Latter End (15 page)

Mrs. Maniple leaned a little forward on her hands.

“Gladys Marsh come down for the tray and took it up. She had what she always had for breakfast, a pot of tea, a slice of dry toast, and fruit—it was an apple on Wednesday.”

“Not much of a breakfast. Well then, what happened after that? Did she come down for lunch?”

“Yes, she come down. I didn’t know what she was going to do, so I sent Polly up to ask, and she said Mrs. Latter would come down.”

“So she had the same for lunch that everyone else did. What did they have?”

“Mince and two vegetables, with a trifle to follow.”

“What about tea?”

“Mrs. Latter took her car out after lunch. She didn’t come in till getting on for seven o’clock—she wasn’t here for tea.”

“And dinner—what did you give them for dinner?”

“There was fish—baked haddock—and a sweet omelette. And hardly a bit of anything ate.”

“They were all too much upset?”

“Seems like it.”

“And then you made the coffee and Miss Vane took it in?”

“Miss Julia watched me make it.”

“Well now—one thing more. Where did you get the ipecac you put in Mrs. Latter’s coffee? Did you get it out of the medicine-cupboard in Miss Mercer’s room?”

“Not then, I didn’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was a bottle she give me when I had a cough in the spring. I’d put a drop or two with some honey and vinegar and sup it. And she said to keep the bottle—it wasn’t above half full.”

“You knew she had a medicine-cupboard in her room?”

“Everyone in the house knows that.”

“It wasn’t kept locked, was it? Anyone could help themselves?”

Mrs. Maniple drew herself up.

“There wasn’t no one in the house wouldn’t do that— without it was Gladys Marsh. There’s never been no need to lock things up in this house, thank God. But it’s proper a medicine-cupboard should be locked.”

“You didn’t take anything out of that medicine-cupboard yourself?”

“I’d no call to, nor wouldn’t if I had. If I’d wanted anything I’d have asked Miss Minnie.”

“Did you ask her for anything from that cupboard?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Lamb pushed back his chair.

“All right, Mrs. Maniple. Now Sergeant Abbott will run those notes of his off on the typewriter and read them over to you, and you can sign them.”

Miss Silver gathered up her knitting and left them to it, but almost at once the Chief Inspector followed her out of the room. When she glanced round and saw him he made what she described to herself as a grimace, walked on as far as the drawing-room door, which he opened, and beckoned her in. When he had shut it again he said confidentially,

“Well, what did you make of that?”

Miss Silver stood, her hands clasped on the new knitting-bag which her niece Ethel had sent her for her birthday in July—a capacious affair in a chintz with a pattern of honeysuckle and humming birds. It had been much admired not only by its recipient but by several of her oldest friends. A primrose lining showed here and there where the frill at the top fell over. She took a moment before she said,

“I thought Mrs. Maniple was speaking the truth.”

Lamb nodded.

“Well, so did I. I don’t see why she needed to say anything at all if she wasn’t going to tell the truth. A silly trick to get up to, and one we could run her in for. I’d do it like a shot too if I thought there was any chance she poisoned Mrs. Latter. The trouble is, I’m pretty well sure she didn’t.”

“I agree.”

“For one thing, she’d never have admitted the ipecac if she’d gone on to the morphia—not without she was going to confess the whole thing. That’s my first reason for thinking she didn’t do it. The second one’s stronger. She hit the nail right on the head when she said she’d never have risked Mr. Latter’s taking the poisoned cup. As the evidence stands, neither she who made the coffee nor Miss Julia Vane who took it in had any control over who took which cup. They weren’t either of them in the room when the coffee was shared out. So the murderer was either someone who didn’t care whether it was Mr. or Mrs. Latter who was poisoned, which makes nonsense, or else it was someone who was right here in this room and was able to see that there were no mistakes, and that the cup with the morphia in it got to the person it was meant for. And that means just one of three people—Mrs. Street, Miss Mercer—and Mr. Jimmy Latter.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“I agree with you as to the facts.”

He laughed in a good-humoured way.

“Well, isn’t that nice! I don’t know when you agreed with me last over a case. Live and learn, as we used to say.”

Miss Silver’s manner became a trifle remote. She coughed.

“I may agree with your facts without accepting the conclusions you draw from them.”

He laughed again.

“Oh, yes—Mr. Latter is your client, isn’t he? You won’t admit he did it. That leaves Mrs. Street and Miss Mercer. Which of them do you fancy? They were both being turned out of what had been their home for twenty-five years—if Mrs. Street is as old as that. And she’s got a husband she’d like to have here, only Mrs. Latter wouldn’t have it. Well, that’s some sort of a motive for each of them, but I don’t think it would cut much ice with a jury. No, I’m afraid things look very bad for your client. Come now—what do you think yourself? You may as well own up.”

Miss Silver looked at him without any expression at all.

“At the moment I have no opinion to offer.”

She left him smiling to himself and passed into the hall. It was in her mind that she would like to talk to Julia Vane, but she decided that that could wait. There seemed to be an excellent opportunity of a conversation with the kitchenmaid, Polly Pell—rather a shy girl, and so constantly at Mrs. Maniple’s beck and call as to make it very difficult to get hold of her.

She made her way into the pantry, and at once became aware that she would not find Polly alone. The door through into the kitchen was ajar, and the high-pitched voice of Gladys Marsh was plainly audible.

“I’ll get my picture in the papers—you see if I don’t.”

As a gentlewoman, Miss Silver deplored a professional necessity. Gentlewomen do not eavesdrop, but it is sometimes very useful to be able to do so. In her professional character she did not hesitate to avail herself of opportunity when it came her way. She provided herself with a tumbler and stood with her hand on the drinking-water tap. What she heard she found very interesting—very interesting indeed.

A cautious glance round the edge of the door showed her Gladys Marsh sitting across the corner of the kitchen table swinging her legs. She had a cup of tea in her hand. Polly was not in sight. Her voice came hesitating, not much above a whisper.

“I don’t know that I’d care about that.”

Gladys took a noisy gulp of tea.

“Well, I would. You just watch me and you’ll see. There’s a couple of reporters been at me already, but I’m not making myself cheap. I told them so. I’ve said what I know to Chief Inspector Lamb from Scotland Yard—that’s what I told them. And he says I’ll be called at the inquest, and not to say nothing to nobody, so I’m not. ‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘why should you boys get the money for my story? I can write it myself, can’t I?’ And the cheeky one with red hair—they’re all cheeky, but he’s the worst—he said, ‘You don’t mean to say they taught you to write?’ and I said, ‘Yes, Impudence,’ and a lot more besides. And he said, ‘You bet!’ and he took two photographs. But I didn’t tell him nothing, only a lot of stuff about the house and the family, and about Mrs. Latter being such a lot admired, and all that. If they want anything more they can pay for it—and if they won’t there’s plenty that will.”

There was a murmuring sound from Polly. Gladys drained her cup and reached for the teapot.

“Oh, come off it!” she said. “What’s the good of being alive if you don’t have a good time when you’re young? You start thinking if there isn’t something you can tell the police and get called at the inquest! That’ll be only a village affair, but when it comes to the trial—”

Polly’s voice came in with a frightened sound.

“Who will they try?”

“Dunno. But I can guess. Can’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

Gladys laughed and swung her legs.

“Who spied on her and caught her in Mr. Antony’s room? Who comes into a lot of money now she’s gone? She told me that herself no longer ago than the Wednesday morning— said she wasn’t going to stay here the way things were going, and the first thing she was going to do when she got up to town was to alter her will. She’d have taken me with her too. Gosh—what a chance!”

“I don’t know that I should care about London.”

Gladys said contemptuously,

“More fool you! You don’t know what’s good for you. I didn’t when I married Joe Marsh and tied myself up to live in a hole like this.”

“Weren’t you—weren’t you fond of him?”

Gladys laughed. Really, Miss Silver thought, a most unpleasant sound.

“Fond of him! I’d been ill and I was out of a job, and he was getting good money. I was a damned fool. If I’m one of the chief witnesses in a big murder trial, why I’ll get dozens of offers—girls do. I’d be able to pick and choose and marry where there’s some money going and a chance of a good time if I hadn’t tied myself up to Joe. However, ’tisn’t for always nowadays—that’s one comfort. I’ll do better than Joe with this trial to boost me.”

“You didn’t ought to talk like that.”

Gladys laughed again. The sound really quite got on Miss Silver’s nerves.

“Oh, I didn’t, didn’t I? Well, you wait and see, Polly Pell! There’s more than that I can say if I choose, but I’m not saying it yet. I’m keeping it back to make a splash with—see?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can put the rope round somebody’s neck if I choose, and I’m going to choose all right. There’s someone in this house that’s going to swing for what they done, and it’s me that’s going to put the rope round their neck. And get my photo in all the papers, and everyone talking about me! I’ll say this for those reporter chaps, they give you a good write-up. ‘Golden-haired, blue-eyed Gladys Marsh’—that’ll be me, when I’m not a ‘beautiful blonde.’ You see, I’ll be right in the news, and if I can’t make something out of it, my name’s not Gladys Marsh. And won’t you wish you was me!”

Polly achieved emphasis.

“No, that I won’t!” she said.

At the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the hall Miss Silver set down the tumbler she was holding and walked briskly to meet them. It was Julia Vane whom she encountered. It did not escape her that, in addition to being unusually pale, Julia had a look of endurance which had not been there when they met at breakfast. Whatever may have been her errand, Miss Silver forestalled it.

“I should appreciate a short conversation with you, Miss Vane, if you can spare the time.”

She had shut the door behind her. Julia looked past her in that direction.

“I was going to see Mrs. Maniple. Is she in the kitchen?”

Miss Silver shook her head.

“Oh, no—she is still in the study with Sergeant Abbott. I will not detain you for long. Perhaps the drawing-room would be suitable.”

Julia preceded her there in dumb rebellion. The house was no longer their own—it certainly wasn’t Jimmy’s. Their lives, their actions, their time, the words they spoke, the words they dared not speak, were all conditioned by this timeless nightmare in which they lived and moved. She turned, to see Miss Silver looking at her kindly. Her voice too was kind as she said,

“Truth is always best, Miss Julia.”

The bitterness she felt for Manny, for Jimmy, for all of them, came out in her voice as she answered,

“Is it?”

Miss Silver said, “I think so. It is not always easy to see it at the time. That is one of the things which makes the conduct of a murder case so difficult. People with something to conceal persist in trying to conceal it. It may be a serious matter, or it may be quite trifling, but the result is the same—the issues are obscured. People who are habitually truthful are tempted to depart from the truth. They are not usually very successful. It requires a good deal of practice to deceive an experienced police officer. It is much easier, as well as much safer, to tell the truth.”

The words which formed themselves in Julia’s mind dissolved as she looked at Miss Silver. They were what anyone might suppose. “Do you think I’m telling lies? Why should I? I haven’t got anything to hide.” They were in her mind, but they never reached her lips. She looked at Miss Silver, and lost sight of her primness and her dowdy clothes. She didn’t see them any more. She was aware of intelligence and strength. She was intelligent enough herself to recognize these qualities, and strong enough to value them. She said in a quiet, humble voice,

“I’m not hiding anything—really.”

Miss Silver’s smile came out.

“Thank you, my dear. I shall be very glad if you will trust me. Concealments are of no real benefit. The innocent cannot gain by them, nor can the guilty. There is no worse punishment than seeming impunity in crime. That is why I said that truth is best. If you are wondering why I wished to speak to you—it is about Miss Mercer.” She saw all the muscles of Julia’s face go taut, and added, “You see, I heard what she said.”

Julia’s lips were stiff. She had to force them to move. She said,

“What did you hear?”

“I heard her say, ‘What have I done—what have I done?’ ”

“She was asleep—she was dreaming—she was talking in her sleep.”

Miss Silver made a slight inclination of the head.

“Is she in the habit of walking in her sleep?”

“I think she used to—after her father died.”

“Was his death a sudden one?”

Julia nodded.

“Yes—a car accident—at night. It was a great shock.”

“And under similar conditions of grief and shock the sleepwalking has returned. But perhaps I should not have mentioned grief. Perhaps there is no personal grief on Mrs. Latter’s account. You can inform me as to that, can you not? Or, shall I say, you can confirm my impression that Miss Mercer felt no affection for Mrs. Latter?”

Julia’s wide, sad gaze did not falter. She said,

“No. None of us did.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Then it was shock that brought about a recurrence of the sleep-walking. When I first came out of my room you were following her down the stairs. When you caught her up and stopped her she had her face turned in the direction of this room. It would have been interesting to see what she would have done if she had entered it. As it was, your touch broke the thread of her thought. I withdrew into my room and watched you both come back and enter hers. I reached the door in time to hear her say, ‘What have I done?’ ”

After her last words Julia had turned away. There was a ruined vase of roses on the mantelpiece. The room had not been done since Wednesday, nor the flowers changed. There was a scatter of crimson petals on the shelf. Julia swept them together, and as she did so remembered how she had seen Minnie stand just here where she was standing when she looked into the room on Wednesday night. In her mind she could see her as plainly as if it was all happening again— Minnie half turned from the room, bending a little as if she were too tired to stand upright, picking up the fallen petals one at a time in a small trembling hand—With an abrupt movement Julia broke the picture. The rose-leaves fell to the hearth in a crimson pool as she swung round crying,

“She didn’t do it!”

Miss Silver had been watching her closely.

“If you were quite sure about that, there would be no need for you to feel so much concern.”

Julia drew a stormy breath.

“I am sure! Anyone who knew her would be sure!” She checked herself and went on in a different tone. “Miss Silver, there are things people can do, and things they can’t. When you know someone, you know what it would be possible for them to do. It wouldn’t be possible for Minnie to kill anyone. You can’t kill unless there’s something that lets you. People either have that something, or they haven’t. Anyone with a hot temper could kill, I suppose, if the provocation was enough to break through a normal self-control. I’ve got a temper myself. As a rule I’ve got hold of it—I’ve always known I mustn’t let go. I suppose if I did, I might—kill. But Minnie hasn’t got a temper. I’ve known her all my life, and I’ve never seen her angry. There’s no wild beast in her to get loose like there is in me. Then the other sort of killing, the slow, cold-blooded sort—she couldn’t do that any more than I could. None of us could. You see, you don’t know her. She’s one of the people who is born unselfish—she just doesn’t think about herself at all. She’s always been the same ever since I can remember. She’s kind, and patient, and gentle, and really, truly good. She never had a hard word even for Lois. She’d have been fond of her if it had been humanly possible, because it’s her nature to be fond of people. You see, she’s good. She could no more poison anyone than she could suddenly turn into a hyena. It’s just one of those things that are right off the map.”

Miss Silver smiled disarmingly.

“She has a very good friend, my dear,” she said.