MISS Silver had tea in the parlour of the Green Man before walking up Crook Hill to catch the bus into Ledlington. Both before and after the inquest she managed to talk to a good many different people. People will always talk about an accident or a murder. In this case there was but one opinion, voiced with varying degrees of heat and animus. Cissie Cole was a good girl. Not one of your go-ahead ones, but a good girl. You couldn’t blame her being fond of that Pell when she thought he was a single man. What she had seen in him the dear knows, but once she knew he was married and it come to anything more she wouldn’t have it, and he pushed her over out of spite. A dozen times Miss Silver had occasion to say, “Dear me — how very shocking!” or “Really one can hardly believe it.” The latter phrase she had always found extremely useful in provoking a flood of corroborative detail.
She used it to Mrs. Mottle, the landlady of the Green Man, when she brought in the brown teapot with the bright blue band round it and a plate of rock cakes. The milk-jug and sugar-basin already stood on the parlour table, which was of figured walnut with a single massive leg. The top, much valued, was protected by a number of thick mats crocheted in shades of olive green and salmon pink. An old metal tray with gilt scrolls and a pattern of painted red and blue flowers rested upon two of these mats, whilst a fern in a rose-pink pot had another all to itself in the middle of the table.
Mrs. Mottle set down the teapot beside the milk-jug and sugar-basin on the tray, pulled up yet another mat for the rock cakes, and heaved a responsive sigh. She was a buxom woman, short and stout, with a quantity of frizzy black hair only just beginning to be touched with grey, and cheeks as firm and red as Worcester Pearmains.
“Ah — you may well say so!” she said. “And I’m not one that thinks badly of men, because take them all round, well there’s good in them same as there is in most of us. But what I do say and always have said is that some of’em’ll do anything, and you can’t get from it.”
Miss Silver gave a timid cough.
“Dear me — I suppose so. And of course you must have such opportunities for observing them. Human nature must be quite an open book to you.”
“Well you may say so!” said Mrs. Mottle. “Men talk free and easy over their beer. Not as I wouldn’t soon put a stop to language or anything of that sort, and my husband too — there’s nothing of that sort goes on in our house. But human nature, that’s another thing — there it is and you can’t help noticing it. That Pell now, he’d come in most nights, and how he’d the face after it come out about him being married passes me. But there — some have got face enough for anything, and he’d come in here as bold as brass, and so soon as he’d got into his second glass he’d begin to let himself go and — talk of not believing things — you wouldn’t credit what he’d say.”
“Really? How very interesting. What sort of things?”
“All sorts,” said Mrs. Mottle with gusto. “And just as well for him they weren’t brought up at the inquest.”
“Dear me!”
“Saying what he’d do to anyone that crossed him. Why, I heard him with my own ears — nobody ever came to any good once they got across him. That was after Mr. Jerningham give him the sack, and it wasn’t only a fortnight later that Mrs. Jerningham was as near killed as makes no difference with the steering of her car broke through. And not saying he done it, but there’s more than one has their own thoughts about it. And he could have done it easy if he had a mind, and it was only the night before he set down his glass hard enough to crack it and said how he always got his own back on those who got across him. And I told him straight, ‘That’s not the kind of talk I’ll put up with, not while I’m behind the bar.’ And he laughed and said, ‘You wait and see!’ and went out, and a good riddance.”
Miss Silver began to pour herself out a cup of tea.
“What a good-looking family the Jerninghams are,” she observed. “I was quite struck by it at the inquest. Lady Steyne — really very pretty. She is a cousin, is she not? And Mr. and Mrs. Jerningham — such a very good-looking couple. And the other cousin, Mr. Rafe Jerningham—”
She heard nothing but good of the Jerninghams from Mrs. Mottle. Mr. Jerningham had a very feeling heart. There weren’t many gentlemen would go with their wives same as he did to see poor Miss Cole, and kindness itself, as she told me with her very own lips. And a pleasure to see him married to such a sweet young lady. “Lost his first wife in an accident in Switzerland a matter of ten years ago, and took him all this time to get over it and put his mind on someone else. Not like some people I could name, and him such a good-looking gentleman and all.”
Miss Silver put milk and sugar into her tea.
“Did you know the first Mrs. Jerningham?”
Mrs. Mottle had got as far as the door. She leaned a firm shoulder against the jamb and shook her head.
“Not to say know — there wasn’t many that did. She used to come visiting here when she was Miss Lydia Burrows. That was in old Mr. Jerningham’s time, but she and Mr. Dale went off travelling after they were married. A bit of an invalid she was, and not supposed to stay in England for the winter — and after all she might just as well have stayed as fall down one of those nasty precipices and get herself killed!”
Miss Silver sipped from a cup with a pattern of pink and gold roses, the pink very bright, the gold very shiny.
“How extremely shocking!” she said.
“Picking flowers or some such,” said Mrs. Mottle vaguely. “And then old Mr. Jerningham died and Mr. Dale come in for the property. And of course we all thought he’d marry again, so young as he was and all, but no — seemed as if he hadn’t got a thought for anything except the place. Up early and down late, and building cottages here and putting on a new roof there. He come in for a lot of money from his wife, and seemed all he wanted to do was to spend it on the place — left the girls to Mr. Rafe.”
Miss Silver sipped again.
“The good-looking cousin. Yes, indeed — I can imagine that he would be popular with the ladies.”
Mrs. Mottle’s firm red cheeks wobbled as she laughed.
“All over him like bees in a lime tree,” she said. “And what’s a young gentleman to do? He can’t afford to get married, and there isn’t a girl anywhere around that’ll leave him alone. He works, you know, up at the aircraft place — clever as they come, Mr. Rafe is. But Saturday afternoons and Sundays it’s tennis games and golf games, and bathing parties and boating parties and picnic parties. Not that there’s any harm in it, and as to anyone saying there’s any harm in Mr. Rafe, well, they won’t say it a second time, not to me anyhow! You’re only young the once, and why shouldn’t you have a good time — that’s what I say!”
“And Mr. Rafe has a good time?”
Mrs. Mottle laughed again — a full, jolly laugh.
“It’s not his fault if he don’t nor the girls’ neither.”
ABOUT nine o’clock that same evening Inspector March was enjoying a tête-à-tête with Miss Silver in the small back sitting-room which Miss Mellison had placed at their disposal. It was a very small room, and for its size it contained a surprising variety of objects. Besides the gentleman’s armchair in old-gold stamped velvet in which the Inspector reclined, and the lady’s ditto upon which Miss Silver sat primly upright, there were two occasional chairs with shiny backs and pseudo-brocade seats finished off with an incredible number of brass-headed nails; a gimcrack table which supported a palm in a bright blue pot; a bamboo plant-stand on the top of which another palm was precariously balanced; two footstools, one crimson and one blue, of the kind found in old-fashioned church pews; a model of the Taj Mahal under glass; two clocks, both wrong; a pair of vases in Mooltan enamel; a row of brown wooden bears from Berne, and a motley collection of pictures. If Miss Silver lifted her eyes she beheld photographic enlargements of Miss Mellison’s parents, he very stout and jolly, she very pinched and fretful, while the Inspector had an excellent view of four faded water-colours and an engraving which depicted the opening of the Great Exhibition of 1851 by Queen Victoria. Blue plush curtains had been pulled back as far as they would go. An inner pair, of Madras muslin, moved gently in the breeze from the open window which was really a door opening upon a small garden gay with hollyhock, phlox, snapdragon, and nasturtium.
Randal March contemplated his hostess with just the hint of a smile and said,
“Well, here we are. May I ask how you are accounting for yourself — and for me?”
Miss Silver was engaged upon the sleeve of her niece Ethel’s jumper. She took four needles to a sleeve. They clicked and twinkled in her plump, capable hands as she replied,
“My dear Randal, I am surprised at you. What is there to account for? I used to be your governess. I am taking a little holiday in Ledlington, and what is more natural than that my old pupil, with whose family I have always remained upon the most affectionate terms, should drop in for a friendly chat? Miss Mellison was most interested and most kind. She at once offered me the use of this pleasant little room. I showed her your dear mother’s photograph and the group with you and Margaret and Isabel. We agreed that you had really changed very little.”
Randal March put his head back and laughed.
“Marvellous!” he said. “What did you get in return — besides the use of the room?”
“She told me all about herself,” said Miss Silver. “And you should not laugh, because she is a very brave little woman. Her father was Quarter Master in the Ledshire Regiment, and they were a good deal in India. Her mother lost six children there. Miss Mellison is the sole survivor. Really very sad. And very little capital, I am afraid, but she runs this place extremely well, and I hope will make a success of it. A great-aunt left her the furniture, and she is most hard working.” The needles clicked briskly.
“What has brought you down here?” said March. “You might as well tell me and have done with it.”
“My dear Randal, I suppose I can take a holiday.”
“You’ve just had one. You came down here to go to that inquest, and I’d like to know why. On the surface, as reported in the press, there wasn’t a single point of interest — just a common, sordid village tragedy with nothing, absolutely nothing, to lift it out of the ruck.”
“On the surface—” Miss Silver repeated the words in a mild, ambiguous voice.
“And as reported by the press. What I want to know is what other source of information you have. It certainly wasn’t the press accounts that brought you stampeding down here.”
Miss Silver dropped her hands upon the bright blue wool of the jumper in her lap.
“My dear Randal — what a word to employ!”
She got a schoolboy grin.
“Well, you did. Come along — out with it! I saw you go up and speak to Mrs. Jerningham. What’s behind all this? What do you know?”
Miss Silver resumed her knitting.
“Very little,” she said.
“But something. What is it? Is Mrs. Jerningham a client of yours?”
The needles clicked.
“That is what I am not sure about.”
“That sounds very intriguing.”
“She made an appointment with me on Thursday afternoon and rang up to cancel it on Friday morning.”
“Thursday afternoon… That was after the girl’s body had been found… Did she mention her?”
“She did not mention anything of a specific nature. She asked if she could come and see me. She said something had happened. She said ‘I must talk to someone — I can’t go on — I don’t know what to do.’ She appeared very much agitated.”
“There mightn’t be much in that. She’s a sensitive creature — she knew the girl rather well. It was naturally rather upsetting, especially as Pell had been her husband’s employee. But what I want to know is, how did she come to ring you up at all. Where did you come across her?”
“In the train,” said Miss Silver, knitting placidly — “on my way back from visiting Ethel. I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I do not feel that I can take the responsibility of keeping it to myself. There may be nothing in it at all, or — “ She paused.
“Well?”
“I think I will tell you just what happened. Mrs. Jerningham got into my carriage in an almost fainting condition. I could see at once that she had received some very severe shock. I could also see that she had come away in a great hurry. I entered into conversation with her, and when I made this remark she said like an echo, ‘I came away in a hurry.’ When I asked her why, she said, still speaking in this strange way, ‘They said he was trying to kill me,’ and when I asked her who, she said, ‘My husband.’ ”
Randal March came up out of his lounging attitude with a jerk.
“What!”
“That is what she said. Naturally I did not ignore the possibility that she might be suffering from mental, illness, but I have some experience and I did not think that this was the case. I encouraged her to go on talking. I thought it would be a relief to her. By piecing together what she told me a little bit at a time I gathered that she had overheard two women talking about her and her husband. I think she was on a weekend visit. She heard these women talking on the other side of a hedge. They were discussing the death of Mr. Jerningham’s first wife ten years before in Switzerland. She was an heiress and he came in for the money. These people said it saved him from having to sell Tanfield — they said it was a lucky accident for Mr. Jerningham. And then they said something about this girl’s money — she has a great deal — and one of them said, ‘Is she going to have an accident too?’ It was a horrible thing for poor young Mrs. Jerningham to hear, because you see, she had narrowly escaped drowning only a very short time before. She told me about it. It must have been just after she had made a will leaving everything to her husband.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes, she told me that.”
“How was she nearly drowned? What happened?”
“They were bathing — she, and her husband, and Lady Steyne and Mr. Rafe. She says they were laughing and splashing one another when she called to them. She is not a good swimmer and she was finding it hard to get in.”
“It might happen very easily.”
“It did happen. I don’t know who saved her, but it was not her husband. I said to her, ‘Well, you were not drowned. Who saved you?’ and she answered ‘Not Dale.’ ”
March knit his brows.
“Oh, she did, did she? Well, that’s quite an intriguing story. Is there any more?”
“No. We parted on the platform. I gave her one of my cards, and, as I told you, she rang me up on Thursday afternoon. The train journey was on the previous Saturday morning.”
“How did you know who she was? Did she tell you?”
“Oh, no. She would hardly have talked so freely if she had suspected that I knew who she was.”
“And did you know who she was?”
“Oh, immediately. There was a photograph of her — really a very good photograph — in the magazine which Ethel had very kindly given me to read on the journey. There was one of those ill-mannered gossipy paragraphs as well. It gave me quite a lot of information. Mr. Dale Jerningham owned Tanfield Court. He had been married twice, and both his wives had money. It even gave their names. The whole thing was in quite incredibly bad taste.”
March said, “I see—” Then, after a pause, “The first wife made a will in his favour and had a climbing accident — the second wife makes a will in his favour and is nearly drowned. Suggestive of course, but—”
Miss Silver said, “Exactly.”
“I could bear to know more about the drowning accident.”
She nodded gravely.
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Mottle, the landlady of the Green Man where I had tea, informs me that Mrs. Jerningham had narrowly escaped being killed, I think she said on Tuesday, when the steering of her car broke clean through — I use her own expression — on the hill above the village. I gathered that this is by common consent attributed to a piece of spite on the part of this man Pell, who may have considered that Mrs. Jerningham had something to do with his dismissal. He had been heard to utter threats about getting even with those who thwarted him, and it would, I imagine, have been quite simple for him to obtain access to the car and tamper with the steering.” She looked up with faint, prim smile. “You see, Randal, it is not easy.”
“Easy! I should say not! And such a nice straightforward case as it looked. Everything points to Pell. Cissie Cole’s murder falls into one of the common classes — it all looks as easy as shelling peas. And then you turn up with one red herring — you don’t mind a few mixed metaphors, do you? — and I rather think I’ve got another by the tail.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked briskly.
“I think it very probable that the red herrings will have a sufficiently strong flavour to spoil your peas,” she observed.
He laughed a little ruefully.
“They’ve done it already. Look here, I was in two minds whether to tell you or not, but I’m going to — and I won’t insult you by telling you that what I’m going to say is strictly confidential and hush-hush.”
“That sounds very interesting.”
He sat forward and dropped his voice.
“Well, I suppose it is. A little too much if you ask me. The question is, do you really know everything? I used to think you did when I was about eight, and I am beginning to have a horrid suspicion that I was right.”
“An exaggerated way of speaking, Randal.”
He gave her rather a charming smile.
“Not altogether. But I will come to the point, which is this. Does your omniscience extend to the Hudson processes?”
“I dislike exaggeration,” said Miss Silver mildly. “I certainly do not pretend to omniscience. I have a naturally retentive memory and I have cultivated it. I presume that your allusion is to the Professor Hudson who gave evidence in the Hauptmann trial. He had invented an iodine gas process which brought to light fingerprints which under the ordinary method remain invisible. I believe the jury rejected his evidence. Juries are extremely suspicious of scientific evidence — they do not understand it, and therefore they do not like it. But I do not see how the iodine gas process could be applicable to the present case. I believe, however, that Professor Hudson has also made some interesting experiments relating to fingerprints on cloth. If I am not mistaken, there is a process that can be applied to woollen materials. Perhaps that is what you have in mind.”
March laughed aloud.
“I was certainly right — you do know everything!”
Miss Silver smiled.
“Silver nitrate is used, if I remember rightly. It changes the salt in the fingerprint to silver chloride. The cloth is soaked in a solution, wrung out, and exposed to the action of sunlight, which turns the silver chloride black, and I believe some quite interesting results have been obtained.” She lifted her eyes suddenly to his face. “Am I to understand that you are thinking of having that poor girl’s coat submitted to this test, or that you have already done so?”
“I have already done so,” said March.
“With what result?”
He got up, pushing back his chair to the imminent danger of the bamboo plant-stand. It creaked, and the palm rocked perilously in its bright blue pot.
“Maddening!” he exclaimed. “Damnably interesting, and completely maddening!” Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”