She Came Back (12 page)

I told you she would have a cast-iron alibi.”

Frank Abbott sat back in his chair and waited for Miss Silver’s reaction. It was hardly noticeable. She had begun Johnny’s second stocking and almost finished the ribbing at the top. Her needles did not check nor did her expression change as she replied,

“You are naturally in a hurry to let me know that you were perfectly right.”

He spread out his hands with a laughing gesture.

“Revered preceptress!”

Miss Silver permitted a very faint smile to relax her lips.

“When you have finished talking nonsense, Frank, perhaps you will go on telling me about Lady Jocelyn. It is all very interesting.”

“Well, when we came away from the flat the Chief asked me what I made of her. He has a way of doing that, and when you’ve told him, he doesn’t utter. He may think it’s tripe, or he may think it’s the cat’s whiskers, but he won’t let on—just sticks it away behind that poker face and takes the next opportunity of snubbing you good and hard. I’ve got an idea that the snub is in inverse ratio to the value he sets on your opinion—in fact the bigger the snub, the bigger the compliment. I got Remarks from a Superior Officer to a Subordinate on the Dangers of Swollen Head, all the way down the stairs.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“And pray, what did you make of Lady Jocelyn?”

“Ah—now that is very interesting. I think the Chief thought so too—hence the homily. She opened the door to us herself, and if we’d been Gestapo with death-warrants spilling out of all our pockets, she couldn’t have been more taken aback.”

Miss Silver coughed again.

“She has, after all, been living under the Gestapo for more than three years.”

“So she took occasion to remind us. Grasped the nettle with great firmness and presence of mind, said we’d frightened her dreadfully, and led the way to the drawing-room, where she very nearly passed out when the Chief mentioned that we’d come to ask questions about Miss Nellie Collins, who was dead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone come so near fainting and not do it. And the only reason she didn’t do it was because she wouldn’t. She made the sort of effort that is painful to watch—it was like seeing a steel spring being coiled up. And she pulled it off. But the really extraordinary thing was the isolation and concentration of the effort—the throat muscles were perfectly tense, but the hands lying in her lap remained quite lax. Odd, you know, and pointing to great powers of control. Only what was it all about? She was horribly frightened when she first saw us, but she was pulling out of that. Then the Chief told her Nellie Collins was dead, and it very nearly knocked her out. I’ll swear she didn’t know it till he told her, and it came as a quite terrific shock. Why? She was frightened before she knew that Nellie Collins was dead—horribly frightened. She hears of the death and nearly faints. I want to know why. If she hadn’t any guilty knowledge, why the initial fright? If she had, why the subsequent shock? What does it matter to her that Nellie Collins should be a road casualty? What’s Hecuba to her, or she to Hecuba?”

Miss Silver gazed at him silently.

“Annie Joyce might have two excellent reasons for shock. Relief, the effects of which are often quite overwhelming, or affection—she may have been really fond of Nellie Collins.”

He said, “Annie Joyce—”

The needles clicked.

“Certainly, my dear Frank. Abnormal interest in Nellie Collins suggests very strongly that it was Annie Joyce who survived, and not Anne Jocelyn. Lady Jocelyn would have no reason to be afraid of any special knowledge which Miss Collins might possess. Annie Joyce impersonating Lady Jocelyn would have every reason to fear it. I can think of no possible reason why Nellie Collins’ death on the road should inflict any shock upon Lady Jocelyn. The news of it would be no more to her than the death of a person just heard of but never encountered. Such things happen every day, and are dismissed with a casual expression of sympathy. We say, ‘How sad!’ and do not think of the incident again. If the death of Nellie Collins inflicted so severe a shock as you have described, I am forced to the conclusion that this shock was inflicted upon Annie Joyce.”

He looked at her keenly. The basis of their relation was the fact that each admired and stimulated the other. In her presence all the mental processes were quickened and intensified, thoughts stood out sharply. He said,

“If that is so, your second reason doesn’t apply, I’m afraid. She certainly wasn’t shocked at Nellie Collins’ death because she was fond of her. That stuck out about a mile—it’s the sort of thing you can’t miss. The Chief went on talking about her, and there wasn’t a trace of affection in Lady Jocelyn’s replies. Of course if she is Annie Joyce, she wouldn’t be wanting to show any particular feeling, but if there had been anything there, I think I’d have got it. All I did get was— well, it isn’t easy to put it into words, but indifference comes near—genuine indifference to Nellie Collins as a person, combined with knock-out shock on hearing of her death. Now just how do those two things combine? They were there— I’ll swear to that.”

Miss Silver nodded gently.

“Yes—that is very interesting,” she said. “Assuming that Lady Jocelyn is Annie Joyce, the logical deduction would be that she considered herself to be threatened by Nellie Collins. I told you that I feared the poor thing might have laid herself open to misconstruction. Certainly her conversation on the telephone with the unknown man who represented himself as acting for Lady Jocelyn may have given him reason to fear an attempt at blackmail. There is nothing more dangerous than the attempt of an amateur to blackmail an experienced criminal. I am quite sure that Miss Collins had no such intention, but I fear she gave the impression—the very strong impression—that her continued existence would be dangerous. I must direct your attention to this unknown man. It is clear that he knew of Miss Collins’ letter to Lady Jocelyn— she probably handed it on to him. This would explain the behaviour which puzzles you. Still assuming that she is Annie Joyce, the appearance of the police would naturally be very alarming. When to this general alarm there is added the sudden intelligence that Nellie Collins has been murdered—and in the circumstances there could be no doubt that it was murder—the shock would naturally be very great. It is quite possible, in fact extremely probable, that she did not know what was intended. She may have thought that Nellie Collins was to be dealt with in some other way—dissuaded from coming to see her, convinced that she had nothing to gain, discouraged in any attempt to pursue an unprofitable connection. The shock of finding herself involved in a murder might well produce the effect which you described so vividly.”

He nodded.

“Yes—it might be like that. I think it’s clear that she wasn’t in at the death, so to speak.”

Miss Silver primmed her mouth.

“A distasteful metaphor, Frank.”

“Apologies—you know what I mean. The girl at Jocelyn’s Holt, Ivy What’s-her-name, says she came up to town with Lady Jocelyn and was never out of sight or sound of her for more than a minute or two until they all went to bed just short of eleven. All the doors of the flat were open, and they were going to and fro from one room to the other, unpacking and arranging things. Mrs. Perry Jocelyn arrived just before four, and they all three carried on. She stayed till seven o’clock, when Lady Jocelyn went into the kitchen and began to prepare the evening meal. Ivy says she’s a lovely cook, but I think she considered it a bit infra dig. Sir Philip got in at half past seven. After dinner he was working in the study, and Ivy and Lady Jocelyn went on clearing up. Mrs. Perry Jocelyn corroborates—says she was there from just before four until just before seven. She and Ivy both say that Lady Jocelyn never left the flat. Well, as far as active participation in the crime is concerned, that washes her out. She is accounted for right through the afternoon and evening and up to just before eleven at night, when the three people in the flat went to bed. The medical evidence comes down heavily on Nellie Collins having been dead well before then. As First Murderer, Lady Jocelyn, or if you prefer it, Annie Joyce, is out of it. But of course it’s too easy—the First Murderer is undoubtedly the agreeable gentleman who Miss Collins hoped was a baronet. We have only to find him.”

Miss Silver’s small nondescript eyes met his with an unexpected spark of humour.

“Are you by any chance thinking about a needle and a bundle of hay?”

He laughed.

“Make it a whole hay-harvest and have done with it! The Chief has put me on to follow up anything I can find. So far all we’ve got to go on is, first, Miss Collins’ description of a very pleasant gentleman, and her supposition that he might be Philip Jocelyn, which of course he wasn’t. Now you talked to her, and I didn’t. Would it be safe to assume that this means the fellow was what is called a gentleman? I mean, do you think she would know?”

“I should be inclined to think so.”

“Because, you see, that would be a clue—cultured murderer with an agreeable telephone manner. Secondly—and here we are on firmer ground—he is someone who knows Ruislip and its surroundings pretty well. You know, I don’t think she was killed there. I think she was taken there afterwards, and I’ll tell you why. The lane where she was found is just about the most likely place for a body to lie undiscovered for the whole blackout period. And then take another look at this.”

He produced the triangular scrap of paper torn from the half sheet upon which Miss Silver had written her name and address for Nellie Collins. One below the other, coming in from the jagged edge, stood the syllables -ver; -sions; -ham St.; the second of these being so badly smudged as to be almost illegible.

Miss Silver looked at the smudge.

“That has been worrying me,” she said. “How did it happen?”

“I think it was done on purpose. Smeared probably with a damp handkerchief. There weren’t any fingerprints. You know, we both thought this corner had got caught on the broken glass and left behind that way. But now I don’t think so—I think that’s what we were meant to think. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was deliberate. Because there’s a Cunningham Street in Ruislip, and a Miss Oliver who lives there in a house called ‘Soissons.’ Now do you see why somebody smudged the torn-off part of your Mansions? The local police were feeling very clever, and quite sure they had linked up the torn address with poor Miss Oliver, who is an eminently respectable spinster, and so much upset at the idea that she might have to identify a body or attend an inquest that she probably presented a most convincing picture of guilt. The poor lady assured me in a quavering voice that she had never heard of Nellie Collins in her life. I quite believe her, but if I hadn’t recognized your writing, and you hadn’t recognized this scrap of paper, we should have had a very nice red herring trailed across the path. And poor Miss Oliver might have had to face that inquest.”

Miss Silver coughed and said, “Just so. There is a clever mind behind all this, Frank.”

He nodded.

“Well, our cultured gentleman knows Ruislip pretty well. Of course he may have sat down with a directory and just gone on looking till he found something to fit in with your scrap of paper, but I don’t somehow think so. It would have taken too long, it wouldn’t have been worth while. I think he just had a brain-wave, remembered Miss Oliver, and chucked her in to keep things humming. It’s got a spur-of-the-moment smell about it.”

Miss Silver agreed. He went on.

“Well, culture and Ruislip—neither of them very hot scent.

And then there’s Lady Jocelyn. There must be a connection there if we can find it.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“The connection would be, I think, with Annie Joyce.”

Frank ran a hand over his shining hair.

“Who left England more than ten years ago, and whose associations and dossier since then are submerged in occupied France. What a hope!”

It was next day that Lyndall went around to see Anne Jocelyn. Impossible to stay away. Impossible to remain aloof when Lilla, who hadn’t even known Anne before, had spent hours helping her to unpack and get things straight. Even if there wasn’t anything left to do, she who had been Anne’s bridesmaid must at least go round and see her. Her feet carried her reluctantly. If it hadn’t been that she was expected, she might even then have been tempted to turn back. No, that was nonsense. She wouldn’t listen to thoughts like that, she certainly wouldn’t let them influence her. But her feet dragged, and her heart dragged too.

It was very cold in the street. Low clouds looked as if they might come down in snow at any moment. A freakish wind lay in wait at every corner, stinging her face, her knees, her legs in their thin silk stockings, trying to twist the hat from her head. She had no distance to go, but she was tired before she reached Tenterden Gardens.

It ought to have been pleasant to pass into the warmth and golden light of Anne’s drawing-room, but something in her looked back to the icy street. Anne came to meet her, smiling, and they kissed. That is, Anne offered a cool cheek, and Lyndall touched it with cold lips. As she did so, an aching shudder went through her. Up to that moment her love for Anne had been in her heart as something real and treasured, even if there were pain there too. Now quite suddenly, with that faint touch of her lips, the place was empty, there was nothing there anymore. She did not know how pale she was as she drew back, or how wide and startled a look met Anne’s enquiring one.

“What’s the matter, Lyn? You look frozen. Come to the fire and get warm. Tea is all ready. I’ll just get the kettle.”

When she came back, Lyndall had taken off her gloves. She was bending over the fire, her hands held to the blaze. An extraordinary feeling of unreality filled her consciousness. The pleasant room, the warmth, the flowers in their Lalique bowl, the familiar tea-things—Queen Anne silver and bright flowered cups bordered with gold and apple-green—Anne in her blue dress and her pearls with Philip’s sapphire on her hand—all were apart from her in some bright vacuum. Nothing came to her from them, nothing passed to them from her.

She turned round slowly from the fire, drank the tea which Anne gave her, and crumbled a piece of cake. And then quite suddenly the feeling passed. She was warm again, and she was right here in the room, with the firelight reaching her and Anne pouring her out a second cup of tea. It was like waking up out of a nightmare, but she could hardly trust her own relief. She sipped the tea and listened to Anne telling her how quickly they had settled down.

Presently she said what she had come to say. She hadn’t been sure that she would be able to say it, but she knew that it must be said. Because if it wasn’t, she would never be able to get it out of her mind again, and that sort of thing poisoned you if you kept it shut up amongst your thoughts—it poisoned everything.

She put down her cup on the edge of the silver tray and said simply and directly,

“Where do you have your hair done, Anne?”

Anne Jocelyn looked just a little surprised.

“I had a permanent wave at Westhaven after I landed. I thought I told you. They didn’t do it at all badly. Of course I really ought not to have it waved, because it spoils the natural curl, and my hair used to curl naturally, but it’s been terribly neglected, and I don’t see going about looking a complete mess whilst I’m waiting for it to come back.”

Lyndall had let go of her cup, but she kept her hand on the edge of the silver tray. A finger moved there, tracing the pattern.

“But where do you go in town?”

“Why? Have you got someone to recommend?”

“No—I just wondered. Do you know a shop called Félise?”

There—she had got it said! Nothing is so difficult as the first step. When you have taken that the others follow. But she couldn’t look at Anne. She looked down at the edge of the silver tray. A drop of tea had fallen there and dried. There had been time for it to fall, and time for it to dry. It wasn’t true that everything was standing still. The drop of tea had dried. It made a small brown stain on the bright surface of the silver.

Anne said, “I don’t know—I seem to have seen the name. Why?”

“I happened to pass it. I thought I saw you go in. It was the Wednesday of last week.”

“Well, I may have done—I don’t know. I go into all those shops. I haven’t got a powder I like yet, or the right lipstick or anything. It’s all so difficult—isn’t it?”

Lyndall lifted her eyes. They didn’t really see very much, because there was a mist in front of them, but to Anne Jocelyn their grieving look accused her.

“Anne, I must tell you—I think I must—”

Anne’s delicately arched eyebrows rose. She said sweetly, “What is all this about, darling?”

The sweetness was like saccharine, it cloyed and left a bitter taste. Anne was angry. But Lyndall couldn’t look away, and she couldn’t stop now. Something drove her on. She said,

“I thought I saw you go into the shop, and I went in after you. I didn’t want you to think I had seen you and just gone on, so I came into the shop—”

Anne looked at her with the bright eyes of anger.

“And I suppose we met and had a long conversation—in this dream of yours!”

“No—you weren’t there.”

“How very surprising!”

“I went right through the shop. There were two women there. The assistant was looking for something on a shelf behind the counter. No one took any notice of me. I thought you might be in one of the cubicles, so I went through. There was another door at the end. I opened it, I don’t know why. There was a bit of dark passage with a stair going up, and more doors. One of them had a little light at the edge—it wasn’t quite shut. I heard you say, ‘You might as well let me write to Nellie Collins. She’s quite harmless.’ And a man said, ‘That isn’t for you to say.’ And I turned round and ran back through the shop.”

Anne’s face was bleak. Lyndall would have liked to look away, but she couldn’t. Anne’s eyes held hers—scornful, rejecting not only what she had said, but herself—putting her amongst foolish, negligible things.

“Really, Lyn! What a story! Do you expect me to believe it?”

Lyndall said nothing. Her eyes were steadfast as well as grieving.

Anne laughed and said, “Go on! I’m sure there must be something more—another thrilling instalment in our next! What happened after that?”

“I went home.”

“Rather an anti-climax.”

“I wasn’t sure about its being you. I hadn’t ever heard about Nellie Collins—then.”

“Nellie Collins?”

“Yes. I didn’t know the name when I heard it in the shop, but it’s in the paper today, because she is dead. Did you know that she was dead?”

“Lyndall—what do you mean?”

“It says in the paper that she was coming up to meet someone under the clock at Waterloo Station at a quarter to four on Monday. They give a description, and they say the police would like to hear from anyone who saw her or noticed who she met. She was found dead in a lane near Ruislip early next morning, and they want to know how she got there, because it was right out of her way. She had come up from Blackheath. She was expecting to meet you—wasn’t she?”

Anne’s face was as tight and hard as a bolted door. She said,

“You made that up—it wasn’t in the paper. How could I have met her? I was here with Lilla.”

“Yes, you were here with Lilla. But she was expecting to meet you. You see, I met someone who travelled up in the train with her. She talked to her, and told her she was going to meet you. It was a friend of Janice Albany. I met her there at tea that afternoon. She asked me where I was staying, and as soon as I mentioned Lilla’s name she said that was curious, because she had just come up from Blackheath in the train with a Miss Collins who was meeting Lady Jocelyn, and would she be any relation? So I said yes, but I thought there must be some mistake, because you were moving into your flat and Lilla was helping you, so I didn’t see how you could be meeting anyone at Waterloo. And she said, ‘Miss Collins was certainly expecting to meet Lady Jocelyn—under the clock at Waterloo, at a quarter to four.’ ”

Anne’s face remained locked, but the lips smiled. They were bright with lipstick that might have been the very colour of anger. They made Lyndall feel herself despised. They said,

“What a rigmarole! What is it all supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

She had said what she had come to say. It horrified her. Things were worse when you had said them—they took shape. She had thought she would be able to get rid of them. No, not thought—that was too definite. She had had a frightened, clinging hope that Anne would say or do something that would make everything all right again. She did not know what Anne was to say or do. The little trembling hope let go and faded out.

Anne pushed back her chair and got up. She went quietly over to the fire and kneeled down in front of it, putting on one or two pieces of coal in a careful, deliberate way. Then without getting up she turned and spoke to Lyndall.

“You say you don’t know what you mean. I am sure I don’t. So it’s rather difficult—isn’t it? I don’t quite know what to say about it. We have had a good deal of publicity lately— I shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to bring any more of it down on us. You used to say that you were fond of me, and—” she gave a little laugh—“anyone can see you are fond of Philip. May I ask you why you want to spread a damaging story about us? I should really like to know.”

Lyndall had turned too. The fire leapt brightly behind Anne’s shoulder. Something in Anne’s eyes burned like the fire, bright, and hot, and hurting. Lyndall said,

“I haven’t spread any story. I haven’t spoken of it to anyone but you.”

“Well, that’s something. Because, you see, you really might do a great deal of harm—to Philip. To put it frankly, we can’t afford to be in the papers any more at present. Philip is ambitious—I expect you know that. He’s got the sort of job they only give to a rising man, and the wrong sort of publicity would be very damaging for him. Now I’m going to tell you all there is to tell, and trust to your friendship and common sense not to go on making mountains out of molehills. Nellie Collins knew the Joyces—I believe they lodged with her. About a week or ten days ago I had a letter from her. She had been reading all the stuff in the papers, and she said now that she realized Annie was dead, could she come up and see me, because she would like to hear all about her last moments. I thought it was all very tiresome and morbid, and I had my hands full with the move, so I didn’t answer the letter. I don’t even know what happened to it. The police wanted to see it, but I couldn’t find it for them.”

“The police—”

The anger was gone from Anne. She looked frankly at Lyndall.

“Yes. Miss Collins seems to have talked about coming up to see me. Wishful thinking, I should say. I certainly never invited her. But she seems to have talked, and there it is. Why she went to Ruislip, and how she got herself run over, I’ve naturally no idea. As for your story of overhearing a conversation about her in a hairdresser’s shop—well really, darling, if you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds completely mad. Of course Collins is a very common name. You might have heard it anywhere—I suppose you might have heard it at your hairdresser’s. But why you should fasten this crazy conversation on to me—come, Lyn, are you prepared to swear you saw me?”

“No—I thought it was you—”

“And you thought you heard me speak. Is that a thing you would swear to—a voice through a shut door? Are you sure it was my voice, Lyn?”

Lyndall said steadily,

“No, I’m not sure. I thought it was your voice.”

Anne said, “Because you thought you had seen me go in?”

“Perhaps.”

Anne laughed quite good-humouredly.

“Well, darling, there doesn’t seem to be much left of your story, does there? I think I’d keep quiet about it if I were you. If you’ll forgive my saying so, you don’t come out of it any too well. I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way, but there’s a sort of spying sound about it—” She put out a hand. “No, that’s horrid of me. I didn’t mean it. But—honestly, Lyn, I don’t want Philip to have any more bothers just now.”

Lyndall said nothing at all. When Anne spoke of Philip like that, the very quick of her heart was bruised. She had nothing to say in words. Her eyes spoke for her.

It appeared that Anne was answered. She got up with one of her graceful movements and stood there smiling.

“Well, we’ll leave it at that. I think we’ve been getting a little intense. It’s just that Philip and I do hate all this publicity, and it would be too tiresome to have it starting all over again just when we hoped it was dying down. So you won’t mind my asking you not to go round telling people that you thought you heard me talking about poor Miss Collins in the back of a hairdresser’s shop.”

“I haven’t told anyone but you. I think it was silly of me to tell you. I won’t tell anyone else.”

As she spoke she felt again the cold breath of fear which had sent her running away from the little dark passage behind the mirror door. She had promised never to speak about that. She must try never to remember it. She did not know that she was to break her promise, and to try with all her might to remember every detail of what had happened in Félise’s shop. She did not know what circumstances would compel her to this. But if she had known, she would hardly have been more afraid than she was.

Anne came past her and sat down behind the tray with its pale gleaming silver and its flowery cups. Her cheeks were pink, and she was smiling. She said,

“Have another cup of tea, darling.”