As he spoke he parted the leaves, and there the envelope lay. Miss Silver put out her hand for it. He was interested to notice that it took her no time at all to become aware of the very nearly indecipherable pencilling at one end. She turned it to get the best of the light and read what he himself had seen there – ‘Notes on the blitz story. J.F.’ She said,
‘It is empty.’
Frank nodded.
‘Yes, it’s empty. But it wasn’t – I could swear to that. Twelve days ago when he brought us in here and spun that tale the envelope was there at the place where he opened the album, and it wasn’t empty then. The notes, whatever they may have been, were inside it. He didn’t open the album wide, you know. He only opened it halfway, and when he parted the leaves the envelope fell over on the left-hand side. And it didn’t fall in the way that an empty envelope would have fallen. It dropped because there was something inside it. There was something in it then, and there isn’t anything in it now. But of course whatever was there could have been taken out at any time between then and Wednesday morning. It is convenient to suppose that the notes were removed at the time of the murder – that is, during the night between Tuesday and Wednesday. But there isn’t any proof that this is what happened, any more than there is any proof that the page with the murderer’s fingerprints on it was torn out at the same time.’
‘A page has been torn out of the album?’
‘The page where the envelope lay.’
He lifted the album over to the edge of the table so that she could see it. She scrutinised it with interest. The page had been somewhat roughly torn out and the jagged edge was plain to see.
‘It would be somewhat of a coincidence if the removal of this page and of Mr. Field’s notes upon the fingerprints preserved there had no connection with his death.’
‘Coincidence or not, there were all the days between the Saturday night of the dance and the murder when the notes might have been removed and the page torn out. But the door to the terrace was open, and though the revolver with which Jonathan Field was shot may have belonged to him, he had no licence for it, and no one in the house will admit to knowing anything about it. A German make – and heaven knows how many thousand odds and ends of firearms were smuggled into the country while demobilisation was going on! Jonathan may have wangled one in himself. He was in France in ’44 – some kind of a Red Cross job. Anthony Hallam was in Africa. Johnny Fabian was turned eighteen when the war ended – he did just get over to France. Either of them could have brought a revolver back as a souvenir. Neither of them had any reason to shoot Jonathan. In fact one is thrown back upon the exasperating theory that the unknown murderer of the blitz story had somehow become aware that Jonathan was in possession of his fingerprints and an account of his confession, and that he was in the habit of regaling favoured visitors with a tale which featured them.’
Miss Silver said,
‘You would call it an exasperating theory?’
‘My dear ma’am, we haven’t a clue as to who the blitz murderer may have been. We don’t even know that there was such a person. Jonathan Field may have dreamed the whole thing after concussion, or he may simply have invented it. From what I used to hear about him, he would have been perfectly capable of it! Then we don’t know how many times he had told the tale before, but when I heard him tell it, there were also present Anthony Hallam, Mirrie Field, Johnny Fabian, the Shotter-leigh twins who are local young things, a man called Vincent, also local but a newcomer recently back from South America – lots of money and no family. I may say that he was one of the dullest men I have ever met, and that I nearly passed out with boredom whilst he was telling me how he lost a valuable postage stamp in a rapid. That makes seven of us. Oh, and Georgina Grey came in just as he started the story, but that is neither here nor there, because she had obviously heard it all before. Well, there were seven of us without her, and the only possible candidate for the part of the blitz murderer would be Vincent, because apart from the fingerprints Jonathan’s only chance of identifying the man was by recognising his voice. He did say he thought he would be able to do that. So you see, that cuts out all the people with whose voices he was familiar, and it really cuts out Vincent too, because there he was, a guest in the house, and Jonathan obviously hadn’t recognised his voice. But when Georgina came in it was to tell him that people were arriving for the dance. She stood there on the threshold with the door open behind her. Jonathan played obstinate and insisted on finishing his yarn, and in the end she said, ‘Oh, well—’ and went off without him. But she didn’t shut the door, and if there had been anyone out in the hall who wanted to listen in, I suppose he could have done so. That would extend the number of people who might have heard about the murderer’s confession and his fingerprints. There could be a further and quite indefinite extension of the number owing to the fact that it had been a very good story, and that any or all of the seven or eight people who had heard it first-hand from Jonathan on Saturday week could have told and retold it a dozen times before his murder took place. So that, in fact, it could have spread like the ripples in a pool.’
Miss Silver had been listening with attention.
‘It is certainly the kind of story that people would repeat. You may even have repeated it yourself.’
He laughed.
‘I could take credit for having been discreet, but as a matter of fact I was far too busy. The other seven would have had plenty of time to spread the tale, and coincidences do happen. It could have reached the murderer, and he could have decided that his confession and his fingerprints would be better in the fire – especially if there were even the remotest chance of his bumping into Jonathan and giving him the opportunity of identifying his voice. Let us suppose for a moment that that is what happened. We can call the chap X. He comes down here, probably by car – there is quite a line in stealing cars for this kind of work. He parks it unobtrusively and walks round the house. He may just possibly have had an appointment with Jonathan – perhaps something in the way of fingerprints to offer. Or, seeing the light, he may have just knocked on the glass door and pitched some likely tale. Anyhow he gets in and they talk. At some period the album is got out and the fingerprints are exhibited. At some point X produces a revolver and shoots Jonathan Field, after which he tears out the page with his own fingerprints, takes the notes out of the envelope, and makes off. I don’t think he would have stopped to burn anything at the time in case of the shot having been heard. Once he was clear there would be nothing to connect him with the crime, and there would be all the time in the world to burn the page and the notes at a safe distance from Field End.’
Miss Silver’s hands were folded in her lap.
‘I can imagine no reason why he should have left that revolver behind him.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t insist on the revolver being his own. Let us suppose that it belonged to Jonathan. He is having an interview with a man whom he knows to have been a murderer. Wouldn’t it have been natural for him to have taken the precaution of having some means of protection handy?’
Miss Silver said,
‘I do not know. I should have said it would be most improbable that Mr. Field would either make an appointment for so late an hour or admit a stranger to his house without one.’
Frank looked a little taken aback.
‘Well, someone shot him, and it was someone who knew the story of the man who was buried with Jonathan under a bombed building in the blitz, because otherwise he would have had no motive for tearing out the page with the man’s fingerprints and removing Jonathan’s notes on the incident.’
Miss Silver gave a gentle unobtrusive cough.
‘He tore the page from the album and he removed the notes from the envelope. Can you tell me why he left the empty envelope in the album, where it marked the torn-out page?’
TWENTY-THREE
MR. MAUDSLEY ARRIVED at half past ten, having taken the night train from Edinburgh and breakfasted at his own house. He was a man of
about sixty with a pleasant voice and an agreeable manner. His features were good, and if he had put on a couple of stone in the last year or two he carried it well. After a short interview with Detective Inspector Abbott during which the main facts of the case were put before him he suggested that the will should be opened and the beneficiaries acquainted with its contents.
They came into the study. With Mrs. Fabian and Georgina Mr. Maudsley was on terms of old acquaintance. Johnny Fabian and Anthony Hallam he had known as boys. Mirrie Field and Miss Silver were strangers to him. Mirrie came in with her hand on Johnny’s arm, her eyes wide and enquiring, like a kitten in a place it does not know. Whilst greetings and condolences were passing she stood as close as she could and kept her hold of him. Mr. Maudsley’s ‘I needn’t say how shocked I was to hear the news’ having met with its due response, and a few more murmured words having been added, he went over to the writing-table and sat down there. When everyone was settled he spoke.
‘I have here Mr. Field’s will, of which I am executor. In the circumstances I think the best thing I can do is to acquaint you with its provisions.’
His manner was grave and formal. His glance travelled from one to another. Chairs had been placed in a rough semicircle – Frank Abbott sitting close up to the table on the extreme right; beyond him Miss Maud Silver in a small armless chair; next to her Mirrie Field and Johnny Fabian, their seats pushed close together and her hand still holding his sleeve. She wore the white wool jumper and grey skirt which she had put on yesterday. Anthony Hallam came next, his face set and rather gloomy, and beyond him Georgina, very pale.
Mrs. Fabian had been given Jonathan Field’s big chair, but for all the comfort it afforded her she might just as well have had a wooden stool. She sat stiffly upright in a black coat and skirt usually reserved for funerals and held her hands tightly clasped together in her lap. She mustn’t, mustn’t let herself think that Jonathan had possibly made any provision for her. It was true that she had been asked to come in and hear the will read, but that would just be because she had lived for such a long time at Field End and had brought Georgina up. At the most there might be some small legacy that would cover the expense of a move, say ten or twenty pounds. But no, she mustn’t even let herself count on that, and she must be on her guard against displaying the least sign of disappointment. Dear Mamma had brought her up to believe that a lady did not show her feelings in public. She had done her best to bring dear Georgina up in the same way, and look how beautifully she was behaving now – such self-command, such true thoughtfulness for others. But she didn’t like to see her looking so pale and strained. She had loved Jonathan very much and she would miss him greatly. Perhaps she and Anthony … She felt a little fluttered pleasure at the thought.
Mr. Maudsley was speaking.
‘Captain Hallam is also an executor. With his permission I will at this time merely give you a summary of the main bequests. There are, to begin with, legacies to Mr. and Mrs. Stokes – twenty pounds for each year of service, with the same to the gardener John Anderson. There is a legacy of five thousand pounds to Anthony Hallam, and a life-interest of four hundred a year to Mrs. Fabian. Everything else is left in trust to Miss Georgina Grey, the trustees being myself and Captain Anthony Hallam.’
A little colour came up into Georgina’s face. She did not look at Anthony. If she had done so she would have seen that he was frightfully pale. It was evident both to Mr. Maudsley and to Frank Abbott that he had received a very considerable shock.
He was not the only one. Mirrie Field turned a bewildered gaze on Mr. Maudsley. Her voice shook childishly as she said,
‘But I don’t understand. That isn’t the will he made when he went up to town on Monday – it can’t be.’
‘No, it isn’t that will, Miss Field. It is the one which he signed two years ago.’
‘But he made the other one – he did make it! He told me he had made it!’ She stared incredulously, her fingers digging into Johnny’s arm.
Mr. Maudsley said with gravity,
‘Yes, he made another will, but he destroyed it.’
‘Oh, he couldn’t!’
‘It is a pity that you came to know anything about it. He seems to have told you that you would benefit under that will.’
‘Oh, he did – he did! He told me he was treating me as if I was his daughter! He said he wanted everyone to know that was how he thought about me!’
Mr. Maudsley had come down to Field End with a very definite prejudice against Miss Mirrie Field. He had not been prepared to find her so young, or for his own feeling that fate had played her a shabby trick. If Jonathan Field had not burned his new will before he was murdered, she would now have been standing in Georgina’s shoes. If he had lived to make the will which he had intended to make, she would no doubt have been generously provided for. As it was, she had no standing at all. Two years ago, when this will which he was expounding had been drawn up, he did not so much as know that she existed. He said in a kindlier voice than he had used before.
‘Your uncle rang me up on Tuesday night. He had come to feel that this new will of his went too far. He did not think that the provisions were just, and he told me that he had torn it up and burned it. On my return from Scotland he intended making a further will which would provide for you without being unjust to anyone else.’
‘I don’t get anything?’
‘Not under the present will.’
Mirrie let go of Johnny’s arm and stood up. She came a few steps nearer the table and said,
‘It was Georgina. She went out of the drawing-room and she came in here and made him burn the will. She can’t do that to me – oh, she can’t! Not after what he said about treating me like his daughter! She can’t do it!’ It came out in soft heart-broken snatches, her hands at her breast, her face colourless, her eyes brimming over.
Georgina got up and came to her.
‘Mirrie – don’t!’
But Mirrie shrank away from her touch.
‘You want to send me away! He was going to look after me, and you talked him round!’
‘Mirrie – you mustn’t say that. It isn’t true – it isn’t really. I told him I didn’t mind about the money. I only wanted him not to be angry with me any more. I didn’t know why he was angry and I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t know he was going to burn his will. He just did it.’
They might have been there alone. It might have been a play, with the others in the audience looking on. Mirrie looked sideways and said,
‘Perhaps he didn’t burn it. Perhaps it was you.’
Mr. Maudsley came in on that.
‘Mr. Field rang me up and informed me that he had burned that will.’
Mirrie flung round on him.
‘You are on her side! You’ll take her part! Everyone will! You’ll try and send me back to Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace, and to that awful Home! But I won’t go – I won’t go – I won’t go!’ Her voice had risen almost to a scream, and at every repetition of the word go she stamped like an angry child.
Johnny Fabian had got up when she did. He took a step towards her. Turning away from the writing-table, she came face to face with him. No one was sure whether he said anything or not. Afterwards he wasn’t sure himself. With the tears running down her face she said,
‘Oh, you won’t want to marry me now – will you?’ and ran out of the room.
TWENTY-FOUR
JOHNNY WENT AFTER her. His mind was in a state of the utmost confusion. She wasn’t going to have the money after all. Jonathan had signed the will that made her his heiress, and he had destroyed it the same day. Mirrie wasn’t going to have a penny, and he could no more stop himself going after her than he could have stopped himself blinking at a flash of lightning or ducking to avoid a blow. There was neither thought nor reason behind his action, there was only one of the strongest forces in the world, and it had taken charge. He came up with her at her bedroom door. She had got so far and stopped there as if she had been flung again
st it by wind or water. Her hands were flat against the panelled wood, her forehead pressed against her hands, and she was crying with big choking sobs which shook her from head to foot.
Johnny put his arm round her. He turned the handle and the door opened inwards. He took her over to a comfortable chintz-covered chair and put her into it. Then he went down on his knees and took both her hands in his.
‘What are you doing crying yourself sick, you silly little thing? You’re to come off it, do you hear – at once!’
She couldn’t cover her face any more. It was quite distorted with misery. The tears ran down, whilst more and more brimmed up to take their place. She pulled her hands out of his and sobbed.
‘He said I would be like his daughter – he said I would have the money. He said he had signed the will – and that everyone would know how he thought about me. And then he went and burned it – or perhaps it was Georgina. Oh, Johnny, do you think it was Georgina who burned the will?’
Johnny shook his head.
‘No, of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t, you know – she isn’t like that. And don’t you go round saying that sort of thing, because if you do you’ll put her off doing anything to make up for Jonathan burning it. She won’t do anything if you start fighting her of course, but if you don’t she might rally round with quite a nice little nest-egg for us to set up house on.’
The Fingerprint (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 30) Page 15