Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

“Yes?”

“They were over by the big sideboard, Henry on the nearer side where the door goes through to the passage where the lift is. She was farther away on the other side. There was only the one light on, over the sideboard. I could see them, but they wouldn’t see me as long as I was careful. I heard Henry say, ‘My dear girl, what’s the good? Better go off to bed.’ And Miss Day said, ‘Are you in such a hurry to go to her that you can’t spare five minutes to say good-bye? That’s all I want.’ ”

She looked at Miss Silver again. She was deadly pale.

“When she said that, it sounded like all the things I’d been saying in my own mind. I began to thank God I hadn’t said them to Henry. He hadn’t any reason, and he never would have any reason, to look at me the way he was looking at her. She cried out, and she whipped round and snatched one of the knives off the wall-you know there are a lot of them there, put together in a pattern-a trophy, I think they call it. She snatched the knife, and she called out, ‘All right, I’ll kill myself, if that’s what you want!’ And Henry stood there with his hands in his pockets and said, ‘Don’t be a damned fool, Lona!’ ”

March said quickly, “You heard him use her name?”

“Yes.”

“Are you prepared to swear to that? You will have to do so.”

“I know.”

“Go on, please.”

She was looking at him again.

“Henry said, ‘Put that knife back and come here! If you want to say good-bye according to all the forms, you shall, but it mustn’t take more than ten minutes. Come along, my dear!’ He held out his hand and he smiled at her with his eyes. She said, ‘All right-that’s all I want,’ and she turned round and went up to the wall and put up her hand to the trophy as if she was putting the knife back. But she didn’t put it back-she put it in the pocket of the Chinese coat.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Those coats are not made with pockets, Miss Robbins.”

She got a steady look.

“This one had a pocket-it will be quite easy for you to check up on that. She put the knife into it, but Henry couldn’t see what she did because of all the heavy silver on the sideboard. He would only see that she reached up to the wall and stepped back again. But I saw her put the knife in her pocket.”

“You realize the gravity of what you are saying?”

She shuddered from head to foot and said, “Yes.”

“Go on.”

“She came to Henry and put her arms round his neck. I wanted to go away, but it didn’t seem as if I could move. She said, ‘You got my note. I was waiting for you. Why didn’t you come to my room?’ Henry said, ‘Because it’s all over, my dear.’ Then he patted her shoulder and said, ‘Come, Lona-be your age! We’ve eaten our cake-don’t let’s quarrel over the crumbs. We never gave each other any reason to suppose that we were very serious, did we? We’d both played the game before, and we both know when it’s over.’ She said, ‘You’re going to her-to Lesley Freyne.’ Henry said, ‘Naturally. I’m going to marry her. And, my dear, you’d better get this into your head and keep it there-I intend to make her as good a husband as I know how. She’s the salt of the earth, and I’m not going to let her down if I can help it.’ When he said that, I knew I’d got to get away. Everything she said and everything Henry said brought it right home to me that I never ought to have come. I felt that if he saw me, I should die of shame.”

Her voice had fallen very low. It stopped. She looked down at her ring and drew two or three long breaths. Nobody spoke. After a little she went on.

“I stepped back towards the door. That was the last I saw of him, and that was the last thing I heard him say.”

She stopped again and put her hand up to her head-the same gesture which she had used before. It was borne in upon the two men that she was making a very great effort. Miss Silver had measured it from the beginning.

The effort carried Mabel Robbins into speech again. She said in her steady, low voice,

“As soon as I moved I began to feel faint. I had had very little to eat all day. I don’t faint as a rule, but I was afraid I was going to then, and I thought I’d rather die. The door was ajar behind me. I got it open and I got into the hall, and there was my father coming through the baize door from the kitchen wing. He came up to me, and I don’t know what he said, because the faintness was so bad I had to hold on to him. I remember he shook me and pushed me towards the front door, but when he saw how I was he let go and left me leaning against it. When he came back he had a glass with a pretty stiff dose of whisky in it. He made me drink it, and it brought me round. He took me out into the glass passage and said why had I come, did I want him to curse me for breaking my promise? And I said no. Then he asked if anyone had seen me, and I said no again. He said, ‘You came to see Mr. Henry. Did you see him?’ And I said, ‘Yes, I saw him, but he didn’t see me. Neither of them did. I stood there in the dining-room behind the screen, and I saw them, but they didn’t see me. They’re in there together-Henry and Miss Day. It’s all quite over now-you needn’t be afraid that I’ll come back.’ He said, ‘You’d better not,’ and then he put me out of the glass door into the street and stood there to watch me go. I don’t know how I got back to Ledlington. The last train had gone. I must have just gone on walking along the London Road, because a motorist stopped there and picked me up. I don’t remember anything about it, but he must have looked in my handbag and found my address, for he took me there. I can just remember my landlady coming out, and their helping me into the house, and his saying, ‘I’m a doctor. You’d better get her to bed and I’ll have a look at her.’ That was how I met my husband.”

March looked at her hard.

“When you heard that Clayton had disappeared, did it not occur to you that you should communicate with the police? You’ve waited a long time to tell your story, Miss Robbins.”

It seemed as if she was feeling some relief. She was not quite so pale. She said,

“Yes. But, you see, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know that Clayton had disappeared?”

“No. I was very ill. It was two months before I could look at a paper, and there was no one to tell me about the Pilgrims any more. I was quite cut off from Holt St. Agnes. It was a year before I knew that Henry hadn’t married Miss Freyne.”

“Who told you he hadn’t?”

“A friend of his, a man I used to meet sometimes when I was with him. The way he put it, I never thought-” She broke off. “Indeed I didn’t, Superintendent March, He said, ‘So Henry couldn’t stick it after all. Money isn’t everything, is it? Do you ever hear from him now?’ When I begged him to tell me what he meant he said, ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Poor old Henry, he jibbed at the last moment and went off into the blue. Nobody’s heard from him since.’ ”

“I see.”

“I thought that was all. It was the sort of thing Henry might do. I thought he had got too much tangled up with Miss Day, or perhaps Miss Freyne had found out. I never, never thought-I don’t see how I could-it never came into my mind.”

March said slowly and gravely,

“Just when did it come into your mind, Miss Robbins?”

She moved to face him again.

“I’ve been married for about a year. I told my husband everything long before that. He had adopted my little girl. I could never tell you how good he has been. He has a brother who is a journalist-younger than John. He was in the Army, but he was invalided out. His paper sent him down here when-when-” Her voice broke off.