The Listening Eye (16 page)

Miss Silver’s look was as grave as his own. She said,

“I believe you to be in considerable danger. It is not possible to say just how pressing the danger may be. From the fact that this attempt on you has followed so closely upon the murder of Mr. Hughes, and from the ruthless manner in which that murder was carried out, I am inclined to consider it to be very pressing indeed. In these circumstances, I would strongly urge you to protect yourself by letting it be known that you have made important alterations in your will.”

He gave her a sharp glance.

“Who told you that I was thinking of doing so?”

She smiled faintly.

“No one, Mr. Bellingdon. It occurred to me as advisable.”

After a short silence he said,

“And if I were to let it be known that I intended to alter my will?”

“I should consider that very inadvisable indeed.”

“Yes? On what grounds?”

“I do not really have to tell you that.” Her tone was indulgent.

He said, “No.” And then, “I’ve a good mind to do it all the same. In which case it would be now or never for the hypothetical gentleman whom you suspect of wanting to murder me. If there’s anything in this very unpleasant theory of yours, he’ll either have to get on with the job before I alter my will or give it up.”

“I believe that you would be taking a very great risk.”

“Well, do you know, I’d rather take it and get it over. I’m an impatient man and I don’t like sitting and waiting for things to happen. If there is another attempt, it may provide us with some sort of evidence. This one isn’t going to do much in that line, you know. The garage is a converted coach-house. Parker lives over it. He’s a bachelor, and he has his Sundays off— spends them with relations in Ledlington. The place would be open all day. Moira has a car there, and so has Annabel.”

She made no reply. After a moment he spoke again.

“Well, what about it? I’ve told you my plan. Will you stay and see it through?”

“Do you wish me to do so?”

Oddly enough, he did. She had come nearer to making him lose his temper than anyone had done for years, but he wanted her to stay.

Having said so, he received her acceptance with an unexplained feeling of relief. She had risen to her feet and was going towards the door, when he overtook her. He had an impulse to speak—to voice his anxieties about Annabel, to ask her what could be done to keep her safe, when she anticipated him. At the very threshold she turned and spoke.

“You are in a good deal of concern about Mrs. Scott?”

He said, “Don’t you think I have reason to be?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I have begged her to go. She won’t hear of it. That is my one objection to this plan of mine—if I speak of altering my will, it may be thought—it will be thought—” Speaking with unusual emotion, he was now unable to proceed.

Miss Silver said, “Yes.”

There was a silence between them. She put out her hand to the door, but she did not open it. Instead she turned again and said,

“A little while ago I angered you by referring to Mrs. Herne’s interest under your will. You have asked me to be plain. You have just admitted that the announcement of a prospective change in your dispositions might bring about another attempt upon your life, and that this attempt might endanger Mrs. Scott. This would implicate either Mrs. Herne herself or someone directly and overwhelmingly interested in her inheritance.”

“Miss Silver—”

“Pray allow me to continue. You said that she has many admirers but no serious commitment to any of them, and that there could be no one sufficiently sure of her interest to risk so much upon it. I agree that anyone who took that risk would have to feel very sure of his claim on her. In fact, I think that only a legal claim would provide a strong enough inducement.”

He repeated her words,

“A legal claim—”

She said with the utmost gravity,

“Mr. Bellingdon, are you perfectly persuaded in your own mind that Mrs. Herne’s husband is dead?”

They stood looking at one another. She saw surprise, anger, and something else succeed each other in his aspect. She was not entirely sure of what the third expression might be. She did not think that fear would be in keeping with his character, but it might perhaps be caution. He said,

“There has never been the slightest doubt on the subject. Oliver Herne took his car out and crashed on a mountain road. He was alone, and the car was burnt out. The body was considerably disfigured, but there was no reason to doubt that it was his. It was identified by Moira and his mechanic. His signet-ring and his cigarette-case were recovered. There has never been the slightest reason to suppose that the evidence was insufficient or unreliable. I should like to ask why you have made this astonishing suggestion.”

She said,

“I think you know why I have made it. You said yourself that the hypothetical murderer whom we were discussing would have to be very sure of his claim upon Mrs. Herne if the realization of that claim was to be the motive for his attempt on your life. From what I have been told about Mr. Herne by yourself as well as by others I have formed the impression that he was a reckless young man, living for excitement and not too scrupulous as to how he came by it. Such a character would fit into the pattern of recent events, and a husband’s claim upon Mrs. Herne’s inheritance might provide the temptation.”

He gave an angry laugh.

“I’m afraid you have too much imagination!” he said. “Moira’s marriage was turning out just as I told her it would turn out. He was spending her money, and they were quarrelling all the time. Any feeling she may have had for him was quite gone and they were on the brink of a divorce. I can assure you that as far as Oliver Herne is concerned I can rest easy and so can he. He won’t come back from the grave to trouble us.”

THE parcel arrived by the first post on Monday morning. Miss Silver saw it as she passed through the hall. She had come down early because she wished to use the telephone without being overheard. There were several instruments to choose from. She decided upon the one in Mr. Bellingdon’s study, trusting to her very keen hearing to inform her if there should be any intrusion upon the line.

It being after eight o’clock, Detective Inspector Frank Abbot was out of bed and halfway through his shaving. At the sound of Miss Silver’s voice he relaxed from the stricter official manner.

“Revered preceptress! I had a horrible idea that it might be the Chief wanting to know what I thought I was doing down here, and whether the Commissioner plus the Public and the Press would be satisfied that I was earning my keep, or words to that effect. What can I do for you?”

Miss Silver told him, exercising the strictest discretion. No names were mentioned, and a further safeguard was provided by the use of the French language. As in the case of Chaucer’s immortal Prioress, this was not the French of Paris, but it had the merit of leaving Frank in no doubt as to what was required of him.

“And there should be no delay.”

On these words she rang off.

It was as she was returning from the study that she saw the parcel. It had only just been delivered, and Hilton was in the act of putting it down on the hall table. It was about the size of a shoe-box and of a very untidy appearance, the wrapping-paper being stained and frayed, and the string consisting of odd pieces untidily knotted together.

Lucius Bellingdon brought it into the dining-room with him and set it down on a window-seat. Annabel, coming in behind him, remarked on it.

“Lucius, what an extraordinary-looking box!”

He nodded without speaking and began to open his letters.

Elaine said in a fretful voice that she hoped it wasn’t plants. Nurseries packed them so damp, and they stained anything you put them down on.

Lucius looked up briefly.

“I haven’t been sending for any plants,” he said.

Moira came drifting in, stared at the parcel, and went to pour herself a cup of coffee. The others came in one by one—David, Wilfrid, Sally, Arnold Bray, and Hubert Garratt, so that they were all there when Lucius pushed the remainder of his letters over to his secretary and picked up the parcel. He cut the string, dropped the disreputable wrapping upon the window-seat, and came over to the table with a battered cardboard box in his hand. The lifted lid disclosed a mass of rather damp newspaper.

Moira turned round with her coffee-cup in her hand and Miss Bray stopped in the middle of a dissertation upon how difficult it was to get the downstair rooms done before breakfast. Miss Silver thought afterwards that it was curious how everyone stopped what they were doing and watched whilst Lucius took off a pad of crushed newspaper and dropped it on the floor. There was more paper underneath, all crushed together, all looking as if it had been left out in the rain.

He said, “What on earth—” And then there was something that felt hard amongst the squashed-up newsprint and he fished it out and began to peel the last soft wrappings away. Miss Silver saw his face change. Everyone heard him exclaim, and in a moment everyone knew why.

There isn’t anything quite so squalid as dirty paper, but the paper dropped away. The morning light from three long windows dazzled upon something as bright as itself. Brighter, because this was light concentrated and splintered into rainbows. What dangled from Lucius Bellingdon’s big brown hand was a looped chain of diamonds curiously and beautifully wrought with bows and tassels which caught the brightness and did wonderful things with it. He looked down at it with a curious set expression.

In the momentary hush that followed Miss Silver glanced about her. Annabel Scott’s colour had risen. Her eyes were wide. Elaine Bray’s mouth had fallen open. She put up a hand to her hair and tidied a straggling lock. David Moray was frowning, his brows drawn together and his face hard. Sally Foster lay back in her chair. She looked frightened, and all her colour was gone. Wilfrid Gaunt had a startled air. He had been saying something to Sally and smiling as he said it. The smile was not quite gone. Arnold Bray had dropped his napkin and was stooping to pick it up. Hubert Garratt, like Sally, was leaning back. He looked very ill.

The person who moved first was Moira Herne. There was only just time for that general gasp of astonishment, for Miss Silver’s almost instantaneous impression, before she was on her feet, her light hair floating and her hands stretched out.

“Oh, it’s my necklace! Oh, Lucy!”

Even in a moment like this it was intensely disagreeable to Miss Silver to hear Mr. Bellingdon addressed in this manner. It was a habit which should never have been allowed to grow up. At the same time she realized the necessity for making a conscientious effort not to allow it to prejudice her against Moira Herne.

Mr. Bellingdon raised his eyebrows and said in his coolest voice,

“Your necklace, Moira?”

There was a little flush in her white skin.

“You said I could have it—for the Ball. You gave it to me.”

He repeated her words in such a manner as to reverse the meaning.

“Nonsense! I said you could have it for the Ball.” After a momentary pause he continued. “Since you have given up the idea of appearing as Marie Antoinette, you won’t require it now. As a matter of fact—the associations—I shouldn’t have thought you would have cared about wearing it.”

Her hands had remained stretched out as if reaching for it—long white hands with scarlet nails. They dropped back now, but slowly. She said,

“It’s mine—you gave it to me.”

Lucius Bellingdon pushed it down into his breast pocket and said,

“I did nothing of the sort! Anyhow the police will want to examine it. And all this wrapping stuff must be kept—they’ll want to see it. As to the necklace, I shall get rid of it as soon as possible. And now suppose we have breakfast.”

Everyone began to move, to talk, and to help themselves to tea, to coffee, to the cereals and other food on the side table. Only Moira, having risen from her seat, did not come back to it again. She went out of the room, turning on the threshold as if she had something more to say. But whatever it was it didn’t get said. She looked at Lucius Bellingdon, who had his back to her, and then she went out and shut the door behind her very softly.

It would have seemed more natural if she had banged it, and Miss Silver for one would have been happier. There had been so much violence in the look, so much control in that soft shutting of the door—so much unnatural control. David Moray drew a long breath and turned to Sally on his left.

“Medusa with a vengeance!” he said.

She looked back at him, and he saw how pale she was.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He said abruptly, “I’ll get you some coffee,” and pushed back his chair.

Neither of them quite knew what they said or why they were saying it. Miss Silver’s look came back to them, came back to Arnold Bray. He had been a long time picking up his napkin. His hand shook, and instead of being flushed from stooping he was pale. The arrival of the parcel had certainly started something. This would not, of course, have been Miss Silver’s way of putting it, but it was undoubtedly the conclusion at which she arrived. It was, to be sure, a surprising event, and undoubtedly many of the people were surprised. Whether this was the case with all of them, she could not be certain.

The person she felt least sure about was Moira Herne. There had been pleasure and excitement, there had been the evidence of an avid desire in her reaction, but she did not think that there had been any surprise. The usual blankness of her expression had been violently broken up, at first pleasurably, and then in disappointment and anger quite painful to witness.

And why had Hubert Garratt that sick expression? As the thought went through her mind, he got up and went to the serving-table. Watching him, she saw his hand shake on the teapot, the milk jug. He poured himself a cup of tea and came back holding it with a kind of determined steadiness, but when he lifted it to his lips he bent his head halfway to meet it and his hand was shaking again.

The most normal person in the room was Miss Bray. She exclaimed just as one would have expected her to exclaim, asked a number of questions which no one could possibly answer, and produced a gratified stream of conjecture and speculation with which nobody but Wilfrid attempted to cope.

“Now really, you know, I do call this a very extraordinary thing. It was of course extraordinary that the necklace should have been stolen, but it does seem a great deal more extraordinary that it should have been sent back. Now do you suppose that the person who took it had a sudden change of heart? You do hear of such things, don’t you? I remember a long time ago reading about a case like that—in a magazine or a book. I forget what the man had stolen, but he heard the clock strike twelve one night, and it suddenly came over him how wrong he had been and he made up his mind to send it back. Perhaps that is what has happened now.”

Sally took a sip of the coffee which David had brought her. She thought, “It has come back because Moira said it was to come back. She knows who took it, and she knows who murdered Arthur Hughes. Don’t have anything to do with her, David—don’t, don’t, don’t! She shut her eyes, because everything in the room had begun to tilt and slide. She took another scalding sip of coffee and pushed the cup away. David’s hand came down hard upon her knee. Her own went groping to meet it and was held.

Wilfrid Gaunt was saying something about the necklace being too hot to hold, and Elaine Bray went on and on and on about valuable jewellery being only an anxiety, and why did people want to have it anyway when you could get such beautiful paste? It may be said that everyone was glad when breakfast was over.

Lucius Bellingdon rang up the police. When he had done that he told Hilton to find Mrs. Herne and ask her to come to him in the study. She arrived, the old indifferent look back upon her face and the old drawl back in her voice.

“You wanted me?”

The words set up an echo in his mind. He had never wanted her. They had started wrong. It was Lily who had done this to both of them. Lily—weak, obstinate, harmless—she had done enough harm without meaning to.

The mornings were cold. There was a little fire on the hearth. Moira had lighted a cigarette. She wore grey slacks and an emerald pull-over. She stood with one foot up on the kerb and blew a smoke-ring. It broke, and the haze was between them. He said,

“Come and sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

He slewed round his writing-chair so as to face her.

“Just as you like. I want to talk to you before the police come.”

She drew at her cigarette.

“The police?”

“Naturally. I have to report the fact that I believe my car to have been tampered with. There is also the return of the necklace.”

“Your car—I thought you had a smash—”

“I did. I should like the police to find out why.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Getting a bit jumpy, aren’t you?”

“You can put it that way.”

After a brief pause he went on speaking.

“That scene you made in the dining-room was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

“I think so. You wanted to put it on record that I had given you the necklace. Exactly the reverse has happened. Everyone who was there will be in a position to say that I contradicted you when you said so. I contradicted you flat, and reminded you that it was merely to have been lent to you for the Ball. I went on to say that I intended to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

She stood there looking down into the fire, smoking her cigarette, her hand steady, her face colourless. Perhaps it was the brilliant emerald of the pull-over which gave the blanched skin its harder, older look. Perhaps not. She had nothing to say. Lucius Bellingdon went on.

“I have been meaning to speak to you for some time now. I don’t think it will be any surprise to you to hear that I am thinking of making certain changes. I am, in fact, going to be married.”

She said with an accentuation of her drawl, “So Annabel has brought it off. It’s been fairly obvious that that was what she was after.”

He went on as if she had not spoken.

“My marriage will necessitate a good many other alterations.”

“Alterations?”

“To my will, amongst other things. I shall have to make a new one.”

“Is that supposed to affect me?”

“It does affect you—that is to say, it will. All the changes will affect you. I think it is only fair to tell you so.”

He paused briefly, but she neither looked at him nor spoke. The hand with the cigarette went up to her lips and came down again. The lips parted, a cloud of smoke was expelled. The lips closed again. He went on.

“I don’t think the present arrangements have been a great success. I believe we shall all be happier when changes have been made. I shall make Elaine an allowance, and if she likes to set up house with Arnold she can. Since it will be an allowance and not a settlement, he won’t be able to sponge upon her to any marked extent.”

“And are you going to make me an allowance too?”

“No, I don’t think so. You have your settlement.”

“You don’t suppose I can live on that!”

“I think you will have to.”

She sketched a gesture with the cigarette.

“Well, I can’t.”

When he made no reply, she looked at him for the first time. If he had had any illusions as to their relationship that look would have killed them. It would have killed him if it had had the power. He met it with a hardening of his determination.

“You will have to. Are you in debt?”

“What do you suppose?”

He said, “You had better make out a list of what you owe and let me have it. I will see that you start clear, but from now on you will have to stand on your own feet.”

She was looking down now at her own hand. A curl of smoke went up from the cigarette which it held. She said,