Poison In The Pen (17 page)

Miss Silver said gravely,

“It might have saved Connie’s own life if she had spoken. Have you said anything about this to anyone except myself?”

She shook her head again.

“There’s been enough talk. And Doris is dead, and Connie is dead. The way I see it there’s been too much said already. And if anyone had told me I’d talk the way I have to a stranger, I wouldn’t have believed them. And I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for my dream, and the verse in Zechariah, and what you said when you come in.”

Miss Silver got up to go. But before she left the room she said very earnestly indeed,

“Do not tell anyone, not anyone at all, what you have just been telling me. If it comes to telling the police, I will be there, and I will make sure that you are adequately protected.”

Miss Pell looked first surprised and then a good deal alarmed. She had risen from her chair, and now went back a step, her eyes widening and her face paling. The nervous hesitation with which she had begun the interview had returned upon her. She said with trembling lips,

“They say it’s a sin to take your own life, but I say the sin is on them that drove poor Doris to it—and Connie too.”

“Miss Pell, I do not believe that Connie Brooke took her own life, and I am beginning to have very grave doubts as to whether your niece did either.”

Miss Pell’s hand went up to her shaking lips and pressed them hard.

“You don’t think—oh, you don’t think there was anything done to them by somebody else?”

Miss Silver said, “Yes, I am afraid I do.”

Miss Silver woke next morning to the reflection that this was Wednesday, and that a week ago Connie Brooke was alive and Valentine Grey was still expecting to be married next day. Last Wednesday was, in fact, the day of the wedding rehearsal, and the Wednesday evening the evening of the party at the Manor from which Connie had walked home with Miss Eccles and said good-night to her at the gate of Holly Cottage. They were now on the eve of another inquest, and she was herself still staying with Miss Maggie, who appeared to derive a good deal of support from her presence.

“I can’t say, I really can’t say, how grateful I shall be if you could just stay on until after the inquest and the funeral. I don’t feel that I ought to press you, for of course I have no claim and this is a house of mourning, but you don’t know how much, how very much, I should appreciate it if you were to stay. The fact is—” she proceeded in a burst of confidence—“my sister-in-law—oh, dear it does seem so dreadful to call her that when, if it hadn’t been for her, my dear brother might still be with us—the fact is, I really don’t feel that I can meet her just as if nothing had happened. Because Roger was going to divorce her—you know that, don’t you—but I never would have thought that he would do anything so dreadful as to take his own life, and in such a terrible way. Oh, Miss Silver, do you think he really did? Nora Mallett came in to see me yesterday afternoon when you were out, and when I said that to her—I hardly like to repeat it—but do you know what she said? Of course she is very downright and I have known her all my life, but she said, ‘Of course he didn’t, Maggie, and no one who knew him would believe it. That woman poisoned him.’ Oh, Miss Silver, you don’t think—do you? But it does make me feel so very nervous being here with her alone—and dear Valentine too. So if you could stay on for a little—because I keep hoping she will go away as soon as the funeral is over.”

They did not actually have to see very much of Scilla Repton, since she only appeared at meals. She had rung up Gilbert Earle and found that he could hardly drop his end of the conversation quickly enough. And she had rung up her convenient friend Mamie Foster, who amongst a scattering of “Darlings” had advised her strongly to dig her toes in and stay where she was.

“Of course, darling, I’d simply love to have you and all that, but if there’s been any awkwardness like you say, then if I were you I’d dig my toes in. Because even if he did change his will, as long as you’re in you’re in, and not all that easy for anyone to put you out without making the hell of a scandal. But once you’re out, it mightn’t be so easy to get back, darling, if you know what I mean.”

Since she was just as well aware of this strategic fact as Mamie was, and as she had also received something rather stronger than a hint from the Chief Constable that the police would like her to be available for further questioning, Scilla made up her mind to stick it out. She went in to Ledlington and saw Mr. Morson, who informed her that she was right out of Roger’s will, but that it was unlikely that Maggie Repton and Valentine Grey would do anything about upsetting the settlement, which raised her spirits considerably. She had really had no idea with whom the decision would rest, but if it was only old Maggie and Valentine, a little sob-stuff would get her by with them all right.

With this off her mind, she went into Ashleys’ and bought a very smart black autumn model suit with the new skirt and a most becoming shoulder line. She liked colours herself, and the brighter the better, but when all was said and done nothing set a fair girl off like black, and men fell for it every time. She could wear it at the inquest and at the funeral, and it would be just the thing for town. She supposed she had better have a hat—just a twist of something—and some veiling. A veil could be very becoming, only it mustn’t hide her hair.

She brought all the things home with her and tried them on again in her own room. Sometimes things were a ghastly disappointment when you did that, but these looked even better than they had in the shop. Good clothes gave you a pull when you were looking for a job, and with an off white blouse and something in the lapel there wouldn’t be any need to look like a walking funeral. Meanwhile she didn’t have to see anything much of either Maggie or Val—half an hour twice a day at lunch and dinner, and an occasional meeting on the stairs or in the hall. And for the rest, breakfast in bed and the struggle with being bored, which wasn’t really anything new.

After Gilbert Earle had rung off in a hurry he sat down to compose a tactful and charming letter to Valentine Grey. It was going quite well, when he had a sudden urge to tear it up. Written words may be as charming as you please, but they take colour and warmth from the voice. He turned back to the telephone, was lucky enough to get Florrie, a devout admirer, and sent her to fetch Valentine. Actually, the romantic interest which Florrie was unable to disguise had more of a chilling than a softening effect. Valentine shut the door, took up the receiver and said, “Yes?” all in an extremely restrained manner. Yet after Gilbert’s first few words there was no doubt that a thaw had set in. It was not so long since she had felt that it would be at any rate tolerable to marry him, and here was his voice, kind and warm and feeling.

“My dear, I suppose I ought not to be ringing you up, but I couldn’t help it. Such a dreadful shock for you and for Miss Maggie. And I did think a lot of him, you know—I really did, Val. He was always extraordinarily nice to me. So I thought that in spite of everything you would just let me say how sorry I am. That’s all, my dear. No need for you to say anything—I understand.” He rang off.

As she hung up at her end, her first thought was, “He really meant it. It would have been much easier not to ring up at all.” Then, quickly, “But that’s just what he means me to think. He can’t bear to be in the wrong, or to have anyone feel that he isn’t as charming as one thought he was. He is counting now at this minute on my saying just what I did say to myself. Oh, yes, he’s counting on it, but all the same I believe he did really mean that he was sorry.” She didn’t get farther than that.

The Chief Constable’s car drove up just after lunch. He asked for Miss Silver, and when she came down to him in the study he greeted her with a smile.

“Well, I have one or two things I would like to ask Miss Maggie. I haven’t liked to press her too hard, but she ought to be getting over some of the shock by now.”

“She is a good deal better. I think she could answer anything you wish to ask her.”

“I shall also want to see Mrs. Repton. You know, there is quite a prima facie case against her. I’ve been in communication with the Public Prosecutor, and her arrest is being considered.”

She did not speak, but she looked away. With all the affection and respect which he had for her, there were moments when he could have shaken her, and this was one of them. He did not ask her to bow to his opinion any more than he was prepared to accept hers, either by force or by favour, but this standing aside from the issue, this silent impenetrable resistance, was exasperating in the extreme. He said with more sarcasm in his voice than he was aware of,

“I suppose you have nothing very epoch-making to report?”

She looked at him gravely, and spoke gravely too.

“It is often the very little things that count. I am sure I do not need to tell you that. As Lord Tennyson so rightly says:

‘strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’

What we find may seem a little thing, but the smallest addition to knowledge is not to be despised.”

“How true. Do I understand that you have a small addition to offer me?”

“I think so.” She seated herself as before in the sofa corner, the flowered knitting-bag at her side. Having withdrawn from it little Josephine’s now completed cardigan, she took out a crochet hook and proceeded to give it an edging of double tricot. A similar edging had already been added to the jumper. As she slipped the hook between two stitches she said,

“I think you had better sit down, Randal. What I have to tell you, though slight in itself, may prove to be important.”

He complied with what was not so much a suggestion as a gracious permission, and reflected with a twinge of rueful humour that she had most perfectly contrived to put him in his place. Only just there he had to go back upon his own word. She didn’t contrive these things, they were the result of an attitude of mind, an innate poise and dignity. He had seen her freeze a usually imperturbable Chief Inspector where he stood. He had seen her reduce the highly irreverent Frank Abbott to a very real reverence. And—he might just as well confess it—in his own case she could always with a look or an inflection waft him back to that long ago schoolroom over which she had presided with such efficiency. The smile he turned upon her had lost its sarcasm. He said simply and frankly,

“You went to see Miss Pell?”

“Yes, Randal.”

“Did you get anything out of her?”

“I think so. You had better hear what it is.”

“I should like to.”

She told him accurately and succinctly about her interview with Miss Pell. As always, he admired her faculty for remembering and repeating a conversation. When it was done he sat silent and frowning for a while before he said,

“Well, it’s true enough about a corner having been torn off the last letter which Doris got, but that appears to be the only point upon which there is any confirmation. It was, of course, that letter which pushed her right over the edge, and it was a filthy piece of work. But a girl who is wrought up to the point of drowning herself isn’t what you would call a reliable witness, and what she said is hearsay at that.‘’’

Miss Silver said mildly,

“I have no doubt that Miss Pell was repeating just what she had been told, both in the interview with Doris and in that with Connie Brooke. If you were to question her, you would find that she would repeat everything exactly as she repeated it to me. I doubt whether there would be the smallest variation.”

He nodded.

“I don’t doubt her accuracy, but a girl who is on the brink of suicide—”

Miss Silver laid her hands down upon the blue cardigan and said in a tone of astonishment and reproof,

“My dear Randal, are you still able to believe that Doris Pell took her own life?”

“My dear Miss Silver!”

She said earnestly,

“Consider for a moment. She has received a letter with a corner torn off. She visits four houses, and in one of them she picks up the missing piece of paper. She has no doubt of the importance of her discovery, and she comes home very much upset. She now knows who has written the slandering letters. Do you for one moment suppose that she was able to conceal all traces of her emotion at the time? She stoops down without thinking, she picks up the scrap of paper, and at once receives a severe shock. The effect of such a shock would be in most cases to paralyse action. She would keep the paper in her hand, stare at it, and become obviously confused and distressed. It is most unlikely that she was alone when she made the discovery, and she was a simple country girl not versed in concealment. We know, in fact, that something of this sort is what happened, since Miss Pell mentioned that she had ‘come over faint’ and had to sit down. Do you think it possible that her agitation was not noticed? And if Doris could recognise the torn-off corner as a piece of damning evidence, would not the person whom it would certainly have ruined be quick to do so?”

His attention had become fixed. He said,

“Go on.”

“What would be your course of action if you were placed in such a predicament, and if, like this detected criminal, you were without moral sense and already actuated by feelings of bitterness and spite?”

He said with praiseworthy gravity,

“You are asking too much of my powers of imagination.”

She shook her head slightly and proceeded.

“It would be absolutely necessary to silence Doris Pell. Three ways of doing so might suggest themselves. She might be bound by a promise, she might be offered a bribe, or there was the third and darker course which was, I believe, adopted.”

“You know, this is pure supposition.”

“Not entirely, Randal. Where a cause proceeds to its logical effect and where all the circumstances combine in a reasonable possibility, there is at least a case for very careful scrutiny. Consider the events of that afternoon. Doris Pell goes up to the Manor with a blouse which she had made for Miss Repton. Some trifling alteration is necessary, and she agrees to make it and bring the blouse back in the evening. She then crosses the Green to Willow Cottage, where she tries on the dress she has been altering for Miss Wayne, and afterwards goes in next door to settle the pattern of a couple of nightdresses for Miss Mettie Eccles. Now it was in one of those three houses that she picked up that scrap of paper, because by the time she arrived at Connie Brooke’s, which was her last call, she was already in a state of distress and in a position to tell Connie what she had seen. What she told Connie was, except for the colour of the carpet, just what she afterwards told Miss Pell. She did not tell either of them in which house she had picked the paper up. I think this points to her having given some kind of a promise not to do so. You will remember that she told her aunt that she did not think she ought to tell her who it was that had written the letters, and that perhaps it would be better if she made the person give a solemn promise never to do it again. Does this not look to you as if she was planning some explanation with this person?”

She waited for him to speak, but as he said nothing, she continued.

“If the scrap of paper was picked up at the Manor, the letter from which it had been torn could have been written by Miss Maggie Repton, by Mrs. Repton, by Valentine Grey, by Colonel Repton, or—just possibly but not at all probably— by Florrie or by one of the other daily maids. I asked Miss Maggie where she tried on the purple blouse which Doris had made for her, and she said at once and without any sign of embarrassment that it was up in her bedroom.”

March said quickly, “You really can’t suspect Miss Maggie.”