Vanishing Point (17 page)

Miss Silver, conscious of having neglected a kind hostess, did her best to make amends. A good deal to her relief, she found on returning to the drawing-room that Mrs. Merridew had fallen into a comfortable doze from which she did not immediately awake. When at last she opened her eyes and sat up she really had no idea of the time, and it was not until quite half an hour later that she looked at the clock and exclaimed. Even after that there was some lingering conversation. By the time the round of the house had been made and doors and windows tested it was well on the way towards midnight.

Refreshed by her sleep, Mrs. Merridew was pleasurably shocked. She really didn’t know when she had been up so late. From an irresponsible past she recalled an illicit feast in the dormitory at school, and how Cecilia had so narrowly escaped being caught.

“Do you remember, Maud?”

Miss Silver remembered—disapproval tempered by indulgence.

“It is all a very long time ago.”

Mrs. Merridew sighed.

“Yes—I suppose so. But sometimes it doesn’t seem as if it were. We haven’t really changed very much, have we—any of us? Not in ourselves. Of course we don’t look the same—but then you change so gradually that you don’t notice it. But I really should have known you anywhere—and Cecilia too, though we used to call her Cissie and she has grown rather stout.”

The good-nights finally said, Miss Silver closed her bedroom door and prepared to embark upon the settled routine of undressing. Advancing to the bedside table, she took off the watch which she wore pinned to the left-hand side of her dress, wound it, and laid it down. The next step should have been the removal of the hair-net which she wore in the day and its replacement by the much stronger sort which she assumed at night. No matter at what hour alarums and excursions might occur—and Miss Silver’s experience had included some of a quite violent nature—she had never yet been seen with a single hair out of place. The arrangement at night would be different, the plaits a little tighter, but order and neatness would prevail. Tonight she had got as far as putting up a hand to remove the hairpins which controlled the net, but at that point something stopped her. The hand came down again, the hairpins remained where they were.

She stood where she was for several minutes and became immersed in thought. It might be Marian Merridew’s talk about the old days when a rule could still be a challenge, or it might be something a good deal more important than that. There was a sense of uneasiness, of urgency. She looked at the comfortable bed which was waiting for her, and knew that it could offer her no rest until this disturbance in her thought was quieted. It came to her that there was a not too difficult course which might afford relief. Marian Merridew was not at all deaf, but she did not possess the acute hearing that Miss Silver herself enjoyed. Her bedroom looked to the back of the house. It had a delightful view of the garden. There would be no difficulty about a careful descent of the stairs or the opening of the front door. It would, in fact, be perfectly possible to leave the house without having to embark upon an explanation of her movements.

At this point in her meditations Miss Silver picked up her watch and pinned it on. After which she assumed her coat, her second best hat, and a pair of outdoor shoes. Fastening the aged fur tippet, cherished companion of many winters, firmly about her neck, she extinguished the light in her bedroom and found her way down the stairs and out of the house without making any sound at all. The air was cold, but there was no sign of rain. Miss Silver felt gratitude for her tippet and for the fact that the night was fine, but even if it had been raining heavens hard, she knew now that her errand would have taken her out in it. Before she could sleep she must at any rate walk past the Dower House and look up at the windows. She did not know what she was to do when she got there. By now the house should all be dark. Darkness did not mean safety. A phrase from the Scriptures slipped into her mind—“They that are drunken are drunken in the night.” There was more than one sort of drunkenness. Men could be drunk with pride, with passion, or with power. They could be drunken with hatred, or with the lust of gain.

She walked down the dark and silent street and made no plan. If there was something for her to do, when the time came she would know what it was. The entrance to the Dower House was not more than a few yards away when she heard a step behind her. There was no moon, but the night was clear. Someone large loomed up. The height and breadth induced her to take a chance with his name.

“Mr. Lester—”

Even in his astonishment he could not mistake her voice.

“Miss Silver! What are you doing here?”

She said composedly…

“I might ask you that, might I not?”

He laughed.

“I didn’t feel like sleeping. I thought I would come out and walk.”

He wondered if she would guess him fool enough to go up to Crewe House and gaze at the dark square of Rosamond’s window, appropriately barred since Miss Crewe would not have considered it safe to sleep on the ground-floor without taking every precaution. He did not really mind whether Miss Silver thought him a fool or not. A bridegroom is entitled to wear motley if he will. He was in the mood to shout Rosamond’s name abroad, or to carve it on the trees. This was his hour— and hers. He heard Miss Silver say,

“I have been feeling extremely uneasy about Miss Cunningham.”

He was taken completely by surprise. Rosamond and himself—Jenny and Miss Crewe—to any of these his response would have been instant. But Lucy Cunningham—He stared through the dark and said,

“Why?”

“I believe that an attempt was made on her life last night. I did not feel that I could sleep without coming as far as the house.”

He said bluntly, “What can you do?”

“I do not know. I shall at least feel that I have done what I can.”

They were standing still in the shadow at the side of the road, their voices muted, the last cottage behind them and all the village asleep. He said quickly,

“What do you mean? There’s been an attempt on her life!”

She told him plainly and precisely.

“But that would be someone in the house.”

“Yes, Mr. Lester.”

He gave a faint half laugh.

“That damp dreep Henry! I can imagine his being crooked. He’s the sort to slide down the drain, but I shouldn’t have thought he would hurt a fly. That leaves Nicholas. She brought him up. It’s not pretty.”

“Crime very seldom is, Mr. Lester.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Miss Cunningham was kind enough to take me over the house this afternoon. Her room is at the back. There are two windows. She informed me that she always slept with them open. If her light is out and they are open now it will be some indication that things are normal. In the ordinary way I should not anticipate that a second attempt would be made so soon, but there might be some special reason for silencing her without delay, and I could not disregard my own uneasiness.”

Some of it seemed to have communicated itself to Craig. He had found himself startled, sceptical, and now a good deal disturbed. He said,

“I’ll come with you if I may.”

There was a slight but significant pause. He was being weighed. A laugh just touched his voice as he said,

“I shan’t make any noise. I can walk like a cat if I want to.”

“Then I shall be very glad of your company.” The Dower House had no drive leading up to it. It stood fronting onto the road with a stone wall screening it and the Victorian edition of a glazed passage covering the bare dozen feet from the gate to the front door. As Craig lifted the latch and stood aside for Miss Silver to pass, the church clock struck the quarter after midnight.

The house appeared to be in complete darkness. On either side of the passage running up to the front door the windows on both floors showed nothing. A narrow glass door on the left led from the passage into the garden. It was locked on the inside. Miss Silver producing a very serviceable torch from her coat pocket, the key was located and turned. Feeling a good deal like a burglar, Craig preceded her, and found himself on a gravel path between two banks of shrubs. Closing the door behind her, Miss Silver followed him. She extinguished the torch, put it back in her pocket, and began to walk along the path with as much composure as if she had been an invited guest.

At the corner of the house the path turned, the shrubbery widened out. A blackness of trees appeared behind it. There was still no light anywhere. The mass of the house towered over them like a cliff. Craig bent to say, “Do we go all the way round?” and could discern that she inclined her head.

It was at this moment that they heard the sound. It came from in front of them and to the left—the small crisp sound of a snapping twig. He felt Miss Silver’s hand on his arm, drawing him away from the path and towards the house. A couple of steps, and they stood amongst bushes, listening. Someone was coming through the shrubbery on the other side of the path. If it had not been for the snapped twig, they would all have come together a little farther on. Miss Silver stood motionless remembering the lie of the land. This wall of the house did not run straight back from front to rear. It broke, to form a small paved courtyard, rather damp and gloomy at this time of the year, and with what she considered an excessive number of creepers. She remembered an old magnolia, a good deal of Virginia creeper, and one or two dark cypresses growing far too close to the house.

Someone came out of the shrubbery on the left and entered the courtyard. Miss Silver’s hand came down with a warning pressure upon Craig’s wrist. Then, quite soundlessly, she was gone. He could be in no doubt but that he had been told to remain where he was—the clumsy man whose big feet would naturally betray him if he moved. Since he had served as a paratrooper and time and again risked more than his own life upon his silence, he could afford a private grin over that. Nevertheless he stood where he was, since it wasn’t his show, and in any event two people made more noise than one.

Time goes slowly in the dark. It goes slowly anywhere when you wait and wonder what is going on. When something stirred in the gloom ahead of him he stepped to meet it. Miss Silver’s hand came out and touched him. As he bent to her, she said in an almost soundless voice,

“Someone has just come from Crewe House and entered the Dower House by a concealed door. I believe that we should follow.”

“How do we get in?”

If it was breaking and entering, he was definitely prepared to put the male foot down and keep it there. In a good cause any woman would break any law with an unruffled conscience, but he was not prepared to celebrate his wedding by being arrested.

Miss Silver’s reply was lucid and succinct,

“She unlocked the door, but I did not hear her lock it again.”

He found a Gilbertian echo in his mind—“Who the deuce may she be?”

Lucy Cunningham? But why the melodramatic secret door?

Jenny? He wouldn’t put it past her. But how would she come by an illicit key?

It wouldn’t be either of these—oh, no. It would be Lydia Crewe. And that set such a danger signal ringing that he hadn’t a word to say.

Miss Silver kept her hand on his arm. The stones of the courtyard were damp and soft with moss. Where the added blackness of a tall cypress pressed against the dark wall of the house she stepped before him. Her hand groped, found what it felt for, and reaching back, invited him to follow. There was no more than room to pass. He scraped the wall and was buffeted by twigs and branches. There was a cold aromatic smell. And then they were in a narrow, a very narrow passage. He was to learn afterwards that it ran between two of the rooms. His shoulders touched it on either side. He wondered how many cobwebs he would collect before they were through. The place reeked of dust.

Ahead of them there was a line of light. It cut the darkness like an incandescent wire—as narrow and sharp as that. As they came up to it, he saw that there was a door—no, not a door, a sliding panel. Someone had gone through that way and pushed it to carelessly, leaving the shining crack. Where light can pass sound passes. Lydia Crewe’s deep, harsh voice spoke from beyond the panel.

“Really Henry—what a story! Lucy must be going off her head!”

It was Henry Cunningham who answered her. He sounded nervous and fretful.

“She says there was a string across the stairs. She said it nearly tripped her up. She thinks there was only Nicholas in the house—and me.”

Her voice came leaping at him, strong with anger.

“And I suppose you told her I was here!”

She must have made a move towards him. The chair grated as he pushed it back. The picture of a man who cowers from a blow flashed into Craig’s mind, but he didn’t think that the blow would have been a physical one. As the chair scraped, the nervous voice tripped over itself with hurry.

“No, no—of course I didn’t. I didn’t say a word. She doesn’t know you come. I’ve never told her that. Or anything.”

Lydia Crewe said,

“You’d better not. It would be the end if you did.”

“I don’t see why.”

“She knows too much already.”

“She doesn’t know anything from me.”

She said with impatience,

“What does it matter how she knows it! If she knows anything at all, it’s too dangerous!”

“I don’t know what you mean. What did you do last night? You went through into the house. What did you do? This story of Lucy’s—why should you try to trip her up?”

“Perhaps I thought she would be better out of circulation— for a time. Perhaps I thought it would be good for her to have a nice long rest.”

He must have stared at her, for she said with a scornful laugh,

“Don’t look at me like that! My dear Henry, you had really better leave all this to me. Keep your head in the sand and don’t ask questions. You are very good at your own job, and you had much better stick to it. Pack the Melbury rubies inside those disgusting spiders of yours, and we’ll get them out of the country under everyone’s very nose. Your Belgian correspondent is a godsend. He can give another lecture after a reasonable interval, and we can get the diamonds off too. It was those big rubies which were the bother. I give you marks for thinking of the spiders.”

He said, “Yes, yes,” in a peevish way. Then, with a sudden energy, “Why should you want to get Lucy out of the way?”

There was the sound of a chair being moved. It seemed Miss Crewe was tired of standing. She said in a conversational tone,

“I thought I told you not to ask questions.”

“I’ve got to ask this one.”

“Well then, here is your answer! And don’t blame me if you don’t like it. Lucy knows too much. She may know enough to ruin us.”

“What does she know?”

“Mrs. Bolder found that Holiday woman in my room on Sunday afternoon. She must have picked up an envelope there—a very important envelope. It came into Lucy’s hands afterwards, and she brought it back to me. Anyone who saw what was inside that envelope could ruin us all. Well, you know what Lucy is.”

Henry Cunningham’s voice said, “She is my sister.”

“She’s a babbling fool. She has only to open her mouth once and it’s the end for all of us.”

“Why should she open her mouth? She is your friend, isn’t she—she always has been?”

She made some quick movement.

“Henry, you are a fool! She wouldn’t do it purposely—I’m not saying that she would. I don’t suppose the Holiday woman took that envelope purposely. It must have slipped down the side of my chair. Mrs. Bolder found her poking about there, and I expect she had it in her hand and just stuffed it into a pocket.” She went on in a measured way. “Yes, that is what must have happened, because when Lucy met her at the bottom of the drive she was tugging to get her handkerchief out from under her coat, and the envelope came out too and fell down between them. Lucy picked it up, saw that it had my name on it, and said that she would take it up to the house and give it to me. Which she did. It was—” She paused and drew a long breath. “It was something of a shock.”

“Why?”

“If you must know, there was my first sketch of the Melbury necklace inside that envelope. I work to scale, but I make a rough sketch first. And that envelope was open. It was a used one, and I had pushed the sketch inside. Someone had come into the room—I think it was Rosamond. Just one silly accidental happening after another!”

“I don’t see what all that has got to do with Lucy.”

She said with an odd quietness,

“You never do see very much, do you? Now listen! The envelope was open. If Lucy took one look, just one look inside it—”

“She wouldn’t!”

“Are you prepared to gamble on that? I’m not! Have you ever thought about going to prison, Henry? You like wandering about—when you like, where you like—picking up your moths, your butterflies, your cocoons. That spider everybody thought was extinct—you got a lot of pleasure out of finding a couple of specimens and breeding from them, didn’t you? You like your easy life—no one to harry you, and nothing to do for it except a little of the one thing you really are good at. That is all that is asked of you, and it is all you need to know anything about.”

He said on a shuddering breath,

“Miss Holiday—”

“Well, Henry?”

“She’s dead—” Then, after a frightening pause, “Like Maggie—”

“Really, Henry—what a thing to say! Maggie got bored with Hazel Green and those exigeant parents, and went off, as no doubt she would have said, to better herself. As to Miss Holiday, she was always touched in the head, and I’m afraid she got the rough side of Mrs. Bolder’s tongue on Sunday. A very faithful creature, Mrs. Bolder, and properly scandalized at anyone poking about in my room. It was, of course, unfortunate that Miss Holiday should be upset to the point of committing suicide. Or was it? I wonder!”

“Lydia—”

“My dear Henry, don’t you think you have asked enough questions? There is an excellent proverb about the shoemaker sticking to his last. You stick to your specimens! Miss Holiday committed suicide, and that is all there is to it.”