Latter End (6 page)

It was about a fortnight after this that Miss Maud Silver received a visitor. As he did not come by appointment, she was not expecting him. Her mind was, in fact, pleasantly occupied with family affairs. Her niece Ethel, whose husband was a bank manager in the Midlands, had written her a most gratifying account of the way her son Johnny was settling down at school. Very pleasant—very pleasant indeed. One did not like to think of a child being homesick. But Johnny was so sensible—a good steady lad and likely to do well.

Altogether, she felt deep cause for gratitude. Not only had she herself been preserved without injury throughout the war, but her flat in Montague Mansions had suffered no damage, for one really could not count a few broken windows. The curtains had suffered, it is true, but they had done long and honourable service, and she had now been able to replace them in just the right shade of blue to go with her carpet—that rather bright shade which she still called “peacock,” but which now went by the name of “petrol.” A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but a colour by such an ugly name as petrol lost half its charm, to the ear at any rate. Miss Silver continued to speak of her curtains as peacock blue.

The worn edge of the carpet was now very well hidden by the book-case, and the carpet itself would do for another two or three years, but she was contemplating new coverings for the waisted Victorian chairs with their wide laps, their bow legs, and their bright, carved walnut edges. She would have had them this summer if it had not been for Johnny going to school, but it had been a real pleasure to help Ethel with his outfit.

She sat very upright in one of the chairs that was going to be re-covered, precise and old-fashioned from the hair with its tightly curled fringe in front and its neat coils behind, to the small feet placed primly side by side. The hair was rigidly controlled by a net, and the feet enclosed in black thread stockings—in winter they would have been wool—and black beaded slippers. Where she procured the latter was a mystery as deep as any she had been called upon to solve in her professional career. Detective Sergeant Abbott of Scotland Yard, who was her devoted slave, declared it to be insoluble. For the rest, she wore a dress of artificial silk in a hard shade of brown with dreadful little orange and green dots and dashes disposed in aimless groups upon its surface. It had been new two years ago, and it was not wearing very well.

Frank Abbott hoped for its early decease. It was fastened at the neck by a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with a pearl at the centre. She also wore a thin gold chain supporting a pince-nez. As she only used glasses for fine print, the chain was looped to the left side of her bodice and fastened there with a gold bar brooch. Except for the fact that her skirt cleared the floor by several inches, she might have stepped directly out of a photograph-album of the late nineteenth century. That this was still her spiritual home was made abundantly clear by furniture of the middle fifties, and by the pictures which hung upon her patterned walls, these being reproductions of some of the most famous paintings of the Victorian age. From time to time she shifted them round, exchanging them with those which decorated her bedroom. At the moment “Bubbles” hung above the fireplace, with “The Black Brunswicker” and “The Monarch of the Glen” on either side, whilst “Hope.” “The Soul’s Awakening,” and “The Huguenot” decorated the other walls. The mantelshelf, the top of the book-case, and various occasional tables, were thronged with photographs in plush and silver frames. Sometimes the two were combined—silver filigree on plush. But the photographs were of the young—for the most part the very young. There were babies of all ages—the babies who might never have been born if Miss Silver had not intervened to bring some hidden cause of evil to light and deliver the innocent. The fathers and mothers of the babies were there too—strong young men and pretty girls, allowing some debt of gratitude to the little dowdy spinster with the neat features and the mouse-coloured hair. It was her portrait gallery and the record of her cases, and it grew fuller every year.

Miss Silver read the postscript of Ethel Burkett’s letter again:

“I can’t thank you enough for everything. Johnny shouldn’t need any more stockings this year, but if you have any of the grey wool left, I shall be so grateful for some for Derek. He is growing so fast.”

She smiled as she put the letter back into its envelope. The wool for Derek’s stockings was already wound, and half an inch of ribbing was on the needles.

As she got up to put Ethel’s letter away, the door opened and her invaluable Hannah announced,

“Mr. Latter—”

She saw a slight, fresh-complexioned man with a worried air. That was her first impression of Jimmy Latter—his slightness, his fresh colour, and his worry. By the time she had him sitting opposite to her and her fingers were busy with her knitting needles, she had placed him as a country gentleman who didn’t spend very much of his time in London. His clothes had come from a good tailor, but they were not new— oh, by no means. They were pre-war. Material as good as that had only again become available quite recently.

If the clothes were old, and her visitor middle-aged, she judged the worry to be new. Anxiety of long standing leaves unmistakable marks. Mr. Latter’s fresh skin showed no lines that were not pleasant ones. There were the puckers which laughter leaves about the eyes, and the moulding which it gives to the lips. Whatever the trouble was, it was quite recent. She smiled and said,

“What can I do for you?”

Jimmy Latter was wondering why he had come, and how he could get away. The smile changed the direction of his thoughts. Nice little woman, friendly little woman. Comfortable. Nice comfortable room. Rather jolly pictures. He remembered that one over the mantelpiece, hanging in Mrs. Mercer’s drawing-room as far back as when he and Minnie were children. Something about this little woman that reminded him of Minnie—nice quiet way with her—didn’t rush you. Only of course older. He said,

“Well, I don’t know—I mean, I don’t know that there’s anything you can do. I don’t know that there’s anything to be done.”

“But you have come to see me, Mr. Latter.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Yes—I know—one does things like that, and then when you get there you feel that you are making a fool of yourself.”

The smile came again.

“Does that matter very much? I shall not think so.”

He said, “Oh, well—” and began to fidget with a bunch of keys he had fished out of his pocket. “You see, I heard about you last year from Stella Dundas—she’s a kind of cousin of mine. She couldn’t say enough about you.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked. Derek’s sock revolved. She held her hands low, knitting with great rapidity in the Continental manner.

“I was very glad to be able to help Mrs. Dundas. It was quite a trifling matter.”

“Not to her, it wasn’t—she thought a lot of those pearls. She said it was marvellous the way you spotted the thief.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“Have you had something stolen, Mr. Latter?”

“Well, no, I haven’t.” He jingled the keys. “As a matter of fact it’s something a good bit more serious than that. Look here, if I tell you about it, it will be all in confidence, won’t it?”

Miss Silver gave her slight cough.

“Naturally, Mr. Latter. That is understood.”

He hesitated, swinging the key-ring to and fro.

“I suppose you get told some pretty queer things?”

She smiled again.

“You must not ask me what my other clients say.”

“Oh, no, of course not—I didn’t mean that. But this isn’t a thing to be talked about. The fact is, I don’t believe it myself, and it worries me. It’s about Lois—my wife. She thinks someone is trying to poison her.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!” And then, “What makes her think so?”

Jimmy Latter rumpled his hair.

“Well, it all began with her going to that fellow Memnon. I expect you’ve heard of him.”

Miss Silver coughed disapprovingly and said, “Oh, yes.”

“Well, he told her to beware of poison. But she didn’t think anything about it, you know—not until she began to have these queer attacks.”

“What kind of attacks?”

He looked very worried indeed, and he sounded worried, too.

“Nausea and retching. She’s never had anything like them before, and they come on just for nothing at all.”

“Has she seen a doctor?”

“No—she won’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“She says what’s the use? If there is someone trying to poison her, he can’t stop them—there isn’t anything one can do—well, is there? That’s what she says.”

“I cannot agree as to that. I should like to hear a little more about these attacks. When did she have the first one?”

“About a fortnight ago. She’d been up in town, and she went to see this fellow Memnon, and he warned her like I told you. She came back home—we were having a family party. After dinner, when we were all sitting in the drawing-room, she suddenly ran out of the room. She came back again presently, and I didn’t know what had happened until afterwards, but it seems she had been very sick. That was the first time.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“How long was she away from the room?”

Jimmy dropped the keys and bent to pick them up.

“About a quarter of an hour—not more.”

“You noticed that particularly?”

“I always notice when she isn’t there.”

“And how did she seem when she returned?”

He said with complete simplicity,

“I thought how beautiful she looked.”

Miss Silver knitted for a moment in silence. Then she enquired,

“Did anyone see her during the attack?”

“Oh, yes, Minnie Mercer did—Miss Mercer.”

“I will ask you to explain your household presently. You say that you were a family party. Just now I would like to know whether Mrs. Latter had anything to eat or drink which the rest of the family did not.”

“Only the coffee,” said Jimmy Latter.

When Miss Silver had elicited that Mrs. Latter was the only one of the household who took Turkish coffee, and that in fact only one other person had taken coffee at all—that the Turkish coffee was prepared by the cook in the kitchen, a drop of vanilla added, and the cup placed together with a sugar-basin and a miniature decanter of cognac upon a salver in the pantry where every member of the household could have had access to it, she shook her head slowly and said,

“A very confusing incident. When was the next attack?”

“On the following day, after lunch.”

“Was it more severe, or less?”

“About the same.”

“Did you witness the attack?”

“Yes, I did. She was very sick, poor girl.”

Miss Silver was knitting rapidly.

“But she was all right a little while afterwards? There were no ill effects?”

“No, thank God.”

“Now, Mr. Latter—what did your wife eat at lunch that the rest of the party did not?”

Jimmy rumpled his hair again.

“That’s what’s so puzzling—she didn’t have anything.”

“No coffee?”

“No.”

“Nothing to drink?”

“She doesn’t drink at meals. Slimming, you know—but she’s got a lovely figure—she doesn’t need to.”

The ribbing on Derek’s stocking was more than an inch deep. The needles twinkled briskly.

“Mr. Latter, will you tell me just what you had to eat?”

Jimmy rubbed his nose.

“Well now, let me see if I can remember. I ought to be able to, because I went over it with Minnie to see if there was anything which would account for Lois being upset, but there wasn’t. There was cold lamb and salad—lettuce, beetroot and tomato, and potatoes in their jackets. Then there was a cheese savoury, but Lois didn’t have any of that—and custard-glasses of fruit salad in syrup. She had one of those and so did I, and so did Ellie, and Antony, and Julia.”

“They were separate custard-glasses?”

“Yes.”

“Who served them?”

“Lois had them in front of her. She took one, and helped the others.”

“She helped herself?”

“Oh, yes, definitely.”

“Was there any reason why she should have taken one glass rather than another?”

He dropped the keys again. This time he let them lie.

“Yes, there was,” he said. “There was only one without cream. I never thought about that—she doesn’t take cream.”

Miss Silver stopped knitting for a moment. She looked at him gravely.

“Who would have access to these glasses of fruit after the cook had prepared them?”

He plunged into explanations.

“Antony—my cousin Antony Latter—he collected the meat-plates and took them out. We haven’t a proper staff at present, so we wait on ourselves… Julia and Ellie, my stepsisters—Mrs. Street—and Miss Vane—they were in and out… And so was Minnie. I didn’t want her to do anything, because there were plenty without her, but she would go. I think Julia brought in the savoury, and Minnie the custard-glasses. She will always be doing something—she’s so unselfish.”

Miss Silver laid her knitting down on the arm of her chair and rose to her feet.

“I think, Mr. Latter, that you had better give me the particulars of your household before we go any farther. I find there is a tendency to confusion.”

As he picked up his keys and followed her to the writing-table he had a guilty conviction that the confusion could be nobody’s fault but his own. If he had not had a stepmother who had remarried, it would all be so much easier to explain, but still there would have been Minnie who was no relation at all—

At this point he became hopelessly fogged, because it occurred to him that if it hadn’t been for Marcia and her twins, Minnie never would have been imported into his household. He found himself quite unable to think of the last twenty-five years without her, and quite bewildered at the prospect of having to face a future in which she had no part. He watched gloomily whilst Miss Silver took out a bright red copybook, wrote a heading, and waited, pencil poised, for the particulars she desired.

It cannot be said that the manner in which he produced them was calculated to clarify the situation, but Miss Silver was experienced and firm. When he digressed she brought him back, when he became involved she picked up a thread and disentangled it. In the end she had everyone written down neatly in her red copybook:

Mr. James Latter—51—of Latter End, Rayle.

Mrs. Latter—37—formerly Mrs. Doubleday—two years married.

Antony Latter—28—first cousin—recently demobilized—about to enter family publishing business as a junior partner.

Mrs. Street & Miss Julia Vane—24—twin daughters of Mr. Latter’s stepmother.

Mrs. Street has a husband in hospital at Crampton. Miss Vane is engaged in literary work in London, but has been a frequent visitor during the past fortnight. Before that there was a breach.

Miss Minnie Mercer—48—daughter of the late Dr. John Mercer, family physician to the Latter household, which she entered on her father’s death, just after Mrs. Vane returned to Latter End as a widow for the second time. The twins were born a few months later.

Mrs. Maniple—70—cook-housekeeper—in her fifty-fourth year of service at Latter End.

Poly Pell—17—kitchenmaid.

Mrs. Huggins—occasional daily help.

Not a very long list, and not so very many particulars, but it had taken some time to get them.

Miss Silver sat up straight with the pencil in her hand and gave a slight preliminary cough.

“And now, Mr. Latter, will you tell me if any of these people have a grudge against your wife?”

“How could they have?”

“That is for you to say. You mention, for instance, that Miss Vane, who is now a frequent visitor, had not been so for some time past—that strained relations had in fact existed. With whom had the quarrel been? With your wife?”

“Well, there wasn’t exactly a quarrel. I must have given you a wrong impression. I hope you didn’t write it down. It was just they didn’t hit it off—at least Julia didn’t. Lois was an angel about it—never bore any malice—always said Julia would come round. And she has.”

“There was no quarrel?”

He shook his head.

“Nothing to quarrel about. I’m very fond of Julia—always have been—but she flies off the handle. Very warmhearted girl, but impulsive—doesn’t stop to think. Ellie’s quite different—gentle, you know. Bad luck for her, her husband losing a leg like that…” He wandered off into a life history of Ronnie Street, from which Miss Silver presently recalled him.

“Quite so, Mr. Latter. I hope that he will soon be sufficiently restored to take up the appointment of which you speak. Now about Miss Mercer. You say she is leaving your household after twenty-five years in it. Is that in consequence of any breach with your wife?”

Jimmy showed considerable distress.

“Oh, no—of course not. She wants to go.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“That is not an answer to my question, Mr. Latter. Why does she want to go?”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know. And that’s what’s worrying me—it’s not only the time she’s been with us, but all the time before. You see, my mother died when I was born, and my father couldn’t bear it. He went off abroad—travelling about, you know. Well, Mrs. Mercer took me on. She’d just lost a child. Minnie was born three years later. My father didn’t marry again till I was fifteen. I was with the Mercers till I went to school, and for the holidays after that. Minnie is all the same as my sister.”

Miss Silver’s small nondescript eyes regarded him intelligently.

“Sisters and wives do not always agree, Mr. Latter.”

Jimmy rubbed his nose.

“No—no. Can’t think why women don’t hit it off. Not that Lois—besides you couldn’t quarrel with Minnie—nobody could. She’s one of those quiet, gentle girls—always doing things for other people—never thinking about herself. But Lois says she gets on her nerves.” He rubbed in a most scarifying manner. “Why should she?”

“I do not know, Mr. Latter. It is quite possible that Mrs. Latter does not know either. But you have said quite enough to account for Miss Mercer’s decision to go elsewhere.”

He looked wretched.

“I asked her point-blank why she wanted to go, and I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. You’ve only to look at her to see how unhappy she is. Why, I begged her to stay, and she only turned as white as a sheet and went out of the room.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Well, Mr. Latter, there are two members of your household who are not on very good terms with your wife. What about Mrs. Street?”

It took Jimmy Latter about a quarter of an hour to explain how angelic Lois had been to Ellie—“looked after her like a mother. And of course, as she says, it would never do to have that poor chap Ronnie Street in the house—Ellie would only wear herself out.”

Miss Silver mentally added Ellie Street to the list of those who had no great reason to love Mrs. Latter. Her enquiry as to the attitude of Mr. Antony Latter also provided some grounds for speculation.

“Oh, he was quite a pal of Lois’—knew her before I did. In fact I don’t mind saying I got the wind up about him. Of course he’s a bit younger, but she doesn’t look her age—not anything like. And there they were, always about together— well, I give you my word, I didn’t think I’d got a chance. Antony’s one of those clever chaps. I never thought she’d look at me, but she did—I can’t think why. Anyhow he’s been off abroad for the last two years—just got demobilized. I told you about that.”

Miss Silver had one more question.

“Your cook, Mrs. Maniple—has she any reason to dislike your wife?”

“Oh, no.”

“She is not under notice to leave?”

Jimmy looked quite horrified.

“Of course not! Why, she saw me christened.”

Miss Silver wrote a few more lines in the red copybook. Then, closing it, she looked up and said,

“I would like you to tell me a little more about your wife and these attacks she has been having. The two you have described occurred about a fortnight ago. I imagine that you would not have come to see me unless something had occurred since then. Now that I am clear as to your household, I should like you to tell me of these more recent happenings. When, for instance, did Mrs. Latter begin to think that someone was trying to poison her?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“When was the next incident, Mr. Latter?”

Jimmy rubbed his nose.

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve been away—had to go down to Devonshire to settle up the affairs of an old cousin of mine. Lois didn’t say anything when I came back, but now she says she didn’t feel at all well once or twice whilst I was away. To tell you the honest truth, I didn’t take a great deal of notice— I mean, I thought something had just happened to upset her. People do get upset—don’t they? That first time, for instance, we had had a very good sort of dish with mushrooms in it— well, you know there might have been a bad one. And the second time there was the fruit salad—all dodged up with kümmel—I mean, it might have upset her. And when I came home, there she was, looking the picture of health, so I thought perhaps she’d just got it a bit on her mind because of what this Memnon chap had said to her.”

“Very natural, Mr. Latter.”

“But the day after I came back she was very bad again, after drinking her coffee.”

“The Turkish coffee which was made specially for her?”

“Yes. She was sipping it, and we were talking, when all at once she said, ‘There’s something wrong with this coffee,’ and she put down the cup and ran out of the room. I went after her, and she was very sick, poor girl. When I could leave her I went back to get hold of the coffee cup. It had been taken through into the pantry, but the dregs were there. I took it over to Crampton in the morning to a big chemist’s shop. There was plenty left at the bottom of the cup, and they got it analysed.”

“Well, Mr. Latter?”

He looked at her with puzzled eyes.

“They didn’t find anything.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Is your wife imaginative—neurotic?”

“I shouldn’t have said so.”

“There are two possibilities in this case. One is that Mrs. Latter has induced these attacks by becoming obsessed with the idea of poison. The other—” She paused for a moment. “Mr. Latter, has it occurred to you that the dregs in the coffee cup might have been tampered with?”

He appeared to be very much startled.

“How do you mean—tampered with?”

She replied with gravity.

“If a noxious drug had been introduced into the coffee, the dregs might have been thrown away, the cup washed out, and a little more coffee poured in.”

He stared at her.

“That’s what Lois said when I came back and told her about the chemist. She said the cup might have been washed, and anyone might have done it.”

“Who were present, Mr. Latter?”

“Antony, Julia, Ellie, Minnie, Lois, and myself.”

“And Mrs. Maniple and the girl Polly in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Who took the cup out to the pantry?”

“Minnie did.”

“Could any of the others have had the opportunity of washing it?”

He looked wretchedly unhappy.

“Minnie didn’t wash it—I asked her. I asked them all, because Lois said that one of them must have washed it. But they all said they hadn’t.”

“What did your wife say to that?”

“She said that any of them could have done it.”

“Was that the case?”

“I suppose it was. Ellie went out to speak to Mrs. Maniple, and Julia went to look for her. Antony went with her.”

“And were they together all the time?”

He rubbed his nose.

“Noy they weren’t. There was a lot of coming and going. As a matter of fact it’s all very worrying and uncomfortable, because Lois has got it into her head that someone is trying to poison her, and it means she thinks it’s someone in the family.”

Miss Silver closed her eyes for a moment. She had seen photographs in the picture papers of the beautiful Mrs. Latter.

She was trying to recall those photographs. She looked at Jimmy and said,

“I have seen pictures of your wife. I should like to refresh my memory. Have you by any chance a photograph?”