Aware that young men do not talk nonsense to their elders unless they are fond of them, her tone did nothing to discourage him. He therefore continued to talk nonsense until the waiter removed their soup plates and furnished them each with a small portion of limp white fish partially concealed by a sprig of parsley and a teaspoonful of unnaturally pink sauce. It all tasted even worse than it looked. Frank apologised.
‘They have much better food at the Ram, but we couldn’t very well go there in the circumstances. The local Superintendent tells me their Mrs Simpkins can make you believe that Hitler had never been born, and that you are really eating prewar food. Simpkins is the proprietor.’
Miss Silver inclined her head.
‘Yes. Miss Fell informs me that Mrs Simpkins used to be old Mr Doncaster’s cook. They were very well off in those days, but when he died they found that his income was largely derived from an annuity.’
Frank looked at her sharply.
‘You’ve been concealing things – you always do.’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘I did not wish to prejudice your enquiries at the Ram. Pray tell me if they have had any result.’
He leaned forward.
‘Well, I think so. But whether we’re any forrader, or what we’re heading for, I don’t pretend to say. Everybody there could pick out Bush. They know all about him. They know his sister Mrs Grey, and they say he always comes in for a drink if he’s in Marbury. Nobody is prepared to swear that he did come in on the Monday in question, but they all say he’d have been sure to if he was over at the Greys’. Then there’s Miss Doncaster. They all recognised her and could name her – said she always came in for tea when she’d been shopping.’
‘Yes – Miss Fell told me that. They give very good teas even now. All the food at the Ram is good, though it is such a shabby-looking place.’
Frank shook his head at her.
‘Well, well – don’t let us dwell upon it – all is over for today. Let us continue – we were doing Miss Doncaster. They are sure she was in on that Monday, because she kept Mrs Simpkins talking until she missed a bus, and Mrs Simpkins wasn’t at all pleased. She was going out to see a sister at Marfield, and she told me it was just like Miss Doncaster, and that she was a good deal put about. And now we come to Mr Everton – and that’s where we don’t get anywhere at all. He might have been in, or he mightn’t. They didn’t know him. He wasn’t a customer, and, as the porter remarked, “One gentleman looks very much like another in our hall”. And that’s the truth – it’s narrow, it’s dingy, and it’s dark. He said there was always a coming and going about tea-time. Gentlemen generally had it in the Coffee Room, especially if they wanted something substantial. Mrs Simpkins would fix them up a sausage and fried vegetables or something like that. But as to who was in on what day at the beginning of last week, he couldn’t say. In fact none of them could. When I asked whether Mrs Simpkins having gone off that afternoon to see her sister was any help, they brightened up a bit and remembered a gentleman who might have been a commercial traveller. And the new kitchenmaid had done him a scrambled egg on toast, and Mrs Simpkins had put it across her when she came home, because she said those dried eggs want handling, and the Ram had got its name to keep up. But though I pressed like mad, no one seemed to be able to reconstruct the gentleman, or to remember who else had been in, and nobody picked Mr Everton out of any of the photographs. The whole affair is exactly like this revolting sausage – pale, profitless, and imponderable.’
Miss Silver was pleased to be encouraging.
‘I think you did very well.’
Frank Abbott shook his head.
‘There are just two points – I’ve saved them up to the end. If nobody remembers Everton at the Ram, nobody remembers Harsch either, yet we know that Harsch went in and came out. Even at midday that hall is like a tomb. But – and this is the second point – as soon as you open the Coffee Room door bright light streams out. There are two good windows there, and they face that door. Suppose Harsch came up to the Coffee Room door and saw it open, he would be facing the light – facing whoever was coming out – facing anyone who was still in the room. But what would he see himself? I tried it out with the porter. The light hits you suddenly. Anyone coming out of the room in the ordinary way appears as a silhouette, but with some light striking the right side of the face and figure. If the opening door of which Harsch spoke to Janice Meade was a real door opening in the Ram, then that’s what he would have seen – a silhouette, light striking at an angle on the side of the head, the cheek, the jaw, the shoulder. Not very much to go on, you know – nothing to take to the police – but enough to give you a horrid shock if it was what you had seen before, perhaps many times, when you were in your cell in the dark in a concentration camp and the door opened from the lighted corridor to let one of your tormentors in.’ He broke off with a slightly conscious look. ‘You know, you’ll ruin my career. You’re not safe – you’re contagious. You start me off enthusing and romancing till I’m not sure whether I’m a policeman or someone in a propaganda film. And what the Chief would say if he heard me just now, I only hope and trust I shall never know. I think we’ll switch over to Madoc. What about Harsch’s notes and papers – did you get anything out of him?’
Miss Silver inclined her head and said, ‘Certainly.’
‘You didn’t! You ought to be a lion-tamer! And not a single scratch? You’ve no idea how he reared in the air and clawed when the Chief had a go at him. We retired with bowed and bloody heads but no information.’
Miss Silver looked serious.
‘Mr Madoc’s temper is regrettable, and he has very bad manners, but fundamentally he is, I believe, an acutely sensitive person who is very much afraid of being hurt. His temper and his rudeness are a kind of protective armour.’
Frank looked astonished. Then he laughed.
‘And you dug him out of his armour like a winkle out of its shell! Well, what about those papers? Where are they?’
‘I may say that Mr Madoc displayed a good deal of intelligence. When not clouded by passion his reasoning powers are excellent. Like Janice Meade he was unable to believe that Mr Harsch had committed suicide. If he had been murdered, the motive which immediately sprang to mind was the possession of the notes and formula of harschite. He collected everything that he could find and went into Marbury by an early train on Wednesday morning. He admits frankly that his motive was partly the desire to get Mr Harsch’s papers out of the way before Sir George Rendal came down. He was not sure what powers the War Office might have. He wanted to see a solicitor, and he wanted time to consider his position – as a pacifist, as a government employee, and as Mr Harsch’s executor.’
Frank Abbott listened with interest.
‘What did he do?’
‘He visited a local solicitor, Mr Merevale, after which he proceeded to the Marbury branch of Lloyd’s bank where he handed in a large sealed envelope for safe custody.’
‘Then the papers are at Lloyd’s?’
Miss Silver smiled.
‘The envelope contained nothing but blank foolscap, but on his way home he called at the General Post Office and registered a second envelope addressed to the head office of the bank in London – a very intelligent move. The papers are there.’
Frank lifted an eyebrow.
‘Has anyone told you that there was an attempt to burgle the Marbury branch on Saturday night?’
Miss Silver said, ‘Dear me!’ And then, ‘I am not surprised. How providential that the papers, thanks to Mr Madoc’s foresight, were in London.’
Frank gazed appreciatively.
‘Well, you have him charmed! He’ll be eating out of your hand like the rest of us! By the way, I suppose he hasn’t had a change of heart about handing harschite over to the government?’