The beam was bright and strong. It cut the darkness and came to rest no more than a yard away, splashing its light against the dull surface of a wall. She turned it this way and that. There was a wall on either side of her and a roof above. She thought the roof would be six foot over her head as she sat, perhaps more, perhaps less. She was sitting back upon her heels with the bag in her lap. The passage ran away in front of her.
Her feet and ankles were cramped. She got up on to her feet and stood waiting for the blood to come back into them. She was dizzy enough for her first step to take her to the wall with a hand stretched out and groping for it. The air was heavy. Turning the torch the other way, she could see that the passage went away to the right. She didn’t know whether to go on or to go back. As her head cleared she became aware that the wall against which she was leaning was made of brick. With nothing to sway her choice, she went step by step in the direction towards which she had been facing when the light came on. Ten paces brought her to a turn. The passage narrowed and the roof was nearer. She came to a flight of steps, very narrow, very steep, and climbed them. Ten steps going up, and at the head of them a small square platform and a door. She went down on her knees and set the torch beside her, propping it with her bag.
The door was about two and a half foot high by two foot wide. It was made of old weathered oak. The light showed up the grain and the dry grey surface of the wood. It was all dry here – dry and dusty. Not damp like the passage below. She put out her hand to the oak and pushed against it. It was as solid as the floor upon which she was kneeling. There was no handle to the door.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Mr. Tampling was a little grey man. He had a bright enquiring eye and a tendency to romance which he made it his business to hold in check. He considered that it should be kept in its place, where it afforded him a good deal of secret pleasure. He was now in his early sixties, and he had known Miss Olivia Benevent ever since he could remember. His father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had handled the Benevents’ affairs. When he had first come into the firm as a very young man Miss Olivia had patronised him. She was a few years the elder, and she had not only behaved as if those few years were a good many more, but she had very obviously regarded him from the other side of a social rubicon which could never be crossed. He made up his mind about her then, and had never seen any occasion to alter it. He was sorry for Miss Cara, who was obviously quite incapable of standing up for herself, and he had done his best to protect her interests. He was now quite prepared to do his best for Candida Sayle, and since he was an executor of the will under which she inherited, he was in a position to do so. He expressed himself as shocked at her disappearance and concerned for her safety.
As he waited for the Chief Constable to pick him up, this concern increased. He was remembering a conversation with Miss Olivia Benevent after her father’s death. It had been necessary for him to remind her that it was not she but Miss Cara who inherited the estate, and that, apart from Miss Cara’s right to assign a life-rent of the property to her husband in the event of her marriage, it would pass at her death to her sister Candida Sayle.
She had stared back at him with cold anger.
‘My sister Candida is dead.’
‘I believe she had children.’
‘A son and a daughter. What has that to do with it?’
‘The son would inherit. Failing him or his children, the daughter would do so.’
He had never been able to forget her look, her words. She had not raised her voice. She had said that she hoped no child of Candida Sayle would survive, and she had said it as if she were cursing them. He had been most profoundly shocked, and he had not forgotten. He remembered that Miss Cara had cried out, and that Olivia had quelled her with a look. He could see poor Cara now with the tears running down her face, catching her breath and murmuring, ‘Oh, no – no – that is a dreadful thing to say!’
Miss Olivia was in the drawing-room when Joseph informed her of Mr. Tampling’s arrival.
‘There is another gentleman with him – Major Warrender – and the Police Inspector.’
She sat very upright, her plain dead black relieved against the white brocade chair. She had her embroidery-frame upon her lap, and a needle threaded with scarlet silk in her hand. There were three handsome rings on the third finger. They crowded one another, but the diamonds flashed bravely. She said in a measured voice,
‘Major Warrender is the Chief Constable. I have not sent for him, or for Mr. Tampling, but I will see them.’
She looked very small and black as they came round the lacquer screen into the big white room. She was setting a stitch in her embroidery, and she did not look up until they were half way across the floor. She did not rise to meet them. There was a cold stare from the shallow black eyes, a raising of the narrow arched brows, and a slight, very slight inclination of the head. After which she addressed herself to Major Warrender.
‘May I ask the reason for this visit? My sister is very recently dead. Is there to be no consideration for my grief?’ The tone was even harsher than the words. She turned to Mr. Tampling. ‘I not quite know why you are here, but since you are, you can perhaps tell me whether I am obliged to put up with these intrusions.’
He took the word from Major Warrender, who was only too glad to let him have it.
‘Miss Benevent, I must advise you that it would be very unwise for you to refuse to co-operate with the police. The Chief Constable informs me that Miss Cara’s death cannot be attributed to an accident. I was her legal adviser, and I am an executor under your grandfather’s will. The estate has devolved upon Miss Candida Sayle. I am informed that she has disappeared. In the circumstances, I feel sure you must see that every possible assistance should be given to the police. There is no desire to intrude upon your privacy, but you are not in a position to withhold all possible facilities for a very complete search of the house.’
She appeared to stiffen. He guessed at the forced control of a formidable temper. When she spoke, it was without any expression at all.
‘The house has already been searched.’
He had not met Candida Sayle, but he knew now that he had seen her. On a day a week ago in Stephen Eversley’s car. They were talking together and laughing, and he had thought to himself that young Eversley was a lucky man. The picture came back to him now – a young man quite obviously in love and a girl with bright hair and sparkling eyes, the air of youth and happiness which surrounded them. He turned from it to the dead weight of Miss Olivia’s resistance.
‘There have been developments since the search was conducted. Major Warrender will tell you that he is not satisfied.’ He turned to the Chief Constable. Miss Olivia also turned to fix him with that cold resentful stare. He said,
‘Miss Benevent, Miss Sayle has disappeared. There is a suggestion that she may have strayed into some passage in the older part of the house and have found herself unable to get out. If you know of any such place – ’
‘I do not. Miss Sayle is not here.’
‘Then where is she?’
She lifted a hand and let it fall again. It held the needle with the scarlet thread.
‘How should I know? I believe her to be responsible for my sister’s death. When she found that the police would not accept it as an accident she became frightened and she has run away. You would be better employed in trying to trace her. You are wasting your time here.’
With the last word, her attention appeared to be withdrawn. She lifted the embroidery-frame and took a fine, smooth stitch. Mr. Tampling came up to her and spoke in a low voice. She might not have heard him. He said,