The Warrielaw Jewel, page 10
There was one part of the story which the reporters did not know. Alison had parted from Dennis, alarmed, and gone, white and scared, into the library. Miss Mary, now fully convalescent, was sitting there, and at the sight of the girl’s face she got up unsteadily and hurried to her, asking her insistently what was wrong. Alison supposed that she had heard the sound of men’s voices and knew the direction whence they came. In spite of all Alison’s entreaties, she tottered across the circular garden, through the path between the shrubs, into the back avenue, and thence to the stable-yard. It was just as the men were facing their ghastly discovery that they looked round to see Miss Mary, clutching Alison’s unwilling arm, just behind them. And as she glanced uncertainly at the shed, suspecting something terrible, for she could hardly see what was within, Mary gave a hoarse, strangled cry and fell forward, almost to the door of the shed. When they tried to carry her indoors, they found one side rigid and paralysed, and it was to the bedside of one sister that Dr. Hewetson went before he faced the terrible remains of the other. His verdict in the former case had no uncertainties. The stroke he had always feared for Mary had fallen on her, the result of the shock, intensified by her long illness. That it was fatal, or even necessarily dangerous, he could not prophesy. All he could do was to summon another nurse from Edinburgh on his return, and give his directions to the nurse in charge. Alison had not been allowed to see her. Bob, when at length he could leave the scene, found Alison with Dennis, sitting with her hands in his in the library, too stunned and overcome to speak. I rang up Rhoda on our return to Moray Place and got leave to keep the poor girl for the night. Rhoda would, I knew, be hurrying down to Warrielaw—(“Where the carcase is,” said John brutally, “that eagle won’t be missing”)—but we could trust Effie and the nurse to keep her from poor Mary.
I put Alison to bed after I had coaxed her to have some soup, and the first ghost of a smile Dennis could produce was when I told him she was asleep. Dennis would not touch soup. He was helping himself to whisky, which he dislikes, at a rate which horrified me, and pouring out in a high, jerky voice all the most appalling details of the discovery again and again. John would not let me interfere: when Dennis grew incoherent he took him off to bed himself—“the only treatment, Betty, for a boy who’s seen what he’s seen. I’m not sure that I’d better not try it on you too. You look a ghost.”
“No, don’t send me to bed yet. It’s too awful to face in the dark. John, I can’t bear to think of Dennis—he’s such a baby really, isn’t he? And to think he’s got to tell all that at the inquest.”
Then I discovered what is known doubtless to the ordinary well-informed person. There are no inquests in Scotland. The police go about gathering information and taking statements from any person known to be connected with the scene of the crime and, when they have any definite reasons to suspect the author of the deed, lay their evidence before an official known in law as the Procurator Fiscal, but more familiarly by the populace as the Fiscal.
“In any case where there’s a doubt as to the cause of the death, any question of suicide or accident for example, a Fatal Accident Enquiry may be held, but there’s no question of that in this case. You and Dennis will have to tell the police all you know when they are collecting evidence, but Bob will see you through all that.”
It was, I think, to restore me to some sort of composure that Bob, when he came in, drifted into a long discussion with John as to whether the English or Scottish procedure were the more effective. John, for once, was on the side of the English law, and Bob withheld him stoutly.
“Ah, yes, but there’s another side to it. When an educated man like the Procurator Fiscal receives the report of the police and summons the witnesses to give their precognitions, they haven’t the benefit of having their remarks considered by the jury composed of twelve men as slow and stupid as themselves. There have been cases where the Fiscal’s own preconceived views tend to twist or colour their evidence. Take the case of Kelly in 1862—”
“But isn’t there ever a public court at all?” I asked, bewildered. “Shall we really get out of giving evidence at all in public?”
John laughed.
“No, Betty dear. Trial in public by jury has reached even this benighted country! When the police have laid sufficient evidence before the Procurator to warrant an arrest the accused is brought before the Sheriff Court, just as a man’s brought before the Police Court in England. In the case of murder the proceedings are usually formal and the accused reserves his defence. No witnesses are called then and he is remanded to await his trial. When the case is fully prepared by the Crown the accused is brought into the Sheriff Court again to hear the indictment against him. That again is formal: invariably he reserves his defence and his case is remitted to the High Court and tried as soon as it can be brought forward. But we’re a very long way from that, Betty, if indeed we ever get there!”
“It won’t be an easy case for the police,” said Bob thoughtfully. “In fact, it’s going to be as hard a business to collect evidence after all these weeks as it well could be. I’m afraid we shall have to rely as much on your evidence as anyone’s, Mrs. Morrison, as to what happened at Warrielaw on April 13th.”
“But what did happen?” I cried helplessly. “Was she there all the time? But I saw her in the train! Dennis saw her at Carstairs! Oh John—!”
“Hush, Betty dear!” John moved to my side. “You’re not to try to think of this to-night. Go to bed!”
“That’s very good advice,” said Bob firmly. “I’m going too, John, when I’ve just settled with you exactly where I stand. I’ve done what I was engaged for, you see, so now I expect you wish me to withdraw from the case.”
“Certainly not,” said John warmly. “I represent Jessica’s interests and it’s in them to retain your services, as you know the little there is to know already. The Crown will have its work cut out and may want all the aid we can give. We’ve got to discover who did this monstrous thing and you’ve enough evidence already to help the police solidly. Of course you must go on with it, but Betty, I really think you should toss off some whisky and go to bed. I know you want to talk all this awful business out. I know, like the rest of us, that facts and suspicions are buzzing all over your head. But do have a drink and try to forget.”
I did not drink, but my usual unromantic faculty stood me in good stead. Before I had managed to disentangle the thread of the story which had so completely changed its venue and its character, I had fallen asleep.
It is a dreadful thing to wake from a heavy slumber to know that when you climb up out of the pit of unconsciousness some horrible thought awaits, staring at you, from the top. On this morning, my memory and imagination alike conjured up such a ghastly figure that it seemed terrible to see that the sun was shining into the room. As a knock came on the door I wished to hide far down among the clothes and never emerge again into a world in which such unbelievable things could happen.
Christina usually usurps the work of the house-maid when she has any exciting news to bring to my bedside with my tea. I was not surprised to see her to-day, but I was surprised to see her flustered and too angry to gossip.
“Mr. John was awa’ early, Ma’am,” she said breathlessly, “and left orders you was to have your sleep out, and it’s half-past nine now. But Mrs. Charles Murray was in the moment that ever his back was turned on the house, saying that she must see you at once. She’s tried to get up the stair once.”
“But I thought Mrs. Charles was abroad?”
“They got back last night, I heard from my niece, Bridget. I wouldn’t let her in to you before, but—”
Christina started as the door swung open and Cora herself slipped into the room.
“Betty,” she said, “forgive me. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
A long mirror opposite my old chintz-hung four-post bed reflected us both, as Cora feverishly pulled a chair to my bedside and Christina reluctantly went away. Her stay on the Riviera had not apparently done Cora much good. She was thinner than ever and her eyes had black lines under them: with her careless make-up they made those queer light irises larger than ever. She bent towards me in a marvellous French sports-suit of white and black, strained, exquisite, world-worn and tense, and the mirror showed me myself, ridiculously small and childish and tousle-headed in a frilly nightgown, looking like a fluffy duckling confronted by a strange, infuriated bird of paradise.
“Won’t you wait in the dressing-room till I’m up?” I suggested.
“Betty, I can’t wait! I’m in hell! I shall be until you promise to tell no one that you saw me at Warrielaw that day!”
“I can’t promise. John told me last night I’d have to say just what I’d seen on April 13th on my oath, when I give my statement to the police. Anyhow I’d have to tell the truth when I have to give it to the Procurator Fiscal.”
“But, Betty, not about me. Why should you? I thought Jessica was in London or I’d never have gone there. I’m still in a maze about this news. How did she ever get to Warrielaw if she was killed in London or at Carstairs? What does this man Stuart think about it all?”
“I haven’t heard,” I said stiffly. If Cora had come for information, she should not get it.
“Well, you know I’d nothing to do with it! How could I? You know it’s absurd, Betty!”
“I don’t suppose you murdered anyone,” I said, gasping at this extraordinary conversation. “But there were some queer things done at Warrielaw that day, Cora, you know. I mean, I can’t help guessing that you went to get something and you got it. You didn’t only go to get hold of Annie—I’m sure of that.”
Cora had been pale before: now all the skin round the rouge on her cheeks and lips went livid.
“All I wanted was my own,” she said after a long pause.
“But the jewel wasn’t yours,” I said straight out.
“The jewel? Oh, you mean the fairy jewel.” Cora’s voice expressed nothing but genuine, or wonderfully simulated, surprise. “Betty, that had nothing to do with it, nothing! Listen! I see I’d better take you into my confidence.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.
Cora leant forward and clutched my wrists so tightly and suddenly that I nearly screamed.
“I must,” she said, “to make you understand! And if this ever comes out, I warn you I’ll poison myself, so you can feel responsible for my death if you begin chattering. Listen! Probably you know that Neil and I always loved each other, long, long before I met Charles. We couldn’t afford to marry and I was desperately, degradingly poor and when Charles turned up and wanted me at any price, I took him. How could I help it? I wasn’t ever meant to be poor and I thought Charles and all he’d got would make me happy. Well it didn’t, and I went on seeing Neil, and, what was worse, writing to Neil, silly, idiotic letters. And Neil kept them. I used to implore him not to but, Betty, you’ve never seen the real Neil. Only I know that and know how passionate and faithful and romantic he can be.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed at this new interpretation of Jessica’s nephew.
“Of course you don’t know; you and ordinary Edinburgh people are taken in by his poses,” said Cora scornfully. “But I knew. Only, then, Betty, a strange thing happened. Neil went away a few months after I married. Jessica sent him to America—(that was the time she sold the Gainsborough)—and when he was gone I was miserable for a little and then … Then Charles was so good to me and he was there and I expect” (she laughed harshly) “that I’m just the type of kept woman who belongs to any man she’s with. Anyhow I got to love Charles and I was ill, and when I got better Neil had just faded out of my mind. When he came back after a year I saw he’d got over it too, or nearly got over it, for he’s never loved anyone else really. So we agreed just to be friends and I asked for my letters back, or rather, I think I told him to burn them. And then he had to confess that he’d lost them, that they’d gone! Jessica had been to his studio while he was away and got hold of them and ever since she’s been keeping them over my head like a sword. She’s never spoken of them to me because I haven’t seen her since that lawsuit about the will, but I’ve always known she had them and might ruin me at any time by showing them to Charles. I was frantic to get them. I’d tried twice already. Then I heard, this April, from Bridget, that Jessica was going away on that Friday and that Mary was lunching out. So I went down, knowing I could get round Effie. I found no one in the house at all, so I went up to Jessica’s desk and tried the drawers and there I found my packet. I stuffed them in—don’t you remember, Betty, how full my bag was?—and I came down and found you in my car. I was furious to think that anyone had seen me, but last night I realised that everyone would be asking questions about that day after that horrible business yesterday. I did trust you not to tell about my visit before—I’m sure you haven’t—but what you must see, Betty, is that it’s more important than ever to keep it all quiet now. If any of this gets out, people will begin to ask why I went down, and what papers I wanted, and Charles will hear about it all and find out the truth. And that’ll break his heart, Betty, for though I’ve teased him and worried him, he’s always trusted me, but he never would again, never any more!”
Cora paused, tired out and on the verge of hysterical tears. She let her head fall limply on to the pillow beside mine as I sat up straight, touched and horribly puzzled.
“I’ll have to say I saw you,” I got out at last. “I’m sorry, Cora, but I can’t leave that out.”
“Well, you can let them think I just drove up to call and went away when I found no one. That’s bad enough; it’ll make people talk, but that must be all!”
“I’ll have to say your car was there a little time,” I said. “Don’t you see, Cora, I’ll be examined on my oath? I can’t tell lies, or even suppress the truth, when they ask me. I can say you were never near the stables—I do know that. And I can say you told me you had been fetching something from Jessica’s room and leave the rest to you, but honestly—”
There I paused in sudden horror. Cora had lifted her head and her face was close to mine. Her eyes were strained and bloodshot, and in them was a glare which convinced me once and for all that any Warrielaw was capable, in an extremity, of any crime.
“You won’t, you little fool,” she muttered. “You won’t say anything of the sort. If you do—”
I cannot pretend to be proud of my own heroism as I met Cora’s glance. I leapt out of the other side of the bed and raced across the room and cannoned at the door into Dennis, who was bounding up the stairs.
“What is the matter?” he asked. “You look like an angry chicken. Hurry up and come down. John and Bob are waiting for us.”
I looked back into the room. Cora had strolled to the glass and was using her lipstick with trembling fingers.
“Just wait and see Mrs. Murray downstairs,” I said. “Cora, I must fly to my bath. I’m so sorry. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye and don’t forget!” said Cora in a low, dull voice.
The library looked extraordinarily safe, secure and legal when I ran downstairs. My mind was still preoccupied with Cora’s story and the question of my responsibility to her, and it was only as I looked at Dennis’s strained face that the full horror of the day before came back to me. John must have noticed the look I exchanged with my brother, for he rose from the big table where he and Bob were sitting before a pile of papers, and put his hand on my arm.
“Betty, we want you and Dennis to come and sit down here and go through all the details we can get together about this affair at Warrielaw. We’ve got to go back to that 13th of April again. The medical evidence refers us to that date approximately, and the clothes she wore, and their condition, make it clear that we must assume that it was the day on which she was murdered. I hate to ask you to dwell on all this, but it’s inevitable.”
“That’s so,” said Bob, “and let me tell you, Mrs. Morrison, there’s no better cure for the mind after a great shock than to make yourself turn your attention to details. The best way to put your imagination to sleep is to set your wits to work.”
I must confess at once that Bob proved to be right. In the detective stories I have read I used always to worry over the insensibility of the characters who discovered a murder. Everyone knows that the sight of death, apart from such horrors as those attending Miss Jessica’s murder, shakes the human mind to its foundation, yet no such tribute was paid by my favourite characters in fiction. But from that morning I understood that, for those who are directly or indirectly associated with a criminal investigation, another human instinct overrides the first passionate reactions of horror and pity more rapidly than one cares to confess. Almost every human being likes a puzzle. There are few people who can resist the pleasure of sorting out and reconstructing a baffling sequence of events any more than they can resist crossword puzzles to-day. Some details certainly escaped me, but my story made me forget my horror a little already. By the end of it Bob had made out a fairly coherent time-table of the day.
April 12th, 5.30 p.m. Effie and Annie left Warrielaw for Carglin.
