“No doubt that circumstance was in the mind of the murderer. You mustn’t quarrel with your bread and butter, Superintendent. No difficulty, no fun.”
“Fun?” said the Superintendent. “Well, my lord, it’s nice to be you. How about Gates?”
“You’d better do Gates. If Miss Thorpe’s leaving tomorrow, I can’t very well call without looking a nosey parker. And Mr. Thorpe doesn’t approve of me. I daresay he’s issued an order: No Information. But you can invoke all the terrors of the law.”
“Not much, I can’t. Judges’ rules and be damned. But I’ll have a try. And then there’s—”
“Yes, there’s Will Thoday.”
“Ah!... but if Miss Thorpe’s right, he’s out of it. He was laid up in bed from New Year’s Eve till the i4th January. I know that for certain. But somebody in his house may have noticed something. It’ll be a bit of a job getting anything out of them, though. They’ve had a taste of the dock once, and they’ll get frightened, ten to one, the minute they see me.”
“You needn’t worry about that. You can’t very well frighten them worse than they’re frightened already. Go and read the Burial Service to them and watch their reactions.”
“Oh!” said the Superintendent. “Religion’s a bit out of my line, except on Sundays. All right—I’ll take on that part of it. Maybe, if I don’t mention that dratted necklace ... but there, my mind’s that full of it, it’ll be a mercy if it don’t slip out.”
Which shows that policemen, like other people, are at the mercy of their sub-conscious preoccupations.
THE FOURTH PART
LORD PETER DODGES WITH MR. BLUNDELL AND PASSES HIM
“Dodging “is taking a retrograde movement, or moving a place backwards out of the ordinary hunting course. ... She will be seen to dodge with a bell, and pass a bell alternately throughout her whole work.
TROYTE.
“Well now, ma’am,” said Superintendent Blundell.
“Well, officer?” retorted Mrs. Gates.
It is said, I do not know with how much reason, that the plain bobby considers “officer” a more complimentary form of address than “my man,” or even “constable”; while some people, of the Disraelian school of thought, affirm that an unmerited “Sergeant” is not taken amiss. But when a highly-refined lady, with a grey glacé gown and a grey glacé eye, addresses a full-blown Superintendent in plain clothes as “officer,” the effect is not soothing, and is not meant to be so. At this rate, thought Mr. Blundell, he might just as well have sent a uniformed inspector, and had done with it.
“We should be greatly obliged, ma’am,” pursued Mr. Blundell, “for your kind assistance in this little matter.”
“A little matter?” said Mrs. Gates. “Since when have murder and sacrilege been considered little matters in Leamholt? Considering that you have had nothing to do tor the last twenty years but run in a few drunken labourers on market days, you seem to take your new responsibilities very coolly. In my opinion, you ought to call in the assistance of Scotland Yard. But I suppose, since being patronised by the aristocracy, you consider yourself quite competent to deal with any description of crime.”
“It does not lie with me, ma’am, to refer anything to Scotland Yard. That is a matter for the Chief Constable.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Gates, not in the least disconcerted. “They why does the Chief Constable not attend to the business himself? I should prefer to deal directly with him.”
The Superintendent explained patiently that the interrogation of witnesses was not, properly speaking, the duty of the Chief Constable. “And why should I be supposed to be a witness? I know nothing about these disgraceful proceedings.”
“Certainly not, ma’am. But we require a little information about the late Lady Thorpe’s grave, and we thought that a lady with your powers of observation would be in a position to assist us.”
“In what way?”
“From information received, ma’am, it appears probable that the outrage may have been committed within a very short period after Lady Thorpe’s funeral. I understand that you were a frequent visitor at the graveside after the melancholy event—”
“Indeed? And who told you that?”
“We have received information to that effect, ma’am.”
“Quite so. But from. whom?”
“That is the formula we usually employ, ma’am,” said Mr. Blundell, with a dim instinct that the mention of Hilary would only make bad worse. “I take it, that is a fact, is it not?”
“Why should it not be a fact? Even in these days, some respect may be paid to the dead, I trust.”
“Very proper indeed, ma’am. Now can you tell me whether, on any occasion when you visited the grave, the wreaths presented the appearance of having been disturbed, or the earth shifted about, or anything of that kind?”
“Not,” said Mrs. Gates, “unless you refer to the extremely rude and vulgar behaviour of that Mrs. Coppins. Considering that she is a Nonconformist, you would think she would have more delicacy than to come into the churchyard at all. And the wreath itself was in the worst possible taste. I suppose she was entitled to send one if she liked, considering the great and many favours she had always received from Sir Charles’ family. But there was no necessity whatever for anything so large and ostentatious. Pink hot-house lilies in January were entirely out of place. For a person in her position, a simple bunch of chrysanthemums would have been ample to show respect, without going out of her way to draw attention to herself.”
“Just so, ma’am,” said the Superintendent.
“Merely because,” pursued Mrs. Gates, “I am here in a dependent position, that does not mean that I could not have afforded a floral tribute quite as large and expensive as Mrs. Coppins’. But although Sir Charles and his lady, and Sir Henry and the late Lady Thorpe after them, were always good enough to treat me rather as a friend than a servant, I know what is due to my position, and should never have dreamed of allowing my modest offering to compete in any way with those of the Family.”
“Certainly not, ma’am,” agreed the Superintendent, heartily.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘Certainly not,’” retorted Mrs. Gates. “The Family themselves would have raised no objection, for I may say that they have always looked on me as one of themselves, and seeing that I have been housekeeper here thirty years, it is scarcely surprising that they should.”
“Very natural indeed, ma’am. I only meant that a lady like yourself would, of course, take the lead in setting an example of good taste and propriety, and so forth. My wife,” added Mr. Blundell, lying with great determination and an appearance of the utmost good faith, “my wife is always accustomed to say to our girls, that for an example of ladylike behaviour, they cannot do better than look up to Mrs. Gates of the Red House at Fenchurch. Not”—(for Mrs. Gates looked a little offended)—“that Mrs. Blundell would presume to think our Betty and Ann in any way equal to you, ma’am, being only one of them in the post-office and the other a clerk in Mr. Compline’s office but it does young people no harm to look well above themselves, ma’am, and my wife always says that if they will model themselves upon Queen Mary, or—since they cannot have very much opportunity of studying her Gracious Majesty’s behaviour—upon Mrs. Gates of the Red House, they can’t fail to grow up a credit to their parents, ma’am.”
Here Mr. Blundell—a convinced Disraelian—coughed. He thought he had done that rather well on the spur of the moment, though, now he came to think of it, “deportment “would have been a better word than “behaviour.”
Mrs. Gates unbent slightly, and the Superintendent perceived that he would have no further trouble with her. He looked forward to telling his wife and family about this interview. Lord Peter would enjoy it, too. A decent sort of bloke, his lordship, who would like a bit of a joke.
“About the wreath, ma’am,” he ventured to prompt.
“I am telling you about it. I was disgusted—really disgusted, officer, when I found tha
t Mrs. Coppins had had the impertinence to remove my wreath and put her own in its place. There were, of course, a great many wreaths at Lady Thorpe’s funeral, some of them extremely handsome, and I should have been quite content if my little tribute had been placed on the roof of the hearse, with those of the village people. But Miss Thorpe would not hear of it. Miss Thorpe is always very thoughtful.”
“A very nice young lady,” said Mr. Blundell.
“Miss Thorpe is one of the Family,” said Mrs. Gates, “and the Family are always considerate of other people’s feelings. True gentlefolk always are. Upstarts are not.”
“That’s very true indeed, ma’am,” said the Superintendent, with so much earnestness that a critical listener might almost have supposed the remark to have a personal application.
“My wreath was placed upon the coffin itself,” went on Mrs Gates “with the wreaths of the Family. There was Miss Thorpe’s wreath, and Sir Henry’s, of course, and Mr. Edward Thorpe’s and Mrs. Wilbraham’s and mine. There was quite a difficulty to get them all upon the coffin, and I was quite willing that mine should be placed elsewhere, but Miss Thorpe insisted. So Mrs. Wilbraham’s was set up against the head of the coffin, and Sir Henry’s and Miss Thorpe’s and Mr. Edward’s on the coffin, and mine was given a position at the foot—which was practically the same thing as being on the coffin itself. And the wreaths from the Servants’ Hall and the Women’s Institute were on one side and the Rector’s wreath and Lord Kenilworth’s wreath were on the other side. And the rest of the flowers were placed, naturally, on top of the hearse.”
“Very proper, I’m sure, ma’am.”
“And consequently,” said Mrs. Gates, “after the funeral, when the grave was filled in. Harry Gotobed took particular notice that the Family’s wreaths (among which I include mine) were placed in suitable positions on the grave itself. I directed Johnson the chauffeur to attend to this—for it was a very rainy day, and it would not have been considerate to ask one of the maids to go—and he assured me that this was done. I have always found Johnson, sober and conscientious in his work, and I believe him to be a perfectly truthful man, as such people go. He described to me exactly where he placed the wreaths, and I have no doubt that he carried out his duty properly. And in any case, I interrogated Gotobed the next day, and he told me the same thing.”
“I daresay he did,” thought Mr. Blundell, “and in his place I’d have done the same. I wouldn’t get a fellow into trouble with this old cat, not if I knew it.” But he merely bowed and said nothing.
“You may judge of my surprise,” went on the lady, when, on going down the next day after Early Service to see that everything was in order, I found Mrs. Coppins’ wreath—not at the side, where it should have been—but on the grave, as if she were somebody of importance, and mine pushed away into an obscure place and actually covered up, so that nobody could see the card at all. I was extremely angry, as you may suppose. Not that I minded in the least where my poor little remembrance was placed, for that can make no difference to anybody, and it is the thought that counts. But I was so much incensed by the woman’s insolence—merely because I had felt it necessary to speak to her one day about the way in which her children behaved in the post-office. Needless to say, I got nothing from her but impertinence.”
“That was on the 5th of January, then?”
“It was the morning after the funeral. That, as you say, would be Sunday the fifth. I did not accuse the woman without proof. I had spoken to Johnson again, and made careful inquiries of Gotobed, and they were both positive of the position in which the wreaths had been left the night before.”
“Mightn’t it have been some of the schoolchildren larking about, ma’am?”
“I could well believe any thing of them,” said Mrs. Gates, “they are always ill-behaved, and I have frequently had to complain to Miss Snoot about them, but in this case the insult was too pointed. It was quite obviously and definitely aimed at myself, by that vulgar woman. Why a small farmer’s wife should give herself such airs, I do not know. When I was a girl, village people knew their place, and kept it.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Blundell, “and I’m sure we were all much happier in those days. And so, ma’am, you never noticed any disturbance except on that one occasion ?”
“And I should think that was quite enough,” replied Mrs. Gates. “I kept a very good look-out after that, and if anything of a similar kind had occurred again, I should have complained to the police.”
“Ah, well,” said the Superintendent, as he rose to go, “you see, it’s come round to us in the end, and I’ll have a word with Mrs. Coppins, ma’am, and you may be assured it won’t happen again. Whew! What an old catamaran!” (this to himself, as he padded down the rather neglected avenue beneath the budding horse-chestnuts). “I suppose I had better see Mrs. Coppins.”
Mrs. Coppins was easily found. She was a small, shrewish woman with light hair and eyes which boded temper.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “Mrs. Gates did have the cheek to say it was me. As if I’d have touched her mean little wreath with a hay-fork. Thinks she’s a lady. No real lady would think twice about where her wreath was or where it wasn’t. Talking that way to me, as if I was dirt! Why shouldn’t we give Lady Thorpe as good a wreath as we could get? Ah! she was a sweet lady—a real lady, she was—and her and Sir Henry were that kind to us when we were a bit put about, like, the year we took this farm. Not that we were in any real difficulty—Mr. Coppins has always been a careful man. But being a question of capital at the right moment, you see, we couldn’t just have laid our hand on it at the moment, if it hadn’t been for Sir Henry. Naturally, it was all paid back—with the proper interest. Sir Henry said he didn’t want interest, but that isn’t Mr. Coppins’ way. Yes—January 5th, it would be—and I’m quite sure none of the children had anything to do with it, for I asked them. Not that my children would go to do such a thing, but you know what children are. And it’s quite true that her wreath was where she said it was, last thing on the evening of the funeral, for I saw Harry Gotobed and the chauffeur put it there with my own eyes, and they’ll tell you the same.”
They did tell the Superintendent so, at some considerable length; after which, the only remaining possibility seemed to be the school-children. Here, Mr. Blundell enlisted the aid of Miss Snoot. Fortunately, Miss Snoot was not only able to reassure him that none of her scholars was in fault (“for I asked them all very carefully at the time, Superintendent, and they assured me they had not, and the only one I might be doubtful of is Tommy West, and he had a broken arm at the time, through falling off a gate”); she was also able to give valuable and unexpected help as regards the time at which the misdemeanour was committed.
“We had a choir-practice that night, and when it was over—that would be about half-past seven—the rain had cleared up a little, and I thought I would just go and give another little look at dear Lady Thorpe’s resting-place; so I went round with my torch, and I quite well remember seeing Mrs. Coppins’ wreath standing up against the side of the grave next the church, and thinking what a beautiful one it was and what a pity the rain should spoil it.”
The Superintendent felt pleased. He found it difficult to believe that Mrs. Coppins or anybody else had gone out to the churchyard on a dark, wet Saturday night to remove Mrs. Gates’ wreath. It was surely much more reasonable to suppose that the burying of the corpse had been the disturbing factor, and that brought the time of the crime down to some hour between 7.30 p.m. on the Saturday and, say, 8.30 on the Sunday morning. He thanked Miss Snoot very much and, looking at his watch, decided that he had just about time to go along to Will Thoday’s. He was pretty sure to find Mary at home, and, with luck, might catch Will himself when he came home to dinner. His way led him past the churchyard. He drove slowly, and, glancing over the churchyard wall as he went, observed Lord Peter Wimsey, seated in a reflective manner and apparently meditating among the tombs.
“’Morning!” cried the Superintende
nt cheerfully, “’Morning, my lord!”
“Oy!” responded his lordship. “Come along here a minute. You’re just the man I wanted to see.”
Mr. Blundell stopped his car at the lych-gate, clambered out, grunting (for he was growing rather stout) and made his way up the path. Wimsey was sitting on a large, flat tombstone, and in his hands was about the last thing the Superintendent might have expected to see, namely, a large reel of line, to which, in the curious, clumsy-looking but neat and methodical manner of the fisherman, his lordship was affixing a strong cast adorned with three salmon-hooks. “Hullo!” said Mr. Blundell. “Bit of an optimist, aren’t you? Nothing but coarse fishing about here.”
“Very coarse,” said Wimsey. “Hush! While you were interviewing Mrs. Gates, where do you think I was? In the garage, inciting our friend Johnson to theft. From Sir Henry’s study. Hist! not a word!”
“A good many years since he went fishing, poor soul,” said Mr. Blundell, sympathetically.
“Well, he kept his tackle in good order all the same,” said Wimsey, making a complicated knot and pulling it tight with his teeth. “Are you busy, or have you got time to look at something?”
“I was going along to Thoday’s, but there’s no great hurry. And, by the way, I’ve got a bit of news.”
Wimsey listened to the story of the wreath. “Sounds all right,” he said. He searched in his pocket, and produced a handful of lead sinkers, some of which he proceeded to affix to his cast.
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