Lonesome Road (2 page)

Miss Silver waited. No other words followed. She knitted to the end of her row, and then remarked,

“This is for Hilary Cunningham’s baby. A sweet color— so very delicate.”

Rachel Treherne’s dark eyes rested for a moment upon the pale pink wool. She said in an absent voice,

“I didn’t know that Hilary had a baby.”

“Not till January.” Miss Silver began another row. “And now, Miss Treherne, I think we had better proceed. I asked you to tell me three things. Firstly, why should anyone want to kill you? You have not really replied to this, unless your statement that you are Rollo Treherne’s daughter, and that he has left you discretionary powers over his very large fortune, is an answer.”

Miss Treherne said without looking at her,

“It might be.”

“I asked you, secondly, whether any attempt had been made on your life, and if so, in what circumstances. To this you have replied very fully. Thirdly, I inquired who it was that you suspected. It is very necessary for me to have an answer to that third question.”

Rachel said, “I suppose so,” and then remained silent for quite a long time. Her hands were once more clasped in her lap. She looked down at them, and when she began to speak she did not raise her eyes.

“Miss Silver, I believe that I can trust you. My difficulty is this—I do not see how you can help me unless I am frank with you, unless I tell you everything. But that is the trouble. With the best will in the world, one can’t tell everything. I look at the problem, at the people, and I look at them through my own temperament, my own mood— perhaps through my own fear, my own doubt, my own suspicion. These things do not make for clear vision. And, not seeing clearly myself, I have to choose, I have to select what I am going to tell you, and then I have to find words to convey these troubled impressions to you, a stranger. You have no check on what I tell you. You don’t know the people or the circumstances. Don’t you see how impossible it is to give you anything except an unfair picture?”

“I see that you are very anxious to be fair. Now will you tell me who it is that you suspect?”

Rachel Treherne looked up.

“No one,” she said.

“And who is it that Louisa Barnet suspects?”

Rachel turned abruptly. She faced Miss Silver across the table now.

“No one,” she said—“no one person. She’s afraid for me and it makes her suspicious. It is because of these suspicions that I have felt bound to come to you. I can’t go on like this, living with people, seeing them constantly, being fond of them, and these dreadful suspicions always there between us.”

“I see,” said Miss Silver. “If I may quote from Lord Tennyson’s poem of Maud—‘Villainy somewhere! Whose? One says, we are villains all.’ And again:

‘Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? We have

made them a curse.

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its

own.

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or

worse

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own

hearthstone?’

Really very apt, I think. I fear that the lust of gain in the heart of Cain is responsible for a great deal of crime.”

Rachel Treherne said “Cain—” in a sort of whisper, and Miss Silver nodded.

“Impossible not to realize that it is some member of your family circle who is suspected by Louisa Barnet, if not by yourself.”

“Miss Silver!”

“You had better face it. When it comes to attempted murder, it is no use just letting things slide. I am sure that you must realize this. For your own sake, and for the sake of your relatives, the matter must be cleared up. Your fears may be groundless. The attempt may have come from some other quarter than the one which is causing you so much distress. We will attack the matter courageously and see what can be done. Now, Miss Treherne, I would like full details of your household, the members of your family, and any guests who were staying with you at the time of these attempts.”

Rachel Treherne looked at her for a moment. Then she began to speak in a quiet, steady voice.

“I have a house at Whincliff. My father built it. It is called Whincliff Edge, and it stands, as the name suggests, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. There are very fine gardens on the landward side. It is in fact a kind of show place, and the house is big enough to accommodate a good many guests. I have therefore to employ a considerable staff outside, and a housekeeper and five maids indoors. I don’t employ any men indoors. My housekeeper, Mrs. Evans, has been in the family for twenty years—she is one of the nicest women in the world. The maids are local girls and from no farther afield than Ledlington—I know all about them and their families. Maids generally stay with me until they marry. They are all nice, respectable girls. None of them could have the slightest motive for wishing to harm me. My guests—” She paused, and then went on. “The house is often full. My father built it not just for himself and me, but to be a rallying point for the family. They regard it in this light, and I am very seldom alone there.”

“You mentioned a sister, I believe.”

“Yes—my sister Mabel.”

“A younger sister?”

“No, five years older. She married young, and my father made a settlement on her then.”

“He did not leave her anything more in his will?”

“No.”

“And was she satisfied?”

Miss Treherne bit her lip. She said,

“There was no quarrel. My father did not expect his will to please everyone, but he had his own reasons for what he did.”

Miss Silver coughed slightly.

“People’s reasons so seldom appeal to relatives.” she remarked. “Pray continue, Miss Treherne. You said your sister was married. Has she any family and were they staying with you at the time of these occurrences?”

“Yes. Mabel is not very strong. She had been with me all through August. Her husband, Ernest Wadlow, was coming down for the week-ends. He is a writer—travel, biography, that sort of thing. Their two children were also coming down for the week-ends. Maurice, who is twenty-three, is reading for the Bar, and Cherry, who is nineteen, is engaged in having a good time. The other guests were my young cousin, Richard Treherne, who is a grandson of my father’s brother; a first cousin on my father’s side, Miss Ella Comperton—she has a little flat in town, but she is always very pleased to get away from it; a first cousin on my mother’s side, Cosmo Frith; and his young cousin and mine, Caroline Ponsonby—”

“One moment,” said Miss Silver. “Which, if any, of these relatives were staying with you on the dates upon which you received the three anonymous letters?”

“None of them,” said Rachel Treherne, “except my sister Mabel. She was with me all through August and September, but the others only came down for the week-ends.”

Miss Silver put down her knitting and took up a pencil.

“I should like those dates, if you please.”

Rachel Treherne gave them as one who has a lesson by heart.

“The first letter, Thursday, August 26th—the second, Thursday, September 2nd—and the third, September 9th, also a Thursday.”

“And the incident of the polished steps?”

“September 11th.”

“A Saturday?”

“Yes, a Saturday.”

Miss Silver entered these particulars.

“And the fire in your room?”

“The following Saturday, September 18th.”

“And the incident of the chocolates?”

“Last Saturday, October 30th.”

Miss Silver wrote that down, then looked up, pencil poised.

“Nothing happened between 18th September and 30th October?”

“No. I was away a good deal. I had no guests—” With a sudden realization of what she had said, a brilliant color flushed her cheeks. She looked beautiful, startled, distressed. “You musn’t think—” she began.

Miss Silver interrupted her.

“My dear Miss Treherne, we must both think—calmly, quietly, and above all dispassionately. No innocent person will be harmed by our doing so. Only guilt need shrink from investigation. Innocence will be vindicated. Pray let us continue. I have here a list of your relatives, written down as you gave them to me—Mr. and Mrs. Wadlow, your brother-in-law and sister. Mr. Maurice and Miss Cherry Wadlow, their son and daughter. Mr. Richard Treherne. Miss Ella Comperton, Mr. Cosmo Frith, and Miss Caroline Ponsonby, all cousins. You have told me that none of these relatives except Mrs. Wadlow was in the house upon the dates on which the anonymous letters were written, posted, or received by you. I should now like you to tell me which of them was staying in the house on September 11th, the day of the polished steps incident.”

The color had left Rachel Treherne’s face again. She said, “They were all there.”

“And on the following Saturday, September 18th, when the curtains in your room were found to be on fire?”

“They were all there.”

“And during the six weeks when you had no guests there were no more occurrences of a suspicious nature?”

“Miss Silver!”

“Let us be dispassionate. There were, in fact, no more occurrences during that period. But on Saturday, October 30th, there was the incident of the chocolates. Which of these relatives was in the house on that occasion?”

Miss Treherne repeated the phrase which she had already used twice, but in a tone that was almost inaudible.

“They were all there.”

Miss Silver remarked, “Dear me!” turned a page, wrote a heading, and said in a bright, matter-of-fact tone, “Now if you will give me a little information about each of these relatives—just the merest outline, comprising age, occupation, financial position—”

“Miss Silver—I can’t!”

Miss Silver looked at her kindly but firmly.

“Indeed you can, my dear Miss Treherne. It is best for us to speak quite plainly. As matters stand, you are in continual fear of being obliged to suspect one or another of your relations. The situation is quite impossible, and it must be cleared up. If you withold information, I cannot help you. Let us continue. We will begin with your sister Mabel, Mrs. Wadlow.”

Miss Silver’s notes:

“Mabel Wadlow:—Age 44. Nervous semi-invalid. Reads a great many novels—thrillers. Very fond of husband and children. Some sense of injury over father’s will.

Ernest Wadlow:—Age 52. Dilettante. Traveler. Writer. Never made much money by his books. Wife’s money not much in evidence. Miss Treherne obviously assists them.

Maurice Wadlow:—Age 23. Reading for the Bar. Socialistically inclined. Perhaps dearer to his parents than to Miss T. Anxiety on her part to be fair to him very marked. Probably clever, bumptious young man, too pleased with himself to please others. This merely conjecture.

Cherry Wadlow:—Age 19. Pretty girl. Out for a good time. Rather giddy. Nineteen usually either too giddy or too serious.

Ella Comperton:—Age 49. Daughter of Rollo Treherne’s elder sister Eliza. Spinster on small income. Small flat, small interests, small life. Some jealousy that younger cousin should be rich woman? Miss T’s tone that in which we speak of someone whom we commiserate but cannot really love.

Cosmo Frith:—Age 45. Another dilettante, but of a different type. All the talents but no executive ability. Jack of all trades and master of none. Unmarried. Fond of society, fond of pretty faces—Wein Weib und Gesang. Is a first cousin on the mother’s side, and Miss T. has a good deal of affection for him. Finances precarious.

Caroline Ponsonby:—Age 22. First cousin once removed of Miss T., Mrs. Wadlow, and Cosmo Frith. Miss T. has a great affection for this young girl. Described her in v. warm voice as ‘the dearest child.’ Small independent income.

Richard Treherne:—Age 26. First cousin once removed on the father’s side, being grandson of Rollo Treherne’s younger brother Maurice. Architect. Foot on bottom rung of ladder. Ambitious. Miss T. has put a certain amount of work in his way. From manner in which she spoke of there being no blood relationship between him and Caroline it is clear that she would welcome a match between them. Lord T. says, ‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. ’ Have not noticed that November has any chilling effect. Miss T. very warmly interested in both these young people.”

Having taken down these notes, Miss Silver sat back in her chair and picked up the pale pink coatee.

“There—that is over,” she said, and began to knit. “And now, I am afraid, I must ask you what financial interest these relatives have in your death.”

Rachel Treherne met this question calmly, as one meets a long expected shock. She said,

“I knew you would ask me that, but it is not at all an easy question to answer. The circumstances are very unusual. I think I told you that my father had left me this money as a trust. He made no legal conditions as to how I was to dispose of it, but he told me what he wanted me to do, and I promised that I would carry out his wishes. Miss Silver, I do feel sure that I can trust you—you have really made me feel sure about that—but what I am going to tell you now concerns my father, and you won’t ever speak of it to anyone, will you, or—or write it down?”

Miss Silver looked at her. Miss Silver said,

“I will not speak of it, and I will not write it down.”

Rachel Treherne went on.

“My father ran away with my mother. She had a little money, and he had none. This is important, because it is what brings in my mother’s relations. Without her money he couldn’t have made a start, and so, in disposing of his fortune, he wished her relations to be considered on the same footing as his own. He took her to the United States, and they had a very hard struggle. They lost their first two children. It was ten years before Mabel was born, and I came five years later. Then my mother died. My father was only just getting along up till then, but the following year he began to make money. Everything he touched turned to gold. Oil was found on some land he had bought for a song. It made him an immensely wealthy man. He came back to this country and died here. The things he asked me to promise were these. It weighed on him that the man who had been his partner in buying the oil-field had not profited from it. There was some quarrel. The land was believed valueless. The partnership broke up, and Mr. Brent walked out. My father made a fortune, and it weighed on him that he ought to have shared it with Sterling Brent. He told me that he had always kept on the right side of the law, but that what mattered when you came to die was whether you had kept on the right side of your conscience. He had tried to find his old partner, but he hadn’t been able to. He told me the sum that was due to him, and he said I was never to touch it, and I was to go on trying to find Mr. Brent or his heirs. That was the first thing.”

“You have not been able to trace Mr. Brent?”

“No. It is so long ago that I think he must be dead. If he is not traced during my lifetime, the money is to endow a certain number of scholarships for Americans at Oxford and Cambridge, to be called the Brent Scholarships.”

Miss Silver gave an approving nod.

“Mr. Treherne expressed more than one wish, I think you said.”

“Yes. The other thing that I promised is much more difficult to carry out. He wished his money to come into the hands of those who would use it best. He considered that in the interval between his death and mine there would be changes in the characters and circumstances of the possible heirs. Children would be born, young people would grow up and marry. There might be deteriorations or improvements. There might be deaths. He did not feel able to decide on what was to happen to his money after another generation had passed, so he left the decision to me. That is not so unusual, though I was very young—too young. But what he asked me to promise was, I think, a very unusual thing. I was to make a new will every year. He said most people made their wills and forgot all about them. He wanted to insure that I would keep mine up-to-date. I was to go through it once a year and adjust the legacies in the light of what had happened during that year.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked and checked. She said,

“Dear me—a very onerous task to lay upon a young girl.”

“I promised, and I have kept my promise. I don’t know that I would make such a promise today. But I was very young. I loved my father, and I would have done anything he asked of me.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It did not occur to your father that you might marry?”

The color came into Rachel Treherne’s face. Not the brilliant flame of a little while back, but a faint, becoming flush.

“I don’t believe he did. Men are like that.”

Miss Silver was watching her.

“And you?”

Rachel Treherne laughed a little sadly.

“Oh, I thought about it—girls always do. But—well, since we are being so very frank, he thought I had too much money, and I thought he had too little courage. And after that I was much, much too busy.”

“It would have made it all a great deal easier for you if you had had a husband and children. But since you have no natural and undisputed heirs, this arrangement of Mr. Treherne’s must result in maintaining a continual state of excitement and uncertainty in the family—if it is known. Now, Miss Treherne, this is a very important question. Is it known?”

Rachel Treherne frowned. The frown made her look older. She said in a slow, vexed voice,

“I am afraid it is known.”

“How? Who spoke of it? Your father? You? Surely not your legal adviser?”

“My father spoke of it to my sister. He was very ill. I’m sure he wouldn’t have done so if he had been himself. It has always made things very difficult for me.”

“Most unfortunate,” said Miss Silver. “And does everyone in the family know of the arrangement?”

There was a momentary flash of humor in Rachel Treherne’s dark eyes.

“I should think so. You see, it was a grievance, and when my sister and her husband have a grievance, well, they like to share it. I think it is quite safe to say that everyone in the family knows I revise my will once a year in January. Some of them are tactful about it, some of them resent it, the young ones treat it as rather a joke. If only they didn’t know—”

Miss Silver took up her pencil and added a word to her notes on Mabel Wadlow. The word was, “Indiscreet.” She leaned back and said,

“Is it possible that the terms of your present will are known?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know whether there is such a possibility.”

Rachel was silent.

“Have you at any time had a draft of your will in the house?”

“Yes.”

“You are not helping me, Miss Treherne. Would it have been possible for anyone to see that draft?”

“I suppose it would. Oh, one doesn’t think about things like that!”

“I am sorry to distress you, but I am afraid we must think about them. You had the draft in an unlocked drawer?”

“No, locked. But I am careless about my keys.”

“I see. And if I were to ask you who would chiefly benefit if you were to die before you could make this annual revision of your will, would you answer me?”

Rachel Treherne pushed back her chair and got up. She said,

“No, Miss Silver, I couldn’t tell you that.”

Miss Silver remained seated. She was knitting again.

“Do you wish me to take your case?”

Rachel Treherne looked at her. Her eyes said, “Help me.” Her lips said,

“Please—if you will.”

The needles clicked.

“I wonder if you will take my advice,” said Miss Silver.

Rachel’s lips parted in a sudden charming smile.

“If I can,” she said.

“Go home and tell your sister that you took the opportunity of being in town to go through your will, and that your have made considerable changes in it this time. She will certainly inform your other relatives, and for the present there will be no more attempts upon your life.”

All the color went out of Rachel Treherne’s face.

“No—I couldn’t do that.”

“It would be a safeguard.”

“No, I won’t do it! I won’t tell lies—it’s too degrading!”

“Make it true then. See your lawyer, alter your will, and let your relations know that you have done so.”

Rachel stood there silently with her hands on the table edge. She seemed to lean on them. At last she said,

“I will think about it. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. I think of taking a short holiday. Can you recommend me to cottage lodgings in your neighborhood? I should be an acquaintance who is friendly with the Cunninghams. It would then be quite natural for us to meet, and for you to invite me to the house.”

“I can invite you to stay.”

“Without exciting remark? It is very necessary that no one should imagine I am anything but a private visitor.”

Rachel Treherne smiled again.

“Oh, but I am always asking people down—all sorts of people. It will be quite easy. I like having people who can’t afford to go away, and—” She stopped short and colored vividly.

But Miss Maud Silver was not at all offended.

“I shall do very well as a gentlewoman of restricted means,” she observed. “Let me see—I can come down on Saturday. You can just mention Hilary Cunningham, but I should not stress the connection. And I think you had better call me a retired governess.” Most unexpectedly her eyes twinkled. “And that need not trouble your conscience, because it is perfectly true. I was in the scholastic profession for twenty years.” She got up and extended her hand. “I disliked it extremely. Good-bye, Miss Treherne.”