Hugh took what she held out—a sheet of notepaper bearing a well-known water-mark. On it had been pasted words cut from a magazine to form the message: How could you bear to trust your child to that man you know he is a killer think of that other boy.
“Dear me!” said Hugh. “Did you keep the envelope?”
“My first instinct, as you can see, was to throw the stupid thing away, so I’ve no idea what happened to the envelope. Were you thinking the name and address on it were handwritten? They were, as a matter of fact.”
“I was also thinking of the post-mark. Well, I don’t think there’s much need to worry. Some thwarted, spiteful spinster, I should say. Probably somebody who’d been discharged from the hospital soon after you’d got there. I expect you talked to the other patients, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course. But I can’t think who—Still, if it’s just that, I’ll burn the silly paper and forget all about it.”
Hugh had given the opinion he genuinely held, except that he had suppressed part of it. This part was that he thought Mrs. Hal had angered another patient and that this patient, as soon as she was discharged from hospital, had decided to create alarm and despondency in Mrs. Hal’s breast by attempting to appeal to a sick mother’s natural anxiety for her child. He had put the matter clean out of his mind long before he reached Wymondham on his return journey and therefore was entirely unprepared, during the following week, for the disclosure by Catherine that she also had received an anonymous communication, presumably from the same source. Her message ran: Ask your boy-friend where he was and what he was doing when those two were drowned he is a dirty murderer.
“I rather like the expression ‘boy-friend,’ you know,” said Hugh, speaking lightly to hide his dismay. “It seems to renew my youth.”
“Who sent it, Hugh? Have you any idea?”
“No. I didn’t tell you, because there didn’t seem any point at the time, but Héloïse had one of these beastly things. She showed it me when I took Peter back.”
“Hugh, I don’t like it very much. It must be someone living in the village and I thought I knew them all.”
“Look, don’t worry. If there’s an anonymous lunatic at work, there will be shoals of these letters. I’ll probably get one myself. All we have to do is to collect the things and hand them over to the police. That’s all there is to it.”
“But I don’t want to think that one of our villagers is crazy enough to do a thing like this.”
“I remember we had a case in the Service once. Turned out to be a poor little Temporary who’d lost his wife, hadn’t told any of us, and who was just going quietly insane. Luckily, we got a psychologist to look at him before we thought of telling the police, and she soon sorted things out. If you like, I’ll get hold of her again.”
“She? Her? I thought these people were always men.”
“This one isn’t. We had Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley on the job. I’m glad we did, because, instead of poor Smith being arrested on a charge of uttering an obscene libel, or what-have-you, he was taken care of in Dame Beatrice’s psychiatric clinic and emerged the same decent little man we’d always known.”
Only a very few days elapsed before Hugh himself received a message (as he had prophesied), from the same unknown hand. This time the writer struck a rather different note. The suggestion was: Them two did ought to be dug up then people would know you you foot-and-mouth disease you.
Hugh examined the missive very carefully and then scanned the envelope. This was addressed in an unformed hand and was postmarked Newmarket. The postmark on Catherine’s letter had been Marks Tey and on the next one she received the postmark was Thetford. This message ran: You are a har lot, the final letter of the word “hard” having been inked over so that a word unlikely to be found in a magazine had resulted.
The next message went to Catherine’s brother and was postmarked Colchester. It asked: How dare you let a decent girl marry a man with murder upon his soul what a pity they did away with hanging do you want to be connected with the criminal classes you are no better than a devil your deeds will smell and not of roses so beware.
Hugh saw the letter and thought it was time to act. He discussed the situation with Arthur and Catherine Tolley, but both were against Hugh’s suggestion that the letters ought to be submitted to the police.
“Somebody in the village must be writing them. What we must do is to find the culprit ourselves,” said Arthur. Hugh’s counter-suggestion that they should call in Dame Beatrice was also vetoed.
“Where on earth could she begin?” asked Arthur. “There are two hundred people in the village and, so far, we haven’t the slightest idea of where to begin to look!”
“Very well,” said Hugh. “There are other ways of going about things. You don’t mind if I keep all these letters?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Two Deaths by Drowning
“And then thou and I’ll pick poppies and them steep
In wine, and drink on’t even till we weep,
So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep.”
Andrew Marvell
“I know only the village gossip and the talk at the inquest,” said the Reverend Arthur. “And we are not at cross purposes, Camber. I am as anxious as you are to trace the source of the letters and get them stopped. Some soul is in mortal sickness.”
“Sickness of soul? You may be right, but it doesn’t strike me like that. Somebody very disagreeable is up to something nasty. That’s all I see. What it is I don’t yet know, but I shall know. Now, then, please tell me what you can.”
“It was all right—everything was all right, so far as the rest of us knew—until the truth about Verith came out. That seemed to set matters going. At least, that is what I’ve thought since. There was a certain amount of scandal, of course, but it was kept down to a minimum by the girl’s father, Beresford, a sensible, reasonable sort of man, although not one of my flock.”
“I’ve met Beresford.”
“Verith seems to have decided to try to brave things out for a bit, but he soon gave in and, since his dismissal, we’ve really heard nothing about him.”
“He very definitely refused to marry the girl, I hear.”
“He refused, yes.”
“What kind of girl is she?”
“Educated rather better than one would expect.”
“Why do you say that? Beresford’s a farmer—and fairly prosperous, I take it.”
“I see what you mean. All right, then. Let’s put it this way: she was not the type, either by birth or education, I would have said, to have put herself or her family in such an equivocal position.”
“Fair enough. That means that she relied on this fellow to marry her. I wonder why he wouldn’t?”
“That’s his business, I suppose. Anyway, after Verith left Camber Abbey, the boy, Stephen Camber, seems to have been at a pretty loose end.”
“Yes, I’ve heard he took to going long, lonely walks and so forth. What interests me far more is how he came to get drowned.”
“It didn’t happen near here, you know. It happened in a deep cut, miles away, which joins the Bure not far from St. Benet’s Abbey. Some men who had been working there pulled the boy out. They said he had been staggering about in a queer sort of way, as though he was drunk, but they thought it no business of theirs. Then they lost sight of him behind some bushes and took no more notice until their work took them round the next bend and they saw him in the water. By then it was too late to do anything to save his life, although they seem to have done their best.”
“Very strange. And what about Paul?”
“I know nothing except what I read in the papers. It happened in Scotland when he was salmon-fishing, as you probably know. He seems to have been alone at the time. It was said to be accidental death, but—he was greatly attached to Stephen.”
Hugh made up his mind. He had a theory that truthfulness sometimes pays. Moreover, he understood his own people, for, after al
l, he was of Norfolk stock. He knew the apparently slow, apparently suspicious reactions of his countrymen; he knew, too, their independent cast of mind and the democratic nature of their thoughts. Touching the hat to the squire might be an act of courtesy in Norfolk, but it was never one of subservience. He would put this basic theory to the test. On the day following his conversation with Arthur he called at the inn.
“Look here, Ted,” he said to the landlord, who was lounging against the counter immersed in a newspaper, “is there anybody a bit touched around these parts who might think it worthwhile to write me anonymous letters—rather nasty ones?”
The landlord put down the paper with obvious reluctance and appeared to collect his thoughts.
“What will it be, Mr. Camber?”
“Scotch. Have one yourself.”
“I don’t drink so early, sir, I thank you.” He placed a double whisky in front of his customer and indicated the siphon. “And now, what were you saying?”
“What do the people about here think and say about the drownings?”
The landlord picked up a glass and began to polish it.
“Mr. Paul wasn’t much liked around here,” he said. Hugh sipped his whisky and added another infinitesimal squirt of soda.
“So what?” he asked. The landlord put down the glass he had polished and picked up another.
“Mr. Paul never come in here,” he said. “I had nothing to do with him.”
Hugh nodded.
“So I’ve heard,” he said. “Nothing doing at the Abbey either. That’s no concern of mine. The point is, what about me? I’ve had these letters, you see, and I don’t much care about them.”
“Nobody here have anything against you, Mr. Camber. That I know, but I don’t know any more.”
“But what about the deaths, Ted? What was said at the time?”
“There was some talk. That did seem queer, both of them being drownded and so close together and so far apart, as you might say.”
“Close together in time and far apart in place? Yes, I grant you that. It certainly was queer. But this is the point: why should I be getting letters suggesting—no, it’s more than suggesting—affirming that I murdered them?”
The landlord stared at him.
“Murdered ’em? But they got drownded.”
“Yes, I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me, so far as this lunatic who writes the letters is concerned. Mrs. Hal has had one, too, and we both want to get to the bottom of the matter. Now, be a good chap, Ted, and come across with anything you know.”
The landlord glanced towards the door.
“I don’t know anything, Mr. Camber,” he said. “The poor young boy, he go first. There was some talk about drink, but that didn’t upset me or anybody that know me. Wherever that drink come from, it didn’t come from this house.”
“Who spread the story about the drink?”
“That appear to come from the people who pulled him out of the river. They gave evidence before the coroner.”
“Know their names?”
“William and Benjamin Huckle.”
“Not Camber men?”
“No. They come from Hill Rising, I think, or around there. That’s a long way off. They wouldn’t know anybody in Camber.”
“How did they come to see the boy fall into the river?”
“They didn’t see him fall in.” This confirmed the report Hugh had had from Arthur. “When they pull him out, he was gone.”
“What sort of men are they? I mean, why were they there, on the spot?”
“They were cutting reeds, I reckon. Their punt was pretty fairly loaded, it appear, and it take them some time to get to the boy. But I only know what I hear, and that’s what I was told. I didn’t go to the inquest. That’s held in licensing hours.”
“What about Mr. Paul Camber?”
“The boy’s death knock him right out. After the inquest that go up to Scotland and get drownded there.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. He was fishing for salmon and was alone at the time, I believe.”
“That appear to be the case.”
Just then two customers came in and all confidential talk was at an end. Hugh took his whisky to a wooden bench opposite the bar and lit a cigarette. As he sat there, he thought over the conversation, but there was little or nothing to be gained from it.
“In other words,” he said that evening to Jacob Salaman, whose sister had gone to a dance in Norwich, “somebody doesn’t like me and is out to make things uncomfortable. Well, he won’t get away with it. I’m going to find out who he is and scotch his little game. And I’d like to find out why he doesn’t like me. You read these letters and tell me what you think.”
“Are these all?”
“So far as I know, except for one which was sent to my younger brother’s widow.”
“It is all very interesting,” said Jacob. “I wonder whether you have noticed one very important thing?”
Hugh had a high respect for the Jewish intelligence.
“How do you mean?” he asked. Jacob smoked for almost two minutes without replying. Then he took the cigarette from his lips and waved it.
“There was none of this nonsense about anonymous letters until you began to interest yourself in Miss Catherine Tolley,” he said. Hugh stared at him. “It is clear,” continued Jacob, “that you have a rival. Find your rival, my dear Hugh, and you have your anonymous mud-slinger, I think. Yes, I really think so.”
Hugh sat still, casting his mind back.
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“I know of no other lover. How should I? But it is not only other lovers who are rivals to a man who wishes to marry. There are jealous women who would themselves like to be married to you, perhaps. There are also brothers who do not wish to lose their sisters. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, so there are. I must think things over. Anyway, whether you’re right or wrong, you’ve cleared away a bit of the fog. I’d begun to wonder whether my cousin and his son really had been murdered. But if it’s only some crazy person trying to make trouble because I’m going to marry Catherine, I shan’t worry any more. The only thing is, I hope he won’t continue to pester her. She’s heard from him already, as I suppose you know.”
“I did not know. She is very loyal, your Catherine. She would not gossip about such things. But what you say bears out my thought. It is your interest in her which is at the root of the matter.”
“Well,” said Hugh, “I’m obliged to you for the suggestion. You used the word ‘brother,’ didn’t you?”
“Why,” asked Jacob, meeting Hugh’s eyes squarely, “do you not ask the advice of the Reverend Mr. Tolley?”
“Ask his advice?”
“Ask him what you should do about these accusations. So you shall not offend him, but, perhaps, flatter him a little. He is a man trained to solve problems, I suppose?”
“Well, he’s the spiritual father of the parish, but he’s a younger man, by far, than myself, and with less experience of the world, I should say. Besides, I’ve already been to him once.”
“That does not matter. He will like to be thought of as an adviser to an older man.”
“What then? How will that help me?”
“I think that, from his demeanour, when you tell him about the letters, you may be able to gather whether he is their author.”
Hugh was astounded by this.
“It seems a pretty long shot to me, Jacob,” he said, to hide, he hoped, his astonishment. “Besides, when you come to think, he can’t have written them. He’s just about the last person I’d suspect.”
“Why, please?”
“Well, Catherine herself got one. He wouldn’t write that stuff to his sister. He’s very fond of her, you know.”
“If it had been the usual nasty type of anonymous letter, I agree that he would not write it. But these letters are not filthy. There is little sex, no pornography. They are nearly all about the deaths of Paul and Stephen. You s
ee, I am sure he does not want his sister to marry you, so why should he not write to her, accusing you of murder? She may not believe it in her conscious thoughts, but underneath—who knows?—there may be that little, little doubt. I, who have had a different experience from yours—a more unhappy experience, Hugh—I think I know.”
“You really think the letters might have that effect?—to make Catherine doubt me?”
“Who can tell? There was a lot of talk in the village after the deaths of those two. A father and a son—or, rather, a son and a father—just like that, to be drowned, one after the other, it made for much talk, I can tell you.”
Hugh went to bed that night feeling thoughtful and disconsolate. By morning he had made up his mind to accept at least part of Jacob’s advice and, to this end, he walked down to the vicar’s cottage, after a fairly late breakfast, to find the Reverend Arthur at work, as usual, in his front garden.
“Look,” said Hugh, without preamble, “I want to talk to you again about these abominable letters.”
The vicar thrust his garden fork hard into a flower-bed and picked his coat out of a bush.
“I’ve had another one,” he said. “Come on up to the house. I’d like to show it you. We must catch this fellow. He’ll poison the whole parish if we don’t take care.”
“Envelope postmarked Colchester,” said Hugh, when he saw the letter. It ran: How can you let your sister marry such a monster God will see you get your reward call yourself a good man you ought to be in a labour camp.
“What do you say to that? What ought I to do about it? I feel quite at a loss,” said Arthur.
“Oh, dear!” said Hugh. “And I’d come for your advice. Anyway, if you can spare the time, I would like to talk the thing over. Where’s Catherine?”
“Gone to visit old Mrs. Mowles. She won’t be back for another hour at least.”
“Has she seen this letter?—and may I add it to my collection?”
“Yes, of course, to both questions. Sit down, Hugh, and tell me what you think.”
“Well, let’s see what we know. The letters are all posted within easy motoring distance of this village, so that surely indicates somebody with a car.”
The Man Who Grew Tomatoes (Mrs. Bradley) Page 6
