Miss Silver Comes To Stay (13 page)

“Miss Cray, you possess information which is vital to your case. You can impart or withhold it, but if you do not trust me, I cannot help you.” Then, after a slight but significant pause, “If you did not bring the raincoat back, it is quite plain that it was Mr. Carr who did so.”

Rietta turned as pale as if she had been struck. Then the colour rushed into her face.

“Yes—you’re right. I must tell you. It’s no use thinking that everything won’t come out. Carr walked into Lenton. He went to see Elizabeth Moore. They were engaged before he met Marjory—his wife. I hoped they would make it up some day when they met again. They are really suited, and they cared very much. Marjory was a madness—a very tragic one for all three of them. Last night Carr went straight to Elizabeth. I think he was afraid of what he might do. I’m trusting you—I think he might have done something dreadful when he first rushed out of the house. But he didn’t, he went to Elizabeth. She has taken him back. Don’t you see he wouldn’t do anything violent after that? He was happy and satisfied. You don’t do murder when you’re feeling like that. All he wanted to do was to close that chapter of his life and have done with it. He went up to Melling House, and found James lying there dead.”

“Why did he go to Melling House?”

“I asked him that. He said it seemed the natural thing to do. He wanted to close the whole thing down and be done with it, and to do that he felt that he had to see James and tell him that he knew. Then they could avoid each other, as he put it, decently.”

Miss Silver said, “I see.”

Rietta put up her hand to her head. The long, beautifully shaped fingers pressed against her temple.

“He went up there and found James. My raincoat was lying over a chair. It was most horribly stained. The right cuff and sleeve were soaked.” Her voice had become strained and toneless. “Miss Silver, you asked me if I was sure that Carr didn’t do it. I am quite, quite sure, and I can tell you why I am sure. He thought I had done it. He came down here with the raincoat and asked me why.” Her hand fell into her lap again. “I’m not sure—I’m really not sure—whether he thinks so still. I don’t think he does with his feelings, but I think he does with his mind. That’s why he tried to get the stains out of the coat.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!” The words, mild in themselves, carried a considerable weight of disapproval.

Rietta drew in her breath.

“All the right side of the coat was wet when the police came this morning. They took it away.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Unless the washing was extremely thorough, traces of blood will be found. You are quite clear that the stains were far more than could be accounted for by the fact that you had scratched your wrist?”

Rietta shuddered. She said,

“The sleeve was soaked.”

Miss Silver stayed until after three o’clock. By the time she resumed her coat, her yellow fur tippet, and her warm black woollen gloves, one whole side of little Josephine Burkett’s woolly jacket had been completed and cast off. At least an inch of the second front had made its appearance as a pale blue frill. In her professional capacity it may be said that she now possessed quite an accurate picture of what had taken place the previous evening, in so far as this was known to Rietta Cray. A very short conversation with Fancy had elicited a few extra details. Fancy was, in fact, only too anxious to talk to someone who wasn’t the police and who was trying to help Carr and Miss Cray. In the circles of her origin there had been a wary feeling that however respectable you were you didn’t get matey with the police. When people live packed together in very crowded districts their lives and interests are closely knit. A touch upon one part of the fabric is felt throughout the whole—people hold together. It would never have occurred to Fancy that a friend might betray you to the police. She talked freely. Miss Silver came away with quite a factual impression of Carr Robertson’s behaviour when he had recognized James Lessiter’s photograph.

“He did look dreadful—” Fancy thrilled in retrospect— “white as a sheet. I’m sure he could have gone on as a ghost without a bit of make-up. He regularly frightened me. Miss Cray came into the room, and she said, ‘Carr!’ She was frightened too, you know. He did look dreadful. And she put her hand on his arm, but he didn’t take a bit of notice, just went on pointing at the picture. And then he said, ‘Is that James Lessiter?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’ And he said, ‘He’s the man I’ve been looking for—he’s the man who took Marjory away.’ She was his wife, you know, and if you ask me, he was well rid of her, but that’s what he said—‘He’s the man who took Marjory away. I’ve got him now!’ and off out of the room and out of the house, and the doors banging. I knew he’d got a temper, but I’d never seen him like that before.”

Miss Silver coughed, and enquired whether Fancy had communicated these interesting particulars to Superintendent Drake. An outraged flush deepened the wild rose colour under the delicate skin.

“Oh, no, Miss Silver, I didn’t! They’ve got a way of making you say things before you know you’ve done it, but I didn’t tell him what Carr said—I wouldn’t do that!”

Carr Robertson having gone out directly after lunch, Miss Silver had no opportunity of interviewing him. She considered that on the whole she had enough to think about. Making her way across the Green, she observed that Mr. Ainger had emerged from the Vicarage gate and was taking the path which skirted the village pond and came out a mere stone’s throw from the gate of the White Cottage. He might be going to visit someone in the row of cottages alluded to by Bessie Crook, or he might be going to call upon Miss Rietta Cray. If this were the case, she hoped he would be tactful. In her experience men were very rarely tactful—men in love practically never. The Vicar was said to be in love with Miss Cray. If she had been in love with him, it was probable that they would have married years ago. If she were not, then the last thing she would desire at this moment was an emotional scene. Miss Silver shook her head slightly as she walked. With every esteem for the manly virtues, and a good deal of indulgence towards the manly failings, it had often occurred to her that in moments of stress a man could be dreadfully in the way.

Something of the same feelling afflicted Rietta Cray as she opened the door to her visitor. He had made for it in a purposeful manner, sounded a vigorous tattoo with the knocker, and immediately upon Rietta making her appearance he had taken her by the arm and marched her into the sitting-room, enquiring in a loud and angry voice,

“What is all this nonsense?” Then, as the light fell upon her face and he saw how blanched and strained it was, he caught her hands in his and went on more gently, “My dear, my dear—you mustn’t take it like this. No one but a preposterous blundering fool could possibly connect you in any way—”

His voice had mounted again—a fine organ well suited to the pulpit. At such close quarters Rietta found it a little overpowering. He was still holding her hands. She withdrew them with difficulty and said,

“Thank you, Henry.”

“I never heard anything so outrageous! Just because you knew the man a quarter of a century ago!”

The words sounded bleakly on Rietta’s ear. A quarter of a century—how sere, how dry, how melancholy it sounded. She forced a faint smile.

“You make me feel like Methuselah.”

He brushed that aside with an emphatic gesture.

“Just because you knew the fellow all those years ago!”

“Not quite that, Henry. I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. You see, I was there talking to him not very long before it must have happened. We—” she hesitated—“well, we quarrelled, and I came away and left my coat behind me. When I saw it again it was—rather horribly stained. A stupid attempt was made to get the stains out, and—well the police found it all wet, and they have taken it away. I don’t see how they can help suspecting me. Poor James made a will in my favour when we were engaged. He showed it to me last night and told me he had never made another. Mrs. Mayhew was listening at the door, and she heard what he said. You see, they were bound to suspect me. But I didn’t do it, Henry.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.” He ran his hands through his thick fair hair and made it stand on end. “You must have the best advice—you must see a solicitor at once. You say your coat was stained when you saw it again. How did you see it again? Someone must have brought it to you. Was it Carr?”

“Henry, I can’t tell you anything more.”

“You’re shielding someone. You wouldn’t shield anyone but Carr—not in a murder case. Do you know what they’re saying? Mrs. Crockett told my sister. Dagmar knows how much I object to gossip, but she thought she ought to tell me. They’re saying that it was James Lessiter who ran away with Carr’s wife. Is that true? Are you shielding Carr?”

“Henry—please—”

“Is it true?”

Those bright blue eyes of his were fixed upon her in a very angry and compelling manner. She said in a tired, flat voice,

“Carr didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

She stepped blindly back until she arrived at a chair. If she had to go on standing she would fall. The room and Henry were beginning to come and go in a baffling mist. She sat down and closed her eyes.

And then in a moment Henry was on his knees beside her, kissing her hands, accusing himself, protesting his undying devotion.

“You’ve never wanted it, but you need it—Rietta, you do need it now. You want someone to stand up for you and fight your battles. If you’ll only give me the right—let me give out our engagement and stand by you openly. It would knock out this stupid will motive if it didn’t do anything else. I’ve got quite a lot of money, you know—from my old Uncle Christopher. It really is quite a lot. That would cut out any question of motive. And I wouldn’t ask you to live with Dagmar—I know she’s difficult. I could make her an allowance. Perhaps she could have this house if you came to the Vicarage.”

Well might Miss Silver reflect upon the male lack of tact, but on this occasion it had a most salutary effect. The thought of Dagmar Ainger moving into the White Cottage and running it with iron efficiency warmed Rietta with a glow of restorative anger. The mist cleared, the floor became stable, the colour came into her cheeks. She sat up and pushed Henry Ainger away.

“Henry, for heaven’s sake! You can’t propose when I’m fainting!”

He wasn’t really abashed. He let go of her hands, but remained upon his knees.

“Well, it seems to have brought you round.” And then, “Oh, Rietta—won’t you?”

The momentary force went out of her. She spoke the bitter, honest truth.

“I ought to say thank you, but I can’t. I’m fond of you, but I don’t love you. I can’t even feel grateful to you—I can’t feel anything—I’m too tired. Please go away.”

He stared at her, dismayed, obstinate.

“There must be something I can do. Why won’t you let me help you? You must have someone, and there isn’t anyone else. Even if you hate me you might let me help you.”

That “there isn’t anyone else” bit deep. How deep, she didn’t know till afterwards when the sharp hurt of the moment settled into a desolate aching. She caught her breath.

“Please, Henry—”

He got to his feet and stood there looking down on her, bewildered and thwarted.

“Even if you hate me you might let me help you.”

Her mood changed. He did want to help her. Why should she hurt him? She said,

“Oh, Henry, don’t be silly. Of course I don’t hate you— you’re one of my very best friends. And I’m not—not ungrateful—really not. If there’s anything you can do, I’ll let you do it. It’s just that I’m so tired—I’m really too tired to talk. If you would please understand and—and go away—”

He had just enough sense to go.

Miss Silver received a telephone call that evening. Mrs. Voycey, answering the insistent bell, encountered a pleasant masculine voice.

“I wonder if I could speak to Miss Silver. I am an old pupil of hers—Randal March.”

Miss Silver put down her knitting and approached the instrument.

“Good evening, Randal. It is nice to hear your voice. A very distinctive one, if I may say so.”

“Thank you—I will return the compliment. I rang up to say that I have business in Melling tomorrow. I should not like to be there without paying my respects. It is a little difficult for me to fix an exact time, but it would not, I think, be earlier than half past three.”

“I shall be at home. Mrs. Voycey, I believe, has to go to a meeting in the village hall. She would, I know, be very glad if you would have a cup of tea with me.”

He said, “Thank you,” and rang off without giving time for the affectionate enquiries for his mother and sisters with which she had been about to round off the conversation.

Returning to the drawing-room and resuming her knitting, she acquainted Mrs. Voycey with the substance of the call. She was obliged to exercise a good deal of delicate tact. There was nothing that Cecilia Voycey would have liked better than to throw over her meeting, remain at home, and entertain the Chief Constable at tea. She had to be dissuaded from this course without allowing it to appear that Randal March’s visit was anything but a respectful gesture to the preceptress of his childhood’s days.

Knitting briskly and completing the second side of little Josephine’s jacket, Miss Silver condoled with her hostess.

“It is always so difficult when one would like to be in two places at once. You are the chairman of the Women’s Entertainments Committee, I understand. So important, of course, with the Christmas season coming on, and you would be extremely difficult to replace in the chair. Unless perhaps Miss Ainger—”

Cecilia Voycey coloured quite alarmingly.

“My dear Maud!” she exclaimed.

Miss Silver coughed.

“I thought, dear, you mentioned that she was efficient.”

“She is a complete kill-joy,” said Mrs. Voycey in a tone of Christian forbearance. “I have never said that she wasn’t efficient, and I never will, but you can’t entertain people by being efficient, and when we get up a play or an entertainment we like to be able to enjoy ourselves and get some fun out of it. Dagmar Ainger’s idea is to scold everyone till they are sulky, and then organize everything until you might just as well be a lot of chessmen on a board for all the life and go there is left in you. No, no—however much I should like to stay, I can’t risk it. I am the only one who really stands up to her.”

She continued for some little time to discourse upon the fruitful subject of Miss Ainger, finishing up with,

“And how Henry stands it, I can’t imagine. But of course he can always say he has got to write a sermon and lock the study door!”

Miss Silver remarked mildly that interference in other people’s affairs was a sad fault. She then steered the conversation into a channel which led in the most natural manner to Catherine Welby.

“A very pretty woman. She was with Miss Cray when I arrived this morning. Has she been a widow for long?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Voycey was full of information. “Of course everyone thought she was settled for life when she married Edward Welby. And then he died and left her with nothing but debts. I really don’t know what she would have done if Mrs. Lessiter hadn’t let her have the Gate House.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I should have thought she might have found Melling dull.”

“My dear Maud, I have no doubt she does, but there is nowhere else where she could live so cheaply. She did go away during the war, and I believe she had a very pleasant job, driving for someone at the War Office. She used to drive Mrs. Lessiter’s car a good deal. Of course we all thought she would marry again, and I believe she was practically engaged. But she had very bad luck—the man went abroad and was killed— at least that’s the story. And then her job petered out and she came back here. Doris Grover tells Bessie she still gets quite a lot of letters from India, so perhaps something may come of that. And she goes up and down to town quite a lot. It would really be very much better if she were to marry again.”

Miss Silver began to cast off her neat pale blue stitches.