Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  The Super paused, much as Mark had done on the morning of his arrival, to gaze down on Corpse Path Cottage. The front door was closed, and no smoke showed at the chimney. The Super strolled meditatively down the path.

  ‘Looking for me?’ said a voice behind him.

  He turned without haste to see Mark Endicott with James at his heels. In that first sleepy glance, he saw that the man looked desperately ill, was unshaven, and that a little nervous pulse was twitching incessantly in one brown cheek.

  ‘Mr Endicott? My name is White, Superintendent White, of the Downshire Constabulary. I wondered if I might have a word with you.’

  ‘By all means. It will give your watchdog the chance of a rest, won’t it?’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘You needn’t have gone to so much trouble, you know. I hadn’t thought of running away.’

  ‘No, sir. We hadn’t supposed it.’

  ‘Oh? Then why set a man to watch the cottage?’

  ‘Watching the cottage was incidental. He was actually keeping an eye on the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Waiting for the criminal to revisit it?’ Mark laughed again. ‘If so, he got his money’s worth. Hundreds to choose from. The whole damned hedge was lined with staring faces yesterday, from morning till night. Cars, cyclists, hikers, all day long they were streaming in. God . . .’

  He put a hand to his face, as if conscious of the twitching there. The hand was shaking.

  ‘They will do it, you know,’ said the Super indulgently. ‘It’s nothing but human nature, after all. Why, I’ve known a crowd to gather at the spot where a horse had fallen even after it had been taken away. Funny things, crowds. And you see, murder is always a draw.’

  He saw Mark flinch at the quietly spoken word and noted the movement in his patient and retentive mind.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark, in a queer voice. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, but as you say, murder is undoubtedly a draw. Do you know yet who did it?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said the Super placidly. ‘Things are falling into place.’

  ‘How nice. And the police are, undoubtedly, working on a clue. Thank you so much for telling me. And now, to end this pleasing conversation and get down to business if you want to question me, hadn’t you better come in? And shouldn’t there be someone to take notes? Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  ‘Not at the moment, sir. We have your signed statement at the station. I only want information on one or two additional points.’

  ‘No handcuffs?’

  ‘Not as yet, sir,’ said the Super, laughing.

  ‘That’s a relief. Well, come in, anyway, and get it over. I’m afraid the place is in rather a mess. The woman who cleans it for me has been called away.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have anyone these days,’ said the Super, stooping his head to follow Mark into the house.

  ‘The gentleman who sold me this palatial residence farms out his housekeeper to me from time to time. Suits me very well.’

  ‘Yes, no doubt.’ The Super lowered his bulk to the chair which Mark pushed forward and looked mildly around him. ‘A nice little place you have here, Mr Endicott.’

  ‘And a nice little price I paid for it. Nine hundred, if it interests you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it does. I should very much like to know why you were prepared to pay such a high price to come here, if you don’t mind telling me. What brought you here, in the first place?’

  ‘A desire for solitude in which to write.’

  ‘Ah! An author,’ said the Super, with respect. ‘Now that’s a thing I could never do, sit down to write a book.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Not that I’ve ever tried. However. You answered that very clearly, Mr Endicott, if I may say so. How did you hear of the place?’

  ‘I saw an advertisement and got a local solicitor to act for me.’

  ‘I see. And this desire for solitude in which to write was the sole reason for your coming here?’

  Mark stiffened. ‘That’s what I said.’

  The Super nodded like a benevolent Buddha.

  ‘That is so. Yes. Now, with regard to the murdered lady, Mrs Laura Grey, on what terms were you with her?’

  Mark’s face did not change, but the sleepy brown eyes saw that the little pulse was beating violently.

  ‘I had scarcely spoken to her since I came here.’

  ‘On what occasions did you meet?’

  Mark hesitated. He said carefully, ‘I saw her once at a meeting of the village Literary Society.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We did not speak then. And once we had a short conversation here.’

  ‘Here. The lady came here to see you?’

  Mark rubbed his forehead irritably. He felt dizzy and confused. The slow and kindly voice of the Super seemed to have sounded in his ears for hours. You’re in a spot, my lad, he told himself, and looked up to meet the Super’s speculative gaze.

  ‘She was walking. We happened to meet.’

  ‘Yes.’ The Super took a sheaf of typewritten notes from his pocket and consulted them. ‘Would it surprise you to know, Mr Endicott, that there was a witness to that meeting?’

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Mark helplessly.

  For a moment the room faded. With the utmost clarity he saw Laura’s face, white against the drooping lilac as he returned from a fruitless search that sun drenched afternoon. He had told her not to worry — that there was no-one there, and all the time he had been wrong. Or was he so wrong, after all? It was, indeed, not Laura’s worry, since once again she had gone out of reach of it all, leaving others to pay the piper. He began to laugh.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Mr Endicott.’ The voice of the Super was sleepy no longer.

  ‘Sorry,’ gasped Mark, regaining control. He said in his normal voice, ‘Was it the husband?’

  ‘Who saw you? Oh, no. Mr Grey received an anonymous letter telling him his wife had been here.’

  ‘Another!’ said Mark involuntarily.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Mr Endicott?’

  ‘Exactly what you are thinking. That I received one also — or rather, two.’

  ‘You kept them?’

  ‘The second one. The first I burned.’

  ‘I should like to see it, if I may.’

  Mark frowned. ‘Why? I don’t think it has any bearing on the matter.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mr Endicott, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Mark.

  As he pulled the flimsy sheet from his notecase and handed it over, he was conscious of nothing more than an engulfing weariness. The letter, with what the Super was bound to read into it, could only land him deeper in the mire, but what did it matter, after all? Innocent men, it was to be hoped, were seldom hanged, though it certainly seemed that a malicious fate was heavily weighting the dice against him.

  The Super had unfolded the letter and was deliberately reading it, his face expressionless. After what seemed a long time, he looked up.

  ‘Have you any idea who wrote this?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You see, of course, what it implies?’

  Mark’s grey face twisted in the ghost of a smile.

  ‘Give me credit for at least sufficient intelligence for that, Superintendent. I realize that you have now been told that I knew Laura before.’

  ‘I had already gathered that,’ said the Super surprisingly. ‘No — what I mean is that someone who had known you previously also knew that you had come here.’

  He looked again at the letter in his hand, and slowly read sentences aloud.

  ‘Why the hell did you come here if you haven’t the guts to get cracking? . . . um, um, more mere abuse . . . like to see her with him under your very nose . . . um, um . . . call yourself a man.’

  He looked up, the brown eyes suddenly keen. ‘What was in the one you burned?’

  ‘Apart from the frills, something like this: So you’ve come sniffing after her again, have you? Think she
is as lovely as ever? Others do, if you don’t. Better get going, hadn’t you?’

  The Super slapped his thigh. ‘Don’t you see how that narrows the field? Can’t you get the writer now?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Don’t get so excited, you needn’t think I haven’t tried. None of the villagers knew me before, none of my old crowd knew I was coming here. I wanted to cut myself off. I assure you, Superintendent, it’s no good. And I can’t see why you’re fussing over it. After all, you’re supposed to be investigating a murder.’

  ‘I am, indeed, Mr Endicott. So you can’t understand? Oh well, never mind. We’ll leave it for the moment. You have admitted that you knew Mrs Grey before coming here. How long before?’

  ‘We met in the summer of 1940,’ said Mark carefully ‘I was on leave. Then I was sent overseas, and later taken prisoner in Malaya. That disposed of me for quite a while. When I returned home she had disappeared.’

  ‘And you heard nothing of her?’

  ‘She had left a letter with a friend of mine.’ Mark stared out of the window. ‘She said her . . . feelings for me had changed. It was over.’

  ‘I see. But you had other ideas. You traced her and came here—’

  Mark sprang to his feet, pushing back his chair with a crash. Resting his hands on the table, he pushed his face close to the unmoved countenance of the other man.

  ‘Yes, you were bound to think that, weren’t you? It makes it all so simple — so neatly rounded off. I’ve seen it coming all the time. If I weren’t a damned fool I should have burned that letter too. Because it isn’t true. Whatever it looks like, it isn’t true. It’s been the most damnable filthy trick that fate could play on a man.’ His voice rose. ‘I follow Laura — I come here in search of her? I tell you, it was the last thing on earth I wanted. If I had known she was here, I would have cut my hand off before I signed the cheque for the place. But of course you won’t believe me — no-one would believe such a tale—’

  He broke off suddenly and groped behind him for his chair. Sinking into it, he said indistinctly, ‘Sorry. Made a bawling fool of myself. Of course I can’t make you understand.’

  ‘You needn’t be too sure of that, Mr Endicott,’ said the Super gravely.

  He rose slowly, and walked to the window, his broad figure almost blotting out the light. In all his efficient painstaking days as a policeman, he had never been able to remain entirely untroubled by compassion. Not that he ever allowed it to affect his work. From farm worker to constable, constable to sergeant — sergeant, inspector, superintendent, he had travelled the hard way. He might and did feel pity for the tormented creature he was questioning, but he was after the truth, and the truth he would have, since to discover it was his job. It was just as simple as that.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ said Mark’s voice from behind him, ‘that you’re prepared to take my word for it that I didn’t know Laura had come here?’

  ‘I have no reason to doubt your word, Mr Endicott,’ said the Super gravely, ‘as yet!’

  He turned as he spoke and looked directly at the other man. Mark stared back, at first with resentment, then with a faint smile.

  ‘All things considered, fair enough,’ he said.

  The Super smiled solemnly back. He returned to his chair and sat down, crossing one large leg over the other.

  ‘Well, now, let’s have a recap, as they say. You met Mrs Grey in 1940, you fell in love, you returned at the end of the war to find that she had left you. I take it you made some effort to find her?’

  ‘Only once. I . . . couldn’t believe the letter, at first. I went to a theatrical agent we’d both known. He said Laura had left the Repertory Company, and as far as he knew given up the stage for good. There was a rumour, he said, that she had married, but where she was he had no idea. There had been a spot of trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ asked the Super, rather quickly.

  ‘Need we go into that? I don’t know the rights of it, or even if it was true.’

  ‘I should like to hear it, all the same, Mr Endicott.’

  Mark frowned. He said reluctantly, ‘According to him there was some scandal about Laura and the leading man. Laura was enough to turn any man’s head — if you’d ever seen her as she was, you’d know that — and he said she drove this bloke Arbuthnot completely crackers. He had a wife, too, in the company — quiet little woman who played minor parts — but she hadn’t a look-in once Laura came along. Anyhow, it seems that Arbuthnot took an overdose of sleeping tablets one night and was found dead.’

  The Super looked up.

  ‘Accidental death. No blame to anyone. But there was, it seemed, a good deal of feeling against Laura in theatrical circles. People thought that she had led the poor devil on and let him down with a pretty considerable bump. It was rather a habit of hers. Once she’d got a thing, she didn’t care about it anymore. Anyway, she left, as I told you, presumably already having this Grey on a string, and that was the end of that. And what the devil it all has to do with this business—’

  ‘You never can tell,’ said the Super thoughtfully. ‘I find it interesting. Very. What became of the widow?’

  ‘God knows. I imagine she stayed with the company, but I certainly didn’t ask about her.’

  ‘No. Of course not,’ said the Super absently. In his mind he was building a picture, with the figure of Laura Grey for centrepiece. Laura Grey’s husband, the man now facing him, the unhappy Arbuthnot, and, if local gossip were to be trusted, Brian Marlowe, all caught in the net of the blonde beauty. Femme fatale, said the Super to himself, and felt a certain pride at his own turn of phrase.

  ‘You’re a peculiar fellow,’ observed Mark, looking at him with curiosity.

  ‘In what way, Mr Endicott?’

  ‘You go delving into the murky past and leave the present to take care of itself. What about my movements at the time of the crime?’

  ‘All in due course, sir. We have your statement, you know. And the past has a good deal of bearing on the present, one way and another. Shall we go on?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Mark wearily.

  ‘After this meeting with the theatrical agent (I’d like his name and address later, by the way, and the name of the Repertory Company you mentioned) you made no further attempt to trace the lady?’

  ‘None. I’ve already told you that. Strange though it may seem, I didn’t want my nose rubbed in it again. She made it abundantly clear that she wanted none of me, and that, as far as I was concerned, was that.’

  ‘Very wise. You simply put her out of your mind.’

  Mark scowled. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at . . .’

  ‘The truth, I hope, Mr Endicott. Nothing but the truth.’

  ‘Well, if you had known her you’d realize it wasn’t so simple as that. I thought coming here would help.’

  ‘And you discovered her here. How soon would that be?’

  Mark considered. His head was aching violently, and the father confessor opposite him seemed bent on drawing every detail into the light of day. All the same, the discovery of the compact might surely be omitted.

  He said, choosing his words with care, ‘I came here at the beginning of April. I didn’t know — that is, I wasn’t certain — until the end of May.’

  ‘But you suspected her identity before that? Why?’

  ‘The first evening I was here a woman passed me, coming from the wood. Her perfume — something about her — reminded me of Laura, but I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t see her face.’

  ‘And how did you feel about it?’

  ‘How do you think?’ snarled Mark.

  ‘I’m asking you, Mr Endicott.’

  ‘Naturally a trifle annoyed. Furious in fact. Not murderous, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘And you became certain of her identity . . . ?’

  ‘At a meeting of the Literary Society. She was there with her . . . husband,’ said Mark, with a queer hesitation before the final word.
r />   ‘Did you have any conversation?’

  ‘No. Soon after I arrived they left. It seemed the lady felt unwell.’

  ‘I see. And then you met here. As friends?’

  ‘Not precisely. We didn’t come to blows.’

  ‘What was her motive in coming to you?’

  ‘She wanted to make sure that I had no intention of spilling the beans. I told her my opinion of her behaviour and general character, but I gave her the promise she wanted. I told you, she got what she wanted, as a rule.’

  The Super, remembering the figure he had seen at the entrance to the wood, thought this remark in doubtful taste. His voice held a hint of reproach, like a father with an erring son, as he continued.

  ‘In what state of mind did she seem to be?’

  ‘I thought her unusually nervous. But that was to be expected.’

  ‘Nervous? Of you, or of her husband?’

  ‘She certainly wasn’t afraid of me,’ said Mark, with a short laugh.

  ‘No. I understand. Well, Mr Endicott, you have been very patient — very. I’m afraid the next question is a personal one.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Mark resignedly.

  ‘You have spoken of your relations with the lady. What, precisely, were they?’

  Mark conquered a wild desire to reply, in the accents of Mr Claude Dampier, ‘You’ll never guess!’ Though he said in a completely expressionless voice, ‘Do I have to answer that?’

  ‘Not unless you wish, sir. But—’

  ‘But if I don’t, you’ll find out? I believe you!’ He drew a deep breath and sat back in his chair. ‘She was my wife.’

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE INQUEST ON LAURA Grey was held in blazing heat in the village hall, where she had once turned in her seat to see Mark Endicott’s gaze upon her. Today it was packed to suffocation point and the coroner, a solicitor named Thomson, from Lake, looked at the massed avid faces with no friendly eye. Fresh air was a fetish of his, and though every window that could be opened stood wide, even at the beginning of the proceedings, the atmosphere was stifling. The roof of corrugated iron seemed to attract the sun’s rays like a burning glass. Mr Cossett, amongst his fellow jurymen, sweated unhappily in a tight collar, and the patriarchal countenance of Mr Fairfax was bedewed with drops. In the heavy air, excited anticipation hung like a tangible thing.