Saltmarsh Murders mb-4

by Gladys Mitchell

  “So it was the Burts?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “At least, Burt denied making the bet with Mr. Gatty, but did not deny incarcerating him in the crypt.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. I had already told Sir William and the others about the person or persons unknown who had bunged loose tiles at William and me from the roof of Burt’s bungalow. I had remarked that I suspected some of the choir lads. I repeated this observation.

  “Don’t say a word about it to them, young man,” said Mrs. Bradley; and she would not allow me to leave her until I had promised.

  I found Daphne in what was still called the playroom. It was a big, bare, chilly room at the top of the house, and I was surprised that she had chosen it. It was to get away from her aunt, I suppose. They did not hit it off, of course, Daphne and Mrs. Coutts.

  “Sit down somewhere, Noel,” she said. “I say, what’s all this about people trying to kill William and you last night?”

  I had to tell her, of course, and then I pledged her to secrecy. She said:

  “Oh, I shan’t tell. But it’s all over the village.”

  “But how?” I asked. “William?”

  “He says not.” Daphne frowned. “It’s those beastly boys,” she said. I agreed, but told her that I had been compelled to promise not to tackle them on the subject. She said suddenly:

  “They say Mrs. Gatty was quite normal before he made her live there. It sounds rather awful, doesn’t it? I suppose that is what the divorce courts call mental cruelty.”

  She turned her candid, beautiful eyes away from me, but took hold of my hand.

  “It’s all very queer, anyhow,” I said. “By the way, I wonder whether we shall be able to get hold of a small bell tent for the fortune telling on August Monday?”

  “Oh, we can have it. I meant to tell you. I saw Tommy Manley, and he saw William, and William saw the scoutmaster and he says we can borrow it without charge, so I’ve invited the troop to the fête. William is very pleased, I think. Comic how I have to approach him through Tommy, isn’t it? The Scouts are going to give us a display of camp-craft and gymnastics and I’ve put a special Scouts’ Hundred Yards Handicap into the sports programme. I must let uncle know. And I must get hold of the prize list from him. The Girls’ Egg and Spoon Over Eleven can’t have less than three prizes, because there are fifteen entries, so I must cut down the Boys’ Over-Fourteen Two-Twenty to a first and second, because there are only seven entries for that, and even at that I had to bribe Oliver, the gardener’s boy at the Manor House, to go in for it, or there would have been only five.”

  “Six, surely?” I said.

  “No. By getting Oliver to enter I also secured the entry of a boy named Briggs who hates running and hates Oliver. But he hates Oliver more than he hates running, and is entering the race in order to hack Oliver on the ankle as they fight for inside places on the bend.”

  I couldn’t help laughing, but we had to get on with the business in hand.

  “I am going to enjoy this fête,” I said. “What do you think I ought to wear for the fortune-telling?”

  “I’ve renovated my old gipsy costume,” said Daphne. “We’ll go and try it on you.”

  “I shall sport a small beard, I think,” I said. “The Bearded Woman. We ought to charge threepence a time. I suppose my customers will be mostly the village girls, and they haven’t much money.”

  “I’d thought of sixpence,” said Daphne, “so as to dodge threepenny bits. Besides, you don’t want to be absolutely overrun. I vote we make it sixpence, with an extra sixpence for advice about their love affairs. You ought to coin money. We won’t tell uncle and the Adjutant about it though. They might not like the idea of the curate doing a stunt like that.”

  “No, don’t disclose my identity to anybody,” I said, grinning lovingly at her. “It will be more fun if I am supposed to be a stranger.”

  Daphne sighed enviously.

  “I expect you will have a screamingly funny time,” she said. “I should love to be hidden in the tent so that I could listen to you. And now sit quite still while I read to you the list in my diary. There’s always something crops up at the last minute. Listen. Deck-chairs, bell-tent, marquees, refreshments, roundabouts, swings, houp-la, cocoanut shy, eggs and spoons, hurdles, potatoes, marking flags, tennis court marker, measuring tape, bunting, orchestra, fairy lamps, starter, judge, referee, whistle, handbell, megaphone, officials’ badges, gate stewards, prizes, urns, helpers, course stewards—I can’t think of anything else, but I know there must be heaps. Oh, yes! Winning post tape! Why on earth didn’t I keep last year’s list!”

  She drew her legs up on to her hard, springless armchair, and turned over the pages of her diary, reading to herself the record of the holiday from which she had returned some weeks before. Then she came to the entries for the past week, and at once the little pencil began tapping against her small teeth and a worried frown gathered upon her brow. I was sitting on the arm of her chair, of course, and she allowed me to read what she had written.

  Saturday, July 25th: The weather fine for a change. What a summer! Taken into Fellonbridge by Sir William in his car. Nice of him. So glad uncle and he do not quarrel, as some rectors and squires do. He was ever so nice; asked about holiday and date of going to College. Arrived home at five-ten in time for tea. Poor old Bill looked glad to see me. Has marked out quoits pitch. Challenged me to a game before I got my hat and coat off.

  Sunday, July 26th: Uncle preached rather red-hot sermon on text, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” The Adjutant very fed up with him, as the sermon obviously aimed at the critics of Meg T. whose baby was born last Friday week. As the Adjutant is quite the leader of the anti-Meg movement, uncle’s sermon rather a slap in the eye. Several of the congregation waited in the porch to shake his hand. Even the Lowrys attended Morning Prayer. The two of them seem to have been the Good Samaritans, which again puts the Adj. in a false position, as that, of course, is her rôle in the village. I suppose it is pretty awful to hate your aunt and disagree violently with nearly everything she does, says and thinks. But I do hate her. And yet I believe she’s much more upright than uncle. Of course, she isn’t my real aunt, only my aunt by marriage. What a comfort!

  Monday, July 27th: This beastly fête! Nothing else talked about! I’m sick of the sight of the village, I’ve been into it so many times today! Borrowed ten deck-chairs, two camp stools, a wicker invalid carriage and a bath-chair to seat the Specials. Hope they enjoy themselves, rotten, snobbish old cats! Called at the public house (side door!) to see Meg Tosstick. They wouldn’t allow me to see her or the baby. Nobody has seen it they say, except Meg herself and Mrs. Lowry. Mrs. Lowry was a midwife before she helped at the inn, so Meg did not have a doctor. I expect the poor baby is deformed and that is why they are not letting people see it. I didn’t like to suggest that to Mrs. Lowry because it isn’t my business, anyhow, so I just said I hoped Meg would soon be better. She smiled at that, and said she had offered her a place as maidservant as soon as she was strong enough to take it. I did not tell the Adj. that I had visited the inn. I am supposed to be a high-minded, innocent girl, which is the Adj.’s description for what I should call a priggish, ignorant fool. I told Noel. He went rather red and changed the subject. I suppose he’s had to promise not to talk to me about it. Absurd! I’m eighteen.

  Tuesday, July 28th: My darling Margaret came over this morning, with a woman called Bradley, a most fearful and wonderful creature, just like a lizard or something quite scaly and prehistoric, with a way of screeching with laughter which makes you jump. Margaret seems to dote on her quite lavishly, which made me fearfully sick, as the woman really is most frightful in every way. However, she took the Adjutant down a peg by informing her that her “animosity against the young woman Tosstick was really a sign of subconscious jealousy.” The Adj. went purple round the gills and said haughtily that she “could conceive of no cause whatever for jealousy in connection with improper young persons of the Tosstick t
ype.” Then the Bradley, ignoring the Adj.’s denial, grinned like a man-eating Ganges mugger, and supposed that the Adj. “had passed the age for child-bearing.” The Adj. nearly threw a fit, and the Bradley continued to grin widely. The meeting broke up in disorder after that, and while Noel, who was purple with embarrassment, carted off the terrible Mrs. Borgia, Margaret and I foregathered somewhat hysterically in my bedroom and smothered our yelps of joy in the pillows. Margaret tells me that Sir William has had one of his old fits because one of the servants cheeked him, or something. She seems fearfully worried about it. I suppose the ever-present thought that uncle or the Adj. might at any moment kill somebody in a fit of rage would be a bit sobering even to Bill and me. Comforted her by telling her I was certain Sir William would never go to any real lengths, although I’m quite, quite certain in my own mind that he will. But I have adored Margaret ever since she was our Head Girl and I was a frightened rabbit in the Lower Second, and I would tell any lie to buck her up. Mrs. Gatty has told everybody, except Constable Brown, that her husband has been murdered, but Constable Brown got to hear of it, and came round to ask uncle how to spell “felonious” and to give it as his opinion that the poor old lady has bats in the belfry, as Noel says, because, whenever she sees Brown, she will keep telling him that he reminds her of a patient ox, and that he needn’t mind being compared to one because, besides being mentioned in the Bible, oxen have large, sad, beautiful eyes and lovely natures. Poor Brown snorted a bit to uncle and uncle comforted him and told him he was to open the bowling at the Pavilion end against Much Hartley on August Bank Holiday. Uncle is easily the most tactful man I know. I’m sure tact comes before godliness, and as for cleanliness coming after it—well, poor William will never qualify at all, and yet the Adj. would qualify easily, and that can’t be right.

  Wednesday, July 29th: Bill and the Borgia have found Gatty. He was in the church crypt, and it seems that Mr. Burt, the author, put him down there to please Mrs. Gatty. I can’t make it out. We all got rather worried because it was past nine o’clock and Bill had not come home. I never worry about him, but the Adj. was getting a bit hectic, as he is supposed to be indoors by a quarter to nine and she says she will not be disobeyed. Noel answered the telephone, and went out. He and Bill came home together.

  Thursday, July 30th: This entry ought to be in yesterday’s piece. We think somebody intends mischief either to Bill or Noel. It is horrible. I believe it is all a put-up job on the part of those horrible people at the Bungalow, and just for once I agree with the Adj. in forbidding Bill to visit them. I have a very good mind to go up to the Bungalow, and make them tell me the truth, but it is so awkward now that Noel has got them to help with the fête. We always make it a hard-and-fast rule never to be rude to anybody who has promised to help with the fête. How thankful I shall be when it is all over! The Adj. has implored Bill to come home not later than seven o’clock, and Bill (who must be a bit scared, although he swears he isn’t) has promised faithfully. How I love Margaret and Bill! I love them so much that I really believe, if the Adj. were lovable, I could love her for their sakes, because they make me so good and happy. But of course she isn’t lovable. I wonder why uncle married her? Sometimes I think he is awfully sorry he did. I’ve thought that ever since I was fourteen. It would explain so much if they simply hated one another.

  However, I suppose they don’t. Noel—I can’t bear to write things down about Noel. Not “real” things, anyway.

  Friday, July 31st: It’s awful, but I’m afraid to be out alone. I keep finding excuses to take Bill with me. I even welcomed an offer from the Adj. to accompany her into Aldbury to see the caterers. I am a miserable funk. The queer thing is that I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Uncle announces that the supposed attack on Noel and Bill was some naughty boys, and he has turned Bob Matters and Joey Baylis out of the choir, although they deny it and Bill believes them. Noel has gone to tea at the Manor House, blow him! I’m scared, and I—”

  Here Daphne put her hand over the page, and laughed and I kissed her, and she threw the diary on to a small side table.

  “I believe the Borgia is as mad as Mrs. Gatty,” said Daphne to me a little later. “I don’t understand her at all. She says such silly things, and then laughs like a hyena.”

  “Oh, she’s all right,” I said, recollections of a certain rather brilliant piece of deduction coming into my mind as I reflected upon how Mrs. Bradley had put two and two together over the discovery that Gatty was in the church crypt.

  Saturday passed without incident. Sir William’s park presented the usual heart-breaking spectacle of wheel-ruts in the turf, half-unpacked roundabout and swing-boat stuff, and patches of mud where grass should have been. A dozen or so of the village children had managed to sneak in and watch the proceedings. Daphne, Mrs. Coutts and I were everywhere at once; the cocoanuts were delayed en route, and William Coutts was sent off on his aunt’s bicycle to see what had become of them; Lowry, the innkeeper, applied for, and was refused, even the right to sell mineral waters on the great day; the vicar helped the local troop to pitch the bell-tent and the fair-people erected their marquees. The fair lent us their big marquee for the refreshments, and paid five pounds for the privilege of attending the fête with roundabouts and swings. They were also under contract not to damage the turf, of course. “Sez you!” as William succinctly observed. Anyway, we all returned to the vicarage that evening with the feeling of a job well done, I suppose. I know that I did. It had begun to rain. A slight but determined drizzle had commenced, and at seven o’clock, just as our vicarage party was sitting down to a belated and badly-needed tea, the rain was falling steadily.

  “We shall have to put Much Hartley in first, uncle,” observed William, holding his slice of bread and jam out at arm’s length in order to inspect the large semi-circular inroad which his first bite had made. He giggled suddenly.

  “Much Hartley,” he said, indicating the jam. The joke lasted him, on and off, for the duration of the meal. His was a simple nature, of course.

  “Mr. Gatty is leaving on the tenth and going to Switzerland,” said Daphne suddenly.

  “What?” said her aunt. “Who told you that?”

  “Mrs. Bor—Bradley, Aunt. It’s part of Mrs. Gatty’s cure, but Mrs. Gatty doesn’t know he’s going.”

  “You know, that’s an extraordinary woman, that Mrs. Gatty,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe she’s mad at all. I believe it’s simply a pose to obtain sympathy. It’s her husband I’m sorry for.”

  “You would be,” remarked Mrs. Coutts, with bitterness. She was eating nothing, and she poured out for herself another cup of tea.

  “A little bread and butter, my dear Caroline,” said the vicar. He had shaved early that morning and already the bristles of a new crop of stubble were visible upon his chin. He felt it, unconscious that he was doing so.

  “Oh, please keep your hand away from your face, Bedivere,” said Mrs. Coutts. She spoke sharply, for she was tired out. Daphne put down her knife and was about to speak when her uncle prevented it by saying to me:

  “Come along to the study, Wells, will you, and hear my headings and sub-headings for to-morrow?”

  “I do hope you are going to make an announcement about the fête,” said Mrs. Coutts, reverting to a week-old argument. “And I hope you will put it strongly. The behaviour last year made me shudder!”

  “Then all I can say, my dear,” retorted Bedivere Coutts, who was also tired, I suppose, “is that some people must be very fond of shuddering. Kindly remember that you are not compelled to stay and shudder. Show a little decency and come home at the proper time on Monday evening. Really, I advise it!”

  He was remorseful, I should imagine, before the sentence was concluded, but he would not admit it. Somehow one never did admit to being in the wrong to Mrs. Coutts. She was a singularly ungracious woman, of course. Instead, the vicar rose from the table, signed to me to accompany him, and left the dining room. I did not follow immediately. It seemed r
ather frightful to walk out on the woman like that. I hesitated. Mrs. Coutts put her head down and began to cry. William Coutts rose from the table and stood kicking the edge of the fender in miserable and self-conscious embarrassment. He felt, I suppose, that there was something which ought to be said, something which ought to be done. The sight of his aunt’s bowed head must have given him the most unpleasant sensations. The kicking of the fender grew unendurable to Mrs. Coutts, I think. Besides, she knew that Daphne and I were still in the room. She raised her head, glared through her tears at her nephew and cried impatiently: