‘Ready, ma’am?’
‘For my burial,’ snorted Mrs Harter. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Elizabeth. You helped me to put the things there yourself.’
Elizabeth’s face began to work strangely.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ she wailed, ‘don’t dwell on such things. I thought you was a sight better.’
‘We have all got to go sometime or another,’ said Mrs Harter practically. ‘I am over my three score years and ten, Elizabeth. There, there, don’t make a fool of yourself. If you must cry, go and cry somewhere else.’
Elizabeth retired, still sniffing.
Mrs Harter looked after her with a good deal of affection.
‘Silly old fool, but faithful,’ she said, ‘very faithful. Let me see, was it a hundred pounds or only fifty I left her? It ought to be a hundred. She has been with me a long time.’
The point worried the old lady and the next day she sat down and wrote to her lawyer asking if he would send her will so that she might look over it. It was that same day that Charles startled her by something he said at lunch.
‘By the way, Aunt Mary,’ he said, ‘who is that funny old josser up in the spare room? The picture over the mantelpiece, I mean. The old johnny with the beaver and side whiskers?’
Mrs Harter looked at him austerely.
‘That is your Uncle Patrick as a young man,’ she said.
‘Oh, I say, Aunt Mary, I am awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Mrs Harter accepted the apology with a dignified bend of the head.
Charles went on rather uncertainly:
‘I just wondered. You see—’
He stopped undecidedly and Mrs Harter said sharply:
‘Well? What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing,’ said Charles hastily. ‘Nothing that makes sense, I mean.’
For the moment the old lady said nothing more, but later that day, when they were alone together, she returned to the subject.
‘I wish you would tell me, Charles, what it was made you ask me about that picture of your uncle.’
Charles looked embarrassed.
‘I told you, Aunt Mary. It was nothing but a silly fancy of mine—quite absurd.’
‘Charles,’ said Mrs Harter in her most autocratic voice, ‘I insist upon knowing.’
‘Well, my dear aunt, if you will have it, I fancied I saw him—the man in the picture, I mean—looking out of the end window when I was coming up the drive last night. Some effect of the light, I suppose. I wondered who on earth he could be, the face was so—early Victorian, if you know what I mean. And then Elizabeth said there was no one, no visitor or stranger in the house, and later in the evening I happened to drift into the spare room, and there was the picture over the mantelpiece. My man to the life! It is quite easily explained, really, I expect. Subconscious and all that. Must have noticed the picture before without realizing that I had noticed it, and then just fancied the face at the window.’
‘The end window?’ said Mrs Harter sharply.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Harter.
But she was startled all the same. That room had been her husband’s dressing-room.
That same evening, Charles again being absent, Mrs Harter sat listening to the wireless with feverish impatience. If for the third time she heard the mysterious voice, it would prove to her finally and without a shadow of doubt that she was really in communication with some other world.
Although her heart beat faster, she was not surprised when the same break occurred, and after the usual interval of deathly silence the faint far-away Irish voice spoke once more.
‘Mary—you are prepared now … On Friday I shall come for you … Friday at half past nine … Do not be afraid—there will be no pain … Be ready …’
Then almost cutting short the last word, the music of the orchestra broke out again, clamorous and discordant.
Mrs Harter sat very still for a minute or two. Her face had gone white and she looked blue and pinched round the lips.
Presently she got up and sat down at her writing desk. In a somewhat shaky hand she wrote the following lines:
Tonight, at 9.15, I have distinctly heard the voice of my dead husband. He told me that he would come for me on Friday night at 9.30. If I should die on that day and at that hour I should like the facts made known so as to prove beyond question the possibility of communicating with the spirit world.
MARY HARTER.
Mrs Harter read over what she had written, enclosed it in an envelope and addressed the envelope. Then she rang the bell which was promptly answered by Elizabeth. Mrs Harter got up from her desk and gave the note she had just written to the old woman.
‘Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘if I should die on Friday night I should like that note given to Dr Meynell. No’—as Elizabeth appeared to be about to protest—‘do not argue with me. You have often told me you believe in premonitions. I have a premonition now. There is one thing more. I have left you in my will £50. I should like you to have £100. If I am not able to go to the bank myself before I die Mr Charles will see to it.’
As before, Mrs Harter cut short Elizabeth’s tearful protests. In pursuance of her determination, the old lady spoke to her nephew on the subject the following morning.
‘Remember, Charles, that if anything should happen to me, Elizabeth is to have an extra £50.’
‘You are very gloomy these days, Aunt Mary,’ said Charles cheerfully. ‘What is going to happen to you? According to Dr Meynell, we shall be celebrating your hundredth birthday in twenty years or so!’
Mrs Harter smiled affectionately at him but did not answer. After a minute or two she said:
‘What are you doing on Friday evening, Charles?’
Charles looked a trifle surprised.
‘As a matter of fact, the Ewings asked me to go in and play bridge, but if you would rather I stayed at home—’
‘No,’ said Mrs Harter with determination. ‘Certainly not. I mean it, Charles. On that night of all nights I should much rather be alone.’
Charles looked at her curiously, but Mrs Harter vouchsafed no further information. She was an old lady of courage and determination. She felt that she must go through with her strange experience single-handed.
Friday evening found the house very silent. Mrs Harter sat as usual in her straight-backed chair drawn up to the fireplace. All her preparations were made. That morning she had been to the bank, had drawn out £50 in notes and had handed them over to Elizabeth despite the latter’s tearful protests. She had sorted and arranged all her personal belongings and had labelled one or two pieces of jewellery with the names of friends or relations. She had also written out a list of instructions for Charles. The Worcester tea service was to go to Cousin Emma. The Svres jars to young William, and so on.
Now she looked at the long envelope she held in her hand and drew from it a folded document. This was her will sent to her by Mr Hopkinson in accordance with her instructions. She had already read it carefully, but now she looked over it once more to refresh her memory. It was a short, concise document. A bequest of £50 to Elizabeth Marshall in consideration of faithful service, two bequests of £500 to a sister and a first cousin, and the remainder to her beloved nephew Charles Ridgeway.
Mrs Harter nodded her head several times. Charles would be a very rich man when she was dead. Well, he had been a dear good boy to her. Always kind, always affectionate, and with a merry tongue which never failed to please her.
She looked at the clock. Three minutes to the half hour. Well she was ready. And she was calm—quite calm. Although she repeated these last words to herself several times, her heart beat strangely and unevenly. She hardly realized it herself, but she was strung up to a fine point of overwrought nerves.
Half past nine. The wireless was switched on. What would she hear? A familiar voice announcing the weather forecast or that far-away voice belonging to a man who had died twenty-five years before?
But she heard neither. Instead there came a familiar sound, a sound she knew well but which tonight made her feel as though an icy hand were laid on her heart. A fumbling at the door …
It came again. And then a cold blast seemed to sweep through the room. Mrs Harter had now no doubt what her sensations were. She was afraid … She was more than afraid—she was terrified …
And suddenly there came to her the thought: Twenty-five years is a long time. Patrick is a stranger to me now.
Terror! That was what was invading her.
A soft step outside the door—a soft halting footstep. Then the door swung silently open …
Mrs Harter staggered to her feet, swaying slightly from side to side, her eyes fixed on the doorway, something slipped from her fingers into the grate.
She gave a strangled cry which died in her throat. In the dim light of the doorway stood a familiar figure with chestnut beard and whiskers and an old-fashioned Victorian coat.
Patrick had come for her!
Her heart gave one terrified leap and stood still. She slipped to the ground in a huddled heap.
There Elizabeth found her, an hour later.
Dr Meynell was called at once and Charles Ridgeway was hastily recalled from his bridge party. But nothing could be done. Mrs Harter had gone beyond human aid.
It was not until two days later that Elizabeth remembered the note given to her by her mistress. Dr Meynell read it with great interest and showed it to Charles Ridgeway.
‘A very curious coincidence,’ he said. ‘It seems clear that your aunt had been having hallucinations about her dead husband’s voice. She must have strung herself up to such a point that the excitement was fatal and when the time actually came she died of the shock.’
‘Auto-suggestion?’ said Charles.
‘Something of the sort. I will let you know the result of the autopsy as soon as possible, though I have no doubt of it myself.’ In the circumstances an autopsy was desirable, though purely as a matter of form.
Charles nodded comprehendingly.
On the preceding night, when the household was in bed, he had removed a certain wire which ran from the back of the wireless cabinet to his bedroom on the floor above. Also, since the evening had been a chilly one, he had asked Elizabeth to light a fire in his room, and in that fire he had burned a chestnut beard and whiskers. Some Victorian clothing belonging to his late uncle he replaced in the camphor-scented chest in the attic.
As far as he could see, he was perfectly safe. His plan, the shadowy outline of which had first formed in his brain when Doctor Meynell had told him that his aunt might with due care live for many years, had succeeded admirably. A sudden shock, Dr Meynell had said. Charles, that affectionate young man, beloved of old ladies, smiled to himself.
When the doctor departed, Charles went about his duties mechanically. Certain funeral arrangements had to be finally settled. Relatives coming from a distance had to have trains looked out for them. In one or two cases they would have to stay the night. Charles went about it all efficiently and methodically, to the accompaniment of an undercurrent of his own thoughts.
A very good stroke of business! That was the burden of them. Nobody, least of all his dead aunt, had known in what perilous straits Charles stood. His activities, carefully concealed from the world, had landed him where the shadow of a prison loomed ahead.
Exposure and ruin had stared him in the face unless he could in a few short months raise a considerable sum of money. Well—that was all right now. Charles smiled to himself. Thanks to—yes, call it a practical joke—nothing criminal about that—he was saved. He was now a very rich man. He had no anxieties on the subject, for Mrs Harter had never made any secret of her intentions.
Chiming in very appositely with these thoughts, Elizabeth put her head round the door and informed him that Mr Hopkinson was here and would like to see him.
About time, too, Charles thought. Repressing a tendency to whistle, he composed his face to one of suitable gravity and repaired to the library. There he greeted the precise old gentleman who had been for over a quarter of a century the late Mrs Harter’s legal adviser.
The lawyer seated himself at Charles’ invitation and with a dry cough entered upon business matters.
‘I did not quite understand your letter to me, Mr Ridgeway. You seemed to be under the impression that the late Mrs Harter’s will was in our keeping?’
Charles stared at him.
‘But surely—I’ve heard my aunt say as much.’
‘Oh! quite so, quite so. It was in our keeping.’
‘Was?’
‘That is what I said. Mrs Harter wrote to us, asking that it might be forwarded to her on Tuesday last.’
An uneasy feeling crept over Charles. He felt a far-off premonition of unpleasantness.
‘Doubtless it will come to light amongst her papers,’ continued the lawyer smoothly.
Charles said nothing. He was afraid to trust his tongue. He had already been through Mrs Harter’s papers pretty thoroughly, well enough to be quite certain that no will was amongst them. In a minute or two, when he had regained control of himself, he said so. His voice sounded unreal to himself, and he had a sensation as of cold water trickling down his back.
‘Has anyone been through her personal effects?’ asked the lawyer.
Charles replied that her own maid, Elizabeth, had done so. At Mr Hopkinson’s suggestion, Elizabeth was sent for. She came promptly, grim and upright, and answered the questions put to her.
She had been through all her mistress’s clothes and personal belongings. She was quite sure that there had been no legal document such as a will amongst them. She knew what the will looked like—her mistress had had it in her hand only the morning of her death.
‘You are sure of that?’ asked the lawyer sharply.
‘Yes, sir. She told me so, and she made me take fifty pounds in notes. The will was in a long blue envelope.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mr Hopkinson.
‘Now I come to think of it,’ continued Elizabeth, ‘that same blue envelope was lying on this table the morning after—but empty. I laid it on the desk.’
‘I remember seeing it there,’ said Charles.
He got up and went over to the desk. In a minute or two he turned round with an envelope in his hand which he handed to Mr Hopkinson. The latter examined it and nodded his head.
‘That is the envelope in which I despatched the will on Tuesday last.’
Both men looked hard at Elizabeth.
‘Is there anything more, sir?’ she inquired respectfully.
‘Not at present, thank you.’
Elizabeth went towards the door.
‘One minute,’ said the lawyer. ‘Was there a fire in the grate that evening?’
‘Yes, sir, there was always a fire.’
‘Thank you, that will do.’
Elizabeth went out. Charles leaned forward, resting a shaking hand on the table.
‘What do you think? What are you driving at?’
Mr Hopkinson shook his head.
‘We must still hope the will may turn up. If it does not—’
‘Well, if it does not?’
‘I am afraid there is only one conclusion possible. Your aunt sent for that will in order to destroy it. Not wishing Elizabeth to lose by that, she gave her the amount of her legacy in cash.’
‘But why?’ cried Charles wildly. ‘Why?’
Mr Hopkinson coughed. A dry cough.
‘You have had no—er—disagreement with your aunt, Mr Ridgeway?’ he murmured.
Charles gasped.
‘No, indeed,’ he cried warmly. ‘We were on the kindest, most affectionate terms, right up to the end.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Hopkinson, not looking at him.
It came to Charles with a shock that the lawyer did not believe him. Who knew what this dry old stick might not have heard? Rumours of Charles’ doings might have come round to him. What more natural than that he should s
uppose that these same rumours had come to Mrs Harter, and the aunt and nephew should have had an altercation on the subject?
But it wasn’t so! Charles knew one of the bitterest moments of his career. His lies had been believed. Now that he spoke the truth, belief was withheld. The irony of it!
Of course his aunt had never burnt the will! Of course—
His thoughts came to a sudden check. What was that picture rising before his eyes? An old lady with one hand clasped to her heart … something slipping … a paper … falling on the red-hot embers …
Charles’ face grew livid. He heard a hoarse voice—his own—asking:
‘If that will’s never found—?’
‘There is a former will of Mrs Harter’s still extant. Dated September 1920. By it Mrs Harter leaves everything to her niece, Miriam Harter, now Miriam Robinson.’
What was the old fool saying? Miriam? Miriam with her nondescript husband, and her four whining brats. All his cleverness—for Miriam!
The telephone rang sharply at his elbow. He took up the receiver. It was the doctor’s voice, hearty and kindly.
‘That you Ridgeway? Thought you’d like to know. The autopsy’s just concluded. Cause of death as I surmised. But as a matter of fact the cardiac trouble was much more serious than I suspected when she was alive. With the utmost care, she couldn’t have lived longer than two months at the outside. Thought you’d like to know. Might console you more or less.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Charles, ‘would you mind saying that again?’
‘She couldn’t have lived longer than two months,’ said the doctor in a slightly louder tone. ‘All things work out for the best, you know, my dear fellow—’
But Charles had slammed back the receiver on its hook. He was conscious of the lawyer’s voice speaking from a long way off.
‘Dear me, Mr Ridgeway, are you ill?’
Damn them all! The smug-faced lawyer. That poisonous old ass Meynell. No hope in front of him—only the shadow of the prison wall …
He felt that Somebody had been playing with him—playing with him like a cat with a mouse. Somebody must be laughing …
Poirot and the Regatta Mystery
The Witness for the Prosecution Page 22