“That’s inevitable,” said Macdonald, “and I’ll lay a bet the first thing Hannah will tell them is just how she killed Sister Monica. I thought she was going to tell me just before she began screaming, but she told me how her father killed her mother instead. So the confession is deferred until another occasion. How is she, by the way?
“She’s all right. Fast asleep. She’ll sleep the clock round. I saw to that. She’s as tough as they make them, physically.”
“I noticed that her pulse went on ticking over quite strongly even after her crise de nerfs,” said Macdonald. “She won’t die of her brain storm.”
Ferens sat very still. Then he said: “Do you think she did it?” Macdonald replied: “Do I think that Hannah Barrow killed Monica Emily Torrington? I’ve been very careful not to ask you that question, Dr. Ferens. I asked you to state what you thought the possibilities were in the light of your own experience of psychological processes. You replied, very reasonably, with a statement which covered the case history. I agreed as to all that. You then made two assumptions which are, to my mind, unproven. It’s my job to examine them. Until I’ve examined them, I am not going to answer your question or put the same question to you.”
Ferens still sat in his place, and the thrush still sang from the beech tree. Then Ferens said: “Two assumptions?”
“Yes. Two,” replied Macdonald, and Ferens got up.
“I’ll go and think it over. Do you want any help here? My wife would come and sleep here, or spend the night here—if you like.”
“Thanks. That’s a very kind offer. I’ll let you know if we want assistance, but you think your patient will sleep through the night?”
“Lord, yes. She won’t stir. Incidentally, you realise she’ll probably have forgotten the whole incident when she wakes up. It happens, you know.”
“Yes. I realise that,” replied Macdonald.
3
After Ferens had gone, Macdonald went up to Hannah Barrow’s bedroom. The latter was fast asleep, her wrinkled face framed now by two stiff little plaits of grey hair, her knobbly hands lying still and decorous on the grey blanket. Emma Fligson was sitting beside her, snivelling miserably into a large handkerchief.
Macdonald stood at the door and spoke very quietly. “Come downstairs now, Mrs. Higson. Hannah will be all right. She’s sleeping quite peacefully.”
The stout body got up and tiptoed painfully across the room. “Is her going to die?”
“No. She’ll be perfectly all right in the morning. It was only that she got excited and upset. It’s been a big strain for both of you, I know that. Come downstairs. I want to ask you one or two things.” He led the way to the office, but Emma Higson drew back. “Not in there. I couldn’t abide that. Gives me the ’orrors.”
“Very well. We’ll sit in the kitchen. Make yourself a cup of tea, and give me one too.”
Emma looked at him in surprise, but her face brightened up. “So I will. Never knew a man that wasn’t ready for a cup o’ tea when things was troublesome. Are you sure her’ll be all right up there?” “Yes. I’ll lock the front door and close those windows. You go and put your kettle on.”
A few minutes later Macdonald was sitting at the well-scrubbed kitchen table with a teapot between himself and the cook. After she had had her cup of tea, he said:
“Cook, I’m not going to ask you anything that need worry you. It’s nothing about Hannah. I want you to tell me exactly what happened when Miss Torrington slipped on the stairs.”
“Her come over dizzy, poor soul,” began Cook inevitably.
“What time was it, and what day of the week?”
“Sunday, ’twas. The Sunday before her was took. Just after dinner, two o’clock, maybe. I’d just a-done scouring my pans.”
“Then you were in here, in the kitchen?”
“In the scullery, there. Dot and Alice was just a-tidying of themselves after washing up. Sakes, the noise it made! I thought the roof had a-fallen in.” Cook was getting into her stride now. “I ran out into hall. Right down her’d fallen, and her was sitting on bottom stair, and Hannah was there with her.”
“Did Miss Torrington look ill?”
“Her looked queer-like, not herself, and I don’t wonder at it. Her had fallen down the whole flight and them stairs is perishing steep. Doctor, him said time and again those stairs’d be the death of him. Didn’t hold with all that polish.”
“Was Miss Torrington very white in the face after her fall?”
“No, that she wasn’t. Her face was red-like. I know it came into me mind she’d had a seizure, but ’twasn’t that. Her got up all right and her said: ‘I’m not hurt, Cook, so do you go back to your work,’ and her leant a bit on Hannah’s shoulder and went into the office, and at teatime her was all right again.”
“That was the second time she fell, wasn’t it? What about the first time?” asked Macdonald.
“That’d’ve been the Friday, two days before. Twas after breakfast: the children had been upstairs and Sister had given they their cod-liver oil and then they all went out into garden. Dot and Alice was a-sweeping of the dining room and Hannah was doing the dispensary. Sister had been to wash her hands in the bathroom, and her fell down in the passage upstairs. Her said that time that ’twas summat on the floor—maybe the children had been throwing the soap about. I said: ‘Better have Doctor, Sister. That’s a shock, that is, and we’re none of us so young as us once was,’ but her wouldn’t hear of it. Her sent Hannah for the ammonia stuff Sister keeps in her bag, sal. . . whatever that be.”
“Sal volatile?”
“That be it. Very powerful that be. Sister gave that to me once when I caught my finger in mangle and come over queer, and it didn’t half make I cough, but ’tis good, indeed. And Hannah did count it out in drops like Sister did say and that pulled her together. Though her did go and lie on her bed awhiles, and that’s the first time I ever did know Sister to lie down. Her hadn’t no patience with ’uman frailties.”
“Dr. Brown tells me that Miss Torrington has always had very good health, but he thought she had been failing of recent months. Did you notice any sign of illness in her apart from the two times she fell down? Was she ever uncertain in her movements, or confused in mind, or in her speech?”
“That her wasn’t,” declared Cook. “Between you and me, sir, Sister was a tartar in a manner of speech. Very noticing, her was, and as for speech, her were as clear as yourself, and a sight sharper with it if so be anything wasn’t just so. And when her moved, her was neat as a cat, and as quiet. Very upright, Sister was. Real old-fashioned, with a back like a ramrod.” She paused a moment, cogitating deeply. “Her was never one to ask for sympathy, and if so be her wasn’t feeling so good, her’d never say so. Maybe her had a bit of stomach trouble, because her cared less and less for her food. Her’d never been a big eater, but lately her did only peck at her food. Hannah marked that. ‘Sister’s not eating,’ Hannah’d say, her being in dining room for meals. Us had ours in kitchen, me and Dot, Bessie and Alice.”
“Several people have told me that Miss Torrington seemed to have changed quite a lot this past year or so,” said Macdonald, and Cook nodded.
“Yes. Her changed. Sharper, her was. I reckon her brooded like. I said all along her brooded over that Nancy Bilton. ‘I ought to’ve saved her from herself,’ Sister said. She took that hard. ’Twas a failure, if you sees what I means, and Sister took failure hard. And then some said in village as ’twas Sister’s fault the girl went and drowned herself, and Sister’s always been so well thought of in village. So maybe it was only to be expected she’d brood. But as for falling downstairs and getting dizzy-like, that was her eyes, sir. Her wouldn’t wear glasses save for reading and that, and often not then. You see, her fell after her’d been reading, and that without glasses.”
“But you said it was just after meals that she fell down.”
“And so ’twas. Sister did always read a chapter to the children after meals. She said ’twas g
ood for them to sit quiet a bit. You could have heard a pin drop when Sister read a chapter to they. Her was a wonderful woman right enow.”
4
Cook had filled the teapot again from the kettle which sang peacefully on the old-fashioned range, and she poured out another cup for Macdonald and another for herself. The stout body had got over her upset and was almost enjoying her prolonged gossip. Macdonald went on with his questions quite placidly, almost as though he also were enjoying a quiet talk.
“When the chemist sent medicine up here, were the bottles packed up in a parcel?” he asked.
“Of course they were. Sister was very particular over they. The parcels was sent up to dispensary, as her called it, and Sister unpacked they and put ’em away. Always kept the key o’ the cupboard herself, Sister did.”
“And what happened to the empty bottles?”
“Sent back to chemist, corks and all, after I’d washed they out particular.”
“Have any bottles gone back within the last week or so?”
“No. Not for a long time. There’s been no illness to speak of, and the children don’t have to take their cod-liver oil summertime.”
“Dr. Brown said he ordered some medicine for Miss Torrington recently. It’s not in the medicine cupboard and you say no empty bottles have gone back.”
“No. They haven’t. Chemist’ll tell you so. But if ‘twas for Sister herself, that’s different. She never liked no one to know nothing about she. I do mind Doctor gave her cough mixture last winter. Hannah heard Doctor say he’d send that up. But I never saw no bottles with Sister’s name on. Her washed the labels off and swilled they bottles out herself. Queer, her was, that way. Very secret.”
“When the bottles are ready to go back, where are they put?”
“In that box by back door. Always the same place. The chemist’s boy, him knew. But there’s none there now.”
Macdonald dropped the subject, finished his tea, and then said equally placidly: “I was asking Hannah about that old black bag Miss Torrington used to carry about with her.”
Cook looked round at him quickly. “Sister’s old bag? Have you found mun? I know I reckon Sister never went outside o’ this house without mun. ’Twas like part o’ she.”
“Why didn’t you say at once that it was missing, especially as you knew Miss Torrington always carried it?”
“No one never axed and ’twasn’t my place,” she retorted sharply. Then she went on more slowly, as though she regretted her tartness: “’Twas like this here, sir. Sergeant Peel, he’d been on at us over Nancy Bilton when her died. Now I couldn’t a-stand Nancy Bilton, her was a nasty pert baggage, and bad with it. Not that I never wished she any harm. But Sergeant, he picked up every word us said and tried to twist it around. And I learnt one thing from he that time—never to say nothing beyond what’s axed. And as for Sister’s old bag, it do stand to reason that if her fell in millstream, her bag’d fall in too, and if they wanted to find aught, them could drag for it. I said that to Hannah when her came to me all in a flap. ‘Don’t you go out of your way a-telling Sergeant things,’ I said. ‘Him’ll say us stole mun, us that’s been trusted here since him was nought but a gaping lad.’ ”
She began to put the tea-things together, and then stood, arms akimbo, for a further effort of oratory.
“Don’t you drive she too far, sir, our Hannah. Her’s like a child some ways, for all her’ll work till her do drop. There’s no more wickedness in Hannah than there is in a little babby. But her do take things to heart; and if her’s the next to be fished out of mill-stream, that’ll be plain wickedness, that will.”
“I think we can make sure that doesn’t happen,” said Macdonald.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Why can’t you be a-done, sir? Sister, her came over dizzy and her brooded like. That’s good enough for I. All this here’s not going to bring Sister back.”
Macdonald would dearly have liked to ask, “Do you wish Sister would come back?” Perhaps some reflection of his impious thought reached Emma Higson’s mind, for as she lifted the teapot she said: “Not that it’s for the likes of we to question the ways of Providence. And when you’ve done your lookings around in this house, sir, I’d take it kindly if you’d say so and let me lock up proper-like. Us don’t want no more carryings-on tonight.”
CHAPTER XVI
When Macdonald left Emma Higson in the kitchen, he went hack to the office, where Reeves was industriously writing a report. Reeves had been admitted to the house by Macdonald when the latter sent Cook into the kitchen to put the kettle on, Macdonald having undertaken to lock the front door and close the windows.
Macdonald said: “I’m leaving the house to you. I’ll be back later —garden door around eleven o’clock. Hannah’s safe in bed.”
“I’ll be there,” murmured Reeves.
At that moment the telephone rang; before he answered it, Macdonald opened the door and called: “All right, Mrs. Higson. I’ll answer it.” He shut the door and lifted the receiver. It was Dr. Brown.
“What’s this about Hannah Barrow being ill? If she is ill, why wasn’t I called?”
“I called Dr. Ferens because he was nearer, sir. She seemed in a bad way, but it’s nothing to worry about. I was just coming down to see you.”
“And who’s looking after Hannah? I tell you, I don’t like it. The devil’s let loose in this place.”
“Mrs. Higson is here, sir. She’s quite reliable.”
“Reliable? How do you know who’s reliable?” snapped the old man. “Everybody seems to be taking leave of their senses. Did you say you were coming down here?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be with you within five minutes.”
The old man was still muttering to himself as Macdonald replaced the receiver.
Leaving the door of the office wide open, after a nod to Reeves, Macdonald went towards the kitchen, whence emerged a good savoury smell and splutter of frying bacon and eggs.
“Mrs. Higson,” he called, and, getting no reply, he went into the kitchen and found Emma busy with her frying pan. “I’m just going, Mrs. Higson,” he called across to her. “Would you like to come round the house with me and satisfy yourself there’s nothing to worry about, or will you be quite happy in your mind if I go round myself?”
“Thanking you, sir, if you’ll go around that’s good enough for I. I’ll have me bit of supper and then go upstairs to be near Hannah. And I tell you straight I’m not letting nobody in here after I’ve bolted door when you go out.”
“Quite right. And you can bolt all the other doors too. I’ll give you a call when I’ve been round.”
Conscientiously Macdonald went through every room in the house. Reeves was there somewhere, but Macdonald didn’t catch sight of him. Nobody was better at a cat-and-mouse act than Reeves. Hannah was snoring peacefully, still lying sedately on her back, but her wrinkled face was a normal colour and her scrubby hands were as red as nature meant them to be, relaxed on the grey blankets which Emma Higson had tucked in so neatly.
Macdonald went downstairs to the office, collected his attache case and the sheets of Reeves’s report, and then went to call Emma Higson, who saw him to the front door.
“It’s been a fine old upset and all,” she said, “but if so be us has got to have policemen all over house, us’d as soon have you as anybody, meaning no offence.”
“Very kindly said,” replied Macdonald. “You get up to bed and have a good sleep. Good night to you.”
He heard the bolts shoot into their old sockets with a purposeful rattle as he turned away into the fragrant witchery of the summer evening. Milham on the Moor looked lovely enough to catch at the heart, the evening sun glowing on rose and ochre of cob walls, on golden thatch and enchantment of carven stone, all embellished with roses and honeysuckle, scented, colourful, and serene.
2
“Why couldn’t you let Hannah alone?” demanded old Brown indignantly. “She’s a borderline case, I know that, got the mind of a ch
ild, but she’s a good old soul. D’you think you could put her in a witness box? Not if I know it. She hasn’t got her full complement of wits, and I won’t have her bullied. ’
“No one’s going to bully her, sir. Certainly not myself,” replied Macdonald patiently. “I realise as well as you do that her intelligence is limited. She couldn’t be taught to read and write, but she could be taught to do routine tasks, and to do them well. Because her world is very limited, she remembers accurately all the small things she has been taught to do by rote. And she notices any deviation from the normal. I’m quite convinced she was telling the truth when she said she smelt alcohol in Miss Torrington’s breath.”
“I’ve no doubt she did,” growled the old man. “And how much farther does that get you? You’ve got your analyst’s report, and you’ve got the evidence I gave you about the bottle of brandy. You say it’s gone. Well, where do you think it went to? Do you think Hannah Barrow drank it?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Macdonald.
“Then what more evidence do you want? If you put the facts you’ve got before a jury, do you suppose they wouldn’t be satisfied?”
“It’s not my job to satisfy a jury. It’s my job to get all the available facts, not for a jury in the first case, but for my superior officers and for the Director of Public Prosecutions. And there are a number of facts for which I have not yet found explanations.”
“D’you think Hannah Barrow can supply the explanations?”
“Not the explanations, no, though she has produced some interesting facts. I’m hoping that you can help me with some of the explanations.”
“I’ve been doing my best,” rejoined Dr. Brown. “What’s your trouble now?”
“You told me that you prescribed for Miss Torrington recently—a sedative and an indigestion mixture.”
Murder in the Mill-Race Page 19
