Patricia Wentworth - The Listening Eye

All the time he was walking down to the car and getting into it and starting up he went on thinking about Moira Herne. It pleased him immensely to be taking her the Queen’s Necklace. A bit of luck that old Garratt should have had one of his attacks and not have been able to go for it. He had a pleasant picture of himself throwing the sealed packet into Moira’s lap and saying, “There you are!” After which she would open the packet and take out the necklace and put it on and he would kiss her. The fact that this pleasant daydream deviated in every possible particular from what was in the very least bit likely to happen had no power to detract from the pleasure it gave him.

He extricated himself from the crowded marketplace as skilfully as if his mind had really been on what he was doing, threaded one of the two narrow passages which connected the Square with the High Street, and began to move with its stream of traffic at the snail’s pace dictated by an absence of width and the presence of two famous bottlenecks. Emerging upon the outskirts of the town where the houses were set far enough apart to allow of a wider road and more accommodation for the traffic, he was able to pick up speed. He did not really want to go very fast. The morning was a pleasant one. There was a hint of spring in the air. His fancy occupied itself with thoughts appropriate to the season. When eventually he turned into Cranberry Lane they distracted his mind from the fact that another car was doing the same thing. There was no reason why it should not do so. He just hadn’t noticed it, nor had he been aware that it had followed him out of Ledlington.

Cranberry Lane has the twists and turns which are a common feature of the English by-way. When it twisted, the car that followed him would be out of sight. After one such turn the driver accelerated and came up with him. Before he realized that anything was going to happen the two cars were abreast and he was being forced off the road. His near front wheel bumped down into the ditch. He braked, ran scraping along the hedge, and came to a stop. As he turned, between fear and anger, he saw the other car at a standstill too and the driver already out.

He had time to curse, to stop halfway, to say “You!” and to see the revolver in the gloved hand. After that there was no more time. He may have heard the shot which killed him, or he may not. Evidence on this point is not available.

OF the two newspapers to which Miss Silver subscribed she was in the habit of glancing through the one addicted to headlines and pictures at the breakfast-table, whilst reserving the perusal of The Times for a more leisured hour. On the morning following her visit to Blackheath she had no more than sat down and reached for the former than there stared at her from the front page a heading which instantly fixed her attention. It ran:

daring jewel robbery

the bellingdon necklace stolen

secretary found shot

Like Sally Foster, Miss Silver had heard of the Bellingdon necklace. She had even read the same article about it and its conjectured history that Sally had. She was aware of the intention ascribed to Lucius Bellingdon of presenting it to his daughter in order that she might wear it at the fancy dress ball he was proposing to give. Her eye travelled over a repetition of these particulars and came back to all that seemed to be known about the robbery. It was not much. The necklace had been in safe keeping at the County Bank in Ledlington. Mr. Bellingdon, who had a large account there, had written to say that his secretary, Hubert Garratt, would call for it at 12 noon on the 14th instant. The secretary, duly provided with a written authorization, arrived punctually, signed for the valuable package, and left again by car, driving himself. That was the last time he was seen alive. The car was found twenty minutes later on the grass verge of a turning off the London road with the secretary dead at the wheel and the necklace gone. The turning, an unfrequented one, would be a short cut to Merefields, Lucius Bellingdon’s country home.

There were photographs of Merefields, of Mr. Bellingdon, a gentleman of dominating appearance with a jutting chin, his daughter Mrs. Herne, and the unfortunate secretary.

Miss Silver read all that there was to read, and had no more than come to the end of it, when the telephone bell rang. It was not with any great surprise that she recognized the voice of Detective Inspector Frank Abbott.

Since he announced himself in this manner instead of his off-duty “This is Frank”, she was instantly aware that he was ringing up from Scotland Yard. She said,

“Miss Silver speaking.”

His voice came back with a touch of formality quite noticeably absent from their private relationship. There was between them a strong tie of affection, and on his side a high degree of respect which did not prevent him from regarding her idiosyncrasies with appreciation and enjoyment. She was, he considered, a period piece, from her Edwardian hair style with its controlling net to her beaded shoes of a smaller size than is usual today, and from her admiration for the late Lord Tennyson to the stock of elevated maxims which he was in the habit of referring to as Maudie’s Moralities. What he said now was,

“I suppose you have seen the paper?”

The gravity of her reply informed him that he need not particularize any special item of news. He said,

“The Chief would be glad if you could make it convenient to come round to the Yard. It is with reference to the conversation you had with him the day before yesterday. He would be glad to have a talk with you.” About three-quarters of an hour later she was being ushered into the Chief Inspector’s room. It was by no means the first conversation she had had with him there, but as he rose from behind his desk to greet her, she thought he appeared to be vexed and burdened beyond his wont. With the briefest preliminaries he sat down again, filling his chair squarely-a big man of country stock with a florid face and strong dark hair which only the most rigorous cut prevented from curling.

Frank Abbott, standing on the hearth, presented as great a contrast as was possible-tall, slim, elegant, with a long bony nose, fair hair mirror-smooth, and the light blue eyes which were capable of so icy a stare. Miss Silver was one of the people for whom they could soften. They did so now.

She had taken the chair which had been set for her on the far side of the writing-table. She wore the black cloth coat which had seen so many years of service and, the wind being exceptionally cold, an antique tippet of faded yellowish fur. Her hat, no more than two years old, was of black felt renovated last autumn, the trimming being now of black ribbon arranged in loops, with a bunch of violets added recently to mark the approach of spring. She wore black kid gloves and carried a well-worn handbag.

Lamb sat back in his chair and said in a voice that kept its country sound,

“Well, Miss Silver, I suppose you can guess why I wanted to see you.”

She inclined her head.

“I have read the account in the paper.”

He lifted a big square hand and let it fall again upon his knee.

“And I suppose you’ve been saying to yourself, ‘Well, I told them, and they wouldn’t take any notice.’ That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

She said with a touch of primness, “I hope I should not be so unjust.”

His eyes, irreverently compared by Frank Abbott to the larger and more bulging type of peppermint bullseye, were turned upon her for a moment.

“Well, I ask you! Ledlington! Who’d have thought of that? You bring me a mare’s nest that might have been anywhere in the kingdom! I believe I mentioned a good few places on the telephone when we were talking-and not a clue to which of them would be the least unlikely, or what any of it was about anyhow! And then it turns out to be Ledlington and the Bellingdon necklace! Of course if we’d known what was going to be stolen-” He broke off with a short laugh. “Pity your Miss Paine didn’t get hold of something useful whilst she was about it!”