Lamb stooped to read the label and spoke over his shoulder to Miss Silver.
“Foreign stuff,” he said-“more in your line than mine. German, isn’t it?”
She stooped as he had done.
“Yes, German-morphia tablets. You could get them in Germany up to a few years ago.”
“Had she been in Germany, do you happen to know?”
“Yes. I believe she used to travel a good deal. Mrs. Lemming will be able to tell you about that. They were friendly.”
The pause which followed left the air so still that Frank Abbott’s voice came to them from the next room-no words, but just his quiet, unhurried voice speaking to Scotland Yard.
After minute Lamb said,
“The police surgeon will be along, but there isn’t anything he can do-she’s dead all right. Well, Miss Silver, there’s our case, finished and done with.”
“You think so?”
He humped a massive shoulder.
“What else is there to think? It happened the way I said, and this proves it. She was on the rocks, didn’t know where to turn for money, and went up to No. 8 when she thought Miss Roland was out. She’d seen her go down in the lift with her sister, you’ll remember. Well, she went to the basement for the key which that old fool Bell had hanging up where anyone could get at it. Miss Crane saw her coming back.”
Miss Silver said in a slow, reluctant voice,
“Mrs. Smollett says that Mrs. Lemming tried to get Miss Garside on the telephone three times between five-and-twenty to nine and some time after the quarter.”
Lamb nodded.
“Well, there you are-that’s when she went up to No. 8. There’s no way of knowing just what happened, but we know that Miss Roland had come back to the flat at half past seven after seeing her sister off. She catches Miss Garside, there’s a row, she turns round to go to the telephone and call up the police, and Miss Garside snatches the statuette off the mantelpiece and lays her out. After that she’s got to get away, and get away quick. She drops the weapon on the couch, changes the rings-she’d reckoned nobody would spot that-and she makes off, leaving the door ajar behind her, either because she’s in a panic or because she’s clever enough to see that with the door open it might be anybody’s job. First thing this morning she goes out as bold as brass and sells the ring. I don’t know when she begins to find out that she hasn’t brought it off. Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Smollett had both tumbled to the fact that the ring found in Miss Roland’s bathroom wasn’t the right one. Mrs. Smollett recognised it as Miss Garside’s. Well, you couldn’t keep that woman from talking if you gagged her. I suppose she let on, and here we are. Miss Garside would know very well that she hadn’t a chance once we’d spotted the exchange of the rings. It’s as clear a case as you want.”
Miss Silver’s small neat features were set in an obstinate gravity. She gave a very slight cough and said,
“You have not thought that she may have been murdered?”
Lamb stared at her.
“No, I haven’t,” he said bluntly.
“Will you think about it, Inspector? I should like to urge you to do so.”
He met her earnest look with a frown.
“On what grounds?”
She began to speak in a steady, quiet voice, and in a manner at once firm and deferential.
“I do not feel that the central fact of the case is explained by the theory you have put forward, Inspector. I have all along felt that this central fact was not robbery but blackmail. Your theory leaves this quite untouched. Mrs. Underwood was being blackmailed.”
Lamb nodded.
“By Carola Roland.”
Miss Silver looked at him.
“I am not entirely sure of that.”
“Why, Mrs. Underwood’s letter was in her possession. We found it in her bag.”
“Where she had allowed Mrs. Underwood to see it on Monday evening whilst they were playing bridge in the Willards’ flat. To my mind that makes it impossible that Miss Roland herself was the blackmailer. We have to look deeper than that. If she had been blackmailing Mrs. Underwood, everything would depend on her keeping her identity a secret, yet she carried the letter carelessly in her bag and allowed it to be seen. This would be in keeping with the spiteful trait in her character which led her to pay off an old score against Major Armitage by a pretence that she was his wife. She knew very well that such a claim could not cause more than a few hours’ annoyance, but she seems to have thought it worth while. In the same way she may have enjoyed upsetting Mrs. Underwood, who had shown rather plainly that she did not wish for more than a casual acquaintance.”
Lamb wore a good-tempered smile.
“You should write one of these detective novels, Miss Silver. I’m a plain policeman, and facts are good enough for me. Mrs. Underwood wrote a letter in reply to a demand for blackmail, and that letter was found in Miss Roland’s bag. That’s enough for me, and I think it would be enough for a jury. You know, what’s wrong with you amateurs is that you can’t believe in the plain facts of a plain case-they’re not good enough for you. You’ve got to have a case all tangled up with fancy trimmings before you can believe in it.”
Miss Silver smiled politely.
“Perhaps you are right, Inspector. I do not think so, but I should be sorry to appear ungrateful for the courtesy and help which you have given me. I am not very happy about this case. If you will bear with me for a moment, I should like to discharge my conscience by telling you what I suspect. I have no evidence to lay before you. I can only ask you to consider whether Miss Garside may not have been removed because someone whose life and liberty are at stake had come to realise that she must have been in Miss Roland’s flat at a time so near the murder as to make her survival dangerous.” Without any break or change of expression she went on speaking. “Do you recall the case of Mrs. Simpson?”
Lamb, who had turned aside, swung round with a slow rolling movement. He gave a kind of grunt and said,
“Well, I should think so!”
“She was a pupil of the Vulture’s, I believe. They specialised in blackmail of a political nature, did they not?”
“I think they did. It was a Foreign Office business-the Yard didn’t really come into it. There was the Denny case-she set herself up as a medium-called herself-”
“Asphodel,” said Miss Silver. “Then there was a case of impersonation. In the end she was arrested for the murder of a Miss Spedding, but she was never brought to trial. I believe she escaped.”
Lamb nodded.
“Someone engineered a collision. The driver of the prison van was killed. Maud Millicent disappeared.”
Miss Silver frowned in a manner reminiscent of the schoolroom.
“I think we will allude to her as Mrs. Simpson. The name of Maud has been given such beautiful associations by the late Lord Tennyson.”
Lamb found himself apologising.
“Well now, Miss Silver, I’m sure that’s quite true-Mrs. Simpson it is. How do you happen to know so much about her? There wasn’t much publicity about the cases she was mixed up in. Hush-hush stuff most of it.”
Miss Silver gave a small discreet laugh.
“I have had a good many contacts with Ledlington. Mrs. Simpson’s father was the Vicar of St. Leonard’s church there. A most estimable man, I believe. I had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Garrett of the Foreign Office Intelligence at my friends the Charles Morays’ just after the Spedding case. When he found that I was conversant with Mrs. Simpson’s early history he told me a good deal more about her. She was never traced, I believe.”
“Never heard of again. Must be a matter of three years ago.”
“Did you ever suspect that she might be the principal in the Mayfair case?”
He shook his head.
“You’re making it too difficult. Blackmailers are as common as dirt-no need to drag Mrs. Simpson into it. She’s probably dead.”