Читать книгу Lonesome Road - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 4

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Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ Her needles clicked reassuringly. She looked up for a moment and said,

‘What makes you think so?’

Rachel Treherne drew in her breath.

‘I came here to say that, but I don’t think I ever really meant to say it. Because when you say a thing like that nobody believes you, and now that I’ve said it, it sounds even worse than it did when I thought about saying it. Even then I knew that you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘People so often say that,’ said Miss Silver placidly. ‘The thing that is troubling them appears to be unbelievable. But then of course they have not, fortunately, any experience of crime. I, on the other hand, have a great deal of experience. I assure you, Miss Treherne, there is very little that I cannot believe. Now I think it would be a good thing if you told me the whole story. First of all, why should anyone want to kill you? Secondly, has any attempt been made, and if so, in what circumstances? And in the third place, whom do you suspect?’ She laid down her knitting as she spoke, took a bright red exercise-book out of the top right-hand drawer, laid it open before her, dipped a pen, and wrote a careful heading.

These actions had a curiously composing effect upon Miss Treherne. The calming influence of routine made itself felt. Whatever she said would go down in that little book and be on record there. The book touched the schoolroom note again. Upon just such a page had she inscribed such classic phrases as ‘Have you the pen of the gardener’s aunt?’ By the time Miss Silver looked up she was ready with what she had to say.

‘I don’t know if you will believe me or not. You see, I don’t quite know what to believe myself. You don’t know me, but if you were to ask people who do know me, I think they would tell you that I am not naturally suspicious or hysterical. I have always had a great deal to do. I haven’t had much time to think about myself at all. I have had other interests.’

‘Yes?’ said Miss Silver. ‘What interests, Miss Treherne?’

‘You know the name of Rollo Treherne?’

‘Ah,’ said Miss Silver—‘the Rollo Treherne Homes. Yes, indeed. You are associated with those Homes?’

‘I am Rollo Treherne’s daughter. He made an immense fortune in America—you probably know that—and he left it to me as a trust to administer. He died seventeen years ago. It has kept me very busy.’

‘The Homes were your own idea?’

Rachel Treherne hesitated.

‘I think so. I had an old governess—we were all very fond of her. She made me feel how unfair it was that people like her should work for others all their lives and then have a bitterly poor old age. When I had to consider what I was to do with all this money I thought about Miss Barker, and that gave me the idea of the Treherne Homes.’

‘You devoted the whole of your father’s fortune to the Homes?’

‘Oh, no—I don’t want you to think that. There were certain sums I could touch, but a great deal of the capital was tied up—rather curiously tied up.’ She paused, and her voice changed. ‘I could leave it by will, but I couldn’t give it away. It is a little difficult to explain. Legally I have entire discretion, but actually I am bound by my father’s wishes. That is why he left all the money to me—he knew that he could trust me to consider myself bound.’

Miss Silver’s eyes lifted again. She looked for a moment at Rollo Treherne’s daughter. Width of brow under the dark hair; eyes widely set; nostrils very sensitive; lips pressed together for control, but not thin—no, a good mouth, generously cut and meant to smile; chin firm. She thought she knew why this woman had been burdened with wealth. Just because it would be a burden to her, and not a toy. She said:

‘Just so. You are a trustee—morally. I quite understand.’

Miss Treherne leaned an elbow on the table and rested her cheek upon her hand.

‘It’s very difficult,’ she said. ‘I had to give you the background, because without it you wouldn’t understand. About three months ago I got an anonymous letter. Of course, I’ve had them before, but it was different—’

‘I hope you kept it, Miss Treherne.’

Rachel shook her head.

‘Oh, no, I destroyed it at once. And it wouldn’t have helped you. It was just words cut out of a newspaper and stuck on to the commonest white writing-paper. There was no beginning and no signature. It said, “You have had that money long enough. It is other people’s turn now.”’

‘Did it come by post?’

‘Yes—with a London postmark. That was on August the twenty-sixth. A week later there was another, very short. It said, “You have lived long enough.” And a week later again a third letter, “Get ready to die.”’

Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me! And you did not keep any of them. What a pity. How were the envelopes addressed?’

Rachel Treherne moved, sat back in her chair, and said,

‘That is the strange part of it. The address in each case had been cut from a letter which I had already received.’

‘You mean the envelope was an old one?’

‘No, not the envelope. But a couple of inches with my name and address had been cut from a letter which had come to me through the post and gummed on to a new envelope.’

‘From what letters were they taken?’

‘The first from a letter addressed by my sister Mabel, Mrs Wadlow, the second from a letter from a cousin, Miss Ella Comperton, and the third from another cousin, a young girl, Caroline Ponsonby. But of course it had nothing to do with them. Their letters had reached me and been read, and the envelopes thrown aside.’

Miss Silver said, ‘I see—’ She went on knitting. When she thought the pause had lasted long enough she spoke. ‘I would rather hear the whole story before we examine the details. I suppose you did not come here just to tell me about those letters. There has been something further—’ The pause extended itself. Miss Silver continued to knit.

In the end Rachel Treherne managed two words.

‘Something—yes—’

‘Then will you please tell me about it.’

Miss Treherne dropped her brow upon her hand in such a fashion as to screen her eyes. When she spoke, it was in a low, even voice.

‘A day or two after the last letter I had a narrow escape from falling downstairs. I had been washing my dog, and I was carrying him. I didn’t want him to shake himself until I could get him downstairs, so I was hurrying. And just as I came to the top step my own maid, Louisa Barnet, caught me by the arm. “Oh, Miss Rachel!” she said, and she pulled me back. We have been together since we were children and she is very devoted to me. I could see that she was white and shaking. She held on to me and said, “You’d have got your death if I hadn’t stopped you. I nearly got mine coming up, but you going down and your hands taken up with Neusel—oh, you wouldn’t have had a chance!” I said, “What do you mean, Louie?” and she said, “Look for yourself, Miss Rachel!”’

‘And what did you see?’ enquired Miss Silver in an interested voice.

‘The stairs go down in a long, straight flight from a half-way landing. They are of oak and uncarpeted. I was on the landing when Louisa stopped me. I don’t allow the stairs to be too highly polished, but when I looked I could see that the first three treads were like glass. Louisa had just come up. She said her feet went from under her as if she had been on ice. She came down on her hands and knees, and just saved herself by catching at one of the banisters. With the dog in my arms I should have been quite helpless. I mightn’t have been killed, but I should certainly have been very badly hurt. The housemaid is a local girl, steady and not too bright. She said she had done the stairs just as usual.’ Rachel Treherne gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘I’ve never had to complain of her polishing anything too much!’

‘And when did you come up those stairs yourself—or when had anyone else been up or down?’

‘Not all the afternoon so far as I know, but I didn’t want to make a fuss or ask questions. The house was full. I was in my room writing letters. My sister was resting. The girls were somewhere in the garden. Everyone else was out. I finished washing Neusel at half-past four, and I shouldn’t think anyone had come up or down since three o’clock.’

‘Plenty of time to polish three steps,’ observed Miss Silver.

Rachel Treherne made no answer, but after a moment she went on speaking.

‘I shouldn’t have thought of it again if it hadn’t been for the letters. I tried very hard not to attach any importance to it, but I couldn’t get it off my mind. You see, the stairs would be done before breakfast, and if they had been like that all day, someone would have slipped on them long before half-past four. But if they were polished in the afternoon when everybody was out of the way, then it was done on purpose to make someone fall. And after those letters I couldn’t help thinking that I was the someone. I couldn’t get it off my mind.’

‘What polish had been used? Could you tell?’

‘Oh, yes. It was some the housekeeper got to try—a new stuff called Glasso, but I wouldn’t have it used on the floors because it made them too slippery.’

There was another pause. Miss Silver laid down her knitting and wrote in the shiny exercise-book. Then she said,

‘Is that all?’ and Rachel Treherne took her hand from her eyes and cried,

‘Oh, no—it isn’t!’

Miss Silver gave a little cough.

‘It will be much easier if you will go straight on. What happened after that?’

‘Nothing for about a week. Then Louisa Barnet found the curtains on fire in my room. She beat the fire out, and there was not much damage done, but—it couldn’t have been an accident. There was no open flame in the room, or any way the curtains could have caught. I wasn’t in any real danger, I suppose, but it wasn’t a pleasant thing to happen on the top of everything else.’

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

‘A fire is always unpleasant,’ she pronounced.

Miss Treherne sat back in her chair.

‘The worst thing happened four days ago. It is what brought me here, but I’ve been wondering whether I could tell you about it. It’s so vile—’ She said the last words in a slow, almost bewildered manner.

Miss Silver picked up her pink ball and unwound a handful of wool.

‘It would really be much better if you did not keep breaking off,’ she said in her most practical manner. ‘Pray continue.’

At another time Rachel Treherne would have been tempted to laugh. Even now a flicker of humour crossed her mood. She said,

‘I know. I will tell you about it as quickly as possible. On Saturday I did some shopping in Ledlington. One of the things I brought home was a box of chocolates. I am the only one in the family who likes soft centres, so I chose a good hard mixture, but I made them take out just a few and put in some of the ones I like myself. The chocolates were the sort that have the name stamped on them so that you can tell what you are taking. I handed them round after dinner, and they were very good. I had two with soft centres, and enjoyed them. I took the box up to my room because Louisa Barnet is fond of chocolates too. She is like me, she doesn’t care for the hard centres. She was with me when I bought them, and I knew she would expect her share, so I told her to help herself. She took one, and almost immediately ran into the bathroom and spat it out. When she had rinsed her mouth she came back. She was terribly upset. She said, “That chocolate was as bitter as gall—there’s someone trying to harm you, Miss Rachel! You can’t get away from it.” She brought the box of chocolates over to me, and we examined them thoroughly. The ones with the hard centres were all right, and we put them aside. There were about a dozen left with soft centres. Three of these had had a little hole made in the bottom and filled up again. It was quite cleverly done, but you could see it. I touched the filling of one of these chocolates with my tongue, and it had a strong bitter taste. I burnt all the chocolates that were left.’

‘A very foolish proceeding,’ said Miss Silver briskly. ‘You should have had them analysed.’

Rachel answered with a hopeless gesture and a single word. Her hand lifted from her knee and fell again. She said,

‘Impossible.’