Miss Silver Comes To Stay (16 page)

Miss Silver walked down the drive. The air really was quite pleasant. Cold of course, but she was warmly clad—her tippet so cosy, her coat of such good strong cloth. She felt a sober gratitude for these and all her other blessings. There had been a time when she had expected to serve all her life in other people’s houses with no prospect but that of an indigent old age. Now, thanks under Providence to her change of profession, she was in an enviable position of independence. She had a comfortable flat, an attentive and devoted maid, and an insurance policy which would enable her to continue these comforts.

It was really dark under the trees—not quite dark enough to necessitate the use of that excellent torch, a present from a friend and devoted admirer, Sergeant Frank Abbott of Scotland Yard, recently promoted to the rank of Inspector. The shrubbery was somewhat overgrown. She considered the sad condition of neglect to which labour shortages and heavy taxation had reduced so many fine country places. During her lifetime the whole way of living had changed. The good things of life were being spread more evenly, but it was sad to watch the passing of so much that was beautiful.

Just before she came to the two tall pillars which marked the entrance she turned to the right, took the narrow path which led to the Gate House, and rang the bell. Catherine Welby, opening the door, permitted herself to look a little more surprised than she would have done if her visitor had been anyone but Mrs. Voycey’s dowdy old school friend. She could not for the life of her think why Miss Silver should be paying her a visit—elderly ex-governesses were not in the least in her line. She prepared to be bored, and with not at all too good a grace.

As it turned out, boredom was not the sensation which this interview was to arouse. Miss Silver, passing before her into the sitting-room, regarded it with interest. Surroundings are often an index to character. She noticed the brocade curtains, the pastel colouring, the quality of the furniture, all good, some of it valuable. Over the mantelpiece a round Dutch mirror with a cut-glass border charmingly reflected the scene. It reflected Catherine in a blue dress which matched her eyes.

Miss Silver seated herself and said gravely,

“You are wondering what has brought me here, Mrs. Welby.”

“Oh, no.” Catherine’s tone was light—the small change of social observance, so carelessly scattered as to come very near to rudeness.

Loosening the tippet at her neck, Miss Silver said,

“I think so.”

Catherine said nothing. She too had seated herself. Her beautiful dark blue eyes held an enquiring expression, the arch of her eyebrows was a little raised. She really might just as well have said, “What the devil do you want?” and had done with it.

Miss Silver did not keep her waiting.

“I am here because Miss Rietta Cray has asked for my professional assistance.”

“Has she?” The eyebrows rose a little higher.

“Yes, Mrs. Welby. You are an old friend of Miss Cray’s.”

“Oh, yes.” Catherine leaned sideways, took a cigarette from a tortoiseshell case, and struck a match.

Miss Silver coughed after the manner of a teacher who calls the class to order.

“It will not have escaped you that Mr. Lessiter’s death has placed Miss Cray in a somewhat serious position.”

The tip of the cigarette glowed. Catherine blew out a cloud of smoke.

“I shouldn’t think it had escaped anyone.”

“You are perfectly correct. As an old friend of Miss Cray’s you will, of course, be willing to do all that is in your power to clear her.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

“I think there is. As you are no doubt aware, Miss Cray was called to the telephone at twenty past eight on Wednesday night. She talked to her caller for ten minutes, and almost immediately afterwards went up to Melling House, where she had an interview with Mr. Lessiter. You were the caller, were you not?”

Catherine drew at her cigarette. When she spoke her tone was openly rude.

“What put that into your head?”

“I think it would be very unwise of you to deny it. The girl at the exchange will no doubt remember the call. She is probably familiar with your voice and that of Miss Cray.”

The blue haze between them thickened. Catherine said equably,

“If she says I called Rietta up, then I did. I very often do. I’m alone here—it passes the time. Anyhow I suppose you have asked Rietta. She would know.”

Miss Silver was sitting upon the couch. There was a bright wood fire and the room was warm. She removed her yellow tippet and laid it beside her. In some purely feminine manner this small incident stirred Catherines temper. In her own mind she stigmatized the tippet as a mangy cat and resented its contact with her sofa. That a woman who wore a thing like that should thrust herself into her house and cross-examine her about a private conversation was the ultimate limit.

Miss Silver’s reply did nothing to allay her anger.

“Miss Cray is under suspicion. It would therefore be important to corroborate any account she might give.”

“Very well—give me Rietta’s account, and I’ll give you my corroboration.”

Since Miss Cray had resolutely refused to give any account of the conversation, this was unfortunately not practicable. Miss Silver coughed, and employed the old device of the red herring.

“In the statements which have been made there are references to a memorandum left by Mrs. Lessiter for the information of her son. I believe it was concerned with some disposition of her effects.”

Catherine said, “I really don’t know.”

The haze hung between them, but something had happened. It would have been difficult to say just what it was— the tensing of a muscle, the momentary halting of a breath, the slightest involuntary movement of a finger. Miss Silver had always found it useful to give particular attention to the hands of anyone whose response to questioning inclined towards reticence.

The hand with which Catherine was holding her cigarette remained steady. If the fingers pressed a little more closely, it was a movement impossible to detect. But the little finger had jerked.

Miss Silver coughed.

“I believe that to have been the case. I should be very glad, Mrs. Welby, if you could bring yourself to be frank with me.”

“Frank?” Catherine laughed. “I really don’t know what you mean!”

“Then I will tell you. Mr. Lessiter had been absent for more than twenty years. He met Miss Cray here, in your house, and walked home with her. The subject of his conversation was the disposition of his mother’s effects. On the evening of the murder you had a conversation with Miss Cray which lasted for ten minutes. Was that also a conversation with regard to the disposition of Mrs. Lessiter’s property?”

Catherine laughed.

“Why don’t you ask Rietta?”

“I am asking you. I believe that some dispute was going on between you and Mr. Lessiter. These things are in the air in a village. It is common knowledge that Mrs. Lessiter lent you the furniture of this house.”

Catherine blew out a cloud of smoke.

“She gave me some furniture—yes. I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

“Miss Cray has engaged me to protect her interests. It is clear that there are two possible points of view involved. I have heard that the furniture was lent—you say that it was given. Mr. Lessiter talked to Miss Cray about the disposition of his mother’s effects. On the night of the murder you called Miss Cray up to talk about a matter of business. Later that evening she had a sharp difference of opinion with Mr. Lessiter over a business matter which involved a friend. Can you be surprised that I put two and two together and arrived at the conclusion that Mr. Lessiter was taking the first point of view? He believed that the furniture had been lent. He endeavoured to obtain corroboration from Miss Cray. At some time during the hours immediately preceding his death he discovered a memorandum in his mother’s writing. I think it is quite clear that this memorandum supported his view. I believe he rang you up and said so, and that you then rang Miss Cray. Later on, during her interview with Mr. Lessiter, Miss Cray recurred to the subject and endeavoured to change some course of action which he was contemplating. I think that what he intended must have been of a nature to cause her serious distress. She told me that their quarrel was about business, and that the business concerned a friend. You cannot be surprised if I conclude that you were the friend. The whole sequence of events is then explained.”

Catherine Welby had not Rietta Cray’s quick temper. She could take a wound as well as give one. But all through the interview anger had been rising in her, retarded by caution, checked once or twice by fear, but still rising. It went cold in her now. She felt as if she had just been neatly dissected, her thoughts, her motives, the movements of her mind laid bare. It was not alone the few formal sentences, it was the feeling that this old maid’s small, shrewd eyes did really see what she was thinking. She even had the strangest feeling that it might be a relief to let go—to open her mind of her own free will, unpack her thoughts, and spread them out to be looked at, weighed, and judged. It was only for the shortest possible space of time. These moments come—and go. We take them, or we let them go.

Catherine Welby let her moment go. She had no idea that in letting it go she had committed herself to an irremediable disaster. She was not hurried by anger. She took her time before she said,

“You’ve got it all very nicely settled, haven’t you? I wouldn’t dream of disturbing the picture.” She got to her feet and dropped the stub of her cigarette into a jade ashtray. “And now perhaps you’ll go.”

Miss Silver was very well qualified to deal with insolence. She regarded Catherine in a manner which relegated her to the nursery—a badly conducted nursery in which the child had not been taught her manners. Rising without hurry, she put on the elderly tippet and fastened up her coat.

“If you should change your mind, you will know where to find me.”

As Miss Silver emerged between the pillars which marked the entrance to the drive of Melling House, a light was flashed in her face. It was a little startling, but since there was an immediate murmur of apology in a young man’s voice, she concluded that the owner of what appeared to be a bicycle-lamp had merely been anxious to identify a friend. In words rather more familiar than she herself would have employed, it was a case of “boy meets girl.” She crossed the road and found her way along the edge of the Green to the path which would take her back to Mrs. Voycey’s.

When she first heard the footsteps behind her she gave them no attention. A nervous person would not adopt the detective profession. It did not occur to Miss Silver to be nervous. There was enough light for her to distinguish her path from the Green it traversed. She was not, therefore, using her torch. The footsteps continued behind her. Presently they drew nearer, and a voice said,

“I—I beg your pardon—”

It was the same voice which had apologized for flashing the bicycle-lamp in her face, a young voice and embarrassed.

Miss Silver stood still, allowed the footsteps to come up with her, and said,

“What is it?”

The bicycle-lamp must have been switched off, for all she could see was a tall black shadow. The voice said,

“I beg your pardon, but you are staying with Mrs. Voycey, aren’t you? Your name is Miss Silver—”

“What can I do for you?”

“I really do beg your pardon—I hope I didn’t startle you. I’m Allan Grover. My father and mother have the Grocery Stores—I think you’ve met them. I’m in Mr. Holderness’s office in Lenton.”

Miss Silver began to be very much interested. This was the young man Cecilia Voycey had talked about, the clever boy who had won scholarships. She remembered that there was something about an infatuation for Catherine Welby who was, as Cecilia had not failed to point out, more than old enough to be his mother. Since this had never yet prevented a young man of twenty from falling in love with a pretty and experienced woman, Miss Silver had dismissed it as irrelevant. She began to wonder why he had been waiting outside Catherine’s house. Was it just the familiar case of the moth and the candle, and if so, why was he now following herself? She said,

“Yes—Mrs. Voycey has spoken of you. What can I do for you, Mr. Grover?”

He was standing quite close to her now. His voice continued to show embarrassment.

“I wanted to see you—”

Miss Silver coughed in rather a surprised manner.

“To see me, Mr. Grover? You could not know that I should be at the Gate House.”

“No—no—I didn’t—I couldn’t. I was going to see Mrs. Welby—but I had been wanting to talk to you—and when you came out it seemed like an opportunity—”

Even in his embarrassment she was struck with his manner of speech. There was no trace of the village accent. It is not every clever boy who is so adaptable. She said gravely,

“Why did you want to talk to me?”

He came to the point with a simple directness which pleased her.

“You are staying with Mrs. Voycey. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Crook, is a friend of my mother’s. I have heard that you are a detective, and that you are advising Miss Cray.”

“Yes, Mr. Grover? Shall we walk? It is chilly standing here, and we may be remarked.”

They moved on together, Miss Silver setting a slower pace than she was used to. Allan Grover began to pour out what he had to say.

“I haven’t known what to do. I thought of coming round to Mrs. Voycey’s—but then she would be there, and Mrs. Crook would know. I wanted to catch you alone, but I didn’t see how it was going to be done. Then when you came out of the Gate House I thought if I let the opportunity slip I’d never get another, so I followed you. It’s about Cyril—Cyril Mayhew.”

“Yes, Mr. Grover?”

“Miss Silver—this is just between you and me, isn’t it? Because I’m not supposed to talk about office business, but I had to go up to Melling House with Mr. Holderness this morning—a matter of checking up on the inventory with the police to see if anything was missing. Well, right away we found that there were four gilt figures gone from the study mantelpiece.”

“Yes—they represented the four Seasons, did they not?”

“You know about them?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Grover.”

“Then you know they think Cyril took them.”

“Do you know of any reason why he should have done so?”

“I’m quite sure that he didn’t. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Do you know whether they had any special value?”

He hesitated, and then came out with,

“They’re down in the inventory as ‘Four gilt figures.’ ”

“Is that all you know about them?”

“No, it isn’t. I used to go up to the house to play with Cyril. Mrs. Lessiter was fond of my mother. I’ve been in the study often and seen those figures. Cyril always said they were gold. We used to make up stories about them and say they were pirates’ treasure.”

It occurred to Miss Silver that he was not making things any better for Cyril Mayhew. She said in the tone of an earnest enquirer,

“And are they gold?”

Allan Grover laughed.

“Oh, no, of course not! That was just talk. They wouldn’t have been left out like that if they had been gold.”

“But they were, Mr. Grover.”

“Who says so?”

“Miss Cray for one. I think the Mayhews are aware of the fact, and in all probability so is your friend Cyril.”

He actually put his hand on her arm.

“Miss Silver, Cyril isn’t mixed up in this—I swear he isn’t. He may have been down here that night—they say he was— but as for taking those figures or laying a finger on Mr. Lessiter, I’ll swear he didn’t. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I’ll swear Cyril hadn’t anything to do with it.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

His hand was still on her arm. Its pressure increased.

“Just knowing Cyril—that’s all. If you knew him like I do you’d be just as sure as I am. I’ve thought it all out, if you’ll just listen to me.”

“I shall be very pleased to listen to you, Mr. Grover.”

“Well then, it’s this way. By all accounts Mr. Lessiter was in his study all that Wednesday evening. They say Cyril came down by the six-thirty and borrowed Ernie White’s bike to come out here. Mrs. Mayhew says he didn’t come, but I suppose that’s what she’s bound to say. Well then, suppose he took those figures—when did he take them? If it was early on, Mr. Lessiter was there, wasn’t he? And if he was out of the room for a minute he’d have been bound to notice they were gone when he came back—gold things, showing up like that against the black marble.”

Miss Silver coughed and said,

“They were still there at a quarter past nine when Miss Cray left.”

“Well, there you are. They say Mr. Lessiter was killed some time after nine o’clock. Cyril would never have dared take those figures with him using the room. And this I can tell you, and I’d swear to it, he’d never have taken them with Mr. Lessiter lying there dead.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Grover?”

“Because I know Cyril. I don’t say he mightn’t take something that didn’t belong to him—he—he’s got a weakness that way—but he wouldn’t do it if he thought it was running any risk. And as for killing anyone or going into a room where there was a man with his brains beaten out, I really do know what I’m talking about, and I tell you he just couldn’t do it at all. I’ve seen him run out of the kitchen with his fingers in his ears when his mother was going to kill a mouse. And when it came to rabbiting, or ratting, or anything of that sort, he was worse than a girl—a drop of blood, and he’d come over sick. I tell you he couldn’t have gone into that study with Mr. Lessiter dead the way he was, any more than he could have taken up the poker and killed him—and I can’t put it stronger than that. You see, Miss Silver, it isn’t as if there could have been anything like a struggle. Even a rabbit will bite if it’s cornered—any creature will. Cyril, he might have hit out with one of those figures if he’d been caught taking them, but it didn’t happen like that. Whoever killed Mr. Lessiter, it was someone he was comfortable and easy with. There he was, sitting up to the writing-table and someone just behind him over by the fire. You don’t sit that way with anyone unless you’re easy with them. And whoever it was meant murder. There wasn’t any struggle. I don’t see how there could even have been a quarrel. You don’t quarrel with someone like that, sitting with your back to them, do you? But the one that was behind him, he meant murder, and he picked up the poker and let him have it. Well, I tell you Cyril couldn’t have done that. There are things people can do, and things they can’t do. I’ve know him all my life, and he couldn’t squash a wasp, let alone hit a man over the head with a poker. If you told me he’d lifted some loose change or a shilling’s worth of stamps, I’d believe you, but murder, or going into a room with a murdered man—well, it’s just plain nonsense, he couldn’t have done it.”

They had reached the edge of the Green. Miss Silver had only to cross the road in order to see the welcoming glow from the curtained windows of Mrs. Voycey’s drawing-room. She paused at the end of the path. Alan Grover’s hand dropped from her arm. After a moment’s thoughtful silence she said,

“You have interested me extremely, Mr. Grover. There is a good deal in what you say, and I will give it my most careful attention. Goodnight.”