“They must have burned it,” he said, encountering Miss Silver in the hall. “There’s about a millionth chance of finding a shred or two.”
He put a hand on her arm and walked with her to the study. When they were inside with the door shut he said,
“We didn’t find the shawl, but we did find something else. Look at this.”
He gave her a shred of crumpled paper. She smoothed it out, looked at it, and read aloud, her cool, prim voice making a strange contrast with the scribbled words.
“‘All right darling come down to my sitting-room as soon as the coast is clear. Not before one—Aunt A. reads late.’”
He said, “There’s no signature. Can you identify the writing?”
“Oh, yes—Tanis Lyle’s.”
“It’s obvious of course from the context, but—you are quite sure about the writing?”
“Oh, quite sure.” She gave him back the note. “Where did you find it?”
“In the breast pocket of Alistair Maxwell’s dinner-jacket.”
“Dear me!”
“It’s undated of course. I am going to show it to him and ask him if he’s got anything to say about it. You can stay, if he doesn’t object. I will explain that you are representing the family.”
Alistair Maxwell objected to nothing. He had the dazed, half-stupefied appearance of a man who is exhausted from shock and lack of sleep. His usually fresh complexion was dull and patchy. His fair hair was rough and his eyes set in his head. They stared at the bit of paper which the Superintendent offered him.
“Yes, it’s mine. Where did you find it? I thought I had put it in the fire.” He spoke in a dry, toneless voice, standing by the table. His eyes never left the paper.
“This note,” said March—“it was from Miss Lyle?”
He did not look up.
“Yes. It doesn’t matter now—does it?”
“I think it does. We want to know who killed her. This note makes an appointment with you for one o’clock. The time referred to is undoubtedly the middle of the night, because she speaks of her aunt reading late. Have you got anything to say about this appointment? Did you keep it?”
“Yes, I kept it.” The words were drained of expression.
“Would you care to tell me what happened?”
“Oh, yes—it doesn’t matter now. We quarrelled.”
“Oh—you quarrelled. Seriously?”
“Yes. She was tearing everything to bits—Petra—me—everyone. It couldn’t go on.”
March was looking very grave.
“Mr. Maxwell, is this a confession? I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
He looked up then in a slow, bewildered manner.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean. You can make a statement, or a confession, but it is my duty to make sure that you understand what you are doing.”
“But—”
March said quickly,
“This note has very grave implications—you must realize that. When you admit that you kept the appointment, and that you had a very serious quarrel with Miss Lyle, you come very near to incriminating yourself.”
Alistair’s look of bewilderment deepened. He said,
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mr. Maxwell, I am not trying to trap you. I am here to discover who shot Miss Lyle. You have admitted to being with her, and to having a very serious quarrel. Miss Lyle was shot at some time between two o’clock, when she was last seen alive, and the early hours of the morning. The medical evidence suggests that her death took place not much later than three o’clock. You must realize that you are in a serious position.”
The study door was jerked open. Petra North ran in. She banged it behind her and stood against it, eyes and cheeks blazing. She said in a clear, angry voice,
“He isn’t! He didn’t touch her—he wouldn’t!”
March turned.
“You were listening at the door, Miss North?”
She left it and ran to Alistair, linking an arm through his.
“Of course I listened! Can’t you see he’s ill? How dare you try and bully him? He’s ill, I tell you—he doesn’t know what he’s saying. You might just as well say that I did it. I wanted to, and I said so dozens of times—I expect you could get any number of people to say they’ve heard me. Because I hated her like poison. But Alistair didn’t hate her. Alistair loved her. He’s breaking his heart for her this minute. He worshipped her.”
She was quite outside herself, passionate in defence.
Alistair pulled roughly away.
“That’s not true!” His voice was thick and unsteady. “I think I hated her. She’d got me, and I couldn’t get away. That’s not right—you’ve got to be able to get away if you want to. She won’t let you get away. I expect that’s why she was killed.”
March’s voice broke in.
“Mr. Maxwell, do you wish to make a statement, or—a confession?”
Petra called out in a high, shrill voice,
“No, no, no—he didn’t—he didn’t do it! I did it—I shot her!”
The whole thing had passed at great speed. They were all standing. Miss Silver had one hand on the edge of the table, leaning on it. At Petra’s words Alistair Maxwell took a lurching step forward and slumped down in the writing-chair, his arms flung out across the table, his head sunk upon them. The movement was so abrupt, it had almost the effect of a fall. March looked down at him before he turned to Petra.
“You had better sit down, Miss North. We seem to be a chair short. I’ll bring one in from the dining-room. You must consider what you have just said, and whether you would be willing to make a statement. I have to tell you that what you say may be used in evidence against you.”
Alistair Maxwell’s hands clenched one upon the other. A strong shudder went over him.
Petra said nothing. She remained standing till March returned with the chair. Then she sat down.
When they were all seated. March said gravely,
“Now, Miss North—have you considered your position?”
She had lost a little of her look of a kitten at bay, but she was still very much flushed, very tense. She said in a defiant voice,
“I shot her. It wasn’t anyone else—it was me.”
“And your motive?”
“She was tearing Alistair to bits. I couldn’t bear it any longer.”
“I see. Will you tell me just what you did? You went up to your room with the others on Thursday night?”
“Yes, I went up with Laura Fane. We didn’t talk. We went to our rooms.”
“Then will you go on from there? What did you do?”
She sat up very straight and stiff with her hands clasped in her lap and said like a child repeating a lesson,
“I got into a dressing-gown, but I didn’t undress. I knew it was no good going to bed or trying to sleep—I was too unhappy. I thought about all the things that had been happening, and I couldn’t see any way out of them as long as Tanis was alive. I hated her, and I wished she was dead. Presently I couldn’t bear it any longer in my room, so I went downstairs. There was a light in Tanis’s sitting-room. I remembered about the pistol being in the bureau there. I went in. She wasn’t there. I got the pistol and went into the octagon room to look for her. I could hear her opening the door there. She had just opened it when I came in. I shot her. She fell down the steps. That’s all.”
March said, “Not quite, Miss North. I should like to ask you a few questions. When you came down the stairs you were in your dressing-gown. Was it very cold?”
The clasp of her hands had relaxed. She looked at him with some astonishment.
“No—I don’t think so—I didn’t notice.”
Miss Silver had been watching her intently. A very faint smile now changed the line of her lips.
March said, “You didn’t feel the need of an extra wrap or anything like that?”
“N
o.” Her tone was a puzzled one.
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Oh, yes, quite.”
“Well then, you came down the stairs into the hall. What time was it?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know—I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t meet anyone?”
“No.”
“Or notice anything at all unusual?”
“No—I wasn’t noticing things.”
“You didn’t notice whether there was anything hanging on the newel-post at the foot of the stairs?”
Her flush deepened.
“I tell you I wasn’t noticing things.”
“You’re quite sure you didn’t see Miss Laura Fane’s Chinese shawl, or handle it?”
“Of course I’m sure. What’s the good of all these questions? I’ve told you I shot Tanis. Isn’t that enough?”
The severity of his look had relaxed a little.
“Not quite, I’m afraid. You say that you came into the sitting-room and got the pistol. Where was it?”
There was hardly a pause before she said,
“In the bureau.”
“Yes—Miss Lyle had told everyone that, hadn’t she? But the bureau has a flap, and three drawers. From which of these places did you take the pistol?”
She turned wide, startled eyes on him.
“Come, Miss North!”
She said in a whispering voice, “I don’t remember.” And then, “It was—it was under the flap—I think.” The last two words were so faint as to be almost inaudible.
March regarded her.
“Well, you shot Miss Lyle. What did you do after that?”
She said with obvious relief,
“I came back to my room.”
His quizzical look showed for a moment.
“As quickly as all that? You didn’t go down the steps to make sure that Miss Lyle was really dead?”
Her eyes were wary now.
“I don’t know—I might have done—”
“Come, Miss North, you must remember whether you went down the steps or not.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what did you do with the pistol? Do you know that?”
“I—I put it down.”
“Just like that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He was smiling a little.
“You shot Miss Lyle, and you don’t know whether you went down the steps or not. And you put the pistol down, but you don’t know where you put it. Let me see if I can help you to remember. Do you think you put it back under the flap of the bureau?”
“I don’t know where I put it.”
She was frightened now, and afraid of committing herself.
“Do you think you might have dropped it after you fired?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you remember opening the flap of the bureau to take the pistol out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember opening or shutting either of the doors in the room—the door from the hall for instance? You came in that way?”
“Yes, I came in that way.”
“Then you had to open that door.”
“Yes.”
“Did you shut it behind you?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice had begun to shake.
“Well then, after you had shot Miss Lyle and dropped the pistol—can you remember whether you had to open the sitting-room door to get back into the hall?”
“I don’t know. I’ve told you that I don’t know. What does it matter? I’ve told you I shot her.”
Randal March leaned back in his chair. He said in his agreeable voice,
“Miss North, you’ve told me a number of things, and most of them are untrue. To start with, you say you saw a light in Miss Lyle’s sitting-room. That would mean that the door into the hall was open. Later on you say you had to open this door. Both these statements can’t be true. If we are to believe the first of them, we have to swallow the improbability that Miss Lyle had gone into the octagon room to admit a midnight visitor, leaving her sitting-room door open to advertise the fact. I can’t manage to believe that myself. If, on the other hand, you opened the door, how do you account for its not having your fingerprints on it? You say you took the pistol from under the bureau flap. You left no fingerprints there either. You don’t know what you did with the pistol afterwards, but the person who used it had taken good care to wipe it and put it back in the place from which it was taken, which wasn’t under the bureau flap at all. Your trouble is that you’re trying to confess to a crime without having the least idea of how it was committed. The person who shot Miss Lyle kept a clear head. Telltale fingerprints were all most carefully removed. If you had removed them you wouldn’t have forgotten the fact, or where they had been—where the pistol was, or where the murderer finally left it. You did your best, but you couldn’t tell me these things because you didn’t know them. Fortunately for you it is extremely difficult for an innocent person to prove himself guilty. You see, he doesn’t really know enough about the job.”
Alistair Maxwell’s head had lifted. He was looking at Petra. She was pale now, her expression one of misery. Alistair said in a sudden loud voice,
“Petra—you fool!”
The tears which had been gathering welled up and began to roll down her cheeks. She sat quite still and let them fall.
Alistair got up and came to her. With an arm about her shoulders, he addressed himself to March.
“I’m sorry, sir—she’s a damned little fool. But I suppose she thought I did it. I didn’t, you know. I’m afraid I made an exhibition of myself just now. It’s been a shock, and I haven’t been sleeping. I’m all right now. And I can explain about that note. It wasn’t for Thursday night at all, it was for Wednesday. If you look at it again you’ll see that it couldn’t have been for Thursday, because it said one o’clock. Well, the Madisons were coming in on Thursday night. We always dance when they come in, and they never go away until well after midnight—anyone in the house will tell you that. She would never have said one o’clock if it had been for Thursday night.”
Petra turned in her chair with a quick movement and hid her face against his arm.
Randal March got to his feet and opened the door.
“Oh, take her away and pick up the bits, Maxwell!” he said.
CHAPTER 32
AS THE DOOR SHUT behind them, March turned a half laughing, half vexed face upon Miss Silver and saw that she was smiling.
“Well?” he said.
“As far as they are concerned, it is the best thing that could have happened. I imagine that he has been under a very severe strain for some time, and the shock of Tanis’s death came very near to sending him off his balance. The counter-shock of hearing Miss North confess to the murder seems to have had a most salutary effect. I am convinced that his attachment to her is of a deep and lasting character. He has been torn in two directions, and has blamed himself bitterly. Miss North is devoted to him. Her confession was of course made on the spur of the moment and is quite ridiculous. You handled her very well indeed, Randal.”
He made her a mock serious bow, and then came back to gravity.
“You think Maxwell cleared himself.”
“Do not you?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose I do—as a man. As a policeman, I’m not so sure. His rendering of the note is possible, even probable. You know as well as I do that it isn’t conclusive. She might have said one o’clock and yet meant Thursday night, if she intended to get rid of the Madisons early. I know they didn’t leave till half past twelve, but then Maxwell himself had flung out of the house and hadn’t come back. She may have meant to tantalize him by allowing the party to run on until after his return. It was Mrs. Madison who definitely broke it up, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. She had been looking ill all the evening. She was evidently very unhappy indeed about her husband’s attentions to Tanis.”
“Now do you mean anything by that, or don’t you?”
Her faint colourless eyebrows rose a little.
“My dear Randal, I was merely answering your question.”
He smiled.
“So you were. Madison’s attentions were marked?”
Miss Silver gave her little cough.
“Extremely marked. They danced together nearly the whole evening. I could see that Agnes was uneasy.”
“She didn’t interfere in any way?”
Miss Silver coughed again.
“It depends on what you would call interference. She beckoned to Mr. Desborough. I was so placed that I unavoidably caught some of their conversation. She asked him if he had quarrelled with Tanis, and when he said no she said Mr. Madison was making her conspicuous and urged him to put a stop to it. It was after that that he did dance with her.”
“I see. Was Maxwell in the room at this time?”
“No. He had already left the house according to Miss North. They were away from the drawing-room for some time together, and then she came back and said that he had gone out.”
March looked up with a glint of humour in his eyes.
“You seem to have had a delightful evening—Madison and Maxwell about as pleasant as thunder, Miss North and Mrs. Madison acutely jealous and wretched—” He broke off and came at her with a sudden, “What about Desborough and Laura Fane—how were they?”
Miss Silver smiled.
“They were happy, and very obviously in love. Laura was radiant, and after he had danced with Tanis Mr. Desborough looked radiant too.”
“That is capable of more than one interpretation. It might substantiate his statement that she had promised to set things right for him with her aunt, or it might be taken to mean that a reconciliation of a different kind had taken place, and that she had given him an assignation.”
The Chinese Shawl Page 16