Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

“I have never been so insulted in my life! I came to this house more than three years ago to nurse a sick old woman and a badly wounded man. I have done the best for them that I could. I think I may say that I have earned the respect and affection of everyone in this house. I hardly knew Mr. Clayton. It is wicked to suggest that I had anything to do with his death. She has no right to accuse me and to leave it at that. I could bring an action against her for taking away my character. She ought to be made to prove what she says, and if she can’t do it she ought to give me a written apology. My character is my living, and I have a right to protect it.”

March considered that the proceedings had now reached the border-line of nightmare. Miss Day was in her rights, and Miss Silver as badly in the wrong as if she had been tattling sixteen instead of sober sixty. That she could not substantiate her accusation he knew. That she should make an accusation which she could not substantiate staggered him.

Whilst Frank Abbott leaned back in his chair and put his money on Maudie, March said,

“Miss Silver-”

She gave her slight cough.

“Do I understand that Miss Day proposes to sue me for slander? It should prove a most interesting case.”

March regarded her sternly, but she looked, not at him, but at Miss Lona Day, and just for a moment she saw what she was looking for-not anger, for that had been most patently displayed-not fear, for she had never expected fear-but something which it is difficult to put into words. Hate comes nearest-with the driving power of a formidable will behind it. It was like the momentary flash of steel from a velvet sheath, and it was instantly controlled.

Miss Silver continued to look, and saw now only what the other two could see, a pale insulted woman defending herself.

Lona Day stepped back from the table.

“If she has anything to say, why doesn’t she say it? If she hasn’t, I should like to go to my room. And I shall ask Captain Pilgrim if he wishes me to be insulted like this in his house.”

March addressed Miss Silver.

“Have you anything to say?”

Over the clicking needles she gave him a faint, restrained smile.

“No, thank you, Superintendent.”

Lona Day walked to the door and made an exit which was not without dignity.

Miss Silver got to her feet with no haste. She appeared to be unaware of the disapproval which now filled the room like a fog. She met her former pupil’s gloomy gaze with unruffled mien, and said cheerfully.

“Do you think she will bring an action, Randall? I do not. But it would be extremely interesting if she did.”

Frank Abbott put up a hand to cover his mouth. He heard March say, “What on earth possessed you?” and Miss Silver answer, “A desire to experiment, my dear Randall.”

“You can’t bring charges of that sort without a shred of evidence!”

Miss Silver smiled.

“She does not know whether I have any evidence or not. The more she thinks about it, the less secure she will feel. It takes a clear conscience to support an accusation of murder.”

March said with real anger,

“You cannot accuse a woman of murder without one shred of evidence, and in the teeth of overwhelming evidence against another person! There is only one murderer in this case, and that is Alfred Robbins.”

As he spoke, the door opened, disclosing Judy Elliot. She had a bright patch of colour on either cheek. Her voice hurried and shook. She said,

“Please, will you see Miss Mabel Robbins?”

There was one of those crowded silences. Four people’s thoughts, shocked into immediate and vital activity, met and clashed there. Then Judy moved, and there came past her into the room a tall, dark girl in a fur coat with a small black hat tilted at a becoming angle. The coat was squirrel, the hat undeniably smart, and the girl would have been very pretty indeed if she had not been so dreadfully pale. She came straight up to Frank Abbott, put out both hands to him, and said,

“Oh, Mr. Frank-is it true about my father? They told me in Ledlington.”

He took the hands, held them for a moment, and said,

“I’m afraid it is.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes. We thought that you were too.”

She drew her hands away.

“My father wanted it that way.”

“He knew you were alive?”

She had very dark blue eyes. The long black lashes had darkened them still more. They lifted now. She looked full at Frank and said,

“Oh, yes, he knew.” Her voice was soft and pretty, with no trace of country accent. On those last words it was tinged with bitter feeling.

She turned to Randall March.

“I beg your pardon-I should have spoken to you. But I am sure you will understand. I have known Mr. Frank since I was a little girl, and I have just heard of my father’s death-it was nice to see a friendly face. But of course I know you too-by sight. I used to work in Ledlington.”

Her manner was perfectly simple and direct. In a situation beset with embarrassments she appeared to be unaware of them. When March asked her to sit down she did so. When he explained Miss Silver her faint smile and the slight inclination of her head had a natural grace. When he enquired if she had something to say to him she lifted her eyes to his face and said,

“Yes, that is why I’ve come.”

Away to her left Frank Abbott produced writing-pad and pencil. Above her knitting Miss Silver’s eyes were bright and intent. March said.

“Well, Miss Robbins, what have you to say?”

Those very black lashes dropped. She said,

“A great deal. But it isn’t very easy to begin. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I am not Miss Robbins. I am married, and-Superintendent March, will it be necessary to bring my married name into it?”

“I don’t know. It depends on what you have to say.”

She drew a long breath.

“It has nothing to do with my husband.”

“Does he know you are here?”

She looked up again at that, quick and startled.

“Oh, yes-he knows everything. We talked it over. It was he who said that I must come, but it is I who don’t want to bring his name in because it might hurt him in his profession. He is a doctor.”

March said gravely,

“I can’t make any promises-you must understand that. Will you tell me what it is that you and your husband thought I ought to know? I suppose it concerns the death of Henry Clayton?”

The colour ran up into her face and died again. Just for a moment she had the beauty which takes you unawares. No one of the other three people in the room was insensible to it.

She said, “Yes.” And then, “I was here that night.”

The few quietly spoken words produced almost as vivid a shock as her entrance had done. Frank stared. Miss Silver’s needles halted for a moment. March said,

“You were here on the night that Henry Clayton was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“You really mean that?”

She smiled very faintly.

“Oh, yes, I really mean it.”

“Do you mean that you were present when he was-murdered?”

She caught her breath.

“Oh, no-not that!” Another of those quick breaths, and then, “Superintendent March, may I tell it to you from the beginning? You won’t understand unless I do.”

“Yes, certainly-tell it your own way.”

She had been leaning towards him over the table. Now she sat up straight, unfastening her coat and throwing it back.

The dress beneath was of dark red wool, plain and good. She had taken off her gloves and put them down on the table. Her bare hands lay in her lap, the left hand uppermost. Over the platinum circle on the wedding-finger was a fine old-fashioned ruby and diamond ring. Mabel Robbins looked down at it and began to speak in a low, steady voice,