The Case Of William Smith (20 page)

Abigail said in a bewildered voice,

‘Oh, no — how could I?’

Miss Silver continued to look at her.

‘I should like to put that same question to Miss Emily Salt.’

‘To Emily?’

‘Yes please. Mrs. Salt.’

Abigail got up and went out of the room. She left the door open behind her. Miss Silver heard her cross the passage and knock. After a moment the knock was repeated, and after that there was the sound of an opening door.

Abigail came back looking disturbed.

‘She must be out. Her coat is gone, and her hat. I don’t know why I didn’t hear her go.’

Miss Silver said, ‘She may not have wished you to do so.’ And then, ‘Perhaps I may wait until she returns. I think you spoke of a photograph of your mother-in-law. I should be interested to see it.’

The photograph-album lay, as it had done in old Mrs. Salt’s time, upon the highly polished pedestal table which occupied the centre of the room. In order that the polish might sustain no damage a crocheted woollen mat, originally moss-green relieved with salmon but now all gone away to a dim shade resembling lichen, had been interposed. The covers of the album were very highly embossed, and linked by a massive gilt clasp.

Drawing her chair to the table, Miss Silver watched with interest whilst a succession of Salt portraits were displayed, all very glossy and in a high state of preservation owing to the fact that they had hardly ever been allowed to see the light of day. They were of two sizes, cabinet and carte-de-visite, each photograph embedded in the thick cream-laid boards which formed the pages of the album — young men with beards; middle-aged men with muttonchop whiskers and the high wing collar popularized by William Ewart Gladstone; a little girl with striped stockings and a round comb in her hair, looking as if she had escaped from one of Tenniel’s illustrations to Alice in Wonderland; ladies with heavy braided skirts stretched over a crinoline; girls of the early eighties in jutting bustles and little tilted hats; babies smothered in pelisses; and dreadful little boys with curls and sailor suits.

At intervals Miss Silver murmured, ‘So interesting — ’ With a case mounting to its climax, she could still become absorbed in these pages from a family history which was in miniature the history of a rather splendid age. Here was a cross-section of the great middle class to which England owes so much, constantly replenished on the one hand from those who by dint of perseverance, push, and brains had fought their way up from below, and on the other from those offshoots of the aristocracy and landed gentry who as continually passed into it in the pursuit of a livelihood in trade, farming, or one of the lesser professions.

Abigail turned a page and disclosed an empty space. Her smooth forehead contracted. She said in a puzzled voice,

‘It should be here. Who can possibly have taken it out?’ And then in a quick, vexed way, ‘It must have been Emily. She must have wished to show it to May. She used to say there was a strong likeness. But it is really very wrong of her — she shouldn’t have done it!’

It was at this moment that Emily Salt entered the house. The opening and closing of the front door was plainly heard in the parlour. And then there was a pause. Abigail closed the album and laid it back upon the woolly mat. She rose to her feet and leaned over the table to fasten the heavy gold clasp. All this occupied the shortest possible space of time, but it was long enough.

Emily Salt shut the door behind her. She put her latchkey back in her bag and took something else out. She went towards the foot of the stairs.

Up in the parlour they heard her fall. With a startled look on her face Abigail went to the door, opened it, and called over the banisters,

‘Emily!’

But the word was hardly out of her mouth before she was running down. Miss Silver followed her. Emily Salt lay dead across the bottom step with part of a stick of chocolate clutched in her gloved right hand.

Abigail got slowly to her feet. She had knelt beside the body, turned the glove back from the wrist and felt for a pulse that was not there. Now she stood up and put a hand on the newel-post to steady herself.

‘She’s dead — ’

Miss Silver had been kneeling too. She also rose. Her face was very grave.

Abigailsaid in an expressionless voice, ‘Her heart was all right — the doctor said so — ’

Miss Silver came to her.

‘You will want all your courage, Mrs. Salt. I fear that it was poison.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘I think cyanide. There is the suddenness, the appearance, and the distinctive odour. We must not touch her or disturb anything. Scotland Yard must be informed at once.’

Abigail Salt’s eyes had filled with tears. They had a bewildered look. The tears began to run slowly down over her cheeks, which had lost nearly all their rosy colour. She held on tightly to the newel and said,

‘But why?’

‘Can you not think of any reason, Mrs. Salt? Where is your telephone? The police must be notified.’

Abigail said, ‘It’s here — in this downstairs room.’

They went into the sitting-room to which she had taken William Smith on the night he was attacked. In a very brisk and businesslike manner Miss Silver asked if she might speak with Sergeant Abbott or Chief Inspector Lamb. When she heard Frank Abbott’s voice she said briefly,

‘A shocking fatality has occurred. I am speaking from 176 Selby Street. Miss Emily Salt has just entered the house and dropped down dead. I suspect cyanide.’

Sne heard him whistle at the other end of the line.

‘Suicide?’

‘I did not say so. The person who was to be watched — is there any information from that quarter?’

‘Yes — let me see — Donald reported that she had returned to town at midday yesterday.’

‘I already knew that.’

‘He followed her to her flat. You always know everything, but I just wonder whether you know that she has been living there as Mrs. Woods.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I have been suspecting it for the last half-hour. It supplies the link for which I have been looking.’

As she hung up the receiver her mind was working rapidly. The indispensable link had been established. Mavis Jones had been for fifteen years a confidential secretary. It appeared that she was now Mrs. Cyril Eversley, but that for a good many years out of the fifteen she had occupied a very comfortable flat as Mrs. Woods. And Mrs. Woods was Mary Salt’s daughter and Emily Salt’s niece, May. She stood there thinking of Emily Salt’s abnormal mentality, her crazy devotion to this new-found niece, its fading — and its recurrence about two months ago.

About two months ago — when William Smith had paid a visit to Eversleys and been recognized by the old clerk. About two months ago — when Mr. Tattlecombe had been struck down and Mr. Yates had heard the casualty in the bed next to him mutter something that might have been ‘Joan’ or ‘Jones’, and then, ‘She pushed me.’ That was the beginning of it — death of Mr. Davies — accident to Mr. Tattlecombe. Attacks on William Smith — the tampering with his car — that was how it went on. And now the death of Emily Salt. Was that the end?

Emily Salt was dead — thought focused on that. Why? She thought Emily had been an instrument, and that the instrument had been discarded. When do you discard an instrument? The answer appeared in a very bright light. When it has done its work — when it might be dangerous to keep it. But the work for which this instrument had been required was the destruction of William Smith.

An instrument is only discarded when its work is done and it would be dangerous to keep it.

What work?

The destruction of William Smith.

How?

Into that very bright light in her mind there came a single word. It was the word with which she had accounted to Abigail for the death of Emily Salt.

Cyanide.

Perhaps concealed in the stick of chocolate still clasped in her hand. Cyanide can be concealed in other things beside chocolate. Quick and clear came the picture of Abigail Salt telling her about the pot of apple honey. ‘A pot of my apple honey which I had set aside all ready to leave at my brother’s for William Smith and his wife.’

She turned upon Abigail.

‘Mrs. Salt, you missed a pot of apple honey.’

There was a look of surprise, a slight start. The words seemed so irrelevant, the occasion so trifling.

‘Yes.’

‘You told me that you had put it aside. Did you mean that it was packed up?’

‘Yes, I had done it up all ready to take.’

‘Was there any message enclosed?’

‘Just a line, “With kind regards — Abigail Salt.” Miss Silver — ’

Miss Silver was opening her bag. She took out a notebook, consulted it, found the telephone number she required, and dialled with steady fingers. When she heard the receiver lifted at the other end of the line she spoke. Her voice was steady too,

‘Mrs. Eversley?’

No one but herself was to know with what a feeling of thankfulness she heard Katharine’s voice say, ‘Yes.’

Sudden death has its own dreadful routine. Those who serve it came into Abigail Salt’s house and went about their business there without reference to her — Detective Sergeant Abbott, a police surgeon, a police photographer, a fingerprint man. Miss Silver sat with Abigail in the upstairs parlour whilst they were at their work. Presently Katharine joined them there. William was making a statement downstairs. They had put an outer covering right over the pot of apple honey and its contents and brought it with them. They had brought the little cut-glass dish heaped up with amber jelly, the two dead flies still lying on it.

Katharine was very white and still. She went over to Abigail Salt and took her hand.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salt — so dreadfully sorry. She couldn’t have known what she was doing.’

Abigail looked at her.

‘I put it out all ready to take round when I went to see Abel tomorrow. She must have taken it last night when I was at chapel. But I never thought — ’

‘You mean the apple honey? It was very good of you.’ An uncontrollable shudder went over her. She let go of Abigail’s hand, looked round for a chair, and sat down.

Abigail Salt said in a steady, expressionless voice,

‘I don’t suppose any of us will ever fancy it again.’

Katharine’s ungloved hands took hold of one another. She said very low,

‘William was late. I was vexed because he was so late, but it saved his life. We were going to have the apple honey for tea — I had put it out in a little glass dish. Then William came, and we talked. I saw there was a dead fly on the honey. Then we saw another one come down and settle.’ The shudder came back. ‘It just fell over dead. Then Miss Silver rang.’

Miss Silver coughed briskly.

‘A most providential escape, dear Mrs. Eversley. Let us be thankful for it.’

At this moment the door opened and Sergeant Abbott looked in. He caught Miss Silver’s eye and beckoned her. She went out.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘the doctor seems pretty sure about its being cyanide. I gather that you know about this pot of apple honey the Eversleys have brought along. It seems to have killed two flies, and was probably intended to kill them. Emily Salt’s fingerprints are all over the wrappings and the pot. I don’t suppose there’s much doubt that she conveyed the parcel to Rasselas Mews. William Eversley says they found it on the doorstep on Sunday night when they got back from Ledstow. But there was a message from Mrs. Salt inside — ’ He paused and looked at Miss Silver.

She said in her firmest voice,

‘Yes, she was intending to leave it at the Toy Bazaar for them. She was having tea there with her brother tomorrow. It was all ready packed up.“

Frank lookedat her with his faint quizzical smile. ‘What a mine of information you are! But here is something that I can tell you, and I think you’ll be interested. I told you Donald was shadowing Miss Jones. You did a very good bit of work there, getting the Chief to agree to it.“

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I considered it of the very first importance.’

‘I think you were right. She went off down to Evendon with Cyril Eversley on Saturday afternoon. The village fairly buzzed with the news that they were married. Donald put up at the Duck and heard all about it. General verdict that Cyril had made a fool of himself. Sunday morning Donald hung about — saw the William Eversleys arrive — didn’t of course know who they were. Saw another young couple roll up. Cyril’s daughter and her husband, William tells me, though Donald wasn’t to know that either. And then in a brace of shakes out comes Mrs. Cyril Eversley in her brand new car, and Donald grabs his motor-bike and follows her all the way to her flat. That’s when he finds out that she’s been living there as Mrs. Woods. Well, he rings up and reports. Evans goes along to relieve him at about four o’clock. The lady hasn’t shown up, but it looks as if she’s going out again, because her car is still outside. She comes out about six and drives off. Evans follows her. She pulls up in Morden Road, just round the corner from Selby Street. A woman comes along with a parcel and gets in. Evans hears her say, “I’ve got it.” They drive off together, and Evans follows them to a cul-de-sac behind Rasselas Mews — only of course he’s not thinking about the Mews, because he’s been put on to watch Mrs. Cyril Eversley.’

‘Yes, Frank?’

‘Evans was puzzled. They just sit in the car. It’s a dark place, practically unlighted. He can’t make out what they’re doing. He strolls past once, and thinks they are opening a parcel. It doesn’t seem to be his business. Presently the passenger gets out and goes off round the corner with her parcel, and Mrs. Eversley goes home. She parks her car, and doesn’t show up again. Grey takes over at midnight. Nothing doing. Evans on again this morning. Mrs. Eversley doesn’t show up. Donald on again at four. I’ve asked them to contact him and telephone his report to me here.’

As he spoke, William Eversley came up the stairs and the telephone bell rang. William went into the parlour. Frank and Miss Silver went down to the ground floor room where the telephone was.

The body of Emily Salt was gone from the hall. A constable in uniform came out of the sitting-room and said, ‘For you, Sergeant.’

Frank crossed the floor and took up the receiver. Miss Silver, standing just inside the door, could hear the measured rise and fall of a deep male voice. It was, in her opinion, the voice of Chief Inspector Lamb, a circumstance which engaged her most interested attention.

Frank Abbot said, ‘Yes, sir.’ And then, ‘Not much doubt about its being cyanide.’ After a pause he said, ‘No, they’re all right. They had a narrow shave — a pot of poisoned honey. Holt’s taken it off for analysis… Yes, they’re here. It was a very narrow shave.’ Finally, after a considerable interval, ‘Well, that just about puts the lid on it!… All right, sir, we’re finishing here.’ He hung up and turned.

Miss Silver had closed the door. She said,

‘Well, Frank?’

‘That was the Chief.’

‘So I supposed.’

‘Could you hear what he was saying?’

Her glance reproved him.

‘I made no endeavour to do so.’

‘But you wouldn’t mind if I were to tell you?’

‘I should be very much interested.’

‘Well then, here you are. I think we’ve got her cold. Donald says she came out just after five, went round and collected her car — she keeps it in a garage just behind the flats — and went off to the same place as before, Morden Road. The same woman came to meet her. Evans couldn’t see her face, but the description fits Emily Salt — tall and thin, shapeless coat, squashed-down hat. She got into the car. He heard her say, “I can’t stay. Abby doesn’t know I’m out.” Mrs. Cyril Eversley said something, but he didn’t hear what it was. The door was shut, and they sat in the car and talked for about five minutes. Then Emily Salt got out. She stood with the door in her hand and said, “It’s ever so good of you, May. I love chocolate.” Mrs. Cyril leaned across from the driving-seat, and this time Donald heard what she said. It’s pretty damning. She said, “Mind you don’t eat it in the street. You won’t, will you?” Emily Salt said, “No, no, I’ll put it in my bag. I won’t eat it till I get in.” Then she said, “I’ll be seeing you soon, won’t I?” and Mrs. Cyril said, “Oh, yes.” And that was all. Emily Salt went back round the corner into Selby Street and into the house, where she ate her chocolate and died. And Mrs. Cyril Eversley went home with the comfortable feeling that she had disposed of all her worries. If William Eversley was poisoned by the apple honey which Mrs. Salt had sent him, and Emily Salt committed suicide with the same poison, it was all very distressing, but everyone knew that Emily had always been crazy, and that she had a spite against William because Mr. Tattlecombe had made a will in his favour instead of leaving what he had to Abigail, and so indirectly to Emily herself. Mrs. Cyril must be feeling quite sure that no one can possibly connect her with Emily or with the crime. And if you hadn’t practically blackmailed the Chief into having her followed, she would be perfectly right.’

Miss Silver looked quite horrified.

‘My dear Frank — blackmail — what a shocking expression!

That faint smile reached his eyes.

‘Revered preceptress — ’ he murmured, and then was grave again. ‘The Chief is sending Donald along to arrest her now,’ he said grimly.