by M. M. Kaye
Miranda lowered it hurriedly.
‘Pssst!’ said Wally Wilkin, his flaming hair and excited eyes appearing briefly above the level of the sill.
‘Hullo, Inspector. On the trail again?’ inquired Miranda, folding away the paper.
‘Sssh!’ begged Wally frantically, casting an agonized look towards the half-open door into the hall. Miranda rose and shut it and returned to the window-seat: ‘Well, Rip Kirby—what is it now?’
‘That there governess,’ hissed Wally. ‘They found ’er!’
Miranda’s hands clenched suddenly on the window ledge. ‘Who told you? How do you know?’
‘Cos I was there! In the water she was. I saw ’em pull ’er out. Coo, it were a treat!’
‘Wally, no!’
‘Dad takes me up to see the ’ockey, an’ ’e thinks I gorn ’ome in the other lorry. But I nips off to ’ave a bathe. Then up comes a chap wot tells everyone to clear off, and I see there’s a guard on the gate and that ’tec’s there with ’is busies; so I ’ides, and I seen ’em fish ’er out. Drowned she was, and all tangled up in that grass—and ’er bike too. An’ listen—I know oo done it, cos I—’
There was a sound of women’s voices from the hall, and Wally disappeared with the speed of a diving duck as the drawing-room door opened and Elsa Marson came in, followed by Stella carrying a sheaf of cherry blossom and white lilac.
‘Do look, ’Randa! Aren’t they lovely? Mrs Marson has just brought them over. Isn’t it sweet of her? Would you be an angel and put them in water for me? She’s offered to give me a lift to the Lawrences’, because Robert has the car this morning and I have to take over some clean clothes for Lottie.’
Elsa Marson looked curiously at Miranda, and from her to the window, and her eyes were all at once wide and wary. She walked quickly across the room to lean on the windowsill and look out into the garden, and said with an attempt at a laugh: ‘I see that I have only brought coals to Newcastle. I did not realize that you had cherry trees in your garden.’
‘But no white lilac,’ said Stella. ‘Our lilac isn’t out yet, and it will be several days before we can pick any. I think your garden must get more sun than ours.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Elsa Marson, her gaze roaming quickly about the garden. Miranda looked out, but Wally had vanished and the leaves were unmoving in the morning sunlight.
A bell rang in the hall and Stella deposited her fragrant burden on the coffee table and said: ‘With any luck that will be a new housemaid. The Labour Exchange swore they’d send round a few suitable applicants. Or do you suppose it’s someone ringing up to us to forward Mademoiselle’s belongings?’
She went out into the hall, shutting the door behind her, and Elsa Marson said in a bright, conversational voice: ‘You know, I really thought that you were talking to someone in here when we came in!’
‘Did you?’ Miranda’s tone expressed polite interest and Mrs Marson coloured and turned away from the window to walk aimlessly about the room, fingering photographs and ornaments and talking at random of the weather and the recent kidnapping by the Russian police of a German from West Berlin: ‘It says in the papers that they have their agents everywhere—all through the city. Why do we not put a stop to it? Why cannot we protect these people? Why?’
Her voice rose unnaturally, and a small porcelain horse that she had been fidgeting with slipped from her fingers and smashed in pieces on the parquet floor. Mrs Marson stared at it in horror and plunged down upon her knees to gather up the broken bits.
The door opened and Stella was back, her face white and excited. Mrs Marson began to apologize for her clumsiness, but Stella said: ‘The horse? It doesn’t matter,’ and looked across the room at Miranda: ‘Captain Lang is here.’
Simon had been up all night, and had not slept for over twenty-four hours. But there was nothing in his face or manner to betray the fact. Stella said abruptly: ‘He says that they have traced Mademoiselle.’
There was a little crash as the broken pieces of china that Mrs Marson had gathered up fell back onto the polished floor.
Simon said: ‘Can I help?’ He crossed over to her and stooping down began to pick up the pieces, an expression of polite concern on his face.
Stella said urgently: ‘Where is she, Captain Lang? Don’t keep us on tenterhooks! Has she only gone to another job? Or did she make a bolt for it to the Russian zone after all?’
Simon straightened up and placed the small white pieces neatly into an ashtray. ‘She’s dead,’ he said laconically.
Stella said: ‘No! Oh, no!’
She pressed the back of one hand against her teeth as though to stop herself from screaming, and did not notice that Miranda had shown no surprise at the news.
‘Why do you not stop it?’ cried Elsa Marson hysterically. ‘Why is there no protection? It is the Russians, I tell you! The Russians!’
Her voice rose to a scream and Stella took her hand away from her mouth and said desperately: ‘Please don’t, Mrs Marson!’ She turned to Simon Lang.
‘How did she—die?’
‘She was drowned.’
The rigidity went out of Stella’s body. ‘Oh, thank God!’ she said on a long breath of relief.
She took an uncertain step towards the nearest chair and sinking down into it, hid her face in her hands, and after a moment or two let them drop and looked up: ‘I’m sorry. That was a beastly thing to say. But I didn’t mean it like that; I thought for a minute it was another murder.’
‘It was,’ said Simon Lang briefly.
Stella’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair until the knuckles showed white, but she did not move or speak.
Simon said: ‘She was hit over the head with something like a spanner, and either fell, or was pushed, into the water, somewhere around Tuesday evening or Tuesday night.’
He turned away to gaze abstractedly at an excellent reproduction of Velásquez’s ‘Lady with a Fan’ that hung on the wall beside him, and added as though as an afterthought: ‘Her hands were covered with green paint.’
For a moment no one spoke and then without warning Mrs Marson began to laugh. She rocked to and fro in shrill, hysterical mirth that grated abominably upon their taut nerves and went on, and on …
Stella came to her feet in one swift movement and crossing over to her, grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. Mrs Marson gasped, gulped and dissolved into tears, and Stella put an arm about her and glared defiantly at Simon Lang: ‘I’m going to take her home,’ she said: her face was quite white and her eyes were blazing.
‘A very good idea,’ said Simon politely. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind staying with her until her husband or some responsible person can keep an eye on her? And after that I’d like to see you: we’ll have to go over the details of Tuesday evening again, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course. Come along, dear, I’ll take you home.’ Stella led the sobbing Mrs Marson from the room and the door closed behind them.
Miranda said in a shaking voice: ‘What did that mean?’
‘What did what mean?’
‘The green paint. Why did it frighten her so?’
‘Because there is a can of green paint in Major Marson’s garage. They have been painting their garden furniture.’
Miranda said helplessly: ‘I don’t understand!’ and sat down abruptly on the window-seat as though her legs could no longer support her: ‘Simon, what is it all about? Please tell me! You know, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Simon slowly. ‘I know. Not quite everything yet, but enough to go on with.’
He looked at her thoughtfully for what seemed a long time. His eyes were slightly narrowed and there was an expression on his face that puzzled her—though it was probably familiar to Lieutenant Hank Decker of the United States Army and other devotees of poker.
After a moment or two he sat down beside her, and thrusting his hands in his pockets said: ‘What is it that you want to know? I’ll try to answer at least some of the questions.’
>
‘I want to know about Mademoiselle. I’ve been thinking and thinking about her. I even dreamt of her last night! Was she really the woman I think she was, or did I only imagine it?’
‘No. She was the same woman.’
‘How do you know? Perhaps—perhaps I was mistaken?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No you weren’t. We spent most of last night and a good bit of this morning going through endless files and records and documents and dossiers. It was all astonishingly simple really, and one wonders why on earth no one spotted it before. Do you remember the story of Brigadier Brindley told you at Bad Oeynhausen?’
‘About the Nazi couple who murdered their servants and got away with the millions of pounds worth of diamonds?’
‘The Ridders. Yes. But it was not the Ridders who murdered their cook-housekeeper and valet. It was the cook and the valet—Karl and Greta Schumacher—who murdered the Ridders. They probably planned it for weeks beforehand. We shall never know about that, but the chances are that the building of the new garage and the lime pit at the bottom of the garden gave them the idea—
‘On the night that Herr Ridder returns to Berlin with the diamonds he is killed by the Schumachers. Frau Ridder is probably already dead and her jewels, plus any other available loot, packed in a small suitcase. The Schumachers dress the bodies in some of their clothes—they were much of a size—making sure that a few identifiable metal objects are included with them for the purpose of identification; the buttons off the valet’s coat for instance, and his wristwatch, and a locket and chain and ring belonging to the cook, and one or two similar things that lime would not destroy—Greta Schumacher probably shaves Frau Ridder’s head and chops off a hank of her own hair to bury with her, just in case.
‘Then they bury the bodies in quicklime, and make their getaway. Once the lime has destoyed the flesh that deformed hand of Frau Ridder’s will not show, since the bone formation was apparently normal. But even then the imposture might well have been discovered if it hadn’t been for the tremendous events that were taking place at the time. The British Army was in full retreat, Belgium suing for an armistice, and France crumbling to pieces. The authorities had a great many things on their hands in those days!’
Miranda said: ‘Brigadier Brindley said there was a child. Did they kill it too?’
‘No one knows. There seems to be no evidence to show that it was even in Berlin at the time. But its body was never found. I think myself that they may have taken it with them and that it died or was killed on the road, which is why they picked up a stray child as a substitute. They may have needed a child; it was probably part of the plan.’
Miranda said slowly: ‘Then it was the housekeeper—Frau Schumacher. How did they get away?’
‘I don’t suppose anyone will ever know that. The chauffeur may conceivably have been in the plot. Or they may have stuck a gun in his ribs, or had some convincing lie ready. They probably meant to get across Europe to Lisbon, and go to South America, but found that it was too dangerous and decided to try for England instead. I don’t suppose they ever realized you were British. You say the woman spoke to you in French, so the odds are that you answered her in the same language.’
Miranda nodded. ‘I expect so. I spoke more German and French than English in those days.’
‘Then that’s the answer. You were a stray child and they needed a child. But your chief attraction was undoubtedly the fact that you were clutching a large doll. What better way to smuggle out a lot of stolen valuables than for a child to carry them inside a toy?’
‘But the Dutch diamonds?’ said Miranda.
‘No one knows what they did with those, or even if they knew anything about them. They may not have. The stuff they got away with was a sufficiently spectacular haul! Well, there you are. Some of that is guesswork, but there’s quite a bit of evidence to support it, and it all adds up. Do you mind if I smoke?’
Simon drew out a flat gold cigarette case and offered it to Miranda, who shook her head. He lit a cigarette himself and flicked the spent match out of the open window.
‘Go on,’ said Miranda impatiently. ‘That isn’t all.’
‘You told me the rest yourself. Greta Schumacher was left behind when you and her husband escaped across the channel. Karl Schumacher died of double pneumonia, and no one connected a dying refugee with an obviously English child. The jewels and money were not found until some time later, and by the time their ownership was proved the trail was cold and there was nothing to connect the Ridders with you, or you with an unknown dead man: you apparently insisted that the doll was yours and that no one had touched it. In the end it was decided that the Ridders had at one time been among the refugee party, and had hidden the stuff there temporarily, meaning to retrieve it, but had probably been killed in an air raid. Various trails were followed up, but none of them led anywhere.’
Miranda said: ‘But Mademoiselle—Frau Schumacher? How did she—What happened to her?’
‘We haven’t got much of a line on her yet,’ confessed Simon. ‘But as far as can be made out she ended up in a prison camp where one of her cell mates was a Swiss woman called Beljame, who either died or was assisted to die, and Mademoiselle—Frau Schumacher—eventually turned up in England with her papers and calling herself by that name. She was, of course, looking for a husband and a child, and a doll stuffed with jewels. And also, possibly, a fortune in Dutch diamonds! She must have struck a trail at last, for your cousin Robert says she turned up on the doorstep one day with some story about having been told that they needed a governess-cum-household help.’
‘Supposing they hadn’t?’
‘Domestics were pretty rare in those days,’ said Simon. ‘She drew a card to an open straight and pulled it off.’
‘She did work well,’ said Miranda, slowly. ‘And they paid her so very little: that was the main reason why they kept her on.’
‘When did you first meet her—as Mademoiselle?’ asked Simon.
Miranda frowned, trying to think back. ‘Only about two years ago, I think. And then only for very brief intervals. I hardly spoke to her. I had a job in London and didn’t get to Mallow often. But I never liked her. She looked quite different—thin and old and black-haired. I couldn’t have recognized her. But she still ate caraway seeds, and I suppose, without knowing it, the smell of them must have reminded me of that awful time. It wasn’t until I started for Berlin that I really began to feel on edge and to feel—oh, I don’t know!’
‘Aunt Hettyish?’ supplied Simon with a grin.
‘Yes!’ Miranda turned a surprised look on him. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You explained the expression to me once,’ said Simon. ‘I thought it very apt.’
‘Well, it’s true. I didn’t connect it with Mademoiselle. I only knew that for some reason or other I felt on edge and—and frightened. It was a horrid feeling. I suppose it came from being boxed up with her for so long, and my subconscious or something getting uneasy about it. But how could I be expected to guess at such a fantastic coincidence?’
‘It wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Simon. ‘It was a careful piece of planning by Mademoiselle Beljame, alias Greta Schumacher. But what we don’t know is why did she stick to the Melvilles after she found out that the jewels had gone?—which she must have done fairly soon. However, the chances are that the answer to that is quite simply because it was a job, and since she had nowhere else to go she might as well live that way as any other. It was what followed that was the fantastic coincidence. Your cousin Robert meets a man who had known his father, and asks him to have supper with you all at the Families’ Hostel. And during the meal Brigadier Brindley, who had actually stayed at the Ridders’ house, told the story—probably for the five-hundredth time—of the missing diamonds.’
Miranda shivered in the warm spring sunlight. ‘And she had to sit there and listen to it!’ she said in a whisper.
‘Yes. It can’t have been very pleasant. But there was worse to come.
He mentioned, didn’t he, that Frau Ridder had a physical defect, and added that of all things a physical defect was the one thing one did not forget?’
‘Yes,’ said Miranda. ‘But he was wrong. I forgot.’
‘You were only a child, and very frightened; so to you it was only an unimportant detail in a welter of horrible things. But I think that the ex-housekeeper thought that the Brigadier’s remark was aimed at her—remember, she had actually seen and spoken to him in the Ridders’ house! Supposing he had recognized her? She may even have thought that he told the story in order to surprise some reaction from her. I think that she must have decided then and there to take precautions against his denouncing her when she reached Berlin, and his talk of sleeping tablets gave her the opportunity.’
Miranda said: ‘Then it was Mademoiselle who killed him!’
‘I think so,’ said Simon, slowly. ‘You all told me that she and the Brigadier and Mrs Melville each took sleeping powders. But though a good many people saw the Brigadier and Mrs Melville take theirs, no one seems to have seen the governess take hers. My guess is that she put it in the hot milk that she gave to Lottie, to ensure that the child slept soundly.’
‘But—Friedel?’ said Miranda. ‘Why Friedel? There was no reason for that.’
‘That’s something else I don’t know yet,’ admitted Simon. ‘I think that it’s perfectly possible that she did kill Friedel, but that she killed her by mistake—and in mistake for someone else.’
‘Stella,’ whispered Miranda.
‘It could be. On the other hand—always supposing she did do it—she may have mistaken her for you.’
‘Me?’ Miranda’s face was suddenly white and startled. ‘But why me? You’re joking!’
‘You know, this doesn’t strike me as being a joking matter,’ observed Simon pensively.
‘But why me? It doesn’t make sense!’
‘I think you may have had something that she—or someone—wanted. That—’ Simon reached out and touched the charm bracelet that encircled Miranda’s slim wrist: ‘The ankh. It was one of the items inside your doll, if you remember. I don’t suppose she realized that you had it until you drew attention to it yourself.’