‘Oh, yes, I am sure it was, because I remember being sorry she wasn’t there. But then it stopped.’
‘How long before you opened the glass door?’
Miss Sophy considered.
‘I don’t know. It might have been ten minutes, because I waited a little, and then I put my patience cards away, and I found a letter from my cousin Sophy Ferrars which had got pushed into that drawer by mistake, and I read it all through again and thought of answering it next day, only I never did because of the dreadful news about Mr Harsch. Yes, I think it must have been quite ten minutes. And then I thought I would go out and smell the night-scented stock, and see if Mr Harsch was still playing.’
‘Did you hear the organ at all after you opened the glass door?’
Miss Sophy shook her head. The curls wobbled again, and so did the chins.
‘Oh, no – only that dreadful shot.’
‘So there was an interval of about ten minutes between the time the organ stopped and a quarter to ten when you heard the shot.’
Miss Sophy said, ‘Yes.’
Garth leaned forward and spoke for the first time.
Ten minutes during which he may have been making up his mind to shoot himself?’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘Or talking to the person who shot him, Major Albany.’
‘That line of argument isn’t going to help Madoc very much – is it?’
Miss Silver looked at him.
‘If Mr Madoc is innocent, every bit of fact which can be uncovered will help him. If he is guilty, no one can help him at all. The facts will always fight for an innocent person. I have explained to Miss Meade that they are my only concern.’
Garth found himself refusing to be snubbed.
‘There is no proof that there was anyone except himself in the church, but if anyone did talk to him there, it is more likely to have been Madoc than anyone else. He had the key, he was angry, he was jealous, he is a man of violent temper – I think the case against him is pretty strong. On the other hand, if he did shoot Harsch it must have been planned beforehand. People don’t walk about Bourne with revolvers. I don’t know the man, so I can’t really base any argument on his character. Janice says she can. She swears through thick and thin he didn’t do it. But she also swears that Harsch didn’t do it himself, and quite frankly, that seems to me to be the only alternative.’
Miss Silver was approaching the heel of her sock. She set the knitting down upon her knee for a moment in order to give her full attention to Major Albany.
‘How long have you known Miss Meade?’
Garth frowned, he didn’t quite know why.
‘I’ve known her always. Her father was the doctor here. They lived next door.’
Miss Silver smiled.
‘Pray do not be offended if I ask you some questions about her. I will give you my reason for doing so presently, and I hope you will agree that it is a good one.’
There was something disarming about voice and manner – authority stepped down to ask instead of demanding. Garth lost his frown, met her look with one as straight, and said, ‘What do you want to know?’
She was grave again.
‘Miss Meade is young. She has enthusiasm and loyalty – I do not doubt that. But I would like to know your opinion of her judgement. Is it likely to be unduly swayed by feeling?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know that I agree with all her arguments, but they are arguments – they represent a point of view. She was fond of Harsch and sorry for him. She doesn’t like Madoc particularly – he is an intensely disagreeable person – but she is quite sure he isn’t a murderer. Is that what you want? I don’t think feelings come into it – at any rate not unduly.’
‘Would you agree with that, Miss Fell?’
Miss Sophy started slightly.
‘Oh, yes – I suppose so. Poor Mr Madoc, he really can be very disagreeable indeed.’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘To return to Miss Meade. Would you take her account of anything as being accurate?’
Garth said, ‘What do you mean by that?’
Miss Silver coughed again.
‘I will tell you presently, but just now I should like an answer to my questions.’
‘Well then, the answer is yes. I should say she was rather scrupulously accurate.’
‘A very sweet girl,’ said Miss Sophy. ‘And such a good daughter. Her father had a very sad illness, and she was most devoted – so reliable and unselfish.’
‘And truthful?’ said Miss Silver.
Miss Sophy bridled.
‘Oh, yes, indeed!’
‘What do you mean, Miss Silver?’ said Garth in a low, angry voice.
She took up her knitting again.
‘You consider that Miss Meade is most truthful and accurate?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Then I am wondering why two total strangers should have been at some pains to give me the opposite impression.’
‘What?’
The sock revolved briskly.
‘I heard Miss Meade’s name for the first time on Sunday afternoon. Two ladies behind me in a Tube booking-office were talking about her. I could not avoid hearing what they said, and I was struck by the Christian name, which I had not heard before. They spoke as if they knew her well. There was a mention of being at college together. They said she was charming but quite unreliable – you could not believe a word she said – that kind of thing. It was very well done, and I thought nothing of it at the time, but when I got Miss Meade’s telegram this morning, and later on when I had seen her, I wondered why it had been done at all.’
‘What a strange coincidence-’ said Miss Sophy in rather a bewildered voice.
Miss Silver’s needles clicked sharply. She said in her most governessy tone, ‘I am really quite unable to believe that it was a coincidence, Miss Fell.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MRS BUSH, WHO had been born Susannah Pincott, was the kind of stirring woman whose energies are quite unable to find sufficient scope in the domestic round. As soon as her children could be bundled off to school she embarked upon the contest with a reluctant husband which resulted triumphantly in the addition of a glass bay to their living-room and the stocking of it with picture postcards, bottles of lemonade and other soft drinks, china ornaments, cigarettes, and cheap sweets. She could thus see life, enjoy unlimited opportunities for gossip, and ensure her own control over at least a part of the family finances.
When Miss Silver entered the shop at eleven o’clock, Mrs Bush was deep in conversation with a little elderly person with a long nose, pale eyes, and a black felt hat tipped sideways over straggling grey hair. Mrs Bush herself towered mountainous behind her counter, her hair still as black as when she was a girl, her cheeks red and firm, her massive figure upright and controlled in spite of the temptation offered by the prevailing village fashion. Like every other woman in Bourne, she wore a loose flowered overall, but beneath it were the formidable stays of her youth.
In a most deprecating manner Miss Silver enquired if she might look at some postcards.
‘I am in no hurry – no hurry at all. Pray do not let me disturb you. I always like plenty of time to make a choice.’
She became immersed in a colourful series depicting the ruined Priory, Bourne village showing the stream running down the side of the street, the church with its old squat tower, the new secondary school at Marbury, and the water-works. As she turned them over she was aware of the two women’s voices, hushed to a sibilant undertone. Not for the first time, she felt gratitude for the excellence of her hearing.
‘He ought to be ashamed of himself,’ said the little elderly woman.
Mrs Bush was leaning close. Her voice was deeper.
‘Ezra never did have any shame, nor never will. Nothing but a trouble to the family first and last, and no good expecting anything different. I suppose he was drunk as usual.’
Out of the tail of her eye Miss Silver saw the black felt hat shaken.
‘Not to say drunk, Tom says – it takes more than what you can get nowadays to make Ezra Pincott drunk, Tom says. Just a bit above his usual, if you know what I mean, and telling everyone that’d listen to him as how he knew something that’d be money in his pocket if some he wouldn’t name knew which side their bread was buttered.’