“Would Paul Camber have married you if you had not threatened him with exposure?”
“I’ve no reason to think he would not.”
“Then why did you need to threaten him?”
“My father made me do it. I’m afraid of my father. He’s violent.”
“Is your baby really a Camber?”
“Yes, he is, and he ought to have his rights, and he shall, if I have to swing for it! So now you know! You can tell Mr. Hugh Upstart Camber that if he’s sensible he’ll take himself off and leave Camber Abbey to me and my son.”
“I will certainly give him your message. Incidentally, why did not Paul leave the estate to your baby?”
The girl, who had been seated upright with her fingers closely entwined, flung her hands apart and got up.
“Get out! Get out!” she screamed. “You old witch! You old witch! Get out!”
There was a rush of footsteps from the kitchen. In came Beresford, preceded by his lighter-footed wife, who slipped past him, flew to her daughter, and gripped her by the arm.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she said, giving the arm an authoritative shake. The father remained just inside the doorway, his jaws still champing on a crust of bread.
“What’s the matter here?” he demanded. Suddenly there was a dramatic climax to the scene. Young Mrs. Camber wrenched her arm from her mother’s grasp, gave a cry, and, without warning, fell down unconscious. She went rigid and her face became convulsed. Her mother pulled a long piece of hard wood from her overall pocket and thrust it between the girl’s teeth.
“You’d better go. We know what to do,” she said. “She got herself worked up. It never does her fits much good, that doesn’t.”
“I am extremely sorry,” said Dame Beatrice. She meant it, so far as young Mrs. Camber’s epilepsy was concerned, but there was little doubt that the disability itself proved to be one of the few missing links in the chain of evidence which was leading to the discovery of the murderer.
She mentioned this to Hugh, for she went straight back to Camber from the Beresford farm.
“Heredity, of course,” said Hugh. “Paul wouldn’t risk leaving the place to the child of an epileptic. He had a great regard for the estate, I believe, and epilepsy is a heritable illness. Wonder how soon he found out that the girl was an epileptic?”
“Quite probably on the wedding-day. Any emotional disturbance is enough to touch off a case of grand mal.”
“And that would about finish Paul. He hadn’t much of the milk of human kindness in his nature, particularly if his amour propre was involved. I really wonder he agreed to marry the girl. Of course, he may not have known about the epilepsy then.”
“He did know that she proposed to let the village into the secret that Paul was the father of her child.”
“He wouldn’t have faced the scandal.”
“So she seems to have realised. What her feelings were when she discovered that, on Paul’s death, you were the heir, one can only imagine.”
“Of course, there was always Mrs. Hal Camber, with her eye, if one may put it that way, on the inheritance for her son.”
“I thought we’d got rid of Héloïse.”
“I wonder? Mothers of sons can be strangely persistent when the interests of the offspring are at stake.”
“How much help do you think you got from your visit?”
“Nothing but the evidence that the girl is an epileptic, coupled with a strong presumption that she blackmailed Paul Camber into marrying her. I already knew that she was furiously angry about Paul Camber’s will and that she was trying to work out some means of upsetting it. Have you made your own will, may I ask?”
“No. There is time enough for that when I am married.”
“Have you fixed a date for the wedding?”
“No. As a matter of fact, Catherine is still pretty sore about our questioning Maitland and Tunstall. To tell you the truth, we’re not really on speaking terms at the moment.”
“I am truly sorry to hear that,” said Dame Beatrice, with a crocodile leer which seemed to belie her words. “All the same, I must confess that I had some such eventuality in mind when I decided to interview the suitors.”
“Oh, but, look here…”
Dame Beatrice waved a yellow claw.
“Be of good cheer,” she advised him. “Like Bottom of the Fairies, I have a plan to make all right. It is essential, though, that, at present, you and Miss Tolley should appear to be estranged.”
“Appear to be? We are!”
“It is but a passing phase in your relationship, I feel sure. And now I will let you into a little secret. I have instructed George, my chauffeur, to allow a rumour to circulate in the village public house that the engagement has been completely broken off. He will offer to lay bets that you will remain a bachelor.”
Hugh stared at her, speechless, for a moment. Then he said, contriving a smile:
“I suppose there is method in your madness?”
“If Miss Tolley’s life were in danger you would have no hesitation in practising a little deception in order to ensure her safety, would you?”
“Of course not. I’d deal in lies, damned lies and statistics! But what dangers could threaten Catherine?”
“As the vicar’s sister, none. As your prospective wife, which is, by interpretation, as the mother of your child—but I’ve said this before—by implication if not in so many words.”
“Oh, I see. Your theory still is that we are safe as long as we don’t marry. You know, Dame Beatrice, I’m not sure that my best plan wouldn’t be to sell the Camber estates lock, stock, and barrel, and clear right out. Then Catherine and I could marry and there would be an end to this beastly business.”
“An excellent plan. I have often thought of suggesting it to you and if I were not absolutely certain that I shall catch the murderer of Stephen Camber, and that comparatively soon, I might urge such a course, except—”
“Except, I hope, that you don’t see me as the type who clears out because of a little unpleasantness. Apart from that, I don’t see who would buy Camber Abbey. People don’t buy these big properties nowadays.”
“A school?”
Hugh laughed.
“Strange as it may sound,” he said, “I strongly dislike to think of the place overrun by noisy great clods of boys and my library being turned into the headmaster’s study, and all this”—he waved towards the windows beyond which lay the lake with its coots and mallard, its secretive, awful pike, and the reeds and the sedge showing green—“turned into playing fields and an open-air swimming pool.”
“‘The Tomb of His Ancestors,’” said Dame Beatrice, with a startling hoot of laughter.
“And none the worse for that,” retorted Hugh. “It is quite a mistake to think that all Civil Servants are without human feelings and failings. Pepys was a Civil Servant, don’t forget.”
“Touché!” said Dame Beatrice, again producing her eldritch cackle. “Well, I will leave you.”
She went up to her room, presumably to dress for dinner, but, having put on her dark fur coat and matching toque so that she did not, in Laura Gavin’s partly-idiomatic expression, “stand out against the sky-line,” she slipped downstairs by way of the servants’ staircase at the far end of the long gallery and left the house with a secrecy which went unmarked except by Ethel, who had conceived a strange, protective affection for her elderly inquisitor.
“And I’ll not give you away,” muttered Ethel, “seeing you be about your lawful occasions.”
“And what are you muttering about? Saying your prayers?” demanded a housemaid, who, more intelligent than Ethel, grudged that lover of tomatoes her superior position in the household.
“P’raps,” said Ethel, “and p’raps not. And I’m told the dining-room was a disgrace this morning. I must ask you to be more partic’lar, even if you are only second.”
The second housemaid tossed her head and the subject of the duties of housemaids and the desirability of parlourmaids mi
nding their own business became the topics of conversation.
Dame Beatrice went to the cottage occupied by the vicar and his sister. She admired the long front garden but did not stop to inspect the results of the vicar’s labours. Her sharp knock on the door brought Catherine to open it.
“Good!” said Dame Beatrice. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Have you come from Camber Abbey?”
“Of course, dear child.”
“Then I ought to tell you that it’s no use.”
“What isn’t?”
“Hugh sending me an olive branch.”
“I have been called many things in my time,” said Dame Beatrice, thoughtfully, “but never, I think, an olive branch. Apart from that, Hugh did not send me. He does not even know that I have come.”
“Oh,” said Catherine briskly. “Well, perhaps you’d care to come in.”
Inside the cottage and given a rocking-chair by the hearth, Dame Beatrice embarked on an explanation of her presence.
“I am very glad your brother is not in,” she said, by way of preamble, “as I very much wanted to see you alone.”
“He’s gone to Norwich to see the bishop. He’s worried about something, I think, and wants some advice. The bishop is a very understanding man.”
“Have you any idea of the nature of your brother’s problem?”
“None whatever. I just know that he’s worried.”
“About Miss Hildegarde Salaman?”
“How did you guess?”
“I thought you did not know the nature of his problem.”
“Oh, I know it has to do with Hildegarde, that’s all.”
“I see.”
“But you did not come about that.”
“It was not my main reason for coming, certainly, and, since the Reverend Arthur Tolley has decided to rely upon the advice of his bishop, it ceases to be my reason at all. Miss Tolley, I must put a question to you—hypothetical, I hope, but a question which needs a considered answer. Have you ever thought that Hugh Camber’s life might be in danger if he married you?”
“Oh, there was all that nonsense about poor little Mrs. Hal Camber, of course, but she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just a silly woman with one chick.”
“I am not thinking of Mrs. Hal Camber. What do you know about Farmer Beresford’s daughter?”
“Nothing much. They don’t come to church, as you know. She’s a pretty but rather disagreeable girl, I should say.”
“Did you know that she is an epileptic?”
“Vaguely, I think. I haven’t taken much interest in that family. They refuse to be visited by my brother, as you know, so that’s that.”
“Well, not quite,” said Dame Beatrice. “Young Mrs. Camber has good reason to wish Hugh Camber out of the way.”
“So Paul Camber did marry her! There were lots of rumours, but nobody seemed to know for certain.”
“There were lots of rumours? Really!”
“You can’t keep secrets in a village. It was known that Paul Camber stayed in Norwich for a month and it was noticed that the Beresford girl went to Norwich for the last week of that month. Then Stephen was drowned and that killed all the other gossip.”
“Who noticed that the Beresford girl went to Norwich?”
“Various people. Norwich is a market town, remember, and gets pretty crowded, on market days particularly. Various people spotted Paul there without his noticing them, I expect, and if they saw the girl with him one day there were bound to be rumours and speculations.”
“Which, no doubt, would have come to the ears of Farmer Beresford. I wonder…” She paused.
“Yes, Dame Beatrice?”
“I have reason to believe that Miss Beresford tried to blackmail Paul. I wonder whether Farmer Beresford uttered any threats against him and so caused Paul to make up his mind to marry the girl?”
“I should think it more than likely. There’s a long history of alcoholism in the Beresford family and this particular Beresford is known to be violent when he’s had too much to drink, although, to be fair, that seems to be comparatively seldom.”
“A long history of alcoholism? That is very interesting. It may well account for young Mrs. Camber’s epilepsy. And now, dear child, I want to pry into your affairs, and you must forgive me for doing so. A life may depend upon your reactions.”
“Hugh’s life?”
“It may well be so.”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“You are not, then, angry with Hugh?”
“Of course I’m not. The trouble is that I don’t know how to make it up with him.”
“I am the person with whom you ought to be angry. I was the person who went to interview Mr. Maitland and Mr. Tunstall.”
Catherine laughed.
“Yes, I know,” she said, “and at first I was furious, but it isn’t very easy to remain angry with…”
“With Mrs. Crocodile, as my graceless secretary calls me. I am glad to hear it. Now, this is the point: I want you to allow it to be generally understood that your engagement to Hugh is broken off.”
“Hugh really is in danger from the Beresfords?”
“We cannot take risks. There is still an unexposed murderer about.”
“So you don’t mean the Beresfords! What is in your mind?”
“Wars and rumours of wars, child. Will you do as I ask?”
“Yes, of course I will, but you’ll let Hugh know the truth, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will. I will also advise him to broadcast the fact that you have returned the ring.”
“Oh, dear! Must I be as drastic as that?”
“Verisimilitude has great virtues in times of stress.”
“It didn’t do Ko-ko and Pooh-bah much good!”
“All ended happily, though, if you remember!” It was almost dark by the time Dame Beatrice quitted the cottage. Her way led her, after she had left the village, along a lonely stretch of country road bordered on one side by the high wall which bounded Camber Abbey park and on the other by dark trees which formed a thin, straggling wood behind which was ploughland, unfenced, which stretched, in daylight, to the horizon.
It had never before occurred to Dame Beatrice that there was anything sinister about this particular stretch of road, neither had she a nervous disposition. All the same, she found herself stepping along even more briskly than usual and listening intently for any sounds other than those made by her own footsteps. There was also a certain sighing among the trees, for a stiffish breeze was coming in from the sea over the vast ploughlands, and this was inclined to muffle other noises; these she did not hear until suddenly a figure stepped out from among the trees and hailed her.
“That you, madam? Could I have a word?”
“If I am the person you take me for, you may certainly have a word. Who are you?” asked Dame Beatrice, without slackening her pace.
“I’m Beresford. I hear you’ve been to see the parson.” He fell into step beside her.
“Then you have been wrongly informed. Am I walking too quickly for you? I find the evening somewhat chilly.”
“So that is. You haven’t been to see the parson?”
“I have been to his cottage. My business, however, was with his sister.”
“What did she tell you?”
“I don’t know that I want to answer that question, Mr. Beresford.”
“So it was about me and my family?”
“You and your daughter were mentioned, yes.”
“For why?”
“For one reason, I wondered why Paul Camber married your daughter. Did you threaten him?”
“He got her into trouble,” said Beresford soberly. “I had to do my duty as a father.”
“How did the rumours about the tutor Verith arise, Mr. Beresford? I understand from Mr. Hugh Camber that the responsibility, at one time, was placed upon this young man.”
“I made my daughter tell me the truth.”
“What caused
her to go to London with Verith? Was that not unwise of her?”
“She told me the reason when I threatened to summon Verith for assaulting her.”
“I see. And the reason was…?”
“Verith knew of a specialist who might have helped her.”
“An abortion?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. You saw, this afternoon, what’s wrong with her.”
“Ah, yes, the epilepsy. Did you know she was going for this treatment?”
“No, I didn’t, or else I should have stopped her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe it’s anything but a waste of good money, going to these specialists. Anybody who says he can cure fits is a quack.”
“How did you make your daughter tell you the truth about Paul Camber? You said you threatened to summon Verith for assault. Was that sufficient?”
“It’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“Why did you waylay me, Mr. Beresford?”
“That’s an ugly word. Have I offered you any harm?”
“You were wise not to do so. Good night.”
They had reached the gates of Camber Abbey, and light from a window of the lodge streamed out on to the drive.
“There was something I was going to tell you,” said Beresford, “but, as you choose to suspicion my intention, that can stay in my own mind ’stead of being put into yours. I’ll bid you good night, mam.”
“I already have the information to which you refer,” said Dame Beatrice. “TACBW, ditto C.* Don’t worry, Mr. Beresford.”
* * *
*Tom Adams can bear watching, so can Crick.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Man Who Knew
“There was suppressed anxiety and agitation in every line of his face.”
Wilkie Collins
“All of a queer do,” said Hugh, when Dame Beatrice described the encounter. “And you haven’t had any dinner.”
“Something cold on a tray, please, and not very much of it.”
“What do you think Beresford expected to get from you?” asked Hugh, when Dame Beatrice had been provided with her tray and a bottle of claret.
“I have an idea that he wanted to give me something. Indeed, he said as much.”
The Man Who Grew Tomatoes (Mrs. Bradley) Page 17
