Patricia Wentworth - Vanishing Point

They came out on to the paved yard and by way of a gravelled path to a garden gate. As Craig closed it behind him, the church clock gave four warning strokes to announce the hour, and then struck one. The night air was cool and soft. After the dusty passage and the airless shut-in feeling of the kitchen and scullery it had a living quality. Craig filled his lungs with it. To creep by stealth through another man’s house in the middle of the night was not an experience that he had enjoyed, or one that he would wish to repeat. And where was it going to land them? That was what he wanted to know! As far as he could make out they were very comfortably situated between the devil and the deep sea. If Miss Silver made tracks for a telephone and informed Frank Abbott or the county police that she had located the Melbury rubies, the balloon was bound to go up. That wouldn’t have mattered if Lydia Crewe wasn’t bound to go up with it, in which case he could see that he was going to have trouble with Rosamond, who was practically certain to say that she couldn’t marry him tomorrow. No, not tomorrow-tomorrow had already become today. It had become his wedding day, and he saw Rosamond slipping away from him into some damned nonsensical Cloud-cuckoo-land where she wouldn’t marry him at all. If he could only get Miss Silver to hold her hand until after half past ten, as far as he was concerned she could go ahead and have the whole lot of them arrested.

They walked, and the light moving air went with them. He said,

“What are you going to do?”

She stopped and turned to face him.

“I do not know. I think we must go back.”

“Into the house?”

“No-that should not be necessary. But I am not easy about Miss Cunningham. I believe that her life is in danger.”

“Her life!”

“Mr. Lester, you heard the conversation between Miss Crewe and Mr. Cunningham. Did it leave you in any doubt as to her intentions with regard to his sister?”

“I suppose not. It seems incredible all the same.”

She said soberly,

“Murder must always seem incredible to the normal mind. The murderer has lost his balance. His own desires, his own plans, his own safety have come to outweigh normal control and the moral law. With each further step he becomes more justified in his own eyes, more inflated with his own importance, and more certain that he can carry out his plans with success. This would not be Miss Crewe’s first step into crime. Whether or not she took a personal part in the removal of Maggie Bell and the death of Miss Holiday, I have not the slightest doubt that she was cognizant of both those murders. We may never know just what happened to Maggie, but working as she did at the Dower House, it seems probable that she saw something which might have been dangerous if she were given time to put two and two together and think about the result. It is quite certain that this is what happened in the case of Miss Holiday. In Miss Crewe’s absence, she went prying into her room. Surprised by Mrs. Bolder, she pushed a chance-come envelope into her overall pocket. As Miss Crewe herself suggested, it had probably slipped down between the seat and the side of a chair. The whole thing was due to no more than idle curiosity and to the instinctive movements of a maid who is tidying a room. She would shake up the cushions and run her hand round the side of any chair which had been occupied. But you know what that envelope contained-a sketch of Lady Melbury’s diamond and ruby necklace. The first sketch in fact from which a copy was to be prepared.”

“Yes, I heard that. I don’t know anything about the necklace. Has it been stolen?”

“Yes, Mr. Lester. A few weeks ago Lady Melbury discovered that the necklace in her possession was a copy. Neither she nor anyone else had the least idea as to when the substitution had been made. I gather that she would not have made the matter public, but Lord Melbury has been less discreet, and it is now an open secret. With the result that half the county believes Lady Melbury to have sold the necklace herself.”

Craig whistled softly.

“I see. A very pretty kettle of fish! And the unfortunate Miss Holiday threatened to upset it.”

“Just so. The envelope she picked up was open. It had Miss Crewe’s name on it, and it contained a sketch of the Melbury necklace-the first sketch for a detailed plan which would be drawn to scale for a jeweller to work from. Any chance that Miss Holiday had seen it and would talk of what she had seen was too dangerous to be risked. The poor woman dropped the envelope when she pulled out her handkerchief, and Miss Cunningham picked it up and returned it to her friend. In doing so she also came under suspicion as a possible danger. She might not suspect her brother or her friend. She would not intentionally give them away, but she has an artless, affectionate mind and a tripping tongue. There was no knowing what she might say-so there was a tripcord across the stairs.”

“And now?”

“I am afraid that Miss Crewe may return-not immediately, but at some time during the night. She will give Mr. Henry and Mr. Nicholas enough time to make sure that they are asleep, and then I think that there will be another attempt on Miss Cunningham’s life. It is, at any, rate, a possibility which must not be neglected. Believe me, I feel very much for your position in the matter. You would naturally wish to take Miss Maxwell away before any arrest is made, but, in the circumstances, I think you must see that there can be no delay in informing the police.”

He said, “No.”

Miss Silver resumed.

“The entrance to the passage should not be left unguarded. Miss Crewe must not be allowed to reach Miss Cunningham. If you will remain on guard there, I will go back to the White Cottage and ring up Inspector Abbott.”

Lydia Crewe made her way back by the winding path which threaded the two shrubberies. She had no need of a torch. Her feet had taken this way so often-by sunlight, twilight, moonlight, and in the dead of the night as now. She knew every turn, every bush that brushed her shoulder, every bough to which her head must stoop, every jutting root. She had walked it when hope was high and the illusion of youth still lingered. She had trodden it when hope was gone and her formidable will drove her along another path from which there was no turning back. She passed through the gap which separated the two gardens, and beyond it under overarching trees to the gravel sweep before the house. The door by which she would gain admittance was here, but Rosamond’s and Jenny’s rooms and her own were on the farther side. She crossed the front of the house, walking quickly and with no special precaution. All these front rooms were empty, where they had once been filled with sons and daughters, guests, and up in the attics the maids and men who served them. No need to walk softly for the ghosts of a bygone splendour.

She turned the corner and came to the barred windows on the ground floor-her own, Jenny’s, Rosamond’s. Her own were shut, Jenny’s and Rosamond’s open. She stood by Jenny’s window and listened. There was no sound at all. There had been time enough for her to cry away her temper and fall asleep. It was from this window that Jenny had thrown the blue Venetian bead. She switched on her torch and sent the beam travelling.

Immediately under the window a border set with wallflower and tulips against the spring. The bead wouldn’t be there- Jenny had thrown it with all her might. Nor would it be on the gravel path which continued round the house. But beyond the path where the rock garden opened out, that was the place to search. The beam went to and fro over moss which carpeted the stones amongst neglected lavender, overgrown rosemary, tangled rock rose, campanula and thyme. It crossed the pool in the centre of the garden, the water too clouded, too muddy to see whether the bead lay there or not. She thought it would hardly have come so far, but these things were incalculable. If it was in the pool it would be safe enough.