Miss Silver Comes To Stay

CHAPTER 19

Fancy came into the room, her blue eyes very wide. They observed the Superintendent, and didn’t think much of him. Like Mrs. Mayhew, Miss Bell had no affection for a foxy man. The young man with the notebook at the end of the dining-table was better-quite nicelooking in fact. She wondered, as she always wondered about any new young man, whether he could dance. Such a lot of nice boys couldn’t, and the boys that could weren’t always the nice ones. With these simple thoughts in her mind she sat down in a chair which faced the window, thus affording both men an unshadowed view of her quite incredible complexion.

Constable Whitcombe was not unaffected. He gazed, at first in doubt, but later with heart-felt appreciation. If Superintendent Drake had any such feelings he concealed them perfectly, and produced his questions in the impersonal manner of a conjurer pulling rabbits out of a hat.

They began by being very small rabbits, and Fancy received them in an amiable manner. She agreed that she was Miss Frances Bell, and that she was a friend of Mr. Carr Robertson’s. She was staying at the White Cottage on a short visit. Oh, no, she wasn’t engaged to Mr. Robertson-nothing like that-they were just friends. She didn’t know Mr. Lessiter at all. She didn’t even know him by sight-not till she saw his picture in the paper.

“And when was that, Miss Bell?”

“Oh, that was last night.”

He leaned towards her across the table.

“Now, Miss Bell, I want you to tell me just what happened last night.”

The blue eyes opened slowly.

“How do you mean, happened?”

“Well, just what you did, all three of you-you, and Miss Cray, and Mr. Robertson.”

“Well, Carr and I were up in town for the day. We got back a little before seven, and we had supper, and Mr. Ainger came in with some picture-papers. Is that what you want?”

“Yes. What time would that be?”

“Well, it would be about a quarter past eight.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Ainger went away-he had to go and see an old woman who was ill. And then Miss Cray went to the telephone-it’s in here. Carr and I looked at Mr. Ainger’s papers.”

“Was that when you saw Mr. Lessiter’s picture?”

“Yes-only it was Carr that saw it, not me. I can show it to you if you like.”

He said, “Presently will do for that. So Mr. Robertson saw this picture. What did he say when he saw it?”

The blue eyes wavered from his. It is a fact that not till this moment did it occur to Fancy that what Carr had said could have any possible connection with James Lessiter’s death an hour or two later. If Carr himself or Rietta Cray had pointed out the connection by asking her to forget what had happened between Henry Ainger’s agreeable departure and Carr’s tempestuous one, she would doubtless have done her best to comply, and under expert cross-examination she would almost certainly have failed. But neither Carr nor Rietta had been able to bring themselves to suggest any such thing. To each of them it would have looked like an admission of guilt. The mere possibility was dismissed with angry pride. Fancy was therefore left to her own direction. A bewildered, frightened feeling swept over her. Carr’s voice rang harshly in her memory: “So it’s you-you swine!” She couldn’t tell the Superintendent that. But what was she to tell him? When you can’t tell the truth and you haven’t had any practice in telling lies, what do you do? She hadn’t the faintest idea. An exquisite flush rose and glowed under the fine skin, the blue eyes slowly filled. Constable Whitcombe found himself quite unable to look away. The Superintendent remained unaffected. He thought the girl was a fool, and he thought he was going to get something out of her. He repeated his question rather sharply.

“What did he say?”

There was a pause. The blush faded. Fancy said,

“Miss Cray came back, and Carr went out for a walk.”

Drake rapped on the table.

“You haven’t answered my question, Miss Bell. Mr. Robertson saw this picture of Mr. Lessiter. What did he say when he saw it-did he appear to recognize it?”

“Well, sort of-”

“You’ll have to explain that. I want to know what he said.”

Fancy did the best she could.

“He-he seemed surprised.”

Drake was quick.

“Do you mean that he recognized the picture, but he was surprised to find it was Mr. Lessiter?”

“Yes-sort of.”

“He was surprised. Was he angry?”

What could she say to that? Angry wasn’t the word. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything. Her silence gave consent.

“He was angry when he recognized Mr. Lessiter-very angry?”

She sat looking down at the table, damp lashes shading her eyes.

Drake rapped again.

“He recognized Mr. Lessiter, and he was angry. Why? I think you know. If you don’t tell me, someone else will.”

Fancy’s head came up with a jerk. She whisked away two angry tears. Her eyes blazed.

“Then you can go and ask them!” she said. Her native Stepney rose vigorously.

“Miss Bell-”

She pushed back her chair and jumped up.

“It’s no use your asking me a lot of questions I can’t answer. If you’ve got other people who can answer you, go and ask them. If you want to know what Carr said, ask him-he can tell you a lot better than me!”

The Superintendent maintained his poise. He said,

“I can’t force you to answer my questions, Miss Bell, but when the inquest is held you will be obliged to attend and give your evidence on oath. Meanwhile it is of course your duty to assist the police in every way you can.”

She stood there. Now that he had made her angry, she wasn’t frightened any more. He couldn’t make her speak- he had said so himself. She wouldn’t answer anything she didn’t want to. She wouldn’t answer anything about Carr being angry.

Now he was speaking again.

“Mr. Robertson went out, and then Miss Cray went out?”

“Yes.”

“How long were they away?”

“They didn’t go together. He went out of the front door, and she went out at the back.”

“All right, we’ll take them one at a time. When did Miss Cray come in?”

What did he want with all these silly questions? What was he getting at? She said,

“It was a quarter past nine-the news had just finished.”

“And Mr. Robertson?”

“I don’t know-I went to bed.”

“You didn’t hear him come in?”

“No, I didn’t. I can’t tell you any more about anything.”

He said, “Just a minute, Miss Bell-it was after Mr. Robertson had recognized the picture that he went out, didn’t he?”

“I told you he did.”

“What time was that?”

“It was half past eight. I looked to see because of the wireless programme.”

“Mr. Robertson recognized this picture and almost immediately went out of the house. He was angry, wasn’t he? Did he bang the door?”

He’d trick her, would he? Fancy’s temper boiled over.

“Ask him!” she said and ran out of the room. The dining-room door fell to behind her with a resounding slam.

Constable Whitcombe so far forgot himself as to whistle.