Patricia Wentworth - Lonesome Road

“You’re shutting yourself up from me. Do you think I don’t know the devil’s work when I see it? How did you get over the cliff-will you tell me that? You that know every foot of that path like this room! Mr. Brandon pulled you up. Did he push you over?”

Rachel laughed. It was lovely to be able to laugh.

“Don’t be stupid, Louie!”

“Oh, yes, I’m stupid, Miss Rachel-stupid to care like I do. But someone pushed you-you’d not have fallen else. And you think it couldn’t be Mr. Brandon, because he’s made you believe he’s fond of you.”

Rachel lifted her head.

“That will do, Louie. You had better not go too far. Now bring me my block and a pencil. I want to write a note.”

The note was to Miss Silver. It said:

“Make an excuse and come to my room as soon after dinner as you think wise. Louisa will show you where it is.”

Presently Caroline came tapping at the door. Rachel let her in for five minutes, and told her not to tell Mabel. She thought the girl looked pale and troubled.

“Is anything the matter, Caroline?”

Her hand was taken and kissed.

“Just you, darling. You mustn’t go falling about on the cliffs. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Rachel said suddenly, “What have you done with the green scarf Mabel gave you?”

Caroline drew back, startled.

“Darling-why?”

“Did you wear it yesterday? Yesterday afternoon-on the cliffs?”

Caroline stared.

“I walked up to meet Richard. I didn’t wear the scarf. I don’t like it very much-it’s too bright. Why, darling?”

“Someone saw a girl in a green scarf, and I wondered if it was you.”

Caroline looked puzzled.

“Anyone can have a green scarf.”

Miss Silver arrived at a little after nine o’clock. By the time she came Rachel was wishing that she need not see her until the morning. She had been sitting there by the fire in a curious atmosphere of safety and contentment, because she was quite sure now that Gale Brandon loved her. He loved her, Rachel Treherne, and no one else. And she loved him. Without a spoken word, with no more than a rough, insistent clasp, he had made her sure. Her heart was bright with a steady flame of happiness. No wonder the thought of talking to Miss Silver struck a jarring note.

But even as she crossed the room with Noisy frisking beside her and unlocked the door, her mood changed, because it was not just her life that was being attacked, it was this new happiness. And it was worth fighting for.

She meant to fight.

Miss Silver came into the room in the kind of garment affected by elderly ladies who frequent boarding-houses. It was quite obviously a summer dress that had been dyed black. Some jet trimming now adorned the neck and wrists. A long, old-fashioned gold chain descended into her lap as she took the chair on the other side of the fire. Her neat, abundant hair was tightly controlled by an unusually firm net. She wore black Cashmere stockings and glacé shoes with beaded toes. A broad old-fashioned gold bracelet set with a carbuncle encircled her left wrist, and a formidable brooch with a design of Prince of Wales’ feathers carried out in hair and seed pearls and surrounded by a plaited border of black enamel also picked out with pearls hung like a targe upon her bosom. She carried a black satin work-bag turned back with bright rose-pink. Rachel felt it would be quite impossible that anyone should suspect her of being a detective. She had almost to close her eyes before she could believe it herself.

Such politenesses passed as would be usual between any hostess and guest. Then Miss Silver said briskly,

“I see you have a good deal to tell me, but before you begin-are we perfectly private here? Those two doors?”

“One leads to my bathroom, the other to my own sitting-room. There is no other way into the bathroom, but it might be best to lock the door leading from the sitting-room into the passage.”

She was about to rise, but was prevented. Miss Silver said, “Allow me,” and trotted over to the sitting-room door. Rachel heard her open the second door. Then the click of the key informed her that it was being locked.

Miss Silver came back, but she did not immediately sit down. She went first to the bathroom and looked in, after which she resumed her chair, opened the black satin bag, and drew out her knitting, a mass of pale blue wool which, unfolded, declared itself as one of those rambling wraps or scarves in which invalids are invited to entangle themselves. Miss Silver herself called it a cloud.

“For dear Hilary. Such a sweet girl, and the pale blue should be most becoming. And now, Miss Treherne, why did you ring me up in the middle of the night? And what has been happening today?”

Rachel answered both questions as briefly as possible. She told her about Neusel finding the adders in her bed, and thought how long ago it seemed. Then she told her about being pushed over the cliff.

Except for a single “My dear Miss Treherne!” Miss Silver listened in complete silence. She had ceased to knit. Her hands rested idle on the pale blue wool, and her eyes never left Rachel’s face. At the end she said quickly.

“You are not hurt?”

“No-only bruised.”

“You have been providentially preserved. May I ask you one or two questions? This visit to your old nurse-how many people knew of it?”

Rachel lifted the hand on her knee and let it fall again.

“Everyone. You see, I go every week.”

“And this Mr. Brandon-did he know?”

Rachel felt her color rise.

“Yes, he knew. Lately he has been walking back with me. I have found him waiting when I came out.”

“But he was not waiting for you this evening?”

“I think he came at the usual time. I had left early.”

“Yes? Why did you do that?” The small, nondescript eyes were very keen.

“Nanny said something which upset me.”

“Will you tell me what it was?”

Rachel hesitated. Then she told Miss Silver the story which Ellen had brought home about the woman in the green scarf who bought two live adders in a shrimping-net. But she could not bring herself to repeat all the nonsense old Nanny had talked about Cosmo Frith.

“I see. And what member of your household has a green scarf?”

All the color went out of Rachel’s face.

“My two young cousins, Cherry Wadlow and Caroline Ponsonby. That is what upset me-but it’s quite, quite impossible.”

“And they were both here at the time?”

“Cherry went away this morning.” The restraint she had put upon her voice broke suddenly. “Miss Silver-”

Miss Silver looked at her very kindly.

“My dear Miss Treherne, I do beg that you will not distress yourself. You are very fond of Miss Caroline, are you not?”

Rachel closed her eyes.

“It is quite, quite impossible,” she said in a tone of intense feeling.

Miss Silver picked up her knitting.

“Let us revert to the events of this afternoon. You did not take your clever little dog with you?”

“No. Nanny doesn’t like him, and I’m afraid he doesn’t like her. He sits on the other side of the room and growls. In fact they’re better apart.”

“Ah-a pity. And that would be known too, I suppose. A great pity. He would probably have given you some warning-but it cannot be helped. Miss Treherne, are you sure that you were pushed?”

Rachel lifted steady eyes.

“Quite sure, Miss Silver.”

“Was it a man or a woman who pushed you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and think. A man’s hand is larger, harder-there would be more force. Try and remember what sort of a blow it was. Were you struck with a hard impact? Was there much weight behind it? Or was it more of a push? You said that you were pushed.”