Jeff Stewart, standing up tall against the mantelpiece, looked down on him and said,
“Is that what you did?”
Mr. Mordaunt rubbed a jutting chin. Rather thick horn-rimmed lenses concealed the expression of his eyes.
“Well, no, Mr. Stewart. But then I had a reason, and if you’re going to expect reason from a jury—”
“What reason had you?”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you. When she came in I thought she looked crushed, and I thought very likely it was remorse—and that’s what the jury’s going to think if she doesn’t pull up out of it. But I didn’t go on thinking it, and for the reason that when she began to talk I could see the state she was in, and it was shock. I’ve seen too many people like it not to know. She just said everything that was in her mind like a child of five, and at first I was afraid of what she might be going to say. And then I wasn’t, because there wasn’t anything that mattered. If there had been it would have come out, the way she was. That’s my belief, and I feel pretty sure about it. I don’t think she did it, because if she had she’d have come out with it. We’ve got to rouse her up. She’s got to fight.”
Mr. Stewart nodded.
As a result of this conversation another and very different one took place a couple of days later. Just what Jeff Stewart did to bring it about is neither here nor there. He had some good friends, a persuasive tongue, and a considerable latent force of perseverance upon which to draw. In the end he found himself sitting where Mordaunt had sat some forty-eight hours before, looking down the length of the same bare table at Carey Silence, only this time the wardress stood inside the door and could certainly hear everything they said. His mind registered that and put it away. It didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that Carey should want to live and be ready to fight for her life. If anything he could do or say would subserve this end, the whole of London might listen in for all he cared. He was, in sober fact, prepared to tell the world and Carey Silence how much he loved her.
He greeted her across the long, cold distance with the same informal nod, the same half lazy smile, the same “Hullo, Carey!” as if they had parted yesterday and were meeting again tomorrow.
Carey didn’t speak at all. She sat down, she laid her hands in her lap, she looked in his direction, but he might have been a table or a chair, or he might not have been there at all. Something in him was appalled at her remoteness. She seemed to be already withdrawn beyond his reach. But he meant to reach her.
He leaned over the table.
“Now look here, honey, we’ve got to talk. And you’ve got to listen. You’re not listening. You’ve got to wake right up and listen.”
She did look at him then, but it was with an effort. Her eyes focussed slowly.
He said, “That’s better. Now you keep listening to me, because I shan’t be able to come again for quite awhile. I’ve got to go back to the States and make a report, but I’ll be over again before the case comes on. Have you got that? Well now, Mr. Mordaunt will look after everything for you. He is said to be the best man we could get—Mr. Aylwin recommended him. He sees to the preparation of the defence, and he briefs counsel to defend you in court. We don’t do it that way in the States, but that’s the way it’s managed over here. Well, he’s briefing Hugo Vane. He’ll be your counsel—counsel for the defense. You’ll be having a conference with him presently, but Mordaunt fixes all that. In fact Mordaunt fixes everything—you don’t have to bother. Have you got that?”
“I don’t have to bother—”
“That’s right—Mordaunt takes care of everything. There’s just one thing you’ve got to do, honey.”
“What?”
Well, he had her attention for what it was worth. He had a moment of wondering how much it was worth. She looked like a sleep-walker. His mind shied violently away from Lady Macbeth. He spoke in a hurry.
“You’ve got to help him.”
“How?”
“Honey, you’ve got to wake up! Where have you got to? You’re in some kind of a dream. There isn’t any fight in you. You’ve got to wake up and fight! What’s come to you?”
She looked faintly startled.
“I’m so tired, Jeff—I think it’s that. The doctor came to see me this morning. He says they let me out of hospital too soon. He’s going to send me to bed again. He’s very kind.”
He felt a certain relief. She did look desperately tired. If she was in a sick ward she’d be taken care of. He said,
“That’s fine. You rest all you can, and then you get ready to fight. Promise?”
“I’ll try, Jeff.”
“I want to tell you why you’ve got to try. You’re feeling weak and tired, and you’ve had a shock, but there’s a lot of life left for both of us, honey, and I’m never going to believe that you haven’t got the guts to put up a fight, because it isn’t just your life, it’s mine. If you throw your life away you’re throwing mine after it as far as its being any use to me goes. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Everything in my life that matters depends on whether you’re going to fight this or not. I reckon I’m looking at it from a very selfish point of view, but if I have to go on living without you for the next fifty years—and as a family we run well into the nineties—there won’t be one minute of all that time that I won’t know I’ve missed what we’re meant to get out of life, and that I won’t feel you let me down because you hadn’t got the guts to fight. As I said, it’s my point of view, but there are times when you’ve got to put your point of view, and this is one of them. The first time I saw you I knew that I was going to marry you. I don’t mean to say that I fell head over ears in love with you at first sight, but I knew I was going to, and I did. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in just that sort of way unless there’s something pretty strong between two people. I don’t think it’s all on my side either. Things don’t happen that way—not with the kind of feeling I’ve got about you. So we’ve got something to fight for.”
When he began to speak she was looking at him, but as he went on she leaned forward over the table and put up her hands to cover her face. When he had finished and she looked up again her eyes were wet.
“Jeff—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t mind so much.”
He smiled at her.
“It’s no good—the mischief’s done. It’s up to you. What about it?”
“I’ll try.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The court was crowded. Carey looked down on a sea of heads, a sea of faces. Most of them were looking at her. She had that moment of feeling that she had been stripped and set there for them to see. She turned giddy, but she held herself quiet and straight. Whatever happened, she mustn’t shrink, or let them see that she felt naked there. She had come to an inner strength that held her up. When things were so bad that they couldn’t be any worse, something came to you—some courage, some control.
She looked over the heads of all the people and rested her eyes upon the judge—the crimson of his robes, the grey horsehair of his wig, the little brown wrinkled face that reminded her of a squirrel.
She stood up for the indictment, and then they gave her a chair again. Sir Wilbury Fossett made his opening speech, which was rather like the day of judgment, because it set out all the things which had happened in that November fortnight, and instead of being innocent they were sinister—things she had forgotten, things that didn’t mean anything at all, things it would be quite easy to explain if they would let her speak. He was building them up into the case against Carey Silence. All his skill, all his experience, his big handsome presence, his fine voice, his bland and easy manner, were being used for just one end—to prove that Carey Silence had done murder.
After that she stopped looking at the judge. She looked down instead at her own folded hands. They were bare, and they looked very white against the black of her skirt. Nora had sent her the coat and skirt to wear, with an odd impulsive note—“Better wear black. It always goes dow
n well. This is with my love. I’ve hardly worn it. I look a fiend in mourning, and nobody wears it now, but it will be better for you. And I don’t believe you did it. Nora.”
She went on looking down at her hands. Sir Wilbury stopped speaking.
All through the evidence of arrest, the medical evidence, the formal admission of Honoria Maquisten’s will, she sat like that.
A police witness deposed to examining the bottle which had contained the sleeping-tabloids. The bottle was produced in court. It contained three white pellets. Witness testified to finding it in the small glass-fronted cupboard in the bathroom adjoining Mrs. Maquisten’s room, and to testing it for fingerprints. There were no fingerprints. The bottle contained three tabloids.
When the court rose for lunch Mr. Mordaunt had a word of encouragement for Jefferson Stewart, back again from the States and looking as if he was short of sleep.
“Not a bad start, you know. That black thing suits her. No harm her keeping her eyes down—looks modest. Made me a bit uneasy, the way she kept looking at the judge to start with. I don’t suppose she knew she was doing it. Well, he got a good view of her eyes, and you can’t say they’re not worth looking at. There’s something about them too. Kind of tragic innocence. Daresay it didn’t do any harm. Even judges are human.” He chuckled. “Very human, some of them. Strange, but true.”
Molly James was the first witness after lunch. Scarlet and very nearly inaudible, she testified to finding a letter on the front door mat at between a quarter and half past two and taking it up to Mrs. Maquisten. There was no stamp on it. It must have been left by hand. She thought she had seen the writing before. It was all straight up and down. But she couldn’t say whose it was. Oh, no, she couldn’t. And Mrs. Maquisten was angry, and called her back and asked for the young ladies and for Mr. Harland, but they were out, and she said to send them up as soon as they came in, whichever one came first.
Marten Lanthony, Sir Wilbury Fossett’s junior, had been shepherding her along. He asked,
“And who did come first, Miss James?”
With a loud sob Molly said,
“Miss Carey.”
A tall, thin young man who was junior counsel for the defence stood up and said in a pleasant voice,
“Please don’t cry, Miss James. I just want to ask you whether Mrs. Maquisten said anything more about Miss Silence.”
Molly gulped and stared. She thought him a very nice gentleman, especially when he gave her an encouraging smile and went on quite informally.
“Try and remember, will you. She asked you if any of the young ladies were in. Did she put it just like that, or did she ask for them separately?”
Molly blinked.
“She asked for Miss Honor—Miss King, that is. And then she asked for Miss Nora—Mrs. Hull. And then she asked for Mr. Dennis and Miss Carey—and they was all out.”
“What did Mrs. Maquisten say when you told her Miss King was out?”
“She was angry.”
“And when you told her Mrs. Hull was out?”
“She was angry, sir.”
“And when you told her Mr. Harland and Miss Silence were out?”
“She was angry.”
“Was she angry in just the same way as when you told her that the others were out?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“And after that did she say anything more about Miss Silence?”
“No, sir, she didn’t. She just told me to send them up to her as soon as they come in, whichever one come first.”
“Thank you, Miss James.”
Molly stepped down, a little regretful now that it was over. She wouldn’t have minded going on answering the nice young gentleman’s questions—called her Miss James and ever so pleasant.
“Call Magda Brayle!”
A neat, upright figure in nurse’s dress stepping up into the witness-box, taking the oath in a clear, unhurried voice. Carey lifted her eyes for a moment. Magda hadn’t changed a bit. It seemed as if everybody must have changed, but Magda hadn’t. She was prompt and audible in her replies. She knew just what she had to say and she said it. She might have been answering questions about a patient’s temperature.
At about 2.15 on the afternoon of Monday, November 16th, she was in the bathroom adjoining Mrs. Maquisten’s bedroom. The communicating door was ajar. She heard Molly James come in and say, “There’s a letter,” and a little after that she heard Mrs. Maquisten call her back. Her voice was very angry. She asked for Miss King and Mrs. Hull. When Molly said they were out she asked for Mr. Harland and Miss Silence. When Molly told her they were out too she said to send up the first one that came in.
Sir Wilbury asked in the fine voice which could make any question seem more important than it was,
“And who was the first to come in?”
“Miss Silence—about half an hour later.”
“Were you still in the bathroom with the door ajar?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what was said?”
“I couldn’t hear much of what Miss Silence said. I could hear what Mrs. Maquisten said because she was speaking in a loud, angry voice, except at the beginning, when she seemed as if she was choking with anger.”
“Will you tell us what you heard.”
“Miss Silence came in and said, ‘What is it, Cousin Honoria?’ And that was where Mrs. Maquisten began to choke. I heard her say something about being deceived, and I heard Miss Silence say, ‘Please, Cousin Honoria—’ and things like that, as if she was trying to soothe her down. Mrs. Maquisten was getting angrier all the time. Her voice got loud again. I heard her tell Miss Silence that she was to ring up her solicitor and tell him to come round at once, and to bring her will, because she was going to alter it.”
“Did Miss Silence appear to be willing to do this?”
“Oh, no—she kept trying to soothe her. In the end Mrs. Maquisten was fairly raging. She said, ‘I’ve been deceived, and deceit is what I won’t put up with!’ A little later on she said that again—‘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 get me to change my mind!’ Then Miss Silence rang up. I heard her give the message. Then she said, ‘Cousin Honoria, Mr. Aylwin is in Scotland. He may be away for a day or two.’ And Mrs. Maquisten said, ‘Tell Hood he’s to come—Mr. Hood, the head clerk. Say you must speak to him.’”
“You needn’t go any farther than that—Mr. Hood will tell us what was said. Did anything more pass between Miss Silence and Mrs. Maquisten?”
“Not very much. Mrs. Maquisten said, ‘I’ll have to rest. You’d better go. It isn’t good for me to be angry like this,’ and Miss Silence said, ‘I’m sorry, Cousin Honoria.’”
Carey lifted her eyes again. She remembered saying that. She remembered Cousin Honoria with the flush fading from her face and the lines of fatigue cut deep. She saw herself going out of the room shutting the door behind her. The whole scene came up as vividly as a dream. The things that had happened since were blotted out.
Magda went on giving her evidence—about being sent out of the way when Mr. Hood arrived—about the sleeping-draught—about Mrs. Maquisten’s insistence that she should take her evening off—about what Mr. Harland had said.
“Mr. Harland was present when this was under discussion?”
“Yes. Mrs. Maquisten became very much excited, so Mr. Harland suggested that I should do what she wished. It wasn’t at all good for her to be excited. He suggested leaving the sleeping-draught ready for her maid Ellen Bridling to give her.”
A lot of questions about the sleeping-draught.… Yes, it was the one Mrs. Maquisten was in the habit of taking.… No, she didn’t take it very often—sometimes not for weeks at a time. She only had one tabloid as a rule, but if she was not asleep by eleven, Dr. Adams said she could have a second one. The tabloids had to be dissolved because she couldn’t swallow any
thing like a pill—she was nervous and said it made her choke. The tabloids dissolved quite easily in hot water—they didn’t take more than a minute or two to dissolve.
“And how many tabloids did you dissolve on the evening of November 16th?”
“One.”
“Are you sure of that, Miss Brayle?”
“Positive.”
There seemed to be no end to the questions about the tabloids. Magda answered them all with the same unruffled calm. She had tipped three out into her hand and dissolved one of them in a third of a medicine-glass of hot water.… Yes, that was the glass. She had left it standing on the shelf above the washbasin in the bathroom. When she had put back the spare tabloids there must have been eight or nine left in the bottle. She did not count them, but there would be about that number. When Chief Detective Inspector McGillivray showed her the bottle after Mrs. Maquisten’s death there were only three tabloids in it. He asked her whether she had wiped the bottle, and she said no.
“And did you wipe the bottle, Miss Brayle?”
A faint surprised tinge in Magda’s voice.
“Oh, no.”
“Can you account for the fact that no fingerprints were found upon it?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Your hands were bare when you handled it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You did not take hold of it with a towel, or a handkerchief, or anything of that sort?”
“Oh, no. I took the bottle up in my right hand and shook the tabloids out into my left. I put the bottle down whilst I dropped one tabloid into the glass. Then I picked it up again, tipped the spare tabloids back, and put it away in the cupboard.”
Questions as to who might have known where the tabloids were kept. Questions designed to elicit the fact that the cupboard was used as a medicine-cupboard—that anyone in the house could have known this—that the cupboard was in any case the first and most obvious place in which to look.
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