Miss Silver Comes To Stay (12 page)

May I come in, dear?”

Mrs. Voycey, who was doing accounts, turned her head. She beheld Miss Silver attired for walking, in her second-best hat which resembled her best so closely that it would have been indistinguishable from it but for the fact of being trimmed with a band of plain petersham instead of an abundance of satin loops. In either case there was a small nosegay of flowers on the left-hand side, but the everyday bunch was smaller, older, flatter, and consisted of a tired wallflower in a pale circle of mignonette, repeating the tones of the elderly fur neck-tie much treasured for its draught-excluding qualities. The black cloth coat remained the same whether it was Sunday or weekday, and so did the neat black laced shoes and black woollen stockings which it was Miss Silver’s habit to wear from October to April, and sometimes beyond if the spring was a cold one.

Having entered and closed the door gently behind her, Miss Silver coughed. A capacious handbag depended from her wrist, and she wore black knitted gloves. She said,

“Such a terribly raw day. I hope I do not disturb you, Cecilia, but I have just received an invitation to lunch. I thought that you would have no objection to my accepting it.”

Mrs. Voycey was amiable but surprised.

“An invitation to lunch?”

“Yes, Cecilia—from Miss Cray.”

Mrs. Voycey said, “Oh—”

Since the arrival of the milkman with the first intelligence of James Lessiter’s death the village news-service had been extremely active. Mrs. Crook had “popped out” to the general shop for a packet of cake-mixture, a thing which she ordinarily despised, and had there encountered a niece of Mrs. Fallow’s who had almost, if you might put it that way, seen Mrs. Mayhew. The niece had been inspired to “step up” to Melling House with an offer of neighbourly assistance, and if she hadn’t actually seen Mrs. Mayhew, she had seen and talked to Mrs. Fallow who had only just left her.

“Can’t hardly lift her head, pore thing,” said Mrs. Crook, retailing the interview to Mrs. Voycey and her guest. “They’ve had the doctor to her, and he says it’s the shock, and Mrs. Fallow’s to stay and not to let her set her hand to anything. And from what Mrs. Fallow says there’s been enough to give her a shock—blood everywhere, and Miss Rietta Cray’s coat soaked with it up to the elbow.”

Mrs. Voycey said, “Nonsense, Bessie!”

Mrs. Crook stood her ground.

“That’s what Mrs. Fallow told her niece, and she come straight from Mrs. Mayhew that saw it. And they do say the pore gentleman left everything to Miss Cray, and the will lying there right under his hand with his blood on it. Mr. Mayhew seen it when he found the body, and he says it’s right enough someone had been trying to burn it, because it was scorched all down one side.”

“Rietta Cray wouldn’t harm a fly,” said Mrs. Voycey.

Mrs. Crook maintained an immovable front.

“Flies don’t make wills,” she said darkly. “But they do say there was maybe more in it than that. It seems Mr. Carr, he comes bursting out of the Cottage round about half past eight. Jim Warren that goes with Doris Grover, he happened to be passing, and he tells Doris that if ever he sees anyone in a passion it’s Mr. Carr. Pretty well beside himself, he says, and goes past him like anything wound up, and he hears him say Mr. Lessiter’s name swearing-like. Horrid, Jim says it was—made him think of a dog that’s got something between its teeth worrying it. Doris says he come in looking all anyhow, and she says, ‘What’s up, Jim?’ and that’s what he tells her. Always a bit soft Jim was from a child. Doris says she had to get him a nip of her father’s whisky, and Mr. Grover didn’t half carry on.”

At this point Miss Silver intervened.

“Which way was Mr. Carr Robertson going?”

Mrs. Crook stared in a contemplative manner. Miss Silver phrased her question again.

“Was Mr. Carr going in the direction of Melling House?”

Mrs. Crook considered. She took her time.

“Couldn’t have been,” she said at last—“not if Jim met him. Up from the other side, that’s the way Jim would come. First of the small cottages on the left, that’s where the Warrens live, and that’s the way Mr. Carr must have gone, because Jim says their dog run out and barked at him as he went past. But they do say it could have been Mr. Lessiter that ran off with Mr. Carr’s wife, and that maybe it all come out and Mr. Carr killed him for it.”

It was with all this in the background that Mrs. Voycey heard Miss Silver say that she was going out to lunch with Rietta Cray and said, “Oh—” It was so very unlike her to have no more than that to say that Miss Silver instinctively paused for what would come next.

An expression of lively interest overspread Mrs. Voycey’s face, and she exclaimed,

“Maud! Has she consulted you? Professionally, I mean. Oh, I do wish she would!”

“She has asked me to lunch,” said Miss Silver.

Mrs. Voycey clasped her hands. Three handsome rings which were a little too tight for her gleamed under the pressure.

“Then you must certainly go. Really, you know, it is quite providential that you should be staying here, because nothing will ever make me believe that Rietta would do anything like that. It’s really too shocking and it only shows what a dreadful thing gossip is. The breath is hardly out of that poor man’s body before everyone in the village is saying he ran away with Carr’s wife, and that Rietta murdered him because he had left her a fortune. I mean, it isn’t sensible, is it? I don’t suppose he ever set eyes on Marjory. I’m sure I only saw her half a dozen times myself, and if I ever did see a young woman whom I disliked—dreadfully pretty and not a bit of heart. And Carr was engaged to such a nice girl before he met her. Marjory simply grabbed at him and he went down like a ninepin, and that nice Elizabeth Moore went off and joined the A.T.S. I believe she commanded an anti-aircraft battery or something like that. And Marjory ran away like I told you, but I can’t see why it should have had anything to do with James Lessiter.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Perhaps, dear, I should be going—”

It took her another ten minutes to get away.

At the White Cottage she found that Miss Cray was not alone. Mrs. Welby was with her but almost immediately rose to go. Miss Silver, observing her with attention, took note of the fact that her make-up, discreet and carefully applied as it was, had as its foundation that rather ghastly pallor which no make-up can quite conceal. No one seeing Miss Silver would have supposed her to possess the eye of an expert where cosmetics were concerned, or indeed in any other direction, yet at a single glance she was aware of that underlying pallor, and of the fact that the foundation cream, the powder and the rouge with which Mrs. Welby had done her best to conceal it were the best and most expensive of their kind. They had been applied with a high degree of art, and, for a woman who had run over before lunch to see an old friend and country neighbour, Catherine Welby had taken a good deal of trouble with her clothes. Whereas Rietta Cray was in a short brown tweed skirt and an old sweater of natural wool, both very well worn, Catherine looked as if everything she had on had been most carefully chosen. There was nothing that was not suitable, but the general effect was that everything was a little too new. She might have taken part just as she was in the mannequin parade of some house which specialized in country clothes. The grey tweed coat and skirt were perfectly cut. The jumper, of a paler shade, displayed the very latest neckline, her smart brogues the very latest heel. If she was bare-headed, it was not from informality, but because it was the fashion. Not a wave of the golden hair was out of place.

Had her acquaintance with Mrs. Welby been less recent, Miss Silver would have recognized that she had somehow passed the intangible line which separates enough from too much. Even without this longer acquaintance she was aware of something of the sort. It seemed to her that there was an indefinable hardening, the failure of something which might have given life and freshness to the whole.

In the few minutes which elapsed between greeting and goodbye Miss Silver dealt with the impressions she was receiving. She was too intelligent herself not to recognize intelligence in others. She recognized it in Catherine Welby, and a quotation from an older poet than her favourite Lord Tennyson presented itself:

“Still to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast…

Lady, it is to be presumed…

All is not sweet, all is not sound.”

There was intelligence up to a point, but to overdo an effect is not intelligent. Perhaps it was only against this background of sudden tragic death and gathering scandal that the effect appeared in this instance to be overdone. Perhaps—

Her eyes followed Catherine Welby thoughtfully as she left the room.

When the door closed there was a little pause. To Rietta Cray it was like the moment when you stand above an icy pool and brace yourself to take the plunge. There came to her the thought that it need not be taken. Her confidence was still her own. She had only asked Miss Silver to lunch. If anything more had been implied, it could still be ignored. She became aware of Miss Silver’s regard, and lifted her eyes to meet it.

Something incomprehensible happened. She experienced what many of Miss Silver’s clients had experienced. When she thought about it afterwards the image which presented itself was that so often seen during the war, the spectacle of a house with the front ripped right off and every room on every floor open and bare to the passing eye.

Miss Silver’s eye did not pass. It dwelt upon her, calmly and thoughtfully exploring. A smile changed the small, neat features. It imparted confidence, it diffused reassurance, and above all it charmed. Then the whole astonishing experience was over. It was the little dowdy ex-governess who said,

“How can I help you, Miss Cray?”

Rietta had no answer ready. She found that she was being invited to sit down in her own house. A feeling of beneficent authority diffused itself. She leaned forward and said with a child’s simplicity,

“We are in great trouble.”

Miss Silver coughed gently.

“I believe I know something about it.”

“Everyone does. I suppose it is always like this, only you don’t think about it until it happens to yourself. Anyone can ask you anything. If you don’t answer, they make something up. There’s no privacy any more.”

“Does that matter so much, Miss Cray?”

“You mean have I got anything to hide? I suppose I have. I suppose everyone has things that they would rather not have trampled upon—” On the last words her voice went down into the depths.

Miss Silver looked at her with concern. She saw painful evidences of a sleepless night and continuing strain. The fine eyes had marks like bruises under them. She said in her most practical voice,

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It is just one o’clock. You have asked me to lunch, and I think we will defer our talk until we have had something to eat. Perhaps you will allow me to help you.”

Rietta felt surprised and relieved. She wouldn’t have to talk about it yet. The thought of lunch was rather dreadful, but it deferred the moment when she would have to talk about James Lessiter. She said,

“Everything is ready—Fancy will help me bring it in. That’s the girl who is staying here—Frances Bell. You will meet her, and Carr. I expect that’s a good thing.”

In the course of her professional activities Miss Silver had become accustomed to the kind of meal in which she now participated. The general feeling of gloom and apprehension, the sporadic outbursts of conversation checked and impeded by the fear of saying something which would better have remained unsaid, the alternating patches of silence during which no one can think of anything to say—all these were perfectly familiar. She herself could always produce a small even trickle of talk, but she did not always choose to do so.

She sometimes found it instructive to watch how people behaved under the stress of silence. Today she made it her concern to see that Miss Cray partook of a sufficient meal, and in this she ultimately succeeded. It became easier to eat something than to keep on saying no, and after the first few mouthfuls Rietta was aware of her own need for food.

Observing Mr. Carr Robertson, Miss Silver could not fail to be aware of his disapproval. Men, she reflected, had so little power of hiding their feelings. From the earliest stage they presented their frame of mind to the world in a manner which was often sufficiently naif to be engaging. She could have no doubt at all that Mr. Carr thought her a meddling old maid. He reminded her of more than one little boy who considered himself affronted at having to share his sisters’ lessons. She regarded him with indulgence.

For Fancy Bell in her scarlet suit she had a faint kind smile. A guileless creature, and an open book to a tactful and experienced questioner. She had no doubt that if Fancy knew anything, she herself would know it before very long. As to Mr. Carr—well, her immediate business was not with him.

To Rietta the time passed at once slowly and too fast. Since Carr and Fancy volunteered to wash up, she could count on no more delays. She found herself in the sitting-room with Miss Silver, who had the air of being quite at home there. She had removed her tippet and laid aside her coat, revealing beneath it a dress of sage-green wool with some odd little bits of embroidery down the front. Her favourite brooch, a rose carved in a black bog-oak with an Irish pearl at the centre, fastened the neck of this garment and slightly dragged it down. A fine gold chain looped up on the left-hand side supported the pince-nez used for small print or in a bad light. The capacious black bag reposed on the floor beside her open, and served to confine the ball of pale blue wool from which she was knitting a cosy coat and knickers for her niece Ethel Burkett’s little Josephine. She kept her hands low in her lap, holding the needles after the Continental fashion as she and Cecilia had been taught by the German mistress, Fraulein Stein, when she was at school. It has the great advantage of making it almost impossible to watch either one’s hands or the work. Miss Silver rarely glanced at the rapidly clicking needles or the lengthening strip of blue. She gazed placidly at her hostess and said,

“Before you tell me anything I must ask you in what way you think I may be able to help you.”

Rietta felt the icy shock which she had been anticipating. She heard herself say in a lost voice,

“I don’t know—” And then, “I hoped—”

Miss Silver said in a grave manner,

“I must ask you to think clearly about this. I can take no case with any other object than that of discovering the truth. I cannot undertake to prove anyone innocent, any more than I would undertake to prove anyone guilty. I feel obliged to make this perfectly clear to an intending client. Perhaps you would like a little more time to think it over.”

Rietta’s shivering reluctance was gone. The plunge had been taken. She looked steadily at Miss Silver and said,

“No—the truth is what I want.”

The needles clicked, the pale blue strip revolved.

“Then, Miss Cray, perhaps you will tell me just what happened last night.”

Rietta put up a hand and pushed back her hair.

“I don’t quite know where to begin… James Lessiter was an old friend—at one time we were engaged. I broke it off, and until the day before yesterday I hadn’t seen him for twenty-three years. I met him then in the evening after supper at Catherine Welby’s—she lives in the Gate House at the entrance to the drive of Melling House. James was perfectly easy and friendly. He walked home with me and discussed one or two things about which he thought I might have known his mother’s intentions. I couldn’t help him, but it was all quite easy and friendly. Then last night—”

She broke off, because now she had to speak, not about herself; but about Carr. If he were to be left out of it, she might as well not speak at all. But if he were to be brought in, how could she be sure that she would not be bringing him into danger? The answer to that came flat and practical— “You can’t keep him out.”

Her distress evoked a look of reassurance and a “Pray continue, Miss Cray.”

She went on in short, bald sentences—things like “Mr. Ainger came in and left some papers… After he had gone I went to the telephone… When I came back Carr went out…”

That wasn’t any good. She knew that it wasn’t.

Miss Silver said gently,

“I think you will have to tell me why he went out.” Then, after a pause, “Miss Cray, you will have to make up your mind whether you intend to trust me. Half measures are quite useless. As Lord Tennyson so beautifully says, ‘And trust me not at all, or all in all.’ ”

“It isn’t—for myself—”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Consider what you imply. You can lay your own thoughts and motives bare to me because you know that you are innocent. When it comes to Mr. Carr, are you not so sure?”

Rietta cried out. It was a sound without words, sharp with pain and protest.

Miss Silver said with quiet authority,

“You must make up your mind.”

There was a silence. Rietta got up and went to the window. Standing there with her back to the room, she said,

“When you’ve said a thing you can’t take it back. He didn’t do it. It’s not true to say that I’m not sure, but things can be made to look—as if—he had a motive.”

Miss Silver knitted. After a little while she said,

“Come and sit down. Emotion is a distorting factor. We need to be practical and clear. Here is a point I would like you to consider. If Miss Bell was present when Mr. Carr left the house so suddenly, she as well as yourself is aware of why he did so.”

“Yes.”

“How long do you suppose she would withstand a cross-examination? You know her better than I do.”

Rietta said, “No—you’re right—I had better tell you. Carr saw James Lessiter’s picture, and when he saw it he recognized the man who had seduced and deserted his wife. I suppose you have heard about that.”

“Yes.”

“I think there may have been extenuating circumstances. James says she left him and had been living with another man. It’s quite likely. But Carr didn’t know that. He rushed out, and I went up to Melling House to warn James.” She told the rest of the story simply and clearly. He had been burning her letters. He had shown her the old will made when they were engaged. She had scratched her wrist going through the wood. It had bled a good deal and stained the cuff of her raincoat. James had lent her his handkerchief to staunch the blood… No, she hadn’t brought it away with her. And she hadn’t brought the raincoat either. She had taken it off when she went in, and had forgotten it when she came away.

Miss Silver listened with close attention. At this point she coughed.

“How did you come to forget your coat, Miss Cray? It was surely a very cold night.”

The fine grey eyes met hers with perfect candour.

“I never thought about it.”

“You came out into the cold and forgot that you had left your coat?”

“Yes, I really did.”

“I am not doubting that, but I should like to know what made it possible for you to forget. You left Mr. Lessiter and came out into the cold without noticing it. Did you leave him alive?”

The angry colour came to Rietta’s face.

“Of course I did!”

“Did you part on friendly terms?”

Rietta’s head was high.

“No, we didn’t. I was angry. That’s how I came to forget my coat.”

“What were you angry about?”

“He made me angry. It was nothing to do—with this, or with Carr.”

Miss Silver gazed at her with mild persistence.

“Did he make love to you?”

“No—no—it wasn’t anything like that. It was a business matter—not even my own business. It concerned a friend.”

Miss Silver continued to gaze for a moment. Then she stooped down and unwound some lengths of pale blue wool from the ball lying beside her chair. Resuming her knitting, she enquired with the air of one who changes an unwelcome subject,

“You say that you were called to the telephone while Mr. Carr and Miss Bell were looking at the papers left by Mr. Ainger. Since the question of time may be involved, perhaps the person who called you up could corroborate you on this point.”

“Fancy says it was twenty past eight. She listens incessantly to the wireless, so she always knows the time. She says Carr and I went out at half past eight.”

Miss Silver beamed.

“Your caller could corroborate that. Who was it?”

“It was Catherine Welby.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“And you were talking for ten minutes. Miss Cray—what were you talking about?”

Rietta felt as if she had missed a step in the dark. There should have been something solid under her foot, but it wasn’t there. The colour drained away from her face. Concealment is an art which requires much practice. She had never acquired it. She looked helplessly at Miss Silver and beat about in her mind for something to say. She found nothing better than,

“We were talking.”

“On a matter of business?”

“I suppose you might call it that.”

“Connected with Mr. Lessiter?”

Rietta said, “Oh—”

She was so plainly taken aback that Miss Silver was answered. She knitted rapidly whilst a number of small circumstances came together in her mind—Catherine Welby’s pallor and her look of strain; the fact that James Lessiter had walked home from the Gate House with Rietta Cray and talked, not about old times, but about his mother’s intentions with regard presumably to some disposition of her effects; the ten minutes’ conversation with Mrs. Welby about business; the angry parting between Rietta Cray and James Lessiter after a conversation on business—business which involved a friend.

From this train of thought the word business emerged with a good deal of emphasis—business connected with James Lessiter and his mother’s effects. Scraps of Cecilia Voycey’s gossip came back in an illuminating manner. Her needles clicked busily. When she spoke again it was to return to an earlier topic.

“You say that you came away from Melling House and left your raincoat behind you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I presume that it is in the possession of the police.”

Miss Cray’s hesitation in answering this question was so marked that when she did at last say, “Yes,” she encountered a look of the most stringent enquiry. With a hortatory cough Miss Silver said,

“Just why did you find that question so difficult to answer? Are you not sure whether the police have the coat?”

This time there was no hesitation. Rietta said,

“Oh, yes, they have it.”

“They informed you of that?”

“They took it away—from here.”

“Did you go back for it?”

Rietta’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. She shook her head.

Miss Silver stopped knitting for a moment and leaned forward.