“What way?” Giles Armitage asked the question which was in everyone’s mind.

“By the fire-escape and the window,” said Miss Silver. “And that, I believe, was in fact the way by which the murderer came. The sash was lifted, the blackmailer admitted, some talk perhaps followed. After which Miss Roland turned towards the table which stood on the window side of the room. She may have been going to produce the compromising letter. We do not know, but that is a reasonable conjecture. As soon as her back was turned the blackmailer caught up that little silver figure which you see on the mantelpiece and struck the fatal blow. It makes a very dangerous weapon. The head and bust are easy to grip, the pointed foot is sharp, and the blow would have the weight of the base behind it. Dropping the figure upon the couch, the murderer went to the door of the flat and set it ajar, thus widening the field of suspicion. Miss Garside, I think, had already gone. She may have heard the blow and the fall, or she may have slipped away as soon as the sitting-room door was shut. There is an uncertainty upon this point which can never be cleared up. This uncertainty was shared by the murderer-and murderers cannot afford this kind of uncertainty. Miss Garside was found dead last night after having received a visit from a smartly dressed woman with conspicuous fair hair. This woman was seen coming out of Miss Garside’s flat, and her appearance noticed and described. There is reason to suppose that Miss Garside was having tea when her visitor arrived. I do not know how she explained herself, but I am convinced that she found an opportunity of introducing strong morphia tablets into Miss Garside’s tea. The affair was very cleverly planned, and arranged to look like a suicide, but circumstantial evidence pointing to murder is now forthcoming.”

As she spoke, Lamb sat with an elbow on the arm of his chair, a big hand propping his chin, his face heavy and expressionless.

Miss Crane said “Dear me!” in a very interested manner. Then she heaved a sigh and got to her feet. “You make it so very interesting-you do indeed,” she said in the husky voice which always seemed a little short of breath.“You must come and have tea with me and tell me all about it. But I must go now. Packer will be busy with the evening meal, and we do not like to leave Mrs. Meredith alone.”

“Just a moment,” said Miss Silver. “I was going to ask you a question about Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Meredith used to live there, did she not?”

Miss Crane had her foolish smile.

“Now who could have told you that?”

“She used to talk about the Pantiles and the Toad Rock when she first came here, did she not-and about her house on Mount Pleasant? To anyone who has ever been in Tunbridge Wells-”

Miss Crane laughed her giggling laugh.

“Oh dear-how clever you are! I should never have thought of that!”

“No,” said Miss Silver. “You were not with Mrs. Meredith then, I think? You have not in fact been with her for very long, have you?”

Miss Crane stopped laughing. She looked puzzled and concerned.

“I don’t understand. No, really. There is no secret about it all. Oh, none at all. A very dear cousin of mine was with Mrs. Meredith for many, many years. When she died I was only too pleased to take her place. I am sure I have tried to make up for her loss in every way. You will not ask me to neglect her now, will you? I really must be going.”

She began to move towards the door. She still had the large white handkerchief in her hand. Giles Armitage, who had risen when she did, walked beside her. She lifted the handkerchief to her eyes for a moment, and then, still holding it, her hand went down into the pocket of the drab raincoat and there remained, gripped and held by Giles.

In a flash she twisted to free herself, and with such a sudden trick of the muscles that she was almost out of his grip.

It was Miss Silver who caught the other wrist and held on to it till Frank Abbott got there. There were some horrible moments. Meade sickened and shut her eyes. A woman struggling with men-three of them trying to hold her. Horrible!

Fierce panting breath. The men’s feet scuffing on Carola’s blue carpet. And then the sound of a shot.

Meade opened terrified eyes, got to her feet, and felt the floor tilt under them. Giles-the shot-Giles! And then what had been a swaying, struggling group resolved itself, and she saw him. He was still holding Miss Crane by the wrist, but she was falling back, limp and pale, between Sergeant Abbott and the Chief Inspector. A small automatic pistol lay where it had fallen at Giles’ feet. As Meade looked, he hooked it dexterously and kicked it away. Mrs. Underwood screamed on a high, shrill note, but whether this came first or next, Meade never was quite sure, because at the time everything seemed to happen together- Mr. Willard saying in a horrified voice, “She has shot herself”; Miss Crane sagging against the two men, her head hanging, her eyes fixed, her pale mouth horribly open; Mabel Underwood’s scream; and then Miss Crane suddenly, galvanically in action again. There was a yelp from Lamb as the hand which was holding her was bitten almost to the bone. With a violent twist she was free and with a single spring had reached the open window.

Giles and Sergeant Abbott reached it too, but not in time. Desperate haste had taken her over the sill to the ledge beneath, and from there on to the fire-escape. They could see her a yard or two below, going down at a speed which spoke of practice. As Giles threw a leg over the sill to follow her, Frank Abbott caught his arm.

“No need,” he said. “They’re waiting for her down there.”

They watched her drop the last few feet and turn to find herself surrounded.

This time there was no break-away.

CHAPTER 49

Miss Silver gave a tea-party a few days later. She was back in her own flat with Bubbles, The Soul’s Awakening, The Black Brunswicker, and The Monarch of the Glen gazing from their maple frames upon the scene. Bubbles and the damsel in The Soul’s Awakening could not truthfully be said to enjoy a view of anything but the ceiling, but that was the fault of the upturned gaze with which the artist had endowed them. The Black Brunswicker’s lady and the Monarch had been more kindly treated. They looked down upon Nicholas and Agnes Drake, Meade Underwood and Giles Armitage, and upon Frank Abbott, off duty and very much at his ease.

Miss Silver’s tea was of the excellent blend and making dreamed of but seldom achieved. There was enough milk, there was real sugar, there was even a little cream in a small antique silver jug. There were scones and buns of the valuable Emma’s best. There was raspberry jam. It was like the pleasantest kind of schoolroom tea.

Miss Silver beamed kindly upon her guests. She was delighted at the happiness which radiated from the Drakes, and delighted to hear that Meade and Giles were to be married without delay. She received with pleasure the admiring attentions of Sergeant Abbott. Altogether a very pleasant party.

But the dark background against which they had played their parts so short a time before could hardly be ignored. Behind the happiness and the agreeable talk it was still there, like a shadow which has been left behind but cannot be forgotten. At first they did not speak of it at all. The Drakes were leaving Vandeleur House. The lease of his flat was up, and they were looking for something in the country.

“It doesn’t really matter where I live, you know,” said Nicholas Drake.

Frank Abbott, with his lazy, impudent smile, now put the question which everyone wanted to ask.

“Are you really a pork butcher?”

“Selwood’s Celebrated Sausages,” said Mr. Drake, looking more romantic than ever.