The Chinese Shawl (12 page)

Miss Silver gave him her account of Jeffrey Hazelton’s brief meteoric irruption into their midst. It was lucid and remarkably to the point. Randal March, with the sheaf of statements in his hand, glanced sometimes at them and sometimes at her. When she had finished he said,

“H’m—yes. No difference of opinion as to the facts. What did you make of the fellow? Was he really dangerous? Or showing off? Or just too drunk to know what he was doing?”

Miss Silver considered. Then she said,

“All three, I should say.”

“Would you like to amplify that?”

She took a moment. “He is still very fond of her, and he has a grievance. I gather that he had been seeing a certain amount of her lately. He spoke to her the other night at the Luxe. I believe he asked her to dance, and that she refused. It would have made her rather conspicuous, though I do not know that she would have cared about that. He evidently followed her down here. The Maxwell brothers saw him drinking at the Angel some time before dinner. Then a good deal later he came up here. He was drunk, and obsessed with his feelings and his grievance. He was out of his own control and on the edge of a collapse.”

“You think that he might have shot her then?”

“Undoubtedly. He had the pistol actually pushed against her chest and his finger shaking on the trigger. If she had shrunk away from him, or cried out, or done anything to stimulate his nervous excitement, he would, I am quite sure, have shot her then. She behaved with great coolness and presence of mind.”

“And you don’t admire her for doing so. Will you tell me why?”

Miss Silver dropped her knitting in her lap and looked at him.

“I never saw anyone show less feeling,” she said. “Even a stranger would have experienced some pity for Mr. Hazelton—he broke down so completely, sobbing, and saying her name over and over. And she had not a thought for him. She was excited, pleased—almost openly triumphant. I considered it a very painful exhibition.”

Randal March laid down the papers he was holding.

“Your sympathy seems to be entirely with the criminal,” he said drily. “Rather unusual for you, isn’t it?”

Miss Silver picked up the pink infant’s vest she was knitting, measured it carefully against her hand and wrist, and began to cast off. She said then in a quiet, serious voice,

“I should be very much surprised to learn that Mr. Hazelton was the criminal.”

Superintendent March did not exactly start, but he came very near to doing so.

“I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious.”

Miss Silver coughed and said,

“My dear Randal!”

He laughed, but he changed colour.

“Well, you know that nine times out of ten the obvious person really is the criminal.”

She repeated the cough.

“I would not put it as high as that myself. But even with one chance in ten I consider it inadvisable to close the mind to other possibilities by assuming one obvious person’s guilt.”

Incontinently his mind went back some twenty-six years. In the dock—in this case his father’s study—Randal March aged nine and a month or so, accused of stealing plums from old Gregory’s orchard and very much the obvious criminal. Miss Silver, then as now, declining to accept the obvious, sticking it out, proving her point, bringing Isobel, the real culprit, to repentance, getting him off—all in the primmest, driest manner imaginable, without fear or favouritism.

He turned an affectionate and respectful look upon her now.

“You’ll admit, I suppose, that Hazelton is a suspect. I’ll be interested to know why you won’t consider him as the murderer.”

She cast off a couple of stitches.

“I think he might very easily have shot her on Wednesday evening. But he was seen off to London next day by Mr. Desborough and Mr. Robin Maxwell. I do not find myself readily able to believe that he returned that same evening, induced Miss Lyle to admit him to the Priory, and then shot her in the back—she was shot in the back, was she not?”

“Oh, yes. Why do you think he wouldn’t do it?”

The pink stitches were dropping evenly and methodically from the needles. Miss Silver said,

“He was very fond of her, very much in love with her. It would have required some strong stimulus to make him shoot her. She would have had to be facing him—quarrelling, or arguing, or resisting him. I feel quite sure that he would not have shot her in the back.”

As she spoke, the door opened. The maid Perry stood there. Seeing her full face for the first time, March found her one of the least attractive of the female sex. Such a flat, ironed-out figure. Such a fleshless, bloodless face. And those pale eyes.

She kept a hand on the door, long, thin and bony, and said with a certain acid restraint, addressing the Superintendent,

“Miss Fane will see you now.”

If he expected a “sir”, he didn’t get one. He never would from Perry. The police were the police. They had their work to do, and it was better not to get on the wrong side of them, but they were, and remained, the dirt beneath the feet of Miss Agnes Fane. He said in a pleasant authoritative voice,

“Thank you. I will come up in a moment. Miss Silver will show me the way. You need not wait.”

When she had gone and the door was shut, he said,

“I haven’t been able to find anyone yet who heard the shot. I must have everyone asked whether they heard it. When we go up I want you to go in to Miss Adams and just ask her that one question. Will you do that?”

Miss Silver broke off her wool, passed the end through the last stitch, and drew it tight. She put the needles and the completed vest into her knitting-bag and rose to her feet.

“Certainly, my dear Randal.”

They came up the stairs and turned into the corridor.

“In the rooms on the right,” said Miss Silver, “are, first, Laura Fane, then Miss North, with a bathroom between. Then Miss Lyle, another bathroom, and the octagon room, which as you see, juts out into the corridor. On the left there is first a bathroom. Then Lucy Adams, another bathroom, a small room occupied by Perry, and Agnes Fane’s room, which is much larger than any of the others. Of all the people in the house she is the most likely to have heard the shot, since her room has two windows looking that way. It is, in fact, barely possible that she did not hear it, whereas Lucy is very unlikely to have done so. There are three rooms between hers and the side of the house where the murder was committed, and I happen to know that she would not dream of having a window open at night at this time of the year. But if you wish me to ask her whether she heard anything, I will do so.”

“If you don’t mind.”

Miss Silver tapped at the door and, receiving no articulate reply, opened it and went in, leaving it ajar behind her. She found herself in a confusing pink dusk, the curtains being completely drawn across both windows. As she advanced towards where she knew the bed to be, a voice came to her choked with sobs.

“Who is it? I can’t see anyone—I can’t!”

Her eyes adjusting themselves to the semi-darkness, Miss Silver made out the bed and, prostrate upon it, Miss Adams, her face half buried in the pillows. She said in a kind, firm voice,

“I am not come to disturb you, my dear Lucy. I am sure you know how much I feel for you in your grief. The Superintendent has deputed me to ask you a question. He has no wish to intrude upon you, but it is his duty to find out whether there is anybody in the house who heard the shot. Perhaps you will just tell me whether you did hear anything.”

Miss Adams sobbed into the pillow. A hand was laid gently but firmly upon her shoulder.

“Come, Lucy, you have only to say yes or no. Did you hear anything?”

The head turned. The eyes blinked against tears. The weak voice said,

“Not a shot—how could I—the windows were shut—I didn’t hear any shot—”

Something in the faint, wavering emphasis upon the twice repeated word made Miss Silver say quickly,

“You didn’t hear the shot? Did you hear anything else?”

As soon as the words were said they seemed absurd, for what else was there to hear?

Lucy Adams became still and rigid under her hand. Then she pushed the hand away with violence.

“I can’t talk about it—I can’t! You mustn’t ask me! I can’t tell you—I can’t tell anyone!”

Miss Silver came out of the room and shut the door behind her.

“You heard what she said, Randal?”

“Yes—no shot—but something else. It seems to have had a very upsetting effect. I wonder what it was.”

Miss Silver said without any noticeable expression,

“She is greatly upset. It has been a severe shock. But she will be better tomorrow. You can question her then.”

Randal March found himself a good deal impressed by Miss Agnes Fane. She was sitting in a large armchair beside her bedroom fire. The curtains were drawn back and the light came in. There was none of the disorder or dishevelment of grief. She sat upright and composed, her hair in its accustomed waves, a string of pearls relieving the plain black of her dress.

He received a slight inclination of the head and a request that he would be seated. She understood that he desired to see her, but she was afraid that she could do very little to assist the course of justice. Her voice was deep and strong. She spoke with authority and condescension. But though she carried it with an air she was plainly a woman who had received a very great shock. She held her head high, but the tension of the throat muscles was to be discerned. The hand which had laid down the pen at his entrance now rested upon the wide arm of her chair. The fingers, slightly curved, had an appearance of rigidity. One of them wore a very fine diamond solitaire.

He put his question, and received his answer.

“No—I heard nothing.”

His eyes went to the two south windows, one on either side of the bed. They came back to her expressionless face.

“You are a sound sleeper, Miss Fane?”

There was a faint flicker of a smile.

“A very poor one, I am afraid. So poor that I am sometimes obliged to take a sleeping-draught. I did so last night. I am an invalid, you know.”

She might have been claiming some prerogative. He felt a slight unwilling amusement. Pride, yes—but pride in her own disability? He thought Agnes Fane had been made for better things than that.

He rose to go, but she detained him with a lift of that rigid hand. The diamond flashed.

“Has he been arrested?”

“There has been no arrest as yet. May I ask whose arrest you were expecting?”

A spark like contempt came into her eyes. He found it galling.

“Whose arrest? Why, the murderer’s. Has no one told you that Jeffrey Hazelton would have shot my niece on Wednesday night if she had not saved herself by her own courage and presence of mind? He is, of course, not responsible for his actions and should have been placed under restraint. I am very much to blame for not having insisted on it.”

“You think Mr. Hazelton returned here last night, and that it was he who shot Miss Lyle?”

Again the contempt which set him definitely in the moron class.

“I should say it was obvious.”

He said a little stiffly,

“Mr. Hazelton has naturally not been overlooked. He will have to give an account of his movements after leaving here. I am expecting a call at any time now. You may be quite sure that everything is being done, Miss Fane. But the surgeon’s report and that of the ballistics expert will have to be taken into consideration.”

She regarded him for the first time with interest.

“If the bullet had been fired from the pistol which was taken from Jeffrey Hazelton on Wednesday night, the expert would be able to prove it. That is what you mean?”

“Yes. A bullet is marked by the rifling. No two firearms would mark a bullet in quite the same way.”

Her face changed.

“That proves nothing in this case. He may have shot her with that pistol, or with another one. It proves nothing. He had another.”

“Yes, I remember—Desborough mentioned that in his statement. Miss Lyle said so—didn’t she?”

“Yes.” Her hand clenched on the arm of the chair. Before he could speak she said in an insistent voice, “Mr. Desborough was engaged to my niece. Did he mention that in his statement?”

If Randal March was surprised he contrived not to show it. It had certainly not occurred to him to regard Carey Desborough in the light of a bereaved lover. In their short interview he had displayed the gravity and concern of a friend, but nothing more.

He said, after what he hoped was not a noticeable pause,

“No, he didn’t mention that. Was there an engagement?”

“Yes. They had had an understanding for some time. The engagement would have been announced shortly.”

After a moment he said,

“Why do you tell me this, Miss Fane? Are you suggesting jealousy as a motive for the crime? Was Mr. Hazelton known to be jealous?”

She said, “I don’t know.” And then, “My niece obtained her divorce for infidelity. Mr. Hazelton had no rights where she was concerned.”

Well, he had obviously had feelings. There was no more to be said. He took his leave.

As he passed the maid Perry’s door it opened and she came out. Her pale eyes dwelt on him with a flicker of something which he thought was dislike. She said in her acid voice,

“I’d like to have a word with you if it’s convenient.”

Carey and Laura walked across the fields when the day had slipped into afternoon. As far as the light went, it might have been any time between dawn and dusk—low cloud, no visible sun; no colour in sky, or grass, or hedgerow; a desolate greyness everywhere. It was cold. Not with the stinging cold of wind or frost which whips the blood to the cheeks. The wind was all gone, there was no frost. The path was soft and miry. A chilly damp which might be fog by nightfall oozed from the ground and clung about them. But it was better than being indoors. Here at least they could be alone together and could speak freely.

“It’s frightful in the house—like being shut up in the dark, you don’t quite know what’s there.” Laura’s voice was still hushed, as if it hardly realized its freedom. “I wouldn’t mind if one could be any use to anyone, but one can’t. They’d be thankful to be rid of us. How long do you think we shall have to stay?”

“For the inquest—and the funeral. The Maxwells’ leave is up on Sunday night. If the inquest isn’t tomorrow, I suppose they’ll have to come back for it. I don’t know how long these things take.”

“Nor do I. It will be a good thing for the Maxwells to get away. Alistair looks awful, doesn’t he?”

“A dozen murders and he’s done them all. It’s just as well everyone’s so sure it’s Hazelton. Petra and Robin have dragged Alistair out. I don’t envy them their walk. But it’s no use his mooning round, setting everyone talking.”

“No—they had to get him out. But I don’t know about us—I’ve got a feeling that we oughtn’t to have come.”

“What harm is it doing anyone?”

She managed rather a piteous laugh.

“Darling—there are such heaps of things that don’t do any harm and you can’t do them, because it simply isn’t worth upsetting people like Cousin Agnes and Cousin Lucy. I don’t think we’re really supposed to go out before the funeral. Aunt Theresa’s like that, so I know.”

Carey said something sharp and short. He added that they would have to go to the inquest anyway, so as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

“Anyhow there’s no sense in our all being boxed up there together till we go off our heads.”

Laura nodded.

“Carey, it’s frightful—isn’t it? I don’t mean just about Tanis, but what it does to everyone else. If you speak, you feel as if someone were listening at the door. Perry does, you know—Petra says she’s practically caught her at it. And Cousin Agnes frightens me.”

Carey slipped an arm through hers and held it close. Comforting to feel that strong arm and the rough thickness of his coat.

He said, “Have you seen her?”

A little shiver ran over her as she said, “Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now, when I went up to get my coat. Perry came and knocked on my door and said Cousin Agnes wanted to see me. And there she was, with boxes of things she had had sent out from Ledlington—mourning, you know. And she gave me a black dress—I’ve got it on—and said she would be glad if I would wear it. She said she didn’t expect me to go into mourning for a cousin whom I scarcely knew, but she thought it would be better for me to be in black as long as I was at the Priory. She thought I should have to stay for the inquest, and that she would appreciate my presence at the funeral. It was all frightfully grand and condescending. And right at the end she said that this wasn’t of course the time to talk about business, but she would like me to realize that her plans with regard to the Priory were unchanged.”

“She didn’t!”

“She did.”

“She still wants to buy it? Now—after this?”

He felt her shiver again.

“It’s frightful, isn’t it?”

“It’s a bit inhuman. What will you do—let her have it?”

“Oh, yes—anything she wants! And I’m thankful she wants it. We couldn’t live there, could we—not now—not ever?”

He said in a meditative voice, “I suppose not—” And then, with a lively change of manner, “It doesn’t matter where we live, does it? But let’s plan it. There isn’t any Hitler and there isn’t any war and we’re getting married next week—what sort of house shall we have?”

The cold, dark current which was carrying them sank away out of sight. Their raft of make-believe hid it for one of those short enchanted hours which makes amends for all. That it was still there, that its tide rocked the very fabric of their happiness, that its spray would presently chill them to the bone again, they knew, but for the moment they did not greatly care. There was so much to give, to learn, to share— all those inner treasures of the heart which are increased by such a giving.

They made a wide circuit and were coming home, when a solitary walker passed them at no more than a twenty-foot distance. It was Tim Madison, walking fast and furiously, hands deep in the pockets of a Burberry. He was bare-headed. The red hair flamed. His chin was thrust out and his face lifted. His eyes, blank and blue, stared at the sky. He looked like a blind man, or a man walking in his sleep. He went past them without a sign and on down the reaches of the field.

Carey said, “Poor devil—he’s taking it hard.”