Vanishing Point

CHAPTER 23

Making the beds with Miss Cunningham, Mrs. Hubbard was perfectly well aware that she was not in her usual. Under an appearance of great neatness and restraint she herself was one of the most inquisitive women in Hazel Green. She had a nose for a secret comparable only to that of a ferret on the trail, but all very quietly, very decorously, and the prize when attained to be shared only with the chosen few and under pledge of secrecy. When Miss Cunningham took the side of the bed which enabled her to keep her back to the windows, she was at once aware that this had been done in order to conceal the fact that she had been crying and that she had passed a wakeful night. When brushing down the stairs she did not fail to observe a slight flattening at the edges of two of the balusters. It was an old staircase, but at some time it had been painted. Where the flattening had occurred the paint on at least one edge had flaked away. It was perfectly plain to Mrs. Hubbard that something tight had been tied round the baluster. Now what would anyone want to do that for? And blessed if there wasn’t just such another mark on the far side of the step. The stairs ran down without a break, the balusters on either side. You couldn’t get from it but that someone had stretched a cord across the stairs-as nasty and spiteful a trick as she had ever heard of. Must have been some boy. There were those she could name that wouldn’t think twice of breaking anyone’s leg if they were up to a lark, but how in the world would a boy get in to play off one of his jokes on Miss Cunningham, or why would he want to? There wasn’t anyone with what you could call a spite against her, not that she knew about-and there wasn’t much that she didn’t know.

When she had finished the stairs she took her dustpan and brush round the hall, and right underneath where that mark was on the baluster the brush picked up a little curly piece of twine-some of that black garden stuff that gets used for tying up creepers and such. She put it in the pocket of her overall and went up to Miss Cunningham’s bedroom. There had been no fire in the grate, but something had been burned there. When she picked up the piece of tarred twine it came to her that there had been ash in the bedroom grate, and she hadn’t to look at it twice before she could see what it was before it come to that- twine, same as the piece she’d got in her pocket. There was a bit with the very shape of it in the grey ash, and when she raked the stuff over there was a knot that hadn’t burned at all. Mrs. Hubbard put it in her pocket with the bit she had picked up in the hall. It was altogether past her to think of any reason why Miss Cunningham should have cut the twine from the baluster and burned it, but that was what she had done. She had cut it-you could see the mark of the scissors close up by the knot- and she had burned it in her bedroom grate.

All the time that she was doing her work, Mrs. Hubbard kept on putting two and two together. The trouble was she couldn’t get them to make anything, and it was pain and grief to her. It wasn’t until she was going away at half past two that she noticed something which excited her curiosity to a really passionate degree. Miss Cunningham had come out onto the back-door step to ask her whether they needed another packet of Vim. It had been a grey morning, but the sun was out now. It slanted in across the step and across Miss Cunningham’s ankles. There hadn’t been anything to notice in the house, which was dark enough like a lot of these old houses were, but out here with the sun right on it, you just couldn’t help noticing the weal. Just about six inches up from the right ankle it was, and so red the stocking didn’t hide it, not out here in the light. With the sideways look which took in a great deal more than it seemed to, Mrs. Hubbard decided that there was quite a piece of swelling too. She didn’t risk more than the one glance, and it was in her usual rather mousy little voice that she replied to the question about the Vim that they didn’t really want it till next week, but no harm if Miss Cunningham was putting her order in.

Mr. Hubbard worked in Melbury. He took a wrapped lunch with him which he supplemented at the canteen. It was therefore nothing to anyone if Mrs. Hubbard liked to drop in on Florrie Hunt at the White Cottage. There was a faint faraway connection between them, and Florrie would be pleased enough to give her a cup of tea, and perhaps the latest about the finding of poor Miss Holiday’s body. The White Cottage being right at the corner of Vicarage Lane, there couldn’t be anything either coming or going but what Florrie would be bound to notice it.

She got her cup of tea, but she didn’t get such a very warm welcome. Florrie was in one of her moods-she could see that at a glance. Put her in mind of a house with all the blinds down and the people away. Nothing but a yes or no out of her, and not at all easy to get either. She handed up her cup to be filled a second time and began to tell Florrie about the marks on the balusters at the Dower House and the weal on Miss Cunningham’s leg. By the time she had come to the end of her story Florrie was looking at her for the first time.

“Sounds like nonsense to me,” she said.

Mrs. Hubbard sipped her tea.

“Well then, it wasn’t,” she said. “Plain as plain the marks were. And the bit of string in the hall-what would anyone be doing with that nasty tarred-stuff indoors? And more of it burned in the bedroom grate. Just look here if you don’t believe me!”

She had to put the cup down and slip a hand under her coat to bring out the little curl of twine and the knot which had survived the fire.

Florrie stared at them and said bluntly,

“Seems to me you’re hinting at something, Annie.”

Mrs. Hubbard lowered her eyes.

“I wouldn’t be one to do that.”

“Well, I don’t know what else you’d call it. And if you’re hinting that there was a string tied across those stairs to trip Miss Cunningham when she came down, well, who is supposed to have put it there?”

Mrs. Hubbard sipped her tea.

“It’s not for me to say. I’m not one to gossip, and that you know.”

The conversation wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. When Florrie was in that sort of mood she could be right down disagreeable, and no good trying to get anything out of her. She finished her cup and said she must be getting along.

It wasn’t until she was half way home that she remembered she had left the knot and the bit of twine behind her. Not worth going back for of course. She wouldn’t have shown them to anyone except Florrie. The job at Miss Cunningham’s suited her, and she wouldn’t want it to get about that she’d been talking. Which she wouldn’t do, only to Florrie. And Florrie was safe enough. Why, she could hardly get a word out of her herself.

Miss Silver came out to the kitchen with the coffee-tray. Mrs. Merridew had just dropped off behind the morning paper, an after-lunch practice in which Miss Silver had never allowed herself to indulge. A sad waste of time, and a habit which was apt to grow. She carried the tray down the passage, and as she approached the door she became aware of voices on the other side of it. She had no intention of listening, but they forced themselves upon her ear. It all happened quite naturally. She had paused when she realized that Florrie was not alone, and the door in front of her was ajar. She heard Florrie say in her deep, harsh voice, “If you’re hinting there was a string tied across those stairs to trip Miss Cunningham when she came down, well, who is supposed to have put it there?”

Miss Silver stood where she was. As a private gentlewoman she would not have dreamed of listening to a conversation not intended for her ears. As a private detective she had not infrequently considered it her duty to do so. She stood quite still, holding the tray, and heard Mrs. Hubbard turn the question aside and say that she must be getting along. When the back door had closed upon her, Miss Silver retired down the passage, and then returned, her footsteps rather more evident than usual. Arrived at the kitchen door, she said, “May I come in Florrie?” and pushed it with the tray.

It was not until then that Florrie started and turned round. She had been standing at the kitchen table and staring down at it, too much immersed in her thoughts until the tray knocked against the door.

Miss Silver came into the room and set it down upon the table. As she did so she saw that what Florrie had been staring at was a little curl of tarred twine and a knot. The knot had been tightly tied and afterwards cut away. Across the coffee-tray with its two empty cups Miss Silver looked at Florrie Hunt, and Florrie looked back. It was an angry, puzzled look, but behind the puzzle and the anger there was fear. When Miss Silver said, “What is it?” Florrie answered in a lost voice,

“I don’t know-”

“It would be better if you would tell me.”

There was a slow shake of the head. Miss Silver leaned across and touched the curl of twine. She said,

“When I came down the passage the door was ajar, and I heard what you said. It was something about a string tied across the stairs to trip Miss Cunningham. You had a visitor, and you asked her who was supposed to have put it there.”

Florrie spoke angrily.

“She hadn’t got nothing to say!”

Miss Silver gave a slight corrective cough.

“I noticed that she did not say anything. May I ask who there was in the house who could have done such a thing?”

Florrie tossed her head.

“No one that I can see! There would be her, and Mr. Henry, and Mr. Nicholas. Well, it stands to reason she wouldn’t do it herself, and that leaves Mr. Nicholas and Mr. Henry. Well, I ask you! Annie Hubbard’s got little enough to think of, coming round here with a story like that!”

She got a brightly interrogative glance.

“She works at the Dower House?”

“Took on the job after Maggie went.”

“And what, do you suppose, put this story into her head?”

Mrs. Hubbard’s story about the marks on the balusters and finding the pieces of twine just underneath in the hall and the knot upstairs in Miss Cunningham’s grate along with what looked like the burnt remains of a longer piece, was retailed in what began by being a scornful voice. But somehow by the time Florrie had come to the weal on Miss Cunningham’s leg the scorn had gone out of it and something like fear had taken its place. The last words dragged and were followed in a rush by a scared,

“Who’d do a thing like that? I put it to Annie Hubbard, and you could hear for yourself she hadn’t got nothing to say.”

Miss Silver said in a meditative tone,

“There was no one else in the house except the two Mr. Cunninghams?”

“Not without someone come round visiting, and then one of the family would have had to let them in.”

Miss Silver said,

“Yes-I suppose so-”

She went through to the drawing-room and sat down with her knitting. Little Josephine’s cherry-coloured hood was now finished, and she had embarked upon leggings to match. She was not anxious to pursue the subject of the accident which Miss Cunningham had so narrowly escaped. She wished to be able to give it some quiet reflection. If anyone had intended to injure Lucy Cunningham by fastening a trip-cord across the stairs, what would be the most likely time to carry it out? It would surely only be attempted when the normal comings and goings had ceased and everyone had gone upstairs for the night. Lucy Cunningham-her brother Henry-her nephew Nicholas-

When the trip-cord had been fixed, there would have to be some device to bring the intended victim from her room, and in so much of a hurry that she would not notice the cord until too late. A black cord on a dark stair, and a woman hurrying down. Why? The thought of the telephone-bell presented itself in a very convincing manner. There is no sound more startling in the middle of the night. Yet how ensure that the telephone-bell would ring? To employ an accomplice would be extremely dangerous. There came to her memory a sound very familiar in her own flat, the ringing of the bell on the alarm clock. Heard from any other room except her bedroom it was indistinguishable from the sound of the telephone-bell. If anyone had wished to startle Miss Cunningham into running downstairs in the middle of the night, how easy to set the alarm at any of the hours past midnight and leave the clock in the hall, whence it could be retrieved before anyone observed it. It occurred to Miss Silver, and not for the first time, that all the things that had happened and were happening in Hazel Green had some association with Crewe House and the neighbouring Dower House, and that the occupants of these two houses were intimately connected. Furthermore, if two crimes had indeed been carried out and a third was being attempted, there was certain economy of method calculated to arouse no suspicion and leave no trace. This would imply a criminal of no ordinary capacity, quick to decide upon a plan and ruthless in carrying it out.

When Mrs. Merridew awoke from her nap Miss Silver was ready to suggest that it would be pleasant to take the air. A remark as to her interest in old houses, coupled with the mention of Miss Cunningham’s name, produced some information with regard to the Dower House, followed by the remark that,

“Of course Lucy knows far more about it than I do. I am sure she would be only too pleased to show you the house. The Cunninghams are quite recent comers, but you know the saying about being more royalist than the king-well, it’s like that with Lucy. She has all the stories, by heart, and there’s nothing she likes better than repeating them. We can call on her this afternoon if you would care to do so.”