Miss Silver Comes To Stay (10 page)

Fancy came into the room, her blue eyes very wide. They observed the Superintendent, and didn’t think much of him. Like Mrs. Mayhew, Miss Bell had no affection for a foxy man. The young man with the notebook at the end of the dining-table was better—quite nicelooking in fact. She wondered, as she always wondered about any new young man, whether he could dance. Such a lot of nice boys couldn’t, and the boys that could weren’t always the nice ones. With these simple thoughts in her mind she sat down in a chair which faced the window, thus affording both men an unshadowed view of her quite incredible complexion.

Constable Whitcombe was not unaffected. He gazed, at first in doubt, but later with heart-felt appreciation. If Superintendent Drake had any such feelings he concealed them perfectly, and produced his questions in the impersonal manner of a conjurer pulling rabbits out of a hat.

They began by being very small rabbits, and Fancy received them in an amiable manner. She agreed that she was Miss Frances Bell, and that she was a friend of Mr. Carr Robertson’s. She was staying at the White Cottage on a short visit. Oh, no, she wasn’t engaged to Mr. Robertson—nothing like that—they were just friends. She didn’t know Mr. Lessiter at all. She didn’t even know him by sight—not till she saw his picture in the paper.

“And when was that, Miss Bell?”

“Oh, that was last night.”

He leaned towards her across the table.

“Now, Miss Bell, I want you to tell me just what happened last night.”

The blue eyes opened slowly.

“How do you mean, happened?”

“Well, just what you did, all three of you—you, and Miss Cray, and Mr. Robertson.”

“Well, Carr and I were up in town for the day. We got back a little before seven, and we had supper, and Mr. Ainger came in with some picture-papers. Is that what you want?”

“Yes. What time would that be?”

“Well, it would be about a quarter past eight.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Ainger went away—he had to go and see an old woman who was ill. And then Miss Cray went to the telephone—it’s in here. Carr and I looked at Mr. Ainger’s papers.”

“Was that when you saw Mr. Lessiter’s picture?”

“Yes—only it was Carr that saw it, not me. I can show it to you if you like.”

He said, “Presently will do for that. So Mr. Robertson saw this picture. What did he say when he saw it?”

The blue eyes wavered from his. It is a fact that not till this moment did it occur to Fancy that what Carr had said could have any possible connection with James Lessiter’s death an hour or two later. If Carr himself or Rietta Cray had pointed out the connection by asking her to forget what had happened between Henry Ainger’s agreeable departure and Carr’s tempestuous one, she would doubtless have done her best to comply, and under expert cross-examination she would almost certainly have failed. But neither Carr nor Rietta had been able to bring themselves to suggest any such thing. To each of them it would have looked like an admission of guilt. The mere possibility was dismissed with angry pride. Fancy was therefore left to her own direction. A bewildered, frightened feeling swept over her. Carr’s voice rang harshly in her memory: “So it’s you—you swine!” She couldn’t tell the Superintendent that. But what was she to tell him? When you can’t tell the truth and you haven’t had any practice in telling lies, what do you do? She hadn’t the faintest idea. An exquisite flush rose and glowed under the fine skin, the blue eyes slowly filled. Constable Whitcombe found himself quite unable to look away. The Superintendent remained unaffected. He thought the girl was a fool, and he thought he was going to get something out of her. He repeated his question rather sharply.

“What did he say?”

There was a pause. The blush faded. Fancy said,

“Miss Cray came back, and Carr went out for a walk.”

Drake rapped on the table.

“You haven’t answered my question, Miss Bell. Mr. Robertson saw this picture of Mr. Lessiter. What did he say when he saw it—did he appear to recognize it?”

“Well, sort of—”

“You’ll have to explain that. I want to know what he said.”

Fancy did the best she could.

“He—he seemed surprised.”

Drake was quick.

“Do you mean that he recognized the picture, but he was surprised to find it was Mr. Lessiter?”

“Yes—sort of.”

“He was surprised. Was he angry?”

What could she say to that? Angry wasn’t the word. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything. Her silence gave consent.

“He was angry when he recognized Mr. Lessiter—very angry?”

She sat looking down at the table, damp lashes shading her eyes.

Drake rapped again.

“He recognized Mr. Lessiter, and he was angry. Why? I think you know. If you don’t tell me, someone else will.”

Fancy’s head came up with a jerk. She whisked away two angry tears. Her eyes blazed.

“Then you can go and ask them!” she said. Her native Stepney rose vigorously.

“Miss Bell—”

She pushed back her chair and jumped up.

“It’s no use your asking me a lot of questions I can’t answer. If you’ve got other people who can answer you, go and ask them. If you want to know what Carr said, ask him—he can tell you a lot better than me!”

The Superintendent maintained his poise. He said,

“I can’t force you to answer my questions, Miss Bell, but when the inquest is held you will be obliged to attend and give your evidence on oath. Meanwhile it is of course your duty to assist the police in every way you can.”

She stood there. Now that he had made her angry, she wasn’t frightened any more. He couldn’t make her speak— he had said so himself. She wouldn’t answer anything she didn’t want to. She wouldn’t answer anything about Carr being angry.

Now he was speaking again.

“Mr. Robertson went out, and then Miss Cray went out?”

“Yes.”

“How long were they away?”

“They didn’t go together. He went out of the front door, and she went out at the back.”

“All right, we’ll take them one at a time. When did Miss Cray come in?”

What did he want with all these silly questions? What was he getting at? She said,

“It was a quarter past nine—the news had just finished.”

“And Mr. Robertson?”

“I don’t know—I went to bed.”

“You didn’t hear him come in?”

“No, I didn’t. I can’t tell you any more about anything.”

He said, “Just a minute, Miss Bell—it was after Mr. Robertson had recognized the picture that he went out, didn’t he?”

“I told you he did.”

“What time was that?”

“It was half past eight. I looked to see because of the wireless programme.”

“Mr. Robertson recognized this picture and almost immediately went out of the house. He was angry, wasn’t he? Did he bang the door?”

He’d trick her, would he? Fancy’s temper boiled over.

“Ask him!” she said and ran out of the room. The dining-room door fell to behind her with a resounding slam.

Constable Whitcombe so far forgot himself as to whistle.

Carr had walked into Lenton at very much the same pace as he had used the night before. He found Jonathan Moore in his shop discoursing at leisure with old Lady Fitchett. The contrast of her square bulk and gruff manners with Jonathan’s distinguished height and polished courtesy would have entertained him at any other time. As it was, he chose the other side of a Chippendale bookcase and made for the door at the back of the shop.

It took more than a bookcase to deflect Lady Fitchett’s interest. Her attention wandered from the Hispano-Mauresque plates which were under discussion. She demanded with energy,

“Who was that?”

Jonathan Moore looked vague.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Well, he’s just walked through your private door as if it belonged to him.”

“One of the men perhaps—”

“One of the men, my foot! It looked like Carr Robertson.”

“Then it probably was.”

Lady Fitchett snorted. Nothing made her so angry as an attempt at concealment.

“Jonathan, you are prevaricating! Is Carr back?”

“I believe so.”

“High time, if you ask me! Has he made it up with Elizabeth?”

She got a most charming smile.

“You had better ask him.”

There was a second snort.

“You want a great deal too much for these plates.”

“Think of my income tax.” .

“Think of mine!”

Carr went through the private door and whistled. The sound made Elizabeth’s heart turn over. This was what he had always done—come through the door and stood just inside it whistling, so that if she was upstairs she would hear him and come down, and if she was in the parlour she had only to call, “Come in!”

She called, and next moment there he was, and she was in his arms. Something about the way he held her set her wondering. Then all in a minute she was afraid. He didn’t kiss her, he only held her as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

“Carr—what is it?”

She had to say it again. Even then there was a pause before she got her answer. The hard grip relaxed. He set her away at arm’s length, his hands heavy upon her shoulders, and said,

“You’ll have to chuck me again.”

“Carr!”

“Somebody murdered James Lessiter last night, and they’ll be pretty well bound to think it was me.”

She kept her eyes very steadily on his face.

“And was it?”

He laughed harshly.

“There—you see—you’d believe it yourself for twopence!”

Elizabeth’s eyes were very bright—hazel eyes as clear as water.

“Not for twopence—only if you said so.”

“Well, I didn’t. I might have before I saw you, not afterwards. And anyhow I shouldn’t have gone up behind him and brained him with a poker.”

“Carr!”

“Somebody did. I found him—”

“You didn’t go there!”

“Oh, yes, I did. It’s no good telling me I was a fool—I know that now. I didn’t know he was going to be murdered. I was going to see him and have a show-down and bang the door on the whole thing—finish—new book, chapter one—wedding-bells and a happy-ever-after story. It seemed like quite a good idea. You see if he was going to be up and down to Melling House, and I was going to be to and fro to the Cottage, we were more or less bound to meet. I thought it would be better to have a show-down in decent privacy. We could then cut each other at leisure, and Melling would stop asking us anywhere together. It did seem a good idea.”

She stood there, her head with its windblown hair a little tilted back on the long, slender throat, her eyes never wavering from his face.

“What happened? Tell me.”

He told her about seeing Catherine’s light and going on up to the house, then round the corner, up the two steps, and in through the door that stood ajar, and the drawn curtains. He spared her nothing—the man lying dead across his desk, the stained poker, the raincoat with its drenched sleeve and splashed skirt.

When he had finished she said,

“It’s a pity you wiped the poker.”

“I had to—in case—”

She shook her head.

“It was a pity. You said you wouldn’t have come up behind anyone and hit them over the head with the poker. Did you think Rietta would?”

The colour came up into his face.

“I didn’t begin to think until a lot later than that. That damned coat was there—the next I knew I was wiping the poker. I don’t suppose it made a ha’p’orth of difference. The murderer had been thinking all right. He either slipped on that coat to do the job, or else he messed it up afterwards— on purpose. Do you think he would have overlooked the poker?”

“No—” She thought for a moment. “Carr, if you took the raincoat away and didn’t leave any fingerprints yourself, I don’t see what there is to make anyone think it was you.”

He said grimly, “There’s our little Fancy—that’s all. She and I were looking at Henry Ainger’s papers together, when I turned up James Lessiter’s picture. I can’t remember what I said, but she will. Something on the lines of ‘I’ve got you, you swine!’ After which I proceeded to bang out of the house.”

“Won’t she hold her tongue? Couldn’t you have asked her—”

He was frowning fiercely.

“No!”

Then all at once he relaxed.

“It wouldn’t be a bit of good if I did. The child is quite artless, and they’d have it out of her. Better let her say her piece and take the line that we haven’t got anything to hide.”

The telephone bell rang. Elizabeth walked over to the table and lifted the receiver. He heard her say, “Yes, he’s here.” Then she looked over her shoulder.

“Carr, it’s Rietta. She wants to speak to you.”

Rietta Cray’s deep voice came to him along the wire.

She was speaking German. She said,

“It’s not too good, Carr. They have taken away the coat. We didn’t wash it well enough. Mrs. Mayhew knows I was there. She listened. She heard him speak about his will and say, ‘If young Carr murders me tonight, you’ll come in for a tidy fortune.’ It’s not so good, is it? I thought you had better be warned.”

There was a click as she hung up. He did the same, and turned, repeating what she had said. At the end he used the words Rietta had used.

“Not so good, is it?”

She said soberly, “They’ll find out who did it. But you ought to have legal advice.”

“Yes—I’ll go and see old Holderness.”

“He’s not—a criminal lawyer.”

His mouth twisted.

“Gosh—that rubs it in!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be—we’re going to have to go through the mill all right. To come back to Holderness. He knows us all, and if we’re too criminal for him, he can turn us over to somebody else. He’ll know who we’d better have. I’ll go round and see him.”

“Come back and tell me what he says.”

He nodded, went a step or two towards the door, and came back.

“Elizabeth, last night is washed out. We’re not engaged.”

Her eyes were brighter than ever. She was tall enough to put her arms round his neck without standing on tiptoe. Her locked hands drew his head down until she could lay her cheek against his.

“Aren’t we?”

“No.”

“All right, darling, I don’t mind—we’ll get married instead.”

“Elizabeth!”

She said, “Don’t be silly! Run along and see Mr. Holderness!”