Читать книгу Lonesome Road - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 5

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Miss Silver waited. No other words followed. She knitted to the end of her row, and then remarked,

‘This is for Hilary Cunningham’s baby. A sweet colour—so very delicate.’

Rachel Treherne’s dark eyes rested for a moment upon the pale-pink wool. She said in an absent voice,

‘I didn’t know that Hilary had a baby.’

‘Not till January.’ Miss Silver began another row. ‘And now, Miss Treherne, I think we had better proceed. I asked you to tell me three things. Firstly, why should anyone want to kill you? You have not really replied to this, unless your statement that you are Rollo Treherne’s daughter, and that he has left you discretionary powers over his very large fortune, is an answer.’

Miss Treherne said without looking at her,

‘It might be.’

‘I asked you, secondly, whether any attempt had been made on your life, and if so, in what circumstances. To this you have replied very fully. Thirdly, I enquired who it was that you suspected. It is very necessary for me to have an answer to that third question.’

Rachel said, ‘I suppose so,’ and then remained silent for quite a long time. Her hands were once more clasped in her lap. She looked down at them, and when she began to speak she did not raise her eyes.

‘Miss Silver, I believe that I can trust you. My difficulty is this—I do not see how you can help me unless I am frank with you, unless I tell you everything. But that is the trouble. With the best will in the world, one can’t tell everything. I look at the problem, at the people, and I look at them through my own temperament, my own mood—perhaps through my own fear, my own doubt, my own suspicion. These things do not make for clear vision. And, not seeing clearly myself, I have to choose, I have to select what I am going to tell you, and then I have to find words to convey these troubled impressions to you, a stranger. You have no check on what I tell you. You don’t know the people or the circumstances. Don’t you see how impossible it is to give you anything except an unfair picture?’

‘I see that you are very anxious to be fair. Now will you tell me who it is that you suspect?’

Rachel Treherne looked up.

‘No one,’ she said.

‘And who is it that Louisa Barnet suspects?’

Rachel turned abruptly. She faced Miss Silver across the table now.

‘No one,’ she said; ‘no one person. She’s afraid for me, and it makes her suspicious. It is because of these suspicions that I have felt bound to come to you. I can’t go on like this, living with people, seeing them constantly, being fond of them, and these dreadful suspicions always there between us.’

‘I see,’ said Miss Silver. ‘If I may quote from Lord Tennyson’s poem of Maud—“Villainy somewhere! Whose? One says, we are villains all.” And again:

“Why do they prate of the blessings of peace?

We have made them a curse.

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own.

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own

hearthstone?”

Really very apt, I think. I fear that the lust of gain in the heart of Cain is responsible for a great deal of crime.’

Rachel Treherne said ‘Cain—’ in a sort of whisper, and Miss Silver nodded.

‘Impossible not to realise that it is some member of your family circle who is suspected by Louisa Barnet, if not by yourself.’

‘Miss Silver!’

‘You had better face it. When it comes to attempted murder, it is no use letting things slide. I am sure that you must realise this. For your own sake, and for the sake of your relatives, the matter must be cleared up. Your fears may be groundless. The attempt may have come from some other quarter than the one which is causing you so much distress. We will attack the matter courageously and see what can be done. Now, Miss Treherne, I would like full details of your household, the members of your family, and any guests who were staying with you at the time of these attempts.’

Rachel Treherne looked at her for a moment. Then she began to speak in a quiet, steady voice.

‘I have a house at Whincliff. My father built it. It is called Whincliff Edge, and it stands, as the name suggests, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. There are very fine gardens on the landward side. It is in fact a kind of show place, and the house is big enough to accommodate a good many guests. I have therefore to employ a considerable staff outside, and a housekeeper and five maids indoors. I don’t employ any men indoors. My housekeeper, Mrs Evans, has been in the family for twenty years—she is one of the nicest women in the world. The maids are local girls and from no farther afield than Ledlington—I know all about them and their families. Maids generally stay with me until they marry. They are all nice, respectable girls. None of them could have the slightest motive for wishing to harm me. My guests—’ She paused, and then went on. ‘The house is often full. My father built it not just for himself and me, but to be a rallying point for the family. They regard it in this light, and I am very seldom alone there.’

‘You mentioned a sister, I believe.’

‘Yes—my sister Mabel.’

‘A younger sister?’

‘No, five years older. She married young, and my father made a settlement on her then.’

‘He did not leave her anything more in his will?’

‘No.’

‘And was she satisfied?’

Miss Treherne bit her lip. She said,

‘There was no quarrel. My father did not expect his will to please everyone, but he had his own reasons for what he did.’

Miss Silver coughed slightly.

‘People’s reasons so seldom appeal to relatives,’ she remarked. ‘Pray continue, Miss Treherne. You said your sister was married. Has she any family, and were they staying with you at the time of these occurrences?’

‘Yes. Mabel is not very strong. She had been with me all through August. Her husband, Ernest Wadlow, was coming down for the week-ends. He is a writer—travel, biography, that sort of thing. Their two children were also coming down for the week-ends. Maurice, who is twenty-three, is reading for the Bar, and Cherry, who is nineteen, is engaged in having a good time. The other guests were my young cousin, Richard Treherne, who is a grandson of my father’s brother; a first cousin on my father’s side, Miss Ella Comperton—she has a little flat in town, but she is always very pleased to get away from it; a first cousin on my mother’s side, Cosmo Frith; and his young cousin and mine, Caroline Ponsonby—’

‘One moment,’ said Miss Silver. ‘Which, if any, of these relatives were staying with you on the dates upon which you received the three anonymous letters?’

‘None of them,’ said Rachel Treherne, ‘except my sister Mabel. She was with me all through August and most of September, but the others only came down for the week-ends.’

Miss Silver put down her knitting and took up a pencil.

‘I should like those dates, if you please.’

Rachel Treherne gave them as one who has a lesson by heart.

‘The first letter, Thursday, August 26th—the second, Thursday, September 2nd—and the third, September 9th, also a Thursday.’

‘And the incident of the polished steps?’

‘September 11th.’

‘A Saturday?’

‘Yes, a Saturday.’

Miss Silver entered these particulars.

‘And the fire in your room?’

‘The following Saturday, September 18th.’

‘And the incident of the chocolates?’

‘Last Saturday, October 30th.’

Miss Silver wrote that down, then looked up, pencil poised.

‘Nothing happened between 18th September and 30th October?’

‘No. I was away a good deal. I had no guests—’ With a sudden realisation of what she had said, a brilliant colour flushed her cheeks. She looked beautiful, startled, distressed. ‘You mustn’t think—’ she began.

Miss Silver interrupted her.

‘My dear Miss Treherne, we must both think—calmly, quietly, and above all dispassionately. No innocent person will be harmed by our doing so. Only guilt need shrink from investigation. Innocence will be vindicated. Pray let us continue. I have here a list of your relatives, written down as you gave them to me—Mr and Mrs Wadlow, your brother-in-law and sister. Mr Maurice and Miss Cherry Wadlow, their son and daughter. Mr Richard Treherne. Miss Ella Comperton, Mr Cosmo Frith, and Miss Caroline Ponsonby, all cousins. You have told me that none of these relatives except Mrs Wadlow was in the house upon the dates on which the anonymous letters were written, posted, or received by you. I should now like you to tell me which of them was staying in the house on September 11th, the day of the polished steps incident.’

The colour had left Rachel Treherne’s face again. She said,

‘They were all there.’

‘And the following Saturday, September 18th, when the curtains in your room were found to be on fire?’

‘They were all there.’

‘And during the six weeks when you had no guests there were no more occurrences of a suspicious nature?’

‘Miss Silver!’

‘Let us be dispassionate. There were, in fact, no more occurrences during that period. But on Saturday, October 30th, there was the incident of the chocolates. Which of these relatives was in the house on that occasion?’

Miss Treherne repeated the phrase which she had already used twice, but in a tone that was almost inaudible.

‘They were all there.’

Miss Silver remarked, ‘Dear me!’ turned a page, wrote a heading, and said in a bright, matter-of-fact tone, ‘Now if you will give me a little information about each of these relatives—just the merest outline, comprising age, occupation, financial position—’

‘Miss Silver—I can’t!’

Miss Silver looked at her kindly but firmly.

‘Indeed you can, my dear Miss Treherne. It is best for us to speak quite plainly. As matters stand, you are in continual fear of being obliged to suspect one or other of your relations. The situation is quite impossible, and it must be cleared up. If you withhold information, I cannot help you. Let us continue. We will begin with your sister Mabel, Mrs Wadlow.’