‘I don’t think so. His story is remarkably circumstantial. I tested it in every way that occurred to me. Besides, don’t you notice something else that’s rather odd?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Jones.
‘Everybody was just a little bit on the late side with the alibi, dear child. Just think of all those nice alibis. Mrs Passion’s is for ten minutes to eleven until twenty past. Mrs Fluke’s is for just roughly eleven o’clock. The vicar and Nao saw her, and, presumably, she them, at approximately that hour, you remember. Mrs Tebbutt, who provided Mrs Passion’s alibi, did not leave the house until, at the earliest, twenty minutes to eleven, and probably not until a quarter to.’
‘Then how did she get to me by ten to? Oh, in Middleton’s car, I suppose?’
‘Yes. And she did not behave as though she had cut it rather fine, did she? On the contrary, her idea seemed to be to stroll in and then to remain on your premises as long as possible.’
‘Yes,’ said Jones helplessly. ‘But what about that locked door? If Mrs Passion went to Neot House with the intention of murdering Middleton, how was it that someone else was murdered by Middleton instead?’
‘We don’t know, child. I think there must have been a plot to murder Middleton, because all the alibis were a trifle late, and had been invented, not to cover the murder that did take place, but the one that missed fire. Somehow, Middleton managed to turn the tables.’
‘Whoever committed the murder certainly knew in which attitude Middleton was accustomed to lie on the settee. I suppose it’s quite certain that the body was placed on the settee in that position so that anybody glancing into the room should not suspect that anything was wrong.’
‘Or that it was really Middleton who had been murdered, child. By the way, you remember the body of the cat? Now, who was it put down cockfighting and adder-hunting in this village, did you say?’
‘Hallam. But he wouldn’t kill a cat, would he?’
‘He would if it were badly hurt.’
‘Yes, but why should a cat be badly hurt?’
‘I don’t know, child. I think it would take Hanley Middleton to tell us that. A man who would cause his wife to die of blood-poisoning following child-birth, and who would murder a man on the operating table, would not shrink from inflicting injury on a cat, I imagine. One never knows, of course. People are odd about a good many matters, but I think they are most odd over the things they consider cruel. I could multiply instances, but you know as many as I do, I expect.’
‘But what was Hallam doing at Neot House?’ asked Jones. ‘Oh, of course! I remember why he went. He wanted to discuss the question of providing the villagers with water. He wanted to ask Mr Middleton to grant supplies to the villagers if the more obstinate of them refused to go to the vicarage.’ He paused, and then said: ‘So the murder was unpremeditated?’
‘Well, it ought to be urged, in the vicar’s defence, that Mrs Passion had already announced her conviction that Mr Middleton would be better dead, and had expressed the firm intention of killing him. The idea of murder was in Hallam’s mind, although perhaps not the idea that he should commit murder. The sight of the cat may have clinched matters.’
‘Good Lord! What are you going to do about it?’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘one of the Tebbutts may be convicted and sentenced.’
‘And if that occurs?’
‘I shall suggest to the vicar that he plead guilty. If the defence have any sense they will see that a plea of self-defence is put forward. You remember how badly the vicar gashed his head?’
Jones gazed at her in admiration. Mrs Bradley poked him in the ribs. Jones writhed, and moved out of reach. Then he asked:
‘But, look here, I’ve found a snag, I think. Hope so, anyway.’
‘Say on, child.’
‘When Mrs Fluke saw Hallam and Nao at about eleven o’clock, they were busily engaged in removing the quatrefoil glass, weren’t they?’
‘Were they?’
‘Well, what about the time of the murder, then? Hallam hasn’t a car! And the vicarage is nearly a mile and three-quarters from Neot House, isn’t it?’
‘He cycled, dear child.’
‘Oh, Lord, yes, of course. Well, what are we going to do now?’
‘Get out of Saxon Wall as soon as possible. We’ve made it too hot to hold us.’ She cackled harshly.
‘Taking Richard?’
‘That depends. Henry ought to have his rights, I think.’
‘And I want Richard.’
‘So does Mrs Passion.’
‘Well, she can’t have him. She sacrificed him to Mammon once, and she can do it again. I’m for clearing out tomorrow without a word to a soul. We can always pretend that Richard’s guardians want him up in London and we can deal with the Pike end of the thing—the inheritance and all the proofs and so forth—up there.’
‘I am not at all sure,’ said Mrs Bradley, eyeing him with sympathy, ‘that it won’t be a great deal better to let sleeping dogs lie. Richard is a dear little boy, and he is very attractive. But he has a bad heredity. You ought not to adopt him. Let him go his own way. You don’t want to bring trouble on your wife. It isn’t fair.’
‘And it isn’t fair on Richard to condemn him because of his father and his mother. What kind of Christianity is that?’ cried Jones, amazing himself by his words. ‘And if he’s a bad hat and gets into trouble later on, I’ll get him out of it, or go to gaol instead of him. Damn heredity! He shall forsake his father and mother and all their works and ways! I’ll face the risk, and, as for Frances, I don’t care very much what happens. It’s the boy I want.’
‘And you can’t have him until you’ve dispossessed him of the Middleton money and estates, and given them over to Henry.’
‘Who, in my opinion, is the rightful heir. Let’s have Mrs Passion in, and prove it.’
‘Very well.’ Mrs Bradley rang the little handbell, and Mrs Passion entered.
‘Sir?’
‘Sit down, Mrs Passion,’ said Jones. ‘We now know all about the murder of Mr Middleton, and——’
‘I didn’t do it, Mr Jones. No, neither with the bow of Jonathan nor the sling of David, nor with Saul’s sword on which he killed himself, nor with the help of any mighty men of valour.’
‘We know all that. Do you know who did kill him?’
‘I do. He were struck dead by the hand of heaven. “Vengeance is Mine: I will repay, saith the Lord!” And sure enough so it was. I beant rightly certain whether I would have lifted my hand or no, when it came to it, but it did not come to it. He was even laid back again on the sofy, nicely disposed. “In the midst of life we are in death,” and alive he looked, but when I spoke to him, he, having ears, heard me not, and, having eyes, saw me not, and, having lips, neither kissed me nor spoke to me.
‘And whose son is Richard?’ asked Jones, not attempting to challenge her identification of the murdered man.
Mrs Passion answered:
‘He is my natural son, by Hanley Middleton, who be dead.’
‘And who, then, is Henry Pike?’
‘He also is Hanley Middleton’s son, but by his lawful wedded wife, who be also dead, too and all.’
Jones said: ‘I want to adopt Richard, Mrs Passion.’
She nodded, and suddenly giggled.
‘Why not?’ she said. ‘He’s a nice little fellow, although I say it.’
‘You have no objection?’
She shook her head. Her eyes became glazed and heavy; her face was expressionless and pale. She had rolled her hands in her apron.
‘Only, take him away from here. The devil’s in the village,’ she said. ‘I want Richard took away from here.’
‘Is she mad?’ asked Jones, when the woman had gone. Mrs Bradley shrugged. ‘At any rate, I’m going to take her advice,’ he added. ‘Tomorrow we go. You’ll come, of course?’
‘Yes, I shall come,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘The devil’s in the village! How extraordinarily true. Is she
giving us a hint, I wonder, or did the words slip out by accident?’
She cackled mirthlessly.
‘I would like to know about that alibi,’ said Jones. ‘Do you think she’d tell me if I asked her point-blank?’
‘She might.’
Jones went to the door and called out: ‘I say, Mrs Passion, could I trouble you again?’
She came at once, and stood waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘That night—the night when Middleton was murdered,’ Jones began.
‘Sir?’
‘Was it you who came here, or was it Mrs Tebbutt?’
‘It was neither, Mr Jones.’
‘Who was it, then?’
‘It was someone sent.’
‘Sent?’
‘Yes, sir. By that wicked old Fluke, to get me into trouble.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘It was Mrs Tebbutt, my sister that is. But she never knew. It was wicked old Fluke, putting it on her.’
‘Hypnotising her?’
Mrs Passion shook her head. The word meant nothing to her.
‘Her told I to tell ee not to go helping parson at that there old treat.’
‘Oh, did she? Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Her cast it up and see it were an unlucky day for ee, that’s all.’
‘Is this a warning, Mrs Passion?’ asked Jones, curious to hear what she would reply to the question.
‘Parson’s hurt his hand,’ said Mrs Passion unconcernedly. Jones exchanged glances with Mrs Bradley.
‘It’s certainly uncanny,’ she said, suddenly leaning forward and gazing intently and unwinkingly at Mrs Passion.
‘Yes, mam,’ said Mrs Passion, in her dull flat voice, as though she were agreeing to something that Mrs Bradley had said. Mrs Bradley said quietly and distinctly:
‘Who killed Hanley Middleton?’
‘Parson killed him.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t remember for why.’
‘Why did you intend to kill him?’
‘My mother told me to. Her told me as Mr Middleton had wronged me.’
‘When was that?’
‘Long enough ago. I don’t remember when. I don’t want to remember. I won’t remember. I can’t bear to remember.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Yes, you can. Tell me when it was.’
‘Nay, I don’t want to.’
‘Yes, you do. You know you do. Tell me, and then that will be the end of it, and you won’t be troubled with it again.’
‘Nay, I won’t tell ee. I won’t tell anybody. You’ll tell Mr Jones, and I can’t abide for him to know. Don’t ee tell Mr Jones, now, will ee?’
‘Tell him yourself, then. He won’t mind.’
‘All right, I’ll tell him. It was when I were eighteen, Mr Jones. I be only just on thirty now. Ay, I know you’d think I were more, but I amna.’
She paused, her mouth working, her breath coming with a slightly snoring sound, and her eyes open but obviously sightless. She was completely hypnotised, and, having once been brought to the point of confession, made no more ado, but told them the pitiful story. At the end of it she came out of the hypnotic trance a trifle sleepy, but otherwise normal, and appeared to have no recollection of it. Mrs Bradley talked to her awhile of household affairs and then dismissed her.
‘So old Mrs Fluke was at the bottom of the affair. She knew Middleton’s reputation before ever she sent the girl to service at Neot House, it seems,’ said Jones. ‘The question is, what are we to do now if one of the Tebbutts is arrested for the murder?’
‘It depends which one is arrested,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Which one?’ said Jones.
‘Certainly. Mrs Tebbutt has no alibi, dear child.’
‘Why, of course she has! Didn’t she come to me to cover Mrs Passion?’
‘Yes, indeed she did,’ said Mrs Bradley definitely.
‘Well, that was her alibi, then.’
‘But was it?’ Her black eyes, sharp as a bird’s, met his. ‘Was it? What was she doing between half-past ten and ten to eleven, then, child?’
‘But I can’t understand! You said that the vicar committed the murder!’
‘Well, he had the opportunity, you know, and, in a sense, the motive.’
‘And now you say that Mrs Tebbutt did it.’
‘Do I, child?’
‘And before that you said definitely that it must be Middleton. You mean you don’t know which one of them it was?’
Mrs Bradley cackled.
‘The vicar is suffering from a severe nervous breakdown,’ she informed him. ‘Frankly, at the moment, child, he’s mad. It’s impossible to credit what he says. I’m having him moved tomorrow.’
‘You don’t think he did it, then?’
Mrs Bradley cackled again.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I believe if you saw the vicar at this moment, you would find him very greatly changed. The bandages did make a difference.’
Jones sighed.
‘Poor Hallam. He’s such a fine chap, really.’ He paused. ‘That brings us back to Mrs Tebbutt, then.’
Mrs Bradley nodded, but, as Jones knew from past experience, her nodding was not necessarily a sign of acquiescence.
‘And if the police arrest her, you won’t interfere?’ he asked. ‘And on the other hand, if they don’t arrest her, you won’t put them on her track?’ he continued without giving Mrs Bradley a chance to answer his first question. She answered the second, however.
‘I shall not put them on her track,’ she said.
‘But if they arrest some totally innocent person——’ said Jones.
‘They won’t,’ said Mrs Bradley confidently.
‘What makes you certain that Mrs Tebbutt did it?’ asked Jones, curiously.
‘I am not certain that Mrs Tebbutt did it,’ replied Mrs Bradley. ‘It is still quite possible that Mrs Passion did it.’
‘But, under the influence of hypnotism, she has just said the vicar did it.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘and she may be right. But remember, please, that I did not succeed in hypnotising Mrs Passion until after she had made that statement, therefore it is possible that the statement is a lie.’
‘Well, but why didn’t you wait until she was completely under your influence before asking her?’ demanded Jones.
‘Moral scruples,’ said Mrs Bradley blandly.
Chapter Twenty
‘My gende friend, beware, in taking air, Your walks grow not offensive to your wounds.’
ROBERT GREENE
James the Fourth. Act V, Scene I.
‘SO, OFFICIALLY, HALLAM is gone again, and the vicarage is empty?’ said Jones, a day later.
‘Officially, yes,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘Actually, he is in hiding in a back bedroom of the Long Thin Man, and will join us here this evening as soon as I give him the signal that the coast is clear.’
She concluded on a hoot of laughter that caused Jones to eye her apprehensively.
‘But the Chief Constable’s coming to dinner,’ he said.
‘He’s come,’ said Mrs Bradley, pointing out of the window, ‘and, as Mrs Passion is busy making the cakes for the Sunday School outing, Tom Tebbutt (whom you so kindly brought back from Southampton) and I have been trying our hands at cooking. The dinner’—she waved a yellow claw—’will be a cold collation. There is a bird, a tart, some cream and a delicious cheese.’
‘After weeks of Mrs Passion’s stew,’ said Jones, ‘my stomach yearns to the repast. Let’s let the gentleman in and get down to it. Is Tom going to wait at table? And is he behaving himself?’
‘Lily Soudall is going to wait at table. Yes, Tom is puzzled but obliging.’
‘Oh, you borrowed Lily for the occasion, I suppose?’
‘No. She gave notice at the doctor’s yesterday.’
‘What for?’
‘She didn’t say.’
When the meal was over, they sat in t
he open doorway looking out on the banks of phlox and lavender and the first shaggy dahlias, while Mrs Bradley talked, and the sounds of dish-washing came, together with snatches of conversation, from the scullery.
‘I want the case looked at from another angle,’ Mrs Bradley said. ‘Suppose the dead man isn’t Middleton—’
‘But are you sure he isn’t?’ the Chief Constable inquired. He was a man between thirty-five and forty, looked lazy, was imaginative, and had for Mrs Bradley the half-humorous deference of a son for his mother.
‘Of course I’m sure he isn’t, child,’ Mrs Bradley retorted. ‘But I thought it would be nice to have the bodies dug up, and prove it.’
‘But I can’t have bodies dug up just as I fancy, you know. Can’t you give your adopted nephew any idea of what you’re getting at?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I don’t believe Hanley Middleton is dead.’
‘Hanley Middleton? But he died under an operation donkeys’ years ago.’
‘Hanley Middleton is not dead. He is Doctor Mortmain, Tebbutt, or the vicar,’ said Mrs Bradley calmly. ‘Unless, of course, he is our innocent-looking Mr Jones here.’
‘But what gives you that idea?’ inquired the astounded Jones. ‘Hallam and Mortmain I met before the murder was committed. They must be what they seem. Tebbutt—well, I don’t know.’
Mrs Bradley shook her head.
‘Consider the supposed arrival of Middleton in the village,’ she said.
‘Fishy in a way,’ said Jones, ‘particularly now we’ve made up our minds that there never was a Carswell Middleton.’
‘But the dead man was formally identified as Carswell Middleton by his servant, Mrs Tebbutt,’ said the Chief Constable, puzzled.
‘Didn’t both the Tebbutts identify the body?’ Mrs Bradley inquired, although she knew they had not.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I believe not. Tebbutt himself seems to have been a bit knocked over by the shock, and he was under the doctor and couldn’t turn up at the inquest. But it made no difference, because his wife turned up and identified the dead man without hesitation as Carswell Middieton.’
The Devil at Saxon Wall Page 19
