CHAPTER 36

Mrs. Smollett dropped in at No. 1 at about the same time that Sergeant Abbott was pressing the bell at No. 7. Ostensibly she came to enquire whether Miss Crane had ordered the primrose soap, “because if not, I could just as easy drop in and get it on my way home and bring it along in the morning,” but actually she was bursting with importance at having been called in a second time by the Chief Inspector and she wanted to talk about it.

Miss Crane, with her old lady resting for the afternoon, was all ears and attention.

“And of course they told me not to talk. The p’lice always do, and I wonder what they think you are-mummies in a museum or what? After all, yuman beings are yuman beings, and if they’ve got tongues I suppose they were meant to use them. Not to say nothing to nobody was what the Inspector says- and of course I wouldn’t, not to anyone that matters-I’m not one to talk, as you know.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Crane agreed. “And of course I shouldn’t dream of letting it go any farther.”

Mrs. Smollett nodded,

“I know that. Well, between you and me it’s Miss Garside they’ve got their eye on, and I’ll tell you why. You know that ring she wears-the one with the big diamond?”

Miss Crane looked disappointed.

“No-I don’t think so-”

They were in the kitchenette, Mrs. Smollett leaning against the dresser, the kettle just beginning to sing on the stove, and Miss Crane fussing with the teacups.

“Well, you wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Smollett indulgently. “She’s one of the particular ones, Miss Garside-always puts on her gloves before she comes out of the flat and doesn’t take them off again until she gets back. Well, this ring has got just the one diamond in it, a big one, and she wears it all the time. First thing I noticed when Miss Roland come she’d got just such another, and so I told her when I was doing her room. “Funny thing, isn’t it,” I says, “you and Miss Garside having these two rings as like as two peas?” And about a week later she told me she had seen Miss Garside’s ring and I was quite right. It was the time Miss Garside’s furniture was took away, and she was out on the landing and Miss Roland come past and seen the ring on her hand. Well, the Inspector, he has me in, and he hands me a ring and says, ‘Ever seen that before, Mrs. Smollett?’And I say’s, ‘Every day of my life.’ And then he says, ‘Whose ring is it?’ and I tell him it’s Miss Garside’s. Well, he says how do I know that, and I tell him, well, I ought to, seeing I’ve had it under my nose every day for a good five years. And he asks if I know Miss Roland’s got one like it, and I says of course. And, ‘Would you know them apart?’ he says, and I tells him, ‘Of course! Many’s the time I’ve had Miss Roland’s ring in my hand, and it’s got initials in it-an M and a B. Some kind of a family ring, she told me it was.’ And then he said I could go, and not to talk about it.”

Miss Crane had been listening with her hands clasped and her mouth open.

“Oh!” she breathed. “Oh, Mrs. Smollett-what do you think it means-about the rings? It seems so strange-”

Mrs. Smollett tossed her head.

“Don’t ask me to say what it means, Miss Crane. Least said soonest mended to my way of thinking. I’m not saying anything nor suspecting anyone, but if it was my ring that was in a murdered person’s flat instead of the one that ought by rights to be there, well, I wouldn’t be feeling too comfortable in my inside. And there’s something I can tell you, Miss Crane, only don’t you let it go any further. When Miss Garside come in with her shopping-basket this morning, there was Mrs. Lemming coming out of her flat. You know they’re a bit friendly, her and Miss Garside, so they stopped and talked and I could hear what was said. And Mrs. Lemming, she asks Miss Garside, ‘What was you doing last night?’ she says. ‘Three times I tried to get you on the telephone between half past eight and nine, and no reply,’ she says. And Miss Garside-well, I thought she looked funny, and she said she’d been down to see Bell about a washer. And Mrs. Lemming laughs-and not what I’d call a very pleasant laugh neither-and she says, ‘You’d have to go a bit further than the basement to find Bell if it was after half past eight. Down at that pub of his, that’s where you’d have to go to find him anywhere between half past eight and half past nine. And unless that’s what you did, it wouldn’t take you the best part of half an hour, my dear.’ And Miss Garside says quick, ‘Half an hour? What do you mean?’ And Mrs. Lemming says, ‘Well, I rang you at five-and-twenty to nine, and at twenty to, and soon after the quarter, and I couldn’t get any answer.’ And Miss Garside she says the bell couldn’t have rung, and off up the stairs without waiting for the lift. Funny, wasn’t it? Tisn’t as if she might have run down to the post either, because everyone knows she wouldn’t put her foot outside in the black-out, not if it was ever so. But there-it doesn’t do to go saying things, does it, Miss Crane?”

“No, indeed.” Miss Crane was earnest in agreement.

“And I haven’t mentioned it to anyone but you, if it wasn’t for the little governess person that’s staying with Mrs. Underwood. Very friendly kind of person she is-give me a hand with the washing-up after lunch and we got talking. And she says just what you and me’s been saying-you’ve to be careful how you talk with the police about. But you can’t help what you think-can you?”

Miss Crane looked distressed.

“Appearances are often so misleading-”

“Let’s us ’ope so,” said Mrs. Smollett, and departed.

It being Packer’s afternoon out, Miss Crane went on making tea for her old lady.

CHAPTER 37

All over Vandeleur House tea was being prepared. Mrs. Willard, refreshed by several hours of sleep, made herself a nice strong pot and partook of it with some thinly buttered toast. Mr. Willard had not returned, but as he never was at home to tea except on a Saturday or a Sunday, that did not disturb her. She felt as if she had emerged from a nightmare. Alfred had been foolish, but he was her own again. He had knelt at her feet and wept. Carola Roland was dead. She had had a nice long sleep, and she was enjoying her tea. Ivy Lord had returned from the town. She had seen her boy friend in the distance and had a wave of the hand and a smile, so she was feeling better. Mrs. Underwood had retired to her room directly after lunch and could be presumed to be resting. Giles and Meade had the drawing-room to themselves. Meade had stopped thinking. She felt as one feels after an anaesthetic which has blotted out pain. Consciousness has come back, but it is a state in which one is afraid to move lest the pain should return. She was content to feel Giles’ arm about her, to lean her cheek against his, and to let him talk.

Presently Ivy came in with the tray, and after that the front door of the flat opened and shut. Mrs. Underwood came in. She said in a complaining voice,

“I can’t think what Miss Silver is doing. She’s been up in the Spooners’ flat all the afternoon. I’ve just looked out to see if she was coming, and there isn’t a sign of her. Ring her up, Meade, and say tea is ready. You know the number.” She plumped into a chair, and as Meade went over to the telephone, she said, “Miss Garside has had a visitor-wonders will never cease! I saw her getting into the lift.”

Miss Garside had just poured the boiling water from the kettle into the small brown pot which had replaced a cherished piece of Queen Anne silver, when there was a ring at the bell. She opened the door and saw with surprise that the person who had rung was a stranger-an ultra-fashionable youngish woman, a good deal made up, with fair hair curling on her shoulders, a smart black coat, a ridiculous little tilted hat, and spectacles with rims of very light tortoise-shell. She moved into the lobby and spoke with a mincing accent.