Dead or Alive: A Frank Garrett Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  But—

  But she had washed the cup—

  But that meant—

  She kept her face still and looked at Miss Cannock. She was nibbling at her bun. She had a faintly reassured and timidly deprecating smile on her foolish sallow face. It wasn’t possible—but there was no one else. There was no one else who could have put—something—into the cup which she had washed. The Cannock could, whilst Meg stooped down to pick up the plate.

  At that moment when she knew herself to be standing on the very edge of disaster, standing there and overbalancing, the fear went out of her. She came upon something which she did not know that she possessed—a hard, stubborn vein of courage which meant to go on, and to fight, and to go down fighting if it came to going down. There was no anger about it. It was cool, and tough, and strong.

  She turned quite naturally from the table and knelt down before the fire. There was a black woolly hearth-rug there, and it had come to her in a flash what she could do.

  “Oh, Miss Cannock,” she said, “we’re wasting the muffins! Won’t you have one?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Was it her imagination, or was there a veil of smoke, a veil of strange white mist, between her and the fire? Miss Cannock’s voice sounded a long way off.…

  Half—she had only had half of the tea—and she must get rid of the other half—they must think she had drunk it—she mustn’t faint—or go to sleep—it would sink into the woolly hearth-rug, and no one would guess she hadn’t drunk it—it might make a difference—it might—

  She bit her lip hard on the inside. Then she lifted the cup to her lips. Her hand felt heavy. She said,

  “This is a good cup of tea—”

  Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She wondered how it sounded to the woman behind her—she wondered about the woman behind her. The Cannock was behind her. Could she see what she was doing? Yes, she could see Meg’s arm lifted and the cup at her lips—but she wouldn’t be able to see it when it got below the level of her waist.…

  She took the cup from her lips without drinking and lowered it. The mist was thick between her and the fire. She wanted to shut her eyes and go to sleep. She bit her lip again, but this time she could only just feel it. With a most punishing effort, and with the very last of her conscious control, she brought the cup down until it touched the rug. Then she tilted it sideways.

  The tea spilled, trickling between the black woolly curls, leaving no stain. Meg remained on her knees for a moment, but she no longer knew where she was or what was happening. Fear, anxiety, and effort had all floated away from her into the mist. She did not hear Miss Cannock speak her name. She did not hear her repeat it in a loud, insistent tone. The mist blinded her eyes and stopped her ears. After a wavering moment she sank down sideways across the tilted cup.

  Miss Cannock got to her feet, looked down at her with composure, and then crossed the room without hurry and rang the bell.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Meg did not know how long she was unconscious. If she had drunk that cup of tea to the dregs as she had been meant to do, she would probably never have waked again, for unconsciousness would have held her helpless until such further steps had been taken as would have insured the deepest sleep of all. But her flash of courage and that last effort had saved her. The drug in the first cup of tea had been dissolved in water and thoroughly stirred before she came into the room. If she had drunk that cup, there would have been no awakening. But she had not drunk it. Her trick with the lumps of sugar had given her the opportunity of pouring it away and washing out the cup. And the drug in the second cup of tea was in tabloid form. There was no time to dissolve it first, and no opportunity of stirring it. Thus, since Meg did not take sugar, the liquid had never been stirred at all. She drank about half of it, standing up by the table, and she drank quickly because she was very parched and thirsty, but what she drank contained comparatively little of the drug, which was concentrated in the bottom of the cup. She had seemed to be drinking it as she knelt before the fire, but she had managed to tip it out upon the black woolly hearth-rug.

  She came back to the sound of voices in the room and, more gradually, to a sense of her own whereabouts. She wasn’t on the floor any more. That came to her with a sense of surprise, because she remembered kneeling in front of the fire and thinking that she must, must manage to spill the tea. The tea—there was something to the tea.… She drifted again into a blank state which was not quite sleep and not quite swoon. The voices came and went, just out of reach.… And then all at once the blankness was gone. She felt muzzy and languid, but her head was getting clearer. She wasn’t on the floor, but on the couch. She looked through her lashes, and was puzzled because the wall was so close on her right and the high back of the couch so close on her left, and there was a light in the room, but she couldn’t see it.

  She shut her eyes again, and heard Miller say,

  “What next?”

  He was quite close to her, not a yard away, quite near her head. Hearing him speak like that, so horribly near, did more to rouse her than anything else could have done. Why of course, the wall was so close because they had turned the couch round, and she was lying on it quite flat with the back of it between her and the room, and that was why she couldn’t see the light.

  When Miller said, “What next?” a plaintive cockney voice broke in.

  “I tell you I don’t like it. I said all along I didn’t, and I don’t see any call to do it neither.”

  The odd thrilling voice answered her with the touch of scorn which Meg had heard in it before.

  “Oh, you don’t, don’t you, Milly? Well then, of course there isn’t any, what d’you call it, call to do anything. Let’s all throw in our hands and stop bothering.”

  Milly sniffed.

  “I dunno know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you, Milly, my dear? Not very bright—are you? Perhaps you don’t think it’s going to matter to you personally, but don’t you make any mistake, if we’re for it, you’re for it. If we get ours, then, my dear, you’ll get yours, and I hope you’ll like it.” There was a note or two of musical laughter. Then the voice hardened. “You’d better get this straight, Milly. Robin O’Hara had you marked down all right in that damned packet of his—Milly Miller, alias Gertie Stevens, alias Crooked Sue.”

  “Ow—don’t!”

  The voice went on inexorably.

  “I took you out of the gutter, didn’t I? You’d better remember it, because that’s where you’ll finish up if you live to come out of prison.”

  “Ow—you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t!”

  “Me? I shouldn’t do anything. You’d do it yourself. Don’t be a fool, Milly. They’ve got the proof of O’Hara’s death, and the minute this girl knows about it we’re done. You can’t say I haven’t fended her off, and I won’t say it hasn’t been quite an amusing game. I wish O’Hara could have seen me playing ghost. It would have tickled him.” She laughed a little. “It was a pity he had to go. I’d liked to have worked with him, but he wouldn’t come across, and the very last thing he said when he knew the game was up and he was for it, was to tell me just where we should all find ourselves when his wife and the bank manager opened this precious packet of his.”

  Meg lay in the shadow quite stiff, quite straight, quite flat.

  Robin—the packet—Robin.… Robin was dead. These people had killed him. That woman who laughed had brought him to his death. Robin was dead, and the woman had tried to make her think he was alive. The marked newspaper—the letters set out on the hearth-rug—the leaf with the word pricked out on it—the card laid out at midnight in the dark flat—she could see the shining pasteboard now, and a dead man’s name on it. The woman had done all these things to make her believe that Robin was alive and to prevent her opening the packet. But Robin was dead. He had died bravely, doing his duty. Yes, Robin was brave—he would do that. She could think about him, brave and doing his duty. That took all the bitterness away
. She could think about him like that.

  Then all at once the sound of the closing door roused her. She had been drifting, and she mustn’t drift. The door had shut quite sharply, almost with a bang. She wondered who had gone out of the room. And then she didn’t have to wonder any more, because the woman said,

  “What a damned fool Milly is! You’d better keep an eye on her.”

  And Miller spoke from somewhere startlingly near at hand.

  “That’s all right. And now what next? How long is that stuff good for?”

  The stuff—that was the stuff they had put into her tea.… But she had only drunk half. They didn’t know that. Or did they?

  The woman was speaking again.

  “Eight hours—ten—twelve—long enough anyhow. She had finished what was in the cup before she went off.”

  There was a pause. Then Miller said violently,

  “Why don’t you get on and get it over? Put her in the water and have done with it!”

  Meg did not move, but she felt a cold inward shudder. They had drugged her, and they were going to drown her. But if she wasn’t drugged, there would still be a chance of escape. She could swim. There must be a chance.

  The woman laughed. The chance didn’t seem worth much when Meg heard that laugh. She said with a cool whipping scorn in her voice,

  “Have you got nerves aboard—like Milly?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It sounds like it. Take a pull on yourself, my friend, and go on remembering that I’m running the show. I’m working to a time-table and I’m not taking any risks. She’ll be out of the way by midnight, but not so very much before. The village can get to bed and go to sleep first. That boy from the inn takes his girl into the churchyard most evenings. There’s no accounting for tastes—is there? Now suppose—just suppose it occurred to him to get over the wall. There’s just one place where he could—I found it yesterday. There’s a tombstone jammed up against the wall—well, you see? It’s only a thousandth chance, but I’m not risking it.”

  Miller said, “All right.” And then, grudgingly, “You’ve got a head!”

  “Thank you, Bob!” The tone was a lightly mocking one.

  “And then?” said Miller.

  “Then Henderson runs me up to town, and we put her in the river just as we did with O’Hara. There’ll be nothing to show that she was drowned before she got there.”

  Miller spoke again with a kind of grumbling anger.

  “You keep everything mum to the last minute! What’s the idea? Are you and Henderson going to light out and leave Milly and me to answer the questions that are going to be asked? Because if that’s your game—”

  Her laughter cut him short.

  “My dear Bob, it isn’t. Don’t be so crass! Having disposed of the—incriminating evidence, we come straight back. Mrs O’Hara is scheduled to leave Ledlington by the eleven-fifty tomorrow. Henderson will drive her to the train. We shall stop at the village post-office and Henderson will go in and buy stamps. Everyone in the village will be prepared to swear to Mrs O’Hara having left Ledstow. They will see her luggage on the grid. They will see her hat and coat on me and she will have a cold and be blowing her nose when Henderson goes in to get the stamps. At Ledlington I shall buy a ticket for town and tip a porter to put the luggage in the van. The train is always packed on a matinée day, and no one will notice who gets out at the other end. Meanwhile I go into the ladies’ room, remove her hat and coat, put on a good noticeable scarlet beret, and walk out of the station and back to the car. I keep out of sight on the floor with a rug over me coming through the village, and there we are.”

  “Well, I won’t say you’re not clever,” said Mr Miller with that grudging note in his voice again.

  Meg’s blood ran colder and colder as she listened. Not to be able to move, not to be able to do anything, just to lie here and listen while they made a plan to drown you and throw you into the river, not here but somewhere far away so that they would be quite safe. And then to hear them plan just how they were going to pretend that you had gone up to town by train. It was like being made to look on at your own execution. She felt her courage failing, freezing—freezing to death. She wished that she had drunk that cup to the dregs, because then she would be as good as dead already, and she wouldn’t know the horrible cold touch of the water, or the hands that would put her into it and hold her down until she was drowned. Her whole body stiffened in a spasm of recoil.

  And then she heard Miller say, “Mr Postlethwaite—” and at the sound of Uncle Henry’s name she relaxed and listened, and began to have a little hope again.

  “They’ll come down and want to ask him questions when she’s missing, the police will and that Coverdale. I suppose you’ve thought of that?”

  “Oh, my dear Bob!”

  “That’s all very well, but what about it?”

  She laughed with real amusement.

  “Mr Postlethwaite has an appointment with Professor Mühlendahl in Munich. They have been corresponding about it for the last fortnight. He leaves for the continent tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And Milly and me? What about us?”

  “Well, you’ll be perfectly safe here.”

  “We’re not going to be here,” said Miller hoarsely—“not for nothing nor nobody we’re not! And when I say that I mean it. What—Milly and me stay here and be badgered, and cross-examined, and dragged into an inquest as like as not, and our pictures in the papers? No, thank you! And what’s more, Milly’s not fit for it—she’d lose her head as like as not and give the show away, if she’s pushed too far.”

  “Then you’re all on holiday whilst Mr Postlethwaite’s abroad, and the house is closed. It doesn’t matter. There’ll be no proof against anyone. Mr Postlethwaite will fail to keep his appointment in Munich. I owe the Paris police something, so I think he’ll disappear in Paris. I’d like to score them off, and Mr Postlethwaite’s disappearance will be quite a score. And now as I’m going to be up all night, I’m going to have some sleep. Lock this door on the outside and come and have a look at her every half hour. She hasn’t moved at all, has she?”

  Meg heard light feet crossing the room. Someone leaned over the sofa back and looked down on her. She ought to have kept her eyes quite shut and the lashes closed, but she couldn’t do it. As she lay on her back, straight and flat, she had only to lift the lids the merest fraction to be able to look up through the veiling lashes at the face that was looking down. Her courage had come back, because she had Uncle Henry to fight for as well as herself. They were planning horrible things for him as well as for her. But they weren’t dead yet. Oh no, they weren’t dead yet. If her lids flickered, she would betray herself. Could she look, and hold them steady? She must.

  Someone looked down at her and laughed, an oddly ringing laugh. Meg looked through her lashes and saw Miss Cannock’s bright blue dress, Miss Cannock’s floating scarf, Miss Cannock’s fussy fringe, Miss Cannock’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Meg lay in the dark, and was thankful for it. They had put out the light, locked the door on her, and gone away. She was alone, and she could relax, move her stiff limbs, and sit up if she wanted to. She found that she didn’t want to—yet. Her head swam and she felt giddy. But she mustn’t give way to that. She propped herself against the end of the sofa and tried to think.

  Uncle Henry was on the island, and she was here. She could get out of the window, and she could swim over to the island, but that wouldn’t be any good, because she wouldn’t be able to land when she got there. The wall encircled it, high, blank, and unclimbable. No, the only way to the island was by the covered bridge, and it was locked at both ends. It was locked, and Miss Cannock had the keys. Was Uncle Henry a prisoner on the island then? Yes, he was—he must be. Oh, he was. She ought to have suspected something when he didn’t come out, and she never saw him.

  Only two days ago she had been in Ledlington. She had actually rung Bill up. She had talked to him. If she had
suspected something then, she could have said, “Oh, Bill, come down!” and he would have come. He would have come. She would have been safe. But she hadn’t suspected anything, and now it was too late.

  But how could she have suspected? It was so like Uncle Henry. Even at Way’s End it had been the most awful business getting him to come to meals when he was working. If he had had a place like the island where he could get away from everyone and lock himself in, he might have behaved in just the way he was supposed to be behaving there.

  He was a prisoner. But since when? He had met her on the evening she arrived, and she had walked up from the gates with him.

  Had she?

  Was it Uncle Henry who had met her?

  She sat up trembling under the impact of this new idea, but with her head clear and her thoughts racing.

  Was it Uncle Henry who had met her? It was dusk, but she had seen—What had she actually seen? An ulster, a hat, and a limp. That was what she had seen, and her mind had said Uncle Henry, and then, as far as the question of identity went, it had stopped functioning. Bill said the Professor had grown a beard, and she had just added the beard to her preconceived idea of Uncle Henry and taken him for granted. But she had spoken to him, and he had answered her. And anyone with the least gift for acting could mimic Henry Postlethwaite. His voice, soft and hesitating, the marked mannerisms of his speech, his way of withdrawing into an impenetrable silence, all made him the easiest man in the world to impersonate. He had hardly spoken at all on their walk to the house. She had been hurt about it at the time, but now she was sure that it was not Henry Postlethwaite who had walked beside her. She remembered how he had stalked past her into the house and vanished. And then—and then Miss Cannock had come—not at once—no, it was some time after. The woman who could play Miss Cannock so perfectly, so convincingly, without a single false note, was clever enough to play another part—any other part.