‘No that kind o’ red hair.’
‘What kind?’
‘Gey long on his neck for a gentleman. You couldn’t mistake it.’
Hilary remembered Bertie Everton’s hair – ‘Gey long for a gentleman,’ as Annie said. She nodded.
‘Yes – he does wear it long.’
And Annie nodded too, and said, ‘Ay.’
Hilary went back to the statement.
‘Well, that’s all about the bell. You didn’t see his face then, but only the back of his head and his red hair. And in the evening he rang for you again?’
‘Ay.’
‘At half past eight?’
‘Ay.’
‘He said he wanted some biscuits, and he told you he didn’t feel well and was going to bed, and you brought him the biscuits.’
‘Ay.’
‘Now, Mrs. Jamieson, did you see his face that time?’
Hilary’s heart was beating as she asked the question, because everything hung on it – everything – for Geoff, and for Marion.
A deep, straight furrow appeared between Annie Jamieson’s brows.
‘He rang his bell,’ she said, speaking slowly, ‘and I knocked and went in.’
‘How did you get in?’ said Henry suddenly.
She looked round at him, puzzled.
‘The door was a wee thing open like.’
‘And was it open in the afternoon when he rang about the bell?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘It was open both times? You’re quite sure of that?’
‘Ay, I’m sure of that.’
‘All right – carry on.’
She turned back to Hilary.
‘You knocked and went in,’ said Hilary.
‘Ay. And Mr. Everton was looking out of the window, and he said without turning round, “I’m not at all well -I’m going to bed. Get me some biscuits, will you?”’
‘And when you came back with the biscuits, what was he doing then?’
‘He was washing his face,’ said Annie Jamieson.
‘Washing his face??
‘Ay – he’d the towel to it, drying it.’
Hilary’s heart leapt.
‘Then you didn’t see his face that time either?’
Annie looked puzzled.
‘He’d the wee towel up to it, drying it like.’
‘Did he speak?’
‘Ay – he said, “Put them down.” So I put them down and come away.’
Hilary looked down at the statement again.
‘You said you thought he was the worse for drink.’
‘Ay – he was that.’
‘Why did you think so?’
Annie stared.
‘I didn’t think – I was sure.’
‘Why? I mean you didn’t see his face.’
‘There was an awful strong smell of spirits. And there was the way he spoke – it wasn’t like his own voice at all.’
Hilary said, ‘I see.’ She tried not to think what this might mean. She looked just once again at the paper in her hand.
‘And when you took him his tea at nine o’clock next morning, he was all right then and quite himself?’
‘Ay – he was all right then.’
‘And you saw his face that time?’
‘Oh ay – he was quite himself.’
Henry struck in.
‘Then it comes to this, Mrs. Jamieson – you did not actually see Mr. Everton’s face at any time on Tuesday, July 16th. Your statement only mentions the afternoon, but I take it you didn’t see him in the morning.’
‘No, I didn’t see him – he had his door locked.’
‘So there was no time on Tuesday, July 16th, when you actually saw Mr. Everton’s face?’
‘No.’ She began to say something, and stopped herself, looking from one to the other in a bewildered manner. If it wasna Mr. Everton, who was it?’ she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
They drew three garages blank, and were late for lunch. Cousin Selina was not at all pleased. She said it didn’t matter in the tone of one who holds fast to politeness in face of overwhelming temptation. She bit her lip and feared the joint would be overdone, and having tasted her portion, sighed and cast her eyes up and then down again. After which she partook of beef and Brussels sprouts with the air of a martyr.
When the tablemaid was in the room Henry and Hilary supplied a little difficult conversation, but as soon as they were alone Mrs. McAlister found a mournful voice.
‘It is a great pity that Marion does not change her name,’ was the text upon which a considerable sermon could be preached. Cousin Selina preached it with vigour. It had always been her opinion that Geoffrey Grey was an unsuitable husband for Marion.
‘Very good-looking young men never make good husbands. My own dear husband – ’ A long excursus on the virtues of the late Professor, who had certainly not been renowned for his beauty. As Hilary put it afterwards – ‘A pet lamb, darling, but exactly like a ginger monkey.’
Leaving the Professor, his widow rehearsed the advice she had given to Marion on more than one occasion – ‘And if she had taken it she would not be in her present painful position. There was a young man whom I would have been very glad to see her married to. But no, she insisted on having her own way. And what is the result – will you have any more beef, Captain Cunningham?… Then perhaps you will kindly ring the bell for Jeannie.’
‘Henry, I shall burst!’ said Hilary when they got away again. ‘What do we do now – Glasgow, or garages? She rests till tea-time.’
‘If it’s Glasgow, we can’t get back to tea.’
‘We could ring up and say we’d got stuck – important business – any old thing.’
‘Or I could go, and you could stay here,’ suggested Henry.
Hilary stamped on the pavement.
‘Look here, my lad, you say that again, and you’ll see what happens! If you think that I’m going to stay here and talk to Cousin Selina while you go off sleuthing by yourself, well, you’ve made a mistake, that’s all!’
‘All right, all right – you needn’t get worked up about it. We’ll go to Glasgow tomorrow. We’d better get on with the garage business this afternoon, though how in the world Miss Silver expects anyone to remember anything about any car in the world after more than a year. It’s a wild-goose chase, but I suppose we’d better get on with it.’
‘We might find a wild goose in a mare’s nest,’ said Hilary.
They found nothing. It was a most cold, discouraging quest. Snow began to fall in the Pentlands, and the streets of Edinburgh ran with a chilly rain. Later there were six hours of Cousin Selina’s conversation before it was decently possible to go to bed.
Next day Glasgow, under one of those dark skies which appear ready to discharge every conceivable type of bad weather – rain, snow, sleet, hail or thunder. It hung low, it bulged, it threatened, but for the moment nothing happened.
From the firm of Johnstone, Johnstone and McCandlish they obtained Frank Everton’s address, and presently found themselves in a poorish quarter, from which they arrived rather suddenly at a very authentic slum.
Henry frowned at the place. It was very much worse than he had expected. There were some ill-looking hooligans about. The tenement houses reared up gaunt and dirty. He looked at the stair up which they would have to go, and took Hilary firmly by the elbow.
‘Look here, you can’t come up. I oughtn’t to have let you come. I’d no idea the fellow was living in a slum.’
‘I’m not going to wait here,’ said Hilary. She felt no enthusiasm for the stair, but even less for this cold slummy street.
‘No, you’ll have to go back.’
‘Back where?’
‘I’ll come with you as far as the corner. There’s quite a decent street beyond. You can just walk up and down there till I come.’
A frightfully dull occupation walking up and down and waiting for someone to come. The street might have been a street in any town. Its flat, ugly houses were as drably dull as they could be. Hilary got tired of walking between them. She thought she would go a little way round the corner to see if Henry was coming. There was no sign of him. The street was much emptier than it had been. She walked a dozen paces, and then a dozen more.
And then she wasn’t sure which of those big crowded tenement houses Henry had gone into. A little thin, strange voice spoke inside her mind. It said, ‘Suppose he doesn’t ever come back.’ And with that a sort of horror came up amongst her thoughts like a fog. She was cold with it, through and through to her very heart. But it was nonsense. What could happen to Henry in that big crowded house? It was swarming with people. It was the safest place in the world. It was full of chattering, scolding women and noisy children. And who would take any notice if anyone shouted or cried out? The horror came again. She stared up at the rows and rows of windows on those great reared-up blocks, and suddenly high up at one of the windows, she saw Mrs. Mercer’s face.