There was a pause, after which Miss Silver said thoughtfully,

‘Mrs. Salt, have you ever heard of Eversleys?’

Abigail’s eyes remained perfectly blank. She said,

‘No – ’ and then, ‘Mrs. Smith was a Miss Eversley.’

Miss Silver looked at her in a very searching manner.

‘William Smith is Mr. William Eversley. He has recovered his memory, and has been recognized by members of his family. He has a controlling interest in the firm, and there are some who may find his return inconvenient. Do you know anything at all about this?’

Abigail said in a bewildered voice,

‘Oh, no – how could I?’

Miss Silver continued to look at her.

‘I should like to put that same question to Miss Emily Salt.’

‘To Emily?’

‘Yes please. Mrs. Salt.’

Abigail got up and went out of the room. She left the door open behind her. Miss Silver heard her cross the passage and knock. After a moment the knock was repeated, and after that there was the sound of an opening door.

Abigail came back looking disturbed.

‘She must be out. Her coat is gone, and her hat. I don’t know why I didn’t hear her go.’

Miss Silver said, ‘She may not have wished you to do so.’ And then, ‘Perhaps I may wait until she returns. I think you spoke of a photograph of your mother-in-law. I should be interested to see it.’

The photograph-album lay, as it had done in old Mrs. Salt’s time, upon the highly polished pedestal table which occupied the centre of the room. In order that the polish might sustain no damage a crocheted woollen mat, originally moss-green relieved with salmon but now all gone away to a dim shade resembling lichen, had been interposed. The covers of the album were very highly embossed, and linked by a massive gilt clasp.

Drawing her chair to the table, Miss Silver watched with interest whilst a succession of Salt portraits were displayed, all very glossy and in a high state of preservation owing to the fact that they had hardly ever been allowed to see the light of day. They were of two sizes, cabinet and carte-de-visite, each photograph embedded in the thick cream-laid boards which formed the pages of the album – young men with beards; middle-aged men with muttonchop whiskers and the high wing collar popularized by William Ewart Gladstone; a little girl with striped stockings and a round comb in her hair, looking as if she had escaped from one of Tenniel’s illustrations to Alice in Wonderland; ladies with heavy braided skirts stretched over a crinoline; girls of the early eighties in jutting bustles and little tilted hats; babies smothered in pelisses; and dreadful little boys with curls and sailor suits.

At intervals Miss Silver murmured, ‘So interesting – ’ With a case mounting to its climax, she could still become absorbed in these pages from a family history which was in miniature the history of a rather splendid age. Here was a cross-section of the great middle class to which England owes so much, constantly replenished on the one hand from those who by dint of perseverance, push, and brains had fought their way up from below, and on the other from those offshoots of the aristocracy and landed gentry who as continually passed into it in the pursuit of a livelihood in trade, farming, or one of the lesser professions.

Abigail turned a page and disclosed an empty space. Her smooth forehead contracted. She said in a puzzled voice,

‘It should be here. Who can possibly have taken it out?’ And then in a quick, vexed way, ‘It must have been Emily. She must have wished to show it to May. She used to say there was a strong likeness. But it is really very wrong of her – she shouldn’t have done it!’

It was at this moment that Emily Salt entered the house. The opening and closing of the front door was plainly heard in the parlour. And then there was a pause. Abigail closed the album and laid it back upon the woolly mat. She rose to her feet and leaned over the table to fasten the heavy gold clasp. All this occupied the shortest possible space of time, but it was long enough.

Emily Salt shut the door behind her. She put her latchkey back in her bag and took something else out. She went towards the foot of the stairs.

Up in the parlour they heard her fall. With a startled look on her face Abigail went to the door, opened it, and called over the banisters,

‘Emily!’

But the word was hardly out of her mouth before she was running down. Miss Silver followed her. Emily Salt lay dead across the bottom step with part of a stick of chocolate clutched in her gloved right hand.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Abigail got slowly to her feet. She had knelt beside the body, turned the glove back from the wrist and felt for a pulse that was not there. Now she stood up and put a hand on the newel-post to steady herself.

‘She’s dead – ’

Miss Silver had been kneeling too. She also rose. Her face was very grave.

Abigailsaid in an expressionless voice, ‘Her heart was all right – the doctor said so – ’

Miss Silver came to her.

‘You will want all your courage, Mrs. Salt. I fear that it was poison.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘I think cyanide. There is the suddenness, the appearance, and the distinctive odour. We must not touch her or disturb anything. Scotland Yard must be informed at once.’

Abigail Salt’s eyes had filled with tears. They had a bewildered look. The tears began to run slowly down over her cheeks, which had lost nearly all their rosy colour. She held on tightly to the newel and said,

‘But why?’

‘Can you not think of any reason, Mrs. Salt? Where is your telephone? The police must be notified.’

Abigail said, ‘It’s here – in this downstairs room.’

They went into the sitting-room to which she had taken William Smith on the night he was attacked. In a very brisk and businesslike manner Miss Silver asked if she might speak with Sergeant Abbott or Chief Inspector Lamb. When she heard Frank Abbott’s voice she said briefly,

‘A shocking fatality has occurred. I am speaking from 176 Selby Street. Miss Emily Salt has just entered the house and dropped down dead. I suspect cyanide.’

Sne heard him whistle at the other end of the line.

‘Suicide?’

‘I did not say so. The person who was to be watched – is there any information from that quarter?’

‘Yes – let me see – Donald reported that she had returned to town at midday yesterday.’

‘I already knew that.’

‘He followed her to her flat. You always know everything, but I just wonder whether you know that she has been living there as Mrs. Woods.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I have been suspecting it for the last half-hour. It supplies the link for which I have been looking.’

As she hung up the receiver her mind was working rapidly. The indispensable link had been established. Mavis Jones had been for fifteen years a confidential secretary. It appeared that she was now Mrs. Cyril Eversley, but that for a good many years out of the fifteen she had occupied a very comfortable flat as Mrs. Woods. And Mrs. Woods was Mary Salt’s daughter and Emily Salt’s niece, May. She stood there thinking of Emily Salt’s abnormal mentality, her crazy devotion to this new-found niece, its fading – and its recurrence about two months ago.

About two months ago – when William Smith had paid a visit to Eversleys and been recognized by the old clerk. About two months ago – when Mr. Tattlecombe had been struck down and Mr. Yates had heard the casualty in the bed next to him mutter something that might have been ‘Joan’ or ‘Jones’, and then, ‘She pushed me.’ That was the beginning of it – death of Mr. Davies – accident to Mr. Tattlecombe. Attacks on William Smith – the tampering with his car – that was how it went on. And now the death of Emily Salt. Was that the end?

Emily Salt was dead – thought focused on that. Why? She thought Emily had been an instrument, and that the instrument had been discarded. When do you discard an instrument? The answer appeared in a very bright light. When it has done its work – when it might be dangerous to keep it. But the work for which this instrument had been required was the destruction of William Smith.