Eternity Ring (17 page)

As he said it he had a short stabbing doubt. Temper and instinct alike had prompted the attack. Temper at least had a nasty way of letting you down.

Lamb’s voice came across the thought, slow and pleasant, with the country burr in it.

“I don’t know that I should have said anything of the kind.”

Grant laughed.

“You’d have thought it—wouldn’t you? Well?”

Lamb said, “Can you give me any account of your movements on the evening of Saturday the sixteenth, from half past seven onwards?”

All this time Grant had sat easily, legs crossed, hands lying naturally. He moved now, as if quite suddenly his whole body had become aware of constraint. Or perhaps it was his mind which had become intolerant. His voice had an edge on it as he said,

“I’m afraid I can’t do very much for you. Mrs. Barton and Agnes were both out. I suppose they would get in about half past nine, but I didn’t see them, and they didn’t see me. Agnes informed me that Mary Stokes is supposed to have been murdered some time after a quarter past eight. Alibis don’t seem to be my strong suit, do they? I was here in this room, but I’m afraid I can’t prove it. Where do we go from there?”

Lamb said, “Nowhere at the moment, Mr. Hathaway, but there are some more questions I would like to put. To get back to Louise Rogers. You say the telephone conversation as reported by Miss Ripley is correct.”

“I think so.”

“Then you were at the Bull in Ledlington on the night of January the fourth. Perhaps you would like to give your own account of what happened there.”

“As far as I am concerned nothing happened. I had been over at Ledstow seeing a friend, James Roney. The address is Passfield if you want it. It’s the same man I’ve just been staying with. He drove me into Ledlington to catch the eight-twenty. He put me down at the station, and I found I’d missed the train—his watch must have been wrong. The next train to Lenton didn’t go for another hour and a half, so I thought I’d go over to the Bull. As I came out of the station I met a man I know. He had come down from town and was expecting his car to meet him. He offered me a lift. Then his chauffeur came up and said he thought he’d got a slow puncture, he’d got to change a wheel, so we all went over to the Bull. The car was there in the yard.”

“Who was your friend, Mr. Hathaway?”

“Mark Harlow. He’s my next neighbour here, at the Grange.”

The mental atmosphere received a slight electric discharge. Frank Abbott’s face showed nothing. His thoughts clamoured. So Caddie was there… Albert Caddie was at the Bull when Louise Rogers looked out of her bedroom and recognized the hand she had seen amongst her jewels.

Lamb was probably saying the same thing, if more soberly.

“You went over to the Bull with Mr. Harlow. How long did you remain there?”

“About half an hour.”

“Were you and Mr. Harlow together during that time?”

“During most of it. We had drinks, and then I saw a man who served with me in France. I went over to speak to him. Presently Harlow said he was going to see if the car was ready. I followed him a few minutes later.”

“You went out into the yard?”

“Yes—the car was there.”

“Do you possess a cigarette-lighter?”

“I do, but I didn’t drop it in the yard at the Bull.”

“Sure about that?”

“Quite sure. I walked to the car, and found it ready and Harlow waiting. We got in, and he drove me home.”

“When you say ‘he drove me,’ do you mean that Mr. Harlow drove, or that the chauffeur did?”

“Oh, it was just a way of speaking. Caddie drove.”

“The chauffeur was Albert Caddie?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Hathaway, you talked to Louise Rogers in this room for about half an hour. I suppose you had the same light on that you have now—you must have had quite a good view of her. Will you give me as detailed a description as you can?”

All this time Grant’s face had hardly changed at all. Now he looked surprised.

“Black coat and hat—if you can call a little round cap a hat. Rather dashing. Good ankles, good stockings, good shoes—”

“All black?”

“Not the stockings.”

“But otherwise she was all in black, with nothing to relieve it?”

“Oh, earrings—rather noticeable ones—like those eternity rings women are so crazy about, I don’t know why.”

“H’m—a pair of earrings. You’re sure she was wearing a pair?”

Grant looked surprised again.

“Oh, yes—a pair of eternity earrings—quite noticeable, as I said.”

That seemed to be all about that.

Lamb went on with his questions. Just what route had Mr. Hathaway taken during his escape from France? Just where had he joined the Paris road? And where had he left it? The answers all carefully written down, but not very helpful, since Michel Ferrand had been quite unable to say where the jewel robbery had taken place. Beyond establishing the fact that his road and that of Louise might have coincided, Mr. Hathaway’s answers did not contribute very much.

“Just what did Louise Rogers say when she asked to see your hands?”

“She said she saw the thief’s hand turning over the diamonds in her case. She said she would know it again. She asked me to show her my hands, and I did.”

“Hand, or hands?”

“Hands, I think. Anyhow I put them both out.”

“Do you mind doing so now?”

“Not in the least.”

He laid them on the writing-table. The light shone down on them—large, well-shaped hands roughened with work, a thin scar showing white across the knuckles of the first and second fingers of the left hand. If the skin had not been so brown, the scar would have been less noticeable.

Lamb said bluntly, “How did you get that scar, Mr. Hathaway?”

“Monkeying about with a knife when I was fourteen. Your Mrs. Rogers would have to have pretty good eyes to see it in the courtyard of the Bull, if that’s what you think she did.”

Lamb was imperturbable.

“If she talked to you about it, I expect she told you that the man who dropped his lighter put on a torch to look for it, and that she saw his hand in the concentrated light of the beam. A scar like that would show up all right under a good torch.”

Grant was warming to the game. There were even moments when he could enjoy it. This was one of them. He smiled.

“But you see, she didn’t say anything about a scar. She only said she would know the hand. When I showed her mine she lost interest and went away.” He picked up his hands. “I should like to point out, Chief Inspector, that the Bull was quite crowded that evening. There were at least twenty people in the bar when we went in. Any one of them might have dropped a lighter under Louise Rogers’ window and showed a hand which she thought she recognized.”

Lamb struck, and struck hard.

“But it was you she followed to Deeping, Mr. Hathaway. It is proved that she did that. It is proved that she had an interview with you in this room, and that she asked you to show her your hands. It is also proved that she was murdered that evening, probably not very long after this interview—that her body was concealed in Dead Man’s Copse, transferred the following evening to the Forester’s House, and subsequently buried in the cellar underneath it. Are you suggesting that the other twenty people in the bar at the Bull a fortnight ago can be dragged in to account for this chain of events? You have no alibi for any of the times that matter.”

Grant slid his hands into his pockets and jingled a bunch of keys.

“Neglectful—wasn’t it? But then I had no idea that anyone was going to be murdered. I don’t suppose that even you would always have an alibi for everything. Anyhow, there it is. What about it?”

Lamb got to his feet.

“We’re expecting some more evidence. Meanwhile, Mr. Hathaway, I would rather you didn’t leave the district.”

Grant was astonished at his own relief.

Maggie Bell, listening hard, had heard nothing more exciting than Mrs. Abbott calling up Miss Cicely to say they wouldn’t be back to dinner because Colonel Abbott and the Rector had got into a game of chess which would probably keep them up all night—“So you’ll just have to feed Frank and Miss Silver.”

Mr. Frank wasn’t back. Maggie could have told Mrs. Abbott that, because Mr. Hathaway had rung Miss Cicely twice asking for him. There now—Miss Cicely was saying so.

“Frank’s not back.”

“Then feed Miss Silver—and yourself. Do eat something, darling.” Mrs. Abbott rang off.

The next to ring up was Mr. Frank—said he’d be late and not to keep anything.

“Nonsense—you must have something to eat!”

“I’ve got to drive the Chief back to Lenton—I’ll have something there.” He rang off.

Maggie Bell thought it was very dull stuff.

The next call was Mr. Mark Harlow for Miss Cicely. Maggie always listened to them with all her ears. Making up to her, that’s what he was—you could hear it in his voice. And she was pretty short with him—most times—but if there was one of those divorces—well, he might have a chance all the same. Not one to do anything underhand, Miss Cicely. Too proud. Not the stuck-up sort of being proud, but the kind everybody ought to have a bit of.

Well, there was Mr. Harlow saying “Cis—” and her sounding a bit cross, like you do when the telephone keeps on.

“What is it?”

“Can I come round?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“The parents are out.”

“What has that got to do with it? I want to talk to you.”

“You would have to talk to me and Miss Silver. Do you want to do that?”

“We could go somewhere else.”

“No.”

Quite definitely Mark Harlow wasn’t pleased. His voice was loud enough to jar the line.

“How you say that! You’re like a bit of stone!”

She laughed as if she was really amused.

“What have I got to be soft-hearted about?”

“Cis, I’m distracted—these damned murders! And the police all over the place. Would you believe it, they’ve actually been here! Apparently they want to know everything I’ve said or thought or done for the last fortnight. As if anyone could remember—as if anyone but a policeman would expect you to remember! And the result is my work has absolutely gone down the drain. I was just beginning to make a good job of the quartet—you know—” He hummed an air which Maggie didn’t think very much of. Miss Cicely didn’t either by all accounts. She said so right out.

“I don’t think much of that.”

Mr. Mark sounded quite angry.

“You never do, but it would have been all right if it hadn’t been for all the damnable fuss that’s going on! I can’t work when the atmosphere is so disturbed. If one can’t get peace and quiet, what’s the point about the country? It’s damp, it’s dark, it’s cold, it’s dreary, and it’s dull. The one thing you might expect is that you would be let alone there. I mean, if people are going to get themselves murdered, why can’t they do it where they belong instead of coming down here and making our lives a perfect hell with Scotland Yard detectives?”

Miss Cicely didn’t say anything for a minute. Then she said quite off-hand,

“A bit self-centred, aren’t you, Mark?”

Mr. Harlow regularly blew up.

“That’s damned nonsense and you know it! Everything you do has to start with yourself, hasn’t it? You are the centre— naturally everything begins and ends there. If you’re not your own centre, you’re nothing—it makes nonsense. You have no point, no purpose—you’re just the unbalanced sport of circumstance. Every artist has to work from his own centre, or he loses himself.”

“That sounds like nonsense to me.”

He laughed.

Maggie wasn’t expecting that. It was a bit funny after being so angry. He laughed, and he said,

“You’re the most self-centred person I know.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

Miss Cicely slammed down the receiver.

Maggie didn’t know when she had enjoyed a call so much.

Cicely came back into the morning-room where Miss Silver sat knitting. The blue woolly coatee which had occupied her for the first day or two of her visit now reposed in the left-hand top drawer of the bow-fronted mahogany chest in her bedroom; a second jacket of a delicate shell-pink was rapidly taking shape. Cicely, who had been coldly exasperated by Frank’s enthusiasm for his everlasting Miss Silver, had now travelled quite a long way in the opposite direction. Easy enough to dismiss the unwanted visitor as dowdy and governessy. Easy, that is, in the first five minutes or so. After that you could only go on doing it if you were very stupid or quite unable to rid yourself of a preconceived idea. Cicely wasn’t stupid. Against her will, Miss Silver impressed her. She was aware of an intelligence which she respected, and she observed that Frank not only respected this little elderly person, but, quite astonishingly, he had a real and rather humble affection for her. She found this odd, entertaining, and impressive.

Now, as she came back into the morning-room and Miss Silver looked up at her and smiled, something happened. She heard herself say in a puzzled voice,

“Would you say I was self-centred?”

Miss Silver kept her friendly smile.

“Has someone been telling you so?”

Cicely nodded.

“Yes—Mark Harlow. He said I was the most self-centred person he knew. Do you think I am?”

Miss Silver continued to knit. She also continued to smile.

“What do you think about it yourself?”

Cicely was now sitting on the floor in front of the fire, her hands in her lap, her head tilted, her eyes widely opened and a little anxious, like a child who isn’t quite sure whether it has got its lesson right.

“I don’t know—I never thought about it.”

“And what do you think now?”

She said slowly, “I think—perhaps—I am.” And then, “It’s difficult not to be when everything goes wrong. You can’t help thinking about it all the time, and that means you are thinking about yourself.”

Miss Silver was accustomed to being the recipient of confidences. In the course of her professional career the most unlikely people had told her the most unlikely things. It did not surprise her that Cicely, who talked to no one, should now be talking to her. It was to surprise Cicely herself very much when she came to look back on it. At the time it seemed entirely natural, and it eased the pain in her heart.

Miss Silver did not speak, only looked at her gravely and kindly. If she had spoken, it might have checked Cicely’s impulse. But there was nothing to check it. She went on.

“If things go wrong with you, that does mean that you keep thinking about yourself. I’ve been doing that. I expect it’s been beastly for the parents.”

Miss Silver said, “It is hard to see someone you love unhappy and not be allowed to help.”

The dark eyebrows drew together over troubled eyes.

“Mummy adores Grant. It didn’t seem fair.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“To him, or to her?”

“Both, I think—and to me too. To be a proper mother-in-law she ought to have hated him and taken sides with me, but she didn’t—she never does do things like other people. So that made me worse. And I couldn’t drag Daddy into it—he does hate rows. Men do, don’t you think, much more than women? I don’t mean that they don’t have rows themselves, but they think women make a fuss and have them about nothing—and of course it’s true, only not always. And they think the woman is always bound to be wrong. Daddy is very fond of Grant too. He would only have thought I was making a fuss about nothing.”

The needles clicked with a gentle soothing sound.

“And were you?”

Cicely blinked. She felt as if she had been hit quite suddenly and rather hard. The colour ran up into her cheeks, and she said in a crying voice,

“No—no—I wasn’t! There isn’t anything more horrible than to think someone loves you and find out that it’s only your money.” She blinked again quickly to keep back the angry tears. “It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been warned. Gran warned me. My grandfather married her because of her money, and look what it did to her! I think she was a little bit fond of me, I don’t know why, but except for that she hadn’t got a shred of feeling for anyone. She quarrelled with both her sons, and she disliked their wives. Fancy not liking Mummy—but she didn’t. She thought everyone was after her money except me— and she only didn’t think it about me because I was too young. She put it in her will, you know—‘My granddaughter Cicely, who is at present too young to be mercenary.’ Of course anyone who could think that Daddy had a mercenary motive anywhere about him must have had a screw loose. But that’s what she was like. She told me she was going to leave her money to me, and she warned me that everyone would try and get hold of it.” Suddenly and shockingly, her colour drained away. “She said I was just a plain brown little thing, and men wouldn’t fall in love with me, but they would make up to me and want to marry me because of the money.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“An inexcusable thing to say.”

“It’s the kind of thing that eats into you. You remember it when you don’t want to—you’ve forgotten all about it, and it crawls out of some horrid hole and gets you.” She paused and took a long breath. “There was poor Ellen Caddie. Gran left her five hundred pounds, and she married that bounding Albert whom anyone could see didn’t care tuppence about her. Why, she was at least fifteen years older than he was.”

Miss Silver gave her gentle cough.

“That was sadly imprudent. A woman should have more self-respect. As Shakespeare says: ‘Let still the woman take an elder than herself, so wears she to him.’ ”

“Well, she didn’t. And of course that brought Gran’s snake out of its hole, but not so that I couldn’t boot it back again. Because, you see, when she died I wanted Daddy to have the money, and to give some of it to Frank. I wanted them to promise they would take it when I came of age—I couldn’t do anything about it till then. But they wouldn’t. So then I thought I had got rid of the snake. I thought if Gran had been wrong about that, I needn’t bother any more. We came here to live, and I began to see Grant. He had just come in for Deepside. I thought he was falling in love with me. I was frightfully happy—I didn’t think about Gran any more. We were married. I went on being frightfully happy for three months. Then I found out that it was the money after all. Gran knew what she was talking about all right—it wasn’t me, it was the money. So I came back here.” She sprang up with burning cheeks. “I’ve never told anyone about it—I don’t know why I’ve told you. I suppose one has to tell someone—some time.” She went over to the piano and flung up the lid. “Do you mind if I bang a bit?”