Poison In The Pen (9 page)

He said,

“Quite. And that brings us to the second of my two theories. As I have said, I don’t believe there were so many in that bottle. If there were, the girl could have committed suicide, but if there were not, then someone murdered her by putting a fatal dose of that stuff into her cocoa. Only just consider how appalling it must have tasted. How could the murderer have counted on her swallowing it? The natural reaction would have been to pour the cocoa away and make fresh.”

Miss Silver recalled a piece of gossip not really heeded at the time.

“Connie Brooke had an illness in her teens which practically destroyed her sense of taste and smell. I have known of such a case before. She would not, therefore, notice the taste of the drug, and this fact would be known to the person who murdered her. Even if she had been aware of an unpleasant taste, you must remember that she had intended to use what Miss Maggie had given her.”

He made an impatient movement.

“I’ve no doubt it would be known to everyone within a five-mile radius. No one can complain that there is a lack of possibilities. Anyone in the county could have done it, provided he could have got into the house. What have you got to say about that?”

“People are extremely careless about their keys. If anyone was planning to get into the house whilst Connie was out, a key might have been abstracted or a window unlatched.”

“A window?”

“I thought of that at once, Randal. If this girl was murdered, it was by someone whom she knew, someone who could have had a quite natural reason for coming to the house. You must remember that it was being used as a school. The older children would be there till four o’clock. In the bustle of their departure it would not be difficult to lock the back door and go away with the key or leave it hidden under a mat. It would be even simpler to contrive that a window should be left unlatched. Or, simplest of all, the person who desired to effect an entrance might have possessed a key which would open one of the doors of the Croft.”

“Do you know of anyone who had the opportunities you speak of?”

“Mrs. Rodney and I walked along to the Croft to fetch her little boy at four o’clock on Wednesday—”

“Are we to suspect Joyce Rodney?”

“I think not, though she certainly entered the house, as did also Miss Eccles who had undertaken to fetch a little girl whose parents live just outside Tilling Green. They are young people of the name of Black, and they had invited Miss Eccles to tea.”

He frowned.

“And Miss Eccles walked home with Connie Brooke after the party.”

“She walked with her as far as Holly Cottage, which is next door to Miss Wayne’s.”

“And you think, but you are not sure, that they said goodnight there. Even if they did, there wasn’t anything to prevent Miss Eccles changing her mind, was there? There wasn’t anything to prevent her saying, ‘Well, I’ll walk the rest of the way with you.’ She could have done just that, and then have gone in with her and found an opportunity of slipping those extra tablets into the cocoa. She would have had to have them all ready ground up, but of course the whole thing must have been very carefully planned. Here’s another possibility. I wonder whether Miss Eccles went to the party with Connie as well as returning from it. If she picked her up at the Croft, there might have been an opportunity for tampering with the cocoa then.”

“I think not, Randal. They did go together, but it was Connie who came to Holly Cottage to pick Miss Eccles up. I was in my room and saw them start. There is, of course, one very strong reason for exonerating Miss Eccles. It must have occurred to you that if it were she who was under suspicion, Connie would not have willingly undertaken to cross the Green with her both on her way to the party at the Manor and on the way back.”

“She might not have been able to help it.”

“That is true. It could all have been arranged before her suspicions came to a head. Once the arrangement had been made it would have been very difficult to alter it. And she would not know that part of her interview with Mr. Martin had been overheard and repeated all round the village.”

“In fact Miss Eccles remains a suspect.”

Miss Silver became slightly aloof.

“I have not said that I suspect her. I go no farther than to say that she had the opportunity.”

He nodded.

“As you say.” After a slight pause he continued. “There is something that I think you ought to know. The post office has been on the look-out for those poison-pen letters. Well, there were three of them posted in Ledlington on Wednesday. They were collected from a box in the High Street, and they were delivered in Tilling Green next morning. As you know, the envelopes are cheap white stuff, and the writing awkward.”

“Are you going to tell me to whom they were addressed?”

“Yes, I think so. Colonel Repton had one, the Vicar another, and a third was for Miss Valentine Grey.”

“Well, Randal?”

“I understand that the wedding has been put off.”

She inclined her head. He said,

“On account of Connie Brooke’s death? Or because of something in those letters? Or because Jason Leigh has come home?”

Miss Silver gazed at him. After what seemed like a deliberate silence she said,

“Mr. Gilbert Earle has returned to London.”

“Yes—we knew that. It may, or may not, be significant.”

“It has been remarked that he has neither written nor telephoned. The postman is naturally acquainted with his writing, and the two girls who work in the telephone exchange are familiar with his voice.”

“There are, in fact, no secrets in a village.”

“Very few, Randal.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me who went into Ledlington on Wednesday morning.”

Miss Silver considered.

“I went in myself on the ten o’clock bus. The wedding was next day, the rehearsal that afternoon, and Miss Wayne had decided to purchase a light pair of gloves. I accompanied her and—now let me see—Miss Eccles was also going in, and I think for the same purpose. We met in Ashley’s, where she was buying a blue evening scarf. Such a good shop. I always enjoy going there. We had quite a pleasant time. Miss Wayne met a number of friends.” She appeared to hesitate for a moment. “She also pointed out to me someone who was not a friend.”

“Are you being mysterious?”

She did not respond to his half laughing intonation, but said gravely,

“No, I am only trying to be accurate. The person pointed out to me was Mr. Barton, the occupant of Gale’s Cottage. He is Miss Wayne’s neighbour on the side nearer the village, and he attracts a good deal of local attention because he does his own housework and cooking and keeps his house locked up. He also keeps seven cats who accompany him on his nocturnal rambles. I believe he very seldom goes out in the day.”

“And he was in Ledlington on Wednesday morning? I presume without the cats.”

“Yes. Miss Wayne remarked on it as a most unusual occurrence.”

“And how did he strike you?”

“He is tall and thin, and his clothes are old and shabby. He has a listening look. I wondered if he was perhaps a little deaf.”

“I believe not.”

She said, “It is a look which elderly people sometimes have.”

“You had not seen him before?”

“Not by daylight. But perhaps I had better tell you that I did see him on Wednesday night.”

“At what time?”

“It was just after half past ten. I had put out my light and was opening the window, when I heard, first footsteps, and then the click of a gate. I leaned out a little and saw that it was the gate of Gale’s Cottage. Mr. Barton was standing by it. After a little he shut the gate again and went up to the door of the house, which is at the side. He switched on a torch and opened the door, allowing the beam to fall upon the threshold. Seven large cats entered the house, after which he went in himself and locked the door behind him.”

“I don’t wonder the village talks. It sounds like the Arabian Nights. Did you notice from which direction he came?”

“From the direction of the Croft. Two or three cars had just come out of the Manor Gate, and most of my attention was taken up with that side of the Green, but I heard the footsteps and the click of the gate.”

He frowned.

“Are you aware that quite a number of people at Tilling Green are firmly persuaded that Mr. Barton is the author of those anonymous letters?”

She said in her most restrained manner,

“They would naturally suspect a stranger and one whose way of life does not conform to the village pattern.”

“Has no one suggested him to you as a suspect?”

“My dear Randal, no one except Mrs. Rodney has mentioned the anonymous letters to me at all.”

“Well, I suppose that is natural. You are a stranger too, and this is a village affair. But they do suspect Barton, and if you saw him coming home at half past ten he could have been along at the Croft taking steps to silence Connie Brooke, though one would hardly expect a would-be murderer to pursue his nefarious purpose attended by a retinue of cats.”

Miss Silver said,

“Since it was his habit to go out with them at night, to leave them at home would attract more attention than to take them with him—always supposing that he was about some unlawful business.”

He laughed.

“Of which there is no proof! Let us return to your expedition with Miss Wayne to Ledlington on Wednesday morning. Were you together the whole time?”

“Oh, no. I found that Ashley’s had some extremely pretty wool. I bought enough to make a jumper and cardigan for my niece Ethel Burkett for Christmas—a really charming shade of red. And then I had the great pleasure of meeting dear Mrs. Jerningham.”

Old memories rose between them. There had been a time when Lisle Jerningham had stood on the very edge of death and these two had watched her. Randal March said,

“She’s a lovely creature and Rafe is a good chap. They are very happy now. But to get back to these Tilling people. As far as I can make out from the bus drivers there were quite a lot of them in Ledlington on Wednesday morning. Odd thing human nature. With all the other days of the week to choose from, they make a bee line for Wednesday because it is early closing, so the shops and the buses are packed. The herd instinct, I suppose. A string of Tilling people as long as your arm were in Ledlington that morning. The Reverend Thomas Martin was there. Roger Repton was there, and his decorative wife, and his sister Maggie. Valentine Grey was there, and a girl who was going to be one of her bridesmaids, Daphne Hollis. And Miss Mettie Eccles and at least a dozen others. I don’t hail from Tilling myself, but I was in Ledlington on Wednesday morning and so was Rietta, and I saw quite a number of Tilling faces. And every single one of those people could have posted those three letters.” Miss Silver was silent for a moment, then she said, “What do the people who received the letters say?”

“Tommy Martin says yes, he got a letter. No, he couldn’t tell me what was in it. Not exactly secrets of the confessional, but getting on that way. It wouldn’t be any help if he told me, and anyhow he wasn’t going to. Valentine Grey flushed up and turned pale. Then she said she had had a nasty letter and she had put it in the fire, and she didn’t want to talk about it. Things like it being her duty to help the police just rolled off. I don’t know whether you—” She shook her head.

“I have not even met her. There would have to be some natural opportunity.”

“Something might be contrived. So far it’s no more than one might have expected—a parson in his office, a girl and her secrets. But when you come to the third letter, there’s something odd. The postman says he delivered it, but Roger Repton says it never reached him.”

After a pleasant interlude during which tea was partaken of and the March children were cordially admired Miss Silver returned to Willow Cottage. So far from being reticent about her visit, she expatiated upon it at considerable length.

“Such a charming house. Such charming people. Mrs. March in such delightful looks. She even quoted Lord Tennyson.”

Miss Wayne was all interest.

“I haven’t met her myself, but surely wasn’t there some story?”

Miss Silver smiled.

“There could be no possible story about Mrs. March which did not redound to her credit.”

Miss Renie became extremely confused.

“Oh, no—of course not—I didn’t mean—I had no idea of suggesting—that is the worst of living in a village, people do talk so. And as an old friend of my mother’s used to say, there don’t seem to be enough kind words to go round. I really shouldn’t have alluded to what I am sure was just ill-natured gossip. My dear sister used always to say, ‘Whatever you do, don’t repeat things, Renie,’ but somehow they just seem to slip out. And it’s really only because one does take an interest in one’s neighbours. For instance, if my dear Esther were here now, even she would find it very difficult not to talk about poor Connie. Nothing unkind of course, but one can’t help wondering, can one?”

Miss Silver was winding the red wool which she had bought at Ashley’s. It always kept so much better in balls, and Miss Renie having offered to hold the skeins for her, the two ladies were brought into very close proximity. Nothing could have exceeded the sympathetic warmth of Miss Silver’s attention as she said,

“Oh, no. One cannot withdraw from the life of the community. Injury to one member of it cannot fail to be the concern of all. As St. Paul puts it, ‘Whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it.’ ”

Miss Wayne dropped one end of the skein she was holding in order to apply a somewhat crumpled handkerchief to her nose.

“How well you put it. Oh dear, I’m afraid I have tangled the skein! How stupid of me!”

Miss Silver adjusted the wool with the dexterity of long practice.

“Now if you will just keep it quite taut. I do not really think that you should reproach yourself for being concerned about Connie Brooke. It is a very sad incident, and must be felt by all her friends.”

Miss Renie sniffed.

“I did think she looked as if she had been crying at the rehearsal, but one couldn’t have dreamed—”

Miss Silver said “Yes?” in a manner that made a question of it. The skein dropped again, Miss Renie burst into tears.

“I keep thinking of how she looked. We could all see that she had been crying. They say she must have had something on her mind. If only someone had gone home with her and found out what it was. But no one did, and now it is too late.”

She had withdrawn both hands from the wool and was pressing the handkerchief to her face in a feeble and ineffectual manner.

“It is all these terrible letters.” She peered round the corner of the handkerchief. “But perhaps you haven’t heard about them—or have you?”

Miss Silver replied with composure.

“An anonymous letter was mentioned in an account of the inquest upon Doris Pell. These things can cause great distress.”

Miss Wayne gave a small stifled sob.

“They are terrible! I wondered whether you knew, but I did not like to say anything—only sometimes one feels as if it would be a relief. Joyce is always so afraid of David overhearing something. Which is all nonsense, because how can a child of five know anything about anonymous letters? Why, he wouldn’t even know what the word meant.”

Miss Silver said gravely, “It is surprising what quite young children will pick up, and remember.”

Miss Wayne emerged from the handkerchief with a slight toss of the head.

“Joyce has not been very sympathetic. I used to discuss everything with my dear sister. She would have been quite horrified about these letters. You know, some years ago they had the same sort of trouble at Little Poynton which is only about ten miles from here. Two people committed suicide, and Scotland Yard was called in. That stopped it, but they never really found out who wrote the letters. Some people thought it was the postmistress, but my sister and I could never believe it. She was such a regular church-goer, and always so obliging if you went into the shop. They had a very good grocery counter as well as the post office. An old aunt of ours lived almost next door, so Esther and I were in the way of hearing a good deal about the trouble, and Aunt Marian always said she couldn’t believe anything against such an obliging woman as Mrs. Salt. It is her sister Mrs. Gurney who has the post office here—and I suppose no one would suspect her of having anything to do with the letters people have been getting in Tilling Green.”

Miss Silver’s hands were busy with the red skein. She said,

“Would there be any grounds for such a suspicion?”

Miss Wayne became very much flustered.

“Oh, no—oh dear, no—of course not! Oh dear, what did I say to make you think of such a thing? Of course Mrs. Gurney can’t help knowing a lot about what goes on in the village, because everyone goes in and out, and when they meet their friends they talk to them. My dear sister used to say what a lot of time was wasted in this way. ‘If you are going to shop,’ she said, ‘then do your shopping and come away. Lingering and gossiping go together, and a great deal of mischief is done by it.’ Of course it isn’t always easy to get away, but I do my best—I suppose no one listens to what is being said less than I do. Why until Hilda Price absolutely insisted on pouring it all out to me I had no idea that poor Connie Brooke was supposed to know who had been writing these dreadful letters. Everyone else in the village seems to have known, but I really hadn’t the slightest idea.”

Miss Silver said in a concerned voice,

“What made them think that Connie knew about the letters?”

The story of the telephone call to the Parsonage and Connie’s subsequent visit was reluctantly disclosed, if at first with such remarks as, “I don’t like repeating things,” and “One can really hardly believe it.” Miss Renie’s version did not differ substantially from that communicated by Joyce Rodney. Connie had been crying when she rang up the Parsonage, and she wept as she went away. She knew something about the letters and she had come to tell Mr. Martin what she knew, but had gone away without doing so. Her words as reported by Mrs. Needham were, “Once I’ve said it, I can’t take it back.” To which Mr. Martin replied, “No, you couldn’t take it back, so you had better think it well over. But if you know who has been writing these anonymous letters, you may have a duty.”

“And now,” said Renie Wayne with a sob, “whatever it was she knew, it is too late to find out, because she’s dead! And it all goes to show that if there is anything that ought to be done, it’s better to do it at once. Esther always did say that. She said there was a proverb about it in Latin, but I’m afraid I don’t remember what it was.”

Miss Silver’s Latin extending to some of the commoner proverbs, she was able to supply the words in question— “Bis dat qui cito dat—he gives twice who gives quickly.”