Patricia Wentworth - The Fingerprint

“When I purposely made an inaccurate allusion to Mr. Field having been found stretched on the floor and shot through the head, Sid Turner lost no time in putting me right with the assertion that the paper had said Mr. Field was sitting at his desk. A little later he spoke casually of Mr. Field having been shot through the heart.”

Frank said frowning,

“Mirrie could have told him that.”

“She had no opportunity. I was in the car with them on the way back from the funeral. Mirrie and Georgina Grey went straight upstairs.”

“She could have written to him, or he could have picked up the information locally. These things get out, you know.”

Miss Silver coughed in a manner which he took to indicate dissent.

“When I introduced the subject of the album-”

“Oh, you introduced it?”

“I wished to ascertain whether there would be any response.”

“And was there?”

“A very marked one. I enquired whether his paper had mentioned that the album containing Mr. Field’s collection of famous fingerprints was found beside him, to which he replied that he believed it had.”

“There was certainly no mention of the album.”

“That is what I thought. Sid Turner, having been supplied with an excuse to talk about the album, continued to do so. He wondered whether the fingerprints could have had anything to do with the murder, and seemed to be a good deal taken up with the idea that the murderer’s motive might have been to get rid of some incriminating print. He then asked me whether any of the pages had been torn out.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And what did you say?”

“I enquired whether there was anything about it in the paper he had read.”

Frank Abbott spoke quickly.

“If he said there was-”

Miss Silver shook her head.

“He did not commit himself, merely saying, ‘Then a page was torn out?’ I replied that I could not say, but I supposed that the police would have looked into the matter. It was plain that Mr. Turner was a good deal interested. I had, throughout, the feeling that he wished to direct attention to the album, and to suggest a link with the murder. It is very difficult to convey what I may perhaps call the atmosphere of such a conversation, but I have very little doubt that he was aware of the presence of the album before I mentioned it, and equally aware that one of the pages had been removed.”

“You were left with that impression?”

“Very decidedly so. Having received it, I made some remark upon the competence of the police, adding that you were an extremely intelligent officer, and that you would, I was sure, be most zealous in following up any clue which had come into your possession.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He asked if you had any clue.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I allowed myself to appear confused, and said I would not like it to be supposed that I had said anything of the sort. I think you must remember that he considered me to be a humble dependent, inclined to gossip but nervous and uncertain of my position. He imagined, in fact, that I had just given something away, and since he saw no necessity for being on his guard with me he betrayed the interest, and I think I may say the concern, which it occasioned him.”

“You allowed him to think we had a clue?”

Miss Silver pulled again upon the soft white ball in her knitting-bag.

“I believe that he was under that impression.”

“What happened after that?”

“People were beginning to go away. He saw a chance of approaching Mirrie Field, an opportunity for which, I think, he had been waiting. He followed her out of the room, and they afterwards went into the study together.”

There was a somewhat prolonged pause. Miss Silver continued to knit, the intricate lacy pattern apparently presenting no difficulties. Frank Abbott was leaning back in the writing-chair. He wore a beautiful dark suit and the black tie which he had put on for the funeral. His pale, smooth hair took the light from the overhead bowl and reflected it. The high forehead and bony nose emphasized an appearance of being plunged in thought. He emerged rather suddenly to say,

“A pinch of evidence would be worth a peck of horsefeathers.”

It was the first time that Miss Silver had encountered the term. She repeated it.in a mildly interrogative tone.

“Horsefeathers?”

There was a sardonic gleam in his eye.

“A transatlantic expression and quite expressive. They are to be found in the neighbourhood of mares’-nests. But to continue. What, if anything, do you suggest?”

“Nothing that you will not already have thought of for yourself. Some enquiries about Sid Turner. His whereabouts on Tuesday night. The possibility that he might have heard, perhaps from Mirrie, of the story Mr. Field related a fortnight ago. You were present yourself, and so were some other people, including Mirrie. Did she seem particularly struck by it?”

“She did. A good deal of bright girlish excitement, and, ‘Oh, dear Uncle Jonathan, you must go on!’-when Georgina came along and wanted him to meet the arriving guests.”

“She could have mentioned the story to Sid Turner in a letter, or during a conversation.”

Frank had a curious irrelevant flash-back to the night of the dance. Or was it irrelevant? He began to wonder about it. Cicely had left a handkerchief in the study and had asked him to get it for her. As he put it in his pocket there had been a sound from the direction of the windows. The glass door on to the terrace had moved, as it had moved on the night of Jonathan’s death. And when he pulled back the curtain, there was Mirrie on the step outside in her white fluffy dress with her eyes like saucers. She had been frightened- there was no doubt about that. Startling, of course, to have the curtain swung back on you, but all she had to say was “I -I was hot-I just went out.” They had gone along into the supper room together, and she had paired off with Johnny. But who had she been meeting in the garden, and why hadn’t he come in with her? Could it have been Sid Turner? He wondered, and kept his thoughts to himself. Aloud he said, “Was she in the habit of telephoning to Sid?”

“I do not know, but I can make some discreet enquiries. I think perhaps you had better leave them to me.” Frank was frowning.

“As a matter of fact I happen to know that the story did actually reach Pigeon Hill. One of the people who was in the room when Jonathan told it was a Mr. Vincent, recently settled in the neighbourhood but previously in South America. If you ever happen to want to pass right out with boredom, ask him to tell you what he did in Venezuela in ’35- or was it ’37? He will take at least twenty minutes to determine the point. It appears that he has a friend at Pigeon Hill. He runs a boys’ club, and last week Vincent went there, repeated Jonathan’s tale to several people, and finished up by incorporating it in a speech which, I gather, he insisted on delivering. I shouldn’t expect Sid Turner to frequent that kind of club, but the story having been launched in Pigeon Hill, it could have reached him. Or, of course, Mirrie may have imparted it. What, unfortunately, seems to be the fact is that there isn’t a single solitary shred of evidence to show that she or anybody else imparted anything at all.” Miss Silver said in a gently immovable tone, “He knew that a page had been torn out of the album. He was anxious to link the missing fingerprints with the crime.”

Frank Abbott said, “Why?”

She directed upon him the glance which she would have bestowed upon a pupil who was failing to do himself justice.

“It might have been a red herring.”

Whether it was her lapse into the vernacular, or the idea which it presented, he was certainly startled.