Miss Silver Deals With Death (21 page)

By ones and twos the inmates of Vandeleur House came out of their flats and took the lift or walked up the stair to the top of the house, where the door of No. 8 stood wide with Sergeant Abbott on the threshold to usher them in.

Mrs. Underwood got into the lift, which already contained the Lemmings, but Meade and Giles walked up the stairs. Meade said low in his ear, her face upturned, her grey eyes dark,

“I can’t make Agnes out. Aren’t people queer? Up to now she’s just been anyone’s slave who wanted one, and the way her mother trampled made me boil. She didn’t seem to have a life of her own at all, she just did things for other people. But now it’s all different. She’s so taken up with what is happening to her, she hardly notices that there’s been a murder and a suicide in the house.”

Giles laughed.

“This is where I ask what’s happening to her, isn’t it?”

“Wait and see,” said Meade. She slipped a hand through his arm and brought her voice down to a murmur. “Giles—what is all this about? I don’t like it very much. Why have we all got to go up to Carola’s flat? What was Miss Silver saying to you when she took you off and talked to you just now? Is anything horrid going to happen?”

“Miss Silver seems to think so,” said Giles with rather an odd inflexion.

“Oh, I do hope not!”

“I don’t know—” He bent and kissed the cheek that was nearest. “Hush—not a word!” he said, and hurried her on with an arm round her. Nobody could have heard what passed, it was all so quick and low between the two of them.

They came into Carola Roland’s sitting-room, and found that the furniture had been shifted and rearranged. The writing-table had been pushed against the right-hand wall, and Chief Inspector Lamb sat with his back to it as if he had been writing up to the last moment and had then swung round to face the window. Between him and the door there were three chairs, which were occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Willard and Mr. Drake, Mr. Drake being nearest the door. Upon Lamb’s other side was a vacant chair, and then Mrs. Lemming, Agnes, and Mrs. Underwood. The couch had been moved to the hearth, where it stood with its back to the fireplace. Someone had covered the mark which stained it with an incongruous tartan rug, and here in state sat Miss Silver and Miss Crane, the former still in her outdoor clothes, the latter in her customary drab attire of raincoat and old felt hat. Both ladies wore woollen stockings and very sensible shoes. Beyond the couch stood another empty chair. The silver dancer was back upon the mantelpiece, but the photograph of Giles Armitage had disappeared. It being a mild and muggy evening, both windows stood open, the lower sash of each being raised to the fullest extent. It was half past six and daylight outside—three quarters of an hour to sunset, but a dull sky and thickening air.

The ceiling light shone down upon the blue carpet, the blue and silver upholstery, the tartan rug, and the people in the room. It showed the Inspector looking solid and serious; Mrs. Lemming, handsome and quite obviously in a very bad temper; Agnes in her new clothes, a flush on her cheeks and a dreaming light in her eyes; Mr. Drake, who looked at her and looked away; Mrs. Underwood, breathing quickly and looking as if everything she had on was too tight for her; the Willards, she flushed and untidy, her hair slipping, an inch of petticoat visible at the hem of her dark blue dress, he very much himself again, very stiff, very official; Meade between the Inspector and Agnes, small and young like a child who has got into a grown-up party by mistake—small, and young, and just a little bit afraid. Giles had been reft away from her and given the vacant chair on the farther side of the couch. Thus, starting at the door with Sergeant Abbott, the names run as follows. On the right-hand side of the room—Mr. Drake, Mrs. Willard, Mr. Willard, Chief Inspector Lamb, Meade Underwood, Agnes Lemming, Mrs. Lemming. Across the hearth—Mrs. Underwood, then the couch with Miss Silver and Miss Crane. And lastly, Giles Armitage on a gimcrack skeleton of a chair which must have been a great deal stronger than it looked, since it supported him without so much as a creak.

The first thing Meade noticed was that there were five absentees. Nobody of course would expect old Mrs. Meredith to be here, or that she should be left alone in her flat. Since Miss Crane had come, Packer would of course be obliged to stay behind. But Ivy wasn’t here either. Perhaps she was coming, or perhaps she had refused to come. She had been very queer and upset all day, bursting into tears and giving notice one minute, and relapsing into a sort of dumb misery the next. Bell wasn’t here either, or Mrs. Smollett. Bell would be glad enough to be out of any unpleasantness, but Mrs. Smollett would never get over it. Meade felt thankful she wasn’t there, but perhaps she too was coming. It looked as if somebody else was expected, because there were two chairs on the left of the door next to where Sergeant Abbott was standing. Perhaps one of them was for him. No, it wasn’t, because here was someone else arriving. Of course—this must be Carola’s sister, Mrs. Jackson.

She came in, pale and slight, in the new black which spells mourning, followed by a delicate-looking young man with a limp who was Ernest Jackson. They sat down, marked out from the others by their mourning garb, their late arrival, their separate seats.

Sergeant Abbott shut the door and stood against it, not lounging now, but slim and upright and tall, his face expressionless and his blue eyes cool. Actually, he was conscious of some excitement. Was Maudie going to land them in a fiasco, or were they going to bring off something big? He had a tingling in his bones which he did not remember to have experienced over a case before. He looked at the quiet, ordinary people sitting round the room and wondered at himself. He looked at Miss Maud Silver and wondered at her, a quiet, ordinary spinster sitting side by side with another quiet, ordinary spinster, only a bit of Highland tartan between them and the stain made by the blood of a murdered chorus girl—murdered in this room, and perhaps by one of these very ordinary people. Fantastic, but—well, here they were. Ring up the curtain!

Chief Inspector Lamb cleared his throat and looked at Miss Silver. Miss Silver, sitting primly upright with her ungloved hands in her lap, began to speak. The gloves, a pair of worn black suede, lay on the tartan rug between her and Miss Crane. She used exactly the voice and manner with which she would have addressed a class of children. She showed no trace either of self-importance or nervousness. Her look was kind and grave. She said,

“The Chief Inspector has called you all together to clarify a few doubtful points. He is very kindly allowing me to ask one or two questions. I shall begin by explaining my own position. I have been engaged upon a private investigation which seems to have some connection with the sad events of the last two days. The matter I had in hand, though trifling in itself, has acquired a certain importance from the fact of Miss Roland’s sudden and tragic death. Murder,” said Miss Silver in her placid schoolroom voice—“murder has a way of giving significance to the most insignificant trifles. Since yesterday morning we have, I think, all become aware of this. Our every movement, our simplest action, has had the searchlight of an official investigation turned upon it. This is a most unpleasant experience, but in these tragic circumstances it cannot be avoided. I shall not detain you a moment longer than I can help. I am merely anxious at this time to make certain that the time-table which I have here is correct, and to fill in one or two gaps.”

She paused, opened her shabby black bag, and took out a neatly folded paper from which she proceeded to read.

“Time-table of the events of Wednesday evening:—Between 6:30 and 8:30 Miss Roland had several visitors with whom I am not at the moment concerned. She was last seen alive, as far as the Chief Inspector has been able to ascertain, at 8:30, when she came out on to the landing and waved good-bye to a friend who was going down in the lift. It is from this time that speculation takes the place of direct evidence. There is reason to believe that Miss Garside paid a visit to this flat between 8:35 and 8:50. I think, Mrs. Lemming, that you made several attempts to get into telephonic communication with her and failed to do so.”

Mrs. Lemming, leaning back in her chair with an air of complete indifference, was understood to assent. She was immediately and very directly addressed by the Chief Inspector.

“You tried to ring Miss Garside up—and more than once? How often?”

Mrs. Lemming turned a bored glance upon him.

“Three times, I believe.”

“You are not sure?”

“Oh, yes, I am sure.”

He went on questioning her until he elicited that she had looked at her watch before ringing up and that it was then 8.35, and again at ten minutes to nine, when she decided that it was too late to get the game of three-handed bridge which had been the object of her original call.

This disposed of, Lamb looked at Miss Silver and nodded. She began to speak again immediately.

“After that we have a considerable hiatus. It is this gap which someone here may be able to fill. Mrs. Willard, you were, I believe, in some anxiety about your husband that evening. He had gone out soon after seven, and he did not actually return until nearly ten o’clock next morning, having been detained at the home of his brother, Mr. Ernest Willard. Being uncertain as to when your husband would return, you probably opened the door of your flat from time to time and looked out. You did in fact do this, as you informed the Chief Inspector. Now did you on any such occasion see anyone either going up in the lift, or upon the stair between your floor and the next one above it? Your flat being immediately beneath Miss Roland’s, and the other top flat being empty, it would be fair to deduce that any person so seen was on his or her way to or from Miss Roland’s flat. Did you see anyone, Mrs. Willard?”

On being first addressed, Mrs. Willard, who had been looking down at her own clasped hands, gave a start and looked up. As the enquiry proceeded, a distressing flush covered her face and neck. Her eyes took on a frightened expression, her hands clung damply together. At the direct question she swallowed convulsively but did not speak. Beside her Mr. Willard stiffened, straightened his pince-nez, and took the word.

“If I may be allowed to reply for Mrs. Willard, the answer is in the affirmative.”

“She did see someone?”

“She did. When she informed me of the fact, which was not until this afternoon, my opinion—I may say my very strongly expressed opinion—was that the police should be informed immediately.”

“I don’t want to get anyone into trouble,” said Mrs. Willard in a stifled voice.

The Chief Inspector addressed her in an admonitory tone.

“Now, Mrs. Willard, you must understand that this is a very serious matter. You won’t get any innocent person into trouble, you know. You don’t want to shield a guilty one—do you?”

“I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

“Mrs. Willard—who did you see?”

It was at this point that Mr. Drake got quietly to his feet and said pleasantly,

“She saw me, Inspector.”

A faint whisper of sound stirred in the room. It was as if everyone had moved a little—as if each had breathed more deeply.

Lamb said, “You came up here to No. 8?”

“I did.”

“What time was this?”

“Half past nine.”

“Why did you come?”

“To see Miss Roland.”

His eyes went past the Inspector to Agnes Lemming. She was pale, but she looked back at him.

Lamb went on.

“Did you see her?”

“No—I didn’t get in. I rang, and there was no answer, so I came away.”

“Was the door shut or open?”

The eyebrows which gave Mr. Drake his resemblance to Mephistopheles rose in an even sharper arch. After a momentary pause he replied,

“The door was ajar.”

“Did you go in?”

“Oh, no.”

“It didn’t occur to you that there might be something wrong?”

“Frankly, it didn’t. I thought she was expecting a visitor. I was afraid that I might be de trop.”

Lamb looked at him hard. Everyone in the room looked at him. Frank Abbott thought, “Here’s a red herring with a vengeance! We put Maudie up to waste time whilst Curtis and the boys get busy downstairs, and she fishes this up. Well, well— on with the play!”

Lamb said in his weightiest voice,

“May I ask what was the purpose of your visit, Mr. Drake?”

To which Mr. Drake replied,

“Oh, just a little matter of business. She was blackmailing me.”

“She was blackmailing you?”

Mr. Drake smiled.

“Oh, not very seriously. You see, she had discovered my guilty secret. She didn’t like me very much, and she thought it would embarrass me if she let it out. My visit was for the purpose of telling her that it was a matter of supreme indifference to me.”

Abbott thought, “The Chief will spin this out. It’s a good red herring. I like this chap. I wonder what he’s playing at. He’s got some game of his own. The Chief’s playing up to him.”

Lamb said directly.

“Well, Mr. Drake, if that’s true, you’d better tell us what this guilty secret was.”

Mr. Drake looked past him down the room.

“Oh, certainly. I’m a pork butcher.”

There was an electric silence. Mrs. Willard stared. Mr. Willard stared. Mrs. Lemming looked disgusted. Miss Crane began to laugh in a silly giggling way, with little gasps for breath and little dabbings with a large white handkerchief. Agnes Lemming got up, walked down the room, and slipped her hand inside Mr. Drake’s arm. Mrs. Lemming said sharply,

“Agnes, have you gone mad?”

But Agnes stood there smiling. She looked radiant. She turned with that smiling gaze to the room and said in a simple, happy voice,

“We were married this morning. Please, everyone, wish us joy.”

Mrs. Lemming’s handsome features stiffened and set, her fine skin blanched. She turned the cold fury of her look upon the daughter whom she had bullied for so long. Never before had that look failed of its effect. It is to be doubted whether Agnes even noticed it now. She stood with her hand on her husband’s arm, looking proudly and happily at her friends and awaiting their good wishes. But before anyone could move or speak there was a knock upon the door. Sergeant Abbott stood away and opened it, disclosing Sergeant Curtis, neat and brisk. He came in just over the threshold and addressed himself to the Chief Inspector.

“Anderson is below, sir.”

Lamb turned a preoccupied face.

“All right—tell him to wait.”

Curtis retreated. Frank Abbott shut the door. Pity Curtis couldn’t be this side of it—he was going to miss the show. Or was he? So Maudie had done the trick. Astonishing woman. He took off his hat to her, metaphorically speaking. And to the Chief. Nothing small about him. He could take Maudie in his stride. To look at him sitting there, imperturbable and solid, no one could have guessed that Curtis’ message was anything but the dullest routine stuff. Only three people in the room knew what it meant. The things had been found where Maudie had said they would be found. So now what?

Lamb was speaking in his steady, ponderous way.

“Well, we seem to have got a little off the rails. We’d better get back. Was there something more you wished to say, Miss Silver?”

Miss Silver coughed. She sat primly upright with no trace of triumph about her, a dowdy old governess with an old-fashioned decorum of manner.

“I should just like to complete my time-table,” she said. “I think I can do so now. We will return to the moment when Miss Roland’s friend went down in the lift, leaving her on the landing. This was at 8:30. At 8:35 or thereabouts Miss Garside let herself in with the spare key of No. 8, which she had obtained from the basement. She had reason to believe that Miss Roland had gone out for the evening. She had, in fact, seen her go down in the lift with her sister, Mrs. Jackson, at twenty minutes past seven, and she did not know that Miss Roland had gone no farther than the corner of the road, and that she was back in her flat again by half past seven. Miss Garside remained in the flat for about a quarter of an hour, and during that quarter of an hour Miss Roland was murdered. I am going to tell you why she was murdered, and who murdered her. Carola Roland came to this house for a purpose. She was being blackmailed, and she was determined to discover her blackmailer, and to turn the tables. Mrs. Jackson will tell you that her sister believed the person who was blackmailing her to be resident in one of these flats. She did not disclose this person’s identity, but she was determined not only to free herself but to punish the blackmailer. With this end in view she secured a post in one of the flats for a girl with whom she had been friendly in the past, and who was peculiarly qualified to assist her. I refer to Mrs. Underwood’s maid, Ivy Lord. This girl had been an acrobat, she was devoted to Carola Roland, and she had a useful reputation for walking in her sleep. At Miss Roland’s instigation Ivy got out of her window at night and pursued certain investigations.”

Abbott looked round at all the faces and found them looking at Miss Silver—flushed, pale, eager, nervous, distressed. There was a general air of expectancy about them. Even Mr. Willard’s superiority and Mrs. Lemming’s hauteur were tinged with it.

Miss Crane said, “Dear, dear—how unpleasant!”

Miss Silver continued in her quiet, carrying voice.

“One day Ivy brought Miss Roland a letter which gave her the evidence she required. It was the answer from one of the blackmailer’s victims to a demand for money. With Ivy’s testimony as to where it had been found, it afforded conclusive proof of the blackmailer’s identity. But Carola Roland had no idea of prosecuting. She thought she could make a good bargain for herself and get the upper hand. She communicated with the blackmailer, and a meeting was arranged for Wednesday evening at approximately 8:45. It will be remembered that Miss Garside was still somewhere in the flat at this time—probably in the bathroom, as a ring belonging to her was subsequently found there. She did not wish to be seen, and was waiting for a chance to get away unobserved. Miss Roland, awaiting her visitor in some excitement, probably had the sitting-room door ajar, if not wide open. She might have walked to and fro between the sitting-room and the hall. She might have been expecting that the bell would ring. Or she might have known that her visitor would come by another way.”

“What way?” Giles Armitage asked the question which was in everyone’s mind.

“By the fire-escape and the window,” said Miss Silver. “And that, I believe, was in fact the way by which the murderer came. The sash was lifted, the blackmailer admitted, some talk perhaps followed. After which Miss Roland turned towards the table which stood on the window side of the room. She may have been going to produce the compromising letter. We do not know, but that is a reasonable conjecture. As soon as her back was turned the blackmailer caught up that little silver figure which you see on the mantelpiece and struck the fatal blow. It makes a very dangerous weapon. The head and bust are easy to grip, the pointed foot is sharp, and the blow would have the weight of the base behind it. Dropping the figure upon the couch, the murderer went to the door of the flat and set it ajar, thus widening the field of suspicion. Miss Garside, I think, had already gone. She may have heard the blow and the fall, or she may have slipped away as soon as the sitting-room door was shut. There is an uncertainty upon this point which can never be cleared up. This uncertainty was shared by the murderer—and murderers cannot afford this kind of uncertainty. Miss Garside was found dead last night after having received a visit from a smartly dressed woman with conspicuous fair hair. This woman was seen coming out of Miss Garside’s flat, and her appearance noticed and described. There is reason to suppose that Miss Garside was having tea when her visitor arrived. I do not know how she explained herself, but I am convinced that she found an opportunity of introducing strong morphia tablets into Miss Garside’s tea. The affair was very cleverly planned, and arranged to look like a suicide, but circumstantial evidence pointing to murder is now forthcoming.”

As she spoke, Lamb sat with an elbow on the arm of his chair, a big hand propping his chin, his face heavy and expressionless.

Miss Crane said “Dear me!” in a very interested manner. Then she heaved a sigh and got to her feet. “You make it so very interesting—you do indeed,” she said in the husky voice which always seemed a little short of breath.“You must come and have tea with me and tell me all about it. But I must go now. Packer will be busy with the evening meal, and we do not like to leave Mrs. Meredith alone.”

“Just a moment,” said Miss Silver. “I was going to ask you a question about Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Meredith used to live there, did she not?”

Miss Crane had her foolish smile.

“Now who could have told you that?”

“She used to talk about the Pantiles and the Toad Rock when she first came here, did she not—and about her house on Mount Pleasant? To anyone who has ever been in Tunbridge Wells—”

Miss Crane laughed her giggling laugh.

“Oh dear—how clever you are! I should never have thought of that!”

“No,” said Miss Silver. “You were not with Mrs. Meredith then, I think? You have not in fact been with her for very long, have you?”

Miss Crane stopped laughing. She looked puzzled and concerned.

“I don’t understand. No, really. There is no secret about it all. Oh, none at all. A very dear cousin of mine was with Mrs. Meredith for many, many years. When she died I was only too pleased to take her place. I am sure I have tried to make up for her loss in every way. You will not ask me to neglect her now, will you? I really must be going.”

She began to move towards the door. She still had the large white handkerchief in her hand. Giles Armitage, who had risen when she did, walked beside her. She lifted the handkerchief to her eyes for a moment, and then, still holding it, her hand went down into the pocket of the drab raincoat and there remained, gripped and held by Giles.

In a flash she twisted to free herself, and with such a sudden trick of the muscles that she was almost out of his grip.

It was Miss Silver who caught the other wrist and held on to it till Frank Abbott got there. There were some horrible moments. Meade sickened and shut her eyes. A woman struggling with men—three of them trying to hold her. Horrible!

Fierce panting breath. The men’s feet scuffing on Carola’s blue carpet. And then the sound of a shot.

Meade opened terrified eyes, got to her feet, and felt the floor tilt under them. Giles—the shot—Giles! And then what had been a swaying, struggling group resolved itself, and she saw him. He was still holding Miss Crane by the wrist, but she was falling back, limp and pale, between Sergeant Abbott and the Chief Inspector. A small automatic pistol lay where it had fallen at Giles’ feet. As Meade looked, he hooked it dexterously and kicked it away. Mrs. Underwood screamed on a high, shrill note, but whether this came first or next, Meade never was quite sure, because at the time everything seemed to happen together— Mr. Willard saying in a horrified voice, “She has shot herself”; Miss Crane sagging against the two men, her head hanging, her eyes fixed, her pale mouth horribly open; Mabel Underwood’s scream; and then Miss Crane suddenly, galvanically in action again. There was a yelp from Lamb as the hand which was holding her was bitten almost to the bone. With a violent twist she was free and with a single spring had reached the open window.

Giles and Sergeant Abbott reached it too, but not in time. Desperate haste had taken her over the sill to the ledge beneath, and from there on to the fire-escape. They could see her a yard or two below, going down at a speed which spoke of practice. As Giles threw a leg over the sill to follow her, Frank Abbott caught his arm.

“No need,” he said. “They’re waiting for her down there.”

They watched her drop the last few feet and turn to find herself surrounded.

This time there was no break-away.