Towards Zero (20 page)

“I dare say we might get it done by tomorrow—as a special favour.”

“I'm not in the habit of asking for special favours. Just give me the suit, please.”

Giving him a bad-tempered look, the girl went into the back room. She returned with a clumsily done up parcel which she pushed across the counter.

MacWhirter took it and went out.

He felt, quite ridiculously, as though he had won a victory. Actually it merely meant that he would have to have the suit cleaned elsewhere!

He threw the parcel on his bed when he returned to the Hotel and looked at it with annoyance. Perhaps he could get it sponged and pressed in the Hotel. It was not really too bad—perhaps it didn't actually need cleaning?

He undid the parcel and gave vent to an expression of annoyance. Really, the 24-Hour Cleaners were too inefficient for words. This wasn't his suit. It wasn't even the same colour. It had been a dark blue suit he had left with them. Impertinent, inefficient muddlers.

He glanced irritably at the label. It had the name MacWhirter all right. Another MacWhirter? Or some stupid interchange of labels?

Staring down vexedly at the crumpled heap, he suddenly sniffed.

Surely he knew that smell—a particularly unpleasant smell…connected somehow with a dog. Yes, that was it. Diana and her dog. Absolutely and literally stinking fish!

He bent down and examined the suit. There it was, a discoloured patch on the shoulder of the coat. On the
shoulder
—

Now that, thought MacWhirter, is really very curious….

Anyway, next day, he would have a few grim words with the girl at the 24-Hour Cleaners. Gross mismanagement!

XIV

After dinner he strolled out of the Hotel and down the road to the Ferry. It was a clear night, but cold, with a sharp foretaste of winter. Summer was over.

MacWhirter crossed in the ferry to the Saltcreek side. It was the second time that he was revisiting Stark Head. The place had a fascination for him. He walked slowly up the hill, passing the Balmoral Court Hotel and then a big house set on the point of a cliff. Gull's Point—he read the name on the painted door. Of course, that was where the old lady had been murdered. There had been a lot of talk in the Hotel about it, his chambermaid had insisted on telling him all about it and the newspapers had given it a prominence which had annoyed MacWhirter, who preferred to read of worldwide affairs and who was not interested in crime.

He went on, downhill again to skirt a small beach and some old-fashioned fishing cottages that had been modernized. Then up again till the road ended and petered out into the track that led up on Stark Head.

It was grim and forbidding on Stark Head. MacWhirter stood on the cliff edge looking down to the sea. So he had stood on that other night. He tried to recapture some of the feeling he had had then—the desperation, anger, weariness—the longing to be out of it all. But there was nothing to recapture. All that had gone. There was instead a cold anger. Caught on that tree, rescued by
coastguards, fussed over like a naughty child in hospital, a series of indignities and affronts. Why couldn't he have been
let alone?
He would rather, a thousand times rather, be out of it all. He still felt that. The only thing he had lost was the necessary impetus.

How it had hurt him then to think of Mona! He could think of her quite calmly now. She had always been rather a fool. Easily taken by anyone who flattered her or played up to her idea of herself. Very pretty. Yes, very pretty—but no mind, not the kind of woman he had once dreamed about.

But that was beauty, of course—some vague fancied picture of a woman flying through the night with white draperies streaming out behind her…Something like the figurehead of a ship—only not so solid…not nearly so solid….

And then, with dramatic suddenness, the incredible happened! Out of the night came a flying figure. One minute she was not there, the next minute she was—a white figure running—running—to the cliff's edge. A figure, beautiful and desperate, driven to destruction by pursuing Furies! Running with a terrible desperation…He knew that desperation. He knew what it meant….

He came with a rush out of the shadows and caught her just as she was about to go over the edge!

He said fiercely: “No you don't….”

It was just like holding a bird. She struggled—struggled silently, and then, again like a bird, was suddenly dead still.

He said urgently:

“Don't throw yourself over! Nothing's worth it.
Nothing.
Even if you are desperately unhappy—”

She made a sound. It was, perhaps, a far-off ghost of a laugh.

He said sharply:

“You're not unhappy? What is it then?”

She answered him at once with the low softly breathed word:

“Afraid.”

“Afraid?” He was so astonished that he let her go, standing back a pace to see her better.

He realized then the truth of her words. It was fear that had lent that urgency to her footsteps. It was fear that made her small white intelligent face blank and stupid. Fear that dilated those wide-apart eyes.

He said incredulously: “What are you afraid of?”

She replied so low that he hardly heard it.

“I'm afraid of being hanged….”

Yes, she had said just that. He stared and stared. He looked from her to the cliff's edge.

“So that's why?”

“Yes. A quick death instead of—” She closed her eyes and shivered. She went on shivering.

MacWhirter was piecing things together logically in his mind.

He said at last:

“Lady Tressilian? The old lady who was murdered?” Then, accusingly: “You'll be Mrs. Strange—the first Mrs. Strange.”

Still shivering she nodded her head.

MacWhirter went on in his slow careful voice, trying to remember all that he had heard. Rumour had been incorporated with fact.

“They detained your husband—that's right, isn't it? A lot of evidence against him—and then they found that that evidence had been faked by someone….”

He stopped and looked at her. She wasn't shivering any longer.
She was standing looking at him like a docile child. He found her attitude unendurably affecting.

His voice went on:

“I see…Yes, I see how it was…He left you for another woman, didn't he? And you loved him…That's why—” He broke off. He said, “I understand. My wife left me for another man….”

She flung out her arms. She began stammering wildly, hopelessly:

“It's n-n-not—it's n-n-not l-like that. N-not at all—”

He cut her short. His voice was stern and commanding.

“Go home.
You needn't be afraid any longer.
D'you hear? I'll see that you're not hanged!”

XV

Mary Aldin was lying on the drawing room sofa. Her head ached and her whole body felt worn out.

The inquest had taken place the day before and, after formal evidence of identification, had been adjourned for a week.

Lady Tressilian's funeral was to take place on the morrow. Audrey and Kay had gone into Saltington in the car to get some black clothes. Ted Latimer had gone with them. Nevile and Thomas Royde had gone for a walk, so except for the servants, Mary was alone in the house.

Superintendent Battle and Inspector Leach had been absent today, and that, too, was a relief. It seemed to Mary that with their absence a shadow had been lifted. They had been polite, quite pleasant, in fact, but the ceaseless questions, that quiet deliberate probing and sifting of every fact was the sort of thing that wore
hardly on the nerves. By now that wooden-faced Superintendent must have learned of every incident, every word, every gesture, even, of the past ten days.

Now, with their going, there was peace. Mary let herself relax. She would forget everything—everything. Just lie back and rest.

“Excuse me, Madam—”

It was Hurstall in the doorway, looking apologetic.

“Yes, Hurstall?”

“A gentleman wishes to see you. I have put him in the study.”

Mary looked at him in astonishment and some annoyance.

“Who is it?”

“He gave his name as Mr. MacWhirter, Miss.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“No, Miss.”

“He must be a reporter. You shouldn't have let him in, Hurstall.”

Hurstall coughed.

“I don't think he is a reporter, Miss. I think he is a friend of Miss Audrey's.”

“Oh, that's different.”

Smoothing her hair, Mary went wearily across the hall and into the small study. She was, somehow, a little surprised as the tall man standing by the window turned. He did not look in the least like a friend of Audrey's.

However, she said pleasantly:

“I'm sorry Mrs. Strange is out. You wanted to see her?”

He looked at her in a thoughtful, considering way.

“You'll be Miss Aldin?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I dare say you can help me just as well. I want to find some rope.”

“Rope?” said Mary in lively amazement.

“Yes, rope. Where would you be likely to keep a piece of rope?”

Afterwards Mary considered that she had been half-hypnotized. If this strange man had volunteered any explanation she might have resisted. But Angus MacWhirter, unable to think of a plausible explanation, decided very wisely to do without one. He just stated quite simply what he wanted. She found herself, semi-dazed, leading MacWhirter in search of rope.

“What kind of rope?” she had asked.

And he had replied: “Any rope will do.”

She said doubtfully: “Perhaps in the potting shed—”

“Shall we go there?”

She led the way. There was twine and an odd bit of cord, but MacWhirter shook his head.

He wanted rope—a good-sized coil of rope.

“There's the boxroom,” said Mary hesitatingly.

“Ay, that might be the place.”

They went indoors and upstairs. Mary threw open the boxroom door. MacWhirter stood in the doorway looking in. He gave a curious sigh of contentment.

“There it is,” he said.

There was a big coil of rope lying on a chest just inside the door in company with old fishing tackle and some moth-eaten cushions. He laid a hand on her arm and impelled Mary gently forward until they stood looking down on the rope. He touched it and said:

“I'd like you to charge your memory with this, Miss Aldin.
You'll notice that everything round about is covered with dust.
There's no dust on this rope.
Just feel it.”

She said:

“It feels slightly damp,” in a surprised tone.

“Just so.”

He turned to go out again.

“But the rope? I thought you wanted it?” said Mary in surprise.

MacWhirter smiled.

“I just wanted to know it was there. That's all. Perhaps you wouldn't mind locking this door, Miss Aldin—and taking the key out? Yes. I'd be obliged if you'd hand the key to Superintendent Battle or Inspector Leach. It would be best in their keeping.”

As they went downstairs, Mary made an effort to rally herself.

She protested as they reached the main hall:

“But really, I don't understand.”

MacWhirter said firmly:

“There's no need for you to understand.” He took her hand and shook it heartily. “I'm very much obliged to you for your cooperation.”

Whereupon he went straight out of the front door. Mary wondered if she had been dreaming!

Nevile and Thomas came in presently and the car arrived back shortly afterwards and Mary Aldin found herself envying Kay and Ted for being able to look quite cheerful. They were laughing and joking together. After all, why not? she thought. Camilla Tressilian had been nothing to Kay. All this tragic business was very hard on a bright young creature.

They had just finished lunch when the police came. There was
something scared in Hurstall's voice as he announced that Superintendent Battle and Inspector Leach were in the drawing room.

Superintendent Battle's face was quite genial as he greeted them.

“Hope I haven't disturbed you all,” he said apologetically. “But there are one or two things I'd like to know about. This glove, for instance, who does it belong to?”

He held it out, a small yellow chamois leather glove.

He addressed Audrey.

“Is it yours, Mrs. Strange?”

She shook her head.

“No—no, it isn't mine.”

“Miss Aldin?”

“I don't think so. I have none of that colour.”

“May I see?” Kay held out her hand. “No.”

“Perhaps you'd just slip it on.”

Kay tried, but the glove was too small.

“Miss Aldin?”

Mary tried in her turn.

“It's too small for you also,” said Battle. He turned back to Audrey. “I think you'll find it fits you all right. Your hand is smaller than either of the other ladies'.”

Audrey took it from him and slipped it on over her right hand.

Nevile Strange said sharply:

“She's already told you, Battle, that it isn't her glove.”

“Ah well,” said Battle, “perhaps she made a mistake. Or forgot.”

Audrey said: “It may be mine—gloves are so alike, aren't they?”

Battle said:

“At any rate it was found outside your window, Mrs. Strange, pushed down into the ivy—
with its fellow.
”

There was a pause. Audrey opened her mouth to speak, then closed it up again. Her eyes fell before the Superintendent's steady gaze.

Nevile sprang forward. “Look here, Superintendent—”

“Perhaps we might have a word with you, Mr. Strange, privately?” Battle said gravely.

“Certainly, Superintendent. Come into the library.”

He led the way and the two police officers followed him.

As soon as the door had closed Nevile said sharply: