“Well, this is the place,” said Frank Abbott.
Miss Silver alighted from the car and looked about her at Dead Man’s Copse. The thought which immediately sprang to her mind was that it was very well named. She had never seen a gloomier wood or driven over a rougher track, and it did not surprise her at all that the place should be very little frequented. Something about the lie of the land and the way the road dipped to this hollow made the place even darker than it should have been. The trees were not so very thick, and they were not large—a few straggling pines; a dense hump or two of holly; the wreck of what had been a massive oak, now smothered in strangling ivy; and for the rest the sort of tangled undergrowth which springs up through years of neglect.
She enquired who owned the land.
Frank Abbott laughed.
“I believe Uncle Reg does. There’s been some doubt about it. It was all Tomalyn property as far as this path. Everything on the other side of it is common land. The male Tomalyns died out more than a hundred years ago, but there were two daughters. One married an Abbott, and the other a Harlow. The Harlow property marches with Abbottsleigh. The Tomalyns’ house was burnt down, and a lot of papers with it. Nobody bothered very much about this bit of land and it was just let go. There was some superstition mixed up in it, I shouldn’t wonder—some idea that it was unlucky. Uncle Reg says he can remember an old boy in the village telling him the Dead Man had left his curse on the place. Anyhow neither the Harlows nor the Abbotts had the title-deeds, and they don’t seem to have bothered who it belonged to for a good many years. Then some old paper turned up, and they settled it between them. So I suppose you may say that this delightful spot is now Abbott property.”
Miss Silver had listened with attention.
“And the house? There is, I understand, a house in the wood. That would go with the land.”
“I haven’t seen it, but it must be a complete ruin. There used to be some sort of a path going off to it—hereabouts just short of the oak, so the local constable says, but there’s not much trace of it. If Mary Stokes is telling the truth, which I don’t think she is, that’s where she was standing when she saw someone looking for an earring in a dead girl’s hair. I wonder what she really did see. If it weren’t for Louise Rogers and her earrings, I should be inclined to think she made the whole thing up. But there is Louise, and she’s still missing. And look here, it hasn’t rained since Saturday—you can still see where Mary came down off the bank and left those deep toeprints in the mud. She was running all right.”
Miss Silver picked her way across the ditch and up the bank in a very active manner. She looked at the footprints, and then turned her attention to the wood.
“How far away is the house you spoke of?”
“Between a quarter and half a mile according to the plan Uncle Reg showed me. They called it the Forester’s House, and I suppose there was some sort of path through the wood in those days. There isn’t one now.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“The wood has been searched?”
“To some extent, I gather.”
“My dear Frank!”
“Well, you know, I was merely an onlooker at that stage and I had to watch my step. The Inspector from Lenton was in charge, and I may be wrong, but I certainly got the idea that if I was stupid enough to make a suggestion I should get it smacked back in my face, so I didn’t make one. I don’t know if he knew I was at the Yard, but I was taking rather particular pains to be Colonel Abbott’s nephew on a visit. So I’m not really in a position to know just how far the search went, but if you ask me, I should say it was fairly cursory, and that if there were any traces, it won’t now be possible to identify them. The local constable, Joe Turnberry, is a bit in the steamroller line.”
Miss Silver said, “Very unfortunate.”
He nodded.
“As far as I had any opportunity of observing the ground myself, there was no sign of anyone being dragged through the undergrowth. I don’t see how a man could have dragged or carried a girl through this sort of tangle by night without leaving unmistakable traces—it doesn’t make sense.”
“How far into the wood did you go?”
“No great distance. As I say, I was being rather careful not to butt in. Now that I’m on the job, I’m getting Smith, the Lenton chap, to come over this afternoon, and we’ll go through the place with a toothcomb. But I’m not sanguine.”
“What about the house?”
“The Forester’s House? It’s the best part of half a mile away.”
“Has it been searched?”
“I shouldn’t think so. You see, I’m pretty sure Smith thought the whole thing was a mare’s nest—I thought so myself. Just take the evidence. A girl says she sees a bleeding corpse dragged out of a wood. There isn’t any corpse, there isn’t any blood, there isn’t any sign of anything having been dragged. What does the plain man conclude? He thinks the girl is telling the tale, and he doesn’t go very far into the wood to look for a nesting mare.”
Miss Silver’s expression did not change. It was, and remained, of a mild firmness.
“I should be interested to see the Forester’s House.”
He threw her a quick look.
“What have you got in your mind? Do you expect to find Louise Rogers somewhere in the ruins?”
“I do not know, Frank. I would like to see the house.”
He gave an odd short laugh.
“Well, you shall. But in the name of sanity, why should anyone who had murdered a woman, presumably in this wood, first drag her out on to the road to be seen by Mary Stokes, and then drag her back through half a mile of undergrowth? And how did he do it without leaving any traces? The thing’s impossible.”
Miss Silver coughed gently.
“If it was impossible, it did not happen.”
He had a quizzical look for that.
“Well, what would you like to do first—see Mary Stokes, or wander in the wood?”
“I think we had better see Mary Stokes.”
It was what he had hoped she would say. Under a casual manner he was, as a matter of fact, straining at the leash. If the case made nonsense at present, this much at least was certain— Mary was either lying, or telling the truth. If the former, it should be possible to break her story down. If the latter, she might be able to produce something a little more credible than Saturday’s sobbed-out tale. As to whether she was lying or not, he had a good deal of confidence that Miss Silver would be able to give judgment. But when they came face to face with her in the parlour of Tomlin’s Farm he wasn’t so sure that they were going to get anything out of Miss Mary Stokes.
Mrs. Stokes, who admitted them, greeting Frank as “Mr. Frank,” and left them there with many apologies for there being no fire, was a good hearty soul with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She said her niece wouldn’t be a moment, but they had the best part of ten minutes to wait and plenty of leisure to observe the flowered wallpaper covered with what an eighteenth-century lady once described as “great romping flowers”; the fox’s mask grinning from a dark corner; the case of stuffed birds on a three-legged table shrouded in maroon cloth and trimmed about the edge with a valance of deep cotton lace; the Toby jug and charming lustre-ware in a corner cupboard; the photographic enlargements of Mr. Stokes’ parents on one side of the room and Mrs. Stokes’ parents on the other, both men very uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes with high stick-up collars and ties, both ladies decorous to the point of gloom. In the case of old Mrs. Stokes the portrait had been taken after she was a widow, and the camera had done ample justice to the wealth of crape in which she mourned, and to a truly portentous widow’s bonnet with long funeral streamers.
Miss Silver gazed with interest at these evidences of family life. She noticed the brass handles on a walnut bureau—delightfully bright, and the bureau itself so beautifully polished. Not a speck of dust anywhere, and a good many knick-knacks to keep.
When Mary Stokes came into the room she did not seem to belong to it at all. She was young and pretty, but when you looked at her a second time you began to wonder if she was as young or as pretty as you thought at first. There was something just a little stiff, a little set—something that reminded Miss Silver of the old nursery warning to be careful how you looked when the clock struck or you might stay that way. It might have been the effect of the artificially brightened hair, the artificially heightened complexion. It might have been the way the hair was done—the last and extremest London fashion, looking a good deal out of place on a country farm. It might have been the hard royal blue of an equally unsuitable dress, or the brooch which glittered quite as brightly as if its stones were real. Probably all these things contributed to the impression made by Mary Stokes.
She came into the room with quite a little air. When she shook hands and said “How do you do?” her voice was pitched too high to be pleasant, and the syllables clipped to an excess of refinement.
Frank Abbott said, “I have been sent down from Scotland Yard to make some enquiries, Miss Stokes—Detective-Sergeant Abbott. I hope you will not object to Miss Silver’s presence.”
If Miss Stokes had not been so refined she might have tossed her head. As it was, she stared briefly without looking at Miss Silver and sat down on the nearest chair, after which she crossed her legs, displaying a good pair of silk stockings, arranged the blue skirt, and fixed a pair of bright blue eyes upon the personable young man who had come to question her. Good-looking fellow and a cut above a policeman—thinks quite a bit of himself. She let her glance meet his, and then very effectively dropped the darkened lashes until they lay upon her cheek. She could feel him looking at her, and had no idea that any young man could do so without pleasure.
With a faint conscious smile she said,
“Oh, of course—I’m sure I’m only too pleased.”
He had taken out a notebook, and moved now so as to rest it on one of those solid pedestal tables so much in vogue about the middle of the last century. Of finely figured walnut in a high state of polish, it supported two heavily embossed photograph albums and a large family Bible, each on its own closely crocheted mat of maroon wool. He made room for the notebook, produced a pencil, and addressed Miss Stokes.
“I have just been making an examination of Dead Man’s Copse. It is quite plain that you ran down the bank and across the ditch on to the path, but there is no sign of anyone else having done so.”
The lashes rose. The bright blue eyes met his.
“Well, I’m sure if Joe Turnberry and Inspector Smith didn’t leave any marks, there’s no reason why anyone else should.”
It was quite obvious that she thought she had scored. After a brief cold stare he proceeded to counteract this impression.
“I’m afraid that is no argument. Smith’s and Turnberry’s tracks are both quite easy to trace. You will remember that I happened to be there when they were made. What you must understand is that there are no other tracks. If, as you stated, a man came out of that wood dragging the body of a girl, how do you account for the fact that he left no footprints either on the bank or in the mud of the ditch, and that the dragged body left no track?”
She tilted her head a little.
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t swear to the dragging—it was dark, you know. He may have been carrying her.”
“In which case one would expect even deeper footprints.”
She gave a slight shrug.
“Perhaps you haven’t found the right place.”
“Your own footprints are quite clear—there is no mistake about them. You were facing the path. On which side of you did this man come out of the wood?”
She pressed her lips together, frowning slightly.
“I don’t know.”
“Come, Miss Stokes, you were going down into Dead Man’s Copse, when you heard a sound coming from the wood— that’s what you said, isn’t it? You were so frightened that you crossed the ditch and climbed up the bank into the wood to meet the noise.” One of the fair eyebrows rose quizzically. “It seems rather an odd thing to do. Could you kindly explain why you did it?”
She said quite coolly,
“I was frightened—anyone would have been.”
“So you ran in the direction of the sound which frightened you?”
“Well, I didn’t stop to think, I just ran—you do when you’re frightened. I suppose I wanted to hide.”
“Yes, but why not the bushes on the other side of the path? Why go rushing into danger? You might have bumped right into the murderer—mightn’t you?”
Miss Stokes showed signs of temper.
“I tell you I didn’t think—I was too frightened! I don’t know why I ran into the wood that side, but I did.”
“Are you quite sure that you did?”
She stared angrily.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, there are no footprints of yours going into the wood.”
Her breath came quickly.
“I can’t help that.”
“Odd—isn’t it? No footprints of yours going in, and none of the murderer’s coming out! I’m afraid there’s a discrepancy somewhere. You didn’t cross that ditch to get into the wood, you know. However frightened you were, you would hardly be able to clear it at a single bound, especially in the dark.”
All this while Miss Silver had been a silent but attentive spectator. She had chosen a chair which strongly resembled those in her own flat—a slightly curved upholstered back, a slightly curved upholstered seat, and small bow legs of yellow walnut tortuously carved. A very comfortable type of chair for knitting or needlework, affording support to the back without hampering the arms. At moments like these Miss Silver missed her knitting, but she did not permit herself to fidget. Her hands, in the warm black woollen gloves which had been a Christmas present from her niece Ethel, remained folded in her lap. Her regard dwelt thoughtfully on Mary Stokes. A cheap pearl necklace hung down over the bright blue dress. At the moment it was rising and falling in quite a noticeable manner. The girl’s colour was deep and angry. Miss Silver believed her to be both angry and frightened. She considered that Frank was doing very well. He was smiling a little. It was a chilly smile. Monica Abbott wouldn’t have liked it at all. It would have reminded her rather painfully of her mother-in-law. With just such a smile had Lady Evelyn been wont to preface some singularly wounding remark.