The Watersplash

by Patricia Wentworth

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “Did you not mention in your letter that your new house-parlourmaid was the widow of the unfortunate man who was drowned in the watersplash?”

  “Oh, yes, I did. It was so foolish of her to marry him. She was much older than he was, and Miss Wayne had left her a little money. At least that is what everybody says-” She broke off, colouring deeply. “John is always telling me not to fall in with the uncharitable judgments of the crowd. He says villages are terribly censorious. But don’t you think sometimes they know?”

  Miss Silver agreed.

  Ruth Ball went on talking about Annie Jackson.

  “It seems so soon for her to be going out to work, but she said she would rather, and John thought it would be the best thing for her. Her cottage is a very lonely one on the other side of the splash. She said she didn’t want to stay there, and she has got a good tenant, so we said she could move in as soon as she liked after the funeral.”

  Annie Jackson was certainly very good at her work. Lunch was deftly and efficiently served-the walnut table in a high state of polish, the glass shining, and the silver bright. But the poor woman herself looked like a burdened ghost. The word kept recurring to Miss Silver’s mind. Annie Jackson looked like a woman who carried a heavy burden. Her shoulders sagged under it, and her strength was ready to fail.

  When lunch was over Miss Silver sat with her old friend’s daughter in the charming small sitting-room which was so much more easily heated than the rather too spacious drawing-room. Ruth Ball produced some domestic sewing, and Miss Silver the pale pink vest which she was knitting for Stacy Forrest’s expected baby. The afternoon stretched cosily before them. Afterwards Ruth was to wonder how much of their conversation would have escaped John’s strictures upon gossip. They had certainly talked about the village and its people-the Randoms up at the Hall, James and Jonathan who were dead, and Arnold who reigned in James’ stead-Jonathan’s widow, Emmeline, who lived at the south lodge, and his son Edward, who had been away for five years and was now taking up his duties as Lord Burlingham’s agent.

  “He is living with his stepmother. They have always been very fond of each other.”

  “What is he like, my dear Ruth?”

  Mrs. Ball’s needle remained poised above a hole in one of the Vicar’s socks.

  “I really don’t know. I have only just met him-I haven’t really even spoken to him. He came out of the south lodge one day as I was going in. One of the kittens ran up my skirt. He picked it off, and I said thank you. Mrs. Random has dozens of kittens-no, of course I don’t mean that, and John says it is wrong to exaggerate, but she does have a great many.”

  Miss Silver shepherded her gently.

  “And you only met Mr. Edward Random on this occasion? But sometimes a first impression-”

  “Oh, yes-I do agree about that! And I did have an impression-quite a strong one-about his being unhappy. But when I passed him in the road the other day-I had to go out early, and he was on his way to Mr. Barr’s-I did think he looked a good deal better. After all, nobody knows what happened to him during the five years he was away, and it must have been horrid for him to come home and find his uncle gone and everything left away from him.”

  “It must indeed.”

  They went on talking about Edward Random, about his Uncle Arnold and his stepmother Emmeline, about Susan Wayne, about the Miss Blakes, and Mrs. Stone, and Miss Sims, and the various stories, rumours and conjectures which were going round as to the deaths of William Jackson and Clarice Dean.

  Miss Silver had finished the vest she was knitting and had begun another before it was time for tea. She had been for the most part content to listen, merely prompting Ruth with a question if the stream of information appeared to be running dry. She lingered a little on the subject of the watersplash.

  “It is not at all deep, is it-just that one pool? Really quite a difficult place to drown in.”

  Ruth nodded.

  “That is just what I said-only John says it would be better if I didn’t-because odd things do happen, and the poor man was drunk.”

  Miss Silver pulled on her pale pink ball.

  “But not Clarice Dean,” she said.

  “No, no, of course not-that must have been an accident. There has been quite a lot of rain, and the stones are slippery. She may have hit her head. You see, she must have been going to meet Edward Random-there really isn’t anything else that could take her over the splash. And if she was in a hurry she could easily have slipped on the stones.”

  Miss Silver reflected on the improbability that an active young woman would drown in a pool which seemed to be no more than two feet deep. Unless somebody or something held her down. She coughed in an absent-minded manner and enquired,

  “Has anyone ever been drowned in the splash before?”

  Ruth became animated.

  “Oh, yes! But it was a long time ago, right away back in the nineteenth century. His name was Christopher Hale, and you can see his tombstone in the churchyard with some very quaint verses on it. I can show it to you if you like.”

  Miss Silver said that she would like to see it very much, and the Vicar came home to tea.

  As it turned out, Miss Silver found the grave of Christopher Hale for herself. Tea being at four o’clock, there was still a good deal of daylight left when they had finished. The evening was mild and fine, and after an afternoon spent indoors the thought of a stroll in the churchyard was agreeable. Since Ruth Ball had a visit to pay in connection with the Sunday School, she asked in what direction the grave was to be found, and made her way to it. An old country churchyard is always full of interest. With how much heavy marble had some of these previous centuries weighed down their dead. What human tragedies were recorded on some of the stones. What human grudges had been set forth for posterity to read. “Here lies Alice Jane Masters, wife of Thomas Henry Masters. She that would master as well as mistress be, let her to buriall come like thee.” The date on this was 1665.

  Christopher Hale was buried at the far end beyond the church. The spot was a sheltered one, which might account for the fact that the verses on the tall headstone were quite legible. Or perhaps, being something of a curiosity, they had been carefully preserved. In the quiet evening light the lettering stood out plainly.

  To the Memory of

  Christopher Hale

  Born March 10th 1800. Drowned March 11th 1839.

  This stone is erected by Kezia his wife.

  In dark of night and dreadful sin

  The heart conceives its plan,

  And wickedness in secret plots

  Against the righteous man.

  There is a Judge whose awefull law

  Shall all thy deeds require.

  Better to drown in water now

  Than burn in endless fire.

  Miss Silver read the inscription through several times. She found it enigmatic. Was it the dead man under the stone who had conceived and plotted against the righteous man, or was he himself the person who had been plotted against “in dark of night and dreadful sin”?

  She turned, not at a sound but with the instinctive feeling that she was no longer alone. It was just a little startling to find Annie Jackson so near. She was bareheaded in a black indoor dress, and she had come quite silently across the grass in her thin house shoes. She looked white and strange as she said,

  “His wife put up that stone.” She lifted a hand and pointed. “It’s there for everyone to read-this stone was put up by Kezia his wife. It doesn’t say she wrote the verses, but she did.”

  “Do you know what she meant by them, Mrs. Jackson?”

  Annie Jackson was already so pale that it would not have seemed possible that she could lose colour, yet she did so. It might have been an effect of the waning light, but Miss Silver did not think so.

  Annie dropped her voice and said,

  “Don’t call me that. He’s drowned, and I’m not married any more. I’m back in service like I was with Mis
s Wayne. I’m Annie Parker again, that’s what I am.”

  She turned, walked a few steps, and came back again.

  “I’ll not be putting up a stone for William,” she said. “He was a bad husband. He drank, and he went with other women. I didn’t ought to have married him. They all said so, but I didn’t take any notice.”

  The sun was almost gone, but not quite. Here from the churchyard, sloping to the west, they could see it lie like a golden ball between two clouds on the rim of the sky. The clouds were flushed and streaked with scarlet. Standing on the edge of the grass, Annie was full in the last level ray. It struck her forehead and the side of her head as she faced Miss Silver, and there, where the hair blew back in the lightly stirring air, was the mark of a livid bruise. It had not showed as she went about her work in the house, but it showed now.

  Miss Silver regarded her with grave compassion. She came a step nearer.

  “I’d no call to think well of him nor to speak well of him. But murder-that’s another thing! Christopher Hale, he was a loose liver like William, he was. And Kezia to her dying day she said he was murdered, and what’s more she named the man. Wanted to put it on the stone, but the old Vicar wouldn’t let her. He was Miss Wayne’s grandfather, and he was Vicar here. And his son, Miss Lucy’s father, after him. Miss Lucy had all the papers. And murder isn’t right-it isn’t right. You can’t get from it.” A shudder went over her. She said in a changed voice, “I’m sure I beg your pardon-talking like this. I heard Mrs. Ball say you were clever at finding out such things. She said you’d done it many’s the time, and found out what was being kept secret. So it just come over me, and I’m sure I beg your pardon. You won’t mention it, I hope-not to Mrs. Ball nor to anyone. It’s easy to set people talking.”

  Miss Silver said,

  “I shall not mention it to Mrs. Ball, Annie.”

  Annie Jackson turned and went away over the grass, making no sound at all. The light was failing now. The sun was gone. There was a greyness and a chill.

  But it was some time before Miss Silver went back to the Vicarage.

  CHAPTER XXV

  The Balls and their guest were still at the breakfast table next morning when Annie Jackson came in to say that the Inspector from Embank was there and another gentleman, and could they see Miss Silver? Standing there facing a window, no one could help noticing how pale and cold she looked. She kept her hand on the door as if she needed its support. Miss Silver folded her table-napkin neatly and followed her into the hall. Just before she closed the dining-room door behind her she heard the Vicar say, “Really, my dear, that poor woman looks dreadfully ill.”

  Coming out of the bright room, the hall seemed dark. Annie said,

  “They’re in the morning-room.” Her voice shook.

  She looked at Miss Silver and shivered. Then she went away down the passage which led to the back premises.

  Miss Silver took her way to the morning-room.

  It was Frank Abbott who came to meet her. Since he was expecting her, there was no surprise on his side. If there was any on hers, it was not allowed to be obtrusive. She smiled, expressed pleasure at seeing him, and shook hands with Inspector Bury. After which they all sat down, and she was invited to give the local Inspector an account of her interview with Miss Clarice Dean.

  It was evident that it did not suit his book. He put a number of questions obviously intended to shake the accuracy of her recollection, and then said in rather an abrupt tone,

  “Inspector Abbott tells me that you are to be relied upon not to repeat this story-” at which point he suddenly found himself floundering.

  Without any real movement on her part she appeared to have withdrawn to a rather awful distance. Or perhaps it was he who had receded. His neck burned, and the colour mounted to his prominent ears. At Miss Silver’s gentle yet remote, “I beg your pardon, Inspector,” he found himself very earnestly begging hers, with the Inspector from Scotland Yard enjoying the scene.

  But it was Frank who rescued him.

  “That is all right, Bury. I have worked with Miss Silver before, and you haven’t. You can say anything you like in front of her. I propose to show her all the statements we’ve got and ask her what she thinks of them”

  Miss Silver accepted both the apology and the tribute with a faint but gracious smile.

  Bury’s ears resumed their natural colour.

  “We’ve got to be careful, you know, and this story-well, if that is what Miss Dean was up to, it rather knocks Mr. Random’s motive on the head, doesn’t it? You say she told you she knew about a will in his favour. That being the case, he had a good deal to lose by her death.”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “She had not told him that she knew about the will. She was finding it difficult to see him alone. She had made the mistake of trying to combine her proffer of information with a very determined attempt at a flirtation for which Mr. Edward Random was not inclined.”

  “She was running after him?”

  “Undoubtedly. She spoke quite frankly about it. She wished to be comfortably settled. She hoped to make some kind of a bargain from what she knew about the will. She hoped to secure Edward Random’s gratitude. And she intended to marry him if she decided that it would be worth her while.”

  Bury looked at her with growing respect.

  “A pretty cold-blooded business.”

  “And a dangerous one. I warned her about that.”

  He said quickly,

  “What made you think it might be dangerous?”

  “If her story was true, a will had been suppressed, and the surviving witness to that will had just been drowned in very suspicious circumstances. Miss Dean was, I believe, quite well aware that her position was not a very safe one. A person who has suppressed a will might kill to cover up his crime. A person who has killed once may do so again. I formed the opinion that Miss Dean was in a high state of tension. She unburdened herself to me because she felt that she would be safer if someone shared her secret.”

  Inspector Bury frowned.

  “I don’t see how all this is going to fit in. Inspector Abbott wanted me to come along and hear what you had to say. Well, I’ve done so, and I don’t see how it’s going to fit in. We’re handing the case over. He’s at liberty to handle it the way he thinks best. I’ve got a job out at Littleton, and I’ll be getting along.”

  When the door had shut behind him Frank Abbott permitted himself to smile.

  “A good chap,” he said, “and as keen as mustard. He would like to have finished the case out himself, but the Superintendent and the Chief Constable have got the wind up-Random relations on one side all over the county, and the watchful eye of Labour on the other. Which is why I am here to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them. After which lovely bag of mixed metaphors I think you had better read the statements and tell me how they strike you.”

  She took the typewritten sheets and gave them grave attention. When she had finished she lifted her eyes from the last page and said,

  “Mr. Edward Random’s statement merely describes the finding of Miss Dean’s body.”

  “Yes, I was going to tell you about that. When Bury searched the girl’s room he found a note crumpled up under the grate. Here is a copy. The original was typewritten too. The signature consists of two typed initials so badly defaced that it is practically impossible to say what they were, though the first one seems to have had a cross bar, which would make it A, E, or F.”

  She said,

  “Defaced? In what manner?”

  “A rubbed crease amounting to a tear-a fall of soot down the chimney. The typewriter has not been identified, and the only fingerprints are Clarice Dean’s.”

  “My dear Frank!”

  He nodded.

  “Odd, isn’t it? It didn’t come by post, you know. Somebody typed it, put it in an envelope, stuck it down, and dropped it into the Miss Blakes’ letter-box. Miss Mildred Blake says Miss Dean went to the box when they were carrying the l
unch things down, and she thinks took something out of it. Miss Ora Blake says that Edward Random went down the street and past their door at about two o’clock. Her sofa is drawn up to the window in that jutting bay, and she has an excellent view of the whole street, with the unfortunate exception of the stretch of footpath which runs under the bay and which includes her own front door. Edward Random could therefore have dropped the note into the letter-box without her seeing him, and so could two other members of the Random family -his stepmother, Mrs. Jonathan Random, and-Uncle Arnold. Miss Ora has an eye for detail, and I asked her whether any of these people were wearing gloves. Well, Edward Random wasn’t, but Mrs. Jonathan and Uncle Arnold were. Uncle Arnold always does. He plays the organ, and is finicky about his hands. But gloves or no gloves, there should be more fingerprints than Miss Dean’s on that note. Even the most finicky person doesn’t sit down to type in gloves. Which means that the prints have been deliberately removed. And that looks like premeditation.”

  Miss Silver said,

  “The initials were typed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are now defaced?”

  “Practically. The second one could be an R.”

  “Has Mr. Edward Random been asked about this note?”

  “Yes. He denies writing it. Look here, this is what I have got roughed out so far with regard to possible suspects. We’ll take Edward Random first.

  “Motive. In the light of your conversation with Clarice Dean, weak to the point of being non-existent. But there may be things in their relationship which we do not know about. She was obviously pestering him, and he was obviously angry about it, vide statements of Miss Sims and Mrs. Stone-‘He spoke very harsh,’ and, ‘She said he frightened her when he was like that, and I’d have been the same.’ I suppose she could have exasperated him to the point at which he hit her over the head and left her to drown.”