Patricia Wentworth - The Clock Strikes Twelve

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“Oh, yes indeed.”

Miss Paradine’s manner had undergone a change. It had become warm and sympathetic like her voice.

“These sudden bereavements are sad enough without the additional shadow of suspicion.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“My brother meant very much to us all. Miss Pennington, of course, did not know him well. She is my niece Mrs. Ambrose’s sister-not really a member of the family herself, though we are all very fond of her. And my nephew Mark is not, I think, very good at expressing himself-very clever in his own way, but very reserved, and just now, of course, very upset about his uncle’s death. I feel that they may not really have given you any idea of how much my brother’s loss will be felt.”

Miss Silver looked intelligently at her hostess and continued to knit.

Miss Paradine drew a long breath.

“My brother was a very remarkable man. He liked to do things in his own way. I suppose you have been given an account of what happened at dinner last night. It is most painful to us all that the police are placing a quite unwarrantable construction on what was said. I do ask you to believe that the whole thing has been grossly exaggerated. My brother had a vigorous and dramatic way of expressing himself, even about trifles. I am. convinced that the whole thing meant very little. Something had vexed him, or rather someone, and he took this way of letting us all know about it. It was, I assure you, quite in his character. I thought so little of it myself that when the Superintendent questioned me this morning I really didn’t mention it at all.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me-”

A very faint movement of Miss Paradine’s dark brows suggested that she had controlled an incipient frown. She had a faint, sad smile as she said,

“I really made nothing of it at all. As I told Colonel Bostock this afternoon-he is the Chief Constable-it had quite gone out of my mind. The shock of my brother’s accident-I still believe that it was an accident-” She broke off, held her hands tightly clasped together for a moment, and half closed her eyes. Then she got up. “Forgive me-I should not have tried to speak of it-it is too soon. Perhaps you would like to talk to my niece Mrs. Ambrose for a little, or to Miss Ambrose.”

Miss Silver gazed at the group about the fire- Irene, Brenda, Phyllida. She coughed and said,

“I should like very much to talk to Miss Ambrose, if I may.”

When Brenda, stolidly reluctant, was seated beside her, Miss Silver smiled affably and said,

“I asked to see you, Miss Ambrose, because I want someone observant and methodical to tell me just what happened after you came into the drawing-room last night.”

Brenda stared with the light eyes which were like Clara Paradine’s only not so blue. She had, altogether, a curious look of her mother, but without the kind comeliness and contentment of the portrait.

“In here-last night?”

“If you will.”

Brenda went on staring.

“Well, I don’t know. We came in, and I said my stepfather must have gone mad. I suppose you’ve heard what he said at dinner?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I said he must have gone mad to get us all here to a party and then say a thing like that. I said it was the limit, and my sister-in-law Irene-that’s her on the left of the fire-well, she burst out crying and said she knew Mr. Paradine was talking at her.”

“Dear me-did she say why?”

“No, she didn’t. She made an exhibition of herself and kept on saying she hadn’t done anything, and why should he think it was her. She’s a very hysterical girl-no self-control at all. I don’t know what she’d been up to, but if you ask me, I should say she’d got something on her mind-otherwise why go to bits like that? If it hadn’t been for Miss Paradine, we’d never have got her quiet. Of course, I’m no good, because she can’t stand me-wouldn’t have me in the house if it wasn’t for Frank. Look here, I’ll tell you one thing about Irene-she’s vindictive. You wouldn’t think so, because she’s got that wishy-washy look and she’ll talk about those kids of hers until everybody’s sick of them, but if she gets a down on anyone she’ll never let up on it. She’s got one on me because I used to keep my brother’s house and do it a damned sight better than she does. That’s Irene all over-if she can’t do a thing herself she hates the person who can.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“An unamiable trait, but sadly common,” she observed.

Brenda laughed angrily.

“Irene only likes the people who butter her up,” she said. “Frank doesn’t any more-he’s found her out. I’m beginning to wonder if my stepfather hadn’t too. That would account for a lot. You know, the reason she’s all over those kids is because she goes down with them-they think she’s wonderful. They’ll get a nasty shock when they’re a bit older, and then you’ll see there won’t be so much of the devoted mother. It makes me sick!”

“Dear me,” said Miss Silver, “that is very interesting.” She gazed mildly at Brenda Ambrose. “Pray continue. You were telling me what happened after dinner last night. Miss Paradine quieted your sister-in-law-”

“Oh, yes. She’s clever-knows how to manage people. She had presents for us all. She went and got them. She didn’t want Lane to notice anything when he came in with the coffee.”

As she spoke, the routine of the previous evening repeated itself. Lane came in with the great silver tray. Louisa followed with the cake-stand. Miss Silver considered these appointments very handsome, very suitable. She admired the robust Victorian decoration of the tray, the coffee-pot, the milk-jug, and deplored the absence of what would doubtless have been the equally handsome sugar-basin. The bottle of saccharine of which Lane was so much ashamed was hidden from her view, but she would in any case have considered it a poor substitute. As a patriotic citizen she was prepared to drink her coffee without sugar, but not with saccharine. Still knitting, she observed,

“That was a happy thought of Miss Paradine’s. You said she went and got the presents. Do you mean she went out of the room?”

“Of course. They were upstairs.”

“And how long was she away, Miss Ambrose?”

Brenda stared.

“Oh, no time at all. Just long enough to get the parcels.”

“Not long enough to have had a word with her brother?”

“No, of course not. He hadn’t come out of the dining-room.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Of course I am. I don’t say things unless I’m sure about them. The men were still in the dining-room. They came in after she had given us our presents. I had a torch, Phyllida had handkerchiefs, Lydia got bath-salts, and Irene had snapshots of the children. The men came in after that.”

“And did they have presents too?”

“Elliot Wray didn’t. Of course he wasn’t expected. He and Phyllida had been dead cuts for a year. I must say he had a nerve to turn up like he did. Miss Paradine was wild. She wouldn’t have given him anything anyhow-she’s always loathed him. She gave the others a pocket diary each. It’s frightfully difficult to think of anything you can give to a man, isn’t it?”

“Yes indeed, but a diary is always useful. Had Miss Paradine managed to get them in different colours?”

Brenda nodded.

“Yes, she had. She’s clever at that sort of thing- takes a lot of trouble.”

“She must do so. What colours did she manage to get?”

“Oh, brown-red-blue-purple.”

Brenda was becoming bored. She thought Miss Silver a futile old maid. She said abruptly,

“I’ll get you some coffee.”

But as she rose, Miss Silver had another question.