Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  Mark folded the paper and handed it back to the Super. He said, with an effort, ‘You did a smart job of work. Congratulations.’

  White shook his head. ‘I slipped up. Badly.’

  ‘In not realizing she’d taken that stuff?’

  ‘Of course. It’s my job to see things like that. I thought she looked ghastly but put some of it down to her having just removed her make up. But I should have realized. Bring ’em back alive White — that’s me.’

  He shrugged his great shoulders as if throwing off a burden. ‘What’s done is done. No use chewing the fat now.’

  ‘At least,’ said Mark, ‘you didn’t arrest the wrong person, which I imagine many people in your shoes would have done.’

  ‘There is that,’ agreed White, his thoughts winging to the Chief Constable.

  ‘And I think it’s rather a good solution.’ The Super looked at him with faint contempt.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Very nice and tidy, isn’t it? Like the ending to one of those damn fool detective novels, when the author doesn’t want the trouble of writing up a trial. The little woman has gone to her Maker — all debts paid. Very touching. She had reason to hate Laura, no doubt, but have you forgotten that she went calmly off, leaving you in the front line of suspects?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten that I owe my life to you.’

  ‘Oh come, now,’ said the Super, looking coy, ‘that’s going a bit too far.’

  ‘I don’t think so. As I said before, a smart piece of work. Now that the tumult and the shouting have died, would you mind telling me what put you on the right track in the first place?’

  ‘The anonymous letters,’ replied White briefly.

  Mark frowned. ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘You could if you stopped to think. They were all sent to people having some connection with Laura Grey. Young Marlowe, yourself, Ralph Grey.’

  ‘That won’t do. What about Miss Faraday?’

  The Super’s eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, she comes into it all right.’

  ‘I don’t see where.’

  ‘At the door of your cottage. Being a ministering angel. Her letter was warning her to keep off the grass.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Mark.

  ‘Mind you, I didn’t get that clear for some time. The thing is, the writer was out for Laura’s blood. You might compromise her; therefore you were not to be distracted from the good work by the wiles of Miss Faraday. Young Marlowe, too, might be hoped to do his stuff, but neither of you did what she wanted, so she took action herself.’

  ‘You mean she hoped an open scandal would be made, so that Ralph would give Laura what she deserved?’

  ‘That’s it. She told Marlowe where the powder compact was (by the way, you didn’t mention that to me, Mr Endicott. You should have, you know) thinking that you and he might start something. You did have a slight scuffle, I believe.’

  ‘Lord save us,’ said Mark helplessly, ‘the man knows everything.’

  ‘Just as well for you that I do,’ said the Super, with some severity. ‘But as I say, matters didn’t move quickly enough for her. And you know the rest.’

  ‘I’m damned if I do. Anonymous letters, well and good. That doesn’t explain how you knew that the innocent Mrs Shergold wrote the things.’

  A slow smile lightened the Super’s face. He looked like a contented Buddha. He said ruminatively, ‘You know, it is true what they say.’

  ‘What who say?’

  ‘All of them,’ said the Super dreamily. ‘It’s a saying.’

  ‘If you don’t want to tell me,’ said Mark frigidly, ‘say so, and I’ll break up the party.’

  The Super started. ‘Eh? Sorry, Mr Endicott, I was just thinking. They say that every criminal makes one slip.’

  ‘And had she?’

  ‘She had. As she said, she was very careful. She packed everything incriminating. But in the top drawer of her dressing chest was something that gave me a clue. A real clue, like the detectives in books find. On the newspaper lining was a smear of ink.’

  ‘Ink?’

  ‘Green ink,’ said the superintendent. And he smiled again.

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE NEWSPAPERS, AS THE superintendent had promised, received their straw, made their bricks, and erected therefrom a pleasing edifice. The stage parts played by Kathryn Arbuthnot had been minor ones, but now, for a brief moment, her name shrieked from the headlines before the world forgot her. Mr White tied up loose threads and went happily back to his normal round. God’s Blessing exclaimed, discussed, marvelled, and slowly sank to the even tenor of its days.

  Mr Fairfax, a sadder and a wiser man, advertised no more, but the village with nods and becks and wreathed smiles hinted that his lonely state would not be a lasting one. Mrs Hale was on the track, half a bed and a piller to let, said God’s Blessing, and awaited the outcome with interest.

  ‘. . . and say what you like,’ said Mrs Cossett to one and all, ‘housekeeper or no housekeeper, he at Corpse Path Cottage were in it more than meets the eye. Nothing happened here afore he come . . .’

  * * *

  Miss Faraday arrived early for the meeting of the Literary Society. She looked pale but determined, and, amazingly, almost pretty. Dinah, overflowing with happiness and with a laudable desire to pass some of her superfluity to others, had taken her in hand. Her hair was cut short without straggling ends, and softly waved; for probably the first time in her life she wore a hat which looked as if it belonged to her. Dinah had said, marvelling, that ten years had been shorn from her apparent age, and in this she spoke no more than the truth. Warming to her work, she added a faint touch of rouge, the correct shade of powder and a trace of lipstick, and eyed her creation like Pygmalion.

  Amy submitted amiably, but with so little real interest in the proceedings that Dinah felt it probable that she would, left to her own devices, swiftly backslide into the mire of utter dowdiness. When taxed with this, Amy merely smiled vaguely, murmuring that she had always known her taste was poor. Her tone added so clearly that she added small importance to this defect that Dinah, exasperated, said no more. Nonetheless, she felt a justifiable pride as she glanced from her seat into the body of the hall and saw her handiwork. But when Brian came in with the old look of sulky boredom gone, and a quick glance at herself, she forgot Amy, new hat and all. The world was warm and comfortable, the past nothing but a cold and empty dream. She knew that she had no pride, to be so abjectly thankful for a man who had lately been crazy for another woman, but drowned by a wave of happiness, the thought had no power to sting. Who cared for pride, when the moon had dropped into one’s empty hands?

  Colonel Stroud came in glistening like a fondant from his walk in the heat. He was followed by Mr and Mrs Richards, on whose heels came Mrs Oliphant, clutching a sheaf of papers and wearing an enormous hat. Miss Margetson and a friend took up modest positions farther back and began to talk with their heads close together. Mr Heron approached the table and leaned over to Colonel Stroud.

  ‘Just seen Mr Grey,’ he said.

  Colonel Stroud ceased from mopping his brow and looked interested.

  ‘Poor feller, poor feller. How does he seem?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Mr Heron, hissing faintly. ‘He’s going away for a few days.’

  ‘The best possible thing. But he’ll be back. All his roots are here. And I hope,’ said Colonel Stroud viciously, ‘if he marries again — as he should — it will be a good, honest sensible gal, not a . . .’

  Remembering Dinah in time, he swallowed the word which had sprung to his lips and cleared his throat violently. To her amazement, Dinah was conscious of a sudden pity for Laura Grey, gone, and, as it seemed, regretted by none. Unless Ralph Grey mourned, he had loved her but so had others whose love had died. “All lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust.” Her eyes pricked momentarily with tears. It wasn’t fair that love and joy should so inevitably decay. She met Brian’s eyes again across the room, and the thought was bani
shed. After all, said a voice in her heart, we’re here, we’re young . . .

  ‘Queer affair, altogether,’ said Colonel Stroud, lumping together Ralph’s marriage, Laura’s behaviour, and her violent death. ‘Not the kind of thing we’re used to at all. God bless my soul!’ he added, staring.

  ‘What?’ asked Mr Heron, rather surprised.

  ‘Here’s that feller from Corpse Path Cottage. Just come in.’

  ‘He’s a member. He paid his subscription,’ said Dinah.

  ‘No doubt. Somehow, though, I thought he’d be leaving the place. Don’t know what he came here for in the first place. Don’t know what he’s doing here at all.’

  At the moment, Endicott was committing the blameless act of seating himself beside Miss Faraday, who greeted him with heightened colour and a tremulous smile. Mrs Richards turned massively in her seat and gave him a gracious nod. Mark was cleared now of all suspicion; what was more to the point, he was also connected in the mind of Mrs Richards with a charitable and courageous act on her own part for which her husband had warmly commended her. Therefore Mrs Richards was gracious, and Endicott inclined his head courteously in reply.

  Colonel Stroud rose and introduced the speaker of the evening, Mrs Oliphant, naturally using the phrase that good wine needed no bush. The lady’s subject was, not surprisingly, poems and poets, and as no false modesty hindered her from quoting freely from her own works, her address was at least original, which can scarcely be said for all such efforts. Mark, who looked tired but not unamiable behaved well throughout. When the poetess sat down, however, he turned to his neighbour.

  ‘Is this why you asked me to come? Your note led me to expect something new and strange.’

  ‘Wait a bit,’ said Amy in a strangled whisper. ‘You’ll see.’

  He observed her attentively, noted the change in her appearance and the fact that she was shaking with nervousness. Funny little thing, thought Mark, with a kind of affectionate amusement, what the deuce is she at now?

  He was not left to wonder long. As the thanks to Mrs Oliphant died, Amy rose, and caught the chairman’s eye. Colonel Stroud, who had never before seen Amy on her feet at any meeting, blinked. Another poetess?

  ‘Ah h’r’m. Miss Faraday?’ he said warily.

  ‘Mr Chairman,’ said Amy faintly. ‘I have something to say.’

  ‘Contributions by our members,’ murmured the Colonel automatically, ‘are always welcome.’

  Dinah looked at the little face under the pretty hat and thought — of all the dark horses! The Reverend George Richards turned to smile encouragingly. Endicott murmured, ‘Attagirl!’

  ‘It is not a contribution,’ said Amy, twisting her fingers together. ‘It is a confession.’ She gulped, and added, with an admirable economy of words, ‘How Does Your Garden Grow? I wrote it.’

  There was a stunned pause. In the utter silence, every eye turned on the unhappy authoress, who felt a veritable Hester Prynne, with the scarlet letter blazing on her breast. Colonel Stroud, utterly at a loss, stared helplessly. Dinah blinked, and wondered if she dreamed. The voice of Mr Heron broke the silence.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ he said.

  As if at a signal, the gathering exploded into speech. Amy sat down rather suddenly. The colour had left her cheeks. She was not sure whether this had been a mistake, or a far, far better thing than she had ever done, but it was certain that virtue had gone from her.

  ‘Bear up, sister,’ said the voice of Mark in her ear, ‘the worst is past.’

  He sounded amused. Of course, it would be merely a laughing matter to him. She had made a fool of herself yet again, and to no purpose. Tears pricked her eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, I tell you,’ said Mark reassuringly. ‘They won’t cast you into outer darkness. You’ll see.’

  She looked at him, unconvinced but vaguely comforted.

  ‘It seems,’ said Colonel Stroud, rising, ‘that we have entertained angels unawares. May I congratulate you, Miss Faraday?’

  Amy’s startled ears were assailed by a rattle of applause.

  Everywhere smiling faces greeted her. Mr Heron shook his head but smiled with the rest. Miss Margetson leaned across.

  ‘Oh, Miss Faraday,’ she said breathlessly, ‘if I brought along my copy, would you autograph it for me?’

  Agreeing in a dazed voice, Amy became conscious that Mr and Mrs Richards were standing before her.

  ‘I don’t, as you know, like your book,’ began Mrs Richards.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Amy sadly.

  ‘But I admire your ability, which, I trust, may one day be put to better use.’

  ‘And my wife and I,’ added Mr Richards, ‘both admire your courage, which is very great.’

  So he understood she must have made it plain to everyone, but she told herself that she did not care.

  Colonel Stroud rose again. The Richards returned to their seats.

  ‘This,’ said the Colonel, beaming around him, ‘is a day which adds new laurels to our society. Already with a poetess in our midst’ (Mrs Oliphant modestly drooped her head) ‘we now find that a novelist, too, has been blushing unseen amongst us. What further revelations await us—’

  ‘Ask Mr Endicott. He writes,’ broke in Mr Richards.

  ‘Very well,’ said Colonel Stroud, rather taken aback. ‘Would you have any objection, sir, to telling us in what direction your own literary ambitions lie?’

  Mark rose with an unholy light in his eye.

  ‘Since revelations seem to be the order of the day, none,’ he said cordially. He looked around him modestly. ‘I,’ he said, ‘am Annabel Lee.’

  * * *

  He was still smiling to himself as he turned the corner into the lane. The rabbit had stood not upon the order of her going, but she would not escape him by running away. There were things to be said. He saw the figure approaching him, and the smile left his lips.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to see you,’ said Ralph Grey.

  Mark halted, with a strong feeling of discomfort. The position was a foul one, say what you would. The other man looked quite normal, though very tired, but he could certainly find no pleasure in a meeting with himself.

  ‘That day,’ began Ralph, with an effort, ‘I behaved like a fool. Sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ said Mark gruffly. ‘Any man in your position would have thought the same.’

  ‘Good of you to say so. And, of course, then I didn’t know . . .’ He broke off again.

  Mark looked away. Poor devil, the worst part of it had been his. And what in God’s name was there to say?

  He muttered, ‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, you know. She hadn’t heard from me for nearly a twelvemonth — no means of knowing whether I was alive or dead.’

  Ralph said nothing.

  ‘The devil was in it that I should have come here. I didn’t know — I should have left as soon as I realized, but I was too pig-headed. I had bought the cottage, and it would have seemed like running away. That day she came it wasn’t because of any feeling for me — it was only because she was afraid.’

  ‘I know. It’s all been a miserable tangle, and none of our talking will set it right. I only wanted to say I was sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ said Mark.

  There was a pause. Ralph glanced at his watch, with obvious relief. ‘I must be off. I’m going away for a few days, but I shall be back. Like you, I don’t run away.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Thank the Lord, there’s always work.’

  They shook hands, and Ralph limped away. Mark watched him out of sight.

  ‘Poor devil,’ he said again.

  * * *

  Amy wandered into the garden. She was hot, and the house seemed airless. The buzz of comment and laughter which had followed Endicott’s statement still echoed in her ears. She was glad that Dinah was out, and that she herself need talk no more. An immense weariness engulfed her. She sat down on the grass and gazed vacantly into space.

  The gate clicked.
She started and looked up.

  ‘Oh,’ she said unwelcoming. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘In person,’ agreed Mark. ‘May we join you?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he came across the lawn and sat down beside her. James greeted her politely, wandered along the hedge, and was lost to view.

  Endicott sat in silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Went well, didn’t it? Plenty of good clean fun.’

  ‘You didn’t expect them to believe you, surely?’

  ‘Why not? It happens to be the truth.’

  Amy gaped. ‘But — but I thought you were joking!’

  ‘And you had many to bear you company. If you want to keep a secret, tell the truth. It’s true enough, my dear. Before the war I had been turning out that tripe for years.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was tripe!’

  ‘Neither did a large and appreciative public. But can’t you understand how sick I got of it? “So my lady leaned upon my arm, and we took the road — together.” Muck. Slush. Infernal sentimental bilge. If I could write one — only one — worthwhile book before I die I might forgive myself.’

  ‘That’s why you came here?’

  ‘Yes. Not to follow Laura.’ He took a deep breath and looked away. ‘We were married, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I . . . didn’t know,’ said Amy, in a small voice.

  ‘Nobody did. And she naturally wanted it kept quiet afterwards.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘She probably thought I was dead. A bit of a shock for her when I turned up. And, to be fair, just as big a shock for me.’

  Amy was silent. She was recalling Laura’s face that evening at the hall, and the expression of fear she had read on it. She had not been mistaken, after all.

  ‘I wanted to tell you before,’ said Mark, ‘but we haven’t had much chance of talking lately.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I am telling the truth. I had no idea that she was here.’

  ‘I hadn’t doubted it.’

  ‘Then what are you thinking?’

  ‘Only that I suppose you’ll be going away now.’

  She was quite certain of what his answer would be, but she did not look forward to hearing it. And he was taking long enough to find the words. Probably, since she had made such an abject fool of herself, he was afraid of hurting her.