“You saw her put it away in the pocket behind the mirror. Did you notice whether the glass was broken then?”
“I cannot say. The upper edge was intact, but these small mirrors are very easily broken-they seldom survive for very long. And the bag was not a new one, not by any means. It had certainly been in use since before the war. That class of bag is not obtainable now. I think it very unlikely indeed that the mirror was unbroken.”
“In which case that corner might have been caught and torn off when the half sheet was removed. But wouldn’t it have been noticed?”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
“By whom, Frank?”
“By the person who thought it worth while to remove that paper. He couldn’t have helped seeing that there was a corner missing-could he?”
“Unless it was done in the dark.”
Frank Abbott whistled.
“After the accident, you mean?”
“After the murder,” said Miss Silver.
This time he did not whistle. The ice-blue eyes narrowed a little. Then he said,
“Murder?”
“Certainly.”
“What makes you think so?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Did you not think so yourself?”
“There was nothing to make me think so.”
She smiled.
“Are you in the habit of discussing an ordinary road accident at so much length?”
“Perhaps not. It was your handwriting that brought me here, and as soon as we began to talk I felt tolerably certain that you had something up your sleeve.”
With the slightest possible change of expression Miss Silver managed to convey the fact that she was not altogether pleased with this figure of speech.
Frank Abbott produced an ingratiating smile.
“You have-haven’t you?”
Johnny’s stocking revolved briskly. Miss Silver said,
“Miss Collins talked a good deal in the train. We had the carriage to ourselves. She told me the name of the person she was going to meet. She also told me that she had promised not to disclose this information to anyone. You may think it strange that she should have confided in someone she did not know, but having inadvertently let slip another name-one which she had no reason to suppose I should recognize-”
“You did recognize it?”
“I did. And when she realized this she felt, I think, that it no longer mattered whether she told me the rest.”
“What name did she mention?”
Miss Silver spoke slowly and carefully.
“She told me that she had had the charge of a little girl for some years. When the child was fifteen the father died and she was taken away by a member of a family with whom she was illegitimately connected. That would be ten or eleven years ago. It was whilst she was telling me this that the name of Joyce slipped out and she alluded to the child as Annie.”
Frank Abbott’s face changed.
Miss Silver coughed.
“I see that the name conveys to you what it did to me- Annie Joyce. Miss Collins did not put the two names together. She spoke at one time of Mr. Joyce, and at another of the child as Annie. She lives alone and was obviously in a very excited state and wanting to talk-quite full of her connection with a case which had been in the newspapers and eagerly looking forward to the appointment she was about to keep. As soon as she found that I recognized the name of Joyce she told me all about it.”
“What did she tell you?”
Miss Silver took a moment. Then she said,
“Like everyone else, she had read the papers. Of course she realized that the return of Lady Jocelyn implied the death three and a half years ago of Annie Joyce. I think she may have been upset, but she had not seen the girl for ten years, and there was a good deal of excitement mixed up with it. She had led a very humdrum life. The sister who had shared her home and, I gather, dominated her, was dead, her lodger full of her own family affairs. Miss Collins took the step of writing to Lady Jocelyn to ask for an interview, ostensibly for the purpose of hearing all that there was to hear about Annie’s death, but actually, I think, because she saw a chance of being associated with a case which was attracting a good deal of attention.” She paused, and added, “I am sure that the idea of blackmail had never entered her mind.”
Frank Abbott exclaimed.
“Blackmail-Miss Silver!”
“I told you it might be a very serious case.”
He ran his hand back over his hair, already mirror-smooth.
“Serious?” he said. “Good Lord-go on!”
Miss Silver frowned slightly upon this form of address. She was indulgent towards the young, but early experience as a governess had left her with a feeling that she was responsible for their manners.
“I have already stated my conviction that poor Miss Collins had no such design, but I fear that she may have conveyed a quite erroneous impression to the person who rang her up.”
“What person?”
“No name was given. Miss Collins told me that she wrote to Lady Jocelyn, I presume at Jocelyn’s Holt, but received no reply from her. Instead a gentleman rang up. He gave no name, but stated that he was speaking for Lady Jocelyn. Miss Collins was, I think, under the impression that she was talking to Sir Philip. She was a good deal fluttered and pleased at the idea, as she had never, so she said, conversed with a baronet before. I tell you this in order that you may realize her state of mind-very simple, fluttered, and excited.”
“Philip Jocelyn-I wonder?” His expression was dubious.
Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
“Quite so, my dear Frank. But on the other hand… We should, I feel, withhold our judgment.”
He nodded.
“Well, someone rang Miss Collins up. What did he say?”
“He asked her whether she had told anyone that she had written about Annie Joyce. She said she had not done so. He made an appointment for her to meet Lady Jocelyn under the clock at Waterloo at a quarter to four yesterday afternoon. She was to hold a newspaper in her left hand so that she might be easily recognized. It was at this point that Miss Collins made what, I fear, was a very sad mistake. She told the man she was talking to that she would recognize Lady Jocelyn anywhere if she was so like Annie, and from that she went on to explain that though the likeness would help her in this way, she would never have been taken in by it. I am not giving you her words, as she was very diffuse, but merely the gist of them. After she had spoken of seeing Lady Jocelyn’s picture in the papers the man asked whether she would have known her from Annie, and she said no, not in the picture, but if she were to see either of them, she would know. He said ‘How?’ and she said, ‘Well, that’s telling!’ It was when she told me this that I became a little uneasy. It was not my business, but I could not help thinking that Miss Collins was unwise to have taken such a tone. Even in repeating what she had said, her intention to hint at special knowledge was quite unmistakable. I asked her how she could be sure that she would always know Annie Joyce from Lady Jocelyn-whether there was, for instance, any distinguishing mark which would certainly identify Miss Joyce. I said it seemed to me that the family was not immediately convinced that it was Lady Jocelyn who had returned to them, in which case any special knowledge possessed by Miss Collins might be very important.”
“You said that?”
“Yes, Frank. When I had done so, she began to talk in quite an excited manner. I am afraid, poor thing, that she was gratified and flattered at the idea that she was the repository of an important secret.”
“What did she say?”
“I will give you her own words as accurately as I can. She said, ‘That’s as good as what I told him. You couldn’t take me in, I said, not if it was ever so.’ Then she said the gentleman laughed very pleasantly and told her she was very positive, and she said of course she was, but she didn’t tell him why. But she said to me that when you had had a child from five years old, and washed it and dressed it and done everything, well, it stood to reason you would know anything there was to know. I do not know how much more she would have said, because just then the train stopped and a crowd of people got in. We had no further conversation of a private nature, but she turned back on the platform and asked me to come and see her next time I was in Blackheath, and I gave her my name and address.”