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Authors: Patricia Wentworth

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Chapter Twenty-nine

Miss Silver had had a busy two days. On Saturday morning, after a short telephone conversation, she put on her hat and coat and went round to New Scotland Yard, where she was received by Sergeant Abbott and presently conducted by him into the presence of Chief Detective Inspector Lamb.

Frank Abbott, as always, derived a sardonic amusement from the ensuing ritual. Having met as old friends, with a hearty handshake on one side and a ladylike one on the other, Miss Silver hoped that the Chief Inspector was well, and enquired after his family.

‘And Mrs. Lamb? I trust she is in very good health… And your daughters? Lily’s little boy must be at a most delightful age.’

His daughters were the Chief Inspector’s weakness. He permitted himself to expatiate on the infant talents of little Ernie.

‘They would call him after me, and they say he looks like me too, poor little beggar.’

Miss Silver beamed.

‘He could not, I am sure, have a worthier ambition. And your second daughter, Violet? Her engagement — ’

Lamb shook his head.

‘Broken off-and just as well, if you ask me. Naval officer and a nice enough chap, but when he’d been away two years and come back they didn’t want to go on with it. She’s got a good confidential job at the Admiralty, and too many friends to want to make up her mind again in a hurry.’

‘And Myrtle?’

His youngest daughter was the core of Lamb’s heart.

‘Wants to train as a nurse,’ he said. ‘Her mother worries over it. Thinks she’ll catch something, but I tell her nurses don’t.’

Miss Silver opined that it was a noble profession. They came to business with a ‘Well now, what can we do for you?’ and one of her delicate coughs.

Seated in an upright chair, her own back as straight, her neatly shod feet in black woollen stockings and Oxford shoes planted side by side upon the office carpet, her hands in their black knitted gloves folded in the lap of a well worn cloth coat, a little tippet of elderly yellowish fur about her neck, and a hat of several years’ standing enlivened by a bunch of purple pansies on her head, Miss Silver gave her whole attention to the case of William Smith.

‘I find myself in a difficult situation,’ she said.

‘Well, what can we do to help you?’

This was Lamb at his most accessible. There had been times in the past when it was he who had been the recipient of help which, however tactfully proffered, had slightly ruffled his temper and their relations. It was not disagreeable to have Miss Silver asking for assistance.

She said, ‘You are so kind,’ and then got briskly to her case.

‘I have some reason to believe that an elderly clerk of the name of Davies was murdered on the seventh of December last. The death followed on a street accident after which he was taken to hospital and is said not to have recovered consciousness. I believe that he was pushed. Here is a memorandum of his place of employment, his private address, and the hospital to which he was taken. I should like to know whether he said anything at all before he died, and I should like to see a transcript of the evidence at the inquest.’

Lamb turned his eyes upon her. Brown in colour and slightly protuberant, they had been compared by his irreverent subordinate to the sweets known as bull’s eyes. He asked,

‘Why do you think he was murdered?’

‘He had just recognized someone who had been missing for seven years, and whose return may prove to be a serious embarrassment to the firm for which he was working.’

The Chief Inspector’s face assumed a tolerant expression.

‘Well now, I should call that a bit far-fetched. There are quite enough accidents to elderly people without calling in murder to account for them.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘That is very true. But in this case the life of the person recognised by Mr. Davies has been attempted, certainly on three, and possibly on a fourth occasion. One of these attempts was witnessed by Sergeant Abbott.’

Lamb shifted in his chair, brought a refrigerating gaze to bear upon that elegant young man, and said in tones of disfavour,

‘So you’re mixed up in this, are you? I might have known it!’

‘Well, sir — ’

Miss Silver interposed.

‘Permit me, Chief Inspector — ’

She presented the case of William Smith in as short and concise a manner as was possible — the loss of memory and identity; the recognition by Mr. Davies, by Katharine, by Frank Abbott; Mr. Tattlecombe’s ‘accident’; the first and second attacks on William; the tampering with the wheel of his car.

When she had finished Frank took up the tale. He described the attack, telling the Chief Inspector, as he had told Miss Silver, that he was convinced a second blow had been intended, and that in the circumstances it would almost certainly have proved fatal.

Lamb grunted.

‘Not much to go on,’ he said.

Miss Silver gave a slight protesting cough.

‘It is difficult to believe in such a series of coincidences. An accident to Mr. Davies just after he had recognized William Smith. An accident on that same evening to Mr. Tattlecombe in circumstances which rendered it possible that he had been mistaken for William Smith. Two separate attacks on William Smith after visiting Mr. Tattlecombe in Selby Street. And now the tampering with the wheel of his car. The trouble is that suspicion appears to be equally divided between someone connected with the firm of Eversleys and someone in the household at Selby Street. It is difficult to see how anyone in the firm could have been aware that William Smith would pay those two visits to Mr. Tattlecombe. He did not even go by appointment, and this would seem to make it likely that Miss Emily Salt may have been the assailant. She appears to be a person of unstable mentality, and to have resented Mr. Tattlecombe’s testamentary dispositions in favour of William Smith. She is, I am informed, a tall and powerful woman. Mr. Tattlecombe’s mackintosh was hanging in the hall. It would, I think, be difficult to tell a woman wearing such a garment from a man on the kind of night Sergeant Abbott has described. The first attack on William Smith was almost at Mrs. Salt’s door. On the second occasion Emily Salt could easily have followed him. It is not easy to see how anyone from the firm could have done so. On the other hand it seems impossible to suspect Emily Salt of the death of Mr. Davies, or of the accident to Mr. Tattlecombe, since she and her sister-in-law Mrs. Salt were present at a chapel Social on the evening of December the seventh. I have made a few local enquiries, and I find that Mrs. and Miss Salt were assisting in the preparations between five and seven, and that they were back in the hall before eight o’clock, where they remained until half-past ten. It would not, therefore, have been possible for Emily Salt to have been concerned in these two “accidents”, and during the period when the wheel was tampered with she was laid up in bed with influenza under the care of Mrs. Salt. I find myself unable to believe that two independent and unconnected series of attempts are being made upon William Smith, yet on the evidence at present before us it is very difficult to attribute all these attempts to the same agency.’

The Chief Inspector smiled. He said dryly,

‘If they ever were attempts, Miss Silver.’

There was a pause, slightly tinged with something not amounting to displeasure but tending that way. When she thought it had lasted long enough, Miss Silver coughed and said,

‘I am, naturally, not asking you to accept conclusions on which you have only hearsay evidence, and as to which I am not myself fully satisfied. I merely invite you to pursue some discreet investigations. You can call for the evidence in that inquest. You can, perhaps, discover whether either of the Eversley partners, Mr. Cyril and Mr. Brett, are in financial difficulties. I would not press you if I were not quite seriously troubled as to the personal safety of William Smith.’

Lamb continued to survey her with that tolerant smile.

‘William Smith being William Eversley?’

‘Precisely. He is also the senior partner, with a controlling interest in the business. When I add that Mrs. Eversley told me that her dividends were not forthcoming until there was active intervention on the part of a third trustee — Mr. Cyril and Mr. Brett Eversley being the other two — you will, I think, be prepared to admit that there are some grounds for my apprehension.’

Lamb frowned. He was remembering previous occasions on which Miss Silver had entertained apprehensions which had been rather dreadfully realised. He tapped the table and said,

‘Eversley won’t thank you for stirring up trouble about his firm.’

Miss Silver drew herself up.

‘That is the very last thing which I have in mind.’ She relaxed suddenly into one of her charming smiles. ‘Indeed, Chief Inspector, I have far too much confidence in your delicacy and discretion to suggest, as you yourself appear to be suggesting, that your department cannot make some discreet enquiries without precipitating a scandal.’

Lamb threw up his hands and broke into a hearty laugh.

‘Well, well — when you put it like that! Just give Frank here all the particulars you want, and I’ll see what we can do. You’ll have to excuse me — I’ve got a conference. And you know, if I hadn’t, I’d be afraid to stay. Some day you’ll be getting me into trouble.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘There is just one thing more.’

He had drawn back his chair and laid a big hand on the arm preparatory to rising. Checking momentarily, he restrained a frown and said in a good-humoured voice,

‘Now, now, you mustn’t keep me, or I shall be getting into the trouble I was talking about.’

Miss Silver assumed a gracious and friendly air.

‘Your time is indeed valuable and I will not trespass upon it. I would merely ask that you will have a person who is closely connected with this case placed under constant observation.’

Lamb withdrew his hand, placed it upon a solid knee, and leaned forward a little.

‘What person?’

‘Miss Mavis Jones.’

‘Why?’

Miss Silver submitted her reasons in an efficient manner, observing in conclusion,

‘I would not urge this course upon you if I were not persuaded of its vital importance.’

Lamb was really frowning now.

‘Can’t say I see much case for it myself.’

Miss Silver met his look with a very grave one.

‘My dear Chief Inspector, I have before now urged that a similar course of action should be taken. I beg that you will recall those occasions and decide for yourself whether my requests were then justified.’

Lamb again remembered with some unwillingness that when Miss Silver’s suggestions had in the past been disregarded the consequences had not always been such as to minister to his peace of mind. It came to him in the blunt, plain English which we talk in our own minds that there were men who would be alive today if he had done what Miss Silver had asked him.

Her voice interrupted his thought persuasively.

‘I do really believe that Mr. William Eversley’s life is in very grave danger.’

He got to his feet in a hurry.

‘Now, now, you know, you’re making me late. I suppose you’ll have to have your way — you generally do. Tell Frank what you want, and we’ll look after it for you.’

Miss Silver smiled upon him benignly.

‘You are always so kind.’

When the door closed behind him after a cordial handshake, Frank Abbott observed with malice,

‘You’ve got him rattled, you know. He thinks you keep a broomstick, and the unlicensed broomstick is naturally anathema to any government department, which would rather let its murderers go free than have them brought to book in an unorthodox manner.’

Miss Silver regarded him with indulgent reproof.

‘My dear Frank, you talk great nonsense.’

Chapter Thirty

It was at a little after six o’clock on Saturday evening that the telephone bell rang in Miss Silver’s sitting-room. She lifted the receiver and heard an unknown male voice say with a trace of country accent,

‘Can I speak to Miss Silver?’

She gave her slight preliminary cough.

‘Miss Silver speaking.’

‘Miss Maud Silver — the private enquiry agent?’

‘Yes.’

The voice said, ‘My name is Tattlecombe — Abel Tattlecombe. Does that convey anything to you?’

‘Certainly, Mr. Tattlecombe.’

At his end of the line Abel ran a hand through his thick grey hair. Not having Miss Silver’s address, he had had to pick her out from among all the other Silvers in the telephone-book, and there was always the chance that he might have picked the wrong one. He felt a good deal of relief, and was able to achieve an easier manner.

‘Then I’m right in thinking that it was you that Mrs. Smith was telling me about — Mrs. William Smith.’

Miss Silver coughed again.

‘Did she tell you about me?’

‘Yes, she did. She works here. I expect she told you that. She came up and talked to me, wanting the afternoon off so she could go and see you.’

‘Yes, Mr. Tattlecombe?’

‘Well, I was agreeable. I would like to say I think a lot of William Smith. Mrs. Smith, she’s troubled about him, and so am I. She told me she’d been to see you and she wanted to go again. She said your name, but she didn’t mention any address, so I had to go to the telephone directory to find you. The fact is I’ve got things on my mind, and I think you ought to know what they are.’

‘Yes, Mr. Tattlecombe?’

Abel ran his hand through his hair again. He couldn’t think what Abby was going to say to him. But it wasn’t any good. There are things you can keep to yourself, and things you can’t. Why, look at Abby — she couldn’t keep it — had to come round and load it off on to him. Well then, he wasn’t keeping it either. His conscience wouldn’t let him. You can’t play about with people’s lives, and he wasn’t going to be a party to it. He said firmly,

‘There’s things you ought to know, and the way I’m placed I can’t come and tell you about them — my leg’s only just out of a splint. Would it be possible for you to come here?’

Miss Silver coughed and said, ‘Perfectly possible, Mr. Tattlecombe.’

Abel rang off with a slightly defiant feeling that he had burned his boats.

He had gone downstairs into the empty shop to telephone. He could manage the stairs if he took them slowly one step at a time and nobody hustled him. He had rather an enjoyable prowl about the shop and the workshop whilst he waited. The doctor said to use the leg, and this was as good a way as any. The new animals pleased him a good deal. He took a look into Miss Cole’s books, and was gratified.

When Miss Silver knocked as he had bidden her he went to let her in, walking stiffly, but not allowing himself to limp. What he saw when she emerged into the light had a very reassuring effect. Mr. Tattlecombe knew a lady when he saw one. He considered that Miss Silver was a lady. She was dressed in very much the same way as his sister Abigail. Her clothes were not made of such handsome material, and they had been worn for a considerably longer time, but they were the same sort of clothes. Suitable was the word which he would have used. None of your mutton dressed as lamb. An elderly lady should be suitably attired. Just what he would have done if the private enquiry agent whom he had as it were plucked blindly from the pages of the telephone directory, had walked in upon him in high heels, a skirt to her knee, powdered, lipsticked, and waving a cigarette, it is really quite impossible to say. He was, fortunately, not to be subjected to any such ordeal.

Upstairs, and able to view one another in the unshaded light of his sitting-room, it was with mutual approbation that they did so, Miss Silver’s mental comment being, ‘A very nice, respectable man.’ When they were seated and she had seen that his leg-rest was comfortably placed, there was one of those slight pauses. It was broken by Mr. Tattlecombe.

‘Well, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it was very good of you to come.’

Miss Silver offered a deprecating smile and a ‘Not at all.’

Abel continued.

‘The fact is, I think a lot of William Smith. He’s been as good as a grandson to me here. I lost mine that was in the prison-camp with him in Germany, and what one man can do to take another one’s place — well, William’s done that and more. His wife’s been to see you. She’ll have told you about me being struck down, and William too — and pushed after that to throw him under a bus when he was waiting on an island.’

‘Yes, she told me.’

There was a second pause. It lasted longer than the first one. In the end Abel Tattlecombe fixed his round blue eyes on her face and said in a tone of portent,

‘My sister had tea with me today.’

Miss Silver inclined her head without speaking.

‘Mrs. Salt — Mrs. Abigail Salt, that’s her name — 176 Selby Street.’

Miss Silver repeated her former acknowledgment.

Abel pursued the theme.

‘That’s where I was when I came out of hospital — that’s where I made my will leaving the business to William Smith. And that’s where he was struck down after coming to see me.’ He paused, and added, ‘Both times.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘So Mrs. Smith informed me.’

Abel brightened. He rubbed the top of his right ear vigorously and said,

‘Did she tell you about Emily Salt?’

‘Yes.’

Abel let his hand fall with a clap upon his knee.

‘However my sister Abby has put up with her all these years passes me. But it can’t go on. Something’s got to be done about it, and so I told her this afternoon. “She’ll be far better off in a home,” I said, “and no risk to others.” And Abby — well, for once she hadn’t got anything to say for a bit, and then come out with a piece she’d said before, about Emily being in a fever and not rightly knowing what she was saying.’

With a neat disentangling movement Miss Silver extracted the pith of this discourse.

‘Your sister came here to tell you of something Miss Salt had said during her recent illness?’

Abel wagged his head.

‘Influenza,’ he said gloomily—‘and clean out of her wits.’

Miss Silver, sitting extraordinarily upright on a small Victorian chair inherited from a previous generation of Tattlecombes, clasped her hands in her lap and enquired,

‘What did she say?’

Abel rubbed his ear.

‘Abby said she’d got a temperature of a hundred and three and she was laid there groaning. All of a sudden she shoots out her hand and gets Abby by the wrist. “He ought to be dead,” she says, whispering fit to curdle your blood, and then she screams it out at the top of her voice over and over a dozen times, till Abby was afraid the neighbours would think there was a murder in the house. Abby did her best to quiet her, and presently she stopped and said just as if it was something quite ordinary, “I did my best — both times. You’d think he’d be dead by now, wouldn’t you?” Abby said to hush and lie down, and she went to get her a drink. When she came back, there was that Emily lying there staring, and saying, “He’s no right to have the money. It’s very wicked of Abel.” Abby hushed her up and told her the same as she’d done before, that she didn’t want my money — her husband left her plenty, and William was welcome. She says Emily just went on staring. She took the drink and stared at her over the cup and said, “I thought you wanted me to.” Abby said sharp, “Wanted you to do what?” and that Emily shifts her eyes and says, “Oh, no — it wasn’t you, was it?” and she finished her drink and went off to sleep. Abby says there was talking and muttering in the night, but nothing you could put words to, and in the morning her temperature was down. Well, you may say it wasn’t much to go on and the woman was out of her head, but I could see there was more than that. I’ve known Abby too many years not to know when she’s got something on her mind, and in the end I got it out of her. Seems she went downstairs with William the night he was struck down. They were in the front parlour for a bit, talking about me. When she came back from letting him out she took notice that my mackintosh was gone fom the hall stand. I’d got it on when I had my accident, so it went to the hospital and come on with me to Selby Street. It was torn, but not too bad, and Abby mended it up and hung it in the hall against my wanting it. Well, it passed in her mind that Emily might have slipped it on to go to the post, which she shouldn’t have done, and Abby says she’d made up her mind to tell her as much. She went on up, and no Emily Salt. Presently she hears the front door and she goes down. There’s my mackintosh back on the hall stand wringing damp, and Emily halfway down the kitchen stairs. Abby says, “Where have you been?” and she says, “To the post.” Abby was going to mention the mackintosh, but that Emily didn’t wait, she was off into the scullery and the tap running. Said she wanted a drink. Cold tap-water after going to the post on a January night! Well, Abby said no more, but there was something she thought about afterwards when it come out about William being struck down.’ He paused.

Miss Silver said, ‘Yes, Mr. Tattlecombe?’

He wagged his head in an emphatic manner.

‘When she went down to see to the kitchen fire she missed the poker. It’s a little short one she keeps handy at the side of the range. Well, it wasn’t there, and she didn’t stop to look for it, but come next morning she found it in the scullery.’

There was a pause, followed by one pregnant word.

‘Rusty,’ said Mr. Tattlecombe.

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