Patricia Wentworth - Through The Wall

There was an eventual departure of the police, with the exception of Constable Wilkins, who remained behind to clutter Eliza’s kitchen until such time as the family repaired to their rooms for the night, when he had instructions to be on duty on the bedroom landing and on no account to allow himself to be overtaken by sleep. Everyone was only too anxious for the day to be over. Violent events have much the same effect upon the day in which they fall as a bomb has upon the surrounding country. The bomb itself may provide a brief excitement, but it reduces all about it to a condition of arid dullness. As the dust settles, everything within its reach is blighted.

Eliza served a cold supper out of a tin-one of the more depressing so-called lunch loaves, with a marmoreal corn-flour shape and some rather grey apple to follow. In the kitchen Constable Wilkins partook of herrings and cocoa under the watchful eye of Mactavish, who exasperated Eliza by repeating his almost soundless mew until she left off her own supper to bone a nice piece of herring for him, and then intimated that it wasn’t good enough by backing away from it and continued to mew. Eliza said “Drat!” but she fetched shredded meat and breadcrumbs from the larder and warmed up the gravy that had been left from lunch. After which Mactavish condescended to partake and Eliza was able to go on with her own supper.

By the time that Constable Wilkins was well away with his third herring and his second cup of cocoa she was preparing him for his night’s vigil by narrating the really horrid tale of her grandfather’s experience in a haunted house. It had so many uncomfortable similarities to the present situation that Joe Wilkins wasn’t really able to relish that last herring. Like himself, Eliza’s grandfather had been obliged to sit up all night on the landing of a house where there’d been murder done. It was an old house and it creaked something dreadful, and right in the middle of the night there was a footstep where no lawful footstep ought to be. Down in the hall, and all the family upstairs and abed. It was Eliza’s best story, and she told it very well, dwelling with loving care on how her grandfather could feel the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling. When she came to the bit about his taking the candle and coming down to the turn of the stair, Joe Wilkins found himself very resolute that he would do no such thing. Asking for trouble, that was what it was, and why couldn’t her grandfather stay where he was, the silly old fool?

Eliza dropped her voice to a frightening whisper.

“And round the turn of the stair the candle came out of the socket and went rolling down afront of him. There was my grandfather, and there was his shadow on the plaster, and the last thing he saw when the candle went rolling down was his own shadow come off of the wall and standing there on the mat at the foot of the stair looking up. And the candle went out.”

“Wh-what happened?”

Eliza’s voice became brisk.

“What should happen? My grandfather come back and got another candle, and when he went down again there wasn’t anything there.”

When supper was over in the dining-room Miss Silver announced her intention of stepping in next door.

“Poor Penny-a trying experience for a young girl, being searched. And Mrs. Brand and Miss Remington-really most unpleasant and disturbing. I think it would console them to know that we have all been subjected to the same ordeal. But I shall not stay long.”

Penny opened the door. She was pale under her tan, but she had lost what Eliza called her heart-rendering look. She was tired, and everything was dreadful, but Felix had gone off to the drawing-room with the score of his quartet, laid aside for months. Upon the blank of thought images and combinations had begun to take shape. Every now and then he touched the keys of the piano, every now and then he wrote. Penny was so thankful to see him working again that nothing else really mattered.

She took Miss Silver into the parlour, and listened to the aunts animadverting on a system which allowed the police to penetrate into private houses and search the occupants.

Miss Silver was most sympathetic. She herself had been searched.

“Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs. Brand. Not at all pleasant-most distasteful in fact. But I felt it my duty. It is, after all, for our protection. We shall none of us feel safe till this dreadful business is cleared up. I am sure you must feel that.”

Florence Brand said heavily,

“I have lived here for nearly twenty years. Nothing happened until my brother-in-law made that unjust will.”

Cassy Remington tossed her head.

“Miss Silver won’t be interested in Martin’s will,” she said in an acid voice. “And really, Florence, I can’t see how you can make out that it has anything to do with Helen Adrian or Cyril Felton, neither of whom came in for a penny or ever expected to.”

Miss Silver said, “Indeed?”

Cassy Remington jingled her chain.

“I don’t know why we go on talking about it. It is all extremely unpleasant. Think what the headlines in the papers are going to be, to go no farther than that. Eliza and Mrs. Bell were sending away reporters most of Friday and all Saturday. At least Mrs. Bell would have if she had been here on Saturday afternoon, but she wasn’t, so we just kept everything shut. And of course they’ll be a great deal worse tomorrow.” There was a sparkle in her eyes as she fixed them on her sister and repeated with energy, “A great deal worse!”

Florence Brand pressed her rather thick pale lips together and said nothing. Miss Cassy continued to talk.

“And it’s not as if that would be the worst of it. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if we didn’t have bus-loads of trippers! And have to cook for ourselves! I shouldn’t think Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Woolley would come-not after they hear about Cyril Felton. And it’s quite extraordinary how things get round. Of course everyone in England will know by the time the papers are out tomorrow.”

Mrs. Brand gave her sister a slow, cold look of dislike.

“I can see no good in making out that things are worse than they are. Mrs. Bell wouldn’t miss the reporters for anything, and I don’t suppose Mrs. Woolley would either?” Her voice went down into depths of disapproval. “They are enjoying themselves.” She did not say, “And so are you,” but it was in her tone.

Cassy Remington tossed her head.

“Oh, well, I suppose we shall all have our pictures in the papers,” she said.

Miss Silver did not stay very long. When she got up to go she asked if she might go round by the garden, as it would save Eliza coming to the front door.

“There is so much extra to do, and I feel that I am adding quite enough to her work by being in the house.”

Penny took her out through the kitchen. But when they were there, and the door to the hall had been shut, Miss Silver paused and said,

“Are you still sleeping in the attic?”

Penny looked a little surprised, a little reluctant.

“No, I’ve come back to my own room. I had to move out for Helen Adrian, but they thought I had better come back. They thought it would be better for us all to be on the same floor.” After a pause she added, “It’s silly to mind.”

Miss Silver smiled at her very kindly indeed.

“The room is your own. You will soon overcome any other associations. And the sooner the step is taken, the more quickly this will be done.”

Penny nodded.

“Eliza knew someone whose daughter died, and she kept the room just as it was, and hot water put there, and her nightgown laid out-” A little shudder went over her.

Miss Silver gave a gentle cough.

“Very morbid indeed, and not at all in keeping with Christian hope and faith.” Then, with a slight access of briskness, “I am going to ask you if you will do something for me.”