The Brading Collection (14 page)

Miss Silver’s needles clicked. Miss Silver said,

“Quite so.”

“Then we have Miss Grey, who also seems to have no motive. We have been in communication with Brading’s solicitors, and she had no interest under his will. Charles Forrest’s mother adopted her at a time when she had no children of her own. Brading’s mother was a Forrest, so I suppose she ranks as a cousin, but you know how those sort of things work out. She and Brading have lived practically next door to each other for about thirty years in one of those semidetached relationships in which there is neither intimacy nor disagreement—perhaps never enough intimacy to lead to disagreement. One sees the sort of thing every day. They’ve always known each other, and never cared enough to quarrel.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“An excellent description.”

He smiled.

“Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley! Well, so much for Miss Grey.” He leaned forward, a slight change in his manner, and said, “Then there’s Forrest. Crisp is rather hot on Forrest. Very zealous fellow Crisp. He points out that Forrest has a most indubitable motive. The Forrest finances have been as embarrassed as those of most other landed proprietors. Charles has managed to keep his head above water and pay his rates by cutting his house up into flats and letting it piecemeal. Brading’s father made a pile in commerce. Some of it’s locked up in the Collection, but there’s quite a lot left, and under the original will Charles Forrest scoops the lot. Brading’s projected marriage and Brading’s new will would undoubtedly be a nasty jar. Crisp points out the obvious with a good deal of triumph—Brading was shot as soon as he became engaged to be married and altered his will. And the new will was destroyed. He thinks that conclusive. I don’t go so far as that, but—well, there are some suspicious circumstances. And then, out of the blue, comes this business of Moberly’s past. That gives him a motive too. Crisp won’t like it of course—the money motive is such an obvious and easy one.”

Miss Silver quoted from her favourite Lord Tennyson.

“ ‘And lust of gain in the spirit of Cain,’ Randal.”

“Quite. But we are not all Cains. The normal man doesn’t get knocked off his balance and do murder because a cousin contemplates matrimony. I must confess to thinking that Moberly had a much stronger motive. To all intents and purposes Brading was blackmailing him. He had had years of wanting to get away and being forced to stay. Not so good to be chained to one’s past, and under the eye of someone who knows all about it and doesn’t scruple to use his knowledge. It’s a strong motive. Whether it would be strong enough depends on things like Moberly’s temperament, character, and what incentive he had to break away and make a fresh start. I must tell you candidly that I think it lies between him and Forrest, with the probabilities rather evenly balanced.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Major Forrest asserts with a good deal of warmth that Mr. Moberly would not ‘hurt a fly’—I use his own words. He was aware of the fact that Mr. Brading was holding something over him, and he knew what that something was, but he would not, I believe, have said anything about it if I had not told him what Mr. Brading had said to me on the subject. He is, I think, really convinced that Mr. Moberly had nothing to do with his cousin’s death.”

March gave a short half laugh.

“He would be if he had shot him himself. And he might have shot him, and yet not wish to see an innocent man hang. I still think that the balance is fairly equal between the two of them. But there is a thing which may tip it down on Forrest’s side.”

She looked at him across her knitting.

“The destruction of the will?”

He nodded.

“Forrest had the most interest in that—in fact the only obvious interest. But if we are to consider subtleties, Moberly may have had some reason of his own for burning the will. He may, for instance, have hoped for some help or provision from Forrest who had been friendly to him, whereas he couldn’t expect anything from Maida Robinson. It’s not much of a theory, I admit, but a wealthy Charles Forrest might have done something for him, you know.”

“That is true.”

“That’s five out of my six people. The last one is Miss Constantine. I hardly think she could be a principal. She may be screening Moberly. At present there doesn’t seem to be any motive for her doing so, but of course you never can tell. If she is really speaking the truth when she says that she and Moberly were together in the study for that all-important ten minutes between Miss Grey’s departure and Forrest’s arrival, well then, Moberly is out of it and we are left with Charles Forrest. We must just go on digging and see what turns up.”

“There is nothing missing from the Collection?”

“No. Everything is catalogued in Brading’s own hand. We have had a check over with Moberly and Forrest. There is nothing missing.” He paused for a moment, and then went on again in a slower tone. “There was a diamond brooch in the open second drawer of the writing-table—a very handsome one—five big diamonds in a row. Can you make anything of that?”

“Any prints on it?”

“No. Not much surface, you know.”

She had her considering look.

“If he had just become engaged to Mrs. Robinson, it might have been intended as a present.”

His expression changed to one of distaste.

“Rather an odd one, but Brading was an odd sort of person. The brooch is valuable, but it has unpleasant associations. One would hardly have thought—” He gave a slight shrug. “It’s down in the Catalogue as, ‘The Marziali brooch—five brilliants of four carats each,’ and then, ‘Guilia Marziali was wearing it when her husband stabbed her and her lover, August 8th, 1820.’ ”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Mr. Brading’s tastes were morbid in the extreme.”

Her needles clicked. The pink strip had lengthened considerably. She said, “I suppose you will have had a report on fingerprints. Does it suggest anything of interest?”

“Did you expect that it would?”

“Frankly, no, Randal.”

He laughed.

“Well, you would have been right. Brading threw a party on the previous night to show his Collection. Present Myra Constantine and her two daughters, Charles Forrest, Lilias Grey, Major Constable, Maida Robinson, a Mr. and Mrs. Brown—innocuous people with no interest in Brading and perfect alibis for the time of the murder—Brading himself, Moberly, and a girl who used to be married to Charles Forrest and now calls herself Stacy Mainwaring. I suppose you’ve heard about her?”

“I have met her.”

“Seems a nice girl. There doesn’t seem to have been any scandal about the divorce—they just separated, and are now quite good friends.”

“So Major Forrest tells me.”

“She seems to have been one of the party. And of course everybody’s fingerprints are all over everything.”

“Not, I suppose, in the laboratory.”

“No. But most of them touched the steel door coming or going, and the table and chairs in the big room have all the prints. You can tell where everyone was sitting. But we knew that already. Brading got out his stuff and had them all round the table watching him show it off.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“What about the other rooms? What about the laboratory?”

He answered the first question first.

“Nothing in the other rooms except Brading’s own prints, Moberly’s, and those of the woman who used to come in and clean. In the laboratory, Brading’s and Moberly’s all over the place, Constable’s on the back of a chair in which Maida Robinson says she had been sitting. It was across the table from Brading, and it would have been quite a natural place for her to be. She says she left her bag there, and if it was on that side of the table, Constable would be quite likely to take hold of the chair as he leaned over to get the bag. That’s his only print. There are none of hers, and none of Lilias Grey’s. Forrest has the print of his right hand on the top of the table at the back. He says he stood there and leaned across when he first came in, to make sure that Brading was dead before he went round and touched him. There’s a print of his left hand on the back of Brading’s chair, and some impressions of his right upon the corner of the table near where Brading’s head was lying. And that’s all.”

“No prints on the door?”

“Brading’s and Moberly’s.”

“Not Mrs. Robinson’s?”

“No.”

“Then it must have been open when she came.”

“That’s likely enough. He was expecting her, and Edna Snagge rang through from the office to let him know she had arrived. He came and opened the steel door for her and took her through to the laboratory.”

“I see. Were there no prints upon the ash-tray where the will had been burned?”

“Forrest told you about that? No, there were no prints on it.”

“Or on the handle of the drawer in which he kept the revolver?”

“Only his own.”

“And the prints on the revolver, you say?”

“Were made after death.”

It was not very long after Randal March had taken his leave that Charles Forrest’s car drew up in front of Warne House. He got out, and Stacy Mainwaring got out. All very interesting for Edna Snagge, who was just going off duty. She wondered what it would be like to marry someone and leave him, and then come down and meet him again as if none of it had ever happened.

Charles put Stacy in the study and went off to get Miss Silver, whom he found in the writing-room sitting by the window, enjoying a cool breeze and considering her late conversation with the Chief Constable. He came in and said,

“Stacy wants to see you. At least that’s putting it rather high—there’s something I think she ought to tell you.”

He was impressed by the fact that she asked no questions, merely said, “I shall be very pleased to hear anything Miss Mainwaring has to say,” and accompanied him to the study without more ado.

Stacy, over by the window, was reminded of interviews with a headmistress. There was the same dampness on the palms of the hands, the same feeling of being quite hollow and empty. And then Miss Silver smiled at her and everything felt quite different. Charles had disappeared, which somehow made things easier, and by the time they were sitting down and Miss Silver had got out her knitting the study felt really almost cosy. Stacy found herself saying,

“There’s something—Charles thinks I ought to tell you about—but I don’t know—”

Miss Silver produced a ball of pale pink wool and unwound a length of it so as to avoid any drag upon the needles. She said,

“You are afraid of hurting someone?”

Stacy gave her a grateful look.

“Yes.” Then, after a pause, “It might hurt them—dreadfully.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“What you have to tell is connected with Mr. Brading’s death?”

“I don’t know—it might be—Charles thinks—”

Miss Silver looked at her kindly.

“In a murder case private feelings and reticences very often have to be sacrificed. If you know something, I think that you should speak. What is unconnected with the murder need go no farther. But you are, perhaps, not in a position to judge what is, or might be, important evidence—and to withhold evidence may involve an innocent person.”

Stacy said, “Charles—” and then stopped. She looked from the clicking needles to Miss Silver’s face. An extraordinary feeling of reassurance and relief came to her. She began to tell Miss Silver about seeing the light in the glass passage turned on, hearing the click of the door, and watching Hester Constantine come through the hall wrapped in her mother’s bright shawl.

Miss Silver knitted and listened. At the end she said,

“Major Forrest is right. You could not have kept this back.”

Stacy said, “I’m so sorry for them. I don’t think they’ve ever had anything.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Pray do not distress yourself. If what you saw has no connection with Mr. Brading’s death, it is, and can remain, their private affair. And now, perhaps, you would like to slip away. Major Forrest said he would give us a few minutes and then bring Mr. Moberly here. You will not, perhaps, wish—”

Stacy said, “Oh, no,” and fled.

James Moberly came in a little later with Charles Forrest behind him. Miss Silver’s position having been explained, he showed no surprise at her presence. Everything had become so disturbing, so complicated, so fraught with unpleasant possibilities, that he no longer had any expectation of comfort or security. Police, or private detectives, Inspector Crisp barking at him, or an elderly lady knitting up pale pink wool—it really no longer seemed to matter, since there appeared to be nothing but stark ruin ahead.

Charles said, “Sit down, James. I think you’ve met Miss Silver,” and he sat down, though he would rather have remained standing. Now they were all sitting, and no one had said anything yet—not anything that mattered. Presently they would begin. He supposed it would be the same thing over again. He sat there in a dull misery and waited.

Charles turned a frowning face upon him.

“Look here, James, I hope you don’t mind—for all our sakes we’ve got to do what we can to get to the bottom of this business. As I told you, Miss Silver is here because she is a private detective. Lewis went to see her a fortnight ago.”

James Moberly said, “You didn’t tell me that.”

“No.”

“Why did Mr. Brading go to a private detective?”

Miss Silver said in precise tones,

“He was uneasy. He said that on more than one occasion he had slept more heavily than was natural, and on waking he received a definite impression that there had been someone in the annexe.”

James Moberly could not have looked paler or more harassed. His face showed no change.

Charles said, “You understand the implication?”

He gave a slight hopeless shrug.

“That I drugged him? Oh, yes. Why am I supposed to have done that?”

“He did not say. He was uneasy. He wished me to come down and investigate. I refused. This morning I received a letter from him urging me to reconsider my decision. The postmark was Ledstow, two-thirty p.m. Immediately after reading it I read of his death in my morning paper. Major Forrest afterwards asked me to come down here.”

There was a pause. Then Charles said,

“It’s all damned unpleasant—better get on with it.”

He had a reproving glance from Miss Silver. She said,

“Mr. Brading suspected that someone was being admitted to the annexe at night. I must tell you that his suspicion is borne out by certain facts. On two occasions the light in the glass passage, which, I understand, is supposed to burn all night, was for a time switched off. Someone looking out of a window noticed that the passage was dark, and saw the light switched on again. This person had been wakened by the click of a latch. The second occasion on which this happened was the night before Mr. Brading’s death. Miss Hester Constantine was observed to come from the direction of the passage.”

James Moberly said nothing. He stared before him.

Miss Silver said,

“The person who saw Miss Constantine was able to describe every detail of her appearance. She was wearing an embroidered shawl of her mother’s—”

James Moberly said, “Stop!” But when the silence fell he had no more to say until Miss Silver spoke his name.

“Mr. Moberly—”

He broke out then.

“What are you implying? What is all this about? What have I got to do with Miss Constantine?”

“That is for you to say. The implication is, of course, quite clear. Perhaps we should ask Miss Constantine to join us.”

He said, “No!” in a dreadful voice. And then, “Not that!”

From staring at Miss Silver, he swung away to fix his eyes on Charles.

“Forrest—”

“Look here, James, this has gone far enough. Don’t you think you’d better make a clean breast of it? The plain fact is, we’ve none of us got any private affairs any longer. If you and Miss Constantine have been meeting here or in the annexe—well, in the ordinary way it would be no concern of mine, but—don’t you see, man, don’t you see, if you were fool enough to have her into the annexe—”

James Moberly lifted his head.

“She is my wife.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”

He repeated the words defiantly. He had not known that it would be such a relief to say them.

“She is my wife. We were married in Ledlington a month ago. There wasn’t any way we could meet. We could hardly see each other. You know how it was, Forrest. Mr. Brading wouldn’t let me go. But you mustn’t say I drugged him—I wouldn’t do that. He had his own sleeping tablets. I wouldn’t drug him.”

Charles laughed.

“My dear James! So you put one of his own sleeping tablets into that revolting drink which he always took the last thing, I suppose—some awful malt and cocoa compound. And that wasn’t drugging him!”

Moberly went on staring in a tired, obstinate way.

“It was only one of his own tablets. I wouldn’t drug him.”

Charles lifted a hand and let it fall again. He said,

“Well, well—” And then, “Everyone isn’t going to make such a nice distinction. March won’t, I’m afraid.”

The look of fatigue deepened.

“Are you going to tell—the police?”

“My dear James, what are we to do—you—I—any of us? Suppose we hush all this up and they nose it out. After all, you can’t get married without quite a number of people knowing about it. How did you do it?… Registrar’s office in Ledlington? Well, then, there you are. Before this happened it wasn’t anybody’s business, but now—why, it’s simply bound to come out, and it’s going to look a whole lot better for you if you come forward with the information yourself. After all, it’s got to come out some day.”

Moberly said,

“You don’t understand. If they know that Hester and I are married, it puts us both under suspicion. We say we were together here in the study between the time that Miss Grey left the hotel and the time you arrived. It happens to be true. We were here. I was telling her what I had said to Mr. Brading before lunch, and what he had answered. She knew that I was making a very strong effort to induce him to let me go. I had to tell her that I had failed. That is the truth. But the police won’t believe it. Because we are husband and wife they will think I could have gone into the annexe and shot Mr. Brading, and Hester would say I hadn’t left her. They might even say that she—” He broke off with a groan.

Miss Silver had been watching them in an interested manner, her hands busy with her knitting, her eyes noting every shade of expression. She now gave a gentle cough and said,

“It is true, Mr. Moberly, that your alibi for the time of the murder will not appear quite so strong once it is known that Miss Constantine is your wife. But it is also true, as Major Forrest says, that this fact is bound to emerge, and that any further attempt at concealment cannot fail to have a prejudicial effect. If you speak the plain truth, it will, I believe, carry conviction.”

He shook his head, and said without looking at her,

“You don’t know—”

Charles Forrest said,

“Yes, she does. Lewis told her when he went up to see her a fortnight ago. He spilled the whole thing—told her all the back history, and that I was his executor and would get his instructions to hand the dossier on to the police if anything happened to him.”

James Moberly dropped his head in his hands.

“That finishes it.” After a pause he spoke again. “Have you handed it on?”

“The dossier hasn’t reached me yet. He didn’t keep it knocking about, you know. It was in his solicitor’s safe. Someone will be coming down on Monday, and I expect I’ll get it then. As to whether it goes any farther or not, I never intended that it should. But it’s a bit out of my hands now—Lewis took it out of them when he went to see Miss Silver.”

Moberly looked up, his face dull and wretched.

“Miss Silver—he told you?”

“Yes, Mr. Moberly.”

“What? What did he tell you?”

“Mr. Brading informed me that he had a hold over you. He informed me of the nature of that hold.”

“Who else—knows?”

“The Chief Constable.”

James Moberly put his head in his hands again. He remained like that, bent forward over his knees, the long thin fingers running up into his hair—dark hair falling over the temples, fingers stained from the laboratory where Lewis Brading had died. All at once he made some sort of impatient sound, pushed back his hair, and got up. He turned to Charles.

“I’ve got to think. I must have time—I can’t take a decision like that all in a minute—it affects my wife. Nobody’s ever considered her, but she’s going to be considered now. I don’t want to let anyone down, but I’ve got to have time to think—you must understand that.”

Charles eyed him curiously.

“No one’s trying to hustle you.”

Moberly did not seem to hear this. He said again, and more vehemently,

“I must have time! It isn’t as if I’d only got myself to consider. You’ve been my friend. If it was only myself—but it isn’t—it can’t be. I’m bound to think about Hester. I can’t let her down without putting up a fight. You must see that.”

Charles nodded. He said, “Take all the time you want,” and saw him go over to the door and jerk it open.

He stood there a moment, half turning back as if he had something more to say, but in the end he went out, leaving the door standing. Charles went over and shut it. Then he came back and sat on the corner of the writing-table.

“He’s gone out to the annexe. That door into the glass passage clicks just like Stacy said. Did you notice it?”

“Yes, Major Forrest.”

He beat a tattoo with his fingers on the table and said,

“Poor devil! They’ll make up a case against him. He has a Past. He has a Motive. He drugs his employer—I’m afraid the gendarmerie will call it drugging. He gets married in a very clandestine manner. And his alibi is now on the flimsy side. All the same he didn’t kill Lewis, you know.”

Miss Silver gazed at him with mild enquiry.

“Why do you say that, Major Forrest?”

Charles gave his charming smile.

“Because I rather gather that he thinks I did.”