Out Of The Past (18 page)

They walked in silence until they reached the garden door. Here Miss Silver turned to him.

“Are you by any chance an admirer of Lord Tennyson?”

He considered this to be a social digression. He hastened to respond.

“I think I am. He has had quite a vogue again lately, you know.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“A great man, too much neglected. May I for a moment quote from one of his poems?

‘………………………to live by law,

Acting the law we live by without fear;

And, because right is right, to follow right

Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’ ”

Once more James Hardwick found that he had nothing to say. Fortunately, it did not appear that he was expected to say anything. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was to have the last word. They went up the garden together in silence.

When they had come to the glass door, they stood for a moment looking in upon the lighted room. They might hardly have left it. Nothing had changed. And to James Hardwick there seemed to be a strangeness about this. When thought has been strongly moved, there is an instinctive feeling that the world about us should also have suffered change. But this room and its occupants might have been here for time indefinite. The light from an overhead chandelier shone down with a mellow glow. Behind the Times Colonel Trevor was undoubtedly asleep. Over her magazine Maisie Trevor yawned. Lady Castleton was still at her game—or it might be that one had been swept away and another begun. Esther Field took the fine stitches of her embroidery. And on the stiff Victorian sofa the two girls sat together, the scarlet of Pippa’s dress, her floating ash-blonde hair, in vivid contrast to Carmona’s dark waves and flowing white.

And then all in a moment the scene broke up. Beeston opened the door on the farther side and a man came past him into the room—a strongly built man, square-faced, sunburnt, and in a hurry—“Never gave me time to announce him nor anything—just said, ‘My name’s Maybury—I think my wife’s staying here,’ and walked right past.”

Pippa looked up and caught her breath. Then she was on her feet, gasping his name and running down the room to throw herself into his arms.

“Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill—Bill—Bill!”

The night closed down. The earth gave out its heat. The water lay dark under a sky which never quite lost a faint mysterious light. In the houses there were some that slept, and some who could not sleep because of the weight upon the heart or the restless procession of thoughts which passed ceaselessly before the tired mind. There were some who could have slept if they had dared, but did not dare because of what might wait for them in dreams. There were some who waked because they had that to do which could not be done in the day.

Marie Bonnet had very little difficulty in keeping herself awake. She was in a complacent and confident frame of mind, and in a state of great satisfaction with the cleverness, the competence, the efficiency, and the prudence of Marie Bonnet. It was, of course, to be seen at a glance that the affair must be conducted in a private manner. Such things could not be discussed in the street, upon the beach, or in a tea-shop. It was of, the first importance that the two persons concerned should not be seen to meet at all. If the matter was to be safe, it must be private. With José she was on a different footing. A girl may meet a lover and incur no more than a little scandal, but with this one it was different. There could be no meeting that would not set every tongue in Cliffton asking why.

So the meeting must be private. But if that one had had the idea that Marie Bonnet, prudent Marie Bonnet, would come to a meeting on the cliff for example, where a push would be enough to send one over, or on the beach—perhaps even in the very hut where a man had died already…No, no, no—she was not born yesterday! She knew how to look after herself, and from this house she did not go! They could talk through the window, and after all what was there to be said? She had seen what she had seen, and the money must be paid, or she would go to the police. One-pound notes, and within the week. Just how and where, was one of the things to be arranged at the meeting.

The clock of St. Mark’s struck twelve. Another half hour and there would be a tap on the dining-room window. Marie would open it. Not wide, it is understood—there would be no need for that, since there would be neither going out or coming in. A little pushing up of the old-fashioned sash, a few minutes whispered talk, and the whole thing would be settled. Mrs. Anning’s room looked out to sea, Miss Anning’s to the side of the house. On this side only one bedroom occupied for the moment, and by old Miss Crouch who would not hear if the house fell down.

At five minutes to the half hour Marie went down the stairs in her stocking feet. The curtains in the dining-room had not been drawn, and the two big windows showed up against the darkness of the room. She skirted the table, made her way to the one on the left, and pushed back the catch. She had done it often enough before to be assured that there would be no sound. No sound from the catch, no sound from the cords of the big sash window as she lifted it. It ran up a little over a foot from the bottom and stopped there. She took her hands away. The space would be enough. They could talk through it very well, but if anyone had the idea that they could get in, it would be easy enough to push the window down. Marie Bonnet knew how to look after herself.

The air from outside came in, cooler and fresher than the air in the house. Kneeling in front of the window, Marie’s head came just about level with the open space. With the person she was expecting kneeling or stooping on the other side, they would be able to converse very well, and there would be no noise—no noise at all. No need to waste time. She would say what she must have, and what could the other do except agree? Whatever she liked to ask, it must be paid, because it was the price of the murderer’s life, and what is the use of money when you are dead? One must be practical.

She began to wonder whether she was going to ask enough. But if one put the price too high, there might be at least delay, perhaps even danger. The movement of a too large sum of money—it might occasion suspicion. No, better to take what she had fixed in her own mind, and then see what could be done when one came back again. Because naturally one would come back again. When a dish is so tempting, it is to be expected that the plate will return for more than one helping.

Clear and sharp upon the soft air came the two strokes of the half hour from the church of St. Mark. The bell was always a loud one. Now it sounded as if it must wake everyone in the house. Before the air had ceased to tingle a voice spoke from the other side of the window. In a deep quiet monotone it said,

“Are you there?”

Involuntarily Marie drew back. The striking of the clock had made her start, but the quiet voice startled her more sharply still. Because there had been no warning of it. She had been listening for a footstep upon the road, upon the path—for the groping of a hand, the catch of a hurrying breath. And there had been nothing—nothing at all—but quite suddenly out of nowhere the sound of that quiet voice.

It spoke again, repeating the same words, and in a moment she was herself, and angry because she had allowed herself to behave like a child that is scared at the dark. She said,

“Yes, I am here. And we must be quick. It will not suit either of us if someone should come.”

The voice said, “No.” And then, “You are asking me for money. Why?”

“I have told you. I saw you on the Wednesday night.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, or you would not be here. I saw you in the hut.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“You know very well. You were there in the corner when José came in. He went down on his knees with his torch in his hand. When he put it on, the light went over your face as you stood in the corner where the towels hung to dry. You did not see me because I was behind him—I was still outside. And you did not think he saw you—you thought that you were hidden.”

“He did not see me.”

“Perhaps. But I saw you—and my conscience troubles me that I have not told the police.”

The voice said, “I think we will leave your conscience out of it. I am willing to pay you. How much do you want?”

Marie had one moment to make up her mind. In that moment she doubled the amount for which she had meant to ask. She had not expected so easy a victory. She would be a fool if she did not take the most that she could get. She said,

“A thousand pounds,” and waited to hear the voice demur.

Instead, it spoke as smoothly as if she had asked no more than a bus fare.

“Very well, you shall have it. I want to close the matter now and for always. This is to be a final settlement.”

Final! Well, they would see about that! Marie smiled in the dark. She said,

“That is understood.”

The voice spoke again.

“Then we can finish the matter now. I have brought the money with me. There must be no more meetings.”

“You have brought it with you? But it must be in one-pound notes—that goes without saying.”

“That is what I have brought—it would not suit either of us to have them traced. But you will want to count them.”

“Assuredly.”

“It will take a little time. I have the notes here in a bag. They are in bundles of twentyfive. If I push the bag up onto the windowsill, you can take them out for yourself. They are quite heavy.”

Yes, a thousand pounds would be heavy. Paper money— not so heavy as metal. A thousand pounds…Now why hadn’t she asked for more? Ca ne fait rien—there is always another day!

As the thought went through her mind, there was the shape of the bag at the window. The person who knelt there lifted it to the outer sill and Marie reached for it from the opposite side. It slid away from her, tilting, slipping—smooth, shiny stuff and nothing to take hold of. Instinctively she leaned forward, catching at it. It fell, but the sound of its fall never reached her. As she leaned out over the sill, two strong hands closed about her throat.

Darsie Anning woke to heaviness. It was a long time since deep sleep had been hers, but last night she had gone down into a sort of stunned unconsciousness. Emerging from it now, the insupportable burden of the day came on her again. She braced herself to carry it. There could be no proof. The ramblings of an invalid could carry no serious danger. Only there must be no more of them—there must be no more. And how was that to be ensured? She would have to speak very plainly indeed, and perhaps defeat her own ends by frightening her mother out of all control. To say enough but not too much. To alarm her to the point of caution but not past it to where she would babble all she knew. As she dressed, it seemed that this must be her immediate task. She had slept beyond her usual hour. The clock of St. Mark’s was striking half past six. As she opened her door and went down, the silence of the house surprised her. Marie was an early riser, and at this hour she should have been up and busy.

But Marie was neither in the hall nor in the drawing-room. Miss Anning set the windows wide and came back across the hall to the dining-room. Here too the windows were still closed. This was her thought as she opened the door—closed windows and a heavy air, instead of the fresh morning breeze blowing in. Then, as she moved from the threshold, she saw.

Marie Bonnet lay in a heap at the foot of the left-hand window. Darsie Anning had only to look at her once to know that she was dead. She went and looked at her with a cold sickness at her heart. She bent and touched the wrist in which no pulse had beat for many hours. She looked at the window. It was shut, but the catch had been pushed back. It was shut now, but there had been a time in the night when it had been opened from within. It must have been Marie herself who had pushed back the catch and pulled the heavy window up. It must have been that way, and she had let murder in. But it was not Marie who had pulled it down again, because Marie was lying dead—Marie was lying there dead.

Miss Anning walked stiffly back to the hall and across it to her office. The telephone was on the table there. She sat down in her office chair and rang up the police.

It was nearly two hours later that Miss Silver was called to the telephone. Since Mr. Octavius Hardwick had never anticipated the use of such an instrument on the bedroom floor, she was obliged to descend to the study, but as she was already up and dressed she found this no hardship.

Frank Abbott’s voice came to her along the wire.

“Is that you?”

His tone was not quite so nonchalant as usual. Her face took on a grave expression.

“Yes, Frank.”

“I am speaking from Sea View. Do you think you could come down here?”

“Certainly. I will come at once.”

Without further enquiry, she hung up the receiver and went back to her room, where she put on hat and gloves. Proceeding on her way, she encountered Major Hardwick in the hall, and informed him that she was obliged to go out—“To Sea View. I think perhaps Mrs. Anning is not very well. I shall be glad to be of any use I can.”

He looked at her hard for a moment before he said,

“May I ask who rang you up?”

She shook her head.

“I think not, Major Hardwick.”

But she had hardly gone down the road before Beeston came to him, looking grey about the corners of the mouth.

“If I might have a word with you, Mr. James—” He indicated the study, and James followed him there.

“What’s up, Beeston?”

“You may well ask, sir! There’s been another murder!”

“Who?”

“That maid of Miss Anning’s—the French girl. Found strangled this morning, and the police in the house. The paper boy’s just been along with the news. And it’s right enough, for I stepped into the road to see for myself, and there was a police car outside, and the ambulance and all.”

James recalled the paper boy. Red hair and freckles, and a kind of streaked-lightning technique with a bicycle. He said,

“Trust that young devil to pick up anything that’s going!”

“Asking for it, she was, if you ask me,” said Beeston with gloomy pride. “No longer ago than yesterday I remarked on it to Mrs. Beeston. It’s my belief she knew something, and thought she was going to make money out of it. Very full of herself according to Mrs. Rogers, and talking high. And Mrs. Rogers told her she’d be getting into trouble if she didn’t watch it. And she couldn’t have spoken a truer word, as it’s turned out.”

James nodded.

“Look here,” he said, “I think we’ll get breakfast over before we tell the ladies.”

Miss Silver found the front door at Sea View open, and a constable in the hall. The ambulance was just driving away. As she stepped across the threshold, Frank Abbott came out of the dining-room to meet her. He took her back there and shut the door upon them.

“Marie Bonnet has been murdered. Strangled here in this room—over by that left-hand window. They’ve just taken her away.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”—that being the strongest exclamation she permitted herself.

“ ‘Dear me!’ it is, with a vengeance! Colt swears Miss Anning did it, and he wants her arrested out of hand. Says we’ve had two murders and we can’t afford another. Well, it looks as if he might be right.”

“On what grounds?”

“Come over to the window. That’s where she was found— slumped down right under the sill. The catch of the window was drawn back, but the window itself was shut. In fact everything as it is now.”

“The curtains?”

“Open, as you see them. They had not been drawn.”

“And Inspector Colt’s theory is?”

“That Marie came down in the night—the body was found at six-thirty, and she had been dead for some hours then—she came down in the night and drew back the catch to let herself out of this window, just as she did when she joined Cardozo on Wednesday night. She got the catch drawn back, but she hadn’t time to get the window open because, according to Colt, Miss Anning came down and caught her. He says she probably slanged the girl, who retaliated by accusing her of the murder of Alan Field. I’ve always had an idea that she knew more than she had told. It looks as if it was something so damning that Miss Anning killed her for it.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Who found the body?”

“According to her own statement, Miss Anning. At six-thirty—her usual hour for getting up, or so she says. The girl ought to have been up too. She came down to look for her, found her lying under the window, and rang up the station. The front door was bolted and all the ground-floor windows latched.”

“Except this one.”

“Except this one—which has Marie’s fingerprints upon the catch and upon the window-frame.”

“Not Miss Anning’s?”

“An old print or two—nothing relevant. Marie’s are all over the place.”

“Not anyone else’s?”

“No. Well, there it is. Officially, you are here because, if Miss Anning is arrested, something will have to be done about her mother. I thought perhaps—”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“Presently, Frank. There is something I have to say to you first. I have reason to believe that Marie Bonnet was engaged in blackmailing the murderer of Alan Field.”

“What makes you think so?”

“There have been a number of small indications. I overheard a conversation between the Beestons and Mrs. Rogers.” She repeated it with her usual meticulous accuracy. “Later, when I had the opportunity of warning Marie as to the danger of such a course, her manner convinced me that there had been no mistake.”

“She was angry?”

“No, Frank. She put on an innocent air and could not imagine what I meant. If she had been really innocent she would have resented my caution with a good deal of vehemence and have told me to mind my own business. The fact that she took the trouble to control this natural impulse convinced me that she had something to conceal.”

Frank Abbott made a slight impatient movement.

“If you are by any chance advancing this as a defense of Miss Anning, it seems to me that it points the other way. There is no one on whom she would be more likely to have a hold than Miss Anning—no one about whom she would be more likely to know something of a compromising nature, except perhaps Cardozo, and he’s out. Had business in London yesterday, and we let him go, but they put a tail on him at the other end, and you can take it from me that he didn’t come back here last night and kill Marie Bonnet.”

“You are sure about that?”

“Oh, yes. He went back to his rooms, dined with another man at a café in Soho, went with him to a cinema, and on to a night club. Didn’t get back till three in the morning. It just couldn’t have been done.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I thought you said he went up to town on business.”

Frank Abbott laughed.

“It may have been the kind that is done at night clubs—I wouldn’t know. The one he went to has quite a South American flavour. He may have wanted to see a man about a deal, or he may have left his business till the morning. He was out by ten o’clock—went to see a solicitor and one or two other people. But wherever he went, he didn’t come down here and kill Marie. And that puts the odds on Miss Anning.”

She looked at him.

“Do you really think so?”

“It looks like it.”

“Does it?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Why should Miss Anning make an appointment with Marie Bonnet down here in her own dining-room in the middle of the night?”

“How do you know that it was an appointment?”

“If, as I believe, it was a question of blackmail—and that is the only conceivable motive for this murder—Marie would have to meet the person she was blackmailing in order to drive her bargain. If the person was Miss Anning, nothing could be easier. She could see her privately at any time of the day— in her bedroom, in the office. There would be no need for an appointment in the night. But if it was not Miss Anning—if it was someone from outside—it would be a different matter. Where and how could these two people meet without arousing comment? The days are long and light. Any meeting would be remarked and would cause talk. You see, it is not so easy. But Marie would have some prudence. She would not go out on the cliffs in the middle of the night or down on to the beach to meet someone who had killed already. She might have thought it would be safe to talk from the window. She would, I think, have thought that.”

“But the window was shut.”

Miss Silver turned towards it.

“They have finished with the fingerprints?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then will you raise the sash from the bottom.”

He did so. When it stood about eighteen inches above the sill she stopped him.

“Now will you go round and come up on the outside.”

She stood waiting until he appeared, her face composed and rather stern. As he bent to the open space between them, she knelt down on the polished boards. Her head was now very much on a level with his.

“You see, Frank, two people could talk like this, and if I were so incautious as to lean forward, you would not, I believe, find it difficult to strangle me.”

He bent lower to examine the ground.

“There is no sign that anyone has been here.”

“Would you expect there to be? The cement of the drive comes right up to the wall, and in this heat there is no dew. The nights are as dry as the days.”

He stared.

“But the window was shut.”

“I think you will find that you can close it from where you are.”

“From the outside? There were no fingerprints.”

“Do you suppose that the person who planned this murder would be so careless as to leave any?”