The Case Is Closed

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hilary came away from Henry Eustatius, Antiques, with a flaming colour and a determination not to be downed by Henry Cunningham. If she once let Henry down her, her spirit would be broken and she would rapidly become a dreep. Like Mrs. Mercer. Like Mrs. Ashley. Horrible and repellent prospect. They had both probably started quite young and pretty – the Ashley daily help certainly had – and some man had downed them and trampled on them until they had just given up and gone quietly down the drain. She could imagine Mercer breaking any woman’s spirit if she was fool enough to let him, and the other poor creature had probably had a husband who trampled on her, too. That was what was the matter with Henry – he was a trampler born, and bred, and burnt right in. But she wasn’t going to be the person he trampled on. If he wanted a door-mat he could go and marry a door-mat, and it wasn’t going to be Hilary Carew.

She had walked nearly a quarter of a mile before her cheeks cooled. She stopped being angry, and thought what a pity it was that they couldn’t have had lunch before they quarrelled. Henry was a hearty breakfast eater. He had probably had eggs, and sausages and bacon, and things like that no longer ago than nine o’clock, but Hilary had had toast and tea at eight, and it seemed so long ago that she had forgotten all about them. Prowling round Putney, and interviewing housekeepers and daily helps, and quarrelling with Henry were all things that made you very hungry, especially quarrelling with Henry. If Henry hadn’t been determined to quarrel he would have taken her out to lunch first, and now she would have to go and have a glass of milk and a bun in a creamery with a lot of other women who were having buns and milk, or bovril, or milk with a dash of coffee, or a nice cup of tea. It was a most frightfully depressing thought, because one bun was going to make very little impression on her hunger, and she certainly couldn’t afford any more. Extraordinarily stupid of Henry not to have given her lunch first. They could have quarrelled comfortably over their coffee if he was absolutely set on quarrelling, instead of uncomfortably in the Den with nothing inside you and no prospect of anything except a bun. It was a bad, bleak, bitter, and unbearable business. And it was all Henry’s fault.

Hilary found her creamery and ate her bun – a peculiarly arid specimen. There were little black things in it which might once have been currants but were now quite definitely fossils. Not a good bun. Hilary’s imp chanted mournfully:

‘How bitter when your only bun

Is not at all a recent one.’

When she had finished it she got out her purse and counted up her money. There was just about enough to buy a third-class return to Ledlington. She looked at the coins and wondered whether it was the slightest use for her to go there. There was no reason to suppose that it would be any use at all. She tossed her head. There are always such a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t do a thing that if it were not that something pushed you along in spite of yourself, you would never do anything at all. She was unaware that Dr. Johnson had moralised upon this theme to Boswell, or that he had called the something which impels you the pressure of necessity. There are many necessities, to each his own -a driving force which will not be denied. Hilary’s necessity was to find out what Mrs. Mercer knew. She didn’t reason ahout it. If she had, common sense would have urged that Ledlington is a considerable place, and that she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to find the Mercers – she hadn’t even the slightest idea of how to begin to look for them. To all this she opposed a firm and unreasoning purpose. She was going to buy a third-class ticket, go down to Ledlington, and look for Mrs. Mercer.

Henry had a much better lunch than Hilary. He felt a kind of gloomy satisfaction in having held his own. Once let Hilary think that she could take her way without reference to him and in disregard of his opinion and of his advice, and their married life would become quite impossible. The trouble about Hilary was that she always wanted her own way, and just because it was her own way it had to be the right one. She didn’t listen to reason, and she wouldn’t listen to him. She just took the bit in her teeth and bolted. It was a pity, because – here Henry faltered a little – she was – well, she was Hilary, and at her silliest and most obstinate he loved her better than he had ever loved anyone in all his life. Even when she was being supremely aggravating there was something about her which put her on a different footing to everyone else. That was why he was simply bound to keep his end up. If he didn’t, she’d be trying to run him, twisting him round her little finger, making a fool of him. It was when he felt all this most acutely that Henry’s voice took its hardest tone and his eye its most dominant stare. And behind all this protective armour there was a Henry who shrank appalled from the picture of a world without Hilary, a life without Hilary. How could she leave him when she was his, and knew, as she must know, that he was hers? They belonged to each other and could not be divided.

Henry frowned at his chop and considered what he was going to do next. Hilary would come back. He could let her run foot-loose now, because she was bound to come back in the end. Meanwhile there was this damned Everton Case. It had been closed a year ago, and here it came, cropping up again and making trouble, and if Hilary insisted on going grubbing into it, there was going to be more trouble. His frown deepened. Infernal cheek of that man Mercer to go following her in the street. Something fishy about it too – something fishy about the Mercers – though he’d see Hilary at Jericho before he encouraged her in this insensate nonsense by admitting it.

He went on frowning and finishing the chop whilst he considered the possibility of turning some expert eye upon the Mercers and their doings. One might find out where they were, and what they had been doing since James Everton’s death. One might direct the expert attention to the question of their financial position. Was there anything to suggest that it had been improved by James Everton’s death? He seemed to remember that there had been some small legacy which would be neither here nor there, but if there was any solid financial improvement, it would bear looking into. The expert might also be instructed to delve into the Mercers’ past. He supposed that this would have been done at the time of the inquest, but with Geoffrey Grey so compromisingly in the limelight as the guilty person, it was possible that these enquiries had not gone very far. He thought there was undoubtedly work for an expert here.

He went back to the shop and rang up Charles Moray, who was some sort of seventeenth cousin and a very good friend.

‘That you, Charles?… Henry speaking.’

‘Which of them?’ said Charles with a slight agreeable tinge of laughter in his voice. A very good telephone voice. It sounded exactly as if he was in the room.

‘Cunningham,’ said Henry.

‘Hullo – ’ullo – ’ullo! How’s the antique business?’

Henry frowned impatiently.

‘That’s not what I rang you up about. I wanted to know – that is, didn’t you say the other day – ’

‘Get it off the chest!’ said Charles.

‘Well, you were talking about a detective the other day-’

Charles gave an appreciative whistle.

‘Somebody been pinching the stock?’

‘No, it’s not for myself – that is, it’s for someone I’m interested in. I want to have some enquiries made, and I want to be sure that the person who makes them is all right. I mean, I don’t want someone who’ll go round opening his mouth.’

‘Our Miss Silver will do you a treat,’ said Charles Moray.

‘A woman? I don’t know – ’

‘Wait till you’ve seen her – or rather wait till she’s delivered the goods. She does, you know. She pulled me out of the tightest corner I ever was in in my life [See Grey Mask.] – and that wasn’t in the wilds of South America, but here in London. If your business is confidential, you can trust her all the way. Her address – hang on a minute and be ready with a pencil… Yes, here you are – 16, Montague Mansions, West Leaham Street, S.W… And her telephone number?… No, I haven’t got it – this is an old one. You’ll find it in the book – Maud Silver. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, thanks very much.’

‘Come round and see us,’ said Charles affably. ‘Margaret says what about dinner? Monday or Wednesday next week.’

Henry accepted for Monday and rang off. Then he went out to the British Museum, where he spent an intensive two hours over the Everton Case. He read the inquest and he read the trial. He came away with the conviction that Geoffrey Grey must have been born very lucky indeed to have escaped being hanged. As he read it, there had never been a clearer case. It was as plain as a pikestaff. James Everton had three nephews. He loved Geoffrey Grey. He didn’t love Bertie Everton. And Frank Everton was neither here nor there – a mere remittance man. Everything was for Geoffrey – the place in his uncle’s firm, the place in his uncle’s home, the place in his uncle’s will. And then, quite obviously, Bertie comes along and tells a tale out of school. He dines with his uncle, and in the most almighty hurry James Everton cuts out Geoffrey and puts in Bertie in his place. Incidentally, he cuts out poor old Frank too, but probably that hasn’t got anything to do with it. The cutting out of Geoffrey is the peg on which everything hangs. Geoffrey must have gone off the rails somewhere, and Bertie had tumbled over himself to give him away. Result, Uncle James changes his will, sends for Geoffrey to tell him what he has done, and Geoffrey shoots him in a sudden murderous fit of rage. No knowing just how serious Geoffrey’s misdemeanour may have been. It may have been so serious that he couldn’t afford to have it come out. His uncle may have threatened him with exposure. Geoffrey wouldn’t necessarily know that Bertie Everton had split on him – he mightn’t ever know that Bertie knew. He loses his head and shoots, and Bertie comes in for everything.

Henry wondered idly whether Bertie was continuing Frank’s allowance. There didn’t seem to be any other doubt about the case. There didn’t seem to be any reason at all for calling in Miss Maud Silver. After which Henry went to the telephone and called her up.