The Alington Inheritance (23 page)

Dicky stepped down from the witness-box and made his way through the crowded court to where Miss Silver and his mother sat together. Jimmy Mottingley had taken his place in the box. He spoke up well and clearly.

“You are James Mottingley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you describe what happened on the day of the murder.”

He did so, and as he spoke it all came rushing back on him—his mother’s drawing-room—his mother calm and placid—talking to Mrs. Marsden and delaying him when he wanted to get started. It all came back to him as if it had happened yesterday. He could hear the very tones of their voices. It was uncanny how the give and take of that conversation came back to him. It was only by an effort that he kept his voice loud enough to fill the court room. It was as if he was back in his mother’s drawing-room with his eye upon the clock and counting out the time that it would take him to reach Hazeldon.

“I was very late in starting. The clock said half past six.”

“You drove fast?”

“I drove as fast as I could. I had this appointment.”

“With the dead girl?”

“With Miriam Richardson.”

“Go on.”

“When I got to Hazeldon I drove slowly up on to the Heath. I expected her to be near the road by the patch of gorse bushes, but I couldn’t see her. So I drove on a bit, and then I got out and walked back. I thought perhaps she hadn’t waited as I was so late.”

“What time was it when you got there?”

“I don’t know. I was in a hurry because I knew that I was late. I got straight out of the car and ran back to the clump of gorse. She wasn’t there. Then I went round the bushes and I found her.” His voice dropped to a horrified whisper, but it was a whisper that carried.

“Will you describe what you saw.”

Jimmy went on in that strange carrying whisper.

“She was there—on the ground. When I touched her I knew—that she was dead—”

“How did you know that she was dead?”

“She was cold—she was quite cold.”

“What did you do?”

“I went out on the road, and a bicycle was coming. I stood and waved, and it stopped. The man came with me, and I told him I had come there to meet a girl, and that I had found her dead. He took me to the police station, and we got the constable. That’s all.”

“Mr. Mottingley, you are on oath. Did you strike the blow which killed Miriam Richardson?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever think of killing her?”

“No, sir.”

“That is all. You can step down.”

“Call James Fulbrook!”

Mr. Fulbrook stepped up into the witness-box and took the oath.

“Mr. Fulbrook, will you tell us what happened on your way back to Hazeldon on the day in question.”

“I had been to see my daughter who was laid up with her first child, and as I was coming back—”

“What time would that be?”

“I should think it was a quarter or twenty to eight, but I can’t be quite certain. I didn’t look at my watch.”

“That’s near enough. Go on.”

“I was coming down the road towards Hazeldon—”

“You were on a bicycle?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, Mr. Fulbrook.”

“Well, I was coming along, and all of a sudden there was someone in the road ahead of me holding up his hands and calling out. There’d been a car parked by the side of the road a little way back, and I thought someone had got into trouble, so I stopped. And when I stopped, there was a young man in a great state of distress. He said the girl he’d come to meet had been murdered, and would I come and see her. So I came.”

“And the girl was dead?”

“The girl was dead and cold.”

“What did you do then?”

“I took the young man with me in his car to the police station, and we fetched the constable.”

Dicky listened with all his ears. He was very glad that Mr. Fulbrook hadn’t been in the court when he was giving his evidence. Not that they had touched his apples, but that was the reason they had had for trying to get the cart wheel out of the pond. He wasn’t going to do that sort of thing any more—it wasn’t worth while.

And then they had finished with Mr. Fulbrook, and the Clerk said,

“Call Inspector Abbott!”

Frank stepped up into the witness-box. Dicky gazed at him in reverence and determined in his own mind that that would be a wizard career. If he were to study good and proper from now on, why shouldn’t he finish up in the C.I.D.? That was what Inspector Frank Abbott was, and what he didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. He listened with all his ears.

Inspector Abbott was asking for the discharge of the prisoner. He was saying that the man who wrote that note was the murderer, and the note was the one which Dicky had had in his pocket until Miss Silver and Miss Jenny had gone to see him. It was Miss Jenny that Mac meant to kill, not the other girl at all. Coo! That must have been a sell for him that must! And a let-off for Miss Jenny. He liked Miss Jenny, and he hadn’t liked Miriam Richardson. If one of them had got to be killed it was much better to be the Richardson girl. And what a sell for this Mac when he found he’d killed the wrong girl! He wondered when he found out that he had made a mistake.

With all these thoughts in his mind the time passed. The Inspector was saying that Mr. Mac had committed suicide. That was a pity, that was. There’d have been a juicy big murder case if he hadn’t. Dicky’s imagination played lovingly with the thought of it.

And then it was all over. Sir James Coghill was telling Mr. Mottingley that he could go free. The lady whom he had discovered to be Mrs. Mottingley, the mother of the prisoner, was sitting very still and stiff. She was just in front of them. If he had been the accused his mother wouldn’t have sat like that, she wouldn’t. But Mrs. Mottingley she sat there stiff and straight, and as if she didn’t feel anything at all. Or was it that way? He wasn’t sure. He wished she would move or speak. It wasn’t natural for her to sit so still. Her husband thought so too, because he stooped down and whispered to her. They were so close that Dicky could hear what he said. It was, “Marian—” That was her name, and he said it twice. And then he said, “My dear, are you all right?” and with that Mrs. Mottingley moved. Come to think of it, she hadn’t moved until then—not all the time. But now she did move. She half turned towards her husband, and she gave a deep sigh and fell sideways. Coo! The excitement wasn’t all over!

Dicky sat where he was and saw Miss Silver go round to the end of the row and down. She’d know what to do, she would. He felt an implicit trust in Miss Silver’s ability to control any situation. There she was, as cool and as calm as anything.

“If you will all stand away and just leave her to me. Mr. Mottingley, will you kindly get me a glass of water? She will be all right in a minute. No, madam, she is not dead. She has merely fainted.”

Dicky’s bosom swelled with pride. She could manage them, she could! He was roused from his trance of admiration by his mother. She plucked him by his sleeve and said in a frightened whisper,

“Oh, what a dreadful thing! Oh, Dicky, is she dead?”

Dicky picked up the last word and said it loudly.

“Dead? What ’ud she be dead for? There’s Miss Silver looking after her!”

Mrs. Mottingley drew a long breath. She was not back yet, but she was coming back. She felt weak, relaxed, and happy. She opened her eyes for a moment and saw Jimmy and her husband. They were her whole world, and they were safe. It was all right. The dreadful time was over. Jimmy was free. The little elderly lady who was kneeling beside her smiled at her and said,

“You are better now, Mrs. Mottingley? No, don’t sit up just yet. Would you like a drink of water?”

Everything was relaxed and easy. She took a drink of the water and sat up,

“I’m all right now. I’d like to go home.”

“My dear—” It was her husband. His arm was round her. She felt very safe and protected. And Jimmy was there too. He held her hand and said, “Mum—” She tried to think when he had last called her that. Not for years and years. There was something wrong about that. You oughtn’t to lose the confidence of your child because he has grown up. There was something very wrong about that. She would try to do better. She pressed Jimmy’s hand, and he said, “Mum—” in an odd shaken voice which took her back to the time when he had got out on the roof and she had thought he was going to fall. He was only seven years old…

She shut her eyes again for a moment as she remembered the scene. She had been so dreadfully frightened, but she hadn’t fainted—not then. And Jimmy hadn’t been frightened—not a bit of it. She remembered the whole thing. Curious how it came back to her now—Jimmy dancing along on the edge of danger, and then her husband getting hold of him, and the piteous sobs of a hurt child. Jimmy had never been so confident and gay again after that. She held to his hand and pulled him down close while she whispered,

“You’re safe, Jimmy—you’re safe—”

And then the boy who was one of their clerks came up and said, “I’ve got a taxi outside, Mr. Mottingley,” and her husband said, “Thank you, Lingbourne. We’ll come.”

Kathy, standing to one side, saw them go by. It had all turned out wonderfully. She felt so glad for Mrs. Mottingley, and for Jimmy. And then, as she turned to find her way out, Mr. Mottingley hurried up behind her.

“I’ve left my wife to her boy and to Miss Silver. I wanted to thank you, my dear.”

The bright colour came into her cheeks.

“Oh, Mr. Mottingley!” she said.

“And I’d like you to know that we don’t want you to stop being friends with Jimmy. A house like yours is just what he needs—young people’s society and all that. And we hope you’ll come to our house, too, you and Len. You will, won’t you?”

“I shall be very pleased to, Mr. Mottingley.”

“My wife would like you to come. We’ve brought the boy up too strict —I can see that now. If you pull the rein too tightly you’ve a nervous horse—” He broke off with half a laugh. “That sounds strange coming from me, but I grew up on a farm, and it comes back when you’re moved. Good-bye, my dear.”

He left her standing there and went off to join his wife and Jimmy.

At Alington House Jenny sat and waited for the news. Miss Silver would ring up, she knew that, and she knew what the news would be. But supposing—just supposing— Her thought broke off. It broke off because she broke it off. She would not go on to suppose such failure of justice as would keep Jimmy Mottingley in any danger. All the same it would be nice to know that they could put away the unhappy past and go on into something better.

The last few days had been very trying. She did not know what she would have done without Richard and Miss Danesworth. She had stood between the little girls and all the worst of it, and Richard and Miss Danesworth had sheltered her as much as they could. It was lovely to have them. When she thought what it would have been like to have to stand alone her thoughts just blacked out. She could have done it, because you can do anything that you’ve got to do, but she was profoundly grateful that she did not have to stand alone. For one thing, Miss Crampton would have been very hard to deal with. She had faded away before Miss Danesworth’s presence, and Richard coming in when he did had completed her discomfiture. Now that she had been routed Jenny could feel sorry for her. Once you have seen the softer side of anyone you can never go back to seeing them as they were. It was difficult to put into words, but it was in your mind.

Richard came into the room, and she put out a hand to him.

“It’s so long waiting,” she said with a little break in her voice. “You don’t think anything can have gone wrong, do you?”

“Of course nothing has gone wrong! Don’t be silly, child! What could go wrong?”

“I don’t know. Miss Silver said she would ring up when it was all over.”

“Then she will. I like Miss Silver. She’s bed-rock solid.”

“Oh, Richard! That sounds as if she was one of those stout, hard people with bright red cheeks and the sort of eyes that pop out a little! Not the kind of person she is at all—neat, and old-fashioned, and governessy —only that I’ve never really come across a governess. People don’t have them nowadays, but in Garsty’s old books they did. But Miss Silver isn’t really like anyone.”

“No, I don’t think she is,” said Richard. He sat down with his arm round her. “Relax, darling. It’s all right—it really is.”

“I keep thinking of—of her,” said Jenny.

“Not Mrs. Forbes? Don’t, my dear!”

“I can’t help it,” said Jenny. “Oh, Richard, please let me talk about it. It all seems so dreadful. And the most dreadful part of it is that no one really misses her. Carter cried when she went down to the inquest. She admired her, but she didn’t really love her. And her friends—I don’t believe one of them really cared. They were shocked when she shot herself, but they didn’t really care—not really.”

Richard hesitated. Then he said,

“When something like this happens people either rush in and find they are not wanted, or they stay away and pretend that they haven’t noticed. I think you would find that they don’t know quite what to do. Don’t get bitter about it, darling.”

“I’m not. I just thought it would be rather lonely if it wasn’t for you and Caroline.”

“Well, you’ve got us,” said Richard. “You’ve got us for keeps, and don’t you forget it.”

“Oh, Richard, you’re such a comfort!” said Jenny with the tears in her eyes.

And then the telephone bell rang. Jenny was out of her seat in a moment, her breathing quickened and the colour in her cheeks coming and going. She heard Miss Silver say,

“Is that you, my dear?”

“Oh, yes. Yes—yes, it is. Oh, do tell me! What has happened?”

Miss Silver’s voice came clear along the wire.

“It is all right, my dear. There is nothing for you to be worried about. Dicky Pratt gave his evidence very well indeed. I went over with him and Mrs. Pratt. He really could not have done better. And I think he enjoyed himself.”

“He would,” said Jenny.

“Yes, I remember that you said so. A boy of his age does not apprehend the seriousness of the position. Mr. Fulbrook gave evidence, and James Mottingley. He did very well indeed. I do not think that he could have failed to convince everyone in the court that he was quite innocent of that poor girl’s death. And then Inspector Abbott came into the witness-box and gave his evidence. You know what that was. It cleared Mr. Mottingley completely, and he was discharged. And now, my dear, how is it with you? You have Miss Danesworth and Mr. Richard Forbes with you, have you not? I am afraid that this has been a sad and very trying time for you. You must look forward to the brighter days which lie ahead. Good-bye, my dear.”

The click of the receiver sounded. Miss Silver was gone. One moment she was there, so much herself, so kind, so efficient, and so helpful, and the next she was gone. She was quite gone. It gave Jenny a curious feeling of unreality.

She hung up the receiver and turned to Richard. He put an arm about her.

“Yes, I heard,” he said. “Mottingley has had a hard time.”

Jenny was crying. She didn’t know why. Everything was all right as far as it could be all right. She said, “Oh, Richard—” and they stood together for a moment or two. Then she drew herself away and dried her eyes.

“That’s silly,” she said. “And there’s a letter from Alan. I didn’t open it because—well, because I wanted you to be here. I didn’t feel as if I wanted to read it alone.”

“Well, I’m here, darling. Go on—open it.”

The letter was in a foreign envelope. Jenny opened it and read:

“Dear Jenny,

I don’t know what to say. I feel quite bewildered with it all. Anyhow I don’t see much good in my coming back until the unpleasantness has died away. The chaps that I am with say the same. I think I had better find a job. As a matter of fact I’ve practically got one. It’s with a young Austrian. He’s got to travel for his health. I’ve made great friends with him, and his people are very well off. His mother was Spanish, and the money comes from that side of the family. He is going to pay all the expenses, and I think we shall go to India first of all. He is supposed to be in a warm climate.

Yours affectionately,

Alan Forbes.”

As Jenny read on her colour rose. When she had finished it she put the letter into Richard’s hand and said in a curious voice,

“He’s going to India, and he doesn’t leave us any address.”

Richard read the letter.

“It’s pretty calm,” he said. “Nothing about the little girls, I see.”

“There’s nothing about anyone except himself,” said Jenny. “But there’s one thing—it does give me a free hand with Meg and Joyce.”

“Oh, yes, it gives you a free hand,” said Richard. “They are his sisters, and your second—or is it third cousins? But he gives you a perfectly free hand with them. You can pay their school bills, and have them in the holidays, and have all the burden and sweat of bringing them up, whilst he goes off into the blue and enjoys himself!”

But Jenny was laughing.

“Oh, Richard, I’ll love it—I really will.”

He said, “I’m angry,” and he looked it.

“Oh, don’t be, darling! Don’t you see it’ll be just perfect? Caroline was saying only this morning that she’d hate to give them up. And there would be room for them in her house—she said that too.”

“Here, what have you been planning?”

“We’re going to be a family,” said Jenny. “Caroline agreed with me about it. The little girls can go to school, and we’ll be all together in the holidays. At least—”

“And what happens to us?”

“I suppose we get married,” said Jenny.

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