Miss Silver Comes To Stay (17 page)

A good deal later than this Randal March was taking his way home. He was glad to be done with the day’s business, and very glad to be done with Superintendent Drake. Drake’s reactions to the footprints discovered by Miss Silver had been quite extraordinarily irritating. He was mortified, he was huffed, he took umbrage. He suggested that the footprints might have been made at any time, and when March pointed out that there had been heavy rain on Wednesday afternoon, and that they must have been made since then, he took umbrage all over again. There is, of course, nothing more trying for a police officer than to have a well substantiated theory undermined, or to see it tottering to its fall without being able to give it a sustaining hand. With Rietta Cray and Carr Robertson as suspects, Drake had been in a state of blissful and offensive self-satisfaction. It was his first important murder case. He saw promotion looming. The social position of the suspects ministered agreeably to his class-consciousness. When Mr. Holderness produced Cyril Mayhew as a possible alternative he wasn’t pleased—nobody could have expected him to be pleased—but he put up a very creditable performance as a fair-minded officer anxious only to come at the truth.

And then completely unrelated footprints of an unknown woman. It was enough to put any man out of temper, let alone that he knew, and the Chief Constable knew, that he ought to have found them himself. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they could have been made out to be Miss Cray’s footprints, but they couldn’t, and it wasn’t any good trying. He didn’t need the Chief Constable to point it out to him either. He remarked with some acerbity that if he’d got to choose between a crime without a clue at all, and one where they were buzzing round like so many bluebottles, he’d take the first and say thank you. It was one of the few times during their association that the Chief Constable felt inclined to agree with him.

Well, the business was over now. The footprints had been photographed by flashlight, cement had been poured into them to provide casts, and a tarpaulin spread to protect them from the weather. Randal March was taking his way home.

He came out on the far side of Melling and drove slowly along a dark, narrow lane. There was a hedgerow on either side, rather wild and unkempt, with the black mass of holly breaking it here and there. There was no one else abroad— no lights of any other car, no low-set gleam of a bicycle-lamp, no foot-passenger shrinking back against the hedge. The dark loneliness pleased him. He was more physically tired than he could remember to have been for years, and his mind was tired to death. To and fro in it for the last two days his thoughts had paced, struggled, and rebelled. Even as he strove to order them, to hold the balance between the prosecution and the defence, to do his job without fear or favour, he could not be sure that the scale did not tip.

He drove on down the bright path which his headlights made for him, and wished with all his heart that he could see his way as plainly.

Half a mile out of Melling what should be prolongation of the lane becomes the footpath which descends from Rowberry Common, the lane itself taking an unexpected turn to the left. The beam of the headlights streaming on to the footpath just before the turn picked up the figure of a woman. For the moment of time before the car swung round she stood there dazzled by the glow, her head uncovered, her eyes wide, her face unnaturally white. It was startling in the extreme—like seeing a drowned face.

He took the car past the turn, drew up, got out, and walked back. She was moving, he heard a stone slip from her foot. A relief quite outside reason flooded over him. He would have confessed to no conscious fear, but the sound of that sliding pebble was an extraordinarily welcome thing. He said,

“Rietta! What are you doing here?” and saw her come towards him like a shadow.

She said, “I’ve been walking on Rowberry Common. I couldn’t stay indoors.”

“You shouldn’t go up there in the dark. It’s got a bad name.”

She said with heart-breaking simplicity,

“No one would hurt me—I’m too unhappy.”

“Does that protect one?”

“Yes. People can’t reach you—you’re all alone—”

“Rietta, don’t talk like that!”

She said, “I’ll go home now.”

She took a step away from him, and something happened. He was a temperate man in mind and body. He had never before been so swept from his own control. He couldn’t let her leave him. With a purely instinctive movement he reached out to stop her. His hands met the rough cloth of the coat she was wearing. He found that he was holding her.

“Rietta!”

She said, “Oh, let me go!”

“I can’t. I love you. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, no!”

“What’s the good of lies? We might as well speak the truth, if it’s only for once. You do know I love you.”

“No—”

“Stop lying, Rietta! If we can’t do anything else for each other we can at least speak the truth. If you didn’t know, why did you sit there this afternoon accusing me with your eyes? Every time I asked you a question you accused me— every time I sat by and let that damned fellow Drake cross-examine you, you accused me. If you didn’t know that I loved you, there wasn’t any reason for it. You knew.”

“Yes—I knew. It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s like knowing something that died a long time ago—it’s gone.”

His hands closed hard upon her. She felt the strength in them.

“What are you talking about? Do you think I would let you go?”

She said on a curious sobbing breath,

“I’ve—gone—”

In a most horrid and disturbing manner there came back to him the feeling he had had when he saw her drowned in the glare of the headlights. His pleasant voice was harsh as he said,

“Don’t say things like that—I won’t have it! I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Are you, Randal? And do we send an announcement to the papers? There would be some nice headlines, wouldn’t there? Chief Constable weds chief suspect in Lessiter murder case! No, I suppose they couldn’t say that before I was arrested. It would be contempt of court or something like that, wouldn’t it? And once I was arrested I should be the accused. Randal, why should this have to happen to us? We could have been so happy.”

A flood of grief broke in her. She didn’t know it was going to happen. It had hurt her too much when she thought of what might have been. She had no more pride, no more control. She did not even think of being glad that it was dark. The tears ran down, and would have done if it had been broad day.

At first he didn’t know. She stood there quietly under his hands. He had his own emotions to deal with, and found them hard to curb.

Then one of those hot tears splashed down upon his wrist. He took his hand from her arm and put it up to her face. The tears ran over it. He pulled her up close and kissed her, and she kissed him back, not quietly but with a despairing passion. If this was all they could ever have, let them take their fill of it.

They might have been alone in the universe, so close that breath and pulse were one. A single heart-beat shook them both. They did not know how long it was before she drew that deep shuddering breath, and said,

“We’re mad.”

Randal March said, “No—sane. Hold on to that—we’ll stay sane together.”

“Can we?”

He had come back to his centre of gravity. Thought steadied. He said,

“Yes.”

There was another of those long breaths.

“I don’t know—I feel as if I had gone away—too far.”

“I’ll bring you back.”

“I don’t think you can.”

She drew away from him.

“Randal, will you tell me something—honestly?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Your best won’t do unless it’s really honest. I’ve got to know. Are you—quite sure about me? I don’t mean just now when we’re here together like this, but have you always been quite sure—first thing in the morning, and when you wake up suddenly in the night, before you’ve had time to sort yourself out, and argue about it?”

“Yes, I’ve always been quite sure. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve got to argue about—it’s in my bones.”

She came up close again and said,

“Carr isn’t sure.”

“Rietta!”

“It’s not his fault. He wants to be sure—he wants it dreadfully.”

“He’s a young fool.”

She shook her head.

“He tries—I’ve seen him try. Sometimes he pulls it off— for a little. And then it comes over him again—‘Suppose she did it.’ He doesn’t say anything, but I know. If it was ever like that with you, I couldn’t bear it.”

“It won’t ever be like that with me—I can promise you that.”

She said again, “It isn’t Carr’s fault. I might be thinking the same sort of thing about him, only it’s been so plain that he thought it was I who had killed James. He asked me why I’d done it. And he made me wash the raincoat. I’m afraid I did it very badly.”

“You oughtn’t to have done it at all.”

She put up a hand and pushed back her hair—the familiar gesture which wrung his heart.

“I know. What I don’t know is whether I wouldn’t do it again. It was all so horrible, so sudden—and I was frightened for Carr, and he was frightened for me. Only I ought to have made a better job of it. It seemed the best thing to do at the time, but now of course it’s going to make any jury believe I did it.”

He said with a rough edge on his voice,

“Don’t talk about juries—it won’t come to that. Somebody killed Lessiter, and we’re going to find out who it was. If you get worried, go and see Miss Silver. You’ll find her very bracing.”

She said, “I like her. I don’t quite know why she impresses one, but she does. It’s a sort of mixture of being back at school again and finding yourself wandering about in the fairy story where you meet an old woman and she gives you a hazel nut with the cloak of darkness packed inside it.”

He laughed out loud.

“I wonder what Miss Silver would say if you told her that! She might just smile indulgently, or you might get a reproof for talking in what she would describe as an exaggerated manner. She’s rather a wonder, you know. I’ve heard that impudent chap Frank Abbott call her Maudie the Mascot. Not to her face, but he always says that if she comes in on a case, the police come out of it in a blaze of glory.”

“Is it true?”

“Just about. She has the most extraordinary flair. No, it’s something more than that. She knows people. All the things they hide behind—appearance, manner, the show we all put up to prevent other people knowing too much about us— she sees right through them, and judges you on what’s left. I can still remember the awful feeling we used to get when we were children and we’d been up to something she didn’t approve of. Even Isabel, who was a fairly hardy liar, used to give up and burst into tears.”

“I can’t imagine Isabel bursting into tears.”

“No—she was tough, wasn’t she? But I’ve seen her do it. As for me, I always felt it wasn’t even worth trying to hold out on Miss Silver, so I didn’t try. I don’t mind confessing that she still has very much the same effect on me.”

Rietta laughed a little unsteadily.

“Yes, she’s like that. It came over me when I was talking to her that if I’d had anything to hide, she’d have found it out. As it was, I told her things I didn’t mean to.” She stepped back. “Randal, I must go. They’ll think something has happened to me.”

Friday slipped away into the past. Before it was quite gone Randal March received a telephone call. He had the lover’s thought that it might be Rietta, and knew this at once for the folly that it was. Miss Silver’s schoolroom French came to him along the wire.

“I am sorry to disturb you, but if you could make it convenient to call here tomorrow as early as possible, I should be glad. I have had two conversations which I should like to pass on to you.”

That was all, without either greeting or farewell.

He whistled softly as he hung up the receiver. He knew his Miss Silver. When she dispensed with observance it meant quite serious business. He made a mental note to be with her by half past nine. If Melling had to see the Chief Constable’s car turn in at Mrs. Voycey’s gate, he supposed Miss Silver would have reckoned on that and considered that the game was worth the candle. He finished what writing he had to do and took his way to bed, and to the dreamless sleep which was his fortunate portion.

There were others who were not so fortunate.

Rietta Cray, lying sleepless in the dark, saw painted upon it the cold decay of hope. The glow that had been in her died, slowly but without respite. The bleak voice of common sense set out in chill, convincing terms just how much she would damage Randal’s career if she were to marry him. There are possible things and impossible things. If the impossible seems possible and you grasp at it, you are left with only your own folly to mock you. For an hour she had believed that happiness was possible. Now she watched it withdraw.

Carr Robertson slept, and dreamed a frightful dream. He stood in a dark place with a dead man at his feet. The cold hand touched him. He woke sweating.

Up at Melling House Mrs. Mayhew called out in her sleep. She had cried until she could cry no more, and then passed into a dream in which a child wailed. The child was Cyril. He was cold, he was hungry, he was hurt, and she could not go to him. She called out in her sleep with such a lamentable voice that Mayhew sat up and lit the candle. She cried out again, and turned and went back into her dream. He sat up in bed with the flame of the candle blowing and thought how cold it was, and wondered what was going to happen to them all.

Catherine Welby was awake. Like Mayhew she was sitting up in bed, but unlike Mayhew she had taken precautions against feeling cold. A small electric fire was turned on, the window was shut, and she wore a becoming quilted jacket of the same pale blue as the eiderdown. Without any makeup her skin was pale. Her fair hair was hidden by a lace cap. She had three pillows behind her, and she sat up straight against them and read—line after line, page after page, chapter after chapter. Her will drove her, but if she had been asked what she read she might have been put to it to find an answer.

The longest night comes to an end, just as the last night comes, whether we know it is the end or not. For one of these people it was the last night.

When the dull, reluctant day returned, each one of them got up and went about his business.

Catherine Welby dressed to catch the nine-forty bus into Lenton. She made herself some coffee and a couple of slices of toast. She was no longer pale, because she had taken steps to avoid anything so unbecoming. She looked very much as she always did, except that she was wearing a hat—grey, to match her suit, with a jay’s feather stuck in the band.

She came out of the front door, locking it behind her, and saw Mrs. Fallow come down the drive, hurrying and all agog with news. Catherine said good-morning, and it all came pouring out.

“It’s my morning for Miss Cray, and I expect you’ll wonder what I’m doing, but I said to Miss Rietta how I couldn’t get that poor soul Mrs. Mayhew off my mind. It’s terrible the way she’s been carrying on. Mr. Mayhew can’t get her to eat a thing. She just sits and drinks a cup of tea and cries down into it all the time. So I said to Miss Rietta, ‘I’ve got a hen laying, and I’ve brought two of the eggs along, so what about slipping up to the house and seeing she gets one whipped up in her tea?’ And Miss Rietta she says, ‘All right,’ and off I went.”

Catherine glanced at her wrist-watch. The bus stop was just beyond the gate. She had five minutes. She said,

“I should think you would have gone up the back way.”

Her voice was quite smooth and even. All the same she didn’t think Mrs. Fallow had come out of her way to tell her whether Mrs. Mayhew had taken a beaten-up egg in her tea.

Mrs. Fallow’s thin, dark face twitched with impatience. She wanted to get on with her story, not be kept pottering about.

“So I did,” she said. “And when I got up there, well, it was as much as I could do to remember what I’d come for. Such a to-do! It seems the Chief Constable come back in the afternoon, and the lady with him that’s visiting Mrs. Voycey, and they go into the study. And a piece after that Inspector Drake comes along, and the photographer chap and two more, and there’s photographs taken and plaster casts. But that Miss Silver, she’d gone by then. She’d been in the way, and I expect the Chief Constable packed her off.”

Catherine was drawing on her gloves, smoothing them carefully over the fingers.

“And what were they photographing and taking casts of?”

Mrs. Fallow came up close and said in a flesh-creeping tone,

“Footprints.”

“Footprints?” said Catherine. She stepped back.

Mrs. Fallow followed her.

“Footprints,” she said. “Right there by the study window under the lilac bushes. Seems someone must have been standing there Wednesday night about the time Mr. Lessiter was killed. And they’ve got everything photographed and measured, so they’ll be able to tell who it was. And thank heaven they can’t put it on Miss Rietta, for they say the footprints was small, and that’s something no one couldn’t say about her. Nice shaped feet she’s got, but small they’re not, and you can’t get from it. So that’s one for Miss Rietta, and one for Cyril Mayhew too. We all know he’s a bit of a weed, but fours in lady’s shoes he doesn’t take and never could. And I needn’t really have bothered about the eggs. Mrs. Mayhew’s like a different creature—that cheered up you wouldn’t know her, and had a kipper for breakfast and three pieces of toast and marmalade. So I thought I’d come along this way and give you the news if you were anywhere about. Only I mustn’t stop—Miss Rietta’s counting on me.”

They walked out between the pillars. Catherine got into the bus.