Miss Silver Comes To Stay (9 page)

Superintendent Drake of the County Police sat in one of the tapestry-covered armchairs in the housekeeper’s room at Melling House. Mrs. Mayhew sat in the other. Constable Whitcombe had made her a cup of tea, and Mayhew had laced it with whisky out of the case which James Lessiter had brought down with him. If she had been capable of coherent thought on any but the one dreadful subject, she would have been very much shocked at the idea of taking spirits so early in the morning. She had come out of that deathlike rigor. The whisky had got into her head and confused it. It had also loosened her tongue. But there was one thing she wasn’t ever going to say, not if they burnt her at the stake. The improbability of this form of persuasion did not present itself. Nobody wasn’t going to hear from her about Cyril coming over from Lenton on the bike he borrowed from Ernie White. If it wasn’t for no other reason, whatever was Fred going to say? Fred didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to know. What was the use of saying he’d done with Cyril and he wouldn’t have him coming about the place? You can’t be done with your own flesh and blood, any more than you can cut off your hand and say you’ll do without it. She’d got to manage so that Fred didn’t know about Cyril coming down and—all the rest of it.

The terror began to come over her again. He mustn’t know—the police mustn’t know—nobody mustn’t know— not ever.

She sat in the tapestry chair, not leaning back against the comfortable patchwork cushion which had been a legacy from her aunt Ellen Blacklock, but sitting straight up in her blue overall, which was very clean and a little faded, her hands clasping one another tightly, her eyes fixed upon the Superintendent’s face. He hadn’t been very long in Lenton, and she hadn’t seen him before. If she had passed him in the street she wouldn’t have thought about him one way or another except for his having red hair, which was a thing she didn’t care about. Red hair and red eyelashes, they gave a man a kind of a foxy look. They’d never had them in their family, but of course it wasn’t her business what other people had—she wasn’t one for meddling with other people’s affairs like some. It wasn’t anything to her whether Superintendent Drake was fair or dark or foxy. Only no matter what he looked like, he was the police, and she’d got to keep him from knowing about Cyril. The terror in her took hold of her body and shook it.

The Superintendent said, “Now, Mrs. Mayhew, there’s no need for you to be nervous. You’ve had a shock, and I’m sorry to trouble you, but I needn’t keep you long. I just want you to tell me what time you got home last night. It was your half day off, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” She was looking at him, but without shifting her gaze she could see that the young man sitting up to the table had written that down. They would write everything down.

It didn’t matter what they wrote just so long as she didn’t say a word about Cyril.

The Superintendent was speaking again.

“And on your half day, what do you generally do?”

“We go into Lenton.”

“Every week?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do when you get there?”

The dreadful grip of the terror had relaxed. He wasn’t asking her anything about Cyril—only what they’d done week in, week out for more years than she could count, when they had their day off.

“We do a bit of shopping, and then we go round to tea with Mr. Mayhew’s sister, Mrs. White.”

“Yes—your husband gave us the address.”

Ernie—Ernie and the bicycle—she didn’t ought to have mentioned Emmy White. But it wasn’t her—it was Fred, and Fred had given the address. She stared at the Superintendent as a rabbit stares at a stoat.

“And after tea, Mrs. Mayhew?”

“We go to the pictures.”

“You do that every week?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s a great thing to have regular habits. I’m that way myself—when I get the chance. Now, Mrs. Mayhew, why didn’t you go to the pictures last night? Your husband says you came back by the early bus. He kept to the regular programme, but you didn’t. Why was that?”

“I came out by the six-forty bus.”

“Yes—it reaches Melling at seven, doesn’t it? Why did you come back early instead of going to the pictures with your husband?”

“I’d a bit of a headache.”

“Have you ever come back like that by yourself before?”

“Mr. Lessiter was here—”

There wasn’t any answer. The Superintendent said,

“You’d left him a cold supper, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you didn’t come back on Mr. Lessiter’s account.”

She couldn’t turn any paler, but a sweat broke upon the skin.

“My head was bad.”

“I see. Now, will you just tell me what you did after you got back.”

Her hands clutched one another. She must tell him everything just like it happened, only nothing about Cyril—nothing about going to the back door and Cyril saying, “Well, I made it. Ernie lent me his bike. If I’d come by the bus, every dog and cat in Melling ’ud know.” She’d got to leave out all the bits about Cyril and tell the truth about the rest. She moistened her stiff lips.

“I come in, and I made me a cup of tea—”

She mustn’t say nothing about giving Cyril his supper, and his saying right in the middle of it, “I’ve got to have some money, Mum. I’m in trouble.”

The Superintendent’s voice made her jump.

“Did you see Mr. Lessiter at all? You say you came home partly because he was here. Did you go to the study and see if he wanted anything?”

He saw her wince, and thought, “She’s hiding something.”

Instinct prompted her, as it will prompt any terrified weak creature. She said on a panting breath,

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“What time would that be?”

“It was just before the news.”

“Just before nine?” He frowned.

“That’s right.”

“You were in before a quarter past seven, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you didn’t go and see if Mr. Lessiter wanted anything until just before nine.”

She said very faintly, “My head was bad—I had to sit for a bit—I didn’t rightly know what I was doing.”

“It’s a long time from a quarter past seven till nine o’clock.”

A long time—a terrible long time… Cyril with his head in her lap—crying… She said in a weak voice,

“I didn’t hardly know how it went. Then I made me some tea and went along to the study.”

“And you saw Mr. Lessiter?”

There was a little colour in Mrs. Mayhew’s cheeks, a flush born of whisky and desperation. She said,

“No, sir—I didn’t see him.”

The eyes behind the foxy lashes bored into her like gimlets.

“You went to the study, and you didn’t see him?”

Mrs. Mayhew nodded, sitting up straight and pinching her left hand with her right till it felt quite bruised.

“I went along to the study like I said, and I opened the door, but I didn’t open it no more than a little.”

“Yes?”

She caught her breath and said in a fluttering voice,

“Miss Rietta Cray was there.”

“Who is Miss Rietta Cray?”

“Lives at the White Cottage—just to the left outside the gates.”

“Go on.”

“I didn’t mean to listen—I wouldn’t do anything like that— I just wanted to know whether to go in. People don’t thank you if they’re talking private.”

“Were they?”

Mrs. Mayhew nodded with emphasis.

“Mr. Lessiter was saying he didn’t particularly want to be murdered.”

Superintendent Drake said, “What!”

Mrs. May hew repeated her nod.

“That’s what he said. And then he went on, ‘Funny you should come along tonight, Rietta. I’ve been burning your letters.’ That’s when I knew it was Miss Cray he was talking to. And then he said something about love’s young dream.”

“Were they engaged?”

She nodded again.

“A matter of twenty years ago—getting on for twenty-five. So I thought I’d better not go in.”

“Did you hear any more?”

She said, “I’m not one to listen.”

“Of course you’re not. But you might have happened to hear something before you shut the door. You did, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did. There was a piece about his turning everything out, looking for a memma something or other his mother left him. I remember that because it rhymed with Emma.”

“Memorandum?”

“That’s right.”

The terror in her was lulled. All this was easy, and no more than gospel truth. She was all right so long as she told the truth and kept away from Cyril. She had a picture in her mind of Cyril in the kitchen fiddling with the knobs of the wireless, and herself a long way off at the study door. Instinct told her to stay there and make as much of it as she could— the same instinct which sets a bird to trail a wounded wing and trick a cat away from its nest. She repeated the Superintendent’s suggestion.

“Memma-randum. Something his mother left for him, and when he was looking for it he’d found Miss Rietta’s letters and—something else.”

“What else?”

“I couldn’t see—the door wasn’t open more than an inch. By what he said, it was a will, sir. Seemed he was showing it to Miss Rietta. And she said, ‘How absurd!’ and Mr. Lessiter laughed and said it was rather. And then he said, ‘Everything to Henrietta Cray, the White Cottage, Melling.’ ”

“You definitely heard him say that to Miss Cray?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Her look was unwavering and truthful.

“Did you hear anything more?”

“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have stayed, but I was that taken aback. I heard him say he’d never made another will. ‘So, if young Carr was to murder me tonight you’d come in for quite a tidy fortune.’ That’s what he said, and it give me the creeps all down my back—I don’t know what I felt like. And I pulled the door to and come back to the kitchen.”

The Superintendent said, “H’m—” And then, “Who is young Carr?”

“Miss Rietta’s nephew, Mr. Carr Robertson.”

“Why should he want to murder Mr. Lessiter—do you know of any reason?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“You don’t know of any quarrel between them?”

“No, sir—” She hesitated.

“Yes, Mrs. Mayhew?”

“Mrs. Fallow—she helps here, and she goes to Miss Cray Saturdays—she passed the remark only yesterday that it was funny Mr. Lessiter never coming down here these twenty years and not knowing scarcely anyone in the village, after being born and brought up here. And I said there wasn’t hardly anyone would know him by sight, and she said, ‘That’s right,’ and she brought in Mr. Carr’s name. Seems she’d heard him say he wouldn’t know Mr. Lessiter if he was to meet him—but I don’t know how he come to say it.”

The Superintendent said, “H’m—” again. He may have suspected a red herring. He brought Mrs. Mayhew firmly back to the events of the night before.

“You returned to the kitchen without hearing any more. That would be at something after nine?”

“Yes, sir—the news was on.”

Sweat broke on her temples. She didn’t ought to have said that, she didn’t. Cyril fiddling with knobs—Cyril turning on the news—

“You’d left the wireless running?”

The flush burned in her cheeks, her feet were like ice. She said,

“Yes, sir—it’s company.”

“Did you go back to the study again later?”

She nodded.

“I thought I would.”

“What time would that be?”

“A quarter to ten. I thought Miss Rietta would be gone.”

“Did you see Mr. Lessiter then?”

“No—” It was just a whisper, because it came over her that when she opened the study door that second time Mr. Lessiter might have been dead, and if she had opened it a little farther and gone in she might have seen him lying there across the table with his head smashed.

It wasn’t Cyril—it wasn’t Cyril—it wasn’t Cyril!

“What did you do?”

“I opened the door like I did before, quiet. There wasn’t anyone talking. I thought, ‘Miss Rietta’s gone,’ and I opened the door a little farther. Then I see Miss Rietta’s coat lying across a chair.”

“How do you know it was hers?”

“There was a bit of the lining turned back—a kind of a plaid with a yellow stripe. It’s Mr. Carr’s coat really—an old one he leaves at the Cottage. Miss Rietta will wear it if she feels that way.”

“Go on.”

“I shut the door and come away.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought Miss Rietta hadn’t gone. The room was all quiet. I thought—”

It was plain enough what she had thought. Everyone in the village knew that James Lessiter and Rietta Cray had been young lovers. Everyone would have thought it quite right and proper if they had come together again. The Superintendent decided that Mrs. Mayhew was speaking the truth. He wondered if she had anything more to tell. She had an uncertain look, her hands fidgeted in her lap. He said,

“Well—what is it?”

Mrs. Mayhew moistened her lips.

“It was the raincoat, sir—I couldn’t help but notice—”

“What did you notice?”

“The sleeve was hanging down so I couldn’t help but see it.”

“What did you see?”

Mrs. Mayhew said in a trembling voice,

“It was the cuff—it was all over blood—”

Between eleven and twelve o’clock Superintendent Drake made his way to the White Cottage. Miss Cray was at home. She received him in the dining-room, very pale, very much under control. Sizing her up from between his red eyelashes, he considered that she might have done it, but if she had, he would have expected her to keep her head and not go leaving her raincoat for anyone to see. If she had left it. Perhaps she hadn’t—perhaps she was still in the room when the housekeeper opened the door the second time. Mrs. Mayhew said she had seen the coat at a quarter to ten with blood on the sleeve, but it wasn’t there in the morning when Mayhew discovered the body. It might have been removed at any moment between those times. If Miss Cray was still in the room at a quarter to ten she could have taken it when she left. If she had already gone she could have come back for it later—she, or the nephew.

He had these things in his mind as he took the chair she offered him and sat down. Constable Whitcombe sat down too, took out a notebook, arranged himself for writing.

Drake watched her closely when he introduced James Lessiter’s name. Her face did not change.

“You have heard of Mr. Lessiter’s death?”

He got a quiet, rather deep-toned “Yes.”

“When did you hear of it, Miss Cray—and how?”

“Mrs. Welby came over. She had heard of it from the milkman.”

“He hadn’t let you know?”

“He calls here before he goes to Melling House.”

“You were very much shocked and surprised?”

“Yes.”

The dining-table was between them. His chair was turned sideways. He shifted it now so as to face her more directly.

“Miss Cray, can you give me an account of your movements last night?”

“My movements?”

He was conscious of a slight feeling of satisfaction. When anyone repeated what you had said, it meant just one thing, whether it was man or woman. It meant that they were rattled, and that they were playing for time. He thought Miss Rietta Cray would do with a bit of a jolting. He proceeded to jolt her.

“You have your nephew staying with you—Mr. Carr Robertson? And a friend of his—?”

Rietta Cray supplied the name.

“Frances Bell.”

“I’d like to know what you were all doing last night.”

“We were here.”

“You didn’t leave the house—are you quite sure about that? Mrs. Mayhew states that she heard Mr. Lessiter address you by name when she went to the study door just before nine.”

The bright colour of anger came into her cheeks. Her grey eyes blazed. Had the Superintendent been a student of the classics, he might have been reminded of Virgil’s famous line about the “very goddess.” Not knowing it, he nevertheless received a general impression that Miss Cray was a high-tempered lady and a surprisingly handsome one. And he thought he had jolted her all right. But she fixed a steady gaze on him as she said,

“Mrs. Mayhew is perfectly right. I went up to see Mr. Lessiter between half past eight and a quarter past nine.”

“You were back here at a quarter past nine?”

“Miss Bell will tell you so. She remarked when I came in that I had missed the news.”

“Miss Bell? What about Mr. Robertson?”

“He wasn’t in the room.”

“Was he in the house?”

“No—he had gone for a walk.”

The Superintendent lifted his reddish eyebrows.

“At that hour!”

Miss Cray replied, “Why not?”

He left it at that.

“Miss Cray, I must ask you about this visit of yours to Melling House. You are an old friend of Mr. Lessiter’s?”

“I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years.”

“You were engaged to him?”

“More than twenty years ago.”

“There was a breach—a quarrel?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Who broke off the engagement?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I think that’s my business.”

The grey eyes were angry, scornful, and very fine. He didn’t know when he had seen a finer pair of eyes. He thought a woman who could get so much angry scorn into a look might very well do murder if she was put to it. He said,

“Miss Cray, were you aware that Mr. Lessiter had made a will in your favour?”

“He showed it to me last night. I told him it was absurd.”

“He had been burning your letters, hadn’t he?”

“If Mrs. Mayhew was listening at the door she will have told you that.”

“He had been burning your letters, and then he showed you the will—it’s dated twenty-four years ago. And he threw that on to the fire too.”

She said, “No—it was I who put it on the fire.”

“Oh, it was you?”

“The whole thing was absurd—a will made during a boy-and-girl engagement. I put it on the fire, but he took it off again. If Mrs. Mayhew was listening she ought to be able to confirm that. I would like you to understand that Mr. Lessiter was—” she hesitated, and then said, “amusing himself.”

“You mean he wasn’t serious?”

“Of course he wasn’t serious. He was teasing me. He saw that I was vexed, and it amused him.”

“You were vexed?”

“I disliked the whole thing very much.”

He leaned towards her, an elbow on the table.

“Was Mr. Lessiter amusing himself when he spoke of the possibility of his being murdered by Mr. Carr Robertson?”

She could control her voice, but not her angry blood. She felt it burn her face as she said,

“Of course!”

“You mean that he was joking. But there must be some reason even for a joke. Why should he make a joke like that?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Mrs. Mayhew states that she heard him say at one time that he didn’t particularly want to be murdered. And later on, after he had shown you the will and read out from it, ‘Everything to Henrietta Cray, the White Cottage, Melling,’ she heard him say, ‘If young Carr was to murder me tonight, you’d come in for quite a tidy fortune.’ He did say that, Miss Cray?”

“Something like it. I’ve told you he wasn’t serious. People don’t say that sort of thing seriously.”

“There’s many a true word spoken in jest. Murder is serious, Miss Cray. Mr. Lessiter was murdered last night. As far as we have any evidence, you were the last person to see him alive. Why did you go and see him?”

She said with composure, “Why should I not?”

“I was asking you why you did.”

“Why does one do anything? I thought I would.”

“It was a sudden impulse?”

“You may call it that.”

“Were you wearing a coat?”

“Certainly.”

“What kind of a coat?”

“I took one that was hanging in the hall.”

“Was it a coat belonging to your nephew?”

“It may have been—I took the first one I touched.”

“You were wearing it when you went?”

“Naturally.”

“And when you came back?”

Her colour rose again. She looked at him.

“Superintendent Drake, what is all this about my coat? I wore it, and it’s back on its hook in the hall.”

“Then I should like to see it, Miss Cray.”

If she had kept a brave front it covered a bitter cramping fear. She had made up her mind to tell the truth as far as she could, and when she got past that point to hold her tongue. There was more than one old coat hanging up in the hall—she could say that she had worn one of the others… She couldn’t do it. If you have been brought up to tell the truth, it is very difficult indeed to tell a lie, and next door to impossible to make it convincing. Rietta Cray had a direct and simple nature and a truthful tongue. She couldn’t do it. In a moment she was to be glad of this, because Inspector Drake walked down the line of coats, turning each one back so as to see the inner side. When he came to a plaid lining with a yellow stripe, he stopped, unhooked the coat, and turned back to the dining-room.

She followed him with a cold drag at her heart. If he had recognized Carr’s raincoat, it was because someone at Melling House had seen it and described it to him. Mrs. Mayhew had been listening at the door. If she had opened it a little way she might have seen the coat. That wouldn’t matter, because the Superintendent already knew that she had talked with James Lessiter. But suppose Mrs. Mayhew had come back later and seen the coat as it was when Carr brought it home— the sleeve soaked with blood, the whole right side of it splashed and stained—

It was a darkish morning. He took the coat to the window and examined it by touch and eye. He exclaimed,

“It’s damp!” And then, “This coat has been washed.” He held it at arm’s length with his right hand and pointed with his left. “All this right side has been washed—you can see the watermark. Why did you wash it, Miss Cray?”

She wasn’t angry now, she was controlled and pale. She made no answer.

“Was it to wash the bloodstains out? Mrs. Mayhew saw the sleeve hanging down, and the cuff was stained with blood.”

“I scratched my wrist.”

It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie, and not even a good one. She pulled away the sleeve of the jumper, and he said what Carr had said last night,

“That little scratch!”

Those were the words, but the tone added something. It said plainly and scornfully, “Can’t you do better than that?”

She made up her mind that she wouldn’t answer any more questions. She was perfectly plain about it, standing up straight and looking him in the face.

“I’ve told you the truth, and I have no more to say… Yes, I’ll sign a statement if you want me to, but I won’t answer any more questions.”

He folded up the raincoat, put it down on the window-seat, and asked to see Miss Frances Bell.