Silence in Court (25 page)

“That was the only present of jewellery you accepted?”

“Yes.”

He took her on to the next day, November 16th. She heard herself describing how she had come back after lunching with Dennis Harland to find Cousin Honoria shaking with excitement and anger, clamouring aloud that she had been deceived, and that Mr. Aylwin must be sent for—she must alter her will.

“In all this anger and excitement did Mrs. Maquisten name the person who had deceived her?”

“No, she didn't.”

“Did she say anything at all to make you suppose that she thought you were that person?”

“Oh, no.”

“Was she angry with you?”

“Not at first—she was just angry. Afterwards she was angry with me because I tried to persuade her to wait a little before ringing up Mr. Aylwin.”

“Why did you do that?”

“She was so very excited—I thought it must be bad for her.”

“Had you any other motive?”

Carey lifted those very dark blue eyes.

“Oh, no. I did truly think it wasn't safe for her to be so angry.”

“That was all you thought about?”

“Yes.”

He bent his pleasant smile upon her.

“Miss Silence—where was the telephone fixture?”

“On a table by the window.”

“It has been stated in evidence that Mrs. Maquisten was perfectly able to get out of bed and walk about. Do you know why she waited for you to come in? Why did she not put through the call herself?”

“She never used the telephone.”

“Never?”

“That is what my cousins told me. She was just a little deaf, and telephoning worried her.”

He took her on through the day—what she did, what she said—the conversation at the dinner table—the order in which they went upstairs.…

“Will you tell us what happened when you went into Mrs. Maquisten's room.”

“Ellen Bridling was there. Cousin Honoria was up in her chair near the fire. Ellen said she ought to be in bed quieting herself down. Cousin Honoria was very angry. She hit the arm of her chair with her hand and said, ‘You'll hold your tongue and do what you're told! And so will the rest of them while I've got breath in my body!' Ellen went away, and Cousin Honoria called me to come up close to her. She looked at me for a minute, and then she said, ‘Do I frighten you? Did I frighten you just now?' And I said, ‘It's bad for you, isn't it?' She gave a sort of nod and said, ‘Oh, I'm not dead yet.' And then she took my hand and said; ‘It wasn't for you. I don't want to frighten you—you mustn't be afraid of me. I couldn't bear that—you're so like Julia.' That was my grandmother. She loved her very much. She went on talking about her until Honor came in.”

“Was she still holding your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave the bedroom between the time that Ellen Bridling went out and Miss King came in?”

“No.”

“Did you go into the bathroom?”

“Oh, no.”

On through the scene which followed.

“It was Ellen Bridling who suggested that you should fetch the sleeping-draught from the bathroom?”

“She suggested myself or Nora Hull.”

“Who actually asked you to fetch it?”

“Cousin Honoria.”

“Will you tell us what you did.”

“I went into the bathroom, switched on the light, took the medicine-glass off the shelf over the wash-basin, switched out the light, and came back into the bedroom.”

“Did you open the glass-fronted cupboard?”

“No.”

“Did you touch the bottle of tabloids either then or at any other time?”

“No.”

“Did you then or at any other time dissolve any of those tabloids or any other tabloids and add them to the contents of the medicine-glass containing the sleeping-draught?”

“Oh, no.” Her voice rang clear and firm.

“Did you desire Mrs. Maquisten's death?”

“Oh, no.”

“Did you do anything to cause it?”

“Of course not. No one had ever been so good to me. I loved her.” The colour came up in her face as she said the words. Her voice shook on the last of them.

Hugo Vane said, “Thank you, Miss Silence.”

The court rose.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

As Jeff Stewart walked away he heard light running footsteps behind him. A hand was slipped inside his arm. Nora Hull said,

“Jeff—”

He turned to look down at her, and found her bright-eyed and pale in the dusk. There was a low, lead-coloured sky, and an edgy wind at every street corner. He wanted to get away, to walk miles with the wind in his face.

He wanted to have done as quickly as possible with whatever it was Nora had to say.

“Jeff—I want to talk to you.”

“I don't think I'm fit to talk to anyone.”

She had a hold on his sleeve. Her eyes were very bright indeed.

“I want to talk to you, Jeff. Come home with me.”

He shook his head.

She went on urgently.

“You needn't see Dennis, or Honor, or anyone except me.”

“What do you want?”

He had never seen her pale before. She was so pale that the lipstick on her mouth gave her a little the look of a clown, the contrast was so sharp. She said in a lost, unhappy voice,

“I want to talk to someone who doesn't think she did it.”

That pricked him—that, and the little clutching hand at his sleeve. He said,

“I'll walk back with you but I won't come in.”

As they walked, she went on, still in that lost voice.

“They all think she did it. That's what frightens me so. There were two women just now when I was coming out of court—great fat women, going home to kippers or sausages for their tea—and one of them said, ‘That Mrs. Andrews she lived with for three years, she didn't have much to say for her, did she?' And the other one said, ‘No, she didn't. I expect if the rights of it were known, it was her wrote the letter which upset the apple-cart. I bet you she knew a thing or two about Miss. Carey Silence.'”

Jeff tried to jerk his arm away, but she held on.

“Why do you tell me that sort of thing?”

Nora gave a sob.

“Because I shall burst if I can't talk to someone—I really shall. Dennis thinks she did it, and it's done something frightful to him, because he was in love with her. Everybody you meet thinks she did it. I've quarrelled with Alan about it, and with Jack, and with Bobby. And Bill—he's thousands of miles away, and I haven't had a letter from him since Christmas. What's the good of being married if you don't get a shoulder to cry on? What's the good of a shoulder in the Middle East when you want one here? And those horrible women were just the very last straw. Only the men are just as bad. There was a horrid little wretch just behind me, and he said, ‘Well, who did it if she didn't?' And that's just what everybody says. So I couldn't bear it—I had to run after you.”

He looked down at her with his frown gone.

“It's tough, isn't it?” And then, “Mordaunt's pleased with the way she gave her evidence.”

“I thought it was marvellous. I don't see how they could listen to her and think she did it. Do you?”

“No.”

They walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Nora said,

“Jeff, what does Mordaunt think is the worst part of the evidence against her?”

“Hood—and Ellen Bridling. Vane did his best to shake them, but Mordaunt is afraid those conversations with Cousin Honoria will be sticking in the minds of the jury—that and the fact that she obviously did mean to cut one of the main legatees out of her will, and that on the evidence the only one of them who had the opportunity of tampering with the stuff after Ellen saw it at twenty past eight was Carey. Of course someone is lying. But why? Why should Ellen lie to put it on Carey—unless she thinks it was Honor or Dennis and wants to clear them?”

Nora shook her head vigorously.

“She hates us all. She's got a hating nature. She's a poisonous old devil, but she
did
love Aunt Honoria. As far as the rest of us are concerned, she'd see us all hang. Once Aunt Honoria was gone and she'd got her legacy, why should she care? She hates Dennis because he used to imitate her when he was a schoolboy, and she isn't the sort that ever forgets. And she despises Honor. She wouldn't lift a finger for either of them.”

He gave a sort of groan.

“Well, that's Ellen. Then there's Hood. Any reason why Hood should lie?”

The hand on his arm gave a jerking pull. Nora said,

“If he thought it was Honor he might.”

“What!”

“But it couldn't be Honor—it simply couldn't. Ellen saw the stuff at twenty past eight, and it was all right then. Honor simply wasn't alone one moment after that. She couldn't have done it. And anyhow she wouldn't. She's one of the most tiresome and irritating people who ever lived, but she wouldn't poison anyone. She's the sort that goes flop, not the sort that does something about it.”

Jeff pulled his arm away. His hand came down on Nora's shoulder.

“What's that got to do with Hood? What's Honor got to do with him?”

She stared, round-eyed and a little frightened in the dusk.

“Didn't you know? It was the family joke. He'd been sucking up to her for months, ever since he got out of the Army. Den used to tease her—we all did. I thought you knew.”

The words came out in little rushes, too many of them and too fast.

Jeff held her.

“Do you mean there was something between them? Is that what you mean?”

She gave a shaky nod, and then hurried to explain it away.

“I don't suppose there was anything in it really. Den was rather a beast, I thought. She'd never had anyone before. Even if it was only Ernest Hood it was something. They used to go to the cinema—I expect they held hands. I don't suppose it got any farther than that. She got no end of a kick out of it. You see, if you've never had anything, a little goes a long way. She used to say she'd been out with Daphne Smyth.”

“Hood was fond of her? Fond enough to perjure himself?”

The half-frightened look in Nora's eyes changed to a sparkle. She made a face and said,

“I think he was passionately fond of what he thought she was going to get from Aunt Honoria.” And then the fright was back again. She was pulling at his coat and saying, “Jeff, don't look like that! They couldn't have done it—neither of them could. Do you suppose Den and I would have held our tongues and let Carey be tried if there had been the slightest, faintest chance of putting it on that awful Ernest Hood? But he simply couldn't have had anything to do with it. He went away at four o'clock, hours and hours before that damned sleeping-draught was mixed, and more than an hour before Honor came home. And he was back in the office before she left her parcel-packing place, because Den found out. And she came straight home here when she left, so they didn't meet or anything. So we thought, ‘What's the good of dragging her in when she couldn't possibly have anything to do with it?'”

“Did Molly and Mrs. Deeping know about Hood and Honor?”

“I expect so. I told you it was a family joke. But they wouldn't say anything unless they were asked, and of course the police didn't ask because they didn't know there was anything to ask about.”

“Carey—did Carey know?”

“Of course.”

“And she didn't say?” His voice strained on the words.

“She wouldn't drag Honor in just for nothing at all. It was quite bad enough without that.” He felt her shoulder jerk pettishly under his hand. “Jeff, we'll collect a crowd if we go on standing here.”

The hand lifted. He swung round and began to walk again. No words for a long time—thoughts pounding in him—the blood pounding in his ears, against his temples. Just how much did it matter, all this stuff they had kept back? Would it have saved Carey? Would it have helped her? Was it too late to help her now? He didn't know. He would have to see Mordaunt. Hood with his eye on the legacy which Honor King expected—which Honor King had now got away with. A very substantial legacy. Hood might do a good deal to get his hands on fifty thousand pounds.… Suppose that letter had been to tell Honoria Maquisten that Ernest Hood, her solicitor's clerk, was making up to Honor King. Her immediate reaction might very well have been to keep that fifty thousand out of Hood's hands for good and all by cutting Honor out of her will. If that was the case and Hood knew it, their interview on that Monday afternoon must have been a fairly sultry one. It would have pleased Honoria Maquisten to make him the instrument of his own humiliation and disappointment, and when it came to saying what had happened—well, he couldn't possibly afford to make it public. He would lie, would suggest Carey Silence as the object of Honoria Maquisten's anger, would just stop short of naming her outright. Because of course there was the writer of the letter to be reckoned with. He must have felt tolerably sure that the person who wrote it wouldn't show up. And that meant he knew who the writer was.… That didn't matter—not now—not here. Assume Ernest Hood had lied about his interview with Honoria Maquisten. Assume he lied when he said he thought all that about going up with the rocket and coming down with the stick referred to Carey. Because that was one of the things that had always stuck in his throat. That phrase rang true. It wasn't only that Honoria Maquisten might have used it; he had never been able to get away from the conviction that she
had
used it. Well, so she might have done. But the rocket would have been Ernest Hood, and not Carey Silence. With the sputter and flash of an actual firework the question which had raised a laugh in court shot through his mind and illumined it—“How would you like to be a rocket, Mr. Hood?” Or perhaps what Honoria Maquisten had really said was, “How do you like being a rocket?”…