The Watersplash (11 page)

At two o’clock that afternoon Inspector Bury was talking to his Superintendent, a big man with the air of being on very comfortable terms with his world. He had a pipe in his mouth, a glass of beer at his elbow, and a pair of easy slippers on his feet. He was hoping that Bury would get on with it and get it over and leave him to his Sunday afternoon nap, but with almost his very first words the prospect receded.

“Dr. Connelly dropped in and said he’d done the post-mortem, and there’s no way out of it, it was murder. Bruise at the base of the skull. It wouldn’t have killed her, but it would have knocked her out. Someone hit her good and hard, and she either fell into the water or was dragged there and left to drown. She was alive when the blow was struck.”

Superintendent Nayler drew at his pipe.

“Nasty business,” he said.

Bury didn’t smoke, and he had refused a drink. He sat on an upright chair and leaned forward, full of what he had to say.

“It seems there was something going on between her and Mr. Edward Random. He found the body, you remember.”

The Superintendent remembered a lot more about Edward Random than that. He had been born and bred in Embank and so had his wife, and between them there wasn’t much they didn’t know about most of the families in the county. He knew all about Edward being missing for the best part of five years, and about Mr. James Random giving him up for dead and leaving the property to his brother Arnold. He had heard most of the rumours that were going too, and that Lord Burlingham didn’t believe them and had stuck up for Mr. Edward through thick and thin and given him the agency. Mrs. Nayler had actually been in the fish queue when he came over and told Mrs. Random all about it at the top of his voice for everyone to hear. He said in his placid way,

“Not much time for them to have been carrying on by all accounts. Mr. Edward Random has been off the map for the best part of five years. Thought to be dead. Turned up six months ago and been at Norbury brushing up this agency business. Well, the girl wasn’t there, because according to Dr. Croft she had only just come back from Canada when she wrote and asked him to find her a job in Greenings.”

“There was something between them all the same. They were heard quarrelling on the road coming up from the watersplash on the Thursday evening. Here’s a statement from Mrs. Stone, and Miss Susan Wayne doesn’t deny it. Later on that evening Miss Sims, who is Dr. Croft’s housekeeper, heard them talking on the telephone.”

The Superintendent nodded.

“Livens a village up having a party line,” he said.

“Well, here’s what she says… Then after I’d seen Miss Susan Wayne I went back again to the Miss Blakes. Miss Mildred had gone to church, but the other one was full of information. Said the girl was setting her cap at Edward Random— always ringing him up and trying to make dates with him— talking in a very confidential kind of way and calling him darling every second word”

“That don’t go for much these days.”

“I said that too, but Miss Ora stuck to it the girl was very affectionate. And she said it wasn’t a new thing—they had known each other before. Seems she had nursed his uncle, Mr. James Random.”

The Superintendent took his pipe out of his mouth.

“That’s nonsense. It’s a year since Mr. Random died, and nobody knew that Mr. Edward was alive for another six months after that.”

“But that’s not what she meant. She says the girl came down to the Hall to nurse Mr. Random as long as seven years ago, and that she and Edward Random were very friendly then.”

Superintendent Nayler made the sound which is generally written “Pooh!”

“Old maids’ gossip!” he said. “Seven years ago! Why, he wouldn’t have been twenty then!”

“There might have been something between them all the same, and she might have come down to Greenings to pick up with him again. Anyhow she did come down, and by all accounts she made a dead set at him, and he wasn’t much for it. Suppose now there was a child and he was afraid of it coming out. Miss Sims states she heard her say, ‘There’s something you ought to know.’ ”

Nayler drew at his pipe.

“You’ve been reading fancy novels, my lad,” he said.

Bury flushed.

“That’s all very well, but look how it fits in. They were very friendly seven years ago. Then he’s missing for five years, and there are some pretty queer stories going round as to why he let everyone think he was dead. Then he and Clarice Dean come back to Greenings within twenty-four hours of each other, and she keeps on telephoning and trying to see him. She says, ‘There’s something you ought to know.’ Then they are heard quarrelling on the way up from the watersplash. He comes home that way, and it’s plain enough she went to meet him. Mrs. Stone hears her asking him not to be angry and saying he frightens her. Next morning someone puts a note in through the Miss Blakes’ letter-box. Well, you’ve seen it. It says, ‘All right, let’s have it out. I’ll be coming back late tonight. Meet me at the same place. Say half past nine. I can’t make it before that.’ It’s only signed with initials, and I don’t say anyone could swear to them, but they could be E. R.”

The Superintendent leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes. A deep and peaceful silence settled about him. When it had lasted as long as he wanted it to he said,

“Might be—or might not. Plenty of other letters in the alphabet, and pretty well all of them to choose from. Have you put any of this to Mr. Edward?”

“No—he was out. I thought I had better see you first.”

There was a slow, comfortable nod.

“Quite right—quite right. No hurry that I can see. When it comes to a case like this, there’s a lot to think about. Very tricky, it might be, and a matter of looking before you leap. It don’t matter a lot to me—I’m due to retire in the spring—but you are an ambitious young fellow, and you’ve got your way to make. I’m not speaking officially. I’m here in my own house on a Sunday afternoon, and I’m off duty, and what I say is off the record. There’s a lot of wheels within wheels, and you don’t want to put a foot wrong. Randoms have been at Greenings a good many hundred years. Mr. James Random always very much respected. Chairman of the Bench, treasurer of the hospital before it got taken over—all that kind of thing. Then through his mother Mr. Edward is related to some very influential people in the county.” He removed his pipe, blew out a mouthful of smoke, and repeated the words with a slow emphasis upon them, “Very—influential—people. And on the top of that—and I don’t know that it’s not the most important of the lot—there’s Lord Burlingham that’s been sticking up for him through thick and thin and has just put him in as his agent.” He set his pipe back in his mouth and sucked at it meditatively. “You know, Jim, if I had to pick on someone in the county to get up against, it wouldn’t be Lord Burlingham—that’s all.”

Bury stared indignantly.

“You don’t mean to say we’re to stand by when a girl has been murdered and do nothing because Lord Burlingham wouldn’t like it if we arrested his agent!”

The Superintendent was quite unruffled.

“There you go—jumping to conclusions. Everyone in the wrong except yourself. Who said anything about standing by and letting girls be murdered? Too much imagination, that’s what you’ve got, my lad, and you’d better watch it. And not miss what’s under your nose. If I’ve got to dot my i’s and cross my t’s, I’ll do it, and maybe next time you’ll know for yourself. If Mr. Edward has been up to anything, then he’ll be for it the same as any Tom, Dick or Harry. The law is no respecter of persons, and don’t you forget it. If he was responsible for this young woman’s death he’ll be run in for it. What I’ve been getting at, and what you are too set in your own opinions to get hold of, is that there isn’t any call for it to be us that run him in. I can go along to the Chief Constable, can’t I, and put it to him the same as I’ve put it to you, only more delicate if you take me, and when he’s got a hold of it I can come in quite easy and natural with a piece about all the young woman’s friends and connections being in London, and what about asking Scotland Yard to take a hand.”

Bury looked cross and dubious.

“Call in the Yard?”

Nayler gave a slow laugh.

“You heard me. And if they take over—well, that lets us out, don’t it? Nobody’s going to give us any black marks once the Yard has been called in.”

“Or any good ones either,” said Bury ruefully.

Nayler drew at his pipe.

“You won’t find any good marks knocking about over this business, my lad. Get out of harm’s way and stop there, same as I’m going to, and same as you’ll find the Chief Constable will.”

There was still some cold, sallow daylight outside, but Miss Silver’s bright blue curtains were drawn, and the electric light shone down upon a well furnished tea-table. Emma Meadows had made some of her feather-light scones, there were two kinds of sandwiches, and a highly ornamental cake with almond icing which nobody could have told from the real thing. All this for the benefit of Detective Inspector Frank Abbott who had come to tea on this Sunday afternoon.

“Emma spoils you,” said Miss Silver with an indulgent look.

Frank, long and lazy in one of the Victorian chairs, reached for another sandwich. The light shone upon mirror-smooth fair hair, a beautiful dark blue suit, the latest and most restrained of ties, handkerchiefs and socks, and upon shoes which did full justice to long, elegant feet. Nobody, in fact, would have taken him for a police inspector. He said in a languid tone,

“It does my Unconscious no end of good to be spoiled.”

Miss Silver registered disapproval.

“My dear Frank!”

“It was thwarted when I was a child. You didn’t know my grandmother, but you’ve seen her portrait. She was a good thwarter, and if your grandmother thwarts you when you are three, you get a complex, or an inhibition or something that sours you for life.”

Miss Silver remembered the portrait very well. It hung in the house of his uncle, Colonel Abbott, at Abbottsleigh, and it depicted a very formidable woman. Old Lady Evelyn Abbott had tyrannized over three generations and spoiled the lives of a good many people. Frank, whom she had cut out of her will, had inherited the very fair hair, the cool pale eyes, the long narrow face, the definite touch of arrogance. Fortunately for himself, he possessed a much stronger sense of humour and a kinder heart, though this was sedulously concealed. She remarked that at the moment the trouble appeared to be that a good many people had not been thwarted enough.

He gazed at her between half-closed lids.

“How right you are! As always! Spare the rod and spoil the child!”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I do not approve of children being beaten. It is always a confession of failure. A person who does not know how to control them will not succeed by using force.”

He sat up.

“Esteemed preceptress! If I eat any more sandwiches I shall not be able to cope with the cake. Will Emma be devastated if I plump for the sandwiches?”

Miss Silver was pouring herself out a second cup of tea.

“She will certainly be hurt if you do not have any of the cake.”

“She seems to have surpassed herself all round. When the figure is irretrievably gone, she must be content to bear the blame. My tailor tells me I have put on half an inch round the waist. It is probably the beginning of the end. I shall have to spend my next leave at one of those horrible places where they give you nothing but orange juice for a week.”

Miss Silver waited until he had finished his slice of cake. Then she said,

“I have something very much on my mind.”

He lent across to put down his cup.

“What is it?”

“There was a case in the papers yesterday morning. I would have rung you up about it if you had not been coming to tea this afternoon. A young woman named Clarice Dean was found drowned in a watersplash at a place called Greenings.”

“Yes.”

“You read the account?”

“I saw it. Suicide or accident.”

“Neither, I believe.”

“You know something?”

“I know of a possible motive for her murder.”

He whistled.

“Oh, you do, do you? Now what have you been up to?”

She did not smile.

“Nothing so far. There has not been time. I am thinking of going to Greenings.”

Those very light blue eyes were fixed upon her now. As always when his attention was engaged, they had rather a bleak expression.

“Oh—”

She smiled gravely.

“I think I had better tell you about it.”

“I think you had.”

She put down her cup upon the tray, reached for the knitting-bag which was never far away, and took out a ball of pink wool and four bone needles upon three of which there appeared the faint rosy outline of a baby’s vest. Inserting the fourth needle, she began to knit with great rapidity in the continental fashion, her hands low in her lap. The vest, one of a set, was for Mrs. Charles Forrest who had been Stacy Mainwaring, and who was expecting a baby in the early spring. Since this kind of knitting did not require her attention, she looked across the tea-table and began to tell Frank Abbott about her interview with Clarice Dean.

“Quite a coincidence, but such things do happen, and I had been pointed out to her.”

“By whom?”

“It was that young Winnington who was on the Mirabel Montague case. He seems to have been a friend of hers for a short time. He pointed me out, and I am afraid he told her some highly coloured tales about me.”

Frank looked very bleak indeed.

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, you have produced the coincidence and the girl. What did the girl produce?”

She told him with the accuracy which he had learned to expect from her. When she had finished he said,

“She never actually saw this second will?”

“No. That was the weak part of the story.”

He said drily,

“It would certainly want some backing up, especially if she was aiming to marry the chap. After all, what does her story amount to? An old man makes a will cutting out the nephew whom he believes to be dead. He dies, the will is proved, and the estate passes to his brother. Six months later the nephew turns up. Six months after that this nurse comes back from Canada, where she has been since the old man died, and goes down to Greenings, where she finds the nephew, who has just gone back there to take up a job. The rest depends solely upon her unsupported testimony. She says the old man woke up in the night and told her that he had seen his nephew in a dream, that he wasn’t dead after all, and that he proposed to make another will. She went out on the following afternoon, and when she came back she says he told her that he had actually made this will and got two of the gardeners in to witness it. One of them has since been lost at sea, and the other is the subject of the coincidence featured in last night’s headlines. He gets himself drowned in the watersplash at Greenings just a week before Clarice does. And she told you—but there again we have only her word for it—that she had talked to him about the will, then he remembered witnessing it, and that he was contemplating a spot of blackmail. He seemed to think that Uncle Arnold would probably ante up. She says she asked him to keep quiet about it for a bit, and she gave you the impression that she was considering just what kind of profit she could make out of it all for Clarice Dean. Well, we don’t know whether she did anything about it or not, because she drowns in the water-splash just a week after Jackson does—” He broke off suddenly. “Do you know, I started out to debunk Miss Clarice Dean and her story, and I have half talked myself into thinking that there may be something in it. Candidly now, how did it all strike you at the time? Intuition is your long suit, isn’t it? Well, how did it strike you? And how did she strike you? Hoax? Hysterical girl telling the tale? Exhibitionist with unique opportunity of showing off to the famous Miss Maud Silver?”

“My dear Frank—” Her tone reproved this extravagance but in an abstracted manner, and she continued immediately with a serious, “Oh, no, I do not think so. She was in a state of considerable nervous tension. The death of this man Jackson had alarmed her. She felt the need to unburden herself to someone. I do not think that she could have had any ulterior motive in telling me what she did. She was driven to it by her uneasiness, but she had certainly no intention of taking my advice.”

“Which was?”

“That she should not attempt to make any profit for herself out of what she knew, that to do so might amount to blackmail, and that blackmail was not only a punishable offence but an extremely dangerous one—for the blackmailer. I urged her to think over what I had said, and if she knew anything which she thought she ought to tell the police, to make no delay in doing so.”

“And what did she say to that?”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked, the pink ball revolved.

“She turned extremely pale and told me to mind my own business. After which she ran away.”

“Frightened?”

“I thought so.”

He whistled.

“And on the strength of that you propose to go down to Greenings?”

She smiled.

“It is not quite so absurd as it may sound. The daughter of one of my oldest friends is married to the Vicar of Greenings-cum-Littleton. She has been urging me to visit her for some time. Miss Dean’s story made so strong an impression on me that I wrote and asked Mrs. Ball for a little more information. Miss Dean did not intend that I should be able to identify the village of which she spoke. She had, as I told you, disguised it as Greenways, but she was careless enough to let the real name slip, and my attention was naturally arrested. I wrote to Ruth Ball saying that I had come across a girl who I thought was nursing a patient in Greenings—an elderly lady to whom she had alluded as Miss Ora. Perhaps you would care to see her reply.”

She handed it to him and watched whilst he read it.

When he had finished he said,

“It was written before the girl was drowned, I see.”

“Yes. But I had hardly read it, when Emma came in with the evening paper, and there was the headline, ‘Girl drowned in watersplash. Strange coincidence.’ You cannot be surprised that I have given the matter some thought.”

He said in a meditative voice,

“No. A watersplash is not usually deep enough to drown anyone. If a man and a girl manage to bring it off on two successive Fridays, the long arm of coincidence would seem to be doing a record stretch, and when both the man and the girl are mixed up with a missing will—well, it does begin to look as if someone had been busy. If one was on the case, which one is not, and therefore as much entitled to an opinion as any other member of the intelligent public, one might feel inclined to ask, ‘Cui bono?’ To whose advantage would it be to do away with the only two people who seemed to know anything about this inconvenient will?”

Miss Silver coughed and said primly,

“There can, of course, be only one answer to that.”

“Uncle Arnold?”

“Mr. Arnold Random.”