They were alone and the girl spoke softly.
‘It seems an awful long time ago,’ she said.
The boy replied without looking at her.
‘Ages. It was horrible, of course; it must have been a nightmare to you – the whole business, I mean.’
She nodded.
‘It has been – beastly,’ she said. ‘But not really worse than it was before – when he was alive.’ She paused, and then went on again, her voice quiet and pleasant in the general dreaminess of the atmosphere. ‘How queerly things happen!’ she said. ‘I mean you giving me a lift from the bus and then running right into it all, like that. You might so easily have come along ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later.’
The boy did not answer. He was staring out across the town to the sea. Somewhere hidden in the blackness he knew there were great mountains falling up against the sky, a world of incredible loveliness hidden under the coverlet of the dark. He felt rather like that about himself. His mind was in the dark. There was a screen between him and something, something utterly beautiful, and tonight, very near.
Instinctively he changed the conversation because he was afraid.
‘Your sister,’ he said – ‘you’re sure she’s all right now?’
‘Oh yes.’ The girl spoke confidently. ‘She’s getting to be her old self again – now that she’s sure her secret is safe. It has been terrible for her, poor dear … she loves Roger, you see. It must have been ghastly for her to know that at any moment he might hear about Joan – he worships that kid. It would break her heart.’
Jerry nodded.
‘What will they do?’ he said. ‘Stay at the White Cottage?’
‘Oh no; we shall go abroad, I think. Roger has been talking of it for years. He came from the Argentine, you know, and I expect we shall all go out there. I know Grace wants to get right away from England – she’s been so unhappy there, you know. I think that’s what will happen.’
Jerry glanced at her. Her face was very pale in the faint light, and the clear-cut profile against the shadow of the sky was very lovely. He sighed.
‘The Argentine?’
‘Yes – all Roger’s people are over there.’
Jerry was silent.
‘You’ll go too?’
‘Oh yes!’
Her hand lay on the iron rail of the balcony. Jerry could see it very white in the darkness. He put his own over it.
‘I love you, you know,’ he said simply.
She did not speak for a moment, but stood very straight, staring out across the town. Then she chuckled a little with sheer happiness.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said.
‘And you?’ He put the question fearfully.
‘I love you,’ she said, without hesitancy.
‘Shall we get married?’
She turned to him, and there was that expression in her eyes that is half adoration and half triumph.
‘Shall we?’ she said.
Jerry pulled her towards him and kissed her lips.
‘I think so,’ he said, and there was silence between them for a long time after that.
By and by she stirred at his side.
‘Jerry,’ she said, ‘what will happen about this case – will your father give it up?’
The boy shook his head and his arm tightened about her shoulders.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid not. He’ll go on to the bitter end.’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘But whatever happens,’ he went on, ‘we’ll stick together, don’t you think so?’
The girl laid her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.
‘I do, my dear,’ she said. ‘Oh, Jerry, I am glad of you!’
The boy laughed and kissed her. A step in the room behind them made them start and the next moment the concierge appeared at the window.
‘A cablegram for monsieur,’ he said.
Jerry took the flimsy envelope and tore it open. The next moment an incredulous expression appeared on his face.
‘Thank you,’ he said briefly to the man, and, as he disappeared, handed the wire to Norah.
She took it and read it in the faint light from the drawing-room windows.
Abandoning case finally [it ran]. Shall be at home if you want me.
Dad.
The girl stared at it and then glanced up at the boy.
‘I don’t quite understand,’ she said. ‘Does that mean he can’t find out who did it?’
Jerry looked at her gravely, an anxious expression on his face.
‘No,’ he said slowly, his voice oddly husky and afraid. ‘It means … he has.’
17 The End of the Story
It was one of those pleasant, lazy days in summer when the over-bushy tree-tops stir themselves heavily like fat oxen in the sun, and the shadow under the elms at the far end of Jerry’s garden was very comfortable.
They were having tea out there the three of them – Jerry, his wife, and W.T., who looked not a day older than he had done on that evening seven years ago when he had left Mentone in such excitement.
Jerry looked a little older perhaps but life had been kind to him. Norah was radiant. Marriage and two babies had given her a new interest without robbing her of her beauty. Altogether they were a happy tea-party, and laughter mingled with the tinkle of china.
The White Cottage Mystery was a tabooed subject in the house-hold. From the time of his cablegram to the present moment, W.T. had obdurately refused to discuss it, and his children, after several unsuccessful attempts to draw the truth from him, had respected his wishes and allowed him to keep his secret.
The Christensens had sailed to the Argentine almost directly after Norah’s marriage. The White Cottage had been sold to a retired grocer who had distempered it buff colour and rechristened it ‘Acacia Cot’. The whole affair was forgotten by the public, who had mercifully never been greatly interested.
On this particular afternoon, however, a remark of Norah’s had brought an echo of the whole mysterious business.
‘Oh,’ she had said, ‘of course, Joan is coming to tea. She sails on Friday.’
W.T. looked up. ‘I haven’t seen her since – since – that affair,’ he said. ‘Let me see, she’s twelve and a bit now, isn’t she?’
Norah nodded.
‘Yes, and looks sixteen,’ she said. ‘An extraordinary child – just the same as she was as a kid – just as reticent and sort of “fey”.’
The old detective set his teacup down on the table before he spoke.
‘She doesn’t like England, I understand,’ he said. ‘Going back again after only one term at school?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it absurd?’ Norah laughed as she spoke. ‘I wrote Grace and told her that we’d look after the child in the holidays, but Joan wants to go back – she says she hates being at school.’
‘She’s an odd sort of kid,’ put in Jerry. ‘Not the type to get on well at school – a wild creature, very frank and unexpected.’
‘Hush!’ said Norah. ‘She’s coming down the path. Don’t let her think you’re talking about her.’
The conversation was duly changed, and Jerry and his father were discussing the condition of the lawn by the time the young lady in question came up.
W.T. looked at her with interest.
She was a tall, sturdy youngster, heavy-boned and strong, with big black eyes and long pig-tails. She walked with a stride, her little frill of skirt fluttering about her long legs, absurd and inadequate, a polite gesture to convention only.
The detective could see what Jerry had meant when he said that she was not the type to get on well at school.
She was obviously a creature who required freedom. A young savage almost. There was no self-consciousness in her bearing. She smiled frankly round the table and sat down.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking at W.T. as Jerry introduced him, ‘I’ve heard of you from Mother.’
‘I remember you,’ said the detective. ‘Have you forgotten me?’
The child
looked at him doubtfully.
‘I don’t remember you,’ she said. ‘Was I very young?’
‘You were – rather. They tell me you’re going to leave us. You’ve only just come.’
She nodded and laughed.
‘I know. I can’t stand it at school – I don’t fit in over here. Miss Garnham says I’m not civilized.’
‘You like it better over there?’
‘Rather!’ There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in her young voice. ‘It’s – big over there,’ she said; ‘big enough to move about and stretch yourself – d’you know?’
W.T. laughed and nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know.’
The girl turned to Norah.
‘How are your children, Auntie?’ she inquired.
‘All right,’ said Norah, and added after a frown and a pause, ‘except for one thing. Do you know, I think your long association with crime, Dad, is – is coming out in Bill.’
‘My dear!’ expostulated Jerry.
W.T. laughed. ‘This sounds serious,’ he said. ‘What signs of depravity has young four-year-old been showing?’
‘Well,’ said Norah, ‘I hardly like to say it, but he – steals!’
‘How horrible!’ said W.T. ‘I’ll get a warrant.’
Norah grimaced at him.
‘Don’t tease me,’ she said. ‘I’m really quite worried about it. He stole a whole bladder of lard off one of those tray things outside a pork-butcher’s when I left him there in the pram – and hid it under the coverlet. I didn’t find it till I got home … I felt so terribly awkward going back to pay for it.’
‘Oh, my dear girl, you are an old silly.’ Jerry put his arm round his wife as she spoke and hugged her.
Norah raised her eyebrows.
‘I don’t know what you’re all laughing at,’ she said. ‘I thought it was awful. Fancy going into a shop and saying, “ Please can I pay for that bladder of lard you’ve lost? My baby stole it.”’
‘My dear child,’ W.T. spoke mildly, ‘if I may mention it, Bill’s crime seems only to horrify you so much because of the awkwardness it caused you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Norah. ‘I was thinking entirely of my son’s moral nature. A baby who would steal a bladder of lard would steal anything.’
‘Rather,’ said Jerry. ‘The kid’s a fool. That’s all there is in that.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Norah. ‘I think it shows a definite criminal tendency. When I said, “Did you take that, Bill?” he beamed at me, and said, “No.” … So I spanked him, of course.’
‘Poor old Bill,’ said Jerry, whose sympathies were with his son entirely.
‘I’m quite worried about it,’ Norah persisted. ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if he grew up in the habit of stealing.’
W.T. opened his mouth to reply, but Joan, who had listened to the conversation unsmilingly, forestalled him.
‘I shouldn’t worry, Aunt,’ she said. ‘I think you do things without realizing that they’re wrong or dangerous when you’re a child. I remember firing a gun at a man once.’
W.T. put out his hand to lay it on her arm, but Jerry’s expression prevented him. Both the boy and his wife had turned to the child, their eyes wide and inquiring, the laughter dying suddenly out of their faces.
Joan continued, quite unconscious of the effect she was producing, while W.T. leant back in his chair, his eyes closed and his face immovable.
‘Of course, I don’t remember it very well,’ the child went on. ‘I think it must have been when we first went out to the Argentine … I only remember the man’s face. He was very big and fat and red, with little monkey eyes.’ She paused and laughed. ‘Have I shocked you all?’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – I don’t think I hurt the man.’
Norah drew a sharp breath. Her face was very pale.
‘Tell us about it, dear,’ she said, striving to keep her voice steady. The child looked at her curiously, but was nothing loth to talk, and went on with her reminiscences light-heartedly.
‘I don’t remember anything about it really,’ she said, ‘except that I did it. I know I hated the man – I used to call him Satan to myself. Old Estah said he was Satan. Do you remember Estah, Aunt?’
Norah nodded. She was white to the lips, and Jerry, who was none too steady himself, put his hand over hers.
W.T. alone was apparently unmoved by the story. He sat quiet, his eyes shut.
‘Estah hated this man,’ Joan continued. ‘She used to tell me how wicked he was until I was terrified of him. He used to make trouble. I remember people were always cross when he was about.’
‘Yes?’ said Jerry, unable to keep silent any longer. ‘And so you shot him?’
Joan laughed.
‘Uncle Jerry, that sounds dreadful!’ she said. ‘I don’t really remember what had happened, but I know I hated Satan, and one day I was in the garden with a pail in my hand. I don’t remember where it was or what I was doing – it’s rather like a dream now – but I know I passed a door, and looked in and saw Satan leaning over a table laughing at me. I was just scared of him, and I hated him, and I suddenly remembered that there was a gun in the corner of the room …’ She paused and looked round her. ‘It sounds shocking, doesn’t it,’ she said, and laughed again. ‘Estah had told me about the gun. She said to me, “Don’t touch that; it might go off and hurt somebody.” And so when I saw Satan there I remembered the gun, and I remembered thinking that he ought to be hurt if he was so wicked.’
Jerry’s hand closed tightly over his wife’s, and she trembled beside him.
‘I lifted the gun,’ the child went on; ‘it was terribly heavy; I could hardly carry it. Satan just laughed at me, and that made me cross, so I banged it down on the table at him and I squeezed the trigger part with all my strength. There was an awful bang, and I shut my eyes and ran out into the garden and picked up my pail … I don’t remember any more. But I’m sure that happened.’
There was utter silence for some seconds after she had spoken, and presently her gurgling chuckle echoed again.
‘It sounds awful, I know,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure it did him good. I never remember hearing of him again, anyway. I scared him, I suppose. I know I felt I must be very quiet about it in case Estah was cross with me for touching the gun. So Bill’s no worse than I was, Aunt.’
Norah took out her handkerchief and hid her face in it, and W.T. spoke, forcing a jocular note into his voice.
‘Joan,’ he said, ‘that’s a very shocking story. I am appalled by it. When I think I am having tea with a young woman as wicked as all that it horrifies me and makes my hair go white.’
‘It’s white already,’ said Joan, laughing at him.
He drew her towards him and perched her on his knee.
‘That shows how clever I am,’ he said, ‘and how unutterably old and respectable; and so you mark well what I say. Don’t you go telling fairy-stories like that to everyone you meet.’
The girl blushed.
‘That’s not a fairy-story,’ she said. ‘I did …’
‘No,’ said the old detective very firmly. ‘Don’t believe it. That’s a dream. Haven’t you ever dreamt something so clearly that you thought in the morning that it was true? I dreamt I was an ancient Briton once. I was so convinced about it that I nearly came down to breakfast in a skin rug – that’s what happened to you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the child said doubtfully. ‘I do remember Satan, and –’
‘Of course you do,’ said W.T. ‘And don’t I remember the coracle I sailed in, and my dog that was as big and as fierce as a lion? Of course I do, but it didn’t happen; it wasn’t true. Honestly Joan, wasn’t it a dream?’
The child hesitated.
‘It was an awful long time ago,’ she said at last. ‘It might have been a dream …’
‘Of course it was,’ said W.T. ‘Of course it was; and a bad dream, too. You can do better than that … When are you going back to school?’
‘
Now,’ said the child, grimacing at him. ‘I’ve got to get in to prep., but I’m not worrying – in a week’s time I’ll be free for ever and ever and ever.’
W.T. released her.
‘Good-bye, then, my dear,’ he said. ‘Put that cake of Norah’s in your satchel – perhaps with care you could eat it in prep. – and, Joan …’
‘Yes?’
‘Never tell your dreams.’
‘All right. Good-bye, Aunt Norah. Good-bye, Uncle Jerry.’ She took the cake and ran off, a wild colt of a creature – all legs and arms.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Jerry looked at his father.
‘Dad – you – you knew,’ he said huskily.
The old man nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s the truth of the White Cottage Mystery … Estah Phillips was the murderess of Eric Crowther, although she never knew it.’
Norah began to cry softly, and Jerry put his arm round her.
‘Hush,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing to worry about … It can’t be helped. It’s one of those queer terrible judgements that do happen from time to time. Don’t cry, old lady.’
Norah sat up, and wiping her eyes, hastily turned to the old man. ‘How did you find out?’ she demanded.
W.T. hesitated.
‘I made a vow never to breathe a word about that murder,’ he said at last, ‘but now you know so much you may as well hear it all. It was Gross who first gave me the hint. I was in despair, as you know – everyone ought to have done it, but by the evidence nobody had. I took down Gross’s Criminal Psychology and opened it at random, and almost the first words I read were something like this:
The child has its own views as to what a person’s deserts are. These views can rarely be judged by our own.
He paused and stared in front of him, recalling the scene to his mind.
‘Of course,’ he went on at last, ‘I didn’t pay much attention to them at first, but somehow they took hold of my mind. I began to think of the child, and of that queer old woman Estah, who was just the type to bring up a kid with a hatred of Crowther. After all, I argued, a child only knows what it is told. The difference between God and the Devil is only clear to it because it has been told that God is good and Satan is bad.’
The White Cottage Mystery Page 13
