The Warrielaw Jewel, page 15
“She and Jock have never done any harm to anyone,” she said passionately, holding open the cottage door to let me through.
I heard Bob reassuring her on the threshold as I went inside. The low room was untidy and crowded enough, but the window was open and every corner was filled with glass jars full of kingcups and cuckoo-pint. Annie knelt by a wooden cradle on the floor, and for a moment, as she gazed absorbed at the baby, I saw in her eyes a devotion as unexpected, and as oddly contrasted with her clumsy personality, as were the wild flowers with the confusion of the cottage. Then she saw me and her face changed altogether. It was not to-day disfigured with tears or grease, and yet I recognised at once that Annie herself had changed for the worse. In February she had resembled a miserable overgrown child: beneath her misery one could discern, however, a simple, willing nature, capable of hard work and tolerable cheerfulness under proper control. We had not in those days taken the problem of such characters into proper consideration, yet it did cross my mind that her bewildering experiences at Warrielaw, and at the Murrays’, might have had a bad influence in Annie’s life. Her face was set in a sulky frown, her eyes lowered, and her voice was loud and defiant as she rose and said to me:
“If it’s about me and my cousin Jock you’ve come, we’ve done no harm to nobody.”
“Whist Annie!” Mrs. Hay came to her sister’s side swiftly. “It’s about Mrs. Murray and her putting you away like that the lady and gentleman have come!”
A look of such obvious relief crossed Annie’s face that Bob glanced at her meditatively.
“No,” he said, repeating the phrase both women had used, “I haven’t come about you and your cousin Jock.”
“Jock’s a real good boy,” said Mrs. Hay nervously. She glanced at us in turn as if to discover whether Annie had protested unwisely. “He’s been at work on the railway two years now, and he’s my own husband’s brother. The station-master will answer for him any day, Sir. What was it you wished to ask about Mrs. Murray? Annie was treated very badly there, Sir, very badly indeed. Tell the gentleman about it, Annie.”
But Annie grew red and turned to the window stubbornly, and Mrs. Hay told the story in her pleasant, monotonous voice.
She had been against Annie’s taking Mrs. Murray’s situation from the first, for she’d been in service herself, and who ever heard of a lady motoring up like that in the gloaming and carrying a girl off without a reference and driving her into Edinburgh at such a rate that Annie was terrified, or engaging her for just a week, and then promising her a month’s holiday on board wages? Once Mrs. Murray swerved so violently at the sight of a car that she ran right on to the pavement and, altogether, Annie was so upset that when she got to that grand house and the smart Englishfied servants she was terribly put about. The head housemaid set on her at once, and told her to go up and sort Mrs. Murray’s room before she dressed for dinner. Annie was but just setting a match to the fire when Mrs. Murray came in, and stormed at her because it wasn’t burning properly. When Annie came up again, after Mrs. Murray was down the stairs to dinner, she found it near out with a pile of papers Mrs. Murray had been burning on it. And on the top of the smoking coals was a wee red bag, blackened and spoilt, but a pretty thing still. And in the waste-paper basket was a little red hat, all crushed up to be thrown away. Annie took the two of them and why not? Who ever heard of a lady wanting her things again when she’d thrown them away or behind the fire? Annie just put them by in her drawer because the poor fushionless lassie aye liked a bit of gay colour. They were no good to her, for the hat was too small, and the bag was locked and the wee key missing, and Annie wouldn’t tear it open for fear of hurting it.
It was hard not to betray my interest in this story too clearly, but Bob’s face was as impassive as ever.
“We might have had a look at that bag,” he suggested.
“But it’s no here,” said Mrs. Hay. “I’ve never even set eyes on it. Annie didna bring it back when she came home a week later on board wages, the house being shut and Mr. Murray at his father’s. She just left it there with her uniform until she went back there at the end of May. She’d been boasting about it, though, and I told her to cut a slit in the wee hat and wear it, and dangle the bag on her arm for show, even if she couldna open it or use it. Well, back she went, and then Mrs. Murray came home, and the very day after that was poor Annie’s night out. She’d dressed herself up in the red hat and was carrying the red bag when she went downstairs at five o’clock. And on the staircase Mrs. Murray met her, and gave her an awful look, and miscalled her and said she was a thief. She dragged the hat off Annie’s head, and she dragged the bag from her hands, and called the butler to pay Annie her wages and board wages and put her out of the house. Annie wouldn’t even have had a hat if the housemaid hadn’t handed her an old straw sailor hat at the area door! They sent on her clothes the next day, but either Mrs. Murray or the maids had kept the hat and bag, for they weren’t in her box. And that’s the simple truth, Sir,” concluded Mrs. Hay dramatically.
“Why didn’t you search the house?” I asked breathlessly, as, after a little inconclusive chat, Bob said good-bye and returned to the car.
“I’d have to get a warrant for that. I’ll do so if there’s no news of the bag at Moray Place, of course. But I’m inclined to say that they were telling the simple truth.”
“Do you think so? I was sure they had something to hide! Didn’t you see how relieved they both were when they found we had come about Mrs. Murray, and not about something in which her cousin Jock was concerned?”
“Yes, I noticed that,” said Bob. “I’m going to ask Mr. Dennis to stop at the station, and have a word with the station-master about this boy’s character and what he was doing in April. But that had nothing to do with the story of Mrs. Murray and the bag. They were unreserved enough about that. Besides, look at Mrs. Murray’s behaviour! Their story of that tallied in every detail with Mr. Murray’s about the way Annie was dismissed. It’s not likely since Mrs. Murray attached such importance to the bag that she’d let Annie go off with it. She wasn’t too violent to lose her senses then. She got Annie paid off and saw her out, and she would have seen she got hold of the bag herself. Wait here for me, will you?”
Bob disappeared into the station, and emerged some minutes later with the stout, superior station-master. A dark boy in porter’s uniform followed them out of the office, and Dennis and I were agreeing wisely that, though he looked pleasant enough, he had shifty eyes, when Bob climbed into the seat.
But Bob was not interested in eyes. The station-master had given Jock an excellent character, and proved beyond a doubt, with the corroboration of the signalman, that Jock had been about the station all day on the 13th of April. It was impossible to connect him with the murder at Warrielaw. He and Annie had excellent and independent alibis.
“I’m thinking it was that affair in February which was worrying them,” said Bob. “In any case, we’ll leave them alone till we’ve found out what we can about the bag from Mrs. Murray.”
If Dennis and I felt impatient, and indulged in gloomy anticipations that Jock and Annie would be occupied that evening in destroying the last traces of the scarlet bag, we had to admit we were wrong. Bob got out at Moray Place to interview the butler and rejoined us almost at once.
“The man remembers the incident perfectly,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Murray took the bag from the girl and was clutching it when she walked upstairs. I’m going to wait here till Mr. Murray gets in and see if he can get hold of it quickly and will bring it round. Would you mind ringing up your husband, Mrs. Morrison, and asking him to get home as soon as he can.”
Dennis had intended to run down and see Alison, but it was out of the question now. Like myself he could only sit in the library, waiting while the clock ticked loudly and slowly. It was a relief to hear John’s latch-key, and to tell him the events of the day, but it was impossible for any of us to look forward to the next development in the case. If the contents of the bag threw any light on the problem, it was hard to see how they could exonerate Neil without incriminating Cora, and to all of us was present the haunting fear that the proof which was to confront us, if there were any, would bring two Warrielaws as accessories in crime to their trial.
And then at last the door-bell rang, and Charles Murray and Bob were shown into the library. As we all rose to greet them our eyes were all fixed upon a little parcel in Bob’s hands.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming,” said Charles heavily. “I must know the worst before this gets into the hands of the police.”
“It must do that, I fear,” said John, glancing at Bob.
“That’s unavoidable.” Bob stood at the table unwrapping the parcel slowly. “Whether it tells against our client or against Mrs. Murray, we can’t keep this dark. Apart from anything else, Mrs. Murray’s servants would be talking.”
There was something at once trivial and terrible about the little bag as it lay on the table. It had been so gay and useless and pretty when Cora swung it lightly on her wrist in shops and drawing-rooms. It was so blackened and spoilt now; the edges were torn and scratched and there were queer little dents upon it everywhere.
“Her maid tells me that she found it by my wife’s bed on the night she was taken ill,” said Charles tonelessly. “It looks as if she or Annie had done their best to tear it open and it’s strange that they failed. I suppose we can do it now?”
“We shouldn’t,” said John. “After all, the police …”
“I’ve got some little keys of that kind,” I said, moving to my desk. “I’d so many bags of that sort for wedding-presents and I put the keys away on a ring.”
“If only Cora had been so business-like,” groaned Charles suddenly. He sat down heavily and shaded his face in his hands.
The lock turned easily enough, and we all stood staring in silence as Bob extracted the contents. Out of the inmost pocket he drew a bit of singed linen. It was wrapped round something and Bob unrolled it with meticulous care. Before us lay a little narrow handle of ivory, some six inches long. At one end it was rounded neatly: at the other was a broken, jagged steel edge.
“So that’s the handle of the weapon,” said Bob thoughtfully.
“Whatever is it?” asked John.
“It’s a handle from a work-case,” I said. “It’s one of those little instruments you use to pierce holes in the material for broderie anglaise. But is that …?”
“Yes, that’s what did the murder right enough,” said Bob.
“Cora never did any embroidery in her life,” said Charles Murray suddenly, after a long pause.
“They did—both the Miss Warrielaws did,” I volunteered.
“Yes. Clearly the weapon was snatched up from a basket or bag in the room,” said Bob absently. He had taken up the little piece of singed wrapping now and was straightening it out with careful fingers. And as he did so we all saw that the crumpled linen had a hemstitched edging and in the corner were embroidered initials. It was as though all the horror of the last few weeks culminated in that one moment when we made out the twisted monogram of N.L.
Charles was the first to speak. In his voice was nothing but almost unbearable relief.
“So that was it,” he said. “She was trying to save him. As you say, Stuart, certainly this must go to the police.”
“It must, I agree,” said Bob, with, as I thought, a strange absent-mindedness in his voice. “But I’m afraid it means that Mrs. Murray will have to face an interview with the Fiscal as soon as possible. It clears her in a sense of course, but it’s possible that, as things stand, she might be arrested as accessory to the crime.”
Charles’ face, beneath the low light, grew strange and stricken. He seemed to struggle for speech in vain and looked hopelessly at John. But John had little comfort to give him.
“She’s better, isn’t she, Charles?” he said insistently. “You told me that there really is a marked improvement. I should go to consult Lisle at once, and see if he can manage to consent to her making a statement. It seems to me it’s the only chance of saving an arrest. We can hold this up to-night, can’t we, Bob? Official hours are over at the Courts, and I think we’re justified in leaving it till to-morrow morning. I’ll go to see the authorities myself and make it all as easy for you and her as I possibly can.”
There are certain undoubted advantages in living in a small and friendly city. Charles, John, the Procurator Fiscal and Mr. Lisle had known each other all their lives, and were each of them willing to be of as much assistance to the other as their duty to their offices allowed. Dennis and I left the house next morning before any definite arrangements were made. We had promised to take Alison down to North Berwick for the day, and though I was too wretched and unsettled to wish to make the expedition, anything was better than to sit at home and think of Charles and Neil and Cora, and wait interminably for news. When we returned that evening, after dropping Alison at her flat, the interview with Cora was over, and Bob and John were sitting together in the library over a pile of notes. They had been putting together the points which would appear in the indictment against Neil in the Sheriff Court, and they were glad, I think, to leave that most depressing task and tell us their story.
It was one to which we could only listen in horror. Bob sat silent, lost in his meditations, but each word John spoke seemed to incriminate Neil beyond hope of redemption.
John and the Procurator Fiscal, to whom Cora was to tell her story, were led up to her room, and there Charles stood on one side of her, and the nurse and doctor on the other. Cora was lying, propped up by the pillows, on the great gilded Florentine bed. She was utterly worn and emaciated and her face was dead white, but the nurse evidently by her orders, had put a gash of red lipstick across her lips and a bright red shawl round her shoulders; on her bedside table was a bowl of red Canna lilies, as if even now she insisted on a last gesture of coquetry to her visitors; but her voice was strained and harsh, and her eyes wandering. All this John saw as Charles introduced the Fiscal. He had naturally to wait outside for his interview and the questions for the defence he had to raise.
Cora was composed enough. She promised indifferently to tell the truth, and the doctor urged them to let her talk without interruptions. She had, she said, gone to Warrielaw on April 13th because she had heard, through Effie, that the house would be empty, and she hoped, she admitted openly, that she might find and take possession of the fairy jewel. She motored down, being delayed at the lodge gates by some trouble with the handle of her car, after stopping the engine by accident, near the lodge. She was in a hurry, therefore, on her arrival and she went straight to the library, where she hoped to find a few old family papers which Jessica had refused to give to her, though she considered she had a right to them. (Charles repeated this later to my husband with no trace of suspicion.) It was just beginning to rain so she went to close the window. Her eye was caught by something white under a rhododendron bush opposite the windows. She picked it up and found it was a handkerchief wrapped round the little ivory handle. Both were stained with blood.
“I can’t bear to touch blood,” she went on, her face livid but for that scarlet gash across her lips. “Charles knows I never can. So I stuffed them into my bag, though the handkerchief was dripping wet with rain. I was so terrified that I nearly ran out to the car, but by that time the rain had really begun. I got frantic, I think. I thought there must be some dreadful thing somewhere in the house, and I ran all over the place, hunting and crying. And then in Jessica’s room I thought of the—the papers, and I found them, in an old despatch-box. I stuffed them into my bag too and ran down and found Mrs. Morrison in my car. I suppose she told you I seemed rather queer. All I wanted to do was to get home and burn everything. But I made up that story about Annie on the spur of the moment as a blind to Betty, and then, as I drove away, I began to think sensibly again—I’d only been in a panic till then—and I saw that I might find out from that stupid girl something about what happened at Warrielaw—and it was quite true, too, that I was shorthanded and had meant to ring up a registry. So I went to Carglin and got Annie, and I suppose she told you the rest. I mean that she hadn’t lit my fire properly. Charles tells me that was how you found out about the bag. (No, Nurse, I don’t want that medicine. I feel perfectly all right. I’m not tired.) Well, the flames were burning brightly enough to catch the —the papers as I stuffed them into the fire. I suppose I locked the bag before I threw it in after them, just because I had been feeling all day that it was so important to keep it locked. I don’t know what I did with the key, because when I came up again after dinner the fire was burning beautifully and I thought the bag and everything in it was destroyed for ever.”
The Fiscal left and John was admitted. He was warned to be as brief as he could. “On June 1st, you got back and found Annie with the bag?” he asked.
“Yes, you know about that! I needn’t tell you, need I? I took it from her and tore at it and bit at it to get it open, and then I suppose I dropped it when I fainted, and my maid found it and put it away. I know you’ve got it now.”
“There’s just one question I must ask you!” John had received such urgent instructions from Bob to question Cora about one point in my story, and one point in Annie’s, that not even that desperate cry could harden him. “We have reason to think you saw Neil’s car that afternoon and again that evening. Was that the case?”
