Silence in Court

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain. And though a girl can’t help it if the Lord has made her goodlooking, there is no need to go any farther. Hair-curlers! Face-cream! Even lipstick—until my husband put his foot down!”

  Mr. Telfer began to feel as if Mrs. Andrews should have been called by the prosecution. He contrived an appealing smile.

  “These things are just a fashion, are they not? You said Miss Silence was a very sweet girl.”

  “Skirts up to the knees!” said Mrs. Andrews. The full tide of rosy colour had come back to her face. “And don’t talk to me about fashion, because it’s no excuse! So I told her, ‘We like you very much, my dear, and Mr. Andrews has no fault to find with your work. We are prepared to treat you like a daughter. But there must be no lipstick in this house, or cigarettes, or painted nails. And the skirt of your dress must be at least one inch below the knee, which is the least I consider decent.’ And after that we got on very well.”

  Mr. Telfer hoped the jury shared his feeling that a girl who had lived for three years with Mrs. Andrews without murdering her could not reasonably be suspected of a homicidal tendency.

  “And Miss Silence agreed?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “That sounds as if she was both sweet-tempered and obliging. You did say that she was a very sweet girl, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not making any complaint. I shouldn’t have mentioned what I did if it hadn’t been for swearing to tell the whole truth.”

  Mr. Telfer persevered.

  “Then once these small points were amicably settled between you, how did you find Miss Silence?”

  “She was all right.”

  Mr. Telfer gave it up.

  As he sat down, Mr. Lanthony got to his feet.

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Andrews. You found Miss Silence inclined to be thoughtless?”

  Mrs. Andrews’ round blue eyes fixed themselves upon him in a look of surprise.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Well, you rather conveyed that idea.”

  Mrs. Andrews shook her head. The hat slid,

  “Certainly not! A very thoughtful girl.”

  “Perhaps the word should have been ‘frivolous.’”

  He received a glance of reproof.

  “Neither my husband nor myself would have kept a frivolous girl in our house for three years.”

  A faint smile began to play about Mr. Telfer’s lips. Mr. Lanthony ploughed on.

  “But you were not altogether satisfied with her behaviour?”

  “I don’t expect a young girl to be perfect. I pointed out her faults, and she corrected them. We are poor sinful creatures, but she had good Christian principles and she did her best to live up to them. None of us can say more than that. I certainly don’t set myself up to judge other people—I have faults of my own.”

  Mr. Lanthony appeared staggered. He was observed to blink. But he returned to the charge.

  “You say we all have faults. That is quite true. Will you tell us what faults you observed in Miss Silence.”

  Mrs. Andrews gave an emphatic nod.

  “When she first came to us she had been led away into following worldly fashions, but she was very good-tempered and obliging about giving them up—no sulks, no injured looks. After that we had no fault to find. She was very sweet-tempered and unselfish. We became attached to her.”

  Mr. Lanthony, now a deep plum-colour, said hastily, “Thank you, Mrs. Andrews,” and sat down.

  If Mr. Telfer had been anywhere except in court he would have hummed a little tune.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When the court resumed after lunch Jeff Stewart was called. When he had taken the oath he looked across to Carey and smiled.

  Hugo Vane rose to examine.

  “You are a citizen of the United States?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are in this country on government business?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your connection with Miss Carey Silence?”

  “Well, her father’s sister married my uncle, so I had an introduction to her when I came over in September. I found she was in hospital after being shot up in the train affair which has been mentioned, and I visited her there whenever I could. When she came to London to Mrs. Maquisten’s I got engaged to her.”

  “Will you tell us something about your financial position, Mr. Stewart.”

  “Well, I am a partner in a concern that has gone over to making aeroplanes. We used to handle automobiles. It is a family concern—my uncle is the other partner. It has always brought in quite a lot of money.”

  “Would you call yourself a rich man?”

  “I suppose I might be called that.”

  “And you say you were engaged to Miss Silence?”

  “I am engaged to her.”

  The colour ran up into Carey’s face and burned there. He looked at her for a moment, and looked away again.

  “Miss Silence knew of your financial position?”

  Jeff Stewart nodded.

  “Oh, yes, she knew.”

  “How far had you got in the direction of making plans to get married?”

  “Well, we had got to talking about wedding presents. I wanted to give her a mink coat.”

  “You had got as far as talking about the wedding?”

  “I had.”

  “How soon did you propose to get married?”

  “Just as soon as Miss Silence would marry me.”

  “Was Miss Silence aware of this?”

  “She couldn’t fail to be aware of it.”

  “In these circumstances had she any reason to be anxious about her financial position—or prospects?”

  Mr. Stewart said in a very determined voice,

  “She knew very well that she could count on me, and on every cent I had.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hugo Vane sat down.

  Sir Wilbury Fossett rose.

  “This engagement to Miss Silence—had it been given out?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Silence was under Mrs. Maquisten’s care—had she been informed that you were engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Had anyone been informed?”

  “No—it had only just happened. I had to be out of London.”

  “Oh, it had only just happened. Will you tell us when it happened.”

  “I met Miss Silence when she arrived in London on the second of November, and I took her out to lunch next day. I talked to her then about getting married.”

  “But you didn’t tell anyone. Are you quite sure you told Miss Silence?”

  Mr. Stewart stood, easily in the box. He had resumed his slight agreeable drawl. He was fighting for Carey’s life, but he knew very well that he must not talk as if he were fighting for it. He said,

  “Oh, yes, I told her. We talked about wedding presents and what kind of fur coat she would let me give her.”

  “And what kind of coat did Miss Silence prefer?”

  “She wouldn’t say. We kind of got off the track. I was talking about getting married.”

  “And what did Miss Silence say to that?”

  “She seemed to think she wanted a little more time.”

  “But you said you were engaged.”

  “I said I was engaged. I am. I’m here any time she wants me. She’s known that all along.”

  “So you are engaged to Miss Silence, but Miss Silence isn’t engaged to you?”

  “That is entirely for Miss Silence to say.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stewart.”

  Sir Wilbury Fossett sat down.

  Jeff Stewart turned to leave the box. As Carey’s eyes followed him, she heard her own name called aloud:

  “Call Carey Silence!”

  Her heart began to beat wildly. She had a moment of dreadful panic. The wardress touched her, and she got up obediently. You learned to be obedient in prison. She went down one set of steps and up another, and stood where all those other people had stood, and took th
e oath as they had taken it:

  “I swear by Almighty God to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  The words left a solemn feeling in her mind. Her heart-beats quieted. She looked at Hugo Vane and thought, “That’s all I’ve got to do—just tell the truth.”

  And then he was asking her questions and she heard her own voice answering him, a little shaky at first, but steadying as she went on. He took her through the scenes which had been described so often.

  Sunday afternoon and Cousin Honoria showing her the rubies. Hugo Vane asking, “Had Mrs. Maquisten said anything about making you a present of jewellery before this?”

  “Yes—there was something about some diamonds.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I said they wouldn’t be any good to me because I couldn’t wear them.”

  “And when she showed you the rubies?”

  “She made me try them on, and when she said she was going to leave them to me I said, ‘Oh, no!’ And Ellen Bridling said I was right—they had belonged to old Mrs. Maquisten and they ought to go to Robert Maquisten or to Honor King. I said, ‘Please, Cousin Honoria—’ and she told us both to hold our tongues. Afterwards when Ellen was putting the rubies away she took my hand and held it against her cheek and called me a proud, obstinate creature.” Carey’s voice shook a good deal on the words.

  “Did Mrs. Maquisten in fact give you any jewellery?”

  “She gave me a brooch which had belonged to my grandmother.”

  “Did she tell you anything about its value?”

  “Yes—she said it wasn’t valuable at all. It was very pretty. She told me she picked it up in an antique shop and gave it to my grandmother when they were both girls. She said it cost about five pounds. After my grandmother died it came back to her. She said she would like me to have it.”

  “That was the only present of jewellery you accepted?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her on to the next day, November 16th. She heard herself describing how she had come back after lunching with Dennis Harland to find Cousin Honoria shaking with excitement and anger, clamouring aloud that she had been deceived, and that Mr. Aylwin must be sent for—she must alter her will.

  “In all this anger and excitement did Mrs. Maquisten name the person who had deceived her?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Did she say anything at all to make you suppose that she thought you were that person?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Was she angry with you?”

  “Not at first—she was just angry. Afterwards she was angry with me because I tried to persuade her to wait a little before ringing up Mr. Aylwin.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “She was so very excited—I thought it must be bad for her.”

  “Had you any other motive?”

  Carey lifted those very dark blue eyes.

  “Oh, no. I did truly think it wasn’t safe for her to be so angry.”

  “That was all you thought about?”

  “Yes.”

  He bent his pleasant smile upon her.

  “Miss Silence—where was the telephone fixture?”

  “On a table by the window.”

  “It has been stated in evidence that Mrs. Maquisten was perfectly able to get out of bed and walk about. Do you know why she waited for you to come in? Why did she not put through the call herself?”

  “She never used the telephone.”

  “Never?”

  “That is what my cousins told me. She was just a little deaf, and telephoning worried her.”

  He took her on through the day—what she did, what she said—the conversation at the dinner table—the order in which they went upstairs.…

  “Will you tell us what happened when you went into Mrs. Maquisten’s room.”

  “Ellen Bridling was there. Cousin Honoria was up in her chair near the fire. Ellen said she ought to be in bed quieting herself down. Cousin Honoria was very angry. She hit the arm of her chair with her hand and said, ‘You’ll hold your tongue and do what you’re told! And so will the rest of them while I’ve got breath in my body!’ Ellen went away, and Cousin Honoria called me to come up close to her. She looked at me for a minute, and then she said, ‘Do I frighten you? Did I frighten you just now?’ And I said, ‘It’s bad for you, isn’t it?’ She gave a sort of nod and said, ‘Oh, I’m not dead yet.’ And then she took my hand and said; ‘It wasn’t for you. I don’t want to frighten you—you mustn’t be afraid of me. I couldn’t bear that—you’re so like Julia.’ That was my grandmother. She loved her very much. She went on talking about her until Honor came in.”

  “Was she still holding your hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you leave the bedroom between the time that Ellen Bridling went out and Miss King came in?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go into the bathroom?”

  “Oh, no.”

  On through the scene which followed.

  “It was Ellen Bridling who suggested that you should fetch the sleeping-draught from the bathroom?”

  “She suggested myself or Nora Hull.”

  “Who actually asked you to fetch it?”

  “Cousin Honoria.”

  “Will you tell us what you did.”

  “I went into the bathroom, switched on the light, took the medicine-glass off the shelf over the wash-basin, switched out the light, and came back into the bedroom.”

  “Did you open the glass-fronted cupboard?”

  “No.”

  “Did you touch the bottle of tabloids either then or at any other time?”

  “No.”

  “Did you then or at any other time dissolve any of those tabloids or any other tabloids and add them to the contents of the medicine-glass containing the sleeping-draught?”

  “Oh, no.” Her voice rang clear and firm.

  “Did you desire Mrs. Maquisten’s death?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Did you do anything to cause it?”

  “Of course not. No one had ever been so good to me. I loved her.” The colour came up in her face as she said the words. Her voice shook on the last of them.

  Hugo Vane said, “Thank you, Miss Silence.”

  The court rose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  As Jeff Stewart walked away he heard light running footsteps behind him. A hand was slipped inside his arm. Nora Hull said,

  “Jeff—”

  He turned to look down at her, and found her bright-eyed and pale in the dusk. There was a low, lead-coloured sky, and an edgy wind at every street corner. He wanted to get away, to walk miles with the wind in his face.

  He wanted to have done as quickly as possible with whatever it was Nora had to say.

  “Jeff—I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t think I’m fit to talk to anyone.”

  She had a hold on his sleeve. Her eyes were very bright indeed.

  “I want to talk to you, Jeff. Come home with me.”

  He shook his head.

  She went on urgently.

  “You needn’t see Dennis, or Honor, or anyone except me.”

  “What do you want?”

  He had never seen her pale before. She was so pale that the lipstick on her mouth gave her a little the look of a clown, the contrast was so sharp. She said in a lost, unhappy voice,

  “I want to talk to someone who doesn’t think she did it.”

  That pricked him—that, and the little clutching hand at his sleeve. He said,

  “I’ll walk back with you but I won’t come in.”

  As they walked, she went on, still in that lost voice.

  “They all think she did it. That’s what frightens me so. There were two women just now when I was coming out of court—great fat women, going home to kippers or sausages for their tea—and one of them said, ‘That Mrs. Andrews she lived with for three years, she didn’t have much to say for her, did she?’ A
nd the other one said, ‘No, she didn’t. I expect if the rights of it were known, it was her wrote the letter which upset the apple-cart. I bet you she knew a thing or two about Miss. Carey Silence.’”

  Jeff tried to jerk his arm away, but she held on.

  “Why do you tell me that sort of thing?”

  Nora gave a sob.

  “Because I shall burst if I can’t talk to someone—I really shall. Dennis thinks she did it, and it’s done something frightful to him, because he was in love with her. Everybody you meet thinks she did it. I’ve quarrelled with Alan about it, and with Jack, and with Bobby. And Bill—he’s thousands of miles away, and I haven’t had a letter from him since Christmas. What’s the good of being married if you don’t get a shoulder to cry on? What’s the good of a shoulder in the Middle East when you want one here? And those horrible women were just the very last straw. Only the men are just as bad. There was a horrid little wretch just behind me, and he said, ‘Well, who did it if she didn’t?’ And that’s just what everybody says. So I couldn’t bear it—I had to run after you.”

  He looked down at her with his frown gone.

  “It’s tough, isn’t it?” And then, “Mordaunt’s pleased with the way she gave her evidence.”

  “I thought it was marvellous. I don’t see how they could listen to her and think she did it. Do you?”

  “No.”

  They walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Nora said,

  “Jeff, what does Mordaunt think is the worst part of the evidence against her?”

  “Hood—and Ellen Bridling. Vane did his best to shake them, but Mordaunt is afraid those conversations with Cousin Honoria will be sticking in the minds of the jury—that and the fact that she obviously did mean to cut one of the main legatees out of her will, and that on the evidence the only one of them who had the opportunity of tampering with the stuff after Ellen saw it at twenty past eight was Carey. Of course someone is lying. But why? Why should Ellen lie to put it on Carey—unless she thinks it was Honor or Dennis and wants to clear them?”

  Nora shook her head vigorously.

  “She hates us all. She’s got a hating nature. She’s a poisonous old devil, but she did love Aunt Honoria. As far as the rest of us are concerned, she’d see us all hang. Once Aunt Honoria was gone and she’d got her legacy, why should she care? She hates Dennis because he used to imitate her when he was a schoolboy, and she isn’t the sort that ever forgets. And she despises Honor. She wouldn’t lift a finger for either of them.”