‘And what did she tell you?’ said Hilary.
‘Well, to begin with she said that Louie, as she called her, had always thought more of herself than there was any need for—I give you the vulgarism, as it conveys the woman’s frame of mind. Louie, she said, was very high in her notions, and thought herself better than those that were every bit as good as herself—a good deal of animus here, and a good deal of pleasure in informing me that pride had gone before a fall, and that Louie, with all her fine ways and her fine talk, had got herself into trouble. There was a baby, but Mrs Akers said it did not live.’
‘Oh,’ said Hilary, ‘that’s why she minded so much about Marion losing her baby.’
Miss Silver looked up, and down again—an odd fleeting look. ‘The man’s Christian name was Alfred. Mrs Akers did not know his surname. He may have been Alfred Mercer or he may not. Well, thirty years ago a young woman who had lost her character had very little hope indeed of ever getting another place. Louisa Anketell was considered very fortunate in attracting the sympathy and interest of a lady who was willing to give her a second chance. This lady heard Louisa’s story whilst visiting in the neighbourhood. She had a kind heart and considerable means, and when she went away she took the girl with her to be trained under her cook. Sarah Anketell saw no more of her cousin, and knew nothing except by hearsay. She believed that Louie rose to be cook, and stayed on in the same service for a number of years, in fact until the lady’s death. This may not seem very important to you, Captain Cunningham. I myself was inclined to be disappointed, but just at the end it occurred to me to ask Mrs Akers whether she knew the lady’s name. She did, and when she repeated it to me I felt very amply rewarded.’
Hilary said, ‘Oh—’ and Henry said quickly, ‘What was the name?’
Miss Silver allowed her knitting to fall into her lap.
‘The name was Everton—Mrs Bertram Everton.’
‘What!’ said Henry. Then, after a moment of stupefaction, ‘Who—I mean what? I mean, Bertie Everton isn’t married.’
‘Thirty years ago!’ gasped Hilary. ‘Bertie’s mother—Aunt Henrietta—the one that brought the red hair into the family!’
‘Exactly,’ said Miss Silver.
‘Was anything known about this?’ said Henry after a pause spent in dotting I’s and crossing T’s. ‘Hilary, did Marion know that this Mercer woman had been in service with the Everton family before she came to James Everton?’
Hilary looked bewildered.
‘She never said.’
Miss Silver glanced from one to the other.
‘A connection between Mrs Mercer and Bertie Everton’s family, especially one of old and long standing, must surely have been mentioned at the time of the trial—if it had been acknowledged. If it were not mentioned, it must have been because it was not known.’
‘But look here, Miss Silver,’ said Henry, ‘how could it not have been known? If this Louisa Anketell Mercer woman was his brother’s cook for years, James Everton must have known her by sight.’
‘That is a point, Captain Cunningham. But a cook in a big house might never be seen by a visitor.’
‘But he wasn’t!’ cried Hilary. ‘I mean he wasn’t a visitor—I mean James Everton wasn’t! Marion told me. He had a frightful row with his brother Bertram because they both wanted to marry Henrietta, and James never went there, or saw them, or anything.’
‘That certainly makes things easier,’ said Miss Silver. ‘I think we may assume that Mrs Mercer concealed her previous connection with the Everton family. She may have done so because she felt that it would be no recommendation, or—there may have been a more sinister reason. We are bound to give weight to the fact that her employer’s nephew Bertie Everton instead of being a complete stranger to her was someone whom she had seen grow up from childhood and to whose mother she owed a deep debt of gratitude.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Henry. ‘But debt of gratitude or no debt of gratitude, are you going to tell me that Mrs Mercer perjured herself and swore away a perfectly innocent man’s life just because she’d once been cook to the real murderer’s mother? I take it that you are now casting Bertie Everton for the part of the murderer. Hilary, of course, is quite sure he did it, but then she doesn’t bother about evidence—I suppose you do.’
‘A good deal of evidence will be necessary, Captain Cunningham, if Mr Geoffrey Grey is to be got out of prison. I am not assuming that Mr Bertie Everton was the murderer. I have merely suggested that you and Miss Hilary should check up that very useful alibi of his.’
‘You say you are not assuming that Bertie Everton was the murderer—and unless his alibi breaks down he couldn’t have been, because he simply wasn’t within four hundred miles of Putney when James Everton was shot. But suppose his alibi was a fake and he did shoot his uncle, do you mean to say that a poor frightened creature like Mrs Mercer would instantly on the spur of the moment invent a story which incriminates Geoffrey Grey and, what’s more, stick to it under cross-examination?’
‘I didn’t say anything about the spur of the moment,’ said Miss Silver gravely. ‘The murder of Mr Everton was very carefully planned. Observe that Alfred Mercer married Louisa Anketell the following day. Notice must have been given of that marriage. I believe it was part of the plan, and was at once a bribe and a safeguard. Observe also the deaf woman who was invited to supper. Her evidence cleared the Mercers as, I believe, it was intended to do, and her deafness made it certain that she would not know at what hour the shot was really fired. Everything about this case points to systematic timing, and a very careful consideration of detail. The person who planned this murder is extremely ruthless, ingenious, and cunning. I shall be very glad to feel that Miss Carew is at a safe distance during the next few critical days.’
‘You really think she is in danger?’ said Henry.
‘What is your own opinion, Captain Cunningham?’
Hilary shivered, and quite suddenly Henry’s opinion was that he would like to fly away with her in an aeroplane to the Mountains of the Moon. And on the top of that he remembered the foggy Ledstow road and his feet went cold. He said nothing, and Miss Silver said, ‘Exactly, Captain Cunningham.’
Hilary shivered again. ‘I keep thinking about Mrs Mercer,’ she said. ‘She’s afraid—she’s awfully afraid of him. That’s why she wouldn’t speak to me last night. Do you think it’s safe for her—in that cottage—all alone with him?’
‘I think she is in very great danger,’ said Miss Silver.
TWENTY NINE
‘IF I’D HAD to keep my temper for another second I should have burst!’ said Hilary.
Henry slipped a hand inside her arm.
‘If you’re going to develop a temper, the engagement’s off again,’ he said firmly.
Hilary wrinkled her nose at him.
‘I never said it was on. Oh, Henry, isn’t Cousin Selina grim? Much, much, much worse than I remembered.’
They had just emerged from Mrs McAlister’s house in Murrayfield Avenue and were walking away from it as rapidly as possible. Mrs McAlister was Cousin Selina, and the visit, which had only begun over night, had not so far added very greatly to the gaiety of anyone concerned.
‘Her husband was a pet,’ said Hilary. ‘He was a professor or something. He used to give me sweets, and she always said they were bad for me. And she’s got worse since he died, and the horrid part of it is that she is our relation, not him. She’s Marion’s and my grandfather’s first cousin twice removed, and her name was Selina Carew, so it’s no good pretending she doesn’t belong. Fancy starting in about Geoff practically the first minute we got off the train! And when you got her off that she had a go at lipstick and nail-polish, and then skidded back to Geoff again! I don’t know how I’m going to stick it out. How long do you think it’s going to take us to dig up all this stuff Miss Silver wants?’
‘That depends,’ said Henry.
‘Henry, do stop being monosyllabic and noncommittal! What are we goin
g to do first—garages, or Annie Robertson? Or shall we make a sort of sandwich and put her in the middle?’
‘We’ll do her first. She oughtn’t to take any time.’
But at the Caledonian Hotel it emerged that Annie Robertson was no longer there. She had left to be married. After some pressure and some delay a girl was produced who said that Annie was a friend of hers, and her married name was Jamieson, and she was living out at Gorgie in a ‘nice wee flat’. She obliged with the address, and to Gorgie Henry and Hilary proceeded on the top of a tram.
There were a great many stairs up to Mrs Annie Robertson Jamieson’s flat. They were clean but they were steep. Mrs Jamieson opened her door and stood waiting for them to explain themselves. She was a large, fair young woman with rosy cheeks and a pair of buxom arms which were bare to the elbow.
Hilary explained.
‘We’ve come on from the Caledonian Hotel, Mrs Jamieson. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we should so very much like to talk to you for a few minutes. It’s about something that happened in the hotel last year, and we think you might be able to help us.’
Annie Jamieson’s round blue eyes became even rounder.
‘Will it be a divorce? Because my man’s real strict about divorce.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Hilary as quickly as possible.
‘Will you come in then?’
They came in. The flat smelt of kippers and soft soap. The sitting-room had bright red curtains and a red and green linoleum. There were two chairs and a sofa upholstered in crimson plush, the produce of Annie Robertson’s savings and the pride of her heart. They sat down and there was one of those silences. Hilary had forgotten every single thing she had meant to say, and Henry had never meant to say anything at all. Garages might be his job, but ex-chambermaids were Hilary’s.
‘Mrs Jamieson—’ said Hilary at last. Perhaps if she broke the silence, something would come. But how awful if it didn’t. She felt desperate, and all she could find to say was the woman’s name, ‘Mrs Jamieson—’
Annie took pity on her.
‘It was something that happened in the hotel you were saying.’
‘Last year,’ said Hilary, and then she was off with a rush. ‘Oh, Mrs Jamieson, do you remember signing a statement about the Everton murder?’
This wasn’t in the least how she had meant to begin. Henry was making a most awful face at her.
Annie Jamieson said, ‘Ay,’ her voice lifting on the word, her blue eyes steady and dependable. Hilary liked her, and all at once it wasn’t difficult any longer. She felt as if she were talking to a friend.
‘I’ll tell you just why we’ve come,’ she said. ‘I’ve got your statement here, and I want to go through it and just ask one or two questions if you’d be so very kind, because we think that perhaps there’s been some terrible mistake, and it’s my cousin’s husband who’s been sent to prison for life. She’s like my sister really, and she’s so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy—so I thought if you could help us—’
‘It’s all true that I put my name to—every word of it’s true. I can’t say any different.’
‘I don’t want you to. I only want to ask you some questions.’
Hilary rummaged in her bag and produced a sheet of paper on which she had copied Annie Robertson’s statement. The things she was to ask were quite fresh and bright in her mind now. She read the statement through.
Annie Robertson said Mr Bertram Everton had been staying in the hotel for three or four days before July 16th. He might have come on the 11th, or the 10th, or the 12th. She couldn’t say for certain, but they would know in the office. He had room No. 35. She remembered Tuesday, July 16th—she remembered Mr Everton complaining about the bell in his room. He said it was out of order, but it seemed all right. She said she would have it looked at, because Mr Everton said sometimes it rang and sometimes it didn’t. It was at about three o’clock in the afternoon that Mr Everton complained about the bell. He was writing letters at the time. Later that evening at about half-past eight his bell rang and she answered it. Mr Everton told her he wanted some biscuits. He said he didn’t feel well and was going to bed. She brought him the biscuits. She thought he was the worse for drink. She brought him his tea next morning, Wednesday, July 17th, at nine o’clock. He seemed all right then and quite himself.
‘That was what you signed, Mrs Jamieson.’
‘Ay, that’s just the way it was. I’d not put my name to anything that wasn’t true.’
‘Well then, I want to ask you about Mr Everton and the bell. You said he complained about it.’
‘Ay.’
‘Did you come to the room for something, or did he ring for you?’
‘He rang.’
‘He rang to say the bell wouldn’t ring?’
‘Ay. I didn’t think it was just very sensible, but he said whiles it rang and whiles it didn’t ring.’
‘You said he was writing letters. How was he sitting when you went into the room?’
‘He was by the window. There’s a wee table there.’
‘Did he have his back to you then?’
‘Ay—he was writing.’
‘But he turned round when he spoke to you?’
‘No, he didn’t. He just said, “Yon bell’s out of order—whiles it rings and whiles it doesn’t,” and kept on with his writing all the time.’
‘Then he didn’t turn round at all?’
‘No.’
‘Then you didn’t see his face?’
‘No, I can’t just say that I did.’
‘Then how do you know that it was Mr Everton?’
Annie stared.
‘It was Mr Everton all right—you couldn’t mistake yon red hair.’
‘It was just the hair you saw and not the face?’
‘Ay—but you couldn’t mistake it.’
Hilary leaned forward.
‘Lots of people have red hair.’
Annie plaited her skirt in her fingers. She went on staring at Hilary. She said in a surprised voice, ‘No that kind o’ red hair.’
‘What kind?’
‘Gey long on his neck for a gentleman. You couldn’t mistake it.’
Hilary remembered Bertie Everton’s hair—‘Gey long for a gentleman,’ as Annie said. She nodded.
‘Yes—he does wear it long.’
And Annie nodded too, and said, ‘Ay.’
Hilary went back to the statement.
‘Well, that’s all about the bell. You didn’t see his face then, but only the back of his head and his red hair. And in the evening he rang for you again?’
‘Ay.’
‘At half-past eight?’
‘Ay.’
‘He said he wanted some biscuits, and he told you he didn’t feel well and was going to bed, and you brought him the biscuits.’
‘Ay.’
‘Now, Mrs Jamieson, did you see his face that time?’
Hilary’s heart was beating as she asked the question, because everything hung on it—everything—for Geoff, and for Marion.
A deep, straight furrow appeared between Annie Jamieson’s brows.
‘He rang his bell,’ she said, speaking slowly, ‘and I knocked and went in.’
‘How did you get in?’ said Henry suddenly.
She looked round at him, puzzled.
‘The door was a wee thing open like.’
‘And was it open in the afternoon when he rang about the bell?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘It was open both times? You’re quite sure of that?’
‘Ay, I’m sure of that.’
‘All right—carry on.’
She turned back to Hilary.
‘You knocked and went in,’ said Hilary.
‘Ay. And Mr Everton was looking out of the window, and he said without turning round, “I’m not at all well—I’m going to bed. Get me some biscuits, will you?”’
‘And when you came back with the biscuits, what was he doing then?’
‘He
was washing his face,’ said Annie Jamieson.
‘Washing his face?’
‘Ay—he’d the towel to it, drying it.’
Hilary’s heart leapt.
‘Then you didn’t see his face that time either?’
Annie looked puzzled.
‘He’d the wee towel up to it, drying it like.’
‘Did he speak?’
‘Ay—he said, “Put them down.” So I put them down and come away.’
Hilary looked down at the statement again.
‘You said you thought he was the worse for drink.’
‘Ay—he was that.’
‘Why did you think so?’
Annie stared.
‘I didn’t think—I was sure.’
‘Why? I mean you didn’t see his face.’
‘There was an awful strong smell of spirits. And there was the way he spoke—it wasn’t like his own voice at all.’
Hilary said, ‘I see.’ She tried not to think what this might mean. She looked just once again at the paper in her hand.
‘And when you took him his tea at nine o’clock next morning, he was all right then and quite himself?’
‘Ay—he was all right then.’
‘And you saw his face that time?’
‘Oh, ay—he was quite himself.’
Henry struck in.
‘Then it comes to this, Mrs Jamieson—you did not actually see Mr Everton’s face at any time on Tuesday, July 16th. Your statement only mentions the afternoon, but I take it you didn’t see him in the morning.’
‘No, I didn’t see him—he had his door locked.’
‘So there was no time on Tuesday, July 16th, when you actually saw Mr Everton’s face?’
Case Is Closed Page 19
