Through The Wall (20 page)

Randal March was called to the telephone in the middle of his wife’s tea-party. As he had been buttonholed by old Lady Halbert who knew more people who had undergone operations than anyone else in England and loved to rehearse the particulars of each case with a terrifying command of detail, he was not really sorry to disengage himself.

The voice which met his ear when he took up the receiver was that of Inspector Crisp. It said in an exasperated tone,

“We’ve just had a call from Cove House. There’s been another death.”

“What!”

“That young fellow Felton. They’ve just found him dead in his bed. Stabbed. No weapon.”

“Who found him?”

“Mr. Richard Cunningham. Says he went to call him to tea and found him like that.”

“It was he who telephoned?”

“Yes, sir. I’m just off out there now. I thought I’d better let you know.”

March said, “Right—I’ll be along,” and hung up.

He found Crisp at Cove House, getting going with the business of looking for the weapon, taking fingerprints, taking preliminary statements. Not that the Inspector himself was personally concerned with anything but the statements, having brought with him two underlings and the police surgeon whom he had snatched from his Sunday tea. He had questioned Richard Cunningham, Miss Silver, and Eliza Cotton, but so far it had been possible to induce him to give Ina Felton a little more time.

Coming through the hall March encountered Miss Silver. Since it was impossible to believe that the meeting was accidental, he stopped and spoke to her.

“What has been happening? You did not ring me up yourself.”

“No. I thought it would be better to give Inspector Crisp the opportunity. I am very glad to see you. Randal, that poor girl Ina Felton—Inspector Crisp has not seen her yet. I have been hoping that he would wait until you came.”

“Where is she?”

“In her room, and her sister with her. I was going to ask you if I might be present when you see her.”

“Oh, yes—there should be someone there. And I’d like your opinion. I don’t pretend to know as much about girls as you do. But I’ll have to see Crisp first, and the surgeon.”

She went back into the dining-room, from which she had emerged to meet him. With the door just ajar, she sat there, her hands busy with her knitting, her ears attentive to every sound in the house beyond. Men’s feet tramping across the hall to the little room on the other side of the front door where Cyril Felton lay on his bed with a sheet thrown over him. She knew what they would see when the sheet was lifted, for she had stood there and seen how he lay on his right side with his knees a little drawn up, as a man lies when he is asleep. He had taken off his coat and hung it over a chair. He had pulled up the light coverlet of the bed as far as his waist. There was a rent in his blue shirt just below the left shoulder-blade where a knife had been driven home. The shirt, and the coverlet, and the blanket were soaked and red. But there was no knife. The head of the bed stood against the front wall of the house, fitting in awkwardly amongst furniture not intended for a bedroom. It was a light truckle bed, old-fashioned but serviceable, and easy to handle. A tall mahogany bookcase occupied the whole of the left-hand wall. A Victorian overmantel reached from the mantelpiece to the ceiling. A pedestal table in figured walnut had been pushed into a corner. There were chairs. There was a Brussels carpet. There was a whatnot with pampas grass in a Japanese jar. There was a wallpaper with what had been a bright pattern of roses, but was now a drab background for the photographs, watercolours, etchings, and engravings which did their best to cover it. An ugly, haphazard room, with a murdered man in it, and the warm May air coming in through the open casement window.

The tramp of feet went back again across the hall. There was presently a knock on the dining-room door. At Miss Silver’s “Come in!” it opened and disclosed a fresh-faced young constable.

“If you please, miss, the Chief Constable would be glad if you would come to the study.”

Miss Silver was, perhaps, inclined to describe quite small things as providential. The fact that during this time of waiting she had been able to finish off the second stocking of the pair she was making for Derek Burkett did undoubtedly present itself in this light. She put the completed stocking away in her knitting-bag and followed the young constable to the study, where she found the police surgeon just about to take his leave of Randal March. “Any kitchen knife—” he was saying as she came into the room. They had met before, and he broke off to greet her.

“How are you, Miss Silver? I was just telling the Chief Constable that I didn’t think they’d find the weapon. It might have been any kitchen knife, and if you want my guess, that’s what it was. Used, cleaned, and put back—that’s about the size of it. Well, as you were probably just going to say, it’s not my business to guess, and I’ll be getting along.”

He went out, and Crisp went with him to the front door, where they stood talking for a minute.

March turned to Miss Silver.

“He puts the time of death not earlier than three o’clock, and not later than five. Well, we know he was alive just after three, because Eliza Cotton heard him talking to his wife in her room about that time. Mrs. Felton will be able to tell us when he left her. Cunningham says he found him dead just after five, so there’s very nearly two hours for him to have been murdered in, with a probability that it was somewhere about the middle of that time—say between four and half past. But of course that’s guesswork. Doctors don’t like committing themselves, and it’s a hot afternoon. Now look here, we’ve got to see Mrs. Felton. She’s the last person known to have seen him alive. I want to see her, and I want to see her without the sister. It’s easy to see she has always taken the lead, and I don’t want anyone prompting Mrs. Felton or answering for her. Do you think you could go up and persuade her to come down? Or if she isn’t equal to that, we will come up. But you’ll have to get rid of Marian Brand.”

“I will do my best, Randal.”

“It is a very efficient best. Just give me a call from the top of the stairs if we are to come up. I will wait in the hall.”

As he stood there and waited he could hear Miss Silver’s light tap on the bedroom door and the sound of her voice speaking with cheerful authority. He could not distinguish the words, but there was definitely a flavour of the “Come along now, dear, and say your lesson!” of schoolroom days.

There was a delay of a few minutes, during which Inspector Crisp shut and locked the front door and came to stand beside him. Then Miss Silver came to the head of the stairs and said with her little preliminary cough,

“I think it would be best if you will come up.”

They were no more than half way, when Marian Brand came out of her sister’s room and passed the bathroom door to go to her own. Before she could reach it Richard Cunningham called her name. He had been waiting there in the room across the landing for her to emerge. They stood for a moment. Some words passed, too low to be overheard, and then as March and Crisp came up on to the landing, they passed them and went down.

Ina Felton’s door was standing open. Crisp allowed the Chief Constable to precede him and shut it behind them.

Ina was sitting in the chintz-covered chair by the window. It was evident that she had been weeping bitterly. The pale skin was blotched, the eyes swimming, the lids swollen and reddened. She made a soft helpless movement as they came in. There could be no greater contrast to the white, frozen girl whom they had interviewed before. Whatever she felt about her husband’s death, it had shattered her control. March thought, “If she knows anything, it will come out now.” He said in his pleasant voice,

“I am so sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Felton, but you will realize that we have our duty to do. No one has a greater interest in clearing this matter up than you have.”

There was a little broken sob in her voice as she said,

“Yes.”

Miss Silver had been efficient in the matter of chairs. There was one for herself at Ina Felton’s side. One of those long, narrow Victorian couches had been moved from the foot of the bed and set at a convenient angle for the two men. When they had seated themselves March said,

“Your husband had a conversation with you in this room at about three o’clock. I am sure you must understand that everything which happened this afternoon is important. He came here to talk to you. Will you tell us what you talked about?”

She said in a trembling voice, “We talked—”

“Yes? What did you talk about?”

She looked at Miss Silver.

“Must I say?”

“You are not legally obliged to do so, but you would be well advised to give the police all the help you can. You have nothing to be afraid of if you have done nothing wrong.”

Ina turned her dark eyes on March.

“I haven’t—really. I’ll tell you. It won’t hurt him, because nobody can possibly think he did it now.”

“Go on, Mrs. Felton.”

She had a damp, crushed handkerchief in her right hand. She rubbed it now across her eyes like a child impatient of its tears. Then she said,

“On Thursday night I couldn’t sleep. I was unhappy— about Cyril. He thought I ought to have had half the money. Uncle Martin left it all to Marian, you know—he thought Cyril would spend it. And Cyril was angry. He wanted Marian to give me half, but she wouldn’t. He would have spent it, you know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Felton?”

She was twisting the handkerchief with shaking fingers.

“I was very unhappy. And then I found he knew Helen Adrian—rather well. He didn’t tell me, but I could see—they knew each other. They were flirting and talking at the picnic. I was dreadfully unhappy. It wasn’t just that, you know—it was everything. I thought he didn’t care any longer—I thought our marriage was breaking up. I couldn’t sleep.”

The brown eyes were fixed on March’s face. They were full of tears, but the tears had ceased to fall. It was no longer difficult to speak—it was a relief. And nothing she said could hurt Cyril any more.

“Yes, Mrs. Felton?”

She said, “I heard the floor-board creak. It does, you know—just outside the room Cyril had.”

“What time was this?”

“It had struck one. The big clock in the hall strikes the hours. I was thinking what a lot of the night there was to come. Then I heard the floor-board creak. I went to the door and listened. I thought—I thought—” Her voice stopped for a moment, then went on again. “I waited a little, then I opened the door. Cyril was going down the stairs. He had a torch. I thought he was going to meet Helen Adrian. I went out on to the landing and listened. He went into the passage and opened the door through into the other house. The bolt at the bottom made a creaking noise. Helen Adrian came through. They were whispering there. He took down Marian’s raincoat, and she put it on. They went into the study. Then I went back to my room. They came out through the study into the garden and went down the steps on the other side of the lawn. Cyril put his torch on when they came to the steps. Helen had the raincoat on, and the blue and yellow scarf over her head. The light shone on it when she went down the steps. He oughtn’t to have let her take Marian’s scarf.” She was speaking in a quiet, exhausted voice. She stopped.

March said,

“Yes, Mrs. Felton?”

“Nothing seemed to matter any more. I didn’t want to go on looking out the window. I didn’t want to know any more. I went and lay down on my bed. I felt very giddy and faint. I don’t know whether I fainted, or whether I went to sleep— I really don’t know. I didn’t hear the board creak when Cyril came back. I didn’t hear anything at all until the clock struck five. I think I must have been asleep, because I didn’t hear Cyril come back when he went down to bolt the door.”

“He went down again after he had come in? How do you know?”

She said, “He told me,” and took a long sighing breath.

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

March leaned forward.

“He told you what happened on Thursday night?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell us just what he said.”

She told them in the same gentle, expressionless voice. When she had finished March said,

“He told you that he was blackmailing her, that she refused what he was asking and offered him ten pounds, and that he then told her there was nothing doing and came up to the house, leaving her there alive?”

Ina said, “Yes.”

“Mrs. Felton—did you think he was speaking the truth?”

She had a faintly startled expression. Her voice changed.

“Not at first—because of the scarf. Someone brought it in, and someone shut the study door and the door through into the other house. He said he didn’t know anything about the scarf. He said Helen was wearing it when he came in. He said he left her there on the seat, and he left both the doors so that she could come in and go through to the other house. And then when he woke up in the morning he remembered that she wouldn’t have been able to bolt the door after going through, so he went down and did it. He said it was just beginning to get light.”

“Was the scarf there when he came down?”

“I asked him that, and he said he didn’t notice. It was dark in the passage, and he wasn’t thinking about it—he just wanted to bolt the door and get back to bed. After he said all that I believed him. Mr. March, he really was telling the truth. He didn’t always, but that part about coming in and leaving the doors open and then going down and shutting them—that was really true. I knew it was when he was saying it. I thought they had had a quarrel and he had killed her. And then I knew he hadn’t. I said so, and he said—he said—” All at once she began to tremble—“Mr. March, he said, ‘Of course I didn’t, but I know who did.’ ”

There was a brief electric silence.

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”

Crisp and the Chief Constable both spoke together.

“Mrs. Felton!”

Ina said a little breathlessly, “That’s what he said. But he didn’t tell me who it was.”

“He didn’t give you any indication?”

She shook her head.

“He said I’d better not know.”