The Fingerprint (17 page)

She directed upon him the glance which she would have bestowed upon a pupil who was failing to do himself justice.

“It might have been a red herring.”

Whether it was her lapse into the vernacular, or the idea which it presented, he was certainly startled.

“My dear ma’am!”

“He might have desired to distract attention from the subject of the change in Mr. Field’s will.”

There was a prolonged silence. It was broken by Frank Abbott with a certain air of determination.

“Well, that is a point of view, and I won’t forget it. At the moment there is something which is exercising me a good deal, and I would like to know whether you have given it your attention. It seems to me to be the point upon which the whole case turns.”

Miss Silver gazed at him in an interested manner and said,

“Yes?”

“That door on to the terrace—who opened it?”

“Since it is of the type fastened by a bolt running down to a socket in the floor and controlled by the mere turning of a handle on the inside, there is no question of a key having been stolen or fabricated. A door of that type can only be opened from within. You will, of course, have considered these points. Since Mr. Field was in occupation of his study from about half-past-eight onwards, the natural conclusion would be that he expected a visitor, and that he himself opened the door. There might, of course, have been some occasion when he was out of the room for a few minutes and when a member of the household could have slipped into the study and withdrawn the bolt, but I cannot bring myself to believe that this took place. It would be risky, since the unfastened door would be liable to bang, as indeed it did later on in the night when it waked Georgina Grey. And it would be unnecessary, since there are three other doors, front, side and back, besides innumerable windows on the ground floor, any one of which could have been left unfastened if someone in the house had planned to admit an intruder.”

“I see you have thought it all out. I agree that Jonathan himself probably admitted the person who shot him if—I say if—it was an outside job. I haven’t altogether given up Georgina, you know. After what had happened she could have had no certainty as to how many more times Jonathan might change his will, or what her position would be at the end of it. There is one thing—you will have noticed that Anthony Hallam is avoiding her. What you may not know is that he has been devoted to her for years, and that when I was down here before he didn’t seem able to keep his eyes off her. But leaving that on one side, and supposing that Jonathan himself let someone in, I think we are bound to assume that this person probably came by appointment. His presence had obviously caused no alarm. There is no shred of evidence to show that the revolver which was found here was Jonathan’s own. There is no evidence that he expected any attack. He was shot while he was sitting quietly at his desk. I find it impossible to believe that he was not completely taken by surprise. This suggests a friendly conversation, and a friendly conversation at that hour suggests an appointment. Then how was it made? By letter? Highly improbable. I don’t think a man on such an errand would commit himself on paper or give Jonathan the opportunity of telling anyone that he expected a visitor. I think he would telephone as late as possible on the Tuesday evening. It wouldn’t be difficult to think up an excuse. Suppose someone did that and spun a yarn about having some fingerprints in which he might be interested. If the tale was only an excuse for getting into the house, he could think up something pretty sensational and know that his bluff would never be called. Now it’s common knowledge that Jonathan would go through fire and water to get a really good specimen for his collection. This will business is a proof of the extent to which he was prepared to act on impulse. Knowing what I do about him, I can see him making an appointment like that on the spur of the moment. It would account for the album being there on the table. In fact it would account for pretty nearly everything, including the torn-out page in the album and the removal of Jonathan’s notes on the story of the man in the bombed building who, he says, confessed to two murders.”

Miss Silver had been listening attentively. She said,

“Is it possible to ascertain what calls Field End received during Tuesday evening?”

“Georgina says my cousin Cicely rang her up just before ten—something about a dress pattern she wanted to borrow. She said no other calls were received before they went up to bed. The Lenton exchange says a call was put through at about half-past-ten. If that was so, Jonathan must have taken it. It is said to have come from a call-box in Lenton. So you see, there is at least a possibility that this was when the appointment was made.”

“One would expect so late an appointment to be regarded with suspicion.”

Frank shook his head.

“I don’t think Jonathan Field would let anything of that sort come between him and a specimen he really wanted.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY being Sunday, Miss Silver attended morning service in the church at Deeping. Georgina did not come with her, and Mirrie was much divided in her mind. She would have liked to wear her new black coat and skirt and the little hat with the veiling. Since the funeral was over, she wouldn’t need to be all over dead black right up to the neck. Mrs. Fabian said she could wear a white jumper or a white blouse and the string of pearls that Jonathan had given her. And she needn’t wear black gloves. That was the funny thing about Mrs. Fabian, she wore the oddest things herself, years out of fashion and quite dreadfully ugly, but she knew what was all right for a girl to wear, and what simply wasn’t done. It didn’t matter how old your clothes were in the country so long as they were the right sort of clothes, and she could wear her little black hat to go to church in because of it being church and Sunday, but it wouldn’t do for every day. In the end she didn’t go to church, because Johnny said he would take her out in his car.

Miss Silver enjoyed the quiet service, listened attentively to a kind, practical sermon, and came out into a blowing wind and the threat of rain. She was going to lunch with the Abbotts, and was relieved to find that they were able to reach the shelter of the house before a really heavy shower came down.

Lunch over and Colonel Abbott retired to the study with the Sunday papers, the two ladies, esconced themselves comfortably in the morning-room.

It was some time later, after a full and frank discussion of village affairs, that Maggie Bell’s name came up. Monica Abbott was never quite sure which of them had mentioned it, but all at once it was there, and she was saying,

“I don’t suppose she has had the receiver away from her ear for more than five minutes since Wednesday morning.”

Miss Silver coughed in a noncommittal manner.

“Ah, yes—the party line.”

“One doesn’t grudge it to her,” said Monica, “because really I don’t know what she would do without it. It prevents her feeling out of things, if you know what I mean. And it would be all right if one could remember that she was probably listening, but of course one is so terribly apt to forget. I know I have always said I didn’t care who heard me ordering the fish, but of course there are times! When Cicely was so unhappy, for instance, and Grant used to ring her up and she wouldn’t speak to him. I’m quite sure Maggie didn’t miss a single word of it. Oh dear, what a miserable time that was.”

Miss Silver said in her kindest voice, “But so happily over now, my dear.”

Monica Abbott whisked away a tear.

“Oh, yes! And Grant is so good for her. She is a proud, obstinate little thing, you know, and it would be fatal if he were to give way to her. She would only despise him, and she might get to be quite like her grandmother, which would be dreadful for us all.”

Miss Silver smiled.

“Cicely has too warm a heart for that. And she is happy. Have you ever considered that Lady Evelyn must have been a most unhappy woman?”

A spark replaced the tear.

“She was a very cruel and mischief-making one. And it’s no use your trying to make me feel sorry for her, because I can’t. Oh, I suppose I can, but she was so horrid to Reg, and to Frank’s father and mother, and to Frank. Don’t let’s talk about her any more.”

Miss Silver said,

“I was going to ask you whether it would be possible for me to pay a short visit to Maggie Bell.”

Monica gazed. Her eyes were the same sherry-brown as Cicely’s, but she was much better-looking. In place of Cicely’s wayward charm she diffused an atmosphere of warmth and kindness. She said quickly,

“Oh, but she’d love it! She adores having visitors, and especially on a Sunday afternoon, because if she is well enough to be left, Mrs. Bell goes over to see a sister in Lenton and Maggie is alone.”

“So I understood from Georgina. She has provided me with some magazines and picture papers as an introduction—if one is needed.”

At half-past-three Miss Silver rang the bell of Mr. Bisset’s private door. If she had depended on Mr. Bisset answering it, her errand would have been a fruitless one, since by two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon at the latest he was plunged in a slumber too deep to be broken by any bell. It was Mrs. Bisset, whose repose was of a lighter character, who came to the door and found Miss Silver standing there. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, because everyone in Deeping knew that she and Mr. Bisset liked to take it easy of a Sunday afternoon. And she wasn’t best pleased when she saw who it was, because sleep as tidily as you will, there isn’t anybody that looks as neat when they wake up as what they did before they dropped off. She put up a hand to pat her hair, repressed an inclination to yawn, and was about to ask what she could do for Miss Silver, when she was forestalled.

“Pray forgive me for disturbing you, Mrs. Bisset, but I heard from Mrs. Abbott that Miss Bell was likely to be alone this afternoon, and I wondered if she would care for a visitor. I have some magazines for her from Miss Georgina Grey.”

There was something so warm and friendly in the way this was said that Mrs. Bisset relaxed. Stepping back a yard, she raised a rather strident voice and called up the stairway,

“Lady to see you, Maggie! Are you awake?”

It appeared that she was, and Miss Silver being encouraged to go right up, Mrs. Bisset returned to her comfortable easy chair and to the rhythmic snores of Mr. Bisset.

Maggie Bell was on her sofa by the window. Sunday afternoon was a dreadfully dull time. Mum went over to see Aunt Ag at Lenton, and the telephone might just as well have been dead for all anyone used it. There was the wireless she could turn on, but she wasn’t all that fond of music, or of talks either for the matter of that. It was people she liked— people she knew and who knew her—what they said to each other when they didn’t think anyone was listening—the appointments they made, and the things they ordered from the shops. You found out quite a lot about people when you listened to what they said on the telephone, but Sunday afternoon was a wash-out. She had a magazine, which she called a book, lying open in her lap, but she had lost interest in it. There was a girl in the serial that she didn’t have the patience to read about. There was ever such a good-looking young man after her, with money and a nice place and all, and all she did was to bite his nose off every time he spoke to her. Just plain silly was what Maggie called it. If it hadn’t been in a story, he’d have gone off and never given her another thought, same as Annie White’s young man did when she cheeked him once too often.

Miss Silver’s knock was a most welcome sound. She brought two magazines and three picture papers from Georgina and a book from Mrs. Abbott, who had had it given to her for Christmas and thought Maggie might like to look at it. It was called Dress Through The Ages and there were a great many pictures, so Maggie thought she would. Meanwhile she set herself to make the most of her visitor. Miss Silver had been at the funeral, she had lunched at the Abbotts’, and she was actually staying at Field End, all of which combined to make her a most desirable source of information.

Miss Silver was so amiable in her response that they were soon launched upon one of those long, comfortable conversations which cover a great deal of ground and are trammeled by no special rules. At first the questions were mostly Maggie’s, and the replies, nicely calculated to maintain the interest of the proceedings whilst adding very little to what had already appeared in the Press, were Miss Silver’s. It thrilled Maggie Bell to be told what Miss Georgina and Miss Mirrie had worn at the funeral—everything new, the both of them.

“And time some of the ladies did the same, if you ask me. There’s Mrs. Fabian—you wouldn’t credit it, but that black costume of hers, well, it’s one she had when Mr. Fabian died twenty years ago! That’s what Mum says, and she ought to know, seeing she’s had it in I don’t know how often, letting it out when Mrs. Fabian puts on and taking it in when she goes down again, to say nothing of lifting the hem when skirts go up and dropping it again when they come down. And last time she had it in, she took and told her straight, Mum did. ‘Mrs. Fabian,’ she said, ‘it isn’t worth what I’ll have to charge you for the alterations, and that’s the fact,’ she said.”

When the murder had been discussed and the enthralling subject of clothes exhausted the conversation, guided by Miss Silver, began to concern itself with the disadvantages of a party line.

“I am sure, with so much going on and so many police calls, you must find it very disturbing. There is that peculiar tinkle every time anyone is rung up, is there not? And of course there is always the possibility that the call is for oneself. It must be a great help to Mrs. Bell to have you here to attend to all that sort of thing.”

Falling comfortably into Miss Silver’s assumption that a tinkle could be readily confused with a ring, Maggie said in a longsuffering tone that it was ever such a nuisance, but of course she had to do what she could to help poor Mum, or she’d never be able to get on with her work.”

These preliminaries over, Miss Silver coughed and said,

“I suppose you would not happen to remember whether you were much disturbed on Tuesday evening? But no—it’s so many days ago now, and even at the time I do not suppose you would have noticed anything.”

Maggie bridled. She was the noticing sort and nobody was going to tell her she wasn’t. And as to not remembering, there wasn’t one single thing that happened in Deeping or round about that didn’t stay just as sharp and clear in her mind as when it happened. She said as much, and was rewarded by Miss Silver’s declaring that it was a gift.

“Do you really mean to say that you could remember whether anyone rang up Field End on the Tuesday evening?”

Maggie nodded, her sharp little face intent.

“Miss Cicely did for one.”

“Do you remember what time that was?”

“It was eight minutes to ten. Miss Cicely wanted some pattern or other, and Miss Georgina said to come over and get it any time in the morning—only come the morning I don’t suppose either of them thought about it because of Mr. Field being murdered on the Tuesday night.”

“And was that the only call for Field End on Tuesday evening?”

“Ten o’clock Mum started getting me to bed. The bell went twice, but we didn’t take any notice. My back was bad and Mum was having a job to get me moved. She brings the phone over nights once I’m in bed. Sometimes it rings and sometimes it doesn’t. When it does as likely as not it’s someone ill and ringing up the doctor from the call-box at the corner, and if it’s one of my bad nights I don’t always bother.”

Miss Silver looked at her compassionately.

“Was Tuesday one of your bad nights?”

Maggie screwed up her face.

“Well, it was. Mum sleeps in the next room. I don’t call her unless I’ve got to—you can’t work all day and not get your rest at night. The phone’s kind of company.”

“Did anyone ring up Field End after you were in bed?”

“Well, they did.”

“Do you know who it was?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Not but what I’d heard him before.”

“You mean you knew the voice?”

“I’d heard it before—not to know who it was though.”

Miss Silver sat there pleasant and composed. No one would have known that Maggie’s answers were of any special interest or importance. To Maggie herself they were just a part of the nice interesting conversation she was having with Mrs. Abbott’s little visiting lady. It was always nice to have someone fresh to talk to, and it wasn’t everyone who listened to what you had to say as if they appreciated it. Miss Silver listened, and Miss Silver said,

“It was a man’s voice? Do you know to whom he was speaking?”

“Oh, it was to Mr. Field.”

“I suppose you do not remember what they were talking about?”

“Of course I remember—as far as it went.”

“How do you mean, Miss Bell?”

It enchanted Maggie to be called Miss Bell. When you never go out and you live in a village where everyone has known you since you were a baby, it isn’t a thing that very often happens to you. She became as anxious to speak as Miss Silver was to hear. Someone who really listened, someone who called her Miss Bell. A flow of words set in.

“Well, you see, it was like this. There I was in my bed, and not so bad as long as I didn’t try and move, and there was the phone and I couldn’t reach it without I did move. So first I thought I wouldn’t, and then I thought I would, and by the time I got hold of the receiver there was Mr. Field saying, ‘Rather a late hour to suggest a meeting, isn’t it?’ ”

“And what did the caller say?”

“Oh, he said he’d had trouble with his car or he’d have been down earlier—had to stop at a garage and have something done. And then he went on to say it was the best he could do—he was bound to push on to London because of having to take the first plane in the morning. ‘So it’s now or never,’ he said, ‘and the chance of a lifetime.’ And then Mr. Field said, ‘All right, come round on to the terrace behind the house and I’ll let you in. You’ll see the light.’ ”

There was a momentary pause before Miss Silver said,

“Miss Bell, did it not occur to you that the police should be informed about this call?”

Maggie sniffed.

“They’ve their own ways of finding out, haven’t they?”

“They were aware that a call had been put through to Field End at half-past-ten, but the operator was unable to tell them any more than that.”

“It wasn’t any business of mine—not if no one troubled to ask me!”

Miss Silver became aware that Maggie was not one of those who can be prompted to further confidences by severity. She said in her mildest voice,

“You are being most helpful. I am sure you can see that what you have just told me might be very important. When you heard next day of Mr. Field’s murder it must have occurred to you that the person who made that appointment on the telephone was most probably the murderer.”

Maggie said, “Oooh!” drawing the vowel out very long indeed.

“You are a great deal too intelligent not to have seen the connection and to have drawn your own conclusions.”