Dark Threat (19 page)

She coughed again.

‘I may of course be wrong, but I do not wish you to accuse me of holding anything back. I have no evidence except that of my own impressions, and you will be quite justified in disregarding them.’

He said, ‘This would be a lot easier if I knew what you were talking about.’

‘Jerome Pilgrim’s attacks, Randall. I was told about them before I came down here. They were said to come on after any excitement or exertion. After I had witnessed one of these attacks Miss Day, who was very much upset, declared that it was Miss Freyne who had this exciting effect upon her patient. She said how awkward it was, and how difficult it made her position here, because the whole family was so fond of Miss Freyne. She appeared to be in genuine distress. If she was speaking the truth, her position was really a very difficult one. I made some discreet enquiries later on, and heard of three other instances where an attack had followed upon a visit from Miss Freyne.’

March said bluntly, ‘Are you accusing Lesley Freyne of drugging Jerome?’

‘Oh, no, I am not doing that—not at all. Too many hours elapse between the visit and the attack. It is not possible to relate them as you suggest.’

‘What makes you think he has been drugged? And why hashish?’

She answered the last part of the question.

‘The painful and distressing dreams.
Cannabis indica
is, as you know, an illicit drug. It is not in the British Pharmacopoeia, but it is occasionally prescribed abroad. A friend of mine found it amongst the ingredients of a prescription given to her in India. The quantity was extremely small—quite microscopic in fact—but it produced the most terrible and distressing dreams. I have also heard of other similar cases. When I saw Captain Pilgrim at the door of his room I received a very strong impression that he had been drugged.’

‘Why should anyone want to drug him?’

‘In order to separate him from Miss Freyne. That would be one reason. There might be another. The person who had killed Henry Clayton might find it very useful to provide a scapegoat. If a death from violence occurs, or has occurred, in a house which contains an invalid subject to acute nervous attacks, it is not too difficult to turn suspicion in his direction. As far back as three years ago neither of the two young girls employed here were willing to sleep in the house—Gloria Pell does not sleep in the house. And the reason given has been the alarming nature of Captain Pilgrim’s attacks. Would not this be useful to a murderer, Randall?’

Looking at her doubtfully, he said, ‘But—Miss Janetta—how in the world would she come by hashish?’

‘That was naturally the first question I asked myself. If
cannabis indica
was being administered, who in the household could have been in possession of such a drug? There is no one who seems at all likely to be in touch with illicit drug distribution in this country. It has been for many years so strictly watched and so heavily punished that the risk, except to an addict who must have his drug at no matter what cost, is a very serious deterrent. There is no one in the house who can be suspected of being an addict. It then becomes a matter of past contacts which might have made a purchase possible somewhere abroad. Miss Day has been to India, Robbins spent nearly five years there during and immediately after the last war, and Miss Janetta wintered in Cairo in ’38–39. Any one of these three people could, I imagine, have obtained the drug. What the motive may at that time have been, I am not prepared to say, but in India or in Egypt
cannabis indica
would be procurable. I do not wish to go farther than that.’

March said, ‘Miss Day—’ in a meditative tone, and then, ‘In a matter of drugs one would naturally think first about the nurse. But what motive would she have for drugging her patient?’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘There are several answers to that, Randall. She might wish to keep him—she might wish to keep a very comfortable situation. You will understand that I am not accusing Miss Day.’

He drew his brows together in a frowning line.

‘Are you trying to link up this suggestion that Jerome Pilgrim is being drugged with the deaths of Henry Clayton and Roger Pilgrim?’

She said very soberly, ‘There is no evidence of a link, is there? There is, in fact, no evidence at all, only an unexplored possibility which I have asked you to explore. It may lead you into a blind alley—I am not prepared to say that it will not do so. But you will, I think, agree that when a serious crime has been committed anything abnormal should be investigated. It may not prove to have any connection with the crime, but that is no reason for neglecting it.’

‘No, of course not.’

Miss Silver came up to the table and stood there, a small dowdy figure in olive-green cashmere. She said, ‘If Captain Pilgrim were being drugged, it would be an abnormal happening, would it not? But the sudden cessation of the drugging would be abnormal too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There has been no attack since the discovery of Henry Clayton’s body.’

‘My dear Miss Silver, what does that amount to? We only found him yesterday.’

She coughed.

‘I should have gone farther back. There has been no attack since Roger Pilgrim died.’ She set a hand on the table and leaned towards him. ‘Randall, there has been no attack since the police came into the house.’

He smiled.

‘No attack for two nights. Would that be so abnormal?’

It was the wrong answer. He was reminded of his schoolroom days. She said sharply, ‘You are not giving your mind to it, Randall. It has been stressed that these attacks are the result of excitement or exertion. Consider the events of the last two days—the violent death of one person—the discovery of the murdered body of another—the necessity felt by Captain Pilgrim of assuming his place as head of the family. Could there be anything more conducive to an attack? Yet no attack has followed. Captain Pilgrim has exerted himself beyond what anyone would have considered prudent. He insisted on seeing Miss Freyne and breaking the news to her. The interview could hardly fail to be a most distressing one, yet there have been no ill effects. You will say that a nervous invalid may be roused and taken out of himself by a shock. That would be a possible explanation. But there is another explanation which is also possible. The presence of the police in the house, the careful scrutiny of everything and everyone, might quite reasonably alarm the person who had been using a drug and deter him or her from incurring any further risk.’

March said, ‘Him—or her?’

‘That is what I said, Randall.’

‘Yes, but which?’

‘That is not for me to say.’

He said gravely, ‘You’ve said a good deal. For instance, you offered an alternative reason for Jerome being drugged. You indicated that the attacks seemed to be connected with Miss Freyne. You suggested that someone wished it to be inferred that her visits had an upsetting effect. You said that someone might be trying to separate them. Have you any reason to suppose that there is anything between her and Jerome?’

‘There is friendship and a deep affection—on his side, I think, a very deep affection.’

‘Do you mean that he is in love with her?’

‘I cannot say. I have only seen them together on one occasion. He was like a different man.’

‘And who would wish to separate them? His aunts—his nurse— You know, if it was just that kind of jealousy, there might be no connection with the murder.’

She inclined her head.

‘Quite so.’

‘The aunts might be possessive—Miss Columba in particular is obviously devoted to him. The nurse might want to keep her job, or she might be fond of him herself—there might be no more in it than a jealous woman’s trick. But why pick on Miss Janetta? She seems to me to have less motive than anyone else.’ He looked at her enquiringly.

She did not speak. When he became aware that he would get no answer he pushed back his chair.

‘Well, I must be getting along. I’m to have the reports on the two post mortems. And then—well, then, I think, I shall come back with a warrant and arrest Robbins. I’ll leave Abbott and one of the men here—it had better be the sergeant. They can carry out your search. I suppose Miss Janetta can be induced to move into her sister’s room whilst it is going on. I think it must be done as part of a general routine job—less upsetting all round—’ He broke off and looked at her shrewdly. ‘All the same I would very much like to know why you have asked me to have just that room searched. Why not Jerome’s room—the bathroom—and Miss Day’s?’

Miss Silver coughed primly.

‘Because I have already searched them myself.’

M
ISS
S
ILVER CAME
out of the study and went up to her room. The door to the back stair was open. She heard footsteps and voices, one of them Gloria’s. She turned back to look and listen. There were two girls at the open bathroom door—Gloria pink-cheeked and chattering, and a sensible-looking young woman in khaki with a corporal’s stripes on her sleeve.

Miss Silver drew their attention with a cough.

‘Is that your sister, Gloria? I should like to meet her.’

Maggie Pell was brought up and introduced.

‘She’s been seeing Miss Columba out in the garden and come in for a tidy-up. And Miss Collie says she’s grown and they don’t starve her in the A.T.S. She says she looks ever so well. But Granpa, he don’t half carry on about the uniform.’

Maggie smiled, a nice slow smile. Her hair was much darker than Gloria’s and very neat. She had blunt features and a thick white skin. Her brown eyes were kind.

‘He’s old,’ she said—‘you can’t expect him to change his ways.’

Miss Silver looked at her, and took a decision.

‘I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes,’ she said. ‘Is Gloria going out with you? Could you give me a quarter of an hour whilst she is putting on her things—if it will not make you miss your bus?’

Maggie shook her head.

‘Oh, no, that’s all right—there’s no hurry. We’re walking across the fields to see my aunt, Mrs. Collis, at Crow Farm.’

She had a steady, quiet manner. Miss Silver approved. She took her into her room and shut the door.

‘Sit down, Maggie. I expect you are wondering why I want to see you. You know, of course, what has been happening here.’

Maggie said, ‘I’m sure it’s dreadful! Mr. Henry and Mr. Roger both gone—I can’t hardly believe it!’

‘You were working here at the time that Mr. Clayton disappeared, were you not?’

‘I wasn’t sleeping in the house.’

‘No—I know that. It is all very shocking. And most necessary that it should be cleared up. Now I think you may be able to help us.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.’

Miss Silver gave a gentle cough.

‘You cannot be sure about that. I want to ask you whether anyone sent a parcel to the cleaners just after Mr. Clayton was missing.’

Maggie opened her mouth and shut it again. She brought her hands together in her lap and said, ‘However did you know?’

‘I thought something of the kind might have happened. Can you tell me who sent the parcel?’

‘It was Miss Netta.’

‘Can you tell me what she sent?’

‘Well, Miss Netta, she’s very particular about her things—sends them away to be cleaned for next to nothing. There was a couple of dresses—one she had for afternoons, blue with a kind of mauve fleck in it, and one she’d been wearing of an evening, another kind of blue with some grey trimming.’

‘Were they badly stained?’

‘No, they weren’t. I packed them up, and there wasn’t much wrong with them to my thinking. What was in a terrible mess was a warm purple dressing-gown she had that Miss Day had upset a jug of cocoa down. At least Miss Netta said it was Miss Day, but Miss Day was looking very old-fashioned about it, and I’ve got an idea it wasn’t quite like Miss Netta said. She’s like that, you know—if anything goes wrong, it’s got to be someone else did it, not Miss Netta. So I’ve an idea that likely enough she tipped that cocoa over herself, especially as it went all over Miss Day too.’

‘Now when did this happen?’

Maggie Pell considered. She was a serious, simple-minded girl, and she was taking pains to be accurate.

‘Well, it would be first thing in the morning, because that’s when she has her cup of cocoa. Of course she has it at night too, the last thing. And Miss Day makes it for her on a spirit-lamp in the bathroom and takes it in—last thing at night and first thing in the morning. At least that’s how it was in my time, and I don’t expect it’s been changed.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘So that the cocoa might have been spilled early in the morning or late the night before?’

Maggie shook her head.

‘I don’t think so, because I remember Miss Netta said Miss Day made her have the dressing-gown round her for sitting up in bed because of its being such a cold morning. And so it was. I remember it was trying to snow when I came along and found them all in an upset over Mr. Henry.’

‘You are really sure about its being the morning?’

‘Yes, I am now—because of what Miss Netta said about Miss Day making her have the dressing-gown round her. She was very put out about it—said it wouldn’t have got stained only for Miss Day making her have it round her. I must say it was in a fair mess. You see, it wasn’t just the cup of cocoa that went over her, it was the jug.’

‘Oh, there was a jug? Why was that?’

Maggie looked puzzled.

‘Miss Day would be having a cup, I suppose. The jug broke all to bits. Miss Netta
was
put out! And she was putting it on Miss Day. But she said to me afterwards—that’s Miss Day, not Miss Netta—she said, “Well, you know, Maggie, she upset it herself, and my Chinese dressing-gown’s ruined, for it ran all down the front.” ’

‘What was the dressing-gown like?’

Maggie’s face lighted up.

‘Oh, it was lovely—all birds and flowers and butterflies, worked on black satin. Done in China, she said. A lady she was with in India gave it to her.’

‘It sounds extremely handsome—too good in fact for everyday wear as a dressing-gown.’

‘Oh, but it wasn’t—more like one of those house-coats really. She’d wear it for dinner in the evening when it was cold. Lovely and warm it was, with a beautiful silk lining.’