Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

“We had some very nice fish last week,” said Lona Day, in a voice that was meant to be soothing.

It did not, unfortunately, soothe Miss Janetta, who tossed her head until the piled-up curls were quivering.

“My dear Lona! Well, of course it all depends on what you call nice. Tastes differ of course, but I was brought up to consider that fish should be fresh. That may be all a mistake, but I was brought up that way, and I am afraid I can’t change now. I would be glad to, but I don’t see my way to it.”

Roger Pilgrim had been eating in silence. Now, as Robbins came back from the farther windows, Roger straightened, and said with a note of nervous anger in his voice,

“If it’s a change you want, Aunt Netta, we’ll all be having one quite soon, and I can’t say I’m sorry. There’s been quite enough dilly-dallying over selling the place-I’ve had too much of it. I’m taking Champion’s offer, and I’m going to have the sale pushed through as quickly as it can be done. And if you want my opinion, I should say it would be the best thing for all of us.”

Everyone appeared to be struck silent and motionless. Miss Columba had not looked up. Lona Day leaned forward, her lips parted, her eyes on Roger Pilgrim’s face. Robbins, halfway down the room, had halted there, his dark face set, his hands and arms quite stiff, like artificial limbs. Miss Janetta’s face worked. She cried out,

“No, no-you don’t mean it! Oh, Roger, you can’t!” and with that caught her breath and began a low hysterical sobbing very painful to watch.

Roger Pilgrim did not stay to watch it. He said a little too loudly, “I meant every word I said!” and with that pushed back his chair and went out of the room and out of the house. They heard the front door bang.

Miss Janetta was crying into her table-napkin and dabbing her tears. Lona Day got up to go to her. Miss Columba lifted her eyes for the first time and looked at her sister.

“Don’t be a fool, Netta!” she said.

That evening between six and seven o’clock Roger Pilgrim fell from one of the attic windows to the paved garden below and was taken up dead.

Dr. Daly came out of the room and shut the door, his cheerful face drawn into lines of appropriate gravity.

“Well, it’s a bad business,” he said-“and nothing I or any other doctor could have done for him if we’d been here when he fell. Pitched on his right shoulder and broke his neck, by the look of it. You’ll need to notify the police.”

Miss Columba looked him full in the face and said,

“Why?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about it-it’s just the law. When there’s a fatal accident the police must be notified, and it’ll be for the Coroner to say whether there’s to be an inquest. I’d do it for you myself, but I think I had better look in on Captain Jerome. Perhaps this lady-I didn’t catch the name-”

Miss Columba spoke it heavily-“Miss Silver.”

Dr. Daly turned to her, and saw with relief an elderly person with a composed manner and an intelligent eye.

“Just ring up Ledlington and ask for the police station. Tell them what’s happened-that will be all you need to do. I’ll go along to my patient. But tell me first-does he know?”

“Miss Day was obliged to tell him.”

He allowed himself to look more cheerful.

“Ah-Miss Day-what would he do without her, poor fellow? You’re in luck to have her-great luck, with the war where it is and all.”

He moved off along the passage with Miss Columba.

Miss Silver went down to the study and put through a call to Ledlington police station.

“I should like to speak to the Superintendent.”

A bass voice appearing to demur, she repeated the words with firmness.

“I wish to speak to the Superintendent. You will inform him that it is Miss Silver.”

A good many years before, Randall March and his sisters had received their early education in a schoolroom dominated by a younger but no less efficient Miss Silver. Now well in the running for a Chief Constableship, he would no more have disregarded her summons than he would have done in those far-off days. She had kept in affectionate touch with his family, and in the past few years they had been thrown together in circumstances which had enhanced his early respect. In the case of the Poisoned Caterpillars he freely admitted she had saved his life. She awaited him, therefore, with considerable confidence.

“Miss Silver?”

“Yes, Randall. I am staying in the neighbourhood. At Holt St. Agnes. I have something to report to you in your official capacity. Do you know the Pilgrims at all?”

“I know of them. I used to know Jerome.”

Miss Silver said gravely,

“Roger Pilgrim is dead. He fell from one of the attic windows about half an hour ago. I am staying in the house. Dr. Daly asked me to ring you up.”

He had made some exclamation. Now he said,

“Bad business. I’ll send Dawson over at once.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“My dear Randall, I said that I was staying here. I should be much obliged if you would come over yourself.”

At the other end of the line Randall March sat up and took notice. He knew his Miss Silver tolerably well. If she wanted him to come over, he would certainly have to go. She had summoned him before, but never on a fool’s errand. He resigned himself and said without any perceptible pause,

“All right, I’ll be over.”

Miss Silver said, “Thank you,” replaced the receiver, and turned to see that Miss Columba had entered the room. She was in her gardening clothes-boots mired well over the uppers, earth under her nails, a smear of mud on her cheek, the grey curls wild. She might have been a figure of fun, but she was not. The heavy face had its own dignity, the eyes their own courage. She set her back against the door as a man might have done, and waited for Miss Silver to come to her before she spoke.

“It was an accident.”

Miss Silver met her look with one as steady.

“Do you think so?”

“It was an accident.”

“That will be for the police to say.”

There was no expression at all upon Miss Columba’s face. She said,

“My nephew engaged you. He is dead. Your engagement is over. I should like you to go as soon as possible.”

Miss Silver showed no offence. She said,

“Are you sure that you wish me to go?”

“What can you do now? He’s dead.”

“Others are living.”

“He thought you could help him. He’s dead.”

“He would not take my advice. I begged him yesterday to let it be known that he was proceeding no farther with the sale of the property. You know how completely he disregarded that advice.”

The courage in Miss Columba’s eyes never wavered. She said,

“That’s all over. He’s dead. It was an accident.”

Miss Silver shook her head.

“You do not think so, and nor do I. Let us be honest with each other. We are quite alone. I should be glad if you will listen to what I have to say.”

“You can say it.”

“You said just now that it was over, but that is not true. Two people have died violently, perhaps three. Are there to be more deaths? If you can believe that your brother’s death was an accident, can you believe in the three successive accidents which befell your nephew? Either of the first two might have proved fatal. The third was done so. If you can believe that all these things were accidents, can you accept the coincidence of their happening in each case just in time to prevent the sale of the property?”

Miss Columba drew a long, slow breath. There was not enough sound in it for a groan, but it had the effect of one. She put her head back against the door and said,