Vandeleur House woke up flat by flat and began to go about its business. Mrs. Smollett, arriving to scrub the stairs, was took bad at the news of pore Miss Garside’s suicide, and had recourse to the ready hospitality of Miss Crane. A restorative of a most congenial nature was produced. Gossip and horrified speculation ran riot. Mrs. Smollett had rarely enjoyed a fatality so much. She was very late indeed in beginning the stairs. She had in fact got no farther than Mrs. Underwood’s landing, when Miss Lemming came running up to ring the bell and be admitted by Miss Meade Underwood, who seemed to be expecting her.
“Wearing her old purple when she came up, wasn’t she, same as she’s worn it day in and day out till you’re sick sore and weary of seeing it. And Miss Meade kisses her, and in they go and shut the door. And I hadn’t got done with the hall not by the half of it before Miss Lemming comes down again. Well, Miss Crane, I give you my word I was that taken aback I dropped my brush. I wouldn’t hardly have known her, and nor would you. Real good clothes she’d got on-a kind of sandy mixture tweed with an orangy fleck in it and a jumper to match. Took ten years off her age and that’s a fact.”
Miss Crane, over an eleven-o’clock cup of tea, displayed the deepest interest.
“How very strange.”
“And what’s more,” said Mrs. Smollett, “everything she’d got on was new-shoes, stockings, hat, gloves, and a brand-new bag. Wonderful what a difference clothes make. You’d have took her for under thirty. ‘Well,’ I says to myself, ‘if that don’t beat the band!’ Mind you, she didn’t give anyone time or I’d have said something. Short of running I never see anyone go faster.”
Just before one o’clock Miss Silver put through a telephone call to Chief Inspector Lamb at Scotland Yard. As her familiar voice and slight hesitant cough fell upon his ear, he looked decidedly cross. For women in general he had a great deal of respect, but one thing he would say, and he defied anyone to disprove it, they never knew when to leave a thing alone. It wasn’t just the last word they wanted either-it was all the words, all the time. His voice though perfectly polite informed Miss Silver that she was overstepping the limits of his patience.
In a brisk and businesslike voice she said,
“I told you last night that I had no evidence to lay before you. I have some now. I should be glad of an opportunity of talking it over with you. My train arrives at half past three. I can be with you by four o’clock. I should prefer to see you at the Yard.”
Lamb cleared his throat.
“Now, Miss Silver-”
“The matter is urgent, Inspector. I shall not waste your time. Shall we say four o’clock?”
He said, “Very well.” And then, “Where are you-where are you speaking from?”
“Tunbridge Wells,” said Miss Silver, and rang off.
At a little after four she was sitting in his office, neat and dowdy in her old-fashioned black cloth coat with its faded fur collar and her felt hat with the bunch of pansies on the left-hand side. She was pale and looked tired, but there was an air of deferential obstinacy about her which caused Lamb to fear the worst. If he knew anything at all about women, she was going to try and get her own way, and it would probably end in his having to give her the rough side of his tongue.
She began by telling him about her interviews with Ivy Lord, with Mrs. Underwood, and with Ella Jackson, after which she told him all about her visit to Tunbridge Wells.
By this time Lamb was no longer cross. He was considering what a feather in his cap it would be if Miss Silver’s evidence should prove to be correct and enable him to pull in so notorious a criminal. It began to look as if she had hit on something. On the other hand, if she was wrong-well, no one liked making a fool of himself, and he wasn’t going to be pushed into doing it. Miss Silver was now propounding a plan-one of those fancy stunts which women think up. He didn’t care for them himself, but in this case, and with the possibility that the whole thing might be a mare’s nest, well, it had some points-he wouldn’t go farther than that.
Miss Silver was talking.
“-a meeting of everyone from all the flats at No. 8-that would, I think, be the most suitable locality. I am convinced, and I shall hope to prove it, that the murderer had an appointment with Miss Roland and was admitted by the sitting-room window after ascending the fire-escape. If startled and cornered, I think an attempt will be made to escape by the same way. This is not a certainty, but in view of the character of the person concerned I think it very probable that such an attempt will be made. The window of course should be open-so large a gathering would make this seem quite natural. When we are assembled you could have a search made in the direction I have indicated. If the things I have described are found where I believe they will be found, a pre-arranged message could be brought up to you. Great care must be exercised not to arouse any suspicion. We are dealing with a most cunning criminal.”
Lamb let his hand rise and fall again. It struck the blotting-pad before him and sent the pen which lay there rolling half across the desk.
“You seem to be sure that these things will be found.”
Miss Silver inclined her head.
“I am sure,” she said.
CHAPTER 46
By ones and twos the inmates of Vandeleur House came out of their flats and took the lift or walked up the stair to the top of the house, where the door of No. 8 stood wide with Sergeant Abbott on the threshold to usher them in.
Mrs. Underwood got into the lift, which already contained the Lemmings, but Meade and Giles walked up the stairs. Meade said low in his ear, her face upturned, her grey eyes dark,
“I can’t make Agnes out. Aren’t people queer? Up to now she’s just been anyone’s slave who wanted one, and the way her mother trampled made me boil. She didn’t seem to have a life of her own at all, she just did things for other people. But now it’s all different. She’s so taken up with what is happening to her, she hardly notices that there’s been a murder and a suicide in the house.”
Giles laughed.
“This is where I ask what’s happening to her, isn’t it?”
“Wait and see,” said Meade. She slipped a hand through his arm and brought her voice down to a murmur. “Giles-what is all this about? I don’t like it very much. Why have we all got to go up to Carola’s flat? What was Miss Silver saying to you when she took you off and talked to you just now? Is anything horrid going to happen?”
“Miss Silver seems to think so,” said Giles with rather an odd inflexion.
“Oh, I do hope not!”
“I don’t know-” He bent and kissed the cheek that was nearest. “Hush-not a word!” he said, and hurried her on with an arm round her. Nobody could have heard what passed, it was all so quick and low between the two of them.
They came into Carola Roland’s sitting-room, and found that the furniture had been shifted and rearranged. The writing-table had been pushed against the right-hand wall, and Chief Inspector Lamb sat with his back to it as if he had been writing up to the last moment and had then swung round to face the window. Between him and the door there were three chairs, which were occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Willard and Mr. Drake, Mr. Drake being nearest the door. Upon Lamb’s other side was a vacant chair, and then Mrs. Lemming, Agnes, and Mrs. Underwood. The couch had been moved to the hearth, where it stood with its back to the fireplace. Someone had covered the mark which stained it with an incongruous tartan rug, and here in state sat Miss Silver and Miss Crane, the former still in her outdoor clothes, the latter in her customary drab attire of raincoat and old felt hat. Both ladies wore woollen stockings and very sensible shoes. Beyond the couch stood another empty chair. The silver dancer was back upon the mantelpiece, but the photograph of Giles Armitage had disappeared. It being a mild and muggy evening, both windows stood open, the lower sash of each being raised to the fullest extent. It was half past six and daylight outside-three quarters of an hour to sunset, but a dull sky and thickening air.