The Warrielaw Jewel, page 16
“Why do you ask, if you know?” Cora turned and flashed the question at him from her embroidered pillows. “Yes, I saw him pass the front lodge gates on my way to Warrielaw where my car was stuck, and I saw him again that evening on my way home, in George Street. Charles, send them away, please, Charles!”
And with that note of agony ringing in their ears the two men went away.
“And so you see the case for the prosecution is complete now,” said John bitterly. “The indictment will damn Neil completely. The case will come before the Sheriff Court almost immediately now, and I’ve got to go to Askew Firle with this story. It almost justifies him in refusing to undertake the defence. No one could get Neil off now.”
“Hmhm,” said Bob. It was the longest and loudest he had pronounced in my presence, and the prelude was justified by his next remark.
“It’s a queer thing, John, how you lawyers make your living. Here you are condemning Mr. Logan to the gallows when we’ve just got almost convincing proof of his innocence.”
“Proof?” said John sharply. “Of his innocence? What d’ye mean?”
“One point you noticed, I’m glad to see, is Mrs. Murray’s story that the handkerchief was dripping wet with rain when she put it into the bag. And it was dripping wet, too, Mrs. Murray said, when she picked it up from the bushes. I looked up the weather reports for April 13th when I first undertook the case, as you never can tell what won’t be useful. It rained heavily all the night of the 12th, leaving off at about 12 o’clock next forenoon. From that time onwards there was only that one sharp shower of rain which drove Mrs. Morrison from the stable to the lodge, and kept Mrs. Murray from exploring the garden. By her account that handkerchief was wet before ever the shower began.”
“You can’t trust anything she says,” objected John.
“Not if she’s any reason to lie. But have you any reason to suppose that she saw any importance in what she was saying?”
“Not in the least. I don’t see any myself.”
“Well I do,” burst out Dennis triumphantly. “You mean that the handkerchief couldn’t have got wet through if it had been thrown out of the window by Neil? Because all the time it was raining he was miles away at Harburn.”
“He might have tried to wash the stains off,” I suggested.
“In the kitchen?” asked Dennis. “And then brought it back to the library and put the handle in it, and thrown it out of the window? I used to think him a fool, but not such a fool as that.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said. “You say the handkerchief must have been there all night. But Jessica was alive and well next morning!”
“So the handkerchief’s no bearing on the case?” said John. “And Cora was simply deceived by the fact that it was lying near the handle? The two things aren’t connected with each other? Well, that might be so, but I don’t see how that clears Neil. It was his handkerchief after all!”
“It doesn’t incriminate him, anyhow,” said Bob, his brow wrinkled almost into a horseshoe. “A handkerchiefs a very easily movable article, either by accident or by someone who’s making a cross trail. There’s a lot in this I don’t understand. I’ve got to get hold of all this from the other end. No. I won’t talk it over any more, Mr. Howard. I want to keep a clear mind. But what is absolutely essential is this, John. I’ve got to get down to Warrielaw and hunt every corner again, including Miss Mary’s room. You’ve got to get her out of it and you’ve got to get me in. I must see that room and I must get into the library with Mrs. Morrison as well, in case any other memory comes back to her.”
“It’s all right about the room,” said John. “I rang up the doctor when you first suggested that, and found a controversy had been raging about it. The nurses wouldn’t let Effie give it a thorough clean, and Effie holds that dirt never did a body any good yet, ‘stroke or no stroke, and the room hasn’t been sorted properly since Miss Mary was ill’. Yesterday the tide was turned, because Miss Mary suddenly moved herself in bed and began to speak. The doctors are amazed, but Hewetson always said she was tough enough to make a sudden recovery and amaze them all. You shall get into the room in three or four days now, though I can’t imagine you’ll find anything of interest.”
“Not if it’s been thorough-cleaned first!” agreed Bob. “Make it clear to Effie that I can’t find any sign of the devil about after it’s been swept and garnished.”
CHAPTER XI
EFFIE TELLS HER STORY
It was from this moment that Bob Stuart began to work alone in the Warrielaw affair.
Up till now he had shared all his news with us, and until this moment the police had also been entirely in his confidence and handed on to him any information which might help him. Their case was complete now. They could prove motive, opportunity and Neil’s presence at the scene of the crime. And they could assume theft, for there, somewhere, in a dark safe in the keeping of His Majesty, lay the jewel brought to middle-earth five hundred years ago, from the palaces of fairyland, to be the ill-luck of the Warrielaws. Cora’s evidence was, in their opinion, and in John’s also, all that was needed to convict him. Askew Firle, however, accepted the case, and refused to share John’s depression. He reiterated to John the axiom that no jury will hang a man on circumstantial evidence unless it fits like a jig-saw puzzle. That much we knew, but naturally we were not allowed to know the result of his professional consultations with my husband. It was Bob’s suggestion, we were to learn afterwards, which found most favour in Mr. Firle’s sight. The evidence given to them by Cora, which seemed so fatal to Dennis, John and myself, suggested to him the line of defence. From the first he had wondered whether there were any possibilities of proving suicide or accident: the medical evidence depended on the reports of the police surgeon and specialist alone, supplemented by the photographs taken of the corpse. It had seemed incredible that any woman should stab herself to death, even if the blows on the skull had been caused, as was arguable, by a sudden fall. But the discovery of the handle of the embroidery instrument threw a new light on the case. It was apparently the habit of both sisters to pick up their needlework at any moment and work at it standing. Would it not be possible for any woman, and especially an elderly woman, to stumble forwards at a sudden fright, fall upon the point of the instrument she held and, as she fell, knock her head violently upon the fender? As Jessica’s head banged upon the fender, her heavy body would strike the ground with such force that the instrument would be driven right home to her heart.
Two doctors were willing to admit the possibility of such an accident, and from this Mr. Firle reconstructed his story. Neil, he would explain, in terms calculated to throw suspicion on all other members of the family, was the only human being trusted by his aunt. She had herself concealed the jewel in his studio, meaning to tell him of her deed when he met her at Carstairs, and to instruct him how to dispose of it. Proofs of her eccentricity were not wanting, nor of her suspicions of her relations. When Jessica failed to find her nephew at Carstairs, she left the train, unnoticed in the holiday crowd, caught the 11.33 to Edinburgh and then took a tram and walked home. She could easily have reached Warrielaw by two o’clock, and from that moment onwards she was alone and unprotected in that vast, solitary house, the prey of any passing tramp or bad character. Witnesses might be called, including Rhoda herself, to show that some such were always in the neighbourhood, though after the lapse of so many weeks the police could find no reliable evidence. As Jessica stood alone at her work in the library she either saw or heard something which alarmed her. She stumbled as she moved hastily (and all of us who knew the library could bear witness that it was easier to stumble over the superabundant furniture than not). At this point Mr. Firle would reconstruct the manner of the fall, and make some scathing remarks on the blindness and haste of the prosecution in making the arrest and bringing the case forward so prematurely. They had assumed murder where no murder could be proved, in his contention. Supposing, therefore, that his theory was correct, Mr. Firle would ask the jury to consider the position of the hypothetical tramp who looked into the library just before or just after the fatal fall. He might have been seen in the vicinity: he would be identified at once if the body were discovered that day. He had done his best, it would appear, to extract the weapon and staunch the wound. The handle had broken in his hand; the lady was obviously past hope. His one idea would be to conceal her till any memory of his own appearance in the neighbourhood of the place had died away. It was absurd to say that the reputation of Warrielaw and the talk about the owners was only known in a small area: for years their odd ways had been the gossip of the countryside. He could surmise from their appearance alone that the stables were an ideal hiding-place, and thither he had conveyed the corpse. How could he, however, under the circumstances, be expected to come forward and clear the accused? It would be only too obvious to him that his own neck would be in danger. No chivalry could be expected from a tramp, but Neil’s chivalry, the chivalry of an ancient family well known in Scottish history, was to be displayed by the great advocate in an heroic light. To Mr. Firle, Cora’s statement was a godsend. He would make the most of the fact that Neil had seen Cora Murray’s car at the gates, that he had suspected her of the theft of the jewel, which was now, all unknown, in his own possession, in the studio where Jessica had left it hidden. For Cora’s sake, rightly or wrongly, Neil had kept silence. He was absent when the body of the deceased was discovered: he was unjustly and over-hastily accused of the crime with no certain knowledge of his cousin’s position in regard to it. She, on her side, was driven to silence by the memory of seeing his car on that April day. There had been no collusion between them. One word between them, indeed, would have sufficed to enable either of them to clear the other. But circumstances had forbidden it, and Neil was standing on his trial to save his cousin’s fair name.
Such was Mr. Firle’s case. He accepted Bob’s argument about the condition of the handkerchief, but he had no wish to bring it forward till it was forced upon him. The initials on the handkerchief would prejudice the jury against Neil so strongly that he would leave it to the Crown to mention the subject, in the hope that it might not assume much prominence. Dennis and I found the defence unconvincing, and we were not in the least cheered a few days later by the news that Mary would be moved into another room at Warrielaw that afternoon and that Bob could prosecute his search. I was only more depressed than ever when John told me that Mary had expressed a wish to see me and thank me for all my kind attentions. She was physically so much better, though mentally still so inert, that the doctors approved of her wish to see a new face. But I had no wish to go to the hateful house, and I accepted Bob’s invitation to go down in his cab rather gloomily. It was from breakfast that I was called to this message on the telephone, and it did not cheer me any more to find Dennis in the hall preparing to fetch his car and go down to persuade Alison to go out with him for the day. I should have been glad to go with them, away from Edinburgh and its busy tongues, away from Midlothian, or indeed Scotland, altogether, but I had to refuse. I must spend the afternoon at Warrielaw and devote the morning to all those household and social duties which continue uninterruptedly even when the life and death of another is at stake.
So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the drawing-room when, to my speechless surprise, Christina opened the door and announced:
“Miss Rhoda Macpherson.”
I had hardly seen Rhoda since our visit to her flat; nor had John heard more of her since, on the following day, he had assured her with great severity that she could trust her own legal advisers to protect her interests when the estate was divided at Miss Mary’s death. When Rhoda had gone on to enquire about the fate of Jessica’s legacy to Neil, he had snubbed her so severely that even she had gone away subdued. Dennis had reported, after his recent visits to Alison, that Rhoda’s temper was worse than ever, and she would hardly speak to Alison for days on end. It was the one object of Nurse and Effie to keep her away from Mary at Warrielaw. Although it was her own fault, she struck me suddenly as rather a tragic and lonely person, as she walked into the room, trim and erect as ever.
“Please excuse me,” she said abruptly, sitting very upright on a hard chair and placing her bag beside her. “I came to you because I really must know what is happening.”
There was no answer to that question, I felt, but John’s answer of silence.
“You won’t tell me anything. But I must know, and even Dennis tells Alison nothing. We’re Neil’s cousins after all.”
“Why not go to the lawyers?” I asked bluntly.
“Surely they’ll find that some maniac did it?” she said, ignoring me. “In any case, John doesn’t think there’s evidence enough against Neil for a capital sentence, does he? Doesn’t he think that the verdict will be Not Proven?”
“We don’t have that in England,” I said vaguely. “Rhoda, I had no idea you were so fond of Neil.”
“I’m not,” said Rhoda, her voice growing cold and hard. “He and Cora have always had everything they wanted all their lives and made a mess of everything. I’m not fond of them or even very sorry for them. I grow so intolerant of all the silly sympathy of the world for useless people. I’m not very sorry for anyone in this business. I don’t walk about hoping Aunt Mary will get better. Why should I? Her death would clear up ever so many complications and we should all know where we were.”
“And if Cora dies too and Neil is hanged,” I said rather brutally, “you and Alison would inherit Warrielaw, I suppose, and know just where you were?”
“I don’t want it,” said Rhoda decidedly. “I only want money enough to get away from this dreary old place and our old family, and sick people and old people and half-witted people, to somewhere new and efficient and progressive—like America. I suppose you’re sorry for that wretched Annie? I went to see her sister the other day, and Annie was so offensive and violent that I suggested she should be investigated and sent off to an asylum. But of course Mrs. Hay was scandalised, and so are you! It seems to me there are hardly any people who can see things clearly and sensibly without wrapping them up in a veil of sentiment!”
“When do you mean to go to America?” I asked. I felt at the moment that Scotland could well spare Rhoda to the New World.
“I can’t go till Aunt Mary dies and the estate is divided,” said Rhoda impatiently. “I wanted to get away before this dreadful trial, but she seems to be getting better.”
“I don’t think,” I said, outraged, looking straight into Rhoda’s eyes, “that I ever met anyone as heartless as you in my life.”
“Oh no, I’m not,” said Rhoda, her eyes softening. “I love Alison in a way you’ll never love anyone all your life. I love her enough to want her to have her own life without me. It’s because of her that I’m so worried about Neil really. If he’s hanged it will brand Alison for life. You wouldn’t like your brother to marry the cousin of a murderer, I suppose?”
There and then I saw for life the horrible dangers of boy-and-girl friendships. Rhoda’s question was absurd, of course. Dennis was only nineteen and Alison a year younger: their marriage was out of the question for years to come. And yet, of course, there they were, as devoted, as exclusive a couple as you could imagine. If they were four or five years older, the whole Edinburgh world would have been standing round expecting the news of their engagement every day. Had not Rhoda some right, in spite of their youth, to assume that a friendship like theirs was likely to lead to something more?
“But they’re mere children!” I answered Rhoda with as good an imitation of my mother’s manner as I could achieve.
“Dennis has some money, I imagine? Boy-and-girl marriages are almost as common as boy-and-girl friendships nowadays.”
“But he’s going to Oxford next autumn. It will be years before he can dream of marriage!”
“I don’t object to long engagements,” said Rhoda. “I think a long attachment helps to keep a boy straight.”
“Still, if you take Alison away to America, I imagine—”
“I shan’t take her to America. I want her to live her own life, not cling on to mine. I shall leave her behind with someone, some friends, I suppose. Don’t be prejudiced against her, Betty! She’s not in the least like me in any way!”
It was the first time Rhoda had used my name and in her voice I caught, for once, something of her family’s charm. But the cold cruelty of her attitude to life sickened me and made the prospect of my visit to Warrielaw, that home of hate, even more distasteful than usual. To be free from this entanglement of horror seemed far more desirable than the discovery of any clue when Bob came for me after lunch. I hated the whole affair, I hated the drive down and I hated the place. It seemed to me as if the dull grey clouds which hung over Warrielaw that afternoon had spread themselves all over my early married happiness, as if that gaunt Palladian front were a barrier shutting me away from the outer world. Nor did I hope for one minute that Bob’s visit to the house would do any more good than my visit to Mary. Death and decay seemed in the air we breathed as we drove past the nettles in the drive to the weary old house. Jessica lay dead, Neil was awaiting death. A doom lay upon the place and I could do nothing to avert it or escape from it into my old life.
“Even the workmen seem to have deserted the house now,” I said drearily to Bob. For the first time for the last few weeks no ladders were in evidence, and no men were working on the roof or at the windows of Warrielaw.
“Your husband told me that the noise disturbed Miss Mary,” said Bob, “and the agents have ordered all the men round to work in the stable-yard. They’re carrying the drainage system from the house to the stable lodge and on to the back gate, and a fine mess they’re making of it.”
The doom lay upon Miss Mary, too, as I left Bob with Effie and was led into a bedroom beside the top of the big staircase, some three doors from Mary’s room. The nurses had wheeled her on a small bed to the window, they had cleaned and polished, but made no efforts to brighten the room. Like Jessica’s it was furnished with heavy Victorian furniture, uncared for and marked with the damp of winter rain and frost. Gloomy prints hung round the walls and the long mirrors were tarnished and spotted. The chintz curtains and bed-hangings of dingy green were frayed and tattered, and the fire was smoky. Miss Mary lay in the midst of this desolation, as worn and battered and bereft as her home. She was propped up on her pillows, and the sunlight reflected from the trees outside shone on her white tired face and yellow-grey hair, and on her freckles round the little mole on her sunken forehead. She greeted me pleasantly enough, but her eyes were wandering, her mind preoccupied.
