‘It must be possible to find out whether the clock is fast or slow,’ said Henry in an exasperated voice.
Miss Silver looked decorously competent.
‘Certainly, Captain Cunningham. I interviewed the verger, and found him most obliging. The clock was most undoubtedly fast fifteen months ago – quite ten minutes fast. It has a tendency to gain, and the late Vicar preferred it to be on the fast side, but the present incumbent has it regulated monthly. There is no doubt at all that it was fast on the day of the murder. When Mrs. Ashley heard it strike eight it was really only ten minutes to. She was then at the far end of the road, and she says it would take her a good ten minutes to reach Solway Lodge. She arrived, as she told you, in time to hear Mr. Everton exclaim, “My own nephew!” and when the shot followed she ran away.’
‘Silly ass of me!’ said Hilary.
Henry agreed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Harriet St. Just looked across her showroom and thought she was doing well. These small, intimate dress shows were very good business. People clamoured for tickets, asked if they might bring their friends, and having come, they bought, and went away under a pleasant illusion of recaptured youth. They too would glide unearthly slim, they too would move in grace and beauty, as Vania did.
Marion was certainly well worth her salary. All the same, she mustn’t get any thinner. She was a marvel at showing clothes, but if she went on losing weight they would be liable to drop off her. Harriet’s mouth twisted. Outside business hours she often felt sorry for Marion Grey.
Just at the moment there was no Marion Grey -only Vania who was showing a black afternoon dress high to the throat, with long tight sleeves which came down over the hand. It was called Triste Journée. The heavy crepe took a simple yet tragic line. Marion wore it with a curious inward satisfaction, because Geoffrey was truly dead and it consoled her to wear this mourning robe, as if she wore it for him. She walked slowly round the circle of interested women, her head a little bent, her eyes cast down, her thoughts a long way off. Snatches of comment came to her ears without really reaching her mind. She had to stand, turn, walk round a second time.
Harriet gave her a nod, and she went out as Celia entered in a daring orange tweed, the gayest possible contrast to Vania’s Sad Day.
As the door of the showroom closed behind her, she was aware of Flora in some excitement.
‘Oh, my dear, you’re wanted – on the telephone! A long-distance call – from Glasgow – that little cousin of yours, I think! And I told her you were showing, but she said it was more important than all the dress shows in the world, so perhaps – ’ Flora continued to be informative even whilst Marion was saying ‘Hullo – hullo – hullo!’ with the receiver at her ear. She heard her say ‘Hilary!’ and then, ‘What is it?’ For some reason she found it impossible to go away. She had got as far as the door, but no farther. She remained there upon the threshold, and saw Marion put out a hand and feel for Harriet’s desk and lean on it. She had not said a word after speaking Hilary’s name. She listened, and she leaned upon the desk.
Flora felt unable to go, and unable to look away. She saw Marion ’s face change before her eyes. It was like watching ice melt, it was like watching the sunrise. There was a melting, and a softness, and a lovely surge of colour. She knew quite well that she ought not to be looking on, but she was thrilled to the bottom of a very warm, kind heart. She hadn’t the slightest idea how long it was before Marion hung up the receiver and came to her with tears running down her face – tears from eyes that were young and soft again. She took Flora’s plump, busy hands and held them as if they were the hands of her dearest friend. There are moments when everyone in the world is the friend of your heart and must share its joy. She said in the voice of a child who has waked from a dream of terror,
‘It’s all right – it’s all right, Flora.’
Flora found her own eyes beginning to fill with tears. She never could help crying when anyone else cried.
‘My dear, what is it – what’s happened?’
But Marion could only repeat, ‘It’s all right, Flora – it’s all right. Hilary says so.’
At the other end of the line Hilary clutched Henry in the horrid publicity of the hotel call-box.
‘Henry -she didn’t say anything -she didn’t speak! Henry, I’m going to cry!’
‘You can’t cry here.’
‘I can – I’m going to.’
‘You can’t!’
There were people in the lounge. There were two old ladies knitting on either side of the drawing-room fire. By the time they reached an empty writing-room Hilary no longer wanted to cry. She threw herself into Henry’s arms, and rubbed the top of her head against his chin.
‘Love me! Love me a lot! Heaps, and heaps, and heaps! You do – don’t you?’
Henry’s reply was satisfactory.
‘Because if it had happened to us – oh, darling, it couldn’t happen to us – could it?’
‘I’m not likely to be tried for murder,’ said Henry.
‘But we might get separated – we might quarrel and get separated – we nearly did – I thought we’d lost each other – I did! My heart was all squeezed up with misery!’
‘Silly!’ said Henry with his arms round her.
‘Not!’
‘Very silly.’
‘Why?’
Henry had the last word.
‘We belong,’ he said.
Patricia Wentworth
Born in Mussoorie, India, in 1878, Patricia Wentworth was the daughter of an English general. Educated in England, she returned to India, where she began to write and was first published. She married, but in 1906 was left a widow with four children, and returned again to England where she resumed her writing, this time to earn a living for herself and her family. She married again in 1920 and lived in Surrey until her death in 1961.
Miss Wentworth’s early works were mainly historical fiction, and her first mystery, published in 1923, was The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith. In 1928 she wrote The Case Is Closed and gave birth to her most enduring creation, Miss Maud Silver.
