Silence in Court

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Yes, we had our coffee with her, but we were down again before nine.”

  “Then she’ll be off. I’ll just look in and make sure.” And with that she ran up the rest of the way.

  Carey followed slowly. It seemed a long way up tonight. She was tired, and troubled in her mind. She was very tired.

  According to what she said afterwards, Magda Brayle turned out of the corridor into her own bedroom, switched on the light, and threw down her coat and bag upon the bed. She then went through the connecting door into the bathroom, where she carefully removed all traces of make-up. Would Mrs. Maquisten be wild if she saw them, or wouldn’t she? With her face clean and colourless again, she opened the door into the bedroom and stood there listening. She heard the sound of regular breathing and closed the door again. The used medicine-glass had been washed clean. It stood turned upside down in the middle of the shelf. She returned to her own room and went to bed.

  Carey lay in the dark and was haunted by a tune. This happened to her when she was overtired. Sometimes it was one kind of a tune, and sometimes another. Tonight it was a faint, ghostly echo of Paul Robeson singing—“a long ways from home.”

  Just that one phrase going on endlessly, over, and over, and over again—“a long ways from home.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She woke up to Molly in the room—putting down her tea, drawing the curtains, and crying. Carey’s perfectly blank mind received the impression that Molly was doing all these things at one and the same time. It was like the way things happen in a dream, telescoped and a little distorted, so that even before she was really awake the day had a tinge of nightmare.

  She woke up suddenly and said,

  “What is it?”

  Molly turned from the rattling curtain-rings. Beyond her the dark grey morning looked in.

  “Oh, Miss Carey—Mrs. Maquisten—she’s dead! Isn’t it dreadful?”

  Carey said, “Oh, no!” The words shook, and the world into which she had come shook with them. She couldn’t imagine that world without its centre.

  But Molly was pouring it all out, excited, sobbing, important.

  “Nurse went in and found her. Ellen, she come up with the tea same as she always does. She took it in and put it down and drew the curtains, and Mrs. Maquisten never woke up. And Ellen goes through the bathroom and knocks on Nurse’s door. I was in there doing the bath, and Nurse, she says, ‘What is it?’ and she opens the door dressed all but her cap she was. And Ellen says, ‘She’s sleeping very sound. I never known her not be awake when her tea comes. And she was early last night too—short of ten o’clock when I put out her light and come away. That’s what comes of sleeping-draughts. Give me a nice hop pillow!’ she says. ‘And if her tea’s cold when she wakes, it won’t be my fault,’ she says. And Nurse, she goes straight through, and she comes back again and she says, ‘Oh, Ellen—she’s gone!’”

  Carey dressed and came down to a house that had changed overnight—everyone with that same feeling of having got up very early to catch a train, only there wasn’t any train to catch—action suddenly arrested, left at a loose end, without purpose. And back of it all, that something which slows the footsteps, lowers the voice, and hints at things to come.

  When Dr. Adams had come and gone the hint became a threat. Four people in the study stood looking at one another. Dennis repeated the words which had struck three of them silent.

  “He won’t sign the certificate.”

  They were all looking at him now—Nora in her uniform, a little pale, a little shocked; Honor rather more of a wet rag than usual; Carey very white indeed against the shining blackness of her hair.

  It was Nora who said, “Why?”

  “He’s not satisfied. He thinks she’s had an overdose. He says he feels obliged to notify the police.”

  He stood there leaning on his crutch, no expression in his voice, no expression in his face. And this absence changed him quite beyond belief. Without the lively play of humour, the light come and go of fancy, feeling, sarcasm and the rest, he was no longer Dennis but somebody else—a stranger who had shaved carelessly, who looked cold and rather ill, and who spoke in a leaden voice which neither rose nor fell.

  Nora gave herself a little jerk and said,

  “Nonsense! He’s a fussy old woman. Aunt Honoria liked him because he ate out of her hand and only ordered her to do what she wanted—” Then, breaking off suddenly, “The police? Den, he can’t!”

  “I’m afraid he can. In fact he probably has by now. If he doesn’t see his way to signing the certificate there’s nothing else for it—there’ll have to be an inquest.”

  Honor made a faint bleating sound of protest. Nora stared, her round kitten eyes quite blank, the colour in them as clear as the brown in a peaty pool.

  “Gosh—how she’d hate it!” she said. And then, “Well, I must be off—brass hats won’t wait.” She touched him lightly as she went by to the door, two fingers just flicking his sleeve. “Cheer up, Den—I expect it’s a mare’s-nest. I’ll be back some time.”

  She went out and the others envied her. The darkest part of the shadow had obviously not touched her yet. Dr. Adams was an old fuss, the inquest something which Aunt Honoria would have hated, and she was sorry about Den being worried. They fought as they had fought in the nursery they had shared at the top of this very house, but under the scratches and the rough and tumble there was the old, strong, authentic brother-and-sister tie, unnoticed when things go smoothly, but tough enough to take a strain when it came.

  From that point the day began to darken into nightmare—a police inspector asking questions, and, after the post mortem, his return and the taking of statements from everyone in the house. Because Dr. Adam wasn’t an old fuss—he was right. Honoria Maquisten had died in the night because she had had about three times the number of tabloids she ought to have taken, and nobody who knew her could believe that she would have committed suicide.

  Since there could be no question of accident, there came in the word which was to stay with them through all the hours and days and weeks to come—the word Murder. One of the old words coming down out of remote dark ages—used, and used, and over used, but never without its secret, dreadful thrill. Because, however casually spoken, however hackneyed, its syllables by their own black magic can still call up the ghosts of all the crimes which sweep in pale or red or black procession across the underworld of history. When it is spoken in a house, that house is linked with the haunted houses of all time. The shadow which has grown old since Cain comes there and broods upon it.

  This house no longer belonged to those who lived in it. It belonged for all present purposes to the law, whose servants came and went, and transacted their business in the family rooms, interviewing everyone, taking statements. Most of these interviews took place in the study, leaving to the family a choice between the dining-room, where there was no place to sit except at the table as if perpetually waiting for a meal, and the big drawing-room with its chandeliers tied up in bags and its yellow satin furniture shrouded in dust-sheets.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the study Chief Inspector McGillivray interviewed Magda Brayle. A large man with a bright blue eye and hair which must have been fiery when he was young. It was mellowed now and streaked with grey, but his moustache betrayed him. For the rest, he had high, flushed cheek-bones, a blunt nose, a blunter tongue, and the accents of his native land—the fine rolling r’s which have slipped from southern speech, and the fine broad vowels which do justice to a well constructed sentence. A diffident young man who never uttered sat by and wrote rapidly in shorthand. His name presently emerged as Dowling—a negligible person, deriving his sole importance from the fact that he too served the law.

  “Now, Nurrse,”—McGillivray rolled several r’s—“you can tell me in yer own worrds just what happened, so far as ye know it, from a quarter past two yesterrday afternoon.”

  Magda had an upright chair. She sat up straight against its straight back,
cap collar and apron immaculately white and stiff, features sedately composed, voice professionally cool.

  “I was in the bathroom, with the door into Mrs. Maquisten’s bedroom a little ajar.”

  “What were ye doing there?”

  A shade of surprise came into her voice.

  “I was washing out some handkerchiefs. I heard Molly come in and say, ‘There’s a letter,’ and I heard Mrs. Maquisten call her back.”

  “How?”

  “Very angrily. I knew at once that something was wrong. I was wondering whether to go in, when she asked for Miss King or Mrs. Hull. When Molly said they were both out she asked for Mr. Harland, and then for Miss Silence. They had gone out to lunch together, and she said that whoever came in first was to come up to her at once.”

  “Now, Nurrse—was there any difference in the way she said those names?”

  “I don’t think so. She was too angry to make any difference.”

  “And who came in firrst?”

  “Miss Silence—at about a quarter to three.”

  “And were ye still washing handkerchiefs?”

  His eye was bright upon her, but she showed no discomposure. “I thought it best to be where I could go to her if she needed me. It wasn’t good for her to be excited.”

  “And the door would still be a wee bit open?”

  Magda said, “Yes.”

  “Well, what did ye hear?”

  Magda settled helself with a prim crackling of starch.

  “Well, I couldn’t hear everything, you know, Inspector, and particularly I couldn’t hear all Miss Silence said because she kept her voice quite low—not just at first, because I heard her say, ‘What is it, Cousin Honoria?’ And Mrs. Maquisten said, ‘Come here, Carey,’ quite loud, but after that she began to whisper.”

  “Meaning Miss Silence, or Mrs. Maquisten?”

  “Mrs. Maquisten. But it wasn’t just an ordinary whisper—she sounded as if she was choking with rage. And I couldn’t be sure what she said, but it was something about being deceived—and Miss Silence was saying, ‘Please, Cousin Honoria,’ and that sort of thing, trying to soothe her down. And the next thing I really heard was Mrs. Maquisten, very angry indeed, saying Miss Silence was to ring up Mr. Aylwin at once, and he was to come round and bring her will because she was going to alter it. Mr. Aylwin is her solicitor, and some sort of a relation as well. She’s made quite a lot of wills since I’ve been here—she’s always changing them.”

  “And what did Miss Silence say?”

  She kept on trying to soothe her, which was quite the wrong way with Mrs. Maquisten. She’d had her own way all her life, and it wasn’t any good trying to stop her—I could have told Miss Silence that. She only made her a great deal worse. She said, ‘Ring him up and say he’s to come round at once and bring my will—the last one.’ Miss Silence said, ‘But, Cousin Honoria—’ and Mrs. Maquisten fairly raged at her. She said she’d been deceived, and deceit was what she wouldn’t put up with and wouldn’t forgive, and Mr. Aylwin must come round at once, because she was going to alter her will.”

  McGillivray made the Scottish sound which is usually written “Imphm.”

  “And was it Miss Silence she was accusing of deceit?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  “From the way the conversation went, it might have been Miss Silence?”

  “I suppose it might. She was so angry you couldn’t tell.”

  “Ye couldn’t tell whether the anger was directed against Miss Silence?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like to say. Mrs. Maquisten had a very violent temper. She went on saying she had been deceived, and Miss Silence was to ring up Mr. Aylwin. And Miss Silence kept trying to put her off, which I didn’t think at all wise of her, because the more she tried to stop her, the more excited Mrs. Maquisten got.”

  “Imphm. Miss Silence tried to stop her sending for Mr. Aylwin—ye’re definite about that?”

  “Oh, yes. And I was just thinking that I should have to go in, when Mrs. Maquisten shouted out in a tremendous voice, ‘I won’t put up with deceit, and I won’t put up with disobedience, Carey! Either you ring Mr. Aylwin up at once, or I send for Magda to do it! You needn’t think you can stop me, and you needn’t think you can make me change my mind!’ Then Miss Silence rang up, and Mr. Aylwin was up in Scotland, so Mrs. Maquisten said Mr. Hood, his managing clerk, was to come. And he came round at half past three and was with her for about half an hour.”

  “Imphm. And was the door still that wee bit open whilst Mr. Hood was there?”

  Magda’s calm was unruffled. “No. She sent me out to change her library book, and she told me to shut the door.”

  “Mr. Hood was there at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when ye came back?”

  “He was still there, but he went away soon afterwards.”

  “And the door was still shut?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after Mr. Hood was gone?”

  “I went in to her, but she didn’t say anything. Mrs. Hull had tea with her, and afterwards Miss King came home, and she saw her too. I didn’t hear anything that passed between them. Mr. Harland came home last about six o’clock and stayed about half an hour. But they weren’t talking all the time—I mean they weren’t alone, because I thought I had better go in and say that of course I shouldn’t be taking my evening off as Mrs. Maquisten was so upset. But she was very angry about that, so in the end I thought it best to give way. You see, that old maid of hers would be there and as Mr. Harland said, there was no reason why Ellen shouldn’t give her her sleeping-draught if I put it all ready.”

  “Was she in the habit of taking a sleeping-draught?”

  “Oh, no. But Dr. Adams thought it advisable if she had been overexcited, so I thought I would leave it all ready. The tabloids had to be dissolved for her.”

  “How many?”

  “Just one as a rule, but if she didn’t get off by eleven or so, I would give her another.”

  “Then it was one tabloid ye dissolved and left for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then ye went out? What time would that be?”

  Magda took a moment.

  “I think about seven o’clock. Mr. Harland was with her till half past six, and then I had to change.”

  “And what time was it when ye came in?”

  “Half past ten. I passed Miss Silence on the stairs.”

  “Did ye go in to Mrs. Maquisten at all?”

  “I went into my own room, and through the bathroom to listen at the bedroom door. I could tell by her breathing that she was asleep, so I shut the door and came away. I didn’t go in. The medicine-glass had been washed and put back on the bathroom shelf. I went to bed. Next morning at half past seven Ellen Bridling came in and said she had taken up Mrs. Maquisten’s tea as usual, but she didn’t seem to wake up. So I went in in a hurry and found her dead.”

  “Imphm. Now about this medicine-glass, Nurse. Ye dissolved one tabloid?”

  “Yes—one.”

  “In how much water?”

  “About a third of a glass. She took it filled up with coffee and a dash of brandy.”

  “And ye left it where?”

  “In the bathroom, on the shelf over the wash-basin.”

  He leaned forward, reddish-grey eyebrows drawn together over bright blue eyes.

  “And where did ye leave the tabloids?”

  “In the glass-fronted cupboard over the shelf.”

  “Would this be the bottle?”

  The small flat bottle lay on the table between them. The top left-hand corner of the label had been torn off. The bottle was nearly empty. Magda looked at it.

  “Yes—that’s the one.”

  “Take it up in yer hand! Take a look at it! Did ye notice the number of tabloids when you took out the one ye dissolved?”

  Magda picked up the bottle and turned it over. There were only three tabloids in it. She said without any expression in her v
oice, “There were certainly more than that.”

  “Could ye say how many more?”

  She said steadily, “I tilted out three on my hand and took one of them. There were quite a few left in the bottle—there must have been eight or nine altogether.”

  “Sure of that, Nurse?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Ye’d swear to it?”

  Magda said, “Yes.”

  “Imphm.… There’s just one thing more. Ye didn’t happen to wipe the bottle when ye put it away?”

  “No—why should I?”

  “I can’t tell ye that. But somebody wiped it—clean as a whistle. Not a fingermarrk on it. Sure it wasn’t you?”

  Magda looked at him coldly.

  “Quite sure.”

  The sharp blue look dwelt on her for a minute before he let her go. Left alone he transferred it to the bottle lying there on the blotting-pad. After a moment he once more repeated the old Scotch word.

  “Imphm.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  McGillivary went on with his interviewing. He saw Robert Maquisten, correct, concerned, a little stiff, a little with the air of having to remind himself that these questions about family affairs were put with the voice of authority, and that it behoved him as a good citizen to answer them.

  Actually, he seemed to have very little to contribute. He had dropped in to see his aunt at tea-time on Sunday the 15th. His cousins were there, and Miss Silence. There was no sign of friction or strain. He went away soon after five o’clock. That was the last time he saw Mrs. Maquisten alive. He did not visit the house at all on Monday the 16th. Mr. Harland rang up at about nine o’clock on Tuesday morning and informed him that their aunt had died in her sleep. Questioned as to Mrs. Maquisten’s propensity for altering her will, he replied that no one in the family took it very seriously. There was a touch of dignity in his manner as he added that they were all convinced of her affection and her desire to benefit them.

  “Any alterations or readjustments that she may have made from time to time were not, I think, taken seriously by any of us.”

  McGillivary asked whether he was aware of the provisions of the latest will. There was no hesitation about the reply.