Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  The Super recognized it, and knew, with some satisfaction, that it was doomed to be unsatisfied. Mr Thomson was a trustworthy coroner, who would make no trouble, and cared for ghouls and sensation-mongers no more than the Super himself; a good thing for them to be sent empty away. And as for the reporters, their day would come. This was merely a necessary evil — a stepping stone on the road to the real business. Make haste slowly was a good enough proverb, always providing that one got there in the end. The Super thought that he would.

  He sat with his heavy lids deceptively downcast, very observant of every participant in this little drama. He saw the three men who had been connected with Laura Grey, and thought that the woman who, in life, had been able to make them suffer, was still not powerless to afflict. Ralph Grey looked an old man, bowed down by grief; across the room. Endicott’s face was grimly set as if he, like the Super, was fully conscious of the glances, all curious, many hostile, sent in his direction. A little behind him the fair head of Brian Marlowe showed above its fellows. A good-looking boy, if you liked the pansy type, but his looks just now were marred by lines of incredulous pain, as if he could not believe it possible that life should use him so ill. A dark-haired girl at the end of the row was watching him; once Marlowe turned, caught her eye, and smiled. There was a slight pause before the girl smiled briefly back.

  Queer, thought the Super. Most girls would be glad enough to receive a smile from Master Marlowe, even if he had been philandering with pretty ladies. And the girl looked almost as worn and haggard as the young man himself.

  That was Miss Faraday sitting next to her. On information given him by Endicott, the Super had interviewed her on the matter of anonymous letters. She had let him see them without hesitation — had, indeed, seemed anxious only to help. Same type of printing, same green ink, same rubbishy paper. The letters intrigued the Super, not that, as anonymous communications, there was anything remarkable about them. He had seen many such in his time. The point was that by the pricking of his thumbs, he was convinced that the letters had some connection with his investigations. This conviction he had imparted to none as yet. He had no intention of doing so until he had something tangible to offer.

  He looked across at Miss Faraday again, somewhat puzzled. Since his interview with her, the little woman had changed. He recalled a colourless, shrinking creature, all nerves and flutter, and here she was sitting as upright as a grenadier, and with a brilliant colour in her cheeks. Make up? No, natural, he would swear; and as he watched, he saw her lean forward in her chair and flash Endicott a smile so vivid that it transfigured her. Endicott nodded, not smiling, but with a definite softening of his grim face. The nudges of those around made a visible stir in the body of the hall.

  Oho, thought the Super, considerably surprised, so that’s it. Some doubt as to Endicott’s feelings, none at all as to the lady’s. And that would account for the letter she received — that brought another piece of the puzzle sliding neatly into place. The Super’s brain worked furiously, and the opening proceedings passed merely as a background to his thoughts.

  When he came back to the surface, PC Marsh was on his feet. The Super looked at his straight back with approval. The country Bobby, target for comedians, writers, humourists, there he stood in person, giving his evidence nervously, but clearly and well, speaking like a Dorset man (and why shouldn’t he?) but showing that he had done his job to the best of his ability.

  The coroner, an experienced skater, moved swiftly over thin ice. The presence of Mark and Ralph beside the body was mentioned but without detail, to the obvious disgust of many listeners, Mrs Cossett in particular. That was to be expected; it was bound to get around. Marsh, presumably, had sense enough to hold his tongue and to make his son do the same; the other boy was a different matter. The Super recalled an interview with Johnny, in the course of which the youth had alternately whined, boasted, and attempted to wisecrack. The brooding maternal presence at his side had restricted the Super; nowadays, he reflected sadly, you daren’t so much as look at the young varmints, when a clip over the ear would do untold good, and cost nothing. And how much the better were they for all the coddling? Even now the palm of the Super’s hand itched at the recollection of Johnny’s sneer.

  The Police Doctor followed Marsh. He was a tall sandy Scot, with a disillusioned eye, and he rattled off his information amidst rolling Rs as if he were anxious to be done with it. The bullet, from a Smith and Wesson revolver, had entered just above the left ear — powder marks showed that it had been fired at extremely close quarters — death would be instantaneous. The doctor, with a glint in his eye, here broke into a spate of technicalities which left the main part of his audience mentally gaping.

  ‘Yes,’ said the coroner meekly, as he paused. ‘I’m sure that is very clear to us all.’

  The doctor gave an incredulous smile.

  The coroner consulted his notes.

  ‘Were there any other marks on the body, Doctor?’

  ‘A certain bruising of the wrists, especially the right.’

  ‘Have you any theory as to the cause of these?’

  ‘I should say a struggle. In one place there was slight laceration of the skin, as if by fingernails.’

  A ripple of satisfaction stirred the hall. This, the faces seemed to imply, was something like. The reporters scribbled busily. The coroner made a note.

  ‘What do you estimate to be the time of death?’

  The doctor drew a deep breath and again became technical. Having spoken for some time he paused, and said abruptly, ‘Between nine and twelve that night.’

  The coroner thanked him and he stepped solemnly down, giving the Super the ghost of a wink as he passed. The coroner cleared his throat, shuffled his papers rather nervously, and called Ralph Grey.

  As Ralph limped up, a buzz of comment began. Mr Thomson leaned forward, flushing with anger.

  ‘If there is any noise whatsoever,’ he said, ‘I shall clear the hall. This is not a place of entertainment. I shall give you no further warning.’

  The hush was instantaneous and complete. Ralph stood with the light of the window full on his ravaged face. Poor devil, thought the Super, recalling his reception of the news that Laura had never been his legal wife. He had taken it calmly enough; one shock, the Super supposed, had served to cancel the other. He had shown no further animosity towards Endicott, and very little emotion of any kind. Laura, who had done this to him, was dead; it seemed that his own feelings were dead also. He had appeared faintly relieved when told that the fact of the previous marriage need not be brought out at the inquest, otherwise it was as if nothing could touch him deeply any more.

  The coroner handled him very gently and, having given evidence of identification, Ralph continued in a low voice, but without faltering. He had received word while at the Garden Fête of the illness of a pedigree cow — he had sat up with it through the night, discovering his wife’s absence on returning home in the morning. He had then gone in search of her—

  ‘You went to a Mr Endicott, living at Corpse Path Cottage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was a friend of your wife’s?’

  ‘To my knowledge they had never met.’

  Mr Thomson cleared his throat. ‘In that case, Mr Grey, perhaps you would tell us why you went to him?’

  Ralph hesitated. The coroner waited patiently. The silence which he had demanded was still complete.

  ‘I had received a letter,’ said Ralph at last, ‘coupling the name of Mr Endicott with that of my wife.’

  There was no sound or movement, yet the Super received the distinct impression that a collective sigh of satisfaction had been heaved. Something for them to chew on at last. The dark-haired girl beside Miss Faraday was frowning; young Marlowe had coloured darkly. The Super stored it up for future reference.

  ‘I see. The letter was unsigned?’

  ‘Yes. At the time I ignored it,’ said Ralph. ‘When I found my wife was missing I recalled it.’ He ad
ded, half apologetically, ‘I was extremely tired and anxious at the time — scarcely myself, in fact.’

  ‘That is very understandable. And Mr Endicott was unable to help you?’

  ‘He was unable to help me,’ Ralph agreed.

  The faintest buzz, instantly checked, rose from the body of the hall. The coroner, with a momentary glance at the Super’s watchful face, left Endicott, and took Ralph through the discovery of the body swiftly enough before asking a different question.

  ‘Have you in your possession a Smith and Wesson revolver?’

  ‘I had,’ said Ralph.

  ‘It has gone?’

  ‘I kept it in a drawer of my desk. On the day when my wife’s body was found I went to the drawer. The revolver was not there.’

  ‘Oh. Was it kept loaded?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The desk was locked?’

  ‘Not that particular drawer.’

  ‘Would your wife know of the presence of a revolver?’

  ‘Yes. She often teased me about it, saying that it was time I realized the war was over. She knew that I originally kept it loaded in the days of the invasion scare.’

  Here there was a movement amongst the jurymen. The coroner turned to them enquiringly. Mr Cossett rose.

  ‘We should like to ask what people was able to go to that there desk?’

  Ralph considered. ‘Theoretically, anyone who went into the room. Actually, being a kind of office, it was scarcely entered except for myself, and for the maid who cleaned it.’

  Mr Cossett grunted, and sat down. Ralph was dismissed, and Mark Endicott called. Amy clasped her hands in her lap so tightly that the knuckles shone white.

  Mark admitted his identity and his ownership of Corpse Path Cottage. His tone was curt and his attitude rather defiant. The reporters began to scribble furiously again, and every eye was fixed on his untidy figure. Mr Thomson took him with the utmost delicacy through the events of the morning of the discovery, handling him with care and respect, like an unexploded bomb. No mention was made of Ralph’s accusation. Mrs Cossett nudged her neighbour fiercely and swelled with wrath.

  ‘This letter received by Mr Grey — was there any justification for it?’

  ‘Since my arrival at God’s Blessing,’ said Mark, in a measured tone, ‘I had spoken to Mrs Grey on one occasion only, outside my cottage.’

  Mr Thomson nodded, and passed hastily on. A reporter glanced at one of his fellows with raised brows.

  ‘What were your movements on the evening of 26th July?’

  ‘I returned from the fête at about seven. I worked for a couple of hours and took my dog for a run. There was a heavy storm, and as I was passing the house of Miss Faraday, my neighbour, I called. She very kindly allowed us to shelter in her porch.’

  Every eye turned to Miss Faraday, who sat with burning cheeks but with her head held high.

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Somewhere about ten. There was a slight lull, I ran back to my cottage, worked for another hour or so, and went to bed.’

  ‘Thank you. Your cottage is the nearest dwelling, is it not, to the spot where the body was found?’

  Mark agreed curtly.

  ‘Did you, at any time that night, hear the sound of a shot?’

  ‘I did not. But that is easily accounted for.’

  ‘You mean by the thunderstorm?’

  ‘Ah! A real twister. Wust we’ve aknowed in God’s Blessing since 1903,’ observed a juryman, for the moment forgetting himself.

  There was a faint titter, instantly quelled by Mr Thomson’s icy stare. Mark was dismissed, and Amy Dora Faraday took his place. The Super again took note of the change in her and thought what strange creatures women were.

  Amy gave her evidence in a voice which shook slightly, but which was clearly heard at the back of the hall. She had returned from the Garden Fête in company with Mr Endicott, reaching home just after seven. They had parted at her gate, Mr Endicott remarking that he had work to do, after which his dog, which had been shut in, would need a run. She herself had sat down to read but had been troubled by the approaching storm. It was very close indoors, and she had stood for a while in the porch. When the rain began and she saw Mr Endicott passing with his dog, she had called to offer him shelter.

  ‘I see. And he remained with you, how long?’

  ‘I looked at the clock when he had gone. It was then a quarter past ten.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Faraday. And you, like Mr Endicott, heard no sound of a shot?’

  ‘I heard nothing but the thunder and the rain,’ said Amy. She stepped down, her colour still vivid, and took her seat beside Dinah, who squeezed her hand. Amy looked at her with surprise and gratitude. She prayed that she had said nothing wrong — she would do anything, anything, she thought incoherently. Her first sight of Endicott’s face that day had rent her bosom with an almost maternal pang. He must have been hurt most cruelly to look like that.

  Brian Marlowe, in a subdued voice, said that he had found Mrs Grey resting inside the vicarage when he arrived at the fête. That was just before seven o’clock. She told him that her husband had been called away. He — Brian — offered to drive her home, and she accepted.

  ‘Did she appear to be in her usual spirits?’

  ‘I thought her a little nervous. She said the thunder had made her head ache, and that she intended to take some aspirins and lie down.’

  ‘Did you go into the Manor with her?’

  ‘No. I went home, and soon after ten, hearing the rain, I drove back to the vicarage and picked up Miss Morris, who was playing for the dancing. I drove her home, went back myself, and to bed.’

  ‘I see. In her conversation with you, did Mrs Grey give you any idea that she might be going out again that night?’

  ‘No, sir. She said that she was going to lie down. And it was not a night to tempt anyone out.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Marlowe. I think that will be all.’

  There was no further food for the sensation hunters. The maid was called and said that she had been given the evening off to go to the fête and went straight to bed when she returned. Expert evidence was given as to the type of bullet which had ended Laura Grey’s life. The coroner, still treading decorously along the straight and narrow path outlined for him, addressed the jury. The proceedings closed with a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. Disgust and dissatisfaction was writ large on many faces. The superintendent smiled.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  ENDICOTT, TURNING TO FOLLOW the muttering crowd making its slow way towards the door, felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, with a violent start. The Super looked at him mildly.

  ‘Did I give you a start, Mr Endicott? I’m sorry.’

  ‘What do you want now?’ asked Mark rudely.

  ‘Come over here for a moment, sir, if you don’t mind. I should be glad of a word with you, once I’ve got rid of these reporters. I’m not too good at dealing with them, not being used to more than the local men, in general.’

  Mark followed the broad figure unwillingly enough. He had reached the stage when he looked on his fellow-men with a deep loathing and longed only for solitude. This fellow, now, burbling away with his bedside manner turned full on — what was at the back of his desire for yet another word with himself? Surely not a euphemism for an imminent arrest? Mark believed that he would take out his handcuffs without any alteration in the placidity of his manner. He rubbed his nose irritably. Since the discovery of Laura’s death, he had scarcely slept, and such food as he had taken had done him little good. Mrs Shergold was still away, or, at least had not condescended to put in an appearance, and he was in no mood to fuss over preparing meals for himself. An acute dyspepsia, relic of those days in a Japanese prison camp, added to the blackness of his mood. He was a suspected man, was he? Let them suspect and be damned to them. It was all part and parcel of the way life had dealt with him since the moment he opened Laura’s letter; or before that, dating back to the
day he first set eyes on her, and was completely lost. Laura: the pain swept him yet again, so that he forgot his own position, his fruitless resentment against fate, and knew only the poignant sense of loss. Those long days and nights in Changi Gaol he had lived only for the time when they could meet again had, in fact, refused to die as so many had around him, slipping almost thankfully from a life which held no savour any more. It might have been better for him had he joined their company; only, with memories of those hours after the rushed and secret marriage he had not. And he had returned to England to find awaiting him those few lines, with empty phrases of regret to show him the magnitude of his folly.

  And, after all, once the first shock had passed, he had not behaved too badly. He could look back on his behaviour, even now, with a faint satisfaction. The stinging humiliation of his betrayal had, at least, helped to bring pride to his aid. He had been fooled, like many a better man, most grievously used, but he would not sit down to whine over his folly. Neither would he go in search of a woman who did not want him. He was not completely penniless, though Laura had done well enough out of him in the course of their time together, and there was always work. Work, and new surroundings. Corpse Path Cottage had seemed the answer to all his problems. And the road to Corpse Path Cottage had brought him back to Laura, and to this.

  He looked around him to see that the hall was now practically cleared. The little Faraday had gone, of course, with the rest, probably cursing the limelight which her association with himself had brought upon her. Though she had spoken up well and had given him a pretty enough smile for all the staring eyes to see. The rabbit could show spirit at times, and it was something to know that even one person was on your side.

  PC Marsh was standing by the door, looking younger and less important with his helmet in his hand. Queer that his boy should have been one of the two to discover Laura — and to hear Ralph Grey’s immediate reaction. Straight from the horse’s mouth — queer, too, that it had not been brought out at the inquest. A good sign, or not? Only the Super knew. A decent enough fellow he seemed, painstaking and fair, but you never could tell. He was out to get a conviction, naturally. Mark looked across to the spot where the Super was patiently dealing with a group of reporters, his monumental calm unshaken.