Out Of The Past (17 page)

Miss Silver found it a very interesting evening. Of those present at least three were the objects of her particular attention. She did not talk much, but she listened a good deal, and her needles were busy. When after dinner Lady Castleton laid out her usual game of patience, she moved her chair close up to the table and became a most interested spectator. Her murmured deprecatory “I hope you do not mind” being dismissed with a brief “Oh, no,” she did not speak again. There was the occasional click of a needle, and the pink bootee began to take shape.

Adela Castleton sat there in her filmy black, leaning a little forward over the red and black and white of the cards, her beautiful hand with its ruby ring poised above them, laying down a King here, picking up a Queen, moving diamond and heart, club and spade, bent on the game and ordering it with skill.

Colonel Trevor was reading the Times. He never did anything else in the evenings except on the rare occasions when he was dragged into a game of Bridge. Sometimes he went to sleep behind it, when even Maisie had learned that it was better not to wake him. She was herself engaged in turning over the pages of the latest Vogue, exclaiming at the more extravagant styles and picturing herself glamourously arrayed in them with the minute waist, the fabulous height, and the last word in hair-does which they demanded.

Esther had discarded her knitting for some fine embroidery. She was working a large ornamental H upon a set of face-towels for Carmona—the material a fine damask, and the design and stitchery really exquisite. She was one of the women to whom needlework is a relaxation. Her soft brown eyes dwelt upon it with pleasure. Her mood was quiet and at peace.

The three younger members of the party sat together. James Hardwick had a magazine, Pippa a book which she did not read. When she had fluttered through the pages she let it drop and picked up another, and rapidly, intermittently, she talked to Carmona, to James, to Maisie Trevor, to Miss Silver, to Esther Field—questions that did not wait for an answer, irrelevancies about this and that, startling because they disclosed the painful hurry with which her thoughts ran here and there and found no shelter. And all the time she was lighting one cigarette from another until the stubs were piled high upon the formidable ash-tray which Octavius Hardwick had won in a golf tournament round about the turn of the century.

There was a moment when James laid down his magazine and went out upon the terrace. Miss Silver, watching him go, observed that the breeze must be most refreshing.

“Such a wonderful spell of warm weather. I feel that one should make the most of it. Perhaps Major Hardwick will not mind if I join him.”

She might have been addressing herself to Carmona, or to the room in general. Carmona murmured, “Oh, yes, of course,” and the pink knitting, the ball of wool, and the needles were slipped into a flowered chintz bag.

As Miss Silver crossed to the window she glanced back. Carmona and Pippa were looking in her direction. Esther Field had lifted her eyes from her embroidery. Adela Castleton looked down at the pattern of her game. The hand that was poised above it held the ace of spades.

The air upon the terrace was delightful. Turning at the sound of a footstep, James Hardwick was considerably surprised to see who it was that had followed him. She came up to him and said,

“You would prefer to be alone, but I would very much appreciate a short talk with you. Perhaps we might walk down the garden and out upon the cliff path. The breeze will be most refreshing.”

“And we need refreshing?”

“I think we do.”

They walked down the cement path between Uncle Octavius’ figureheads, but until they emerged upon the cliff neither of them spoke. Then James Hardwick said,

“What did you want to speak to me about?”

“About Mrs. Maybury.”

“What is there to say?”

“A good deal, I think.”

“Well?”

If his words were abrupt, they somehow did not offend. The impression she had been forming was deepened. She said with gravity,

“I do not think that she can stand very much more.”

He threw away the cigarette he had been smoking.

“Abbott is a friend of yours. Are they going to arrest her?”

“Not immediately.”

“What is holding them off?”

“I believe her story to be true. Truth makes its own impression. And”—she made a slight pause—“there are other avenues to be explored.”

“They suspect someone else?”

“It is a disturbing and complicated case. Where is Major Maybury? He should be here.”

“He may be at any moment. I got on to him this morning. He is flying over.”

“I am glad. The strain is too much for her. One has to think of that. It is not just a matter of whether she can escape arrest. There has been a severe shock and a prolonged strain. I think you must consider that.”

“I?”

“You, Major Hardwick.”

They had been strolling along the cliff path. He stopped now and turned to face her.

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“I think you know.”

“I assure you that I do not.”

“Then there is no more to be said.”

“But I should like to know what you meant.”

“Something very simple. You know something that you have not told to the police, and I think the time has come when you have no right to withhold it.”

“That is quite a large assumption on your part, isn’t it?”

“But it is true, is it not?”

“What makes you think so? I should really like to know.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You are, of course, acquainted with the process by which a coral reef is formed. Infinitesimal living particles combine in it. You ask me how I have arrived at a certain conclusion, and this simile presents itself. I do not think I can give you a better answer. An infinite number of small things combine, and an opinion is formed. Since I have undertaken to give Mrs. Maybury my professional help, it has become my duty to observe the other people in the house.”

“And you have been observing me?”

“Yes, Major Hardwick.”

“And where did your observations lead you?”

“I could see that you were profoundly disturbed.”

“You think that strange, when a man has been murdered practically on my doorstep?”

“Oh, no. There would have been nothing strange about the disturbance.” There was some slight emphasis on the word. “Mrs. Field was under your roof. Mrs. Hardwick and Mr. Field had been very closely connected—”

“Then may I ask—”

“Certainly you may. It was not that you were disturbed, but that this disturbance was producing a conflict in your mind, which struck me. I had to consider what this conflict might be. There could be but one answer—you had seen or heard something which you must either disclose to the police or withhold from them. For a time I had to consider whether you yourself were involved. Your wife was obviously under a considerable strain, not only on account of her friend Pippa, but also on your account. I was aware of this continually, until her return from the drive which she took with you this afternoon, when it was apparent that a weight had been lifted from her mind. It was plain that whatever her misgivings had been, you had succeeded in removing them. Yet you yourself showed no sign of relief.”

He said drily,

“I cannot, of course, prevent you from exercising your imagination in my direction, or in that of anyone else, but do you really believe that by doing so you will be helping Pippa Maybury?”

“I hope that I may do so.”

Her tone at this point arrested his attention. He had been prepared for offence, anger, justification—for anything but the deep, almost sad gravity with which she spoke. It was in the same vein that she now continued.

“Major Hardwick, will you listen to me, and as far as possible without resentment? You ask me why I should think you have some knowledge which you have not shared with the police. I should like to answer that question in more detail. On that Wednesday night when Mrs. Maybury went to keep her appointment with Alan Field she did so by way of the path we have used tonight. Your dressing-room window overlooks the garden and commands a view of the path. The same applies to the adjoining bedroom. Upon so hot a night all the windows would be open.”

“My dear Miss Silver, I had been travelling all day. Do you imagine that I spent the night looking out of the window?”

“You are quick to perceive my point. I will not labour it. You could have seen, or heard, Mrs. Maybury as she went down the garden. She tells me that she heard what might have been a footstep on the terrace as she turned to close the garden door behind her. It startled her very much, and she ran the rest of the way to the path that goes down to the beach. When she was returning in a terrible state of distress after seeing Alan Field lying dead she had the very strong impression that there was someone not very far from the top of the path, and that this someone was watching her. She thought it was the murderer, and again she ran in terror.”

“And can you supply any reason why this ‘murderer’ should hang about on the cliff path instead of getting away?”

“I was about to raise that point, Major Hardwick. I am quite certain that the person on the cliff path was not the murderer—and for the reason which you have just put forward. Whoever killed Alan Field would be under the necessity of getting away as quickly as possible. The only thing which would oblige this person to remain in the vicinity would be the descent of the path to the beach by someone else before he or she had time to get away. This might render it necessary to remain at the foot of the cliff until the coast was clear. I am unable to see that it could compel the murderer to run the risk of loitering at the top of the cliff. I have, therefore, some grounds for supposing that it was you who stood there watching. If you did so, your evidence must be of the very highest importance.”

“Miss Silver, you have a very vivid imagination.”

“I am telling you what I think. Pray allow me to proceed. I think you followed Pippa Maybury when she left the house. When she went down to the beach you did not like to go after her lest you should seem to be intruding upon her private affairs, but on the other hand, neither did you like to go in and leave her there. She has a volatile character and is capable of very foolish actions. She is an old friend of your wife’s. I think you felt a certain responsibility.”

James Hardwick was experiencing what clients of Miss Silver not infrequently did experience—surprise, anger, respect, and the odd sensation of being exposed to an observation so acute that it was useless to put up any defense against it. She had described not only his actions but the motives which had prompted them. He found himself without anything to say, but continuing to listen.

After a momentary pause she went on.

“The crucial importance of any evidence you may have to give comes from the fact of your position at the junction of the two paths. The person who was watching on the cliff commanded the approach from the beach. If you were that person—and I believe you were—you and you alone can say whether more than one person came up that way. It is clear from the state of Pippa Maybury’s dress and from her other evidence that the murder had only just taken place. It is possible that the murderer had not had time to get away before she could be heard descending the path. A person with so strong a reason for haste would lose no time once the way was clear. Pippa Maybury went down the path and over the beach to the hut. I believe you were waiting up here. Did anyone else come up the path before her return?”

He had no refuge but silence. It was some little time before he said,

“This is all the purest conjecture.”

“Major Hardwick, if you did not follow Pippa Maybury, where were you? I do not think that you were in the house. Your wife was out of her room for a considerable time. She and Mrs. Maybury were backwards and forwards—to the bathroom, to the kitchen. During all this time your wife never mentioned you. She neither suggested asking for your help nor expressed any fear lest you should wake. I think she already knew that you were not in her room.”

“The house was full of people who did not wake.”

“The Trevors are down the passage on the left of the main landing, Mrs. Field in the corresponding room on the right. Lady Castleton, whose room was next to Mrs. Maybury’s, had taken a sleeping-draught.”

“Had she?”

“She had been complaining of headache. Your wife went up with her and saw her take a couple of tablets. She also looked in later on when the others came up in order to make sure that they had had the desired effect.”

He had no comment to make. Miss Silver said,

“I will not press you any farther now. Whatever your motive for silence may be, I ask you to weigh it against these facts. Pippa Maybury would have been arrested tonight if it had not been for a piece of evidence which the police have felt obliged to investigate. But unless there is some further development I am afraid that the arrest may take place. I ask you to consider the consequences. Even if it were not she but some other innocent person who was arrested, what must the effect be? Unhappiness—ruin! And in the end you would be forced to speak. There is also another aspect of which you probably do not know. Alan Field was, I believe, murdered because he was blackmailing a person who was prepared to go to any length to protect the secret which he threatened. I have some reason to suppose that this person is being blackmailed again. Do you imagine that someone already proved to be ruthless would hesitate at a second crime? Pray think of what I have said.”

As she spoke she turned and began to walk back towards the house. The interview was over.

James Hardwick found himself a little dazed. Frank Abbott had once remarked that as far as Miss Maud Silver was concerned the human race was glass-fronted. To find one’s thoughts and actions suddenly laid bare to a probing eye is a good deal too like the Day of Judgment to be a comfortable experience. When, as in this case, the experience is quite unexpected and the things revealed not such as one would wish to have exposed to view, the result is apt to be confounding.