Miss Silver Comes To Stay (21 page)

Miss Silver coughed.

“Did she threaten him?”

“I don’t think she meant it that way, but that is how he would take it. You see, when she went back to Melling House he was there in the study talking to Mr. Lessiter. There was something in that memorandum about him—money Mrs. Lessiter had handed over to him to invest. And he’d kept it, and Mr. Lessiter was going to prosecute. That’s why he killed him.”

“Mrs. Welby was actually a witness of the murder?”

“No, no, no—you mustn’t think that! She left them quarrelling, and she came away. It wouldn’t have been any good her seeing Mr. Lessiter on the top of a scene like that. She had got back to the Gate House, when she heard him coming down the drive. She stood behind a bush and watched him go.”

“A very shocking affair.”

“He had his car parked about a hundred yards along on the grass. I saw it.”

“You saw it?”

He nodded.

“I’m a fool. I used to go round and see her in the evenings. Then she said I mustn’t come any more—people were talking. But I couldn’t seem to get out of the way. I used to go round there and walk up and down, and watch to see her light go out, and then go home. I was there on Wednesday—that’s how I saw the car.”

“And you did not inform the police?”

His voice became suddenly natural and boyish.

“Miss Silver, I give you my word it never crossed my mind that Mr. Holderness being there had anything to do with the murder—how could it? I thought he was out there seeing Mrs. Welby. It made me feel downright sick—an old man like that! I didn’t sleep all night. I could have killed him— but I never thought he had anything to do with Mr. Lessiter’s death—not till I was in Mr. Stanway’s room listening, and heard what Mrs. Welby had to say.”

Miss Silver had resumed her knitting. She said,

“I see. Will you go on?”

The energy went out of him. He said,

“There isn’t much more. By the time she had finished it was all as clear as daylight. That’s to say, it’s as clear as daylight now, looking back at it, but while they were talking it didn’t seem as if I could take it in—it didn’t seem possible. She never said right out, ‘I know you killed Mr. Lessiter and took the memorandum, and if I tell the police, you’ll be hanged for it.’ It was all what a serious position she was in, and she would hold her tongue if she could, but of course if they tried to put it on her, she would have to say what she knew. And then a piece about how awful it was for her having so little money, and how grateful she would be if he could help her out. Of course she didn’t realize—she couldn’t have realized—how that sounded to him. He was old enough to be her father, and all she would think about was that she was in a tight place and he could help her out. But going over it in my mind—and I haven’t been able to help going over it all day—I can see that what he thought was—was—” The breath caught in his throat. He stared miserably down at the pattern of Mrs. Voycey’s carpet.

Miss Silver coughed discreetly.

“That she was blackmailing him. It would certainly appear to him in that light.”

Without looking at her Allan stammered out,

“She wouldn’t—Mrs. Welby wouldn’t!”

Little Josephine’s jacket swung round with something of a swish. There was no doubt at all in Miss Silver’s mind that Catherine Welby had embarked upon a deliberate attempt at blackmailing, and that this attempt had brought her to her death. Very dangerous—very dangerous indeed, and in a murder case extremely likely to prove fatal. She did not, however, make this comment aloud, but continued to knit until the silence was broken by a choking sob.

“What I can’t get over is that I might have saved her. I told you I didn’t take it all in at the time. When she came out of Mr. Holderness’s room she was extra sweet to me. It—it put everything else out of my head. The office shut at one, and I went off with some chaps to a football match. I didn’t get home till late, and after I’d had my tea I went out again. I told my mother I was going to get a game of darts at The Feathers, but when it came to the point I couldn’t face it. I went and walked up and down by the Gate House and watched her light. Round about half past nine I saw the car drive up again and park on the verge. There’s a tree hangs down over the wall. I stood back under it and watched him go past. He went between the pillars and up to her door and in. I nearly went mad thinking of them there together.” He looked up, his face twitching. “Do you know, I went up to the door and put my finger on the bell but I couldn’t ring it. I went away again—but if I’d gone in—it would have saved her.”

Miss Silver looked at him very kindly.

“That is more than anyone can say. You cannot know it. Do not torment yourself by thinking of what might have been. I do not see how you could have interrupted an interview between Mrs. Welby and her solicitor. Can you tell me how long he stayed?”

“It seemed like hours, but it wasn’t more than twenty minutes. He came out, and got into his car and drove off.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You say ‘he,’ and ‘his car,’ but could you swear to this ‘he’ being Mr. Holderness, or could you swear to the car?”

He gave a jerky nod.

“Both. I saw him by the hall light when he let himself out, and I saw the number of the car, last night, and on the Wednesday night. When he had gone I went on walking up and down for a bit. Then there were some people coming along, and I cleared out and went home.” He dropped his head in his hands and groaned, “If I’d stayed—if I’d only stayed—I’d have known there was something wrong when her light didn’t go out.”

At half past nine o’clock on Monday morning Mr. Holderness gathered his letters together and rose from the breakfast table. A childless widower of many years standing, his house had been kept ever since his wife’s death by an unmarried sister, a faded invalidish person with an expression of chronic discontent. As her brother picked up the Times and put it under his arm, she looked up with a puckered brow.

“Are you going already?”

“It is half past nine.”

“Did you have your second cup of tea?”

He laughed.

“You poured it out yourself.”

Miss Holderness clasped her head.

“Did I? I’m sure I hardly know what I’m doing. I didn’t sleep a wink. I can’t think how I came to run out of my tablets—I thought the box was half full.”

“You probably had a glorious burst and took them all the night before.”

Miss Holderness looked shocked.

“Oh, no—it would have been dangerous.”

“Well, my dear, danger is the spice of life.”

He had reached the door, when she asked him if he would be in for lunch. He said, “No,” and went away out of the room, and out of her life.

He did not very often drive to the office. His house was the one in which he had been born, and his father and his grandfather before him. Standing at what had been the edge of the town when it was built, there was still a garden behind it, but the open spaces beyond were now all quite built over. Since the distance of the office was under half a mile, he was used to making the journey on foot.

This day did not differ from any of the other days, running into uncounted numbers, on which he had shut the door briskly behind him, stood for a moment to savour the air, and then come down the two shallow steps on to the pavement and, turning to the right, set off in the direction of Main Street, his hat a little on the side of his head and a small leather case in his hand. At a quarter to ten he would be at the near end of Main Street, and by the time the clock of St. Mary’s was striking the hour he would be at his table looking through the morning’s mail.

This Monday morning was no different from all the other Mondays. A dozen people could remember afterwards that they had seen him and bidden him good-morning. Each of them severally made the same comment in varying tones of wonder—“He looked just as usual”—“He didn’t look no different”—“You wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong.”

Mr. Holderness wouldn’t have thought it himself. It was a fine September morning. He felt alert and vigorous, and very much on the top of the world. His forebears came from the North of England. If it had been their fortune to be born as much farther north as the Highland line, his state of mind might have been described as “fey.” He had been in very great danger, he had taken a very great risk. Risk is the spice of life. He had pulled success out of failure, security out of danger, and he had done it by the cleverness of his brain, by the swiftness of his thought and the strength of his right hand. Not so bad for a man of sixty-five. Younger men than he might have gone under. He had saved himself, and he had saved the firm. The world was a good enough place.

He called Allan Grover in and asked him for the Jardine papers. When he had brought them and gone away again, Mr. Holderness looked after him, frowning. The boy looked like nothing on earth—eyes bunged up, hand shaking. His frown deepened. He hoped to goodness Grover hadn’t been drinking. Wouldn’t do if he was going to start that sort of thing—wouldn’t do at all. Always seemed a particularly steady young fellow, but you never could tell.

He was bending his mind to the Jardine case, when he heard the footsteps on the stair—heavy steps of more than one person, coming up the stairs and along the passage to his room. He looked up, and that is how they saw him as they came in, the Chief Constable and Inspector Drake. Behind them Constable Whitcombe closed the door and stayed outside.

The door was shut. They stood just inside it looking at him, seeing the upright figure in its well cut suit, the thick grey hair, the dark eyebrows arching over fine dark eyes, the florid colour. Except for the modern dress he might have been his own great-grandfather. The thought went through Randal March’s mind—eighteenth century, that’s what he is. “That they should take, who have the power, and they should keep who can.” He couldn’t remember where the lines came from, but they fitted.

The shadowy Stanway above the hearth gloomed on the room. There was just a moment’s silence. A great deal can happen in a moment. The whole towering structure built up in pride, self-will, and arrogance can come to a crashing fall— a crashing and irrevocable fall.

Randal March came forward and said gravely,

“We have come on a painful errand, Mr. Holderness—”

He showed nothing, except that his colour had deepened. He said, “Indeed?” and he said it without a tremor.

Inspector Drake came up to the table and stood there. He brought out a notebook and read from it.

“Is the number of your car XXM. 312?”

“Certainly.”

“We have information that it was parked on the grass verge outside the drive of Melling House between ten and ten-twenty p.m. on the night of Wednesday last, and again for about twenty minutes between nine-thirty and ten o’clock on Saturday night.”

Mr. Holderness remained in his upright position, one hand on the table edge, the other holding the paper which he had been perusing.

“May I ask who has given you this information?”

“Someone who knows the car. It will be sworn to.”

There was a faint crackling sound from the paper in Mr. Holderness’s hand. His fingers had closed upon it. The sound must have attracted his attention, for his eyes turned that way. His grip relaxed. He smoothed the paper out and laid it down. When this had been done he said,

“My clerk Allan Grover in fact—he lives in Melling. Well, gentlemen, I called upon Mrs. Welby on both those evenings. It is not a criminal offence to call upon a pretty woman. One may not be anxious to advertize the fact, especially to a tattling village, but I am quite willing to admit that I paid those two calls. What of it?”

Drake said sharply, “You were in the neighbourhood of Melling House between ten and ten-thirty on the Wednesday night.”

Mr. Holderness smiled.

“I was calling on Mrs. Welby.”

“At that hour?”

The smile was maintained.

“My dear Inspector—”

“You say that you were with Mrs. Welby?”

“She will, I am sure, confirm it.”

There was a brief electric silence. Drake looked at the Chief Constable.

March said, “Do you not know that Mrs. Welby is dead?”

The hand which had held the paper was lifted with a jerk. It fell again upon his knee. The florid colour had ebbed perceptibly. He said,

“No—no—how shocking!”

“You did not know?”

“No, no—how could I?”

“You were with her on Saturday night. She was found dead on Sunday morning.”

“How?”

“An overdose of sleeping tablets.”

Mr. Holderness leaned back in his chair. He said under his breath,

“It’s a great shock—I’ve known her since she was a child—” And then, “Just give me a minute.”

When it was gone by, he had composed himself. He said soberly,

“I see that I must tell you what I hoped not to have to tell. Mrs. Welby was not exactly a client, but she was a very old friend who sometimes asked my advice. She came here on Saturday morning and told me that she was in a very serious position. I must tell you that she had been living in the Gate House practically rent-free for some years. Mrs. Lessiter had furnished it for her, and, rightly or wrongly, Mrs. Welby assumed that all these furnishings were gifts. She even went so far as to sell some of them. When Mr. Lessiter came home he at once took the matter up—he came to see me about it. He suspected that some of the things had been sold, amongst an extremely vindictive frame of mind. I did my best to mollify him, but he persisted in his determination to prosecute if he could lay his hands on sufficient evidence. On the Wednesday evening he rang me up to say that he had found a memorandum left for him by his mother which made it perfectly clear that the contents of the Gate House were lent to Mrs. Welby, and not given. He reiterated his intention to prosecute. Guessing that Mrs. Welby would have had a similiar communication, and knowing how distressed she would be, I got out my car and went over to see her.” He paused.

When neither Drake nor the Chief Constable made any comment, he lifted his hand in the same gesture as before, let it fall upon his knee, and went on speaking,

“I found her in a state of extreme distress. She told me she had been up to Melling House to try and see James Lessiter, but finding that Miss Cray was with him, she had come away again. She wanted me to go up and see him, but I told her that I did not consider it would be at all a prudent course— it would be very much better to allow him to sleep on the matter. I told her that he would be sure to come and speak to me about it, and that I would then suggest to him the harm that would be done to his own reputation if he were to proceed to extremities. I assured her that it was most unlikely that he meant to do so. She said something about making another attempt to see him herself, but I begged her not to think of it. When I left her I believed that she had given up the idea.” He paused, looked across at the Chief Constable, and said, “Do you not wish to take any of this down? I see that the Inspector is not doing so.”

March said gravely, “A statement can be taken later if you wish it. You will realize, of course, that it may be used in evidence.”

“Naturally. Well, I will continue. On Thursday morning I heard of James Lessiter’s death. I was very much shocked. The police asked my assistance with a view to ascertaining whether there was anything missing from the house, and I accompanied the clerk who checked over the inventory. Carr Robertson consulted me with regard to his position, and I thought it right to pass on his information that Cyril Mayhew had been seen in Lenton on the night of the murder. I advised young Robertson to make a full statement to the police. On Saturday morning Mrs. Welby came to see me. I do not feel at liberty to disclose all she said, but in the circumstances I do feel bound to tell you that she intimated that she did go back to Melling House after I left her on Wednesday night. Her state of mind filled me with alarm. I begged her to go home and rest, and I would come and see her in the evening. My position was a painful one—I had known her since she was a child. I wanted time to think things over. In the end she went away.”

Inspector Drake cleared his throat.

“You reached Melling at about half past nine?”

“It would be somewhere about that time. I didn’t look at my watch.”

“How did you find Mrs. Welby?”

“Much quieter. She had a tray with some coffee beside her. She offered me a cup, but I refused. I said it would keep me awake. She smiled and said it didn’t have that effect on her.”

“How many cups were there on the tray?”

“Only one. She was going to get another, when I stopped her.”

“Mr. Holderness, why was there only one cup if she was expecting you?”

“I had not said what time I would come.”

“Was the coffee made when you got there?”

“Yes—her cup was half-empty.”

“Doesn’t that seem strange to you, her not waiting for you if she knew you were coming?”

Mr. Holderness brought his hands together and looked down at the joined fingertips. He said in the easy tone he would have used to a client,

“No, I don’t think so. She knew I didn’t take coffee. She always offered it to me, but it was just a polite form—she knew I didn’t take it. I didn’t stay very long, you know. Her manner reassured me, and she said she would take a sedative and get a good night’s rest.”

“She was in the habit of taking sedatives?”

Mr. Holderness met the look of sharp enquiry with a faint melancholy smile.

“I have no idea. If I had thought at the time that she meant anything more than perhaps a couple of aspirins, I would not have left her.”

“You did not see any box or bottle of sleeping tablets?”

“Oh, no.”

There was a pause. Then Randal March said,

“Mr. Holderness—your conversation with Mrs. Welby on Saturday morning was overheard.”

As he said the words which he had come there to say he was conscious of a certain sinking feeling. They had not behind them that firmness of conviction which a case of this kind demanded. A fretted feeling that for once in his life he had allowed himself to be rushed lurked in the uneasy recesses of his mind. What had seemed not only possible but final last night was no longer so. In this office, devoted for a hundred and fifty years to the service of the law—under the authoritative gaze of the latest of a line of respectable solicitors, it was extremely difficult to resist the horrid supposition that Allan Grover in a fit of jealousy might quite easily have been telling the tale. That the boy had been infatuated with Catherine Welby and bitterly jealous of his employer, and that he was now nearly beside himself with grief, were self-evident facts. They were, indeed, the very basis of his story. In the momentary silence which followed March’s statement these facts offered very little encouragement.

As the moment passed, Mr. Holderness’s colour was seen to deepen alarmingly. He said in an incredulous voice,

“My conversation with Mrs. Welby was overheard?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how, and by whom?”

Receiving no answer, he leaned forward and said in a voice vibrant with anger,

“No doubt the person who obliged you with the number of my car! An eavesdropping clerk with his ear to the keyhole—a young man who had made himself such a nuisance to Mrs. Welby that she had had to ask him to discontinue his visits! She spoke of the matter to me, and in her kindness begged me to take no notice of it. She had been good to the young man, lending him books and helping him to improve himself, and now as soon as she is dead this is the return he makes—to throw mud upon her name!”

Randal March said, “In his account of the conversation he stated that he heard Mrs. Welby tell you that she returned to Melling House just after ten o’clock on Wednesday night. She did not go in, because you were there. According to Allan Grover’s statement she said that you were engaged in a violent quarrel with James Lessiter, that he was accusing you of having misappropriated money entrusted to you by his mother, and that he was declaring his intention of taking proceedings against you. Grover states that, according to what he heard Mrs. Welby say, she then gave up any idea of seeing Lessiter herself and returned to the Gate House.”