Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn
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next he’d be down in the doldrums. Sort of unstable.”
“Mmmm.…” Maria mused for a while and then she got to her feet. “Well,” she said, “the last thing I wish to do is to become involved in this tragic business, or foist myself upon you at such a time. I think it would be best if I went along to my hotel, carried out my programme of sightseeing in the next few days, and then return home. You can be sure you all have my deepest sympathy.”
Pat said urgently, “Miss Black, you don’t think I’m going to let you walk out like this, at such a time, do you?”
“Meaning what, my dear?”
“Meaning that you’re a wonderfully understanding person. I always used to come to you when I was in trouble at school: I want to do it now.”
“That was many years ago,” Maria answered, smiling. “You have your mother and father. I am no longer your temporary guardian.”
“What Pat means, Miss Black, is that she trusts your judgment in some matters far more than she trusts mine—or her mother’s.” As Mr. Taylor spoke there was still a baffled look on his round face. “I can understand it,” he went on. “You’ve had a wide experience of the world and of all sorts of people—especially young women. It isn’t always the parents who are best fitted to understand their children.”
“But what is there I can do?” Maria questioned, spreading her hands. “I can only sympathize—nothing more. Pat, you surely don’t expect me to try and guide your future life now that you’ve lost your intended husband?”
“It isn’t that which worries me, Miss Black; it’s the motive for Keith killing himself.”
“You just said it was jealousy.”
“Yes, I did, but…,” Pat reflected; then: “That’s what I think, and the more I think of it, the more I believe Greg may be right in saying it’s unconvincing. Perhaps there was another reason, but I’d never be able to find it. On the other hand, you might.”
“I?” Maria repeated. “How?”
“I don’t know. You have such funny ways of finding things out when you want to.” Pat sighed. “Oh, I’m all mixed up! What I’m trying to say is that Keith perhaps killed himself for a reason we none of us suspect, something perhaps that will never be revealed, not even at the inquest. For my part I’ll never rest until I know why he did it.”
“Evidently,” Maria said, “you are a trifle confused, Pat. You need time in which to think things out properly. However, if you feel I may be able to help you in any way, I’ll be only too happy. Sightseeing is hardly my exclusive idea of entertainment if there is a more human problem to tackle—”
“That’s what I wanted you to say!” Pat cried in sudden eagerness. “Stay here with us, at least till after the inquest.”
Maria shrugged. “If you wish.”
Taylor moved and managed a smile. “In future, Miss Black, I shall never believe the things I hear about headmistresses,” he said seriously. “When Pat said she wanted you to come and join her celebration, I thought she was crazy. Now I know otherwise.… You stay here and make yourself at home. Your bags are in the car?”
“Yes. In the back.”
“I’ll get them. And I think your car should be okay in the driveway. Unfortunately the garage is filled up with a broken-down Hillman and I can’t move it.”
* * * *
It was eleven o’clock when Maria retired to the large bedroom at the front of the house that had been placed at her disposal. She had had a meal with the family at eight-thirty—which had been consumed more as a token gesture than aught else—and had spent the rest of the evening making unsuccessful efforts to steer clear of the tragic topic with which they were all absorbed. The only diversion had come in the shape of a reporter who had rooted for facts, until he had been driven out by Maria’s cold eyes and her demand that the bereavement of the people concerned should be respected.
Now she half lay in bed, pillows at her back, a bed-jacket about her shoulders and a lacy boudoir cap perched on her wealth of hair. Released from the imprisoning moorings of the daytime, it fell in waves and curls to well below her shoulders. Even at this age she had a mellow, aloof beauty all her own. A trifle strong perhaps, but to many a man of mature years it would have appealed.
The book she was reading, Reik’s The Unknown Murderer, did not appeal to her as much as usual. Her invariable half-hour of crime study, which for nearly twenty years she had pursued upon retiring, was clouded tonight by other considerations. Better than anybody in the house she knew that suicide by hanging could just as easily have been murder, it depending upon the skill of the murderer whether or not the fact was apparent to the investigators.
“My singular gift of walking into tragedies does not seem to have deserted me,” she confessed to herself, presently. “Or is it that there is really nothing extraordinary about it? Tragedies are taking place every day. Sometimes there are deliberate crimes; sometimes there are perfect crimes; sometimes there—”
A gentle tapping on the door stopped her. Maria frowned.
“Yes?” she called. “Come in.”
It was the slender form of Pat who entered, a robe sashed in to her slender waist over her pyjamas. She closed the door softly, turned the key, and glided to the bedside. The table light caught her pale, straight features and the sheen in her dark hair.
“I’m glad you’re not asleep, Miss Black,” she murmured.
Maria laid her book aside. “I never succumb before midnight, my dear, and then I only permit myself seven hours. Bring up a chair.”
Pat did so and sat down, sighing a little to herself. Maria sat considering her.
“I thought I ought to tell you, Miss Black, that I had a yery good reason for asking you to stay. It wasn’t just for the purpose of—of moral support.”
“That much I had already assumed,” Maria commented. “You really asked me to stay because you are not satisfied with the circumstances of Keith’s suicide. Right?” Maria cleared her throat and became suddenly businesslike. “Well, Pat, come now. You didn’t creep in here just to sit and mope. You must have had a reason. What was it?”
“I’ve had an awful thought ever since Keith was found,” Pat said. “Do you think that he might have been murdered?”
“Do you?” Maria asked directly.
“I don’t know.” Pat rubbed a hand wearily across her forehead. “I’ve got a sort of feeling—woman’s intuition maybe.”
Maria laughed shortly. “There isn’t such a thing; take my word for it. A woman is a more sensitive animal than a man, yes, and for that reason only her imagination is usually keener. Intuition? No, my dear!” And she folded her heavy arms and waited.
“Well, then,” Pat said, “let’s put it another way. There was something about Keith’s death that wasn’t right. I said jealousy made him do it because I couldn’t think of anything else, but somehow I just don’t believe that myself.” Pat leaned forward in sudden urgency, her fingers picking at the coverlet. “Miss Black, you know a lot about crime and the reactions of criminals. Why don’t you make some suggestion?”
“You don’t expect me to say that I believe your fiancé was murdered, surely?” Maria asked, astonished. “I haven’t a shred of proof. I know hardly anything about his associations, his reactions, or if it comes to that, his movements before he committed suicide.… Certainly I dabble in crime and at times I—hmm—have been able to help the police here and there, but only because I am untrammelled by regulations and can move freely, adopting the methods of investigation laid down by experts in their textbooks. In this particular case I cannot—nor would I—make comment. The police have been called and they will sift the matter to the bottom. If there is any question of