Miss Gwyneth’s colour had risen. She seemed about to speak, but it was some time before he afforded her any opportunity of doing so.
Miss Silver continued to listen to what was being said, and to watch Mr. Peter Brandon. Once in a while a trick of the light would show her his reflection in the glass which faced him. It was not a very clear reflection, depending as it did upon the dark backing of the driver’s coat and the angle at which the light struck the pane, but it confirmed her impression that Mr. Brandon was in a very bad temper, a fact which greatly increased the likelihood of his committing some fatal imprudence.
The bus jogged on, and ultimately arrived at Deeping, leaving the passengers for Deep End a walk of about three-quarters of a mile. It was at this point that Peter Brandon addressed himself to Augustus Remington. He asked to be directed to Deep End and enquired whether it would be possible to find accommodation there for the night.
“I have come down to see a relation of mine who is staying here. A matter of business. My name is Brandon.”
As these remarks were made in quite a loud, abrupt voice, neither Miss Gwyneth nor Miss Silver could avoid hearing them.
It was, in fact, quite apparent to Miss Silver that Mr. Brandon was at one and the same moment issuing a challenge and fishing for an invitation.
Miss Gwyneth’s response was immediate.
“Mr. Brandon-I really must introduce myself. Your aunt was our very dear friend, and as you know, your dear little cousin is our guest-mine and my sister’s. My name is Tremlett -Miss Gwyneth Tremlett. I do hope there is nothing wrong. We are enjoying Ina’s visit so much.”
That he boggled at the “Ina” was plain. Miss Silver thought that he would have had a very good face for a silent film-what she would herself have called a speaking countenance. But Miss Gwyneth, whose scarves were being blown all about her, was too much taken up with retrieving them and buttoning them inside her coat to notice anything. As soon as she had dealt with the scarves she was deploring the fact that they had no second spare room and wondering whether Mrs. Masters would take Mr. Brandon in.
“She has quite a nice room, and everything most beautifully kept. And I know that it is empty, because young Goddard who has lodged there for the last eighteen months has managed to get one of the new Council houses at Deeping, so of course he decided to get married at once. He and Mabel Wellstead have only been waiting for somewhere to live. Mrs. Masters was quite adamant about not taking a married couple, and of course Deeping is much more convenient for them, as he works in the Nurseries there. But I don’t really know about you, Mr. Brandon. You see, she goes to the Craddocks at Harmony for three hours every morning, and of course she gave Jim Goddard a wrapped lunch, and he had breakfast and supper with her and her father-in-law, who is our oldest inhabitant.”
If Miss Gwyneth had been obliged to sit silent in the bus, she made up for it now. Peter felt himself in danger of being submerged. Snatching at the one essential point, he said firmly that he didn’t care where he took his meals, and that the room at Mrs. Masters’ sounded as if it was just what he was looking for.
He.had to say it all over again when he reached the cottage, where he found it extremely difficult to get in a word edgeways,
Miss Gwyneth being quite extraordinarily informative and diffuse, and Mrs. Masters using the slightest pause to repeat that she didn’t know that she wanted to take another lodger, and that she didn’t reckon to let to the gentry.
It was Mr. Masters who finally settled the matter. From behind his daughter-in-law’s back he crooked a finger and beckoned Peter in. The kitchen was warm with firelight and lamplight, the table was spread for a meal. There was a mingled smell of paraffin and kippers, there was a singing kettle and a purring cat. Old Mr. Masters pointed to a chair and said, “Set down.” Then he opened the door a chink and bellowed through it into the darkness.
“You come right in, Maria, and dish up! It’s my house, and he’s staying!”
It was a good deal earlier than this, not in fact more than ten minutes after the bus had left Ledlington, that Frank Abbott was being ushered into the closed and shuttered County Bank. Inspector Jackson accompanied him, and the Superintendent of the Ledlington police and the Chief Constable of the county were waiting for them. Outside, darkness was closing in upon the winter dusk. Here there were bright lights and hard dark shadows. The lights shone down upon two dead men, men who had been alive and in their full strength when he had talked with them only that morning. They could give no evidence now but the mute accusing testimony of their blood. The manager was a married man with two children still of school age. The clerk was Hector Wayne, who had been so quick to detect that one of the pound notes paid in by Miss Weekes had been tampered with. A cold anger came up in Frank as he looked at them. He had nothing to say, and he said nothing. It was the Chief Constable who spoke.
“It’s a bad business,” he said.
CHAPTER XXII
The papers carried heavy headlines next day-Another Bank Robbery-Double Murder At Ledlington. Miss Silver came down to find Mrs. Craddock trying to stop the children talking about it. She was not having any great success, and at Miss Silver’s appearance Maurice rushed at her, waving a newspaper and demanding in his loudest voice,
“Did you hear the shooting? Your bus must have got in just about the right time! The bank manager was shot, and one of his clerks! Were you near the bank? Did you hear anything? I wish I had! I wish I’d gone into Ledlington with you, because if I had I was going to buy marbles, and the marbles shop is right opposite the bank, so I should have heard the shooting and I might have seen the man who did it! This paper calls him the Bandaged Bandit! He had his head all done up in bandages!”
“My dear Maurice!”
“He did! All over his head so you couldn’t see what he was like! I call that a wizard idea-don’t you? Miss Silver, if I’d seen him I’d have had to try and stop him, wouldn’t I? I could have kicked him on the shins, couldn’t I, and dodged behind the car if he tried to shoot?”
“I would have kicked him too!” said Benjy at his shrillest. “I would have kicked him like this!” He aimed a violent kick at the table leg, hurt his foot, and started to roar.
Maurice went on without taking breath.
“There was a car with a girl in it! Beautiful Blonde is what they call her! She drove him away! Beautiful Blonde and Bandaged Bandit-that’s what it says! And they got right away! But the police have got a Clue! Look-it’s all here!”
Miss Silver removed the newspaper from his grasp and turned a critical eye upon his nails.
“My dear Maurice, what have you been doing to get so dirty before breakfast? Please go and wash. No, Benjy, it wasn’t the table’s fault, it was yours. You kicked it-it didn’t kick you.”
The tears stopped rolling down Benjy’s scarlet face. His chin quivered and he began to laugh.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if it had kicked me! Wouldn’t it be funny if all the tables and chairs began to fight and kick! Wouldn’t it be funny if that big old chair was to get up and kick Mrs. Masters!”
Jennifer had not spoken. She had her shut-in look. Now she pounced on Benjy and shook him.
“It wouldn’t be funny at all-it would be horrible!”
Mrs. Craddock said in a distressed voice, “Children-children-please-”