‘Well then, here you are. I think we’ve got her cold. Donald says she came out just after five, went round and collected her car – she keeps it in a garage just behind the flats – and went off to the same place as before, Morden Road. The same woman came to meet her. Evans couldn’t see her face, but the description fits Emily Salt – tall and thin, shapeless coat, squashed-down hat. She got into the car. He heard her say, “I can’t stay. Abby doesn’t know I’m out.” Mrs. Cyril Eversley said something, but he didn’t hear what it was. The door was shut, and they sat in the car and talked for about five minutes. Then Emily Salt got out. She stood with the door in her hand and said, “It’s ever so good of you, May. I love chocolate.” Mrs. Cyril leaned across from the driving-seat, and this time Donald heard what she said. It’s pretty damning. She said, “Mind you don’t eat it in the street. You won’t, will you?” Emily Salt said, “No, no, I’ll put it in my bag. I won’t eat it till I get in.” Then she said, “I’ll be seeing you soon, won’t I?” and Mrs. Cyril said, “Oh, yes.” And that was all. Emily Salt went back round the corner into Selby Street and into the house, where she ate her chocolate and died. And Mrs. Cyril Eversley went home with the comfortable feeling that she had disposed of all her worries. If William Eversley was poisoned by the apple honey which Mrs. Salt had sent him, and Emily Salt committed suicide with the same poison, it was all very distressing, but everyone knew that Emily had always been crazy, and that she had a spite against William because Mr. Tattlecombe had made a will in his favour instead of leaving what he had to Abigail, and so indirectly to Emily herself. Mrs. Cyril must be feeling quite sure that no one can possibly connect her with Emily or with the crime. And if you hadn’t practically blackmailed the Chief into having her followed, she would be perfectly right.’
Miss Silver looked quite horrified.
‘My dear Frank – blackmail – what a shocking expression!
That faint smile reached his eyes.
‘Revered preceptress – ’ he murmured, and then was grave again. ‘The Chief is sending Donald along to arrest her now,’ he said grimly.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Frank Abbott had been perfectly right about Mavis Eversley. She was feeling extremely well pleased with herself. Difficulty after difficulty had presented itself – you might even say reverse after reverse – but she had not allowed herself to be discouraged. She had persevered, and now awaited the confirmation of a triumphant success. Thinking it all over, she could not see where the plan could go wrong. There was, of course, just the bare possibility that the apple honey would kill Katharine and leave William alive. It was a possibility and she faced it, but it was so very unlikely. Katharine would be making the tea, pouring it out, looking after William. He would almost certainly begin eating before she did. He always had an excellent appetite. There had been family jokes about his fondness for jam. She felt comfortably sure that he would be in a hurry to help himself to Abigail Salt’s apple honey. The minute Emily had mentioned it in one of her grumbles she had known that it was just the thing to do the trick. She would be rid of William and of Emily by the same clever stroke. William had got to go. Cyril and Brett might be fools enough to think they could do a patched-up deal with him. Brett and his ‘We’re all falling on each other’s necks and killing fatted calves,’ when she called him up this morning at the office! More idiots they, and poor-spirited idiots at that! They would just be under William’s thumb for ever and ever, and never dare say ‘Bo!’ to him. But even if she could bring herself to it, none of that was going to get Mavis Jones out of the mess. William wasn’t Cyril or Brett – nobody was going to throw any dust in his eyes. He was one of the thorough kind, and he was as good at figures as she was herself. When he came to go into the books it wouldn’t take him long to find out what she’d been doing for the last seven years, and when he found out, she didn’t think he was going to have much mercy, or that either Brett or Cyril would lift a finger to save her. They were none too secure themselves, and to put it bluntly, she’d been robbing them for years.
No – William was bound to go. And the way she’d brought it off, she got rid of Emily too. And just about time – ringing her up every time Abigail went out, pouring out her crazy spite about men, about William – thank goodness she only knew him as William Smith – about Abel Tattlecombe and his will. What a crashing bore! She could be dangerous too if she went a little bit more crazy and tattled to Abigail. She hadn’t done it so far. Emily was secretive – liked to feel no one knew about ‘May’. Heavens, how she hated the name – the crazy, smarmy way of going on, the whining, grumbling voice on the telephone! How she hated Emily Salt!
By this time, with any luck at all, she was rid of her, and rid of William too, and without one atom of risk. She had never let Emily come to the flat. She used to come to her old place seven years ago – that was when she was having her affair with Brett – but never here, never once. They had met, when it was necessary, in some out of the way tearoom, but there had been as little of it as possible. It would be quite a clear case. A crazy woman would have poisoned William Eversley and then committed suicide. The only person to be blamed would be Abigail Salt who ought to have had her put away in a home years ago. That would be the end of it, and very nice too. William gone, Emily gone, and that damned Salt family pride in the dust. They had turned her mother out – they hadn’t cared whether the child lived or died. And who came out on top now?
Her thoughts slid to Katharine. She had kept her to the last. Katharine – Sylvia’s pretty, angry voice rang in her ears – ‘And who told you you could call her Katharine?’ If she had needed to have her purpose edged, that slap in the face would have done it. From the business point of view she wanted Katharine dead, because there would never be any question of those trust funds then – they came back to Cyril and Brett. But as far as her own private feelings went, it would be a considerable satisfaction to them to let Katharine live and suffer.
She turned to thinking of the future. She would make it up with Cyril of course, and they must pull the firm out of the mess. It could be done. Those toys of William’s – they had better take them up. Properly handled and pushed, there would be big money in them. Every child in the country would be wanting them. Even under the urgent pressure of danger it had outraged her business sense to turn them down as she had had to do in December. Now they could go straight ahead with them. She looked on and saw her own firm hands on the reins at Eversleys. She had a sense of power, domination, success. The way lay straight and open before her. She had never had anyone to help her except herself – her own wits, her own courage, her own skill in shaping the event to serve her purpose. And this was where it had brought her.
The front door bell jarred suddenly in the silence of the flat. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether it was the telephone. She thought of Brett, of Cyril – ringing up to say William was dead. Then the bell rang again, and she knew it was the front door.
Cyril? No – Brett said he was still at Evendon this morning – he wasn’t coming up. But it might be Brett-
She opened the door, and saw two strange men standing there. One of them stepped forward. His hand dropped on her shoulder. He said her name, and he got as far as ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ and then she twisted free, everything in her shrieking, ‘No – no – no!’ She reached the bedroom, banged the door, and locked it. There was time. There was just, just time.