“There’s that. Have you visited their Reach today?”
“I have gone further. I have visited them.”
“Good heavens! Why?”
“To find out whether they are brother and sister and not husband and wife.”
“Stuck your neck out, in fact.”
“If I understand your idiom, I suppose you are right.”
“Did you get any satisfaction?”
“An interesting question. Phlox Carmichael admitted freely that he is Marigold’s brother and not her husband.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. He seemed to challenge me to do something about it.”
“Then the skeleton is his wife, as we thought!”
“That does not follow in the least. You are illogical. He gave a valid reason for passing Marigold off on one of their expeditions as his wife and indicated that if people in England chose to sustain the fiction, that was not his concern.”
“The hotel!” said Laura. “The hotel on the Roman Wall where they stayed before they came on to the vicarage this last time. What’s the matter with pushing along up there again and having a peep at the register? If he’s put them in there as man and wife, he’s got some explaining to do.”
“You can do that, if you like, but I think you will be wasting your time.”
“You mean he’ll have played safe and entered them as brother and sister?”
“He will have filled in his own particulars and left Marigold to fill in hers. As it is optional whether one adds the title “Miss” or “Mrs.” to one’s signature, Marigold will have added neither. Therefore, as they will have asked for separate rooms, the inference will be that they are, in fact, what they are—brother and sister.”
“He’s clever, there’s no doubt about that. What shall we do, then?”
“We must approach the matter from another angle.”
“What other angle?”
“We must find out how and when the cadaver was brought to the smallholding.”
“The police are working on that already, I thought.”
“Yes, they are.”
“What we want now, you know,” said Laura, “is a bit of real good luck; one of those fortunate coincidences that never seem to happen.”
“I do not expect anything like that; in any case, most so-called coincidences prove to be nothing of the sort, but are readily accounted for.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“To employ your own distasteful expression, I am going to snoop around the village and turn up the damp stones, so to speak.”
“If I know anything of village life, you’ll get more than you bargain for.”
“I shall discount strictly anything which has no bearing upon our problem.”
“Where do you propose to begin?”
“Well, we have exhausted everything the Pierces can tell us, I fancy. I shall try the boys’ school again and then the convent school.”
“I can’t see much future in that.”
“One never knows. Then, of course, I shall harry that unfortunate smallholder again.”
“I expect you’ll be a nice change from the police. By the way, has it been proved yet whether those finds Dickon made are genuine Roman stuff ?”
“They are being examined by the British Museum experts now, I believe. It is interesting that you should mention them, as I intend to make them my excuse for visiting the school again. In fact, you know, I think I might try the convent first, so that, by the time I get to the boys’ school, the experts will have come to some conclusion about the pottery and the mask.”
“Meanwhile, what do you want me to do?”
“Keep in close touch with Robert. I expect developments from the Chelsea end of the case. That old boatman has not disappeared for nothing.”
“No, but the police will find him all right.”
“Yes, but, when they do, will he be alive or dead?”
“Goodness! You don’t think there’s been another murder?”
“I do not know, but it is an eventuality for which I feel we must be prepared. Ring up the convent, will you, and find out when it will be convenient for the Mother Superior to allow me to talk with the headmistress.”
Laura rang up, and an interview was arranged for the following afternoon at three. The headmistress, Mother Anacletus, was a round-faced, blue-eyed, cheerful woman in her mid-forties. She received Dame Beatrice in her school office and invited her to smoke. Dame Beatrice confessed to an antipathy to the weed, and stated her business frankly and concisely.
“I don’t know how we can help you,” said the nun. “It is a dreadful affair, but our girls cannot be said to be involved.”
“Of course not, but they may have noticed something which others have overlooked.”
“Young people are naturally observant, and I hardly think our girls would not have reported anything which seemed to have a bearing on this fearful crime. I wish we had been able to keep the dreadful facts from them, but that has not been possible. They have access to newspapers and they also shop in the village—under supervision, it is true, but . . .”
“Quite. You cannot prevent them from overhearing gossip.”
“We understand that the poor man on whose land the body was found has been closely questioned by the police. Is it to help him that you are interesting yourself in the matter?”
“Partly. I am also extremely interested in the amateur archæologists named Carmichael. I don’t suppose you have met them.”
“Oh, but we have, Dame Beatrice! That is to say, we have certainly met Mrs. Carmichael. She stayed here just before she and her husband went to the smallholding with Mr. Pierce and made that gruesome discovery.”
“Really?” said Dame Beatrice. “I had no idea of that.”
“Yes. She told us of the difficulty about accommodation at the vicarage and asked whether we could take her in. As it happened, two of our secular teachers were away on a school journey with some of the younger pupils, so we were able to find her a room. She occupied it for three nights—a very quiet, amiable person.”
“Did she leave the convent at any time during her visit? Did she take walks, for example?”
“No, she did not. We have a delightful garden, you know, and Sister Paracletus found her books to read.”
“You called her Mrs. Carmichael?”
“That is how she introduced herself. She also referred to her husband and told us that he was staying at the station inn, but that he considered it unsuitable for her. Very thoughtful of him, I imagine. The company there might be noisy in the evenings.”
“Very likely. It is a very small place and I dare say the principal guest-rooms would be over the bar. Well, if you do not think your girls can help me, I will wish you good-day. I am sure you are busy.”
The nun smiled very sweetly and opened the parlour door.
“Sister Portress will see you out,” she said. Dame Beatrice dropped some money in an offertory box on the wall, and Sister Portress, emerging from an alcove, thanked her, blessed her in a business-like way and showed her out. Dame Beatrice got into her car and told George to drive to the station inn. Something was beginning to move at last, she thought, although in what direction it was not yet possible to say. chapter twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
And Continues So to Do
“. . . for obstinacy in a bad Cause is but constancy in a good.”
Ibid (Section 25)
* * *
THE station inn had not been open to the thirsty since half-past two that afternoon, so Dame Beatrice went in at the double gates which led to the yard and knocked on the back door. A large, very hairy, cross-bred dog rushed to the limit of his chain and barked loudly and menacingly at her. This, and her knocking, brought the potman out. He cursed the dog and greeted the visitor.
“I’m afeared I can’t oblige ‘ee till six, mam,” he said. “There was a bit of trouble last week.”
“That�
��s all right, Percy,” returned Dame Beatrice. “I haven’t come for anything in a bottle. I want to see Mrs. Palmer.”
“Come in, mam, please. I’ll put you in the bar parlour and then I’ll fetch her along.”
Mrs. Palmer was a Saxon blonde with powerful forearms and an equally powerful jaw. She was well acquainted with Laura, who often looked in for a beer or some Scotch, less so with Laura’s employer, although she knew her very well by sight. She entered, wiping her hands on a very nice nylon overall.
“What can I do for you, Dame Beatrice?” she asked. “Not often we have the pleasure.”
“I need take up very little of your time, Mrs. Palmer,” Dame Beatrice returned, with equal courtesy.
“Time for a small port, any road, unless you’d prefer a dark sherry. Either goes nice after dinner, and I’ve only just this minute finished mine. I reckon to have my elevenses at half-past ten—that’s bread and cheese or a ham sandwich and my half-pint of nourishing stout—and then I go till we shut at half-past two, then I have my dinner.”
Dame Beatrice opted for dark sherry. Her hostess chose for herself what she described as “a nice drop of real old tawny” and placed biscuits on the table.
“Now,” said Dame Beatrice, “this is what I came about: you had a man named Carmichael staying here for three nights just before the vicar took him and his wife to Dickon’s smallholding and they found that woman’s skeleton.”
“Carmichael? For three nights? No, Dame Beatrice, that we did not. He always stays at the vicarage with his wife. Three or four times they’ve stopped there.”
“Not on this occasion—at least, not for the three nights in question. His wife lodged at the convent and he took a room in your house.”
“Which three days would it have been, then?”
“I think it would have been—let me see—yes, it would have been a Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, the twenty-second, third, and fourth of last month.”
“No, I’m certain, Dame Beatrice, he never came here those nights. Look, there’s no call to believe me unsupported. I’ll just ring that bell to call my husband. I know he’ll say the same as me.”
“Of course I believe you, Mrs. Palmer! There is really no need . . .”
“All the same, we’ll have it straight,” said the landlady, with all the obstinacy of a country woman. “I’m a-going to ring the bell, then you’ll be satisfied.”
Dame Beatrice herself rang the bell and in a few moments Palmer, tousle-haired and in his shirt-sleeves, came in.
“What is it, mother? We’re in the cellar making room for the rest of the draught. Won’t it wait?”
“I’m sorry you’re busy, Mr. Palmer,” said Dame Beatrice. “It’s only a small point and your wife has really cleared it up. By the way, it may be important that this enquiry of mine should not be discussed.”
“Don’t worry about that, mam,” said Palmer. “Why, if we repeated all we heard in this house we should soon be out of business. What did you want to know?”
“Whether a Mr. Carmichael stayed here last month.”
“The Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Ted, twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four,” put in his wife.
“Not to my knowledge, and I reckon I should have knowed. Or did you hide the gentleman under the bed, Millie?” said the landlord.
“I was certain he didn’t come here,” said Mrs. Palmer to Dame Beatrice, “but I wanted you to have Ted’s word on it as well.”
“Well, thank you both very much, and thank you for the sherry, Mrs. Palmer. You must send me up a couple of bottles. Delicious!”
She drove straight back to the Stone House and telephoned Gavin in his office at New Scotland Yard.
“Didn’t sleep at the Wandles pub on the night Hilary Beads was supposed to go to her aunt’s in Bournemouth, where she never turned up?” said the Detective Chief-Inspector. “Sounds like another nail in his coffin, but there may be some innocent explanation. By the way, our chaps found the boatman—the Chelsea one, you know. Drowned, after he’d been knocked on the head. The river police got him at low tide off Chiswick Eyot, and there’s no sign, as yet, of his boat. We shall find it, though. It may tell us quite a lot. I’ll get down to Wandles as soon as ever I can—maybe tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile, stay away from the Carmichaels and keep Laura away from them, too. They may be all right, but, with two deaths and a disappearance to investigate, I don’t think we ought to take chances.”
Dame Beatrice, having no reason for wishing to encounter the Carmichaels again at that particular juncture, made the required promises and, omitting the formality (to her) of taking afternoon tea, drove to Bournemouth to see Hilary Beads’ aunt.
“Did you ever hear your niece speak of some people named Carmichael?” she asked.
“Not that I remember,” said the boarding-house châtelaine. “But her visits were very few and far between, as I think I told you. I never knew so casual a girl. Worse than her sister! Why, even when I wrote back when she told me, months ago, that she was going to America, inviting her to come here and see me before she went, I didn’t get any sort of answer. I told you that, too, if you remember.”
“Yes, you gave me much to think about on that occasion,” said Dame Beatrice. “No wonder you thought nothing of it when your niece failed to visit you, and you would have continued to think nothing of it, but for the cables from America.”
“Have the police found out anything more about poor Hilary’s disappearance?”
“They are working on it. We now know, as I wrote and told you, that the body found in Northumberland wasn’t hers, but I am afraid we should be unduly optimistic if we assumed that your niece is still alive.”
The aunt nodded.
“It’s an awful thing to have in the family,” she” said, “murder. It’s such a dirty thing. Murders shouldn’t happen in families such as ours. We’ve always been so respectable.” She blinked hard and was obliged to find a handkerchief. “Pardon, I’m sure,” she said. “I don’t indulge as a rule.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” said Dame Beatrice, gently. “You’ve been quite wonderful over it all. And there’s nothing more you can tell me; that’s quite clear. Oh, yes! There is one small point. You have mentioned a sister. Married, I think you said.”
“Yes, that’s right. Mildred. Older than Hilary by a couple of years.”
“Whom did she marry?”
“I never heard the name. I wasn’t even invited to the wedding, as I told you.”
“Are you certain you never heard the name of the husband?”
“I don’t recollect it.”
“How did you hear about the wedding?”
“From Hilary, at some time, I suppose.”
“Well, now, Miss Beads, have you any idea why your niece was going to America?”
“Just for a holiday, so she said.”
“What was her financial position?”
“I don’t know what she earned out of that marriage bureau, if that is what you mean.”
“Had she any other source of income?”
“I don’t see how she could have had, except her few books. She went to boarding-school on a scholarship, and my brother could only make her a very small allowance while she was there. As a matter of fact, I paid for her clothes myself.”
“It seems rather ungrateful of her not to have visited you more often.”
“Oh, people are like that,” said Miss Beads, shrugging them off. “I wasn’t a bit surprised. I think, really, she was a bit ashamed of me keeping a private hotel. I don’t really blame her.”
“A broad-minded, almost noble, sentiment.”
On this note, Dame Beatrice took her leave. The conversation had been fruitful. As George drove her back to Wandles Parva and the Stone House, she was thinking deeply and putting various questions to herself. These included some to which, at the moment, answers still had to be found.
Phlox and Marigold Carmichael had arrived in Wandles Parva knowing perfectly well t
hat the vicarage could not accommodate them for at least two, and possibly three, days. Why, then, had they come to the village on the Wednesday instead of the following Saturday?
Secondly, if one suspected them of having brought the skeleton to Dickon’s smallholding in order to bury it there, how could they have known that the small boys of Pelican House Academy and the tall girls from the convent school had obtained permission to dig where Dickon’s Roman finds had materialised?
Thirdly, following on this, supposing that they had been able to find out that this enthusiastic digging was to be done, how could they have found the time to cash in on the digging—not knowing, in that case, that the vicar would insist upon digging there again—by planting the skeleton there?
That they could have known of Dickon’s pot and mask was unarguable. The vicar’s wife, in writing to put off their visit to a later date, would almost certainly have mentioned the finds.
Dame Beatrice, who had seen a considerable amount of daylight already, began to see some more. It remained to try the Hamble River, although Dame Beatrice had already decided that little was to be gained in that quarter.
The most important question, and the one which she always came back to, was that of where the skeleton could have been hidden before it had been brought to Dickon’s smallholding. There were all sorts of possibilities and of these Dame Beatrice considered two. It could have been hidden, perhaps (she was most doubtful about this) somewhere near, or even on, the Carmichaels’ house-boat, and brought from there to Wandles Parva, or it could have been hidden in or near Wandles itself.
Then there was another question which, so far, had not been answered. This involved the theory that, if Phlox Carmichael was responsible for producing and burying the skeleton, he might have recognised Hilary as a potential enemy. This could have several repercussions if it were true. For one thing, there was always the possibility of blackmail. In that case, the murder of Hilary Beads, if she were a blackmailer, was capable of a rational interpretation. She was too dangerous to the Carmichaels to be allowed to live. So far, so obvious, but could the obvious theory be translated into fact?
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