Dark Threat (29 page)

Miss Silver looked at her kindly and said, ‘Yes.’

She turned back to March.

‘There was an air raid, and the train was delayed. When I got to Ledlington the last bus had gone, so I walked. It was a good bit after ten before I got here. I heard the quarter strike on the church clock as I was coming into the village, and it wasn’t until then that it came into my head to think what I was going to do next. You see, I had only been thinking about getting here and seeing Henry. I hadn’t ever stopped to think how I was going to manage it.’

March said, ‘I see.’ And then, ‘What did you do?’

‘I went and stood under the yew tree at Mrs. Simpson’s gate just across the road from here. It casts quite a deep shadow. It was bright moonlight, and I didn’t want anyone to see me. I stood there for a long time, but I couldn’t think of any way to get to Henry. I didn’t dare go up to the house because of my father. I couldn’t think of anything. I heard the half hour strike, and I just went on standing there. And then the door of the glass passage opened and Henry came out. I could see him quite plainly because of the moon. He hadn’t any coat or scarf or hat on, and he was smiling to himself, and all at once I knew that he was going to her—to Miss Freyne. I had taken just one step to go to him, but I couldn’t take another. It came to me then that it wasn’t any use. I let him go. Then, all in a minute, someone came after him out through that glass door—’

‘You saw someone come out of this house and follow Clayton? Was it your father?’

‘No. But of course you would think that. My husband said you were bound to think it was my father. But it wasn’t. It was a woman, in one of those Chinese coats. The moon was so bright that I could see the embroidery on it as she ran after Henry. She caught him up just by the gate into the stable yard and they stood talking for a moment. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could see his face when he turned round. He looked angry, but he went back with her. They went into the house.’

March leaned forward.

‘Would you know the woman again? Did you see her face?’

‘Oh, yes, I’d know her.’ Her voice was tired and a little contemptuous. ‘I knew her then. Henry talked about her quite a lot when she first came to Pilgrim’s Rest to nurse Mr. Jerome. He said she was the most sympathetic woman he had ever met. He showed me a snapshot he had taken of her with his aunts. After that he stopped talking about her, and—I wondered.’

‘You say you recognized her from the snapshot you had seen?’

‘Yes. It was Miss Day—Miss Lona Day.’

Frank Abbott took a fleeting glance at Miss Silver. He could discern no change in her expression. Little Roger’s sock showed nearly an inch of grey ribbing. She drew on the ball of wool, the needles clicked.

March said, ‘Is that all, Miss Robbins?’

She looked up with an effect of being startled.

‘Oh, no. Shall I—shall I go on?’

‘If you please.’

She kept her eyes on his face.

‘I went after them into the house. You see, I knew that they hadn’t locked the door, because from where I was I could see right into the passage, and they didn’t stop at all. They went right on into the house, and I went after them.’

‘What did you mean to do?’

She said as simply as a child,

‘I didn’t know—I didn’t think at all—I just followed them. When I got into the hall the light was on. I looked to the left, and the dining-room door was still moving. I went up to it, and I could hear them talking. The door hadn’t latched. I pushed it and went in.’ She stopped, leaned forward over the table, and said, ‘You’ve been in the dining-room—I don’t suppose anything has been changed there. There’s a big screen by the door—Miss Netta always said there was a draught from the hall. Well, I stood behind the screen and I looked round the end of it.’

‘Yes?’

They were over by the big sideboard, Henry on the nearer side where the door goes through to the passage where the lift is. She was farther away on the other side. There was only the one light on, over the sideboard. I could see them, but they wouldn’t see me as long as I was careful. I heard Henry say, “My dear girl, what’s the good? Better go off to bed.” And Miss Day said, “Are you in such a hurry to go to her that you can’t spare five minutes to say goodbye? That’s all I want.” ’

She looked at Miss Silver again. She was deadly pale.

‘When she said that, it sounded like all the things I’d been saying in my own mind. I began to thank God I hadn’t said them to Henry. He hadn’t any reason, and he never would have any reason, to look at me the way he was looking at her. She cried out, and she whipped round and snatched one of the knives off the wall—you know there are a lot of them there, put together in a pattern—a trophy, I think they call it. She snatched the knife, and she called out, “All right, I’ll kill myself, if that’s what you want!” And Henry stood there with his hands in his pockets and said, “Don’t be a damned fool, Lona!” ’

March said quickly, ‘You heard him use her name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you prepared to swear to that? You will have to do so.’

‘I know.’

‘Go on, please.’

She was looking at him again.

‘Henry said, “Put that knife back and come here! If you want to say goodbye according to all the forms, you shall, but it mustn’t take more than ten minutes. Come along, my dear!” He held out his hand and he smiled at her with his eyes. She said, “All right—that’s all I want,” and she turned round and went up to the wall and put up her hand to the trophy as if she was putting the knife back. But she didn’t put it back—she put it in the pocket of the Chinese coat.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘Those coats are not made with pockets, Miss Robbins.’

She got a steady look.

‘This one had a pocket—it will be quite easy for you to check up on that. She put the knife into it, but Henry couldn’t see what she did because of all the heavy silver on the sideboard. He would only see that she reached up to the wall and stepped back again. But I saw her put the knife in her pocket.’

‘You realize the gravity of what you are saying?’

She shuddered from head to foot and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Go on.’

‘She came to Henry and put her arms round his neck. I wanted to go away, but it didn’t seem as if I could move. She said, “You got my note. I was waiting for you. Why didn’t you come to my room?” Henry said, “Because it’s all over, my dear.” Then he patted her shoulder and said, “Come, Lona—be your age! We’ve eaten our cake—don’t let’s quarrel over the crumbs. We never gave each other any reason to suppose that we were very serious, did we? We’d both played the game before, and we both know when it’s over.” She said, “You’re going to her—to Lesley Freyne.” Henry said, “Naturally. I’m going to marry her. And, my dear, you’d better get this into your head and keep it there—I intend to make her as good a husband as I know how. She’s the salt of the earth, and I’m not going to let her down if I can help it.” When he said that, I knew I’d got to get away. Everything she said and everything Henry said brought it right home to me that I never ought to have come. I felt that if he saw me I should die of shame.’

Her voice had fallen very low. It stopped. She looked down at her ring and drew two or three long breaths. Nobody spoke. After a little she went on.

‘I stepped back towards the door. That was the last I saw of him, and that was the last thing I heard him say.’

She stopped again and put her hand up to her head—the same gesture which she had used before. It was borne in upon the two men that she was making a very great effort. Miss Silver had measured it from the beginning.

The effort carried Mabel Robbins into speech again. She said in her steady, low voice,

‘As soon as I moved I began to feel faint. I had had very little to eat all day. I don’t faint as a rule, but I was afraid I was going to then, and I thought I’d rather die. The door was ajar behind me. I got it open and I got into the hall, and there was my father coming through the baize door from the kitchen wing. He came up to me, and I don’t know what he said, because the faintness was so bad I had to hold on to him. I remember he shook me and pushed me towards the front door, but when he saw how I was he let go and left me leaning against it. When he came back he had a glass with a pretty stiff dose of whisky in it. He made me drink it, and it brought me round. He took me out into the glass passage and said why had I come, did I want him to curse me for breaking my promise? And I said no. Then he asked if anyone had seen me, and I said no again. He said, “You came to see Mr. Henry. Did you see him?” And I said, “Yes, I saw him, but he didn’t see me. Neither of them did. I stood there in the dining-room behind the screen, and I saw them, but they didn’t see me. They’re in there together—Henry and Miss Day. It’s all quite over now—you needn’t be afraid that I’ll come back.” He said, “You’d better not,” and then he put me out of the glass door into the street and stood there to watch me go. I don’t know how I got back to Ledlington. The last train had gone. I must have just gone on walking along the London Road, because a motorist stopped there and picked me up. I don’t remember anything about it, but he must have looked in my handbag and found my address, for he took me there. I can just remember my landlady coming out, and their helping me into the house, and his saying, “I’m a doctor. You’d better get her to bed and I’ll have a look at her.” That was how I met my husband.’

March looked at her hard.

‘When you heard that Clayton had disappeared, did it not occur to you that you should communicate with the police? You’ve waited a long time to tell your story, Miss Robbins.’

It seemed as if she was feeling some relief. She was not quite so pale. She said, ‘Yes. But, you see, I didn’t know.’

‘You didn’t know that Clayton had disappeared?’

‘No. I was very ill. It was two months before I could look at a paper, and there was no one to tell me about the Pilgrims any more—I was quite cut off from Holt St. Agnes. It was a year before I knew that Henry hadn’t married Miss Freyne.’

‘Who told you he hadn’t?’

‘A friend of his, a man I used to meet sometimes when I was with him. The way he put it, I never thought—’ She broke off. ‘Indeed I didn’t, Superintendent March. He said, “So Henry couldn’t stick it after all. Money isn’t everything, is it? Do you ever hear from him now?” When I begged him to tell me what he meant he said, “Oh, didn’t you know? Poor old Henry, he jibbed at the last moment and went off into the blue. Nobody’s heard from him since.” ’

‘I see.’

‘I thought that was all. It was the sort of thing Henry might do. I thought he had got too much tangled up with Miss Day, or perhaps Miss Freyne had found out. I never, never thought—I don’t see how I could—it never came into my mind.’

March said slowly and gravely, ‘Just when did it come into your mind, Miss Robbins?’

She moved to face him again.

‘I’ve been married for about a year. I told my husband everything long before that. He has adopted my little girl. I could never tell you how good he has been. He has a brother who is a journalist—younger than John. He was in the Army, but he was invalided out. His paper sent him down here when—when—’ Her voice broke off.

March said, ‘When Clayton’s body was discovered?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you hear of the discovery?’

Her colour had all gone again. Her voice had an odd note of surprise as she said, ‘It only happened yesterday, didn’t it? Jim—my brother-in-law—came in to see my husband this morning. He has a room quite near. He had been down here yesterday for his paper. He was on his way down again. I had gone to the office. Jim told my husband all about the case. The reason he came in was because he knew I came from that part of the world—he thought I might know some of the people.’ She caught her breath sharply. ‘He didn’t know how well I knew them. He didn’t know my story, or my real name. I had been calling myself Robertson before I married, and he thought I was a widow.’

‘The discovery of Clayton’s body was in all the morning papers, Miss Robbins.’

‘I know. But I hadn’t seen them—I never had time in the morning. I used to listen to the eight o’clock news whilst I was dressing Marion. Then I had breakfast to get. I never have time for the papers—it’s always a rush to get off. I have a friend who looks after Marion with her own little girl, and I have to take her there on my way to the office. I usually only do a half day, but if they have a rush of work, I stay on. We are very busy just now, so I was going to stay.’

‘Your husband saw the papers, I take it.’

‘Yes—after I was gone. He didn’t know what to do—he knew it would be a dreadful shock. Then Jim came in and told him all the things that weren’t in the papers. He said of course there wasn’t the slightest doubt that my father had killed Henry—though of course he didn’t know he was my father. And he said all the newspaper men thought he had killed Roger Pilgrim too, to stop him selling the house, because if it was sold, the cellars would be turned out—’ She put up a hand and gripped the edge of the table. ‘He said, —“Robbins will be arrested today—there’s no doubt about that.” ’

After a short pause she went on.

‘My husband rang up the office and asked if I could come home—urgent private affairs. They said they couldn’t possibly spare me then, but they would try to let me go by four o’clock. They didn’t tell me he had rung up. When I went to fetch Marion my friend told me that John had asked whether she would keep her for the night. That was when I began to think something must have happened. I went home, and John wasn’t there—he had had an urgent call. We have a daily woman—she gave me the message and said would I wait in for him, and he would be back as soon as he could. He didn’t come until half past five. He told me about Henry, and what Jim said about my father being arrested. He said there was no question but that I must tell the police what I had seen and heard. He said I couldn’t possibly stand out of it.’

‘He was quite right.’

She said, ‘Yes—I know that. I told him I would go down. He said he couldn’t come with me, because of the case he had been called to—he would have to go back. But he said my brother-in-law would meet me. I don’t know what he told him—enough to make him say he would keep in touch all day. He rang up again whilst we were talking, and John said I was coming down, and what train to meet. When I got to Ledlington he was there. He told me my father had committed suicide.’