Anna, Where Are You? (15 page)

Inspector Jackson pursued up his mouth as if he was going to whistle, and then thought better of it.

“Well, that’s pretty sweeping. But it’s not to say he’d rob a bank.”

“No, Inspector.”

“Any of the children his?”

“No.”

“Inspector Abbott tells me there was something about a boat upsetting, and some mushrooms that weren’t the real thing. Where did the information come from?”

“From Mrs. Craddock.”

“She has money?”

“Yes.”

“Tied up on the children?”

“Yes—she told me that.”

“Any sign that she thought her husband had a hand in either of those affairs?”

Miss Silver took a little time before she said,

“I could not say. She was distressed and upset. She takes pains at all times to assure me, and perhaps herself, that the children are very fortunate to have such a step-father. I do not think that I can tell you any more than that.”

Jackson said in a meditative tone,

“If he had red hair—”

Frank Abbott laughed.

“Well, he hasn’t. And if he had, it wouldn’t mean a thing.” Then, as Miss Silver looked from one to the other, “The fellow in the Enderby Green hold-up had red hair. You remember, I told you about it. The bank manager was shot dead—the same technique as yesterday’s job at Ledlington. But the eighteen-year-old clerk was luckier than poor Wayne—he is just out of hospital. And about the only thing he seems sure about is that the murderer had red hair. Everything else beautifully medium and unobtrusive, but quite noticeable red hair. So if there is one thing that everyone else can feel sure about, it is that the hair was just as much a disguise as yesterday’s bandages, and he won’t be found wearing it in private life. Then young Smithers says he had a muffler wound twice about his neck and covering him pretty well up to the ears, and he couldn’t say whether there was a beard under it or not. I wonder if there was.”

Jackson said,

“Well, if he was all that wrapped up, I don’t see how the clerk could see that his hair was red.”

“I should say it was meant to be seen. Anyhow Smithers says he saw it—says he’ll swear to it. And a lot of good that is going to be!” He threw out a hand. “All right, Jackson, you go and try your hand on Craddock. Find out where he was at three o’clock in the afternoon on the third of January—if you can. I’ll come along when I’m through.”

Inspector Jackson turned to the door again. He said, “Thank you, Miss Silver,” and went out of the room.

Miss Silver was reflecting that Miss Gwyneth Tremlett’s description of Mr. Sandrow had included red hair and a red beard, and that she had repeated this description to Frank Abbott.

When the door had shut Frank turned a cool sarcastic gaze upon her.

“Well?” he said.

“Are you asking me something, Frank?”

“I’m asking you what you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“My dear Frank!”

“Oh, I know, I know—you never have anything there, you never pull rabbits out of hats, and you never, never, never keep anything from the police. Or is it a case of hardly ever?”

“Only when it is a theory which has yet to be proved—never in the case of a fact.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“And the borderline between fact and theory? Rather like the European boundary situation, don’t you think? So you have got a theory. Are you going to tell me what it is?… No? Well, I’ve got one too, and I’d like to talk to you about it. Which means of course that I would like you to agree with me. It’s about the girl who waited outside the bank whilst the murderer did his job. Beautiful Blonde And Bandaged Bandit, as the papers have it. I suppose you didn’t see her as well as the man?

His tone was a mocking one, but she replied in a serious manner.

“No, Frank. And whoever may have seen her during the period when she was waiting for the murderer, I think it is quite certain that no one will ever see her again.”

“You don’t mean—” He looked startled for a moment. “No—I don’t think you do. Well, perpend. I’m not going to risk being wrong.”

She made a slight negative movement.

“Oh, no, I do not mean that she will have been murdered, but merely that she had never existed. No one would set out to do robbery and murder with a spectacularly blonde young woman well to the fore as his accomplice. She was, I gather, seen by a number of passers by, and it was undoubtedly intended that she should be seen. May I ask just what these people have to say?”

“You may indeed! Miss Muffin, who is an old lady’s companion, is a positive fount of information. She says the damsel had ‘Very golden hair. I mean, one couldn’t help wondering if it was natural, though of course respectable girls do do such strange things to their hair nowadays. And oh, yes—eyebrows halfway up her forehead—so odd—very much made-up—and the sort of complexion that takes hours to do. But quite unnoticeable clothes—just a dark coat and skirt and a plain felt hat— black, I think, though it might have been a very dark navy. So difficult to tell in a poor light, and the sky was very much overcast at the time.’ This is much the best description, though she was also seen by a Mr. Carpenter, a young man named Pottinger, and a baker’s boy. The boy was more interested in the car than in the lady, but as it had been stolen for the occasion from the Market Square, that isn’t much help. Carpenter and Pottinger both noticed her. Carpenter with disapproval. Pottinger rather sitting up and taking notice, but hadn’t seen as much of her as he would have liked, because she had her hand up doing something to her hat as he passed the car. Both agree that she was, as you say, a spectacular blonde. And of course I agree with you that all the twopence-coloured business would be just as much a disguise as the murderer’s bandages. So I imagine what we have to look for is a dullish girl whom nobody would turn his head to look at twice—the sort of girl, in fact, who comes nineteen to the dozen in any sizable town and can pass in a crowd without anyone noticing whether she is there or not. Which makes it so beautifully easy, doesn’t it?”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“I think you are right. But there is, however, some valuable material for conjecture. Miss Muffin’s description is extremely helpful. I gather that the car was found deserted in a lane near Ledstow. The young woman would have to get away from there, and before doing so she would certainly take steps to alter her appearance. The golden wig would be taken off and the make-up removed. She would then probably put on some kind of coat, preferably a raincoat. Since the sky was overcast, this would be quite natural, and an excellent disguise for the figure. Substitute a head-square for the hat, and all chance of recognition would be avoided. But she would have to make her way from the place where the car was abandoned, and as quickly as possible. She may, or may not, have already dropped the man. I think she would do so as soon as she could. But whilst it was highly necessary that they should separate and return without delay to their normal surroundings, neither of them would dare to risk a public conveyance. A motor-bicycle, or a bicycle, here presents itself as a probability. Was there any place in this lane in which the car was found, or in its immediate vicinity, where a bicycle might have been concealed?”

He nodded.

“You’ve got it. There’s a derelict shed just off a track which runs into the lane. A motor-bicycle had stood there—Jackson found traces of oil. The man probably went off that way. You can’t beat a cap and goggles as a disguise, and he could have gone on along the coast past the Catherine-Wheel, or into Ledstow, or back to Ledlington. He could have taken the girl up behind him, or she could have had her own pedal bicycle or a car of a different make and gone off in another direction, possibly taking the loot, which amounted to about three thousand pounds. I think myself that they would separate as soon as possible.”

“I think so too.”

He pushed back his chair.

“Two hearts that beat as one! Jackson and I will now revert to looking for needles in bundles of hay. He is better at it than I am. I get bored.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Look here—why did Mrs. Craddock faint like that?”

“She is a delicate woman, Frank.”

One of his colourless eyebrows rose.

“Well, I suppose she goes on being delicate all the time, but she isn’t always fainting. Why should her delicacy be aggravated to swooning-point just at the moment when Craddock announces that they have nothing to hide? It seems to me a little too dramatic to be quite fortuitous.”

Miss Silver coughed gently.

“It was certainly dramatic. But was that all that struck you?”

“Was there anything which ought to have struck me?”

“I just wondered whether anything had. Whether, for instance, you had been observing Mr. John Robinson with any particular attention.”

He looked puzzled.

“Well, I don’t know. He was playing the fool a bit. There were moments when I had an idea that he was enjoying himself. Of course he might be quite a suitable suspect, if you put it that way. Well established character as an eccentric—nature study and bird-watching, which accounts for his coming and going at any odd hour—boarded-up windows, and a garden which is practically enclosed by a palisade. But then most of this applies to Craddock too. He studies plants under planetary influences. Which sounds a bit like plucking the fifth cinquefoil from the left at three minutes past midnight when the moon is dark and something or other is in the ascendant, as all the best spells have it. And uncommonly convenient for a gentleman who needs a smokescreen. And it was Mrs. Craddock who fainted.”

Miss Silver gazed at him mildly.

“Let us return to Mr. John Robinson. When I asked you whether you had paid him any particular attention I was referring to his habit of quotation.”

Frank Abbott laughed.

“Oh, that? Well, it’s hardly an indictable offence. We have been known to do it ourselves. But I remember he first quoted Tennyson, and then made a slighting remark about the quotation, which was, I must say, not one of the higher poetic flights. I looked at you to see if you were going to wield a thunderbolt, but you spared him.”

She allowed herself a faint, brief smile.

“He made two quotations. They were both from the same poem—rather a famous one. One was, in fact, the first two lines of that poem, and the other from the last two.”

He frowned.

“Something about cliffs. He said—”

Miss Silver supplied the quotation.

“ ‘Long lines of cliff, breaking, have left a chasm, and in the chasm are foam and yellow sands.’ ”

He looked at her blankly and shook his head.

“Nothing doing, I’m afraid. But the other one does seem to produce a slight reaction—‘The little port had never seen a costlier funeral.’ ”

Miss Silver made a gentle correction.

“ ‘Seldom,’ not ‘never,’ Frank.”

He burst out laughing.

“Well, seldom or never—I can’t place the thing. Are you going to tell me?”

“I think not, Frank.”

He got up.

“Well, I must go and find Jackson. I’d love to stop and play quotations with you, but I’m afraid it might give the Colony an idea that you are cast for the part of chief suspect.” Then in a moment he was entirely serious. “Look here,” he said, “I’m not liking this for you—I never did, you know. There’s something uncommonly ruthless about these crimes, and the only clue we’ve got does point to some link with this place. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Miss Silver smiled indulgently.

“My dear Frank, I am always careful.”

Mr. Craddock’s humour was not at its best by the time Inspector Jackson had finished his polite but pertinaceous questioning. He might, and possibly did, assure himself that he had throughout maintained a high standard of courtesy and philosophic calm, but to anyone whose mind was not adapted to so partial a view it was obvious that he was in a very bad temper. He came into the workroom, and standing upon the hearthrug rather to the rear of the sofa upon which Emily Craddock lay, he delivered himself of an oration. What, he demanded, was the world coming to, what was happening to society, when a person practically indistinguishable from a member of the Gestapo could walk into your house and demand an account of every moment of your time over a period of weeks, together with a complete itinerary of your walks and drives.

“Where was I upon this day and at this hour! And what road did I take to each place! And how long did I stay! I preserved my calm. I said to him, ‘My good Inspector, do you suppose that I keep a minute-to-minute diary of my comings and goings? Could you yourself possibly answer such questions? If you could, I am sorry for you, since it would prove you to be so obsessed with the minutiae of physical life and its earthbound materialism as to be incapable of any higher intelligence. For myself, I live in the realm of thought—I occupy myself with ideas. I am engaged upon an important work on the subject of Planetary Influences, and I certainly cannot tell you just what I was doing at three o’clock in the afternoon on the third of January. I may have been out, or I may have been in. I may have been engaged in my studies, or in writing, or in meditation. I was certainly not in London. It is a place I detest—all noise, and clatter, and disturbing vibrations. The only time I have been to London for months was on the occasion when I made the journey in order to interview Miss Silver, who, as I told the Inspector, will probably remember the date, which was assuredly not January the third.’ ”

He cast a look of lofty interrogation at Miss Silver, who sat knitting by the couch. Since she faced Emily Craddock, she was able to observe that she appeared to be rather stunned by the reverberations of Mr. Craddock’s powerful voice. She was also well placed to intercept his glance, and to reply,

“I believe it was January the eighth.”

The brief respite being over, Mr. Craddock resumed.

“The Inspector had literally nothing to say. I believe that, while remaining perfectly courteous, I was able to administer a sufficient rebuke. People on these lower planes are extremely insensitive, but I believe I was able to show him that his impertinence left me quite unmoved.” The rolling voice developed a rasp. He addressed his wife. “If it had not been for your lack of self-control, my dear Emily, I should not have been subjected to all this unpleasantness. I cannot imagine what came over you. I state in front of the other members of the Colony and in the presence of two police officers that I have nothing to hide, and you immediately give way to the incredible folly and stupidity of fainting. I really feel that I am entitled to an explanation. If you cannot perceive the invidious conclusions which might be, and undoubtedly were, drawn from this lamentable exhibition, I feel it my duty to point them out to you.”

Emily Craddock’s white cheek became a shade paler—something of a feat since it already appeared to be quite drained of colour. She put out her hand in a groping way towards Miss Silver, who laid down her knitting and took it in a kind warm clasp. It was cold to the touch, and it trembled.

“Mr. Craddock, your wife is quite unfit for all this. She has had a sleepless night, a trying morning, and no breakfast. I myself informed the Inspectors that she was in delicate health. What she now needs is rest, and I think there is no purpose to be served by continuing to discuss an experience which has not been very pleasant for any of us.”

Her eyes dwelt upon him, as in time past they had dwelt upon so many pupils—the nervous, the tongue-tied, the intelligent, the pretentious, the impudent, the recalcitrant, the cocksure. Each had found in it some corrective quality—encouragement where encouragement was needed, rebuke where rebuke was called for, authority for the rebellious, and, in every case, a most penetrating understanding.

Peveril Craddock had a horrid moment in which he found himself with nothing to say. His head was full of words, but they buzzed there like flies, and he could make no use of them.

Miss Silver continued to hold Emily’s hand and to look at him. The sweat had come to his brow before she said,

“Your studies have been gravely interrupted, have they not? I will see that Mrs. Craddock has everything she needs.”

It was a dismissal, and he was thankful to accept it.

When he had gone Emily Craddock withdrew her hand and put it over her eyes. After a little time she said in a small, weak voice,

“It would be better if I were dead.”

Miss Silver had resumed her knitting. The gentle click of the needles came and went with a rhythmic sound. She said in a firm and cheerful voice,

“Oh, no, my dear, that is quite untrue. You have three children to care for. It would be forsaking a post of duty.”

“I’m—no good to them—”

The words could hardly be distinguished, but Miss Silver was in no doubt of their meaning.

“That is not true,” she said. “It can never be true of anyone who is doing his duty. You have not to count up what you can do, or how much good it will accomplish. That is not your business. You have only to do what you can, one day at a time, without regretting yesterday or being afraid about tomorrow.” After a pause she added, “Your children need you very much indeed. Jennifer now—”

Emily Craddock burst out crying.

“She’s so like her father!” she said. “I don’t mean to look at, but in herself. We quarrelled, and I can’t even remember what it was about now—but he went away. He used to, you know, and write articles, and do sketches, and come back again. But this time he didn’t. He went to America, and the plane crashed and everyone was killed. And then Francis left me his money and—I married Mr. Craddock—” The words got fainter and fainter and fainter until with Peveril Craddock’s name she turned her face into the pillow and found no more to say. There was silence in the room.