The Fingerprint (16 page)

LATER ON that evening Miss Silver had a conversation with Detective Inspector Frank Abbott. It took place, as their former interviews had done, in the study, but in what appeared to be a rather less formal atmosphere. The first sense of shock and strain had lifted a little. Miss Silver’s knitting-bag lay open on a corner of Jonathan Field’s writing-table, the bright peonies and larkspur of the chintz contrasting in a most pleasing manner with a lining of primrose silk. Her hands were occupied with a pair of pale blue knitting-needles from which there depended a cloudlike pattern in a very fine white wool. A soft towel across her knees protected what was destined to be a baby shawl from contact with the stuff of her skirt. There were always babies who needed shawls, and those knitted by Miss Silver were in continual demand. She looked across the needles at Frank Abbott and said,

“I really feel that some enquiry into Mr. Sid Turner’s activities might prove rewarding.”

He laughed.

“I wasn’t drawn to him myself, but he probably goes with a bang in Pigeon Hill.”

“He is certainly very well pleased with himself. What is more important is that Mirrie Field is afraid of him.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“I was watching her when he came over to speak to her in the churchyard. I was not near enough to hear what was said, but his manner was very bold and assured, and Mirrie took a step away from him and towards Mr. Fabian. Sid Turner immediately displayed a marked offence and Mirrie looked very much frightened.”

“I should have expected her to enjoy playing off one of them against the other—but, as you are no doubt about to say, perhaps not at her uncle’s funeral.”

Miss Silver repeated what she had already said.

“She was very much frightened.”

“Well, he struck me as the type that wouldn’t mind making quite a nasty scene. But there is more to it than that, I suppose. I take it you didn’t come in here after me to discuss Mirrie Field’s love-life. I have no doubt she would have flirted with Sid if he was the best she could do at Pigeon Hill, but you can’t really be surprised if she prefers Johnny Fabian at Field End. Sid would naturally feel he was being given the dirty end of the stick. He is probably quite a lad in his own circles, and I expect Mirrie got the wind up as you say.”

Miss Silver shook her head.

“I do not think the situation is quite as simple as that. Mirrie has had a very dull life with the uncle and aunt who brought her up. They were not only badly off, but extremely strict. She had no pocket-money and she was allowed no amusements. She was not even allowed to go to the cinema, and would in any case have had no money to pay for a ticket. But I discovered that she had seen most of the current films. She told Georgina that Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace did not approve of Sid Turner, and that she was not allowed to go out with him, but I am quite sure that she contrived to do so. I think she is very good at contriving. She has an artless manner which is a considerable asset. Up to a certain point I believe it to be natural, but she has learned to use it with considerable skill.” He threw up a hand.

“My dear ma’am—what a dissection!”

Miss Silver continued to knit.

“You have frequently told me that I understand girls. I should have wasted my time in the schoolroom if I had not acquired some appreciation of the different types and the probable pattern of their behaviour. Mirrie’s type is not an uncommon one. Her faults have been accentuated by severity and coldness in her surroundings. She has a natural craving for comfort, pleasure, and affection. And she has learned to play a part. But as Lord Tennyson so truly says, speaking of one who veils ‘his want in forms for fashion’s sake,’ nature will at seasons break through—‘For who can always act? ’ ”

“My dear ma’am, you surpass yourself!”

Her glance reproved him. She said,

“I am endeavouring to convince you that Mirrie Field was not only shocked out of playing a part by the unexpected appearance of Sid Turner, but that she had, and has, some reason to be deeply afraid of him.”

“Go on.”

She paused to draw three or four strands of wool from the ball in her knitting-bag. After which she said gravely,

“I believe Georgina told you that she had received an anonymous letter accusing her of being jealous of Mirrie and of trying to humiliate her. I think some of the material must have been furnished by Mirrie herself, though I do not suppose she knew the use to which it would be put to by Sid Turner.”

“You think the letter came from him?”

“I think there is a strong probability that it did. I had a conversation with Sid Turner in the dining-room after we had all returned from the funeral. The room was crowded, refreshments were being served, and as most of the people present were either relatives or old family friends, he was left in a somewhat isolated position. When I approached him he enquired in an extremely mannerless way whether I was the governess. My answer being that it was some years since I had retired from the scholastic profession, he obviously concluded that I had occupied the position of governess to Georgina Grey, and it occurred to him that he might extract information from me with regard to the disposition of Mr. Field’s property. I may say that the whole tone of his conversation reflected a coarse and vulgar mind.”

“And you did not blast him?”

“My dear Frank!”

“He actually survived?”

Miss Silver did not permit herself to smile, but the line of her lips relaxed.

“I refrained from reproof.”

“The thunderbolt was withheld!”

“I wished to hear what he would say.”

“And what did he say?”

“He wanted to know whether the house was left to Mirrie. He assumed that it was, and was very much put out when I said I believed that it had been left to Miss Georgina Grey. I encouraged him to go on talking but gave him no more information. During the whole time that we were conversing it was quite plain that he regarded me as a person who need not be considered in any way, and with whom it was quite unnecessary to be on his guard. I allowed myself to appear inaccurate and easily confused in matters of detail. On more than one occasion he intervened to correct me.”

Frank Abbott was now completely serious.

“What are you leading up to?”

“The points on which he was able to set me right. You will know whether the fact that Mr. Field was shot through the heart while sitting at his writing-table appeared in the Press. It was not mentioned in either of the papers which are taken here.”

He was regarding her with attention.

“No details were released to the Press. The first mention of them was at the inquest this morning. At the time it was merely stated that he had been found shot in his study.”

“When I purposely made an inaccurate allusion to Mr. Field having been found stretched on the floor and shot through the head, Sid Turner lost no time in putting me right with the assertion that the paper had said Mr. Field was sitting at his desk. A little later he spoke casually of Mr. Field having been shot through the heart.”

Frank said frowning,

“Mirrie could have told him that.”

“She had no opportunity. I was in the car with them on the way back from the funeral. Mirrie and Georgina Grey went straight upstairs.”

“She could have written to him, or he could have picked up the information locally. These things get out, you know.”

Miss Silver coughed in a manner which he took to indicate dissent.

“When I introduced the subject of the album—”

“Oh, you introduced it?”

“I wished to ascertain whether there would be any response.”

“And was there?”

“A very marked one. I enquired whether his paper had mentioned that the album containing Mr. Field’s collection of famous fingerprints was found beside him, to which he replied that he believed it had.”

“There was certainly no mention of the album.”

“That is what I thought. Sid Turner, having been supplied with an excuse to talk about the album, continued to do so. He wondered whether the fingerprints could have had anything to do with the murder, and seemed to be a good deal taken up with the idea that the murderer’s motive might have been to get rid of some incriminating print. He then asked me whether any of the pages had been torn out.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And what did you say?”

“I enquired whether there was anything about it in the paper he had read.”

Frank Abbott spoke quickly.

“If he said there was—”

Miss Silver shook her head.

“He did not commit himself, merely saying, ‘Then a page was torn out?’ I replied that I could not say, but I supposed that the police would have looked into the matter. It was plain that Mr. Turner was a good deal interested. I had, throughout, the feeling that he wished to direct attention to the album, and to suggest a link with the murder. It is very difficult to convey what I may perhaps call the atmosphere of such a conversation, but I have very little doubt that he was aware of the presence of the album before I mentioned it, and equally aware that one of the pages had been removed.”

“You were left with that impression?”

“Very decidedly so. Having received it, I made some remark upon the competence of the police, adding that you were an extremely intelligent officer, and that you would, I was sure, be most zealous in following up any clue which had come into your possession.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He asked if you had any clue.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I allowed myself to appear confused, and said I would not like it to be supposed that I had said anything of the sort. I think you must remember that he considered me to be a humble dependent, inclined to gossip but nervous and uncertain of my position. He imagined, in fact, that I had just given something away, and since he saw no necessity for being on his guard with me he betrayed the interest, and I think I may say the concern, which it occasioned him.”

“You allowed him to think we had a clue?”

Miss Silver pulled again upon the soft white ball in her knitting-bag.

“I believe that he was under that impression.”

“What happened after that?”

“People were beginning to go away. He saw a chance of approaching Mirrie Field, an opportunity for which, I think, he had been waiting. He followed her out of the room, and they afterwards went into the study together.”

There was a somewhat prolonged pause. Miss Silver continued to knit, the intricate lacy pattern apparently presenting no difficulties. Frank Abbott was leaning back in the writing-chair. He wore a beautiful dark suit and the black tie which he had put on for the funeral. His pale, smooth hair took the light from the overhead bowl and reflected it. The high forehead and bony nose emphasized an appearance of being plunged in thought. He emerged rather suddenly to say,

“A pinch of evidence would be worth a peck of horsefeathers.”

It was the first time that Miss Silver had encountered the term. She repeated it .in a mildly interrogative tone.

“Horsefeathers?”

There was a sardonic gleam in his eye.

“A transatlantic expression and quite expressive. They are to be found in the neighbourhood of mares’-nests. But to continue. What, if anything, do you suggest?”

“Nothing that you will not already have thought of for yourself. Some enquiries about Sid Turner. His whereabouts on Tuesday night. The possibility that he might have heard, perhaps from Mirrie, of the story Mr. Field related a fortnight ago. You were present yourself, and so were some other people, including Mirrie. Did she seem particularly struck by it?”

“She did. A good deal of bright girlish excitement, and, ‘Oh, dear Uncle Jonathan, you must go on!’—when Georgina came along and wanted him to meet the arriving guests.”

“She could have mentioned the story to Sid Turner in a letter, or during a conversation.”

Frank had a curious irrelevant flash-back to the night of the dance. Or was it irrelevant? He began to wonder about it. Cicely had left a handkerchief in the study and had asked him to get it for her. As he put it in his pocket there had been a sound from the direction of the windows. The glass door on to the terrace had moved, as it had moved on the night of Jonathan’s death. And when he pulled back the curtain, there was Mirrie on the step outside in her white fluffy dress with her eyes like saucers. She had been frightened— there was no doubt about that. Startling, of course, to have the curtain swung back on you, but all she had to say was “I —I was hot—I just went out.” They had gone along into the supper room together, and she had paired off with Johnny. But who had she been meeting in the garden, and why hadn’t he come in with her? Could it have been Sid Turner? He wondered, and kept his thoughts to himself. Aloud he said, “Was she in the habit of telephoning to Sid?”

“I do not know, but I can make some discreet enquiries. I think perhaps you had better leave them to me.” Frank was frowning.

“As a matter of fact I happen to know that the story did actually reach Pigeon Hill. One of the people who was in the room when Jonathan told it was a Mr. Vincent, recently settled in the neighbourhood but previously in South America. If you ever happen to want to pass right out with boredom, ask him to tell you what he did in Venezuela in ’35— or was it ’37? He will take at least twenty minutes to determine the point. It appears that he has a friend at Pigeon Hill. He runs a boys’ club, and last week Vincent went there, repeated Jonathan’s tale to several people, and finished up by incorporating it in a speech which, I gather, he insisted on delivering. I shouldn’t expect Sid Turner to frequent that kind of club, but the story having been launched in Pigeon Hill, it could have reached him. Or, of course, Mirrie may have imparted it. What, unfortunately, seems to be the fact is that there isn’t a single solitary shred of evidence to show that she or anybody else imparted anything at all.” Miss Silver said in a gently immovable tone, “He knew that a page had been torn out of the album. He was anxious to link the missing fingerprints with the crime.”

Frank Abbott said, “Why?”