Through The Wall (14 page)

Nothing could have been pleasanter than Cyril’s,

“Oh, no. She hasn’t been very well.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“I’m afraid not. I am a pretty sound sleeper.”

Crisp looked from one to the other, frowning.

“When Sergeant Jackson got here this morning it was stated that the whole party, including Mr. Cunningham who didn’t sleep in the house, another visitor who left early, Miss Adrian, and Mr. Felix Brand, were all together for several hours at a picnic in the cove. Mr. Cunningham is stated to have left at half past ten.” He turned to Richard. “That correct?”

“Yes.”

“The parties on the two sides of the house had supper and spent the evening oh their own premises, but both parties say they had separated for the night by a little after half past ten. That is correct? I just want to confirm it.”

There was a general murmur of assent. Miss Cassy said brightly,

“A quarter past ten is my hour, Inspector—winter or summer.”

He rapped on the table.

“I will ask you again. Did anyone hear Miss Adrian leave the house? Or Mr. Felix Brand?”

A deep persistent silence followed each of these questions. He made an impatient movement.

“Mrs. Brand, you told Sergeant Jackson that none of your son’s clothes were missing except the pair of flannel slacks and the pullover which he was wearing last night?”

Florence Brand said, “That is all.”

“Except his bathing-suit,” said Cassy Remington. She turned helpfully to the Inspector. “Plain black stockinette. So neat and workmanlike, I always think. And he is such a good swimmer.”

He gave her his most repressive stare.

“I was speaking to your sister. Mrs. Brand, I want to know how your son would dress if he were going out for an early morning dip.”

Florence Brand said,

“Like that. He would put on a pair of trousers and a sweater over his bathing-suit unless it was really hot.” She paused, fanned herself with the linen handkerchief, and said in her slow, deep voice, “I had better put you right about our relationship. Felix is not my son.”

“Not? Do you mean that he was adopted?”

“No. I married his father.” She fanned, and added, “When he was two years old.”

It was a public repudiation. Since Felix was probably a murderer, she would have none of him. There was not anyone present who was not aware of the implication. Even Crisp was taken aback. Eliza gave another of those formidable snorts. And for the first time Penny moved. Her little stiff body remained rigid, but she turned her head. Her clear brown eyes rested for a moment upon Florence Brand. They said, “Judas.” Her clear young voice said,

“You are in a great hurry, Aunt Florence.”

Cassy Remington came into the silence that followed. Her chain jingled. She said in what Eliza called her vinegar voice,

“Always a most uncongenial child. Such a shocking temper.”

Penny looked away. It was perhaps the more damning gesture of the two. She went back into her stillness.

The sound of heavy feet came in through the garden door. A constable came up the two steps and stood there looking across at the Inspector.

“Excuse me, sir—”

“Well, what is it?”

“We’ve found the clothes.”

“Where?”

“Shoved in under the bank above high water mark.”

Crisp had a frowning stare. He barked out,

“All right, what are you waiting for? Bring them in!” The frown was turned on Florence Brand. “Son or stepson, madam, I suppose you can identify his clothes?”

She sat affronted. Cassy Remington played with her chain, primmed up her lips, patted the regular waves of her hair.

Coming out of the bright sunshine, the constable found the room embarrassingly full of people. It was really quite light, but it didn’t seem so, coming in like that. He had to thread his way amongst the chairs, the tables, the people. He felt as crowded and uncomfortable as if he was wearing a suit that was too tight for him, but he got up to the table without mishap and dumped the clothes he was carrying in front of Inspector Crisp.

Felix Brand’s old grey flannel slacks. The Inspector picked them up and held them dangling. He addressed Florence Brand.

“Are these your son’s?”

She stared back at him with her prominent brown eyes.

“If they belong to Felix they will have his initials inside the waistband. I have already told you that he is not my son.”

“F.M.B.—is that right?”

“Felix Martin Brand—yes, that is right.”

He let the slacks fall in a heap and picked up the sweater. As he shook it out, there was a sound in the room, a movement, a drawing in of breath. The front of the sweater was stained and spotted, and the right sleeve soaked with blood from elbow to wrist.

When Miss Silver got back from the beach that morning she found Richard Cunningham waiting for her. She had intended to write some letters, but a single glance informed her that they would not be written. She took him into a bright bare room which contained a sofa, two chairs, and a carpet— very little else. She indicated the largest chair, removed her coat before taking the sofa corner, and extracted Derek’s current stocking from the bag which she had taken to the beach.

Richard watched her without impatience. No hurry and no fuss. He could imagine that she had been brought up on such maxims as, “Self-control is the essence of good breeding,” and “A gentle-woman is never in a hurry.” He found her reposeful, and very steadying to the nerves.

When she had taken up her knitting she gave him her peculiarly sweet smile and said,

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cunningham?”

He was leaning forward in the rather unyielding chair. He made no pretence to anything except gravity as he said,

“I hope you can help me.”

Her eyes dwelt thoughtfully upon his face.

“Something has happened?”

“Yes. Miss Adrian has been murdered.”

After the briefest possible pause she said,

“Yes?”

“You are not surprised?”

She coughed.

“The abnormal is always surprising, and murder is always abnormal.”

“But you are not surprised?”

She was knitting evenly and fast. Her regard dwelt on him as she said,

“It is the abnormal itself which is surprising, not its results.”

“And you were aware that the conditions at Cove House were abnormal?”

“I think you were aware of it yourself, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Not to that extent. I wonder whether you would tell me just what you were aware of.”

Miss Silver quoted from the Book of Common Prayer.

“ ‘Envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,’ Mr. Cunningham. Where these are present, murder can never be surprising. May I ask who is suspected of having caused Miss Adrian’s death?”

He said, “Felix Brand. But I don’t know—I am very uneasy. That is why I am here. May I give you the facts very shortly?”

She inclined her head.

“Pray do so.”

“Miss Adrian’s body was found at half past seven this morning by Mrs. Woolley, the daily cook who works for Mrs. Brand. Finding that neither Felix nor Helen Adrian were in their rooms, she imagined that they had gone for a swim, and went down the garden to see if they were in sight. She had made some tea, and was afraid that it would spoil. She found Helen Adrian lying dead under the steep drop where the steps go down from the last terrace to the beach. She may have fallen over, but it was not the fall that killed her. There were horrible injuries to the head. It had been literally battered in—probably with one of the larger stones. The place is above high water mark, and there are plenty of them lying about. No weapon has been found, but if a stone was used it could have been very easily disposed of. The tide was high between twelve and two last night, and that seems to be the most likely time for the murder to have been committed. Miss Remington says she heard a cry, but she cannot fix the time, except that it was dark, and she tangles the whole thing up by suggesting that what she heard was a seagull, a bat, or a cat—I think she put them forward in that order. Now Marian did not hear anything, but she woke very much startled just about high tide. She heard the water very plainly, and you don’t hear it unless the tide is high. I haven’t the slightest doubt that it was a cry that waked her, but she didn’t actually hear anything, so it’s no good as evidence. Everybody else says they didn’t hear anything at all. Helen Adrian went out, and Felix Brand went out, but nobody heard them. Helen was found dead at half past seven this morning, and Felix hasn’t been found at all.”

The busy needles checked for a moment. Miss Silver said,

“Dear me!”

“He apparently went out in a swim-suit, slacks, and a sweater—he often went out to bathe like that. Well, the sweater and the slacks have been found pushed in under the bank above high water mark. The sweater is quite horribly stained—the lower part of the right sleeve practically soaked with blood. If he didn’t kill Helen Adrian he must have handled the body. Whichever way it was, it looks as if he had stripped and just swum out to sea. He couldn’t have got anywhere in a swim-suit, and if he’d meant to try and make a get-away he’d have come back to the house for clothes and money. Whether he killed her or not, he was crazy enough about her to drown himself when she was dead.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You say ‘whether he killed her or not.’ There is some doubt in your mind?”

He nodded.

“It looks like the plainest of plain cases, but—well, there are one or two things that stick in my throat.”

Her needles clicked.

“I shall be interested to hear what they are.”

“If I was sure that Felix Brand was the murderer I shouldn’t be here. You saw him for yourself. He had the sort of crazy passion for Helen Adrian which could quite easily end up in a case of murder-cum-suicide. That is just what this looks like. But there are one or two things that don’t fit in. Marian had an old raincoat down on the beach yesterday. The shingle was damp where the tide had left it. There were a lot of these rugs and old coats—”

“Yes, I was provided with one myself.”

He nodded.

“They were taken in afterwards. I carried Marian’s. It is kept hanging on one of the pegs in the passage which leads to the door between the two houses. I hung it there. There was a scarf on the peg already—a blue and yellow square which she wears over her hair when it is windy. I took it down in order to hang up the coat, and then put it back again.”

“Yes, Mr. Cunningham?”

He went on in the same quiet, even tone.

“The door between the houses is locked on the far side, bolted on the nearer side. It is the same on all three floors. Marian did not go out again, but in the morning when Helen Adrian’s body was discovered this raincoat was down on the terrace from which Helen was pushed or fell. There is a seat there, and it was lying on the seat. But the scarf—”

“The scarf, Mr. Cunningham?”

“The blue and yellow square, which I had put back on the same peg, was still there, but it was badly crumpled and stained with blood.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“And what deduction do you draw from that?”

He made an abrupt movement.

“It looks like an attempt to involve Marian. Her raincoat down on the terrace. It has her name inside the neckband. Her scarf, which everyone knows, messed up and put back on the peg. What else can it be? But it doesn’t tie up with Felix Brand. I can imagine him murdering Helen and swimming out to sea to drown himself afterwards. But I don’t see him taking Marian’s raincoat down to the terrace for one clue, and messing up her scarf and putting it back for another. Murder and suicide are compatible with a state of reckless passion, but not with this cold-blooded attempt to throw suspicion on somebody else. That’s the psychological difficulty. But there’s a physical one too. Those doors between the houses are kept locked on one side, bolted on the other. The outside doors and windows on the ground floor were all shut when we came in soon after seven. I am sure that the scarf and raincoat were still there when I went through the hall just before half past ten, because Marian was talking about the doors between the houses and I glanced along the passage. There was a good overhead light, and I am sure I should have noticed if her coat and scarf had not been there. Well then, how could Felix Brand have taken them? How could anyone in the other house have taken them? Or put the scarf back after it was stained?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Very clear, very lucid,” she said. “May I ask whom you suspect?”

He said drily, “Not Marian or her sister.”

She coughed again.

“I will neither endorse nor question that.”

“Miss Silver!”

She had a faint reproving smile.

“Pray let us avoid coming to conclusions which may be premature. You have stated the facts. They may be explained in more than one way. For the moment what I want to ask you is this. Just why are you here?”

His manner had become a shade more formal.

“I want to protect Miss Brand.”

She was knitting steadily.

“You want to protect her, and you come to me. In what way do you imagine that I can help you?”

He sat up straight, one hand on the arm of his chair.

“I will tell you. I am—very uneasy. I think there is an attempt to involve Marian Brand. I think there may be a money motive behind it. She has recently come in for a considerable sum of money.”

“Oh, yes, there has been a good deal of local talk about that. The late Mr. Brand was very well known and respected, I understand. When he left his entire fortune to a niece whom nobody had ever seen, there was bound to be a good deal of comment. Mrs. Lester’s maid is a cousin of the Mrs. Bell who works at Cove House, so she was full of it. Her story is, I suppose, correct. Miss Brand was her uncle’s sole heiress?”

“Yes. He left her everything. Ina Felton has no share. He distrusted her husband, and he had confidence in Marian. It is not true to say he had never seen her. He did see her once, in circumstances which enabled him to form his own opinion of her character, and he had for some years been receiving reports about her and her sister. He felt that he could trust her, and he did not feel that he could trust Cyril Felton. But if anything were to happen to Marian, half of what he left would go to her sister, and the other half would revert to Felix Brand, his mother, and his aunt.”

Miss Silver stopped knitting for a moment. She said, “I see—” in a very thoughtful voice, and then, “Pray go on.”

He said,

“I am in a difficulty. Martin Brand didn’t trust Cyril Felton. Marian doesn’t trust him at all, and nor do I. I don’t want those two girls to be there alone with him. I can’t produce any proof, but I am thoroughly uneasy over the whole business. I want to be on the spot, I want to be in the house. I don’t want those two girls to be alone, or with Cyril. But I am not in a position to put myself forward. I am quite sure that you know how I am placed. I hope to marry Marian Brand, but we have actually met only three times. It is just one of those things—they can’t be explained, and one doesn’t want them to be gossiped over. If I were to go and stay there alone, it would certainly set up a lot of talk. I don’t want to rush anything. We are not engaged—I have no status. Cyril has gone away—he says to an audition. He’ll be back for the week-end, if not before. He hasn’t a penny except what he gets out of Marian—” He broke off and looked at her entreatingly. “Miss Silver—will you come and stay at Cove House?”

She said, “Dear me!” Derek’s stocking revolved. Her expression was mild and thoughtful.

He felt emboldened to proceed.

“It would, of course, be a professional engagement.”

She gave her slight cough.

“As a chaperone, Mr. Cunningham?”

He felt an unwonted embarrassment.

“I’ve been stupid. I’ve muddled everything up—put the cart before the horse. The fact is, I am very anxious about Marian, and a good deal concerned about the best way of dealing with the situation.”

She smiled indulgently.

“Pray do not think that you have offended me. I understand that your position is a difficult one.”

“But I want you to understand something more than that. I want you to understand that I think those two girls are in need of protection. If anything were to happen to Marian, Ina would be at the mercy of a very unreliable husband. If I must put it quite plainly, I don’t trust Cyril Felton, and I want your professional help to see that he doesn’t get away with anything.”

Miss Siver’s smile had faded. She knitted in silence for a time. Then she said,

“If I were to come into this case in my professional capacity I could give no guarantee as to what the result might be. Miss Adrian has been murdered. I cannot undertake to prove that any given person is innocent—or guilty.”

“No, no—of course not.”

“That must be quite clearly understood. I would like you to consider this in all its aspects. Suppose Mr. Felton to be implicated in this murder—I do not say that he is implicated, but I want you to consider the possibility. Miss Brand and Mrs. Felton will not think that you are doing them a service by exposing him.”

Richard Cunningham looked at her very straight and said,

“If he had anything to do with Helen Adrian’s death, then he is the person who is trying to implicate Marian. And if he has murdered Helen and is planning to get rid of Marian, how long do you suppose it would be before something happened to Ina? I’m not taking any chances, and—Marian asks you to come.”

She took her time before she said, “My niece has a friend coming to stay for a few days. I could leave her. But there is something more t0 be said. I think I must tell you something which I will ask you to keep to yourself. I shall feel obliged to communicate with the Chief Constable on the subject, but it should not, I think, go any farther except at his discretion.”

“You mean I am not to tell Marian?”

She said, “I do not know. I will ask you to be very discreet.”

He began to wonder what was coming. And then, prefaced by that slight cough, it came.

“Miss Adrian was being blackmailed. She came to see me, in town and asked me to take up the case. I did not see my way to doing so, but I gave her certain advice. She did not take it. I had no idea that she was coming down to Cove House. I came to Farne myself to be with my niece, whose little girl has been ordered sea air after an illness. Yesterday morning, when I was changing some books in the local library, I heard Miss Adrian’s name. It was spoken by one of the people whom she had mentioned to me as a possible blackmailer.”

“Who was it?”

“It was Mr. Felton.”

Richard Cunningham exclaimed.

“Who was he talking to?”

“To his wife. He said, ‘Helen Adrian’s here, isn’t she?’ And when Mrs. Felton asked how he knew, he said that he had made it his business to know, and that he had to see her on a professional matter. After which he talked about being very hard up, reflecting angrily on the fact that Miss Marian Brand held the purse-strings, and ending by borrowing all the money Mrs. Felton had with her. He said it would look so bad if he couldn’t pay for the lunch they were having together. There had evidently been some quarrel which he was anxious to make up, for he told Mrs. Felton she must make it all right for him to come and stay at Cove House, saying that he hadn’t the price of a bed.”