The interview with Cyril Felton produced very little result. Regarded as a performance, Mr. Felton had profited by his rehearsal. It made the Inspector’s description sound just a little crude. The lack of interest was less obvious. There was no more than a single yawn, carefully suppressed and apologized for with a “Sorry—I was up most of the night.” Pressed as to how well he knew Helen Adrian, he assumed an agreeable frankness.
“Well, you know how it is—you knock up against people. We were in the same concert-party years ago, and we’ve come across each other at intervals on and off. Nothing much in it—always very good friends.”
March said, “Were you lovers?”
“Oh, come, sir!”
“Were you?”
“No. I give you my word of honour we weren’t.”
March wondered how much it was worth.
“Any quarrel with her?”
“Not that I can remember. Nothing to quarrel about.”
“Not a little matter of blackmail?”
Cyril looked horrified.
“Do you mind saying that again?”
“I said blackmail,” said March, watching him.
He saw quite a good reproduction of the stock hero-falsely-accused situation. The slight start, the widened eyes, the squared shoulders, the look of noble scorn—they were all there. He had a feeling that Cyril ought to have been able to make a living on the stage. The tone in which he exclaimed “Blackmail!” was really pretty good.
“That is what I said.”
“But I don’t know what you mean. You can’t suppose—”
“I am afraid I do. Miss Adrian received two letters and a telephone call referring to certain incidents and suggesting that she should pay fifty pounds to prevent her fiancé being informed about them. One of the letters began, ‘F. Brand might prove a firebrand if Fred knew all.’ ”
Cyril raised his eyebrows.
“Poor girl—how very horrid for her.”
“That was the first letter. Then there was a telephone conversation, asking to have fifty pounds in one-pound notes sent to Mr. Friend, 24 Blakeston Road, S.E., and adding, ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t.’ Miss Adrian lost her temper and told you to go to hell. After which she received another letter, which said, ‘Nasty temper. If you do that again, Fred will know all. What about the middle of last June?’ ”
He met the stare of affronted innocence.
“Look here, what is all this? Where are these letters? If you say I wrote them, I think I’ve got a right to have them shown to me, so that you can compare them with my writing.”
That was the snag—they hadn’t got the letters.
March said firmly, “Miss Adrian was convinced that the letters came from you. One of the incidents referred to was known only to yourself and Felix Brand.”
“Oh, well, everyone knew he would do anything to stop her marrying Mount.”
“So you knew that she was going to marry Mount?”
“Everyone knew she was thinking about it. Everyone knew that Brand was crazy with jealousy.”
March said, “I think you know a good bit yourself, Mr. Felton. But perhaps you don’t know that Helen Adrian informed Miss Silver that you were blackmailing her, that she had made up her mind to leave Cove House on Friday morning and return to town, and that she intended before she left to have an interview with you and offer you ten pounds down. If you boggled at taking it, she intended to threaten you with the police.”
Cyril stared at him.
“This is terrible!”
“It may be—for you. This conversation took place with Miss Silver at the picnic on Thursday evening, just before half past six. Since everybody’s movements have been checked, we know that Miss Adrian did not have that interview with you before half past ten, when the parties in both houses separated for the night. But Miss Adrian had expressed her intention of having that interview. That she had an appointment with someone on the lower terrace between twelve and two that night is certain. You cannot be surprised if we draw the natural inference that the appointment was with you.”
He was dreadfully pale, his hands shook. All pretence at indifference was gone. He stammered out,
“No—no—you’ve got it all wrong. I wouldn’t meet her in the night—why should I? If she wanted to talk to me she could have done it in the train—we were going to travel up together—I had my audition.”
“You say you had arranged to travel up together in the morning?”
“Yes, we had. That is, she asked me at the picnic. She knew I had this audition, and she said she was off in the morning, and why not travel up together. She said she’d got something to talk to me about. But I give you my word I didn’t know she’d got this blackmail idea in her head. Look here, Mr. March, anyone will tell you what sort of terms we were on at the picnic. She was as friendly as possible—anyone will tell you she was. As a matter of fact, she was too friendly for my wife. Ina didn’t like it. She moped like anything—sat by herself and hardly spoke a word. Anyone will tell you that too. Now if she really thought I was blackmailing her, Helen wouldn’t have been like that—I mean, would she? I mean, she couldn’t really have thought I’d do that kind of thing—and if she did, I hadn’t the slightest idea of it. She said she wanted to talk to me, and why not travel up together, and I said, ‘Righty ho.’ And I give you my word that was absolutely all.”
When they had let him go Crisp said with gloom, “If he thought all that up on the spur of the moment he’s a lot cleverer than you’d take him for.”
Miss Silver was in her bedroom when Eliza came up to say that the Chief Constable would be glad to see her if she could spare the time.
As she crossed the landing with her knitting-bag on her arm, Cyril Felton was coming up from the hall. They passed near the top of the stair, and as she continued on her way she heard him go across to his wife’s room and knock on the door. Since she was now out of sight, she remained as she was for a moment, and heard him say insistently,
“Ina—for God’s sake let me in! I’ve got to speak to you.”
After a lagging pause the key was turned. The door opened and shut again.
Miss Silver went on her way to the study, where Randal March was waiting. He wore a look which she was able to interpret as one of concern. When she was settled in the chair which she preferred, a low armless affair which very closely resembled one of those in her own flat, he said,
“I thought I’d like to tell you the latest. Not that there’s much to tell.” With which preliminary he gave her the substance of his interview with Cyril Felton. “And I’d like to know how he strikes you, if you think you have had time to form an opinion.”
Miss Silver was knitting in a leisurely manner. She said,
“He is most at ease when he is playing a part. I do not believe that this is anything new. If he can see himself in any role he plays it with facility. For the rest, he is an idle, pleasure-loving young man who would, I think, always do the easiest thing. I cannot believe that he would plan a murder, but he might, as you suggest, have given Miss Adrian a push, after which, I agree, the rest might have followed. He could have brought the raincoat down and hung up the scarf in the hall again.”
March said, “Yes.”
After a short pause she coughed.
“It might be helpful at this juncture to consider very carefully the whole question of motive. It seems to me that we have to decide to what class of motive this murder was due. Was it a crime of passion and jealousy, or a crime committed for the sake of money? In the case of Cyril Felton it would fall into the latter category, but the motive is a very weak one. She may have threatened to go to the police, but I think he knew her well enough to feel sure that she would not do so unless he drove her to it. She meant to offer him ten pounds, and was quite sure that he would take it. There was no need for him to do murder. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I do.”
“In Felix Brand’s case the motive would, of course, be the passionate jealousy which he was not attempting to disguise. He could have killed Miss Adrian, but he could not have taken the raincoat or put back the scarf.”
“No.”
“But, Randal, there are a number of other people in the two houses. I think that most of them have some kind of motive, and that an examination of those motives might be of use. I do not wish you to understand that I suspect anyone in particular, but I think we shall find that most of them had a reason for wishing that Miss Adrian was out of the way. There is, for instance, Penny Halliday.”
“My dear Miss Silver!”
She continued placidly.
“A motive for murder does not imply that murder would be committed. Penny had a very strong motive. Mr. Felix Brand was being subjected to an influence which was having a disastrous effect upon his character, his health, and his career. But she had no access to Miss Brand’s raincoat, and she could not have replaced the scarf.”
He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said,
“Deadlock.”
Miss Silver coughed in a deprecating manner.
“There is the same difficulty in the case of Mrs. Brand and of Miss Remington. They had no access to the raincoat or to the scarf, nor had either of them any discernible motive for getting rid of Miss Adrian. It is obvious that they have no affection for Felix Brand, and in any case his connection with Helen Adrian was about to be broken.” She paused, and added thoughtfully, “They had no motive for murdering her.”
“Well, that disposes of their side of the house. Who will you have next?”
She said in her prim, serious voice, “Eliza Cotton,” and saw him smile.
“Well, well—”
“She has as strong a motive as anyone, Randal. She is extremely devoted both to Felix Brand and to Penny Halliday. You may say that she has brought them up. I think that Mrs. Brand and Miss Remington must have known of the breach between Mr. Felix and Miss Adrian, but it is doubtful if Eliza did. She certainly had a motive. And of course, like everyone else on this side of the house, she had access to the coat and the scarf.”
“But no motive for incriminating Marian Brand.”
“Oh, yes, Randal. There is a money motive there. Not for herself, but for Mr. Felix, who would come in for a share of his uncle’s money if Marian Brand were out of the way.”
“You have an ingenious mind.”
She shook her head.
“Ingenuity is not required in a statement of fact. Let us pass to Miss Marian Brand. The only possible motive in her case is an extremely slight one, and need not, I think, be taken at all seriously. Her brother-in-law was carrying on a light bantering flirtation with Miss Adrian during the picnic, and his wife was certainly in very low spirits. But everything else apart, I think we must give Miss Marian credit for more sense than to leave her raincoat where it was found and to hang up a bloodstained scarf in the passage instead of washing it out.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
He had not learned this phrase in her school-room, but she let it pass.
“Ina Felton’s motive would be a little stronger than that of her sister, but I do not think that it need detain us for more than a moment. She is a gentle, affectionate girl whose feelings have been wounded, not, I think, so much by any casual flirtation on her husband’s part as by the money demands he was making on her sister. It is true that she appears to be more under the influence of shock than anyone else in the two houses, but she is not very strong, and it is the first time that she has been brought into contact with a violent crime. I think it is possible that she suspects her husband. She shrinks from him in quite a noticeable manner, and this was not the case when I happened to overhear their conversation in the library at Farne. I thought then that there had been some disagreement between them. He had been pressing her sister for money, and Miss Marian was standing firm. But, taking this into consideration, her manner to him was normal, and she went off quite willingly to have lunch with him.”
He was standing by the old-fashioned hearth, an arm upon the mantelshelf, looking down upon Miss Silver in her olive-green cashmere with the little net vest and high boned collar, her bog-oak beads, and the brooch which matched them, her small competent hands busy with the four steel needles which were shaping the foot of Derek’s stocking.
“You say her manner to her husband was normal then. It is not normal now?”
“By no means, Randal. I think that there is something which she is keeping back even from her sister, and I think that this something concerns her husband. It may, or may not, be connected with Miss Adrian’s death. As I came down just now, Cyril Felton knocked on his wife’s door and urged her to let him in. His words were, ‘Ina—for God’s sake let me in. I must speak to you.’ ”
“Did she let him in?”
“Yes, she did. And I must confess that I should like to know what they are saying to one another at this moment.”
He said with a quizzical look,
“Oh, well, even you have your limitations.”
Miss Silver coughed in a reproving manner.
“We will now consider the case of Mr. Richard Cunningham.”
March straightened up in surprise.
“Cunningham? But he wasn’t in the house.”
“I do not think that need exclude him from our list of hypothetical murderers, if I may use such an expression. We are, you know, merely considering possibilities. With this premise, it is, I think, legitimate to say that Mr. Cunningham should be considered. He left the house at half past ten, but even if he returned to his hotel in Farne, there was nothing to prevent him from coming back. He could have made an appointment with Miss Adrian whilst the picnic was in progress. He was actually sitting next to her for part of the time. He could have met her on the terrace, and he could have killed her.”
March said, “Why?”
“I do not know. But they were at least old acquaintances. She was at some pains to intimate that their relationship had been closer than that. She wished, of course, to annoy Mr. Felix, and possibly Miss Marian. She certainly did annoy Mr. Cunningham.”
There was a tinge of exasperation in his voice as he said,
“You’re not by any chance setting out to make a serious case against Cunningham?”
She continued to knit.
“I am merely showing you that he may have had a motive, and that he certainly had the opportunity both to make an appointment with Miss Adrian and to keep it. I do not wish to go any farther than that. He would not, of course, have had access to the raincoat and scarf, and certainly could not have brought the scarf back into the house after the murder. And that concludes our survey of all those who may have desired Miss Adrian’s death, and who had the opportunity of bringing it about.”
He had his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece now, his hands in his pockets. He was reflecting that it was all very well, but it got them exactly nowhere. He put the thought into words.
“You know, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
She looked up at him with a smile.
“It has at least cleared the ground, I think. Of the eight people in the two houses, Mrs. Brand and Miss Remington have no discernible motive for desiring Miss Adrian’s death, Mr. Cunningham, Marian Brand, and Ina Felton may be said to have a possible but shadowy motive, Eliza Cotton and Penny Halliday have a motive of affection and the desire to protect someone they love, Felix Brand has a motive of passion and jealousy, and Cyril Felton a motive of fear. The persons who could have taken the raincoat down to the place where it was found and have brought the scarf back again are Eliza Cotton, Marian Brand, Ina Felton, and Cyril Felton. It is, of course, possible that it was not the murderer who did this. It may have been done by someone who wished to lay a false trail in order to screen the murderer.”
He looked startled.
“Is that what you had up your sleeve?”
“My dear Randal!”
“Do you think I don’t know when you’re holding something up? If anyone over here did what you suggest, it would be Eliza Cotton. She would cover up for Felix Brand, or for Penny Halliday. But why lay a trail that points to Marian Brand?”
He broke off because Miss Silver had put down her knitting and was looking up at him with an expression which he recognized as portentous. He had the conviction that she was about, not so much to take something out of her sleeve as to touch off quite a sizable bomb.
She began, “My dear Randal, have you considered—”