The Fingerprint

Chapter XXV

THE INQUEST on Jonathan Field took place next morning, and the funeral in the afternoon. At the inquest only formal evidence was offered and the proceedings were adjourned. The funeral was at Deeping and was attended by a very large number of people.

Miss Silver removed the bunch of flowers from her second-best hat and covered her olive-green dress with the black cloth coat whose years of service were now becoming legendary. Such an excellent material. Pre-war of course, and still so warm, so serviceable. A small scarf of black wool kindly lent to her by Mrs. Fabian enabled her to dispense with the rather yellow fur tippet of an even greater antiquity than the coat. It had been a good fur once, and was still most cosy, most comfortable. Since she considered the country draughty, it invariably accompanied her when she left London, but the colour being a little bright for a funeral she gladly accepted the loan of Mrs. Fabian’s scarf.

Georgina and Mirrie walked side-by-side behind the coffin. They stood together at the grave. When Mirrie was obviously overcome, Johnny Fabian came forward and put an arm about her shoulders. But Georgina stood alone, tall and slight in her plain black coat and skirt, her face pale and her eyes fixed darkly on the line of trees against a sky of wintry blue. When it was all over she spoke simply and quietly to the old friends who came up in twos and threes.

Frank Abbott, on the edge of the crowd, found himself buttonholed by Mr. Vincent.

“Very odd thing, don’t you think-very odd indeed. Wealthy, prominent man shot dead in his own house in a country village-not at all the sort of thing that you would expect.”

Frank had never found country villages immune from crime. He said so, quoting Sherlock Holmes as reported by Dr. Watson in support.

Mr. Vincent stared.

“Ah, but that is just in a story. Must have things happening in a story or it goes dull on you. But not the sort of thing you expect in real life-oh, no, definitely not. You don’t think it can have anything to do with that yarn he told us after dinner in the study on the night of the dance? You were there, weren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I was there.”

“What did you make of it?” pursued Mr. Vincent. “Personally I thought he was telling the tale, if you know what I mean. I remember fourteen years ago when I was in Venezuela -”

Frank recalled him to present-day Ledshire.

“Well, of course he might have been making it up. It made quite a good story.”

Mr. Vincent agreed.

“I have told it several times myself-dining out and that sort of thing, you know. Lord and Lady Pondesbury were kind enough to invite me, and as neither they nor any of their guests had been present when Mr. Field was showing us his album, I took the liberty of repeating what he had told us on that occasion. I am afraid I did not tell it as well as he did. I could not, for instance, remember whether he mentioned the exact date of the occurrence, or even whether he referred it to any particular year of the war. I told them about the experience it reminded me of in Venezuela in the thirties-but I cannot be sure of the year-”

Frank said abruptly,

“Did you tell Mr. Field’s story anywhere else?”

“Twice-or it may have been three times,” said Mr. Vincent complacently. “I have a friend who runs a boys’ club on the outskirts of London in the Pigeon Hill direction. I spent an evening there with him-Tuesday, or was it Wednesday, last week. Not this week, definitely-and I think it must have been the Tuesday, because I seem to connect it with my sister-in-law Emmeline Craddock, and it was on the Tuesday that I had a letter from her in which she proposed to come and stay with me for this week-end-a most inconvenient date, but I am afraid she was offended when I wrote and said so. A charming woman and I am very fond of her, but a little inclined to take offence if things do not go quite the way she wants them to.”

“You told Mr. Field’s story at the boys’ club?”

“Oh, yes, to several people-and afterwards in a little speech which I felt prompted to make. It went down very well, and I was able to finish it-the story, though unfortunately not the speech-before my friend felt obliged to draw my attention to the fact that the time was getting on, and that I was in danger of missing my train. But you must really let me tell you of the incident in Venezuela…”

Mirrie had never been to a funeral before. The part in the church was bad enough. All those flowers and the long coffin upon which they were heaped, and everybody in horrible clothes that reminded her of the worst things out of the charity parcels. Even Lady Pondesbury and Mrs. Shotterleigh looked as if their clothes had come out of a second-hand shop. She and Georgina had new coats and skirts. She had a dear little hat that was more like a cap only it had a little bit of veiling on it, and it was very becoming. She had never had anything that was all black before, and it suited her, but not like it suited Georgina. The new clothes were sustaining, but when she looked at the coffin and thought of Uncle Jonathan being there she just couldn’t help crying.

It was worse in the windy churchyard. She and Georgina had to stand right on the edge of the open grave. She very nearly couldn’t do it. Her throat was all choked, and the tears welled up in her eyes so fast that she could hardly see. That was when Johnny Fabian came up and put his arm round her. She didn’t stop crying, but she stopped feeling as if she was going to choke, and just at the end she turned and hid her face against him.

People came up and spoke to Georgina, who said all the right things in a sad, quiet voice. Some of them said something kind to Mirrie. Lord Pondesbury patted her shoulder, and several people called her “poor child.” After a little they began to go away. Georgina was speaking to the Vicar. Mirrie dabbed her eyes for the last time and put her handkerchief in her pocket. Johnny had moved a step away. They would all be going home now. It would be nice to go home. She looked about her at the moving groups of people, and saw Sid Turner coming towards her from the other side of the grave.

It was a really frightful shock. He was wearing a dark suit and a black tie. He had a bowler hat on his head. Everything he had on was new and good. Sid always prided himself on being dressy. Lord Pondesbury’s suit looked as if he had had it since before the war. Mr. Shotterleigh’s black tie was frayed at the edges. Colonel Abbott wasn’t nearly so smartly dressed as Sid. But here in this country churchyard amidst these old gravestones they looked all right and Sid looked all wrong. For the first time it occurred to Mirrie that clothes could look too new.

Sid came over to her and lifted his hat. Something inside her began to shake. She ought to have been pleased to see him. She wasn’t pleased. She wanted to run away and hide before he met Johnny. He said,

“Well, Mirrie?”

He was about the same height as Johnny. She tilted her head to look up at him, met his bold dark eyes, and looked down again as quickly as she could. He had crisply curling black hair. Even in that one brief glance it occurred to her that it curled too much, and that he wore it too long. She moved a step nearer to Johnny, and knew at once that it was a mistake. Sid came a step nearer too.

“Well, Mirrie? You look very nice in your black. What about getting along to your place for some tea?”

Johnny had been speaking to Grant Hathaway. He looked round, to see Mirrie looking flushed and distressed, and a strange young man who appeared to be embarrassing her. He said, “I think we ought to be going now,” and Mirrie turned to him with relief. Over her head she heard Sid say,

“My sentiments to a T. Sorry-no pun intended. Time we all got out of this, isn’t it? But of course you don’t know who I am. It’s a case of meet the boy friend. Mirrie, my dear, introduce us.”

She said only just above a whisper,

“It’s Aunt Grace’s step-brother Sid Turner, Johnny,” and with that Georgina came up to them and she had to say it all over again.

Sid came back to Field End with them. She and Georgina went upstairs, and she had to explain a little more about him. It was a very faltering explanation.

“He-he used to be kind. I used to go to the pictures with him sometimes. Aunt Grace didn’t know. She never let me go anywhere. She-she and Uncle Albert didn’t approve of Sid.”

Georgina didn’t approve of him either, but she didn’t say so. She asked,

“Did you know he was coming down to the funeral?”

“No-no I didn’t. He saw about it in the paper. I don’t know why he came.”

In her own quaking mind she knew very well. He had come here because he thought-he thought that Uncle Jonathan had done what he said he would. She had told Sid about the will, and he didn’t know that Uncle Jonathan had burned it. There wasn’t any will, and there wasn’t any money. She was just Mirrie Field without a penny like she had always been, and that was what she would have to tell Sid. It frightened her so much that she couldn’t stop shaking.

Georgina said, “What is it, Mirrie? Is it that man? Because if you don’t want to come down-”

“No-no, I must. He wouldn’t like it if I didn’t-”

“Are you afraid of him? You needn’t be, you know. We’ll have tea, and then Anthony or Johnny will drive him into Lenton to catch a train. Let’s go down and get it over. The relations and people will be coming in.”

Downstairs Sid Turner had made it quite plain that tea was not his idea of a drink after a funeral. He was given a whisky and soda, and Johnny kept him company.

Tea was being served in the dining-room. Sid’s eye flicked over the silver on the sideboard and the family portraits on the walls. It was a slap-up place, and no sign of the seen-better-days kind of look there was about so many big houses now. He had done some buying at auctions in his time. You could turn a bit there if you were in the know-commission from a dealer who didn’t want to be seen bidding himself, or an inside tip that there was something worth spotting at an otherwise dull country sale. If you got round a bit there were always chances, and he knew how to make the most of them.

He began to see pretty soon that it wasn’t going to be easy to get a word with Mirrie. She would know how she stood by now, and he wasn’t committing himself till he knew too. She was a pretty little thing and rather fetching in her black, though he liked a bit of colour himself. But it was the other girl who was the beauty. Class, that’s what she’d got-class. With her height and figure and all that light hair she’d be right in the big money if she went in for modelling. She might be glad to do it too if the cash had really all been left to Mirrie. He wondered just how much it would work out at. It wasn’t going to be easy to get near her. A good many people had come back for tea and she was hemmed in.