Vanishing Point

by Patricia Wentworth

  She made herself get up and put on her torch and look over the stile. There wasn’t anybody there. There hadn’t ever been anybody there. She made herself get over the stile and walk along the grass edge. Mrs. Maple’s cottage was behind her on the other side of the lane. It looked like a dark hump breaking the line of the hedge. The Selbys’ bungalow was before her at the end of the lane. After that there was only a footpath. She sent the beam of the torch along the grass to make a little light path for her feet. She walked on this path right up to the Selbys’ gate, and then she turned and went back. There wasn’t anything lying at the edge of the lane. There wasn’t anything to dream about any more. She could go home and get into bed and sleep. She set the round light at the end of the beam skipping and dancing. Everything inside her felt light and happy.

  She had almost reached the stile when the dancing light picked up a golden spark. It was like a little gold point pricking up through the pale moony beam. It was there, and it was gone again. She flicked the light to and fro, but she couldn’t find it. She tried again, and she saw part of a little round thing like the half of an orange, or an apple, or the moon before it is full. Only much, much smaller. Just a little round thing pushed down into the grass and the mud at the side of the lane-a little thing no bigger than her thumbnail. She wanted to leave it lying there and get over the stile and run all the way home, but something wouldn’t let her.

  She stooped down and picked it up. There was mud on it, but it wasn’t broken. It was a round glass bead, the colour dim in the light of the torch, but she knew very well that it was a bright sky blue and that there were little flakes of gold and silver mixed with the glass. It was one of the gold flakes which had been caught in the beam like a spark. It was dull and dirty now in the palm of her hand, but she had seen it too often not to know what it would look like if it was clean. She had been seeing it for more than two years, day in, day out, with a lot more like it on a string round Miss Holiday’s neck.

  CHAPTER 20

  Florrie was a quarter of an hour late with the early morning tea next day. She brought it in with the air of one who serves a funeral feast and said,

  “If it’s Mrs. Maple’s well, she never done it herself.”

  Mrs. Merridew was awake but not so much awake as not to find this both startling and enigmatical. As the curtains went rattling back, she blinked at the light and said,

  “Mrs. Maple’s well? What do you mean, Florrie?”

  It was at this point that Miss Silver came in through the door which Florrie had left open behind her. She wore her blue dressing-gown and the black slippers with the blue pompons, and, as always, she was immaculately neat. Her slight murmur of apology was lost in Florrie’s loud repetition.

  “If it’s Mrs. Maple’s well, she never done it. That’s what I’ve said, and that’s what I’ll hold to, Melbury police, or London police, or anyone. She’d as soon have flown over the moon, and you can’t get me from it.”

  Miss Silver had the advantage of Mrs. Merridew. In the light of last night’s conversation with Frank Abbott, she was able to clarify Florrie’s remark.

  “Mrs. Maple’s well is being investigated by the police?”

  Florrie gave a jerky nod.

  “That’s what I said. And she never done it.”

  Mrs. Merridew was sitting up in bed. She reached under her pillow for the old fleecy shawl which had served her for so many years and survived so many washings that it was now the colour of old ivory. She said in a horrified voice.

  “Oh, surely no one could suspect Mrs. Maple!”

  Florrie said angrily,

  “There’s no knowing what the police will say! But it was Miss Holiday I had in my mind. If she went down that well, it wouldn’t be because she threw herself in-no one’s going to make me believe that! She may be there, or she may not, poor thing, but she won’t be there without someone put her there- and I’m not saying who that someone might be. And I’d like to know what good the police are! They didn’t find poor Maggie, did they? All they could say was she’d run off to London -and anyone that knew her could tell them different to that! And as likely as not, they’ll be saying the same about poor Miss Holiday. What would Maggie go to London for? I say she never, nor Miss Holiday neither! And when they find her murdered somewhere, maybe they’ll believe me!” She marched out of the room and shut the door with something that was very nearly a bang.

  Mrs. Merridew was arranging the shawl about her shoulders. When she had finished doing this she picked up her cup of tea and said in an agitated manner,

  “You don’t really think that poor thing-oh dear, I never did like wells! Maud, you don’t suppose-”

  Miss Silver said with composure,

  “We have no grounds for supposition at present. If there is a well in Mrs. Maple’s garden, the police would, I think, feel obliged to investigate it.”

  Mrs. Merridew sipped from her cup. There were tears in her eyes, and the tea was certainly not hot enough to account for them. She said,

  “Oh dear!”

  The two ladies were both dressed and downstairs, when Frank Abbott walked up the path to the front door and used the knocker. Miss Silver, meeting him on the threshold, took it upon herself to conduct him into the drawing-room, Mrs. Merridew being already in the dining-room and about to make the tea. As he shut the door behind them Frank said,

  “Well, she was there all right.”

  Miss Silver made no comment. She looked gravely at him and waited for more. He continued.

  “There is an injury to the head, but it could have been done as she fell. The post-mortem will show whether she went into the water alive. On the face of it, I should say she did, because either it was suicide, or it was murder, the only point in putting her there would be to make it look as if it was suicide. I don’t know how it seems to you, and we should not, of course, be too much prejudiced by the fact that we were sent down here to look out for anything fishy that was going on, but I do get the impression that there is a whole lot more in this than meets the eye. Two women of no importance disappear-dull elderly people without sentimental entanglements. Nobody could possibly be supposed to want either of them out of the way. Yet Maggie Bell has never been traced, and Miss Holiday turns up at the bottom of a well. I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling that what we’re looking at is just a few of the bits out of a jigsaw puzzle. They don’t make sense on their own, but if we had the rest of the pieces they might add up to quite a picture.”

  Still with that grave look fixed upon her face, Miss Silver said,

  “Not a very pretty one, I am afraid.”

  He went away, and Miss Silver joined Mrs. Merridew at the breakfast table.

  Later on when the meal was over and Florrie had cleared it away Miss Silver followed her to the kitchen. She had been waiting for just such an opportunity, and it seemed to her that the time for it had now arrived. Mrs. Merridew had settled down to write a letter, and Florrie would be occupied in washing up the breakfast things.

  It cannot be said that she was in an approachable mood. After her outburst of the early morning she had retreated into rather more than her customary reserve. To Miss Silver’s offer of drying whilst she washed there was a very cold response. She could do her work, she was glad to say, and no one had ever said she couldn’t. Whether it was the sincerity of Miss Silver’s “But I should like to help you, Florrie,” or the smile that went with it, there is no means of knowing, but she made no further protest when a wet cup and saucer were lifted from the draining-board, meticulously dried, and set aside for her to put away. Both the smile and the desire to help were completely genuine, and had won more confidences than can be counted.

  It was not until Miss Silver was drying the last plate that she said,

  “I wonder, Florrie, whether you would tell me a little more about your cousin Maggie Bell.”

  Florrie jerked a shoulder.

  “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  She met a grave, s
teady look and turned from it.

  “I don’t know what you think there is to tell.”

  Miss Silver said,

  “I am not asking from curiosity-I think you know that. But I would be glad to check over one or two points with you. Maggie went every day to the Cunninghams?”

  Florrie looked sideways. No harm in answering that. She said,

  “Yes.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “That would depend. Mostly she would get away by half past two.”

  “Do you know what time she got away on the day she disappeared?”

  There was rather a noticeable pause before the answer came.

  “It would be the same as usual.”

  “Did she go straight home?”

  “Mrs. Bell said she was in before three.”

  “What did she do after she came in?”

  Florrie emptied the washing-up bowl with a swish.

  “How do I know what she did? There was always plenty to do-her mother saw to that. Maggie hadn’t any time to have idle hands. There’d be the tea to get, and after she’d washed up she would get on with her ironing.”

  “You say that she would sometimes come down to you in the evening. Was that one of the evenings you were expecting her?”

  “What if it was?”

  Miss Silver’s look was kind but searching.

  “Was it?”

  “It might have been.”

  Rightly interpreting this as an affirmative, Miss Silver repeated it in a more definite form.

  “You were expecting her. But she did not come.”

  Florrie’s face twitched painfully.

  “No, she never.”

  “What time did you expect her?”

  She turned the washing-bowl over and spread the dishcloth on it to dry.

  “Eight o’clock it would be, unless she was kept.”

  “Do you know when she actually left her parents’ house?”

  “Eight o’clock was what my aunt said.”

  Miss Silver said in a meditative tone,

  “She left at eight to come to you. It would be quite dark. Can you remember at all what sort of a night it was-whether there was a moon?”

  Florrie shook her head.

  “It was a dark night and a drizzle of rain.”

  Miss Silver said,

  “Florrie, was there anyone who knew that Maggie would be coming in to see you that evening?”

  Florrie turned from the sink with an abrupt movement.

  “She’d come when she could.”

  “I asked you if anyone knew that Maggie would be coming to see you.”

  “Most things get known in a village. Maggie’s father and mother would know, but they wouldn’t talk about it. They didn’t like her to come and see me-she’d have to pretend she was slipping out for a breath of air. But they’d know all right.”

  “Florrie, did anyone else know?”

  She turned a haggard face.

  “I’m not saying who knew, or who didn’t know. There’s been too much said already, and I’m not putting anything to it. And that’s my last word.”

  Miss Silver said, “Thank you, Florrie,” in a very thoughtful voice.

  CHAPTER 21

  Walking with Mrs. Merridew that afternoon, Miss Silver saw Miss Cunningham turn out of the drive of Crewe House. She was swathed in her usual quota of scarves, one of which she held closely muffled up about her in a manner to suggest that she might be suffering from toothache. To Mrs. Merridew’s solicitous enquiries, however, she replied that there was nothing the matter, thank you-oh, no, nothing at all-it was just that the wind was chilly, and that a warm scarf was always comfortable. As she went on her way, Mrs. Merridew said in a mildly indignant tone,

  “I suppose Lydia has been bullying her again. Poor Lucy, I can’t think why she puts up with it.”

  Lucy Cunningham sometimes wondered herself. But it isn’t easy to break an old yoke. Lydia Crewe had dominated her for thirty years, and when you have put up with something for thirty years it isn’t easy to rebel. She went home and occupied herself with her usual tasks. There were the hens to be fed, and since Mrs. Hubbard who had succeeded Maggie Bell was gone by half past two, there was Henry’s tea to get and the things to be washed up afterwards.

  Henry was late. He was very often late, but of course, with his tastes, that was to be expected. You can’t tramp about looking for things like chrysalises and hibernating dormice and get home punctually for your meals, and it was no good anyone expecting it. If she sometimes felt a little ruffled, she had only to remind herself of the years when she hadn’t known whether Henry was alive or dead to feel an instant remorse. Of course, after such a long time you couldn’t expect things to be just the same as they used to be. To be sure, Lydia wasn’t so young even then, and she herself was rising thirty, but when you looked back on it across all those years thirty did seem quite young. And Henry had been only twenty-five. Rather sweet too, with that sudden smile he had when things went right, and the way he turned to you for help when they went wrong. He had changed a lot- people did in twenty-five years. Henry Cunningham had come back but not the boy that he had been. He had lost the quick bright smile and the habit of turning to her for help. He wasn’t interested in people any more. A new kind of spider or a moth with different markings on its wings, a butterfly that was common in Belgium but which hadn’t been seen over here for fifteen years-these were the things which brought some of the old light to his eyes, the old zest to his manner. But as far as human beings were concerned, he lived in the house with them, or he met them when he went out, but they didn’t matter any more.

  Even Nicholas didn’t matter. And in some ways Nicholas was so like what Henry had been. He was lighter-hearted, and he had more to say for himself, but there were ways of moving, speaking, looking, that brought Henry back again as he used to be before that dreadful wicked rumour drove him away.

  She got the tea, and Henry was later than usual. He was in one of his most abstracted moods too, and hardly spoke except to ask her to pass the scones or to fill his cup again.

  When the meal was over and cleared away she put on the wireless and sat down to darn the socks which both he and Nicholas continually wore into holes. There was quite a pile of them, and the old tweed jacket which Nicholas would go on wearing though it was getting quite past it. However, this time the hole was only in the lining of the pocket. She would have to put in a good strong patch. As she moved the coat, something rustled under her hand. No, that was too strong a word. There really wasn’t any sound, but she could just feel something down by the hem between the cloth and the lining. Well, with a hole like that in the pocket-

  She fished out a crumpled piece of paper. There was writing on one side of it, but she didn’t look at it-she wouldn’t do a thing like that. She folded it over so that the writing didn’t show and put it aside to give to Nicholas when he came home.

  He rushed in at something after six, very gay, very lively, and in his usual hurry. He didn’t want anything to eat or drink, and he wouldn’t be back until late because he had a date in Melbury and no more than just enough time to change and make it. He threw her a kiss as he went out, and the front door slammed on him. She wondered who he was going to meet. Not Rosamond, or he wouldn’t have said he had got a date in Melbury. Or would he? If it was Rosamond, they would be meeting at the bus and going out together. She hoped very much that it was Rosamond, but she didn’t think it could be. Rosamond wouldn’t like to leave Jenny for so long. And that meant it might be simply anyone, because any girl would be only too glad to go out with Nicholas. Her thoughts dwelt on him fondly.

  He hadn’t come in when she went up to bed at half past ten, but then she didn’t expect him as early as that. He had a key, and she had reminded Henry not to bolt the door. She was tired and quite ready for her bed. It occurred to her in rather a vague, wandering manner that you wouldn’t really be able to bear it if you had just to go on all the time. There was
a hymn they used to sing when she was a child about “those endless Sabbaths the blessed ones see”. The idea of any day, let alone a Sunday, going on for ever and ever appalled her. Even in early youth she had found it very depressing, and now it simply didn’t bear thinking about. She felt a sincere gratitude for the fact that she could still sleep.

  But on this particular night she woke, coming up out of the pit of sleep with a ringing sound in her ears and blinking at the dark. After a moment she could see the window. The ringing was still going on, and this time she knew that it was the telephone down in the hall. When Papa had bought the Dower House and they had moved in all those years ago he had had the telephone put in the hall, and there it had remained ever since. It was, of course, the most inconvenient of all possible places. You stood in an icy draught, and everyone could hear what you said.

  Lucy Cunningham blinked the sleep from her eyes and switched on the light beside her bed. The clock that ticked there informed her that it was three o’clock in the morning. A sense of calamity swept over her. No one would ring you up at such an hour unless something dreadful had happened-no one. Without waiting to put anything on she ran out as she was, barefoot and in her night-dress. The bell was ringing down in the hall, unnaturally loud, unnaturally insistent. There was enough light from her open door to mark the top of the stair. Without waiting for anything more she began to run down the long steep flight.