Flowers Stained With Moonlight (5 page)

‘Oh, there is no need for that,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue a little annoyingly, although she meant well, of course. ‘Just leave your letters on the hall table; he takes them to the post office himself each day. Now, about this afternoon. I have sent the girls out for a walk until teatime, which we take in the parlour at four o’clock. In principle, that is also when the police inspector is supposed to arrive, and if he arrives unexpectedly early, as he frequently does, Sylvia will not be in. I shall leave you now, if you wish, until four, for I am sure that you wish to repose and refresh yourself. Please ring if you need anything and Sarah will come.’

She left me, and I waited until her footsteps died away in the corridor and I heard the click of a door closing. I waited eagerly, with pounding heart, and as soon as I believed I could not possibly be observed, I stepped silently to the second door of the bedroom, shifted the little table in front of it to one side, and tried to slide the bolt back, for something told me that the large chamber behind my bedroom might be a useful vantage point for many observations. The bolt, however, was firmly stuck. At first I was afraid to push as hard as I could, for fear of making a loud noise, but soon I was pulling and pushing at the knob till my fingers were red, alas with a complete lack of success. I sat down on the iron bedstead, upon which a lovely old spread embroidered with faded flowers covered over something unexpectedly soft and plump, which turned out upon examination to be a snugly agreeable feather eiderdown. Resting my hands, I proceeded to reflect.

After several more attempts, including one with a pen which I broke, I decided that only a few drops of oil could have the slightest chance of success with a bolt which had obviously not been opened in a long time. I considered ringing for Sarah, but I was embarrassed, and even more, worried, at the idea that she might ask me what the oil was needed for, or even offer to do herself whatever I needed doing. Finally, I made up my mind to sneak silently and tensely down to the nether regions and try to slip into the kitchen and ask kind Mrs Firmin for an oily rag, with the excuse of some lock or other of mine. I was afraid that it would all be absurd and unseemly and most suspicious and unrealistic, so I descended the staircase very quietly, still not really certain whether or not I really meant to put my plan into action.

Can you imagine – as I reached the bottom of the stairs, who should I see but Sarah, busily engaged in cleaning the front door! She had shined the brass knob and waxed the panels, and was now polishing them vigorously. On the ground next to her lay a whole panoply of cleaning substances and utensils. My eyes were instantly attracted by a tiny flask.

My dear Dora, I need not go into details on the subject of the daring robbery which I then perpetrated, for there is not much to tell! I stood silently, wondering how I could manage to get a closer look, when Sarah rose creakingly to her feet and disappeared through the swinging door. It was but the work of a moment for me to dart forward and confirm that the tiny flask indeed contained oil. I dared not carry it off altogether, nor borrow one of her rags, lest she note its disappearance, so (I am ashamed to confess) I
soaked a tiny region of the hem of my petticoat and rushed back upstairs, where I immediately lifted the oily spot and began to rub and massage the bolt with it, so that the stain soon became black instead of yellowish.

By dint of patience, rubbing, twisting, forcing and pulling, I felt the bolt begin to yield, and after some quarter of an hour, I finally succeeded in loosening it completely. It slid very silently to one side, and I twisted the handle of the door and opened it.

I stood looking into a large, strange space. There was an astonishing contrast between my neat room with its little bed, carefully waxed and polished floor and starched curtains, and this damp ruin with partially crumbling walls, in which pieces of rotting wood and broken bits fraternised with old abandoned furniture and diverse objects. The floor was thickly tiled with bricks, and most of it was also covered over with great sheets of heavy burlap material, but it was easy to see how the water had eaten away at the mortar. Pails and buckets stood here and there, probably under the places of the worst leaks, and various strings and strands of material had been attached to the ceiling to guide the falling water into them. Parts of the ceiling were actually fallen away, revealing the underside of the roof.

I leant into the room and peered about, noticing that both Camilla’s and Sylvia’s rooms gave onto it as well as mine. Quite near the wall, the floor appeared to be in reasonably good condition, and I hesitantly and a little nervously took a few steps along it, passing the door leading into Camilla’s room and stopping at Sylvia’s. My feet made
a little scraping noise, and looking about me, I chose a piece of thick material and shifted it quietly, making a path for myself just along the wall, so as to be sure that I would be able to move up and down there in complete silence. Then, feeling I had done enough, I scurried back to my room, darted inside, closed and bolted the door with a sigh of relief, shifted the table, and flinging myself into a chair, I drew pen and ink toward me and began to write this letter.

Here I am just barely arrived, and already I am specifically ignoring the injunctions of my hostess, with the purpose of laying the grounds for an eavesdropping expedition! I feel quite ashamed, but quite adventurous. I only hope that no one is spying on me as I am spying on them, for this letter is not very discreet! I had better hide it with care, until tomorrow when it shall be taken to the post office by Peter’s ministrations.

I leave you tenderly, my dear, and will write again very soon.

Your loving

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

I must finish telling you the events of yesterday.

We had barely gathered at tea, the girls with damp foreheads and muddy boots from their long tramp across the fields, when a loud ring came at the front door.

‘Oh, that will be the inspector already,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue,
with an impatient, worried look. ‘If not early, he is certainly punctual!’

There was a moment of tension, and she glanced at me. As we heard the front door being opened by Mr Huxtable, I rose and, without haste, carrying in my hand the teacup which she had only just filled, I left the room.

I should tell you that I had had a little talk with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue a few moments earlier, when she had knocked at my door to fetch me down to tea. And she had made a rather peculiar request.

‘As you know, the police intend to interrogate Sylvia yet again this afternoon,’ she told me. ‘It is the fourth time since Geo—since her hus—since my son-in-law was killed. I cannot think what they believe they can still have to learn from her, but I am afraid, very much afraid. They came specially and urgently to make this appointment, and as I cannot think what else it may mean, I very much fear that they may have some new evidence to try and use or turn against her. Now, I intend to insist on remaining with her during her interrogation. I will say that she is in fragile health, and I have instructed her to say the same. Yet I conceive that they will not allow me to do so, and I am desperately worried for Sylvia. She is such a little goose, that if they attempt to trap her into some contradiction, she will certainly fall for it straight away; she would be capable of incriminating herself out of pure foolishness, though I have of course told her again and again to stick quietly to the truth and offer nothing else. You know, of course, that she has an alibi for the time of the murder, for she was at
home, and the housekeeper and maid have both stated that Sylvia did not leave the house, and could not have done so without being observed. But if I know anything about the police, they will try every possible way to pick holes in that statement, or frighten Sylvia into believing that they have done so. I simply
must
know what they say to her, otherwise how can we defend ourselves?’

‘Sylvia must have a lawyer,’ I said quickly. ‘You know that she has the right to one, and that the lawyer would necessarily be allowed to accompany her to all police interrogations.’

‘It is impossible – I have not the means to pay for a private lawyer, and the court will not appoint her one as long as she has not been formally accused. Furthermore, it seems to both Sylvia and me, and Camilla agrees, that it would appear to be a sign of guilt on her part to thus defend herself; we believe that she should behave exactly as though her innocence were perfectly clear – as indeed it should be – and she believed the police were questioning her merely in order to advance their researches. At least, that is the plan we put together at first, but I am not at all sure that Sylvia has the strength of character to keep up such an appearance, when in truth she is grievously distressed and frightened. Besides, the inspector is due to arrive very shortly, and we must act immediately. That is why I wish to propose something to you. It is rather daring, but not illegal, and I believe that you are a rather daring person. The police have already visited us and they know who is presently in the house, except for you; they have no idea of your visit, as you arrived only today. I want
to ask you, when they ring, to slip into the library and conceal yourself in the gallery. If, as I fear, they refuse to question Sylvia in my presence, I will show them into the library for the interrogation, and if I cannot intervene to assist her, I can at least know the worst from an objective viewpoint, which Sylvia cannot have. Not to mention the fact that there are many things she would not tell me, out of natural reserve, allied with a mistaken but understandable desire to protect me. Now I ask you: can you, will you do this?’

‘Certainly,’ I replied unhesitatingly. Thus, before we entered the dining room, she quickly showed me into the library and indicated the twisted little carved wooden staircase leading up to the gallery above, which ran right round three sides of the large room, and was almost filled with bookshelves jutting out perpendicularly from the walls, leaving only the smallest passage for the prospective reader to squeeze past the railings.

This explains why, the moment I heard the front door opening, I slipped into the dining room adjoining the parlour where we were taking our tea. As soon as I heard Mr Huxtable introducing the police officers (two of them, it seemed to me) into the parlour, I left my teacup on the sideboard – I had carried it off with me in order to prevent the police from detecting the presence of another person (as well as for the purpose of taking at least one or two comforting sips before starting off upon my adventure) – darted swiftly across the hall, slipped into the library whose door we had left ajar, scurried up the winding staircase and settled myself into a nook, well back between two of the
jutting bookshelves. As quietly as I could, I pushed a heap of books in front of me, leaving only a cranny through which I could make out the group of burnished leather armchairs in the centre of the large room below.

I waited for a few minutes, and from across the hall, I heard the tones of slightly raised voices. Then the parlour door opened sharply.

‘We’re very sorry, madam,’ said a stern masculine voice. ‘It is absolutely impossible. Mrs Granger appears to be in tolerable health, and we must speak with her alone.’

I heard Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s low tones without making out her words, and the unyielding response.

‘You are aware that Mrs Granger can refuse to answer any of our questions, if she wishes. This would naturally produce a very negative impression, but such is her right. It is up to her. Now, let us begin.’

‘Let me show you into the library, then,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue with an audible sigh, and I knew by the approaching sound of her voice that she was already crossing the hall. The two men followed her, and ushered Sylvia into the room before entering it themselves and shutting the door firmly behind them.

The inspector, the sergeant and Sylvia installed themselves in the armchairs in silence. From my hiding place, I could see Sylvia’s face directly; it wore a sulky, rather childish expression of stubbornness mingled with helplessness. The officers addressed her with a certain gentle respectfulness which made me think, at first, that they must, after all, believe her innocent. I realised later that their caressing tones
were a mere technique to soothe her or lull her into revealing as much as possible, much as one coaxes an obstinate child, knowing that roughness will only increase its resistance.

‘Now, Mrs Granger,’ began the inspector, the more important of the two, ‘we would like to go over your statement once again.’ He shook out some papers and smoothed them rather ostentatiously over his knee.

‘I really don’t see why we need to, Inspector Gregory,’ said Sylvia in a small, childish voice. ‘It’s still quite the same as before. Nothing has changed in what I can tell you.’ I thought that her main strength must lie in a kind of quiet but efficacious obstructionism which can be extremely trying, and that knowing her well, her mother had probably coached her carefully.

‘We need to check with you, because certain new elements have come up – certain information which alters some of the factors corroborating your statement.’ He paused for effect, but as she remained perfectly dumb, he gave a little cough and took a breath. I thought he would proceed to tell her what had changed, but instead, he said silkily,

‘Mrs Granger, you know that the medical evidence places your husband’s death very close to one hour after his luncheon, which by the evidence of the cook means very close to two-thirty in the afternoon.’

‘Well, of course I know that, I’ve already been told it several times,’ said Sylvia, without raising her voice.

‘Yes, to be sure. Now, your statement claims that after luncheon, you retired to your room, and remained there until six o’clock.’

‘That is exactly what I did.’

‘Two days ago, we told you that your evidence as to your movements was corroborated by that of your housekeeper, who claims that you could not possibly have left the house without being seen, as the only exits are the main door leading to the entrance lobby, the marble floor of which was being washed by the housemaid for a good two hours starting directly after luncheon, or through the kitchen, which was occupied for the whole time by the cook and the kitchen maid doing the dishes.’

He looked at Sylvia, but she did not feel the need to waste a single word, and sat waiting rather provokingly.

‘Sergeant Barker, read Mrs Granger the new pieces of evidence which have come to light since Thursday,’ said the inspector, looking rather disgruntled. The sergeant, a thickset, youngish man, took out a pad, licked his finger, and turned a few pages with care. He read slowly, and unlike the inspector, quite expressionlessly, staring all the while down at the page before him.

‘Evidence given on the 10th inst. by witnesses remaining anonymous,’ he enunciated dutifully. ‘Statement of Witness Number One: “It’s not difficult to climb down from the balcony that Miss Sylvia’s bedroom gives onto. I did it many a time myself as a lad, though it’s been a while. Yes, I’m sure I could still do it.” The witness then proceeded to give a demonstration, by climbing onto the roof of the veranda at the side of the house, and from there to the first-floor balcony, then down again. The veranda opens onto the side garden which is separated from the woods by a low fence.’

Again Sylvia said nothing, but a faint, rather tense
smile appeared on her face. I thought that decidedly, her mother must have given her strict injunctions not to speak unless she was asked specific questions – unless it was in her own nature to be so passive, for the desire to make some sharp response was certainly strong within my breast! The sergeant licked his forefinger again and turned another page.

‘Evidence of Witness Number Two,’ he read. ‘“I was walking along the high road which borders the part of the woods that lies on manor property. The time was about twenty or twenty-five minutes after two o’clock. I know because just about five minutes later I came over the top of the crest and saw the steeple, it comes into sight just at that point, and then I heard the chimes. I saw a figure flitting among the trees, coming away from the direction of the house. I recognised the figure as that of Mrs Granger. I thought nothing of it at the time.”’

This time Sylvia stirred, and flushed faintly.

‘It’s nonsense,’ she said, but without excitement. ‘Nobody can have seen me when I never left my room.’

It seemed to me that the inspector became faintly annoyed at his failure to shake or frighten her. He began to speak, then stopped and motioned his colleague to continue.

‘The evidence from the ballistics experts has arrived,’ said Sergeant Barker stolidly. ‘The bullet is French-made and very probably French-bought. It was fired from a small French-made gun of a type intended for personal use and defence. Such guns can be bought quite easily in France, but also, although somewhat less easily, in London.’

Now the inspector breathed deeply and beamed the full force of his personality onto Sylvia.

‘You spent a large part of last winter in Paris, did you not, Mrs Granger?’ he said in a tone of accusation.

‘Yes, I did,’ she replied calmly.

‘Indeed you did. Now, Mrs Granger, I would like you to understand the danger of your position. The police are precise workers. You understand that if you purchased that gun in Paris, the fact will be traced and confirmed – if you left your house by the balcony and the veranda, and went into the woods, that fact will be uncovered and sworn to by witnesses. None of your movements have any chance of remaining hidden, Mrs Granger. Therefore, I urge you to speak up now, and tell us before it is too late if you have anything to add to the statement you already made.’

It is hard for me to express how much pressure and threat the inspector communicated through these words, by his deliberate and intense manner of speech, although taken literally, as I have written them down, they do not in themselves appear to be so dreadfully frightening.

‘No,’ Sylvia replied, but a strange look had come into her eyes; not fear, but something closer to anguish, as she felt her inclination to reserve being forcibly overcome. ‘I bought no gun in Paris, I have never had a gun, I do not know how to shoot a gun. If I had had a gun, I suppose the servants would have known it, so why don’t you ask them?’

‘If you had had a gun, it would be natural for you to keep it very carefully hidden, wouldn’t it?’ said the
inspector. His tone was smoothly challenging, as though he were encouraging her to keep on speaking. Once again, to my dismay, she responded.

‘Nothing is ever hidden from servants,’ she answered, with a sudden bitter animation which boded ill for discretion, and therefore pleased the inspector highly. ‘Especially George’s. They were always spying on me.’

‘Spying on you?’ He pounced on her words. ‘Do you think your husband asked them to do that?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps,’ she said, growing wary, a little too late.

‘Now, why would he have done that? He suspected you of something, maybe? Could that be it?’

‘Oh – I don’t know! What should he suspect me of? I don’t know. He was jealous of my time, I think. He left me very little liberty, and it grew worse after I returned from France. He was greatly displeased when I telegraphed him to tell him that I was extending my stay, and came over without telling me, to fetch me back himself. He appeared at the door of my hotel room one morning, and seemed quite as angry as if … as if he had something to be angry about! But there was nothing. So he had to bluster around and insist I return with him, and so I went, so he had nothing to be angry about really, but he remained angry anyway. It annoyed me at first, but then I left off thinking about it.’