Frank Abbott had been perfectly right about Mavis Eversley. She was feeling extremely well pleased with herself. Difficulty after difficulty had presented itself — you might even say reverse after reverse — but she had not allowed herself to be discouraged. She had persevered, and now awaited the confirmation of a triumphant success. Thinking it all over, she could not see where the plan could go wrong. There was, of course, just the bare possibility that the apple honey would kill Katharine and leave William alive. It was a possibility and she faced it, but it was so very unlikely. Katharine would be making the tea, pouring it out, looking after William. He would almost certainly begin eating before she did. He always had an excellent appetite. There had been family jokes about his fondness for jam. She felt comfortably sure that he would be in a hurry to help himself to Abigail Salt’s apple honey. The minute Emily had mentioned it in one of her grumbles she had known that it was just the thing to do the trick. She would be rid of William and of Emily by the same clever stroke. William had got to go. Cyril and Brett might be fools enough to think they could do a patched-up deal with him. Brett and his ‘We’re all falling on each other’s necks and killing fatted calves,’ when she called him up this morning at the office! More idiots they, and poor-spirited idiots at that! They would just be under William’s thumb for ever and ever, and never dare say ‘Bo!’ to him. But even if she could bring herself to it, none of that was going to get Mavis Jones out of the mess. William wasn’t Cyril or Brett — nobody was going to throw any dust in his eyes. He was one of the thorough kind, and he was as good at figures as she was herself. When he came to go into the books it wouldn’t take him long to find out what she’d been doing for the last seven years, and when he found out, she didn’t think he was going to have much mercy, or that either Brett or Cyril would lift a finger to save her. They were none too secure themselves, and to put it bluntly, she’d been robbing them for years.
No — William was bound to go. And the way she’d brought it off, she got rid of Emily too. And just about time — ringing her up every time Abigail went out, pouring out her crazy spite about men, about William — thank goodness she only knew him as William Smith — about Abel Tattlecombe and his will. What a crashing bore! She could be dangerous too if she went a little bit more crazy and tattled to Abigail. She hadn’t done it so far. Emily was secretive — liked to feel no one knew about ‘May’. Heavens, how she hated the name — the crazy, smarmy way of going on, the whining, grumbling voice on the telephone! How she hated Emily Salt!
By this time, with any luck at all, she was rid of her, and rid of William too, and without one atom of risk. She had never let Emily come to the flat. She used to come to her old place seven years ago — that was when she was having her affair with Brett — but never here, never once. They had met, when it was necessary, in some out of the way tearoom, but there had been as little of it as possible. It would be quite a clear case. A crazy woman would have poisoned William Eversley and then committed suicide. The only person to be blamed would be Abigail Salt who ought to have had her put away in a home years ago. That would be the end of it, and very nice too. William gone, Emily gone, and that damned Salt family pride in the dust. They had turned her mother out — they hadn’t cared whether the child lived or died. And who came out on top now?
Her thoughts slid to Katharine. She had kept her to the last. Katharine — Sylvia’s pretty, angry voice rang in her ears — ‘And who told you you could call her Katharine?’ If she had needed to have her purpose edged, that slap in the face would have done it. From the business point of view she wanted Katharine dead, because there would never be any question of those trust funds then — they came back to Cyril and Brett. But as far as her own private feelings went, it would be a considerable satisfaction to them to let Katharine live and suffer.
She turned to thinking of the future. She would make it up with Cyril of course, and they must pull the firm out of the mess. It could be done. Those toys of William’s — they had better take them up. Properly handled and pushed, there would be big money in them. Every child in the country would be wanting them. Even under the urgent pressure of danger it had outraged her business sense to turn them down as she had had to do in December. Now they could go straight ahead with them. She looked on and saw her own firm hands on the reins at Eversleys. She had a sense of power, domination, success. The way lay straight and open before her. She had never had anyone to help her except herself — her own wits, her own courage, her own skill in shaping the event to serve her purpose. And this was where it had brought her.
The front door bell jarred suddenly in the silence of the flat. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether it was the telephone. She thought of Brett, of Cyril — ringing up to say William was dead. Then the bell rang again, and she knew it was the front door.
Cyril? No — Brett said he was still at Evendon this morning — he wasn’t coming up. But it might be Brett—
She opened the door, and saw two strange men standing there. One of them stepped forward. His hand dropped on her shoulder. He said her name, and he got as far as ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ and then she twisted free, everything in her shrieking, ‘No — no — no!’ She reached the bedroom, banged the door, and locked it. There was time. There was just, just time.
When they broke the lock, she was there on the floor. Dead like Emily Salt.
In the next few days two inquests were held in two separate districts of London. Neither of them took long or attracted very much attention. The verdict in each case was suicide whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed. There was apparently nothing to connect May Woods, 39, married, with Emily Salt, 58, single, except the fact that they had both poisoned themselves by taking cyanide.
Where justice has no end to be served, it is not the policy of the police to provide the public with a dish of scandal at the expense of innocent survivors. Since neither Evans nor Donald was called as a witness, there was simply nothing to connect the two deaths. In the case of Emily Salt, the doctor who had attended her during a recent attack of influenza stated that she was, he considered, decidedly unhinged, and that he had advised her sister-in-law that it might be better if she could be placed under some restraint. Mrs. Salt and Miss Silver deposed to hearing her enter the house, and to finding her dead at the foot of the stairs. The police surgeon gave evidence as to the cause of death, and that was all. There was no mention of a pot of apple honey.
At the inquest on Mrs. Woods it was stated that on receiving a visit from a police officer she locked herself in her room, and when the door was broken down she was found to have taken a fatal dose of poison. The Coroner enquired whether Mrs. Woods had reason to suppose that she would be arrested. On receiving an affirmative reply he asked whether the police had any further evidence to offer, and was told that they had not. The deceased was identified as Mrs. May Woods by the caretaker of the block of flats in which she had resided for the past five years.
At Eversleys it became known that Miss Jones was dead. Cyril Eversley wore a black tie and stayed away from the office. He had been too profoundly shocked to realize that before very long he would be experiencing an almost equal degree of relief.
On the day after the two inquests Miss Silver dispensed coffee and conversation to Frank Abbott and to William and Katharine. It was icy cold outside, with a north wind full of little pricking points of snow, but Miss Silver’s room with its blue plush curtains drawn, a fire blazing, and cakes and coffee displayed beside it, was bright and comfortable. A warm, cheerful light illumined the patterned wall-paper, the photogravures in their yellow maple frames, Miss Silver’s gallery of photographs, and Miss Silver herself in a utility silk purchased in the last year of the war and worn one year for Sundays, a second for every day, and now come down to evening wear with the addition of a black velvet coatee — a most comfortable and treasured garment, so time-honoured as to verge upon the legendary.
Frank Abbott, very much off duty, looked across at William and said,
‘Good production, don’t you think? No fuss, no scandal, no headlines in the papers — in fact what the eye doesn’t see the heart needn’t grieve over.’
William said, ‘Yes, it was a good show — very well managed. We’re very grateful. You can’t afford that sort of publicity when you’re trying to get a business on its legs again.’
Frank lifted his coffee-cup.
‘Well, here’s luck — ’ his eyes went to Katharine — ‘to you both.’
She smiled at him.
‘You’ll come and see us sometimes, won’t you?’
‘I’d like to — if I shan’t have unpleasant associations. You’ve had a rotten time.’
She shook her head.
‘The bad part’s gone. We’ll keep the friends we’ve made — Mr. Tattlecombe, and Mrs. Salt, and Miss Silver, and you.’
Miss Silver smiled, then gave her slight cough.
‘I saw Mrs. Salt this afternoon. She told me one or two things which interested me extremely. I had been trying to think where this series of crimes and attempted crimes could really be said to have begun.In nearly every case one finds that the seed of a crime has been present in thought for a long time before it germinates and passes into action. There are, perhaps, years during which selfish, ruthless, ambitious, and despotic tendencies could, and should, be checked and eliminated. In the case of Emily Salt, in the case of Mavis Jones, we have to go a long way back. When I went to see Mrs. Salt I was very much struck by an enlarged portrait of her mother-in-law, Mrs. Harriet Salt, the mother of Emily and the grandmother of Mavis Jones. The features must always have been marked. In youth, Mrs. Salt tells me, they were remarkably handsome. But they had become harsh. The face as actually pictured was that of a ruthless despot. I learned this afternoon that the camera had not traduced her. It was under her iron domination that Emily Salt became the warped creature that she was. She might never have been very bright, but she need not have been repressed, thwarted, and bullied. With kindlier treatment her affections could have been developed and useful occupations found for her. She was not allowed to make friends, so all her capacity for affection was dammed up and became abnormal, manifesting itself in a crazy devotion which could only prove unwelcome to its object. A very sad case.’
Frank Abbott lifted a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Is the late Miss Mavis Jones, alias May Woods, a sad case too?’
Miss Silver looked at him gravely. ‘I think so, Frank. She was a wicked and unscrupulous woman. She might have been something very different. Her mother, as you know, was Mary Salt, Harriet Salt’s eldest daughter. She was, by all accounts, a handsome, high-spirited girl with a strong resemblance to her mother. When Abigail Salt first mentioned her she spoke of a runaway marriage, but I learned this afternoon that so far as the family knew no marriage had taken place. Mary Salt was going to have a child, and her mother turned her out. No one knows what happened to her or to her child for several years after that. Her name wais never mentioned. The family closed its ranks. For what follows, Emily Salt is the authority. When she was seeing a good deal of her niece just before the war she told Abigail that Mary Salt, after working her fingers to the bone to keep her child, had married a man called Jones, an elderly valetudinarian. I think he had been a schoolmaster. Mavis got a secondary school education, matriculated, and took a course in typing and shorthand. Her mother died when she was sixteen. Mr. Jones was then quite sunk in invalidism, and the sister who came to look after him turned Mavis out. This is, of course, her own account. She must have been about twenty-three when she entered your firm’s employment, Mr. Eversley. She had excellent abilities, a prepossessing appearance, and assured manners. She became Mr. Cyril Eversley’s secretary — in what year?’
William said, ‘ ’Thirty-seven or ’thirty-eight. She was very efficient.’
‘Oh, yes — a clever, efficient woman who came to rely on her own cleverness and efficiency to such an extent that she allowed these qualities to dominate her. I do not know, Mr. Eversley, whether you have yet been able to make a thorough examination of the books of your firm, but I would advise you to do so. I can only account for her subsequent actions on the supposition that your return to the firm would have involved her in criminal proceedings.’
William said, ‘Yes, I think so.’
Miss Silver coughed and proceeded.
‘Her marriage to Mr. Cyril Eversley was, of course, designed to afford her some protection. But it was not enough. She must have been conscious of defalcations too serious to be condoned. We now come to the tragic affair of Mr. Davies. I think we must conclude, Mr. Eversley, that when Mavis Jones opened your typed letter asking for an interview she received a shock. You signed it in your own handwriting, William Smith. She must have seen the first part of that signature too often not to have been struck by it. With only one word to go on, she could not be sure, but she was enough impressed to give you an appointment at an hour when neither of the partners would be there and the staff would be preparing to leave.’
William said, ‘One of the girls in the office remembers her pushing Davies off early. As a matter of fact she defeated her own ends. She hustled him, he forgot something, and he came back for it. That’s what he told you, wasn’t it, Kath?’
She said, ‘Yes.’
‘That’s when he ran into me. Of course I didn’t know him from Adam. The poor old chap went away feeling quite dazed and rang Katharine up. She isn’t sure whether she told him not to say anything or not. She wrote it to him next day, but he never got the letter.’
Miss Silver had picked up her knitting. The two blue coatees were finished and packed up ready for the post. A cardigan for the baby’s mother, her niece Ethel Burkett, was now upon the needles. About half an inch of deep bright cherry-red could be discerned — most warm, most cheerful, most comfortable. Knitting rapidly and without effort, she gave it a passing glance of admiration and reverted to the analysis of crime.
‘If Mr. Davies had been more reticent, there is very little doubt that he would have been alive today. I think there can be no doubt that he sought Miss Jones out and told her of his encounter. She probably tried to make him believe that he had been deceived by some chance likeness — she may even have commented on it herself. But when she discovered that he was in possession of her visitor’s address she must have decided that it was all too dangerous. Consider the evidence of Mr. Yates who occupied the bed next to that in which poor Mr. Davies died. The official account stated that he had passed away without speaking, which of course only meant that the nurses had not heard him speak. Mr. Yates, however, heard him say three things — the first a name which he took to be Joan or Jones, and after that two disconnected sentences, “She didn’t believe me,” and, “She pushed me.” I think there can be no doubt that Mavis Jones followed him from the office and found the opportunity she was looking for. He was pushed under a car and fatally injured. On that same evening Mr. Tattlecombe met with a very similar accident. Here we have no direct evidence. One can only weigh the probabilities and draw an inference. I think that Mavis Jones went down to Ellery Street that night to have a look at the lie of the land. I do not think it probable that she had any definite plan. It is possible, but I do not think that the probabilities lie that way. It was getting on for half-past ten at night, and she had no means of knowing whether William Smith lived on the premises, but, as it must have seemed to her perverted mind, fortune favoured her. The door opened and a man came out and crossed the pavement. She would have seen him as a dark shape against the light of the open door. In height and build he resembled William Smith. It must be remembered that though she would know Mr. Tattlecombe quite well by name as the brother of Abigail Salt, she had never seen him. What she saw now was a strong, upright figure, and the light striking upon a thick head of light-coloured hair. Mr. Tattlecombe’s hair is grey, and Mr. Eversley’s is fair. I think they would look very much the same at night with the light coming from behind. Mr. Tattlecombe has always maintained that he was “struck down”. I believe Mavis Jones pushed him, as she had pushed Mr. Davies.’
Katharine said, ‘It sounds too horribly cold-blooded.’
Miss Silver continued to knit with great rapidity.
‘It is a commonplace to say that one crime leads to another — “The lust of gain in the heart of Cain,” as Lord Tennyson so aptly says. And, if I may quote from a modern writer, “If you take the first step, you will take the last.” ’
Before the picture of Kipling as a modern the three young people sat dumb. Unconscious, Miss Silver pursued her theme.
‘We do not know when Mavis Jones discovered her mistake. She must have thought it too dangerous to repeat the attempt immediately, and she does not seem to have known that Mrs. William Eversley had obtained a situation at the Toy Bazaar.’
Katharine smiled faintly.
‘I told the family that I’d taken a job and was going away, and I didn’t give anyone my address. But — ’ she hesitated — ‘they did get to know where I was. At least Brett did — I don’t know how.’
Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
‘I think Mr. Brett Eversley rang you up late on Friday evening — the day before you married Mr. William Smith.’ She brought out the name with a smile.
Katharine said, ‘Yes.’
‘You had, I believe, taken tea with Mrs. Salt and Mr. Tattlecombe at Selby Street that afternoon. Your address was by that time known to them, and therefore to Emily Salt.’
‘I suppose so.’
William said, ‘Mr. Tattlecombe had known the address for a day or two. Miss Cole had it when we engaged Katharine. She went to Mr. Tattlecombe to complain that I was going to see Katharine in the evenings. It wasn’t her business of course, but Mrs. Bastable must have said something, and Miss Cole got worked up — she’s like that. Anyhow Mrs. Salt came to the wedding, so there wasn’t any secret about the address by then.’
The strip of cherry-coloured wool on Miss Silver’s needles had lengthened. She said,
‘Precisely. I think there can be very little doubt that Emily Salt rang up Mavis Jones, and that Mavis Jones immediately imparted the information to Mr. Brett Eversley. I do not know whether she had a grudge against him, or whether she considered that protestations of devotion on his part might ease the situation as regards the firm.’
William said, ‘It might be a bit of both. He used to run round with her. But Brett wasn’t in this business, you know. He wouldn’t have let himself be used like that if he’d known I was alive — I would like that to be quite clear to everyone. My cousins have both welcomed me back, though it has put them in an awkward position financially. Whatever Mavis Jones was doing, it was all off her own bat.’
Miss Silver inclined her head.
‘From what Mrs. Salt tells me it is evident that Miss Jones was not idle. The intimacy with Emily Salt had been resumed as far back as December. In this manner Mavis would know when Mr. Tattlecombe came to Selby Street for a period of convalescence, and she would be informed of any developments regarding William Smith. It was not hard for her to work up Emily Salt’s grievance over Mr. Tattlecombe’s will into a state which induced the poor unbalanced woman to make her two attempts upon Mr. Eversley’s life.’
William said, ‘Those were Emily — I thought so all along. You know, I picked up a note on the pavement after the first one. It was from Mrs. Salt to Mr. Tattlecombe, and I couldn’t think how it got there.’