The Gazebo (19 page)

MR HARRISON DUCKED. The china lady in her applegreen gown and flowered petticoat smashed against the door which he had closed behind him and fell in splinters on the parquet floor. The head rolled under a small gold gimcrack chair. Ella Harrison stood against the mantelpiece, heavily flushed and breathing deep. Nobody spoke until Frank Abbott said, his voice very cool and detached.

‘Perhaps it would be better to defer the rest of this interview until Mrs Harrison is calmer.’

Jack Harrison spoke.

‘I think it would be better. If you want me, I shall be in the study.’ He turned and went out of the room.

Ella Harrison left the hearth and came forward.

‘And now we can get on with it!’ Her voice was loud and dominant.

She was furiously angry, but she had got past smashing china. There were other things that could be broken, and she was out to break them. She came up to one of the easy chairs and stood there, resting her hands on the back.

‘You…’ she said, addressing Frank Abbott, ‘you’ve been free enough with your questions. Now you’re going to listen to me! I’ve got something to say!’

‘You wish to make a statement?’

‘If that’s what you like to call it! I’ve got something to say, and if you want to write it down you can!’

Inspector Sharp found himself a chair. He got out a notebook and propped it on the edge of the table where the diamond had lain.

Frank said, ‘Perhaps you would like to sit down, Mrs Harrison.’

She stared angrily.

‘I’d just as soon stand! It won’t take long! Quite a nice change it’ll be me talking and you listening, instead of your popping off questions at me for all the world as if you were a cross-talk comedian and I was your stooge! Now, you get this, Mr La-di-da policeman – I’m nobody’s stooge! And if you think you can pin anything on me, you can just set to work and think again, because I’ve got an alibi! And you, Mr What’s-his-name Sharp, you can write that down and be damned to you!’

The veneer was clean stripped off. This was the woman who had grown up in a drunken home and learned her language from hearing her father and mother swear at one another in their not infrequent rows, who had played as a child in the gutter, who had fought and clawed her way into a children’s act in pantomime, and from there with the help of good legs and a resonant voice into a variety turn. She hadn’t taken anything from anyone then, and she wasn’t taking anything from these policemen now. She said so at the top of her voice.

‘I don’t know what you think you’re getting at with your was I down at the Grahams’ on Tuesday night! Well then, I wasn’t, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it! And why wasn’t I? You see, I’m asking the questions this time, and here’s the answer to that one! I wasn’t down at the Grahams’ because I’d got other fish to fry! And if you want to know who I was frying them with, it was Nicholas Carey! He came to this house as the clock struck eleven, and he didn’t go out of it again – I can answer for that. Here he was, and here he stayed, and neither of us wanted it any different. Jack was off to bed at ten o’clock, and the servants sleep out, so there wasn’t anyone to interfere with us, and that’s how we wanted it to be. So now you know!’

Frank Abbott’s cool detached gaze rested upon her. He was wondering how much of this was to Jack Harrison’s address. Just another and more effective way of hitting him where it hurt? Some of it no doubt, and the rest the alibi foreshadowed by Miss Silver. He said,

‘When you were questioned before, you stated that you were in bed by eleven, and that you had no idea when Mr Carey came in. Now you say he was in by eleven, and that you remained together.’

She had gone back to tapping with her foot.

‘Yes, you don’t put everything in the shop-window right away, do you?’

‘Meaning that you don’t always tell the truth unless it suits you?’

‘Don’t you go trying to make out I’ve said what I haven’t!’

‘By your own account you have said first one thing and then another with regard to your movements on Tuesday night.’

‘I didn’t see it was anyone’s business – not then. But if you’re trying to pin something on me, then it’s my business to see you don’t get any wrong ideas! Nicky was here with me from eleven o’clock and for the best part of the night. It didn’t suit either of us for it to come out – not then. But that’s how it was, and you can’t get from it!’

Her flush was one of triumph now. She had flung her stone and killed two birds with it. If she had an alibi, they couldn’t make out she’d been down at the Grahams’ on Tuesday night, and if the alibi was going to hit Jack where it hurt, well, he’d asked for it – chipping in to say he’d seen the ring on Tuesday evening and none of the stones missing! Anyone else would have had the sense to hold his tongue, with the police in the house and a murder charge flying round. But not Jack Harrison, not her poor boob of a husband – oh dear, no! He must come chipping in with having seen the ring and noticed that all the stones were there! Well, if he liked to divorce her he could, and a good riddance to him!

The local Inspector wrote down what she had said and read it over to her. When she had signed it they both went out of the room. She heard them go across the hall to the front door. She heard it open and shut again behind them.

The warm satisfied anger in her began to die down.

NICHOLAS CAREY SAT at the dressing-table of his room at the George, but he was not engaged with the affairs of the toilet. The old-fashioned dressing-mirror with its five drawers, two on each side and one in the middle to take rings, trinkets, and what have you, had been pushed on one side to make way for the typewriter upon which he was rapidly tapping out his latest article. The room was furnished in a heavy mid-Victorian style, the only change which it had suffered since the days when the George was a posting inn being the substitution of up-to-date spring beds for the gloomy four-poster of a hundred years ago. If the carpet had been renewed, Mr Pickwick himself would not have been able to swear to it, and the general air of gloomy respectability remained intact.

When the telephone bell rang Nicholas stopped tapping, crossed to the space between the beds, and took up the receiver. A voice informed him that there was a gentleman to see him, ‘Name of Abbott – Mr Abbott.’ He said, ‘Send him up,’ and went back to the dressing-table, where he stood gathering up a couple of sheets already typed. He was frowning at the one still in the typewriter, wondering whether he would be allowed to finish it if they arrested him, and whether the Janitor would want it if they did.

There was a knock at the door before he could make up his mind. Frank Abbott came in and shut it behind him. He was alone, and the official manner was in abeyance.

Nicholas raised his eyebrows, laid down his sheets of typescript, and said,

‘Mr Abbott? Is that tact or…’

‘Well, perhaps unnecessary to give the hall porter anything fresh to talk about.’

‘But I take it you haven’t just dropped in to pass the time of day?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, we might as well sit down.’

He gave Frank Abbott the armchair, sat on the side of the nearer bed, and waited. If police officers chose to come butting in they could break the ice for themselves.

Frank leaned back, crossed his long legs, and said easily,

‘I thought it might be useful to have your views on Mrs Traill’s evidence. Miss Graham has told you about it?’

‘She has.’

‘Would you care to comment on it at all? You need not of course – I expect you know that. If you do, I suppose I ought to caution you.’

‘That anything I say may be taken down and used in evidence? All right, we’ll take it as said. About this Mrs Traill’s statement – I certainly wasn’t in the gazebo at twenty past eleven on Tuesday night. I left as soon as Althea had taken her mother into the house.’

‘You are sticking to that?’

‘It happens to be true.’

‘Mrs Traill heard Mrs Graham use your name. She is prepared to swear to hearing her say, “How dare you, Nicholas Carey!” ’

Nicholas nodded.

‘Yes, that’s what she said before when she came out and found us in the gazebo. But you know, she couldn’t have seen who it was this second time. All she could possibly have done was to see or hear that there was someone in the gazebo, and to jump to the conclusion that it was me.’

Frank thought, ‘That’s reasonable enough – it might even be true…’ He said,

‘There was a torch in the pocket of her coat.’

Nicholas gave a short laugh.

‘No, really that won’t do! If she had had the torch out and been using it, it would have dropped and rolled. It wouldn’t have been found in her pocket.’

‘Unless the murderer put it there.’

‘Good lord, Abbott, what sort of nerve are you giving him credit for? The gazebo is right on the road, anyone may have been passing – Mrs Traill was passing – and Mrs Graham had called out. There may have been other sounds. Can you suppose that the man who has just strangled her is going to waste any time in getting away? Do you see him hunting round for that torch and putting it in her pocket? Because I don’t. And by the way, if that’s what he did, there would be his fingerprints on the torch, or if he had wiped them off, then there wouldn’t be any prints on it at all. Whereas if Mrs Graham had put it in her pocket, why then, Abbott, her own prints would be there, and I suppose the police would have found them.’

Frank nodded.

‘Point to you. They did. Now let us get back to what you did after the Grahams had gone in on Tuesday night. Which way did you walk – up the hill or down?’

‘Up. My first idea was to go back to Grove Hill House. It’s only a step, you know – up Hill Rise and just round the corner. I got as far as the corner, and realized that I didn’t want to go in. It wouldn’t be any good going in, because I shouldn’t sleep. I went back down Hill Rise and across Belview Road. There’s a lane there cutting between the houses – it’s called the Dip. It has never been built over, because it’s the quickest way down off the hill to what used to be farm land and water meadows. I went right down as far as it goes and turned to the left. After that I can’t say for certain. Even in the last five years that part has been a good deal built up. I got into a new building estate and out of it again. I wasn’t really thinking of where I was going. When I had walked as long as I wanted to I made my way back up the hill. I can’t tell you where I was half the time – I just followed the rise of the ground. In the end I struck St Jude’s church, and then I knew where I was – ten minutes walk from Grove Hill House. I can’t tell you what time it was when I got in. It was after midnight, because the street-lamps were out. I let myself in with a latchkey, and I didn’t look at a clock or hear one strike. I was dog-tired. I didn’t even wind my watch. I just chucked off my clothes and tumbled into bed. Take it or leave it, that’s the truth.’

Well, it might be. Frank Abbott inclined to believe that it was. Nicholas Carey’s voice, his manner, had been informed with a kind of nervous energy. It was as if what he had in his mind must come out, and with the least possible delay. There was not the slightest hint of aggressiveness. He had something to say and he was impatient to get it said. He had throughout the air of a man who is doing his best to remember.

Frank Abbott said,

‘Well, that’s your statement. I take it you would be willing to put it into writing and sign it?’

‘Right away. I’ll type it out now if you like.’

He went over to the dressing-table, sat down there, pulled the typewriter towards him, put in a fresh sheet of paper, and began to type. It was a rapid and expert performance. He went from one end of it to the other without so much as pausing for a word. When he had finished he extracted the sheet, took a fountain pen out of his pocket, and put a scrawled signature under the last line of the type. Then he came back to his seat on the bed, handing the statement to Frank as he went past.

‘There you are – that’s the best of my recollection.’

Abbott ran his eye over it. Good even typing, no mistakes, and hardly a variation from the spoken word. That word had left the impression that Carey was setting himself to remember what he had done after leaving the gazebo, and that the effort to do so had fixed it in his mind. That being so, he would not lose it again.

Nicholas said,

‘Anything else you want?’

‘Well, yes. You’ve made this statement about your movements on Tuesday night. I think I must tell you it doesn’t agree with another statement that has been made.’

Nicholas gave a short laugh.

‘I don’t feel called upon to account for what anyone else may have said.’

‘Mrs Harrison states that you were back at Grove Hill House by eleven.’

‘Mrs Harrison is mistaken.’

‘I am afraid that what she says doesn’t allow for a mistake. She states categorically that you returned to Grove Hill House by eleven o’clock and that you and she remained together for the rest of the night.’

Nicholas Carey’s thin dark eyebrows rose.

‘How very silly of her. I suppose she thinks she is giving me an alibi.’

‘You say it’s not true?’

‘Of course it isn’t true. I’m engaged to Althea Graham. We should have been married on Wednesday if all this hadn’t happened. It’s a preposterous story!’

Frank was inclined to agree with him. Nicholas went on with an edge to his voice,

‘It’s a preposterous story, and she’s a preposterous woman! I think I had better tell you she had put it up to me already and I had turned it down. The whole thing’s rubbish! It must have been at least after twelve when I got back. I had a key, and I went straight to my room. I didn’t see a soul. Poor old Jack, he didn’t have any luck when he picked her, did he? If she goes round telling this sort of yarn it’s going to hit him where it hurts. He’s a nice chap, you know, but he can’t cope. Honestly, Abbott, that story of hers is twaddle.’

‘And you stick to your statement?’

‘I stick to my statement.’

MISS SILVER WAS up in the attic at The Lodge. Mrs Justice had rung up just before lunch and asked whether Althea would feel equal to seeing her if she came round at two o’clock. It was impossible to refuse so old and kind a friend.

Miss Silver left them together and climbed the attic stairs. Since yesterday it had been on her mind that she would be glad of an opportunity to look through the books of which Althea had spoken and see whether there was indeed one which dealt with the history of Grove Hill, but until this moment the opportunity had not presented itself. But Louisa Justice was a motherly person and could be safely left with Althea. After a warm expression of sympathy she would not continue to dwell upon the tragedy. She had already informed Miss Silver that she had received some excellent snapshots of Sophy’s twins and thought it might interest Althea to see them. Miss Silver could therefore devote herself to a search among Mr Graham’s books.

The attic was airy and well lit, and the books were not packed away. A couple of large bookcases which had previously darkened the dining-room had been moved up here after Mr Graham’s death. It would have annoyed him very much, but his widow had felt that she could now do as she pleased. The cases accommodated most of the books, and the rest stood in piles upon the floor. History appeared to have been the main interest. There were eighteenth-century memoirs, both French and English – Boswell’s Life of Johnson in an old edition, books with fine engravings of cathedrals, an odd volume of Ancient Abbeys and Castles, Le Notre’s Romances of the French Revolution, Lady Charlotte Bury lapping over into the nineteenth century, and the memoirs of the Comtesse de Boigne. These books were all together in the lower shelves of one of the bookcases. Miss Silver was encouraged to hope that what she was seeking might be amongst them, but this did not seem to be the case, and since she had no idea either of the title or the author’s name, the task upon which she had embarked was not an easy one. All that she had to go on was Althea’s remark that her father’s books were up in the attic, and that she believed there was one amongst them which dealt with the history of Grove Hill.

She found what she was looking for in the second book-case. It was a shabby old volume by the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson, a former Rector of St Jude’s. He appeared also to be the author of works on Old Inn Signs and Some Interesting Epitaphs. The book which Miss Silver took from the shelf was entitled Residences of the Nobility and Gentry in the Neighbourhood of Grove Hill, with Some Remarks on the Families Residing there during the Eighteenth Century, and the date upon the title page was 1810. Miss Silver moved to an aged but quite comfortable chair and sat down to read.

The Reverend Thomas Jenkinson was one of those authors who incline to be diffuse. He had what he himself might have described as a Partiality for Capitals, and it was obvious that he revelled in the titles of the Nobility. Persons of the highest rank came and went upon his pages. There were Anecdotes sometimes verging on the scandalous. Miss Silver was obliged to consider many of them as quite unsuited to a clerical pen.

She had been turning the pages for about twenty minutes, when she came upon the name of Warren – Mr Henry Warren, a wealthy and charitable Brewer. Her attention fixed, she read on and learned that the Grove Hill Estate with a number of Profitable Farms had been purchased by this gentleman in 1749. He then proceeded to build himself a fine Mansion on the crown of the hill, to which he gave the name of Grove Hill House. There was a good deal more about Mr Warren, his two marriages, his nine children of whom not one survived him, his increasing wealth. Here Mr Jenkinson permitted himself to moralize, and Miss Silver was able to skim lightly over several pages. The Gordon Riots were dealt with at some length, Mr Jenkinson greatly deploring the Excesses of the Mob and the horrifying destruction of Property, Mr Warren’s fine Mansion having been completely wrecked and destroyed, and Mr Warren himself fatally injured by some of the falling masonry.

There followed a passage which had been faintly underlined in pencil. Miss Silver perused it with attention. ‘It is said that the unfortunate Gentleman had made strenuous efforts to save the more valuable of his Pictures. It was, in fact, during this endeavour that he met with his tragic End. Paintings to the value of many thousand pounds were entirely consumed in the Fires which had broken out. A better Fortune may have attended the rescue of some valuable Plate and the Jewels belonging to his late wife, all of which were in the house at the time of its Destruction. Since no trace of the Plate could be discovered among the Ruins, it is thought possible that he was able to remove it to a place of safety before being overtaken by the Fatality which terminated his Existence. His only surviving descendant being an Infant, no great search was made. It is, of course, possible that the Rioters removed the gold Plate which was of great value, but the late Mr D – L – with whom I had the Opportunity of conversing when I first came to this Parish assured me that he did not believe this to have been the case. Though he was then close upon eighty years of age he was of a perfectly sound mind and clearly remembered the excesses committed by the Rioters. He had a brother who was a Physician and who was called in to attend the unfortunate Mr Warren. He informed Mr D – L – that he found Mr Warren in articula mortis, but not quite gone. He said the dying man constantly muttered to himself some such phrase as “The gold is safe,” or, “I have saved the gold.” The Physician inquiring of him, “What have you done with it?” and “Where is the gold?”, Mr Warren gazed about him as if having no knowledge of his surroundings and muttered words which were only partly intelligible. Not long afterwards he passed into a state of Insensibility from which he did not rally. Mr D – L – maintained that the Truth of the foregoing could readily be established, since there were several persons present, including a young woman afterwards married in Yorkshire. This person, Mrs M – n, after an absence of many years is now returned and is a parishioner of my own. On referring to her for corroboration of Mr D – L – ’s story, he being now deceased, she confirmed it in every particular, even to repeating some of the words let fall by Mr Warren when he lay a-dying. These I do not feel should be set down in print lest they should give rise to false hopes or to the Cupidity of unprincipled persons.’

Here the account ended, the Reverend Thomas branching off into speculations concerning a spring in the Long Meadow, said to be one of the superstitiously named Trouble Waters which were supposed to indicate by their flooding the approach of some National Calamity. Interesting as this subject might prove, Miss Silver did not pursue it. Instead, she got up and went to stand immediately under the unscreened electric bulb which lighted the attic. Even at some distance she had thought she could discern faint pencil marks between the initial M and the final N of the name by which the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson had designated the lady who had married in Yorkshire and afterwards returned to his parish. Held immediately under the light, there was no doubt that this was the case. The name had been filled in, but by whom? If by Mr Jenkinson, the addition must have been made a good deal more than a hundred years ago, if by Mr Graham possibly no more than twenty. The letters were not easily legible. They faded into a page already discoloured by age and damp. But they made a certain impression upon the eye.

Miss Silver looked away and then back again several times. The impression became stronger. The pencilled letters between M and N certainly suggested a name, and that name was Martin.