‘Marion!’
Marion pushed her away.
‘You don’t know what it’s like. Every time I go I think, “Now I’m going to reach him, really reach him—I won’t let anything stop me reaching him this time. It doesn’t matter about the warder, it doesn’t matter about anything—we’ll be together again—that’s the only thing that matters.” But when I get there—’ she made a gesture of despair— ‘we’re not together. I can’t get near him—I can’t touch him—they won’t let me touch him—they won’t let me kiss him. If I could put my arms round him I could call him back. He’s going away from me all the time—dying away from me—and I can’t do anything about it.’ She took hold of the back of the armchair and leaned on it, trembling. ‘Think of him coming out after twenty years, quite dead! What can you do for a dead man? He’ll be quite dead by then. And what shall I be like? Perhaps I shall be dead too.’
‘Marion—Marion—please!’
Marion shuddered from head to foot.
‘No, it’s no good—is it? One just has got to go on. If my baby hadn’t died—’ She stopped, straightened up, and put her hands over her face. ‘I shall never have children now. They’re killing Geoff, and they’ve killed my children. Oh, God—why, why did it happen? We were so happy!’
FOUR
HILARY WOKE FROM something that wasn’t quite sleep, and heard the clock in the living-room strike twelve. She hadn’t meant to go to sleep until she was sure that Marion was asleep, and she felt rather despising towards herself because she had fallen into a doze. It felt rather like running away to go off into a dream, leaving Marion awake and unhappy. But perhaps Marion was asleep.
She slipped out of bed and went barefoot into the bathroom. Marion’s window and the bathroom window were side by side. If you hung on to the towel-rail with your left hand and leaned right out of the bathroom window, you could reach Marion’s window-sill with your right hand, and then if you craned your neck until it felt as if it was going to crack, you could get one ear just far enough into the room to hear whether Marion was asleep or not. Hilary had done it times without number and never been caught. The fall of the curtain hid her from the bed. She had listened a hundred times, and heard Marion sigh and heard her weep, had not dared to go to her, but had stayed awake for company’s sake, and to think loving, pitiful thoughts of her and Geoff.
But tonight Marion slept. The faint, even sound of her breathing just stirred the stillness of the room.
Hilary drew back with the acrobatic twist which practice had made perfect. A light chill shiver of relief ran over her as she dived back into bed and snuggled the clothes up round her. Now she could go to sleep with a good conscience.
From the time she was quite a little girl she had had a perfectly clear picture in her own mind of this process of going to sleep. There was a sleep country, just as there was an awake country. The sleep country had a very high wall round it. You couldn’t get in unless you could find a door, and you were never sure which door you were going to find, so every going to sleep was an adventure. Sometimes, of course, you opened a very dull door and got into an empty room with nothing inside it. Sometimes, like poor Marion, you couldn’t find a door at all, and just wandered groping along the wall getting more and more tired with every step. Hilary had very little personal experience of this. Doors sprang open to her before her fingers fumbled for the latch.
But tonight she couldn’t get to sleep. She was cold after hanging out of the bathroom window, so she buried herself up to the eyes in blankets. Then all of a sudden she was in a raging heat and pushing them away. Her pillow was too high—too low—too soft—too hard. Then, just as she thought she had settled herself, her nose began to tickle.
And all the time something went round and round in her head like a gramophone record. Only it was like a record which someone is playing next door—you can hear it enough to be driven nearly crazy, but strain as you will, you can’t quite make out the tune. Round, and round, and round, and round went the gramophone record in Hilary’s head—round, and round, and round, and round. But she couldn’t make sense of it. It was all the little bits of things which she had heard and known about the Everton murder and about Geoffrey Grey’s trial, but they didn’t hang together and they didn’t make sense. That was because you can’t make sense out of nonsense—and she didn’t care what anyone said, it was nonsense to believe that Geoff had shot his uncle.
Hilary straightened her pillow for the umpteenth time and promised herself not to move until she had counted a hundred, but long before she got there her nose was tickling again, a hair had got into her ear, and the arm she was lying on had pins and needles in it. She flung the bedclothes off and sat up. It wasn’t any use, she would be much better to get up and do something. And all of a sudden it came to her that she would go into the living-room and dig out the file about the trial and read it right through. She knew where it was—down at the bottom of the oak chest—and with Marion asleep, and hours and hours of the night before her, she could go right through the file from beginning to end. She wanted to read the inquest, because she had missed that altogether through being in the Tyrol with Henry’s cousins, meeting Henry, and getting practically engaged to him but not quite.
She put on her dressing-gown and slippers, tiptoed across the passage, and shut the living-room door. She turned on both lights and got out the file. Then she sat down in the big armchair and began to read all about the Everton Case.
James Everton was shot somewhere between eight o’clock and twenty minutes past eight on the evening of Tuesday, July 16th. He was alive at eight o’clock, for that was when he telephoned to Geoffrey Grey, but he was dead twenty minutes later, because that was when Geoffrey opened the door and the Mercers rushed into the study. Mrs Mercer said she had only just heard the shot. She said on her oath, ‘I had been up to turn down Mr Everton’s bed, and when I was coming through the hall I heard the sound of voices in the study. It sounded as if there was a quarrel going on. I didn’t know of anyone being there with Mr Everton, so I was frightened and I went to the door to listen. I recognised Mr Geoffrey Grey’s voice, and I was coming away, because I thought that if it were Mr Geoffrey it was all right. Then I heard the sound of a shot. I screamed out and Mercer came running from his pantry, where he was cleaning the silver. He shook the door, but it was locked. And then Mr Geoffrey opened it, and he had a pistol in his hand and Mr Everton was fallen down across his desk.’
Pressed by the Coroner as to whether she had heard what Mr Grey was saying when she recognised his voice, Mrs Mercer became very agitated and said she would rather not say. She was told she must answer the question, whereupon she burst into tears and said it was something about a will.
The Coroner: ‘Tell us exactly what you heard.’
Mrs Mercer, in tears: ‘I can’t say any more than what I heard.’
The Coroner: ‘No one wants you to. I only want you to tell us what you did hear.’
Mrs Mercer: ‘Nothing that I could put words to—only their voices, and something about a will.’
The Coroner: ‘Something about a will, but you don’t know what?’
Mrs Mercer, sobbing hysterically: ‘No, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘Give the witness a glass of water. Now, Mrs Mercer, you say you heard the sound of voices in the study, and that you thought there was a quarrel going on. You have said that you recognised Mr Geoffrey Grey’s voice. You are quite certain that it was Mr Grey’s voice?’
Mrs Mercer: ‘Oh, sir—oh, sir, I don’t want to tell on Mr Geoffrey.’
The Coroner: ‘You are sure it was his voice?’
Mrs Mercer, with renewed sobs: ‘Oh, yes, sir. Oh, sir, I don’t know why I didn’t faint—the shot went off that loud on the other side of the door. And I screamed, and Mercer came running from his pantry.’
Horribly damning evidence of Mrs Mercer, corroborated by Alfred Mercer to the extent of his having heard the shot and his wife’s scream. He had tried the door and found i
t locked, and when Mr Grey opened it he had a pistol in his hand and Mr Everton had been shot dead and was lying half across the desk.
The Coroner: ‘Is this the pistol?’
Mercer: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘Had you ever seen it before?’
Mercer: ‘Yes, sir—it belongs to Mr Grey.’
Hilary’s heart beat hard with anger as she read. How was it possible for things to look so black against an innocent man? What must Geoff have felt like, having to sit there and see this black, black evidence piling up against him? At first he wouldn’t think it possible that anyone could believe it, and then he would begin to see them believing it. He would see them looking at him with a kind of horror in their eyes because they were believing that he had killed his own uncle in an angry quarrel over money.
For a moment the horror touched Hilary. It wasn’t true. If everyone else in the world believed it, Hilary wouldn’t believe it. The Mercers were lying. Why? What motive could they possibly have? They had a good place, and good wages. Why should Mercer kill his master? Because that was what it came to. If they were lying about Geoffrey Grey, it must be to cover themselves. And there was no motive at all. There was no motive. They had a soft job which they had done nothing to forfeit. James Everton’s new will, signed the very morning of his death, made this perfectly clear. They had the same legacies as under the old will, ten pounds apiece for each year of service. And they had been there something under two years—the second ten pounds was not yet due. Does a man throw away a good job, and good prospects and commit murder into the bargain, for the sake of twenty pounds in hand between him and his wife?
Hilary sat and thought about that...He might. Money and comfort are not everything. The dark motives of jealousy, hate, and revenge run counter to them, and in that clash security and self-interest may go down. But there would have to be such a motive. It had been looked for—it must have been looked for—but it had not been found. Hilary put it away to think about.
She read Geoffrey’s evidence, and found it heartbreaking. His uncle had rung him up at eight o’clock. The other people who gave evidence kept saying ‘the deceased’, or ‘Mr Everton’, but Geoffrey said ‘My uncle’. All through his evidence he said my uncle—‘My uncle rang me up at eight o’clock. He said, “That you, Geoffrey? I want you to come down here at once—at once, my boy.” He sounded very much upset.’
The Coroner: ‘Angry?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No—not with me—I don’t know. He sounded all worked up, but certainly not with me, or he wouldn’t have called me “my boy”. I said, “Is anything the matter?” And he said, “I can’t talk about it on the telephone. I want you to come down here—as quickly as you can.” And then he hung up.’
The Coroner: ‘You went down?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘At once. It takes me about a quarter of an hour from door to door. I get a bus at the end of my road which takes me to within a quarter of a mile of his gate.’
The Coroner: ‘Mr and Mrs Mercer have said that you did not ring the bell. They say that the front door was locked. You did not, therefore, go in that way?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘It was a fine warm evening, and I knew the study window would be open—it’s a glass door really, opening into the garden. I would always go in that way if my uncle were at home and I wanted to see him.’
The Coroner: ‘You were in the habit of going to see him?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Constantly.’
The Coroner: ‘You lived with him at Solway Lodge until the time of your marriage?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’
The Coroner: ‘I must ask you, Mr Grey, whether your relations with your uncle were of a cordial nature?’
At this point the witness appeared distressed. He said in a low voice, ‘Very cordial—affectionate.’
The Coroner: ‘And there had been no quarrel?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No—none.’
The Coroner: ‘Then how do you account for his destroying the will under which you benefited and making a new will in which your name does not appear?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I can’t account for it.’
The Coroner: ‘You know that he made a new will on the morning of July 16th?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I know it now—I didn’t know it then.’
The Coroner: ‘You didn’t know it when you went to see him?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’
The Coroner: ‘Or that he had destroyed the will under which you benefited? You are on oath, Mr Grey. Do you still say that you did not know of any change in his will?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I had no idea.’
The Coroner: ‘He did not tell you about it over the telephone?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’
The Coroner: ‘Or after you got down to Putney?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘When I got down to Putney he was dead.’
The Coroner: ‘You say you reached Solway Lodge at twenty minutes past eight?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘It would be about that. I didn’t look at the time.’
The Coroner: ‘The house stands by itself in about two acres of ground, and is approached by a short drive?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’
The Coroner: ‘Will you tell us how you approached the house?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I came up the drive which leads to the front door, but I didn’t go up to the door—I turned to the right and skirted the house. The study is at the back, with a glass door leading into the garden. The door was wide open, as I expected it to be.’
The Coroner: ‘Were the curtains drawn?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Oh, no. It was broad daylight—very fine and warm.’
The Coroner: ‘Go on, Mr Grey. You entered the study—’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I went in. I was expecting my uncle to meet me. I didn’t see him at once. It was much darker in the room than it was outside. I stumbled over something, and saw the pistol lying on the ground at my feet. I picked it up without thinking what I was doing. And then I saw my uncle.’
The Coroner: ‘First you said it was broad daylight, and now you say it was dark in the room. We’d like to hear something more about that.’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I didn’t say it was dark in the room—I said it was darker than it was outside. It was very bright outside, and I’d had the sun in my eyes coming round the house.’
The Coroner: ‘Go on, Mr Grey. You say you saw Mr Everton—’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘He had fallen across his desk. I thought he had fainted. I went nearer, and I saw that he was dead. I touched him—he was quite dead. Then I heard a scream, and someone tried the door. I found it was locked, with the key on the inside. I unlocked it. The Mercers were there. They seemed to think I had shot my uncle.’
The Coroner: ‘The pistol was still in your hand?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes—I had forgotten about it.’
The Coroner: ‘This is the pistol?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’
The Coroner: ‘It has been identified as your property. Have you anything to say about that?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘It belongs to me, but it has not been in my possession for a year. I left it at Solway Lodge when I got married. I left a lot of my things there. We were taking a flat, and there was no room for anything that was not in use.’
The Coroner: ‘We would like to know why you had a pistol.’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘My uncle gave it to me about two years ago. I was going on a holiday trip in eastern Europe. There was some talk of brigands, and he wanted me to take a pistol. I never had any occasion to use it.’
The Coroner: ‘Are you a good shot?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I am a fair shot.’
The Coroner: ‘At a target?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘At a target?’
The Coroner: ‘You could hit a man across a room?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘I have never tried.’
The Coroner: ‘Mr Grey—when you were coming up the drive and skirtin
g the house, did you meet anyone?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’
The Coroner: ‘Did you hear the sound of a shot?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’
The Coroner: ‘You saw nothing and heard nothing as you approached the study?’
Geoffrey Grey: ‘Nothing.’
Why couldn’t he have heard someone or seen someone as he came up to the house on that fine warm evening? The murderer couldn’t have been very far away. Why couldn’t Geoff have come across him, or at least have caught a glimpse of him as he ran?...Why? Because he had taken very good care that Geoff shouldn’t see him. Because he knew that Geoff couldn’t see him. Because he knew that Geoff was coming. Because he knew that James Everton had rung him up, and that it would take him a quarter of an hour to get to Solway Lodge, so that the murderer had a quarter of an hour in which to shoot James Everton and get clear away. Of course Geoff hadn’t heard anything or seen anyone—the murderer would take very good care of that. But the Mercers must have heard the shot. Long before Mrs Mercer came down the stairs and screamed in the hall, and Mercer came running from the pantry where he was cleaning the silver. Marion had said he was cleaning it—the stuff was all over his hands. But he didn’t leave his silver, and Mrs Mercer didn’t scream, until Geoff was in the study with the pistol in his hand.
There was a lot of technical evidence about the pistol. The bullet that killed James Everton had certainly been fired from it. Geoff’s finger-prints were on it. Of course they were. He picked it up, didn’t he? But there were no other finger-prints. There were no other finger-prints. So it couldn’t be suicide. Even if Geoff hadn’t stuck to that awkward bit of evidence about stumbling over the pistol just inside the window. They made a lot of that at the trial, she remembered, because the glass door was eight or nine feet from the desk and James Everton must have died at once. So that even apart from the finger-prints, on Geoff’s own evidence, suicide was out of the question.
Hilary drew a long sighing breath.
The Mercers must be lying, because it was a choice between them and Geoff. But the jury had believed them, both at the inquest and at the trial.
Case Is Closed Page 3