Hilary heard a slow breath taken.
‘What’s this I’m writing?’ said Mrs Mercer’s whispering voice.
‘You’ll know when you’ve written it, my girl,’ said Alfred Mercer. ‘Have you got that down—“one day he found out”? All right, go on—“It was the day Mr Bertie Everton come to see him from Scotland...He didn’t have time to talk about it...He was very angry...Alfred said he’d make it all right, and he gave notice for us to be married...but it wasn’t any good...Mr Everton said we’d got to go...and he said it was his duty to expose us...So I took Mr Geoffrey’s pistol as he’d left in his bottom drawer...It was the 16th July...Mrs Thompson from next door was having a bit of supper with us...I went through to the dining-room...and as I passed the study door...I heard Mr Everton telephoning to Mr Geoffrey Grey...He wanted him to come round at once...I thought he was going to tell him about Alfred and me...It was eight o’clock...I made up my mind what I would do...I knew when Mr Geoffrey would get there...A little before the time I said I must go and turn the bed down...I went and got Mr Geoffrey’s pistol—”’
‘Alfred!’ It was less of a word than a gasp. A faint, frightened scream followed it.
‘You’ll get more than that, if you go asking for it! You get on! Ready? “Mr Geoffrey’s pistol”—you’ve got that down?...Now! “I put it under my apron and went into the study...I asked Mr Everton to have mercy on me and not tell no one...He called me a bad name...and I shot him—’
Hilary heard a rustle, as if the paper had suddenly been pushed away.
‘I won’t—I won’t write it—they’d hang me!’ The whisper was wild with fear.
‘You’ve written enough to hang yourself already,’ said Alfred Mercer. ‘But they won’t hang you, Louie—you needn’t be afraid of that. They won’t get a chance to hang you, because as soon as you’ve written this and signed it, you’re going to drink what I’ve got in this bottle, and when you’ve drunk it you’ll go off asleep and you won’t know nothing more.’
‘I won’t,’ said the whispering voice, ‘I won’t!’
‘You won’t, won’t you? Then—’ His voice dropped until Hilary could hear no words, only rough sound—harsh, rasping sound like an animal snarling.
Mrs Mercer screamed again and again and gasped out, shuddering, ‘No—no! I’ll do anything.’
‘You’d better. Here get on! I don’t want to be all day. It’s a good job a blot or two don’t matter, for you’ve made a fair mess of the paper. “I shot him”—you just write that down! And mind it’s clear enough to read! Come along now!’
The paper moved again. The pen moved. Mrs Mercer groaned. Mercer’s voice went on, cool and hard.
‘“I locked the door...and I wiped the key and the handle...I wiped the pistol too...and I put it on the mat in front of the garden door...Then I ran round and got in by one of the drawing-room windows and shut it after me...They were all latched when the police came...but I’d left one open on purpose so that I could get in quick...I waited till I saw Mr Geoffrey come past the window and go into the study...Then I ran into the hall and screamed...and Alfred came running, and Mrs Thompson ...and banged on the door...And everyone thought he done it...and I let them think so...I didn’t tell my husband nor anyone...Alfred never knew nothing, only what I told him...He thought Mr Geoffrey done it same as everyone did...And I swore false at the inquest and at the trial...but now I can’t bear it no longer...Alfred and me got married like he promised...and he’s been good to me. But I can’t bear it no longer...I’m a wicked woman and I ought to die”...And now you sign your name nice and clear underneath—your lawful married name, Louisa Kezia Mercer!’
Hilary’s hair was wet against her temples. A cold drop ran trickling between her shoulder-blades. It was like the most dreadful nightmare with every sense an avenue for horror—the unclean smell of the place, sight lost in darkness, a violent threat in her ears. What had she been listening to? What was this story which Alfred Mercer had dictated? Was it a lie that he was forcing on this poor broken creature at the point of the knife—or was it true? It might very easily be true. It fitted everywhere, and it explained everything. No, it didn’t explain why James Everton had changed his will. That didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if only Geoff was cleared.
These thoughts floated in the terror and confusion of her mind, while at the same time she heard Mrs Mercer raise her voice in a frantic appeal.
‘Alfred—for the Lord’s sake! I can’t sign that! Alfred, I’ll never say a word—I swear I won’t! I’ll go where no one won’t ever find me, and I’ll never say a word—I’ll take my Bible oath I won’t!’
On the other side of the door Alfred Mercer wrenched away from the grovelling woman who clutched his knees. He let out an angry oath, and then controlled himself. Whatever happened, she’d got to sign the statement, she’d got to sign it. He said, in a deadly quiet voice, ‘Get up, Louie! Get up off the floor!’
Mrs Mercer looked up stupidly. She was so much afraid that she could no longer think. She was afraid of being hanged, and she was afraid to die, and she was afraid of the knife in Alfred’s hand—but she was most afraid of the knife. She got up, and when he told her to sit she sat, and when he told her to sign her name she took the pen in her cold shaking hand.
‘Put your name to it!’ said Alfred Mercer. He came close and showed her the knife.
Hilary strained against her own terror, and strained to hear. She listened for the faint small sound of the pen on the paper as it moved in the loops and curls of Louisa Kezia Mercer’s signature. ‘If she signs it, he’ll kill her—he’ll kill her at once. I can’t stop here and let her be killed. He’s got a knife. He’ll kill me too. Nobody knows where I am. Henry doesn’t know—Henry—’
‘Are you going to sign that paper, or have I got to make you?’ said Alfred Mercer.
Mrs Mercer signed her name.
THIRTY TWO
HILARY CAUGHT AT her courage with all her might. If the worst came to the worst, she must run out and get to the door and scream. ‘There’s a woman over the way who screams three times a week when her husband beats her, and no one takes any notice. It’s no good screaming.’ No good thinking of that. Think—think hard about the room—about where the furniture is. He’ll be taken by surprise. Think where the table is, and the chairs. The chairs. Pick one up if you can—yes, pick one up and drive at him with a leg—at his knees—or his head. A good deal could be done with a chair, and his knife would be no good to him.
She put her hand on the latch of the cupboard door and lifted it. The door moved outwards a shade, a thread, a crack—a crack to look through. She could see a long streak of daylight, and in the daylight Mrs Mercer leaning back with her hands in her lap. Her face was drained of all expression. The terror had gone from it to her eyes. They were fixed on Alfred Mercer, who faced her across the table. Hilary couldn’t see his face. She didn’t dare open the door any wider. She held on to the latch to prevent it swinging out. She could only see Mercer’s hands. One of them held the knife. He put it down on the far side of the table. Hilary could just see as far as where it lay with the blade catching the light—a horn handle, a bright blade, and a fine, keen edge. The sheet of paper upon which Mrs Mercer had been writing just failed to touch this edge. The pen had rolled against the inkpot, a cheap twopenny bottle, with the cork lying beside it.
She forced her eyes away. There had been two chairs. Mrs Mercer was sitting on one of them. Where was the other? It must be on the far side of the table, behind Alfred Mercer. His hands went out of the picture and came back again with a little packet done up in white paper. Hilary watched him undo the paper and let it fall. There came out a small glass bottle with a screw top, a little thing not more than three inches long. Mrs Mercer’s pale, terrified eyes stared at it fixedly. Hilary stared, too.
Alfred Mercer held the bottle in his left hand, unscrewed the top, and cupping his palm, tilted out into it a dozen white round pellets. Hilary’s heart began to beat very fast
indeed. He was going to poison that poor dreep, right there in front of her eyes, and if he began she would simply have to burst out of the cupboard and do what she could to stop him. She tried to think, but it wasn’t easy. He would have to dissolve those things in water—you couldn’t make anyone swallow a dozen pellets dry. The question was, had he got any water here or hadn’t he? There wasn’t any on the table. If he had to go to the kitchen for it, there would be just one lightning chance to make a dash for safety.
Alfred Mercer’s right hand put the bottle down and dropped the little screw cap carelessly beside the blotted sheet of paper upon which Louisa Mercer had written her confession. His left hand closed on the pellets.
‘Damn it—I’ve forgotten the water!’ he said, and picked up the knife and was gone from Hilary’s field of vision. He crossed it again on his way to the door, and this time she saw his face going past her quickly in profile. It gave her a thrill of horror to see how ordinary he looked, how entirely the respectable butler. He might have been fetching the water for one of his master’s guests.
As he passed, Hilary was giving herself orders—urgent, insistent orders—‘Count three when he’s gone through the door—let him go out of the door and count three. Then run. Make her run too. You must—you’ve got to. It’s the only chance.’
He went past the foot of the bed and out of the door. Hilary let the cupboard door swing wide and counted three. Then she ran to Mrs Mercer, taking her by the shoulders, shaking her, and saying breathlessly, ‘Run—run! Quick—it’s your only chance!’
It was a chance that was lost already. There was no life, no movement, no response. The head had fallen back. The eyes stared glassily at the ceiling. The arms hung limp.
‘No good,’ said Hilary to herself, ‘no good.’
She snatched the inkpot from the table and ran out of the room. The kitchen door was open, and the outer door was shut. They faced each other with no more than a yard between. From the kitchen came the sound of running water. It stopped. Hilary snatched at the knob of the outer door, but before she could turn it Alfred Mercer’s hand came down on her shoulder and swung her round. They stared at each other for a long, intolerable moment. He must have put the knife in his pocket, for there was no sign of it. One hand gripped her, the other held a half glass full of water with the little pile of dissolving pellets sending up air bubbles through it. The respectable butler’s face was a snarling mask.
Hilary screamed at the top of her voice and struck hard at his face with the bottle of ink.
THIRTY THREE
HENRY CUNNINGHAM CAME down the dirty tenement stair and emerged upon the street. He wore a puzzled frown, and he carried a small parcel done up in an extremely crumpled piece of brown paper. A yard from the step he walked into the last person he was expecting to meet—Miss Maud Silver, in a black coat with a shabby fur collar, and a black felt hat enlivened by a bunch of purple velvet pansies. Henry exclaimed, and Miss Silver exclaimed. What she actually said was, ‘Dear me!’ After which she put a hand on Henry’s arm and began to walk briskly up the street beside him.
‘We will not, perhaps, talk here. I was on my way to interview Francis Everton, but I see you have already done so. I have another appointment, so we must not lose time. I should prefer to hear your report before proceeding any further myself.’
‘You can’t proceed any further,’ said Henry, casting an odd look at her. He was thinking that she would pass very well as a district visitor, but that he himself was rather conspicuous, and that the sooner they collected Hilary and went somewhere where they could talk the better.
‘And just what do you mean by that?’ said Miss Maud Silver.
They turned into a side street.
‘Frank Everton is dead,’ said Henry.
‘When?’
‘Buried yesterday.’
‘How?’
‘They say he was drunk and fell downstairs.’
‘I wonder if he was pushed,’ said Miss Silver in a quiet, meditative voice.
Henry jerked an impatient shoulder.
‘He’s not much loss anyhow.’
‘On the contrary,’ Miss Silver’s tone was prim. ‘An invaluable witness if he could have been induced to speak.’
‘Well, he can’t now,’ said Henry in a brutally matter-of-fact way. ‘But, look here, Miss Silver, did you know he was married?’
‘No, Captain Cunningham.’
‘Well, he was. Factory girl out of a job. Quite young. Fond of him. Not fond of his brother—that’s putting it mildly. She hates Bertie Everton like poison. Says he got Frank to do his dirty work, and didn’t ever pay him properly for it.’
‘Good,’ said Miss Silver. ‘Good work, Captain Cunningham. Go on.’
Henry was warming to his story. It sorted itself out as he proceeded. He was conscious of a very definite excitement.
‘The girl’s decent. She didn’t know anything—that is, she guessed there had been dirty work, but she wouldn’t have stood for it herself. She married Frank Everton about six months ago, but she seems to have been friendly with him for some time before that. When she said Bertie got Frank to do his dirty work for him, I encouraged her to talk along those lines. She was only too pleased to get it off her chest.’
‘Very good work,’ said Miss Silver.
They turned into the street where Henry had left Hilary. The houses stood in their close rows, a few people went up and down, but there was no girl in a brown tweed coat and cap.
‘I left Hilary here—’
‘She must have gone round the next corner. She would walk to keep herself warm,’ said Miss Silver.
Henry felt an odd relief. He had expected to see Hilary. In some obscure way he felt as if he had missed a step in the dark. He was jarred, and a little angry. Miss Silver’s reasonable explanation was reassuring.
‘If we wait here, she’ll come back,’ he said.
He went on telling her about Frank Everton’s wife—‘She says Bertie Everton’s been promising them money. He kept putting Frank off because he said he couldn’t do anything till the will was proved. Then they found out that it had been proved, and Bertie put them off with promises. He said he wanted Frank to go abroad, and Frank wouldn’t because of her. That was before they were married, and afterwards he said Glasgow was good enough for him, and he wouldn’t budge. He said all he wanted was a nice little flat and plenty of money to pay for drinks all round, and he wasn’t going overseas to please anyone.’
‘That,’ said Miss Silver, ‘is very interesting.’
Henry nodded.
‘I thought so. Of course you can’t say he was a creditable relation to have around—I mean, nothing very compromising about Bertie feeling that a good stretch of the Atlantic or the Pacific between them would make Frank less of a handicap. But there was something about the way she said it, if you know what I mean. Bertie had been very pressing, and Frank had been cocking snooks when he’d had one over the odds, and hinting at what he could say if Bertie pushed him too far.’
Miss Silver put her head a little on one side with the air of a bird who sees a plump and juicy worm.
‘Did he say what he would do, Captain Cunningham?’
‘He hinted that he could make it hot for Bertie. He said he’d done dirty work for him once too often, and that he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known what Bertie was up to—said he’d got evidence that would hang Bertie if he took it to the police. The girl Phemie says he showed her the evidence and then made her promise she wouldn’t tell anyone, because, he said, they might hang him, too, and he never meant the old man any harm.’
Miss Silver faced him on the narrow pavement, her eyes bright and alert.
‘This evidence, Captain Cunningham—did she tell you what it was?’
‘I’ve got it here,’ said Henry. He gave his limp paper parcel a bang and produced it with the air of a conjuror bringing something out of a hat.
A curious change came over Miss Silver’s expression. She put
out her hand for the parcel and she opened her mouth to speak, but she neither spoke, nor did she touch the crumpled brown paper. Her hand fell to her side, her lips stayed open, and her eyes lost their brightness whilst remaining even more alert than before.
She said in a quick, restless voice, ‘Captain Cunningham, where is Miss Carew?’
At once Henry was jarred again.
‘I left her here.’
‘Then where is she?’
‘She must have gone round the corner. You said so—you said she would walk to keep herself warm.’
‘She wouldn’t go far. She ought to be here. I don’t like it, Captain Cunningham.’
Henry was off before she had finished speaking. The street ran straight for about a quarter of a mile without a side turning. His long legs took him to the end of it in a very short time. He went out of Miss Silver’s view round the left-hand corner. After an interval he crossed the head of the street again and disappeared in the opposite direction. Then he came sprinting back.
Miss Silver turned before he reached her and hurried back along the way by which they had walked together. Henry came up with her, panting. His heart thumped, ‘Hilary—Hilary—Hilary—’ and he was afraid with that unreasoning fear which is the hardest of all to control.
‘She isn’t anywhere—Miss Silver—’
Miss Silver began to run in an odd hen-like manner.
‘I think I ought—to tell you that—the Mercers are—in Glasgow—Captain Cunningham. In—point of fact—I—followed them—here. A police-constable is—meeting me at—their lodging—immediately. I am very apprehensive on—Mrs Mercer’s account. If—by any chance—Miss Carew—’ The words popped out in jerks but she ran gamely.
They came into the street where the tenement houses were, and she caught Henry by the arm and pointed.
‘That door—where the policeman is—fifth floor—on the left—’ This took the last of her breath, but as he broke from her she snatched the brown paper parcel and tucked it under her arm.
Case Is Closed Page 21
