Mr. Brading's Collection

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘I merely looked in to inform you that the Chief Constable rang me up shortly after lunch. He wanted to know if you were in the club. When I told him that you would be here later he said that he would come round on the chance of seeing you.’

  Charles frowned.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He said some small point had arisen. He had tried to get you at Saltings.’

  The frown deepened.

  ‘I took Jack Constable over to Ledbury. It’s a rotten week-end for him, poor chap. Oh, well—’ His voice implied, ‘Is that all?’

  Miss Silver answered the implication.

  ‘There is something which I should just like to mention. I walked up from church with a Miss Dale — Theodosia Dale.’

  ‘Our Dossie! Then I don’t suppose there’s anything left for me to tell you. She knows all the answers.’

  Miss Silver permitted herself to smile.

  ‘She was quite informative, and, I think, a good friend of yours. She gave me a number of reasons why it would be absurd that any suspicion should be attached to you.’

  His eyelids came down, narrowing the iris and pupil until they were just a dark glint between the lashes.

  ‘Does it have to be such a very good friend to believe that I didn’t murder Lewis?’

  Miss Silver spoke gravely.

  ‘That is a very imprudent way to talk. I think Miss Dale is really a good friend. The fact that she is also extremely indiscreet is largely discounted by her friends being so accustomed to her way of talking that they no longer attach much importance to what she says.’

  Charles relaxed into an ironic smile.

  ‘What a hope! She’s practically the local yellow press. If she goes round telling everyone I didn’t shoot Lewis, in twenty-four hours there won’t be a soul who doesn’t believe I did. Is that all she says?’

  ‘By no means. She made a statement about the weapon. Or perhaps I should say she asked me a question about it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She wanted to know whether the revolver found by Mr. Brading’s body was the one which you had given him.’

  ‘It was. I told you that — I told Crisp—I told the Chief Constable. You, I presume, told Dossie. And Dossie can go and tell the world!’

  Miss Silver gave a faintly reproving cough.

  ‘Miss Dale appeared to think that this might involve you in some suspicion. She said she could bear witness that you had given him the revolver, and that there was still further proof in the fact that when you did so you scratched upon it the initials, L. B.’

  Charles nodded.

  ‘And what is that supposed to prove? Everyone knows I gave him the revolver — everyone knows he kept it in that drawer. When I found him the drawer was open and the revolver lying on the floor beside him. I don’t see what my having given it to him six months before is supposed to prove.’

  Miss Silver said,

  ‘I do not think that Miss Dale is a very clear thinker.’

  As she spoke, the door opened and Randal March came in. He said,

  ‘How do you do, Miss Silver?’ and then, ‘Hullo, Forrest! I’ve been chasing you. I hope I’m not disturbing anything.’

  Charles said, ‘Oh, no.’ He had risen to his feet. When March had seated himself, he returned to his former careless attitude, half on, half off the table.

  The window stood wide to the outside air, but no breeze entered. The book-lined walls darkened the room in a manner not unpleasant on so hot a day. They gave out a faint aroma of old paper, old leather, quite perceptible when you first came in but soon ceasing to attract attention. It passed through March’s mind that Brading had been addicted to singularly gloomy surroundings. He himself liked plenty of light and air. He looked directly at Charles and said,

  ‘There’s a point that’s come up about the revolver — I don’t know if you can help us at all. You say you gave it to him. Do you happen to know whether he had a licence for it?’

  Charles lifted a shoulder and let it drop again.

  ‘I haven’t an idea. Your guess is as good as mine. But if you want me to guess, I should say it was most unlikely.’

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  ‘Just the way his mind worked. Some people are sticklers over what you might call the minor points of the law. Lewis was just the opposite. Regulations annoyed him — he liked dodging them. My guess is he’d have argued that he’d a perfect right to keep a private revolver on his private premises to protect his private property.’

  ‘In fact you don’t think there was a licence?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t get as far as an opinion.’

  ‘Well, we can’t trace one. If there had been a licence, we could, of course, have identified the weapon positively. Can you tell me if it had any distinguishing marks?’

  Miss Silver was sitting with her hands quietly folded in her lap. She had not opened her knitting-bag. She watched the faces of both men closely. Randal had not come here on a Sunday afternoon to ask Charles Forrest whether his cousin had taken out a licence for his revolver. She concluded that she was not the only person to whom Miss Dale had talked. She thought that Charles stiffened a little as he said,

  ‘What do you mean by distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Just what I said. For instance, initials.’

  Charles said carelessly,

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What initials?’

  ‘Oh, his own — L.B.’

  ‘Engraved?’

  ‘No. I scratched them on the butt when I gave him the revolver.’

  ‘Are you quite sure of that? Anyone know about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyone might have known. I can’t say if anyone did — except—’

  ‘Except whom?’

  ‘I was thinking of James Moberly — but that’s just another guess. May I ask what all this is getting at?’

  ‘In a minute. You say you put Brading’s initials on the revolver you gave him. It was one of a pair. Did you put your own initials on the other?’

  ‘No. I should like to know what all this is about.’

  ‘You’re quite sure you put Brading’s initials on the revolver you gave him?’

  Charles stood up.

  ‘Is this the moment where I say I won’t answer any more questions unless my solicitor is present?’

  March said gravely,

  ‘You are bound to answer.’

  Charles walked to the window, turned there, and came back again.

  ‘Oh, I’ll answer. Of course I'm sure. If you show me the revolver, I’ll show you where I put the initials.’

  March said in a completely non-committal voice,

  ‘There are no initials on the revolver with which Brading was shot.’

  Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’

  TWENTY-SIX

  STACY WAS WAITING in the hall. She wanted to see Charles — she wanted to see him dreadfully. There was something going on, she didn’t quite know what. Nobody told her anything, but she could feel all the things they were thinking, and it seemed to her that these things were becoming more frightening with every hour that passed. It was like being down below in a ship over-taken by a storm — you couldn’t see anything, you didn’t know what was happening, but you felt the shock of the waves, and you could hear the wind rising. Things had been happening. Myra’s voice had risen and risen behind her closed door, and then fallen suddenly silent. Hester had come out of the room looking like a trampled ghost. Then Lady Minstrell had gone in, and the voice had begun all over again until the walls shook and echoed with it. Across the way in her own room, with two doors and a passage between, Stacy felt as exposed as a leaf in a high wind. And then when the gong sounded for lunch Myra had emerged without a sign of storm or earthquake, her hair curling violently, her eyes sparkling with vitality, her air buoyant, her voice rolling with warm affection as she called to Stacy,

  ‘Bit of a turn-up we’ve been having. I expect you heard it. Always did have a carrying voice.
I remember Mosscrop saying I could fill the Albert Hall, and a pity I’d never get the chance. But there it is — it’s given me an appetite for my lunch. Nobody need think they’re going to get me down. Het — you go back and put on a bit of colour! You’re not the corpse, and no need to dress the part. Milly — you see she does it! I’m walking fine today, and Miss Mainwaring will give me a hand if I want one. I’m going to see this thing through, and those that think they can down me — well, there’ve been others that thought that way before, and they’ve had to think again!’

  All through lunch she had continued in this dominant mood, and at intervals she had enquired of Lady Minstrell, of the silent Hester, of the two waiters, the manageress Miss Peto, of Miss Silver, of Stacy herself, whether Charles Forrest was expected at the club, and if he wasn’t, why wasn’t he, and what was he doing? The telephone had been employed to wring this information from Saltings, but without success. When, at about three o'clock, Charles entered the club there was a severe explosion of wrath at the intelligence that he was closeted with Miss Silver and the Chief Constable in the study.

  Stacy, most unwillingly present, had been glad enough to seize the chance of escape.

  ‘I’ll run down into the hall, Mrs. Constantine, and catch him as soon as they come out.’

  So here she was. And how long was it going to be before Myra lost patience and came down herself? She was perfectly capable of surging into the study and cutting Charles out under the nose of an entire police force.

  There were chairs in the hall, two or three in a clump, set about little bright tables. Stacy sat down where she could watch the study door. The short length of passage lay open to her view, with the billiard-room on the left, the study on the right, and, straight ahead, the French door leading to the glass passage. She would see Charles the moment he came out, and if he stayed behind when the others came away, it wouldn’t take her a moment to reach him. She saw herself running down the passage, opening the study door, and going in. She couldn’t see any farther than that.

  The moments dragged. They were like raindrops on a window-pane, moving imperceptibly, haltingly, sluggishly joining with other drops to go sliding down the glass and never come back.

  When Stacy had sat there for what seemed a long time, the girl in the office called to her. Edna Snagge was off duty. This was a pale, plump girl. Stacy did not know her name, but the girl knew hers. She called across the office counter.

  ‘There's a call for you, Miss Mainwaring. You know where the box is — at the back of the hall.’

  Stacy got up and went to it.

  When she was in the box she could no longer see the study door. If Charles came out of the passage, she would see him, but not if he went into the annexe. She lifted the receiver and said in rather a breathless voice, ‘Hullo!’

  The woman who answered didn’t sound very friendly. Her tone suggested words like bombazine and buckram. Stacy didn’t really know what bombazine was, but the tone suggested it. It said,

  ‘Miss Colesfoot speaking. Is that Miss Mainwaring?’

  Still a little breathless, Stacy said, ‘Yes.’ Just for a moment she wasn’t there. Then light broke. Tony was Tony Colesfoot. Miss Colesfoot was Tony’s aunt — the one she had left him having influenza with on Thursday night.

  The voice went on being stiff.

  ‘I am calling for Anthony. You will, I am sure, be glad to hear that his temperature is ninety-nine point eight.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘The doctor says he is satisfied, and I can only hope that he is not too sanguine. He says that Anthony may be allowed a quiet visitor. If you will come down after tea—’

  Stacy’s blood began to boil a little. Tony seemed to belong to some remote period of history, and Miss Colesfoot didn’t belong at all.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I am afraid I can’t manage it—’ She got as far as that, and then her heart smote her, because Tony always thought he was going to die if he had a fingerache. She said hastily, ‘I’ll see what I can manage tomorrow. May I give you a ring?’ and hung up.

  Miss Silver and the Chief Constable were just coming out of the passage. Suppose she hadn’t heard them — suppose Miss Colesfoot had made her miss Charles — The thought hurt so much that she wondered what had happened to her. Only four days ago she was all armour-plated and not caring what happened to herself or anyone else, and now she hadn’t any shelter at all. Everything hurt.

  She ran along the passage and opened the study door. Charles was over by the window looking out. Even from the back of his head she could tell that he was frowning. She wondered if he was cursing the annexe and Lewis Brading’s Collection. He had that sort of look.

  She shut the door very softly behind her and came over to stand beside him and slip her hand inside his arm. He hadn’t heard her come in. He had the kind of face you wear when you are alone. Stacy saw it for a moment before she touched him. She had been wrong about the frown. He wasn’t frowning. He looked open, unguarded, young. When she touched him his face closed up again. He looked down at her and said,

  ‘What is it, my sweet?’

  Silly of her heart to race. Charles didn’t mean anything when he said things like that. She ought to give him Myra’s message. Instead she said in a frightened voice,

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing you can help, darling.’

  ‘Charles — what is it?’

  He put his arm round her.

  ‘Just one of those things.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Lewis wasn’t shot with his own revolver.’

  She said in a bewildered voice,

  ‘How do they know?’

  ‘I scratched his initials on it when I gave it to him. Dossie has been telling everyone. She seems to have been under the impression that she was clearing me — I don’t quite know why. Anyhow she set the police looking for initials — there weren’t any.’

  ‘Is that — bad?’

  ‘It might be. You see, all along I think it stuck in their minds that it isn’t easy to come up beside a man who is seated at his own writing-table, open the drawer in which he keeps his revolver, and shoot him out of hand. I know it stuck in mine. If there was a suspicious bloke on this earth, it was Lewis. It just couldn’t have been done.’

  ‘How was it — done?’

  ‘Someone brought a revolver in, shot him, and took his away.’

  ‘Charles — couldn’t it have been suicide?’

  ‘No, my sweet, it couldn’t. The fingerprints are all wrong. Besides —’

  She pressed closer to him, as if the two of them could be shut in and no one hear what they said to one another. No one really could have heard, she spoke so low.

  ‘Charles — did you know — when you found him?’

  ‘That it wasn’t his revolver? Yes.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing I could do. March has gone off to collect Crisp. Then we all go up to Saltings and have a look for the other revolver. I wonder if it will be there.’

  She said in a most horrified whisper.

  ‘He was shot — with your revolver — the one you kept?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Do they know it was yours?’

  ‘I think they’ve a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Charles — who did it?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I did?’

  ‘Charles —’

  ‘Well, ask.’

  ‘No — no — no!’

  ‘Not going to?’

  ‘No!’

  He said, ‘Well, well —’ His arm dropped from her shoulders. He may have heard a step in the passage, he may have heard the handle turn. She heard nothing except the beating of her heart. But as he moved, she moved too and saw that the door was opening. Lady Minstrell came a step into the room and said,

  ‘Oh, Major Forrest, I’m so sorry, but could you come up to Mama? There’s something
she wants to see you about.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN CHARLES FORREST went into her sitting-room Myra Constantine was not in the big padded chair. She was up on her feet and stumping about the room, catching at the furniture as she went, letting it take her weight for a moment, and then rolling on again. There was a horrid resemblance to a bus that had got out of control — one of those brightly coloured buses. She had just turned at the window end when he opened the door. She came charging back to the middle of the room, bumped into the back of a chair, clutched it, and said in a voice like an angry gong,

  ‘What have you been doing? Where have you been? Why didn’t you come up when I sent for you?’

  Myra’s rages were legendary. Charles had seen her in one before. The soft answer, so far from turning away wrath, encouraged it to trample — witness her daughters, Hester stamped completely flat, and Milly reduced to a perpetual ‘Oh, Mama —’

  Charles immediately glared back and said in a loud, rude voice,

  ‘What the devil has that got to do with you? And who do you think you’re speaking to anyway?’ Then he burst out laughing, flung a careless arm about her, and said, ‘Come and sit down, old dear! And draw it mild — I’m not Hester.’

  Just for a moment he wondered if she was going to hit him in the face. Then her glare broke, her eyes crinkled at the corners, the big mouth stretched, and she laughed as heartily as she had stormed. But when he had got her into the chair she fell silent and tragic, her eyes brooding, her whole aspect dark and heavy.

  ‘Hester,’ she said, ‘that’s what I’ve got to see you about — Hester. That’s a hell of a mess, isn’t it?’

  He took a moment, and she struck in.

  ‘Look here, Charles — I know, and it’s no use pretending you don’t. It’s cards on the table now, and I don’t mind putting mine down first. Hester’s gone and married James Moberly. And you knew it, and you couldn’t come and tell me — oh, no! Do you call that being a friend?’