he would get up and walk out. He hadn’t the nerve. He saw Miss Silver put down her knitting on a clean sheet of white blottin
g-paper and take a bright blue copybook out of the top left-hand drawer of her writing-table. She opened the book, wrote down his name, asked him for his address, and then sat, pen in hand, looking mildly at him.
‘Yes, Captain Cunningham?’
Henry felt that he was making the most complete fool of himself. He also felt that this was Hilary’s fault. He said in an embarrassed voice, ‘I don’t think I really ought to have troubled you.’
‘You will feel better when you have told me about it. I don’t know if you read Tennyson. He seems to me to express it so very beautifully:
Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, oh sea.
And I would that my heart could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
It is always difficult to make a beginning, but you will find it easier as you go on.’
‘It’s about the Everton Case,’ said Henry abruptly.
‘The Everton Case? Quite so. But it is closed, Captain Cunningham.’
Henry frowned. An obstinate feeling that having made a fool of himself, he might as well see it through stiffened his courage.
‘Do you remember anything about the case?’
Miss Silver had picked up her sock and was knitting rapidly in the German manner. She said, ‘Everything,’ and continued to knit with unbelievable rapidity.
‘I’ve been going through it again,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve read the inquest and I’ve read the trial, and—’
‘Why?’ said Miss Silver.
‘I missed a good deal of it at the time—I was abroad—and I must say—’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Miss Silver. Her needles clicked. She gazed mildly at him. ‘You see, Captain Cunningham, I always prefer to draw my own conclusions. If you will tell me in what way I can help you, I will do my best.’
‘It’s about the Mercers. They were the chief witnesses against Geoffrey Grey. I don’t know if you remember.’
‘Mr Everton’s cook and butler. Yes?’
‘I would like some information about those two.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Anything you can lay hands on. Their antecedents, present circumstances—in fact, anything you can get. It has—well, Miss Silver, it has been suggested that these people committed perjury at the trial. I can’t see any reason why they should, but if they did commit perjury, they must have had a reason. I want to know if they’re any better off than they were. In fact, I want to know anything you can find out about them. I don’t expect you to find out anything damaging, but—well, the fact is I want to convince—someone—that there’s nothing to be gained by trying to re-open the case. Do you see?’
Miss Silver dropped her knitting in her lap and folded her hands upon it.
‘Let us understand one another, Captain Cunningham,’ she said in her quiet voice. ‘If you employ me, you will be employing me to discover facts. If I discover anything about these people, you will have the benefit of my discovery. It may be what you are expecting, or it may not. People are not always pleased to know the truth.’ Miss Silver nodded her head in a gentle depreciating manner. ‘You’ve no idea how often that happens. Very few people want to know the truth. They wish to be confirmed in their own opinions, which is a very different thing—very different indeed. I cannot promise that what I discover will confirm you in your present opinion.’ She gave a slight hesitating cough and began to knit again. ‘I have always had my own views about the Everton Case.’
Henry found himself curiously impressed, he couldn’t think why. There was nothing impressive about mouse-coloured hair, indeterminate features, and a toneless voice. Yet Miss Silver impressed him. He said quickly, ‘And what was your opinion?’
‘At present I should prefer not to say.’ She put down her knitting and took up her pen again. ‘You wish me to get any information I can about the Mercers. Can you give me their Christian names?’
‘Yes—I’ve just been going through the case. He is Alfred, and she is Louisa Kezia Mercer.’
‘I suppose you don’t know her maiden name?’
He shook his head.
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t know anything about either of them except what came out in the evidence. I don’t know where they are living or what they are doing—and I want to know.’
Miss Silver wrote in the bright blue exercise-book. Then she looked up at Henry.
‘I could help you more if you would trust me, Captain Cunningham. Nearly every client is the same—they hold something back, and the thing they hold back is the thing which would help me most. It always comes out in the end, but frankness in the first instance would save me a good deal of trouble.’ She coughed again. ‘For instance, it would assist me greatly to know when and where your friend encountered the Mercers, and what happened when she encountered them. Quite obviously it was something which encouraged her to think that the case might be re-opened. You did not agree, and you are employing me because you hope that I shall enable you to support your opinion with evidence which your friend will accept.’
The colour rose in Henry’s face. He hadn’t mentioned Hilary. The last thing he wanted was to mention Hilary. He was prepared to swear that he had got no nearer mentioning her than to say that there was someone whom he wanted to convince. This infernal little maiden aunt of a woman had nosed Hilary out and guessed at an encounter with the Mercers. He felt secretly afraid of her, and looked up with a frown to find that she was smiling at him. Miss Silver had a smile which seemed to belong to quite a different person. It changed her face to that of a friend. Quite suddenly Henry was telling her about Hilary getting into the wrong train and finding herself in the same compartment as the Mercers.
Miss Silver listened. Her needles clicked. She said ‘Dear, dear!’ at one point, and ‘Poor thing’ at another. The ‘Poor thing’ referred to Marion Grey. Mrs Mercer’s stumbling, agitated sentences repeated by Henry in a completely unemotional voice drew forth a fit of coughing and an ‘Oh, dear me!’
‘And they got out at Ledlington, Captain Cunningham?’
‘She says they did, but I don’t suppose she really knows. She got out there herself because it wasn’t her train and she had to get back to town.’
‘And she hasn’t seen either of them since?’
‘Well, yes, she has.’
Henry found himself telling her about Alfred Mercer following Hilary through the byways of Putney for the purpose, apparently, of informing her that his wife was out of her mind. And then, before he knew where he was, he had thrown in Bertie Everton’s visit to himself upon what seemed to be a similar errand.
Miss Silver looked up from time to time and then looked down again. She was knitting so rapidly that the woolly sock appeared to rotate.
‘And you see, Miss Silver, if there is something fishy going on, I don’t want Miss Carew to get mixed up in it.’
‘Naturally.’
‘But at the same time I can’t say I think that there’s any doubt at all about the murder. Grey did it all right. I just want—’
Miss Silver drew out a needle and stabbed it into the wool again.
‘You just want to have your own opinion confirmed. I have told you that I can only undertake to provide you with facts—I cannot guarantee that they will be to your liking. Do you still wish to employ me?’
Henry had the strangest feeling. It was just as if a shutter in his mind had jerked open. Light and air rushed in upon a dark place—bright light, strong air. And then the shutter banged to again and everything was dark.
He said, ‘Yes, please,’ and was astonished at the firmness of his own voice.
SIXTEEN
HILARY CAUGHT THE two o’clock train to Ledlington. She got into a carriage with a pair of lovers, a pretty girl, and a woman with nine parcels. At least there ought to have been nine parcels, but it presently appeared that there were only eight. As the train had now started, it wasn’t possible to do anything about it except rummage along the seats and un
der the seats in a vague, unhappy manner, apologising profusely the while. Hilary helped in the search, the pretty girl read a sixpenny novelette, and the lovers held hands.
The owner of the lost parcel was a fat, worried woman with a flow of quite extraordinarily disconnected talk.
‘I don’t know where I could have left it I’m sure, unless it was Perry’s. Johnny’s socks it’ll be—two good pairs. Oh, dear me—gone down the drain as you may say! And what Mr Brown’ll say I really don’t know. I never knew a child so hard on his heels as what Johnny is, though I don’t say Ella isn’t a caution, too. Excuse me, miss, but you don’t happen to be sitting on a little parcel of mine, I suppose? It’s a soft stuff, so you mightn’t notice it. I didn’t ask you before, did I? I’m sure I’m ever so sorry if I did, but if you didn’t mind—well, I’ll just count them again...I can’t make them more than eight, try how I will. And it might be Mabel’s scarf, and if it is, she won’t half go on, and I don’t know whatever Mr Brown is going to say.’
Hilary heard a good deal more about Mr Brown, who was the fat woman’s husband, and Johnny and Mabel, who were her almost grownup son and daughter, and Ella who was an afterthought and a great deal younger than the other two. She heard all about what Mr Brown did in the war, and how Johnny had three relapses when he had scarlet fever, and how troublesome Mabel had been when she had to wear a band on her front teeth—‘Stuck right out like a rabbit’s, they did, but they’ve come in lovely, and no thanks to her—fret, fret, fret, and whine, whine, whine, and “Must I wear this horrid thing, Mum?” if you’ll believe me! You’d never credit the trouble I had with her, and now it’s over, she doesn’t say thank you—but that’s what girls are like. Why, when Ella had the whooping-cough—’
Case Is Closed Page 11
