The Watersplash (19 page)

Susan went up to the Hall in the morning. It was difficult to go, but it would have been difficult to stay. They had come to a point where there was no easy path. If the police had made up their minds to arrest Edward, they would do it whether Susan Wayne was there or not. And he would hate it more if she was there. It was all that she could do to walk away up the drive and not look back. He meant to go over and see Mr. Barr, but not until later. He would give the police their chance before he went. And every step away from him felt like a long, hard mile. Older and stronger than logic was the instinct which has survived from the beginnings of the race. Nothing will go wrong if I am there. But out of sight what enemies, what pitfalls, what ambushes? Stay where you can cover the creature you love, if need be with your own shrinking flesh. It is when he is alone that the evil thing may creep up close and strike.

Susan did not formulate these things, but they were there under the reasoned thought which told her that the best way to help Edward was to go about her business as if this was just a day like any other day. She would come back at one, and Edward would be there—unless Mr. Barr had kept him.

Doris had lighted a fire in the library. Susan had not really thought about it before, but the sight of the blazing logs reminded her that it was colder. She stood to warm her hands for a minute before putting on her overall and getting down to the eighteenth-century books. She had reached the uppermost shelves by now, which meant climbing almost to the top of the ladder.

She was half way up, when the door opened and Arnold Random came in. As she answered his “Good-morning,” she thought how ill he looked. He went over to the fire and stood there with his back to her, warming himself. After waiting a little to see whether he would speak she went up the remaining steps and began her work.

The first book she took out was a volume of her great-grandfather’s sermons with a long-winded and ornate dedication to Edward Random Esquire. That would be Edward’s great-grandfather. The sermons were long, and appeared to be quite intolerably dull. The parish had doubtless been obliged to listen to them week by week, but she wondered whether anyone had ever had the urge to read them in print. Great-grandpapa had certainly been born in the eighteenth century, though only in its last decade, and she was trying to make up her mind whether to leave him there or to transfer him to the early nineteenth century, when Arnold spoke from the hearth.

“You are getting on.”

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid it must seem a bit slow—”

“Not at all—I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering—”

“Yes, Mr. Random?”

He stooped down to put a log on the fire and said with a sudden fretfulness,

“It’s very cold this morning—really very cold indeed. You must keep up a good fire.”

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him shiver. He went on speaking.

“Dreadfully cold. What was I saying?”

“You were wondering—”

“Yes, it was about my brother’s prayer-book. It was mislaid after his death, and I thought perhaps it had got pushed into one of these shelves. He used this room a good deal, you know. I wondered whether you had come across the book. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before—I just thought—”

He had both hands on the edge of the wide mantelshelf, gripping it. The knuckles stood up white. She could not see his face. She said, “No, I haven’t come across it. I will let you know at once if I do,” and reached up to put her great-grandfather back upon the shelf.

Arnold Random straightened up and went out of the room.

With her hands still touching the book of sermons, it came to Susan that she knew beyond any shadow of doubt just why she had been given this job—that she might find James Random’s prayer-book. It was the reason why she was here at this moment putting her great-grandfather’s sermons back upon the eighteenth-century shelf to which he was not lawfully entitled. Arnold Random wouldn’t care whether he or anyone else was a couple of centuries out of his proper place. He cared for one thing, and for one thing only—that there should be an accidental discovery of his brother’s prayer-book. It was to be found by someone who could have no interest in the finding. It was to be found by Susan Wayne. It was for this purpose that she had been engaged. And she was being too slow. At first it had not mattered, but now the thing was so urgent that he had been driven to a more or less direct approach. If the prayer-book contained what she thought it did, he must have been very hard pressed to do that. She believed that he was very hard pressed. He looked like a man who is driven by the Furies. She had a sudden picture of Mildred Blake as one of them. Odd, irrelevant, and horrifying!

A prick of remorse assailed her. You mustn’t have thoughts like that about people just because they happen to be rather tiresome and unattractive. Emmeline would never have had a thought like that about anyone.

She turned from it to the thing which she had shut away, just knowing that it was there but not letting herself look at it or think about it, because if she did, it might take to itself wings and be gone.

When she came out of the Vicarage with Edward last night she had the dazed feeling that anything might be going to happen. He might be so angry that all the friendship between them would go down in the storm. He might be quite dreadfully, witheringly polite, or he might just go into one of those silences which made you feel about a million miles away and out of sight. At first she thought it was going to be that way, because he didn’t say a word until they emerged from the drive. And then he laughed suddenly and slipped a hand inside her arm. Odd that just a laugh and a touch should make you feel as if the sun had come out and all the birds were singing. When the last house in the village had been left behind them, his arm came round her shoulders without a word spoken. They walked on like that until they came to the south lodge and were going up the path to the house. Something soft and furry brushed between them, purring. Edward’s arm tightened a little. He laid his face against hers for a moment, laughed again, and said,

“Interfering creature, aren’t you?”

Then they went in.

It didn’t mean anything, it couldn’t mean anything. But he wasn’t angry, and he hadn’t gone right away by himself. He was near, and kind.

It was about half an hour later that she found the prayer-book. It was behind some more sermons, those of a still older Vicar, the Reverend Nathaniel Spragge, 1745 to 1785. There were three volumes, “Printed by Subscription,” and the prayer-book was wedged behind them. Susan looked at it with something approaching dismay. If Arnold Random couldn’t be more convincing than this, he had really better stick to being honest. Who on earth was going to believe that a dying man had climbed to the top of a book-ladder and taken out three heavy volumes in order to hide something which he had no possible reason for wanting to hide? She wouldn’t put it past Arnold to have left his fingerprints on the leather cover. Why on earth hadn’t he just poked the prayer-book in amongst the Victorian novels? The answer, of course, was that it might have been found. And it was only lately that he had wanted it to be found.

These thoughts raced through her mind as she opened the prayer-book and shook it. There fell out an envelope addressed, “To my brother Arnold. My last Will and Testament. James Random.”

Susan had known it would be there, but actually to see it, to hold it in her hand, gave her a horrid giddy feeling. It was Edward’s inheritance that she was holding—the Hall and its surroundings, its woods and fields and farms, its cottages and hedgerows, and the village of Greenings—all in one light sheet of paper which would have burned away in an instant at the touch of a spark.

Arnold hadn’t burned it. He had waited to see what would happen. And in the end he had wanted the will to be found. There would be a lot of talk of course. Edward was going to hate that. Whatever happened between him and Arnold would happen privately.

She went on thinking. In the end she wiped the shelf and the volumes of Nathaniel Spragge, and she wiped the prayer-book and the envelope. After a little more thought she took out the enclosure and wiped that too. Now there wouldn’t be any fingerprints but hers, and the fresh ones which Arnold would make when he took it from her. If anyone asked any questions, she was quite ready to do the idiot child and say she was so sorry if it was wrong, but there was such a lot of dust.

She came down from the ladder and went along to the study with the envelope in her hand.

Arnold Random turned round from the window as she came in. The outlook was accounted a pleasant one. A shrub with scarlet berries on either side of the bay, a gravel path, and beyond it gently sloping grass, with here and there a group of trees. The kind of view, in fact, which may be seen almost anywhere in rural England. Arnold had been looking at it, but he had not seen it. All that he saw was a cold grey day too much akin to his own mood.

He turned, and saw Susan Wayne with the prayer-book in her hand. She held it out to him and said,

“Is this what you wanted me to look for?”

“Let me see… Yes, I think it is. Where was it?”

The real answer was, “Where you put it,” but of course she couldn’t say that. But her colour rose.

“On the top shelf behind some sermons by the Reverend Nathaniel Spragge.”

“The top shelf? What an extraordinary thing!”

He was holding the book. He hadn’t opened it. He came up to the writing-table and put it down. His hand shook. He stood there looking at it. She thought, “He can’t make up his mind. He wanted it found, but now he can’t make up his mind. He doesn’t know whether to go on or go back. He doesn’t know whether I’ve seen the will.” She said quickly,

“There’s a paper inside it, Mr. Random. I think you ought to see it.”

He drew a long breath. She wondered if it was a breath of relief. When you have carried a secret like this for a year, it might be a relief to let it go, no matter what would come of it.

He rested one hand on the table and opened the prayer-book. The leaves fell apart where the envelope divided them. Susan watched whilst he looked down at it and read the words which she knew were there:

“To my brother Arnold. My last Will and Testament. James Random.”

It was a minute before he opened his dry lips to say,

“It’s a will—”

“Yes.”

“My brother James’ will—”

“Hadn’t you better open it?”

He started.

“Yes, yes—of course—”

He took the enclosure out of the envelope and unfolded it. Just an ordinary sheet of paper written on in a shaky hand, signed at the foot by James Random and witnessed by William Jackson and William Stokes. When he had stared at it for quite a long time he said,

“My brother’s will. Dated a week before he died. It leaves everything to Edward.”

Miss Silver had volunteered to do any shopping that might be required for the Vicarage.

“You will be having your work-party this evening, and that will mean more to do in the house, to say nothing of the cutting-out, at which you are, I am told, most proficient. Your dear mother was just the same. I remember that she won the sewing prize at school. So if there is any little thing I can do for you in the village, I should really enjoy having an object.”

Ruth remembered that they were short of custard powder, and cook had planned to make some of her celebrated cream-custard biscuits.

“She thinks they are wasted on the work-party, but she can’t resist showing them off. Everyone in Greenings has asked for the recipe and been refused. And if Mrs. Alexander has any of her home-made apple-ginger left, do find out if she can spare me a pot. John is so fond of it. And I can cut out a whole batch of children’s frocks and be sure that they will be some kind of a human shape.”

As Miss Silver took her way down the drive she had a thought to spare for her old friend’s daughter. Such a pity that she had no children—a pity and, she was afraid, an abiding grief. But instead of letting it embitter her she allowed it to flow out in service to the desolate children who needed it most. She thought that Mary had brought up her daughter well.

She found Miss Sims at the counter in Mrs. Alexander’s shop. She was commenting unfavourably and at great length upon an imported cauliflower, each word carefully separated from its neighbour and coming out with slow deliberation. “Sinful!” she was saying as Miss Silver came in. “Two shillings for a cauliflower! And Mr. Pomfret had to plough in I dunno how many hundreds in the spring! ‘Wilful waste makes woeful want,’ is what my father would have said!”

Mrs. Alexander opined that times had changed, and did she want the cauliflower?

Miss Sims gave a sigh that was almost a groan.

“Seems I’ll have to take it. The doctor’s so fond of them he’d eat them day in, day out all the year round if they was to be had, which thank goodness they’re not, for there’s nothing smells so strong when it’s cooking as a cauliflower.”

Miss Silver entered the conversation with a bright smile and the remark that a piece of bread in the saucepan would often do wonders in reducing the disagreeable odour.

Mrs. Alexander said her mother always put a bit of bread in with the greens, but Miss Sims merely shook her head and gave it as her opinion that what was all very well for a good English cauliflower grown in your own garden was neither here nor there when it came to this foreign stuff.

It was while Miss Sims was producing her purse and counting out five threepenny bits, three coppers, and a sixpence that Mrs. Alexander leaned over the counter and asked Miss Silver whether she could tell her how poor Annie Jackson was.

“If you’ll excuse me asking, but I saw her yesterday just for a minute going past, and I thought she looked dreadful, poor thing. We all know there’s nobody would be kinder to her than Mrs. Ball, but I did think she looked dreadful, and I couldn’t get it from my mind. They say she goes down to the splash and looks at the water, and she didn’t ought to do that.”

Miss Silver shook her head gravely.

“It is very difficult to stop her. She slips down there in the dark. I found her there myself last night. I am afraid the place has a morbid attraction for her, especially about the time her husband must have been drowned. Of course, it is exceedingly bad for her, as you say.”

“She didn’t ought to do it,” said Miss Sims in a tone almost as disapproving as if she had just found out that the fish was high.

Mrs. Alexander was disapproving too.

“She doesn’t go along to that cottage of hers, not by herself, does she? I did hear the Hodges hadn’t moved in yet. Seems her mother’s been ill and they’re bound to stay till she’s better.”

Miss Silver coughed in a hesitating manner.

“I am afraid I cannot say. Of course you are quite right. She ought not to do these things, but it is extremely difficult to prevent her. So easy to slip out, especially whilst a work-party is going on.”

Miss Sims began to stow away the cauliflower in her shopping-bag.

“I wouldn’t go down to the splash in the dark if you were to pay me.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Alexander, “Annie is used to it. There’s a lot in being used to things.”

They had talked about Annie Jackson for a quarter of an hour before Miss Silver found an opportunity of mentioning either custard powder or apple-ginger.

The conversation might have gone on a good deal longer if it had not been for the sudden irruption of Cyril Croft in search of batteries for his bicycle lamp. It appeared that he had been away visiting an aunt, and had come back with two batteries that were completely dud.

“I had a frightful time there—there wasn’t a piano in the house! And I missed everything that was going on here. Clarice —and poor old William Jackson! It must have been a homicidal maniac—mustn’t it? And that’s a grim thought, because he’s probably still somewhere about!”

Miss Silver left him talking and proceeded on her way. Approaching the Miss Blakes’ house, she was waved and nodded to by Miss Ora, whose sofa had been pushed even farther into the bay than usual. Regardless of the colder day, a window was opened. Greetings were exchanged, and a pressing invitation extended to come up and have a cup of tea and a chat. Remembering the horrid fluid which had passed under that name, Miss Silver might have been forgiven for finding some excuse, yet she accepted with smiling alacrity and was invited to walk in.

Miss Ora’s best shawl had been put away for another tea-party, but she was wearing a very nice one with a pale blue border, and ribbons of the same shade in the lace trifle which passed as a cap. She received Miss Silver with great affability, designated a hand-bell, and asked if she would be so kind as to ring it just outside the door, explaining that it would bring Mrs. Deacon, which it presently did.

“Miss Silver is being kind enough to pay me a visit, and we will have tea, and the cake that was not cut yesterday.”

Mrs. Deacon looked uncertain, seemed about to speak, checked herself, and retreated. Just before the door closed upon her she remarked that Miss Mildred was turning out the kitchen cupboard. It was obvious that the prospect of seeing yesterday’s cake had been dimmed. Miss Ora made a small vexed sound, clutched fretfully at her shawl, and only began to brighten when it became apparent that, unlike Ruth Ball, Miss Silver was by no means averse from talking about the murders.

They had reached some interesting speculations as to the possibility of Annie knowing more about her husband’s death than she had hitherto been induced to divulge, when the door was first unlatched, and then pushed open by the thrust of a bony elbow. It was Miss Mildred, who had brought up the tea. And not even in a pot—just three cups, one of them chipped, with a drop or two of milk added to the pale brew, and no sugar. Instead of the cake so optimistically suggested there were two very plain biscuits on a cracked plate.

Miss Ora’s colour deepened. But this was no moment to quarrel with Mildred. She swallowed her annoyance and exclaimed,

“Do you know, Miss Silver says that poor Annie Jackson just can’t keep away from the splash—not even at night. You’d think she’d be frightened—wouldn’t you?”

Mildred Blake set down the tray. She stared at her sister across it.

“What has she got to be frightened about?”

The white curls were tossed. The blue ribbons fluttered.

“Well, really—when two people have been murdered there!”

Miss Mildred’s voice was coldly disapproving as she said,

“You are taking a good deal for granted, Ora.” She turned to Miss Silver. “My sister is prone to exaggeration. There is no proof that anyone has been murdered. William Jackson was drunk, and he fell into a pool and was drowned. No one had any reason for wanting to get rid of him—except his wife. Miss Dean was an excitable young woman, and she had been crossed in love. I find it much easier to believe that she took her own life than that anyone else should have had the slightest desire to do so.”

Miss Ora was now very much flushed.

“Really, Mildred—you might just as well say I tell lies! And you don’t know what Miss Silver has just been telling me about Annie Jackson. She goes down to the splash between half past nine and ten and stands there talking and muttering to herself—and why should she do that if she hasn’t got something on her mind? It’s my belief she went to meet poor William, and pushed him in, which wouldn’t have been hard to do if he was drunk. You know Mrs. Deacon always says it never did take much to go to his head. It would have been quite easy for Annie to have pushed him in, and it’s my belief it is just what she did. And Clarice Dean too. You see, if Clarice was hanging about there on the chance of meeting Edward Random, well, she might have seen more than she was meant to see on the night that William was drowned. And then Annie would have had a motive for pushing her in too. You can’t deny that.”

Mildred Blake said in a slow, cold voice,

“My dear Ora, you should write a novel. It would give you something to do.” She took up the third cup and sipped from it. “I prefer to leave these conjectures to the police. But Annie should really not be allowed to go down to the splash in the way you describe. It is most unsuitable. Mrs. Ball should look after her better.”

Miss Silver coughed in a deprecating manner.

“I think she does her best. But it is quite an obsession—she just slips out and goes down there. It does make one wonder whether she could have seen something on the night her husband was drowned. I have heard her say things that would seem to point that way. And she can not keep away from the splash.”

“Most unsuitable,” said Miss Mildred coldly. “And I should have thought Mrs. Ball would have expected her to stay in on a Friday night. She always offers quite elaborate refreshments. Most unnecessary and extravagant, as I have told her, but I believe they have money and can afford a rather pretentious standard.”

“I am quite looking forward to it,” said Miss Silver. “I hope you will be there.”

Miss Mildred shook her head.

“I do not often miss, but when my sister is without a nurse I do not care to leave her alone in the house. There is also a great deal extra to do, and I shall be glad to get to bed early.”

Miss Ora threw her a fleeting sideways look and sighed.

“I am a sad trouble,” she said.

As she emerged upon the street again Miss Silver looked at her watch. She had spent nearly three quarters of an hour beside Miss Ora’s couch, but there would still be time for one more call.

She walked on up the road and turned in at the south lodge.

Emmeline took her visitor into a room littered with cats. Amina and her kittens occupied a basket in front of the fire. Scheherazade and the ill-favoured Toby were sharing the window-seat, while Lucifer, black and beautiful, lay in an attitude of profound repose along the back of the sofa from which Emmeline has just risen. When Miss Silver sat down in the other corner he opened one tawny eye, let it rest upon her in a negligent manner, yawned slightly, and plunged again into slumber. A pleasant impression that the stranger was praising him for his beauty went with him into a delightful dream in which he stalked and caught enormous mice.

Beginning with her tribute to Lucifer, Miss Silver found herself launched upon a conversation during which Emmeline told her all about his ancestry.

“Of course, on Scheherazade’s side he is pure Persian with four champions in his pedigree, but I am afraid I shall not be able to show him as a Persian because I really can’t be sure about his father. Scheherazade always has such pretty kittens, only this time they were nice healthy little things but quite plain. There were four, another brother and two sisters, and I was able to find good homes for three of them. And then suddenly Lucifer began to turn into quite a beauty. It was really most extraordinary. I don’t think I have ever known a case quite like it.”

It was not until they had talked about cats for quite twenty minutes that Miss Silver found an opportunity of turning the conversation in the direction of Annie Jackson.

They were still talking about her, when the telephone-bell rang from the small back room, and a minute later Edward Random opened the door, began to speak, broke off to say how do you do to Miss Silver, and then went back to what he had been about to say.

“I’m going up to the Hall. Arnold wants to see me—I can’t think why. So if anyone asks for me, you can tell them where I am.”

“Anyone?” Emmeline looked at him in a puzzled manner.

Edward said grimly, “The police, darling,” and was gone.

Miss Silver went on talking about Annie Jackson.