Patricia Wentworth - The Clock Strikes Twelve

“Very well, Miss Paradine, I won’t say no. But to my mind there’s no value in it.”

Mr. Harrison had risen to his feet. He stood, shocked and doubtful, looking after his client. He supposed that she would be his client. It was all quite unbelievable, quite dreadful. He didn’t think his firm had ever handled a murder case before. He desired most ardently that they might avoid handling this one.

Miss Silver had risen too. Like Mr. Harrison, she was looking after Grace Paradine, who had gone through into the bedroom closely followed by the young constable who had been taking notes. Their voices could be heard there, and after a moment the rattle of curtain rings.

Vyner said, “Come, Mr. Ambrose-we’d better get on with it.”

As the two men moved together towards the glass door, Miss Silver opened her lips and then without speaking brought them quickly together again. The room was emptying fast. Albert Pearson went out, presumably to take up his position at the bathroom window. Richard Paradine, Mr. Harrison, Mark, and Lydia had followed Vyner and Frank Ambrose to the terrace. The glass door remained open-Elliot and Phyllida just short of it.

Miss Silver came up with them, laid a hand on Elliot’s arm, and said in a low, insistent voice,

“Keep her here, Mr. Wray. Don’t let her go out.”

He looked round at her, startled by her manner.

Vyner could be heard calling out, “Now, Miss Paradine-”

All those on the terrace looked towards the windows of Mrs. Paradine’s room-two large windows and a glass door forming a bay. Across this bay the curtains had been drawn, but whereas in the study they cut the bay off from the room, in the bedroom they followed the curving line of the windows. The rose-coloured lining could be seen touching the glass.

They all saw the rose colour move and shimmer. A dark gap appeared in the middle of it. The handle of the glass door moved, the door opened, Grace Paradine came out. There were a couple of steps down. She took them, came half across the terrace, and looked first to her right where Frank Ambrose stood by the nearest of the drawing-room windows, and then to the left where Albert Pearson leaned from the window of the bathroom. Her glance swept the family outside the study, and she turned.

Phyllida wasn’t there. But Phyllida must be there. The dark dominant eyes went seeking till they found her, just inside the study. But not looking out-not looking this way. And she must look-she must see-she must remember. If they would give her time. But the young constable was at her elbow. Vyner was coming up. She called out in a ringing voice,

“Phyllida!”

There was no time-no time at all. She saw Phyllida move and turn to the terrace.

Vyner said, “What is it, Miss Paradine?”

They all heard her say, “It’s nothing.”

But Phyllida was looking, Phyllida was coming out.

Now-

Phyllida had made no more than that one movement towards the terrace, when Elliot pulled her roughly back, turning her head against his shoulder and holding it there.

So she did not see what Grace Paradine had meant her to see-the quick step on to the parapet, and the quick step over it and down. She did not see, but she knew. She shuddered and went limp and cold in Elliot’s arms.

Late that evening three people sat with Miss Silver in Phyllida’s sitting room-Mark Paradine, Lydia, and Elliot Wray. Phyllida was not there. She lay on her bed in the room beyond, her tears all cried away, her thoughts not taking hold of anything yet, but knowing that Elliot was there just on the other side of the door, and that he wouldn’t leave her again. She could hear his voice, and Mark’s, and Lydia’s, and Miss Silver’s-not as words but as sound. She liked hearing the sound, but she didn’t want to hear the words. Presently she would be able to think about going away with Elliot, and about Lydia and Mark. She loved Elliot, she loved Lydia and Mark. Presently she would be able to think about loving them. Just now she could only lie there and let the sound of their voices go by.

On the other side of the door Mark said, “I’ve been with Colonel Bostock and Vyner. They’ve fairly had the wires humming. It’s like you said, Elliot-the Ministry want everything soft-pedalled as much as possible. The blue-prints are not to be mentioned. Everything is to be done to avoid publicity. They’ll try for death by misadventure for Uncle James, and suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed for her. There’ll be a lot of talk, but it will go by.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I suppose she was insane.”

Miss Silver coughed. Little Roger’s leggings were almost completed. They dangled oddly from her needles by the last remaining toe.

“Not in the usual sense of the word. She knew what she was doing, and she was in control of her actions. But she had, I think, for many years allowed herself to be governed by a most fatal and inordinate desire to absorb the feelings and emotions of anyone she cared for. Her engagement to Mr. Moffat was broken off not because of a moral recoil, but because of that desire to be the first, in fact the only one, in his affections. From what your wife told you of their last interview, Mr. Wray, I think this is quite clear. A symptom of this is the terrible fact that she made that last effort to attract Mrs. Wray’s attention. She knew that she had lost her, but she still wanted to be a dominant factor in her life. She made that dreadful attempt.”

Elliot said harshly, “Don’t talk about it-it’s damnable.”

Miss Silver looked at him with kind, bright eyes and continued as if he had not spoken.

“Fortunately it did not succeed. You were very prompt, Mr. Wray.”

Lydia was in one of the big chairs, her hair bright under the light, her face paler than anyone had ever been allowed to see it-dark shadows smudged in under the green eyes with their shading of dusky lashes. But for all its pallor the small pointed face was relaxed. There was a tremulous sweetness about the mouth.

Mark sat on the arm of the chair and kept a hand upon her shoulder. You could not look at them without seeing how much they were aware of one another, how deeply they were at peace between themselves. Mark said in a difficult voice,

“I went on and saw Frank. He’s terribly cut-up. He told me all about it. I said that I should tell you three. No one else. It was like this. When he went back the first time-he says he told the police about that-”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Yes, Mr. Paradine-I was there.”

“He didn’t tell them very much, I gather-only that he went back, and that they talked. Actually, Uncle James told him all about it. He thought a lot of Frank, and Frank thought a lot of him. He told him who had taken the blue-prints. He saw her from Aunt Clara’s room-he was just opening the door to go back into the study when she came in. He stood where he was because he didn’t want to meet her. They’d had words some time earlier in the day- about Elliot-and he didn’t want to start it all over again, so he just stood where he was. His attaché case was on the table. The cylinder with the blue-prints was in it, right on the top. She went straight to the table, opened the case, took the cylinder, and was out of the room again in a flash. He let her go. Then he sat down and thought out how he could score her off. It was the climax of a long time of strain. He told Frank just what he thought about her-said she had separated Elliot and Phyllida and was doing her best to smash up his marriage with Irene. He said he had stood out of the ring for a year because he was afraid of making things worse, but he wasn’t standing out any longer. He told Frank she had taken the blueprints because she thought that would make a final breach between Elliot and the firm, and so keep him away from Birleton. And he said he was going to show her just where she got off. He said he’d had enough of it. Frank was awfully shocked and upset. He tried to soothe him down. The thing he was most anxious about was to prevent an interview between them that night whilst they were both worked up. In the end he got Uncle James to write to her giving his terms. He said he thought anything was better than letting them meet. Uncle James gave him a copy of the letter, and he handed it on to me. Here it is. I’m going to read it, and then we’ll put it on the fire. The police have taken a copy, but they won’t use it.”