“Have you tried listening in her room whilst someone speaks in the other?”
“I did that next-got her to come up to her room and sent Wilkins in next door. Miss Brand and Mrs. Felton were together in Mrs. Felton’s room, and Mrs. Felton showed him where her husband sat when he was talking to her. Well, then Wilkins was to say something like what a fine day it was, and Mrs. Felton was to let him know whether he was speaking about as loud as her husband did.”
“How did it come off?”
Crisp frowned.
“Nothing much to go on, if you ask me. Anyone lying down on the bed, well, they wouldn’t hear anything but the voices, as Miss Remington said. The nearer you got to the window, the more you’d hear. But only in the way of sound. I didn’t get the words of what Wilkins was saying until I went right up to the window and leaned out. So that’s what it comes to-if she’d gone and hung right out of that window she could have heard what Felton said, but if she was moving about the room or lying on the bed she couldn’t. At least I couldn’t.” He stooped, pushed the notebook down into his pocket, and said, “Well, I’ll be getting back.”
When he had gone Miss Silver said,
“A zealous and responsible officer, but perhaps a little inclined to measure everything by his personal standards.”
Since this was his own opinion, March made no demur. He merely smiled in a rather non-committal manner and enquired,
“Now what exactly do you mean by that? It wasn’t just said to pass the time-was it?”
She said in a thoughtful voice,
“No, Randal. I was reflecting that Cyril Felton was an actor, and that an actor is trained to enunciate more clearly than, shall we say, Constable Wilkins. You will have noticed yourself that Mr. Felton had a very clear and pleasant speaking voice. I was also reflecting that acuteness of hearing varies considerably in quite normal individuals. I seem to have heard that Miss Remington rather prides herself on this quality. Was there not something about her having heard a cry in the night and saying that it might have been a bat?”
“Yes-Crisp said there was something like that. She exasperated him a good deal, I believe.”
Miss Silver said gravely,
“Only the most acute hearing is aware of a bat’s cry, Randal.”
Chapter 36
March received Richard Cunningham’s demand that Marian Brand and her sister should on no account be expected to spend another night at Cove House with gravity. Impatient of the passing of what he regarded as precious time, Richard had interrupted the Chief Constable’s interview with Miss Silver by walking into the room and putting his point.
“Two people have been murdered here, and I want to get those girls away.”
He got a very serious look.
“Quite apart from the question of accommodation, which I believe you would find very difficult, I think you must realize that until all the possible evidence has been obtained and gone through no one who was in the house at the time can be considered to be entirely beyond suspicion.”
“Good heavens-you can’t suspect that poor girl Mrs. Felton!”
“I did not say I suspected her. She was the last person to see her husband alive, and her evidence is of the first importance. There is every likelihood that we may want to question her again, and she should be available for this. We shall, of course, take every precaution for her safety and that of her sister.”
“What precaution do you propose to take?”
“I would suggest that Mrs. Felton shares her sister’s room tonight. The arrangement had better not be talked about. I also suggest that the two girls keep together, or with yourself or Miss Silver. I will put a man on the bedroom landing with instructions that if he leaves his post for any purpose at all he is to knock on your door so that you may relieve him. Does that satisfy you?”
“I think so. My door will be open anyhow.”
March nodded.
“You wouldn’t have got rooms anywhere in the neighbourhood. This fine weather has filled the hotels. And the case is bound to be very much discussed-they wouldn’t find the notoriety pleasant. Besides, I notice you haven’t said a word about their wanting to go. Do they?”
Richard maintained a perfectly inexpressive countenance.
“As a matter of fact Miss Brand rather takes the point of view that this is her house, and that she is responsible for it. I was hoping to induce her to change her mind.”
March said, “I think she’s right. And you needn’t worry. We shall be taking every precaution.”
On the other side of the house Mrs. Larkin was going about the business of the search in a very efficient and orderly manner-Penny and her clothes-Mrs. Alfred Brand and Miss Remington and their respective wardrobes. Net result a scratch on Penny’s bare brown arm and a smear of blood on her cotton frock, the blood in just the place where it would have been if it had come from the scratch-that is, on the front of the dress and a little to the right. But also just where it might have been if she had handled a blood-stained knife. No other marks either on Penny Halliday or on her clothes.
Mrs. Alfred Brand’s dress was not of a colour and pattern to make it easy to see whether it was stained or not, the ground being black with a design of brown and red. Held up to the light, the front breadth disclosed a long dry stain crossing the black background and two bits of red pattern before it petered out against a brown one. At this point, and at this point only, it was possible to discern that the colour of the stain was also red. Mrs. Brand, speaking in a deep angry voice, called her sister and Penny Halliday to witness that they had a red currant and raspberry tart for lunch, and that she had spilt some of the juice on her dress. In spite of which and of a good deal of corroborative detail as to the desirability of bottling your own fruit and the advantage of being able to have raspberries out of season, the garment was set aside with Penny’s frock for police inspection, Mrs. Larkin merely replying in a very civil manner that fruit juice was worse than anything to get out, but there were very good cleaners in Ledlington, only the police would have to have the dress first.
Miss Remington’s lilac cardigan, her white silk blouse, and her pale grey skirt were spotless. A search of the rest of her wardrobe did bring to light an old navy cotton dress which had been washed out, Miss Cassy declared, on Saturday and rolled down for ironing.
“I shouldn’t dream of washing anything out on a Sunday, but if it had been very hot after tea and we were going down on the beach, I might have just run the iron over it and put it on. One gets one’s things so dirty on the sands. I am afraid I have never lost a rather childish love of poking into pools, and really the weather has been so warm, I thought this old cotton dress-”