The first thing he saw was Anna Ball in slacks and a red jersey standing with her back to him, and, past her, Thomasina against the opposite wall. Her hands were pressed against it, and all the colour was gone from her face. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she stared at the revolver in Anna’s hand. Because that was the really unbelievable thing-Anna Ball was holding a revolver and pointing it at Thomasina. He heard her say,
“He’ll be here any minute now, and then you can join Peveril in the car. Swoosh over the edge of the quarry and a blazing bonfire down below-that’s what’s waiting for you, Thomasina, dear!”
Peter walked into the garage, and she turned her head. In that moment Thomasina snatched the torch from the pocket of her coat and threw it with all her might. She had a strong wrist and a good eye. Peter had taught her to throw fast and straight. She threw now for his life and her own. The torch caught Anna full on the side of the head as she turned. Not a serious blow, but a startling one. It took her off her balance as she swung about. She screamed and stumbled, a shot went wide, and Peter had her by the wrists.
Thomasina came forward and twisted the revolver out of her hand.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Thomasina was never quite sure which was the more dreadful, the last half hour when she had stood facing Anna’s hatred and her revolver, or the next when they were waiting for the police to arrive.
They went back to the study and waited there with Peveril Craddock lying dead and the stain of his blood on the floor. There were comfortable chairs in the room. Anna sat in one of them with the cord of Miss Silver’s dressing-gown holding her there. She sat quite still, quite dumb, her eyes half closed, only every now and then the lids lifted to show the burning hatred there. It was like some horribly bad dream, and, like the things that happen in a dream, it couldn’t be measured by time.
Thomasina did not look at Peter, and he did not look at her. The people you love don’t belong to that kind of dream. You don’t want to see them there. You want to wake up and know that none of it has ever happened.
Miss Silver had taken one of the upright chairs. Her hands were in her lap. Her face was resolute and composed. Her dressing-gown, deprived of its girdle, hung in severe blue folds.
Nobody spoke. The silence was so complete that the sound of the police car coming up the drive startled them all.
And then in a moment the empty derelict house echoed with the tramp of feet and the sound of voices, and there came in on the hushed room with the dead man in it Inspector Jackson, Inspector Abbott, the Police Surgeon.
The routine of investigation began.
Miss Silver was able to get away for long enough to make sure that all was well in the Craddocks’ wing. Looking in upon Emily Craddock’s room, she found it warm and peaceful. Emily herself still slept that deep, exhausted sleep. Jennifer in the big armchair slept too, her head pillowed on her arm, the eiderdown falling away a little at the neck, her breath coming slow and steady. It was all very far removed from the scene in Peveril Craddock’s study. Miss Silver shut the door and went back to it.
Anna sat dumb. Through Miss Silver’s statement, through Peter Brandon’s, through Thomasina’s, through the arrival of the police photographer and the fingerprint man, she sat silent and did not move. The cord of Miss Silver’s dressing-gown had been restored to its proper use. Her arms were free, but she held herself as stiffly as when they had been bound. It was not until she was told that she would be taken to the station and charged with being an accessory that she turned her eyes on Inspector Jackson-smouldering eyes with the lids only half raised.
“And you don’t want to hear what I’ve got to say? There’s quite a lot I can say if I choose! Some people won’t like it, but that isn’t going to stop me saying it!”
He told her that she could make a statement, and cautioned her that what she said would be taken down and could afterwards be used in evidence. She laughed in nis face.
“If I’m an accessory I’ve got to have a principal, haven’t I? Why don’t you go ahead and arrest him? I didn’t shoot up the banks, you know, I only drove the car! And I didn’t shoot Peveril Craddock either!” She jerked her head in Thomasina’s direction. “She knows that, because we were together when both the shots were fired!”
Thomasina said, “Yes.” Just the one word in a deep mournful tone.
Anna flung up her head.
“There! You hear that? Well, there you are! Why don’t you get on and arrest him? I’m not going to prison alone! And I’m not going to stand in the dock alone-I’m going to have my lover with me! She told you about Mr. Sandrow in her statement, didn’t she? Well, why don’t you get on and arrest him? There he is!” This time the jerk of the head was for Peter Brandon, who stared back at her in angry amazement.
Thomasina got up from the chair where she was sitting and walked over to stand beside him. She slipped her hand inside his arm. They did not look at one another.
At the writing-table Inspector Abbott surveyed the scene in silence. Nobody could have dreamed that just half an hour before he had entered this room he had been in bed at the George in Ledlington. His dark suit was, as always, immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, his fair hair mirror-smooth. He held a pencil negligently between two fingers. His light, cool eyes watched Anna Ball. He had just passed a note to the sergeant who stood at his elbow. Now he watched Anna Ball.
Inspector Jackson was watching her too. He said,
“You are making a statement to the effect that it was Mr. Brandon who was concerned in the robbery at the County Bank yesterday in the course of which the bank manager and a clerk were murdered, and that you were waiting for him with a stolen car and afterwards drove him away. Is that what you really mean us to understand?”
She gave him a hard mocking look and laughed, mimicking his formal way of speech.
“How clever you are, Inspector! That is just exactly what I do mean you to understand! How did you manage to guess? But of course the police are all brains! Inspector Jackson -Mr. Sandrow-Mr. Peter Brandon Sandrow. Peter, darling, we’re for it, meet the police!”
“Well, Mr. Brandon?”
Peter’s shoulder lifted.
“Red herring,” he said briefly.
Miss Silver said in a quiet but decided voice,
“It would not have been possible for Mr. Brandon to be the bandaged man who passed me on the Station Approach. He is too tall and too broad, and he takes at least two sizes larger in shoes.”
Jackson said, “Where were you during yesterday afternoon, Mr. Brandon?”
“I was on my way down from town. I reached Ledlington at a quarter to five and took the five o’clock bus out to Deep End. Miss Gwyneth Tremlett, Miss Silver, and Mr. Remington were in the same bus.”
“But not the same train.”
“No. But there was a man in the carriage with me all the way from London. He told me he had a book-shop in the Market Square. A tall, thin man with glasses and a stoop, full of odd bits of information about the county. We were talking quite a lot, so he ought to remember me.”
“That would be Mr. Bannerman,” said Inspector Jackson. “He sits up late-I think I’ll give him a ring.”
Mr. Bannerman, it appeared, had not yet gone to bed. The call was answered promptly, and a brief tantalizing interchange took place, Inspector Jackson leading off with, “I believe you were in town yesterday afternoon,” and continuing with intervals when the telephone made odd noises amongst which a thin, far voice came and went. Only Frank Abbott sitting next to the instrument could hear that Mr. Bannerman was giving an accurate description of Mr. Peter Brandon, finishing up with, “A very agreeable young man-a writer. I have read his books with interest.”