The Watersplash

by Patricia Wentworth

  “She had been struck?”

  He nodded.

  “On the back of the head-and then drowned. As I was saying, I suppose a man might lose his temper to that extent, but-there are no fingerprints on the note, except her own. So whoever typed that note meant to murder her. And that does away with any theory of sudden provocation. You see, it isn’t going to be easy to fit Edward out with a motive. But when you come to Opportunity, everything in the garden is lovely. It was ten o’clock when he ran up to the Vicarage and said there was a woman drowned in the splash. He was on his way home after spending the afternoon and evening with Mr. Barr, Lord Burlingham’s old agent from whom he is taking over. The distance to the splash is about threequarters of a mile-but he left Mr. Barr’s house at a quarter past nine. Bury and I saw him last night, and he says he took a bridle path through the woods and didn’t hurry. Says he likes being in the woods at night. All very understandable and possible, but a bit unfortunate in view of the fact that the typewritten note makes an assignation with Clarice Dean at half past nine. The meeting-place was obviously the watersplash, since the note says ‘Same place,’ and that is where they were coming from when Mrs. Stone saw them the evening before. Well, he had the time to keep that appointment, quarrel with her, knock her out, and make sure that she was dead before going up to the Vicarage for help. You see, it begins not to look so good for Edward Random.”

  Miss Silver gazed at him thoughtfully.

  “Mrs. Ball informs me that though Mr. Edward Random habitually came and went by way of the watersplash, there is quite a good road from Mr. Barr’s house which connects with Greenings by way of a lane which you may have observed just on the Embank side of the village. If Mr. Edward had killed Miss Dean, would he have gone to the Vicarage for help? There was no need to attract attention to himself by doing so. He could have made a point of taking the other way home, or at least of saying that he had done so.”

  Frank shrugged.

  “A man doesn’t commit murder in a perfectly reasonable frame of mind.”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “If Clarice Dean was murdered by the person who removed his fingerprints from that note, then the whole thing was very carefully planned. If this person was Edward Random he would not have left his actions after the murder to chance.”

  Frank nodded.

  “I agree to that. But he might have thought that he would divert suspicion by going off hot-foot to fetch help. By the way, there is no typewriter in Mrs. Random’s house. Mr. Barr has two, but the note was not typed on either of them. You don’t happen to know if the Vicar has one, do you?” He laughed as he spoke.

  But Miss Silver answered seriously.

  “There is one in the Church Room, I believe. It is used for typing notices.”

  “By whom?”

  “I really do not know. By the Vicar, I presume, and by Mrs. Ball-perhaps by other church helpers.”

  “Is the room kept locked?”

  “I think not-in the day time. It is behind the Vicarage, you know. There is a small lending library there, and people come to borrow books.”

  “I see. We will go and have a look at it. But to return to our suspects-what about Uncle Arnold? He has got a whale of a motive, but what about opportunity?”

  Miss Silver said with gravity,

  “He plays the organ for the services. Mrs. Ball tells me that he is in the habit of practising in the church between nine and ten o’clock on Friday evenings.”

  “And William Jackson gets himself drowned on a Friday evening, and so does Clarice Dean. Almost too convenient, isn’t it? Of course we don’t know exactly when William drowned, but pubs close at ten, and he is supposed to have left the Lamb a little before that. Since, I gather, he usually had to be more or less thrown out, his reason for going earlier and of his own accord could have been that he wanted to see Arnold Random and try out a spot of blackmail. He could have caught him nicely if he had hung about by the lych gate, and, as you are about to observe, it is only a step from there to the splash. Arnold would merely have to temporize, follow him down to the stepping-stones, and push him in. If he was fuddled, as seems likely, it would not be too difficult to hold him under until he drowned. As regards Clarice, it is easier still. With the party line at his disposal, Arnold could have heard her insisting to Edward that she knew something about his uncle’s affairs. He could have typed the note which brought her down to the splash at half past nine-something rather phoney about it being typed, don’t you think-especially the initials. He was one of the people who could have dropped it in the Miss Blakes’ letter-box, and he had a perfectly good excuse for being on the spot. He always practised in the church on Friday evenings. He had only to nip down the yew tunnel, knock the girl out from behind-remember it was almost certainly Edward whom she was expecting and she would be looking for him to come from the direction of the splash. Arnold could come up behind her and she would never know what happened. The whole thing need not have taken more than a few minutes. Would anyone in the Vicarage have noticed if the organ had stopped for those few minutes?”

  Miss Silver said in a thoughtful voice,

  “I do not know. Mrs. Ball has a work-party here on Friday evenings from eight to ten.”

  “Oh, she does, does she? That’s a bit of a complication. Or is it? If there were a lot of women here all talking nineteen to the dozen, I don’t suppose any of them would notice whether the organ was off or on. They’ll have to be asked of course. But as regards William Jackson-let’s see-he’s got to have time to come down the road from the Lamb, meet Arnold Random, and get himself bumped off. Well, suppose Arnold is still playing the organ when he comes along. He could go up to the church and see him there all nice and private. Even if the Vicarage party is breaking up, there wouldn’t be anything to attract attention. The organ would stop but what about it- Mr. Arnold had finished his practising. William comes and goes by the yew tunnel, and the ladies all go the other way home. Yes, it fits in. And I’d better have a word with Mrs. Ball. Do you think you could get hold of her?”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Inspector Abbott was not in the least what Ruth Ball expected. She found it difficult to believe that he was a police officer. Solid worth was what one associated with the Police Force. A slim, elegant young man in a beautifully cut suit was disturbing. She would have been more comfortable if he had worn large clumping boots and talked with a country accent. But she was most anxious to be helpful.

  “Now let me see-which Friday is it that you want to know about?… Oh, both? Well, on that first Friday-I know Mrs. Pomfret was there-and Miss Sims-and of course Miss Mildred Blake-and-yes, Mrs. Alexander. But not Mrs. Jonathan Random or Susan Wayne.”

  “And when did they go away?”

  “Well, the party is supposed to be over by ten, but you know how it is-there are the good-nights. I know Miss Blake went away early. She wanted to have a word with Mr. Random, who was practising in the church. She was going to play on one of the Sundays. We are very fortunate in having two good amateurs actually in Greenings, because the parish could not really afford a professional organist.”

  “At what time did Miss Blake leave?”

  “It must have been just before ten-not so early after all. But the others were a little later.”

  “And you could hear the organ then?”

  “Oh, yes. Miss Blake remarked on it. She said she would just go over to the church and see him about the music.”

  When she had left them Frank said,

  “Well, there goes a very promising case against Mr. Arnold Random. If he and Miss Blake were talking about music in the church round about ten o’clock, then he wasn’t murdering William Jackson. I must go and see her on my way back. I’ll ask her how long she was there, and whether she and Arnold walked home together. If they did, he’s got a nice water-tight alibi, and we have lost our chief suspect. You haven’t got another one up your sleeve by any chance, have you?”

  He was taken aback when Miss
Silver said very soberly indeed,

  “I do not know, Frank.”

  One of his very fair eyebrows lifted.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  She fixed her eyes upon his face.

  “I believe that I should tell you, but I am reluctant to do so. The person whom I have in mind has had a severe shock and is an object of compassion. There is, I believe, some want of balance. It is because this might prove a danger either to herself or others that I do feel I have a duty in the matter. I had a very curious interview in the churchyard last night.”

  “An interview? With whom?”

  “With William Jackson’s widow. I had gone to see rather a curious old tomb, and she came up behind me whilst I was looking at it.”

  “Is she the woman who let us in? Bury told me she was working here. She looks very ill.”

  “She has had a severe shock, Frank. Her state of mind is a disturbed one. She said some strange things to me whilst I was looking at the tomb. It is that of a man who was drowned in the splash more than a hundred years ago.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  She told him in her own quiet, accurate way. When she had finished he said,

  “It certainly sounds odd. But what are you suggesting-that she drowned him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Frank, I do not know. He was a bad husband-he took her money and spent it on other women. She has a bruise on the side of her head. It is not noticeable in the house, but in the churchyard when the wind blew her hair back it was distinctly visible. It has occurred to me that those verses on the tombstone might have suggested a method of murder to someone in a not very balanced state of mind.” She quoted them slowly and with emphasis:

  “ ‘In dark of night and dreadful sin

  The heart conceives its plan…’

  “And again:

  “ ‘There is a Judge whose awefull law

  Doth all thy deeds require.

  Better to drown in water now

  Than burn in endless fire.’

  “It is those last two lines which I find particularly suggestive. To an unbalanced mind it might appear that to drown William Jackson would be the means of saving him from further sin.”

  He was frowning.

  “And Clarice Dean?”

  Miss Silver shook her head again.

  “I can only repeat that I do not know. Once a lack of balance has led a person to kill, I suppose the act might be repeated, and with a lesser motive. Or the second murder may merely have been suggested by the first, and carried out by a different hand. No-perhaps that is going too far. Let us return to the safer realm of facts. I have thought it my duty to tell you that Annie Jackson’s state of mind is not altogether normal. I have given you an account of her words and behaviour at the tomb of Christopher Hale. I do not wish to go any farther than that, and I beg that you will not ask me to do so.”

  A subsequent interview with Annie did not add very much to this. She was pale and quiet. She answered what was asked of her in a manner so devoid of emotion that she might have been repeating a lesson. She had been married nearly three years. The cottage had been bought with her money. William was not a good husband-everybody knew that. He wasn’t doing himself any good, and Mr. Random had given him his notice. No, he didn’t seem upset about it. He said Mr. Arnold would be sorry, and maybe he’d get his job back, and a rise. But she didn’t take any notice of that-she thought he was just boasting. She knew he was getting careless over his work, and Mr. Arnold was particular, he wouldn’t put up with it.

  All this while her hands were strained together in her lap. There was no other sign that she was exercising a rigid control until Frank Abbott said,

  “Mrs. Jackson, did your husband ever talk to you about a will that he had witnessed?”

  She gave a kind of gasp at that and said,

  “No.”

  “Are you quite sure about that?”

  “Quite-sure-” Each of the words seemed to use up all the breath she had.

  “He never spoke as if he knew something which could be turned to his advantage?”

  This time she did not attempt to speak, only shook her head. Frank Abbott leaned forward, his light eyes intent.

  “Your husband didn’t usually come home till after closing time, did he?”

  This was a relief. She managed a fluttering, “No-”

  “He was sometimes the worse for drink?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you ever come and meet him? As far as the splash- to see him over the stepping-stones?”

  Her eyes widened until iris and pupil seemed to merge and show like a dark O against the white.

  He said,

  “Did you come to meet him on that Friday night-the night that he was drowned?”

  She had taken a quick breath. Now it went out of her in a sigh. Her straining hands relaxed and she slipped sideways to the floor in a faint.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Inspector Abbott went over to the Church Room with the Vicar, who would have preferred to show him the church.

  “Perhaps some other time when you are not on duty,” he said in a regretful voice. “We have a list of the incumbents from 1250 onwards, and there are a good many points of interest besides the Crusader’s tomb, which is in an unusual state of preservation. The Church Room, which was very kindly given by the late Mr. James Random, has, I fear, a strictly utilitarian appeal. Fortunately, the Vicarage screens it from the road, and these poplars from the churchyard.”

  It proved to be one of those large plain structures, admirably adapted to its purpose but devoid of charm. The door was locked, but as the Reverend John Ball explained, the key was not far to seek, since it hung on a nail at the side of the shallow porch-“Out of reach of the children, but convenient for any of the church helpers.”

  As they entered upon a big bare room which smelled powerfully of varnish, Frank made discreet enquiries with regard to these helpers. It appeared that Mrs. Jonathan Random came in and out to do the flowers.

  “There is a most convenient little room through there with running water and a sink, and of course it saves a great deal of mess in the church. The Sunday School meets here, and we have a small lending library supervised by Mrs. Pomfret and Miss Blake. One of them, or of their helpers, makes a point of being on duty from six to half past on Wednesdays and Fridays, and for half an hour after the Sunday morning service. Now let me see who the helpers are. Miss Sims of course- she is Dr. Croft’s housekeeper. And I believe Mr. Random’s housekeeper from the Hall occasionally takes a hand.”

  Frank looked about him. A row of uncurtained windows broke the varnished wall on either side. There were a number of rush-seated chairs, a singularly hideous yellow harmonium, and, at the far end, the shelves which housed the library. In the opposite corner to the harmonium there was a writing-table, and upon the writing-table a rather elderly-looking typewriter.

  “The gift of Mr. Arnold Random. It was his brother’s, and he very kindly presented it to the Room after Mr. James Random’s death.”

  “And who uses it, sir?”

  Mr. Ball gave his genial smile.

  “Oh, most of our helpers can type a little, I think. Not in a very professional manner, but sufficiently well to produce a legible notice, or texts for the children to learn at home-that kind of thing, you know.”

  “Do you mind if I try my hand at it?”

  “No, no-of course not.”

  Frank sat down at the table, found a sheet of paper, slipped it into the machine, and began to type in a style which no doubt compared favourably with that of the helpers. What he typed was a copy of the note which had brought Clarice Dean to her death:

  “All right, let’s have it out. I’ll be coming back late tonight. Meet me at the same place. Say half past nine. I can’t make it before that.”

  He left it without signature, folded the sheet, and put it away in his pocket-book. After which he allowed the Vicar to show him round the
church, where he duly admired the Crusader, one Hugo de la Tour, and some fine brasses. At his own request he was conducted to the grave of Christopher Hale-dismissed rather contemptuously by Mr. Ball as “really comparatively modern, but of some topical interest.”

  When he had read Kezia’s verses and admired the accuracy with which Miss Silver had rendered them, he took his way back to the house and asked if he might have a word with her before leaving.

  It was characteristic of her kind heart that she should reassure him as to Annie Jackson before making enquiries as to whether he had met with any success.

  “She has had a nice cup of tea, and is now really quite recovered. It is always distressing to have to question someone who is in trouble, and I am sure you will be glad to know that she is not any the worse for the experience-” She paused, and then added, “physically.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?”

  “That she has something on her mind. She fainted because she was frightened. You asked her whether she had gone to meet her husband at the watersplash, and she was suddenly very much afraid-so much afraid that she fainted.”

  “You think she did go to meet him?”

  “I think she may have done so.”

  “Do you think she pushed him in?”

  “I think she may have seen the person who pushed him in. And if she did-”

  “If she did?”

  “She may be in danger herself, and she may know it.”

  After a pause he said,

  “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go out alone after dark. Don’t let her go down to the splash. If she were found drowned there, it would be quite a plausible suicide. And now here’s one of the facts you were talking about. The note that brought Clarice Dean to meet the person who murdered her was typed on the machine in the Church Room.”