When they were alone again March turned in his chair with an abrupt,
“Well?”
During the whole of the time that Laura had been in the room Miss Silver had knitted peacefully. The blue bootee had made considerable progress. The needles had clicked without intermission, but Miss Silver’s lips had not uttered a single word. She unclosed them now.
“What do you expect me to say, my dear Randal?”
He smiled.
“What you think. You always do.”
She gave her little dry cough.
“I hope so. But in this case I would rather hear what you think yourself.”
The smile became a thoughtful one.
“A disarming creature. One would say candour itself—or one would have said so if one hadn’t taken up this horrid trade. Do you remember Milly Morrison?”
“My dear Randal, any woman would have seen through Milly at a glance.”
“She was a very pretty girl.” His tone was drily regretful.
“And a sadly deceitful one,” said Miss Silver. She picked up her ball of wool, which had rolled under the writing-table, and added, “Gentlemen are quite unable to believe any harm of a young woman who has large blue eyes. If Laura Fane’s eyes were blue, you would not be suspecting her now.”
He laughed.
“Oh, she’s got lovely eyes—I grant you that. Easy to look at, and easy to trust. But here we are with a set of awkward facts on our hands. Desborough and his quarrel with Tanis Lyle—a quarrel which drove him into something uncommonly like a threat to murder her. His admission that he saw her go downstairs just before two o’clock on the night of the murder. If he wasn’t the murderer he was the last other person to see her alive. But suppose he is the murderer. We don’t really know what their relations may have been. We do know that he was breaking with her to marry Laura Fane. Just now when you asked me if I could think of any reason why she should have opened the door to the church, I said I couldn’t. It was stupid of me, because there’s a perfectly obvious reason. He was threatening her with the pistol, and she had lost her head and was trying to make a bolt for it.”
Miss Silver shook her head.
“If you had seen Tanis Lyle when she was really being threatened with a pistol you would not entertain that idea for an instant. It is quite absurd. She would have faced him without a tremor.”
He said, “You can’t tell—people lose their nerve suddenly—I’ve seen it happen. But that’s just speculation. This—” he took out an envelope from a drawer and handed it to her—“this is evidence.”
She had laid down her knitting. She now opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of paper. It contained a couple of black silk threads about eight inches long. They appeared to be much discoloured. She looked at them gravely and intently. Then, without speaking, she raised her eyes to the Superintendent’s face.
He said, “Those threads were found clutched between the fingers of Tanis Lyle’s left hand. The stain is blood. Do they suggest anything to you?”
Miss Silver took her time. Then she said,
“What do they suggest to you?”
The quizzical look just showed, and was gone again.
“Quite a lot,” he said. “The silk threads… My mother had one of those Chinese shawls—she has it still.”
Miss Silver nodded.
“Oh, yes, I remember it. But hers was all white—a very beautiful piece of work.”
“Yes. It had a deep fringe all around it, about eight or nine inches long—in fact about the length of those silk threads. But, as you say, my mother’s shawl is white. Laura Fane’s, I suppose, is not, and I suppose you can describe it to me.”
Her needles clicked.
“Oh, yes. It is black, very beautifully embroidered with coloured flowers and butterflies.”
“And it has a black fringe about eight inches deep?”
“Yes, Randal.”
He threw up a hand in an exasperated gesture.
“You can’t refuse to look facts in the face just because you have taken a fancy to Desborough and Laura Fane! Desborough was out of his room, and the girl out of hers and downstairs, round about the time when the murder must have taken place. Threads from the fringe of her shawl were between the dead woman’s fingers. They are stained with blood. And the shawl itself has disappeared. Why? The obvious answer to that is that it too was stained and had to be disposed of.”
Miss Silver looked up calmly.
“And how do you imagine that it became stained?”
“You mustn’t think that I am convinced of Desborough’s guilt, or of Laura Fane’s. I only say they could be guilty. They had motive, they had opportunity, and those threads from the missing shawl and the fact that the shawl is missing are nasty bits of evidence to explain away. As to how the shawl may have got stained, I think that is quite easy. There is a quarrel between the three of them. Laura Fane may have interposed. There may have been a struggle in which these threads were broken off. They were caught in the setting of a ring which Miss Lyle was wearing. Well, she gets frightened and makes for the door into the church. Desborough shoots her, and she falls, as we know she did fall, from that top step. Laura Fane is horrified—I’ll grant you that. She runs down the steps, kneels beside the body— someone did kneel there—the grass was all pressed down. When she realizes that Miss Lyle is dead she comes back. She is concerned to save Desborough. They wipe the pistol and put it back in the drawer. They wipe the inner handle of the sitting-room door—probably the outer one too, because there are only Dean’s fingerprints on it. Then one of them notices that the shawl is stained. What are they going to do about it? What did they do? Burned it in the furnace most probably, in which case we may whistle for our evidence, though the disappearance of the shawl is in itself a damning piece of evidence. Laura Fane may have gone back to her room and left Desborough to clear up the mess, or they may have done it together. The only thing we know for certain is that she was neither wearing nor carrying the shawl when she returned to her room. She said so herself, and Miss Adams—”
Miss Silver interrupted, a thing quite against her code of manners. She did it quietly and deliberately.
“Oh, yes—may I hear what Lucy has to say about it? I should be interested.”
He said, “Of course. It’s quite short… Yes, here it is. I’ll read it to you.”
“Thank you. I am just turning the heel of my bootee.”
He read from Lucy Adams’s statement:
“ ‘It was such a terribly windy night that my sleep was very much disturbed. I kept on waking up. I have a constitutional dislike for the sound of wind.’ ”
He looked up with half a laugh. “There was a good deal more on those lines, but I’m afraid I cut it out.”
“Lucy has always been inclined to think too much about her feelings,” said Miss Silver.
Randal March resumed.
“ ‘My rest became more and more broken. I could only sleep in snatches. No, no, no—I did not hear any shot, I only heard that terrible wind. I became too nervous to stay in bed, so I got up and walked about my room.’ ”
He looked up again. “She explained at considerable length that movement and a drink of cold water had a soothing effect upon her nerves and usually enabled her to go to sleep again, but not on this occasion. After walking about her room for a time, she says, she opened the door. The idea was to walk up and down the passage for a change.”
“Lucy has very little self-control,” said Miss Silver.
March went back to the statement.
“Here we are. She says,
“ ‘I opened my door and heard a footstep coming from the direction of the stairs. I drew the door to, but left a crack because I wanted to see who it was. At the same time I switched out my own light because I did not wish to be seen.’ ”
“Lucy is a prying old maid,” said Miss Silver.
He very nearly laughed. It might not have been forgiven him if he had. He went on reading rather hastily.
“ ‘I saw Laura Fane coming along the passage from the stairs. There is a light at the other end outside my cousin’s room, and I could see her quite plainly.’ ”
Miss Silver coughed.
“The bulb is a fifteen-watt, and the passage is forty-five feet long. The distance between the light and Lucy’s door would be about thirty feet, I should think.”
He murmured, “You are always accurate,” and went on reading,
“ ‘Laura’s door is very nearly opposite mine. She came along the passage and went into her room. She was wearing her night-gown, and a dressing-gown over it. She had slippers on her feet. She wasn’t carrying a candle, or a book, or anything. I couldn’t imagine why she should be out of her room like that, unless she had been meeting Mr. Desborough. I was very much shocked at the idea. She went into her room and shut the door. I was so much upset that I was quite unable to sleep.’ ”
Miss Silver’s lips were firmly pressed together. He looked at her with some amusement.
“Well, that’s all.”
“Lucy ought to be ashamed of herself. That is, I am sure, a most unfounded imputation.”
He laughed.
“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t think Laura Fane and Carey Desborough were indulging in a lovers’ meeting. I wish I hadn’t to suspect them of anything worse than that.”
Miss Silver put down her knitting and looked at him earnestly.
“Do you really suspect them, Randal?”
He said very seriously indeed,
“I don’t know, but I’m going to make it my business to know. And the first thing I’m going to do is to find out what has become of that Chinese shawl.”
Randal March had done his best to be as good as his word, but he had failed. The house had been gone through with the proverbial finetooth-comb, but there was no discoverable trace of Laura Fane’s Chinese shawl. With its gaily embroidered blooms, its butterflies, and its torn fringe, it had vanished as completely as if it had possessed only the fantastic substance of a dream. Police superintendents do not readily believe in the fantastic. March set Sergeant Stebbins and Police Constable Pollock to the loathly task of sorting through the dustbins and the furnace ashes.
“They must have burned it,” he said, encountering Miss Silver in the hall. “There’s about a millionth chance of finding a shred or two.”
He put a hand on her arm and walked with her to the study. When they were inside with the door shut he said,
“We didn’t find the shawl, but we did find something else. Look at this.”
He gave her a shred of crumpled paper. She smoothed it out, looked at it, and read aloud, her cool, prim voice making a strange contrast with the scribbled words.
“ ‘All right darling come down to my sitting-room as soon as the coast is clear. Not before one—Aunt A. reads late.’ ”
He said, “There’s no signature. Can you identify the writing?”
“Oh, yes—Tanis Lyle’s.”
“It’s obvious of course from the context, but—you are quite sure about the writing?”
“Oh, quite sure.” She gave him back the note. “Where did you find it?”
“In the breast pocket of Alistair Maxwell’s dinner-jacket.”
“Dear me!”
“It’s undated of course. I am going to show it to him and ask him if he’s got anything to say about it. You can stay, if he doesn’t object. I will explain that you are representing the family.”
Alistair Maxwell objected to nothing. He had the dazed, half-stupefied appearance of a man who is exhausted from shock and lack of sleep. His usually fresh complexion was dull and patchy. His fair hair was rough and his eyes set in his head. They stared at the bit of paper which the Superintendent offered him.
“Yes, it’s mine. Where did you find it? I thought I had put it in the fire.” He spoke in a dry, toneless voice, standing by the table. His eyes never left the paper.
“This note,” said March—“it was from Miss Lyle?”
He did not look up.
“Yes. It doesn’t matter now—does it?”
“I think it does. We want to know who killed her. This note makes an appointment with you for one o’clock. The time referred to is undoubtedly the middle of the night, because she speaks of her aunt reading late. Have you got anything to say about this appointment? Did you keep it?”
“Yes, I kept it.” The words were drained of expression.
“Would you care to tell me what happened?”
“Oh, yes—it doesn’t matter now. We quarrelled.”
“Oh—you quarrelled. Seriously?”
“Yes. She was tearing everything to bits—Petra—me— everyone. It couldn’t go on.”
March was looking very grave.
“Mr. Maxwell, is this a confession? I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
He looked up then in a slow, bewildered manner.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean. You can make a statement, or a confession, but it is my duty to make sure that you understand what you are doing.”
“But—”
March said quickly,
“This note has very grave implications—you must realize that. When you admit that you kept the appointment, and that you had a very serious quarrel with Miss Lyle, you come very near to incriminating yourself.”
Alistair’s look of bewilderment deepened. He said,
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mr. Maxwell, I am not trying to trap you. I am here to discover who shot Miss Lyle. You have admitted to being with her, and to having a very serious quarrel. Miss Lyle was shot at some time between two o’clock, when she was last seen alive, and the early hours of the morning. The medical evidence suggests that her death took place not much later than three o’clock. You must realize that you are in a serious position.”
The study door was jerked open. Petra North ran in. She banged it behind her and stood against it, eyes and cheeks blazing. She said in a clear, angry voice,
“He isn’t! He didn’t touch her—he wouldn’t!”
March turned.
“You were listening at the door, Miss North?”
She left it and ran to Alistair, linking an arm through his,
“Of course I listened! Can’t you see he’s ill? How dare you try and bully him? He’s ill, I tell you—he doesn’t know what he’s saying. You might just as well say that I did it. I wanted to, and I said so dozens of times—I expect you could get any number of people to say they’ve heard me. Because I hated her like poison. But Alistair didn’t hate her. Alistair loved her. He’s breaking his heart for her this minute. He worshipped her.”
She was quite outside herself, passionate in defence.
Alistair pulled roughly away.
“That’s not true!” His voice was thick and unsteady. “I think I hated her. She’d got me, and I couldn’t get away. That’s not right—you’ve got to be able to get away if you want to. She won’t let you get away. I expect that’s why she was killed.”
March’s voice broke in.
“Mr. Maxwell, do you wish to make a statement, or—a confession?”
Petra called out in a high, shrill voice,
“No, no, no—he didn’t—he didn’t do it! I did it—I shot her!”
The whole thing had passed at great speed. They were all standing. Miss Silver had one hand on the edge of the table, leaning on it. At Petra’s words Alistair Maxwell took a lurching step forward and slumped down in the writing-chair, his arms flung out across the table, his head sunk upon them. The movement was so abrupt, it had almost the effect of a fall. March looked down at him before he turned to Petra.
“You had better sit down, Miss North. We seem to be a chair short. I’ll bring one in from the dining-room. You must consider what you have just said, and whether you would be willing to make a statement. I have to tell you that what you say may be used in evidence against you.”
Alistair Maxwell’s hands clenched one upon the other. A strong shudder went over him.
Petra said nothing. She remained standing till March returned with the chair. Then she sat down.
When they were all seated. March said gravely,
“Now, Miss North—have you considered your position?”
She had lost a little of her look of a kitten at bay, but she was still very much flushed, very tense. She said in a defiant voice,
“I shot her. It wasn’t anyone else—it was me.”
“And your motive?”
“She was tearing Alistair to bits. I couldn’t bear it any longer.”
“I see. Will you tell me just what you did? You went up to your room with the others on Thursday night?”
“Yes, I went up with Laura Fane. We didn’t talk. We went to our rooms.”
“Then will you go on from there? What did you do?”
She sat up very straight and stiff with her hands clasped in her lap and said like a child repeating a lesson,
“I got into a dressing-gown, but I didn’t undress. I knew it was no good going to bed or trying to sleep—I was too unhappy. I thought about all the things that had been happening, and I couldn’t see any way out of them as long as Tanis was alive. I hated her, and I wished she was dead. Presently I couldn’t bear it any longer in my room, so I went downstairs. There was a light in Tanis’s sitting-room. I remembered about the pistol being in the bureau there. I went in. She wasn’t there. I got the pistol and went into the octagon room to look for her. I could hear her opening the door there. She had just opened it when I came in. I shot her. She fell down the steps. That’s all.”
March said, “Not quite, Miss North. I should like to ask you a few questions. When you came down the stairs you were in your dressing-gown. Was it very cold?”
The clasp of her hands had relaxed. She looked at him with some astonishment.
“No—I don’t think so—I didn’t notice.”
Miss Silver had been watching her intently. A very faint smile now changed the line of her lips.
March said, “You didn’t feel the need of an extra wrap or anything like that?”
“No.” Her tone was a puzzled one.
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Oh, yes, quite.”
“Well then, you came down the stairs into the hall. What time was it?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know—I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t meet anyone?”
“No.”
“Or notice anything at all unusual?”
“No—I wasn’t noticing things.”
“You didn’t notice whether there was anything hanging on the newel-post at the foot of the stairs?”
Her flush deepened.
“I tell you I wasn’t noticing things.”
“You’re quite sure you didn’t see Miss Laura Fane’s Chinese shawl, or handle it?”
“Of course I’m sure. What’s the good of all these questions? I’ve told you I shot Tanis. Isn’t that enough?”
The severity of his look had relaxed a little.
“Not quite, I’m afraid. You say that you came into the sitting-room and got the pistol. Where was it?”
There was hardly a pause before she said,
“In the bureau.”
“Yes—Miss Lyle had told everyone that, hadn’t she? But the bureau has a flap, and three drawers. From which of these places did you take the pistol?”
She turned wide, startled eyes on him.
“Come, Miss North!”
She said in a whispering voice, “I don’t remember.” And then, “It was—it was under the flap—I think.” The last two words were so faint as to be almost inaudible.
March regarded her.
“Well, you shot Miss Lyle. What did you do after that?”
She said with obvious relief,
“I came back to my room.”
His quizzical look showed for a moment.
“As quickly as all that? You didn’t go down the steps to make sure that Miss Lyle was really dead?”
Her eyes were wary now.
“I don’t know—I might have done—”
“Come, Miss North, you must remember whether you went down the steps or not.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what did you do with the pistol? Do you know that?”
“I—I put it down.”
“Just like that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He was smiling a little.
“You shot Miss Lyle, and you don’t know whether you went down the steps or not. And you put the pistol down, but you don’t know where you put it. Let me see if I can help you to remember. Do you think you put it back under the flap of the bureau?”
“I don’t know where I put it.”
She was frightened now, and afraid of committing herself.
“Do you think you might have dropped it after you fired?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you remember opening the flap of the bureau to take the pistol out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember opening or shutting either of the doors in the room—the door from the hall for instance? You came in that way?”
“Yes, I came in that way.”
“Then you had to open that door.”
“Yes.”
“Did you shut it behind you?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice had begun to shake.
“Well then, after you had shot Miss Lyle and dropped the pistol—can you remember whether you had to open the sitting-room door to get back into the hall?”
“I don’t know. I’ve told you that Won’t know. What does it matter? I’ve told you I shot her.”
Randal March leaned back in his chair. He said in his agreeable voice,
“Miss North, you’ve told me a number of things, and most of them are untrue. To start with, you say you saw a light in Miss Lyle’s sitting-room. That would mean that the door into the hall was open. Later on you say you had to open this door. Both these statements can’t be true. If we are to believe the first of them, we have to swallow the improbability that Miss Lyle had gone into the octagon room to admit a midnight visitor, leaving her sitting-room door open to advertise the fact. I can’t manage to believe that myself. If, on the other hand, you opened the door, how do you account for its not having your fingerprints on it? You say you took the pistol from under the bureau flap. You left no fingerprints there either. You don’t know what you did with the pistol afterwards, but the person who used it had taken good care to wipe it and put it back in the place from which it was taken, which wasn’t under the bureau flap at all. Your trouble is that you’re trying to confess to a crime without having the least idea of how it was committed. The person who shot Miss Lyle kept a clear head. Telltale fingerprints were all most carefully removed. If you had removed them you wouldn’t have forgotten the fact, or where they had been—where the pistol was, or where the murderer finally left it. You did your best, but you couldn’t tell me these things because you didn’t know them. Fortunately for you it is extremely difficult for an innocent person to prove himself guilty. You see, he doesn’t really know enough about the job.”
Alistair Maxwell’s head had lifted. He was looking at Petra. She was pale now, her expression one of misery. Alistair said in a sudden loud voice,
“Petra—you fool!”
The tears which had been gathering welled up and began to roll down her cheeks. She sat quite still and let them fall.
Alistair got up and came to her. With an arm about her shoulders, he addressed himself to March.
“I’m sorry, sir—she’s a damned little fool. But I suppose she thought I did it. I didn’t, you know. I’m afraid I made an exhibition of myself just now. It’s been a shock, and I haven’t been sleeping. I’m all right now. And I can explain about that note. It wasn’t for Thursday night at all, it was for Wednesday. If you look at it again you’ll see that it couldn’t have been for Thursday, because it said one o’clock. Well, the Madisons were coming in on Thursday night. We always dance when they come in, and they never go away until well after midnight—anyone in the house will tell you that. She would never have said one o’clock if it had been for Thursday night.”
Petra turned in her chair with a quick movement and hid her face against his arm.
Randal March got to his feet and opened the door.
“Oh, take her away and pick up the bits, Maxwell!” he said.