Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn

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      “Extraordinary,” she admitted at last, frowning, and she nodded a prompt response as Mrs. Taylor inquired if she would care for more tea. “Instead of coming to an engagement celebration, I come to the suicide of the prospective bridegroom!”

      “It seems to me such an illogical thing!” Mr. Taylor declared, his fists working. “I still don’t understand it. Why should any young man suddenly decide to hang himself in the middle of celebrating his engagement? No reason! No motive!”

      “I think there was a motive,” Pat said suddenly, and she was very tense and hard-eyed. “Sudden jealousy! It got him down!”

      Her father looked astonished. “Sudden jealousy? Of what?”

      “Remember you bringing up the matter of Billy Cranston and Cliff Evans? My two boyfriends?”

      “Yes, but— Good heavens, Pat, that was only in fun! There was nothing in it.”

      “Not to you, or me—not to any of us except Keith.” Pat gave a quick gesture. “He tackled me twice about the other boys I know, and his jealousy of them amounted to rage. I do believe your mentioning them must have done something to him and—and so he made up his mind to kill himself.”

      “Doesn’t sound very convincing to me, Sis,” Gregory said. Judging from the expression on his lean, sallow face he had been thinking hard.

      “But, Greg, there couldn’t have been any other motive,” Pat argued. “Keith was healthy—or at any rate he seemed to be—and we were going to be married. He had everything to look forward to. Only his being overwhelmed by sudden jealousy could possibly account for his behaviour. It perhaps…unhinged his mind, or something. He was a bit funny sometimes,” Pat added, frowning reflectively.

      “Funny?” Maria repeated.

      Pat nodded. “Yes. He was a prey to sudden moods. One moment he’d be on top of the world, and the 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, СКАЧАТЬ