“And then Felton cropped up!”
“As you say. He must have seen or heard something which enabled him to identify her. We do not know what it was. He may have been in the bathroom and looked out of the window and seen her either going or returning. His eyes would by then be tolerably well accustomed to the darkness, and without being able to see more than a moving shadow he could have made a fair guess at her identity, since she is some inches shorter than Penny and there could be no possible confusion between her and Mrs. Brand. It may not have been an absolute identification, but it would be a good enough guess, and if he took his evidence to the police, she would be in very great danger.”
Marian steadied her voice with an effort.
“How did she know that he was a danger? Did she hear what he said to Ina?”
“I think so. I have no doubt that he intended to blackmail her. But I think it improbable that he had had either the time or the opportunity to approach her, since he left immediately after Inspector Crisp had taken his statement on Friday, and had only returned on the Sunday morning. There may have been some approach of which we do not know, but I should doubt it. We know that she was in her bedroom on Sunday afternoon. The window of Mrs. Felton’s room is very near to hers, and both were open. I have no doubt she would do her best to overhear any conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Felton, and I have no doubt whatever she did hear him tell his wife that he knew who the murderer was. And that she afterwards heard him express his intention of going to his room to lie down and have a good sleep. After that she had only to allow a little time to go by and choose her opportunity. Penny and Felix Brand were out. Mrs. Brand could be relied on to sleep until tea-time. She had that side of the house to herself. On the other side, you two had gone out, Mrs. Felton was in her room, and Eliza would be in the kitchen, her bedroom, or the bathroom. The windows of all these rooms look out upon the beach. The window of Mr. Felton’s ground-floor room faces the other way. Miss Remington had only to stroll out to the gate and look up and down the road to feel perfectly secure that no one would see her climb in over that low sill. She had put on the dark blue cotton dress described by Penny, and had provided herself with a sharp knife from the kitchen. No moral scruples restrained her. She had plenty of time to clean the knife and put it back, wash out the navy cotton dress, and roll it down. We know now that she was only attempting to frighten her sister when she spoke of there being a bloodstain on the front of her dress. She need not have troubled. Mrs. Brand might suspect her—and I am quite sure she did—but she would never have opened her lips. She is without energy or principle, and in addition to an inclination towards the line of least resistance she was, I suspect, more than a little afraid of her sister.”
Richard Cunningham said,
“A horrible woman! Thank God she is taking herself off! A boardinghouse on the south coast—probably Brighton. She will change her name, establish her right to the best armchair, and sink heavily into coma. Penny and Felix will be well rid of her. They owe you something for that, as well as for all the rest.” Then, with a change of voice and manner, “Now just what put it into your head that Penny was in danger?”
She met his look with a thoughtful one.
“I really do not know. I feared there might be some further development. The bias against Felix Brand had been so marked. He would be so convenient a scapegoat for this second murder. But Penny gave him an alibi. I thought an attempt might be made to implicate her. It even occurred to me to wonder whether an attempt might not be made to stage a suicide—” She broke off and said very earnestly, “You must understand, Mr. Cunningham, that it was all very vague— a matter of impression and conjecture. But it was enough to make me feel that I could not acquiesce in those two young people being shut away from the rest of us with a malignant person who had already killed two people in a particularly cold-blooded and shocking manner. I felt that there should be a means of access, and it was with this in my mind that I asked Penny to unlock the door between the two houses. I really had no plan at that time, only a strong disposition to ensure that the means of access would be available. I knew that by leaning out of Mrs. Felton’s window I could keep some check on Miss Remington’s movements. When I had ascertained that she was not in her room I went and looked out of my own window and discovered that she was with her sister. As you know, my attention was immediately arrested by the words, ‘I shall say Felix did it.’ The window was open, and I could hear all that passed. Miss Remington proceeded to elaborate her statement about Felix Brand, and in doing so she gave herself away. When she said, speaking of Felix, ‘He saw the light on that blue and yellow handkerchief she was wearing over her head, and he followed her down to the terrace and pushed her over the edge after Cyril Felton had come in, and then of course Cyril guessed, and he killed him too,’ she was describing what had actually happened. Only it was not Felix Brand who had seen the light dazzle on that very noticeable head-scarf and followed Helen Adrian to the terrace, but she herself.”
Richard said, “There was something about blackmail, wasn’t there?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Miss Remington’s exact words were, ‘And then, of course, Cyril guessed and tried to blackmail him and he killed him too.’ ”
“Then it does look as if Felton had actually tried to blackmail her.”
“It is impossible to say. You must remember that she was fabricating a case against Felix Brand. As I have already said, I think it is certain that she heard Cyril Felton tell his wife he knew who the murderer was. She had a quick, malicious brain. She was putting together a tissue of lies and making it sound extremely plausible. But when she mentioned the light shining on the head-scarf I suspected that she was describing something which she had seen herself. When, a little later, she said, ‘The police won’t take any notice of what Penny says—they won’t have any opportunity, I can promise you that!’ and, later on, ‘I don’t think we need bother about Penny,’ I became very much alarmed. No one who heard Miss Remington pronounce those words could have had any doubt as to their meaning. Cyril Felton was dead. Penny was now the inconvenient witness. But she need not be regarded—there was no need to bother about her. Mrs. Brand was being frightened into submission, and Penny would be silenced. I realized that the danger was immediate. As you now know, Miss Remington had prepared very carefully for this third murder. A fatal dose of Mrs. Brand’s sleeping-tablets had been dissolved in the coffee. Eliza tells me that Penny once choked on a tablet as a child and has been nervous about swallowing one ever since. If she took one, it would have to be dissolved. Miss Remington, of course, knew this, and had reserved a single harmless tablet to dissolve in Penny’s presence in order to account for the medicated taste. If Penny had drunk that coffee she would have lain down on her bed and never waked again. Miss Remington would have seen to it that the coffee-cup bore no other fingerprints than Penny’s. The final wickedness was the scrawled note in a most convincing imitation of Penny’s handwriting which was found between the pages of Miss Remington’s library book— ‘I can’t bear it anymore—Felix—’ If we had not come in time, that note would have been discovered by Penny’s side, and who would have doubted that she had taken her own life under the burden of a knowledge too heavy to be borne? I can never feel sufficiently grateful that my suspicions were aroused, and that we did come in time.”
Marian said, “Would she have drunk the coffee?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“It is impossible to say. She was in a dazed and shocked condition. She had been brought up in the habit of obedience. Miss Remington was exerting the utmost pressure of her will. It is indeed providential that we came when we did.”
It is easy and dramatic to bring down the curtain at the end of a play, but in human affairs there is no final curtain. If one player leaves the stage, the others still have lives to live and problems to be solved. Marian and Richard found theirs an easy one. In a few days they had come to a mutual trust and understanding which in ordinary circumstances it might have taken weeks and months to reach. Each had seen the other under the pressure of fear and strain, and had found qualities of unselfishness, fortitude, and kindness. The strong attraction which had been between them from the first had brought them so close that neither could now make a plan which did not include the other. Almost without a spoken word, certainly without set question and answer, they found themselves on the footing of lovers. When, on that dreadful night whilst the search for Cassy Remington was still going on, Marian stood for a moment with Richard’s arm about her, she had the strangest feeling that they had stepped out of it all into a secret world full of beauty and light, and that this world was their own native country, in which and of which they were, and to which they could always return. In a moment he would go back and take his part in the search and she must go to Ina, but the country was theirs and they would be free of it for all their lives. They did not even kiss. They held each other and were glad, and then went back to all that must be done.
Now, when Miss Silver’s farewells had been said, they sat down to talk about plans. Since there was nothing to wait for, and every reason for being together, they would be married at once. And their home would be Ina’s—there was no problem there. It was the question of the house which had to be discussed.
Richard said, “Better wait a bit before trying to sell. Even with a housing shortage there won’t be much competition. Better wait till the story has died down.”
Marian looked out at the sunny garden. Mactavish was playing with a last year’s leaf which he had found amongst the wallflower plants. He patted it lazily. His tail was like a banner, his orange coat shone in the sun. She said without turning,
“Does that sort of story die down—just by itself?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking of all the things that happen in houses— people being born, and dying, having good times and bad ones, being good and bad themselves, being miserable or being happy—and the house going on.”
“Yes?”
She turned round with colour in her cheeks.
“It’s rather like every generation putting in their own furniture—some of it’s hideous and some of it’s beautiful, and when you come in yourself you keep the good bits and get rid of the bad ones, and you bring what you’ve got of your own. I was wondering if we couldn’t just do that.”
“You mean you would like to keep the house—live in it?”
“Yes—I think so. Unless you wouldn’t like it. When you said that about the story dying down I thought we could give it a new story—a nice one. A lot of nice people have lived here, you know, as well as some nasty ones. Eliza says Uncle Martin’s wife was an angel. I feel as if I sort of owed it to the nice people to get their house clean and tidy again.”
He got up, came over to her, and put an arm about her shoulders.
“You’re rather a nice person yourself—aren’t you? I’ve got a feeling I’m going to like being married to you.” They kissed.
After a little he said, “What about Ina?”
“You know, I think she’d like to stay. I think she’d find it easier to be where everybody knows and they’re all sorry for her and want to be kind. I think it’s easier than going to a new place where one would always be wondering if people did know. Miss Silver has quite a lot of friends in this part of the world. She wants to ask some of them to come and see us. She says Mrs. March will come for one. And there’ll be Felix and Penny—”
Felix and Penny were up on the cliff. They had been silent for some time, when Penny said,
“Aunt Florence is going away tomorrow.”
He had been staring out over the sea. He turned now, frowning, and repeated her words.
“Going away?”
Penny nodded.
“Directly after the funeral. Didn’t you know?”
He shook his head.
“Why should I? She never tells me anything. How long is she going for?”
Penny said as soberly as she could,
“She isn’t coming back.”
It was difficult to hold on to the lovely light feeling which the words gave her. There must be something wrong about feeling like that when the person who had brought you up and whom you had always called Aunt Florence was going away for good, but the thought of Cove House without that heavy disapproving presence was too much for her. The words very nearly sang themselves.
Felix said, “What!” and she nodded again.
“London first—somewhere Miss Silver told her about. And then I expect it will be a boardinghouse at Brighton. And I think she means to change her name, because letters are all to go to her bank. And anyhow she’s more or less said she doesn’t want us to write.”
Felix gave a harsh laugh.
“The clean cut! Well, that’s something to be thankful for. My God—how I have disliked that woman!”
She put her hand down over his for a moment.
“Well, you needn’t any more. I tried to love her, but I couldn’t. Let her go.”
She lifted the hand that had covered his and made a light throwing gesture with it. Let it all go—the hating and the gloom, the trouble which they had brought, the terror and the strain.
Felix watched her with a brooding look. Presently he said,
“What are we going to do?”
Penny said, “I don’t know.”
Her eyes were very clear and bright. They looked at him with a confidence which troubled him. His frown became portentous.
“I can make something out of my music. There was that song cycle for Carrington—I didn’t go on with it, but I could. He tried two of the songs, and he was rather all over them— thought they suited his voice. We had a row because I chucked it, but I daresay I could get on to him again. He wanted it for his American tour. There’s money in song writing if you make a hit, and I like doing it. I’ve got plenty of ideas again.”
“Yes—”
“My father left me a couple of hundred a year. That woman has the rest of it for her life, and she’ll probably live for ever, so it’s not good counting on anything from there.”
“You’d be all right with what you could make—”
“Yes. I was thinking about you.”
“Were you?”
He gave a jerky nod.
“Everything here belongs to Marian.”
Penny said softly, “She would let us stay—if you didn’t hate it—”
“Why should I? It’s always been a good place to work. Some places aren’t. I’ve always been able to work here. You mean you think we could stay on as we are? She’s going to marry Cunningham, isn’t she? Won’t they want the whole house?”
“I don’t think so. I think we can have—our bit—if we want it.”
All this time she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Now she looked away out over the sea. Her eyes dazzled so that the blue of the water was mixed with the blue of the sky.
Felix said in an odd offhand voice, “I suppose—we couldn’t get married—”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You wouldn’t be getting much out of it. There would be very little money.”
Still looking away from him, she said,
“I’ve got some too, you know.”
He was so surprised that he sat up and put a hand on her shoulder.
“You! I always thought you hadn’t a farthing.”
“I hadn’t. Uncle Martin gave me some. He settled it on me. I didn’t know until he told me last year when I was twenty-one. It’s—it’s quite a lot. He said not to tell anyone, so I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to go away, and if they had known it, it would have been very difficult to stay.”
“You didn’t tell me.” His tone accused her.
Her eyelids fell. He saw the lashes wet against her cheek.
“You were away.”
He wasn’t stupid. He knew very well how far away he had been. He wanted her to know that he had come back, and that he never wanted to go away again. He couldn’t find the right words. His grip bruised her shoulder.
“If you’ve got—enough—without me—”
Penny said in a small, quiet voice,
“I’d never have enough without you.”
He said with a groan,
“It would be better for you. When I’m working I shan’t even know whether you’re there.”
“But I’d be there—if you wanted me. And you will.”
“Penny—” He choked on the name. “I’ve got a brute of a temper.”
The wet lashes lifted. She turned round to him with her hands out, laughing and crying.
“Darling, I’ve lived with it for twenty years. I expect I can go on.”
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