Miss Silver Comes To Stay (11 page)

Mr. Holderness sat back in his chair. His florid colour stood high, but the black brows which made such a handsome contrast with his thick grey hair were drawn together in a frowning line, and the eyes they shaded had a worried look. It had become more and more pronounced as Carr’s story proceeded. He drew in his breath now and let it out again in gusty protest.

“My dear Carr!”

Carr’s lip twitched.

“Damnable—isn’t it?”

Mr. Holderness drummed on his knee with big white fingers.

“You realize, of course, that if all this comes out, you’ll be in very serious danger of arrest.”

“I’ve done nothing else but realize it.”

“Of course there is no reason why it should all come out.”

“How do you mean?”

“Who knows that you went up to Melling House last night? How many people have you told?”

Carr jerked a shoulder.

“Rietta—Elizabeth—you—”

“Then don’t tell anyone else. They must hold their tongues, and you must hold yours.”

He said slowly, “I’m not sure about that.”

“You’d better be.”

“I’m not sure. You see, they know Rietta was there—they’ll say she had a motive. She went up to warn him that I’d found out about him and Marjory. He told her some cock-and-bull story to soothe her down. Then he produced a will he had made in her favour when they were engaged—and Mrs. Mayhew was listening at the door! She heard him say, ‘If young Carr murders me tonight, you’ll come in for a tidy fortune.’ That puts it fair and square on Rietta—or me. If I back out, it just leaves Rietta. Besides, everything else apart, Fancy will tell them about my recognizing his photograph and slamming off in a blazing rage.”

Mr. Holderness set his jaw in a very obstinate manner.

“There will be time enough for you to commit suicide if it proves that Rietta is in real danger. I really must insist that you hold your tongue.”

Carr cocked an eyebrow.

“Suicide?”

Mr. Holderness stared at him angrily.

“You might just as well, if you propose to tell the police, firstly, that you recognized James Lessiter’s portrait last night as that of the man who seduced and deserted your wife, and secondly, that you were present on the scene of the crime at or about the time it was committed. You can do as you like, but I refuse to be associated with any such folly. Rietta is not, to my mind, in anything like so serious a position as you are. No one who knew her would believe that she would commit a sordid crime for money.”

Carr gave a half absent nod, and then came out with,

“I wonder who did do it—”

The large, well kept hand rose and fell upon Mr. Holderness’s knee.

“James Lessiter had made a great deal of money. That kind of fortune is often made at the expense of somebody else. It seems improbable to me that it was a local crime, though quite possibly pains may have been taken to make it look like one. I wonder, now, whether there is anything missing. I had a very careful inventory taken after Mrs. Lessiter’s death. I think the first thing for me to do will be to communicate with the police and suggest that they should check on it. There were some valuable things in that house. If any of them are missing—well, that will be something for the police to follow up. And meanwhile I insist that you keep your own counsel. If you are asked to make a statement you will say that, acting under the advice of your solicitor, you prefer to say nothing until the inquest. That will give me time to find out how the land lies.”

Carr nodded briefly, his mind elsewhere. He appeared to be debating something. An air of hesitation in the end resolved itself. He said,

“Do you know anything about Cyril Mayhew?”

The hand on Mr. Holderness’s knee jumped slightly.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Idle curiosity. I asked Rietta about him the other day, and she shied off the subject. What has he been up to?”

“I believe he has been in trouble.”

“With the police?”

“I am afraid so. He was bound over.”

“What has he done?”

“Theft from his employer, I believe. The Mayhews felt it very much. It’s hard when an only son goes wrong. They are most respectable people.”

“Only children get spoilt. Cyril was a horrid little squirt.”

“Parents are often extremely unwise. What made you ask about Cyril Mayhew?”

Carr looked at the ceiling.

“Nothing—except that I saw him at Lenton station last night.”

Mr. Holderness knit his brows.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. I only saw him by accident. He got out of the last carriage and cut away behind the booking-office. It didn’t strike me he wanted to be spoken to. I’ve been wondering if he went home last night.”

Mr. Holderness said,

“I think we will ask the police.”

When Rietta Cray had finished her telephone call she remained sitting at the writing-table upon which the instrument stood. She liked a good-sized table, and was grateful for the room afforded by a bulging bay which broke the front wall of the dining-room. She stayed there, the dining-table at her back—one of the old-fashioned Victorian kind built to take a family and much too large for its present surroundings. Neither it nor the heavy upright chairs with imitation Sheriton backs and seats of faded brocade were in the least suited to a cottage, but Rietta had grown up with them, and it would never have occurred to her to change them. They belonged to the time when her father had the leading practice in Lenton and they lived in a big house on Main Street. That time seemed very far away. Dr. Cray died, and they came to live at the White Cottage. Nearly thirty years ago. A long time.

She sat looking at the telephone for some minutes before she stretched out her hand and again lifted the receiver. The voice which answered her from the exchange was not Gladys Luker’s, as it had been when she rang up Carr. It was Miss Presser who said, “Hullo!” and that made everything a great deal easier. Everyone in Melling knew that Gladys listened in if she thought there was going to be anything worth listening for, but Miss Prosser couldn’t be bothered. She was not deaf but a little hard of hearing, and as she put it herself, “I’ve got enough to do getting hold of what I’ve got to.”

Rietta gazed at the number she wanted and had to repeat it—“21 Lenfold.” She wondered whether Miss Prosser would remember that it was Randal March’s private number. On being made Chief Constable of the county he had bought an agreeable small house some miles out of Lenton, installed an elderly married couple to do for him, and developed an interest in the garden, which boasted a tiny stream, a water-lily pond, and a patch of woodland.

As she waited for the call to come through she told herself that she was a fool to ring up, but that she would probably be preserved from the consequences of her folly because as likely as not Randal wouldn’t be there. He might if he was coming home to lunch. But then it was quite likely that he wouldn’t be coming home to lunch. He might even be coming over here—if Superintendent Drake had had time to make his report.

Someone lifted the receiver on the other end. Randal March said, “Hullo!” The colour ran hot to the roots of Rietta’s hair. Why in the world had she rung him up? A most preposterous piece of folly. She heard her own voice say in deep, calm tones,

“Is that you, Randal?”

He sounded warm and pleased as he said, “Rietta!”

Her flush died down. She thought, “He hasn’t heard yet— it’s all right.” She said,

“I just wanted to ask you something. It’s about your Miss Silver. You know she’s staying here with Mrs. Voycey who is an old school friend of hers—”

“So I gathered. Have you met her? Unique, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Randal, how good is she—at her job, I mean?”

He laughed.

“Oh, definitely top of the class! No, that’s the wrong simile. She’s the teacher up at the desk, with the rest of us sitting in a row in the infants’ class.”

Her voice went deeper, slower.

“Do you really mean that? Seriously?”

“Quite seriously. Rietta, why do you ask? Is there anything wrong?”

“Quite a lot.” She slipped into French just in case. “James Lessiter was murdered here last night.”

“So I am informed. I haven’t had a report yet.”

Rietta Cray said, “I’m the chief suspect, Randal,” and rang off.

Randal March looked up from the typewritten sheets which he had just been reading. He went through them without comment until he came to the end. When he let the last page fall Superintendent Drake said,

“Well, sir, there you have it. There’s no denying there’s quite a serious case against Miss Cray.”

March smiled.

“My dear man, it’s absurd. I’ve known Miss Cray since she was a child. She is quite incapable of hitting anyone over the head with a poker.”

Drake stiffened. So that was going to be the way of it. Class-consciousness rose in him, bitter as brine. He had known her since she was a child—so she couldn’t do murder! All these people hung together! His thin nose had a pinched look as he said,

“That’s what somebody always says until it’s proved. A murderer is just like anyone else until you get him on the end of a rope.”

Randal March had the pleasant, even temper which goes with a good physique, good health, and a good conscience, but at this moment a jag of pure rage went through him. It surprised him a good deal. He found it uncomfortably revealing. He was, fortunately, able to control any outward manifestation and merely repeat his former assertion.

“Miss Cray is quite incapable of murdering anyone.”

That pinched look extended to the rest of Drake’s features. One might have said a hungry fox.

“What we have to look at is the evidence, sir. If you will just cast your eye over those statements again you will see that Miss Cray has quite a strong motive. She was engaged to this Mr. Lessiter a matter of twenty years ago or more. She says she broke off the engagement herself, but she declines to say why, and the local opinion is that he treated her badly. I don’t say there’s actual evidence that she bore him any grudge, but she might have done. On the top of that he comes back here twenty years later full of money. Then we come to the events of last night. Mr. Carr Robertson refuses to make any statement. That, to my mind, is a very suspicious circumstance. I wouldn’t think so much of it if he was older. It’s more natural for a middle-aged person to be cautious, but it isn’t natural for a young man of twenty-eight. It’s highly suspicious. He knows something, and he’s afraid it’s going to look bad, either for himself or for Miss Cray, so he’s holding his tongue. But look at Miss Bell’s statement. She makes it perfectly clear that Mr. Robertson went banging out of the house because he had just seen a photo of Mr. Lessiter in a picture-paper with the name underneath. I find they had never met or seen each other, but the minute Mr. Robertson sees this photo with the name under it he recognizes it and rushes off out. Now the local talk is that Mr. Robertson’s wife ran off to France while Mr. Robertson was in Germany. Nobody knew who it was she’d run off with. Then Mr. Robertson is demobbed and comes home. Presently his wife turns up ill. The man she went away with has left her flat. Mr. Robertson takes her in and nurses her, and she dies—a matter of two years ago. The talk is he’s set himself to find out who was responsible. Mrs. Fallow that works for Miss Cray, she’s got some story about a photo—says she heard Mr. Robertson tell his aunt he’d know the man if he saw him because Marjory—that’s his wife—had a photo. Well, that’s just local talk, but it fits in. Now come back to Miss Bell’s statement and you’ll see that no sooner has Mr. Robertson gone out by the front than Miss Cray goes out by the back. She picks up the first coat she comes to—it happens to be her nephew’s—and she goes off up to Melling House, where Mrs. Mayhew hears Mr. Lesiter tell her about the will he made when they were engaged—‘Everything to Henrietta Cray,’ etc. And she hears him say, ‘If young Carr was to murder me tonight, you’d come in for quite a tidy fortune.’ ” Drake paused, pleased with what he felt to be an efficient and convincing exposition.

Randal March said, “Well?”

“Well, sir, does that leave any doubt in your mind that Miss Cray’s reason for hurrying up to Melling House was to warn Mr. Lessiter that he might apprehend some act of violence on the part of Mr. Carr Robertson?”

Randal March smiled a little more pleasantly.

“If she took the trouble to go and warn him, then she didn’t murder him. You’re trying to have it both ways, Drake. I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed between the red lashes.

“Wait a minute, sir—I don’t think you’ve got the point. When she came up to warn him she didn’t know about that will. They say he’s worth the best part of half a million. You might come up to warn a man, and change your mind about it if it was going to mean half a million in your pocket.”

Randal March had himself very well in hand. He maintained the exact shade of attention due to an efficient subordinate with whose conclusions it is impossible to agree. He had the air of giving due weight to the supposition that a hypothetical half million might have inspired Rietta Cray to hammer out a man’s brains with a poker. Attention having been given to this theory, he shook his head.

“Not in character, I’m afraid.”

Superintendent Drake pursued the theme.

“There’s evidence which is going to take a lot of explaining away, if you don’t mind my saying so. After refusing to explain why she was in such a hurry, Miss Cray says in her statement that she picked up the first coat she came to—they hang in the passage, and she went out by the back door. The coat she did take was an old one of Mr. Robertson’s. It has a plaid lining with a yellow stripe in it. Mrs. Mayhew’s statement refers to this. When she went back to the study the second time and opened the door this coat was hanging over a chair. A bit of the lining showed, and she describes it. One of the sleeves was hanging down, and she says the cuff was all over blood. Miss Cray explains this by saying she scratched her wrist coming up through the wood. But mark this, sir—all the right side of that coat had been sponged down. It was hanging in among the others in the passage, and all one side of it still wet. I sent it right away to see what a test could make of it, and this is what I’ve got. I was on the phone to them, the last thing before coming out, and they say there are traces of human blood over the whole damp area. The right cuff must have been fairly drenched—there’s quite a lot left along the stitched seam and where the lining is doubled over. There’s no doubt at all that the staining was very extensive, and a great deal more than could be accounted for by a surface scratch. Miss Cray showed me her wrist, and the scratch theory just won’t wash.”

March turned over the sheets in front of him and picked one up.

Drake went on speaking.

“The only thing that would account for the condition of the coat is that it was worn by the murderer.”

March looked up from the sheet he was holding.

“Mrs. Mayhew particularly says in her statement that she heard no sound in the room on this second occasion. That would point to Miss Cray having left. There is no proof that she was wearing the coat when it became so deeply stained. If she scratched her wrist as she says, there might have been enough superficial staining to attract Mrs. Mayhew’s attention. And the murderer’s. Somebody else’s coat with somebody else’s blood on it would be a bit of luck, not to be counted on, but certainly not to be overlooked.”

“You are putting forward the theory that Miss Cray went home without her coat—it was a very cold night—and that someone else put it on to murder Mr. Lessiter. If that is so, how do you account for the fact that the coat was hanging up in her hall and had been washed? There is, of course, just one thing that would account for it—I’ve thought of that myself. If Mr. Carr Robertson came up to Melling House after Miss Cray had left he could have slipped on the coat—it was an old one of his own, you remember—and when he had done the murder he would only have to walk back to the cottage and make the best job he could of cleaning up the mess he had got it into. There’s no doubt where that job was done. There’s a little wash-place at the end of the passage. We found a smear on the underside of the basin, and a couple of splashes of blood on the floor—there’s a dark linoleum and they didn’t show. The coat must have been reeking wet when it was taken in there. I suppose they thought they had cleaned up, but there’s usually something gets overlooked.”

Randal March sat appalled. This was evidence which couldn’t be dismissed with a shake of the head. Not evidence against Rietta—there reason continued to block the way—but the possibility of a strong case against Carr Robertson. If last night he had really identified James Lessiter with the seducer of his wife, it might prove to be a damnably strong case.

And Carr wasn’t making any statement.