Miss Silver Comes To Stay

CHAPTER 18

Between eleven and twelve o’clock Superintendent Drake made his way to the White Cottage. Miss Cray was at home. She received him in the dining-room, very pale, very much under control. Sizing her up from between his red eyelashes, he considered that she might have done it, but if she had, he would have expected her to keep her head and not go leaving her raincoat for anyone to see. If she had left it. Perhaps she hadn’t-perhaps she was still in the room when the housekeeper opened the door the second time. Mrs. Mayhew said she had seen the coat at a quarter to ten with blood on the sleeve, but it wasn’t there in the morning when Mayhew discovered the body. It might have been removed at any moment between those times. If Miss Cray was still in the room at a quarter to ten she could have taken it when she left. If she had already gone she could have come back for it later-she, or the nephew.

He had these things in his mind as he took the chair she offered him and sat down. Constable Whitcombe sat down too, took out a notebook, arranged himself for writing.

Drake watched her closely when he introduced James Lessiter’s name. Her face did not change.

“You have heard of Mr. Lessiter’s death?”

He got a quiet, rather deep-toned “Yes.”

“When did you hear of it, Miss Cray-and how?”

“Mrs. Welby came over. She had heard of it from the milkman.”

“He hadn’t let you know?”

“He calls here before he goes to Melling House.”

“You were very much shocked and surprised?”

“Yes.”

The dining-table was between them. His chair was turned sideways. He shifted it now so as to face her more directly.

“Miss Cray, can you give me an account of your movements last night?”

“My movements?”

He was conscious of a slight feeling of satisfaction. When anyone repeated what you had said, it meant just one thing, whether it was man or woman. It meant that they were rattled, and that they were playing for time. He thought Miss Rietta Cray would do with a bit of a jolting. He proceeded to jolt her.

“You have your nephew staying with you-Mr. Carr Robertson? And a friend of his-?”

Rietta Cray supplied the name.

“Frances Bell.”

“I’d like to know what you were all doing last night.”

“We were here.”

“You didn’t leave the house-are you quite sure about that? Mrs. Mayhew states that she heard Mr. Lessiter address you by name when she went to the study door just before nine.”

The bright colour of anger came into her cheeks. Her grey eyes blazed. Had the Superintendent been a student of the classics, he might have been reminded of Virgil’s famous line about the “very goddess.” Not knowing it, he nevertheless received a general impression that Miss Cray was a high-tempered lady and a surprisingly handsome one. And he thought he had jolted her all right. But she fixed a steady gaze on him as she said,

“Mrs. Mayhew is perfectly right. I went up to see Mr. Lessiter between half past eight and a quarter past nine.”

“You were back here at a quarter past nine?”

“Miss Bell will tell you so. She remarked when I came in that I had missed the news.”

“Miss Bell? What about Mr. Robertson?”

“He wasn’t in the room.”

“Was he in the house?”

“No-he had gone for a walk.”

The Superintendent lifted his reddish eyebrows.

“At that hour!”

Miss Cray replied, “Why not?”

He left it at that.

“Miss Cray, I must ask you about this visit of yours to Melling House. You are an old friend of Mr. Lessiter’s?”

“I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years.”

“You were engaged to him?”

“More than twenty years ago.”

“There was a breach-a quarrel?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Who broke off the engagement?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I think that’s my business.”

The grey eyes were angry, scornful, and very fine. He didn’t know when he had seen a finer pair of eyes. He thought a woman who could get so much angry scorn into a look might very well do murder if she was put to it. He said,

“Miss Cray, were you aware that Mr. Lessiter had made a will in your favour?”

“He showed it to me last night. I told him it was absurd.”

“He had been burning your letters, hadn’t he?”

“If Mrs. Mayhew was listening at the door she will have told you that.”

“He had been burning your letters, and then he showed you the will-it’s dated twenty-four years ago. And he threw that on to the fire too.”

She said, “No-it was I who put it on the fire.”

“Oh, it was you?”

“The whole thing was absurd-a will made during a boy-and-girl engagement. I put it on the fire, but he took it off again. If Mrs. Mayhew was listening she ought to be able to confirm that. I would like you to understand that Mr. Lessiter was-” she hesitated, and then said, “amusing himself.”

“You mean he wasn’t serious?”

“Of course he wasn’t serious. He was teasing me. He saw that I was vexed, and it amused him.”

“You were vexed?”

“I disliked the whole thing very much.”

He leaned towards her, an elbow on the table.

“Was Mr. Lessiter amusing himself when he spoke of the possibility of his being murdered by Mr. Carr Robertson?”

She could control her voice, but not her angry blood. She felt it burn her face as she said,

“Of course!”

“You mean that he was joking. But there must be some reason even for a joke. Why should he make a joke like that?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Mrs. Mayhew states that she heard him say at one time that he didn’t particularly want to be murdered. And later on, after he had shown you the will and read out from it, ‘Everything to Henrietta Cray, the White Cottage, Melling,’ she heard him say, ‘If young Carr was to murder me tonight, you’d come in for quite a tidy fortune.’ He did say that, Miss Cray?”

“Something like it. I’ve told you he wasn’t serious. People don’t say that sort of thing seriously.”

“There’s many a true word spoken in jest. Murder is serious, Miss Cray. Mr. Lessiter was murdered last night. As far as we have any evidence, you were the last person to see him alive. Why did you go and see him?”

She said with composure, “Why should I not?”

“I was asking you why you did.”

“Why does one do anything? I thought I would.”

“It was a sudden impulse?”

“You may call it that.”

“Were you wearing a coat?”

“Certainly.”

“What kind of a coat?”

“I took one that was hanging in the hall.”

“Was it a coat belonging to your nephew?”

“It may have been-I took the first one I touched.”

“You were wearing it when you went?”

“Naturally.”

“And when you came back?”

Her colour rose again. She looked at him.

“Superintendent Drake, what is all this about my coat? I wore it, and it’s back on its hook in the hall.”

“Then I should like to see it, Miss Cray.”

If she had kept a brave front it covered a bitter cramping fear. She had made up her mind to tell the truth as far as she could, and when she got past that point to hold her tongue. There was more than one old coat hanging up in the hall-she could say that she had worn one of the others… She couldn’t do it. If you have been brought up to tell the truth, it is very difficult indeed to tell a lie, and next door to impossible to make it convincing. Rietta Cray had a direct and simple nature and a truthful tongue. She couldn’t do it. In a moment she was to be glad of this, because Inspector Drake walked down the line of coats, turning each one back so as to see the inner side. When he came to a plaid lining with a yellow stripe, he stopped, unhooked the coat, and turned back to the dining-room.

She followed him with a cold drag at her heart. If he had recognized Carr’s raincoat, it was because someone at Melling House had seen it and described it to him. Mrs. Mayhew had been listening at the door. If she had opened it a little way she might have seen the coat. That wouldn’t matter, because the Superintendent already knew that she had talked with James Lessiter. But suppose Mrs. Mayhew had come back later and seen the coat as it was when Carr brought it home- the sleeve soaked with blood, the whole right side of it splashed and stained-

It was a darkish morning. He took the coat to the window and examined it by touch and eye. He exclaimed,

“It’s damp!” And then, “This coat has been washed.” He held it at arm’s length with his right hand and pointed with his left. “All this right side has been washed-you can see the watermark. Why did you wash it, Miss Cray?”

She wasn’t angry now, she was controlled and pale. She made no answer.

“Was it to wash the bloodstains out? Mrs. Mayhew saw the sleeve hanging down, and the cuff was stained with blood.”

“I scratched my wrist.”

It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie, and not even a good one. She pulled away the sleeve of the jumper, and he said what Carr had said last night,

“That little scratch!”

Those were the words, but the tone added something. It said plainly and scornfully, “Can’t you do better than that?”

She made up her mind that she wouldn’t answer any more questions. She was perfectly plain about it, standing up straight and looking him in the face.

“I’ve told you the truth, and I have no more to say… Yes, I’ll sign a statement if you want me to, but I won’t answer any more questions.”

He folded up the raincoat, put it down on the window-seat, and asked to see Miss Frances Bell.