Henry frowned at his chop and considered what he was going to do next. Hilary would come back. He could let her run foot-loose now, because she was bound to come back in the end. Meanwhile there was this damned Everton Case. It had been closed a year ago, and here it came, cropping up again and making trouble, and if Hilary insisted on going grubbing into it, there was going to be more trouble. His frown deepened. Infernal cheek of that man Mercer to go following her in the street. Something fishy about it too – something fishy about the Mercers – though he’d see Hilary at Jericho before he encouraged her in this insensate nonsense by admitting it.
He went on frowning and finishing the chop whilst he considered the possibility of turning some expert eye upon the Mercers and their doings. One might find out where they were, and what they had been doing since James Everton’s death. One might direct the expert attention to the question of their financial position. Was there anything to suggest that it had been improved by James Everton’s death? He seemed to remember that there had been some small legacy which would be neither here nor there, but if there was any solid financial improvement, it would bear looking into. The expert might also be instructed to delve into the Mercers’ past. He supposed that this would have been done at the time of the inquest, but with Geoffrey Grey so compromisingly in the limelight as the guilty person, it was possible that these enquiries had not gone very far. He thought there was undoubtedly work for an expert here.
He went back to the shop and rang up Charles Moray, who was some sort of seventeenth cousin and a very good friend.
‘That you, Charles?… Henry speaking.’
‘Which of them?’ said Charles with a slight agreeable tinge of laughter in his voice. A very good telephone voice. It sounded exactly as if he was in the room.
‘Cunningham,’ said Henry.
‘Hullo – ’ullo – ’ullo! How’s the antique business?’
Henry frowned impatiently.
‘That’s not what I rang you up about. I wanted to know – that is, didn’t you say the other day – ’
‘Get it off the chest!’ said Charles.
‘Well, you were talking about a detective the other day-’
Charles gave an appreciative whistle.
‘Somebody been pinching the stock?’
‘No, it’s not for myself – that is, it’s for someone I’m interested in. I want to have some enquiries made, and I want to be sure that the person who makes them is all right. I mean, I don’t want someone who’ll go round opening his mouth.’
‘Our Miss Silver will do you a treat,’ said Charles Moray.
‘A woman? I don’t know – ’
‘Wait till you’ve seen her – or rather wait till she’s delivered the goods. She does, you know. She pulled me out of the tightest corner I ever was in in my life [See Grey Mask.] – and that wasn’t in the wilds of South America, but here in London. If your business is confidential, you can trust her all the way. Her address – hang on a minute and be ready with a pencil… Yes, here you are – 16, Montague Mansions, West Leaham Street, S.W… And her telephone number?… No, I haven’t got it – this is an old one. You’ll find it in the book – Maud Silver. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, thanks very much.’
‘Come round and see us,’ said Charles affably. ‘Margaret says what about dinner? Monday or Wednesday next week.’
Henry accepted for Monday and rang off. Then he went out to the British Museum, where he spent an intensive two hours over the Everton Case. He read the inquest and he read the trial. He came away with the conviction that Geoffrey Grey must have been born very lucky indeed to have escaped being hanged. As he read it, there had never been a clearer case. It was as plain as a pikestaff. James Everton had three nephews. He loved Geoffrey Grey. He didn’t love Bertie Everton. And Frank Everton was neither here nor there – a mere remittance man. Everything was for Geoffrey – the place in his uncle’s firm, the place in his uncle’s home, the place in his uncle’s will. And then, quite obviously, Bertie comes along and tells a tale out of school. He dines with his uncle, and in the most almighty hurry James Everton cuts out Geoffrey and puts in Bertie in his place. Incidentally, he cuts out poor old Frank too, but probably that hasn’t got anything to do with it. The cutting out of Geoffrey is the peg on which everything hangs. Geoffrey must have gone off the rails somewhere, and Bertie had tumbled over himself to give him away. Result, Uncle James changes his will, sends for Geoffrey to tell him what he has done, and Geoffrey shoots him in a sudden murderous fit of rage. No knowing just how serious Geoffrey’s misdemeanour may have been. It may have been so serious that he couldn’t afford to have it come out. His uncle may have threatened him with exposure. Geoffrey wouldn’t necessarily know that Bertie Everton had split on him – he mightn’t ever know that Bertie knew. He loses his head and shoots, and Bertie comes in for everything.
Henry wondered idly whether Bertie was continuing Frank’s allowance. There didn’t seem to be any other doubt about the case. There didn’t seem to be any reason at all for calling in Miss Maud Silver. After which Henry went to the telephone and called her up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He came into her waiting-room, and after a very short pause found himself being ushered into a most curiously old-fashioned office. There was a good deal more furniture than there had been in Charles Moray’s day, and the chairs were not modern chairs. They looked to Henry like the ones he had sat in as a schoolboy when he visited his grandmother and his grandmother’s friends. The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs in gimcrack frames.
Miss Silver herself sat at a good solid writing-table of the mid-Victorian period. She was a little person with a great deal of mousey grey hair which was done up in a bun at the back and arranged in a curled fringe in front. Having worn her hair in this way through a period of practically universal shingling varied only by the bob and the Eton crop, she had become aware with complete indifference that she now approximated to the current fashion.
Yet however she had done her hair, it would have appeared, as she herself appeared, to be out of date. She was very neatly dressed in an unbecoming shade of drab. Her indeterminate features gave no indication of talent or character. Her smooth sallow skin was innocent of powder. She was knitting a small white woolly sock, and at the moment of Henry’s entrance she was engaged in counting her stitches. After a minute she looked up, inclined her head, and said in a quiet toneless voice,
‘Pray be seated.’
Henry wished with all his heart that he hadn’t come. He couldn’t imagine why he had asked for this woman’s address, or rung her up, or come to see her. The whole thing seemed to him to be absolutely pointless. If he had the nerve he would get up and walk out. He hadn’t the nerve. He saw Miss Silver put down her knitting on a clean sheet of white blotting-paper and take a bright blue copybook out of the top left-hand drawer of her writing-table. She opened the book, wrote down his name, asked him for his address, and then sat, pen in hand, looking mildly at him.
‘Yes, Captain Cunningham?’
Henry felt that he was making the most complete fool of himself. He also felt that this was Hilary’s fault. He said in an embarrassed voice,
‘I don’t think I really ought to have troubled you.’
‘You will feel better when you have told me about it. I don’t know if you read Tennyson. He seems to me to express it so very beautifully:
‘Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, oh sea.
And I would that my heart could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.’
It is always difficult to make a beginning, but you will find it easier as you go on.’