The Fingerprint (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 30)

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘That you, ma’am?… I thought I’d just let you know that the whatnots are the same. Our friend was certainly there, and Blake and I are hoping to collect him this afternoon. Keep your fingers crossed.’

  Aware that this expression was unlikely to meet with approval, he rang off before Miss Silver could express her views upon the subject of what she would certainly regard as a vain superstition.

  Johnny Fabian, standing in a queue at Pigeon Hill waiting for a bus which he had been informed would take him within a hundred yards of Rooke’s Garage at the four crossways just beyond the Blue Lion, received a slight set-back at seeing what he took to be Sid Turner emerging from a small eating-house on the other side of the road. Having no desire to renew what could scarcely be described as an acquaintance, he looked away. It occurred to him that however desirable Rooke’s Garage and the flat over it might be, he wouldn’t really want Mirrie to be in the way of knocking up against Sid if she happened to shop in Pigeon Hill. The effect of this wore off presently when he had met Jimmy Rooke and discovered a liking both for him and for the terms on which he was willing to dispose of the garage. It wore off, but it had been there and it was to recur.

  What he didn’t know was that Sid Turner had seen and recognised him. At the time Sid was not interested. He recognised Johnny, felt an angry pricking grudge against him, and thought no more about the matter until later, when it suddenly became important. He was not at this time seriously worried about the police and their enquiries. They would nose about for a bit, and when they didn’t get anywhere they would come off it. They might suspect him, but there wasn’t anything they could prove. Absolutely nothing. He had a dangerous smouldering anger against Mirrie Field for blabbing about those two telephone calls. Women! Couldn’t keep their mouths shut, not even when they’d be getting themselves into trouble by talking. All the same they were. He wasn’t all that easy about Bertha Cummins. A pound to a tanner she’d be slopping over to old Maudsley and spilling the beans.

  The thought jabbed him, but only for the moment, because if it came to that the beans were spilled already and no great harm done. All she could tell Maudsley that he didn’t know was that it was she and not Jenny Gregg who had given away the terms of Jonathan Field’s will. And all she would get out of that would be the sack, and if she got another job she’d be lucky. But anyhow, and suppose she was bent on her own ruin, he didn’t see how she could do him any particular harm. The police already knew that Mirrie had told him about the will. And so what? He was her aunt’s brother and an old friend – why shouldn’t she tell him, and why shouldn’t he know? The fact that Bertha had told him the same thing was neither here nor there. It was Mirrie who had made a damned fool of herself by blabbing about those two telephone calls. He thought she should have known better than to split on him. He remembered holding her close up to him in a dark alleyway and setting the point of his knife against her throat. He thought she would have remembered it too. Perhaps the time had come to give her another lesson.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  IT WAS JUST after opening time on Tuesday evening that Aggie Marsh came out of her comfortable sitting-room at the Three Pigeons, crossed a narrow passage, and opened a door which led to the space behind the bar. She had a pleased, flushed look, and she would rather have stayed in her comfortable parlour and let Sid Turner make love to her, but business before pleasure was her motto, and it wasn’t any good letting Sid get too free. She was a respectable woman, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to remember it. So she tidied her hair at the gilt-edged mirror above the mantelpiece and put her dress to rights before going through to give Molly Docherty a hand. But she had hardly got the door half open, when she heard Sid’s name. Something made her step back. She stood there and listened. Molly was laughing – a big red-haired girl and a very good barmaid.

  ‘Sure he’ll be here, and why not – they’re courting. But whether he’s here this identical minute I couldn’t be telling you, for I’ve not set eyes on him myself.’

  Aggie closed the door softly and stepped back across the passage. Sid Turner was on his feet straightening his tie.

  ‘What’s up?’

  She shut that door too.

  ‘Two men asking for you in the bar. One of them was here last night. A plain-clothes tec, you know, but the other one’s new.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘I didn’t wait to hear. Molly said she hadn’t seen you, and I didn’t know whether you’d want—’

  ‘Well, I don’t! Why can’t they leave a chap alone? I don’t know anything, and I’m not going to have them say I do! Talk to them for a bit and jolly them along. I’ll slip out the back way.’

  She began to say something, but he pushed past her and was gone. Didn’t so much as give her a kiss or say he’d be seeing her. She stood for a minute and remembered that poor Bert hadn’t ever really liked Sid Turner. Too slick by half and a bit too much on the make, that was what Bert used to say. And he used to tell her she’d got too soft a heart, and to be careful of herself or she’d be getting into trouble when he was gone. Bert had been good at sizing people up and she had been very fond of him. She went into the bar and gave the two Inspectors a sober ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Abbott and Detective Inspector Blake, Mrs. Marsh. I’m afraid we are here on business. We are anxious to see Sidney Turner.’

  She was a comely, pleasant-looking woman – nice fair hair, nice colour, nice curves. The colour demonstrated its natural origin by a sudden fade-out as she said,

  ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘We think he may be able to help us in connection with the death of Mr. Jonathan Field.’

  There were only two other people in the bar, young fellows having a joke with Molly Docherty. Aggie Marsh said quickly,

  ‘What’s it got to do with Sid? Anyhow he isn’t here.’

  Frank Abbott said,

  ‘Mrs. Marsh, I am sure you won’t want to put any obstacle in the way of the police. You are the licensee, are you not? I must tell you that we have a warrant for Turner’s arrest.’

  The door into the passage stood ajar. She wondered whether Sid had heard. She wondered whether Sid was gone. She said, ‘What for?’

  And the tall fair policeman said, ‘For the murder of Jonathan Field.’

  She felt as if he had hit her. The Three Pigeons had always been a respectable house. Bert had always kept it respectable. Murder had a dreadful sound. She ought to have listened to Bert and remembered what he said. She oughtn’t to have let Sid make love to her. Bert had warned her, and she had gone against him. She oughtn’t to have done it. She said in a slow, dull voice,

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  There was a yard behind the Three Pigeons, and a door in the wall which gave upon a narrow alleyway. Following this as far as it would take him, Sid Turner came out upon a street of semi-detached houses, very neat and comfortable, with lace curtains in the front rooms and a fair sprinkling of aspidistras.

  When he had put a good distance between himself and the Three Pigeons he considered what he should do next. He had lingered to hear what the busies wanted with him, but at the word ‘warrant’ he did not wait to hear any more. From being fatuously secure he tumbled into a panic – what to do, where to go, how to escape. He didn’t dare go back to his lodging for fear of its being watched. Tom Jenkins had looked at him once or twice in a queer sort of way. No, he had better not go back to the Jenkinses. And that meant he couldn’t pick up his motorbike, or his money, or anything that could be turned into money. He had a few pounds, but they wouldn’t go far. And he must get out of London, and get out quick. He went into the next pub he came to, bought himself a drink, and got down to making a plan of escape.

  There are plans which are built up a bit at a time, shaping themselves as you go along. And there are plans which come into mind, as it were, ready made. Into Sid Turner’s mind there came such a plan. What was the last place on earth where anyone woul
d look for him? Field End. And with this as a start the whole plan was there, waiting to be carried out. Field End, the money he was going to need, the satisfaction of teaching Mirrie a lesson, the clever twist which would bring her under his hand – everything was there to the last detail. He finished his drink and went out to find himself a car.

  THIRTY-NINE

  FIELD END DINED at half past seven, a concession to modern conditions to which Jonathan Field had been brought by his own fair-mindedness and the representations of the invaluable Stokes.

  ‘Eight o’clock or half past eight was all very well with a full staff, sir, but dailies just won’t stay so late for the washing up, and it’s more than me and Mrs. Stokes can undertake with so many in the house. Now if it was to be half past seven—’

  Jonathan had dined at somewhere between eight and half past ever since he came out of the school-room, but he gave way with a good grace.

  When the half hour struck and Mirrie had not put in an appearance, Georgina went upstairs to see what she was doing. She came running down again to say that Mirrie hadn’t changed, and that she wasn’t in her room. Her outdoor coat was gone and a pair of outdoor shoes. The house was searched, and it was plain that Mirrie was not in it.

  Miss Silver had a word with Stokes.

  ‘Miss Mirrie seems to have gone out. Do you know of any telephone calls she might have had?’

  ‘There was someone called up for Mr. Johnny. Getting on for half past six that would be.’

  ‘There was not any call for Miss Mirrie?’

  ‘Not just then, miss. A little later on there was.’

  ‘Did she take it?’

  ‘I told her there was a gentleman on the line, and she went into the study to take it there.’

  ‘After you spoke to Miss Mirrie, did you go back to your pantry?’

  ‘Not at once, miss. Mrs. Fabian came out of the drawing-room, and she was talking about whether Mrs. Stokes had made any arrangements about eggs for the preserving, and whether we should get them the same as we had always done or go in for a change. It took a little time, because if you’ll excuse my saying so, there’s nothing upsets Mrs. Stokes like changes and I was trying to get Mrs. Fabian to see it her way, so by the time I got back to my pantry Miss Mirrie had got off the line, and they had put that nasty howler on to show there was my receiver left off. A very annoying practice, if I may say so.’

  It seemed that no one had seen Mirrie since just after seven o’clock, when Georgina met her on the stairs and she was going up to dress.

  Miss Silver went into the study and rang up Maggie Bell.

  ‘Miss Bell, this is Miss Silver speaking. You will remember that I came to see you on Sunday. You were so very helpful then that I am tempted to believe that you may be able to help me now. We are troubled about Miss Mirrie. She received a telephone call a little while ago, following which she seems to have gone out without telling anyone where she was going. Now I wonder if you happen to know who called her up.’

  Maggie hastened to be helpful.

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Silver – it was Mr. Johnny.’

  ‘Mr. Johnny Fabian?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Silver. So I’m sure there isn’t anything for you to worry about. He rang up and he said, “Johnny Fabian speaking.” And Miss Mirrie said, “Oh, I can only just hear you. The line’s dreadful – you sound about a million miles away. And tell me,” she said, “what about the garage?” she said. “Is it what you want? And is there really a flat over it like you said? And will you be able to buy it? And, oh darling, I’m so excited!” And Mr. Johnny said, “Now listen,” he said. “This is very particular, and you’re to do just what I tell you, or there won’t be any garage or any flat, or any you and me for that matter. I’ve got to put down a deposit, and I must have the money tonight or he’ll close with somebody else. How much money can you raise?” She said something about money in the bank and tomorrow, and he said that wouldn’t do, he’d got to have it tonight. So she said she’d got ten pounds in the house, but Miss Georgina might have some she could let her have. And Mr. Johnny said she wasn’t to say a word to Miss Georgina or to anyone, most particularly she wasn’t. It was a top secret between him and her, because if anyone else got to know about it, there would be a lot of talking and arguing, and there wasn’t time for that. It was all he could do just to pick up the money and get back, or he’d have missed his chance. He said she was to take the ten pounds and be out at the gate with it just before half past seven and he’d tell her all about it then. And she had better bring the pearl necklace she had on the night of the dance, because the man might take it as a pledge until they could raise the money – “and mind, not a word to a soul!” he said.’ Maggie rattled it all off with obvious enjoyment.

  ‘Seems funny to me,’ she concluded, and as she heard her own voice saying the words there was a clouding of that pleased sense of being clever and helpful. There seemed to be a coldness in the room. Miss Silver said something very odd indeed.

  ‘Miss Bell,’ she said, ‘are you sure it was Mr. Johnny?’

  Maggie felt as if someone had hit her. She really did. She said, ‘Oh!’ And then, ‘That’s what he said, “Johnny Fabian speaking,” and Miss Mirrie she couldn’t hardly hear him, the line was so bad.’

  ‘Miss Bell, did you think it was Mr. Johnny’s voice?’

  Now that she came to think about it, it might have been anyone’s voice. She had had to listen as hard as she could to do no more than pick up the words. No more than a whisper it was really. When she had told Miss Silver this there was a grave ‘Thank you, Miss Bell,’ and the connection was broken. That was the part Maggie hated so much, when the line went dead and other people went away and did things but she had to stay on her sofa and remember the pain in her back.

  Miss Silver came out of the study and saw Georgina and Anthony in the hall. They were not speaking to each other, they were waiting for her. But before she had time to say anything the front door opened and Johnny Fabian walked in. He looked from one to the other of them and said,

  ‘What’s up?’

  Johnny was quick – he had always been quick from a child. There was something he didn’t like, something about the way Miss Silver was looking. She said,

  ‘Mr. Fabian, where is Mirrie Field?’

  FORTY

  IT WAS JUST before half past seven when Mirrie slipped down the back stairs and let herself out by the side door. She was feeling clever and excited, and very, very pleased with herself and with Johnny. They were going to have their own darling flat, and she would be helping him to get it. And she had thought of everything. About not coming down the front stairs or through the hall in case of meeting anyone. She hadn’t lived all those years with Aunt Grace and Uncle Albert without knowing all about slipping out of the house without being seen or heard. She was wearing her pearl necklace and she had ten pounds in her pocket, and it was all most romantic and interesting. She went just outside the left-hand gate and stood there hugging herself in her warm tweed coat and waiting for Johnny to come. It was a dark evening without moon or stars, cloud overhead and a light wind blowing. It ruffled her curls and she put up a hand to them. She ought to have brought a scarf to tie over her head, but it was too late to go back for one now. The wind blew her hair about, and she hoped Johnny wouldn’t be long.

  The car came up smooth and silent. It stopped beside her, the beam of a torch slid over her from her head to her feet Then it went out with a click and the door swung open. She said, ‘Johnny!’ and he said, ‘Quick!’ Just the one word in a whisper and she was up on the running-board and an arm pulling her in and shutting the door. The engine hadn’t stopped. The car shot forward and they were away. The hand that had pulled her in came across her and shut the window. And in one horrid flash of time Mirrie knew that it wasn’t Johnny’s hand.

  She didn’t say anything, because she couldn’t. She couldn’t make the smallest sound, but if she could have screamed it wouldn’t have made any difference. She
leaned back in a dizzy silence and felt how fast the car was going. If she were to open the door and try to get out she might be killed, or she might be a cripple for life like Maggie Bell. She didn’t want to be killed, and she didn’t want to be a cripple. It was easier to sit quite still and wait for what was going to happen next. The car ran on for a time, then slackened speed and drew in to the side of the road and stopped. Sid Turner said,

  ‘Did you bring the money?’

  Of course she had known it would be Sid. If it wasn’t Johnny, there wasn’t anybody else it could possibly be. It was Sid who had told her to bring the ten pounds and the pearls. It wasn’t Johnny at all. If he had spoken louder, she would have known that it wasn’t Johnny, but he had just whispered, and you can’t tell who anyone is in a whisper. He had said he was Johnny, and it hadn’t come into her mind to think it might be anyone else. You don’t think about things like that – not until they have happened.

  He took hold of her arm and shook her.

  ‘You’ve got a tongue in your head, haven’t you? Did you bring the money?’

  Two big frightened tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

  ‘Hand it over!’

  It was all in nice clean notes fresh from the bank. She took them out of her pocket and gave them to him.

  ‘And the pearls!’

  Frightened as she was, Mirrie was prepared to put up a fight for the pearls. Her breath caught on the words, but she got them out.

  ‘I d-didn’t bring them.’

  His voice went quiet and deadly.

  ‘Do you think you can lie to me? I’ve known you too long for that, and you ought to know me!’

  His hands came feeling about her neck. The pearls slid into one of them. The other came up and squeezed her throat. The pressure only lasted for a moment, but it put the fear of death into her.

  ‘Try any games with me, and that’s what you’ll get – or worse! Remember me tickling you with my knife? You didn’t like it, did you? Now you and me have got to talk! If you do what you’re told you won’t come to any harm, but try just one trick and you’ll wish you’d never been born!’