The Listening Eye (17 page)

“It can’t be done.”

He had a moment of compunction, of desire to be quit of the strain between them. He said,

“I realize that this has come on you a bit suddenly. You have expected everything to go on just as it has for years. I don’t want to make it too hard for you. I will add to your settlement by an allowance of five hundred a year on the understanding that you keep free of debt.”

“And suppose I don’t?”

“The allowance will go to paying what you owe until you are clear again.” He tried for an easier tone. “Come, you know, it’s not such a bad offer.”

He got a glancing look of which he made nothing.

“That’s what you say. Is that all? Because if it is, I’ll go.”

He said, “Yes, that’s all.”

She flicked her cigarette into the fire and went.

THE police arrived—Inspector Crisp, Inspector Abbott. After seeing Mr. Bellingdon in his study and viewing the necklace they collected all the wrappings and the crushed paper in which it had been packed in order to examine them for fingerprints and other possible clues, and proceeded to interview Parker and other members of the household on the subject of the car.

Parker could hardly have been less co-operative. He had taken the ten-thirty bus into Ledlington on Sunday morning, and he had taken the ten-thirty-five bus back to the corner on Sunday night. If there had been any tampering with the car, it hadn’t been done when he was about. No, it stood to reason the garage wasn’t locked. What would be the sense of locking it with everyone in the house wanting to get in and out and take their cars of a Sunday? Mrs. Herne, she had hers out regular. Mrs. Scott, she might have hers out or she mightn’t, and if she didn’t Mr. Bellingdon would be wanting one of his. A fine business it would be if everything was locked up and no one could get at it.

Inspector Crisp was short with him, and got short answers back. Parker’s cars were the core of his heart, and he was prepared to stick up to the police or anyone else who suggested that he might have neglected them. As for the rest of the household, Arnold Bray said he had arrived on a bicycle and had put it away in one of the old loose-boxes opposite the garage. When? Oh, sometime before lunch. Couldn’t he be a little more particular as to the time? No, he didn’t think he could. He didn’t look at his watch, he just wandered round to the stables and put the bicycle away.

“Didn’t you notice if any of the cars were out, Mr. Bray?”

“Oh, no. I just put my bicycle into the loose-box and came up to the house.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“Oh, no.”

Moira Herne said that she had taken out her car in the morning. She had run David Moray in to Ledlington to the station, and then she had joined a party of friends. She had got back about six and gone for a walk in the grounds.

“Did you see anyone when you were at the garage in the morning?”

She gave Inspector Crisp her bright, pale stare.

“Only Hubert.”

Crisp knew what he would have liked to do with her. Slapping—that was what she wanted, and it hadn’t been done. Under that look of hers his class-consciousness flared. He knew her sort—brought up in the lap of luxury and never done an honest day’s work in her life. He restrained himself, but his tone was sharp as he said,

“You mean Mr. Hubert Garratt?”

“Yes, I said so—Hubert.”

“What was Mr. Garratt doing?”

“Coming out of the garage.”

“Come out as you went in?”

“That’s what I said.”

They were all together in the study, Inspector Abbott at one end of the writing-table taking notes. Hubert Garratt had a chair with his back to the light. He looked ill. When Crisp turned to him he said,

“I was having a look at my car. I thought of taking it out, and I was checking the oil.”

“Did you go out?”

“No—I didn’t feel well enough.”

Crisp went on with his questions, and they got him exactly nowhere.

Most of the party had been in or near the garage. Each of them had had some perfectly natural reason for being there. Any one of them could have loosened the nuts on the wheel of Mr. Bellingdon’s car. But Moira Herne had not been there at lunch when he had talked of going out on the road which led down over Emberley Hill. Nothing to say whether she already knew that Mr. Bellingdon intended to go that way.

When the questioning was over and the party was dispersing, Annabel Scott lingered. Inspector Crisp was busy with the box in which the necklace had come. She found the London Inspector at her elbow.

“Mrs. Scott—whose choice was the drive to Emberley?”

She looked at him, a little surprised.

“I think it was mine. I wanted to see some friends—the Coldwells. They live about ten miles out on the other side.”

“Had you mentioned this to anyone?”

She said, “I expect so,” and got a quick “Please think whether you did.”

He was watching her face. Definitely easy to look at. Lovely eyes and an air of charm. Something more than good looks too—intelligence. She was saying,

“Yes, I must have spoken of it. Muriel Coldwell is one of my oldest friends. She rang up on Saturday evening and said couldn’t we come over.”

Her colour had deepened. He said,

“Mrs. Coldwell rang up, and you came away from the telephone and spoke of her invitation?”

“I told Mr. Bellingdon about it.”

“And afterwards you spoke of it—to whom?”

They were standing together near the door. They kept their voices low. Over by the writing-table Lucius Bellingdon and Crisp were making a parcel of the wrappings. Annabel said,

“To Miss Bray—I know I did that.”

“Who else was there at the time?”

Her eyes had a distressed look.

“I think—nearly everyone—”

He dropped his voice lower still.

“Was Mrs. Herne there?”

There was an effect of withdrawal. He wondered whether she was going to answer him.

In the end she said, “Yes, I think so,” and went out of the room.

IT was a little later that Miss Silver, who had been looking for Sally Foster, came upon her in what had once been a schoolroom. Lucius Bellingdon had taken it over as it was when he bought the house. But Moira Herne had never done her lessons here. She had gone to an expensive school selected by Lily Bellingdon, and the Victorian atmosphere had remained intact. Two of the walls were lined with books. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor, and a large pale green globe on a mahogany stand. There were old comfortable chairs and a practical table. Sally had come here for refuge. You can’t stay in your bedroom when the maids have to get in and do it. She wanted to get away from the others, and very particularly she wanted to get away from Moira Herne. She didn’t know what to do, and she had to think.

She stood at the window looking out for a time, then turned and began to wander along the shelves, picking up a book here and there and looking at it. There were bound volumes of an old magazine called Good Words. There was an old bound Punch with pictures of about the time of the Crimean War—elegant young men with long trailing whiskers, and girls with flowing skirts and little turned down collars. She put it back and looked at the upper shelves. Novels by Charlotte Yonge— The Heir of Redclyffe, The Pillars of the House. The Channings and East Lynne by Mrs. Henry Wood. Charles Kingsley—Sermons, Hypatia, and Westward Ho. Mrs. Markham’s History of England. Miss Strickland’s Lives of the Queens.

She was putting back a volume with rather a charming engraving of Joanna of Navarre, when the door opened and Miss Silver came into the room with a flowered knitting-bag on her arm. Just for a moment Sally had the feeling that she really was back in the past. Here was the old schoolroom, here were the old books. Miss Silver might so easily have been the governess for whom these things were waiting. She would sit down at the table and teach from Mrs. Markham’s history.

Miss Silver smiled.

“You are looking at the old books, Miss Foster?”

Sally said, “Yes,” and with the spoken word the past receded and the trouble in her thought was back upon her.

Miss Silver came up to her and put a hand on her arm.

“One cannot really talk standing up. Shall we sit down?”

“Are we going to talk?”

She received an encouraging smile.

“Oh, yes, my dear, I think so. These chairs are shabby but comfortable.”

It was not until they were seated that she went on, and not then until she had taken a half-finished baby’s bootee out of the flowered bag and begun to knit, her hands held low in her lap, her eyes fixed on Sally’s face in the kindest and most attentive manner. The atmosphere was cosy and soothing, Miss Silver’s voice agreeable in the extreme, but her words made Sally jump.

“I should like to talk to you about the return of Mr. Bellingdon’s diamond necklace.”

If Sally was startled, it was because she had a rather horrid feeling that the ground had opened in front of her, and that perhaps everything was going to begin sliding again. She said,

“You want to talk to me?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I should like to ask you why the return of the necklace alarmed you so much.”

“Alarmed me?”

Listening to her own faltering words, Sally thought they were enough to make anyone think that she had stolen the necklace herself.

Miss Silver was knitting briskly.

“You were so much alarmed that you were ready to faint. Mr. Moray noticed it and brought you some coffee. He also took your hand and held it, and when you had drunk some of the coffee the faintness passed.”

Sally said, “Oh—” She wasn’t at all sure that it wasn’t coming on again. She leaned her head against the back of the chair and saw Miss Silver lay her knitting down upon her lap and dip into her knitting-bag, coming up with a small round box of Tonbridge ware. It had an inlaid pattern on the lid, and it unscrewed. She was unscrewing it now and holding it out to Sally.

“Pray take an acid drop, Miss Foster. You will find it very refreshing. It is, I believe, practically impossible to faint while one is sucking an acid drop, and it would be exceedingly inconvenient for both of us if you were to faint just now. There is also not the slightest reason for you to do so.”

Sally found herself taking what Miss Silver had called an acid drop. The lemon flavour was certainly strong, and whether for that reason, or because of the practical course which the conversation seemed to be taking, she no longer felt as if everything was sliding away. She said,

“I don’t faint—ever.”

Miss Silver had resumed her knitting.

“It is not a practice to be commended. And now, my dear, what frightened you at breakfast this morning? No, wait a moment before you answer. It was something to do with the arrival of the parcel which contained the necklace. It gave you a shock which almost caused you to faint—and as you have just told me, you are not in the habit of fainting. I need not remind you that the necklace was taken from a murdered man. If the circumstances of its return have given you any clue to the identity of the murderer, you will be in no doubt as to your duty.”

The words “no doubt” impinged on Sally’s ear in an ironic manner. She was full of doubts. They blew about in her mind like veering winds, scattering her thoughts as if they were fallen leaves and making it impossible for her to order them. She looked at Miss Silver and said,

“No doubt?”

Miss Silver’s answer was firm.

“I believe that you can have none.”

After she had been silent for a little Sally said,

“You see, I know who you are.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I have a flat in Miss Paine’s house—at least it was her house. David and I were helping her when she rang up Mrs. Moray to get your address, and when she rang up to ask you to see her. She didn’t tell us why—but you can’t help wondering—” Her voice trailed away.

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“You wondered whether her death had anything to do with the theft of the necklace and the murder of Mr. Hughes?”

Sally nearly swallowed the acid drop. She sat bolt upright and exclaimed,

“But it couldn’t—I mean, the necklace hadn’t been stolen then—it wasn’t until next day!”

Miss Silver turned the blue bootee.

“Miss Paine came to see me because she had seen two men meet in the Masters gallery. She saw them meet, and she saw one of them speak to the other. Owing to her proficiency in lip-reading she came into possession of evidence with regard to a crime which was being planned between these two men. She left the gallery and tried to think what she ought to do. She was very doubtful how her story would be received if she went to the police. She went back to the gallery, but the men had gone their separate ways. As you no doubt know, Mr. Moray’s portrait of Miss Paine was on exhibition in the gallery. Unfortunately, as I believe for Miss Paine, one of the two men who was looking in her direction and whose share in a compromising conversation she had been able to read noticed the portrait and identified her with it. It is, of course, the portrait purchased by Mr. Bellingdon and entitled The Listener. The caretaker at the gallery, who is inclined to be talkative, poured out the whole history of the picture and of Miss Paine, mentioning that she was stone-deaf, but that no one would ever guess it because she was so good at lip-reading. The man to whom this information was given was the prospective murderer. He must have been considerably alarmed and have tried to recall just what information Miss Paine could have acquired. He would have had no difficulty in obtaining her address from the caretaker, since Mr. Moray was residing in her house. I believe that this man, who had already planned a cold-blooded murder, did not hesitate to take steps which would prevent Miss Paine from becoming a possible danger. I think she was followed when she came to see me, and again when she left me, this time most unfortunately on foot. As you know, she met with an accident which I cannot regard as fortuitous.”

Sally said, “Oh—”

Miss Silver drew upon the ball of wool in the flowered knitting-bag.

“A cruel and cold-blooded conspiracy was entered into and carried out. Mr. Garratt, who was to have been the messenger when the necklace was fetched from the bank, was incapacitated and Arthur Hughes was sent in his place. I believe what had been counted upon was that Mr. Bellingdon himself would fetch it. I believe the theft of the necklace was intended to screen an attempt on Mr. Bellingdon’s life. But when it came to the point Arthur Hughes had to be shot because he had recognized the assailant. Yesterday there was another attempt upon Mr. Bellingdon’s life. A wheel came off his car on a notoriously dangerous hill. He was known to be taking that road, and there is very little doubt that the accident was contrived. Now the necklace has been returned. I find this an extremely alarming circumstance.”

Sally said, “Why?”

The word came out so faintly that she could hardly hear it herself, but Miss Silver answered her.

“It is someone in Mr. Bellingdon’s household who is interested in his death—someone who would profit by it. The information necessary for the planning of the first crime could only have come from an intimate member of his household. Only someone who would benefit under his will would have the necessary interest. I believe that this person has a passionate desire to possess the necklace and was in a position to stipulate that it should be returned. The consent of any other associates could very well be influenced by the fact that the necklace would be extremely dangerous to handle and would have to be broken up, when a great deal of its value would be lost. Mr. Bellingdon is about to marry again. He will be making a new will. Until that will is made he must continue to be in great danger. If you know anything—anything at all—you must not keep it back.”

The thoughts that had been clamouring in Sally’s mind fell suddenly still. There was a quietness and a clarity. She was back in the dark passage at the North Lodge and heard Moira Herne speak to a man in the room behind her. There was a man in that room. What man? She hadn’t seen him, and she hadn’t heard his voice. He had been with Moira at the lodge, and he had talked with her in the dark front room where the blinds were down. Moira had come out of the room, and she had turned on the threshold and said, “You’re sure it will come tomorrow—absolutely sure? Because I won’t go on until it does —I can tell you that.” When Moira stopped speaking there had been the murmur of a man’s voice from the room behind her—just a deep blurred murmur of a voice that might be any man’s. After that there was the bit about David, and Moira saying, “Come along, or I’ll be late,” and then her footsteps passing the threshold and going away down the flagged path to the drive. And the man’s footsteps following—

She came back to the schoolroom, and to Miss Silver knitting a baby’s bootee. The pale blue wool was a lovely colour. She felt suddenly able to tell Miss Silver what she had heard.