*
THERE WAS PLENTY to go on, Mrs. Bradley decided. She listed the points in her mind and then in her notebook. First and foremost there was the strange weight of coincidence. Unless she had sadly underestimated the brainpower of at least one of the twins, it was sheer bad luck that Derek should have been absent from the field at the time of Witt’s murder.
Secondly, there was the obvious nigger in the wood-pile, Witt himself. He must have had more victims than one. The field of his activities could well be a very large one, and as it was not humanly or physically possible for the brutal landlord of the Frenchman to have murdered him, search would have to be made among his victims for somebody who had had means and opportunity, as well as motive, for the murder. The means and the motive seemed clear enough. As for opportunity, Mrs. Bradley could not do other than believe that it had been provided by young Derek Caux, who must have opened the house to the murderer, unless he were the murderer himself.
There was nothing she could do in all this that the police could not do far better. She was not in the least degree sorry that a blackmailer had met his end. It was another poisonous pest out of the way, and was therefore a distinct gain to society. Of the other dead man, so far, she knew very little. What she badly wanted to know was the connection, if any, between the two murders, and whether it was likely that Francis Caux had had any hand in either. She was willing to believe him innocent; nevertheless, he had been deeply wronged by his grandfather and might have stored up sufficient venom in his mind to have become completely anti-social.
Mrs. Bradley could not forget how she had seen him push Miss Higgs into the river. It had seemed, later, that he was exasperated at being unable to communicate to her the news of the dead man in the boathouse, but against this theory there now had to be set two facts which appeared to conflict with it.
First, if he had really wanted Miss Higgs to know of his dreadful discovery he could at least have led her to the boathouse and pointed to the dinghy, or (as he was undoubtedly a considerable artist) he could have sketched the horrid corpse. Secondly, of the two events, surely the discovery of the dinghy’s grisly keel should have occasioned Francis a greater shock than the meeting with his twin brother; yet the latter event had caused him to prove that he had recovered his powers of speech, and not the former.
There was not much doubt, either, that both boys were to some degree abnormal and degenerate. Whether they were sufficiently lacking in conscience to have been accessories to an act of murder she did not know, but she was inclined to think that a boy as spoilt and indulged as Derek and one as unfairly treated as Francis might be capable of criminal activities.
Then there was young Tom Donagh. She pondered at length upon Tom. She could understand that he might have decided to take a tutoring post to see him through part of the long summer vacation, but she could not see why he should have agreed to continue it in circumstances as peculiar and as murky as those which had come about. She wondered what held him, and decided that it might be youthful curiosity. And yet it surprised her that a school-master, of all people, should not object to being one of the central figures in a case of murder. His name had been in the papers already, a fact of which he was aware.
Whatever Tom’s reasons for continuing in his job, one thing seemed certain. He had had no hand in either of the murders. This fact brought Mrs. Bradley’s mind back again to the beautiful and extraordinary twins. There was one small point which nagged at her. She felt that, after Derek’s fainting fit, she possessed some information which, sooner or later, would have to be made public. She wondered when, and how, to publish it.
In a sense it was pure theory, and there seemed no chance of proving it to be fact, but it would fit other facts, although even this did not sway her. She knew. She knew that she knew.
Her thoughts turned to Sir Adrian, that self-opinionated and unethical tyrant. She might have supposed him to be at the bottom of all the trouble but for the fact that she did not believe he would have used his over-loved Derek as an accessory to the murder of Witt. She could not think that he would have exposed the lad to such a risk. Therefore possibly Sir Adrian knew what she knew.
At any rate, Sir Adrian himself could not have killed Witt. His alibi was unshakable. It was useless to speculate upon the identity of Witt’s murderer, in fact, until far more was known of Witt’s activities as a blackmailer; but, again, his death might have had nothing at all to do with these activities. It might have been the result of a sudden, unpremeditated quarrel or something done in a moment of panic. The smash-your-skull type of murder was far more likely to be carried out under sudden emotional stress rather than as the result of long-term hatred or a planned revenge.
That brought her back to Derek Caux again. The boy was emotionally unstable; she was prepared, out of her long experience as a psychologist, to swear to that. He had all the symptoms … restlessness, a pathological desire to please and to be admired, a girlish face and physique, a petulant, high-pitched voice, nervous hands, a fear (disguised as love) of his grandfather. He was a prototype, in fact, of the panic-murderer, and might be completely upset … driven berserk, in fact … by something which would have on a normal boy no effect whatsoever.
She weighed the pro and con of all her theories, and came, as was her wont, to a definite decision.
‘That’s it,’ she thought. ‘The trouble is how to prove it.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Tom Donagh, presenting himself at the Frenchman’s Inn on the following morning. ‘Sir Adrian’s decided it’s bad for Derek to stay in the house after the murder. Thinks he’s brooding about it. He isn’t. He’s brooding about his brother. Sir Adrian ain’t nice to your Francis, and it worries Derek.’
‘I suppose you mean that Francis is to be sent back to the riverside bungalow, and Derek, too. And that gives food for thought—thought being as much in need of sustenance as are the vile bodies to which it is harnessed.’
‘How did you guess about Francis and Derek?’
‘It is the obvious thing.’
‘But the riverside bungalow might be worse for Francis than Mede House is for Derek.’
‘Exactly. And you are to go with them.’
‘Yes. That’s Sir Adrian’s idea. We’re to boat and fish and swim, and goodness knows what-all.’
‘It will be interesting to see whether Francis has overcome his repugnance to the river.’
‘Why, are you coming down, too?’
‘A little later. Farmer Burt introduced an interesting and possibly a valuable sidelight on the relationship between the landlord here and Mr. Witt.’
‘But I thought we were quite certain that Cornish is definitely out of the affair. He’s the one person who couldn’t possibly have killed Witt.’
‘Yes, I know, child.’
‘Oh, well, I’d better pop back. Pity it isn’t opening time. I might have had a pint while I was here.’
‘As a resident visitor,’ said Mrs. Bradley primly, ‘and if you will risk your, I trust, unsullied reputation by coming up to the bed-sitting-room with which I have been provided, I shall be happy to call for the refreshment to which you allude.’
Cornish brought the beer himself and set it down on the table in the window.
‘Nice day,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘Rain later, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Mr. Cornish,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘I wonder whether you would do me a favour?’
‘Willingly, ma’am.’ But it was clear that he did not mean this.
‘Would you be kind enough to tell me why you left the Old Rum Puncheon?’
The landlord stared at her.
‘Why I left the Old Rum Puncheon?’ he repeated. I‘t was on account of marrying Norah.’
‘You took great exception to a remark made in all innocence by Mr. Donagh here. I wondered whether there was any connection between the two things.’
The landlord’s fleshy face darkened. Tom put down his tankard.
‘There was n
o connection, ’course not,’ said Cornish sullenly. ‘What connection could there be?’
‘People have been blackmailed before now for trafficking in stolen liquor, Mr. Cornish.’
Cornish breathed heavily and lifted a clenched fist. Then he dropped his arm and contrived to laugh.
‘No doubt. But that wouldn’t interest me,’ he said. He turned away, and a moment later they could hear him shouting threateningly for his wife.
‘Not a man I should ever have wanted to marry,’ remarked Mrs. Bradley drily. ‘I think we are entitled to assume that he did traffic in stolen liquor, probably at Black Market prices, of course, and knowing it to have been stolen.’
‘But … a country pub-keeper? It wouldn’t have paid him to do it.’
‘Oh, yes, it would, if his customers were American airmen.’
‘Oh, I see! So that’s what old Burt let out of the bag, was it? And if Witt had found out, and had been blackmailing Cornish, there would be a cast-iron motive for murder. But as Cornish can’t be the murderer, I don’t see how it helps us.’
‘Neither do I, at present, child.’
‘Besides, why wait so long? The war’s been over for years.’
‘Yes, but you remember the remark made by Cornish when Mr. Witt turned up at the Mede and Bruke cricket match on that first occasion? It sounded then as though Cornish had managed to get away from Witt and keep his whereabouts a secret, and then Witt turned up again … whether accidentally or on purpose we may never know.’
‘Still, Cornish didn’t kill Witt, so that’s that.’
‘True, child.’ But she did not seem downcast about it.
‘When shall we see you at Wetwode, I wonder?’ asked Tom.
‘In a day or two. Possibly the day after you three go down there.’
‘Good. I shall look forward to it. You know …’ he eyed her with friendly suspicion … ‘you’ve got something up your sleeve about Witt’s death. Do you know more about it than you’ve said?’
‘I have nothing up my sleeve except twins,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. Tom laughed. He liked her immensely.
‘Yes, come to think of it,’ he said, ‘and, as a matter of fact, I’ve thought of it a good many times during the past day or so, it is a bit odd that the twins should be mixed up in two quite different murders. Still, perhaps things happen like that.’
‘It takes a considerable amount of explaining,’ said Mrs. Bradley gravely.
‘You don’t think … no, I don’t, either. I mean, I know nothing much about either of the lads, but I still say I can’t imagine young Derek killing anybody. It isn’t that he’s all that good a chap … in fact, most of the time I can’t stick the cissy little oddity … but murder just isn’t up his street, if you know what I mean.’
‘Ah, well, we must wait upon events. And now, do have another pint of beer.’
‘No, thanks. Cornish might poison it after what you’ve just said to him.’
‘So you feel like that about Cornish. Curiously enough, so do I. Well, perhaps we should take the road. When does your new term begin?’
‘Not until Thursday fortnight, but I shall get back a bit earlier than that. I’m being given the Remove, and I’ll have to get something ready for the devils, I suppose. It’s a peculiar form, isn’t it? Rather a compliment to get it, really. I was given the tiny boys last term, and felt a combination of Nanny and Old Father Time. Most devitalizing!’
‘Life is a see-saw of disappointments and compensations.’
‘One compensation,’ said Tom Donagh, grinning, ‘is that I received a very fat cheque from Sir Adrian this morning for consenting to stay on longer than we had originally agreed that I should.’
‘All the same, the money was more than you had expected?’
‘Yes, a good deal more. I gather I’m to keep my mouth shut about something, but what that something is I haven’t the foggiest idea, and I’m certainly not going to enquire.’
‘And Derek?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired. ‘He is glad that you’re going to stay on?’
‘I can’t make out Derek,’ Tom Donagh replied. ‘There’s something on that lad’s mind. He’s on the verge of confiding in me, I think, and I’m not at all certain I want his confidences. You see, the devil of it is that, after all, he was the only member of our eleven who was in a position to slam Witt on the head with that bat. I keep coming back to that fact, in spite of what I feel about the unlikelihood of his being a possible murderer. But, look here, what about you? Shall you stay on here any longer?’
‘For a time, child, yes. And if I were a person interested in wagers, I would propose one here and now. You bet, (in moderation), I suppose?’
‘Say on. You interest me. I’m an Irishman, don’t forget, so your question is really unnecessary.’
‘I do not forget it, but I would not like you to waste your money, so I ought in fairness to tell you that I feel I am betting on a psychological certainty.’
‘That’s trailing your coat with a vengeance! But do let’s know what you mean!’
‘I was about to remark that it would not surprise me in the least if Sir Adrian joined the party at Wetwode.’
‘Oh, I don’t think he will. There isn’t any cricket there, for one thing, and he doesn’t like Francis for another.’
‘You will see that I am right,’ said Mrs. Bradley. Her prophecy proved to be true. Two days after Tom had taken Derek and Francis to the bungalow, Sir Adrian arrived, and, in his own way, (which was that of interfering belligerently with all that was being done by the police to establish the identity of the Wetwode murderer), took charge of all that was going on, both in and about the bungalow and all along the riverside as well.
‘What I want to know,’ said Sir Adrian to Tom, at the end of a couple of days, ‘is to whom this dinghy originally belonged.’
This approach to the question puzzled and interested Tom. It worried him, too, for he had learned the answer already from Mrs. Bradley.
‘To whom it originally belonged?’ he echoed, sounding stupid. Sir Adrian made a contemptuous noise in his throat.
‘That’s what I said,’ he retorted. ‘On the money I paid Miss Higgs, I don’t see that she could have afforded to hire or purchase a sailing dinghy. And if it wasn’t her dinghy, that seems to let my grandson out.’
‘But, surely, sir …’
Sir Adrian shook his head.
‘No use blinking facts, my boy, and the facts look fishy … damned fishy. There’s Derry was in a position to have knocked off that rotten feller Witt, and there’s his twin brother has to go and find the body of this other blasted feller fastened under the dinghy. I’d go bail for Derry with my life—you know that by this time—but what does the whole affair—both the affairs, in fact—what does the whole thing look like?’
This plain speaking, although much to Tom’s liking in some respects, since it crystallized his own doubts, nevertheless was strong meat, coming from Sir Adrian. Nothing was more probable, as Tom well knew, than that, considering the peculiar circumstances, both twins might have something to answer for. Whether the something was murder he did not know. There were, however, such kittle cattle as accessories either before or after the fact.
Mrs. Bradley, urgently sent for by Tom, and, upon her arrival at the village inn, confronted by these doubts and fears, was more than interested to learn that Sir Adrian was seriously worried. She and Tom reasoned the matter closely whilst the launch which Mrs. Bradley had hired chugged gently along the river reaches.
Between intervals of falling in love with wet woods more nostalgic than those of Kipling, and of listening entranced, in the intervals when they shut off the launch’s engine, to the green and soil-laden waters of the river washing amorously up to the roots of the foremost trees, they discussed the two murders until both were bored with these, and the slight tide up from Thurne Mouth, slapping into the reeds and running up into and washing back from the black-avised and super-natural banks, seemed the only thing worthy of philosoph
y.
They returned from this excursion to find Sir Adrian almost demented.
‘What is this?’ he shouted. ‘Who’s been talking against my grandson?’
‘Derek? I don’t know,’ replied Tom, who felt that the question was really an adverse comment upon his absence from the bungalow, although he had stipulated for two hours’ leave each day.
‘Derry? No. Derry’s all right, except that he’s an ass. Frankie is the one I’m talking about!’
Mrs. Bradley was entranced; Tom was astonished, knowing Sir Adrian’s antipathy to the supposedly deaf and dumb youth.
‘Francis?’ he said feebly. ‘Why should anybody talk about Francis?’
‘If I knew, I’d wring their necks! How dare they say my grandson’s a murderer? Eh? How dare they? That’s what I want to know.’
‘Who are the They?’ asked Mrs. Bradley.
‘How should I know? It’s all over the village.’
‘Where did you hear it, then?’
‘Madam, that’s no business of yours.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs. Bradley calmly. ‘Who has been calling him a murderer?’
‘If I knew that,’ said Sir Adrian with intensity, ‘I would throttle him. As for you,’ he added, addressing Tom, ‘you thick-skinned, money-grubbing satellite, I don’t want you anywhere near my boys. Understand?’
‘Good-bye, sir,’ said Tom.
‘You be damned!’ said Sir Adrian. ‘I might be murdered myself for all you’d care!’
Tom was suddenly sorry for the self-willed, frightened, dotingly-foolish old man.
‘I’ll stay as long as you want me, sir,’ he said. ‘Until term begins, that is.’
‘Tchah! You’ll stay as long as you think you will,’ said Sir Adrian. ‘I know your type. But you can go to the devil! Get out of here! I don’t want you any more! Understand?’
‘Then I’ll call it a day, sir,’ said Tom.
CHAPTER TEN
Caliban v. Sycorax v. a Faun
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‘… wish to express their gratitude to all who have so generously contributed …’
The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley) Page 10
