The Brading Collection (12 page)

“By Maida, coming away in a hurry for her bathe.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“That is the first evidence we have of its being left open, but it is not the last. After Mrs. Robinson came out Major Constable went back to fetch her bag. He says he left the steel door shut at a quarter to three, but Miss Grey found it open ten minutes later. You say that she cannot be depended on to have shut it when she came away at ten minutes past three, and you yourself found it open when you arrived at twenty past. The door is therefore known to have been open for a minute or two between Mrs. Robinson leaving the annexe and Major Constable arriving there to fetch her bag. No one passed through the hall at that time except Major Constable himself, but it would have been just possible for someone to reach the annexe from the billiard-room and conceal himself there—in Mr. Moberly’s room, the bathroom, or one of the other rooms. A far more likely time for someone to have concealed himself on the premises would be during one of the later periods when we know that the door was open. Miss Grey found it open just before three, and you found it open at three-twenty. We do not know who opened it, which means that we do not know how long it was open. Major Constable may be mistaken in thinking that he had shut it. It closes, I notice, with a spring. He was in a hurry. It may have stood open for the whole ten minutes before Miss Grey arrived, and then for a further ten minutes between her departure and your own arrival. We have no means of knowing. All we do know is that no one passed through the hall during either of those times except Miss Constantine.”

Charles frowned.

“There could have been someone in the billiard-room—”

“Could there, Major Forrest? When we passed the door just now I tried it, and it was locked.”

Charles said nothing for a moment. His face hardened. His lids came down until they almost covered his eyes. All at once he stood up, drove his hands deep into his pockets, and said abruptly,

“That puts the lid on.”

Miss Silver looked at him, her head a little tilted on one side, her expression that of an inconspicuous but intelligent bird which has just perceived a worm.

“The door was locked yesterday?”

He said, not looking at her,

“The room is being done up. There’s a hitch about some of the materials—a hang-up over the week-end. The men had left their stuff there.”

“Then the windows would have been shut and the door locked yesterday?”

“They may have been.”

“It is a point which can be verified.”

She tore off the sheet upon which she had made her notes, laid the pencil back in the tray, straightened the blotting-pad, and rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Major Forrest.”

Stacy took the bus to the Saltings corner. She had really only a step to go from there, but the sun beat upon the shadeless road, and she was glad of the umbrella which Myra Constantine had pressed upon her—a big, old-fashioned thing, dust-coloured, with a bright green lining.

The trees about Saltings came into view. She turned in at the gate. Rather like being a ghost this coming back. Ghost stories always took the wrong point of view. It was all how dreadful for the living to be haunted, how the flesh crept and the hair rose and the courage failed. But what about the poor haunting disembodied thing come back to walk where it had loved and been loved, and now was no more than a shuddering and an amazement? She felt very much like a ghost as she came out in front of the big house and walked up the steps.

The front door stood wide. The hall had been stripped, altered. The rugs were gone from the floor, the display of arms from the chimney-breast. There was a lift running up through the well of the stairs, rather cleverly fitted in. Some of the old portraits remained to gloom upon the scene.

She looked about her. Charles had one of the ground-floor flats. She found his name, and then came back in a hurry to climb the stairs. The lift was an automatic one, and she didn’t like them very much. Besides, she was in no hurry to arrive. She had three years to bridge over. This was to have been her home—no, Stacy Forrest’s home. And she wasn’t Stacy Forrest any more. She was Stacy Mainwaring again. It made her feel a little giddy—as if time had been telescoped—as if she was in two places at once—as if today wasn’t today but something strange and out of time.

She came to the top of the stairs and found a door with Lilias Grey’s name on it. She was lifting her hand to the bell, when it opened, and Lilias was saying,

“But you’re late. Do come in. It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?”

Stacy had wondered what she would say, and what Lilias would say, but it was all quite easy. She didn’t have to say anything—unless you count the sort of things you say when somebody else hardly stops to take a breath. Lilias wanted to show her the flat, to talk about the flat, to say how clever Charles had been, how clever the architect had been.

“You see, this was my mother’s bedroom—divided to make bedroom and sitting-room. And quite big enough. I don’t care about very big rooms—do you? It was such a huge room before—but of course you remember it. And I get the view over the sea from both these windows. Then, through here, the dressing-room has been divided to make a kitchenette and a bathroom. I’m sure you wouldn’t recognize it, would you?”

No, she wouldn’t have recognized it. In the room which was Lilias’s sitting-room she and Charles had slept. Out here in the chopped-up dressing-room there was a kitchen sink where his bureau had been. She had watched in the night and seen him stand there with Damaris Forrest’s necklace in his hand. She felt an intolerable revulsion. Tragedy with the kitchen sink imposed upon it!

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Lilias Grey.

This kind of conversation continued whilst Lilias made tea, offered cucumber sandwiches, and played the charming hostess. Stacy could only tell herself that she had asked for it. It was her own fault, she should never have come, but now that she was here she had no choice but to appear the willing guest. As she set herself to the task, it did just cross her mind to wonder why Lilias had asked her, and just what lay behind this almost febrile flow of talk. There was too much of it—too much nervous energy. It was overdone, in the same way that Lilias Grey’s make-up had been overdone. The blue eyes were brilliant, there was colour in the cheeks, the lipstick was deftly applied, but it was all just a little too much of a good thing, and in spite of it Lilias looked her age.

That was the first thing that made Stacy think. The second was that after nearly half an hour there had still been no mention of Lewis Brading. In the end when she had put down her cup and said, “No, thank you,” to a quick, “Won’t you have some more tea?” she brought in the name herself. She wasn’t going to sit here and let Lilias get away with pretending that nothing had happened. She waited for the first momentary pause and said,

“It’s a dreadful thing about Lewis.”

Lilias lost colour. The rouge stood out upon a suddenly whitened skin. She said with a shudder,

“Don’t let’s talk about it. You don’t know what it’s been like—having to see the police—and make a statement!”

She had said, “Don’t let’s talk about it,” but now all that nervous energy flowed into the new channel. Her hands twisted in her lap. Her fair hair shone like a nimbus.

“I always said something dreadful would happen. All that jewelry was too valuable.”

“But was anything taken?” Stacy’s surprise showed in her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know. The police don’t tell you anything. They just go on asking their stupid questions. And I was hardly there any time at all. I just walked in—the door was open, you know. I was going to ask Lewis about investing some money my mother left me. It was a mortgage that had been paid off, and I thought that he might know of something good. But all he would say was, ‘Put it into government securities.’ You know, he was like that. He was really almost disagreeable, and I wished I hadn’t come, so I didn’t stay any time at all.” Her hands twisted. “Just because he’s dead it’s no use pretending he was all the things we know he wasn’t. I really came away feeling quite upset.”

Stacy was wondering why on earth Lilias should have thought of consulting Lewis Brading. He was not the sort of person to invite that kind of thing, especially from an adopted relation whom he didn’t very much like. She didn’t put this into words, but she went quite near to it by saying,

“Why didn’t you consult Charles?”

Lilias made a jerky gesture. She said quickly,

“Oh, I couldn’t—not about money.”

Stacy felt the colour rise and burn in her cheeks. It was just as if she had taken an incautious step and felt the ground give way and the smell of burning come up through the broken crust. She hadn’t meant—she hadn’t ever meant to touch that ground again. The burning came up into her face.

Lilias leaned forward and said in a low, horrified voice,

“I’m so frightened—”

Stacy’s nails dug into her palm.

“Why?”

Lilias began to tremble.

Stacy said, “Why?” again. She had drunk two cups of tea, but her lips were dry and parched.

The big blue eyes between the darkened lashes stared into hers. Lilias said,

“About Charles.”

“Why?” She didn’t seem to be able to get past that word.

The blue eyes were afraid. You could see the fear brimming up in them, brimming over. Words came in a whisper.

“If he did it—”

Something right down inside Stacy said, “Nonsense!” It was a very comforting reaction. She tried what it would be like if she said it aloud. Her voice came out firm and strong, and it sounded good.

“Nonsense!”

Lilias shuddered. She went on in that silly creepy whisper.

“Oh, Stacy, I’m so frightened. That’s why I had to see you—only when you came it didn’t seem as if I could talk about it. But I must talk to someone. I shall go mad if I don’t.”

Stacy was being surprised by her own feelings. The thing that had said “Nonsense!” went on saying it. She looked at Lilias, and felt a lot older and more competent than the Stacy of three years ago. She thought, quite dispassionately, that one of those old-fashioned bedroom jugs full of cold water tipped right over the fair hair, the eyelashes, the make-up, and all the rest of it would probably be a good plan. Lilias was making her own flesh creep—perhaps. She wasn’t going to make Stacy’s flesh creep any more. Three years ago, yes, but not today. Not any more. She sat up straight and said in the coolest voice she could manage,

“You really are talking nonsense, Lilias. I think you’d better stop.”

Lilias shut her eyes. The long dark lashes were wet. She said in an exhausted voice,

“It’s only to you—I must talk to someone—it doesn’t matter if it’s only to you.”

It was no use thinking of tipping jugs of water over people if there weren’t jugs of water to tip. She did the best she could with her voice,

“What is all this? If you’ve got anything to say, go on and say it!”

The lashes flew up.

“Oh, Stacy—I didn’t think—”

“You’d better. It doesn’t do to say that sort of thing—to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t to anyone else. It’s just—Charles. He’s everything to me, you know—he always has been. It doesn’t matter what he’s done, he’s everything.”

Stacy said, “Lilias—”

“I must talk to someone—isn’t it better that I should talk to you? Because even now—even now you wouldn’t want to do him any harm.”

Stacy said, “No—I wouldn’t want to do him any harm.”

“Then let me talk to you. I didn’t sleep last night. I could only go on thinking, ‘Suppose it was Charles, or suppose they think it was.’ ”

“Why?”

With a rush of nervous energy, Lilias told her why.

“Don’t you see—you usen’t to be stupid—I came away at ten minutes past three, and Lewis was alive. He was sitting at his table and he was alive. Charles came only ten minutes later, and he says he found him dead. If Lewis didn’t kill himself, who killed him? Charles says that the police don’t believe it was suicide. I don’t understand all the reasons why, but they don’t believe it. Then who killed him? And why? There wasn’t anything stolen, or any attempt made to break into the strong-room—besides, who would in the middle of the afternoon, with people coming and going all the time? I went at ten past, Charles came at twenty past—there simply wasn’t time. And if he wasn’t killed for that wretched Collection, why was he killed?”

Stacy put up a hand. It was curious to feel how cold it was as she lifted it.

“Look here, Lilias—stop! You can’t have it both ways. You started off by saying you always thought something dreadful would happen—because of the Collection. And now you say nobody tried to steal anything, and they wouldn’t in the middle of the afternoon anyhow. Then you finish up with, ‘If he wasn’t killed for that wretched Collection, why was he killed?’ You’re arguing from both ends and getting a head-on collision in the middle. You’d better make up your mind which way you do want to have it and stick to that.”

Lilias beat her hands together.

“It’s not like that at all! Of course that’s what we must say—the bit about the Collection, I mean. We must all say it, and stick to it, that someone was hiding, and went in when the door was open. Maida and Jack Constable must have left it open—they must. And we must say that a thief got in and hid, and shot Lewis, and then hid again when Charles came.” Her eyes widened and stared. “Oh—it might have happened like that, mightn’t it? If we go on saying so hard—”

“Then why don’t you? You started off that way, and then you swung right over and said nobody would try to steal the Collection in the middle of the afternoon. Why did you say that?”

Lilias’s eyes brimmed over.

“Because it’s true—because I was just talking to you. The first bit was only—only what we’ve got to say because of Charles. Lewis wasn’t killed for the Collection.”

“Do you know why he was killed?”

“Anyone will know if they stop to think. He was going to marry Maida. He had made a will in her favour—on one of those stupid will-forms. I tell you I saw it when I was there—it was lying there on the table. He saw me looking at it, and he said in his most disagreeable voice, ‘You seem interested. That’s my new will. I’m afraid Charles won’t like it.’ ”

“Did he tell you he was going to marry Maida, and what was in the will?”

“Of course he did—and in the most horrid sneering way! That’s why I didn’t stay. Don’t you see what must have happened? If he spoke to Charles like that—and he would—well, there was the revolver in the drawer.”

“You knew where it was?”

“Everyone knew where it was. Lewis wanted everyone to know—he used to leave that drawer open on purpose. Now don’t you see how it must have happened? Charles saw the will—and the revolver—”

Stacy said, “I think you’re talking nonsense.”

Lilias had colour enough now. It came up bright under the rouge and drowned it. Her eyes shone. She said in a high, clear voice,

“Then who burned the will? It didn’t matter to anyone but Charles; but it mattered to him. Why should anyone else burn it?”

“Was it burned?”

“Of course it was! Didn’t Charles tell you that?”

“I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t told me anything.”

“He wouldn’t tell you that—he wouldn’t tell anyone. The police told me. The will was all burned to ashes on a metal tray. They wanted to know if I’d seen it—whether it was burned when I was there. And it wasn’t—it wasn’t. Who burned it?”

Stacy said soberly,

“I don’t know. But I do know that you’re talking nonsense, and if you care for Charles you’ll stop. I suppose you don’t want to put ideas into people’s heads?”

All the colour and fire went out of Lilias. With a quick nervous shudder she twisted round, laid her arms across the back of the chair, and bent her head upon them. Her shoulders heaved. A difficult, slow sobbing began.

It might be well over eighty in the shade, but Stacy had never felt colder. Some of the cold was fear. She banged the door on that with the blessed word, “Nonsense!” Some of it was anger—there is a cold anger more potent than the hot. Some of it was just a chill revulsion from all this hysteria. After a moment or two she said,

“For God’s sake pull yourself together! If you have any real feeling for Charles you will.”

Lilias continued to sob, but she managed to find words as well. Nothing would ever prevent Lilias from finding words.

“I’d do anything for Charles—you know that. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world. Haven’t I helped to cover everything up all these years? Oh, you don’t know what it’s been like, or you wouldn’t be so unkind!”

This was the sort of thing which could go on for ever. Theme with variations—and the variations were infinite. When it had all got a little past endurance Stacy went through to the bathroom and came back with a dry towel and a wet face-cloth. Lilias was induced to sit up and dab her eyes in a delicate, half-hearted manner. The ravages were not so very dreadful, and it sufficed. The sobbing died down to a catch in the breath, and the tumbled words gave way to a sighing,