Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

He saw the tears come into her eyes.

“It’s just that I’m-well, I expect it’s silly of me, but you’ve come on so far-I don’t want you to slip back. You mustn’t run before you can walk, you know.”

“I haven’t run very far-have I?” He leaned forward and looked at her. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful for all you’ve done for me, Lona, but I’ve got to walk. I don’t say anything about running yet, but you never know.”

The green eyes shining with tears met his.

“You mean that you don’t want me any more?”

Jerome Pilgrim had been an invalid for three and a half years, but for nearly twenty years before that he had been a personable and attractive man. He could recognize an emotional danger signal. He said in a cool, friendly voice,

“My dear Lona, you are much too good a nurse to mean what that implies. You don’t want me to remain an invalid in order to practise on me, do you? To lose a patient doesn’t necessarily mean to lose a friend.”

He heard her say under her breath, “They all say that.” Then, more impulsively, “Oh, you know I didn’t mean it that way! You couldn’t really think so!”

He smiled.

“I didn’t think so.”

“You mustn’t ever. There isn’t anyone in the world who wants you to get well as much as I do. You know, at first I didn’t think you would. Only a nurse mustn’t let herself feel like that, and when you began to get better I was so thankful. And then you didn’t get on as fast as I hoped you would, but I kept on hoping.”

Jerome had an uncomfortable feeling that the temperature of this interview was remaining obstinately high. He made another effort to bring it down.

“We have all a great deal to be thankful for. Do you know where the Superintendent is? I haven’t seen him yet, and I should like to do so. I think when he arrived you told him I was resting.” He smiled again. “That sort of thing isn’t necessary, you know. I am quite ready to see him as soon as he finds it convenient.”

For a moment he wondered whether she was going to flare up. She coloured, met his eyes with something of a blaze in hers, and then suddenly turned round and went out of the room, leaving him to reflect wryly that women were incalculable creatures. What a moment to choose for a scene! As if there was not enough without that! He supposed that all their nerves were strung up and ready to jangle at a touch. Only Lesley was herself-calm, strong, lovable, and loving. The thought of her was like fresh air to a prisoner, cool water to a thirsty man. The few words he had had with her on the telephone were a link with all that was wholesome, normal, hopeful. And presently she would come over, and they would have a quiet time together when all this police business had been got through.

He leaned back in his chair and gave himself up to thoughts of her and of their future.

Miss Silver entered the study with a slightly deprecating air. She found March looking over some papers, whilst Frank Abbott sat at the end of the table transcribing his shorthand notes. Both men looked up as she came in. Frank pushed back his chair.

“Pray do not let me disturb you.” This was to both of them. Then, to March, “If you have a few minutes to spare-”

“Have you something to tell me?”

She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. The fact that she had not brought her knitting with her appeared to mark the occasion with solemnity.

“I have been with Mrs. Robbins, Randall.”

“Had she anything to say?”

“A good deal, poor woman. I fear that her life has been a very unhappy one.”

If March felt some impatience, he knew his Miss Silver too well to make any attempt at hurrying her. She had her own ways of imparting what she had seen, and if among the gleanings there were opinions and deductions of her own, they were apt to disclose unexpected values. He therefore maintained a sympathetic silence, and was rewarded.

“She kept on saying that Robbins had been a hard husband to her. She blames him for their daughter’s disappearance, and most particularly for hushing up her death. As she put it, ‘It wasn’t nothing to be ashamed of to be killed in an air raid, and he did ought to have brought her back here to be buried-her, and the poor little baby that I never so much as saw.’ It appears that he did not tell her that he had news of the daughter, or that he was going to see her, but when he came back he told her that Mabel and the baby were dead. She said he was in one of his moods, and when he was like that you couldn’t turn him any more than if he had been made of iron. I took this opportunity of asking her whether she knew if he used any drug, and she said there was some stuff he brought from India -he’d take it once in a while, and it would make him queer for days. But she said he didn’t use it much this last year or so. She thought the nurse frightened him about it. I asked if he had spoken to Miss Day about the drug, and she said yes, and she had frightened him. I asked her if she knew what it was called, and she said yes, it was an easy name to remember-‘bang.’ And he had wanted her to try it when he first came back, but she never would.”

March nodded.

“That corroborates what Miss Day says. She mentioned a conversation with him on the subject of hashish when she first came here, and said she warned him not to go on taking it. What I can’t understand is why Robbins should have drugged Jerome Pilgrim-assuming that you’re right, and that Jerome was drugged.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I feel quite sure that he was drugged, though I do not suppose that it will ever be possible to prove it.”

March said, “Well, there’s no need. I suppose that the case is closed. There will be a verdict of wilful murder against Robbins in the case of Henry Clayton, and of suicide in his own case. Accidental death in the case of Roger Pilgrim-and no one will ever know just what happened, though I suppose we can all make a good enough guess. Personally, I don’t believe Roger was murdered. He may have been, but that wouldn’t be my guess. I think he was suffering from persecution mania and his nerve went. It doesn’t matter now except to his relatives, and they can always salve their feelings with the theory that he turned giddy, which is the view I expect a jury to take. Robbins certainly murdered Henry Clayton and committed suicide when he knew that he was suspected and that the police had evidence to connect him with the crime. The wallet did the trick-there’s no doubt about that. By the way, I’ve just got it back. Redding has been going over it for fingerprints. I don’t suppose there’ll be anything inside, but now that we can handle it, I’ll have a look.”

The case was still in the handkerchief, but loosely wrapped. March laid it out flat upon the blotting-pad. There were two full-sized pockets and two small ones. The leather was good and fresh. The case had obviously been a new one-probably a wedding-present, three years ago. There was nothing in any of the four pockets, nor in the large outer one which ran the whole length of the wallet. March let it drop back upon the pad.

“There were no fingerprints,” he said.

Miss Silver sat up a little straighten

“But it was clean, Randall.”

He was frowning a little.

“I don’t quite follow.”

“It was found at the back of the chest. The back of the chest was dusty. The wallet was clean. How long do you suppose it would remain clean with dust all round it?”

“Not long. But it needn’t have been there for long. The working theory is that it was somewhere at the back of the drawer, among the papers which filled the lower part of it, and that it got pushed over the broken-down edge when Mrs. Robbins was putting her husband’s shirts away/‘