The Witch of the Low Tide

by John Dickson Carr

  “And Lady Calder was expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, ah. But she wasn’t here?”

  “No. I have already explained why she wasn’t here.”

  “So you have, Doctor. No call to get excited!” Twigg looked at his notebook. “You met your nephew, you say, and he told you Lady Calder had gone out for a bathe?”

  “He told me that, yes. But it was not Lady Calder. It was her sister. The witnesses, including Mr. Abbot there, were too far away to distinguish between the two. If you doubt that—”

  “Doubt it? Now what makes you think we doubt it? I tell you straight, Doctor, I’m downright pleased to hear you say so. When you sign your statement, I’ll make good and sure you testify to that”

  “One moment,” said Cullingford Abbot, taking the cheroot out of his mouth.

  “Now, sir, if you go interrupting…!”

  “One moment I said!”

  Twigg’s colour had come up, but he restrained himself.

  “I can testify to it,” Abbot told him. “I saw her. And there’s no doubt, from tests taken at the pavilion, that woman was Glynis Stukeley. But don’t ask Dr. Garth to testify he saw her at four o’clock; you’ll wreck your case. Now get on with it.”

  “Thanking you very kindly for the correction, sir, and I will.” Twigg looked back at Garth. “At the time you went out to that pavilion, Doctor, were there anybody’s footprints in the sand except yours?”

  “No, there were not.”

  “Oh, ah. You can swear to that, can you?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “You want me to get on with this, Doctor, and Mr. Abbot wants me to get on with it. So we’ll do just that. You’ve been telling me how you discovered the Stukeley woman’s body. How you turned her over to identify her, and turned her back again. How it was you as smashed the cup we found smashed there. How you touched the teapot, and it was still very hot…”

  “I do say that, yes. You must have touched the teapot to discover it for yourself. Surely you did that, Mr. Twigg?”

  “I’m asking the questions, Doctor; you’re answering ’em. Just you try to remember it. So we’ll take something else.”

  Garth’s senses were strung suddenly to cold alertness. A new note had come into Twigg’s voice; he made tasting noises with his tongue.

  “On a hook against the wall, you say, you found a lady’s bathing-cape, brown serge, yellow stripes across it. In one pocket there was a handkerchief labelled G. S., and you put the handkerchief back in the pocket. Right?”

  “Yes. The bathing-cape is there now.”

  “Oh, ah. It’s there now. Did you take that cape out to the pavilion, Doctor? Or did Lady Calder take it there?”

  “Neither of us. The cape was hanging from the hook when I arrived.”

  “Would it interest you to hear, Doctor, that the dead woman wasn’t wearing or carrying any such cape when she went out for a bathe?”

  Again nobody moved. Garth could hear his own watch ticking.

  “Well, Doctor? We’ve got two witnesses to that, I’d have you know. Mr. Abbot is one of ’em.”

  Still Garth did not speak. Cullingford Abbot, a stamp of ugliness on his face, nodded briefly and looked Garth in the eyes.

  “Dammit, man,” he snapped, again removing the cigar, “I can’t help the fact if it’s so, can I? The damned woman had no cape. There it is.”

  Twigg’s almost invisible eyebrows went up.

  “Got that, Doctor? Only your footprints and Lady Calder’s, as you’ve kept on telling me, went out on the sand to the steps of that pavilion. Not another mark anywhere! If Glynis Stukeley didn’t wear the cape or take it herself, how did it get there?”

  Again silence.

  “I can only say…”

  “Better not say anything, Doctor, unless you can give me an answer. And that’s only the starter.” Twigg, shifting himself on the arm of the padded chair where he had inched round to face Garth, turned over another page in the notebook.

  “About that business of the tea being hot,” Twigg continued, “you’re making a mighty lot of it, now; a good deal more’n a humble copper can tell you it’s worth. Maybe the tea was hot. Maybe it wasn’t. Mr. Abbot and me, as soon as we nabbed you and Lady Calder outside the pavilion, had to hustle you back here so you wouldn’t mess about with things any longer. By the time I got a chance to look at the tea, it might have been brewed last January. It’ll make no odds to a jury either way. Got that?”

  “Perfectly. Lady Calder and I, it seems, are to pay for your own negligence in looking at evidence.”

  “I want no more trouble with you, me bucko,” Twigg said softly. “Got that?”

  Any outsider who saw David Garth at that moment, his jaws less saturnine and a drop of sweat running down his temple, would have thought him clean finished and nearly at his lowest ebb. And so he was almost finished—almost, but not quite.

  “So let’s leave what’s not important,” pursued Twigg, “and take what is important. You want me to believe (ho, lummy!) you two are so innocent the Almighty might make a new Garden of Eden and turn you both loose in it. Let’s see about this innocence.

  “You say you were so surprised-like to find the tea scalding hot that you knocked a cup off the table. That was when Lady Calder ran out to the pavilion. And she was calling your name. Is that so?”

  “Yes!”

  “Doctor, how did she know you were there?”

  “I’ve told you a half a dozen times Lady Calder was expecting me!”

  “All right. Let’s suppose she was. But that pavilion’s got no windows. There were two doors, an outer door with a sun-blind half drawn and a wooden door only partly ajar, between you and anybody on the outside. She couldn’t have seen you. How did she know you were there?

  “And don’t tell me,” Twigg added, holding up his hand as the other attempted to speak, “don’t tell me, for sweet little green apples’ sake, she could take one look at some footprints in the sand and recognize they were yours. Ho, now! You expect a jury to believe she wasn’t inside that pavilion, strangling her sister either with your help or without it?”

  “Yes,” retorted Garth, taking a step forward. “Because it happens to be true.”

  “She was gallivanting round the country on a bike for nearly two hours? And never went near the place, let alone inside it, until she turned up at shortly past six o’clock?”

  “Yes! That’s true too!”

  “It is, eh? Let’s see.”

  Twig put the notebook back in his pocket. He surged up from the arm of the chair, a bulky man with pale eyes in a red face. With great deliberation he went to the door of the hall and opened it.

  “Come in, Mr. Ormiston,” he said.

  Cullingford Abbot craned round from his chair, cheroot poised at the edge of his teeth. Hal Ormiston, now wearing a dust-coat over jacket and flannels and with his straw boater discarded, marched into the sitting-room as though brought there by the consciousness of heroic purpose. Twigg slammed the door just as the draught whirled.

  Garth turned away. Hal didn’t. It may be that apprehension lurked somewhere in his soul, but his nose was up and his chin out. Nor could anyone have failed to be reassured by the heartiness of Twigg’s greeting.

  “Oh, ah! I won’t delay you long, sir,” said Twigg, touching one finger to the brim of his bowler hat. “And maybe it’s a pity (for you, I mean) your car broke down in Fairfield and you had to come back here. But it’s not a pity for the law. Before you say what happened with that car, though, maybe you’ll tell us about a woman you saw on the beach when you were taking Mr. Abbot to Ravensport?”

  “Glad to, Inspector,” said Hal.

  “Well, sir?”

  “The woman wasn’t old Bet. I thought there was something funny at the time, so help me! The walk was a bit different and so was the swing of her, if you see what I mean. But there wasn’t enough different really to notice, or I’d have noticed it.”

  Twigg t
urned a bland jowl towards Abbot and Garth.

  “I’m not going to prompt you, Mr. Ormiston. No, by jing! I’m sticking to the Judge’s Rules. Can you tell us, maybe, what the woman had on? Clothes, like?”

  “She was wearing a brown bathing-costume without sleeves and without stockings. She was wearing a puffy cap with a rubber lining. She was wearing canvas shoes with rubber soles. That’s all. Anyway, that’s all I saw.”

  “Was she carrying a towel, maybe? Or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Not a bathing-cape? Nothing? Ah, just so! And this was about four o’clock, wasn’t it? Good! Tell me, sir: is that your uncle standing over there?”

  “That’s old Nunkie. I told him to pull up his socks if he didn’t want to land in a mess, and it’s no fault of mine if he has.”

  “Just so, Mr. Ormiston. Did you see Dr. Garth hereabouts at any time this afternoon?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “What time would that ’a’ been, maybe?”

  “I met him outside the cottage here,” answered Hal, fashioning the syllables with great care, “at ten minutes to six o’clock. He was in one hell of a dither about something, Nunkie was.”

  “Did you see him go out to the pavilion?”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth, Old Sausage,” Hal corrected with great swiftness. “Don’t you do that either. I don’t like it. I saw him start out there, if you like. That’s all I did see. He paid me some money he owed me, and I left.”

  “What time was that, sir?”

  “Not much later than ten minutes to six. Hardly a minute later, if you ask me.”

  “I do ask you, sir, and I’m greatly appreciating it. Were there any footprints or marks in the sand before Dr. Garth went there?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t see any.”

  “Sir, did you see Lady Calder then?”

  “You mean old Bet? No. I didn’t see her then. And I didn’t see her at any other time.” Cullingford Abbot rose to his feet, flung the half-smoked cheroot into the fireplace as previously he had flung the gardenia, and sat down again. Garth stood motionless, as though poised and waiting. And Twigg, who apparently expected him to spring forward, held up a hypnotic hand.

  “I’ll just ask you to be sure of that Mr. Ormiston. We’ve heard Lady Calder was seen riding a bicycle between here and Fairfield after you left in the motor-car. We’ve heard you couldn’t help seeing her, because you passed her in the road.”

  Up went Hal’s eyebrows.

  “If you heard that Old Sausage, you heard a downright, smacking, out-and-out-lie. I didn’t pass anybody, Old Sausage. I didn’t pass a living soul.”

  “Well, well, well,” Twigg remarked after a pause. “Well, well, well!”

  Hal, chin up and nostrils dilated, was looking steadily at Garth. So was Twigg, who had turned round in a leisurely way.

  “That’s how it stands, Doctor. You can have the tea hot. You can have the victim dead well inside the time you say. That’s all the worse for you. According to Mr. Ormiston, you were going out to the pavilion at not much later than ten minutes to six. Mr. Abbot and I got here at ten minutes past six and found you and Lady Calder standing out there by the steps. In those twenty minutes not a witness saw you; not a witness saw Lady Calder. Both your sets of footprints go out there; nobody’s come back. If neither of you two killed the Stukeley woman, who else could have killed her?”

  Twigg paused, drawing in his breath.

  “I’ve got a bit of an idea, Dr. Garth, you don’t think I’ve got much in the way of brains. Not like the coppers in those fancy stories, anyway. That’s as may be. But there’s the case against your sweet and holy Lady Calder. Let’s see you get her out of it.”

  “Yes,” said Garth, “I think I will.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said I think I will,” repeated Garth, with unholy joy to see his enemy step at last on his own ground.

  A whole series of creaks and cracks seemed to have afflicted the woodwork of the room. Hal Ormiston was looking away. Garth moved out slowly—his eyes on a level with Twigg’s, his hands at his sides.

  “Mr. Twigg,” he said formally, “I was not allowed in the pavilion after you arrived. Suppose you show me the photographs your men took? Or at least tell me what you found there on the floor?”

  “Ho, now! As if I would!”

  “Oh, yes, you will,” said Cullingford Abbot

  Abbot had jumped to his feet. Twigg turned slowly towards him.

  “Mr. Abbot, sir, are you teaching me how to do this? Do you want to nab murderers, or don’t you?”

  “I am interested in nabbing murderers, yes,” Abbot said suavely. “I am also interested in fair play.”

  “God’s truth,” yelled Twigg, “and he talks about fair play. This thing is no cricket-match, Mr. Abbot. You amateurs wouldn’t think so if you had to work as hard as we do.”

  “Possibly not.” Abbot looked back at Garth. “By the way, my dear fellow,” he added, with his large moustache bristling towards Hal Ormiston, “I imagine it was that young daisy who made the anonymous telephone-call to the police-station?”

  “Yes.” And Garth nodded. “It’s the most probable supposition, at least. It’s been the most probable supposition all the time.”

  “Ah! I thought so. Now will you answer Dr. Garth’s questions, Inspector Twigg, or shall I answer them for you? Which is it to be?”

  “I’ll answer any ruddy questions Dr. Garth thinks he can ask. He won’t slip out of this one, I’m telling you, not if I have to go over your head to the Commissioner.”

  “Mr. Twigg,” said Garth, “what did you find on the floor?”

  “On what floor? Where?”

  Any patient who saw David Garth at this particular later moment, eyes glittering in a pale face, might well have thought the specialist in neurology himself required treatment.

  “We have heard a great deal,” he said, “about footprints outside the pavilion. Let us hear something about footprints inside it. My nephew well and truly remarked he had no wish to get his shoes covered with sand or mud. But anyone who went to the pavilion could not very well have avoided it. Did you find sand-traces of my footprints, Mr. Twigg? Did you find them going through the room on the left, out on the veranda, and round to the room on the right? Just as I said I did?”

  “Oh, ah! We found ’em. And we’ve got photographs. Does that prove you didn’t kill Glynis Stukeley?”

  “No, it does not”

  “Well, then?”

  “Mr. Twigg, did you find any footprints left by the dead woman?”

  “No, naturally we didn’t! She’d been in the water. She’d been for a swim. She hoisted herself back to the veranda when the tide was still up, long before she died. The only footprints she’d have made would be prints in salt-water, and they’d have dried on the floor.”

  “Quite right,” said Garth. “The wet state of her bathing-costume just matched an estimate of that time.” Then he raised his voice. “Mr. Twigg, did you find any footprints left by Lady Calder?”

  Five seconds ticked past

  Cullingford Abbot had taken a pigskin cigar-case from his inside pocket, but he did not open it. Moustache drawn down, head a little forward, he kept the eyeglass fixed on Twigg.

  “You found no such footprints,” said Garth, “although Lady Calder also walked through the sand. Is that correct?”

  “Ho, now! It would ’a’ been easy to—”

  “Would it?” asked Garth. “Is it reasonable to imagine a pair of murderers erasing one set of tracks and leaving the other? Even supposing we had done so, where are the cleaning materials we used in a hut without water laid on? How could it have been managed without leaving any traces for you to find? You didn’t find those traces, Mr. Twigg, because Betty Calder was never inside the pavilion.”

  Clamping one hand across his forehead, he pressed hard at both temples. Then he straightened up and spoke with toiling lucidity.


  “I will be frank with you, Mr. Twigg, as I don’t think you are being frank with me. I can’t explain how that murder was committed. It’s a little like the murder in a novel called By Whose Hand?”

  “Ah!” breathed Twigg, who was watching him closely.

  “I can’t explain how that bathing-robe appeared at the pavilion. There are several things I can’t explain.”

  “Ah!” said Twigg.

  “You may arrest me as the murderer, though in the long run I don’t think you will. When you have ceased to be as angry with me as I now am with you, for personal reasons alone, I think your own good sense will prevent you. You may arrest me, I say. But you can’t touch Betty Calder.”

  “I can’t, eh?” Twigg strode across to the door, held the knob as he threw it open, and raised his voice. “Sergeant Baines!”

  “Sir?” called a voice outside.

  “Sergeant Baines, where is Lady Calder?”

  “Inspector, you locked her in her room upstairs! Inspector, I don’t think you ought to ’a’ done that.”

  “Never you mind what I ought to ’a’ done! Fetch her here, will you?”

  Once more the strong draught, blowing between door and windows as the door was held open, made a chaos across the sitting-room. As curtains streamed out and lamp-shade swung wildly, you might have fancied the pictures themselves flashed their bright colours in rattling frames. Cullingford Abbot strode over beside Twigg.

  “Sergeant Baines,” he said, “be pleased to forget that order. Twigg, shut the door.”

  “Sir—”

  “Did you hear what I said? Shut the door.”

  “Now so help me Jinny,” breathed Twigg, “but fair’s fair and a joke’s a joke. Mr. Abbot, are you trying to tell me what Dr. Garth says is conclusive?”

  “Tut! It’s anything but conclusive. The dog’s still got jam on his whiskers, and plenty of it too.”

  “Is it an apology you want, sir? Maybe I spoke too sharp. All right! Maybe I shouldn’t have called you an amateur. All right!”

  “Why shouldn’t you have called me an amateur? In one sense, at least, I am an amateur. Of horses, of French cooking, of women, and even (God help me) of crime too. But I am very much an official of the Criminal Investigation Department. There are two reasons why I don’t propose to let you go on with this now.”