Touch and Go (18 page)

Sarah sat silent and thought about what he had said. She was quite sure that he was telling the truth. Lucilla's story of a running stumble had exonerated him from suspicion. He said Lucilla's story wasn't true. His own story positively invited suspicion. Why should he tell a story like that if it wasn't true?

“Is that all?” she said.

“Not quite.”

“Tell me.”

“It's a thing I can say, but it isn't a thing I can prove.”

“Do you mean—that she threw herself over?” Her voice went down into horrified depths.

“No, I don't mean that. I mean that there was someone else on the stair—I think.”

“
Who?
” The word came suddenly loud, but it didn't sound loud to Sarah, because the beating of her heart drowned it.

“There you have me,” said John Brown.

“Did you see anything? What did you see?”

“Nothing at all. Sarah, I don't know anything—I'm guessing. I'm guessing there was someone below Lucilla on the stair. I heard something. Nothing to swear to, you know, but—something. There could have been someone there, crouching down so as to keep below the balustrade. If there
was
someone there like that, he could have taken Lucilla by the ankles and tipped her over. You didn't see anything when your light came on?”

“No, I only saw Lucilla—and you.”

John Brown nodded.

“He would get away at once, probably down to the landing and up the other side. He must have got a fright all the same—he wasn't expecting that torch.”

Sarah leaned towards him.

“But who—
who
?” she said. And then, as he didn't answer, “Ran was in the drawing-room, and Ricky had just run into me in the hall.”

John Brown remained silent.

After a moment Sarah leaned back.

“It makes me sick.”

John Brown nodded again.

Sarah went on in a shaken voice.

“People don't do that sort of thing without a motive. What is the motive?”

“I suppose Holme Fallow might be the motive, Sarah—Holme Fallow and what goes with it.”

Sarah asked a question.

“Who would get all that—if Lucilla died?”

She asked the question, but how should John Brown be able to answer it?

He did answer it, and at once.

“Marina—she's an old woman—then Geoffrey and his son.”

Sarah felt as if her breath was going to choke her. She held both hands hard against her breast. She made herself say,

“Supposing—Maurice—was—alive—” She choked, and got her breath again. “Maurice Hildred.”

She saw John Brown's hand lift and fall again upon his knee, a shadow moving in the faint glimmer from the dash-board. He said in his quiet voice,

“Maurice Hildred is dead.”

CHAPTER XXI

After a silence John Brown said,

“What put that into your head, Sarah? What made you think of Maurice Hildred?”

“They don't think he's dead.”

“Who don't?”

“Miss Marina and Mr. Hildred.”

He made a short contemptuous sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

“Oh, Marina? Poor old dear. But Geoffrey—I'm quite sure Geoffrey doesn't believe that Maurice is alive.”

“If he
were
, he would get Holme Fallow if anything happened to Lucilla. He would, wouldn't he?”

“He would—certainly.” This time he did laugh. “So that's the game, is it? Maurice is alive, and Lucilla's in his way, so he's trying to remove her! I suppose he took the screws out of her bicycle this afternoon! It's all very ingenious. Was it your idea, or Darnac's—or Geoffrey's? Wanted, a murderer with a motive, so it has to be Maurice, who's been dead for fifteen years! And I suppose I'm cast for the part!” There was an extraordinary bitterness in the voice which was usually so quiet and pleasant.

Sarah said, “Don't, John—
please
,” and didn't know that she had spoken until she heard herself saying his name.
Was
it his name? She didn't know. She only knew she couldn't bear that bitter sound in his voice.

He said, “Did you think I was Maurice?”

“I thought—you might be. Just that—not anything else.”

“And why that?”

Sarah took hold of herself with both hands. These currents of emotion frightened her. They'd got to be practical and sensible. She sat as far back in her corner as she could and tried for a steady, friendly voice. It wasn't as steady as she would have liked it to be.

“You were at Holme Fallow the night I came down to be interviewed. I was late because of Mr. Hildred. I ran out of petrol by the east drive, and I came up to the house to try and get some. The side door was open and I came in. You were in the dining-room. You turned your torch on Mrs. Hildred's picture. It was so like Lucilla that it startled me and I ran away. You see, I'd just had a very narrow shave of running over Lucilla—I'll tell you about it presently. I didn't know it was you I had seen until this evening. You were in the same place and doing the same things. Then I knew it was you the first time. Ran thought you were Maurice, but I didn't think so till then. You don't expect me to believe that you're a burglar?”

“I see. Did you know that I followed you up to town?

“You?”

“I was the obliging stranger with the petrol Didn't you know?”

“Of course I didn't. Why on earth did you follow me?”

“I wonder—” said John Brown.

There was a pause. It lasted until Sarah could have screamed. Why couldn't he say why he had followed her? He was not the first, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. Sarah had a short and shattering way with followers. She ought to be saying some of the things which as a rule came so trippingly from her tongue. The only thing she wanted to say was his name. She managed not to say it.

In the end he said in a different voice, “Why did you nearly run over Lucilla?”

Sarah answered him with relief.

“She came plunging down off one of those banks in the Red House drive. She said she fell.”

“She falls rather a lot, doesn't she?”

“Look here,” said Sarah, “I'm going to tell you the whole thing from the beginning.”

“Isn't that the beginning?”

“I think,” said Sarah—“I think that Henry Hildred's death is really the beginning. All these other things have happened since then—since Lucilla came into Holme Fallow.”

“What things?”

“Mr. Hildred told me that he was asked to take Lucilla away from school because on two separate occasions her room was found to be on fire. They thought she had done it herself, and they asked him to take her away. Miss Marina doesn't know.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Then there's this business of her falling in front of
The Bomb
. If I hadn't braked like mad and driven into the bank, I'd have been over her. Then there's the thing that flapped and scratched at her window. It's stopped now that I'm sleeping in the room.”

“I can tell you how that was done. I went upstairs after tea and looked out of the bathroom window. It was done from there. Quite easy. You lock the door, you lean out of the window with a light rake or cultivator which has something dark and soft tied on to it, and you can tap and scratch and dash at Lucilla's window till all is blue. Or, if I'm the villain of the piece, I could have climbed on to the top of the porch and done it from there. I think that would be Darnac's explanation.”

Sarah said, “It's not mine,” and thought that she had said it a little too quickly. She went on more quickly still. “That's
how
it was done. But
why
? That's what I want to know—
why
? It doesn't seem to fit in with the other things. You see, the fall from the bank, and the bicycle affair, and the fall over the balustrade, they are one sort of thing. They might be Lucilla's doing or someone else's. Either she has tried to kill herself or someone is trying to kill her. Now this dashing, scratching thing is different—it's more like a practical joke. And the fires—I can't make up my mind about them. They might be meant to be dangerous, or they might be meant to make her appear hysterical or—queer.”

John Brown said in a meditative voice, “I don't think there's any discrepancy really. We've got to assume something. I'm assuming that Lucilla is being attacked. I don't think the fires would be meant seriously. If they created an impression that she was unbalanced, they would serve their turn and be remembered later. You may call the thing that dashed against the window a practical joke, but if it had sent Lucilla into hysterics or induced her to tell a wild unbelievable tale, that would have been more evidence as to her being—queer. It must have been a disappointment when she held her tongue. Of course when you heard the Thing too, it lost its value.”

Sarah said, “Yes—I see.” And then, quickly, “But why did she hold her tongue? That's what I can't understand—she won't say anything. She must know things, but she won't tell what she knows. She's sick with fright one moment, and making a joke about it the next. I want to know
why
.”

“She's plucky,” said John Brown with rather an odd tone in his voice.

“Of course she's plucky. But you see, there are some things she
must
know. She must know whether she set fire to those curtains in her room at school. She must know whether she was pushed off the bank. And she must know whether somebody tried to throw her over the balustrade. I've never spoken to her about the fires—she doesn't know I know about them. But when I'd nearly run over her, and almost before she got her breath, she was saying she had fallen. And at Holme Fallow this evening you heard her yourself—she was as quick as lightning with that lie about having tripped on the top step.”

“Yes—it wasn't true.”

“But why?” said Sarah. She bent towards him, leaning on her hand. “Can you tell me why? Is she shielding someone? Do you go on shielding someone who goes on attempting your life? It isn't reasonable, John—it isn't reasonable.” She stopped herself, and then went on in a lower voice. “I'd better tell you—there's something you don't know. Those screws that were missing from Lucilla's bicycle—they dropped out of the pocket of her cardigan when she was dressing this evening.”

“What?”
said John Brown.

“They dropped out of the pocket of her cardigan when she was dressing for dinner.”

“What did she say?”

“She looked—
sick
with fright. She didn't say anything. The dinner bell rang, and it's the eighth deadly sin to be late, so we went down. Afterwards she made a joke of it. She talked a lot of nonsense. Well, there you are. What does it mean?”

John Brown sat silent for about a minute and a half. Then he said.

“There's one explanation that covers everything. It's the only one that does. I don't like it, and you won't like it. I don't believe it, but I don't think we can just turn our backs on it.”

Sarah knew what was coming, but she said,

“What do you mean?”

He must say it himself. She wasn't going to meet him half way.

“We assumed just now that Lucilla was being attacked. Now we've got to assume that she herself is at the bottom of all these things that have been happening. She set light to her own curtains, and she played a practical joke to frighten you after getting you to change rooms.”

Sarah gave a sharp involuntary exclamation.

“She couldn't!”

“Sarah, she could. Just think for a moment, and you will see that she could. She gets you to change rooms with her, and she goes into the bathroom, leans out, and bangs and scratches on that end window with a rake and a cushion, or something like that.”

“She was frightened,” said Sarah. “I'll swear she was frightened. And, John, I'll tell you why she was frightened—she thought she'd been hearing something that wasn't there to hear. As soon as she knew I'd heard it too she wasn't frightened any more.”

John Brown made some kind of movement with his hand.

“On our present assumption, that would be acting. She'd played her trick and lost interest in it. We're assuming that she's unbalanced. She threw herself in front of your car. She took the screws out of her bicycle. And she tried to fling herself over the balustrade.”

“No!” said Sarah. “John, I don't believe it!”

“I don't say I believe it. But, as an explanation, you will admit that it covers all the facts. You said it was unreasonable that she should screen anyone who continued to attempt her life. It stops being unreasonable if the person she is screening is herself. Then there's another point of view, which makes this explanation easier to believe. The attempts may not have been very serious ones. You say you nearly ran over her, but it was bound to seem a nearer shave to you than it really was. She may have left herself a margin of safety. She may have known that she could ride that hill without brakes—I could have done it at her age. And she may have known that I was on the step above her when she tipped over the balustrade at Holme Fallow.”

“She couldn't have counted on your catching her.”

“No. But she may have overbalanced—intended to play a trick, and gone farther than she meant. There's a thing they call exhibitionism, you know. It's a form of hysteria. People who've got it must be in the limelight somehow.” He gave a sudden short laugh. “The good old-fashioned name for it was showing off.”

Some of the horror cleared from Sarah's mind.

“You think it might be that?”

“It might.”

She felt as if an intolerably heavy weight had been lifted. A naughty child playing tricks—a naughty child showing off. What a relief!
If she could believe it
.