Anna, Where Are You? (22 page)

Thomasina was never quite sure which was the more dreadful, the last half hour when she had stood facing Anna’s hatred and her revolver, or the next when they were waiting for the police to arrive.

They went back to the study and waited there with Peveril Craddock lying dead and the stain of his blood on the floor. There were comfortable chairs in the room. Anna sat in one of them with the cord of Miss Silver’s dressing-gown holding her there. She sat quite still, quite dumb, her eyes half closed, only every now and then the lids lifted to show the burning hatred there. It was like some horribly bad dream, and, like the things that happen in a dream, it couldn’t be measured by time.

Thomasina did not look at Peter, and he did not look at her. The people you love don’t belong to that kind of dream. You don’t want to see them there. You want to wake up and know that none of it has ever happened.

Miss Silver had taken one of the upright chairs. Her hands were in her lap. Her face was resolute and composed. Her dressing-gown, deprived of its girdle, hung in severe blue folds.

Nobody spoke. The silence was so complete that the sound of the police car coming up the drive startled them all.

And then in a moment the empty derelict house echoed with the tramp of feet and the sound of voices, and there came in on the hushed room with the dead man in it Inspector Jackson, Inspector Abbott, the Police Surgeon.

The routine of investigation began.

Miss Silver was able to get away for long enough to make sure that all was well in the Craddocks’ wing. Looking in upon Emily Craddock’s room, she found it warm and peaceful. Emily herself still slept that deep, exhausted sleep. Jennifer in the big armchair slept too, her head pillowed on her arm, the eiderdown falling away a little at the neck, her breath coming slow and steady. It was all very far removed from the scene in Peveril Craddock’s study. Miss Silver shut the door and went back to it.

Anna sat dumb. Through Miss Silver’s statement, through Peter Brandon’s, through Thomasina’s, through the arrival of the police photographer and the fingerprint man, she sat silent and did not move. The cord of Miss Silver’s dressing-gown had been restored to its proper use. Her arms were free, but she held herself as stiffly as when they had been bound. It was not until she was told that she would be taken to the station and charged with being an accessory that she turned her eyes on Inspector Jackson—smouldering eyes with the lids only half raised.

“And you don’t want to hear what I’ve got to say? There’s quite a lot I can say if I choose! Some people won’t like it, but that isn’t going to stop me saying it!”

He told her that she could make a statement, and cautioned her that what she said would be taken down and could afterwards be used in evidence. She laughed in nis face.

“If I’m an accessory I’ve got to have a principal, haven’t I? Why don’t you go ahead and arrest him? I didn’t shoot up the banks, you know, I only drove the car! And I didn’t shoot Peveril Craddock either!” She jerked her head in Thomasina’s direction. “She knows that, because we were together when both the shots were fired!”

Thomasina said, “Yes.” Just the one word in a deep mournful tone.

Anna flung up her head.

“There! You hear that? Well, there you are! Why don’t you get on and arrest him? I’m not going to prison alone! And I’m not going to stand in the dock alone—I’m going to have my lover with me! She told you about Mr. Sandrow in her statement, didn’t she? Well, why don’t you get on and arrest him? There he is!” This time the jerk of the head was for Peter Brandon, who stared back at her in angry amazement.

Thomasina got up from the chair where she was sitting and walked over to stand beside him. She slipped her hand inside his arm. They did not look at one another.

At the writing-table Inspector Abbott surveyed the scene in silence. Nobody could have dreamed that just half an hour before he had entered this room he had been in bed at the George in Ledlington. His dark suit was, as always, immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, his fair hair mirror-smooth. He held a pencil negligently between two fingers. His light, cool eyes watched Anna Ball. He had just passed a note to the sergeant who stood at his elbow. Now he watched Anna Ball.

Inspector Jackson was watching her too. He said,

“You are making a statement to the effect that it was Mr. Brandon who was concerned in the robbery at the County Bank yesterday in the course of which the bank manager and a clerk were murdered, and that you were waiting for him with a stolen car and afterwards drove him away. Is that what you really mean us to understand?”

She gave him a hard mocking look and laughed, mimicking his formal way of speech.

“How clever you are, Inspector! That is just exactly what I do mean you to understand! How did you manage to guess? But of course the police are all brains! Inspector Jackson—Mr. Sandrow—Mr. Peter Brandon Sandrow. Peter, darling, we’re for it, meet the police!”

“Well, Mr. Brandon?”

Peter’s shoulder lifted.

“Red herring,” he said briefly.

Miss Silver said in a quiet but decided voice,

“It would not have been possible for Mr. Brandon to be the bandaged man who passed me on the Station Approach. He is too tall and too broad, and he takes at least two sizes larger in shoes.”

Jackson said, “Where were you during yesterday afternoon, Mr. Brandon?”

“I was on my way down from town. I reached Ledlington at a quarter to five and took the five o’clock bus out to Deep End. Miss Gwyneth Tremlett, Miss Silver, and Mr. Remington were in the same bus.”

“But not the same train.”

“No. But there was a man in the carriage with me all the way from London. He told me he had a book-shop in the Market Square. A tall, thin man with glasses and a stoop, full of odd bits of information about the county. We were talking quite a lot, so he ought to remember me.”

“That would be Mr. Bannerman,” said Inspector Jackson. “He sits up late—I think I’ll give him a ring.”

Mr. Bannerman, it appeared, had not yet gone to bed. The call was answered promptly, and a brief tantalizing interchange took place, Inspector Jackson leading off with, “I believe you were in town yesterday afternoon,” and continuing with intervals when the telephone made odd noises amongst which a thin, far voice came and went. Only Frank Abbott sitting next to the instrument could hear that Mr. Bannerman was giving an accurate description of Mr. Peter Brandon, finishing up with, “A very agreeable young man—a writer. I have read his books with interest.”

Inspector Jackson hung up the receiver.

“Mr. Bannerman confirms your statement, Mr. Brandon. As a matter of form, I will ask him to identify you later.”

As he spoke, there was a faint stir of relief in the room. Anna Ball sat dumb. Miss Silver very slightly inclined her head. Thomasina drew her hand away from Peter’s arm and went back to her seat. When Anna had accused him in the garage it had all been part of the nightmare. When she repeated the accusation here in front of all these people a rush of passionate protest had taken her to his side. Now she came back to her seat again. Her mind had been violently wrenched. She felt empty and weak.

Inspector Jackson was saying,

“Now, Miss Ball, do you wish to make a statement, or do you not? It is no use your accusing innocent people or trying to throw dust in the eyes of the police. We are here to investigate the death of Mr. Craddock. If you know who shot him—”

Anna interrupted him with a fierce laugh.

“Of course I know! But I’m not going to tell you! Why should I?”

As she spoke, the door from the passage was opened by a police sergeant and Mr. John Robinson was ushered in. He stood for a moment looking about him—at the two Inspectors, at Thomasina Elliot and Peter Brandon, at Anna Ball, at Miss Silver in her blue dressing-gown, and at Peveril Craddock’s body lying on the study floor. He did not start because he did not allow himself to start. There was an obvious effort at control, a visible stiffening. After a moment he said,

“Craddock! Who did it?”

Frank Abbott said in his almost casual manner,

“Well, we were rather wondering whether you could help us about that.”

“I?”

“Yes, you. Your name is not really John Robinson, is it?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Oh, just a quotation or two. You shouldn’t have risked them, you know—Miss Silver has her Tennyson by heart. You gave yourself away when you quoted from Enoch Arden, I’m afraid. I bought a second-hand Tennyson yesterday afternoon and tracked him down. He was a sailor who was supposed to have been lost at sea. By the time he came home his wife had married somebody else, and he had to make up his mind whether to upset the apple-cart or not. And that, I take it, has been your position. What I don’t happen to know is just what your real name is.”

Mr. Robinson shrugged, his shoulders and said,

“Oh, well, I was through with the game anyway. The name is Verney—John Verney.”

“And you are Mrs. Craddock’s husband?”

“Yes, poor soul.”

“In which case you had quite a strong motive for killing Craddock.”

John Verney shrugged again. Everyone was looking at him now, but he appeared extremely cool. When he spoke, the country drawl had been dropped.

“I?” he said. “Why should I kill him? If he had made Emily a decent husband, I’d have cleared off. I came here to find out how things were. I was in a plane crash in the States. The plane was burnt out and everyone with it—as they thought. I don’t know how I got clear, because I don’t remember a thing about it. It was in one of those remote districts—very inaccessible. I must have wandered for miles, and the next thing I knew, it was six months later, and I was officially dead. Some people had taken me in—I’d been chopping wood and doing chores for them. I don’t remember anything about it. Well, I thought Emily would be better off without me, so I stayed on. I got interested in birds and creatures. I did a book with illustrations. It caught on, and I made a little money. The next one was a freak best-seller, I haven’t the least idea why. It went like a forest fire, so I thought I had better come over here and see how Emily and the children were getting on. Well, I found she had come into money and married again. I didn’t think it was my business to butt in if she was doing all right, so I came here to find out. Of course anyone could see that Craddock was a pompous ass, but they all said she adored him. I had rather a jolt in the autumn when I found the children taking home poisonous fungi under the instructions of this young woman—it is Miss Ball, isn’t it?”

Anna Ball laughed angrily.

“If you’re going to take that line, I’m through! ‘Is that Miss Ball?’ indeed!”

He stared at her and said, “Are you mad?”

She laughed again.

“Mad? No, I’ve come to my senses! You’d throw me off, would you—pretend you’ve never had anything to do with me— pretend we haven’t been lovers!”

“My good girl!”

“Listen to him!” She whirled round on Jackson. “Innocent, isn’t he! Who had a motive for killing Peveril Craddock if he hadn’t? Think of having to give up Emily—and her money! And he may be John Verney—I don’t say he isn’t—but he’s my Mr. Sandrow too, and you’d better ask him where he was yesterday afternoon! Doing some quiet nature-study in a wood? Or bandaged up and robbing the County Bank!”

It was in the minds of both Inspectors that Mr. Robinson had had no pretence of an alibi for yesterday afternoon. According to his own statement he had meant to go up into the Rowbury Woods, but turned off when he found that someone was shooting there, and fetched up in Ledlington, where he spent some time in the County Museum looking at the Hedlow collection of birds. Well, he might have been there, or he might have been rolled up in bandages shooting the bank manager and his clerk. Only if he were the bank murderer, it did seem an odd thing that he should choose this moment to allow his feelings as a dispossessed husband to get the better of him. There had been months when he could have murdered Peveril Craddock with so very much less risk to himself. And actually, why murder him at all? He had only to declare himself and walk off with his wife and her fortune. If his book was really a best-seller, even the money motive didn’t count, and that apart, would anyone in their senses do murder for poor Emily Craddock’s sake?

John Verney appeared to be very completely in his senses. He might have been following their thoughts—perhaps he was. He indicated Anna, and said bluntly,

“She’s talking through the back of her neck. Emily and I were a pretty detached couple. She needed someone who would look after her, and if Craddock was making a good job of it, I hadn’t any grudge against him. But I had to find out. The toadstools could easily have been a mistake. Then one of the children mentioned an escape from drowning. That might have been an accident too. I only saw Emily in the distance— she looked ill. The boys were all right, but Jennifer wasn’t. I had just made up my mind to come out into the open, when Miss Silver arrived on the scene. She was so obviously competent and trustworthy that I thought I would wait a little longer. Now I wish I hadn’t. But all that stuff about my robbing the bank is just damned nonsense.”

Anna’s eyes taunted him.

“Then who did rob it? I’m the only one who knows, you see, and I say it was you.”

“Just now you said it was Mr. Peter Brandon,” said Inspector Jackson.

She jerked her head round and stared at him.

“Oh, that was just my fun. I owed him something for the way he used to look at me when I went out with him and Thomasina—as if I wasn’t good enough to be looked at—as if I was something that ought to have been drowned when I was a baby! Pity nobody thought of doing it, isn’t it?”

Frank Abbott gave her a long hard look.

“And what have you got against Mr. Verney? Did he look at you in a way you didn’t like, or—didn’t he look at you at all?”

A dull red colour ran up to the very roots of her hair, swamping the lavish make-up. She almost screamed back at him.

“Of course he looked at me! I tell you he was my lover! I tell you he was Mr. Sandrow! I tell you he robbed the bank! I tell you he shot Peveril Craddock! I’m the only one who knows, and I tell you he did it—Mr. Sandrow—Mr. Verney Robinson Sandrow! If it wasn’t him, who was it? Who—” She stopped on the word, because the door was opening again.