The Listening Eye

by Patricia Wentworth

  “The fact that whoever was acting with Mrs. Herne must be very sure of his hold over her. I felt convinced that there must be some legal tie. It might have been that Oliver Herne had survived the wreck of his car. Or Mrs. Herne might have made a second marriage. I asked you to ascertain if there was any record of such a marriage at Somerset House because I felt the urgent necessity of discovering the identity of Mrs. Herne’s male associate.”

  “Yes, it would have been useful. But the fact that they were married could have been used to cover up this last attempt at any rate. Since they are both dead, it doesn’t matter, but if it had ever come to a trial he had his excuse ready. He was in her room, they heard Bellingdon cry out, and they ran in to see what was the matter. Counsel for the defence could have made a lot of play with that, and there is no proof-absolutely none-that he shot Arthur Hughes, or that anyone pushed Paulina Paine. Of course we might have dug something up, but then again we mightn’t. After that smash there’s not much chance of an identification by Pegler. Bray, of course, comes into it somewhere as jackal, toady, what-have-you. I’ve thought all along that he was the most likely person to have tampered with Bellingdon’s wheel. It’s the sort of sneaking trick he’d be good at. No risk, no responsibility, just a few turns with a wrench and some easy money. But if he played that trick once, then he certainly played it again, and on his associates this time. Masterson probably tried to bilk him, and he wasn’t standing for it. Of course there’s no evidence there either, and never will be. An immoral suggestion, but I should say it would pay Bellingdon to give him a small allowance which would cease at his death or if Arnold ever showed up again. He’s a slimy bit of work and best kept at a distance.”

  Miss Silver looked at him gravely and steadily.

  “Whose work?” she said.

  “You mean, what made him like that?”

  “Well, what has made any of them like that-Clay Masterson-Moira Herne-Arnold Bray? Any criminal, at any time and anywhere? Small causes a long way back-small faults that were never checked and have grown into great ones and crowded out justice, humanity. As Lord Tennyson so truly says:

  ‘Put down the passions that make earth Hell!

  Down with ambition, avarice, pride,

  Jealousy, down! Cut off from the mind

  The bitter springs of anger and fear;

  Down too, down at your own fireside,

  With the evil tongue and the evil ear,

  For both are at war with mankind!’ ”

  Prone as he was to indulge his sense of humour in the matter of what he irreverently termed Maudie’s Moralities, Frank was bound to admit the aptness of the quotation. After a slight reverential silence he said,

  “How right you are.” And then, “When are you leaving here?”

  Miss Silver coughed gently.

  “I am travelling up to town this afternoon. It will be very pleasant to be back at Montague Mansions. I can return for the inquest if my presence is considered desirable.”

  They were in the schoolroom at Merefields. He leaned back in a comfortable shabby chair and said with some accentuation of his usual coolness of manner,

  “Well, you never can tell. We can find you if we want you, but I have a faint prophetic feeling that we’re not really very likely to try. I may be wrong, or I may just conceivably be right, but when there is nothing to be gained by a public scandal about an Influential Person it is surprising what a lot can be kept out of the papers.” He sat up with a jerk. “That, my dear ma’am, was a scandalously heretical observation and one which should never have been permitted to pass my lips. In fact I expect you to bury it in oblivion.” There was a sardonic gleam in his eye as he added, “In point of fact I shouldn’t be surprised if the inquest didn’t result in a good many things being buried in oblivion.”

  “My dear Frank!”

  One of his fair eyebrows twitched.

  “Well, why not? Two people have been murdered, and Lucius Bellingdon’s life has been attempted. The people who conspired in that business are both dead. What point would there be in involving the wretched Bellingdon in a public scandal? My guess is that there will be a verdict of accidental death, and that that will be that. You are no doubt about to say that someone must have loosened the nuts on the wheel and so brought about the accident, and there will certainly be talk about the coincidence that two cars from the same garage should each have lost a wheel on Emberley Hill, one on Sunday afternoon and the other during Monday night. It certainly suggests a nut-twiddling addict on the premises, and as I said, if I was asked to pick anyone for the job I should plump for Arnold Bray. It’s the sort of creeping, fiddling crime which would be right up his street. But how is anyone going to bring it home to him? I’m told there are no fingerprints in either case, so he either took care to wipe them off, or else he wore gloves for the job. So there’s no evidence against him, nor against anyone else.”

  Miss Silver made a highly unprofessional remark. She said,

  “Well, it would certainly save a great deal of trouble.”

  Frank got to his feet.

  “To Arnold,” he enquired-“or to the law?”

  She smiled indulgently.

  “Perhaps to both,” she said.

  Chapter 38

  THERE were two other interviews that day. The first was between Lucius Bellingdon and his secretary. It took place at the East Lodge in Hubert Garratt’s sitting-room. Lucius walked down there and walked in. He found a grey-faced man sitting at his writing-table. He was holding a pen, but there was no writing on the sheet that lay before him. His eyes were fixed and he paid no heed to the opening of the door. There was a moment when his stillness and his ghastly look offered a suggestion against which Lucius reacted with vigour. He spoke his name loudly and harshly as he tapped him on the shoulder. Hubert turned like a man in a dream. He said in a vague, abstracted voice,

  “She’s dead-”

  The hand on his shoulder weighed there heavily.

  “Yes, she’s dead. What’s that to you?”

  “Everything. Nothing.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “I’d have sold my soul for her. Perhaps I did.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?”

  Garratt turned dull eyes on him.

  “It doesn’t matter what I tell you now, does it? She’s gone-everything is finished. You see, I’ve known all along that she never cared a snap of her fingers for me and never would. Why should she? I had nothing to offer her. There were always other people. There was Arthur-but she was through with him. And there was Clay. And she was all set to get off with David Moray. I know the signs by now. And whoever it was, or whatever she did, she knew I would hold my tongue. She didn’t want me, but she knew she could count on me for that.”

  Lucius released him and stood back a pace.

  “And just what have you been holding your tongue about, Hubert?”

  Garratt said again,

  “It doesn’t matter if I tell you now-she’s dead. You see, I’ve known all along that she was in this business somewhere. She knew that I was going to fetch the necklace, and she knew when, and she got the snuff out of the old snuffbox and put it on my pillow-”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She must have slipped down here sometime during the evening. I knew she’d been here because of the scent she uses. No one else who comes here uses scent, so I knew she had been here, and I wondered why. Afterwards I knew. She put the snuff there to knock me out, and of course it did-she could count on that all right.”

  “And why should she want to knock you out?” said Lucius Bellingdon.

  Garratt’s face twitched.

  “She wanted to get me out of fetching the necklace. She wouldn’t ever have cared for me, but I’ve always been around, and I suppose she didn’t quite-didn’t quite-” His voice petered out. He put up a hand to his shaking lips.

  Lucius sat down on the edge of the writing-table. He said in a cool, hard voice
,

  “She didn’t quite fancy putting you up to be shot at by Masterson? I’ve been around quite a long time too, but she doesn’t seem to have had any scruples about me.”

  Garratt’s hand dropped. He said on a startled tone,

  “About you?”

  “Yes, me. Wake up, Hubert! Who was the most likely person to fetch the necklace if you were knocked out? Me, every time. And I should have fetched it-I was all set to fetch it -but I was doing some garden planning with Annabel, and when I saw it was going to take a bit longer than I thought I sent Arthur Hughes instead. A last minute decision, and one that nobody knew about until it happened. So who do you think was really meant to be crossed off the list when the necklace changed hands? Not you, Hubert, and not Arthur, but me. That’s been borne in upon me for some time now. Miss Silver got on to it right away, but I wasn’t admitting it. I haven’t admitted it now-not to anyone but you, and I think we’ll keep it that way. They were flying for higher game than the necklace all the way through. I was to be got out of the way before I could marry Annabel and alter my will. My plans must have been obvious enough. So the bargain was made. I was to be eliminated, and Clay and Moira were to go shares in the proceeds. Marriage and a half share for him, the necklace and the other half for her. That of course is why it was returned -whatever happened, she had to have the necklace. Not many scruples about all that, are there?”

  Hubert said, “She wouldn’t-” but his voice fell away from the words and let them drop into a gulf of silence. It was so deep that it seemed to be bottomless, but in the end Lucius said,

  “I don’t know who loosened the nuts on my off front wheel yesterday afternoon, but it was someone who knew we should be running down Emberley Hill. Moira knew that, and what she knew Masterson would know, though in view of what has happened to them, I don’t suppose they did the job themselves-that’s pushing coincidence too far. I suspect Arnold, who is definitely in the jackal class, but I suppose we shall never know for certain unless he gives himself away. They were probably double-crossing him by going off without giving him his pay, so he repeated his performance for their benefit. Meanwhile the two of them had another trick up their sleeves, and it’s thanks to Miss Silver that it didn’t come off. Now this is for you, and it’s to go no farther. Moira drugged my coffee last night, and she brought Masterson into my room between twelve and one in the morning to smother me with a damp pillow. I don’t know what put it into Miss Silver’s head that anything of that sort was on foot, but something did, and she brought David Moray along and caught them. Masterson came out with being married to Moira-a last gambler’s throw-and I told them to clear out. They cleared, but they didn’t get far.”

  He stopped, and there was a long pause. Garratt had pushed back his chair a foot or two. He did not look at Lucius. After a while he said in an exhausted voice,

  “When do you want me to go?”

  Lucius Bellingdon leaned sideways and picked up a pencil. He sat there on the edge of the table and balanced it between two of his fingers, his air one of intense concentration. Anything or everything might have hung on that delicate balance. All in a moment he tossed the pencil back on to the tray from which he had taken it and said,

  “Why should I want you to go?”

  Hubert Garratt lifted one of his hands and let it fall again.

  “I ought to have told you-about the snuff -I’ve been in hell. You wouldn’t feel-you could trust me. I don’t trust myself.”

  Lucius got to his feet. He said in a casual tone,

  “Don’t be more of a damned fool than you can help, Hubert. Be up at the house in half an hour, will you. There’s quite a lot to do.”

  Chapter 39

  SALLY had never been so glad to get away from a house in her life. She had never been so glad to get back to London. They travelled up together, she, and Miss Silver, and David, and Wilfrid Gaunt. Miss Silver said goodbye at the terminus, but Wilfrid insisted on making a third in the taxi which she had hoped to share with David. He not only accompanied them to Porlock Square but came in and up the first flight to Sally’s very door, where she turned upon him.

  “Wilfrid, I don’t want you and I can’t do with you. I want to unpack.”

  He leaned negligently against the jamb.

  “Darling, you don’t know what unpacking can be till you’ve seen me do it.”

  Aware of David moody in the background, Sally’s tone sharpened as she said,

  “Then go and unpack at home!”

  He shook his head mournfully.

  “Not a sympathetic atmosphere-not one that inspires me to do my best. Mrs. Hunable is definitely an earthy influence. Her father, so she tells me, was a market gardener. She has all the virtues of the cabbages amidst which she grew up, but she lacks charm. Now to watch you unpack-”

  Sally put her key into the door.

  “You are not going to watch me unpack-no one is! I’m going to light my geyser and have a bath. I feel as if it would take about a dozen baths to get rid of the feeling the last few days have given me.”

  Wilfrid appeared interested.

  “How psychic of you, my sweet. Now just what sort of a feeling was it?”

  Sally opened the door just enough to slide her suit-case inside and to follow it herself. She said,

  “Slugs and snails and spiders and snakes!” And then she said, “For goodness sake go away, Wilfrid!” and she banged the door and shot the bolt on the inside.

  David had already gone on up the stairs. He didn’t look back either then or when Wilfrid heaved an ostentatious sigh and departed.

  It was an hour or two later Sally opened her door to find him on the other side of it. She had told herself that it would be Wilfrid if it was anyone. She had to change her expression rather quickly, but when she was about half way through she thought about its being a give-away, because she really had turned on quite a glare, and David might get ideas if it suddenly changed into a welcoming smile. Actually it would have been better if she hadn’t stopped to think, because the colour rushed into her face, and blushing is just one of those things which you can’t explain away. She stepped back, and David came in and shut the door behind him. Then he said, “I want to talk to you,” and she didn’t say anything at all.

  Sally had some nice furniture. There was a very comfortable sofa with its back to the windows. She sat down in one corner of it and David sat down in the other. He repeated his previous remark.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Sally didn’t say anything at all. She didn’t seem to have any words, only bright elusive thoughts weaving soundlessly to and fro in the clear space that was her mind. There was a pause. Sally watched her bright weaving thoughts. They were there, and David was there. He looked very large, and he had a most portentous frown. He said,

  “Why don’t you say something?”

  “I haven’t got anything to say.”

  His frown deepened.

  “As if that stopped anyone! The difference is, I have got something to say.”

  She waited for him to say it, but he just sat there not even looking at her, until at last he came out with,

  “He’s offered me a commission, but of course it won’t be the same thing.”

  Sally said,

  “Who has offered you what?”

  “Bellingdon of course-a commission. But it won’t be the same.”

  Sally put up a hand and pushed back her hair. If he had been looking at her he would have known it for a weather sign.

  “David, if you want me to scream, you’ll go on talking just like that. I haven’t the least idea what it’s all about.”

  He stopped frowning at the opposite wall and frowned at her instead.

  “You would have if you were paying attention. What’s the use of my coming down here to talk to you about it when you won’t take the trouble to listen to what I say?”

  Sally took hold of her temper with both hands and downed it. If he really wanted to talk to her… Somethi
ng in her melted. Her eyes softened, and so did her voice.

  “I really am listening. You were just being cryptic. What has Mr. Bellingdon given you a commission for?”

  He shook his head.

  “For is the wrong word. You’ve got the whole thing wrong. He has given me a commission to paint Annabel Scott.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from putting out her hands to him.

  “Oh, David!”

  His corner of the sofa was too far away for him to take the hands-he mightn’t have taken them anyway. He said in an abstracted voice,

  “She’s quite paintable. As a matter of fact it’s beginning to grow on me. I’ve got rather a good idea for the pose. She took it the other evening quite naturally, and I thought then, ‘If I was going to paint you I would do it like that.’ And I believe I could-but of course it’s not the same.”

  Sally had got there. She said rather carefully,

  “You mean it won’t be like doing Moira Herne as Medusa?”

  He nodded.

  “I could have done that and made something of it. I could still do it. I’ve got the sketches I made-but I can’t use them. I told Bellingdon I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, no, you couldn’t-not now! It would make the most frightful lot of talk.”

  David gave a gloomy nod.

  “He was very decent about it. He’s giving me this commission to paint Annabel Scott. I told him I’d like to paint him too. I would, you know. He’s got the makings of a fine portrait. He said something about ‘All in good time.’ He wants Annabel first. They’re going to be married, you know, right away.”

  The clouds were lifting over Merefields. Annabel would make a home of it. Sally was glad about that, and she was glad about David. Lucius Bellingdon could do quite a lot to help a young man with his foot on the ladder. If he made a success of Annabel’s portrait, there would be plenty of other people with commissions for him. What she knew nothing about was the scene in Lucius Bellingdon’s room when Moira had stood by his bed with a pillow in her hand and David had hauled Clay Masterson back from the window and thrown him. Whether Sally was ever to know about it or not, Lucius was not likely to forget it, and remembering, he would do what he could to repay a debt. His acknowledgment to Miss Silver had taken the form of a generous fee. In the case of David Moray there would be a commission for Annabel’s portrait and the consequent mention of his name in circles where there is still money enough to keep the wolf from a painter’s door. David would have been stupid if he had not been aware that the way up the ladder was now clear before him, but to the end of his days he would regret the lost Medusa.