‘Just now – just before I came here. Why, Henry?’
‘Well, it’s funny that he should have been saying it to you just about the same time that Bertie Everton was saying it to me.’
Hilary whisked round so suddenly that she would have fallen off if Henry hadn’t clutched her.
‘Here – hold up!’
‘Bertie Everton!’ said Hilary, taking no notice of being clutched.
‘That’s what I said. He went out as you came in. Didn’t you see him?’
‘Of course I did -he’s not the sort of person you can miss. Did he tell you Mrs. Mercer was out of her mind?’
‘Several times – same as Mercer did to you.’
‘Henry, you’re not making it up to pull my leg or anything of that sort? Because if you are – ’
‘What?’ said Henry with interest.
Hilary wrinkled the top of her nose at him.
‘I don’t know, but it’ll probably begin with never speaking to you again.’
‘That would give you lots of time to think out what you were going to do next! All right, I’m not for it this time. And I’m not pulling your leg.’
‘Bertie Everton came here on purpose to tell you Mrs. Mercer was out of her mind?’
‘Not ostensibly – nothing so crude as that. He knew old Henry Eustatius – said he’d bought a set of Chippendale chairs from him and was doing needlework covers for the seats – petit point or something of that sort. And I was afraid he’d find out that I had only a very hazy idea of what petit point was, so I tried to switch him off on to china – I’ve been burning a lot of midnight oil over china lately – and he said, “Oh, yes,” and “Quite.” And then he mentioned you, and said were you a friend of mine, and I said “Yes” – which was a bit of a lie, of course.’ Here Henry paused, the obvious intention being that Hilary should (a) burst into tears, (b) contradict him, or (c) fall into his arms.
Hilary didn’t do any of these things. Her colour rose brightly and her tongue flicked out at him and back again.
Henry frowned and went on as if he had never stopped.
‘And then, I think, he got me to mention Marion, and after that it was all plain sailing – something on the lines of what an unpleasant thing it was for the whole family, and a bit about Geoffrey’s temper, and then to Mrs. Mercer by way of everyone liking him, and – “My uncle’s housekeeper has never got over having to give evidence against him. She’s gone clean off her head, I believe.” And then he went off at a tangent about that big blue jar in the shop, but after a bit Mrs. Mercer cropped up again, and he said what a queer thing it was that she should have got so worked up over the Everton Case. “She can’t think or talk about anything else,” he said – “pretty bad luck on her husband, and all that”. And then a piece about what a decent soul Mercer was, and then a bit more about the blue jar. And then you come in and he went out. And there we are.’
‘Um – ’ said Hilary.
She began to rock gently to and fro. She was trying to get Henry to rock, too, but Henry wouldn’t. His arm had about as much resilience as a crowbar, but it was fortunately not quite so hard to lean against. She stopped trying to rock, and became mournful and earnest on the subject of Bertie Everton.
‘He would have done so beautifully for the murderer if it hadn’t been for his alibi. Darling, don’t you simply hate alibis? I do.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Bertie Everton, of course.’
‘Has he got an alibi?’
‘Dozens,’ said Hilary. ‘He’s simply stuck all over with them. And, mind you, Henry, he wanted them, because poor old James had just made a will in his favour after not being on speaking terms with him for years, or practically not, so Bertie had a pretty strong motive. But with all the motives in the world, you can’t shoot anyone if they’re in Putney and you’re in Edinburgh.’
‘And Bertie was in Edinburgh?’
Hilary gave a dejected nod.
‘Sworn to by rows of people in the Caledonian Hotel. James was shot at eight o’clock in the evening on July 16th. Bertie dined with him on the evening of the 15th-just about twenty-four hours too soon to have been the murderer. He then caught a train at King’s Cross and fetched up at the Caledonian Hotel in time for a late breakfast on the morning of the 16th. From then till a quarter past four half the people in the hotel seem to have seen him. He made a fuss about the bell in his room, and the chambermaid saw him writing letters there, and soon after four he was in the office asking about a telephone call. And then he went out and had too much to drink. And the chambermaid saw him again at about half-past eight, because he rang for biscuits, and then she saw him again next morning at nine o’clock when she brought his tea. And if you can think of any way he could possibly have shot poor old James, I wish you’d tell me. I sat up the best part of last night reading the inquest and the trial all over again, and I can’t see how anyone could have done it except Geoff. And today I ferreted out the daily help who used to work at Solway Lodge, and she told me something that makes it all look worse than ever. And yet I don’t believe it was Geoff. Henry, I don’t, I don’t, don’t!’
‘What did she tell you?’ said Henry quickly.
‘I can’t tell you – I can’t tell, and I made her, so I can’t tell anyone.’
‘Hilary,’ said Henry with a good deal of vehemence, ‘you’ve got to drop it! You’re only stirring up mud, and Marion won’t thank you for that. What do you think you’re doing?’
She pulled away from him and stood up.
‘I want to find out what Mrs. Mercer knows.’
‘Drop it!’ said Henry, getting up too. ‘Let the mud settle. You won’t help Geoff, you won’t help Marion. Let it alone!’
‘I can’t,’ said Hilary.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hilary came away from Henry Eustatius, Antiques, with a flaming colour and a determination not to be downed by Henry Cunningham. If she once let Henry down her, her spirit would be broken and she would rapidly become a dreep. Like Mrs. Mercer. Like Mrs. Ashley. Horrible and repellent prospect. They had both probably started quite young and pretty – the Ashley daily help certainly had – and some man had downed them and trampled on them until they had just given up and gone quietly down the drain. She could imagine Mercer breaking any woman’s spirit if she was fool enough to let him, and the other poor creature had probably had a husband who trampled on her, too. That was what was the matter with Henry – he was a trampler born, and bred, and burnt right in. But she wasn’t going to be the person he trampled on. If he wanted a door-mat he could go and marry a door-mat, and it wasn’t going to be Hilary Carew.
She had walked nearly a quarter of a mile before her cheeks cooled. She stopped being angry, and thought what a pity it was that they couldn’t have had lunch before they quarrelled. Henry was a hearty breakfast eater. He had probably had eggs, and sausages and bacon, and things like that no longer ago than nine o’clock, but Hilary had had toast and tea at eight, and it seemed so long ago that she had forgotten all about them. Prowling round Putney, and interviewing housekeepers and daily helps, and quarrelling with Henry were all things that made you very hungry, especially quarrelling with Henry. If Henry hadn’t been determined to quarrel he would have taken her out to lunch first, and now she would have to go and have a glass of milk and a bun in a creamery with a lot of other women who were having buns and milk, or bovril, or milk with a dash of coffee, or a nice cup of tea. It was a most frightfully depressing thought, because one bun was going to make very little impression on her hunger, and she certainly couldn’t afford any more. Extraordinarily stupid of Henry not to have given her lunch first. They could have quarrelled comfortably over their coffee if he was absolutely set on quarrelling, instead of uncomfortably in the Den with nothing inside you and no prospect of anything except a bun. It was a bad, bleak, bitter, and unbearable business. And it was all Henry’s fault.