Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

He had his stick in his hand, but he wasn’t leaning on it. A faint smile moved his lips. He said in an encouraging voice,

“Stop thinking up a good convicing lie and tell me the truth-it’s much more your line. Lona will give me all the soothing syrup I need, so get on with it before she comes in and throws you out on your ear. Why this influx of policemen?”

“How did you know?”

“I looked out of my Aunt Columba’s window and saw them arrive. What did they want?”

Judy gave up.

“They’ve been searching the house.”

“Not this part of it.” He limped over to his chair and sat on the arm. “Did March produce a search-warrant-or did Aunt Columba give him leave?”

“I think Miss Columba said he could.”

“Well, where did they search?”

When Judy said, “The cellars,” she had that sick feeling again. She got to the other chair and sat down on the edge of it.

Jerome Pilgrim looked at her white face and said,

“Find anything?”

Judy nodded, because she had a horrid feeling that if she tried to speak she would probably begin to cry. She saw Jerome’s hand clench on the stick.

“I suppose they found Henry.”

She nodded again.

He did not speak for what seemed like quite a long time. Then he got up and began to take off his dressing-gown.

Judy got up too.

“What are you going to do?”

He was dressed except for the jacket of his suit. He reached for it now.

“I’m going down to see March, and I don’t want to have any argument with Lona about it. Give me a hand-there’s a good child. You’ll find a coat and a cap and muffler in the wardrobe. Just take them along down to the hall, and see that no one gets them whilst I’m talking to March. I may have to go out.”

She said “Out?” in such a tone of surprise that he almost smiled again.

“I’m not dead and buried,” he said. And then, “Someone has got to tell Lesley Freyne, and I think it’s my job.”

Randall March hung up the telephone receiver and looked up as Jerome Pilgrim came into the room. When he saw who it was he pushed back his chair and went to meet him. For a moment the official manner fell away. He said,

“My dear fellow!” And then, “Look here, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Yes-but I’ll have a chair.”

He got down on to it and took a moment.

March said, “Do you object to Miss Silver being present? I don’t know if you know that she is a private detective, and that Roger-”

Jerome put up a hand.

“Yes-he told me. She had better stay. I hear you’ve been searching the cellars.”

“Yes.”

“Well-I hear you’ve found Henry.”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

March told him.

Jerome said, “Then it was murder. He was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“We’ll know more about that after the post-mortem. The indications are that he was stabbed in the back. There’s a slit in the stuff of the coat. The clothes are pretty well preserved. There’s no weapon present. Now may I ask who told you we had found him?”

Jerome was sitting forward in the chair, his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. He said,

“Judy Elliot.”

“And who told her?”

“I don’t know. You’d better ask her. She’s in the hall.”

March went to the door, opened it, and called, “Miss Elliot!” She came in holding Jerome’s outdoor things. March took them away from her and went and sat down at the table. A little to his left, in the prim Victorian chair which might have come out of her own flat, Miss Silver was knitting.

Judy didn’t know what to make of it. She supposed there was something she oughtn’t to have done. She stood waiting to find out what it was. The nice-looking policeman had offered her a chair, but she didn’t feel like sitting down. You feel taller and more important when you are standing.

“Miss Elliot-Captain Pilgrim says you told him that Mr. Clayton’s body had been discovered in the cellars. How did you know?”

She told them about meeting Mrs. Robbins on the back stairs-“And she said, ‘They’ve found Mr. Henry.”’

“Was that all she said?”

They were all looking at her. The sick feeling had begun to come back. She shook her head because it was easier than talking.

“Will you tell me just what she said?”

Now she would have to speak. She found Mrs. Robbins’ words, one, and two, and three at a time. It was dreadfully difficult to say them.

“ ‘Buried in an old tin trunk. And Alfred says it fare to serve him right.’ ”

“Are you sure she said that?”

Judy nodded.

“Yes-she said it again at the end. She said she didn’t care what he’d done, she wouldn’t want him buried like that. She went on saying it, and at the end she said again, ‘But Alfred says it fare to serve him right.’ ” She looked at March, her eyes suddenly dark and distressed. “I went on upstairs. I was feeling-very upset. Captain Pilgrim saw me. He asked me- what was going on.”

Jerome lifted his head.

“Oh, leave the child alone! She was looking green, and I dug it out of her. She didn’t want to tell, but you could hardly expect me not to know that something was going on. I’m not deaf, and your constabulary are heavy on their feet.” He got up. “Thank you-that’s all I wanted to know at present. We can talk again when I come back. I’m going to see Miss Freyne now.”

The thing hung in suspense for a moment. Then March let it go. He dropped the official manner to say,

“You’re sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes, thank you. My coat, Judy. You can come along, and see Penny.”

They went out together.

Miss Silver continued to knit. Randall March turned to her with an exasperated expression.

“Well?”

“I do not know that I have anything to say, Randall.”

“I couldn’t very well stop him going to see Miss Freyne.”

“No.”

“What did you think of Robbins as reported by Mrs. Robbins via Judy Elliot?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I think that Judy repeated what she heard. The turn of the words is unusual. She was repeating what she had heard Mrs. Robbins say.”

“Yes.”

Judy and Jerome Pilgrim made their way down the glass passage and came out into the street. It was so many months since he had set foot outside that everything had a strangeness. When you haven’t seen things for a long time you see them new. There were grey clouds with rifts of blue between. There was a light air that came against the face with a touch of damp in it. The winter had been dry and the runnel of water on the other side of the street had fallen low. On any other errand his mind would have been filled with these impressions and a hundred more, but now it was like looking at everything through a darkened glass.

They had gone about half the length to the stable gate, when there were running footsteps behind them. Lona Day came up, flushed and distressed.

“Oh, Captain Pilgrim!”

He stood leaning on his stick.

“Please go back, Lona. I am going to see Miss Freyne. I shan’t be long.”

She stared at him.

“I saw you out of Miss Janetta’s window. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes. You are not fit for this. Please, please come back! Judy, you shouldn’t have let him-it was very, very wrong of you.”

“Leave Judy out of it, please. It has nothing to do with her, and I shall be obliged if you will stop making a scene in the street. I shan’t be long.” He began to walk on again.

After a moment Lona turned and went back to the house. It certainly wouldn’t do any good to have a scene in the street. She looked about her in a smiling, easy way. You never knew who might be looking out of cottage windows. There was enough for the village to talk about without giving them any more. All anyone need think was that she had run after him with a message.