‘Get it off the chest!’ said Charles.

‘Well, you were talking about a detective the other day-’

Charles gave an appreciative whistle.

‘Somebody been pinching the stock?’

‘No, it’s not for myself – that is, it’s for someone I’m interested in. I want to have some enquiries made, and I want to be sure that the person who makes them is all right. I mean, I don’t want someone who’ll go round opening his mouth.’

‘Our Miss Silver will do you a treat,’ said Charles Moray.

‘A woman? I don’t know – ’

‘Wait till you’ve seen her – or rather wait till she’s delivered the goods. She does, you know. She pulled me out of the tightest corner I ever was in in my life [See Grey Mask.] – and that wasn’t in the wilds of South America, but here in London. If your business is confidential, you can trust her all the way. Her address – hang on a minute and be ready with a pencil… Yes, here you are – 16, Montague Mansions, West Leaham Street, S.W… And her telephone number?… No, I haven’t got it – this is an old one. You’ll find it in the book – Maud Silver. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, thanks very much.’

‘Come round and see us,’ said Charles affably. ‘Margaret says what about dinner? Monday or Wednesday next week.’

Henry accepted for Monday and rang off. Then he went out to the British Museum, where he spent an intensive two hours over the Everton Case. He read the inquest and he read the trial. He came away with the conviction that Geoffrey Grey must have been born very lucky indeed to have escaped being hanged. As he read it, there had never been a clearer case. It was as plain as a pikestaff. James Everton had three nephews. He loved Geoffrey Grey. He didn’t love Bertie Everton. And Frank Everton was neither here nor there – a mere remittance man. Everything was for Geoffrey – the place in his uncle’s firm, the place in his uncle’s home, the place in his uncle’s will. And then, quite obviously, Bertie comes along and tells a tale out of school. He dines with his uncle, and in the most almighty hurry James Everton cuts out Geoffrey and puts in Bertie in his place. Incidentally, he cuts out poor old Frank too, but probably that hasn’t got anything to do with it. The cutting out of Geoffrey is the peg on which everything hangs. Geoffrey must have gone off the rails somewhere, and Bertie had tumbled over himself to give him away. Result, Uncle James changes his will, sends for Geoffrey to tell him what he has done, and Geoffrey shoots him in a sudden murderous fit of rage. No knowing just how serious Geoffrey’s misdemeanour may have been. It may have been so serious that he couldn’t afford to have it come out. His uncle may have threatened him with exposure. Geoffrey wouldn’t necessarily know that Bertie Everton had split on him – he mightn’t ever know that Bertie knew. He loses his head and shoots, and Bertie comes in for everything.

Henry wondered idly whether Bertie was continuing Frank’s allowance. There didn’t seem to be any other doubt about the case. There didn’t seem to be any reason at all for calling in Miss Maud Silver. After which Henry went to the telephone and called her up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He came into her waiting-room, and after a very short pause found himself being ushered into a most curiously old-fashioned office. There was a good deal more furniture than there had been in Charles Moray’s day, and the chairs were not modern chairs. They looked to Henry like the ones he had sat in as a schoolboy when he visited his grandmother and his grandmother’s friends. The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs in gimcrack frames.

Miss Silver herself sat at a good solid writing-table of the mid-Victorian period. She was a little person with a great deal of mousey grey hair which was done up in a bun at the back and arranged in a curled fringe in front. Having worn her hair in this way through a period of practically universal shingling varied only by the bob and the Eton crop, she had become aware with complete indifference that she now approximated to the current fashion.

Yet however she had done her hair, it would have appeared, as she herself appeared, to be out of date. She was very neatly dressed in an unbecoming shade of drab. Her indeterminate features gave no indication of talent or character. Her smooth sallow skin was innocent of powder. She was knitting a small white woolly sock, and at the moment of Henry’s entrance she was engaged in counting her stitches. After a minute she looked up, inclined her head, and said in a quiet toneless voice,

‘Pray be seated.’

Henry wished with all his heart that he hadn’t come. He couldn’t imagine why he had asked for this woman’s address, or rung her up, or come to see her. The whole thing seemed to him to be absolutely pointless. If he had the nerve he would get up and walk out. He hadn’t the nerve. He saw Miss Silver put down her knitting on a clean sheet of white blotting-paper and take a bright blue copybook out of the top left-hand drawer of her writing-table. She opened the book, wrote down his name, asked him for his address, and then sat, pen in hand, looking mildly at him.

‘Yes, Captain Cunningham?’

Henry felt that he was making the most complete fool of himself. He also felt that this was Hilary’s fault. He said in an embarrassed voice,

‘I don’t think I really ought to have troubled you.’

‘You will feel better when you have told me about it. I don’t know if you read Tennyson. He seems to me to express it so very beautifully:

‘Break, break, break,

On thy cold grey stones, oh sea.

And I would that my heart could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.’

It is always difficult to make a beginning, but you will find it easier as you go on.’

‘It’s about the Everton Case,’ said Henry abruptly.

The Everton Case? Quite so. But it is closed, Captain Cunningham.’

Henry frowned. An obstinate feeling that having made a fool of himself, he might as well see it through stiffened his courage.

‘Do you remember anything about the case?’

Miss Silver had picked up her sock and was knitting rapidly in the German manner. She said, ‘Everything,’ and continued to knit with unbelievable rapidity.

‘I’ve been going through it again,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve read the inquest and I’ve read the trial, and – ’

‘Why?’ said Miss Silver.

‘I missed a good deal of it at the time -I was abroad – and I must say – ’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Miss Silver. Her needles clicked. She gazed mildly at him. ‘You see, Captain Cunningham, I always prefer to draw my own conclusions. If you will tell me in what way I can help you. I will do my best.’

‘It’s about the Mercers. They were the chief witnesses against Geoffrey Grey. I don’t know if you remember.’

‘Mr. Everton’s cook and butler. Yes?’

‘I would like some information about those two.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘Anything you can lay hands on. Their antecedents, present circumstances – in fact, anything you can get. It has – well, Miss Silver, it has been suggested that these people committed perjury at the trial. I can’t see any reason why they should, but if they did commit perjury, they must have had a reason. I want to know if they’re any better off than they were. In fact, I want to know anything you can find out about them. I don’t expect you to find out anything damaging, but – well, the fact is I want to convince – someone – that there’s nothing to be gained by trying to re-open the case. Do you see?’

Miss Silver dropped her knitting in her lap and folded her hands upon it.

‘Let us understand one another, Captain Cunningham,’ she said in her quiet voice. ‘If you employ me, you will be employing me to discover facts. If I discover anything about these people, you will have the benefit of my discovery. It may be what you are expecting, or it may not. People are not always pleased to know the truth.’ Miss Silver nodded her head in a gentle deprecating manner. “You’ve no idea how often that happens. Very few people want to know the truth. They wish to be confirmed in their own opinions, which is a very different thing – very different indeed. I cannot promise that what I discover will confirm you in your present opinion.’ She gave a slight hesitating cough and began to knit again. ‘I have always had my own views about the Everton case.’