The Alington Inheritance

Chapter XXIV

Miss Silver was on her way to Hazeldon. She had to see the prisoner, and she wished also to see the place where the tragedy had happened, and to make such local enquiries as seemed good to her. As far as the first of these objects went, she had, paradoxically, deferred it to the end, since she wished to examine the scene of the crime and acquaint herself with all local details first, and Jimmy had been removed to the prison of the county town. She left the train and was looking about her for a cab, when a familiar voice hailed her.

“Miss Silver! And what might you be doing here?”

She turned with a smile to greet a very old friend, Detective Inspector Frank Abbott.

“I imagine that I am on the same business as you are,” she said.

Frank Abbott contemplated her with something approaching dismay.

“My dear ma’am, you don’t mean to tell me that you are in on this murder case!”

Miss Silver’s head rose a little.

“If by ‘this murder case’ you mean the charge against young Mr. Mottingley, I certainly mean it.”

Frank groaned in spirit.

“He did it, you know. Went too far, and when she threatened him with exposure he struck out.”

Miss Silver moved towards the entrance to the station.

“That is your opinion?” she said.

He nodded briefly.

“Oh, yes. And it will be yours, too, when you have seen the evidence. It’s all as plain as a pikestaff. I’m sorry you’ve let yourself in for it. But if you’re on your way to Hazeldon Heath, let me give you a lift. I’m going there, too.”

Miss Silver accepted the lift. It was a great advantage to have a foot in the other camp. She did not put it in quite this way, but that is what it amounted to. As they drove towards the Heath, she received a picture of the case against Jimmy Mottingley. It looked black enough, she could not deny that. She seized on the one point in Jimmy’s favour.

“No one knew that they were meeting,” she said. “Then why, if he had killed the girl, did he not make off? His car was just up the road. He could have been at a considerable distance from the spot, but instead he waits about and positively invites the attention of a passing cyclist.”

“Oh, my dear ma’am, this is a boy! He has killed the girl in a moment of madness and he loses his head. He is distraught-doesn’t know what he is doing. It’s common enough.” He shrugged. “Boy makes a fool of himself and takes the quickest way out. When it’s done he’s sorry-bitterly sorry and ashamed. The girl seems to have been a hard piece. I dare say she taunted him.”

“Nevertheless,” said Miss Silver gravely, “he stepped out into the road and hailed the farmer. His story is that he found the girl dead.”

Frank Abbott shrugged his shoulders.

“He had an appointment with her-he admits that. She is there first. He was late. He admits to that-says his mother had a visitor and kept him to see her. Well, there’s the makings of a row. He comes late and she has been waiting there for nearly an hour. Do you suppose she was in a very sweet temper?”

She said gravely, “I suppose not.”

“From what we have collected about the girl, I should say that she wasn’t. They have a row, and he knocks her down and then strangles her.”

Miss Silver turned to him with a look of attention.

“Say that again, Frank.”

“He knocks her out with a blow on the temple and then strangles her.”

“That is what happened?”

“That is what happened.”

“I did not know that. Do you not see that it makes all the difference? A young man not given to violence might conceivably strike an initial blow, but I find it quite impossible to believe that he would follow up that first blow with such determination that death would be inflicted. I have only had the elder Mr. Mottingley’s account of what happened, and he was so much distressed that I left the details for the moment. I knew that I should get them, and probably with less bias, when I came down here. If there was a first blow, I find it impossible to believe that Jimmy Mottingley was the murderer.”

Frank Abbott turned his head for a moment. He knew his Miss Silver very well. If she said she found it impossible to believe a thing, he might not share her view but he respected it.

“Well then, we know where we are,” he said. “I’m sorry we’re not on the same side, but what have you?”

Miss Silver’s expression deepened from gravity to reproof.

“My dear Frank,” she said, “antagonism between those who are seeking the truth is an impossibility. I am not for Jimmy Mottingley, neither are you against him. We are both, I hope, earnestly determined to seek for the truth of the matter, lay blame where it should be laid, and keep that open mind which alone can discern the truth.”

Frank, feeling quite unable to reply to this formidable peroration, was thankful to have come in sight of the two houses half way up the hill.

“Here we are,” he said. “The first house is Miss Danesworth’s. The next one is Mrs. Merridew’s. The murdered girl was her cousin, and was staying with her. I don’t mind telling you that Mrs. Merridew is a tough proposition.”

“Miss Caroline Danesworth?” enquired Miss Silver turning an interested face upon Frank.

“I believe so. Don’t tell me you know her!”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her last year. She was a friend of Mrs. Lucius Bellingdon’s. You will remember her as Mrs. Scott.” [* The Listening Eye.]

He nodded.

“A very charming person. Well, well, do we see her first? Or do you wish to make your enquiries privately? In which case I have an errand to Mrs. Merridew.”

“That I think will be better.” Miss Silver smiled graciously and got out. “I do not know at all how long I shall be. Perhaps we should say good-bye.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll give you a little time, and then I’ll come in. Mrs. Merridew is an acidulated person. I have an errand to her, but it won’t take me very long.”

As Miss Silver stood knocking at the door of Miss Danesworth’s house, her thoughts recurred to the strange case of the Listening Eye. She had met Lucius Bellingdon and his wife occasionally since the time when the whole house-party had been shaken by the strange events which led up to the tragedy on Emberley Hill and the deaths of Clay Masterson and Moira Herne. Sally Foster, too, now Mrs. David Moray. She had seen her and her young husband at her friends’, the Charles Morays. It really was a very small world, and it was pleasant to meet again, and in happier circumstances, those with whom one had lived and worked during cloudy and storm-threatening days.

She knocked for the second time, and the door was opened to her by a young girl of a most charming appearance. This would have been Miss Silver’s own description of her. She had dark curling hair and very clear brown eyes.

Miss Silver said, “I wonder if I can see Miss Danesworth. My name is Silver-Miss Maud Silver.”