‘I fear that he disregarded my warning.’
‘He came home and wrote me a letter which has just been found. He said that in the event of matters passing beyond his control he would wish you to be called into consultation.’
Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ And then, ‘I received a letter from Mr. Brading by this morning’s post. He pressed me to come down to Warne. He said he had reserved a room for me, and that he would meet any train which I might find convenient.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes, Major Forrest.’
Charles’ frown deepened in intensity. What on earth had Lewis been up to, and where did a private detective who sounded like an old-fashioned governess come in? He would have to see her, of course, and if Lewis had booked a room for her she might just as well come down. The mess was so bad that one elderly lady more or less would be neither here nor there. She might even provide a much-needed red herring or two. He didn’t see how she could possibly make matters worse than they were. With these things in mind he said,
‘I should be very glad if you would come down for the weekend, Miss Silver. What train would suit you?’
EIGHTEEN
MISS SILVER ARRIVED by the train which had brought Stacy to Ledstow three days before. Charles Forrest, on the platform, saw her alight with incredulity. There was no one else who could possibly be the person he had come to meet, but he found Miss Silver incredible. That is to say, incredible in this year of grace, upon Ledstow platform, coming down to investigate Lewis Brading’s death. In his nursery days the moral maxim, ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place’, had been all too frequently instilled. Miss Silver’s place was in a photograph album of about forty years ago. The rather flat, crushed-looking hat was the spit and image of one worn by Lewis’s mother in a wedding group of that date. It was of black straw with some ribbon bows at the back and a small bunch of mignonette and pansies on the left-hand side. The high boned net front was of the same date, but the dress of grey artificial silk with its smudged pattern of mauve and black departed from the type to the extent of having a much more comfortable waistline and being at least six inches off the ground. The black lisle thread stockings thus revealed and the black laced shoes were, however, well within the period. A string of bog-oak beads circled her neck twice. A pair of eyeglasses were fastened to the left-hand side of her dress by a gold bar brooch set with seed pearls. There was also a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with an Irish petal at its heart.
All these details presented themselves to Charles as part of the incredible whole. He couldn’t believe in her outside a family album, but there she was, stepping down from the train with a small well-worn suitcase in one hand and a handbag and a flowered knitting-bag in the other.
The day was even hotter than yesterday. It was a relief to leave the streets behind and come out upon a country road. Then, and not till then, did Miss Silver give her slight premonitory cough and say,
‘What have you to tell me about Mr. Brading’s death?’
Charles drove on for about a hundred yards, turned into a lane which ran inland, and drew up under a large shady oak. Then he said,
‘If we’re going to talk we might as well be cool. You want to know about Lewis’s death. He rang up yesterday morning round about half past twelve and asked me to come and see him — just that and nothing more. He suggested half past three. As a matter of fact I got there rather earlier. The girl in the office said he was alone, so I went through—’ He paused, looked round at her, and said, ‘I don’t know what you know about the layout.’
‘Mr. Brading explained it, I think quite clearly.’
‘Then you understand that everyone going to the annexe or coming away would go through the hall of the club and past the office — that is, unless they got through a window in the billiard-room or the study.’
‘That would be possible?’
‘I suppose so. Anyhow the girl in the office said he was alone, and I went through. There’s a glazed passage to the annexe with a very strong steel door at the end of it which is always kept locked. I take it you know about the Collection.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, the first thing that struck me was that the steel door wasn’t shut — it was standing ajar. You go in, and there’s a small lobby and a second very strong door. The second door was wide open. I went into the big room where he shows off his Collection and called. Nobody answered. There’s a door opposite the entrance which leads into a passage. There are three rooms there — Lewis’s bedroom, a bathroom, and a laboratory. I called again. The laboratory door was open.’
Miss Silver enquired,
‘Ajar — or wide open?’
‘Standing at right angles to the jamb. I went through, and saw Lewis. There’s a table he uses for making notes — about his experiments, you know. It’s an old knee-hole table with drawers on either side. It’s on the right-hand side of the door as you come in, facing towards it. As soon as I came in I saw Lewis. He was sitting at the table, and he had fallen forward across it. I came over to him, and saw that he had been shot through the head a little behind the right temple. His right arm was hanging down. There was a revolver lying as if it had dropped from his hand. The second right-hand drawer was open. I knew he kept a revolver there. I thought he had committed suicide, and I thought he had sent for me and left the doors open because he wanted me to find him. One of the less agreeable duties of an executor!’
At this point he met a gaze of singular intensity and intelligence.
‘You say you thought that Mr. Brading had committed suicide.’
Charles Forrest said,
‘The police don’t think so.’
‘Could you tell me why?’
They continued to look at one another. Charles said in a voice that matched his frown,
‘I could. But can you give me any reason why I should?’
Both frown and voice appeared to Miss Silver to denote concentration rather than resentment. Had it been otherwise, she would scarcely have answered as she did.
‘You do not know me.’
‘No.’
‘You have therefore no reason to trust me.’
He paused on that.
‘My cousin apparently did so. He wasn’t much given to trusting people. In his letter he quotes Randal March as saying that you can be trusted.’
Miss Silver inclined her head.
‘I must tell you, Major Forrest, that I refused this case a fortnight ago because I could not approve of Mr. Brading’s line of conduct. It appeared to me to be dangerous in its possibilities, and indefensible on moral grounds.’
One of Charles’ dark eyebrows rose.
‘Poor old James?’
‘He imparted some information about his secretary, Mr. James Moberly.’
Charles said quickly,
‘James wouldn’t hurt a fly — you can take that from me. He got into shady company when he was a boy — got had for a mug, and Lewis has been holding it over him for years. He’s worked like a black and not been able to call his soul his own. He isn’t capable of standing up for himself — that, I imagine, is how he got let in to start with — and he certainly isn’t capable of violence.’
A smile just touched Miss Silver’s lips. Then she looked grave again.
‘Mr. Brading spoke of information with regard to Mr. Moberly which would come into your hands in such a contingency as this. From what you say I understand that this information has reached you.’
Charles took a moment. Then,
‘I told you he wasn’t much given to trusting people. Poor old James — a complete dossier, I suppose. No, it hasn’t reached me yet. The solicitors will have it, I expect. And if the police get wind of it, there’ll be the devil to pay.’
Her look reproved him.
‘But you knew—’
‘Lewis dropped more than half a hint, and James told me the rest. Look here, what I’ve got to know is, how do you stand with regard to the poli
ce? If they go on thinking that it isn’t suicide, there’s going to be quite a lot of suspicion flying about. I’d like to know where I am. Do I talk to you in confidence, or does everything I say get handed on? I want to know where I am.’
Miss Silver looked at him.
‘I am glad that you should have raised the point. I could not, in a murder case, be a party to concealing any material evidence from the police. I could not come into a murder case to serve any private interest. I have been engaged in many such cases and have worked in harmony with the police, but it is not my practice to work for the police. In a murder case, as in any other, I can have only one object, the bringing to light of the truth. It is only the guilty who have to fear this, the innocent are protected.’
There was again that characteristic lift of the eyebrow. He said,
‘You find it as simple as that?’
‘Fundamentally, yes. What appears to obscure the fact is that so many people have something to hide, and an enquiry in a murder case has this in common with the day of judgment, that the secrets of all hearts are apt to be revealed. It is not everyone who can contemplate this with equanimity. It is not only the murderer who tries desperately to conceal his thoughts and actions. And now, Major Forrest, are you going to tell me why the police think that this may be a case of murder?’
Still frowning, Charles said,
‘Yes, I’ll tell you.’
He had been sitting easily, his hand on the wheel. He leaned back now into the angle between the driving-seat and the door. Something had been happening in his mind. The dowdy little governess out of a family photograph album sat there in the opposite corner, her hair very neat, her old-fashioned hat a little crooked, her hands in their black thread gloves folded primly upon a shabby bag with a tarnished clasp. There she was, and that was what she looked like. Yet he was feeling the impact of an intelligence which commanded respect. If that had been all, he would have found it surprising enough. But it was by no means all. He was conscious of an integrity, a kindness, a sort of benignant authority. He couldn’t get nearer to it than that. It wouldn’t go into words, but it was there. A good many of Miss Silver’s clients in the past had had a similar experience. But he was not to know that. He only knew that it would be a relief to talk, to formulate his thoughts, to look at them through the focus of someone else’s eyes.
She had been waiting, now she gave him an encouraging smile.
He said, ‘Lewis hadn’t any reason for suicide—I’m putting it the way it looks to the police. He had quite a lot of money, he wasn’t ill, and he was thinking about getting married. You didn’t know that?’
‘No.’
‘Nor did he a fortnight ago. You wouldn’t have thought he was the sort to go in off the deep end, but it just goes to show that you never can tell. She's a good-looking red-head, about twenty-five, with a divorced husband in the background and a flat in my house, Saltings. I’ve been cutting it up and letting it off— about the only thing you can do with big houses nowadays. Her name is Maida Robinson. On the day before his death — that is, the day before yesterday — Lewis asked her to marry him.’
Miss Silver looked alert.
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No, she did. He was showing his Collection to a whole party from the club. I walked home with her afterwards and she told me. She also told me that he had made a will in her favour.’
Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ And then, ‘Has this will been found?’
‘It has, and it hasn’t He went into Ledlington yesterday and signed a will such as Maida described. She said it was made out on a will-form. It was witnessed by his bank manager and a clerk, and something was said about his asking for congratulations before long. But no actual statement about the contents of the will, which is not to be found, unless you can count some burned paper on an ash-tray. There was just one corner left un-burned, but no writing. The paper corresponds with the will-forms sold by a Ledlington stationer. Maida bought one there — she says for herself. She asked Lewis’s advice about it, and it ended in his using it instead.’
Charles’ voice was non-committal in the extreme, but Miss Silver received some impressions. He continued in a less careful tone.
‘I gather the police have a theory that the destruction of the will could be a fairly strong motive for murder.’
Miss Silver said crisply,
‘It might equally be argued that Mr. Brading had destroyed the will and then committed suicide owing to some disappointment connected with his projected marriage.’
Charles said, ‘I don’t think that cuts a lot of ice with the police. Frankly, I don’t see Lewis shooting himself over a woman — no one who knew him would. He wasn’t such a stick as he looked. He’d had affairs before this, you know. I don’t say he hadn’t fallen pretty hard for Maida, but I just can’t see him shooting himself. And that’s giving you my confidence to a fairly marked degree, because if it’s murder, I’m naturally pretty high up among the suspects. I found him, and I had the best of motives for destroying this new will, since under the old one I’m the principal legatee. The police love that sort of motive — all nice and clear and crude. And they’re pretty well sure it's murder because of the fingerprints on the revolver. They’re Lewis’s, but they’re not in the right places. They think they were made after death. It’s an old trick to fake a suicide by closing a dead man’s hand on the revolver, but it’s a ticklish business for the murderer. If you’ve shot someone, your own hand is probably not too steady, and you’re in the devil of a hurry.’ His voice cooled and hardened. ‘I can imagine that it might be quite a job to get the prints in exactly the right places — they might easily slip. The police say that these particular prints have slipped. That is why they’re sure it’s murder.’
NINETEEN
AS IF HE HAD said all that he meant to say for the moment, Charles Forrest swung round, started up the car, and backed out of the lane. He did not speak for the rest of the way, nor did Miss Silver. She had, indeed, a good deal to occupy her thoughts.
As they passed through the hall of Warne House, Stacy was coming down the stairs. Reaching the bottom step as Charles approached, it was natural that he should pause and speak — any casual acquaintance might have done the same. But Miss Silver was instantly aware of a change in the atmosphere. The words which passed were few and simple. Charles Forrest’s rather sombre gaze rested momentarily on the girl in white. She was pale. She carried a green-lined sun-umbrella which he recognised as belonging to Myra Constantine.
He said, ‘Going out?’
Stacy said, ‘Yes.’ And then, ‘Lilias asked me to tea. She wants me to go.’
There was nothing in the words, but voice and manner were those of intimates. The whole encounter was so brief that it hardly halted either of them. Stacy went on and out, putting up her green umbrella in the porch.
Miss Silver went up to the room which Lewis Brading had booked for her.
When she came down ten minutes later Charles was waiting. He took her down the passage to the study and gave her tea. It was between the first and second cups that she asked him about Stacy.
‘A very charming girl — very graceful. She is staying here?’
Charles had been wondering why kettles took so long to boil and tea so long to cool. At her question the mouthful which he had just swallowed appeared to be even more scalding than he had thought it at the time. Oh, well, if he had nothing worse to explain than Stacy — He explained her with a careful poise.
‘She is Stacy Mainwaring, the miniaturist. She is painting our local celebrity, the rather famous Myra Constantine. We were once married, but are now divorced — for nothing worse than desertion — and we are quite good friends. Myra is worth painting you know. She will be a feather in Stacy’s cap.’
He told stories about Myra and gave an entertaining account of the other people in the club until she had finished her tea. Then he took her out to the annexe and showed her over it.
‘Th
e police have finished here. You can go anywhere, touch anything, and ask as many questions as you like.’
She asked a great many — just how he had come in — where he had stood — what he had seen.
Charles went through it all, as he had done so many times already. If he wasn’t word-perfect by now he never would be. With each repetition the thing became less real.
When he had finished she said,
‘You arrived just before half past three?’
‘About twenty past.’
‘And you came straight through?’
‘Straight through.’
‘And he was dead when you found him. How long had he been dead?’
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘You served in the war. How long had he been dead?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you could hazard a guess.’
He shook his head.
‘I’m not fool enough to rush in.’
She was looking at him all the time, standing there beside the table at which Lewis Brading had died, one hand resting upon it. A bright overhead light beat down upon the laboratory and its equipment, striking sparkles from glass and metal, making every object just a little clearer and more distinct than it would have been by daylight. She gave her little cough and said,
‘At what time did the police arrive?’
‘I think it was a quarter to four. But they are not experts either, you know. The doctor I rang up was out, and the police surgeon didn’t get here till four. He isn’t going to swear within half an hour as to how long Lewis had been dead when he saw him. It was a very hot day.’
‘Exactly.’
She walked round the table and stood in front of it. Lewis Brading’s chair had been drawn back. The table was orderly — blotting-pad, pen-tray, scribbling-pad, a rack for writing-paper and envelopes, a large flat metal ash-tray a good deal discoloured, a box of matches. The knee-hole aperture was flanked by drawers on either side. On the deep green leather of the table top there was the one dark stain. She said,
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