The Brading Collection (10 page)

It was Miss Silver’s practice to open her letters before she looked at the morning papers. There had been times during the war when she had departed from her usual custom, but except under the pressure of a national emergency she would deal with her correspondence before she so much as scanned the headlines. On this Saturday morning London was even hotter than Ledstow. The thermometer in her bedroom already registered 75°, and would certainly pass the 80° mark by midday.

She took up her letters and sorted them through—one from her niece Ethel Burkett; one from Ethel’s sister Gladys, a selfish young woman for whom she had no great affection; a third in a handwriting which she had seen before but could not immediately identify, the postmark Ledstow. Her brows drew together in a slight frown. The writing was that of Mr. Lewis Brading. He had made an appointment and paid her a visit about a fortnight ago, and she had not been favourably impressed—oh, not at all. She put his letter aside and opened Ethel Burkett’s.

“Dearest Aunt Maud,

The scarf is just lovely…”

Miss Silver’s eyes rested fondly upon the page. Dear Ethel—always so affectionate, so grateful. And the scarf was really nothing at all—just made up out of the odds and ends she had left from Ethel’s last two jumpers and one or two of the frocks she had knitted for little Josephine. Such a pretty, healthy little girl, and so good in spite of having three brothers to spoil her.

Returning to the letter, she read with concern that Josephine had had a cold—“so trying in this weather,” and with relief that “it has now, I am glad to say, completely disappeared and she is getting her colour back.” The boys were enjoying their holidays—Ethel’s husband was the manager of a bank in a Midlands country town—but, “we are hoping to get a fortnight at the sea in September. Mary Loftus has offered to exchange houses. She has that tiresome business of her Uncle James’s furniture to go into. And, dearest Auntie, you must keep the time clear and come to us September 2nd-17th. With love from us all, Ethel.”

Miss Silver gave a slight pleasurable cough. A fortnight by the sea with dear Ethel and the children—how really delightful. She must do her best to keep the time clear.

She turned to Gladys’s letter with a good deal less warmth. Gladys never wrote unless she wanted something, and she thought of no one but herself. All through the war she had managed to preserve this attitude. She had married a well-to-do man of middle age because she disliked having to earn her own living. At first the advantages had outweighed the disadvantages. Now that income tax was so heavy, the cost of living so high, and domestic help almost unobtainable, Gladys was having to work again—to cook, to clean, to polish. The advantages had disappeared, and the disadvantages remained. The elderly husband was ten years older than when she married him, and she was feeling very badly treated. “It isn’t as if I couldn’t get a job, and a good one. I’m sure the money some of these girls get makes you open your eyes. And it wouldn’t be cooking and cleaning and that sort of thing either. Really I’m nothing but an unpaid servant…”

Miss Silver read to the end with deep disapproval. Not the letter of a gentlewoman. And the postscript! Piling Ossa on Pelron, Gladys had written, “Next time you go away, do give me a ring. I could come up and look after the flat and do some theatres. Andrew is so sticky about my being out at night.”

Miss Silver pressed her lips together as she laid the letter down.

She opened Lewis Brading’s envelope with a feeling of distaste. She had not liked him—oh, not at all. “Self-interest—there is no stronger motive”—a really shocking statement! And his treatment of that unfortunate secretary. Very dangerous, and really not very far off blackmail. She unfolded his letter and read:

Dear Madam,

I am writing to ask you to reconsider your decision. There have been developments. The matter is confidential, and I do not wish to go to the police—at present. This is a pleasant country club. I have reserved a room for you, and must beg you to come down immediately. You may name your own fee. If you will ring me up and let me know by what train you will be arriving, I will see that you are met at Ledstow.

Yours truly,

Lewis Brading

Miss Silver sat and looked at the page. Curious writing, formal and precise. But the lines sloped upwards and the signature was blotted. The letter had been written in a hurry and under some strong impulsion. “You may name your own fee—” Something had happened, or he was afraid that something was going to happen. Her mind became engaged with the possibilities. They might be—would be interesting. But she did not like Mr. Brading.

She put the letter down and opened her morning paper. The name which had been in her mind stood out at the top of the page in a bold headline:

THE BRADING COLLECTION

MR. LEWIS BRADING FOUND SHOT

She said, “Dear me!” and began to read what the paper had to say about it. There was quite a lot, but it did not amount to very much. The story overflowed into two columns, but there was really more about the Brading Collection than about Mr. Brading’s sudden death. His cousin Major Forrest, coming to see him by appointment, had found him shot dead in his laboratory. He had fallen across the table at which he was sitting. A revolver lay beside him on the floor. Major Forrest had at once rung up the Ledstow police station and sent for a doctor, but life was extinct. There was a lot about it and about the Collection, but that was what it amounted to.

After a short interval for reflection Miss Silver dialled Trunks and gave the private number of the Chief Constable of Ledshire. At this hour of the morning it would, she hoped, be possible to get through without delay. Actually, she hardly had to wait at all before a familiar voice said, “Hullo!”

“Miss Silver speaking, Randal.”

At the other end of the line Randal March pursed up his lips in a soundless whistle. After which he said,

“Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”

“You are all well? Rietta? And the baby?”

“Blooming. Well—what is it?”

“The Brading case.”

“And where do you come in on that?”

She would never have allowed such an expression in her schoolroom. Her cough reproved him.

“My dear Randal!”

“Well, well, what is it?”

“I had been approached a fortnight ago—”

“By whom?”

“By Mr. Brading.”

“Why?”

“He was uneasy. He wanted me to come down to Warne. I refused.”

“Again why?”

This time the cough was of a deprecatory nature.

“The case did not attract me.”

“Well?”

“That is not all, Randal.”

He gave a short laugh.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“No. I had a letter from him this morning.”

“What!”

“The postmark is Ledstow, two-thirty, so you see—”

“What did he say?”

“That there had been developments. That he had taken a room for me at Warne House. That any train I might come down by today would be met. And that I might name my fee.”

This time March whistled aloud.

“And what is your reaction to that?”

She said in a thoughtful voice,

“I have not made up my mind. I believe that Major Forrest is his cousin’s executor.”

“Did Brading tell you that?”

“Yes, Randal.”

“During a first interview—when you were refusing the case?”

“Yes.”

“Did it occur to you that he was anticipating—how shall I put it—what has just happened?”

She coughed.

“I could not put it quite as strongly as that. He had made certain arrangements.”

There was a pause. Randal March was frowning. He said,

“I’d like to see you.”

There was another of those faint coughs.

“I thought perhaps I should ring Major Forrest up. If he wishes me to do so, I could come down to Warne House for the week-end. Without his endorsement Mr. Brading’s commission lapses—I have no status.”

March said,

“Yes, I see. Let me know if you are coming down. I think I should see you.”

Miss Silver’s call found Charles Forrest in his cousin’s study at Warne House. She had decided that she was more likely to find him there than at his own address, which she would in any case be obliged to ascertain, whereas Mr. Brading’s number was embossed upon his notepaper.

When she got as far as the exchange a voice said,

“That is Mr. Brading’s number. We are putting all calls through to the club.”

Miss Silver said, “Thank you,” and waited.

She got Edna Snagge next.

“Major Forrest? Yes, he’s here. I’ll put you through.”

In the study Charles Forrest lifted the receiver. A prim pleasant voice repeated his name in an enquiring manner. He said,

“Speaking.”

There was a faint cough.

“My name is Miss Maud Silver. I do not know whether it conveys anything to you.”

Charles’s expression of weary indifference changed to one of attention. He said,

“Yes, it does.”

“May I ask in what connection?”

“My cousin left a letter—I suppose you’ve heard?”

“I have seen the morning papers.”

“He wished you to be called in—if anything happened. He went to see you about a fortnight ago?”

“Yes.”

“He wanted you to come down then. You refused. He seems to have been impressed. He says you warned him that he was upon a dangerous course.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I fear that he disregarded my warning.”

“He came home and wrote me a letter which has just been found. He said that in the event of matters passing beyond his control he would wish you to be called into consultation.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!” And then, “I received a letter from Mr. Brading by this morning’s post. He pressed me to come down to Warne. He said he had reserved a room for me, and that he would meet any train which I might find convenient.”

“Today?”

“Yes, Major Forrest.”

Charles’s frown deepened in intensity. What on earth had Lewis been up to, and where did a private detective who sounded like an old-fashioned governess come in? He would have to see her, of course, and if Lewis had booked a room for her she might just as well come down. The mess was so bad that one elderly lady more or less would be neither here nor there. She might even provide a much needed red herring or two. He didn’t see how she could possibly make matters worse than they were. With these things in mind he said,

“I should be very glad if you would come down for the week-end, Miss Silver. What train would suit you?”

Miss Silver arrived by the train which had brought Stacy to Ledstow three days before. Charles Forrest, on the platform, saw her alight with incredulity. There was no one else who could possibly be the person he had come to meet, but he found Miss Silver incredible. That is to say, incredible in this year of grace, upon Ledstow platform, coming down to investigate Lewis Brading’s death. In his nursery days the moral maxim, “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” had been all too frequently instilled. Miss Silver’s place was in a photograph album of about forty years ago. The rather flat, crushed-looking hat was the spit and image of one worn by Lewis’s mother in a wedding group of that date. It was of black straw with some ribbon bows at the back and a small bunch of mignonette and pansies on the left-hand side. The high boned net front was of the same date, but the dress of grey artificial silk with its smudged pattern of mauve and black departed from the type to the extent of having a much more comfortable waistline and being at least six inches off the ground. The black lisle thread stockings thus revealed and the black laced shoes were, however, well within the period. A string of bog-oak beads circled her neck twice. A pair of eyeglasses were fastened to the left-hand side of her dress by a gold bar brooch set with seed pearls. There was also a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with an Irish pearl at its heart.

All these details presented themselves to Charles as part of the incredible whole. He couldn’t believe in her outside a family album, but there she was, stepping down from the train with a small well-worn suitcase in one hand, and a handbag and a flowered knitting-bag in the other.

The day was even hotter than yesterday. It was a relief to leave the streets behind and come out upon a country road. Then, and not till then, did Miss Silver give her slight premonitory cough and say,

“What have you to tell me about Mr. Brading’s death?”

Charles drove on for about a hundred yards, turned into a lane which ran inland, and drew up under a large shady oak. Then he said,

“If we’re going to talk we might as well be cool. You want to know about Lewis’s death. He rang up yesterday morning round about half past twelve and asked me to come and see him—just that and nothing more. He suggested half past three. As a matter of fact I got there rather earlier. The girl in the office said he was alone, so I went through—” He paused, looked round at her, and said, “I don’t know what you know about the lay-out.”

“Mr. Brading explained it, I think, quite clearly.”

“Then you understand that everyone going to the annexe or coming away would go through the hall of the club and past the office—that is, unless they got through a window in the billiard-room or the study.”

“That would be possible?”

“I suppose so. Anyhow the girl in the office said he was alone, and I went through. There’s a glazed passage to the annexe with a very strong steel door at the end of it which is always kept locked. I take it you know about the Collection.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, the first thing that struck me was that the steel door wasn’t shut—it was standing ajar. You go in, and there’s a small lobby and a second very strong door. The second door was wide open. I went into the big room where he shows off his Collection and called. Nobody answered. There’s a door opposite the entrance which leads into a passage. There are three rooms there—Lewis’s bedroom, a bathroom, and a laboratory. I called again. The laboratory door was open.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Ajar—or wide open?”

“Standing at right angles to the jamb. I went through, and saw Lewis. There’s a table he uses for making notes—about his experiments, you know. It’s an old knee-hole table with drawers on either side. It’s on the right-hand side of the door as you come in, facing towards it. As soon as I came in I saw Lewis. He was sitting at the table, and he had fallen forward across it. I came over to him, and saw that he had been shot through the head a little behind the right temple. His right arm was hanging down. There was a revolver lying as if it had dropped from his hand. The second right-hand drawer was open. I knew he kept a revolver there. I thought he had committed suicide, and I thought he had sent for me and left the doors open because he wanted me to find him. One of the less agreeable duties of an executor!”

At this point he met a gaze of singular intensity and intelligence. Miss Silver coughed.

“You say you thought that Mr. Brading had committed suicide.”

Charles Forrest said,

“The police don’t think so.”

“Could you tell me why?”

They continued to look at one another. Charles said in a voice that matched his frown,

“I could. But can you give me any reason why I should?”

Both frown and voice appeared to Miss Silver to denote concentration rather than resentment. Had it been otherwise, she would scarcely have answered as she did.

“You do not know me.”

“No.”

“You have therefore no reason to trust me.”

He paused on that.

“My cousin apparently did so. He wasn’t much given to trusting people. In his letter he quotes Randal March as saying that you can be trusted.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“I must tell you, Major Forrest, that I refused this case a fortnight ago because I could not approve of Mr. Brading’s line of conduct. It appeared to me to be dangerous in its possibilities, and indefensible on moral grounds.”

One of Charles’s dark eyebrows rose.

“Poor old James?”

“He imparted some information about his secretary, Mr. James Moberly.”

Charles said quickly,

“James wouldn’t hurt a fly—you can take that from me. He got into shady company when he was a boy—got had for a mug, and Lewis has been holding it over him for years. He’s worked like a black and not been able to call his soul his own. He isn’t capable of standing up for himself—that, I imagine, is how he got let in to start with—and he certainly isn’t capable of violence.”

A smile just touched Miss Silver’s lips. Then she looked grave again.

“Mr. Brading spoke of information with regard to Mr. Moberly which would come into your hands in such a contingency as this. From what you say I understand that this information has reached you.”

Charles took a moment. Then,

“I told you he wasn’t much given to trusting people. Poor old James—a complete dossier, I suppose. No, it hasn’t reached me yet. The solicitors will have it, I expect. And if the police get wind of it, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“But you knew—”

“Lewis dropped more than half a hint, and James told me the rest. Look here, what I’ve got to know is, how do you stand with regard to the police? If they go on thinking that it isn’t suicide, there’s going to be quite a lot of suspicion flying about. I’d like to know where I am. Do I talk to you in confidence, or does everything I say get handed on? I want to know where I am.”

Miss Silver looked at him.

“I am glad that you should have raised the point. I could not, in a murder case, be a party to concealing any material evidence from the police. I could not come into a murder case to serve any private interest. I have been engaged in many such cases and have worked in harmony with the police, but it is not my practice to work for the police. In a murder case, as in any other, I can have only one object, the bringing to light of the truth. It is only the guilty who have to fear this, the innocent are protected.”

There was again that characteristic lift of the eyebrow. He said,

“You find it as simple as that?”

“Fundamentally, yes. What appears to obscure the fact is that so many people have something to hide, and an enquiry in a murder case has this in common with the day of judgment, that the secrets of all hearts are apt to be revealed. It is not everyone who can contemplate this with equanimity. It is not only the murderer who tries desperately to conceal his thoughts and actions. And now, Major Forrest, are you going to tell me why the police think that this may be a case of murder?”

Still frowning, Charles said,

“Yes, I’ll tell you.”

He had been sitting easily, his hand on the wheel. He leaned back now into the angle between the driving-seat and the door. Something had been happening in his mind. The dowdy little governess out of a family photograph-album sat there in the opposite corner, her hair very neat, her old-fashioned hat a little crooked, her hands in their black thread gloves folded primly upon a shabby bag with a tarnished clasp. There she was, and that was what she looked like. Yet he was feeling the impact of an intelligence which commanded respect. If that had been all, he would have found it surprising enough. But it was by no means all. He was conscious of an integrity, a kindness, a sort of benignant authority. He couldn’t get nearer to it than that. It wouldn’t go into words, but it was there. A good many of Miss Silver’s clients in the past had had a similar experience. But he was not to know that. He only knew it would be a relief to talk, to formulate his thoughts, to look at them through the focus of someone else’s eyes.

She had been waiting, now she gave him an encouraging smile.

He said, “Lewis hadn’t any reason for suicide—I’m putting it the way it looks to the police. He had quite a lot of money, he wasn’t ill, and he was thinking about getting married. You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

“Nor did he a fortnight ago. You wouldn’t have thought he was the sort to go in off the deep end, but it just goes to show that you never can tell. She’s a goodlooking red-head, about twenty-five, with a divorced husband in the background and a flat in my house, Saltings. I’ve been cutting it up and letting it off—about the only thing you can do with big houses nowadays. Her name is Maida Robinson. On the day before his death—that is, the day before yesterday—Lewis asked her to marry him.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, she did. He was showing his Collection to a whole party from the club. I walked home with her afterwards and she told me. She also told me that he had made a will in her favour.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!” And then, “Has this will been found?”

“It has, and it hasn’t. He went into Ledlington yesterday and signed a will such as Maida described. She said it was made out on a will-form. It was witnessed by his bank manager and a clerk, and something was said about his asking for congratulations before long. But no actual statement about the contents of the will, which is not to be found, unless you can count some burnt paper on an ash-tray. There was just one corner left unburned, but no writing. The paper corresponds with the will-forms sold by a Ledlington stationer. Maida bought one there—she says for herself. She asked Lewis’s advice about it, and it ended in his using it instead.”

Charles’s voice was non-committal in the extreme, but Miss Silver received some impressions. He continued in a less careful tone.

“I gather the police have a theory that the destruction of the will could be a fairly strong motive for murder.”

Miss Silver said crisply,

“It might equally be argued that Mr. Brading had destroyed the will and then committed suicide owing to some disappointment connected with his projected marriage.”

Charles said, “I don’t think that cuts a lot of ice with the police. Frankly, I don’t see Lewis shooting himself over a woman—no one who knew him would. He wasn’t such a stick as he looked. He’d had affairs before this, you know. I don’t say he hadn’t fallen pretty hard for Maida, but I just can’t see him shooting himself. And that’s giving you my confidence to a fairly marked degree, because if it’s murder, I’m naturally pretty high up among the suspects. I found him, and I had the best of motives for destroying this new will, since under the old one I’m the principal legatee. The police love that sort of motive—all nice and clear and crude. And they’re pretty well sure it’s murder because of the fingerprints on the revolver. They’re Lewis’s, but they’re not in the right places. They think they were made after death. It’s an old trick to fake a suicide by closing a dead man’s hand on the revolver, but it’s a ticklish business for the murderer. If you’ve just shot someone, your own hand is probably not too steady, and you’re in the devil of a hurry.” His voice cooled and hardened. “I can imagine that it might be quite a job to get the prints in exactly the right places—they might easily slip. The police say that these particular prints have slipped. That is why they’re sure it’s murder.”