‘Very well, dear child,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But it is only a negative proof, you know. It proves that Richard is not the Middleton heir, but it does not prove conclusively that Henry is.’
‘As long as Richard isn’t, I don’t care who is,’ said Jones positively.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Another point, child. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be some connection between the murder at Neot House and the nervous breakdown of the vicar?’
Jones whistled.
‘So that’s what you’re after!’ he said. He paused. But you said yourself he left the house too early to commit the murder. But where’s his motive for killing anybody? In any case, I don’t believe him capable of murder. Besides, the murderer was Middleton.’
Mrs Bradley cackled.
‘Bless you, bless you,’ she said, giving him a prod in the ribs that made him catch his breath. Jones removed his long thin body out of reach, and then said earnest
‘Seriously, now, give me your reasons for supposing that the corpse was not Middleton. Apart from the blackmail business.’
‘These,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Middleton is a very clever man; so clever that his brains run away with him. I repeat, emphatically, that if he had put a bold face on matters after his wife’s death, ignored the rumours in the village, and lived on at Neot House, no one would ever have suspected him of anything, and even if he had been suspected, nothing could have been proved. But he couldn’t leave things alone. He had to think out and carry through that daring and appallingly stupid disappearance. That’s the proof we have, it seems to me, that he murdered his wife.’
‘I see,’ said Jones.
‘And that isn’t proof positive,’ Mrs Bradley hastened to add.
‘Well?’ said Jones.
‘I don’t believe it would be easy to murder a man of Middleton’s mentality. He was quite abnormal and is certain to have been insanely suspicious. I am certain he would never have allowed himself to be decoyed downstairs and hit on the head with a poker.’
‘I see,’ said Jones again.
‘Another thing,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘At the inquest the body was identified by Mrs Tebbutt and by no one else. That may be a suspicious circumstance and it may not.’
‘And, as we know already, the Tebbutts are not to be trusted,’ said Jones. ‘Oh, I see. You mean, if the corpse wasn’t Middleton and she swore it was——’
‘More than that,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I interviewed Mrs Tebbutt, as you know. Her information was interesting. For instance, she told me a number of obvious lies, as well as suppressing the truth.’
‘Oh?’ said Jones. ‘That is interesting.’
‘Yes, child.’ She produced her notebook and turned over the leaves until she came to the entry she sought. ‘Oh, and she was far too communicative.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, she didn’t know me; had never heard of me; would have been justified in refusing to answer a single question I asked her. Instead, she flung information at my head by not only answering my questions but in supplying gratuitously the notion that her stepson might have committed the crime in a moment of panic.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. And produced chapter and verse in support of her statement.’
‘Well, I’m blessed!’
‘Further, she recited for my benefit a fairly complete and comprehensive history of Mr Carswell Middleton.’
‘Did she?’
‘Of whom no one else—not even the late Mrs Middleton’s mother and the solicitors who have had charge of Richard, and whom I questioned closely on the matter—had so much as heard.’
‘Oh-ho!’
‘Yes, child. Then she let out the fact that she and Mrs Passion are sisters, and yet she denied ever having lived in Saxon Wall.’
‘That was foolish, because Mrs Gant at the post office would be sure to recognise her.’
‘Other people, too. Then, when I asked her whether she saw Middleton go upstairs at half-past ten, she hedged at first, and then declared that she had.’
‘She may have forgotten at the moment,’ suggested Jones, ‘whether she saw him.’
‘Quite,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘There was one important point she kept from me, however.’
‘What was that?’
‘That although she did not commit the murder, she knew all about it,’ Mrs Bradley answered. ‘That was why she locked the dining-room door so that Tom could not get in.’
‘Oh yes. Afraid the boy would raise the alarm, I suppose, if he thought his employer was dead?’
‘So long as he could be induced to think it was his employer, there was no great harm done,’ said Mrs Bradley gently. ‘If it had been his employer, there might have been no reason for locking the door. The only point in locking the dining-room door was to keep Tom out, so that when the corpse was identified as that of Middleton, he was not in a position to contradict what was said.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I rather tell you what is to be feared
Than what I fear….’
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Julius Caesar. Act I, Scene 2.
AFTER HAVING BEEN kept under observation for a week in Mrs Bradley’s London clinic, the vicar had demanded that he should be permitted to return to Saxon Wall.
‘So what about it, child?’ asked Mrs Bradley. Her sharp black eyes studied the vicar’s haggard face, as she sat opposite him in the study at the vicarage after his return.
‘I can’t possibly tell you. The wretched woman told me in confidence. I couldn’t have stopped her, and, from all that I can gather, Middleton was a desperately wicked man, unfit to live, and certainly unfit to take charge of a child.’
‘I see. So, knowing when and where and by what means the murder was to be committed, you thought you would be well advised to give yourself an alibi.’
‘Good gracious me! I never thought of such a thing!’
‘Oh, didn’t you?’ said Mrs Bradley, innocently. ‘Then who supplied Mrs Passion with the notion that you had gashed your forehead with broken glass from a rose-window?’
‘It was such a valuable rose-window! It was simply hellish of the boys to damage it like that!’
‘I know it was. I know something else, too,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘What are you talking about?’ The vicar had a hunted expression. Mrs Bradley laughed. She was more than ever like a serpent, the vicar decided, watching her, fascinated and yet repelled.
‘This,’ she said, nodding her head slowly and rhythmically. ‘Village people don’t understand the religious symbolism of a rose-window, do they?’
The vicar passed his tongue over his lower lip, and did not answer. Mrs Bradley waited, to give him time to make some remark, but, finding that he had nothing to say, she continued: ‘Neither do they understand the law of tabu.’
‘Oh, don’t they?’ said he. There was fear in his eyes.
‘I beg your pardon. Yes, of course they do. Just as much as you do,’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning.
She paused again, while the vicar shifted his body as though he found his armchair uncomfortable.
‘But not, once again, the symbolism connected with it,’ she went on, as the vicar again offered no comment. ‘That’s African, that business of the string of feathers, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said the vicar. He put two fingers inside the front of his clerical collar, as though it were too tight for him.
‘If you wanted the woman, you should have taken her,’ Mrs Bradley continued, in a carelessly conversational tone; but, in spite of it, the vicar leapt up and shouted:
‘For God’s sake, how do you know?’
‘The string of feathers told Hannibal Jones the truth. He was a psychologist before he became a novelist, you know. Then he was both!’ She chuckled. ‘Psychologist enough to know how to make more than twenty-five thousand people buy every book he wrote, poor, lost soul that he was!’
‘Lost so
ul! Lost soul!’ muttered the vicar wildly. He began to gabble, as though he had learned the next sentences by heart, and was afraid he would forget them. ‘There were twelve of us at home, and my mother and father both came of large families. That sort of thing conditions a man’s reactions.’ He grimaced. Mrs Bradley nodded. ‘I resisted the temptation and chucked her out,’ he continued. He gazed, unseeing, at the far corner of the room, shadowed and soft now that the afternoon sun had left it, and added, with a ghoulish pleasure that interested Mrs Bradley more than he could have realised: ‘A pity she has to wear those ugly, clumsy garments. She was Middleton’s mistress at one time, so I’m told.’ He giggled. ‘I don’t know what the feathers had to do with it.’ He giggled again, more wildly. Mrs Bradley watched him, interested.
‘And Nao is a Japanese, and clever. Besides, you see, it was the choosing of the summer house,’ she said, as though in explanation. The vicar looked at her, bewildered.
‘I didn’t put them there,’ he said. ‘I found them, and they frightened me.’
‘Oh, yes, you did put them there,’ said Mrs Bradley gently. ‘You put them there after you had repulsed Mrs Passion and driven her away. That’s how Mr Jones knew anything about it. That’s how I knew, too. It was’—she cackled and became briskly professional—’an almost perfect symbolisation of your emotions. Read it up.’
‘Cocks’ feathers! Cocks’ feathers!’ said the vicar. His spasmodic grimaces were horrible. ‘Cocks’ combs and cocks’ feet nailed to the scullery window! Nailed there to keep her out! To keep her out! To keep her out!’
‘You’re mad,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Mad!’ The vicar leapt from his chair, his hands clenched, his teeth gritted together. He looked like a ferocious beast as he stood over the little old woman. She put up a yellow claw and pushed him backwards.
‘Sit down; control yourself,’ she said. Snarling, and not altogether human, he obeyed the note of command in her voice as a savage animal might obey the menacing crack of a whip. As he sat down again, Mrs Bradley noticed that his left sleeve was saturated with water almost up to the shoulder seam.
‘You’re wet!’ she said, pointing to it. The vicar glanced at it indifferently.
‘Oh, that!’ he said. He touched the wet sleeve and mumbled unintelligibly. Then he shrugged and lapsed into moodiness. The bandage was no longer round his head; neither could she discern any trace of a scar. His neuralgic pains seemed better, or, at any rate, less severe, for the scarf was gone also, although his thin face bore an unyielding expression of grief and pain.
They sat there a long time. Then the vicar said boastfully: ‘I can get them, you know, if only the drought holds. They’ll have to come here for water. They can’t hold out against me if I corner the water supply, can they? I’ve got a shot-gun and Nao has a revolver. We can hold the well against the lot of them. Birdseye will help! I can depend on Birdseye! Perhaps Jones will come! And there’s always Tebbutt from Neot House, and Corbett from the Long Thin Man. They’ll all come! They must come!’ He ended on a shout of triumph.
‘Tebbutt may be arrested for the murder of Hanley Middleton,’ said Mrs Bradley calmly. ‘I shouldn’t depend on him.’
‘Oh? But he didn’t commit the murder. That was Mrs Passion, I tell you. She said she would—and she did,’ he shouted again.
‘Then how was it that she visited Mr Jones at a time when it would have been impossible for ber to have been at his house if she had committed the murder?’ asked Mrs Bradley.
‘It must have been someone else who visited Jones.’ The vicar nodded his head as though pleased at his own suggestion. Then he looked cunningly at her, but there was fear in his expression. Mrs Bradley watched him carefully, then she said:
‘When I was talking to Mrs Tebbutt she began talking about “our” Martha. She corrected herself hastily, but the truth was out. She supplied Mrs Passion with an alibi—or so I imagine—by going to poor Mr Jones dressed in a raincoat and a large black hat which helped to shade her face—he was to view her by candlelight, you see—and a pair of men’s boots, which would effectually alter the sound of her footsteps, so that Jones, accustomed to Mrs Passion’s tread, should suspect nothing. Both realised that the fact of the woman’s appearance would be the uppermost thought in Mr Jones’ mind. Neat, I call it, and really rather clever.’
‘Whose idea do you think it was?’ demanded the vicar hoarsely.
‘Mrs Passion’s. Richard is a most intelligent little boy.’
‘It was because of the child that she intended to kill Middleton,’ said the vicar decidedly. ‘You hear me? It was because of the child.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ She grinned again, and the vicar, recoiling, said:
‘You’ll have to tell the police about her, won’t you?’
‘I have no choice at all,’ said Mrs Bradley definitely. The vicar looked relieved, but blinked very fast.
‘You will have to tell the police! You will have to tell the police! You will have to tell the police!’ he reiterated wildly. Mrs Bradley nodded and grimaced. He nodded blandly, too. She could almost see him hugging himself with pleasure and relief.
‘You don’t think old Mrs Fluke had anything to do with it?’ he said, and leered at her.
‘Why should you ask that?’ Mrs Bradley inquired.
‘Just that she also took care to provide herself with an alibi, didn’t she?’
‘With the dead frogs?’ Mrs Bradley chuckled. ‘It may have been accidental that she chose that particular night.’
‘And that particular time?’ said the vicar. Mrs Bradley shrugged and changed the topic.
‘Passion was ill, was he not?’
‘I didn’t hear that.’
‘Oh, yes. So ill that Mrs Pike, in Mrs Passion’s absence, was compelled to go in and look after him.’
‘While Mrs Passion committed the murder?’
‘While Mrs Passion was in Mr Jones’ cottage,’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning mirthlessly. The vicar shivered, as though the air was cold; or, more, perhaps, as though a sudden draught from the open window had blown chill upon him.
‘But she wasn’t in Jones’ cottage,’ he said feebly.
‘No,’ said Mrs Bradley. She rose. ‘Good-bye, Mr Hallam.’ The vicar started at the name, and then looked slightly confused. ‘By the way, if you really intend to bring the village to heel, you’ll need to find some method of cutting off supplies at Neot House. There’s plenty of water there. It only needs pumping, you know,’ she added, not particularly kindly.
‘I realise that,’ said the vicar, ‘but I don’t think it would occur to the villagers to go up there for it. They’re an odd lot. Very conservative, you know. No, I don’t think I need fear the water supply at Neot House.’ He spoke with almost ludicrous conviction.
‘Take my advice,’ said Mrs Bradley, as she made for the door, ‘and get away for a rest and change. You need it badly. If you don’t go, I’m afraid you will regret it.’
‘And what’s your fee for that advice?’ asked the vicar, sneering.
‘To be allowed to reach the gate in safety, unmolested,’ said Mrs Bradley, giving him an odd look in which amusement and warning were nicely blended. Stupefied, he gazed at her. Then he almost ran to the door and opened it. Nao, who had been about to enter the room, staggered, but recovered himself.
‘Mrs Passion, white-heated, to see Mr Hallam,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to—I can’t see her! Send her away at once!’ said the vicar wildly.
‘I’ll take her back with me,’ said Mrs Bradley. She held out her hand to him.
‘Come to the gate and see me off your land,’ she said. Then she raised her voice and called: ‘Mrs Passion! Come! Where are you?’
‘Has gone,’ said Nao politely, re-appearing with a shopping basket. ‘Household requirements,’ he said to the vicar, tapping the basket with a slim hand, yellower than Mrs Bradley’s own. ‘Not want me?’
‘Not at present,’ said the vicar, gazing conte
mptuously after him as, basket on arm, he trotted away.
‘I’ll just let him get along,’ said Mrs Bradley, once more settling herself comfortably into a chair. The vicar walked to the window and gazed out. After a lapse of about four minutes Mrs Bradley rose again.
The vicar, who had been standing with his back to a little table, came forward a step or two, and held out his left hand as though to bid her good-bye.
‘Wrong hand,’ said Mrs Bradley, but as she spoke she stepped adroitly to his right and seized the hand he held behind him. His face went white. He cried out suddenly in agony, and wrenched his hand away. Mrs Bradley smiled evilly, more like a serpent than ever. He stamped on the ground and clasped a badly dislocated wrist. Mrs Bradley kicked a hunting knife out of the doorway before her before she bent and picked it up.
‘You’d better let the doctor see that wrist. And mind you behave yourself back here in Saxon Wall. You don’t want to go back to London to my clinic, do you, now?’
He was crouched like a beast in the doorway. He snarled, but did not spring.
Chapter Nineteen
‘I do remember once in secret talk
You told me how you could compound by art
A crucifix impoisoned,
That whoso look upon it should wax blind….’
ANONYMOUS
Arden of Faversham. Act I.
‘SO THAT’S HOW it stands,’ said Jones. ‘Proof positive, I should call it. Nobody could possibly be as fond as that of the woman who visited me that night. Still, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley dubiously. ‘I have interviewed the man Passion. Of course, a brachycephalic head is not always a symptom of feeble-mindedness,’ she added in parenthesis.
‘And Mrs Pike was called in by Mrs Passion to look after him whilst the murder was being committed,’ said Jones. Mrs Bradley shook her head.
‘No, she wasn’t. Odd, isn’t it? Mrs Passion did not leave the cottage until eleven, when he was feeling a little better, and she returned to it——’
‘But, look here,’ Jones broke in, ‘it doesn’t matter at what time she returned, does it? If she didn’t leave the cottage until eleven she could not have committed the murder. The fellow was dead as a door-nail by a quarter-past eleven. She couldn’t have done it in the time. Or do you think Passion is lying?’
The Devil at Saxon Wall Page 18
