by M. M. Kaye
‘The Müllers had no idea why they had been arrested, for the Ridder story was not public property at that time—or for some considerable time afterwards—but I presume it was known that they worked regularly for Herr Willi and his wife. Poor Kurt was interrogated on arrival and died in the process: apparently he had a heart condition, and had been poorly for some time. Because of their kinship, the two women, Greta Schumacher—or whatever she was calling herself then—and Rosa Müller naturally gravitated together, and one presumes that Greta swore Rosa to secrecy in the matter of her identity, and cooked up a good story to account for it …
‘They liked to talk over old times together, and one day, in the course of conversation, Rosa told how her husband, who had been helping clear up after a late party at the Ridders’, took several unopened bottles of wine back to the cellar, and surprised Herr Willi opening a safe in the back of the one in which he kept his special wines. He’d already opened the back of that safe; and was fiddling with the dials of an inner one: reading off the numbers, or the code or whatever, from a small, oddly shaped key attached to a chain bracelet. When he heard Kurt he whipped round so that his back hid the safe, and told him off like a pickpocket. Fortunately, Kurt had the sense to play the idiot-boy so convincingly that it all blew over, but Willi’s fury had scared him so badly that he didn’t even dare tell his Rosa about it until over a year later—by which time Hitler had marched into Poland and the incident didn’t seem in the least important____
‘Greta certainly didn’t think anything of it. She had always known that Herr Ridder had a wine safe built into a wall in the cellar, and if there was a second safe concealed behind it, she supposed that he kept his top secret documents there. And since she was not interested in official documents, she never gave it another thought. Until Brigadier Brindley came out with that talk about the diamonds, and you told him about the Egyptian charm—and actually handed it around so that everyone could have a good look at it! It was only then that “Mademoiselle Beljame”, née Greta Schumacher, remembered cousin Rosa’s story and started putting two and two together; and came up with the right answer.’
‘Was it really a key?’ demanded Miranda, leaping womanlike from the general to the particular: ‘And have you found the diamonds?’
‘It was. And we have—though we had to shift a mountain of rubble to get at them. There were two keys to that safe, and your charm incorporated both of them. The stem of the ankh fitted into a tiny slot that opened a thick slab of steel at the back of the outer safe, and behind it were three sets of combination locks that worked on that series of hieroglyphics that were engraved on the back and front of the charm. Very ingenious. What’s more, it still works. If it hadn’t, I suppose we’d have had to blow the safe open. Which wouldn’t have done the contents much good.’
Miranda said: ‘How did you find out about all this? About Rosa Müller and Mademoiselle—I mean Greta Schumacher? Is Rosa still alive?’
‘No. She died in the camp about a year later. The information came from Mademoiselle. She told Mrs Melville. And Wally Wilkin, in his role of Dan Dare, Detective, was hiding under the bed!’
‘What!’
‘“What” indeed! You know, it will always rile me to think that between them those two kids knew almost everything there was to know, right from the start, and kept it under their hats because Wally wanted to play a lone hand and solve the case without the help of the “grown-ups”. And that I was fool enough to give him such a telling off for snooping that he shut up like a clam.’
‘But why on earth should Mademoiselle tell Stella?’ demanded Miranda.
‘That’s where Lottie comes in. Lottie had told Mrs Melville about Mademoiselle’s doings in the night, and Mrs Melville, horrified, had rushed along to your room to consult you. She caught the governess going through your boxes and told her that she was going straight to the police.’
‘But why didn’t she, Simon?’
‘Because Mademoiselle bribed her silence. Being desperate, she told her the whole story and offered her a half share in a colossal fortune to hold her tongue.’
Miranda stood up suddenly and went over to the window to stand with her back to Simon, staring blindly out into the garden.
‘Stella did that? For money?’
‘For Robert,’ corrected Simon.
Miranda swung round. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s rather an involved story,’ said Simon slowly. ‘We got part of it from Mrs Leslie.’
Miranda said quickly: ‘Mrs Leslie hated her! You can’t go by that.’
‘She had her reasons,’ said Simon gently.
‘Robert?’
‘No. Johnnie Radley. Stella’s first husband. When Radley returned to India after his first leave, Stella refused to go back with him. She disliked the East and all foreign countries, so she tried to eat her cake and have it. But it didn’t work out that way. Radley got fed up with a wife who preferred what she termed “civilization” to him. He was hurt and lonely, and he fell in love with another girl and asked Stella for a divorce. She wouldn’t hear of it; and finding no way out, he volunteered for a particularly dangerous mission and was killed. The girl—who was young and impressionable and very much in love—shot herself when she heard the news. She was Norah Leslie’s sister.’
‘Oh!’ said Miranda on a gasp. ‘I see. Then that was why … Go on.’
‘Stella posed as a heartbroken widow, and after the war she met Robert. But Robert was different from Johnnie Radley. She was in love with Robert. Really in love.’
‘I know,’ said Miranda, almost inaudibly. ‘I was thinking about that only the last—the last morning, and that Stella would die for him if she had to.’
‘She did die for him; indirectly. She was prepared to risk death by hanging rather than lose him. When Robert was sent abroad she would have gone with him, but was not allowed to. She became terrified that history would repeat itself and that because she could not be with him he might leave her for someone else. She was older than Robert, and that didn’t help. Then, on the journey out here, she realized that he knew Sally Page rather too well, and it frightened her. She began to see that she must live Robert’s life or lose him, because they could not afford to leave the Army and live at Mallow …
‘Mademoiselle’s story and her offer came at just the right moment. The sight of Sally Page and the way she had looked at Robert had scared Mrs Melville badly, and the news that the regiment was to go to Malaya put the lid on it. Money was the only way out. A lot of money, that would enable her to live at Mallow and keep Robert with her.’
Miranda said with a bitter little laugh: ‘And I thought it was Sally! Did you know that? I worked it all out.’
‘Did you? Why?’
‘Several things. I remembered that just after Mademoiselle left to look for Lottie’s bear, Sally went off to telephone someone and that she was away for simply ages. Quite long enough to do what they say Stella did. And then—then on the morning after Mademoiselle’s body was found, Andy and Sally were given a lift by the Leslies because their car had run out of petrol, and Andy made a great fuss about it. He insisted that he’d filled up the tank only a few days before and that Sally must have been using it a lot since then: and—and I wondered. I thought perhaps she’d been using it up seeing Robert, and that Mademoiselle…’
Miranda sketched a quick, impatient gesture with one hand, as though brushing away a too persistent fly, and changed course abruptly: ‘And then there was the time when she spilt the sherry…’
She paused for so long that finally Simon said: ‘I’m not with you; what sherry, and who spilt it? Mademoiselle?’
‘No. Sally. It was the morning after Mademoiselle’s body had been found, and most of your team had dropped in for a drink.’
‘My what?’ exclaimed Simon, bewildered.
Miranda’s pale face was suddenly pink. ‘I’m sorry. It just slipped out. I’d forgotten you wouldn’t know about that.’
‘Abo
ut what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘“Lang’s Eleven”—there were eleven of us, you see.—Suspects,’ translated Miranda, as Simon still looked puzzled. ‘The ones in that sleeping-car coach from Helmstedt to Berlin. Two Melvilles, two Marsons, two Leslies, two Pages, Mademoiselle, Mrs Wilkin and myself.’
Simon laughed and said that he hadn’t considered Mrs Wilkin, but that she was right about the rest, and would she please go on about Sally and the sherry?
Miranda’s flush deepened and she said hastily: ‘It sounds very silly now, but she spilt some on a chair and mopped it off with a face-tissue that she took out of her bag and threw away afterwards into the fire, but it missed and fell inside the fender instead. And after they had all gone I began to pick up some petals that had fallen on the floor, and I noticed the face-tissue: it was an Elizabeth Arden one, and that gave me a horrid shock, because there had been an Elizabeth Arden tissue on the floor of Mademoiselle’s room on the day that____’
She saw the expression on Simon’s face and said quickly: ‘You knew about that?’
‘Yes. Mrs Melville put it there. She’d borrowed one from Sally.’
‘Stella did? But why?’
‘Because Mrs Page used them, and she wanted to throw suspicion on her. She reasoned the way you probably did: that some people might think that Sally Page had a motive for getting Robert’s wife out of the way—the people who thought that Friedel had been killed in mistake for Mrs Melville. But it was Mademoiselle who killed Friedel—in mistake for you.’
‘Me? Why me?’
‘She was expecting you to go over to the Leslies’—she wasn’t in when you cancelled that, remember? I imagine she only meant to knock you out and steal the bracelet, thereby doublecrossing Mrs Melville. But she hit harder than she intended, and Mrs Melville was convinced that her governess had meant to murder her …
‘She palmed that toy of Lottie’s, sent Mademoiselle off on a wild-goose chase, and went after her in the car. All very simple. It was late evening and the numbers of cars with British zone licence plates are not taken, nor are the cars stopped. But she didn’t reckon on the green paint.’
Miranda said: ‘Did she—did she get some on herself?’
‘She couldn’t very well avoid it, after sliding both Mademoiselle and her bicycle into the water. She got it all over her gloves and smeared a little on the car door in the dark. She didn’t notice it until she got home and hadn’t any idea where it came from. But Wally knew. He was snooping through the garage window when she arrived back and he saw her pull off her gloves and look at the green stains. She fetched Mademoiselle’s bottle of turpentine, and cleaned off some that was on her wrist, and burnt the gloves.’
‘Robert spilt the turpentine,’ said Miranda slowly.
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. I—I even thought once that he might have arranged it with Sally.’
Simon looked a question.
Miranda said: ‘I—I thought that she, Mademoiselle, might have seen them together, or found a love-letter, or something of the sort, and tried to blackmail them. I had a horrid moment or two before I realized that Robert couldn’t possibly have done it—not in a million years. Robert’s not—he isn’t…’
‘Ruthless enough?’ offered Simon.
‘Yes. He’s too easy-going, and I don’t think that anything has gone really deep with him. Until now. Poor Robert! Did you know that he’s going to send in his papers and use his gratuity to turn Mallow into a home for handicapped children? The Leslies are going to help him run it as soon as Colonel Leslie retires … one of their boys is a spastic. I didn’t know that. It’s to be called the “Stella Melville Memorial Home”…’
Miranda shivered and pushed her hands into the pockets of her skirt to hide the fact that they were trembling again. She said: ‘You knew it was Stella, didn’t you? You knew all the time.’
‘No. Not for a long time,’ admitted Simon.
‘When did you know?’
‘Not until the very last day, I’m afraid. I knew that someone in the house must be involved when I heard that the governess had come back in the night and left that china bear and removed some of her belongings. I was sure it wasn’t true; because though no one had heard her, the front door was locked. And that type of door will only lock from the outside if it’s banged fairly hard. It seemed to me more likely that for some reason of their own, someone inside the house had faked that return and just slipped the latch. You see both the back door and the french window are bolted at night. And there was no key missing. I checked on that.’
‘When did you begin to think it was Stella?’
‘When I mentioned the green paint,’ said Simon soberly. ‘I saw her face in the glass, and I was sure. There are some expressions you cannot mistake.’
‘No,’ said Miranda in a low voice, and shuddered. She pushed the thought away from her and said quickly: ‘You told me as much as you dared, to try and put me on my guard, didn’t you?’
For the first time since she had known him Simon looked disconcerted. ‘Well—not exactly,’ he said.
‘Why, then?’ demanded Miranda, surprised. ‘Was it because____’ She checked herself and coloured.
Simon laughed. ‘No, dear. It was not for the sake of your beaux yeux. It was because you are one of the many exceptions that prove the rule. Where your feelings are concerned you are a darned bad actress, and I wanted you to know too much in order to ensure that you would behave in the guilty manner of one who knows too much!’
Miranda flushed angrily and her chin went up with a jerk. ‘And why should you want me to do that?’
‘Because I needed proof. I thought that if Mrs Melville could be brought to believe that you knew more than you should, she might be goaded into showing her hand.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miranda in a voice that trembled in spite of herself.
‘I’m sorry, my sweet. It was a rotten trick to play on you, but I needed evidence and I had only theories and guesswork. I didn’t know then about Wally. And even now I doubt if the unsupported stories of a nine-year-old boy and a girl of seven would have been accepted in court: a good lawyer would have made mincemeat of them. I didn’t know that Mrs Melville suspected you already. But I knew that she was afraid of you.’
‘Of me?’ said Miranda astounded. ‘Why should she be afraid of me? I’d always been fond of her.’
Simon examined his fingernails with careful attention and said without looking at Miranda: ‘Robert.’
Miranda coloured hotly. ‘But that’s absurd!’
‘Is it? There was a time when I myself wondered if there might not be something in it. You could have wanted money and Robert. The two went together.’
Miranda whipped her hands out of her pockets and clenched them into a pair of admirable fists. She seemed to be having some difficulty with her breathing. ‘You dared! You actually dared to think that I…’
‘Calm down, darling. It was only a theory—one of many. But he had a habit of putting an affectionate arm about you on every possible occasion, and____’
‘He is my cousin!’ interrupted Miranda stormily.
‘Oh, quite. All the same it put you under suspicion when Friedel died; and it upset his wife. Besides, you were too pretty and too young, and Mrs Melville began to fear the constant contrast that your youthful charms offered to her more mature attractions. She was, in the words of an ex-cook of my mother’s, “in a state”. What with her unbalanced passion for her husband, a dislike of foreigners and foreign countries that amounted to a phobia, jealousy of Sally Page, suspicion that you were also on the way to an affair with her Robert, and the conviction that her governess had intended to murder her, she cannot have been quite sane. That’s the kindest view to take of it, anyway.’
Miranda said helplessly: ‘But even if you are right, why should she want to kill me? There was still Sally.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that. I thought you knew. From your own account of that night, she told you herself.�
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‘She said something about spying on her, and—and a speedometer. I didn’t understand.’
Simon looked at her curiously. ‘Then you didn’t notice anything about the car on the night that Mademoiselle disappeared?’
‘No. What was there to notice?’
‘She was convinced that you had, and that there was only one way to make sure that you didn’t eventually tell someone. It seems that you went down to the garage that evening just after she had got back from the swimming-pool, and that there were three things you might have noticed. First, that the engine was still hot although the car was supposed to have been back well over half an hour. Secondly, that the handle of the door on the driver’s side was smeared with green paint—she cleaned it off next day with petrol, still without knowing that it had any connection with Mademoiselle. And lastly, that the speedometer had clocked up a higher figure than it should. You evidently made some idle remark during supper that night about always remembering numbers, and a guilty conscience suggested to her that you were hinting that you had spotted it.’
Miranda said bitterly: ‘Then she had it all planned!’
‘Oh, no,’ said Simon gently. ‘She was afraid of you giving her away; and then when her husband left that night, he kissed you. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Simon lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.
‘Yes. But it was only…’
‘It was only the last straw. She told us that it all jumped into her mind then and there. Her husband had gone out and there was no one else in the house. But the next day there would be a resident batman. If she could just get her hands on the bracelet and the diamonds, and dispose of you at the same time, it would all be over and she would be safe. If you disappeared, suspicion might point to you. And if you were never found you might be supposed to have bolted behind the Iron Curtain. But she had to get you out of the house and just where she wanted you without fuss. And then she remembered that the doorbell sounded like the telephone. She was nearly off her head with fear and jealousy, and the cunning of near lunacy suggested it all to her in the space of a few minutes.’