“No, indeed.” Miss Crane was earnest in agreement.
“And I haven’t mentioned it to anyone but you, if it wasn’t for the little governess person that’s staying with Mrs. Underwood. Very friendly kind of person she is-give me a hand with the washing-up after lunch and we got talking. And she says just what you and me’s been saying-you’ve to be careful how you talk with the police about. But you can’t help what you think-can you?”
Miss Crane looked distressed.
“Appearances are often so misleading-”
“Let’s us ’ope so,” said Mrs. Smollett, and departed.
It being Packer’s afternoon out, Miss Crane went on making tea for her old lady.
CHAPTER 37
All over Vandeleur House tea was being prepared. Mrs. Willard, refreshed by several hours of sleep, made herself a nice strong pot and partook of it with some thinly buttered toast. Mr. Willard had not returned, but as he never was at home to tea except on a Saturday or a Sunday, that did not disturb her. She felt as if she had emerged from a nightmare. Alfred had been foolish, but he was her own again. He had knelt at her feet and wept. Carola Roland was dead. She had had a nice long sleep, and she was enjoying her tea. Ivy Lord had returned from the town. She had seen her boy friend in the distance and had a wave of the hand and a smile, so she was feeling better. Mrs. Underwood had retired to her room directly after lunch and could be presumed to be resting. Giles and Meade had the drawing-room to themselves. Meade had stopped thinking. She felt as one feels after an anaesthetic which has blotted out pain. Consciousness has come back, but it is a state in which one is afraid to move lest the pain should return. She was content to feel Giles’ arm about her, to lean her cheek against his, and to let him talk.
Presently Ivy came in with the tray, and after that the front door of the flat opened and shut. Mrs. Underwood came in. She said in a complaining voice,
“I can’t think what Miss Silver is doing. She’s been up in the Spooners’ flat all the afternoon. I’ve just looked out to see if she was coming, and there isn’t a sign of her. Ring her up, Meade, and say tea is ready. You know the number.” She plumped into a chair, and as Meade went over to the telephone, she said, “Miss Garside has had a visitor-wonders will never cease! I saw her getting into the lift.”
Miss Garside had just poured the boiling water from the kettle into the small brown pot which had replaced a cherished piece of Queen Anne silver, when there was a ring at the bell. She opened the door and saw with surprise that the person who had rung was a stranger-an ultra-fashionable youngish woman, a good deal made up, with fair hair curling on her shoulders, a smart black coat, a ridiculous little tilted hat, and spectacles with rims of very light tortoise-shell. She moved into the lobby and spoke with a mincing accent.
“Miss Garside?”
Miss Garside inclined her head.
“If I could just speak to you for a moment. It is about the ring.”
Miss Garside closed the door. Her manner, always very reserved, became more so.
“Are you from Allingham’s?” she said.
The conversation which followed was not a very long one. Some time later the visitor came out of the flat and went down in the lift. It was at this moment that she was seen by Mrs. Underwood.
The woman in black makes this brief passage and disappears. Her remark about the ring and Miss Garside’s response were heard only by themselves. There was therefore nothing to connect her in anybody’s mind with Allingham’s or with the ring. What passed between her and Miss Garside in the closed flat is, and must remain, a matter of conjecture. The most important thing about her brief appearance is that she was the last person to see Miss Garside alive.
CHAPTER 38
Miss Silver had enjoyed her tea. Such a bright, comfortable room. Damp and misty outside, but so cosy in Mrs. Underwood’s sitting-room with the light switched on and a small bright fire. Ivy had made some very good scones, and Wing Commander Underwood had sent his wife some honey from the north. Of course everyone was rather quiet. That was only to be expected. So recent and so shocking a fatality, and though not in any case a personal loss, poor Miss Roland was, after all, Major Armitage’s sister-in-law. It was only natural that he should appear grave and preoccupied, and that his fiancée should look white and shaken. Not a pleasant experience for a young girl-not at all. Mrs. Underwood too-it was quite clear that she had a great deal on her mind. It would do them all good to be taken out of themselves.
In pursuance of this laudable object Miss Silver produced a constant stream of small talk interspersed with so many questions about everything and everybody in all the flats that the others were kept busy answering her. She took a most particular interest in Mr. Drake, of whom she had caught just a glimpse on her arrival.
“Such a fine man-quite romantic-looking really. And he reminds me of someone. Now, I wonder if you can help me-”
Meade achieved a smile and said,
“Is it Mephistopheles?”
Miss Silver beamed.
“Of course! How very stupid of me! Really a most remarkable likeness. I hope it does not extend to his character. What did you say his business was?”
Meade said in a hesitating voice,
“I don’t know-”
“Nobody does,” said Mrs. Underwood. She put a disagreeable emphasis on the words.
Giles raised his eyebrows, and Miss Silver said mildly,
“Dear me-that sounds very intriguing.”
Mrs. Underwood tossed her head. Its auburn waves were in perfect order, but her face sagged and seemed to have another ten years of lines upon it. She said in a hard, accusing voice,
“No one knows anything about him at all, and if Agnes Lemming isn’t careful she’ll find herself in a mess.”
For the next five minutes Miss Silver was regaled with all the things Mrs. Underwood had not said to Agnes Lemming.
“I’ve seen them walking up from the town. I suppose she knows when his train gets in, and happens to be shopping then. What he can possibly see in her, I can’t imagine, and I must say if I were her mother I should want to know a good deal more about him…”
Meade looked distressed and said nothing. Miss Silver presently switched the conversation to another flat.
“Mrs. Meredith-such a dear old lady, Mrs. Smollett tells me, but sadly deaf. Do you know her at all? She seems to have a very devoted companion in Miss Crane, but the maid appears to be a very uncommunicative person. I am wondering if there is any connection with some Meredith of whom I used to hear from a dear friend of mine. Do you know where this old lady lived before she came here?”
Meade was so relieved at the change of subject that she was quite glad to have something to say.
“ Bell says-” she began, and then hesitated.
“ Bell?” said Mrs. Underwood sharply.
“Yes. He told me that when she first came here Mrs. Meredith used to ask every time she went out in her chair whether they were going to the Pantiles, and once she said she wanted to go to the Toad Rock. And she told Bell she used to live on Mount Pleasant-he has to help to get her chair down the steps, you know-but she doesn’t talk so much now, poor old thing.”