Anna, Where Are You? (21 page)

At the sound of the opening door Peter Brandon let go of the wrist he was holding and straightened up. He saw Miss Silver in her blue dressing-gown with the white crochet trimming, her hair very neatly arranged under the strong silk net which she wore over it at night, and a look of grave enquiry on her face. As he turned, she spoke in a serious, level voice,

“What are you doing here, Mr. Brandon?”

He could very reasonably have asked the same question, but it simply did not occur to him to do so. He might have been eight years old again, raiding the jam cupboard. He said,

“I was looking for Thomasina.”

“Is she here?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid she might be.”

Miss Silver gave her slight cough.

“We will speak of that later. Is Mr. Craddock dead?”

“I think so. He wasn’t when I came, but I can’t feel any pulse now.”

She came forward into the room, knelt down, and took hold of a wrist where the pulse would never beat again. After a moment or two she said,

“No, there is nothing. He is dead. How long have you been here?”

“I came to find Thomasina. She said something this afternoon about Anna Ball being here, locked up in a cellar. I said it was all nonsense, and we quarrelled. I wanted her to go away. I thought—”

“Mr. Brandon, I asked you how long you had been here.”

He stared at her.

“I came up to look for her, and the door was ajar. As soon as I got inside the hall there was a shot. I couldn’t tell where it came from. I tried two passages before I found the one with that playacting hand. I was looking at it when the shot went off, right in here. I wasn’t a minute opening the door, but there was no one here except Craddock. I had to see if there was anything I could do for him. I tried to stop the bleeding with my handkerchief.”

Miss Silver had already noticed the handkerchief. Peveril Craddock had been wearing one of the loose smocks which he affected, of a deep blue in colour. It had been torn open down the front, and Mr. Brandon’s handkerchief pushed between it and the vest which was worn underneath. Since the handkerchief was of a dark red colour, the extent to which it was stained did not immediately appear. She said,

“Was he conscious? Did he speak at all?”

He shook his head.

“There was just a bit of a pulse. He wasn’t quite dead, but as near as makes no difference.”

Miss Silver had looked at her watch at the sound of the second shot. She had glanced at it again before opening the door of this room. On his own showing Peter Brandon had been alone with the dead or dying man for just under three minutes, during which time he had been occupied in a reasonable and humane attempt to stanch the wound or wounds. On his own showing—

He might or might not be speaking the truth. There had been two shots. He might have been here when the first shot was fired, and for some time before that. She suspended judgment. And meanwhile she surveyed the scene.

From the way in which the writing-chair had fallen it looked as if Peveril Craddock had been sitting at the table. Upon the far side of it there was a second chair, pushed back at an angle. It looked as if someone had sat there and talked with Mr. Craddock. They had talked, and then something had been said or done which turned two men talking in a comfortable room with a table between into a murderer and his victim. Both had sprung up, Peveril Craddock with so violent a backward thrust as to send his chair flying. And the other man had shot him down. If he had fallen at the first shot, the murderer must have come round the table and stood over him to see whether he was dead.

She weighed in her own mind the time between the first and second shots. She had been startled. She had listened. She had risen from her chair, slipped her torch into her dressing-gown pocket, and gone to the door to stand there and listen again. Just what had been happening in this room whilst she was doing these things? Peveril Craddock had fallen. The murderer must make sure that he is dead. He comes round the table to make sure. There is still some life, some movement. He fires a second shot. Yes, it would be that way. If Mr. Brandon was the murderer, the weapon must be here in this room. If he was the murderer, she could conceive of no reason why he should have lingered on the scene or have been endeavouring to stanch the wounds. Again these thoughts passed so quickly that there was hardly a noticeable pause before she said,

“I see there is a telephone on the table. The police must be informed immediately.”

It was the number of Frank Abbott’s hotel that she called. He woke from a deep and dreamless sleep to the maddening iteration of the bell right there beside his bed. His “Hullo?” sounded only half awake. To this drowsy state Miss Silver’s voice came like a splash of cold water.

“Is that Inspector Abbott?”

He was startled broad awake.

“Miss Silver! What is it?”

“Peveril Craddock has been shot—here in his study at Deepe House—the main part of the building. The front door is ajar, and when you come into the hall you will see a lighted passage on the right-hand side. The study is at the end of it. Mr. Peter Brandon is with me. There is urgent need for haste. Inspector Jackson should arrange for a search warrant for all the houses in the Colony. A plain stick with a crook and a left-hand wash-leather glove with a small triangular tear between the first and second fingers should be looked for. But someone should come here at once. I am ringing off.”

Replacing the receiver, she turned, to see Peter Brandon looking at her with a good deal of attention.

“Why did you tell him I was here?”

“Because you are here, Mr. Brandon, and I think the police will want to know why.”

“I have told you why. I came here to look for Thomasina.”

“Have you any real reason to suppose that she is here?”

The farther he got in his attempt to explain, the less probable it all sounded, and the more apparent did it become that reason had really nothing to do with it at all. He found himself thinking, “If anyone pitched me a tale like that, I’d say he was a liar and a fool—”

The words dried up on his tongue. Miss Silver was gazing at him in a thoughtful manner.

“You felt anxious about Miss Elliot because you were afraid she might take it into her head to explore Deepe House during the night, so you climbed out of your window and walked up to the Miss Tremletts’, where you found that one of the bedrooms still showed a light. After watching it for some time you came on to Deepe House.”

Put like that, it sounded even worse than he had supposed. An idiot child could have produced a better story. He felt as if Miss Silver was looking right through him. The blood rushed to his face. His ears felt as if they had suddenly become red hot.

She said in a tolerant tone,

“It will be quite easy to find out if she is at home. We can ring the Miss Tremletts up.”

It was Miss Gwyneth who answered the call. She sounded both flustered and cross.

“Oh, dear—what is it?… Miss Silver! Has anything happened? It’s the middle of the night… Miss Elliot? Ina!… Why of course she is! Where else should she be at this hour? Really, Miss Silver… Well, of course, if you insist. But I must say—”

It did not get said, because Miss Gwyneth here let go of the receiver, groped for her slippers, clutched her dressing-gown angrily about her, whisked along a passage, and flung open the door of Thomasina’s room.

She found it empty.

The bed not slept in. No sign of the clothes Thomasina had been wearing. No sign of her outdoor shoes. No sign of her coat.

It was a very frightened voice which came along the line to Miss Silver, waiting in the study at Deepe House.

“Oh, Miss Silver—she isn’t here! Her bed hasn’t been slept in! Her coat isn’t there—she must have gone out! Oh dear, oh dear—what had I better do?”

Miss Silver said firmly,

“Pray do nothing at all, Miss Tremlett.” After which she replaced the receiver and turned to Peter. “She is not there.”

He was at her elbow.

“I know—I heard. This place is like a rabbit-warren—she may be anywhere.”

The words “She may be dead” presented themselves. They clamoured to be admitted. He slammed all his doors upon them, but he had seen them and they could not be forgotten.

Miss Silver said,

“Since you say you heard the second shot when you were just upon the other side of the door, there must be some other way out of this room. How long was it before you came in?”

“Oh, no time at all. I suppose half a minute. A thing like that takes you aback. I switched on my torch, and found I didn’t need it.”

Miss Silver had turned from the writing-table. The room had a deep bay at one end of it. The windows were screened by warm brown velvet curtains. On the left-hand side they extended beyond the bay. It occurred to her that there might be a door in that part of the wall which the curtains concealed. The man who fired the second shot would have had very little time to get away. He must have been aware that he had a line of retreat, and he must have been quick to avail himself of it. He could have slipped behind those curtains in time to avoid being seen. If there was a door there, he must already have made his escape. If there was no door, he might still be there behind the heavy velvet folds, pressed close against wall or window and hearing all that passed. In this case they were, of course, in some considerable danger.

Before Peter Brandon had the least idea of what she was going to do she walked to the window and drew the left-hand curtain back.

There was a door. The last folds of the velvet slid past it and left it bare. But it was not the door that riveted Miss Silver’s attention. She said quickly, “Put out the light, Mr. Brandon!” and as the switch clicked and the room fell dark, they could both see the jutting front of the garage and the glow that came from it. The garage doors were closed. The light came from a window on either side.

Miss Silver put her hand to the curtain and drew it close again.

“It would seem that he went that way, and that he is still there. We will have the light again, Mr. Brandon.”

When it had been switched on she said soberly,

“I expect you noticed that there was a door. There is no doubt that it leads to the garage. If the man who shot Mr. Craddock is still there, he will without doubt be both desperate and dangerous. We cannot count upon the arrival of the police for nearly half an hour. I think we must decide upon what we are to do next.”

“Miss Silver, what I have to do is to find Thomasina. You must see that.”

She laid her hand upon his arm.

“Pray take a moment for consideration. Miss Elliot may already be on her way back to the Miss Tremletts. Mr. Craddock is dead, and the person whom you disturbed, and who is probably the murderer, is in the garage. We do not know why he has delayed his escape. He may be destroying evidence, or he may be waiting for an accomplice to join him. But however he is engaged, it is improbable that he has any time to spare for Miss Elliot. If she is not in the garage she is safe. I think we should make certain that she is not there, and at the same time endeavour to discover the murderer’s identity.”

Peter nodded.

“The windows aren’t any good—at least I shouldn’t think they were. The light wasn’t coming through them clear. There are blinds.”

Miss Silver coughed gently.

“Yes, I noticed that. I think we must see where this door will take us. Let us hope that it is not locked.”

It would have been if the murderer had had the time. The key had actually been taken from the lock on this side but had dropped on the far side of the door. The need for haste had been as great as that.

They stood on the threshold and looked into one of those empty dilapidated rooms. Miss Silver’s powerful torch showed how thick the dust lay everywhere, except on the narrow trodden path which led to the garage door. She turned the light this way and that.

“Look, Mr. Brandon,” she said in a low voice.

A yard from where they stood there were tracks in the dust going away to the left—footprints, quite plain and easy to see, going away to a door in that left-hand wall.

Peter said,

“He didn’t go to the garage. That door goes back into the passage with the hand. He must have got out that way as soon as I was safe in the study. But if he did, who is in the garage?”

“That, I think, is what we had better find out.”

Inside the garage Thomasina stood against the wall. Anna Ball was still talking. She could have talked for an hour and hardly have begun to tell Thomasina just how clever she and Mr. Sandrow had been, and just how much they hated and despised all the stupid people whom they had so easily taken in.

“He had to see Peveril Craddock, because Peveril was turning yellow. He puts on an act, you know—he hasn’t really got a lot of nerve. Mr. Sandrow had made up his mind he would have to deal with him. I expect those were the shots we heard. He was going to arrange it to look like a suicide, but if he couldn’t do that—and he says it’s very difficult to get the fingerprints really convincing—on the gun, you know—then we were going to get him into the car and stage a crash on Quarry Hill. The car would of course be quite burnt out—a can or two of petrol would fix that all right—and Peveril out of the way for good. I don’t suppose Emily would cry her eyes out. He was trying to get rid of the children, you know. But so inefficient—no real nerve. Now if Mr. Sandrow had taken it in hand, there wouldn’t have been any hitch, but he said it wasn’t his business and Peveril could do his own dirty work.”

“Anna!”

It was when Thomasina said, “Anna!” that Peter Brandon turned the handle of the door and edged it open. It wasn’t the door behind Thomasina, but the one on the other side of the garage. He had stood behind it with Miss Silver and heard the angry rise and fall of a woman’s voice. Then, as the handle turned and the door slid, he heard Thomasina say Anna’s name on that note of horror and protest. His heart turned over. Because he had been afraid—he had been very much afraid.

She said, “Anna!” and he opened the door.

The first thing he saw was Anna Ball in slacks and a red jersey standing with her back to him, and, past her, Thomasina against the opposite wall. Her hands were pressed against it, and all the colour was gone from her face. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she stared at the revolver in Anna’s hand. Because that was the really unbelievable thing—Anna Ball was holding a revolver and pointing it at Thomasina. He heard her say,

“He’ll be here any minute now, and then you can join Peveril in the car. Swoosh over the edge of the quarry and a blazing bonfire down below—that’s what’s waiting for you, Thomasina, dear!”

Peter walked into the garage, and she turned her head. In that moment Thomasina snatched the torch from the pocket of her coat and threw it with all her might. She had a strong wrist and a good eye. Peter had taught her to throw fast and straight. She threw now for his life and her own. The torch caught Anna full on the side of the head as she turned. Not a serious blow, but a startling one. It took her off her balance as she swung about. She screamed and stumbled, a shot went wide, and Peter had her by the wrists.

Thomasina came forward and twisted the revolver out of her hand.