Читать книгу Scarecrow - Dorothy Fielding - Страница 8

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IT was sometime in the late afternoon that Inskipp drew up his plans more definitely. In reply to another letter of his to Maître François, that gentle man had written that he had now found a client who would make Madame de Pra a loan on her aunt's legacy. It was difficult to say what displeased Inskipp about the note. An absence of precision, perhaps. It looked to him as though Maître François were more concerned about running up a big bill of costs than about securing the loan. That seemed odd in a man of his reputation...The whole letter, however, seemed odd to him, though he could not put his finger on the exact reason for the feeling. He decided that he would stop over at Clermont long enough to interview the mâitre. And he decided also that he would not give him any preliminary warning.

The man's letters hitherto had impressed him very favourably. He wrote very fluent English. If he spoke the language as well as he wrote it, they should soon be able to understand each other. Inskipp only hoped profoundly that the tone he detected in the last letter did not mean that the lawyer was not as certain now about securing a divorce for Mireille as he had seemed before.

Had something unforeseen happened? Had some new law been passed? Or was one about to be passed? The mere possibility weighed on Inskipp profoundly. But he hoped soon to have his mind set at rest. He found that Rackstraw was perfectly willing to leave for England in a week's time, provided they went by train and boat. That arranged, Inskipp went again in search of Norbury.

He found him in one of his barns, with a big stand of pears and a pile of old newspapers. Each pear was to be wrapped afresh before being laid back again on its tray. At the moment Norbury was not working. He was lying on his stomach on a spread-out paper apparently engrossed in reading its contents.

At the sound of Inskipp's steps, Norbury promptly rolled over so as to completely cover the paper. Then he looked up.

"Hard at work, I see," said Inskipp, grinning. "I heard you say that there's nothing like a glass of Castellar to make you feel energetic."

"I said that it made one work like a nigger," corrected Norbury, getting up, "and it does!"

Norbury was putting together some sheets of the many papers scattered around him. Evidently he had been spending some time in reading. He now held one out to Inskipp with the odd words. "You're a discreet chap; do you recognise that woman's face?"

Inskipp did not. He was never a keen observer.

"How about this one—same woman—but I've altered it a little." Norbury passed him another paper, folded so that another portrait of the same face showed. The face had had slanting eyebrows pencilled in by Norbury, and instead of the neat roll of long hair on the back of the neck that showed in the picture, he had drawn straight, shingled hair hanging on each side of the face.

"Why, it's Miss Blythe to the life." Inskipp said with a laugh.

But Norbury did not laugh. He glanced at the little window above them. It was shut.

"Look here, Inskipp, I can rely on that discretion of yours—absolutely?"

"You can. But why?"

"Have a look at the name below the picture." Puzzled, Inskipp opened up the paper. He read aloud:

"'Mrs. Whin-Browning getting into her car.' Mrs. Whin-Browning!" he repeated in a tone of stupefaction.

Then he studied the altered face again.

"It's certainly awfully like Miss Blythe, but I suppose altering a face like that, one might make all sorts of likenesses—"

"I haven't altered it except as Miss Blythe has done," said Norbury meaningly. "I didn't change the eyebrows and darken the hair."

"Good God." came from Inskipp, who was now staring as though hypnotised at the portrait. "You think—it's not possible!—"

"Look at this," said Norbury, pulling out another sheet. It showed a young man in flannels.

"That's Blythe." said Inskipp instantly, "and a jolly good picture of him too." He stopped as he read the words below the snapshot.

"Just so," said Norbury meaningly. "Hector Whin-Browning playing cricket.' He was the younger brother of the one who died. He didn't appear in the case at all, as he was in Paris at the time. Well, I don't think there's much doubt who the two Blythes really are."

Inskipp nodded in silence.

About a year ago, a London barrister named Ambrose Whin-Browning had died from influenza, it was thought. A couple of weeks later his sister, who lived with him and his wife, died also. This time there was an autopsy, which was promptly followed by the exhumation of the brother's body. Both deaths were proved to have been the results of arsenical poisoning.

The case had been an amazing one. It had shaken all England, though it had only progressed as far as the inquest stage, for the coroner, who was also a solicitor, had made the most of his out-of-date powers, and had conducted it as far as possible as a trial of Mrs. Whin-Browning for the murder of her husband and of her sister-in-law.

The third day of the inquest had been a Saturday. In the afternoon, Edna Whin-Browning left her home in Brighton where the two deaths had occurred, and had gone for a swim. She never returned. Her clothes were found close to a very dangerous cave, one with a tremendous out-current, but the police believed that she had made her way abroad.

The inquest had continued on the Monday without her, and had finished on the Wednesday in a verdict of murder against Mrs. Whin-Browning on both counts.

For a month the papers had been filled with portraits of her, accounts of her past life—which proved to be disappointingly blameless—and speculations as to whether she had really been drowned or not; and if so, whether it had been accident or suicide.

There was a silence—on Inskipp's part, of sheer stupefaction as he studied the picture again.

"It certainly is her. Her face is much thinner—she's altered the shape of her eyebrows, and she's cut her hair short. I rather thought she was innocent, only lost her nerve, and fled."

"So did I." came from Norbury. "And I'm still convinced that she is innocent. My belief was, and is, that her companion, the young woman's name was Marsh, I think—was in love with Whin-Browning, that he got tired of her, and that Miss Marsh did for him in revenge. And, because she suspected, or saw, something, the sister had to go too. Evidently the brother thinks his sister-in-law—our Miss Blythe—innocent. Or he wouldn't be standing by her. Without him, I don't see how she could keep afloat. If innocent, she wouldn't have made any arrangements about her money." There followed another silence.

"Her running away was what turned the scales against her in most people's opinion," said Inskipp. He had had no time for papers himself at the time of the inquest except financial ones, but no one had talked of much else for a fortnight.

"What turned the scales against her was the spiteful evidence of the companion, Miss Marsh. The person who I believe to have done the poisoning. As to getting away—only thing to do, in my opinion. She was for it, if she had stayed!" said Norbury, getting up.

"How did you come on these?"

"The British Club at Menton sent them with a cart-load of others. I always buy their thrown-out newspapers. It was mere chance, as I was cutting them into squares, that the likeness struck me, and then I saw that one of the brother—of Blythe—and knew!"

"And do you also know, what you are going to do?" asked Inskipp.

"Nothing," Norbury replied with conviction, "unless keeping silence is doing something. She's greatly to be pitied," he went on after a moment. "A wealthy woman—turned into an outcast."

"Wealthy?" Inskipp asked. An idea had struck him.

"Very. The coroner made a lot of capital out of the fact that each death was tremendously to her advantage. Her husband had left everything to her, except a large bequest to his sister—he only had the one—which, if the latter died unmarried before his wife, was to go to the wife. Mrs. Whin-Browning had had no settlements made on her when she married."

"So that, before the casualties, the lady hadn't much money?"

"Not a penny piece, except as her husband allowed it to her. The coroner made a lot of that too. She must have around eighty thousand now—which she can't touch." Norbury pulled the stack of papers towards himself and began to look them over.

"Remember, I have your word to keep this discovery of mine to yourself! I I shall burn these papers."

"May I keep them for a bit? An idea has just struck me." Inskipp's face was alight. "If she's innocent—"

"Oh, she is I I'll stake the farm on that!"

"If I agree with you, when I've carefully gone through them again, I might offer my services to Mrs. Whin—"

Norbury's finger stopped him. "I think we'd better not use that name!"

"Quite right!—To Miss Blythe. If I do offer to help her, and if she thinks that amateur help can be any good to her, I might see what can be done when I get back to England. I'm afraid I should have to ask a payment."

"Of course, you must ask a good one. It's worth it," Norbury said promptly.

"I might suggest five hundred," said Inskipp.

"Half down; the remainder if I succeed. I shouldn't be able to devote my time to it otherwise, and I should like immensely to undertake it—"

"So should I, if I could spare the time," said Norbury, "but I can't. This farm takes all my time. And if I do start an agency in London to sell Riviera produce, that will mean no end of book-keeping. As to the newspapers—take them by all means. As many as you want—but keep them locked away very carefully. It's life or death to that poor woman."

"I certainly will, but I had to tell you of what's in my mind," said Inskipp, "as I had promised you to say nothing about what you were telling me."

"That only applies to the world in general—and here at the farm in particular."

Norbury and Inskipp together weeded out the papers that dealt with the Whin-Browning case, and then, leaving Norbury to get on with his fruit, Inskipp stepped out into the sunshine. Going round the other side of the wing, he almost fell over Rackstraw lying in the shade of the wall just under the window of the room where he and Norbury had been talking. Fortunately, Rackstraw's naps were known for their heaviness. Lying on his back, his mouth open, he looked the picture of slumber. Inskipp stepped across him, and made his way to his own room.

The terror which he had read in Edna Blythe's face when she heard that Florence Rackstraw had fallen and been killed when alone with Blythe...her flight—for it had been that—to Nice...He saw that probably what had frightened her was the police inquiry which Florence's death might entail. Very likely the letter that he was to hand Blythe and not leave in his room for him, referred to this. The passports of herself and Blythe would be in their real names. Norbury let his guests fill in their own "arrival papers." That, Inskipp saw, was probably the reasons why the brother and sister had stayed, and intended to stay, on at the farm. Blythe, too, had not shown his to the police, and had not gone down to the British Consulate at Nice. All Miss Blythe's dislike of strangers was explained now, as well as her own and her brother's withdrawal, as much as possible, from their fellow guests.

Inskipp went carefully through the papers. Then he locked them away in his suitcase, and sat on thinking. He was not satisfied. He was not so sure of the woman's innocence as he had been before he had read all the facts. He wanted to be. He would like to help her—if she were innocent.

It occurred to him that he had a means of testing that innocence. If he offered to go to England to rehabilitate Mrs. Whin-Browning, and if she agreed to his terms—that, Inskipp decided, would prove her to be, as Norbury maintained, only unfortunate—not guilty.

Inskipp ran lightly up the stairs to the sitting-room of the so-called brother and sister which was in the west wing.

Inskipp closed the door carefully behind him. "Forgive my bursting in on you like this," he said as he did so. "I want to talk to you two—quite frankly—if I may."

He did not dare give himself time to think.

"Sit down," said Blythe, and something in his tone suggested a man who might not be quite so easy-going as his face looked. As for Miss Blythe, she had turned quite pale.

"I am going back to England shortly, and I wondered whether, while there, I might not be able to serve you, Miss Blythe."

She stared at him, too taken by surprise to speak—or too frightened.

"I'm going to England shortly," said Blythe in a level tone, "so that I don't see—"

"You might be handicapped—Mr. Whin-Browning," said Inskipp in a whisper, coming very close to him. "I should be quite free to get things cleared up without any one suspecting that there was a connection between us."

There followed a moment of absolute silence. Miss Blythe had leapt to her feet and stood now staring at his face. He turned so that she could see it clearly. As for Blythe, he had stepped back, but his fists had clenched. There was a very ugly look on his features.

"Suppose you let one talk to Miss Blythe first, by ourselves," suggested Inskipp. "If she accepts the offer of my help, then we three will go into the matter together. If she declines, then the whole affair will be instantly buried."

For an instant, their eyes met. In hers was a look of agonised hope. Only an innocent woman, Inskipp believed, could look like that at such a moment, and he felt sure of his ground.

Blythe came closer, the veins on his neck and temples were swollen, but his face was now paler than his sister-in-law's.

"My name is Blythe, and I'll thank you to remember it," he said icily. "As for any help—we need no proffered services."

Standing behind him, but a little to one side, Inskipp caught a warning, and yet an imploring look, from Miss Blythe. It only lasted for a second, then she looked down at her tightly-clasped hands.

"I don't see how you are going to prevent my talking to your sister alone," Inskipp said, facing up to Blythe. He did not like the look on the man's face at all. "Unless you mean that you consider her your prisoner—"

Blythe took a step towards him and for a moment Inskipp thought that there was going to be a rough house. But after standing for a second, almost shoulder to shoulder, Blythe turned away to the woman.

"What do you say?" he asked in a surly tone.

"I want to hear what Mr. Inskipp proposes," Miss Blythe said with composure. "If you will go for a walk for an hour, that would give us plenty of time to thrash the question out, and have something definite to tell you on your return."

"You're a fool, Edna," said Blythe in a warning tone, "the only thing to do now, is to lock this busybody up where he can't do any harm, and get away—over into Italy, and through it into that other place I know of—"

"No," Edna said firmly, "the offer was made to me, concerns me, I want to hear what Mr. Inskipp has to say. I want an hour to talk it over."

"Do you, by God!" The words were a snarl. "He'll have to settle with me, remember."

She turned to him with a smile.

"Of course he will. Naturally he will. Now leave us here for an hour. Unless you want us to go for a walk—"

"No," said Blythe very ungraciously, "this is the safest place for a private talk. I'm off. For exactly sixty minutes."

Blythe stamped heavily down the wooden stairs.

Edna stood listening intently, she went to the window to watch his burly figure making off by the maize plantations, then she turned, her face all white and quivering.