“I didn’t mean that.” The chair was quite amazingly uncomfortable. He wondered how girls managed, perched on things like this all day.

  “I knew, really.” She dropped her hands, and began to fiddle with a pencil on her desk. “It’s just something I don’t want to face . . . that she might be acquitted, and people still think she did it.” She raised her head, and this time her look was searching. “Mr. Davenant’s in a fuss over the details of the brief. It does mean you think you can help?”

  So that was something else Vera Langhorne had been wrong about, for here was one friend at least who was still concerned for Fran Gifford. But what could he say to reassure her? That it was a poor hope at best? “What’s the general opinion in the town?” he asked, on an impulse.

  “It’s horrible, the things they’re saying. As if Fran had been scheming to get the money. And, of course, they think . . . the police don’t make mistakes,” she added wryly. “I don’t blame them, really. But I know Fran, you see.”

  “Do the Randall family share that opinion?”

  “I’ve only seen Hugo. He won’t talk about it at all.”

  “What do you think happened, Miss Barber?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounded angry now. “Sometimes I think it couldn’t have happened . . . only it did. It’s difficult to see how it could have been an accident.”

  “Very difficult. Were you surprised when Miss Gifford didn’t turn up at the dance on New Year’s Eve?”

  “No, of course not. I wasn’t in here when Mrs. Randall spoke to her, but she told me when I came back into the office.”

  “Was she disappointed?”

  “N-no. I don’t think so.”

  “It broke up your party, though, didn’t it?”

  “Hugo was angry,” she admitted. “He didn’t say so, but I could tell. I think he only came because he’d promised the twins . . . well, Mark despises dancing, but Marian was keen, of course.”

  “Had Hugo a—a partiality for your friend?”

  Elsie took her time to think that out. “He was always very possessive,” she said at last, “and when a crowd of us went somewhere it seemed to be taken for granted . . . it’s difficult to explain.”

  “And the next question’s difficult to ask, so I shall have to rely on your discretion.” He waited a moment, and was reassured when she did not protest her reliability. “Were you all together at the dance—say, between ten and half past? I mean, could you be sure your whole party was at the Assembly Rooms?”

  Again she did not pretend to misunderstand him. “We got there about nine-thirty,” she said, “and after that I never noticed the time until just before midnight. I don’t think Hugo left us for any length of time, but he did go outside for a smoke once or twice, and he might have been away longer than I thought. And because I’m telling you this,” she added, without change of tone, “it doesn’t mean I suspect him. He’d no motive, for one thing.”

  “What about the new codicil to Mrs. Randall’s will?”

  “He didn’t know about it, and if he had he’d have wanted her to have time to change her mind.”

  “Do you think she would have?”

  “She wasn’t a will-maker, you know; some of our clients make a hobby of it. But if she was angry about something—she must have been, don’t you think?—she’d have been bound to cool down sooner or later. ”

  “Were you surprised, yourself, at the change?”

  “Completely surprised.”

  “And as far as you know she didn’t give Mr. Byron any reason—?”

  “He might not have told me, but he said she didn’t.”

  “I see. Did you tell Fran Gifford?”

  “Of course not.” She seemed amused at her own prim tone. “Well, it would have been most improper, you know. And Mrs. Randall was in so often about one thing and another—investments mainly—that there wasn’t any need to explain.”

  “She might have wondered, when you’d typed the draft, why you didn’t ask her to call it to you.”

  “She wouldn’t have spent much time wondering, anyway. We were both far too busy.”

  “Mr. Davenant tells me you aren’t being called as a witness.”

  “No, I can’t explain at all how she could have seen it. But it could be as she says, the draft might have been among some other things and she didn’t know what it was.”

  “Where, for instance?”

  “On Mr. Byron’s desk, perhaps,” she suggested.

  “She wasn’t his clerk.”

  “No, but lots of things might have taken her to his room. I never knew anything about all this, of course, until after she was arrested. In fact, I’d rather taken it for granted that Mrs. Randall had said something to her on the Monday afternoon, when she asked her to go to see her on New Year’s Eve. I mean, Fran could have easily said she had a previous engagement, which was true. Why should she throw up the dance, just to go to Ravenscroft for an hour?”

  It cannot be said that this echo of his own thoughts gave Antony any satisfaction. “Was Hugo Randall the only man she went out with?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. She went out with other people sometimes, but—”

  “But—what?” he prompted as she hesitated.

  “I think she liked him best.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  She stiffened slightly at the sudden sharpness of his tone. “I’m not sure of anything. Fran is very reserved.”

  “There could have been, for instance, someone you knew nothing about?”

  “Of course there could. That’s one of the things they’re saying in the town,” she added reluctantly. “But before—before all this, you know—no one seemed to think there was anyone but Hugo.”

  “I see. Now, about Mrs. Randall’s visits to the office, I suppose it was Mr. Byron she saw.”

  “Yes, of course. There wasn’t anything unusual about the Friday visit, except that I was surprised to see her so soon after Christmas, and she did stay rather a long time. But then I thought she’d probably come in with Hugo—Friday is market day—so she’d have to wait until he could take her back.”

  “Did Mr. Byron send for you straightaway?”

  “As soon as she’d gone,” Elsie said. “I could tell he didn’t like what she’d done, and he said he thought she might very well change her mind. So it would be very undesirable if Fran heard anything about it, he wouldn’t like to raise false hopes. Well, I wouldn’t have told her anyway; but I was specially careful with my notes, and the draft, and everything.”

  “You said,” he prompted, “that there was nothing unusual about the Friday visit.”

  “Well, on Monday I was watching her more closely, I suppose. I couldn’t think what had happened to make her cut out Hugo and the twins; I think I felt I must be able to tell something by looking at her.”

  “And could you?”

  “She was always very polite, you know, but rather unbending. I thought perhaps she seemed even stiffer than usual, that day. She didn’t say a word when Mr. Davenant and I went in to witness her signature, except ‘Good afternoon’ to him—she’d seen me before—and ‘Thank you’ to both of us when it was done. And when Mr. Byron started to ask her again if she was sure, she interrupted him quite sharply and said that nothing would alter her decision.”

  “Might not Fran have guessed from the fact that you were both called in—?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. She might not even know Mr. Davenant had gone up to Mr. Byron’s room.”

  “Did Mrs. Randall leave immediately after the codicil was signed?”

  “No. I came away, and after a few minutes I heard Mr. Davenant come downstairs and go into his room. And almost immediately after that Mr. Byron rang for me, and when I got into the hall they were already halfway down the stairs. He said, ‘I’ll leave Mrs. Randall with you, Elsie,’ and she never looked round or said good-bye. I think he’d been trying again to make her change her mind, and that had offended her; and it might very well have decided her to tell Fran, just to be awkward.”

  “Yes, I see. But you weren’t in the office when she spoke to her?”

  “No, I wasn’t. Mr. Byron went back upstairs, and she stood at the bottom with her hand on the rail and looked ever so queer. So I asked her if she’d like me to bring her a cup of tea to the waiting room, but she said she was quite all right, she just wanted a word with Fran. So I went back and got some papers off my desk that Mr. Byron wanted and took them up to him; and when I came down again she had gone.

  “Did Miss Gifford tell you what had passed between them?”

  Elsie shook her head. “Only that she might not be going to the dance after all, because Mrs. Randall wanted her to keep her company. And in the ordinary way, of course, I’d have said something, but everything was so queer I thought perhaps I’d better not try to persuade her, so I just asked if Hugo knew. She said, ‘I shall tell him,’ and began to type rather fast, as if she was angry. I went on with my work, too, and didn’t ask her any more about it.”

  “Was anything said next day?”

  “Not a word. I was frightened of putting my foot in it; I mean, it was awkward. Fran was a bit quiet that day, but nothing out of the ordinary. And when we left she just said she hoped I’d have a lovely time, so I knew she hadn’t changed her mind about coming.”

  “When did you hear of Mrs. Randall’s death?”

  “About eleven o’clock on New Year’s Day. I think it was Miss Randall who ’phoned Mr. Byron, and he went out to Ravenscroft straightaway; he just stopped in here for a moment to tell us.”

  “How did Miss Gifford take the news?”

  “She didn’t say anything until he’d gone, and then she said, ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ over and over again, as if she was talking to herself. But you know, it must have been a shock to her, when she’d been with the old lady only the evening before. We didn’t know then that Mrs. Randall had been poisoned; in fact, I didn’t know that until the weekend, when the news got out that Fran had been arrested. And that seemed impossible, too.”

  “I expect it did.” He put the envelope on which he had been making a few indecipherable notes back into his pocket, and started to talk to her about life in Chedcombe. Five minutes later Tommy Davenant arrived back from his lunch.

  4

  Ravenscroft lay southeast of the town, not more than three or four miles distant. It had started to snow again, though in a halfhearted way, just enough to make the road slippery. Davenant concentrated on his driving, and maintained an unbroken silence until he slowed to turn left from the main road into a narrow lane. “This is where the bus stops,” he said. “Where Fran got off that night, and caught the ten-twenty into town after she left Mrs. Randall.”

  “Do the conductors remember her?”

  “There’s just the driver, you pay him as you get on. They both knew Fran by sight, and remember seeing her on New Year’s Eve. Not that that helps anybody, you know.”

  “I just wondered.” Maitland was at his vaguest. “We must be nearly there.”

  “This is all Ravenscroft land.” Davenant gestured with his right hand. Peering across him Antony could see a hedge, neatly laid, with a ploughed field beyond. A moment later they were turning into an open driveway, well ditched at either side, with hedge and fence still in good order. The ground rose gently toward the house, more steeply beyond it where some sheep were grazing. There was nobody in sight, but in spite of this and the bleakness of that January day, there was no mistaking that the farm was alive, well cared for. Maitland left this fact for later consideration and looked forward through the windscreen toward the house.

  A long building of grey stone, with leaded windows and a heavy oak front door. “Inconvenient,” said Davenant, confirming Antony’s thought, and braking a little too suddenly to bring the car to a halt in a convenient position. “But the individual rooms are comfortable enough.”

  “Where are the farm buildings?”

  “At the back. The house is bigger than it looks . . . deeper. The rooms at the back are the kitchen quarters and the estate offices, with a door into the yard. In spite of its size, it’s a farm first,” he added.

  “Yes, I can see that.” They were both out of the car by this time, and Davenant went up to the door and banged the knocker. There was a pause after that, while the echoes died slowly, and Maitland had time to appreciate how quiet the countryside was around them; and to think—rather fancifully—that the house seemed to be holding its breath. Then the door was opened by a pretty woman with curly dark hair, and after a moment’s hesitation she said, “Oh, it’s you, Tommy,” in a tone of relief, and pulled it wider.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Nell.” Davenant stepped into the wide hall, and Antony followed and looked about him curiously. Panelled walls and a flagged floor with a good rug at the centre; a degree of warmth and comfort beyond what he had expected. “Antony Maitland, one of Fran’s counsel,” the solicitor said, and paused as though he expected some protest; or at least, a question. When none came he added perfunctorily: “Miss Nell Randall,” without turning his head. “Maitland wants to have a look round, Nell. And we’d like to see Hugo.”

  She was older than he had thought at first glance, but perhaps even more attractive; a slender woman with clear grey eyes, and thin expressive hands. She said now, breathlessly, “I’m sorry, I think he’s about the farm somewhere,” and sounded as though she was really distressed. “I’ll go and find him, shall I?” she added, more hopefully, looking from one of them to the other.

  Maitland contented himself with smiling at her; Davenant said again, “I’m sorry,” which she interpreted, correctly, as an affirmative.

  “Come in and wait,” she told them. But when she started to move toward a door at the right of the hall, Tommy Davenant called her back.

  “We’ll look at the little sitting room while you’re gone, and then wait for Hugo in the study, shall we?”

  “Yes . . . of course. You know your way.” She had an indecisive manner of speaking, and when she had finished she seemed to drift away from them as though she had no fixed intention of going.

  “Damned awkward position,” said Davenant, as a door at the back of the hall closed behind her. He sounded angry. Then he said, more purposefully, “We have to go through here,” and turned left into a long room whose furniture was shrouded in dust sheets, crossed it briskly to the far end, and threw open a second door with a gesture. “This is where the old lady used to sit.”

  Antony followed more slowly, and stopped altogether when he noticed a framed photograph over the white-painted mantel. “Alice Randall?” he said.

  Tommy came back to look. “That’s the old girl,” he assented. “Had it taken a year or so ago . . . Walter’s idea, or so I understand.” He watched Maitland’s expression and his gloom seemed to lighten. “Proper old battle-axe, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would indeed.” A handsome, stern old lady, tight-lipped and cold of eye, her hair dressed neatly but with no concession to the style of a later day than her own. A fanatic, at a guess, the question was . . . “Was she really like that, or is it just how the photographer caught her?”

  “It’s an excellent likeness, the one she chose herself.”

  “I see. And that’s the old lady you think would have changed her mind again?”

  “She’d changed it once,” Davenant pointed out.

  “There must have been some very good reason.” Something was bothering him, he seemed reluctant to leave the picture; but presently he sensed his companion’s impatience and followed him through the door.

  The little sitting room had a desolate air. It had obviously been cleaned after the police finished their activities; equally obviously it had not since been used. The big room they had passed through was waiting for an occasion that would inevitably arise to bring it back to life; the little room at the corner of the house had died, he thought, of despair. He found the idea disagreeable, and altogether too fantastic to be seriously entertained. And yet it stayed with him and would not be quite forgotten, even after they had left Ravenscroft and he was back in the solid, no-nonsense atmosphere of his room at the George.

  He set himself to look around appraisingly, ignoring his uneasiness. An old lady’s room, comfortably and not very tastefully furnished; probably refurnished, in fact, for Alice Randall when she came to the house as a bride. Maitland came halfway across, and stood staring down at the grate where a fire had been relaid; Davenant thought his expression sardonic, as though there was some wry amusement to be found in the situation, and hurried into speech as if the silence made him, in turn, uneasy.

  “Mrs. Randall sat on the sofa there, the corner nearest the fire. That’s what Fran says, and it was her usual place. Fran had the chair opposite, and the tray was on that small table, which had been pulled up close; and the kettle had been plugged in down there, also on her side of the hearth. But she doesn’t deny all that, of course.

  “No,” said Antony, not very encouragingly. His eyes were busy. “I wonder where the workbox was put down while they were looking at the test tube.”

  “Fran couldn’t remember. Beside the old lady on the sofa, I should think; that’s where it was next morning.”

  “But nothing to show the test tube wasn’t on the tray, for instance, while the toddy was being prepared.” He pulled the inevitable envelope from his pocket, and went across to the old-fashioned bureau to use its surface to write on. “I’m told Appleton’s good,” he said, stooping.

  “He won’t miss any points,” said Davenant gloomily, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “It is, and I was afraid of it. There’s material for a very graphic picture of what went on in this room that night; but I daresay you realise that.”

  “I didn’t know if you did,” said Davenant, with uncharacteristic bluntness.

 

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