Fair Warning

by Mignon Good Eberhart

  It was an ugly irony that it was Rob’s only letter to her and that it was written because she had refused his love. She had been wrong; divorce, anything, was better than this. But it was too late.

  Verity’s voice rose rather sharp and thin: “… I’m going home. They can’t keep me here. I don’t know anything of it. It’s terrible, of course. But we can’t help it now.”

  “It was my brother,” said Beatrice.

  “Forgive me, Beatrice. I didn’t mean to be unkind. Is there anything I can do for you? Any telephoning—telegrams?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll attend to it. Besides, everyone will know. The papers will be full of it by morning.”

  Jacob Wait’s bored, sallow face appeared in the doorway against a sort of haze of blue smoke and blurred sound of voices and motion, and Beatrice stopped abruptly.

  “There’ll be an inquest tomorrow at twelve,” he said.

  “We’ll let you know the place.”

  “Inquest!” exclaimed Gally Trench, suddenly articulate. “Have we all got to go?”

  The detective didn’t trouble himself to reply. He added, as if as an afterthought: “You can leave, if you want to, now. Probably there won’t be much more questioning till tomorrow.”

  He disappeared again. Verity put her arm around Marcia and said, “Good night, my dear. Or would you like me to stay here with you?”

  Beatrice heard her and replied for Marcia: “Thank you, no. Ancill is here. We are not at all afraid.”

  Policemen were in the hall; all the lights were on; voices were coming from behind closed dining-room doors. There was cigarette smoke in blue clouds, and groups of strange men, and Rob was suddenly there beside Marcia.

  “Rob —”

  His dark eyes warned her. His face was taut and white in that bright light; his hair ruffled above his gleaming white shirt front and smooth black shoulders. He said nothing; he couldn’t speak because so many people were all around them. But he shook his head just a little.

  He hadn’t found it, then.

  He couldn’t have found it. For she was going upstairs, and the library door was open, and Jacob Wait was standing there while two men took pictures of some yellowish powder which was sprinkled in light layers over the big mahogany desk. There was a chalked oval on the carpet. The cupboard doors were closed.

  She couldn’t enter the room and take the note from under their very eyes. It would be like giving it to them.

  Besides, was it still there?

  She would have to wait until they went away. Or until they left the library. A moment or two would be enough time. She would watch. And they couldn’t keep her out of a room in her own house.

  Jacob Wait looked up and saw her and came out to where she stood, white and dazed in her tea-rose dress, with one high-heeled silver slipper on the step.

  There was a confusion of voices around them. Rob just below her was trying to say something and stopped when he saw the detective.

  Jacob Wait said, “I’d like a few words with you alone, Mrs. Godden.”

  CHAPTER VII

  IT WAS FOUR HOURS before they let her go.

  Twice during that time they gave her steaming, strong black coffee which someone brought in a thermos jug and placed on the table beside the stained knife. Everything else had been removed from it—papers, books, cover—and the blank mahogany shone; on the table were just those two objects, the knife with its shellacked wooden handle, and the gleaming sides of the thermos jug.

  As the house grew cold because Ancill had forgotten to change the usual setting of the thermostat, one of them brought her a coat from the closet off the library. It was a flannel jacket of Ivan’s and smelled faintly of the verbena-scented face lotion he had always used.

  They had turned on all available lights, and as time went on someone turned the shade of the lamp over the brown leather chair so the light shone directly into Marcia’s face.

  They had to do it, of course. It was their plain duty. That became increasingly evident.

  She was the only one known to be in the house when Ivan Godden was murdered, except servants, who, from those questions, appeared to have alibied each other conclusively. She had been his wife. She knew about the knife. They asked her frequently about that, leaving the question, returning to it, wording their inquiries adroitly.

  She recognized the knife? Yes. It belonged to the household, then? Yes. But it was new, what was its—use? It was a dandelion knife.

  They looked at it sharply at that, and one of them got a fanatic gleam and said: “H’m. Dandelions. Looks more like a dagger. Narrow two-edged blade. It might work, though,” he added and put out his hand as if to try its efficacy in his palm. Jacob Wait coughed, and he withdrew it with a jerk.

  So it was new. And she had seen it before? Yes. When? One day about three weeks ago. Under what circumstances?

  “But I’ve already told you —”

  “Tell us again.”

  “Well, it came home from the hardware store that day.”

  “What day?”

  “The day of March eighteenth.”

  “Oh, you recall the exact date?”

  “That was the day my husband was injured in an automobile accident.”

  “That’s why you remember the date?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you saw the knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In this room.”

  “Who was in the room at the time?”

  “Myself and—my husband. And Ancill, of course, when he brought it into the room.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “How did you know it was a dandelion knife?”

  “Ancill said so. He brought it in with some other things—”

  “What other things?”

  “Some—hedge shears. Paintbrushes. Another dandelion knife, but a different kind, a sort of small spade. Ancill said this one was a new kind.”

  “Oh, you talked of it? What did you say?”

  “I said nothing. Ancill told my husband about it.”

  “What did your husband say?”

  “Nothing much. Oh, yes, he said it was time they made something that would get rid of the weeds.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No—yes—something about how sharp it was.”

  “And you remembered that?”

  “Why—yes—”

  “And you thought what a good weapon it would be?”

  “No, no!”

  “What did you do with the knife?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t touch it.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I don’t know. Ancill left the whole package of things on my husband’s desk.”

  “When did you see it again?”

  “I didn’t see it again.”

  She paused there to think, as she was to pause many times. “The package was left on the desk. I went to see the Copleys. When I returned I believe it was still there: yes, I’m sure.”

  “Then what happened to it?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it was put away. We had news of my husband’s accident, and for several days everything was—very confused. I simply don’t remember anything about it. We went at once to the hospital.”

  “He was very seriously injured?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would have died if the doctor hadn’t performed a sort of miracle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your husband driving the car at the time of the accident?”

  “No. Ancill.”

  “The doctor said he was here when you got news of your husband’s accident and that you and Miss Godden went to the hospital at once.”

  “Yes.”

  “With the doctor?”

  “No. He told us to telephone St. Thomas’s and tell them to have an operating room ready. Then we followed in the small car.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Within—fifteen minutes
, I suppose.”

  “Did you drive?”

  “No. The Copleys went with us, and Rob drove.”

  “They were here, too, then?”

  “We sent for them.”

  “That was the day of March eighteenth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And,” Jacob Wait said sullenly and with a kind of obstinate shame, “during that fifteen minutes you hid the knife in case your husband didn’t die?”

  “No. No. I never saw it or thought of it again.”

  He left it there, horribly, and veered to the Copleys.

  “So you were at the Copleys’ that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “In the morning.” She must go carefully here.

  “Why?”

  “They—are friends. Neighbors. I often go there.”

  “How often?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Once a day?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Once a week?”

  “I—I don’t know. It is simply a friendship. I don’t know how often I see them.”

  “So you went to see Robert Copley?”

  “I went to see both Mrs. Copley and Robert Copley.”

  “But Robert Copley is your—particular friend?”

  “No more than his mother.”

  “Was he here often?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why—he—the Copleys—we simply don’t see each other constantly.”

  “But you went there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You were there this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had an appointment with him tonight?”

  The letter! Every drop of blood in her body stopped.

  “No.”

  “You met him outside the house just before your husband was murdered. What did you say to each other?”

  “We certainly did not plan to murder my husband, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You have suggested that, Mrs. Godden—we haven’t. What did you talk about? ”

  She swallowed rage and fear and managed to say clearly, “Nothing much. We simply happened to meet. Rob, naturally, asked how Ivan was, knowing he had just returned from the hospital.”

  “I see. Naturally, knowing that. Let’s go back for a moment to the day of March eighteenth, when you went to see the Copleys. Did you tell them about the knife?”

  “No. Of course not. It was just one of the garden tools ordered for the spring work about the lawn. There was nothing to tell.”

  “That was March eighteenth?”

  Why did he repeat the date?

  “Yes.”

  “What else happened that day?”

  “My husband was injured—”

  “Yes, yes, but what else?”

  “Nothing,” said Marcia.

  “Except that you hid the knife for later use?”

  “No, no!”

  And there were other repetitions.

  “You and your husband were on good terms?”

  “Yes —” There was only one possible answer to that.

  “Never quarreled?”

  “Sometimes we didn’t see things exactly the same way.”

  They encouraged that, friendlily. “Most couples are like that. What didn’t you agree about?”

  “Nothing in particular. Nothing that I recall.”

  “Nothing that you recall. You had no words about anything today?”

  “We—No.”

  “None at all?”

  “No.”

  “You were delighted to welcome him home from the hospital?”

  “Certainly.”

  Over and over again. It varied a little in form but never in content. Once the course of it swerved:

  “What about this auto accident? How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was raining, and there was a collision.”

  “Collision with what?”

  “Another car. I believe the other car got away. It’s all rather confused.”

  “So the other car got away. And your husband was very nearly killed. Where were you at the time?”

  “I was here.”

  “Where was this young Copley?”

  “I don’t know. At home, I suppose.”

  “How do you know? Did you see him?”

  “No. It’s as I told you. When we heard about the accident, Beatrice—that’s Miss Godden—sent a maid over to ask him to drive us to the hospital. He came, and Mrs. Copley.”

  “But they never found out who was driving the car that they collided with?”

  “No. Not to my knowledge.”

  “Mr. Godden was very seriously injured?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he had died, it would have saved someone the trouble of murdering him?”

  No answer.

  “Have there been any other attempts on your husband’s life?”

  “No. That wasn’t an attempt at murder. It was an accident.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Why, we—I—everybody said it was an accident. I never thought of anything else.”

  “But he would have died then if Dr. Blakie hadn’t worked tooth and nail to save him?”

  “Yes. But it was an accident …”

  Then there was the story of what had happened that night.

  “So there were no lights anywhere?”

  “No. Not downstairs, that is. There was one on the landing.”

  “You didn’t turn them on?”

  “Not in the hall. I came in here—”

  “Why did you come in here?”

  “Because he—Ivan—had asked me to stop in here to see him before I went to the dinner party.”

  “But it was dark in here, you say. How did you know he was here?”

  “I didn’t. I thought he must have gone.”

  “He was injured. He couldn’t walk. You knew he couldn’t walk. He would be helpless against a murderer who was physically weaker than he?”

  “No. He was able to walk. The doctor said so.”

  “But did he?”

  “A little.”

  “Why did he have his meals in here?”

  “He preferred it, I suppose.”

  “Go on. You came into the library, when, you say, it was entirely dark in the room. What did you do then?”

  “But I’ve told you.”

  “Tell it again.”

  “Well, I—I thought there was a sound and that it was the dog —”

  “What dog?”

  “My dog. Bunty. A little Scotch terrier.”

  “Where is he?”

  Three policemen, faces wide and masklike in the bright lights, eyes only alive, looked blank. Lieutenant Davies shook his head. Jacob Wait, lounging in a deep chair with his hands in his pockets, looked back from that circle of faces to Marcia.

  “Where is he?”

  “She’s at Copley’s. I gave her to Mrs. Copley.”

  “Why did you think she was there, then, if you knew she was at Copley’s?”

  “I didn’t think so. I just thought vaguely of her because there was a sort of sound on the floor. It made me think of a dog before I remembered that it couldn’t be Bunty.”

  “You gave her to the Copleys. Why?”

  Why? “Because Mrs. Copley wanted her.”

  “When?”

  Back to the day of March eighteenth again.

  “Several weeks ago.”

  “What date?” said the detective, and the little tense ring of faces all poured inquiry at her like so many strong headlights and waited.

  “That—that was the day, too, that my husband was injured.”

  “March eighteenth?” repeated the detective.

  “I—suppose so.”

  It went on and on. They made her tell it over and over again. How she had pulled the lamp cord—“What lamp?” “That one.” “Then what?”—how she had seen Ivan there on the floo
r with the knife through his heart, how she had bent over him.

  “Did you know he was dead?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Why?”

  She was growing a little dizzy. Perhaps she would, mercifully, faint. But they gave her coffee then and kept on.

  “Because of the wound.”

  “What wound?”

  “The one in his—his heart—the knife—”

  “Did you see the wound on his head?”

  “No. At least, I don’t remember it.”

  “Suppose he actually died of that wound, then what?”

  No answer.

  “Did you call anyone?”

  “No. Beatrice came to the french doors just then.”

  Always she managed by that direct cut to eliminate, as Rob had told her to do, Ivan’s words to her, her own hands on the knife. But it was increasingly difficult. And when they asked her, as they did continually, if there wasn’t something else, some small forgotten fact, she always said no. It was by repetition, of course, that they hoped to trap her. One time, they thought, she would vary that story a little.

  About midnight Dr. Blakie came to the door and insisted on speaking to the detective. She saw him, and Rob’s tense face for an instant over his shoulder. It was only a glimpse, for the door closed.

  It was a brief respite, and she became aware again of the room, its familiarity distorted, and of the chalked oval along the carpet. It was directly opposite her, so that every time she looked away from the pinioning, pressing circle of faces she saw that chalked oval and her memory filled out the blankness of it with a figure. A man in a silk lounge coat which had fallen apart so that the redness on his white shirt showed, with a face which she had known well, had known in all its varying expressions, had known as no one else had known it, and now knew in its last, most poignant, most terribly intimate look.

  And behind her, so she couldn’t see it (fortunately, perhaps, or her gaze would have betrayed its presence), was a cupboard with closed doors.

  She did realize that either they had not found the letter yet, or they were holding it back as a final coup for the time when she became so confused and so worn with physical fatigue that her defense would go down altogether before it.

  The detective was back again. If Dr. Blakie and Rob had tried to interfere, it was not successful. What were they doing with those others? The place had grown still, and there was, now, no motion in the halls and no blurred sound of voices.

  It began again. This time about Ivan’s property. Was he a rich man? Had he willed her any money? She didn’t know! Hadn’t he told her, then? No. But she was his wife; why hadn’t he told her? Oh, she didn’t know.