The Fingerprint (8 page)

“I asked him if he had done what he wanted to do about Mirrie. He said that he had and he didn’t want to discuss it. I said no, I didn’t want to either. I only wanted to say that I was glad, and that I was glad about his being fond of her, because she hadn’t got anyone else and I knew it was making them both very happy. He hadn’t listened to me before, but he began to listen to me then. We talked about Mirrie, and he told me about having cared for her mother. He told me that he had cared for her a lot, but that she had married his cousin. He said he had begun to feel as if Mirrie was his daughter as well as hers. He had quite stopped being angry with me. We didn’t talk about it—it had gone. He was just the same as he had always been to me, except that I felt he was really giving me his confidence in a way that he had never done before. Just at the end he said that it had made him very happy my coming to him like that. Then he said that he had been unjust, and that he had let his unjust anger carry him away. He said, ‘Maudsley told me I was doing wrong, and I was angry with him, but he was in the right of it. I let myself be carried away by some very wrong feelings.’ He said my coming to him like that had touched him very much. He took an envelope out of the drawer in front of me and said, ‘I signed an unjust will this morning, and I’m going to tear it up and burn it!’ I said, ‘No don’t,’ and he laughed and said, ‘I can do what I like with my own,’ and he took a paper out of the envelope and tore it up and dropped the pieces into the fire.”

Frank Abbott had not reached his present length of service in the police without having listened to a good many plausible stories. He was of the opinion that this was not a very plausible one. His immediate surface reaction to Georgina’s account of that last vital interview with Jonathan Field was one of blank scepticism—“She shot him, and she burned the will which cut her out in favour of Mirrie Field.” And then he experienced a sharp prick of anger, because there was something deep below the surface that protested. Simplicity is the most difficult thing in the world to ape. Yet women had done it and got away with it time out of mind. He wished with all his heart that he could have had Miss Silver there to tell him whether Georgina was putting on an act. He had once said of Miss Maud Silver that as far as she was concerned the human race was glass-fronted, and furthermore that she saw right past the shop window into the back premises. He reflected with cynicism that Georgina had such a lot in the shop window that it was too much to suppose that there was enough to furnish all the other rooms as well.

He was watching her as these thoughts passed through his mind. A very good shop window indeed. Even to his exacting taste she had nearly everything. At the moment, of course, she was too pale, and there was evidence of strain, but he wasn’t at all sure that it did not heighten her appeal. He said,

“Mr. Field told you that he had signed a new will that morning?”

“Yes.”

She sat there quite quietly whilst he looked at her. Her voice was quiet too.

“A will which he characterized as unjust—what did you understand by his saying that?”

“I thought—” She paused. “I suppose I thought that he was leaving most of what he had to Mirrie.”

“Did you think he had cut you out altogether?”

This time the pause was longer. She looked down for a moment, and then lifted her eyes to his face again.

“I don’t know what I thought. You see, I wasn’t really thinking about the money at all, I was thinking about his being angry with me. He had never really been angry with me before—not like that. I wanted to be friends again.”

Frank said,

“You weren’t concerned about the money?”

“I wasn’t thinking about it.”

WHEN GEORGINA GREY had gone out of the room and Mirrie Field had entered it Frank Abbott was sharply aware of the contrast between them. Where the older girl had been quiet and controlled, this little creature with the tumbled hair and tear-stained face brought with her an atmosphere of emotional disturbance. She had, to use a colloquialism, been crying her eyes out. Like Georgina she had on a white woollen jumper and a grey tweed skirt. She carried a handkerchief crumpled up in one hand, and as she came up to the chair by the writing-table and sat down there she dabbed her eyes and sniffed childishly. Frank found himself speaking as if to a child.

“I won’t keep you longer than I can help. I just want to go through your statement with you and see whether there is anything you can add to it.”

Mirrie gazed at him wide-eyed. Her lips trembled, her soft little chin trembled. She said in a small despairing voice,

“It’s all so dreadful—he was so kind—”

He picked up her statement and read it over to her. It could hardly have conveyed less information. They had all had dinner together and gone into the drawing-room afterwards. Uncle Jonathan had come in too. He had had his coffee, and then he had gone away and she hadn’t seen him again. She had gone up to bed when the others went, and she had slept without waking up until there was a noise in the house and Georgina had come in and told her that Uncle Jonathan was dead. Mirrie punctuated the reading with one or two caught breaths and something that was not quite a sob. The handkerchief was pressed to her eyes again as he finished. He laid the paper down and said,

“Mr. Field had been away for twenty-four hours?”

“He went away on Monday morning.”

“Did you know that he was going to see his solicitor?”

“He said—he said he was.”

“Did he tell you why?”

The hand with the handkerchief dropped into her lap.

“He said he wanted—to provide for me.” Here there really was a sob. “He was so kind!”

“He told you that he meant to alter his will, and that he was in fact going up to London for that purpose?”

The tears welled up in her eyes.

“Yes, he did.”

“Well now, when he came back on Tuesday evening you ran down and met him in the hall.”

“Oh—how do you know!”

He gave her a cool smile.

“There wasn’t much secret about it, was there? A hall is what you might call a fairly public place.”

She had a faintly startled air.

“Did someone see me?”

“Someone saw you.”

“It was just that I was so pleased about his being back. I had dressed early.”

He smiled again.

“Well, there wasn’t anything wrong about that. I expect he was pleased to see you.”

“Oh, yes, he was!”

Frank said,

“What I really wanted to know was whether he said anything about his business with Mr. Maudsley.”

Mirrie brightened a little.

“Oh, yes, he did. I said I hoped he had got all his horrid business done, so that he wouldn’t have to go away any more. And he said it wasn’t a horrid business for me, and that it was all signed, with two of Mr. Maudsley’s clerks to witness it, so there wasn’t anything to worry about any more.”

“He was talking about his will?”

She looked at him with childlike candour.

“Oh, yes.”

Frank Abbott thought, “She knew he was cutting Georgina out and putting her in. I wonder if she tried for it, or whether it just happened. I wonder whether he had an afterthought and destroyed the will himself. I wonder whether it has been destroyed at all. Georgina certainly had a motive for destroying it. Mirrie wouldn’t have any motive at all. I wonder whether Mirrie knows that it may have been destroyed. I wonder whether Georgina was speaking the truth, because if she wasn’t—if she wasn’t—”

Mirrie had her handkerchief to her eyes again. She said in a muffled voice,

“He was so dreadfully kind to me. It doesn’t seem as if it could be true.”

He let her go after that, and saw Mrs. Fabian, who wandered through the events of the last two days in a characteristically irrelevant manner. She was extremely informative, but it was difficult to connect her information with the death of Jonathan Field. Frank had, for instance, to listen to a good many chance-come anecdotes of Georgina’s infancy, together with excursions into dear Jonathan’s personal tastes and habits. He permitted her to flow on, because there was always the chance of finding some wheat amongst the chaff, but when she finally settled down to reminiscences of Johnny’s school-days he felt that the moment had come to apply the closure.

Neither Anthony nor Johnny Fabian had anything to add to their bare statements. They had gone upstairs with the others, and they had not come down again. Anthony had slept until he was roused by Georgina, and Johnny until he was roused by Anthony.

It was Stokes who produced one important piece of evidence. He had gone into the study with his tray of drinks at ten o’clock. He put it down on the small octagonal table beside the leather-covered armchair usually occupied by Mr. Field. It was not so occupied at the moment, because Mr. Field was over at the book-case at the far end of the room. He was stooping down as if he were looking at one of the lower shelves. Asked which shelf, Stokes indicated that from which one of the albums containing the collection of fingerprints had been taken. He was positive that at that time both volumes were in their place.

Frank’s next questions produced replies of considerable importance.

“Did you make up the fire whilst you were here?”

“I was going to do so, sir, but Mr. Field stopped me. He said to leave it and he would see to it himself later on.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he give any reason for it?”

“Why, yes, sir. He said he had been burning papers, and not to choke the grate until they had burned away.”

So Jonathan really had been burning something himself. Frank went on.

“Just take a look at the grate now, Stokes. How does it compare with the state it was in when you saw it at ten o’clock last night?”

“There’s one more log been put on—that one on the right with the knot in it. It was lying right on top of the wood-basket, and I wouldn’t have picked it out to put on myself with the fire having got a bit low and knots being as you might say on the tricky side when it comes to burning. No, the one I should have taken was that little one that’s on top now—a nice dry faggot that would have got the flame up quick.”

“I see you’re an expert. I’m rather good at fires myself, and I’m with you all the way. Now, leaving the wood on one side, what about the papers that Mr. Field had been burning? Would you say he had added any more afterwards, or as far as the burnt paper goes is the grate in about the same state as it was last night?”

Stokes was a pleasant little man with a ruddy russet skin and very thick grey hair which he wore a little longer than a younger man might have done. He said in his soft agreeable voice,

“It’s difficult to say, sir, but I should think everything is pretty much as it was—a little more smouldered away, as it were, but no more than you would expect.”

Frank was reflecting that a will usually covered several sheets of extremely tough and intractable paper. It wouldn’t be easy to tear and it wouldn’t be easy to burn. If Jonathan had burned it himself whilst the fire was medium hot, the grate might be expected to look very much as it did now. If Georgina had burned it at round about one in the morning, it was probable that she would have had to use more wood. According to Stokes no more wood had been used except the awkward piece with the knot in it, which remained as to about three-quarters of it unburned and could very easily have been added by Jonathan. He went over and lifted it gingerly by the knotted end. Under it there was a bed of cold ash. There was also a sizable piece of that tough paper. It was about a couple of inches long by an inch wide and only the edges were scorched. The words “the said Miriam Field” were plainly visible. He couldn’t imagine such a phrase occurring in anything except a will, and as Mirrie’s name would certainly not have appeared in any but Jonathan’s latest, it confirmed Georgina’s statement that it was this will which had been burned, whilst leaving undecided the question of who had burned it. If, as Georgina had said, it was Jonathan himself, the presence of the knotted log could be accounted for.

The room would have been losing heat and he had obviously had no immediate intention of going to bed, since up to ten-o’clock the album subsequently found upon his desk was, according to Stokes, still on its shelf at the time he came in with the tray of drinks. If Jonathan intended to sit up he might restrain Stokes from touching the fire—he wouldn’t want any talk about the burned will, fragments of which were probably still in evidence, and yet once the butler was out of the way he could have pitched a log on the fire himself.

But if Georgina had burned the will at some time just short of one o’clock, what motive could she possibly have had for putting that particular log upon a fire which must have been very near to being burned out by then? Looking at what remained in the grate, he doubted very much if there would have been enough heat there to burn as much of the thing as had been burned. He stood there looking down at the grey ash, the scrap of paper, the knotted log. If it was Georgina who had shot Jonathan Field and destroyed the will which would cut her out of a fortune, what must her mental state have been? The man stood to her in the relation of a father. She had shot him because he was cutting her out of his will. With his dead body slumped across the writing-table, she had to get his fingerprints upon the revolver, to find and destroy the will, and be ready with a story which would explain its destruction. All this with the vibration of the shot still trembling on the air, and with the possibility that at any moment the door might open and let an accusing witness in.

Was she one of those people upon whom in moments of emergency an icy control descends, coordinating thought and action to an unimaginable degree? Or would it have been an affair of shaking hands and a pounding heart, a desperate search, and a blind fury of destruction? Or was she speaking the truth when she said that it was Jonathan who had torn up the will and put it on the fire?

He turned round to see Stokes watching him in a sad, patient manner which reminded him of an old dog waiting to be noticed. He went back to the table and asked him, as he had asked everyone else in the household,

“Did you know that Mr. Field had a revolver?”

He got the same answer as all the others had given him.

“Oh, no, sir, I didn’t.”

Frank stood with a hand on the table.

“Did he keep any of these drawers locked?”

“The bottom two on the right-hand side, sir.”

He sat down in the writing-chair and found both drawers fast.

Jonathan’s keys, handed over by Inspector Smith, were to hand. The upper of the two drawers contained bundles of letters, and lying on the top of them a closed miniature case. There would have been no room for a revolver.

In the bottom drawer there were a couple of notebooks with lists of securities and details of investments, and under the notebooks a long envelope endorsed “My will. J.F.” and a date two years back.

Then it was certainly the new will that had been burned as Georgina had said. What he found hard to swallow was the reason she gave for Jonathan having burned it, or even the bare fact that it had been burned by him. This older will would have been made when Georgina was twenty-one. He put it back in the drawer and returned to the question of whether Jonathan had kept a revolver there as well as his will. There would have been plenty of room for it. But if Jonathan was going to shoot himself, or if Georgina was going to shoot Jonathan, what was the point in locking the drawer again? Yet someone had locked it.

It simply didn’t make sense.

He let Stokes go and turned to the telephone. He had the number of Mr. Maudsley’s office on a slip of paper tucked into the blotting-pad. Two previous attempts to get in touch having failed, it behoved him to try again. This time he got through and was answered by a clerk.

“I would like to speak to Mr. Maudsley.”

The voice at the other end said, “Well—I’m afraid—”

“Is he in his office?”

“Well, no, he isn’t. As a matter of fact he won’t be here today.”

“Then perhaps I could speak to the head clerk.”

There was a delay during which a number of irritating small sounds buzzed in the receiver—a rustling of papers, footsteps, an inaudible whispering. And then a woman on the line, quiet and efficient.

“Miss Cummins speaking. I am afraid Mr. Maudsley will not be in today. Do you wish to make an appointment?”

Frank said, “No. This is police business. I am Inspector Abbott from the Yard, and I am down at Field End in connection with the murder of one of Mr. Maudsley’s clients, Mr. Jonathan Field.”

Miss Cummins became unofficially shocked.

“Mr. Field? You can’t mean it, Inspector! He was here with us only yesterday afternoon. Good gracious me!”

“He was murdered last night. It is important for me to get into touch with Mr. Maudsley as soon as possible.”

“Well now—I hardly know what to say. The fact is, Mr. Maudsley has been ordered to take a short holiday. He has been rather run down, and his doctor—”

“Can you give me his private address?”

“Well, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be any use to you. He was taking an early train to Scotland this morning. He had not really made up his mind as to where he would stay, but there are one or two hotels in Edinburgh—”

Frank took down a couple of names.

“Don’t ring off! You say Mr. Field was with you yesterday afternoon. You had been preparing a new will for him?”

A faint cool note of disapproval tinged the voice that answered him.

“That is so.”

“Mr. Field signed this will?”

“He did.”

“Is it in your custody, or did he take it away with him?”

The disapproval became very decided.

“He took it away with him.”

“I wonder if you can tell me what happened to the will which this one superseded.”