The Old Silent

'You never told police the truth. I was standing outside that window-' and here he pointed to the sill whereupon the gray cat snoozed.

'Spying!' said Major Poges, rising from his chair with steely eyes.

'I seen you early this morning go out the back with that floppy hat on and your galoshes and your… gun.' Malcolm slid down, looking a bit frightened.

That slight pause before he mentioned the gun made Jury wonder if this was a chancy embellishment.

'Where were you, Malcolm, when you saw this?'

'Malcolm! I forbid you to say one more word!'

'Why? I didn't do nothin',' said her son, reasonably. 'I was up in my room. I got a perfect view of that moor back there.' He made it sound like the kitchen garden. Gravely, he pulled down his T-shirt and sat back, adding, for good measure, 'Prob'ly on the way to the gun butts.'

Major Poges opened and then closed his mouth.

'Absurd,' said the Princess. 'Absolutely absurd! Major Poges would not-'

But he interrupted her with a weak smile. 'It's all right, Rose.' He said to them all, 'The boy's telling the truth. Nothing sinister in it, though. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd just have a tramp across the moor to see if I could bag a grouse.'

'You were headed for the shooting butts, then?' asked Plant, looking at Jury.

'No, no. Need a driver to put the birds over you for that. No. I was for Keighley reservoir. It was dead dark-this was about four-thirty, five, and I planned walking into the light. I reckon I was there an hour or so. A snipe or two settled, but no pheasant or grouse. I'm not that much of a shooter, anyway; I probably would have missed the damned birds, or tried to.' He smiled wanly. 'It was just exercise with a sense of purpose behind it. After an hour I turned back.' He took a swallow of his sherry. 'It was a little after seven, as Master Malcolm can no doubt verify.' Now, there was more humor than bitterness in his tone.

And Master Malcolm seemed to have lost interest in the Major's predicament, as the boy was more concerned with moving his Spitfire in and out of its new airplane hangar.

'You should have told that to Superintendent Sanderson,' said Melrose.

Poges looked a bit ashen. 'First thing that flashed through my mind was that I might have been in the vicinity where Ann Denholme was killed and here was I, carrying a shotgun. All right, I must admit I fibbed.'

Said the Princess, waving her cigarette holder: 'Naturally. Who wouldn't?' She held the holder in the direction of Melrose, who moved to light it.

Ramona Braine's eyes came up as her hands stopped sweeping above the cards. 'How did you know she was shot? When that policeman questioned me, he didn't mention that.' She smiled meanly.

The Princess's smile was even meaner. 'The man told me, darling. And I passed it on to Poges, here.' She sighed and swabbed her silky, silvery hair up with her hand. 'I managed to worm it out of him, somehow.' Then she offered Jury a smile as dewy as her pearlescent holder, which was arched toward the ceiling as she put her elbow on her knee and swung a slim and slippered foot.

'Rose is only trying to protect me. I'm touched.' His tone was quite sincere.

Ramona, earrings wobbling, had suddenly lifted her eyes heavenward and intoned: 'Danger is all about us-'

The Princess looked at her, bored. 'Must you flush out the spirit world to pick up that little nugget?' Ramona Braine gave her a furious look, put aside her lap desk, and pulled Malcolm from the sofa. Malcolm was less than eager to follow his mother from the room.

She turned her lowered lids on Jury. 'George is always taking walks. He has indulged more than once in beastly early-morning ones. I know because once I went with him.' She shuddered slightly. 'Six A.M. We saw some sheep. I wasn't aware that living creatures were up at that hour-'

'Rose.' George Poges gave her a look and went on: 'I expect that because I knew she'd been murdered out there and because my mind was on guns…' He shrugged and added wryly, 'Though I do hope Superintendent Sanderson won't take that association too far.'

'Aside from Malcolm, no one saw you?' asked Melrose.

The Princess was about to speak, but quickly shut her mouth.

'Not that I know of.'

Jury leaned forward to replace his teacup.

'Perhaps someone saw you. That might help you.'

Poges shook his head. 'Out there on the moor 'at that hour' if Mr. Sanderson is to be believed.' George Poges smiled grimly. 'My route-that ordnance map of yours, Mr. Plant. Let me see it for a moment.' Melrose took it from his pocket and handed it over. The Major sketched in a few lines. 'Here's the way I walked.' As if he were looking to Melrose to champion his cause, he handed it back. Jury glanced at the dog-legged penciled line.

'Stand of pine, shooting butts. There's the wall and up farther the reservoir. It's my usual route. Ask Abby.'

The Princess's hand flew to her mouth. Then she said, 'Abby. The poor child. Has anyone given her so much as a thought?'

'I have,' said Melrose Plant, sadly.

Mrs. Braithwaite had come in teary-eyed to clear the tea things away and was surprised to see a new guest in their midst. Or in the wake of the Princess's exit and announcement that she must have her nap. She was followed by Major Poges.

'You should have told me, sir, there's a friend of yours come to tea. Well, I must make some fresh.' Ever the good servant, though she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.

'Never mind, Mrs. Braithwaite,' said Jury, quickly commandeering the tea tray. 'I'll just carry this for you.'

'You didn't,' called Melrose, as Jury left the room, 'happen to run into a motorbiker?'

***

Jury fared better in the kitchen with his hand clamped round a very hot mug of coffee and a small coal fire burning in the chimneyplace. On either side were two chairs losing their stuffing, covered with faded India cotton throws. The aromatic coffee mixed with freshly baked bread rolls diffused through the room like the steam coming from the kettles and clouding the windows. It was five o'clock and nearly dark.

'And what I said to her was, 'I got enough to do without the evening meal…' '

His attention had slipped away from Mrs. Braithwaite momentarily. She had given him his coffee and started in complaining about the cook, Mrs. Hull, who, upon arrival of the Yorkshire police and news of the mistress's death, had fallen down in a lump.

'… gone all keggly-like and jubberin'.' Mrs. Braithwaite snorted her disgust at such persons who couldn't rise to an occasion.''That lot's still got t'be fed, don't they?' I says to 'er. Got me own grief, I do, but not to make things worse, I go on, I says.'

'It must be a trial to you, Mrs. Braithwaite,' said Jury. 'Some people simply fold up in a crisis.' The housekeeper was a round sort of person with short thick arms. Steady and stout as a fireplug and always ready to do her job. The arms hadn't stopped reaching and waving and opening cabinets and cupboards in the ten minutes Jury had been letting her bash about the kitchen. She had already had her private cry over the owner's death; the tissues ballooning the pocket of her apron and the reddened eyes testified to that.

'Yes, indeed 'tis. All of them police about, and up in the mistress's room, crawlin' all over.' She lifted the lid of a heavy kettle and the escaping steam clouded over the acorn windows.

'I appreciate the coffee, Mrs. Braithwaite. Sorry to put you to more trouble.'

She wiped her hands on her apron, protesting it was no trouble, not for a friend of Mr. Plant who was a 'fine, dacent gentleman' and wasn't it dreadful Mr. Jury'd come for a visit and found all of this?

Jury thanked her, smiling inwardly that she didn't seem to find it odd Mr. Plant's friend had stationed himself here before the fire in one of the heavily cushioned chairs, inviting her, as if he were host, to join him.

'Why don't you have a coffee, yourself? Let the lot of them send out for fish and chips.' He rose. 'Come on; sit down.' And he took her arm and led her to the chair opposite. She sank into it with a look of relief, fanning her flat,