Miss Silver Deals With Death (17 page)

All over Vandeleur House tea was being prepared. Mrs. Willard, refreshed by several hours of sleep, made herself a nice strong pot and partook of it with some thinly buttered toast. Mr. Willard had not returned, but as he never was at home to tea except on a Saturday or a Sunday, that did not disturb her. She felt as if she had emerged from a nightmare. Alfred had been foolish, but he was her own again. He had knelt at her feet and wept. Carola Roland was dead. She had had a nice long sleep, and she was enjoying her tea. Ivy Lord had returned from the town. She had seen her boy friend in the distance and had a wave of the hand and a smile, so she was feeling better. Mrs. Underwood had retired to her room directly after lunch and could be presumed to be resting. Giles and Meade had the drawing-room to themselves. Meade had stopped thinking. She felt as one feels after an anaesthetic which has blotted out pain. Consciousness has come back, but it is a state in which one is afraid to move lest the pain should return. She was content to feel Giles’ arm about her, to lean her cheek against his, and to let him talk.

Presently Ivy came in with the tray, and after that the front door of the flat opened and shut. Mrs. Underwood came in. She said in a complaining voice,

“I can’t think what Miss Silver is doing. She’s been up in the Spooners’ flat all the afternoon. I’ve just looked out to see if she was coming, and there isn’t a sign of her. Ring her up, Meade, and say tea is ready. You know the number.” She plumped into a chair, and as Meade went over to the telephone, she said, “Miss Garside has had a visitor—wonders will never cease! I saw her getting into the lift.”

Miss Garside had just poured the boiling water from the kettle into the small brown pot which had replaced a cherished piece of Queen Anne silver, when there was a ring at the bell. She opened the door and saw with surprise that the person who had rung was a stranger—an ultra-fashionable youngish woman, a good deal made up, with fair hair curling on her shoulders, a smart black coat, a ridiculous little tilted hat, and spectacles with rims of very light tortoise-shell. She moved into the lobby and spoke with a mincing accent.

“Miss Garside?”

Miss Garside inclined her head.

“If I could just speak to you for a moment. It is about the ring.”

Miss Garside closed the door. Her manner, always very reserved, became more so.

“Are you from Allingham’s?” she said.

The conversation which followed was not a very long one. Some time later the visitor came out of the flat and went down in the lift. It was at this moment that she was seen by Mrs. Underwood.

The woman in black makes this brief passage and disappears. Her remark about the ring and Miss Garside’s response were heard only by themselves. There was therefore nothing to connect her in anybody’s mind with Allingham’s or with the ring. What passed between her and Miss Garside in the closed flat is, and must remain, a matter of conjecture. The most important thing about her brief appearance is that she was the last person to see Miss Garside alive.

Miss Silver had enjoyed her tea. Such a bright, comfortable room. Damp and misty outside, but so cosy in Mrs. Underwood’s sitting-room with the light switched on and a small bright fire. Ivy had made some very good scones, and Wing Commander Underwood had sent his wife some honey from the north. Of course everyone was rather quiet. That was only to be expected. So recent and so shocking a fatality, and though not in any case a personal loss, poor Miss Roland was, after all, Major Armitage’s sister-in-law. It was only natural that he should appear grave and preoccupied, and that his fiancée should look white and shaken. Not a pleasant experience for a young girl—not at all. Mrs. Underwood too—it was quite clear that she had a great deal on her mind. It would do them all good to be taken out of themselves.

In pursuance of this laudable object Miss Silver produced a constant stream of small talk interspersed with so many questions about everything and everybody in all the flats that the others were kept busy answering her. She took a most particular interest in Mr. Drake, of whom she had caught just a glimpse on her arrival.

“Such a fine man—quite romantic-looking really. And he reminds me of someone. Now, I wonder if you can help me—”

Meade achieved a smile and said,

“Is it Mephistopheles?”

Miss Silver beamed.

“Of course! How very stupid of me! Really a most remarkable likeness. I hope it does not extend to his character. What did you say his business was?”

Meade said in a hesitating voice,

“I don’t know—”

“Nobody does,” said Mrs. Underwood. She put a disagreeable emphasis on the words.

Giles raised his eyebrows, and Miss Silver said mildly,

“Dear me—that sounds very intriguing.”

Mrs. Underwood tossed her head. Its auburn waves were in perfect order, but her face sagged and seemed to have another ten years of lines upon it. She said in a hard, accusing voice,

“No one knows anything about him at all, and if Agnes Lemming isn’t careful she’ll find herself in a mess.”

For the next five minutes Miss Silver was regaled with all the things Mrs. Underwood had not said to Agnes Lemming.

“I’ve seen them walking up from the town. I suppose she knows when his train gets in, and happens to be shopping then. What he can possibly see in her, I can’t imagine, and I must say if I were her mother I should want to know a good deal more about him…”

Meade looked distressed and said nothing. Miss Silver presently switched the conversation to another flat.

“Mrs. Meredith—such a dear old lady, Mrs. Smollett tells me, but sadly deaf. Do you know her at all? She seems to have a very devoted companion in Miss Crane, but the maid appears to be a very uncommunicative person. I am wondering if there is any connection with some Meredith of whom I used to hear from a dear friend of mine. Do you know where this old lady lived before she came here?”

Meade was so relieved at the change of subject that she was quite glad to have something to say.

“Bell says—” she began, and then hesitated.

“Bell?” said Mrs. Underwood sharply.

“Yes. He told me that when she first came here Mrs. Meredith used to ask every time she went out in her chair whether they were going to the Pantiles, and once she said she wanted to go to the Toad Rock. And she told Bell she used to live on Mount Pleasant—he has to help to get her chair down the steps, you know—but she doesn’t talk so much now, poor old thing.”

“Very sad,” said Miss Silver in a kind, brisk voice. “And now tell me something about Miss Garside. I have not met her yet, but she interests me. Do you know at all what her tastes and connections have been?”

Mrs. Underwood tossed her head in an even more marked manner than before.

“She thinks herself better than anyone else—we all know that—but I don’t know that anyone knows why. She used to keep house for a brother who was a professor, I believe, and they used to travel a great deal—France, Germany, Italy—all that kind of thing. I suppose that’s how she got her stuck-up ideas.”

“The Lemmings know her,” said Meade. “Agnes says she is very proud and reserved. She came here after her brother died, and I’m afraid she isn’t at all well off now. Agnes isn’t very happy about her.”

Miss Silver said, “I see—” and began to ask a great many questions about Mr. and Mrs. Willard and the Lemmings.

When tea was over she proceeded helpfully to the kitchen.

“We are such a party that I am sure you would like a little assistance with the washing-up, Ivy. I was drying for Mrs. Smollett after lunch, and we got along so quickly.”

Ivy looked doubtful. She wasn’t sure that she wanted a visitor in her kitchen. If Miss Meade had thought of giving a hand— but she didn’t hardly look fit, and there was Major Armitage there and all. She received such a pleasant smile that she changed her mind. Company was company when all was said and done, and after what had happened you didn’t want to be alone no more than you could help. She said,

“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”

“Such pretty china,” said Miss Silver brightly. “Roses are great favourites of mine. Ah, I see that you have a good hot water supply. Such a comfort.”

Ivy had turned on the tap and was piling the tea things in a papier mâché bowl. Miss Silver continued to talk. The girl looked as if she had cried her eyes out—she had noticed that as she arrived this morning. It had been a good idea to send her out after lunch. She was looking all the better for it. She said aloud,

“You are very quick and clever with your hands, Ivy. I expect that would be your training as an acrobat. Miss Meade was telling me about it. Such a fascinating life. I read a very interesting book about a year ago about circus life called Luke’s Circus—really most charming, and of absorbing interest. Domestic work must be a great change for you, is it not?”

Ivy found herself telling the visitor all about Glad, and the accident, and how the doctors didn’t think she’d ever be much good at walking again.

“But I’m as good as ever as far as that goes. I wouldn’t like to go on the wire again. I’m awful out of practice, and I wouldn’t like to anyhow, not without Glad. I miss her bad enough as it is, and it’d be worse if I went back. We wasn’t reelly circus people, you know—not reelly. We were on the halls most of the time. Glad and Ivy—that was us. I’ve got some old bills with the names on. Seems a long time ago.”

“Was that where you knew Miss Roland?” said Miss Silver gently.

Ivy dropped one of the rose-flowered cups. It fell into the sink and broke. She gave a queer half-smothered cry.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Miss Silver—“and never mind about the cup. It was when you were on the halls that you met Miss Roland, was it not?”

Ivy blinked.

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” she said.

Miss Silver said, “No, I suppose not.” She looked at Ivy very kindly. “But it does not matter now.”

Ivy stood with her back to the sink, gripping the edge of it with her strong bony hands.

“What’s it got to do with you? I never said a word—I swear I didn’t. I never told no one. She was kind to Glad and me when we were kids. She used to let us watch her dress—help her on with her wings. She was in an act called The Fairy Butterfly, and she looked lovely. She didn’t want no one to know about us knowing each other. What does it matter now anyhow? She’s dead.”

Miss Silver said in her kindest voice,

“No, it doesn’t matter now. I think you had better tell me about it. She got you to come here to Mrs. Underwood, didn’t she?”

Ivy stared. She would have backed away if there had been anywhere to go, but the sink held her.

“How do you know?” she said in a frightened whisper.

Miss Silver took the success of a chance shot equably.

“You met her. Was it by accident? It is always pleasant when one runs up against an old friend like that. And she told you she had taken a flat here, and suggested that you should apply for Mrs. Underwood’s place?”

Ivy nodded. It was like being at the dentist’s, only worse. All the things she wouldn’t have told anyone were being pulled out of her one by one. Her thoughts raced to and fro, looking for a place to hide themselves. Her sharp Cockney mind came to the rescue. “Tell her something—quick! She won’t stop till you do. Tell her enough to make her stop, and she’ll think she’s got the lot. Coo—she’s a one!” She blinked again and said in a breathless voice,

“You didn’t arf give me a start, miss. However did you know?”

Miss Silver made no answer to that. She asked a question instead.

“Do you really walk in your sleep?”

This was awful. It took the rest of Ivy’s breath away. She began to feel as if she hadn’t any clothes on and Miss Silver’s eyes were looking right through her to her bones. She gasped and said,

“I did when I was a kid.”

“Have you walked in your sleep since you came here?”

“I might ha’ done.”

Miss Silver shook her head in slight but kind reproof.

“I think not. Mrs. Underwood locks the front door and takes the key into her room at night, does she not? I think you have been getting out of your window and walking along the ledge that runs round the house until you came to the fire-escape. Only someone who had had an acrobat’s training would have attempted such a thing, but it would not be difficult for you. I expect you rather enjoyed it. I notice that a ledge runs round the house on a level with the windows of each floor, so you had only to go up the fire-escape in order to reach Miss Roland’s flat. I see that the escape comes up beside the sitting-room window. In this way you could pay her a visit without anyone knowing about it. That is what you used to do, is it not?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you dropped a piece of paper inside Mrs. Underwood’s bedroom window on your return from one of these visits. I do not know whether you meant to drop it there or not. I think not. I think you had it in your hand, and that you dropped it as you were steadying yourself by the sash whilst passing the window. Now this piece of paper was the corner of a letter which Mrs. Underwood had written. The rest of the letter was found in Miss Roland’s bag. So, you see, it was quite clear to me that you must have passed Mrs. Underwood’s window on a return journey from Miss Roland’s flat. There was really no other way in which that particular piece of paper could have reached the spot where Mrs. Underwood found it. Her bedroom door and the door of the flat were both locked. There was no other way.”

Ivy stared. Then she moistened her lips with her tongue and said,

“That’s right.”

“How did the letter get torn?”

Miss Silver had hardly asked the question before she was aware of having made a mistake. Ivy’s immediate reaction was that after all Miss Silver didn’t know everything. Quite visibly she rallied to the defence of what she was determined to hide. Something uncommonly like impudence looked sideways out of the reddened eyes.

“Coo! Don’t you know?”

Miss Silver’s manner became gently repressive.

“I think you tried to snatch it.”

Impudence ran away in a fright. Ivy gaped.

“It wasn’t hers—she didn’t ought to have had it—I told her so. Mind you, it wasn’t a row. She only laughed, but I thought I was going to lose my temper, so I came away.”

“How did she get the letter?” said Miss Silver.

Sharp and quick, Ivy’s Cockney wit prompted her. “Here’s your chance. Take it, you fool!” Easy—easy—easy—She opened her eyes in a blank stare.

“How do I know how she got it? Same way we all do. Postman comes reg’lar, doesn’t he?”

“How did you know she had it?”

No way out after all. And your heart coming right up into your throat by the feel of it. What could you do?

She did the only thing that was any good. It happened also to be the easiest thing in the world. She gave a rending sob and burst into tears.

“What are you getting at? What’s it got to do with me? And what’s it got to do with you? I don’t know nothing about it, and I wish I was dead!” Upon which she ran out of the kitchen and banged the door.

Miss Silver, listening with an air of sober attention, heard the slam of the bedroom door and the sound of the key clicking round in the lock.