Patricia Wentworth - The Key

Ida Mottram giggled.

‘But then people used to wear crinolines and all sorts of funny things then – didn’t they?’

There was a stony silence before Miss Doncaster observed in a pinched voice that it was her grandmother who had worn a crinoline.

Mrs Mottram gazed affectionately at her ruby slacks.

‘Well, when a fashion’s dead it’s dead,’ she said. ‘You can’t dig it up, or we might all be going round in woad.’ She turned to Miss Silver with a marked access of warmth. ‘I’m sure I interrupted something frightfully important when I came in – you all had that sort of look. Do go on, or I shall think that you were talking about me.’

‘Would that be “frightfully important”?’ said Miss Doncaster.

The blue eyes rolled.

‘It would be to me.’

Miss Silver said gravely, ‘We were talking about poor Mr Harsch, and how sad it was that he should have met his death just when his work had been crowned with success. Miss Mary Anne was being so very interesting. She happened to be on the telephone and she actually heard him telling someone at the War Office that his work was done.’

‘Sir George Rendal,’ said Miss Mary Anne. ‘ “Completely successful” was the expression Mr Harsch used, referring to a final experiment.’

‘Oh, yes, you told us.’ Ida Mottram was not really interested. ‘Do you remember, Mr Everton had come in to bring you some eggs – isn’t he marvellous the way he gets his hens to lay? – and I came with him. You told us all about it then.’ Her tone made it quite clear that she didn’t want to hear it again. ‘And I’m sure none of us thought the poor sweet was going to be snatched away like that. But what’s the good of going on talking about it all the time? I asked Mr Everton this afternoon if he didn’t think it was morbid, and he said he did. I mean, it isn’t going to bring him back.’

‘In fact we are to go through life ignoring what is unpleasant,’ said Miss Doncaster. ‘I was brought up to face things, and not to put my head in the sand. You seem to see a great deal of Mr Everton.’

‘He’s frightfully kind,’ said Ida Mottram. ‘He made my henhouse out of some frightful old packing-cases and odds and ends. And he’s marvellous with the wireless. He knew at once mine needed a new valve, and he got me one when he was in Marbury on Monday, and came over and fixed it up for me and all. He really is the kindest man. But isn’t it funny, Bunty doesn’t like him at all. It makes it so awkward.’

‘Many children object to the idea of a stepfather,’ said Miss Doncaster in an extremely acid voice.

Ida Mottram broke into girlish laughter.

‘Is that what people are saying? What a joke! Of course when there is only one man in the place, I suppose people have to make the most of him. You can’t really count the Rector, can you? But I might see if I can get up the faintest breath of scandal about him, just to take their minds off Mr Everton. Suppose I got something in my eye after church on Sunday and asked him to take it out – it’s an old dodge but quite a good one. What do you think?’

Miss Sophy smiled and said, ‘I think you talk a great deal of nonsense, my dear.’

Ida giggled.

‘Of course there’s your nephew – but he’s Janice’s, and I never poach.’ She got up and beamed on everyone. ‘Well, I really only came with some of those late raspberries. We’ve got such a lot of them, and I know Miss Mary Anne likes fruit. I left them downstairs with Agnes. Angel’ – she made a dart at Miss Silver – ‘when am I going to see you?’

‘I will come in on my way home,’ said Miss Silver.

AFTER SPENDING HALF an hour at the Haven Miss Silver took her way home. She had admired Bunty, the raspberries, the henhouse erected by Mr Everton, and the photographs of half a dozen young men in Air Force uniform who corresponded affectionately with Mrs Mottram and took her out when they had leave and she could get to town. Bunty, it appeared, could be parked at the Rectory – ‘Miss Sophy really is an angel , and so are her maids.’ An ugly young man with a grin seemed to be the most assiduous.

Alone with Miss Silver, Ida dropped her giggle and said quite simply, ‘I expect I’m going to marry him. I do like him awfully, and so does Bunty. I’m not awfully good at being on my own – and he was Robin’s best friend.’

Miss Silver administered sympathy and common sense.

‘I am glad that you are not contemplating marriage with someone so much older than yourself as Mr Everton. But you should be careful not to raise false hopes. You are a very attractive young woman.’

The giggle reappeared.

‘Oh, he’s just being kind – but he’s frightfully useful .’

‘Perhaps,’ said Miss Silver, ‘it would be wiser not to have him here in the evenings. It is likely to make talk.’

‘If you lived shut up in a refrigerator, people would talk about you in Bourne,’ said Mrs Mottram.

Miss Silver smiled indulgently.

‘Could Mr Everton not have fixed your wireless in the afternoon, my dear? By the way, which evening was it – Monday or Tuesday?’

‘Oh, Tuesday. He got the valve on Monday, but he wasn’t home till late, and I was carrying on all right so it didn’t matter at all.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘Tuesday evening – dear me! Was he here at the time that Mr Harsch was shot? Did either of you hear anything?’

‘Well, we did – at least Mr Everton did. He thought it was Giles shooting at a fox – they come after his hens., you know.’

‘What time was it?’

‘Well, it must have been a quarter to ten, because that was what Miss Sophy said at the inquest. You know, I was on the jury – it was grim. Oh, yes, and Mr Everton had just looked at his watch, and he made it a quarter to ten too. He said he was expecting a trunk call, so he must run.’

Miss Silver returned to the Rectory in a thoughtful mood. At the gate she encountered Sergeant Abbott and took him into the study. Alone with her, he became very informal indeed.

‘Sit down and listen to this,’ he said – ‘it beats the band.’ After which he produced his shorthand notes and gave her a full and particular account of the interview with Frederick Bush.

When he had finished he looked down at her with something that wasn’t quite a smile and said, ‘Well – how does it strike you?’

He sat on the corner of the study table in a comfortable, careless attitude. An undeniably elegant young man.

Miss Silver regarded him with favour. She said, ‘I should like your opinion first – and of course that of the Chief Inspector.’

The Chief – well, I don’t know – he doesn’t let on much. I don’t think he likes it. Personally, I thought Bush was speaking the truth. I don’t mean to say that with any conviction, because I wasn’t convinced. I just inclined very slightly to the idea that he might be speaking the truth – I wouldn’t put it higher than that. It’s a whale of a story to swallow.’

Miss Silver agreed, but in other words.

‘It presents some difficult points,’ she said. ‘I would be glad of your opinion upon them.’

‘Well, to my mind the worst things about it are, first, nobody saw him go in. He says he usually does his round at ten o’clock, but on that Tuesday night he was “a little before his usual”, and when pressed he said it might be ten minutes before, but he swears he didn’t hear the shot. Harsch was shot at a quarter to ten. Bush must have been no great distance from the main entrance to the churchyard – that’s the one on the village street – but he persists that he heard nothing. I think he persists too much.’