Anna, Where Are You?

CHAPTER XXXVI

At the sound of the opening door Peter Brandon let go of the wrist he was holding and straightened up. He saw Miss Silver in her blue dressing-gown with the white crochet trimming, her hair very neatly arranged under the strong silk net which she wore over it at night, and a look of grave enquiry on her face. As he turned, she spoke in a serious, level voice,

“What are you doing here, Mr. Brandon?”

He could very reasonably have asked the same question, but it simply did not occur to him to do so. He might have been eight years old again, raiding the jam cupboard. He said,

“I was looking for Thomasina.”

“Is she here?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid she might be.”

Miss Silver gave her slight cough.

“We will speak of that later. Is Mr. Craddock dead?”

“I think so. He wasn’t when I came, but I can’t feel any pulse now.”

She came forward into the room, knelt down, and took hold of a wrist where the pulse would never beat again. After a moment or two she said,

“No, there is nothing. He is dead. How long have you been here?”

“I came to find Thomasina. She said something this afternoon about Anna Ball being here, locked up in a cellar. I said it was all nonsense, and we quarrelled. I wanted her to go away. I thought-”

“Mr. Brandon, I asked you how long you had been here.”

He stared at her.

“I came up to look for her, and the door was ajar. As soon as I got inside the hall there was a shot. I couldn’t tell where it came from. I tried two passages before I found the one with that playacting hand. I was looking at it when the shot went off, right in here. I wasn’t a minute opening the door, but there was no one here except Craddock. I had to see if there was anything I could do for him. I tried to stop the bleeding with my handkerchief.”

Miss Silver had already noticed the handkerchief. Peveril Craddock had been wearing one of the loose smocks which he affected, of a deep blue in colour. It had been torn open down the front, and Mr. Brandon’s handkerchief pushed between it and the vest which was worn underneath. Since the handkerchief was of a dark red colour, the extent to which it was stained did not immediately appear. She said,

“Was he conscious? Did he speak at all?”

He shook his head.

“There was just a bit of a pulse. He wasn’t quite dead, but as near as makes no difference.”

Miss Silver had looked at her watch at the sound of the second shot. She had glanced at it again before opening the door of this room. On his own showing Peter Brandon had been alone with the dead or dying man for just under three minutes, during which time he had been occupied in a reasonable and humane attempt to stanch the wound or wounds. On his own showing-

He might or might not be speaking the truth. There had been two shots. He might have been here when the first shot was fired, and for some time before that. She suspended judgment. And meanwhile she surveyed the scene.

From the way in which the writing-chair had fallen it looked as if Peveril Craddock had been sitting at the table. Upon the far side of it there was a second chair, pushed back at an angle. It looked as if someone had sat there and talked with Mr. Craddock. They had talked, and then something had been said or done which turned two men talking in a comfortable room with a table between into a murderer and his victim. Both had sprung up, Peveril Craddock with so violent a backward thrust as to send his chair flying. And the other man had shot him down. If he had fallen at the first shot, the murderer must have come round the table and stood over him to see whether he was dead.

She weighed in her own mind the time between the first and second shots. She had been startled. She had listened. She had risen from her chair, slipped her torch into her dressing-gown pocket, and gone to the door to stand there and listen again. Just what had been happening in this room whilst she was doing these things? Peveril Craddock had fallen. The murderer must make sure that he is dead. He comes round the table to make sure. There is still some life, some movement. He fires a second shot. Yes, it would be that way. If Mr. Brandon was the murderer, the weapon must be here in this room. If he was the murderer, she could conceive of no reason why he should have lingered on the scene or have been endeavouring to stanch the wounds. Again these thoughts passed so quickly that there was hardly a noticeable pause before she said,

“I see there is a telephone on the table. The police must be informed immediately.”

It was the number of Frank Abbott’s hotel that she called. He woke from a deep and dreamless sleep to the maddening iteration of the bell right there beside his bed. His “Hullo?” sounded only half awake. To this drowsy state Miss Silver’s voice came like a splash of cold water.

“Is that Inspector Abbott?”

He was startled broad awake.

“Miss Silver! What is it?”

“Peveril Craddock has been shot-here in his study at Deepe House-the main part of the building. The front door is ajar, and when you come into the hall you will see a lighted passage on the right-hand side. The study is at the end of it. Mr. Peter Brandon is with me. There is urgent need for haste. Inspector Jackson should arrange for a search warrant for all the houses in the Colony. A plain stick with a crook and a left-hand wash-leather glove with a small triangular tear between the first and second fingers should be looked for. But someone should come here at once. I am ringing off.”

Replacing the receiver, she turned, to see Peter Brandon looking at her with a good deal of attention.

“Why did you tell him I was here?”

“Because you are here, Mr. Brandon, and I think the police will want to know why.”

“I have told you why. I came here to look for Thomasina.”

“Have you any real reason to suppose that she is here?”

The farther he got in his attempt to explain, the less probable it all sounded, and the more apparent did it become that reason had really nothing to do with it at all. He found himself thinking, “If anyone pitched me a tale like that, I’d say he was a liar and a fool-”

The words dried up on his tongue. Miss Silver was gazing at him in a thoughtful manner.

“You felt anxious about Miss Elliot because you were afraid she might take it into her head to explore Deepe House during the night, so you climbed out of your window and walked up to the Miss Tremletts’, where you found that one of the bedrooms still showed a light. After watching it for some time you came on to Deepe House.”

Put like that, it sounded even worse than he had supposed. An idiot child could have produced a better story. He felt as if Miss Silver was looking right through him. The blood rushed to his face. His ears felt as if they had suddenly become red hot.

She said in a tolerant tone,

“It will be quite easy to find out if she is at home. We can ring the Miss Tremletts up.”

It was Miss Gwyneth who answered the call. She sounded both flustered and cross.

“Oh, dear-what is it?… Miss Silver! Has anything happened? It’s the middle of the night… Miss Elliot? Ina!… Why of course she is! Where else should she be at this hour? Really, Miss Silver… Well, of course, if you insist. But I must say-”

It did not get said, because Miss Gwyneth here let go of the receiver, groped for her slippers, clutched her dressing-gown angrily about her, whisked along a passage, and flung open the door of Thomasina’s room.

She found it empty.

The bed not slept in. No sign of the clothes Thomasina had been wearing. No sign of her outdoor shoes. No sign of her coat.

It was a very frightened voice which came along the line to Miss Silver, waiting in the study at Deepe House.

“Oh, Miss Silver-she isn’t here! Her bed hasn’t been slept in! Her coat isn’t there-she must have gone out! Oh dear, oh dear-what had I better do?”

Miss Silver said firmly,

“Pray do nothing at all, Miss Tremlett.” After which she replaced the receiver and turned to Peter. “She is not there.”

He was at her elbow.

“I know-I heard. This place is like a rabbit-warren-she may be anywhere.”

The words “She may be dead” presented themselves. They clamoured to be admitted. He slammed all his doors upon them, but he had seen them and they could not be forgotten.

Miss Silver said,

“Since you say you heard the second shot when you were just upon the other side of the door, there must be some other way out of this room. How long was it before you came in?”

“Oh, no time at all. I suppose half a minute. A thing like that takes you aback. I switched on my torch, and found I didn’t need it.”

Miss Silver had turned from the writing-table. The room had a deep bay at one end of it. The windows were screened by warm brown velvet curtains. On the left-hand side they extended beyond the bay. It occurred to her that there might be a door in that part of the wall which the curtains concealed. The man who fired the second shot would have had very little time to get away. He must have been aware that he had a line of retreat, and he must have been quick to avail himself of it. He could have slipped behind those curtains in time to avoid being seen. If there was a door there, he must already have made his escape. If there was no door, he might still be there behind the heavy velvet folds, pressed close against wall or window and hearing all that passed. In this case they were, of course, in some considerable danger.

Before Peter Brandon had the least idea of what she was going to do she walked to the window and drew the left-hand curtain back.