“My poor dear!”
She looked at him steadily.
“No-don’t be too sorry for me. It isn’t like that. I want to tell you-I wasn’t going to marry him.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. Something happened-it doesn’t matter now. I felt I couldn’t go on. If he had come to see me that night, I should have told him so. But he didn’t come.”
“Does anyone else know this?”
“No.”
“Then I should keep it like that.”
“I’ll see. I won’t say anything if I can help it. But they’ll ask questions. I won’t lie about it.”
“You told them before that the disagreement between you wasn’t a serious one.”
“It wasn’t-in itself. And then something happened-I felt I couldn’t go on. When Henry rang up and said he was coming round to see me I made up my mind to break our engagement. Then when he disappeared and it was all so public I thought what was the good of making it any worse. It wasn’t as if I had actually broken with Henry-he didn’t even know I was going to, so it didn’t account for his going. It was just in my own mind. I’ve never told anyone but you.”
chapter 22
Frank Abbott came down next day. He was closeted with March and Miss Silver for half an hour, after which Robbins was sent for. He came in looking very much as usual. Features so marked and a complexion so sallow do not readily give a man’s feelings away.
Frank had his notebook ready, and wrote in it as the questioning went on.
“You know that a body was found in the cellars yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know whose body it was?”
“I suppose, sir, that it would be Mr. Henry.” He cleared his throat. “It was a great shock to us all.”
“What makes you suppose that it was Mr. Henry Clayton’s body?”
“It is generally supposed, sir.”
“I asked what made you suppose so.”
“I can hardly say-it came into my mind.”
“You heard that a body had been found, and it came into your mind that it was Mr. Clayton’s body?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
With no change of expression Robbins said,
“It was a very strange thing, his disappearing like that and never being heard of. It couldn’t help but come into my mind.”
“Who told you of it?”
“I heard two of the policemen talking.”
“And you told your wife?”
“We both heard what they said.”
March sat behind the table. Frank Abbott wrote. Miss Silver knitted placidly. Robbins, who had taken a chair with some reluctance, sat on the edge of it as stiffly as if he had a ramrod down his back. His linen house-coat made marked contrast with the dark pallor of his face and the strong black hair heavily streaked with grey. March thought, “An odd face. I wonder what’s going on behind it.” He said,
“Did you use these words to your wife-‘It fare to serve him right’?”
“Why should I say that?”
“Your wife told Miss Elliot that you did.”
“Mrs. Robbins was very much upset, sir. She’d known Mr. Henry from a boy. I don’t know what she said to Miss Elliot, but she was in that state she might have said anything-right down hysterical.”
March leaned forward.
“You haven’t really answered my question, Robbins. Did you use those words-‘It fare to serve him right’?”
“Not that I can remember, sir.”
“Had you any reason, or did you think that you had any reason, to use such an expression with regard to Mr. Clayton?”
“Why should I, sir? I’d known him since he was a boy.”
March leaned back, frowning a little.
“I’m sorry to touch on a painful subject, but I must ask you whether you considered Mr. Clayton was responsible for any trouble you had had in your family.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept that. You did have trouble, didn’t you, over your daughter? I am asking you if you thought that Mr. Clayton was responsible.”
The man’s face did not exactly change. It hardened. The deep lines were deeper.
“We never got to know who was responsible.”
“Did you suspect Mr. Clayton?”
“We didn’t know who to suspect.”
“But it is true, is it not, that in January ’41 you had news of your daughter being in London and went up to see her?”
“Who told you that, sir?”
“Mr. Roger Pilgrim informed Miss Silver.”
Robbins turned towards the clicking needles.
“Then I suppose he told you, miss, that my daughter was killed in an air raid.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“He told me that you saw her in hospital before she died.”
“It wasn’t exactly a hospital-more like a First Aid station, miss.”
“But you saw her there.”
“Yes, miss.”
March resumed.
“Did she tell you that Mr. Clayton was the father of her child?”
The dark face remained harsh and inexpressive. The eyes dwelt on a point a good deal lower than the eyes of the person to whom he spoke. He said,
“She was dying when I got there. She didn’t tell me anything.”
Miss Silver coughed again.
“Major Pilgrim told me that she was able to speak to you.”
Robbins turned that lowered gaze in her direction.
“No more than a few words, miss. She said ‘I’m going’ and asked me to look after the child-not knowing it was dead.”
March said, “She didn’t mention Henry Clayton’s name?”
“No, sir. There wasn’t time for anything like that.”
“Do you mean that you would have expected her to mention Mr. Clayton’s name if there had been time?”
“No, sir.”
“There was no grudge against Mr. Clayton in your mind- no suspicion that he had treated your daughter badly?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why did you use the words repeated by Mrs. Robbins-‘It fare to serve him right’?”
“I have no recollection of saying any such thing. It’s not an expression I should use, sir.”
March said, “Very well. Now, will you take your mind back to the night of Mr. Clayton’s disappearance. It was the twentieth of February, a month after your daughter’s death and three days before the date set for his wedding. I have your original statement here-I should like to go through it with you. There are one or two points where I think you may be able to help us.”
He took him through the telephone conversation of which he had overheard Henry Clayton’s part, and the subsequent short talk in the hall.
“Mr. Clayton went out just as he was, saying that he wouldn’t be long, and not to wait up, as he would take the front door key and put up the chain when he came in?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you say that you went through to the kitchen to tell your wife that you would be late coming up. Why did you do that?”
“I was going to wait up for Mr. Henry.”
“Why?”
“He was inclined to be heedless, sir. Mr. Pilgrim was very particular about the door. I told Mrs. Robbins I should wait up, and I come back to the hall.”
“I see. Now how long do you suppose you were away from it?”
“Not very long, sir.”
“Cast your mind back and go over just what you did and said. See if you can’t get some idea of how long it would take.”
“I went across the hall and down the passage to the kitchen. Mrs. Robbins was in the scullery. I went through to her. So far as I remember, I told her Miss Freyne and Mr. Henry had some sort of a quarrel on by what I’d just heard Mr. Henry say on the telephone, but he was all set to make it up. I said he’d gone round to see her, and she said it was pretty late. We talked about it a little, and then I come back to the hall.”
“Do you think you were away five minutes?”
He thought for a moment.
“All of that, sir.”
“Ten minutes?”
“It wouldn’t be as much. Somewhere between the two is what I would say.”