The Case Is Closed (2 page)

There was a pause. Hilary looked at the photograph, and Marion looked at Hilary with a faint bitter smile.

‘That is Mrs. Mercer,’ she said — ‘James’ housekeeper.’ She took the book back and laid it open on her knee. ’Geoffrey might have got off if it hadn’t been for her. Her evidence tipped the scale. She cried, you know, all the time she was giving it, and of course that went down with the jury. If she’d been vindictive or hard, it wouldn’t have hurt Geoff half as much, but when she swore with sobs that she’d heard him quarrelling with James about the will, she damned him. There was just a chance they’d believe he’d found James dead, but she finished that.’ Marion’s voice left off on the edge of a break. After a moment she said in a curious, wondering tone, ‘I always thought she was such a nice woman. She gave me the recipe for those scones. She seemed to like me.’

Hilary was sitting back on her heels.

‘She said she’d always liked you.’

‘Then why did she do it? Why did she do it? I’ve thought myself blind and stupid, and I can’t get a glimmer of why she should have done it.’

‘Yes — why?’ said Hilary.

‘She was lying. But why should she have lied? She liked Geoff. She gave that evidence against him as if she was on the rack — that’s what made it so damning. But why did she give it at all? That’s what I can’t, can’t get any answer to. James was dead when Geoff got there. We went over and over it together. It was eight o’clock when James rang him up. We had just finished dinner, and he went straight off — Oh, you’ve heard it a hundred times, but what matters is that it’s true. James did ring him up. He did go down to Putney just as he said in his evidence. He stood over there and hung up the receiver, and said “James wants to see me at once. He sounds in a most awful stew.” He kissed me and ran down the stairs. And when he got there James was dead — fallen down across his writing-table, and the pistol lying there. And Geoff picked it up. Oh, if he only hadn’t picked it up! He said he didn’t know he had until he saw it in his hand. He came in by the garden door, and he didn’t see anyone till he saw James, and James was dead, and the pistol was there and he picked it up. And then Mercer came knocking at the door, and it was locked. Hilary — who locked it? It was locked on the inside and the key in the door, and only Geoff’s finger-prints on the key and on the handle, because he went and tried the door when Mercer knocked. And then he turned the key and let him in, and there was Mercer and Mrs. Mercer, and Mercer said, “Oh, my God, Mr. Geoff! What have you done?” ’

‘Don’t!’ said Hilary. ‘Don’t go over it, darling — it doesn’t do any good.’

‘Do you think I’d sit here and talk if there was anything I could do?’ said Marion in a low, exhausted voice. ‘Mercer said he hadn’t heard anything except what he took to be a burst tyre or a motor-bike backfiring about a minute before. He was in the pantry cleaning the glass and silver and putting it away. And he was — his cleaning things were all spread about, and the stuff was on his hands. But Mrs. Mercer had been upstairs to turn down James’ bed, and she said when she came through the hall she heard voices very loud in the study. And she said she went and listened because she was frightened, and she swore she heard Geoffrey in there quarrelling with James. And then she swore she heard the shot, and screamed and ran for Mercer.’ She got up, and the photograph-album fell sprawling against Hilary’s knees.

With an abrupt but graceful movement Marion pushed back the chair and began to walk up and down. She was so pale that Hilary was frightened. Her air of exhaustion had changed into one of restless pain.

‘I’ve gone over it, and over it, and over it. I’ve gone over it until I can say it in my sleep and it doesn’t mean anything at all. None of it means anything. It got to be like that in court.—just a noise — just words. And that woman crying and swearing Geoff’s life away, and no reason for it, no motive anywhere — no motive for anyone to kill James. Except Geoff if he’d lost his head and done it in a rage when James told him about the new will and cutting him out of everything. Hilary, he didn’t do it — he didn’t! I swear he didn’t! They made a lot of his hot temper, but I’ll swear he didn’t do it! James brought him up to be his heir, and he’d no right to change like that. He’d no right to take him into the office and promise him a partnership, and then go back on it, if that’s what he meant to do. But Geoff wouldn’t have touched him —I know he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even have hit him, and it simply isn’t possible that he shot him.’ She stopped her restless pacing by the window and stood with her back to the room for a silent moment. Then she said, ‘It isn’t possible — except in a nightmare— but this has been a nightmare so long, and — sometimes — I — feel — that — I — may — begin— to — believe — in — it.’

Hilary said ‘No!’ with a quick sob.

Marion turned round.

‘Why did James destroy his will and make another one? Why did he leave everything to Bertie Everton? He never had a good word to say about him, and he was fond of Geoff. They were together all the day before. There wasn’t any quarrel — there wasn’t anything. And next day he destroyed his will and made another one, and at eight o’clock that night he sent for Geoff, and Geoff found him dead.’

‘You don’t think — ’ said Hilary.

‘I’ve done nothing but think — I’m nearly mad with thinking.’

Hilary was shaken with excitement. She had lived with Marion for nearly a year, and never, never, never had Marion discussed the Case before. She kept it shut up in a horrible secret place inside her, and she never forgot it for a moment waking or sleeping, but she never, never, never spoke about it.

And Hilary had always seethed with bright ideas about the Case. If Marion would only talk about it, open her horrid secret place and let the darkness out and Hilary’s bright ideas in, well, she felt quite, quite sure she would be able to pounce on something which had been overlooked and the whole thing would be cleared up.

‘No—no —darling, do listen. Marion, please. You don’t think somebody forged the will?’

Marion stood by the chest, half turned from the room. She gave a laugh that was a good deal like a sob.

‘Oh, Hilary, what a child you are! Do you suppose that wasn’t thought of? Do you suppose everything wasn’t thought of? He drove down to the bank, and it was witnessed by the manager and one of the clerks.’

‘Why?’ said Hilary. ‘I mean, why didn’t he get the Mercers to do it? You don’t generally go to a bank to sign your will.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marion wearily. ‘He did, anyhow. The Mercers couldn’t sign because they had a legacy. James sent for his solicitor and destroyed the old will in his presence. Then he got him to make the new one, and they went down to the bank together and James signed it there.’

‘Where was Bertie Everton?’ said Hilary.

‘In Edinburgh. He went up by the night train.’

‘Then he was here the day before?’

‘Oh, yes —he went down to Putney and he saw James — dined with him as a matter of fact. But you can’t make anything out of that, except that obviously tomething was said or done which made James change his mind — and his will. He had always loathed Bertie, but something happened all in about an hour and a half to make him decide to leave him every penny he’d got. I was down for a thousand in the old will, and he even cut that out. Bertie’s brother Frank, who’d always had an allowance from him and can’t keep a job to save his life, he was cut out, too. Under the old will the allowance was to continue. He’s a bad hat and a rolling stone, but he was just as much James’ nephew as Bertie or Geoff, and James always meant to provide for him. He used to say he’d got a screw loose, but he didn’t loathe him like he loathed Bertie. Bertie was everything he detested — and he left him every penny.’

Hilary put her hands on the floor behind her and leaned on them.

‘Why did he detest him? What’s the matter with Bertie?’

Marion gave an odd, quick shrug.

‘Nothing. That’s what enraged James. He used to say that Bertie had never done a stroke of work in his life nor wanted to. He’s got some money, you know, and he just floats round gracefully, collecting china, playing the piano, dancing with all the girls, and being very agreeable to their mothers and aunts and grandmothers — you never see him speaking to a man. And when James heard he was embroidering chair-covers for a set of Louis Quinze chairs he’d picked up at a sale — well, Geoff and I honestly thought he was going to have a fit.’

‘Marion, how do you know this Bertie creature was in Scotland when James — died?’

‘He went up by the night train. He was staying at the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh. He’d been there for some days when he came down to see James, no one knows why. Well, he saw him and he went back again. His waiter said he had breakfast and lunch in the hotel, and after lunch he made a complaint about the bell in his room being out of order, and at four o’clock he was worrying about a telephone call he was expecting.’ She lifted her hand and let it fall on the lid of the chest. “You see — he couldn’t have been at Putney. James was dead by a quarter past eight. Besides — Bertie — if you knew him — ’

‘I’m thinking about the other one,’ said Hilary— ‘Frank, the rolling-stone bad-lot one.’

‘It’s no good, I’m afraid,’ said Marion. ‘Frank was in Glasgow. He’s got the best alibi of anyone, because he was actually having his allowance paid over to him just before six o’clock. James paid it through a Glasgow solicitor weekly because Frank never could make any money last for more than a week whatever it was. He called to collect it just before six that day, and he didn’t leave the office till getting on for a quarter past six, so I’m afraid he couldn’t possibly have murdered James. It would have been so nice and simple if he had, but — he didn’t.’

‘Who did?’ said Hilary before she could stop to think.

Marion was standing still. At Hilary’s question she seemed to become something more than still. Where there is life there is breath, and where there is breath there is always some movement. Marion seemed to have stopped breathing. There was a long, frightening minute when it seemed to Hilary that she had stopped breathing. She stared at her with round, terrified eyes, and it came to her that Marion wasn’t sure —wasn’t sure about Geoff. She loved Geoff terribly, but she wasn’t sure that he hadn’t killed James Everton. That seemed so shocking to Hilary that she couldn’t think of anything to say or anything to do. She leaned back upon her hands and felt them go numb.

Marion’s stillness broke. She turned suddenly, and suddenly all the self-control of that year of misery and iron broke, too. She said,

‘I don’t know —nobody knows — nobody will ever know. We shall just go on, and on, and on, and we shall never know. I’m twenty-five and Geoff is twenty-eight. Perhaps we shall have to go on for another fifty years. Fifty years.’ Her voice went down into some cold depth.

Hilary took her weight off her numb hands and scrambled up.

‘Marion — darling — don’t! It’s not really for life — you know — they let them out.’

‘Twenty-five years,’ said Marion in a tormented voice. ‘Twenty-five years, and something off for good conduct. Say it’s twenty years — twenty years. You don’t know what one year has done to him. It would have been better if they had killed him at once. They’re killing him now, a little at a time, a little bit every day, and long before the twenty years are up he’ll be dead. There won’t be anything left that I knew or loved. There’ll be a body called Geoffrey Grey, because his body won’t die. He’s strong, and they say it’s a very healthy life, so his body won’t die. Only my Geoff is dying —now — now — whilst we’re talking.’

‘Marion!’

Marion pushed her away.

‘You don’t know what it’s like. Every time I go I think, “Now I’m going to reach him, really reach him — I won’t let anything stop me reaching him this time. It doesn’t matter about the warder, it doesn’t matter about anything — we’ll be together again — that’s the only thing that matters.” But when I get there — ’ she made a gesture of despair— ‘we’re not together. I can’t get near him —I can’t touch him —they won’t let me touch him — they won’t let me kiss him. If I could put my arms round him I could call him back. He’s going away from me all the time — dying away from me — and I can’t do anything about it.’ She took hold of the back of the armchair and leaned on it, trembling. Think of him coming out after twenty years, quite dead! What can you do for a dead man? He’ll be quite dead by then. And what shall I be like? Perhaps I shall be dead, too.’

‘Marion — Marion — please!’

Marion shuddered from head to foot.

‘No, it’s no good — is it? One just has got to go on. If my baby hadn’t died — ’ She stopped, straightened up, and put her hands over her face. ‘I shall never have children now. They’re killing Geoff, and they’ve killed my children. Oh, God — why, why did it happen? We were so happy!’

Hilary woke from something that wasn’t quite sleep, and heard the clock in the living-room strike twelve. She hadn’t meant to go to sleep until she was sure that Marion was asleep, and she felt rather despising towards herself because she had fallen into a doze. It felt rather like running away to go off into a dream and leave Marion awake and unhappy. But perhaps Marion was asleep.

She slipped out of bed and went barefoot into the bathroom. Marion’s window and the bathroom window were side by side. If you hung on to the towel-rail with your left hand and leaned right out of the bathroom window, you could reach Marion’s window-sill with your right hand, and then if you craned your neck until it felt as if it was going to crack, you could get one ear just far enough into the room to hear whether Marion was asleep or not. Hilary had done it times without number and never been caught. The fall of the curtain hid her from the bed. She had listened a hundred times, and heard Marion sigh and heard her weep, and had not dared to go to her, but had stayed awake for company’s sake, and to think loving, pitiful thoughts of her and Geoff.

But tonight Marion slept. The faint, even sound of her breathing just stirred the stillness of the room.

Hilary drew back with the acrobatic twist which practice had made perfect. A light chill shiver of relief ran over her as she dived back into bed and snuggled the clothes up round her. Now she could go to sleep with a good conscience.

From the time she was quite a little girl she had had a perfectly clear picture in her own mind of this process of going to sleep. There was a sleep country, just as there was an awake country. The sleep country had a very high wall round it. You couldn’t get in unless you could find a door, and you were never sure what door you were going to find, so every going to sleep was an adventure. Sometimes, of course, you opened a very dull door and got into an empty room with nothing inside it. Sometimes, like poor Marion, you couldn’t find a door at all, and just wandered groping along the wall getting more and more tired with every step. Hilary had very little personal experience of this. Doors sprang open to her before her fingers fumbled for the latch.

But tonight she couldn’t get to sleep. She was cold after hanging out of the bathroom window, so she buried herself up to the eyes in blankets. Then all of a sudden she was in a raging heat and pushing them away. Her pillow was too high — too low — too soft — too hard. Then, just as she thought she had settled herself, her nose began to tickle.

And all the time something went round and round in her head like a gramophone record. Only it was like a record which someone is playing next door — you can hear it enough to be driven nearly crazy, but strain as you will, you can’t quite make out the tune. Round, and round, and round, and round went the gramophone record in Hilary’s head — round, and round, and round, and round. But she couldn’t make sense of it. It was all the little bits of things which she had heard and known about the Everton murder and about Geoffrey Grey’s trial, but they didn’t hang together and they didn’t make sense. That was because you can’t make sense out of nonsense — and she didn’t care what anyone said, it was nonsense to believe that Geoff had shot his uncle.

Hilary straightened her pillow for the umpteenth time and promised herself not to move until she had counted a hundred, but long before she got there her nose was tickling again, and a hair had got into her ear, and the arm she was lying on had pins and needles in it. She flung the bedclothes off and sat up. It wasn’t any use, she had much better get up and do something. And all of a sudden it came to her that she would go into the living-room and dig out the file about the trial and read it right through. She knew where it was — down at the bottom of the oak chest — and with Marion asleep, and hours and hours of the night before her, she could go right through the file from beginning to end. She wanted to read the inquest, because she had missed that altogether through being in the Tyrol with Henry’s cousins, and meeting Henry, and getting practically engaged to him but not quite.

She put on her dressing-gown and slippers, tiptoed across the passage, and shut the living-room door. She turned on both lights and got out the file. Then she sat down in the big armchair and began to read all about the Everton Case.

James Everton was shot somewhere between eight o’clock and twenty minutes past eight on the evening of Tuesday, July 16th. He was alive at eight o’clock, for that was when he telephoned to Geoffrey Grey, but he was dead twenty minutes later, because that was when Geoffrey opened the door and the Mercers rushed into the study. Mrs. Mercer said she had only just heard the shot. She said on her oath, ‘I had been up to turn down Mr. Everton’s bed, and when I was coming through the hall I heard the sound of voices in the study. It sounded as if there was a quarrel going on. I didn’t know of anyone being there with Mr. Everton, so I was frightened and I went to the door to listen. I recognised Mr. Geoffrey Grey’s voice, and I was coming away, because I thought that if it was Mr. Geoffrey it was all right. Then I heard the sound of a shot. I screamed out and Mercer came running from his pantry, where he was cleaning the silver. He shook the door, but it was locked. And then Mr. Geoffrey opened it, and he had a pistol in his hand and Mr. Everton was fallen down across his desk.’

Pressed by the Coroner as to whether she had heard what Mr. Grey was saying when she recognised his voice, Mrs. Mercer became very agitated and said she would rather not say. She was told she must answer the question, whereupon she burst into tears and said it was something about a will.

The Coroner: ‘Tell us exactly what you heard.’

Mrs. Mercer, in tears: ‘I can’t say any more than what I heard.’

The Coroner: ‘No one wants you to. I only want you to tell us what you did hear.’

Mrs. Mercer: ‘Nothing that I could put words to — only their voices, and something about a will.’

The Coroner: ‘Something about a will, but you don’t know what?’

Mrs Mercer, sobbing hysterically: ‘No, sir.’

The Coroner: ‘Give the witness a glass of water. Now, Mrs. Mercer, you say you heard the sound of voices in the study, and that you thought there was a quarrel going on. You have said that you recognised Mr. Geoffrey Grey’s voice. You are quite certain that it was Mr. Grey’s voice?’

Mrs. Mercer: ‘Oh, sir — oh, sir, I don’t want to tell on Mr. Geoffrey.’

The Coroner: ‘You are sure it was his voice?’

Mrs. Mercer, with renewed sobs: ‘Oh, yes, sir. Oh, sir, I don’t know why I didn’t faint — the shot went off that loud on the other side of the door. And I screamed, and Mercer came running from his pantry.’

Horribly damning evidence of Mrs. Mercer, corroborated by Alfred Mercer to the extent of his having heard the shot and his wife’s scream. He had tried the door and found it locked, and when Mr. Grey opened it he had a pistol in his hand, and Mr. Everton had been shot dead and was lying half across the desk.

The Coroner: ‘Is this the pistol?’

Mercer: ‘Yes, sir.’

The Coroner: ‘Had you ever seen it before?’

Mercer: ‘Yes, sir — it belongs to Mr. Grey.’

Hilary’s heart beat hard with anger as she read. How was it possible for things to look so black against an innocent man? What must Geoff have felt like, having to sit there and see this black, black evidence piling up against him? At first he wouldn’t think it possible that anyone could believe it, and then he would begin to see them believing it. He would see them looking at him with a kind of horror in their eyes because they were believing that he had killed his own uncle in an angry quarrel over money.

For a moment the horror touched Hilary. It wasn’t true. If everyone else in the world believed it, Hilary wouldn’t believe it. The Mercers were lying. Why? What motive could they possibly have? They had a good place, and good wages. Why should Mercer kill his master? Because that was what it came to. If they were lying about Geoffrey Grey, it must be to cover themselves. And there was no motive at all. There was no motive. They had a soft job which they had done nothing to forfeit. James Everton’s new will, signed the very morning of his death, made this perfectly clear. They had the same legacies as under the old will, ten pounds apiece for each year of service. And they had been there something under two years — the second ten pounds was not yet due. Does a man throw away a good job, and good prospects and commit murder into the bargain, for the sake of twenty pounds in hand between him and his wife?

Hilary sat and thought about that… He might. Money and comfort are not everything. The dark motives of jealousy, hate, and revenge run counter to them, and in that clash security and self-interest may go down. But there would have to be such a motive. It had been looked for — it must have been looked for — but it had not been found. Hilary put it away to think about.

She read Geoffrey’s evidence, and found it heart-breaking. His uncle had rung him up at eight o’clock. The other people who gave evidence kept saying ‘the deceased’, or ‘Mr. Everton’, but Geoffrey said ‘My uncle’. All through his evidence he said my uncle — ‘My uncle rang me up at eight o’clock. He said, “That you, Geoffrey? I want you to come down here at once —at once, my boy.” He sounded very much upset.’

The Coroner: ‘Angry?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘No — not with me —I don’t know. He sounded all worked up, but certainly not with me, or he wouldn’t have called me “my boy”. I said, “Is anything the matter?” And he said, “I can’t talk about it on the telephone. I want you to come down here — as quickly as you can.” And then he hung up.’

The Coroner: ‘You went down?

Geoffrey Grey: ‘At once. It takes me about a quarter of an hour from door to door. I get a bus at the end of my road which takes me to within a quarter of a mile of his gate.’

The Coroner: ‘Mr. and Mrs. Mercer have said that you did not ring the bell. They say that the front door was locked. You did not, therefore, go in that way?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘It was a fine warm evening, and I knew the study window would be open —it’s a glass door really, opening into the garden. I should always go in that way if my uncle was at home and I wanted to see him.’

The Coroner: ‘You were in the habit of going to see him?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Constantly.’

The Coroner: ‘You lived with him at Solway Lodge until the time of your marriage?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’

The Coroner: ‘I must ask you, Mr. Grey, whether your relations with your uncle were of a cordial nature?’

At this point the witness appeared distressed. He said in a low voice, ‘Very cordial — affectionate.’

The Coroner: ‘And there had been no quarrel?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘No — none.’

The Coroner: ‘Then how do you account for his destroying the will under which you benefited and making a new will in which your name does not appear?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I can’t account for it.’

The Coroner: ‘You know that he made a new will on the morning of July 16th?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I know it now — I didn’t know it then.’

The Coroner: ‘You didn’t know it when you went to see him?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’

The Coroner: ‘Or that he had destroyed the will under which you benefited? You are on oath, Mr. Grey. Do you still say that you did not know of any change in his will?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I had no idea.’

The Coroner: ‘He did not tell you about it over the telephone?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘No.’

The Coroner: ‘Or after you got down to Putney?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘When I got down to Putney he was dead.’

The Coroner: ‘You say you reached Solway Lodge at twenty minutes past eight?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘It would be about that. I didn’t look at the time.’

The Coroner: ‘The house stands by itself in about two acres of ground, and is approached by a short drive?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’

The Coroner: ‘Will you tell us how you approached the house?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I came up the drive which leads to the front door, but I didn’t go up to the door — I turned to the right and skirted the house. The study is at the back, with a glass door leading into the garden. The door was wide open, as I expected it to be.’

A Juryman: ‘Were the curtains drawn?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Oh, no. It was broad daylight — very fine and warm.’

The Coroner: ‘Go on, Mr. Grey. You entered the study — ’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I went in. I was expecting my uncle to meet me. I didn’t see him at once. It was much darker in the room than it was outside. I stumbled over something, and saw the pistol lying on the ground at my feet. I picked it up without thinking what I was doing. And then I saw my uncle.’

The Juryman: ‘First you said it was broad daylight, and now you say it was dark in the room. We’d like to hear something more about that.’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘I didn’t say it was dark in the room — I said it was darker than it was outside. It was very bright outside, and I’d had the sun in my eyes coming round the house.’

The Coroner: ‘Go, on, Mr. Grey. You say you saw Mr. Everton — ’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘He had fallen across his desk. I thought he had fainted. I went nearer, and I saw that he was dead. I touched him —he was quite dead. Then I heard a scream, and someone tried the door. I found it was locked, with the key on the inside. I unlocked it. The Mercers were there. They seemed to think I had shot my uncle.’

The Coroner: “The pistol was still in your hand?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes — I had forgotten about it.’

The Coroner: ‘This is the pistol?’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘Yes.’

The Coroner: ‘It has been identified as your property. Have you anything to say about that?’

Geoffrey Grey: It belongs to me, but it has not been in my possession for a year. I left it at Solway Lodge when I got married. I left a lot of my things there. We were taking a flat, and there was no room for anything that was not in use.’

The Juryman: ‘We would like to know why you had a pistol.’

Geoffrey Grey: ‘My uncle gave it to me about two years ago. I was going on a holiday trip in eastern Europe. There was some talk of brigands, and he wanted me to take a pistol. I never had any occasion to use it.’