The Brading Collection (18 page)

Randal March gazed in some exasperation at his Miss Silver. Affection for her had survived his schooldays. His respect for her character and his appreciation of the quality of her mind increased steadily with the years which had from time to time brought them to close quarters over some case on which they were both professionally engaged. But there were moments when he found her faculty for suddenly giving a case some completely new turn very exasperating to the natural man. He had no desire, of course, to round off a case by ignoring an inconvenient fact, but Miss Silver’s talent for producing inconvenient facts was sometimes felt to be excessive.

He came out of Myra Constantine’s sitting-room a good deal disturbed. Now, in what had been Lewis Brading’s study, he gazed at Miss Silver and said,

“Look here, is all this on the level?”

Miss Silver was knitting placidly. These little pink vests were for her niece Dorothy’s second child—a niece by marriage, and the wife of Ethel Burkett’s brother. After ten years of childless marriage—such a terrible disappointment—Dorothy had last year had a little boy, and they were now hoping for a girl. She looked across the pale pink wool and said with mild reproof,

“My dear Randal!”

“Well, you never know with these stage people. They can’t help dramatizing themselves and everyone else. If Mrs. Constantine saw Miss Grey take a diamond brooch on Thursday evening, why does she hold her tongue about it for three days and then come out with it pat when one of the chief suspects turns out to be her son-in-law? You don’t need me to tell you the whole thing smells uncommonly like a red herring.”

Miss Silver found the simile distasteful. She coughed.

“Mrs. Constantine certainly has a vivid and dramatic personality, but I formed the opinion that she was giving an accurate account of what she had observed on Thursday evening. All her mental processes are quick and vigorous. That makes for correct observation, and if an incident is correctly observed it is likely to be correctly described. As to why she did not speak of this incident before, the answer is that she did speak of it, and to the person to whom such a statement was due. She informed Mr. Brading on Thursday evening that Miss Grey had taken the Marziali brooch.”

March threw up a hand.

“She says that she informed him!”

“I think there is confirmation of what she says. Why did Miss Grey come and see him on Friday afternoon? I have made enquiries, and I find that she has never visited him in this way before. She is often at the club. She and Mrs. Robinson and Major Forrest have a great many of their meals here. Miss Grey was one of the party who visited the annexe when the Collection was shown on Thursday evening, but she has never been known to pay Mr. Brading a visit there by herself. Yet she went there on Friday afternoon. Mr. Brading put through two telephone calls just before lunch that day. Mr. Moberly says in his statement that an angry tone was employed, and that he heard the words, ‘You’d better!’ I think it is no unfair inference that Miss Grey was being told that her theft was known, and that she was expected to return the brooch. There may have been a threat of exposure either then or later. But, to come back from inference to fact—we know that Miss Grey did come down from Saltings to visit Mr. Brading in the middle of that very hot Friday afternoon, that she was alone with him for a little over ten minutes, that we have only her own word for it that he was alive when she left at ten minutes past three, and that the Marziali brooch was subsequently discovered in the open second drawer of his writing-table. Do you not think that Mrs. Constantine’s statement receives a good deal of support from these facts?”

“All right—she told Brading that Miss Grey had taken the brooch. Brading rang up and put it across her. She brought it back, and she came away. There’s no evidence to show that she shot him. Why should she? It was a family affair. He wouldn’t expose her.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I am not so sure. He was a cold and vindictive man. If you think of his conduct with regard to Mr. Moberly you will probably agree with this estimate of his character. Then did you notice that when Mrs. Constantine told him that Miss Grey had taken the brooch she said that she did not think he was surprised? I noticed particularly that she repeated this observation when she told her story to you. It was just one of those little things. I watched for it, and it came out just as it had done when she was talking to me.”

He looked faintly startled.

“You think it important?”

“Oh, yes, my dear Randal. If Mr. Brading was not surprised, it was because he knew very well that Miss Grey had this failing. When Mrs. Constantine told Major Forrest of the incident, I do not gather that he showed any surprise either.”

“When did she tell him?”

“Just before she told me. He was, I understand, neither angry nor surprised, but merely very much concerned that the story should not be repeated.”

“And what do you deduce from that?”

“That it was not the first time that something had had to be hushed up. Perhaps on this occasion Mr. Brading led Miss Grey to suppose that he was not prepared to hush up the theft of the brooch. She might have felt driven to a desperate course. I do not say that she was. I do say that she could have brought Major Forrest’s revolver from Saltings and shot Mr. Brading with it.”

“You mean it was physically possible.”

“She would have known where the weapon was kept. You say Major Forrest’s flat was not locked. She could have had access to it. She could have taken Mr. Brading’s own revolver away with her and put it where you say it was found, in the bottom drawer of the bureau.”

“Yes—she could have done all that.”

She coughed.

“There is another point. It is one which engages my attention very strongly. Miss Grey has been accused of theft. She has been summoned to return the stolen property. She is no stranger but a member of Mr. Brading’s family circle. The interview which took place was bound to be of an extremely painful nature. Family scenes are apt to be not only painful but prolonged. Do you suppose for a moment that this one would have lasted for only ten minutes? I am perfectly persuaded that Mr. Brading would have no intention of making things easy for her. Remember, he was not surprised at what had happened. He told Mrs. Constantine to leave it to him and he would deal with it. You heard her say that she had never liked Miss Grey, but Mr. Brading’s look and manner made her feel sorry for her then. I feel quite sure that Mr. Brading meant to make Miss Grey feel sorry for herself, and I am tolerably certain that he meant to take more than ten minutes over it.”

“That’s not evidence.”

“Of course not, Randal. But I think it should be enough to induce a painstaking search for evidence. A further interrogation of Miss Grey is indicated, and I think Mr. Moberly should be pressed as to those telephone conversations. You have, of course, taken up the matter with the telephone exchange?”

“Yes. It was a busy time—no one remembers.” He gave a short laugh. “You know, Crisp isn’t going to be a bit pleased. He thought he’d got the case in the bag.”

“You have not arrested Major Forrest?”

“No. He’s over in the writing-room with Crisp. I shall have to detain him unless something comes of this. Now do we go up and call on Miss Grey, or do we have her down here?”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked in a very decided manner.

“My dear Randal, you will do just what you think best. But if you ask me—”

“I do. You know how the feminine mind works, and I don’t pretend to.”

She coughed.

“You cannot divide minds into sexes. Each human being presents an individual problem. But since you ask me, I think it might be as well to send, let us say, Inspector Crisp for Miss Grey, and to interview her in Mr. Brading’s laboratory. If she were asked to show you just what she did on Friday afternoon—what her movements were, where she stood or sat—it should, I think, be possible to discover to what extent she is telling the truth. The discovery that the theft of the brooch is known will naturally shake her a good deal.”

March got to his feet. He said,

“All right—we’ll try it that way.”

“You will send Inspector Crisp?”

“Crisp is with Forrest. We were just going to take him to the station and charge him when you rang up. I’m not justified in letting him out of sight unless this turns out to be something.”

“You left him here while you went to Ledlington to fetch the Inspector.”

“That was before Lewis Brading’s revolver turned up at Saltings, and I had Jackson on duty outside. If Forrest had tried to steal a march on us he’d have been stopped. I can send Jackson for Miss Grey.”

Miss Silver was putting away her knitting. She coughed.

“I think I have seen him—a pleasant-looking young man. I should prefer that you sent Inspector Crisp.”

“Whom nobody could describe as pleasant! Ruthless—aren’t you?”

She picked up her pale pink ball.

“I want the truth, Randal.”

There are days when time seems to be suspended. Stacy had seen the Chief Constable’s car drive away with Charles. She had seen Miss Silver receive Myra Constantine’s summons and repair to her sitting-room. After an interminable stretched-out interval she had seen the Chief Constable’s car come back. It stopped, and three people got out—March himself, who came upstairs to join Myra and Miss Silver, and, from the back of the car, Charles and Inspector Crisp. Her heart jumped. They had gone away with the Inspector sitting in front beside the Chief Constable, and Charles at the back, but they returned like this. She made herself face what it meant—what it must mean. They wouldn’t let Charles sit by himself any more. They had arrested him, or they were going to arrest him. Crisp was there to see that he didn’t get away.

She saw them come into the house together, and looking down over the well of the stairs, she watched them pass through the hall in the direction of the writing-room and out of sight.

She had been all this while on the bedroom floor, moving between her own room and the stairs. Immediately opposite the stair head a dressing-room had been done away with to widen the corridor and bring in light and air. A long window looked out over the porch and took the breeze and the distant glitter of the sea. When Stacy stood at this window she could watch who came and went. If she moved to the stair head she had only to lean upon the rail to see what passed below. If she walked to the end of the corridor she could see the glass-roofed passage to the annexe and hear the voices that rose and fell behind Myra’s sitting-room door. She could hear the voices, but not what they said. Sound reached her, but no words.

Once, as she walked back along the passage, Hester Constantine stood at her open door. She looked like a dead woman who had dragged herself from her grave to listen, her head bent, one hand on the jamb. She was straining to catch the sound from the room across the way. She and Stacy looked at one another. Then Hester’s free hand came up and touched her.

“Who’s there?”

“The Chief Constable.”

“Why?”

“Charles—”

Hester drew a long breath and stepped back. It didn’t matter to her whether Charles Forrest was hanged or not. She shut her door.

Stacy went back to the window over the porch. It was then that she began to think about going down to the writing-room. If she went down she would see Charles again. She didn’t see how they could stop her. Even if he was under arrest, she might be able to speak to him, and she would at least see him again. It began to matter more than anything else in the world.

When the door of Myra’s sitting-room opened and Miss Silver came out with the Chief Constable she felt an agonizing pang, because she thought that she had lost her chance. She stood rigid in the recess and heard Miss Silver say,

“If you can spare me a little time—no one will disturb us in the study.”

She let them go down, leaned over the balustrade to watch them out of sight, and then ran down herself. Where time had lagged endlessly, it was now slipping away—the last remaining time in which she could see Charles, touch him, hear him speak. She ran, and came into the writing-room with quickened breath and colour in her cheeks.

Charles stood on the hearth with his back to her, apparently engaged in the contemplation of the gloomy battle picture which lowered from the chimney-breast. He had a turn for quotation, and was thinking that it would be aptly described by that passage in the Bible which speaks of a confused noise and garments rolled in blood—“Every battle of the warrior—” he thought that was how it began—“is with a confused noise and garments rolled in blood.”… No, he wasn’t sure if he’d got it right now. These things came floating up out of your mind like jetsam.

He was thinking quite dispassionately that it was odd to be worrying about a quotation while you were waiting to know whether you were going to be arrested for murder, when he heard the door fly open and turned to see Stacy come running in. She pushed the door to behind her and came to him, breathing quickly, her colour wavering, her eyes wide and startled.

“Charles!”

Inspector Crisp came forward from the strategic position which he had been occupying midway between the door and the window with an eye to each. Stacy hadn’t even noticed him. She didn’t notice him now. She held on to Charles with both hands and looked at him with all her heart in her eyes.

Crisp forced himself upon the attention with a brisk, “I beg your pardon, Miss Mainwaring—”

Stacy did not look at him or speak to him. She said under her breath,

“Send him away.”

If Charles’s voice was not quite steady when he answered her, it was due to the fact that the emotions have a way of being interchangeable in moments of stress. The interval between laughter and tears can be traversed without intention. He said,

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t go.”

“Miss Mainwaring—”

Stacy went on taking no notice. She held on to Charles with desperation.

“They haven’t—arrested you?”

He looked over her head at Crisp, the angry terrier to the life, with a rat just out of reach.

“I believe not—technically. But we are on debatable ground. What would you call it, Crisp? Detained for further questioning is an expression I seem to have read in the papers. Or am I on the way to the station to be charged? That also has a familiar ring.”

The tone did nothing to sweeten Crisp. He said in his stiffest and most official manner,

“I must ask Miss Mainwaring to leave.”

Charles said, “All in good time. If I’m not actually arrested, you know, I have an idea that I still have a few rights.” He dropped his voice for Stacy’s ear. “You’d better go, you know.”

Her hands clung.

“Are they going to arrest you?”

“We’re on the way. I gather that a red herring has crossed the path. It may, or may not, divert us.”

“Miss Mainwaring—”

Stacy continued to take no notice.

“If they—if they do it—will—will they let me come and see you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Charles!”

“Nasty sordid business, you know. I sit at one end of a table, and you sit at the other, and a warder listens in.”

“Major Forrest, will you kindly ask Miss Mainwaring to go. I’ve my duty to do.”

“I don’t think it extends to putting her out by force, does it? And so far moral suasion doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere.” He dropped his voice again. “You’d really better go, Stacy. This is trying us a bit high, don’t you think?”

“You?”

“Me.”

She said, “I’ll go,” and took her hands away so suddenly that he thought she had lost her balance and would fall, but before he could touch her she had steadied herself. Her colour was all gone. She said, “Goodbye—” in an exhausted voice which hardly reached him. Then she turned round and went out of the room.

Crisp held the door and shut it after her rather forcefully. No one could say that he had banged it, but it had that effect. Stacy had not looked at him when she came. She did not look at him as she went. He might not have been there.

When he turned round from not banging the door Charles Forrest was once more standing with his back to him looking in the direction of the battle picture on the chimney-breast, but this time it is to be doubted whether he really saw it.