Polly had told her story for the third time. Every time she told it she minded less. Probably no one but Miss Silver, with her peculiar mixture of unwavering kindness and unwavering authority, would have made the original breach in a crust of secrecy which was her protective armour. But having spoken once, it was easier to speak again. She told her story to Frank Abbott, and repeated it in front of the Chief Inspector with hardly an alteration in the order of the words. Those who have a small vocabulary are often extremely accurate. Children will repeat a story word for word, partly because there is for them no choice of words. One is reminded of ballads from the childhood of the race, in which gold is always red, and ladies fair. In a village this simplicity of thought persists.
Polly told her story in the only words she knew. By the time she told it to the Chief Inspector she didn’t even want to cry, though she still pleated her apron. When she had finished, and Lamb had asked her as many questions as he wanted to, he let her out of the room and turned to Miss Silver.
“Well, that’s just about upset the apple-cart! I suppose I’ve got to be grateful you dug it out of her before we started on the inquest.”
Miss Silver coughed. She opined that it might be considered as providential.
Lamb was looking at her with a curious mixture of irritation and respect. He gave a short laugh and repeated her last word.
“Providential? Well, I don’t know about that—unless you mean that heaven helps those who help themselves. You’re first class at doing that, I should say. But what I want to know is, what made you think the girl had anything to tell? She wasn’t near the drawing-room, and in the ordinary way she hadn’t anything to do with Mrs. Latter. What made you think she knew something?”
Miss Silver’s hands were busy with her knitting. Derek’s stocking, now of a substantial length, revolved.
“She was afraid.”
Lamb nodded.
“That’s where you’ve got an advantage. When we come into a house after a murder, everyone’s afraid of us, everyone’s watching his step, nobody’s normal—to look for a frightened person is like looking for a pin in a packet of pins. Now you mix with the family. They’re not afraid of you because they don’t know what you’re up to. You sit there with your knitting, and they think that’s all you’ve got on your mind. They don’t bother about you. It gives you a pull, you know.”
She inclined her head.
“I have no doubt, Chief Inspector, that if Polly had been bringing your early tea instead of mine, you would have discerned, as I did, that she had something to conceal.”
Lamb glowered.
“I don’t take the stuff! But there you are, it’s just what I said—you’ve got a pull. Frank, ring up Crampton 121 and ask whether they’ve identified that powder yet. If it’s morphia it shouldn’t take long.”
He sat back in his chair while Frank got the number— listened to his question; listened, frowning, to the vague buzz of the reply; heard Frank say, “Quite so,” and then, “All right, I’ll tell him.”
He hung up.
“It’s morphia all right.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked. Lamb lifted his hand and let it fall again upon his knee.
“Then she committed suicide. Well, I’m blessed! If that doesn’t beat the band!”
Miss Silver gave her slight arresting cough.
“I think it would be as well if you were to see Miss Mercer.”
Lamb turned to face her.
“Miss Mercer? What’s it got to do with Miss Mercer?”
Miss Silver knitted equably.
“I should like to put some questions to her in your presence if you have no objection.”
Frank Abbott was looking at her too. There was a faint sarcastic sparkle in his eye. He murmured,
“You can’t go on pulling aces out of your sleeve, you know.”
Miss Silver smiled above the clicking needles.
Lamb said roughly, “A little less of your lip, my lad! Better go and get her.”
When the door had closed he turned his reproof upon Miss Silver.
“When I let you in on this case I thought you undertook not to conceal evidence from the police.”
She met his frown serenely.
“But I have concealed nothing, Chief Inspector. Polly’s evidence only came to me this morning. I went straight from her to the telephone. The incident about which I should like to question Miss Mercer occurred in the middle of the night. I have purposely refrained from asking her about it until I could do so in your presence.”
He opened his mouth to speak, and shut it again with an exasperated “Tchah!” After which he drummed on his knee, and Miss Silver continued to knit until the door opened and Minnie Mercer came in with Frank Abbott behind her. She looked perceptibly more worn than she had done yesterday. There was, if possible, less colour in the tired gentle eyes and in the blanched fair skin. The smudges under the eyes were deeper and more like bruises. She sat down on the far side of the table, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at the Chief Inspector. He shook his head.
“It’s Miss Silver who has something she wants to ask you about.”
Minnie Mercer moved, slipping round in the chair until she was leaning against the arm instead of the back. It seemed as if she needed something to lean against. Frank Abbott had the impression that without it she might just have slipped down on to the floor. She turned the same dumb, acquiescent look upon Miss Silver as she had done upon the Chief Inspector.
Miss Silver did not keep her waiting. She said very kindly and gently,
“Miss Mercer, do you know that you sometimes walk in your sleep?”
She was certainly startled. A faint tremor went over her. She said with a catch in her voice,
“I did when I was a girl—after an illness I had—I didn’t know that I ever did it now.”
Miss Silver went on knitting.
“You have done it twice in the last few days—on the night before last, and last night.”
She said, “I didn’t know—” The words were so faint that they could only just be heard.
“On the first occasion Miss Vane followed you down into the hall. She put her arm round you and brought you back to your room. I was watching from the landing. She was very kind and careful, and you did not wake, but just as you got into bed you said in a very distressed voice, ‘What have I done!’ ”
Lamb was sitting so that he could see both women. He was still frowning, but the character of the frown had changed. It indicated concentration now instead of anger. He saw that faint tremor pass over Minnie Mercer again. She did not speak.
Miss Silver continued.
“Last night you walked in your sleep again. I was prepared, and I followed you. You went down into the hall, and just as you reached it Miss Vane came out of her room. By the time she had joined us you were crossing the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. When I saw where you were going I passed you and put on a light. You did not need it, but it was necessary that Miss Vane and I should be able to watch what you did. You were dreaming. Miss Mercer, do you remember your dream?”
“I don’t—know—”
“I will tell you what you did. You stood and looked into the room. You seemed distressed, and you said, ‘No, no—he doesn’t like it!’ Then you went to the small table near the middle of the room. That is the table upon which Miss Vane placed the coffee-tray on Wednesday night.”
Minnie Mercer said, “Yes-—” The sound just carried and no more.
“You put out your hand towards the table. You stood there for a moment. Then you turned a little to the right and went over to Mr. Latter’s chair. The table beside it is the one upon which his coffee-cup was placed on Wednesday night. You put out your hand again. You put out your hand as if you were holding something—you put it out as if you were setting something down. Miss Mercer—on Wednesday night did you take a cup of coffee from the tray and carry it over to the table beside Mr. Latter’s chair?”
Minnie looked at her with dilated eyes. She made the sound that she had made before. They thought the sound was “Yes—”
“When you took that cup from the tray, were there two cups there, or only one?”
Minnie said, “One—”
“When you went over to the table by Mr. Latter’s chair, was there a cup there already?”
“Yes—”
“What did you do?”
“I changed the cups.”
“You put down the one you had brought from the tray and took up the other?”
“Yes—I changed the cups.”
“Will you tell us why you did this?”
A long sigh lifted her breast.
“Yes—I’ll tell you. Oh, I didn’t want Jimmy to know—but it can’t be helped—”
Lamb said, “Miss Mercer, it is my duty to warn you that what you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
She gave him a fleeting glance and shook her head.
“It’s not like that. I’ll tell you how it was.”
Frank Abbott took up his pad and began to write.
She spoke quite calmly, almost with an air of relief, her voice exhausted but quite audible now.
“When I made my statement I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I didn’t say everything, because I didn’t want Jimmy to know. When I came to the door on Wednesday night Mrs. Latter was standing by the tray just as I said in my statement. I thought she was putting sugar into one of the cups—I really did think so. She was tipping it in out of a little ornamental snuffbox she has. I never thought about its not being sugar, or glucose—one of those things. I just thought it was some new kind of fancy sweetening stuff. She was like that, you know—always trying new things. And sometimes she would go in for slimming—I thought perhaps it was something to do with that. She put all the stuff into the cup and stirred it up. Then she put two lumps of sugar in and stirred them up too. And she took up the little bottle of cognac and put in quite a lot. I thought it was her own cup, but she took it over and put it down by Jimmy’s chair. I thought how he would hate it.” She paused, closed her eyes for a moment, and then went on again. “He doesn’t like things very sweet—he doesn’t take more than one lump in tea or coffee. I thought Mrs. Latter ought to have known that—I thought she must have known it. Everyone knew how much he disliked her Turkish coffee, and that he only drank it because she said she thought someone was trying to poison her. Everybody knew that. I am afraid I thought that she was putting all that sugar in out of spite—to make it as nasty as possible for him. I couldn’t bear it, and I changed the cups.”
Lamb said in his solid voice,
“Did you see her put anything into the second cup?”
“No.”
He leaned forward, a hand on either knee.
“You say she tipped this powder into the cup from a little ornamental snuffbox. Can you describe it?”
“Oh, yes. It was French—eighteenth century, I believe— about two inches long and not quite so wide—silver-gilt, with a picture of Venus and Cupid on the lid, painted on porcelain.”
He said, “H’m! What did she do with it?”
“With the box?”
“Yes. Did you see what she did with it?”
There was a feeling of expectancy. Frank Abbott held his pencil poised. Miss Silver ceased to knit. Minnie Mercer said,
“Yes, I saw where she put it. She had the coffee-cup in her right hand and the box in her left. When she had put the cup down she took up some of the dried rose-leaves from the bowl on the table and filled the box. Then she opened the table drawer and slipped the box inside.”
“What did you think of her doing that?”
She said without hesitation, “I didn’t think about it at all— not at the time—of course afterwards—”
He said, “I’m coming to that. Miss Mercer—just when did you realize what you had done?”
“As soon as I knew that Mrs. Latter was dead.”
“Not before that?”
“Oh, no—how could I?”
“You might have noticed that she was ill—drowsy— sleepy.”
She shook her head.
“No—there was no opportunity. I was—very tired. As soon as they had finished their coffee I took out the tray and washed the cups. I didn’t go back to the drawing-room again. I went up to bed.”
“Yes, of course—it was you who washed the cups. Nothing strike you when you were doing it—sediment at the bottom of a cup?”
She said, “No. You see, it was Turkish coffee—there are always the grounds—you wouldn’t see any sediment.”
“You didn’t notice anything unusual?”
“No.”
“And you went up to bed. Did you go to sleep?”
“Yes—I was very tired.”
“What waked you?”
“The disturbance in the house after Julia had come in and found Mrs. Latter.”
“You were downstairs when the doctor came?”
“Yes.”
“And later on when Inspector Smerdon arrived?”
“Yes.”
“And by this time you had realized that Mrs. Latter had drunk the coffee which she intended for her husband?”
She looked for a moment as if she were going to faint. Then she said in an extinguished voice,
“I was—beginning—to realize it—”
He fixed a reproving look upon her.
“Then why didn’t you speak up and say what you had done? You say your statement wasn’t an untruthful one, but when you suppress a lot of critical evidence, it comes as near being untruthful as makes no difference. Why didn’t you speak up and save us all a lot of trouble?”
A wavering colour came into Minnie Mercer’s face. She sat up straight.
“You can’t take things back when you’ve said them. I had to think—but the more I thought, the less I knew what I ought to do. I had to think what was going to be the best thing for Jimmy.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“The truth is always best. Falsehood really helps no one.”
Minnie took no notice.
“I had to think about Jimmy. I thought it would kill him if he knew that his wife had tried to poison him—I was afraid of what he might do. And then I was afraid of what he might do if he thought she had committed suicide—he would have believed that it was his fault. And then I began to be afraid that you were suspecting him. There didn’t seem to be any way out, and I didn’t know what to do.”
Frank Abbott wrote that down. Lamb turned round to him.
“Get along to the drawing-room and see if that box is where she says it ought to be!”