MISS SILVER laid down the telephone receiver and picked up her knitting. She was engaged upon a rather elaborate blue jumper designed by herself and intended for her niece Ethel. Purl two — knit two — slip one — purl two… It was absolutely necessary to keep the mind unwaveringly fixed on this part of the pattern. But after ten minutes or so the clicking needles slowed down, the pale, plump hands came to rest upon the blue wool. It was always annoying when a client broke an appointment — annoying and unsatisfactory. It indicated a wavering purpose — that much was certain. A purpose might waver because of a naturally unstable character. With some people, to act on impulse provoked an immediate reaction; the impulse was regretted and reversed. Another cause would be fear. The girl who had spoken to her in the train had been quite desperately shocked and afraid. If she had made her appointment then, Miss Silver would not have been at all surprised at its being cancelled later on when she had had time to recover and reflect. But it was after this time for reflection had elapsed that the appointment had been made, and made urgently under some pressure of necessity and fear. Made — and now cancelled. If the reason for making it had been fear, that reason still existed. The voice that had cancelled the appointment had trembled with fear. The girl who spoke was afraid of her own voice. She was afraid of saying too much. She could not stay for the ordinary courtesies. Mrs. Dale Jerningham had been gently bred. If fear had not driven her, she would have softened the breach of her appointment with apology and regret. She had not tried to soften anything. There had been no room in her mind for any other thing than her own fear and haste.
Miss Silver considered these points at length. Then she took out of a drawer on her right a bright blue exercise-book with a shiny cover. Opened and laid out flat on the convenient mound produced by Ethel’s jumper, it disclosed under the heading “Mrs. Dale Jerningham” an account of her conversation with Lisle in the train. There were also a number of newspaper cuttings. To these Miss Silver paid a very particular attention. The room about her settled into silence.
It was a cheerfully Victorian apartment with a brightly flowered Brussels carpet and plush curtains of a particularly cheerful shade of peacock-blue. In front of the empty grate stood a fire screen with a frame of the same yellow walnut as the writing-table and carved in the same regrettably ornate manner. On the front of the screen was a pattern of poppies, cornflowers and wheat ears worked in cross-stitch upon canvas, with a background of olive green. In front of the fire-screen there was a black woolly mat. The mantelpiece supported a row of photographs in silver frames, whilst above them, against a flowered wallpaper, hung a steel engraving of Millais’ “Black Brunswicker”, in a border of yellow maple. Similar engravings of “Bubbles”, “The Soul’s Awakening”, and Landseer’s “Monarch of the Glen” adorned the other walls. On either side of the hearth there was one of those odd old-fashioned chairs with bow legs profusely carved, upholstered laps, and curving waists.
Miss Silver herself, neat, drab, and elderly, her hair in a knob behind and a fuzzy fringe covered with a net in front, fitted perfectly into these surroundings. The only jarring note was struck by the telephone standing incongruously upon the faded green leather top of the writing-table. New, workmanlike, shiny, without curve, colour or carving, it proclaimed an era removed by nearly four decades from that in which Victoria lived and died.
A small clock wreathed with wooden edelweiss which lurked among the photograph frames on the mantelpiece struck the half hour. Miss Silver put the exercise-book back into the drawer from which she had taken it, laid Ethel’s jumper carefully on the left-hand side of the table, and drawing in her chair, proceeded to dial “Trunks”. There was a little delay, during which her thoughts continued to be busy. Then a click heralded a booming bass. It said,
“Police Station, Ledlington.”
Miss Silver cleared her throat and said precisely,
“Thank you. Good-morning. I should like to speak to Inspector March.”
“What name, please?”
“Miss Maud Silver.”
The bass voice appeared to be allied to extremely heavy boots. They could be heard receding with a measured tread. After an interval other, less resounding footsteps and a familiar voice.
“Miss Silver? How are you? What can I do for you?”
Miss Silver’s faint cough travelled along the line. It took Randal March a long way back to a schoolroom where a little inky boy and two much tidier little girls had absorbed instruction in reading, writing, and arithmetic from a Miss Silver who must in those days have been a good deal younger than she was now, but who never seemed to him to have changed in any way with the passage of years. Kind, dowdy, prim, intelligent — oh, very intelligent — and firm. That was Miss Silver twenty-seven years ago, and that was Miss Silver today. They had always kept up with her, his mother, his sisters, and at long intervals himself. Recently however they had been rather closely associated, for it was from Matchley that he had just been transferred to Ledlington, and it was in Matchley that the horrible dénouement of the affair of the poisoned caterpillars had taken place. If it had not been for Miss Silver, he might very well have been occupying a grave in the family plot instead of listening with grateful attention whilst she replied to his questions.
“Thank you, Randal, I am quite well. I hope you are settling down comfortably. Ledlington is a charming, old-fashioned place, though rather spoilt by some of the newer buildings.”
“What does she want?” thought Randal March. “She didn’t ring me up to discuss architecture. What is she on to?”
“I hope you have good news of your dear mother,” pursued Miss Silver.
“Oh, yes — very. She never gets any older.”
“And dear Margaret and Isabel?”
“Blooming.”
“Please give them my love when you write — but I shall be seeing you.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” He did not say this aloud, but he grinned.
Miss Silver went on speaking.
“I thought of taking a little holiday in Ledlington.”
“A holiday?” said Randal severely.
“I hope so. And I really rang up to know whether you could recommend me a quiet boarding-house, not too expensive. I am sure you will know what would suit me.”
“Well — I don’t know—”
“I thought of coming down this afternoon. If you would be so kind as to make some enquiries about a boarding-house—”
“Yes, of course—”
“I could call in at the station, and if you should not be there, perhaps you would leave a note.”
Inspector March said that he would. He hung up, wondering what Miss Silver had got hold of. It couldn’t be the Cole case — or could it? He felt a pringling in his bones. If Maud Silver was coming to Ledlington, it was because she had got her nose down on a trail. All that about a holiday and “your dear mother,” and “dear Margaret and Isabel,” and a nice boarding-house, was camouflage. She had just had a holiday with her niece Ethel. Not only did he know that, but he knew that she knew that he knew it. And she didn’t throw any dust in his eyes. He knew his Miss Silver.
He went off to enquire about boarding-houses.
THE inquest took place next day in the village hall. The village attended in force. Miss Cole in black between her brother James and his plump, emotional wife. The party from Tanfield Court. William, uplifted by his own importance as the last person with the exception of Pell, whom he and every one else was already calling the murderer, to see Cissie alive. Inspector March, very smart and upright. The Coroner, old Dr. William Creek who had brought Cissie into the world and knew most things about nearly everybody in the room. Pell, sitting beside a stolid young constable, incredibly tousled, sallow and unshaven, with red-rimmed eyes and a jutting, obstinate jaw. He sat there and took no notice of anyone. Every now and then he yawned, showing yellow teeth.
Miss Silver in the third row reflected, not for the first time in her professional career, that girls did fall in love with the most extraordinary people. A woman beside her said in an indignant whisper, “Look at him sitting there and yawning! Don’t care what he done to the poor girl! But he won’t get out of it that way. A real murdering face he’s got.” Someone else said “Ssh!”
Miss Silver was watching Pell’s left hand. It hung down beside him and grasped the edge of the bench on which he sat with such a desperate force that the knuckles looked as if they were about to split the skin. She saw it pale, stretched, straining, a mute witness to the man’s tortured mind, and then lifted her eyes again to his unwitnessing face.
She looked next at the Tanfield party. After a moment she leaned to the woman beside her and with a faint preliminary cough enquired which of the two gentlemen was Mr. Dale Jerningham. On receiving the whispered reply she sat back again and resumed her survey. A good-looking man — oh, yes, very decidedly. He and Mrs. Jerningham made a very handsome couple — though of course handsome was scarcely the word one would use to describe anyone so slender and sweet-looking as she was. No — lovely would be a much truer description. And Lady Steyne now — how should she be described? Very pretty — very pretty indeed. Very simply and suitably dressed in white linen, with a black riband round her hat, and black and white shoes. On such a very hot day nothing could be more suitable, and the touches of black would be appreciated by the village. Mrs. Jerningham was in white too, but without any black. Of course Lady Steyne, being a widow and a fairly recent one, would have had the black by her, whereas Mrs. Jerningham would probably have only a choice between white and some colour, and a colour would not be suitable to the occasion — oh, no, not at all.
Lady Steyne and Mrs. Jerningham sat next to each other. A pretty contrast — one so dark and the other so fair. But Lady Steyne had a lovely colour, and Mrs. Jerningham was quite dreadfully pale. Of course it did her credit, poor thing — a most distressing occasion. Mr. Jerningham was on his wife’s other side. Very right and proper, and most natural that he should appear concerned at her looks. He put a hand on hers, bent and whispered to her, and even after receiving what was obviously a reassurance continued to manifest a good deal of affection and concern. The young man beyond him was of course the cousin, Mr. Rafe Jerningham. Really they were an extraordinary good-looking family. Such a graceful person, if one could apply that description to a man. Not so tall or so broad in the shoulders as his cousin Dale, but so very well proportioned. A very mobile, expressive countenance, and such beautiful white teeth. In happier circumstances, Miss Silver judged, he would be a lively and amusing companion. His expression at the moment was decorous in the extreme.
The proceedings began.
Evidence of identification. Medical evidence. Miss Cole’s evidence.
The coastguard who had found the body at 7. 15. The doctor who had examined it. The time at which death must have taken place, somewhere between 9 p. m. and midnight. Then Miss Cole.
Dr. Creek treated her very gently.
“You say that your niece was unhappy.”
Miss Cole pressed a clean handkerchief to her eyes.
“Oh, yes, sir,” she said with a sob.
“Would you say that she was desperately unhappy — that is, unhappy enough to do some desperate thing?”
Miss Cole sobbed again.
“Oh, no, sir.”
“And did she ever speak of doing anything desperate, such as taking her own life?”
“Oh, no, sir. And she never did, and never had any cause to. She was a good girl, Cissie was.”
“Yes — that is not in question. You must not feel that there is any slur upon this poor girl’s character. She was a good girl, and she was unhappy. We have evidence on both these points. The questions I am asking you are directed to finding out the degree of her unhappiness, and whether she showed any sign of lack of mental balance. Did she show any such sign?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“And you say that she did not at any time threaten to take her life?”
“No, sir.”
“Or say that she wished she was dead?”
“No, sir.”
William next, uplifted, perspiring, scarlet to the tips of his large ears. He took the oath in a completely inaudible mumble, caught the eye of Ellen Flagg’s father amongst the jury, and became convinced that he had done something wrong and would probably be indicted for perjury. He wondered if Ellen was there, gave his evidence in agonised gasps, and retired thankfully to the back of the hall, having established the facts that Cissie Cole had come to see Mrs. Jerningham at about twenty minutes to nine, had left again as near as possible to nine o’clock, and had gone away “quite cheerful like”. Bad evidence for Pell.
Mrs. Dale Jerningham next.
Miss Silver watched her with interest and attention. She took the oath in a faint but perfectly distinct voice, and gave her evidence with great simplicity — the interview with Cissie — the brief exchange of words — the gift of the coat — Cissie’s undoubted pleasure.
Everyone was looking at the coat. It lay folded in a brown paper wrapping upon one of the small tables which were used when a whist drive was held in the hall. The paper covered it so that only a small piece showed where the young constable had turned it back. Why was it covered like that? Because of stains too horrible to be seen? The thought was in every mind.
Miss Silver watched the faces, all turned in one direction except her own — interested, frightened, horrified, gloating. Everyone except herself stared at the hands-breadth of woollen stuff showing between the folds of brown paper — a broad green stripe shading into cream, narrow lines of red and yellow crossing the green. Her own eyes rested upon the face of Mr. Rafe Jerningham.
Like everyone else, he was looking at the coat in which Cissie had fallen to her death — Mrs. Dale Jerningham’s coat. He looked at the coat, and then he looked at Mrs. Dale Jerningham. In both looks there was a momentary flash of something. Was it horror? Miss Silver was not sure. The rest of the face was bleakly inexpressive. She felt as if in passing a curtained window she had caught a glimpse of something strange, not meant to be seen by anyone at all — a chink in the curtain, a single fleeting glimpse of what lay behind, seen and gone again in a flash.
There was no interval before the Coroner said,
“Is this the coat, Mrs. Jerningham?”
One would not have said that she could be any paler, but she did turn paler as she bent shrinking eyes upon it and said,
“Yes.”
She went back to her seat.
Dale Jerningham next — very upright, very audible, very straightforward in his plain answers. He and his cousin Lady Steyne had walked up on to Tane Head to see the sunset. They had been for a drive first. He could not be certain of the time, but it would be somewhere about twenty to ten. There was still a good deal of light in the sky — a broad belt of gold where the sun had set.
The Coroner: “The sun had actually set at 9. 2, summer time. You were not on the headland then?”
“Oh, no — we were driving. But we saw the light in the sky, and my cousin suggested going up to look at it from the cliff.”
“Did you see anyone else on the headland?”
Dale Jerningham hesitated, dropped his gaze, and said in a much lower voice,
“I saw Pell.”
“Where did you see him?”
“He was running down the track from the cliff.”
“Will you tell us just what happened.”
Dale seemed puzzled and distressed.
“Nothing happened, sir. He came rushing down the track and got on his motor-bicycle and rode away. I don’t think he saw us.”
Miss Silver looked at Pell. His hand still gripped the bench. His face showed nothing. Sweat glistened on his forehead. A lock of black hair fell greasy and unkempt across it. His eyes never shifted from a ragged knot-hole in the boarded floor at a distance of about two yards from his own feet and in a direct line with them.
Dale Jerningham finished his evidence and sat down.
Lady Steyne gave hers. She had been with her cousin. They had seen Pell. She sat down.
Whilst she was giving her evidence. Miss Silver was looking at Mr. Rafe Jerningham, who was looking at Lady Steyne. His expression interested her very much indeed. It betrayed admiration, with a kind of mocking sparkle on it which reminded her of the sparkle on some kinds of wine — champagne, or moselle. To a less acute observer it would not perhaps have betrayed anything at all. The village was much too used to Mr. Rafe not to take him for granted.
The name of Mary Crisp was called. From the second row of chairs there emerged a thin, lank child with a cropped brown head and a knee-length frock of pink and white cotton. She hung her head and looked shyly at the Coroner as he asked her how old she was.
“Fourteen, sir.”
It didn’t seem possible. Miss Silver had taken her for no more than ten.
There was a pause, a whispered consultation resulting in the production of Mrs. Ernest Crisp.
“Oh, yes, she’s fourteen, sir — that’s right enough.”
Mary continued to hang her head. Only as her mother sat down she darted a bright elfish look at Pell, who had not moved. When the Coroner spoke to her she looked down again, her little brown face quite without expression.
“You were in Berry Lane on Wednesday evening, Mary?”
An only just audible whisper said “Yes.”
“With your little brother John aged seven?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone go up the track on to Tane Head?”
A pair of bright dark eyes looked up, and down again. The little cropped head was nodded vigorously.
“Who did you see?”
A small, thin finger pointed at Pell.
“Him.”
“Was there anyone with him?”
“Yes — Cissie Cole.”
“Will you tell us what they did?”
Mary found a shrill, piping voice.
“Rode his motor-bike up on to the track, he did, with Cissie on behind an’ they got off an’ walked up on to the cliff.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“Mr. Jerningham — an’ Lady Steyne. They went up the same way.”
“Did you see Pell and Cissie again?”
She shook her head.
“We come home. It was time Johnny was in.”
“Now, Mary — are you sure it was Cissie Cole you saw?”
A vigorous nod.
“It was light enough for you to see her quite plainly?”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t only twenty past nine, and Mum said to be in by ha’ past, and we was.”
From her seat Mrs. Ernest Crisp said, “That’s right.”