Miss Silver’s expression was one of alert attention.
“What did you do?”
“I followed him. I was quite lost, and he seemed to know where he was going.”
She told about the meeting with Jim Severn, and how the three of them went into the empty house of which he had the key and sat on the stairs waiting for the fog to lift.
“I am afraid I went to sleep with my head on Jim’s shoulder, but I did wake up once when the Scot was saying his name was Professor Robert MacPhail, and another time-at least I think it was another time-when he was arguing about the old problem of the mandarin in China. You know? Suppose you could benefit three-quarters of the human race by pressing a button and destroying this mandarin. Jim Severn was saying that the button-pusher would be wondering what he was going to get out of it himself, he wouldn’t be worrying about the rest of the human race. They were still arguing about it when I went to sleep again. And when I really did wake up the fog had gone, and so had the Professor. But on that Sunday when Margot was killed Jim and I were lunching here, and Jim ran into him in the coffee-room. He said Robert MacPhail was just his private name, but he was here professionally as Professor Regulus Mactavish or The Great Prospero.”
Miss Silver said,
“You interest me extremely. Miss Falconer and I came in to the matinee yesterday afternoon. He is an illusionist, and his act is a very clever one. I recognized him immediately when we were crossing the road to the island.”
Ione leaned forward.
“Miss Silver-did he push Allegra-could he have pushed her?”
Miss Silver shook her head.
“I cannot tell you whether he pushed her. He certainly could have done so. That roomy Inverness cape would hide the movement of an arm. But if he pushed your sister, why should he have saved her? Do you really believe that it was she whom he intended to push? Did you feel nothing yourself?”
Miss Silver in her black cloth jacket and her second-best hat, one of those durable felts which survive the buffetings of many winters-her whole safe, kind governessy appearance, receded. They were a long way off, like something seen through a diminishing glass. The worn, yellowish fur tippet discarded because of the warmth of the room and hanging over an arm of Miss Silver’s chair, the strong black woollen gloves neatly rolled up in Miss Silver’s lap, the shabby handbag which had seen so much useful service-these were all present in miniature at the end of a constantly lengthening vista. Everything shook and was unstable.
Miss Silver’s small, firm hand came out and took her own.
“Just put your head down, my dear. You will be all right in a moment.”
Ione did as she was told. Everything was coming back into its place. She said,
“I’m all right now. It was just-a shock. You asked me if I did not feel anything myself. And of course I did. I felt a kind of glancing blow down my left side. We were being pressed from behind, and I was afraid we might be forced off the island on to the roadway, so I took a step to the right and got hold of the foot of one of those statues. If I hadn’t-”
Miss Silver said gravely,
“That blow would have struck you between the shoulders.”
The silence settled. It was a long time before Ione could bring herself to say,
“He meant to push me?”
“If you had not moved, it was you who would have been pushed.”
“I see-”
“Miss Muir, will you tell me something?”
“What is it?”
“Miss Bowden informed me that both you and your sister have money.”
“Yes.”
“Then in the event of your death-”
“The money would go to Allegra.”
“And in the event of Mrs. Trent’s death?”
“Her share would come to me.”
“Then Mr. Trent would have no possible motive for desiring his wife’s death.”
“Of course not-Miss Silver!”
Miss Silver said equably,
“There would be no motive for Mrs. Trent’s death. There was a motive for the death of that poor girl Margot. She had a good deal of money, had she not, and it passes to Mr. Trent. In your own case there would also be a motive. You have a considerable fortune, and it would pass to your sister.”
Ione’s pallor was quite unbroken. Her eyes had a wide, dark stare. She said only just above her breath,
“No-no-it’s too horrible-”
CHAPTER 22
Geoffrey Trent was writing letters in his study. He frowned over them and drove his pen hard. A letter to his cousin’s solicitor about probate. A letter to Margot’s old nurse, a silly, fond old woman to whom she was still the healthy bouncing baby of so many years ago. A letter to Iris Morley who had practically written to congratulate him. He had had a passing affair with her, and his gorge rose at it. One of those women who look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths and go about distilling poison. He would have liked to tell her what he thought of her now, but it wasn’t safe to rouse that deadly tongue. As he signed his name he became aware of Flaxman at his elbow with the coffee-tray.
“And if you have a moment to spare, sir-”
When anyone said that, it generally meant something fairly unpleasant-a domestic quarrel, or an intention of giving notice. His heart misgave him. Mrs. Flaxman was a very good cook, and Flaxman a very efficient butler. Their wages were high, but everything ran on oiled wheels. He braced himself to hear that Mrs. Flaxman was feeling unsettled-“after the young lady’s death, sir”-and was relieved to find the conversation opening in quite a different though equally time-honoured manner.
“I was wondering, sir, if you would consider the question of a rise for Mrs. Flaxman and myself.”
He had set down the tray and come round to the far side of the table, where he stood in a respectful attitude, his slim figure very neat in the grey linen house-coat, his rather sharp features darkened and thrown into relief by the light from the window behind him.
Geoffrey said, “Well-” in a tone which he contrived to make as doubtful as possible. They had been with him for the best part of two years, and they had been more than satisfactory. He supposed he would have to give them their rise, or they would be wanting to go elsewhere, but he had no intention of making things too easy, so he put all the doubt he could into his voice,
“Well, I don’t know, Flaxman-”
Flaxman went over to the fire and began to make it up.
“After two years we thought you would consider it. The young lady’s death has been a good bit of a shock to Mrs. Flaxman. Not that either of us is wishful to leave, having your interests at heart the way we have.”
“That is very nice of you,” said Geoffrey in a half-absent tone.
“Not at all, sir. Just the motto we’ve always gone on-the employer’s interests first.”
Geoffrey came back with a start. Was there, or was there not, a meaning note in Flaxman’s voice? He thought there was, and found himself saying sharply,
“What on earth do you mean, man?”
Flaxman turned round from the fire, dusting his hands. He kept his eyes down.
“The employer’s interests come first,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for me making that my motto, there were things I could have stood up and said at the inquest.”
“What things? Speak up man!”
“Well, sir, I’m saying to you what I’m not thinking of saying to anyone else. You’re a gentleman, and you’ll know how to treat us right. The Sunday afternoon Miss Margot had that fall-” He paused, not hesitating, but as if to give time for this preliminary to sink in.
Geoffrey Trent, very nearly facing the light from the window, was, and perhaps felt himself to be, at a disadvantage. He drove his chair back and turned it so that he now sat sideways to the table. He leaned an elbow upon it and screened that side of his face with his hand. The movements were natural enough, the position he now assumed an easier one.