“Just so,” remarked Stobb drily. “But did you know that the nephew had already proved the will, and sold the property? No?—well, he has! Not much time lost, you see, after the old man’s death, sir. In fact, it’s been done about as quickly as it well could be done. And of course Miss Pett will have received her legacy—which means that by this time she’ll have got all that Kitely had to leave.”
Brereton turned to the solicitor, who, during the recital of facts by the two inquiry agents, had maintained his judicial attitude, as if he were on the bench and listening to the opening statements of counsel.
“Are you suggesting, all of you that you think Miss Pett murdered Kitely?” he asked. “I should like a direct answer to that question.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Carfax. “What does it look like? You’ve heard the woman’s record! The probability is that she did murder that Eurasian, girl—that she took advantage of Stilman’s use of drugs to finish him off. She certainly benefited by Stilman’s death—and she’s without doubt benefited by Kitely’s. I repeat—what does it look like?”
“What do you propose to do?” asked Brereton.
The inquiry agents glanced at each other and then at Carfax. And Carfax slowly took off his spectacles with a flourish, and looked more judicial than ever as he answered the young barrister’s question.
“I will tell you what I propose to do,” he replied. “I propose to take these two men over to Highmarket this evening and to let them tell the Highmarket police all they have just told you!”
XXIX
Without Thought of Consequence
Everything was very quiet in the house where Mallalieu lay wide-awake and watchful. It seemed to him that he had never known it so quiet before. It was quiet at all times, both day and night, for Miss Pett had a habit of going about like a cat, and Christopher was decidedly of the soft-footed order, and stepped from one room to another as if he were perpetually afraid of waking somebody or trusting his own weight on his own toes. But on this particular night the silence seemed to be unusual—and it was all the deeper because no sound, not even the faint sighing of the wind in the firs and pines outside came to break it. And Mallalieu’s nerves, which had gradually become sharpened and irritated by his recent adventures and his close confinement, became still more irritable, still more set on edge, and it was with difficulty that he forced himself to lie still and to listen. Moreover, he was feeling the want of the stuff which had soothed him into such sound slumber every night since he had been taken in charge by Miss Pett, and he knew very well that though he had flung it away his whole system was crying out for the lack of it.
What were those two devils after, he wondered as he lay there in the darkness? No good—that was certain. Now that he came to reflect upon it their conduct during the afternoon and evening had not been of a reassuring sort. Christopher had kept entirely away from him; he had not seen Christopher at all since the discussion of the afternoon, which Miss Pett had terminated so abruptly. He had seen Miss Pett twice or thrice—Miss Pett’s attitude on each occasion had been that of injured innocence. She had brought him his tea in silence, his supper with no more than a word. It was a nice supper—she set it before him with an expression which seemed to say that however badly she herself was treated, she would do her duty by others. And Mallalieu, seeing that expression, had not been able to refrain from one of his sneering remarks.
“Think yourself very badly done to, don’t you, missis!” he had exclaimed with a laugh. “Think I’m a mean ’un, what?”
“I express no opinion, Mr. Mallalieu,” replied Miss Pett, frigidly and patiently. “I think it better for people to reflect. A night’s reflection,” she continued as she made for the door, “oft brings wisdom, even to them as doesn’t usually cultivate it.”
Mallalieu had no objection to the cultivation of wisdom—for his own benefit, and he was striving to produce something from the process as he lay there, waiting. But he said to himself that it was easy enough to be wise after the event—and for him the event had happened. He was in the power of these two, whom he had long since recognized as an unscrupulous woman and a shifty man. They had nothing to do but hand him over to the police if they liked: for anything he knew, Chris Pett might already have played false and told the police of affairs at the cottage. And yet on deeper reflection, he did not think that possible—for it was evident that aunt and nephew were after all they could get, and they would get nothing from the police authorities, while they might get a good deal from him. But—what did they expect to get from him? He had been a little perplexed by their attitude when he asked them if they expected him to carry a lot of money on him—a fugitive. Was it possible—the thought came to him like a thunderclap in the darkness—that they knew, or had some idea, of what he really had on him? That Miss Pett had drugged him every night he now felt sure—well, then, in that case how did he know that she hadn’t entered his room and searched his belongings, and especially the precious waistcoat?
Mallalieu had deposited that waistcoat in the same place every night—on a chair which stood at the head of his bed. He had laid it folded on the chair, had deposited his other garments in layers upon it, had set his candlestick and a box of matches on top of all. And everything had always been there, just as he
