The Brading Collection (11 page)

As if he had said all that he meant to say for the moment, Charles Forrest swung round, started up the car, and backed out of the lane. He did not speak for the rest of the way, nor did Miss Silver. She had, indeed, a good deal to occupy her thoughts.

As they passed through the hall of Warne House, Stacy was coming down the stairs. Reaching the bottom step as Charles approached, it was natural that he should pause and speak—any casual acquaintance might have done the same. But Miss Silver was instantly aware of a change in the atmosphere. The words which passed were few and simple. Charles Forrest’s rather sombre gaze rested momentarily on the girl in white. She was pale. She carried a green-lined sun-umbrella, which he recognized as belonging to Myra Constantine.

He said, “Going out?”

Stacy said, “Yes.” And then, “Lilias asked me to tea. She wants me to go.”

There was nothing in the words, but voice and manner were those of intimates. The whole encounter was so brief that it hardly halted either of them. Stacy went on and out, putting up her green umbrella in the porch.

Miss Silver went up to the room which Lewis Brading had booked for her.

When she came down ten minutes later Charles was waiting. He took her down the passage to the study and gave her tea. It was between the first and second cups that she asked him about Stacy.

“A very charming girl—very graceful. She is staying here?”

Charles had been wondering why kettles took so long to boil and tea so long to cool. At her question the mouthful which he had just swallowed appeared to be even more scalding than he had thought it at the time. Oh, well, if he had nothing worse to explain than Stacy—He explained her with a careful poise.

“She is Stacy Mainwaring, the miniaturist. She is painting our local celebrity, the rather famous Myra Constantine. We were once married, but are now divorced—for nothing worse than desertion—and we are quite good friends. Myra is worth painting, you know. She will be a feather in Stacy’s cap.”

He told stories about Myra and gave an entertaining account of the other people in the club until she had finished her tea. Then he took her out to the annexe and showed her over it.

“The police have finished here. You can go anywhere, touch anything, and ask as many questions as you like.”

She asked a great many—just how he had come in—where he had stood—what he had seen.

Charles went through it all, as he had done so many times already. If he wasn’t word-perfect by now he never would be. With each repetition the thing became less real.

When he had finished she said,

“You arrived just before half past three?”

“About twenty past.”

“And you came straight through?”

“Straight through.”

“And he was dead when you found him. How long had he been dead?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“You served in the war. How long had he been dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you could hazard a guess.”

He shook his head.

“I’m not fool enough to rush in.”

She was looking at him all the time, standing there beside the table at which Lewis Brading had died, one hand resting upon it. A bright overhead light beat down upon the laboratory and its equipment, striking sparkles from glass and metal, making every object just a little clearer and more distinct than it would have been by daylight. She gave her little cough and said,

“At what time did the police arrive?”

“I think it was a quarter to four. But they are not experts either, you know. The doctor I rang up was out, and the police surgeon didn’t get here till four. He isn’t going to swear within half an hour as to how long Lewis had been dead when he saw him. It was a very hot day.”

“Exactly.”

She walked round the table and stood in front of it. Lewis Brading’s chair had been drawn back. The table was orderly—blotting-pad, pen-tray, scribbling-pad, a rack for writing-paper and envelopes, a large flat metal ash-tray a good deal discoloured, a box of matches. The knee-hole aperture was flanked by drawers on either side. On the deep green leather of the table top there was the one dark stain. She said,

“Will you show me just how he was when you found him?”

The thought went through his mind, “This is ghastly.” She noticed that his dark skin showed a change of colour. Without speaking he did as she had asked, sitting down in the chair, leaning forward until his head rested over that ominous stain, letting his right arm hang down until the hand was only a few inches from the floor. When it was over she broke the silence in which this dumb show had been acted.

“Where was the weapon?”

He said shortly,

“Just under where his hand was. As if he had dropped it.”

“It was his own revolver?”

“Well—yes—”

There was enough hesitation to make her press the point.

“That has an ambiguous sound, Major Forrest.”

He lifted a hand and let it fall again.

“You don’t miss much. It’s this way. I had two—a pair. I let Lewis have one of them.”

“How long ago?”

“Some time last year. He had something pretty antiquated. I saw it one day when he had that drawer open, and told him he’d better have something a little more up to date. That’s how it happened.”

“And he kept it—in which drawer?”

He said, “The second on the right.” Then, as she pulled it out, “It isn’t there now. The police have got it.”

She coughed.

“How many people knew that Mr. Brading kept a revolver in this drawer?”

He gave a short laugh.

“I did, James did—anyone might have done. He was rather proud of it, you know—made a bit of a flourish about being armed. He still had his own museum-piece in his bedroom.”

She pushed the drawer in, took another look at the table, and said,

“That metal ash-tray—is that where the will-form was burned?”

He nodded, and said, “Yes.”

“Just where was it when you found Mr. Brading dead?”

He moved to indicate the far side of the table.

“Over here, at the edge, a few inches from this corner.”

“Out of Mr. Brading’s reach?”

“As he sat at the table, yes. At least, I suppose he could have touched it if he had leaned forward. But he wouldn’t have burned a paper that way.”

“And the matches—where were they?”

“Just clear of the ash-tray.”

“To the left, or right?”

He was facing her across the table now.

“To your left—to my right.”

She said soberly,

“You do not need me to underline that, do you? Whoever burned that will-form was standing at the back of the table as you are standing now. If it was Mr. Brading, it seems difficult to find a reason for this. It is quite certain that it was not done by him whilst he was sitting at the table in his normal position.”

Charles said, “No.”

There was a little pause. Then she seated herself, drawing up the chair until it was comfortably placed, taking the scribbling-block, selecting a pencil. Having done all this, she turned a bright enquiring glance upon Charles and said very composedly,

“Will you not sit down, Major Forrest? I should like to take a few notes. You say Mr. Brading appeared at lunch, and then returned to the annexe. Did anyone see him alive after that?”

Charles had reached for a high wooden stool. He leaned rather than sat on it, his long legs stretched out before him, his manner as casual as his attitude.

“Oh, quite a number. According to Edna Snagge—that’s the girl in the office—Lewis had a procession of visitors. They all had to come through the hall, as I told you.”

“Can you tell me who they were, and at what time they came?”

He fished in his pocket.

“Here you are, straight from the horse’s mouth—Edna is very methodical. Lewis came off here after lunch at half past one, and James Moberly followed him a few minutes later. Now James says he only came over to fetch a book, and he went straight back to the study and stayed there. Lewis had given him the afternoon off. That, I gather, is not in dispute—people in the dining-room heard Lewis tell him he wouldn’t be wanting him again. Well, that’s James. Then at half past two Maida Robinson, Lewis’s red-head, came along with a chap called Constable. He served in the Commandos with me, and he blew in the other day for a long week-end. He and Maida were going to play tennis and then bathe. I gather Maida wanted to see Lewis and break it to him that she was off for the afternoon with another boy friend, but of course she would be dining with him and he mustn’t think that she would ever love anyone else.” He smiled engagingly. “I’m just giving you the gist of what Maida handed me, you know. I’m not going bail for anything a red-head says, but it all seems quite likely. Now listen. Maida goes off to see Lewis alone while Constable kicks his heels in the hall. In about ten minutes Maida comes back. She says she’s left her bag out here and sends Constable for it. And whilst he’s gone she steps into the office and rather annoys Edna by using the house-telephone to tell Lewis that Jack Constable is on his way. Edna can hear them talking, but she can’t hear what Lewis says, only his voice. But it seems he was annoyed because Maida hadn’t shut the steel door when she went out and Jack Constable had just walked in. Now that’s important, because someone else could have slipped in that way—from the billiard-room for instance. It’s not very likely, but it’s possible.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You say from the billiard-room? Not from the study?”

Charles let his eyes meet hers directly.

“James Moberly was in the study, and he wouldn’t need to slip in that way—he had his key.”

She inclined her head.

“Pray continue.”

“Constable wasn’t away five minutes. He came back with the bag, and he and Maida went off. They didn’t play tennis, because they decided it was too hot, but they went down and bathed. That brings us to a quarter to three. A little before three o’clock Lilias Grey arrived to see Lewis. She is my adopted sister. My father and mother adopted her when she was four years old because they hadn’t any children. And then I arrived—what you might call bad timing. She isn’t married, she has a flat at Saltings. She says she wanted to consult Lewis on a matter of business. Well, this is her story, and you’ll see how it narrows things down. She says she went along to the annexe, and like Jack Constable she says she found the steel door open. Now Jack swears he shut it—he’d be likely to, you know, after Lewis cutting up rough over Maida leaving it open. But ten minutes later Lilias finds it open again. She says she thought Lewis had left it ajar for her, and I suppose he had, because he doesn’t seem to have said anything about it when she walked in. She says they talked for about ten minutes about business. Some shares my mother left her were falling in, and she wanted to know what Lewis thought about re-investment. He told her to stick to government securities, and she said she’d think about it, and came away. She can’t remember whether she shut the door or not—she’s rather a vague person. She was out of the club by ten minutes past three, and just as she was leaving, Hester Constantine came down the stairs and went along the passage in this direction. She is Myra’s unmarried daughter, a gawky female in the late thirties, and no one has been able to think of any reason why she should want to murder Lewis. She says she went along to the study. James was there like he says, and she stayed talking. About ten minutes later I came on the scene and found Lewis dead.”

Miss Silver looked down at the scribbling-pad with her neat writing.

“Your friend—is he—Major Constable?”

Charles nodded.

“He and Mrs. Robinson left the club at a quarter to three. At twenty past three you found Mr. Brading dead. You will not give an opinion as to how long he had been dead, though I think that you must have formed such an opinion. Miss Grey says that he was alive when she left him. If that is the case, he could not, when you found him, have been dead for more than a few minutes. The murderer would naturally have allowed Miss Grey to get away before risking the use of firearms. Did anyone hear the shot?”

Charles shook his head.

“They wouldn’t. The place is sound-proof—especially this room, which is built into the hill.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Then, Major Forrest, there are these possibilities. If everyone is telling the truth, Mr. Brading was shot between the time of Miss Grey’s departure and your arrival—a bare ten minutes. During that time nobody came through the hall except Miss Constantine. She would have had time to reach this room, shoot Mr. Brading, and return to the study. What is Mr. Moberly’s evidence upon this point?”

“He says she came to the study at ten past three, and was there till I gave the alarm.”

Miss Silver looked at him very directly.

“And what does she say?”

“Oh, she says they were there together. They both say that.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Are they friends?”

He hesitated.

“Hester doesn’t run to friends much. Myra keeps her family busy.”

“The clever, brilliant mother and the repressed daughter. A not uncommon situation, and one with dangerous possibilities.”

Charles gave a short laugh.

“Well, I can’t think up any reason why Hester should have it in for Lewis, and nor can anyone else.”

Miss Silver glanced at the scribbling-block.

“Leaving Miss Constantine on one side, and still assuming that everyone has told the truth—a circumstance very unusual in a murder case—the most striking evidence is that which concerns the annexe door. It was not, I imagine, Mr. Brading’s habit to leave it open.”

“The inner door might be open if he was there. The outer door never.”

“I received that impression from the way he spoke of it on the occasion of his visit a fortnight ago.”

Charles nodded.

“There were only two keys. He had one, and James had the other. If anything happened to Lewis, James was going to be in the soup, so James could be trusted with a key. Nobody else was. In my opinion Lewis would no more have left that door open than he would have flown.”

“Yet it was left open.”