by Cyril Hare
"I have found this, Mr. Ransome." The diamond ear-ring glittered on the Superintendent's broad palm.
"Oh, good!" Godfrey's relief at seeing it again swept away his temporary annoyance. "My mother will be pleased."
"You recognize it as Mrs. Ransome's?"
"Of course."
"And when did she lose it?"
The voice was no longer coy. It was distinctly hard and unpleasant.
Godfrey said nothing for a moment. In the brief pause before he answered he had time to feel very frightened, very foolish and very angry.
"I think you had better ask her that," he said finally.
Trimble gave him a long, hard stare. His face was quite expressionless.
"If you put it that way, Mr. Ransome, perhaps I had," he said.
* * *
Mrs. Ransome was sitting in her drawing-room sewing when Godfrey entered with the two detectives. She raised her elegant eyebrows at the sight of them.
"What is it, Godfrey?" she asked. "And who are these extraordinary people? I told you not to let anyone in."
"We are——" Trimble began, but Godfrey was determined to be too quick for him.
"This is a policeman, Mother," he said. "He's found your ear-ring."
"Oh, but how clever of you!" Mrs. Ransome exclaimed, laying her sewing in her lap. "You see how much better policemen are at looking for things than ordinary people, Godfrey! Let me see it. Yes—my ear-ring it is. Where did you find it, Constable?"
"Superintendent, madam. Detective-Superintendent Trimble of the Markshire Constabulary. This is Detective-Sergeant Broome."
"I beg your pardon. Well, I'm extremely grateful to you both, all the same. I was going down to the police-station about it today, but I suppose my son told you it was missing."
"It was found, madam, in the course of another enquiry altogether," said Trimble portentously.
"Well, never mind how. It has been recovered, that's the great thing. Er—I was going to offer a little reward. Godfrey, dear, my bag is on that table in the window, I think."
"Please don't trouble yourself, Mr. Ransome," said Trimble. "There is, of course, no question of any reward in this case. What I am interested in, madam, is how you came to lose it."
"What an extraordinary question to ask! How does one lose an ear-ring? If you were a woman and hadn't ever bothered to have your ears pierced, you wouldn't need to be told. It's the most fatally easy thing in the world."
"I have no doubt it is. But are you able to say when and where you lost it?"
"If I was able to say that, I should have been able to find it for myself. But it wasn't stolen, if that is what is bothering you. It dropped off somewhere on the hill the other evening, that's all I know. Was that where you found it?"
"I found it yesterday morning in a litter bin by the Arch-druid's Yew."
"In a litter bin! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I'm sure you never thought of looking there, Godfrey."
"The bin had only been placed there just before. There can be no question of your having dropped it into the bin."
"Well, really, this is very odd. You mean to tell me that someone picked it up and put it into the bin? What strange things some people do!"
"Be that as it may, madam," said Trimble impatiently, "it would appear that this ear-ring was lost in the vicinity of the Arch-druid's Yew."
Mrs. Ransome shook her head vaguely.
"I'm no good at those touristy names," she said. "I'm only a resident, you know. I don't read the guide-books. What do you call the Arch-thingummy's Yew?"
"I mean the large tree about halfway down the hill from here where three paths meet."
"I think I know the place you mean."
"Were you there on Thursday afternoon?"
"I'm not sure. Why Thursday in particular?"
"Was that not the day you lost the ear-ring?"
"Was it?"
"As your son here was looking for it on Friday morning, I presume that you had discovered the loss the previous evening."
"Oh, very well, I expect it was Thursday."
"You met Mrs. Pink here on Thursday, did you not?"
"Mrs. Pink? What has all this to do with her?" Mrs. Ransome seemed genuinely bewildered.
"The body of Mrs. Pink was found on Friday morning, madam, within a few yards of the tree known as the Arch-druid's Yew."
"Oh yes, I know. Terrible," said Mrs. Ransome in the hushed tones which a well-bred person sometimes employs in speaking of the recently dead. Then her face changed as an idea suddenly came to her. "Mrs. Pink!" she repeated. "You mean she might have taken my ear-ring with her when she left the house? Godfrey, we never thought of that!"
It was very plain from Godfrey's expression at that moment, as the Superintendent was quick to observe, that he certainly had never thought of any such thing.
"Of course," Mrs. Ransome went on, "she might have taken it accidentally—caught up in her dress in some way. It's always possible. One wants to be charitable to the poor thing after what has happened. But she certainly did behave very strangely that day, didn't she, Godfrey? Inviting herself to tea with you and then being positively rude to me afterwards. When we were hardly more than strangers, in any case! One feels a woman in that mood might have done anything. Was she—er—of a certain age, do you know, Superintendent?" she enquired delicately. "Women do sometimes——"
"I know nothing about that at all," said Trimble abruptly. "And I have no reason to suppose that Mrs. Pink stole your ear-ring."
"Oh, very well!" Mrs. Ransome shrugged her shoulders. "It doesn't seem to me to matter much whether she did or not, so long as I have it back."
"This ear-ring, madam," said the Superintendent impressively, "was found within a few yards from the spot where a murder was committed. We know that the murdered woman was last seen alive on the path leading down from this house. You left the house very shortly after she did. I am asking you now to explain your movements from that time."
"Asking me to explain?... Asking me to explain! I really think it is about time to ask you to explain! Are you seriously suggesting that I had anything to do with the death of this unfortunate woman?"
To anyone looking at Mrs. Ransome, sitting in her elegant drawing-room, it certainly seemed a very odd suggestion indeed.
"I have not suggested that."
"Well, you have certainly implied it." Mrs. Ransome picked up her sewing and began jabbing her needle into her work with furious concentration. "And if that was not the suggestion I don't know what the point of your question was. And I absolutely refuse to answer anything further except in the presence of my solicitor. And what he will say when I tell him that I've been practically accused of murder because somebody else chose to pick my ear-ring up and hide it in a litter bin I don't know."
"Very well, madam," said Trimble. "If you take up that attitude there is nothing further that I can do. Before I go, however, I should like a word with Mr. Rose."
"He is not here," said Mrs. Ransome curtly, her head still bent over her sewing.
"I understood that he was staying in the house. When did he leave?"
"Yesterday."
"Then where is he now?"
"I have no idea."
"I see, Mrs. Ransome, that you are quite determined not to help us." The Superintendent got up to go.
"After the way you have insulted me I don't see why I should." Mrs. Ransome picked up her scissors and snipped off her thread. "I will thank you for my ear-ring," she added. "There is no reason why you should deprive me of my property as well as trying to take away my reputation. Godfrey, show these people out."
* * *
"Well, Godfrey," said Mrs. Ransome a few minutes later, with a cheerful smile, "have they gone?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Did you have a look to see if there were any more of those odious trippers about in the garden?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Well, don't go on repeating 'Yes, Mother' like that, you silly boy. Anybody
would think you were afraid I should eat you. Was there anybody?"
"Only a couple of children picking daffodils behind the potting-shed, and I got rid of them. There was a police-car waiting for the detectives outside the front gate, and I expect that kept most people away."
"That's one good result of having the police here, anyhow. It was rather fun in a way, though, wasn't it?"
"Mother, I——"
"Yes, Godfrey?"
"Oh, nothing. Only I—I wish you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what, exactly?"
"Oh—you know."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ransome, smiling sweetly. "You don't express yourself as clearly as usual, Godfrey, but I know, only too well. But sometimes one has to, and I'm afraid I'm the sort of person who rather enjoys doing it. Now for goodness' sake take that hangdog look off your face and go and get the sherry. There's just time for a glass before lunch, and I have an idea that we both need it."
* * *
"I wonder, Godfrey," said Mrs. Ransome as she sipped her sherry, "who really killed that silly old Mrs. Pink—and why? It would be interesting to know, wouldn't it?"
* * *
XIII
FRESH LIGHT ON MRS. PINK
The inhabitants of Yewbury, apart from the minority whose occupation allowed them to make money out of the week-end visitors, naturally preferred to get away from the village during the Easter holiday. By way of avoiding the crowded slopes of Yew Hill they piled into their baby cars and motor-cycle combinations, launched on to the traffic-choked roads and with one accord made for the sea, where they spent a few happy hours on the crowded beaches of some popular resort, whose inhabitants (apart from the minority engaged in making money out of the visitors) had fled to some inland beauty-spot, such as Yew Hill. It was therefore without surprise that Trimble, on calling at Mr. Todman's garage, learned from the gloomy hireling left behind to operate the petrol pump that the proprietor and his wife, with a cargo of paying passengers, had left at dawn for Bognor Regis and were not expected home before nightfall.
By this time it was well past noon, and the Superintendent suggested to Sergeant Broome that they should lunch at the Huntsman's Inn. The Sergeant, who had been on duty practically continuously since Friday morning, agreed with an alacrity that was a tribute less to his devotion to his work than to his horror of the meal that he would have had to eat at home. A moment later, however, he relapsed into his usual gloom and remarked that the Huntsman's would be sure to be crowded out with tourists.
Trimble sent him in to enquire, and he appeared a moment later, announcing with the relish of the justified pessimist that there was not a table to be had for half an hour and that the joint was off already.
"Very well," said the Superintendent, "then we will wait for half an hour."
"You can't get near the bar," said Broome moodily. "It's packed right out."
"I did not say anything about the bar," retorted Trimble virtuously.
He was, in fact, not sorry to have a little time at his disposal in which to stroll through the village. Himself a townsman, he always felt a little out of his element when faced with a problem that had for its background a community such as Yewbury. Village life, with its close-knit unity masking a hundred subtle social distinctions, its ramifications of blood and marriage ties, its feuds and enmities that could be as old as the parish church or as recent as last year's horticultural show, always had been and remained to him a mystery. The most that a stranger could do was to keep his eyes and ears open for the chance sight or sound that might give him a glimpse into what went on below the surface.
With the patient and thirsty Sergeant Broome in attendance he strolled past the inn down the lane to Mrs. Pink's cottage. The sound of hammering and the wail of a baby from within showed that Marlene and her husband had put the duties of home-making before the delights of the seaside. Outside the house, leaning on his bicycle and gazing earnestly at nothing in particular, was Police-Constable Merrett.
The Superintendent felt irritated at the sight of that placid, bucolic figure. If only he had a really smart man in the village! There must be an enormous amount of background information going begging for an intelligent officer. Merrett would notice nothing that was not right under his nose—and barely that, he reflected, if he continued to star-gaze in that absentminded fashion.
Merrett finally became aware of his superior's approach, drew himself up and saluted.
"Looks as though it was going to turn out fine over the week-end," he remarked genially.
Trimble was not interested in the weather.
"How long have you been stationed in Yewbury?" he asked abruptly.
Merrett gazed skyward once more in the throes of mental calculations.
"Eleven years come Michaelmas," he finally announced, lowering his eyes to the Superintendent's level.
"Then you ought to know the people pretty well?"
"I wouldn't say that, sir. Eleven years isn't all that long to get to know a place, would you think?"
Trimble's mind went back to all that he had accomplished in the past eleven years, and his impatience merged into pity for an existence so eventless and futile.
"How well did you know Mrs. Pink?"
"Not at all, sir," said Merrett with the jovial air of one imparting good news. "She kept herself to herself, you see. Ever since she came back to Yewbury as a widow. Nobody in the village knew anything about her, really. A real mystery woman, you might say. Very rich she was, of course."
"Eh?" said the startled Trimble. "How did you know that?"
"Just common village gossip, sir. Rich as a lord and lived like a miser. That was what made her so unpopular in the place."
The Superintendent felt that he was getting an altogether new picture of Mrs. Pink.
"Unpopular?" he echoed. "I understood that everybody liked her."
"Lord bless you, sir, no! I expect you've been talking to the gentry—Colonel Sampson, Lady Furlong and all that crowd. They liked her all right—she was that useful. And the Vicar too, 'cos she was always at church. But the villagers didn't like her. It stands to reason. All that money, and living so small—it isn't natural. And then keeping herself to herself the way she did, for all she was born in the village. Mind you, sir, nobody had a word against her, if you understand what I mean. She was a respectable woman—a good woman, you might call her, I dare say. Never an unkind word to anybody, and that useful in the place they'll have a job to manage without her. But as to liking her—no. She was much too quiet. Kept herself to herself, if you follow me, sir."
"Yes," said the Superintendent. "I think you mentioned that point before."
"Well, that's about the size of it," Merrett concluded, gazing up into the sky once more and sucking his teeth reflectively. "And it didn't make her any the more popular keeping Mr. Todman's Marlene out of her house, and her with all that money and all."
"You haven't told me," Trimble reminded him, "how the gossip got about that she had money."
"Well, sir, in a small place like this it's not difficult for things to get about once they start. This one started over there." Merrett nodded towards the village post-office, two doors away from where they stood.
"Yes?"
"Telephone calls to London," said Merrett darkly. "Telegrams, even, once or twice. But mostly it was letters. All typed envelopes, I understand—big ones, some of them, the sort you send papers in. And then she'd post them back in envelopes with the address on them all ready printed. Same address every time, they say—London lawyers. Well, sir, anybody can have a letter from a lawyer now and again, but when it's happening all the time what can it mean but money? That's what the village said, anyway. I dare say they was wrong, but that's what they said."
Merrett looked ostentatiously at his watch and prepared to climb on to his bicycle.
"And if she hadn't got money," he added as an after-thought, "why did Mr. Wendon want to marry her?"
"Did he, indeed?"
"That's what they sai
d, sir. Mind you, it's only common, ordinary village gossip. I'm not saying it's evidence. But Mr. Wendon could do with a wife—and with money too. Everybody knows that. And there he was, giving her rides in that broken-down car of his, dropping in to tea, even, they tell me. And that's a pretty remarkable thing for a woman like her. She kept herself to herself mostly, you see."
With a parting salute the constable rode away.
* * *
Lunch at the Huntsman, though jointless, was palatable enough. Sergeant Broome was in an almost cheerful frame of mind by the time that it ended.
"It looks to me, sir," he said as they drove away from the inn, "as though this case was simmering down very prettily. Barring accidents, it seems we can reduce it to one of three people. Not so bad, after less than a couple of days' work."
"Three, Sergeant?" said Trimble. "At the moment I make it four."
"I don't get you, sir. You're not counting the boy, surely. A regular softy like that—I wouldn't have said he had it in him."
"Neither should I. Indeed it's on his evidence that I am relying for my four. There's his mother for one——"
"A hard-boiled woman, that. Though I shouldn't have thought this was what you'd call a female type of crime, would you, sir?"
"I should not—but, all the same, until I have some reasonable explanation of that ear-ring I can't leave her out of it altogether. Then we have Todman—we know what his motive was; and if he's the man, we're wasting our time prying into all Mrs. Pink's affairs."
"This sort of work is nine-tenths waste of time anyhow, don't you think, sir?" said Broome resignedly. "Not that I mind—I'm used to it at my time of life. Well, if it is Todman I expect we can break him down when we get the chance to talk to him."
"If it is Todman," said the Superintendent reflectively, "he's a very brave man. I don't expect any easy confession from him."
"Brave, sir? There's nothing very brave about clubbing a poor woman from behind, it seems to me. Real coward's trick, I call it."
