Apparently anybody who came from the house was thus received, and, knowing Sir Adrian to the extent that, by this time, she did, she realized that some long time ago the men had been told to mind their own business and that of nobody else.
She turned, when she got to the changing rooms, and came back to the man.
‘Have you no orders,’ she asked sternly, ‘concerning the persons that may make their way through to the front of the pavilion from the house?’
‘No, madam, we ’ave not. Anybody coming through from the ’ouse is the master’s kettle of fish, as you might say.’
‘Ah, yes, I see. Thank you so much.’ She passed on, gave a glance into each of the changing rooms, and then made her way to the front of the pavilion in time to see Tom Donagh score a boundary hit. Sir Adrian was in the deep field.
‘Now, I wonder,’ said Mrs. Bradley to herself. Parrish, Sir Adrian’s fast bowler, took balance and then projected himself. Tom turned him to leg for two. Sir Adrian was dancing with impatience. His voice came clearly across the ground.
‘Smash his wicket. Smash it, I say.’
But Tom was in form. He snicked Parrish away to the off, and called. His partner happened to be Mrs. Bradley’s nephew, Carey, and the batsmen ran a (this time) risky two. This left Tom Donagh facing Parrish again.
‘No!’ said Mrs. Bradley instinctively. But her warning was unnecessary. Tom stepped out, swirled round, and the ball (which was meant for his ribs) flew out of the ground. The small crowd cheered. Sir Adrian danced anew. He howled that Tom was playing bloody baseball, and then came over and shook his fist in Parrish’s face. When the ball was returned he took it himself. His action was neat and careful. Two short strides, a long one, a cross-over step with the feet as by one who throws the javelin, and the ball, of deceptive slowness, was delivered slightly to the off. Tom, with classic timing, scored a boundary hit.
‘Pretty cricket,’ said the young policeman at Mrs. Bradley’s side, ‘but the old gentleman doesn’t seem appreciative.’
Mrs. Bradley cackled.
‘It’s a lucky thing that the weather is fine,’ she observed. ‘It enables the batsmen to do themselves credit. I wonder …’
The young policeman nodded.
‘I’ve often thought the weather had something to do with it, ma’am. You see, I’ve been thinking it over, and it seems to me that if it hadn’t been wet the day that Mr. Witt was killed, Mr. Derek Caux wouldn’t now be in need of an alibi.’
‘You mean …?’ asked Mrs. Bradley, who had nursed this idea herself and was glad to have it confirmed.
‘I mean, it was because of the wet weather, it seems, that Sir Adrian ordered Mr. Derek to step indoors. If the day had been fine, he might not have told him to do it, and if Mr. Derek had stopped on the field … I hope I’m making it plain, ma’am?’
‘You most certainly are, and I am in complete agreement with you. It was not Mr. Derek Caux who killed Mr. Witt. The only question is … who did it if he did not?’
‘Well, ma’am, those alibis,’ said the boy eagerly. ‘You see, it appears to me that although they all swear by one another, hardly anybody just sits still in front of a pavilion. They go into the changing rooms, and to get a drink and to relieve themselves … everybody does. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to hit Mr. Witt on the head, and there was no blood to worry about. It just struck me to wonder …’
‘Whether one of Mr. Witt’s own side could have done it? Yes, I know. I’ve wondered the same thing myself. But that throws it rather wide open. You see, when Mr. Witt was out, very soon after lunch, there were eight of his eleven in the pavilion.’
‘I know, ma’am.’ He sounded despondent. ‘It’s very farfetched. It was just an idea I had. Ah, but that is pretty cricket,’ he added on a brighter note as Tom carted Sir Adrian to the boundary and sent up fifty on the board.
There was faint clapping. Sir Adrian, looking murderous, walked down the pitch and cursed Tom roundly. Tom laughed and flourished his bat.
‘Mr. Donagh is armed and well-prepared,’ said Mrs. Bradley tolerantly. ‘It will take Sir Adrian all his time to get the better of him in any way, let alone to obtain the pound of flesh of which he appears to wish to possess himself.’
Sir Adrian stalked back down the pitch and picked up the ball which had been returned from the deep field. He tossed it up and down as he walked back to take his run. Then he turned and lumbered towards the wicket, but, instead of delivering the ball in his usual manner, he quickened his pace, rushed half-way down the pitch and discharged the ball straight at Tom Donagh’s head.
There was a shout of warning and dismay from fielders and spectators alike, but Tom justified Mrs. Bradley’s remarks about him by whirling his bat and catching the ball on the edge of it. The ball flew straight towards one of the Caux twins … which one nobody could have said. Whichever it was leapt out of the way with a high, girlish scream. The ball crashed against the stout fence with a sound of splintering wood, and Tom, putting down his bat and shaking a badly-jarred hand, went up to Sir Adrian, took him by the collar with his uninjured fingers and shook him. Then he flung him away. Sir Adrian stumbled, tripped and fell. He remained on the grass, his mouth opening and shutting. Two policemen from the opposing team came up and one of them hauled him to his feet.
‘Charging him, sir?’ one of them asked Tom. Tom shook his head. Gavin came up.
‘Take him away,’ he said. ‘Attempt to cause grievous bodily harm. And I hope he doesn’t get bail.’
‘I don’t want to charge him,’ said Tom. ‘He’s just a bad-tempered old idiot. Let’s get on with the game.’
Mrs. Bradley, meanwhile, was making her own depositions, assisted by the general confusion. Her first action was to go on to the field of play and seize the first twin she came to. This was the one who had leapt out of the way of the ball.
‘I am going to toss you in the river,’ she said. The youth smiled disarmingly.
‘Bred and born in a briar patch, Brer Rabbit,’ he observed. The rest of the game was a farce. Tom declared at three hundred and one for seven, and Sir Adrian’s side, thoroughly demoralized by their captain’s bad conduct and worse temper, were all skittled out for sixty-nine.
Lunch had been a meal of tropic sullenness on the part of the home team. Mrs. Bradley, who had slipped through the house and returned to her car, waited until the game was over and then pushed a message through the door. It was retrieved by the impeccable Masters and taken straight to Sir Adrian, who swore and crumpled it up. It read:
Tell Gavin ask what explanation bar tenders and refreshment stewards offer to account for loss of food between match with mental hospital and match with Bruke.’
She drove home after that, back to her own house at Wandles Parva. She knew that Gavin would find her, and that her relatives would probably drop in for a drink before returning to their various homes. Gavin, who had been previously advised of the inflammable contents of Mrs. Bradley’s note to Sir Adrian, casually observed that evening, ‘I spoke to those blokes. They said that they supposed one of the lunatics did a bit of pilfering. They didn’t say anything about it to Sir Adrian, not knowing what his reactions might be. In any case, he never kept very much check on the food, but only on the drinks, and those weren’t touched. I asked at the time, if you remember, whether they had suspected that somebody—a tramp, perhaps—had used the pavilion as his sleeping quarters, but they were pretty sure nobody had. All the same, I think I know what you mean.’
‘What does she mean?’ asked Carey Lestrange, who had called on his aunt after the match on his way home to Oxfordshire.
‘That although two and two are not mathematically proved to make four, they not infrequently do so,’ replied Mrs. Bradley.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Echo from Wetwode
*
‘Don’t be afraid of me, Marianwas all she said: ‘I may forget myself with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore … but I will not forget myself with Sir Pe
rcival Glyde.’
Wilkie Collins: The Woman in White
*
‘IT’S DIFFICULT TO see how we’re going to get at the whole truth, even now,’ said Gavin, when he and Mrs. Bradley were alone. ‘Thanks to the fact that the twins are identically alike, who’s going to be able to say whether it was Francis or Derek he saw at any particular time on the day of Witt’s death? I know your theory, of course. You mean that Francis came to Mede on the day of that match against the mental patients, mingled with their supporters, disguised with a false moustache or something obviously and equally silly, was admitted by his brother to the pavilion when the team and the onlookers left, and then probably sneaked into the house after dark and slept in his brother’s bed. They were clever about it all, as usual, and Francis wasn’t spotted. He remained on and around the premises to wait for the Bruke match, and took his opportunity of killing Witt. Then he simply walked out of the front door of his grandfather’s house and returned to Wetwode. You see the snag, of course?’
‘Miss Higgs, who, so far, has not told us that he was ever away for so long. And yet she did, you know.’
‘What was it, then? And anyway, I myself never thought of connecting the lost tins of food with the presence of Francis.’
‘He has always been the hungry twin,’ Mrs. Bradley rather inconsequently observed. ‘But about Miss Higgs: she said, you remember, she’d had her doubts about Francis.’
‘Oh, yes, she couldn’t believe he would push her into the river and, (according to her) down the steps of the post-office. I suppose that means she blames Derek for her concussion and the broken leg. I don’t see that it helps us very much. After all, we know now that the twins changed places.’
‘It was something else she said. Don’t you remember she said she had never thought Francis would stay out all night?’
‘Yes, but she only meant that business with the girl who afterwards married and went to live out of the district.’
‘That is what we thought at the time. We thought it automatically, as it were. But, you see, it had another significance. It could mean he was out all that night before Witt was murdered!’
‘But the food, it seems, disappeared after the match against the mental hospital, and, if that’s true, it would mean that Francis Caux was away from home for two nights. Wouldn’t Miss Higgs have said so?’
‘She has herself to protect, remember. She did not report the boy’s absence. She concluded, I expect, just as we did, that he was …’
‘Chasing petticoats again? Yes, I see. Well, she’ll have to come across if he was away those two nights. You see, the match with the mental hospital was on a Tuesday, the following day was free, and the match with Bruke, when Witt was killed, was on Thursday. That means Francis must have spent Tuesday night and Wednesday night at Mede, and we know the dates, so now to jog Miss Higgs’ memory.’
‘Of course, he may only have been absent on the Tuesday night,’ said Mrs. Bradley thoughtfully. ‘There is no reason why Derek, accustomed to the change-over of their identities, should not have come over to Wetwode on the Wednesday night and taken his brother’s place. The fact that Francis-Derek was absent all day on the Thursday may have worried Miss Higgs, but it may not have occasioned her any surprise. You remember we were told at the beginning that Francis was a “solitary.” ’
‘Ah,’ said Gavin. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Well, now to interview, all over again, the boy who told us about Campbell’s hide-out.’ The boy was available but his father was difficult.
‘I don’t have him drawed into any sort of a law-case.’
‘He won’t be. But there is one point which he can clear up for us. Won’t you allow us to question him?’
‘He’s only twelve year of age.’
‘I know. And, believe me, we won’t frighten him, and he won’t need to appear in court. It’s simply a date I’m after.’
‘I don’t think he give it. Seems that ciphering isn’t his strong point.’
‘Nevertheless, I think you’d better let me see him. I really won’t frighten him, you know. After all, he’s met us once. He’ll feel he knows us, and this is a case of murder. Surely nobody wants a murderer on the loose.’ Gavin was determined and grave, and the man gave in.
‘Can I stop along of you while you ask him?’
‘Certainly. There’s no objection to that.’
‘On the other hand, that speak more free if I don’t happen to be there.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Gavin in his most serious tones. ‘I promise you the boy won’t be mixed up in anything. It’s just some confirmation I want.’
‘What about?’
‘Well, I might be putting my foot in it with your son if I told you that.’
The Norfolk labourer gave a slow smile. He relaxed.
‘I’ve been a boy myself,’ he said engagingly. Thereupon, having bellowed for his son, he left Mrs. Bradley and Gavin alone in the parlour, and, in less than a minute, a small, very newly-scrubbed boy sidled awkwardly in.
‘Ah, you’re the chap,’ said Gavin. ‘Look, son, about Mr. Campbell’s hide-out. Remember?’
The child looked sullen.
‘Blood,’ said Mrs. Bradley, leering at him like Fagin at Oliver Twist. ‘Blood in the lair. Do little boys like blood?’
The boy began to cry, but more because he wished to be free from persecution than because he was otherwise perturbed by the memories which her words recalled to his mind.
‘Something had happened, hadn’t it?’ asked Gavin gently. ‘And you boys said nothing because you were afraid of Mr. Campbell?’
The boy looked up at him.
‘Us boys never see anything in Mr. Campbell’s hide-out,’ he said. ‘Us stop gooing there because we find another place to go to.’
‘But you did stop going there.’
‘Us did. Willy Thetford say that isn’t any good to go there any more.’
‘So Willy didn’t like the blood, either.’
‘Willy, that say it isn’t lucky to go there.’
‘How old is Willy?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Oh, yes. All right, then, laddie. That’ll be all.’
The father came back and loomed over Gavin.
‘What do you accuse my boy of?’
‘Nothing at all. A murder was committed in Mr. Campbell’s hide-out not far from here, and the boys have been accustomed to play about around there.’
The man took the boy by the collar.
‘Billy, you tell the police officer and the lady all you know.’
The boy’s story was what they had expected, and the date, which they left the boy to work back to without any prompting from either of them, fitted in with what was already known of the week in which Campbell had been killed. What was more, besides the traces of blood near the entrance to the hide-out, the boys had discovered the weapon, a heavy piece of reinforced concrete, possibly part of a dismantled air-raid shelter, Gavin thought, which had cut Campbell’s head and made it bleed.
The boys had dropped it into the ooze at the edge of the river, having some muddle-headed theory, apparently, that to take the police to see it was to court disaster for themselves.
‘A chunk of an air-raid shelter, probably off a bomb-site,’ said Gavin again later. ‘I said so at the time that the boy described it. It’s got to be proved where it came from, and, for that, we begin in Great Yarmouth, where we know Francis Caux was staying at the time when Campbell was murdered. And we’ve no proof that Derek went there. In fact, we can be pretty sure that in June he could not have done so, because the only time he could stay with his brother and Miss Higgs was when Sir Adrian went off grouse-shooting in the middle of August.’
‘Agreed,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘and also agreed that the twins had brought that change-over of identities to a fine art by the time the two murders were committed. But now I think we must get on the track of Sonia.’
‘Sonia?’
‘One of Mr. Darnwell�
��s nieces. The one whom Mr. Campbell questioned about her altruistic but loving uncle.’
Gavin laughed. Darnwell, who now took a great interest in the subject of Campbell’s death and the manner of it, gave them Sonia’s permanent address and full name, and Gavin found her, after some trouble, in a touring company at the seaside. She could add little to their knowledge. Campbell had come to Darnwell’s bungalow one day (when he had seen Darnwell go out) on the excuse of having run out of milk. She had let him have some, and they had conversed. He had begun to question her about Darnwell and she had refused to discuss him. Then he had become what she termed fresh, and she had turned him out.
‘One more question, Miss du Bonne,’ said Gavin, ‘and I hope you won’t mind my putting it rather crudely. Did you ever have any trouble with the boy Caux, who lived in the first of the bungalows?’
‘Frankie Caux? Oh, gracious, no, poor boy! He was handsome enough, especially when he was all stripped and that for swimming, and he used to look at me nervous … you know what nice boys are like! … but even if he’d been ever so, I couldn’t have had anything like that from a poor deaf and dumb. It would give me the willies. You see, I’m sensitive, and if you’re as sensitive as what I am …’
It did not help at all, except to indicate that whilst she had stayed with Darnwell it was probably the real Francis Caux with Miss Higgs, but as the date had no possible importance Gavin felt that he had wasted his time.
‘But you haven’t wasted your time!’ said Mrs. Bradley, when he had faithfully reported the whole conversation. ‘At last we have an unbiassed, independent witness, who, with any luck at all, may be able to tell one twin from the other.’
‘How do you mean? If she’d slept with him, or something, she might … but even then I only say she might … and even if she did, I hardly see how, under those circumstances, she’d be prepared to tell us how she knew the difference.’
‘She’s watched him swimming. You go back and find out whether she’s ever noticed any distinguishing mark. Don’t forget that he was in the dreadful accident which killed his parents. There might be something. It’s quite worth while to try. You see, if only we were in a position to tell the twins that we could definitely distinguish one from the other, their great strength, like Samson’s hair, would be gone. It is only because nobody can tell them apart that they have dared to behave as they have.’
The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley) Page 21
