‘I did play for Mede, yes,’ said Tom.
‘Ah!’ The blacksmith picked up his hammer, regarded it carefully, took each hand away in turn and spat on each palm. ‘Ah, so ee did,’ he said in a tone of menace. Then gentler thoughts prevailed. He put the hammer down. ‘But ee be a stranger, too. Not a Mede man, eh?’ he enquired.
Tom, relaxing, said no, he was not a Mede man.
‘I’m a holiday tutor to Derek Caux,’ he added. The blacksmith spat—on to a heap of rusty iron ploughshares this time.
‘If that lad was mine,’ he said sourly, ‘I’d dress un in petticoats, I ’ud.’
‘Oh, no! He’s not as bad as all that,’ said Tom. ‘And he’s delicate, you know. It makes a difference.’
The blacksmith wagged his head sombrely.
‘If he was mine (which, thank God, un ain’t) I’d dress un in petticoats,’ he repeated.
‘He’s not a bad cricketer, anyway,’ argued Tom.
‘He ain’t as bad a cricketer as that un as messed up poor Mr. Witt’s ’ead with his own bat,’ agreed the blacksmith. ‘And if I knowed for sartain who done that, I’d strangle the truth out of un.’
‘The police haven’t got very far,’ said Mrs. Bradley, venturing into the conversation once more.
‘Police! Police can’t follow the nose in front of their faces. Back you anything you like there’s one chap in Mede that know more than he’ve told the police.’
‘Ah, the landlord of the Frenchman’s Inn,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘Yes, we heard a rumour of that, but there can’t be anything in it.’
‘And why for not?’
‘According to the reports he was out on the field when Mr. Witt was killed.’
‘Ah. And now I’ll tell ee a funny thing. First time Mr. Witt played for Bruke, Cornish … that’s him you’re talking about … he says, “Oh, so you’ve found me, ’ave ee?” And then un spits, same like if I was to do here.’ He demonstrated, cleverly missing Tom’s shoe by an inch and a half. Tom moved away. ‘Ah, that’s what un done. Since that day they’ve never spoke to one another. But actually to ’ave killed Mr. Witt, well, no, I don’t see ’ow un could a-managed that, like. But they blokes over to Mede, they be a rare bad lot. I wonder somebody didn’t warn ee,’ he added to Tom, ‘before you got yourself mucked up with the likes of they. And now, ma’am, what was it ee wanted to ask me?’
‘Whether the church is registered for births, deaths and marriages.’
‘Marriages, yes. As to t’other two, I reckon us be all registered for they.’ They left him bellowing delightedly at his own wit.
‘What does, “So you’ve found me, have you?” sound like to you, Mr. Donagh?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired, when George had let in the clutch and they were on their way to the house wherein lived the Bruke umpire.
‘Blackmail,’ Tom replied promptly. Mrs. Bradley leered affectionately at him.
‘I think so, too,’ she said, ‘but how are we going to prove it?’
‘Even if we could, it wouldn’t help us, would it? I mean, this landlord chap is so definitely out of it. I don’t even see how he could have been an accomplice. Now if it had been Sir Adrian, and he had persuaded Derek to do the actual killing, all would have been plain sailing. But Sir Adrian was fielding and although Derek … and, anyway, I can’t see Derek committing a crime.’
‘Can’t you? And yet I saw his twin brother Francis push Miss Higgs into the river, you know.’
‘Really? But twins may not have the same ideas about homicide.’
‘True, child. And here we are at Mr. Townshend’s gate, if I mistake not.’
Mr. Townshend, the Bruke umpire, was a retired school-master. He had bought two cottages in Bruke before there was a housing shortage—that is to say, a considerable number of years before his retirement—and had had them converted, at inconsiderable cost, into one. From that point he had become his own carpenter, joiner and handyman. It had been his hobby to spend his holidays roaming the countryside in search of good materials from old houses in process of demolition and of acquiring—often for very little money—such items as mantelpieces, panelling, doors and tiles. The result was heterogeneous but, to the owner, satisfying in the extreme.
He opened the door himself.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Brook and son, no doubt. Come in, come in, come in.’
‘Not under false pretences,’ said Mrs. Bradley sternly. ‘I am not Mrs. Brook, and this is not my son. This is Mr. Tom Donagh, of the Mede cricket eleven, and I am Mrs. Bradley from the village of Wandles Parva.’
‘Wandles? Ah, I’ve often wished we could get a fixture with them. You might examine the chances. Are Wandles very strong this year? We could give them next Saturday fortnight. Do please come in.’
Mrs. Bradley, committed to a description of the Wandles Parva eleven, found herself in an unexpectedly strong position, for the vicar of Wandles had preached a sermon on cricket the Sunday morning before she had left. She had an excellent memory, and, in any case, knew by sight, if not always personally, the men who composed the Wandles team, and she and her host were soon earnestly chatting.
A pleasant-faced woman brought in afternoon tea.
‘The wife,’ said the umpire. ‘Mrs. Bradley from Wandles Parva, dear, and Mr. Tom Donagh, one of our erstwhile opponents from Mede. Sit down, dear. Sit down. Sit down. Sit down.’
‘From Mede?’ said the woman. ‘Oh, dear!’
‘Yes, dear. But Mr. Donagh is a stranger, you must remember. He could not have known the Mede reputation when he came.’
‘The Bruke reputation isn’t too hot, according to Sir Adrian Caux,’ said Tom, grinning.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. You must allow for a certain amount of local feeling, of course. Personally, I’ve always felt that the match with Mede was a mistake, but it doesn’t do to say so. I did suggest it once at a parish meeting, but even the rector was against me, and as for Wheeler, who is a churchwarden and ought to know better, all he had to say was (excuse me, dear, and you, Mrs. Bradley) “What? And let those something Medes think we’re something well afraid of them!” So what can one do? I don’t even umpire fairly; but that is scarcely my fault. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, you know, and if that oafish man Cornish would be quite unbiassed, so would I. It would be a treat to play against a decent village like Wandles,’ he added wistfully.
Mrs. Bradley promised to do what she could. ‘And I’ll tell you what,’ she added, suddenly inspired. ‘If you get the fixture, what about asking Mr. Donagh here to bat for you?’
‘In Witt’s place, you mean? I don’t know, I’m sure. No offence, Mr. Donagh, of course, but to begin with I am not, of course, the captain, and, to go on with, I don’t know how the team would feel about co-opting somebody who’d already played for Mede.’
‘Pretty rotten, I should think,’ said Tom. ‘That was a ghastly business. Got any theories about it?’
‘Any number. Any number. Yes, yes, of course. I see it in these ways: first, that young Derek Caux did it; second, that one of those fellows in the bar or the kitchen did it; third, that Witt did it himself; fourth, that somebody sneaked from Mede House to the back of the pavilion and did it; fifth, that one of the spectators did it.’
‘Yes, but——’
‘Objections to these theories and footnotes upon them: first, out of character; too violent a crime. Second, firm alibis for them all: footnote, unless they are in collusion. Third, not an easy way to kill oneself, and the bat was too far from the body: footnote, suicide, practically speaking, ruled out. Fourth, by far the most likely hypothesis, and the one upon which the police should concentrate the greater part of their attention. Footnote, it would involve the connivance of somebody at Mede House; second footnote, and it would have been very difficult to time, unless Witt himself had made a definite appointment with his murderer and so got himself out at the required time, which, to me, seems highly unlikely: still, murder is unlikely. Fifth, I know the ground and I d
o not see how one of the spectators could have got into the pavilion.’
‘Well!’ said Tom. ‘I congratulate you, sir! If I may say so, a beak of the purest water.’
‘Yes, yes. The gift of exposition has not been taken away from me. As to the more flattering part of the description …’ He simpered touchingly.
‘Anyway, you have the thing in a nutshell,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘Among your theories there must be the correct interpretation of what has happened. I myself incline to your fourth view. I think somebody came through the house to the pavilion, and I think, with you, that that must indicate some sort of collusion between somebody in the Mede (or, of course, the Bruke) eleven and the murderer.’
‘The Bruke eleven,’ said her host thoughtfully. ‘Yes, of course. There are always wheels within wheels!’ He did not commit himself further except to add, ‘And that might embrace a considerable number of people. Although the village would be bound to support poor Witt against anybody in Mede—local feeling, you know—there is no doubt that here he was not what is known as generally popular.’
Mrs. Bradley was more than interested, and Donagh was positively agog.
‘How do you mean, sir?’ he asked. But Mr. Townshend had gone fully as far as he had planned, and possibly a trifle farther.
‘I also am a Bruke man, although only by adoption,’ he replied.
Mrs. Bradley, feeling that she had obtained all the information she could possibly expect from the Bruke umpire, rose to go. Tom Donagh had one more shot in his locker.
‘Suppose it were a Bruke fellow who did in poor Mr. Witt, who would be your choice?’ he demanded. But the ex-schoolmaster declined to commit himself.
‘You had better ask others,’ he observed.
‘A really nice man,’ said Mrs. Bradley when they rejoined George and the car. Donagh most cordially agreed.
‘In fact, Bruke, so far, easily score over Mede,’ he said. ‘They seem, somehow, a lot more normal.’
‘It depends upon what you mean,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘And I am not particularly quoting our delightful Joad when I say so. Would you call the blacksmith normal, for instance?’
Tom considered this question. He could not answer it, and, by the time they got to their next port of call, the farmhouse of bowler Burt, he had not attempted to do so.
Farmer Burt lived between Bruke and the neighbouring hamlet of Trout, and when they arrived at the farmhouse he was not at home. His wife, a large, flat-faced, placid woman, said that she did not expect him home until seven. He was lending a hand … at what she did not add. She asked whether they would leave a message, and she was obviously mesmerized by Mrs. Bradley’s sharp black eyes. Mrs. Bradley politely declined to leave any message and Tom asked whether the woman could direct them to where Mr. Burt might be found.
‘He be over the ten-acre,’ said Mrs. Burt, waving a plump, indefinite hand. ‘Unless he be going over to Ricks.’
Tom had seen the name Ricks on a sign-post and said that no doubt they would run into Mr. Burt all right.
‘Nuisance,’ he remarked, as they got back into the car. ‘Think he’ll be able to tell us anything, even if we do find him?’
Mrs. Bradley said that she doubted it, and spoke sincerely. Tom was not at all sure that he would recognize Burt again if he saw him, particularly if he saw him at a distance; but, as it happened, they were lucky. The car, going slowly, skirted a small wood, and Farmer Burt was in the act of climbing a stile between the edge of the wood and a field of mangold-wurzels. Tom recognized him at once, and George pulled up.
The farmer, a tall man in tweeds and a countryman’s round hat, took the pipe from his mouth and stared as Tom came towards him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘and who’d a-thought of seeing you in Bruke, sir!’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Tom.
‘Can we offer you a lift?’ asked Mrs. Bradley. The farmer turned his gaze on her and did not answer. He then looked at Tom again.
‘Asking for trouble, ain’t ee?’ he said, putting his pipe in his pocket.
‘I don’t think so,’ Tom replied. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Well, I reckon Mede men don’t come hereabouts, that’s all.’
‘I’m not a Mede man, in the sense you mean. Why shouldn’t I come to Bruke?’
‘Un’ealthy,’ said the farmer, shaking his head. ‘Un’ealthy, sir. That’s why. Sir Adrian ud murder ee if he knew.’
‘Sir Adrian? I thought you meant the Bruke men might.’
‘Us don’t ’old with murder and such in Bruke. Us ’appens to be civilized here.’
‘You’re talking about Mr. Witt, I know. But that was nothing on earth to do with me. I only played in the match because I’m tutoring Sir Adrian’s grandson, as you and all the others jolly well know. It was the most frightful thing to happen, but I wasn’t at all mixed up in it.’
‘There’s no smoke without fire.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Hop in, if you’re going to, and we’ll take you over to Ricks.’
‘Ah, all right, then, I will. No, I won’t. Wouldn’t do me no good to be seen hobbin’ and nobbin’ wi’ thee, would it, now?’
‘Just as you like.’ Tom, who had stepped out on to the road, got into the car again. Mrs. Bradley leaned across him.
‘If you won’t let us give you a lift into Ricks, perhaps you would permit me to accompany you on foot,’ she said to Burt. ‘I represent the police, and there are some questions I want to ask you.’
She opened the door of the car on her own side and got out. The farmer looked puzzled and extremely ill-at-ease.
‘Why, thank you kindly, ma’am,’ he said awkwardly. ‘No reason why you shouldn’t walk along o’ me, I suppose, if you’ve a mind. You wouldn’t be one of these ’ere policewomen, would you?’
‘I am a consulting psychiatrist to the Home Office.’
‘Psychiatrist, eh?’ They began to move away from the car. ‘So that young Caux boy was mixed up in it! Didn’t see what else could be the answer.’
‘There is no reason to suspect Mr. Derek Caux so far. Why should you hit upon him?’
‘Barmy,’ said the farmer, touching his own head furtively. ‘Barmy as a coot. Stands to reason. More of a gal than a boy. Had a young cockerel once …’
‘Hermaphrodite fowls are not a rarity. I once had a bantam pullet …’ The conversation became technically physiological, and by the time they reached the hamlet of Ricks, which they gained by taking a short cut across one of Farmer Burt’s own fields, Mrs. Bradley was able to return to the subject she really wished to discuss. There was now a fair chance that the farmer would be prepared to answer all her questions.
‘I be only going to pick up a pup,’ he said, pausing at a wooden door in the wall of a long garden. ‘I won’t be more than half a minute.’
He was as good as his word. In a very short time indeed he came out again with the puppy snuggled in the breast of his coat.
‘’Tis for Mother,’ he announced. ‘Her gets pretty lonesome now and again with me out nearly all day.’ The puppy whined and shivered and then relaxed. Mrs. Bradley gently stroked his wide head. ‘Nice little dogs, these be. I got his two brothers in my yard, but they’re trained for outside, and Mother, her wanted a house-dog. If you’re staying in Bruke you better drop in and have a cup of tea with her one day. Be company, like. Her don’t have much people to talk to.’
‘What does she think about Mr. Witt’s death?’ asked Mrs. Bradley.
‘Mother? Her don’t say much. Her don’t know much. All her’s ever said to me was that Mr. Witt shouldn’t never have come to the village. One of our gals went over to work for him once … married now, her is, and gone to live Winchester way … but her soon run home again. Nothing wrong, you know, but she didn’t seem to care about the place. Said people used to come away cryin’ after they’d visited Mr. Witt, and it kind of got on her nerves. Gals is fanciful creeters. Not as she ever ’eard or see any ’arm … just that t
hey used to leave cryin’.’
‘Blackmail,’ said Mrs. Bradley, as though to herself. The farmer nodded.
‘That’s what I reckon,’ he said simply. ‘He was supposed to be retired Regular Army, but he didn’t seem much like an Army man to me, and nobody ever did know quite ’ow ’e come by his money.’
‘Did any local people visit him and come away distressed, do you know?’
‘I couldn’t say, ma’am, I’m sure. I doubt it. Margy would have mentioned it, I should think.’
‘Were you surprised when Mr. Witt got himself out so determinedly in the cricket match? Mr. Donagh told me that he almost ran from the wicket.’
‘Surprised? No, I weren’t surprised. Us wanted to get out quick and put Mede in on a sticky wicket.’
‘It didn’t occur to you that Mr. Witt might have an appointment with someone at the back of the pavilion?’
‘Why, no. I never thought nought about it. Why should it be anythin’ o’ that?’
Mrs. Bradley felt that there was no further information to be obtained from the farmer, and she did not pursue the subject. In the lane leading to the farmhouse George had parked the car. Tom Donagh was no longer in it.
George got out when he saw his employer coming, and opened the back-seat door. Mr. Burt vouchsafed one more remark.
‘You’d best ask Cornish what happened between him and Mr. Witt when Cornish kept the Old Rum Puncheon at Gardling,’ he observed. ‘That’s where that all begun. You know, when the G.I. troops was stationed over there in the war. Mr. Witt had a room at the place for a bit. Never paid a penny for it, neither, or so I did hear tell. But mind how you sets about asking un. He be a proper old madman when he’s roused.’
This fact did not interest Mrs. Bradley, but the octopus-arm of blackmail, which writhed and twined around every aspect of the case, most certainly did.
CHAPTER NINE
Pons Asinorum
*
‘Suddenly. amid these elements, I became aware that on the other side of the Sea of Azof we had an interested spectator.’
Henry James: The Turn of the Screw
The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley) Page 9
