The Warrielaw Jewel, page 17
“Did you bring anyone with you?” she asked.
“Just a friend of John’s,” I replied evasively. No one knew, so far, how much Mary remembered, or realised, of her sister’s tragedy, and I had been warned not to refer to it.
“Did she come upstairs?” asked Mary suspiciously.
“I’ll go and see,” I answered with some embarrassment.
“You’re sure it wasn’t my niece, Rhoda?”
“No, indeed not,” I replied.
“Don’t think me very tiresome, my dear, but would you just go and make sure? I don’t want Rhoda: she worries me and she will try to come. Just wait outside till you are sure she is nowhere about.”
“I will,” I said. “You’re not really well enough for visitors, Miss Mary, are you?”
“Perhaps not, my dear, but I shall be soon. But if you don’t mind we’ll say good-bye now. Only don’t go till you’ve made sure Rhoda is out of the way.”
I was glad to escape from the dismal scene, and I tiptoed anxiously to Mary’s former room. Bob must be warned not to let Mary hear any sound from him or have any reason to guess he was upstairs. I hoped his task was nearly over, but I had not reckoned with Effie. The strain of the last few weeks had told on the poor old woman, and Bob had been constrained to listen to her confused complaints over the mess in the stable-yard, “and indeed a body’s no safe going to look for an egg with all the holes they’ve dug and the walls they’ve pulled down,” with a dirge over the tragedy of her beloved and ill-fated family. After distrusting and snubbing every policeman or official who came near the place for weeks, she had realised apparently that Bob was responsible for Neil’s defence, and was pouring out her heart to him. “As if that lad would ever take and kill his auntie,” she was saying tearfully as I entered the doors.
The desolation of Miss Mary’s bedroom struck me even more painfully than that of her sister’s. Not only was it dingy and sad and filled with the appliances of a sick-room. The bed lay vacant and unmade as if a coffin had been carried from it, and from the mantelpiece an old enlarged photograph of the five Warrielaw sisters with tightly curled fringes and staring eyes looked down, as if in triumph that yet another of the group had rejoined them. But Bob was occupied in no such morbid thoughts. As Effie talked on ceaselessly he was hunting through drawers and wardrobes with method and precision.
“That’s the costume she was wearing that day,” the old woman volunteered, “and that’s her bag and gloves and veil. Miss Rhoda was at her bag, and hunting through it before her aunt came to her senses again, but I made sure she’d got her hands on nothing in it, and she never laid hands on these either.”
“Did she have a try?” asked Bob, shaking out the skirt and feeling at the pockets carefully.
“Aye, and that she did. She was at us again and again, but I wasna having any of it. I thought it might be yon jewel she was after, but, there, it wasna there!”
Effie sighed heavily at her memories and then looked with surprise at Bob. He was searching in the sleeves of the blouse and produced a handkerchief.
“And how did you know”, I said, voicing her thoughts, “that women keep their handkerchiefs stuffed into their sleeves sometimes?”
“It’s common to both sexes after all,” smiled Bob. “My sister’s always losing handkerchiefs—”
His voice died away: his eyes had become narrow and bright. One corner of the handkerchief was knotted, and as he untied it, there was a slight rustle of paper. I ran to his side, my heart beating high, though what I expected it would have been hard to tell. Bob’s face expressed no sort of emotion as he smoothed out the thin slip, and I stared at the talisman to find it nothing but a cloakroom ticket. My mind flew to the suit-case, but no, the suit-case had been found in London, and Jessica had never reached London.
“It’s nothing of any importance probably,” said Bob. “It’s only a cloakroom ticket. Or part of a ticket I should say, for the top’s torn off and therefore it’s impossible to tell the place which issued it or the date. It’s not likely to be of any use to us though. It’s a North British ticket, not a Caledonian.”
“Shall I go and ask Miss Mary if she remembers anything about it?” I asked, but Bob frowned at me.
“No need to worry her. This had better not go beyond the three of us, by the way. You’ll remember, Effie?”
“Why would I be chattering about yon?” asked Effie contemptuously. “It’ll likely be some parcel of plants from a nursery-man or such that Miss Mary was to call for on her way home that day, and she just took and forgot.”
“There’s just one other thing,” said Bob. “Mrs. Morrison, now we’re standing here, I wonder if you can reconstruct the scene a little. You were here with Miss Mary, and Miss Macpherson came back saying the jewel was gone. Had she got any keys in her hand?”
“Oh dear!” I said helplessly. “I don’t remember. She’d gone to look for brandy, she said, and when she came back she hadn’t the brandy, but she had the empty case in one hand and—yes—let me think—something was hanging down from her hands too. Yes, it was a bit of black ribbon with some keys on it—I’m nearly sure it was.”
“It would be that,” said Effie. “Miss Jessica had the key of the medicine cupboard, the key of the safe in the pantry and the key of the wee safe in her room where yon jewel was, on a bit of ribbon.”
“Then I presume she always wore them?” asked Bob.
“Yes, I’ve hardly ever seen them off her. She’d just tuck them into her blouse when she was out working in the garden.”
“And yet she left them behind in her room when she went to London,” said Bob slowly. “They must have been lying loose, too, on the dressing-table or table where Miss Macpherson would catch sight of them at once. Doesn’t that surprise you, Effie?”
Effie stared at him, her mouth wide open.
“Aye, that’s a gey queer thing,” she said. “I’ve never known Miss Jessica forget to put them on before. She must have been that flurried getting off that morning and I not there to help her. She was in a hurry or one of them was, I know that, for there was but two cups and dishes for two used in the kitchen where I’d left their breakfast laid out.”
“Or she might have left them,” I said impulsively, “if they weren’t important any more, if she really had given the jewel to Neil the day before!”
“What was that, Ma’am?” Effie, as usual, had failed to understand my English accent and Bob was frowning at me. I turned hastily to a chair and pointed to an object which had attracted my notice.
“So Miss Mary did finish her bedspread?”
“Aye, she did, just the night before she was taken ill, and I had it washed for her but she’s never seemed to care to have it out yet, so I just put it away and thought I’d try it again now to see if it pleased her.”
Effie led the way down to the library at Bob’s request, and as she did so another memory stirred in my mind.
“Did Miss Jessica finish hers?” I asked breathlessly.
“No? Mr. Stuart, I believe we have got hold of something important to-day. Look!”
I dragged open the wide drawer at the bottom of Jessica’s work-table. There lay three or four handkerchiefs embroidered with the initials N.L. and another little pile with the initials stencilled but unstitched. Bob’s eyes narrowed as he took them and counted them.
“Eleven!” he said. “So the other makes the dozen. That’ll be a fine point for Mr. Firle to surprise the Crown with. The handkerchiefs were just lying here for anyone in the world to pick up! The one found with the handle had no connection necessarily with Mr. Logan. That’s what reconstructing the scene does for the memory, Mrs. Morrison!”
Bob’s commendation urged me to further efforts.
“There’s her bedcover,” I said, pulling it out of the drawer. It was nearly finished, too, and a needle and thread still hung from one of the holes. Bob was examining the work-tables thoughtfully.
“Did the ladies borrow each other’s needles or scissors and such-like?” he asked Effie.
“There was trouble if they did,” said Effie emphatically. “Even whiles they’d walk about the room embroidering neither would ever venture to pick up as much as a needle of the other’s.”
I saw the point of his question. Miss Jessica’s little embroidery stiletto with its mother-of-pearl handle still lay in its drawer. I preferred not to think of Mary’s, but clearly this piece of information made Mr. Firle’s reconstruction of the scene unlikely.
“There’s points we needn’t trouble Mr. Firle with,” said Bob with meaning. “Well, well, there’s a lot there I don’t quite understand, and the less said about to-day the better.”
Effie detained me at the door with a worried face.
“There’s something troubling me sorely, Ma’am, and I’ll make bold to ask you if you’ll say a word to Mr. John. Miss Rhoda’s been making trouble again. She’s been through to Carglin and she took upon herself to say that my poor wee Annie should be put away to an asylum. Ellen stood up to her and said it was no business of hers, but Annie took such a fright that she’s made off. She’s away with the tinkers, Ellen says, and she doesn’t know how she’ll get her back.”
“But she’s got to appear as a witness at the trial, surely?” I appealed to Bob, who was listening to us.
“Ellen understood that,” said Effie. “She doesn’t doubt that Annie will come home if she’s ordered to by the Law, for she’s a fair horror of going against the police. Will they send a note to the girl soon, Ma’am?”
Bob reassured Effie on the point, but his eyes were more absent than ever as we drove home.
“We’ll have to trace her down, and see that she’s back in time, yes!” he said in answer to my questions. “But why does Miss Macpherson want her out of the way, and is there anything else Annie is afraid of? There are several things yet I don’t understand.”
He said no more till we reached Moray Place, and there all the events of the afternoon were driven out of my mind for the moment by John’s news. The Criminal Courts had a light calendar at this time and Neil’s case was to be taken on July 15th.
CHAPTER XII
THE KNIFE IN THE CHURCHYARD
There were to be for me, as for all my generation in days to come, months and weeks and even hours that were to drag interminably into preposterous lengths. And yet I think that never in the Great War did I realise the meaning of that phrase as clearly as in the week before the trial. For after all, in the War, those who were temporarily widowed fell to working violently. My children were small then, but I left them to my nurse when John was in France, and worked daily at a hospital where time sped by because one was busy, and the nights were short because sleep was so precious. But there was nothing to do in the weeks before the Warrielaw trial. I could go nowhere and see no one lest I should be tempted to indiscretion. Alison spent most of her time with us, so crushed and pitiful that it seemed heartless even to take refuge in a book, and when she was not there, Dennis poured out to me all his boyish misery because she was so wrapped up in Neil that he would never have a chance. It was useless in that crisis to demand what chance he would ever have: the last few weeks had aged Dennis, and his chivalrous pity and care for Alison were those of a man rather than a boy. John was very busy at the office and we hardly saw Bob Stuart. He was often at Warrielaw: he and Dennis took long drives, in vain, in search of the other half of the cloakroom ticket found in Mary’s room. He had some occupation in keeping track of the movements of the tinkers whom Annie had joined. No class of the community has changed its habits more completely than these casual wanderers since the Great War, and in those days, when communications with the Highlands depended only on rail or boat, it would have been easy for Annie to evade justice for a fortnight or more if the caravans made for the wilder parts of the north-west coast. But news came of her regularly enough from the south-west borders. There were no signs that she was trying to evade the ordeal of the witness-box. Later on Bob owned to us that he would have been almost glad if she had tried to disappear. Then his vague suspicions that some mystery about her was escaping him would have crystallised, and at least he could have gone South to seek her out. As it was, his task grew daily more disheartening. No new facts transpired about that day three months ago, and where memory failed the people whom he questioned, in the environments of Warrielaw, imagination was called in to supply the deficiency. He achieved an interview with Miss Mary and the poor lady assured him that, though she could remember little of the events of the 13th of April, because her memory had failed her since her illness, she did remember noticing an unknown, and therefore suspect, cart on the road near Warrielaw. She could, however, supply no details, and Rhoda made no definite statement to verify her incoherent suggestion. When Bob made casual enquiries about the cloakroom ticket the poor invalid grew vaguer than ever, and only replied that she and her sister so frequently called for parcels of cuttings and plants at both stations in Edinburgh that this particular one had quite escaped her memory. Bob found out later that this statement was true enough. Miss Jessica had impressed every garden of the neighbourhood for gifts, and indulged to the full the passion of every Scottish gardener for getting something for nothing. Those were certainly bad days for him, and all the worse because he could produce no reason for delaying the trial. The Crown was prepared, and Neil never wavered from his wish to get the whole affair over as quickly as possible. John reported that Mr. Firle was still confident of a verdict of Not Proven, but I could see he did not share the Counsel’s faith.
It was on the 14th of July, the day before the trial, a day of lowering clouds and that dull, oppressive heat which the east coast experiences so seldom, that Bob suddenly appeared and asked Dennis if his Renault was available.
“I’m going to Carglin,” he said. “Mrs. Hay sends word that Annie Hope is back again. I want to go and have a look round once more.”
“Any luck about the ticket?” asked Dennis, rising at once. Alison was with us for the day, poor child, but she had refused to leave the house for the afternoon. It was my lot clearly to stay, and look after her. Rhoda for weeks had been absorbed in her shop, and had let no sign of her feelings escape her.
“None. If I had my way the trial would be postponed till we’ve traced it. We’ve been through every record in every station within a thirty-mile radius of Edinburgh, and can find no trace of any unclaimed parcel which could conceivably be the one we want. It seems to me that there’s something behind its disappearance we don’t understand. It’s too curious to be a mere chance. However, Mr. Firle differs from me, so there it is. I’m going to Carglin.”
I have heard the details of that afternoon so often that now, as I grow older, I almost forget I was not present when Dennis drove his car out of Bathgate and took the narrow road to Carglin.
The dark clouds, darker still in that smoky countryside, hung over the white, dusty road and the dull, grimy bushes and long grass of the hedges. No birds were singing, and the world seemed asleep in its blackened cloak beneath the grey dome of the sultry skies, when they turned the corner and saw before them the Hays’ cottage and the long narrow road to the village and the church. And then Dennis slowed down and ran his car up into an open gateway, for advancing towards them was a funeral hearse. The black plumes, the dark horses, the bedecked undertakers and the carriage or two which followed passed him by very slowly, the white dust enveloping the car, the creaking of the wheels resounding like a grim funeral march. Some dweller in the neighbourhood had evidently been laid to rest in his native village of Carglin, beneath the shadow of the ugly little kirk. Dennis jumped down to start up the car again, when, with a glance up the road, he dropped the handle, and stood aghast with staring eyes.
Bob jumped out and came to his side. Down the road acquaintances and spectators were strolling homewards, in little groups, their faces full of the ghoulish appreciation of their class for the last rites of death. But it was a solitary figure, with its back towards the car, which had arrested Dennis’s attention and kept him still staring up the road.
“Lord!” he said. “I thought for a moment that was Miss Jessica herself!”
The big woman in the black hat and long, black cape stood still as he spoke, her rough, ungloved hand playing absently with the long grasses by the road. Then Bob pulled Dennis back into the shelter of the hedge by the gateway, for she turned abruptly and began to walk towards the Hays’ cottage.
“It’s just poor Annie Hope,” said Bob drily. “It’s only Miss Jessica’s hat and cloak that have come back to haunt you. They’ll be the clothes Miss Macpherson gave her which should have gone to Effie. No, don’t start your car yet.”
For a few minutes Bob stood lost in thought, and Dennis realised suddenly that the episode seemed to his companion to have an unexpected significance.
“Would you mind moving the car straight back from here,” said Bob, “and studying the beauties of Bathgate till I join you? It’s most important that I shouldn’t startle that poor lass more than I can help, and I’d prefer to drop in on Mrs. Hay informally.”
Dennis nodded with some disappointment, and Bob turned and made his way to the cottage alone.
