“That’s what I think, child.”
“Well, I climb up, see, careless-like, not looking, and the first thing I know the board starts parting company with the stand. ‘Hullo,’ I thinks, and then I pulls myself together to dive in, clear of the board. And that’s about all, you see.”
“All that I knew before. But who could have got at that board? And what was done to it?”
“Why don’t you ask the superintendent?”
“I did, child. So did the police. He doesn’t know. The boards were not tested just before the gala. He says he saw no need to test them. The bath had closed for less than a month, and the boards were in perfect order on the day that the war broke out.”
“I know they were. Used them myself the day before. The Saturday that would have been.”
“Also, Tom Talby went in off that top board, my niece informs me, on the day before the gala, so it must have been all right then, too. By the way, where was Tom on the afternoon of the gala?”
“Search me!”
“So you can’t assist me, child?”
“No, I can’t. All is know is as I’m the only one as ever dives off the top regular, in competitions. Therefore, if it was malice aforethought, it was malice intentioned for me.”
“That seems clear enough. Now, Eddie, you’ve had plenty of time to think since you’ve been here. When you pulled that woman’s body out of the river by the island, what did you do, see or hear which would give anyone the impression that you knew more about the affair than was convenient?”
“Nothing. I fished her out and laid her on the bank and went back for ’er ’at, and that’s all.”
“Went back for what?”
“’Er ’at. Floating on the water, it was. So I went in after it and fished it out, and when I got back to where I’d laid her down—showed you the place and all, didn’t I?—well, the old girl ’ad gorn. I thought it was a bit cool of ’er to pick ’erself up and vamoose like that without so much as saying thank you. Still, I’m used to that treatment. ’Ad it all me life.” He sniffed dolefully, full of self-pity.
“Yes, but, child, how was she dressed?”
“Like how I told you before.”
“And she had a hat?”
“Ah. I fished it out, I tell you, and was going to take it to ’er when I found she’d gorn.”
“What did you do with the hat?”
“I felt a bit fed up, so I chucked it in again.”
“Oh? Did you have a look at it first to see whether it was marked with the woman’s name?”
“No, I don’t know as I did. Turned it over in me ’ands, maybe, but I never looked for no name. Do ladies put their names in their ’ats?”
“Sometimes, and sometimes not.”
“Ah. What I thought.”
“Bless you, child. Well, you can get up now. Don’t go about in the black-out if you can help it.”
“You mean as how somebody might still try to bump me off?”
“No, child, but you might be run over,” said Mrs. Bradley kindly. She herself looked sharply about her as she left the building, and, disregarding Sherlock Holmes’s maxim about taxis, signalled the first one she saw, got in with great celerity, and drove all the way to Lady Selina’s house, for which joy-ride she was mulcted of considerable sums of money by the driver, who informed her, very gently, that the bus did the journey for fivepence.
Upon this, Mrs. Bradley, cackling, added a considerable amount to the sum for which she had made herself responsible, and the taxi-driver, shaking his head over a customer who appeared to suffer from none of the idiosyncrasies of her sex, stuck up his For Hire notice, and slowly drove back to the town.
• CHAPTER 19 •
Man Under an Umbrella in the Snow.
Title of a finger-tip painting by Kao Ch’i-P’ei.
• 1 •
“And now about Mrs. Platt and the girl Fletcher,” said Mrs. Bradley invitingly. She and Pat had met by appointment in Lady Selina’s house on the afternoon following Pat’s attendance at the Council meeting.
“I was discovered at a quarter-past eight,” Pat explained, “by Councillor Mrs. Perk, who happened to be sitting opposite to where I was screwed up, with my notebook, under the U-shaped table, hidden, as I thought, by Councillor Shepherd and Councillor Miss O’Regan, both of whom are fairly big. Of course, I was chucked out, but not without a good deal of argument, because some of the Councillors don’t see why the meetings shouldn’t be reported, and I said that they were held in the public interest and that I thought the public were entitled to know what went on in them. However, we lost the day, and out I had to go, leaving, I think, at ten to nine. I’m really awfully sorry, but until I’m independent—that is to say, in a Fleet Street job—I have to mind what I get up to.”
“And is the Fleet Street job any nearer?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.
“Well, yes, I think it is. I’ve managed to get quite a lot of personal publicity over all the doings here, you know. In fact, now that this place has become so fearfully exciting I’m not sure that I want to leave it. Still, I have my career to think of, even in wartime.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Bradley agreed. “And now about Mrs. Platt and the girl Fletcher.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. But as I said when I mentioned them before, nothing was ever proved, and, really, I’d sooner you didn’t ask me. I mean, it’s nothing but rumour.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Would you? Well, I know you won’t let me down by repeating it where it could do me any harm. It seems that the girl Fletcher acted as Mrs. Platt’s companion when Mrs. Platt first came here. She was a sort of cross between a companion and a lady’s-maid. She had been apprenticed to hairdressing, you see, so she was quite useful. Then she could write some of Mrs. Platt’s letters, and all went well (so I heard) until Mrs. Platt began to miss things—a ring, a brooch, two pound notes, earrings, a jewelled comb, a rather decent set of handkerchiefs, some expensive perfume, and what not. Nothing was ever traced to the girl Fletcher, but Mrs. Platt got the idea that she had taken them, so she sacked her.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The parents had some idea, so the father told me, when I went to interview him about his prize vegetables that time, of appealing against defamation of character, and claiming damages, or something, but apparently they dropped it. Anyhow, Mrs. Platt must have dropped it, too, because not so much later on she used to have Fletcher up to the house to help her with all her charities and that, so, apparently, what it was had all blown over.”
“Ah?” said Mrs. Bradley. “Thank you. I see. It doesn’t seem, any of it, to call for murder, then?”
“Murder? Oh, good heavens, no! Whatever made you think of that?”
“Well, I have good reason to believe that Mrs. Platt knows a good deal more about one of the murders than she would like other people to know.”
“I say, really? Do tell me which.”
“Not for publication, mind. The case is in an extremely delicate state.”
“Of course I wouldn’t print anything without permission.”
“Well, did you ever hear of the very bad blood…”
“Between her and Councillor Smith? I say! Did you ferret that out? Surely not! It’s fearfully ancient history, though, you know. I don’t really see that it could have any bearing.”
“You mean…?”
“Why, when she proposed to him, of course, and he wouldn’t have her. It was all the talk of the town about six years ago. I’ve often heard them laughing about it at my digs.”
“This is most disconcerting,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It makes it almost too easy.”
“Well, don’t go raking it up again, unless you really must. We did all we could with it in the paper at the time, although, of course, it didn’t amount to a great deal, because we had to be careful of the law of libel, for one thing. We could only approach it in the gossip column, and we had to be careful even then.”
“Inter
esting. Now I want you to find out where Mrs. Platt has gone.”
“But the police are looking for her, aren’t they?”
“Not officially. I think you might succeed where the inspector may fail. Will you undertake to trace her?”
“Give me the inside dope, Mrs. Bradley. Do you honestly think that Mrs. Platt has murdered three people in this town?”
“I’m not going to answer that question because I don’t know whether she has or not. This much is certain. Her actions have been deeply suspicious since the death of her husband. Did you know him, by the way?”
“Oh, no. He died before she came here, you know. She was a wealthy widow when she came, and she’s had one or two companions, beginning with the girl Fletcher.”
“Did you ever hear anything of her husband’s people?”
“No, nothing at all. I believe he was a manufacturer or something. Anyway, she seems to have heaps of money. Since she’s been here she’s taken a great interest in all the affairs of the town—as long as she could boss the show, of course.”
“Yes. Well, I wish we could find her. I want to get at her before the police can question her.”
“Oh, dear! That sounds as though you and Inspector Stallard don’t get on together as well as I thought you did.”
“Does it?” said Mrs. Bradley. “Two of a trade, you know!”
They parted amicably, Mrs. Bradley ringing the bell for the maid to show Pat out.
The postman, his arrival coinciding with Pat’s departure, brought Mrs. Bradley a letter from her niece. The gist of it was that Sally was coming home; that she supposed Aunt Adela had investigated the note which had been left for Pat at the Report Centre on the night that Lillie Fletcher was murdered; that Sally must emphasise the fact that she was bored stiff; that she thought it was too bad that Aunt Adela should be in Willington having all the fun whilst Sally was in exile being (the underlining was almost pathetic) bored stiff.
Mrs. Bradley announced over the tea-cups the imminence of Sally’s return. Lady Selina seemed pleased.
“She can go to the Social Evening for me,” she said. “Then I need not find a reserve to take my afternoon duty.”
“Your afternoon duty, Selina?”
“Yes. I had promised to act as reserve telephonist if ever they found themselves short-handed at the Report Centre, and Mr. Manley sent up yesterday to know whether I could report for duty at two o’clock on Friday. Eight hours is a long time, but Sally can do the Social Evening for me instead. I am anxious to know what goes on in that Report Centre.”
“You intend to find out how and why Miss Fletcher was murdered, do you mean?”
“No, of course not. Don’t be small-minded, Adela. I want to know what they do there, and how they get on, that’s all.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose you wouldn’t allow me to undertake it for you? I promise I would give you a faithful report of all that happened. Then you could go to the Social Evening yourself.”
“Well, that’s good of you, Adela. Would you really go?”
“I am most anxious to go,” said Mrs. Bradley truthfully.
• 2 •
There was no moon and it was cold. Mrs. Bradley caught the bus with less than half a minute to spare, having run the last hundred yards when she thought it might be coming. Luckily, it was a regular stopping-place, otherwise she would not have got on, for the night was black. There were no stars to be seen, for the sky was heavy with cloud.
Mrs. Bradley had mentioned to no one her intention of spending a night, as well as Lady Selina’s afternoon and evening, at the Report Centre. Lady Selina’s shift was a comparatively easy one, although the eight hours from two o’clock until ten passed slowly. There was not that need to combat sleep, however, which made the night shift so intolerable to many of the A.R.P. workers; Mrs. Bradley had read, knitted, gossiped, accepted tea and cakes from the canteen in the Town Hall, and had, between whiles, made out a detailed report for Lady Selina.
Before she left she had had a private word with the supervisor, who had directed her to the Town Hall official who arranged the rota of volunteers and permanent staff for the Report Centre.
In consequence of a conversation which Mrs. Bradley had had with this official, a middle-aged, rather muddle-headed man named Bayley, she was boarding the bus three evenings later, and arrived in Willington to take the place of one of the permanent staff who had caught an unseasonable dose of influenza.
If she had not been down the narrow passage twice previously in daylight, the first time with Pat and Sally to inspect the scene of the third Willington murder, and the second time as Lady Selina’s substitute, she would have had considerable difficulty in finding the entrance. Once between the two buildings which bounded it, however, she found that a white line drawn down the middle of the asphalt provided a handy guide to two steps. These shone frostily in the light of her small torch, and, mounting them, she found herself before a door on a formidable latch which was shifted for her from inside by a youth of twenty, who said good evening rather uncertainly and left her to find her way in.
She walked through an archway into a brilliantly lighted room in which dart-boards challenged the supremacy of large-scale maps of the district, and tremendous notices forbidding smoking (disregarded, Mrs. Bradley noticed, by two of the gentlemen present) competed with two clocks, one electrically controlled and the other of the ordinary older-fashioned, wind-up type. The most impressive feature, however, was a raid-warning dial, on which, Mrs. Bradley confidently believed, a “yellow” was very frequently shown.
There were several tables, large and small, in the room. One supported three telephones, another two packs of cards, a third the clocking-in book, and others held maps, plans, registers of various kinds, graphs, flimsy sheets of printed matter (forms of some kind, some in red, and others in black print), a half-knitted sock, ash-trays, pennies, and a wireless-receiving set.
Mrs. Bradley, guided thereto by a young gentleman of guileless aspect and charming manners, signed her name on the book, and passed on into the room assigned to the telephonists.
She hung up her hat, coat, and gas-mask on pegs (of which there was a row along one wall) and seated herself on one of the plush-covered chairs. She looked round the long narrow room, observed the line of demarcation between the permanent and the volunteer staff, and set about making the acquaintance of the former.
She was lucky enough—it would be proper to say that she had worked out her luck in this respect with the muddle-headed Mr. Bayley at the Town Hall—to find no fewer than three of the same girls on duty as had been there on the night of the murder. The volunteer staff was entirely different, although two teachers had heard the lurid story from their colleagues and were a little over-eager with suggestions and criticism.
By ten minutes past ten the new shift had settled down. Mrs. Bradley learned nothing fresh about the murder of Miss Fletcher, although rumour, it seemed, had been busy.
“I still think the poison part might have been attempted suicide,” said a girl in trousers. “Fletcher was awfully worried about her boy friend, you know.”
“The young man in the Auxiliary Fire Service?”
“Yes. He’d been seen taking out a girl called Gertie Peascomb, an awfully pretty girl. You know, not a lot of her, but ever so sweet. Just the sort boys like. That had been going on for over a month, and we believe Fletcher knew, although she never let on.”
“Really?” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Or else,” said the thin girl, “Coffin himself did it. The police had a go at him, you know, but, of course, he wouldn’t confess.”
“I thought he had an alibi,” said one of the teachers mildly. “I thought the other men said he’d been with them all the time.”
“Oh, they did! But what’s the use of that? It’s awfully suspicious to have an alibi,” said one of the permanent staff who had not been present on the former occasion. “It’s the first thing the police suspect.”
“Only in dete
ctive stories,” said the teacher.
At eleven o’clock the first cup of tea came round. Mrs. Bradley moved to where she imagined Sally might have been sitting. For the second cup of tea she sat in what had been Pat’s place, and then in the place which had been occupied by the girl permanently in charge of the police and District Centre telephones. These telephones were on the end table, and the person in charge of them was most likely to be the first to handle any cups which were passed in through the hatchway.
At four o’clock in the morning she mentioned the note to which Sally had referred in her letter. Two of the girls remembered it because (as one of them explained) it seemed queer for a volunteer to have her correspondence sent to the Report Centre. The supervisor sent it in, she thought.
Mrs. Bradley walked into the next room. The explanation was simple. Miss Mort’s landlady had delivered the note by hand. It had been put through the letter-box at Pat’s lodgings, and her landlady had believed that it might be important. She had supposed that the editor of the Willington Record had sent it.
Mrs. Bradley emerged, at six o’clock, shaking her head. She had learned one thing only from her experiment, and had confirmed her first opinion that it would have been possible, although not easy, for any one of eight people present, consisting of Pat, Sally, four teachers and two of the six permanent staff who had been at the Centre on the night of the murder, to have dropped poison into the coffee, but it was next to impossible to make certain that the poisoned coffee would reach the person for whom it was intended. This intrigued Mrs. Bradley more than anything she had discovered up to that stage in the investigation, except for one point on which she thought too little stress had been laid.
The police had so exhaustively dealt with the question of the three cocktails which Miss Fletcher had drunk before she arrived at the Report Centre that Mrs. Bradley felt that there was little to be gained from going over that part of the ground again, but the interesting and significant fact that, although arsenic had been found to be present in the vomit, no arsenic at all had been traced during the autopsy, had not, she felt, received the consideration which was its obvious due.
Brazen Tongue (Mrs. Bradley) Page 20
