CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Miss Silver produced a copybook and wrote down Mrs. Ashley’s address, after which she wrote, ‘Church clock, Oakley Road.’ Under this she put the word ‘Nephew’. Then she turned back to the file.
‘There are a number of points on which I should like a little more information. Do you know either of Mr. Everton’s other two nephews, Captain Cunningham?’
‘I met Bertie Everton the other day for the first time,’ said Henry.
‘An accidental meeting?’
‘No – he came to my shop. I told you I’d had an antique shop left me. Well, he came in there and talked about china.’
Hilary sat up bright-eyed.
‘Henry, he came there on purpose to tell you Mrs. Mercer was mad. You know he did!’
‘Well, I don’t know it,’ said Henry. ‘He did talk about china.’
‘And he did say Mrs. Mercer was mad – and that’s what he came there for. And that’s what Mercer followed me for, tagging after me all round Putney and telling me his poor wife wasn’t right in her head till I was ready to scream. And if you can believe it all happened by accident the very morning after Mrs. Mercer talked to me in the train, well, I can’t, and that’s all about it!’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘Will you tell me the whole thing from the beginning? I have heard Captain Cunningham’s version of it, and I would like to hear it from yourself.’
Hilary began at the beginning and went right through to the end. She told about Mrs. Mercer in the train, and she told about everything that had happened since. She enjoyed telling it, and she told it very well. She made Miss Silver see the people. When she had finished she said, ‘There!’ and Miss Silver wrote in her copybook for a minute or two.
‘And now,’ she said – ‘now, Captain Cunningham, I would like to know what impression Mr. Bertie Everton made on you.’
Henry looked puzzled.
‘I’ve heard such a lot about him-over the case, I mean. If I hadn’t, I don’t know that I should have thought anything about him at all. He’s not my sort of chap, you know- a bit finicky, a bit mincing in his talk.’
‘He’s got red hair and foxy eyes,’ said Hilary in a tone of warm dislike.
‘Thank you, Miss Carew,’ said Maud Silver. She wrote in her copybook. ‘And the other nephew, Francis Everton – what about him?’
‘Bad hat,’ said Henry. ‘Remittance man. Old Everton paid him to keep away. Glasgow was a safe distance – he could soak quietly in the cheaper brands of alcohol without any danger of getting into the London papers. That was about the size of it, wasn’t it, Hilary?’
Hilary nodded.
‘Very interesting,’ said Miss Silver – ‘very, very interesting. And has he also got red hair?’
‘I’ve never set eyes on him,’ said Henry.
‘Nor have I,’ said Hilary. ‘But he hasn’t, Miss Silver, because I remember Marion and Geoff talking about him. At least what they were really talking about was red hair. Marion said she hated it, and that she’d never have married Geoff if she’d known it was in the family – because of not having gingery babies, you know. They were chaffing, of course. And Geoff said she needn’t worry, because Bertie was the only one, and he got it from his mother. And she said hadn’t Frank got it too, and he said no, he hadn’t, he’d come out black, and that all his Aunt Henrietta’s family were either black or red. So you see – ’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Silver, in rather an abstracted tone, ‘I see.’ She turned the pages of the file and read in them here and there. Then she said, ‘Would you care to go to Edinburgh, Captain Cunningham?’
‘No,’ said Henry, with the utmost decision.
‘May I enquire why?’
‘I think Hilary wants someone to look after her.’ The fact that he used the Christian name was a tribute to Miss Silver’s success in creating the impression that she was some kind of semi-professional aunt.
‘Quite so. I was thinking that it might be as well if Miss Hilary could go, too. So many people have relations in Edinburgh. It occurred to me to wonder whether a short visit – ’
‘There’s Cousin Selina,’ said Hilary in rather a gloomy voice.
‘Yes?’ said Miss Silver brightly. That sounds very suitable.’
Hilary made a face.
‘She’s Marion ’s cousin as well as mine. And she thinks Geoffrey did it, so Marion won’t go near her, but she has asked Henry and me to stay – at least she did before we broke off our engagement.’
‘It’s on again,’ said Henry firmly. After a moment’s pause he added, ‘It wasn’t ever off.’
Hilary cocked an eyebrow, and Miss Silver said,
‘Nothing could be better. You have a most admirable excuse for going to Edinburgh – a delightful city, and one of the most beautiful in Europe, so I am told. I think it very advisable indeed that Miss Carew should not be exposed to the risk of any more motor accidents. Edinburgh has an exceedingly good record in that respect, I believe – the Scotch are a careful people. It will be an excellent place for you to visit, and while you are there you can interview Annie Robertson whose statement we have here, and Captain Cunningham can make some enquiries at the local garages. I should be glad also if he would run over to Glasgow. You could accompany him if your cousin did not object. Some enquiries about Mr. Francis Everton. I will make a few notes which will indicate the line I should advise you to take in each case.’
Hilary leaned forward.
‘What about the Mercers?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘what about the Mercers?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Miss Silver looked up from her copybook with an air of bright helpfulness.
‘Ah yes – to be sure. I have some information for you, Captain Cunningham. I have not seen you since it came in.’
‘Yes?’ said Henry.
Miss Silver leaned across the table and picked up the half finished infant’s coatee and the ball of pale blue wool. Then she sat back in her chair and began to knit.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I put a small advertisement in the paper. It is so fortunate that Mrs. Mercer should have had an uncommon name like Anketell. One could feel practically sure that there would not be more than one Louisa Kezia Anketell, or at least not more than one in the same generation. These peculiar names generally run in a family. My own second name is Hephzibah – most unsuitable with Maud, but there has been a Hephzibah in our family for at least two hundred years.’ She coughed. ‘I have wandered from the point – I apologise.’ She clicked a needle out and clicked it in again. ‘To resume – I interviewed a woman yesterday who says she is a cousin of Mrs. Mercer’s. She wrote in answer to the advertisement, and I called upon her in Wood Green. Her name was Sarah Anketell -not a very pleasant person, but, I think, truthful. She seemed to have some kind of grudge against her cousin, but I can see no reason to doubt what she told me.’
‘And what did she tell you?’ said Hilary.
‘Well, to begin with she said that Louie, as she called her, had always thought more of herself than there was any need for – I give you the vulgarism, as it conveys the woman’s frame of mind. Louie, she said, was very high in her notions, and thought herself better than those that were every bit as good as herself – a good deal of animus here, and a good deal of pleasure in informing me that pride had gone before a fall, and that Louie, with all her fine ways and her fine talk, had got herself into trouble. There was a baby, but Mrs. Akers said it did not live.’
‘Oh,’ said Hilary, ‘that’s why she minded so much about Marion losing her baby.’
Miss Silver looked up, and down again -an odd fleeting look. ‘The man’s Christian name was Alfred. Mrs. Akers did not know his surname. He may have been Alfred Mercer or he may not. Well, thirty years ago a young woman who had lost her character had very little hope indeed of ever getting another place. Louisa Anketell was considered very fortunate in attracting the sympathy and interest of a lady who was willing to give her a second chance. This lady heard Louisa’s story whilst visiting in the neighbourhood. She had a kind heart and considerable means, and when she went away she took the girl with her to be trained under her cook. Sarah Anketell saw no more of her cousin, and knew nothing except by hearsay. She believed that Louie rose to be cook, and stayed on in the same service for a number of years, in fact until the lady’s death. This may not seem very important to you, Captain Cunningham. I myself was inclined to be disappointed, but just at the end it occurred to me to ask Mrs. Akers whether she knew the lady’s name. She did, and when she repeated it to me I felt very amply rewarded.’