Out Of The Past (14 page)

Two things happened after lunch. Miss Silver went down to Sea View to retrieve a missing skein of wool, and James Hardwick took his wife out in the car. Carmona had found him at the writing-table in the study. Looking up as she came in, he noticed how pale she was. How very, very pale. And not with the clear translucent pallor which he had noticed the first time he saw her. This was a drained, exhausted look, and the marks under her eyes were like bruises. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and said in a low, steady voice,

“James, we can’t go on like this. I must speak to you.”

He laid down his pen.

“Some things are better left unsaid, don’t you think? The less you know, the less I know, the less we talk about whatever we know, or don’t know, or guess, or suspect, or imagine, the better.”

For a moment she thought—she did not know what. That he had made, or that he was going to make some movement in her direction—she didn’t know.

James Hardwick checked himself. He could snatch her into his arms and say, “Why do you look like this? Has the bottom dropped out of everything because Alan Field is dead? Does he matter to you so much?”

He said nothing.

If she had a vague hope that he would say something that would make her feel less frightened, less urged by a dread she could no longer escape, the hope failed her. His look was stern, and there was no comfort in it. She said, her voice almost gone,

“But I must—I really must—I can’t go on—”

He considered her in a frowning silence. If she must—well, then he supposed she must, and better to him than to anyone else. Only not here in the house where there were too many eyes and ears, too much concern, compunction, and all the other sensibilities—too many people noticing too many things and talking them over in too many words. He pushed back his chair and got up.

“All right, if you must. I think much better not, but if you feel you’ve got to talk to someone, it had better be to me. Only not here, with people popping in and out like a warren, and the police on the doorstep every half hour or so. I’ll get the car, and we’ll drive out along the coast road. Damnably hot, but no eavesdroppers. You’d better get a hat.”

It certainly was hot—no shade, and the sun pouring down. When they were clear of the houses and the small bungaloid growths which had fastened upon what had once been the pleasant outskirts of Cliffton, he said,

“If I keep her at forty, we shall get some air.”

“But I couldn’t talk,” said Carmona—“not really.”

He gave her a sudden smile.

“Not very modern, are you? Forty is a mere crawl, you know. I believe what you would really like is somewhere between fifteen and twenty.”

She felt a very slight easing of the tension in her mind. The needle of the speedometer went back to twentyfive. The sun was scorching hot, but there was still a little breeze. She said,

“James, I’ve really got to know. It gets worse and worse, and I can’t bear it any longer. You’ve got to tell me. Where were you on Wednesday night?”

“I?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I woke up, and you weren’t there. I felt as if something dreadful was going to happen. Someone was running—up from the cliff. I went and looked in your dressing-room, and you weren’t there. Then I went out on the landing, and Pippa was there by the newel. The front of her dress was all soaked with blood. We went into her room. Alan had been blackmailing her. She went down to the beach hut to give him her pearls, and she stumbled over his body and came down. That is how the blood got on her dress. He had been stabbed.”

“Yes, I understand from the police that that is her story. Do you believe it?”

“Yes, I do. She wasn’t in the sort of state when you can make anything up. If she had stabbed him she would have told me. Please let me go on. We burned her dress and her stockings. She had on beach-shoes—they washed. We didn’t know about the marks on the stair carpet. We thought we had got everything cleared up—we took about half an hour. When I got back to my room you were in bed and asleep. At least I don’t know—perhaps you only wanted me to think you were asleep.”

She didn’t look at him. She looked at his hands, which were steady on the wheel, and waited for him to speak. When he said nothing, words came from her with a violence which he had never known her use.

“Where had you been? And what did you think had become of me? You were not in your room, or in mine. Where were you when I was asleep? And afterwards, when I was in Pippa’s room? We were there—and we went down to the kitchen to burn her dress. Where were you, and where did you think I was? I’ve got to know!”

He said without any expression at all,

“It is sometimes better to know too little than too much.”

The thing that frightened her, the thing she wouldn’t look at, came nearer. Through all the heat of the day she felt the cold of it. The force went out of her voice. She said in a whisper,

“What do you mean? James—please—”

He laughed.

“Just exactly what I say. When one is being asked a great many questions by people like the police it is sometimes quite useful to be able to tell the truth and shame the devil by saying you just don’t know.”

Carmona said, “I’ve got to know.”

“All right, I’ll tell you. When I put out the dressing-room light I drew back the curtains and looked out. Someone was going down the garden in the direction of the cliff path. It was about a quarter past twelve. I thought it was an odd time for anyone to be going for a walk. I also thought it might be someone who hadn’t any business to be there, so I went down to have a look, and found the glass door of the drawing-room ajar. Poor old Beeston would have had a fit. I couldn’t very well lock it again, and I didn’t much care about leaving it as it was, so I went out to have a look round.”

Carmona drew a long breath.

“Pippa said she had a feeling there was someone watching her—after she had run back up the path. Was it you?”

“I expect so.”

“Did you know it was Pippa?”

“I thought it might be. She was in a very considerable state— sobbing and catching her breath.”

“Why didn’t you speak to her?”

“I didn’t know what she had been up to, and I didn’t really want to know.”

The cold fear had not left Carmona. This was a story that didn’t fit in. If James had followed Pippa, where had he been whilst she went down the steep path to the beach? If he had gone down there too, she would have heard him on the shingle. Nobody can walk on shingle without being heard. And if he had stayed on the narrow path, Pippa would have run into him when she came flying back. She said,

“What did you do? She went down to the beach. Did you go down too? You couldn’t have done that—she would have heard you.”

He was silent for a minute. Then he said,

“When I opened the gate from the garden I couldn’t see anyone on the cliff walk. I had a torch, but I didn’t want to put it on. I walked along until I came to the path to the beach. Someone was there, going down. I couldn’t say who it was, or even if it was man or woman. I went a little way along the cliff walk and came back. As I was coming back, someone came up from the beach. That is all I can tell you.”

She had a feeling of something withheld, but her own relief prevented her from dwelling on it. Her hand went out to touch him. She said,

“Oh, James!”

“Satisfied? Or have you still got a lurking suspicion that I somehow managed to reach the hut and murder Field before Pippa got there?”

“James!”

“That is what you have been thinking, isn’t it?”

“Not thinking—”

“Well, being afraid of—getting cold feet about. That is what you have been doing, isn’t it? I can’t say I’m flattered, you know. Stabbing in the back isn’t really in my line—at least I hope it isn’t. A bit medieval, don’t you think?”

Carmona wasn’t thinking. She was feeling a warm rush of emotion. The tears began to run down her face.

James Hardwick stopped the car.

Miss Silver put on her hat and the open-work gloves—such a kind present from her niece Dorothy, and so suitable to the weather—and then discovered that the pair of light summer shoes which she would have preferred to wear had been abstracted by Mrs. Rogers, no doubt with the laudable intention of cleaning them. Since all her outdoor shoes were made to lace primly to the ankle, a stranger might have seen no difference between the pair at which she was looking with disfavour and that which now presumably reposed in the scullery, but to Miss Silver the absent pair was suitable and this was not, being stronger, thicker, and altogether less in keeping with the really almost tropical weather. With a slight shake of the head she went down the stairs, crossed the hall, and opened the door which led to the back premises. Always considerate of others, and anxious to avoid giving unnecessary trouble, it was her design to listen for some indication that the staff had finished their midday meal, and if she found Mrs. Rogers disengaged, to ask for her shoes.

She had no sooner opened the door than she became aware that the meal was certainly over. It gave upon a short length of passage. Other doors stood wide. There was a clatter of china. There was the sound of running taps and of a conversation which sometimes rose above the noise, and was sometimes obscured by it. The participants were Mrs. Beeston who was going to and fro between the kitchen and the pantry, and Mrs. Rogers who was washing up, whilst Beeston, who was engaged upon the glass and silver, enlivened the proceedings with occasional snatches of song.

“Properly got her head turned, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Rogers at the sink.

Beeston had time to come in with the last line of The Lily of Laguna before his wife could reply that she hadn’t anything against the French herself.

It was at this point that Miss Silver decided that it was her professional duty to listen. As a gentlewoman she deplored the necessity, but if, as she supposed, it was Marie Bonnet who was under discussion, what these women had to say about her might be of value. She stood with the door in her hand and heard Mrs. Rogers say,

“That’s as may be. And I’ve nothing against anyone myself so long as they behave themselves, but when it comes to that Marie giving herself the airs she does, why, you’d think she’d bought the place and was only waiting for it to be wrapped up in a parcel and handed over.”

Mrs. Beeston’s reply being lost in a great splashing of water and a fresh burst of humming from her husband, the next thing that was heard distinctly was Mrs. Rogers’ remark that she didn’t hold with getting mixed up with the police and didn’t consider it was what a person had a call to be proud of, not if they had any refined feelings— “And so I said to her this morning. She was outside doing the step as I came along, and ‘I shan’t be doing this much longer,’ she says. So I said, ‘Going off on your holiday, are you?’ And she tosses her head and says she’s through with working her fingers to the bone. Well, we all know what happens to girls who think they can do better for themselves than work, so I said, ‘You be careful, Marie, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.’ And she laughs and says, ‘Out of it, you mean!’ ”

Beeston had stopped his humming. He repeated the last words with emphasis,

“Out of it. Now that’s a thing that you can take two ways, isn’t it? Speaking humourously, you might say Marie was getting out of it because of what she was getting out of it, if you take my meaning.”

“Well then, I don’t,” said Mrs. Beeston with a shade of asperity.

Beeston laughed.

“If that girl isn’t getting something handsome out of keeping her mouth shut, I’m a Dutchman!”

Mrs. Rogers had turned off the taps in order to listen. The voices were admirably clear. When Mrs. Beeston said, “What’s she got to hold her tongue about?” Beeston laughed again.

“No use asking me that! Ask the girl, or ask that Mr. Cardozo that she says she was out half the night with on Wednesday! Why, if it wasn’t for that, he’d have been arrested by now. Everyone in the police don’t hold his tongue, and you can take it from me that’s a fact. And no use telling me the girl is doing it for nothing.”

It was at this moment that Miss Silver decided to wear her thicker shoes. She closed the door softly upon Beeston instructing Mrs. Rogers that she was not to repeat what he had said and went back to her room. As she tied her shoe-laces she considered Beeston’s words. They assumed no more than she already suspected, but that Marie should be behaving in a manner to augment this suspicion certainly gave food for thought. If the girl had set out, or was setting out, to blackmail the murderer of Alan Field, she was embarking upon a very dangerous course.

She emerged from the front door and walked the short distance to Sea View without giving a single thought to the fact that she was wearing the heavier shoes.

Arriving, she was informed by Marie Bonnet that Miss Anning had gone down to the shops.

“I have told her that she would be better to take a little repose in this heat. What she goes for, it will do just as well later on. Apples, they do not take long to cook, but will she listen! Jamais de la vie! She is not one of those who can be still— she must be here, she must be there, she must be everywhere at once! For me, I would not trouble myself to have a house like this! One goes out, one comes in, one does not rest! I do not find that amusing!”

Miss Silver observed Marie with attention. There was a flush upon her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. The usual discretion of her manner had given place to a familiarity which might at any moment become impertinent. There was no one better qualified to check such a trend than Miss Maud Silver. Not only the pupils who had passed through her schoolroom in the days when she was engaged in what she herself invariably alluded to as the scholastic profession, but many older and wiser persons—even Chief Inspector Lamb himself—had been known to feel themselves exceedingly ill at ease under her reproving eye. But on this occasion the eye did not reprove. It regarded Marie Bonnet in a questioning manner.

“No, it would not be at all amusing—for you. You are planning to leave Cliffton?”

Marie tossed her head.

“What is there to stay for? When I see a chance I take it!”

“And such a chance has come your way?”

The trend towards impertinence became more definite.

“That is my affair!”

The point was conceded.

“Yes, that is true. But there are chances which may lead into dangerous places. To make an advantage for oneself out of something one knows or guesses—that may be a very dangerous thing to attempt.”

There was a spark of anger in the dark eyes, but the lashes came down and veiled it.

“I do not know what you mean, ma’mselle.”

Miss Silver regarded her gravely. The air of excitement, of independence, the whole circumstances surrounding her association with José Cardozo, prompted suspicions which were deepening rapidly. She said,

“If you know what is embarrassing to someone else, it may easily become a danger to yourself. If you ask a reward for your silence you are breaking the law, and the punishment may be severe. So there is danger in two directions. You have been in England for a good many years—perhaps you know the meaning of blackmail. In your own language the word is, I believe, chantage.”

Marie Bonnet looked up innocently. If her fingers tingled to be at Miss Silver’s throat, no one must know it. This pious lecturing old maid, this friend of the police, she must be persuaded that she was mistaken. They were sharp, these old maids, and had a finger in everybody’s business. If Miss Silver had not come just then when she was in the middle of picturing what she would do with the money José had promised her—She lifted her lashes and said in a bewildered voice,

“But ma’mselle—”

Miss Silver’s suspicions were confirmed. If there had been no foundation for them, Marie would certainly have lost her temper. That she was taking a good deal of trouble to control it could only mean one thing. She said,

“That is all, Marie. I do not suppose that Miss Anning will be long. I will wait for her.” She made a move towards the stairs. “And while I do so, I will pay a little visit to Mrs. Anning. It is a day or two since I have seen her.”

It was, to be correct, two whole days and the greater part of a third since Miss Silver had paid her usual visit—not in fact since the Wednesday evening when Alan Field was still alive and Mrs. Anning had declared in a very excitable way that he ought to be punished. He had been wrong to go away and leave Darsie, and people who did wrong ought to be punished. It said so in the Bible.

Marie hesitated, but only for the moment. She knew very well that Miss Anning would not have permitted Miss Silver to visit her mother. Since Wednesday night she had not permitted anyone to visit her. She had even taken in the meals herself, and she had stayed in the room whilst the bed was made and the dusting and tidying were done. To everyone she had said that Mr. Field’s death was a great shock to her mother, and that it must on no account be mentioned. Very well then, but it would not be Marie who would be mentioning it. As for standing in the way of that Miss Silver—no, no, Marie knew better than that. She was too well in with the police, that one. It would not be prudent to oppose her.

Miss Silver entered Mrs. Anning’s pleasant bedroom to find her in her usual chair with her embroidery frame in her lap. There was a needle threaded with a strand of pale green silk in her hand, and she was taking a stitch with it. She had the air of someone who walked among her own thoughts and found them sufficient company. When Miss Silver spoke, she started slightly, and said,

“You don’t come and see me any more.”

Miss Silver smiled.

“I am paying a short visit at Cliff Edge.”

“To Esther Field? No, it is not her house, is it—it is Carmona’s. She is Carmona Hardwick now. Darsie says I forget things, but I haven’t forgotten that. We knew them so well in the old days, and she was engaged to Alan too. That was after he went away and left Darsie and everything went wrong—quite a long time afterwards. But he left Carmona too. He was like that, you know—he made them care, and then he went away.” The straying voice became suddenly hard and angry. “He was wicked! Girls don’t know enough—they ought to know more. He was wicked, and that is why he had to be punished! Wickedness always has to be punished!” She had become very much flushed and was speaking rapidly. “He has been punished, you know—somebody stabbed him, and he is dead. The knife was sticking up out of his back—he was quite dead. He won’t make love to any more girls and leave them. It was a wicked thing to do, and he has been punished for it. You would never think how pretty Darsie was—and such high spirits too—”

The door opened and Miss Anning came in. There was no colour under the brown of her skin. The deep marks beneath her eyes were ghastly. Her lips were tight, her whole face rigid. When she spoke her voice was tense.

“My mother is not well enough to see visitors, Miss Silver. I must ask you to go. Marie should have known better than to let you in.”

Miss Silver rose to her feet. She showed no sign of offence as she said,

“Pray do not blame her. I am afraid I just walked in. Let us leave Mrs. Anning to rest. It was you whom I came to see, and if you can spare me a few minutes of your time—”

There was a moment before Darsie Anning turned and led the way to the door. They went down the stair together in silence.

In the study Miss Anning walked to the window and stood there looking out. Heaven knows what she saw. Not the gravelled path with its edging of evergreens. Not the staring sunlight. She saw her own thoughts. They were bitter ones. She turned and said,

“Why did you come?”

“Miss Anning, will you not sit down?”

“Thank you, I would rather stand. Why did you come here?”

“I wished to see you.”

“Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

There was no pretence that this was an ordinary conversation. Look and voice were keyed to some desperate strain. Miss Silver said gently,

“I have felt obliged to come. I had no wish to do so, but I believe the police to be on the verge of arresting Mrs. Maybury. If it is possible to prevent this, it is my duty to do so.”

Darsie Anning kept that rigid look.

“Why should they arrest her?”

“I cannot go into that. There is—some evidence.”

“Then why should she not be arrested? If she did it-—”

“I do not believe that she did it. I believe that you may have evidence which could help to clear the matter up.”

“I have no evidence.”

“Miss Anning—”

“I have no evidence, I tell you.”

There was a pause. Miss Silver looked at her compassionately. At last she said,

“It is no use, Miss Anning. I appreciate your feelings, but you cannot allow an innocent person to be arrested. Will you let me tell you what I myself saw and heard on Wednesday night?”

“You?”

Miss Silver made a slight inclination of the head.

‘The night, as you will remember, was extremely warm. I found myself unable to sleep. I got up and sat by the open window. There was a breeze from the sea which I found refreshing, and the view over the dark bay with the star-lit sky above it most uplifting. I was enjoying the prospect, when I heard footsteps coming up the garden. There was first the sound of a gate being closed or latched, and I was then aware that two persons had entered the garden by way of the gate from the cliff, and that they were now approaching the house. A moment later I heard your mother speak, and I heard you answer her. You were then immediately below my window, and I heard every word distinctly. Your mother said, ‘People who do wrong should be punished. I always said he would be punished some day.’ And you said, ‘Mother, for God’s sake, hush!’ ”

There was a pause. At the end of it Darsie Anning said,

“Well?”

“You passed on and came in by the glass door to the drawing-room. I heard you both come upstairs. I could not fail to be aware that Mrs. Anning was restless and excited, or that it was at least an hour before you came out of her room.”