Miss Silver said, “Yes?”
“Well, nobody seems to like Mrs. Herne very much. Crisp didn’t say so, but I got the impression that her local reputation wasn’t too good. She was in a motor smash when a man was killed, and she went to a dance the same night. She wasn’t actually to blame, but people didn’t like it. All the same she couldn’t have shot Arthur Hughes, because she caught the ten-forty-five to London, where she was met by Mr. Wilfrid Gaunt, after which they dropped in at a newsreel and had lunch together at the Luxe.”
“Dear me.”
Frank cocked any eyebrow.
“It strikes you that way? Perhaps. But it’s an unbreakable alibi for both of them, unless they were in it together. There is no actual proof that he met her beyond the fact that they both say he did, and the same applies to the newsreel. But when it comes to the lunch at the Luxe, the head waiter backs them up. He knows them by sight, and they were there having lunch at a quarter past one. Of course, if the first part of the story was a lie upon which they were agreed, either of them could have shot Arthur Hughes, handed over the necklace to the anonymous gentleman in the dark raincoat—who was probably one of our leading fences—and joined the other in time for a well earned lunch. It would require some neat dovetailing, but it could certainly have been done. I don’t say it was done, but it could have been. So there we are. Let us turn to Arnold Bray, who hasn’t got an alibi at all in the sense of being able to prove that he wasn’t in Cranberry Lane at twelve o’clock. What he says is that he borrowed a bike from his landlady and was on his way to Ledstow, when a tyre went flat and he had to walk. He says he wasn’t feeling well and he couldn’t make it, so he got through the hedge into a field and sat down to rest. Then, he says, he went to sleep, and by the time he woke up it was getting on for one o’clock, so he walked the bike back to Ledlington. The only part of the story for which there is any corroboration is that he did borrow the bike, and he did bring it back with a flat tyre at something after one. He could have been picking up a car either by theft or as a loan and murdering Arthur Hughes, but I shouldn’t think it was at all likely. As far as stealing one goes, no car was reported as missing between eleven and one and the whole thing was much too serious a job for the acquisition of a car to have been left to chance. Of course someone who was in the plot might have lent him one, but from what I hear of Bray I just can’t see anyone risking it. He’s the type that goes to bits in an emergency, and personally I think he’s out of it. Which brings us to Clay Masterson.”
Miss Silver gazed at him with interest.
“My dear ma’am, the part would fit him like a glove! He’s everybody’s first suspect, and there isn’t a single shred of evidence against him. Rather a tough young man with rather a rackety reputation. Owns a car, and has a perfectly legitimate excuse for driving about the country-side since, as you have already mentioned, he has a small antique business. He says he was on his way up the London road on Tuesday to attend a sale at Wimbledon. It was just a small affair, but he had been tipped off that there was some good stuff there which the big dealers hadn’t got wind of. He says the things he was interested in were due to come up any time after one o’clock, and that’s when he got there. Well, there was the sale just as he says, and he got there a little after one, and he bought six chairs, one with a broken leg and the others fairly rickety, but he says they’re Chippendale and they’ll be as good as new by the time he’s done with them. He also got a very dirty Persian carpet which he says is worth a lot but it went for a song. All perfectly above board and bona fide, but he would have had time to shoot Arthur Hughes on the way up and hand the necklace over before he arrived at the sale. Perhaps he didn’t, but on the other hand perhaps he did. He’s a very slick young man, and I have a horrid feeling that we may never know. And that, so far as I can see, is the entire field. You haven’t got a hunch about any of them, have you?”
Miss Silver said in a reserved voice,
“Not at the moment, Frank.”
A SMALL shabby woman was sitting in the bus which runs out of Ledlington and passes the entrance to Cranberry Lane. She had the name of the turning written down on a rubbed piece of paper, and she had showed it to the conductor as well as taking a frequent look at it herself, so she hoped there would be no mistake about putting her down. Being Saturday and the traffic all in the opposite direction, she was alone in the bus, which was scheduled to run out to Poynings and Little Poynton and return with a full load for the late house at the cinema. She would have been happier if there had been other passengers, because she could have asked them to be sure she didn’t miss her turning. She had always found people so kind about that sort of thing. You had only to say that you were not used to travelling, and it was wonderful how kind they were. There would, of course, be no need to tell anyone why she had come to Ledlington, or why she was getting off at Cranberry Lane. Not that there was any secret about it, but it might start her off crying again, and that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t matter so much if she were to cry later on. It was all so very recent, and nobody would be surprised if she could not quite control her feelings, but it wouldn’t do to cry before she got to Merefields—oh, no, it wouldn’t do at all. She took a final look at the paper in her hand and then put it away in an old black handbag.
She was all in black from head to foot, but none of it was new. She had bought the coat and skirt when Arthur’s father and mother were killed in that terrible railway accident twenty years ago, and the blouse and hat when her old Aunt Mary died. People didn’t wear mourning so much now, but she had always kept her black and put it away carefully in camphor, not those horrid mothballs, so that it came out quite fresh and nice when it was wanted.
She had worn it to Arthur’s funeral yesterday morning. It was at Golders Green and everything very nice, but it did seem to her they had rather hurried it on. That would be his father’s relations. They had been very good to Arthur of course—paid all his school bills and sent him to college, and put him in the way of being in a good social position and getting this post as Mr. Bellingdon’s secretary. Ever so pleased he was about it, poor boy, and no one could tell it would turn out the way it had. The tears came up in her eyes and she got out her handkerchief and dabbed at them.
She hadn’t seen so much of Arthur the last few years, but when he did come he was always just the same, full of talk about his friends, and his games, and his girls. Always one for the girls, Arthur was. Not in any horrid way—she was sure about that—but he liked them pretty and he liked them smart and a credit to him when he took them out. It came a bit expensive of course, but she had always tried to help him. Those Hughes relations who had paid for his schooling and his college fees, they weren’t as well off as they had been, and once he got a job they expected him to keep himself. Sounded as if they were a little bit mean, she thought. But there, it wasn’t right to judge, and they were paying for the funeral. No, it was Mr. Bellingdon who was doing that, and very kind and generous of him, but only right, because Arthur had been doing his errand when he was shot. She had to put her handkerchief to her eyes again as she thought about Arthur being shot. She was glad now that there were no other passengers. She wouldn’t have liked to sit in a bus and cry before strangers however kind they were— and people were very kind when they thought you were in trouble.
Before there was time to put her handkerchief away the bus had come to a standstill, and there was the conductor putting his head in and saying, “Cranberry Lane”. It quite startled her, but it stopped the flow of her tears, which was a good thing.
Half a mile up the lane and she would come to the village, and right in the middle of the village she would see the entrance to Merefields.
“You can’t miss it,” the conductor told her as she got down. “The gate stands open and there’s a couple of pillars with pineapples on them.”
She thanked him and began to walk up the lane, wishing that her legs felt stronger and that she didn’t keep thinking about Arthur being shot.
The thought kept coming back. It had happened in this lane, somewhere between the high road and the village. Perhaps it was just round this corner—perhaps it was round the next… She mustn’t think about where it happened. She must only think about going to see Arthur’s girl and doing her best to comfort her. She must have been terribly upset not to be able to come to the funeral. She had thought she would see her there, and she had tried to screw up her courage to ask Mr. Bellingdon how she was, but when it came to the point she couldn’t manage it. He had spoken to her very kindly after it was all over, but when it came to asking him about his daughter she couldn’t do it. For one thing, Arthur always spoke of her as Moira, but he said she had been married and he hadn’t told her what her married name was. She didn’t like to say Moira, and she didn’t like to say your daughter, so she didn’t say anything at all. Mr. Bellingdon hadn’t given his consent to there being anything between them—she knew that—so it wouldn’t have done for her to put herself forward.
She could see the first house in the village now. She went on until she came to the open gate between the two tall pillars. Merefields looked to be a big place. There were some lovely trees. The house was quite a long way from the entrance. She would be glad to sit down and rest.
She came out upon the gravel sweep and saw the house on one side of it, and the great band of coloured hyacinths on the other. Lovely they were, and a beautiful scent out here in the air but too heavy to have in the house. She couldn’t sit in a room with more than one or two of them, not for very long.
Minnie Jones crossed the gravel, went up the half dozen steps to the front door, and pulled upon the wrought-iron bell. When Hilton opened the door, there she was, very small and black, with her hands clasped upon the handle of her shabby bag. She made a tentative step forward as the door swung in and said in a wavering voice,
“I have come to see Mr. Bellingdon’s daughter. I’m afraid I don’t know her married name.”
Hilton wasn’t quite sure of his ground. Anyone who came calling would know the name of the lady they were calling on—it stood to reason they would. If that little person didn’t know Mrs. Herne’s name, it meant that she wasn’t a caller. Of course she might be collecting for something—there were all sorts that did that. If you asked him, she didn’t look fit for it, and that was a fact. And she didn’t look like a beggar either. Something about her that made you feel she was all right—nice quiet manner—pretty way of speaking.
Before he could say anything she was looking at him with anxious blue eyes and saying,
“She is here, isn’t she?”
He found himself admitting it.
“Then I’m sure she will see me. My name is Jones—Miss Jones, and I am Arthur Hughes’ aunt, his mother’s sister. You must have known him of course.”
Her eyes brimmed up with tears. Astonishing how blue they were in that little faded face. He hadn’t like Arthur Hughes very much. La-di-da ways and a bit too much taking himself for granted. But when all was said and done it was one thing to read about shootings in the papers, and quite another to have them happen just round the corner from your own front door, and to someone who was living in the house. He said what a shocking thing it was and showed her into the morning-room.
She was glad enough to sit down. It wasn’t a long walk, but it doesn’t take much to tire you when your heart is heavy. Her friend Florrie Williams that she lived with hadn’t wanted her to come—said it was too much for her right on top of the shock she had had and the funeral and all. But she hadn’t felt that she could rest until she had been down to see Arthur’s girl and give her the letters. He had trusted them to her and told her to keep them safe, and now that he was gone the proper person to have them was the girl who had written them. She couldn’t rest until she had done her errand, and she had told Florrie so. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
It was a little time before the door opened and Moira Herne came in. When you have heard a lot about someone, there is always a moment in a first actual meeting when it seems as if the person whom you have only met in thought is one person, and the one who confronts you in the flesh is another. Minnie Jones had this feeling very strongly as she got out of her chair and came forward to meet Moira Herne. There was the Moira whom poor Arthur had talked about by the hour, the Moira whom he had loved and who had loved him and who must be brokenhearted at his death, and there was this girl who was coming into the room. She wore dark blue slacks and a tight scarlet jumper, and she didn’t look as if she had a heart to break. Minnie had a quick stab of conscience for that. You couldn’t judge people by how they looked. A heart didn’t show unless you wore it on your sleeve, and why should you do that?
She put out her hand, but since there was no answering movement she let it drop again as she said,
“I am Arthur’s aunt, my dear. His mother was my sister Gwen. I expect he has told you about me, and I have heard a great deal about you.”
There was a blue and green rug on the morning-room floor. It would be a little over six foot wide. Minnie had the thought that it was like a stream of green and blue water flowing between them, she on the one side of it and Moira on the other. Into this thought and mingling with it, came the remembrance of the parable in the Bible about the rich man and Lazarus. Lazarus was in Abraham’s bosom and Dives was in a place of punishment, and between them there was a great gulf fixed. The thought was vague enough—it neither labelled Moira nor herself. But that the gulf was there between them was something she didn’t have to think about. It was there. From the other side of it Moira said,
“What do you want?”
And from her side of the gulf Minnie answered her.
“I wanted to comfort you.”
It was already in the past tense, because she knew now that Moira didn’t want her comfort.
Moira stood there and stared. She said,
“Why?”
“For Arthur’s death.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know why you’ve come.”
Minnie straightened herself as she would have done if she had been suddenly called upon to lift a weight. It was too heavy for her, but she had to lift it. She said in a small steady voice,
“I brought you some things which I thought you would like to have. I thought it would comfort you to have them.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“He talked to me about you. He said you were in love with each other. He said you were going to be married.”
“I’m afraid he was telling the tale.”
All the way that she had come Minnie had thought about what she was going to say to the girl whom Arthur had loved and who had lost him. Now that she was here and everything was quite different from what she had thought it was going to be, she still had to say what she had planned to say. Her mind and her thought were set and she could not change them. She said,
“There were the letters—your letters. I thought perhaps you would like to have them back.”
That light fixed look of Moira’s changed. It had been cold enough, now it became wary. She said,
“So that’s it, is it? My letters? What do you want for them?”
Minnie Jones was not able to understand what was being said to her. It was like hearing something in a foreign language—there is a sound and there are words, but you don’t know what they mean. She didn’t know what Moira meant.
She had left her black handbag on the arm of the chair. She turned round to get it now. She began to open it.
“He kept them. I thought you would like to have them.”
Moira crossed the blue and green rug and came to stand beside her.
“Have you got them with you—all of them? Let me have them—they’re mine!”
The bag was a capacious one. It held the packet of letters easily enough. There were not so very many of them. The affair had been a brief madness—a quick blaze up like burning straw, a rush of hot air, and then nothing but ash. No, there were not so many of the letters, but there ought to be more than this. She said so without compromise.
“There ought to be more. Where are the rest?”
“I don’t know.”
“He said he had burned them—he promised he would. Where are they?”
She had been flicking over the letters in the packet. There were two missing—the really damning ones. And the photographs. She must have been mad to let him take them— quite, quite mad. If Lucy set eyes on them it would be all up with her. It was the sort of thing he was strict about, and not one penny more would she get from him. She knew that well enough. She had to have those letters back, and the photographs, no matter what it cost her. She said sharply,
“There are two more letters, and three photographs—snapshots. He destroyed the films, but he had taken prints from them and he wouldn’t give them up. Where are they?”
Minnie gazed at her.
“He had a very beautiful photograph of you in evening dress.”
“These were not in evening dress.”
They had not, as a matter of fact, been in any kind of dress at all. She really must have been mad. She said abruptly,
“You’ve got them of course. And if you’ve got them, you know damn well that I’ve got to have them! Stop holding out on me and come to the point! How much do you want? And you’d better be moderate, because I’m broke, and if you push me too hard, I shall just hand you over to the police. So get a move on!”
The whole fatigue of these days since Arthur’s death seemed to be pressing down on Minnie Jones. You can take one day at a time and do your best with it, but this wasn’t one day, it was five days—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday—and it was too much. She didn’t seem able to think properly. She heard Moira say,
“You can be sent to prison for blackmail.”
Once long ago when she and Gwen were girls they had been chased by a bull. Down in the country it was, and Gwen had a dress with poppies on it and a red hat, and the bull had chased them. Gwen ran, but Minnie couldn’t run. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. And then Gwen came running back. She had unfastened her brooch and she had it in her hand, and when Minnie didn’t move she ran the pin of the brooch right into her arm, and the next thing Minnie knew they were running together, and they got out of the field before the bull could catch them. It was an odd thing to remember all this long time afterwards, when Gwen had been dead for twenty years, but Moira saying that about prison and blackmail was like the pin of the brooch running into her arm and rousing her up to run away from the bull. Prison—blackmail—the words pricked sharply home. She said,