Dark Threat (6 page)

‘I’m so sorry, Captain Pilgrim—Miss Janetta called me and she got away. She isn’t really used to being in somebody else’s house yet. Come along, Penny!’

As she spoke, his hand had gone up to his cheek. Penny tugged it down again.

‘Not come—stay. Man tell story—’bout lion—’

‘Penny!’

Judy got a frown, Jerome Pilgrim an enchanting smile.

‘It wants a story. ’Bout a fierce pouncy lion.’

Judy could see him slipping. She thought it would be frightfully good for him to take Penny off her hands whilst she finished the rooms. She said in a brisk, friendly way, ‘She’d love it if you would—and I’d get on about twice as fast. But not if it would be a bother—’

There was a spark of bitter amusement in the dark eyes.

‘She gets her way a good deal, doesn’t she? But you’d better take her away—I don’t want to give her bad dreams.’

He wasn’t prepared for the bluntness with which she came back at him.

‘Don’t be stupid! Why should you give her dreams?’

If the words were blunt, she had a friendly smile and a friendly voice. A pleasant-looking young thing—nice brown hair, nice teeth, blue overall—looked at him as if he was a human being and not an object of pity. His hand had dropped. He said, ‘Well, I’m not very pretty—am I?’

He thought she looked surprised.

‘Because you’ve got a scar? What difference does it make? Men don’t have to bother about their complexions. As for Penny—she kissed you, didn’t she? Will you really take her off my hands for a bit? It would be awfully kind. But mind you turn her out if she’s too much for you or anything like that. I shall be doing your bathroom, and then Miss Janetta’s room.’

She went away without really giving him time to answer, leaving the door as she had found it. She left the bathroom door open too. As she cleaned the bath and tidied up, snatches of Androcles and the Lion came to her—snatches of Penny in comment, argument, appreciation. The story was undoubtedly going down well.

When she collected her, Penny’s eyes were like stars. Jerome received the throttling embrace which was her highest tribute, and the departure was a reluctant one.

To the surprise of the family, Jerome came down to lunch.

‘I
AM GOING
down to Holt St. Agnes tomorrow,’ said Miss Silver. ‘But before I go I should like to ask you some questions. I am very glad that you are able to afford me the opportunity of doing so.’

The curtains were drawn in her cosy sitting-room. She wore a figured silk dress, bottle-green with a sort of Morse code of multicoloured dots and dashes, which had been her last summer’s best, and over it a short black velvet coatee which was one of the veterans of her wardrobe. In his more impudent moments Frank Abbott had indulged in speculation as to whether it did not date from before the first world war. He sat in front of the fire on a padded stool with the same curly walnut legs as Miss Silver’s chair. Hands clasped about his knees, he turned and permitted himself to smile.

‘We do get off occasionally, you know. As Lord Tennyson has truly remarked, “The leisured hour, how sweet a thing it is”.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I do not recall the passage.’

As Master Frank had just made it up, this was not surprising. He preserved the smile, and said without a blush, ‘One of my favourites. What did you want to ask me?’

To pull Maudie’s leg was an awful joy. The thing he was never sure about was, did she know that he was pulling it? Sometimes he had a horrid suspicion that she did. He gazed at her ingenuously and said,

‘Anything I can do—’

Miss Silver knitted in silence for a moment. She had made a very good start on Ethel’s birthday jumper, but she had come to a place where it was necessary to count her stitches. Her lips moved, the needles clicked. Then she said, ‘You can tell me more about the Pilgrim family. Major Pilgrim was in so nervous a state that I did not wish to give him the feeling that he was being cross-examined. That is one of the things I wanted to ask you about—has he always been of a neurotic temperament?’

‘No, I shouldn’t say he had. He wasn’t supposed to be strong, but he grew out of that. He’s just been through a pretty gruelling experience, you know—Western Desert—prison camp—escape—hospital—his father’s death—uncertainty about his brother—I suppose he told you they’d no news of him since Singapore. And then all this ceiling-falling and room-burning business. I don’t think you can be surprised if he’s jumpy.’

‘No, indeed, poor young man. I hope it may be possible to relieve his mind. He left me in a state of some uncertainty, but I have had a note from him since, asking me to go down there tomorrow. I told him that it would be as well if I could appear as an ordinary visitor, and he informs me that he has confided in Miss Columba Pilgrim, and that she agrees with my suggestion. I am, in fact, to be an old school-fellow. This is made possible by the fact that Miss Columba went away to boarding school, whereas Miss Janetta, who was considered delicate, remained at home and shared in the studies of the Vicar’s daughters, who had an admirable governess. One of the things I wished to ask you was whether Miss Columba can be relied upon to be perfectly discreet.’

Frank Abbott laughed.

‘She says so little at any time that the chances of her saying the word too much are, I should say, practically nil. She’s good solid stuff, you know, but she’s always taken her own way and had her own thoughts. Don’t ask me what they are, because nobody but Miss Columba knows.’

Miss Silver counted again for a moment before she said,

‘What is your opinion of the invalid cousin, Jerome Pilgrim?’

Frank Abbott’s face settled into gravity.

‘Jerome? He was one of the best. He’s a good bit older than Roger and I. Let me see—I’m twenty-nine, and Roger’s a couple of years younger—Jerome must be forty-one or forty-two. We looked up to him like anything. You know the way schoolboys do. Then I hardly saw him for years. You know how it is, one gets off on to another line—until—well, something happened that brought us together again, and by that time the poor chap was a wreck. Not too good, seeing him like that.’

Miss Silver looked at him very directly.

‘Frank, you know these people, you know all the circumstances. Do you think Jerome Pilgrim is responsible for what has been happening?’

‘Not unless he’s off his head. I mean, the Jerome Pilgrim I knew was quite incapable of anything that wasn’t straight. But after a knock on the head like he had—well, you know—’

‘Is he considered to be mentally affected by his wound?’

‘No, he isn’t. The doctors hoped he’d get all right. I gather the position is this. He shrinks from going out because he thinks he’s worse disfigured than he is—imagines he gives everyone a turn—that sort of thing. The answer to that is, he ought to be encouraged to go out and get over it. Well, various people have encouraged him—my cousins, Lesley Freyne, myself. And what happens? Every time he does the least thing extra there’s the most unfortunate reaction. He starts having nightmares again, shouts the house down in the middle of the night, and scares everybody into fits. So the doctors say let him alone, keep him quiet, don’t force anything. And there you are! They’re lucky in the nurse they’ve got—she seems to understand him.’

‘Miss Lona Day?’

‘Yes. They’re all devoted to her.’

‘How long has she been with him?’

‘Three years? ... Yes, it must be quite that, because she was there when Henry Clayton went.’

Miss Silver rested her knitting on her knee and said,

‘Yes. I would like you to tell me about that.’

‘About Henry Clayton?’ He sounded a little surprised.

‘If you please, Frank.’

‘Well, it’s ancient history—three years ago. But it’s really quite up your street. No connection with what’s going on now of course, but odd enough to be intriguing. Henry Clayton was a first cousin—may be still for all I know—of Roger and Jerome. His mother was a sister of Miss Collie and Miss Netta. He was about the same age as Jerome, and he’d been a bit of a rolling stone—been all sorts of things—done a spot of farming, a spot of prospecting, a spot of journalism. When the war broke out he landed in the Ministry of Information—don’t ask me why. A very agreeable chap, very good-looking, always had lots of friends, generally stony-broke. Well, some time towards the end of the phoney war he got engaged to Lesley Freyne. Owing to the general landslide that summer they weren’t getting down to being married until early in ’41. To tell you the honest truth, the impression in Holt St. Agnes was that Henry wasn’t any too keen. I don’t know if anyone’s told you about Lesley. She’s got a good figure and a heart of gold, but she’s no glamour-girl, and Henry had a reputation for liking them glamorous. On the other hand, she had, and still has, pots of money, and I suppose Henry thought he could do with some of it. As Tennyson says, “Don’t ee marry for money, but go where money is.” ’

There was a note of reproof in Miss Silver’s voice as she remarked, ‘Words put into the mouth of a cross-grained old farmer, Frank, can hardly be considered to express Lord Tennyson’s own sentiments.’

He hastened to placate her.

‘As you say. He leaves the court without a stain on his character. Let me go on telling you about Henry. We approach the climax. Three days before the wedding Henry Clayton had a tiff with Lesley Freyne. No one knows what it was about. I call it a tiff because that’s what Lesley called it. She said it wasn’t serious, it wasn’t a quarrel. I got all this first-hand, because the Yard was called in, Henry being domiciled in London and in the Ministry of Information, and they sent me down because I knew the place and the people.’

Miss Silver said, ‘Quite so.’

Hands still clasped about his knees, looking not at her but down into the fire, Frank went on.

‘Well, this tiff having taken place some time in the afternoon, nothing else seems to have happened until ten-thirty p.m., when Robbins, the butler, was locking up for the night. They were early-to-bedders at Pilgrim’s Rest, the ladies at ten, and the old man at ten-fifteen—Roger’s father was alive then, you know. Robbins thought they had all gone up, but when he came to the study door he could hear Henry Clayton at the telephone. He wrapped it up pretty, but actually he stood there and listened. And he heard Henry say, “No, Lesley, of course not. Darling, you couldn’t think a thing like that! Look here, I’ll come round.” There was a pause whilst she said something, and then he went on, “Oh, no—it’s only half past ten.” Then he hung up and came out into the hall, only just giving Robbins time to get away from the door. Lesley Freyne corroborated this account, and said Henry rang to make up their disagreement, her remark in the pause being that it was too late for him to come round. Well, Henry, having reached the hall, told Robbins he was going to see Miss Freyne, and added, “I shan’t be long, but don’t stay up for me. I’ll take the key and put up the chain when I come in.” After which he walked out of the house just as he was.’

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

‘In evening-dress?’

‘No. There were still a good many air-raid alarms going, and the men were sticking to ordinary clothes. Henry was wearing a dark blue town suit. It was a mild evening, and Lesley’s house isn’t more than fifty yards down the street. He put the front door key into his pocket and went out. Lesley Freyne was waiting for him. When she left the telephone she went to a window which overlooked the street. It was a clear moonlit night. Pilgrim’s Rest was in plain view. It has rather an odd entrance, a sort of glass passage leading from the front door to the village street. She saw Henry come out of this passage and begin to walk towards her, and she drew back from the window because she didn’t want him to see that she was looking out for him. She let the curtain fall between her and the glass and crossed over to the other side of the room. Minutes went by. She had told him that she would leave the front door open so that he could just walk in. He didn’t come. When she couldn’t bear it any longer she went back to the window. The street was quite bright, and clear, and empty.’

He slewed round and looked up in her face.

‘Well, there you are! Henry Clayton was seen leaving Pilgrim’s Rest, but he never arrived at St. Agnes’ Lodge, and from that day to this he’s never been seen or heard of.’

‘My dear Frank!’

‘I told you it was a queer start. He wasn’t missed until the morning. When he was, of course the obvious conclusion was that he had jibbed at the post. No one seems to have thought that he was very much in love with Lesley, and everyone concluded that he had just backed out. If it hadn’t been for the war, I expect the Yard would have thought so too. Masses of people disappear every year, but it isn’t so easy in wartime. Henry wasn’t a boy, he was nearly forty—and he’d a government job. You can’t walk out on your job in the middle of a war without landing in very serious trouble. There are identity-cards, ration-cards—it isn’t all that easy to disappear. I went down to Holt St. Agnes and did my stuff. Family very upset. Lesley—well, I’m fond of her, and I don’t mind saying I’d have liked five minutes alone with Henry. She didn’t make any fuss. She was simple, she was dignified, but she was taking it hard.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘How long was she away from the window after she saw Mr. Clayton coming down the street towards her?’

‘She says not more than four minutes. She went over to the fire, and there is a clock on the mantelpiece. She says she was watching the time.’

‘You say the distance between the houses is about fifty yards. Is there any side street or lane?’

‘No, there isn’t. The wall of Pilgrim’s Rest covers half the distance. It is too high to climb. There is an entrance to the garage and stables, but it was locked. After the wall comes a branch of the County Bank, closed for the duration, two or three shops, and then the wall of St. Agnes’ Lodge. All the way on the other side there are village houses, standing back from the street, with strips of garden in front. If Henry had wanted to do a bunk he could, of course, have made off that way. But why should he go blundering through a cottage garden into a lot of plough-land in the opposite direction from the line of rail? And why should he do a bunk on a winter’s night, however mild—it was February, but I count that winter—bareheaded, in a lounge suit, without so much as a scarf, and no luggage? Everything he had brought down to Pilgrim’s Rest was accounted for. It’s a bit much to swallow, don’t you think? Unless he had a real, genuine black-out—didn’t know who he was or where he was, but just walked away into the blue.’