She Came Back (17 page)

Philip Jocelyn came out into the open air with the unpleasant sense that he had made a fool of himself. Whatever he had had in his coffee last night had left him with a swimming head. He must have been crazy to walk into Lilla’s room and say a thing like that without so much as waiting to make sure that he and Lyndall were alone before he blurted it out.

“Anne’s dead.” He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t even meant to go there. He had just found himself so near that it had seemed all at once an imperative necessity to see her. He had planned nothing. The drug and his disordered thoughts had betrayed him.

As he walked away he had no idea where he was going. Not back to the flat. Not yet—not before he must. Let them get on with it. He became aware that he had had no food all day. A meal would probably stop his head going round. He turned out of a side road into a busy street full of shops and entered the first restaurant he came to.

Half an hour later he walked in at his own front door, and was met by Chief Inspector Lamb.

“This is a bad business, Sir Philip.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you if I did. She hasn’t gone?”

Lamb looked at him out of an expressionless face.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Philip’s head was steady now. He said rather sharply,

“What has happened?”

Lamb said, “This,” and moved away from the study door.

Philip came forward a step or two and stood there looking in. There were three men in the room. One of them had a camera. Annie Joyce still lay where she had fallen. Philip thought of her like that—Annie Joyce—not Anne Jocelyn— not his wife. They hadn’t moved her yet. He looked at her lying there, and knew that she was dead. He had a brief stab of compunction. Then his face hardened. He stepped back and said in a controlled voice,

“Shot herself? Before you came—or afterwards?”

Lamb shook his head.

“Neither. She didn’t shoot herself—someone shot her. There’s no weapon.”

“Someone shot her?”

“Undoubtedly. We’d better come in here.” The Chief Inspector led the way to the living-room; “They’re just going to take her away, and I should be glad of a word with you. This is Sergeant Abbott. If you don’t mind, he’ll take a few notes. We shall want your statement. I suppose you have no objection to making one.”

Frank Abbott shut the door and got out his notebook. The sun had left the room. It was cold. They sat down. Lamb said,

“We have been instructed that this is a very confidential affair—a matter of attempting to obtain information for the enemy. But it seems to have turned into a murder case.”

Philip said, “Are you sure it isn’t suicide?”

“No question about it. Position of the wound—absence of any weapon. Somebody shot her. Now I’m going to ask you straight out—was she alive when you left the flat this morning?”

Philip Jocelyn’s eyebrows went up.

“Of course she was!”

Lamb went on in his solid, serious voice, his eyes bulging a little but shrewd, his gaze fixed and unwinking. Not a twitch of the eyelids, not a change of expression in all the big florid face. Above it, the stiff black hair stood up round a bald patch. He had taken off his overcoat, but even without it he filled his chair, sitting rather stiffly upright with a big capable hand on either knee.

“The police surgeon says she’s been dead a matter of hours. What time did you leave this morning?”

“Twenty to nine.”

Lamb nodded.

“Have any breakfast?”

Philip was as laconic as he.

“Coffee.”

Lamb grunted.

“Something about your being drugged last night, wasn’t there?” His tone conceded that as a medicament coffee might have its uses.

Philip said, “Yes.”

“And whilst you were asleep the case which you had brought back with you from the War Office was opened with your own key and the contents tampered with?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Jocelyn’s fingerprints—”

Philip interrupted sharply.

“She was neither Lady Jocelyn nor my wife. She was an enemy agent called Annie Joyce.”

“But she had been passing as Lady Jocelyn?”

“Yes.”

“Her fingerprints were found on your keys and upon the papers inside the case?”

“Yes.”

“Were these papers of a secret nature?”

“They appeared to be. They were not actually so. There was a code-book, but the code it contained has been superseded. There was nothing which could be of any value to the enemy.”

“Then you suspected that an attempt would be made to tamper with the case?”

“I thought it probable—I wasn’t taking any chances. As you know, I put myself in the hands of the Intelligence. I acted under their instructions.”

“Did you anticipate that an attempt would be made to drug you?”

“No. But it didn’t matter, except that my head is only just beginning to come round. Of course it was on the cards— but I’m a fairly sound sleeper, and she might have chanced it.”

“Would she have been in a position to know how soundly you slept?”

“No, she would not.”

Frank Abbott wrote, leaning forward over a table with a satinwood edge, his hair as pale and shining as the polished wood. Everything in the flat shone with polish except the dusty grate with its wreck of last night’s fire. He thought, “He’s on the spot all right now. If she was alive when he went out, how did he know that she was dead at a quarter to one? He didn’t leave the War Office until just before half-past twelve. We were in the flat before he could possibly have got here.”

Lamb said, “To come back to the deceased. The case was in the papers of course—I mean her coming over from France and claiming to be Lady Jocelyn. May I ask if the accounts which appeared in the press were substantially correct?”

“I think so. I didn’t read them all.”

“You accepted her story—you believed her to be Lady Jocelyn?”

“No.”

“Will you kindly amplify that?”

“Yes. I didn’t think she was my wife. She looked like her, and seemed to know all the things my wife would have known, but I felt she was a stranger. The rest of the family had no doubts at all. They couldn’t understand why I should have any.”

“The likeness was very strong?”

“Very strong, and—very carefully cultivated.”

“How do you account for it?”

“Quite easily. My father succeeded his uncle, Sir Ambrose Jocelyn. Ambrose had an illegitimate son who was the father of Annie Joyce, and a legitimate daughter who was the mother of my wife. The Jocelyns run very much to type, but even so, the likeness was remarkable.”

“Annie Joyce and Lady Jocelyn were first cousins?”

“Yes.”

Lamb shifted in his chair, leaning forward a little.

“If you believed the deceased woman to be Annie Joyce, why did you allow her to pass as Lady Jocelyn? She was living here under that name, wasn’t she?”

Anger and pride cut deeper lines on Philip’s face. He answered because he must, because reluctance would betray him, because the only defence he had left was to appear indifferent. He said,

“I came to believe that she was what she claimed to be. The evidence was too strong.”

“What evidence, Sir Philip?”

“She appeared to know things that only my wife and I could know. After that I had no choice. I thought I owed it to her to meet her wishes. She wanted to be under my roof.”

“So you were convinced of her identity?”

“I was for a time.”

“What happened to change your opinion?”

“I learned from an old friend of my wife’s, one of her bridesmaids, that she had kept a very intimate and detailed diary. I realized at once that this diary might be the source from which Annie Joyce had drawn the information that had convinced me.”

“When did this happen?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Did you then approach the Military Intelligence?”

“No—they approached me. They had received some very damaging information about Annie Joyce. They suggested that I should bring home some faked-up papers and an out-of-date code-book and let her know I had them. She drugged me and went through my case. I took them one or two things she had handled, so that they could compare the fingerprints. They found them all over the place.”

Lamb sat silent for a moment. Through the silence came the sound of tramping feet. The outer door of the flat shut heavily. The silence fell again. Lamb let it settle. Then he said,

“You needn’t answer this unless you wish—but I’m bound to ask you whether you shot her.”

Philip’s eyebrows lifted.

“I? Certainly not! Why should I?”

“You might have waked up and found her tampering with your case.”

The eyes under those raised brows gave him back a hard grey stare.

“In which case I should have rung up the police.”

“I wonder whether you would, Sir Philip.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t wake up. I told you I had been drugged.”

Lamb grunted.

“You have a revolver, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“Where is it?”

“In the study—second right-hand drawer of the writing-table.”

“Sure it’s there?”

“It should be.”

“Well, I think we’ll just have a look. They’ve taken her away.”

They went in, Philip Jocelyn leading the way, Frank Abbott behind. The room had been straightened, the telephone replaced, but the stain on the carpet showed.

Philip pulled out the drawer with a jerk. Writing-pads and envelopes neatly stacked—nothing else. He frowned, pulled out the next drawer above. No revolver. And so on with all the drawers.

“It isn’t here.”

“When did you see it last?”

“Last night. I took out a packet of envelopes. It was there then.”

He stood frowning down at the table. The packet of envelopes lay where he had left it, away beyond the blotting-pad, the paper band unbroken. He said,

“Do you think it was used to shoot her?”

“It might have been. We can’t tell till we get hold of it.”

Frank Abbott thought, “If he did it, he’s putting on a good act. I can’t see why he should shoot her—unless she had the revolver… She might have had it… Say he caught her and she grabbed it—she would know where it was… He gets it away from her—she’s frightened—she reaches for the telephone, and he shoots… Not enough motive—unless there’s something we don’t know—there generally is… Of course he may just have lost his head and let her have it—but he doesn’t look that sort… Quite a brain-wave to get rid of the weapon—you can’t prove she was shot with it if it doesn’t turn up—”

Lamb was saying, “What time did you get to the War Office this morning, Sir Philip?”

“A few minutes after nine. Why?”

“At what time did you leave?”

“Half-past twelve.”

Lamb knew that already. He nodded.

“Did you come back here?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Where did you go?”

“First to my cousin Mrs. Jocelyn’s flat. I meant to ask her to give me some lunch, but when I found she had a party I didn’t stay.”

“What did you do?”

“I went and got some lunch, and came on here.”

“You didn’t have any breakfast, did you—nothing but a cup of coffee? Did you make it yourself?”

“No—Miss Joyce made it.”

Lamb grunted. He said,

“There’s no proof that she was Annie Joyce, but we’ll let that pass. She made the coffee? And she was alive when you left the flat?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that you knew she was dead when you walked in at Mrs. Perry Jocelyn’s?”

Philip stared. He said,

“But I didn’t know. How could I?”

Lamb gave him back his look.

“That’s not for me to say. But you walked in on Mrs. Jocelyn and her party and said, ‘Anne’s dead,’ and walked out again.”

Philip stiffened. He tried to remember just what he had said. He hadn’t seen anyone but Lyn, hadn’t thought of anyone. He had said, “Anne’s dead” because it was on his mind. He had said it to Lyn. And then Lilla had called out, someone moved. And he had just turned round and gone out again. He frowned a little and said,

“You’ve got it wrong. I wasn’t speaking about Annie Joyce. I didn’t know that she was dead—she wasn’t in my mind at all. I was thinking about my wife.”

“Your wife?” The Chief Inspector’s voice sounded solidly unconvinced.

Philip felt a cold rage. Why should anything that was true sound as thin as what he had just said? Even to himself it carried no weight. He said,

“That’s true. If this woman was Annie Joyce, my wife was dead—had been dead for three and a half years. The fact that my case had been tampered with was an absolute proof of that as far as I was concerned. When I walked into Mrs. Jocelyn’s flat I didn’t know that there were other people there—I said what was uppermost in my mind. When I found that we were not alone I walked out again. It wasn’t the sort of thing I could discuss in front of strangers.”

Frank Abbott wrote. The words were down in his notebook now. As his hand travelled, his slightly cynical expression became modified. “Might be—you never can tell,” he concluded. “The Armitage girl comes into it somewhere. The old game—spot the lady. He was in a bit of a hurry to tell her his wife was dead. And he hasn’t mentioned her now. I suppose the Chief is on to that—he doesn’t miss much.”

He shut up his notebook as the telephone bell rang.

Frank Abbott removed the receiver from his ear, covered the mouth piece with his hand, and said,

“It’s Miss Silver, sir.”

The Chief Inspector’s colour deepened, his eyes bulged. The simile of the peppermint bull’s eye recurred irreverently to his Sergeant.

“Miss Silver?” His voice had a note of exasperation.

Frank nodded.

“What do I say?”

“Who did she ask for?”

“Lady Jocelyn.”

The deepened colour became purple.

“What’s she doing in this? You can’t move for her! I suppose she’s recognized your voice! Ask her what she wants!”

“Do I tell her what’s happened?”

Lamb grunted.

“Ask her first!”

Frank addressed himself to the telephone mellifluously.

“So sorry to keep you waiting. The Chief wondered whether you would mind telling him what you wanted with Lady Jocelyn.”

Miss Silver’s slight reproving cough came to them distinctly. The words which followed were only a murmur as far as Lamb and Philip were concerned.

Frank said, “Yes, I’ll ask him.” He turned again. “She wants to come and see you, sir.”

Lamb jerked his big head.

“Well, I haven’t got time to see her—just tell her that! You needn’t wrap it up too carefully either—I haven’t got time. You can tell her it’s a murder case. Genuine this time. None of her mare’s nests, and I’ll be glad if she’ll keep out of my way and let me get on with the job.”

Trusting that his palm had been sound-proof, Sergeant Abbott proceeded to translate.

“The Chief’s very busy. The fact is there’s a bit of a mess-up here. She’s been shot… Yes, dead… No, not suicide… Yes, we’re up to our necks in it. So you see—”

At the other end of the line Miss Silver coughed in a very firm and determined manner.

“I have something of the utmost importance to communicate. Will you tell the Chief Inspector that I hope to be with him in twenty minutes?”

Frank turned back to the room.

“She’s hung up, sir. She’s coming round. She says she’s got something important. She generally has, you know.”

The Chief Inspector came nearer to swearing than he had done for a good many years. He was a chapel member in good standing, but the strain was considerable.

Nevertheless when Miss Maud Silver arrived the meeting between them was attended by all the rites of old acquaintance and mutual respect. They shook hands. She enquired after his health, after Mrs. Lamb’s health, after his three daughters, for whom he had a heart as soft as butter. She remembered which of them was in the A.T.S., the Wrens, the W.A.A.Fs. She remembered that it was Lily who was engaged to be married.

Under this soothing treatment Frank Abbott observed his Chief relax. “And the marvellous part is that it isn’t put on. She’s really interested. She really wants to know about Lily’s young man, and whether Violet is going to get a commission. He’d see through it like a flash if she was putting it on. But she isn’t, she doesn’t—she really wants to know. Astounding woman, Maudie.”

Lamb put a period to the compliments by saying,

“Well, I’ve got my hands rather full, Miss Silver. What did you want to see me about?”

They were alone in the flat. Philip Jocelyn had gone back to the War Office. Miss Silver selected a small upright chair and sat down. The two men followed her example.

Frank Abbott, who could make himself a great deal more useful than anyone would have supposed, had tidied up the hearth. He had also lighted the fire. Miss Silver regarded it with approbation, and remarked that the weather was really very cold for the time of year, after which she coughed and addressed herself to Lamb.

“I was very much shocked to hear of this new fatality. I feared that she was in danger, but I had, of course, no idea that a catastrophe was imminent.”

“Well, I don’t know about a catastrophe, Miss Silver. She wasn’t up to any good, you know. Or perhaps, for once, there’s something you don’t know. Just between you and me and Frank here—I know I can trust you not to talk—she was an enemy agent.”

“Dear me! How extremely shocking! I suspected something of the sort, but of course there was no proof.”

“Oh, you suspected it, did you? Why?”

To Frank Abbott, Miss Silver’s manner indicated that she considered the Chief Inspector to be lacking in what might be called the finer shades of courtesy. She said a little primly,

“It is difficult to say just how an impression is received. As I said, there was no proof at all, but I thought she must have had some guilty knowledge in the matter of poor Miss Collins—”

“Accident,” interjected Lamb—“pure accident.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I think not. It occurred to me that Lady Jocelyn—”

Lamb interrupted again.

“Sir Philip says she wasn’t Lady Jocelyn—says she wasn’t his wife—says she was the other woman there was all the talk about, Annie Joyce.”

“That does not surprise me. Lady Jocelyn could have no interest in the death of Nellie Collins. Annie Joyce might have had a very vital interest. Miss Collins undoubtedly knew of some distinguishing mark which would have enabled her to recognize the child she had brought up. This would give Annie Joyce a very strong motive.”

Lamb gave one of his grunts.

“I don’t know—you may be right. I’ll tell the police surgeon to look out for distinguishing marks. Well, you haven’t said how you got your ‘impression.’ ”

“From the whole circumstances, I think. I formed the opinion that an impersonation was probably taking place, and it struck me that it would have been very difficult for Annie Joyce to have planned it and carried it out without assistance. How did she know that Sir Philip was in England? She did know, because she rang up Jocelyn’s Holt from Westhaven and asked for him. After Miss Collins’ death I looked up the accounts in the Press again. I was struck by the coincidence of a lost wife turning up from occupied France just as Sir Philip was about to take up a confidential post at the War Office. His work is, I believe, very confidential.”

“And who told you that?” said Lamb.

Miss Silver smiled at him.

“You do not really expect an answer, do you?… To return to what I was saying. I could not help thinking that it would be very useful to the Germans if they could plant an agent in Sir Philip Jocelyn’s household. In fact, I thought her appearance a little too well timed.”

Lamb sat looking at her. She wore the old black jacket with its narrow shoulders and worn fur collar, the neat dowdy felt hat with its small bunch of purple pansies on the left-hand side. Her hands in their shabby black kid gloves were folded in her lap. He was thinking, “Looks as if ten bob would buy her up, but there’s something about her—you can’t get from it.” He said,

“Well, that’s that—she was an enemy agent all right. She drugged Sir Philip last night and went through his papers. Seems he suspected her, and they were a fake lot. Military Intelligence went through them for fingerprints and found hers all over the place. We come in to arrest her, and there she is, by the table in the study, shot through the head. The question is, did Sir Philip catch her at his case and shoot her out of hand? Some men might. I’m bound to say he doesn’t look that kind to me.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“If the papers were not genuine, there would be very little motive for his shooting her. He might have done so if he had suddenly discovered that she was an enemy agent, but not if, as I understand, he knew that already and was a party to the trap which had been laid for her.”

“Um—that’s a point. Yes, there’s something in that. Anyhow he says he left her alive. They both had coffee—her bedroom was done but not his—the grate in here was all in a mess. The police surgeon says she’d been dead some hours at least. We’ll know more about that later. Well, Sir Philip starts out at twenty to nine. The porter saw him go. Says he’d just looked at his watch because he was expecting work-men round to see to the skylight on this floor—it was warped, and the blackout wouldn’t stay put—so he was about and taking notice at the time. He says Sir Philip went off at twenty to, and he says he was looking queer. The men he was expecting came in at nine o’clock and went upstairs. From then on, there they were until half-past twelve, right outside this flat—nobody could go in or out without their seeing them, and nobody did go in or out. We got on to the men, and they’re positive about that.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me—” in a meditative manner.

Frank Abbott considered his Chief’s superior tone a little overdone as he continued.

“That narrows things down a bit—you’ll admit that, I suppose. She must have been dead before the men came at nine. That gives twenty minutes after Sir Philip left for someone to have got in and shot her and got away again. The porter was hanging about looking out for his men, and he says he didn’t see anyone.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“No doubt you pressed him on this point. People are very apt to say they haven’t seen anyone, when what they really mean is that they have not seen anyone whom it would occur to them to suspect.”

“Quite so. And, as you say, I pressed him. Actually, three people went up and came down again whilst he was waiting for the workmen—the postman, whom he knows personally, a boy delivering milk, and a man from the laundry.”

“Had the milk been taken in?”

“No, it hadn’t. That looks as if she was dead by the time it came.”

“For which flat was the laundry?”

“He doesn’t know. It was just after Sir Philip went, and he was at the back of the hall. The man went past with the laundry-basket on his head—he didn’t take any more notice than that. Three of the flats have new tenants—he doesn’t know where they go for their laundry.”

Miss Silver coughed and said, “Quite so.”

Lamb banged his knee.

“Look here, you don’t suggest that a perfectly strange laundry man comes in here, knows just where to put his hand on Sir Philip’s revolver, shoots the woman and goes off again with the weapon, all inside of five or six minutes?”

Miss Silver coughed again.

“It does not take very long to shoot anyone. Sir Philip’s revolver may not have been used. If she considered herself to be in danger she may have tried to get hold of it—she would, of course, know where it was. After committing the crime it would, perhaps, occur to the murderer that he might throw suspicion on Sir Philip by removing it. This is, however, mere speculation.”

Lamb gave his robust laugh.

“I’m glad you admit that!”

“I would like to know whether the laundryman was seen coming down again.”

“Yes, he was. The porter was answering a ’phone call, so he only saw him out of the tail of his eye.”

“Had he still got the laundry-basket on his head?”

“Well, he would have, wouldn’t he? He’d bring back the clean clothes and take away the dirty ones. And it’s no good asking me any more about it, because that’s all I know. You can ask the porter, but you won’t find he knows any more either. No—the way it looks to me, the one that had the motive and the opportunity is Sir Philip. You may say that the motive isn’t strong enough—and there’s something in that. But the circumstances are all very suspicious. Here’s one of them. He was at the War Office from nine to half past twelve—we’ve checked up on that—but he walks in at Mrs. Perry Jocelyn’s flat at a quarter to one, sees Miss Armitage, doesn’t see anyone else—it’s one of those L-shaped rooms, and they’re round the corner—and says, ‘Anne’s dead.’ Doesn’t say any more because he realizes there are other people there, just turns round and walks out again. Now unless she was dead before he left this flat he couldn’t have known about it. His explanation is that he meant something quite different—meant, in fact, that he was now certain that it was his wife who had died three years ago. What do you think of that?”

“He said it to Miss Armitage, thinking that they were alone?”

“So I understand. Mind you, he didn’t say so—he left Miss Armitage out of it. I’m putting in what Miss Jocelyn said. She rang up to ask what had happened. It was she who mentioned Miss Armitage.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It must have given her a great shock, poor girl. She does not look at all strong.‘”

“Do you know her?”

“I have met her. A very charming girl.”

“Do you mean there’s something between her and Sir Philip? Looks as if there might be, his running off to her like that. Look here, if that’s the case, he’d have a very serious motive. Say he’s tied up to this woman—doesn’t know if she’s his wife or not, but can’t prove she isn’t—there would be a very serious motive there.” He paused, and added, “His revolver’s gone. He admits it was there last night. What do you make of that?”

Miss Silver declined to make anything of it at all. She opined that it was a very interesting case, and that it was without doubt in the most capable of hands. Having permitted a perfectly genuine note of admiration to appear in her voice, she gave him a friendly smile and said,

“It is so good of you to let me know just how matters stand. I am really very much interested, especially after the rather curious thing which happened yesterday.”

Frank Abbott felt a lively curiosity. What sort of rabbit was Maudie going to bring out of the hat? He had an inward spasm as he thought how much the simile would have shocked her. Or would it? You never knew with Maudie.

If Lamb felt any curiosity he didn’t show it. His tone was off-hand and casual as he said,

“Oh, yes—there’s something you wanted to tell me.”

Miss Silver’s manner became faintly tinged with reproof.

“There was something I felt it my duty to tell you.”

“Well, let’s have it. I’ll have to be getting along.”

The reproof became a little more definite. The Chief Inspector had the fleeting illusion that he was back in school and was perhaps about to be rebuked. It was so strong that for a moment he saw quite plainly the village schoolroom where he had learned the three R’s—the long bare room, the rows of forms, the red-cheeked country children, the small-paned windows standing open to a summer sky and the buzz of bees, the blackboard, the teacher’s face… Old Miss Payne—he hadn’t thought of her for years… It came and went in a flash, but he found himself sitting up and looking respectfully at Miss Silver, who was addressing him.