by Roger Bax
James smiled. “I’m afraid it didn’t happen quite like that, sir. He wasn’t knocked out. We’re not absolutely clear what took place, but it’s possible he was pushed in.”
“That’s right—he was pushed in,” said William impishly. “My memory’s not what it was, but everything comes back to me now. I rushed up to him and wrested the gun from his hands and we had a fight. During the struggle I managed to push him into the grave and I shot him.”
“All right, Mr. Appleby,” said James. “I wasn’t serious, you know. Unfortunately, we can’t write other people off quite so easily. I wonder if you can remember what the various members of this household were doing at about half-past six on Saturday evening—or is that asking too much?”
William eyed him shrewdly. “Why half-past six?”
“We believe it was soon after that that Hutton was shot.”
“Oh, you do? I suppose the watch stopped then, eh?”
James frowned. “What do you know about the watch?”
“You don’t suppose you can keep anything quiet in a village, do you, Inspector?” the Ancient chortled. “If you must know, someone told the postman that you’d found a damaged watch in the grave, and the postman told Gertie, and Gertie told me. She knows I always like to hear the latest gossip.”
James was annoyed, but tried not to show it. “Well, can we get back to my question, Mr. Appleby?”
“What’s that? Oh, yes, you were asking about the family.” The old man drew his shawl more closely about his shoulders and lay back on the pillow. Once again he seemed to have grown weary, and his eyelids drooped. “I don’t keep a diary of everything that happens in the house, you know. Half-past six on Saturday? No, I can’t remember. I know I was glad to get away from everybody after all the squabbling. I couldn’t stand it—I came to bed.”
“But you had a walk in the garden first?”
“Of course I had a walk in the garden. I always do.”
“Well, did you see anyone else there?”
“I saw Barbara over in the trees with that fellow as I came in—that’s all.”
“I see. And what about Mr. Thomas Appleby—where was he at that time?”
“He was footling about in town, wasn’t he? Seeing his solicitor, or some such nonsense. I never knew a solicitor yet who didn’t get you into more trouble than he got you out of.”
“And Miss Appleby?”
“What does it matter?” growled William. “You don’t suppose she shot the chap? She was probably getting my supper.”
James sighed. He could see that it was going to be even harder than he had supposed to get the precise picture of everyone’s movements that he so badly needed. He plodded on. “Did you hear any shots about that time?”
“Shots?” The white beard shook. “No, I didn’t hear anything. I wouldn’t have paid any attention if I had.”
James got up and strolled over to the window. The grave was not visible, but there was a good view over part of the churchyard. “I suppose you didn’t see anything of Dennis Gwynn when you came up to bed?”
“Dennis Gwynn?” The Ancient shook his head again. “No, I didn’t see him. Was he around?” He lay silent for a moment.“Anyway, you needn’t worry about him. He’s a good lad, Dennis—he wouldn’t have done it. I agree with Marion—it’s a pity Barbara didn’t choose him for a husband instead of that … that …” The Ancient sought for a fresh word of opprobrium but could find nothing to his taste.
“You know,” said James, turning from the window, “a remarkable thing about this case is that everyone I talk to is quite certain that none of the people I mention could have done it. The trouble is that I need more than testimonials—I need proof. I’ve got a body on my hands, and it didn’t become a body by accident.”
“Are you sure?” asked William. “I’ve known extraordinary things happen with shotguns.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of one pushing a man into a grave!”
“I’ve known a man trip over a gun and fall into a hole,” said William with a reminiscent snort. “Fifty years ago, it happened, and not far away from here, either. It was a fellow named Cox. He was a clumsy chap, and he used to handle his gun about like Hutton. He’d carry it loaded through hedges and over stiles if I wasn’t watching him, and he’d even forget about the safety catch. A danger to himself and everyone else—I refused to go out with him in the end. Well, he was walking down the Fen and somehow he managed to get the gun between his legs, and he fell head over heels into a peat hole with both barrels blazing away on top of him.”
“Was he shot?”
“No, but he might easily have been. It was a miracle he wasn’t.”
James grunted. “I’m afraid nothing like that could have happened to Hutton. We’d have found the gun beside him.”
“Ah,” said William. “So you would.”
“Talking of guns,” said James, “would you have any objection if I looked over the house while I’m here? I don’t for a moment expect I shall find anything, but it’s a routine I have to go through.”
“You can look anywhere you please,” said the old man, with a wave of his hand, gratified that it was his permission that was being sought. “I can tell you now that you’ll be wasting your time, though. I’m sure nobody in this family had anything to do with the murder. Marion has never used a gun in her life and Thomas is much too respectable. Where are you thinking of looking?”
“If you don’t mind,” said James, “I’ll start right here, and then I shan’t need to trouble you again.” He opened a cupboard and a wardrobe. “By the way, a colleague of mine will be coming along soon to take your fingerprints. He’s taking everybody’s. It’s an interesting process if you’ve never seen it done, and there’s not a lot of mess. No compulsion, of course, but we’d be obliged.” He peered under the bed.
“It might be under the mattress,” said William mischievously.
James stared at him. An eccentric old buffer! “Yes, it might,” he said. “If it wouldn’t be troubling you too much …”
The Ancient pushed back the bedclothes, his thin shanks protruding from a long flannel nightgown as he groped for his slippers. “If my granddaughter comes to hear of this,” he said with a chuckle, “I doubt if you’ll live to complete your case.”
Chapter Seventeen
A double-barreled shotgun is not an easy thing to conceal in a house—even a house as large and sprawling as Monks Farm—and when James gave up the search there an hour and a half later he felt confident that he had not overlooked any possible hiding place. He had examined every room care-fully, rolling up carpets, testing floors for loose boards and even tapping solid-seeming walls. He had looked inside every receptacle that had the length to accommodate a gun. With Gertie’s help he had moved several heavy pieces of furniture. He had been down into the cellar and up into the loft and through the old stables and outbuildings. Remembering the classic oversights of illustrious fictional predecessors in his line of business, he had even opened the leather case in the gun room to make sure that the weapon had not been cunningly restored to its rightful place. In the end, he had had to give it up. The gun definitely wasn’t in the house.
He felt tired after his exertions, and when Gertie offered to get him a cup of tea he accepted gratefully. He watched her pour it out, and when she seemed about to leave he detained her.
“Gertie, I wonder if you can help me to sort things out. The sooner I’ve discovered what happened, the sooner everybody will be left in peace. What can you remember yourself about Saturday evening?”
“Bein’ I wore at the pittures in Judiford,” said Gertie reasonably, “I can’t remember nawthin’.” Her accent was almost as broad as Fred Pepper’s, and came incongruously from such pretty lips.
“That’s fair enough,” said James, with a smile. “No, don’t go for a minute. You left here about half-past six, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I had to ketch the ha’ past six bus. That’s the bus for t
he pittures. Don’t ketch that, ye miss the news.”
“Quite so. Well, now, Gertie, can you remember seeing any of the family just before you left for the bus? Let me see, I suppose you were probably getting yourself ready to go out, eh? Did you run into anyone upstairs at about that time?”
Gertie shook her head. “I wore in the back o’ the house an’ I come down the back stairs.”
“Aha. Well, who did you see when you got down? You needn’t be alarmed—I’m asking everybody the same questions.”
“I dedn’t see nobody, sir, on’y Miss Marion when I slipped into the kitchen to tell her I wore off. Mr. Thomas wore out, seemly.”
“And old Mr. Appleby?”
“Bein’ ’twore still a fine evenin’, sir, I reckon he wore walkin’ in the garden but I dedn’t see’m.”
“What about Miss Rutherford?”
“She wore out wi’ pore Mr. Hutton. I heerd them as I wore walkin’ to the bus.” The expression of frank helpfulness had faded from Gertie’s face and she failed to meet the inspector’s eye.
“You heard them, eh?” James was puzzled. The path that Gertie had walked along was not so near to the rustic seat that people discussing their private affairs should have been audible. ‘Where were they when you heard them?”
Gertie fidgeted. “They wore in the elm grove among the bushes, sir—I jest ketch sight o’ them. ’Twore hearin’ them made me look.”
“They must have been talking rather loudly,” said James. His interest had quickened. A novice in interrogation would have known that the girl was trying to hide something.
Whatever qualities Gertie may have had, subtlety was not one of them. “Kin I give ye a drop more tea, sir?”
“No thank you.” James looked sternly at the maid. “Gertie, a man has been murdered—you understand how serious that is, don’t you? I’ve got to find out who did it, and I expect all my questions to be answered truthfully. I think you’re keeping something back from me. You mustn’t, you know—it won’t help anyone in the long run, and you may get yourself into trouble. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Gertie in a whisper.
“Then tell me exactly what you saw and heard.”
“Well, sir,” said Gertie, still barely audible, “truth is that they wore quarrelin’.” She began to sniffle. “They wore quarrelin’ so fierce they ain’t seed me till I wore most past ’em.”
“I see.” James looked very solemn. “Did you hear what they were saying, Gertie? I know that you wouldn’t listen intentionally, but if they were making noise you must have heard something. Please think carefully.”
“I don’t remember nawthin’ on’y angry sounds, sir, an’ that’s a fact. Mr. Hutton he sez summat sharp to her an’ she answers back furious an’ looks as though she’s jest goin’ off an’ leavin’ him.”
“What was she doing when you saw her? Was she just getting up?—was she standing up?—or what?”
“Both o’ the two o’ them wore standin’ up, sir, an’ Miss Barbara lookin’ that fierce wi’ the gun under her arm …”
“Oh, she had the gun, had she?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gertie tearfully, “but I’m sartin that dedn’t mean nawthin’. She wore upset, like, but she ’ouldn’t ha’ done him no harm. It’s the same wi’ Frankie Wright an’ me when I get goin’. He allus knows that ’on’t last. Oh, I reckon I dedn’t oughter ha’ telled ye.”
“It would have been very wrong not to tell me. Did you ever know them quarrel before, Gertie?”
“No, sir, I dedn’t—that woren’t like them. They allus got on together sweet as honey, seemly. Sat’day wore a bad day, an’ that’s a fact. There wore trouble in the arternoon wi’ everyone talkin’ angry at each other like I dunno what—I couldn’t help but hear it. I reckon Miss Barbara an’ Mr. Neville wore upset on account o’ that.”
“Very probably. Well, now, did you see anything else? Miss Rutherford was standing there with the gun, you say, talking excitedly and looking as though she was going to walk away. Did she walk away?”
“I can’t say, sir. I heerd the bus an’ I run to ketch that. I dedn’t see no more, an’ that’s a true word.”
“All right, Gertie, I believe you. There is just one other thing, though. You know Mr. Gwynn, do you?”
“Ah.”
“Did you happen to notice him anywhere around just before you caught the bus?”
“No, sir, I dedn’t see nawthin’ o’ him.”
“Well, that’s all, thank you.” He pushed back his chair. “A very nice cup of tea.”
Gertie’s face was anxious. “I hope Miss Barbara ’on’t be in no trouble on account o’ what I heerd.”
James gave the maid’s shoulder a rather absent-minded pat and left without committing himself.
Chapter Eighteen
Barbara was in the garden, lying in a deck chair with an open book face downward in her lap. Her clouded eyes were on the distant Fen and the yellow-roofed cottage which had held the promise of so much happiness. As James’s step sounded on the path she turned her head sharply, and her faraway expression became focused and resentful.
“Not again, Inspector? Am I never to be left in peace any more?”
James found a seat on a gnarled tree root and began to fill his pipe, with ominous deliberation. “If I appear to be making a nuisance of myself, Miss Rutherford, you have no one but yourself to blame.” The harshness of his tone was in striking contrast to his earlier benevolence. “It appears that you have been a good deal less than frank with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. When I spoke to you yesterday morning, you led me to believe that your last talk with Neville Hutton was amicable, and that you parted from him on good terms. That isn’t true, is it? The fact is that you quarreled with him and left him in anger. Well, what have you to say?”
He watched her closely. There was no mistaking the hostility in her eyes now—nor, he thought, the apprehension. Her brows had contracted and an angry, obstinate flush had crept into her cheeks. For a moment, James thought he was about to hear one of her famous tirades. Then, before his steady gaze, her own glance unexpectedly faltered and she gave a long sigh like a slowly deflating balloon. “I’m sorry,” she said with a weary gesture.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough. Will you kindly tell me exactly what did happen?”
Barbara sat biting her lips. “I’ll have to, I suppose—it’s really quite simple. You see, when Neville and I left the house I was still in a furious temper with the family. I said pretty clearly what I thought of Uncle Thomas and Aunt Marion, and Neville was on my side. In fact, he was so much on my side that, if you can understand me, it started to work the other way. I began to get annoyed with him. You may think that sounds inconsistent, but it’s how it was. It was one thing for Neville to make light of the whole affair when we were with the family—I backed him up for all I was worth then—but once we were alone I expected him to tell me whatever there was to know about him and Mrs. Thornton in Teheran.”
“And he wouldn’t, of course?”
“No, and it seemed to me that there was no excuse at all. It wasn’t as though I appeared to be doubting him. I asked him in a perfectly normal way, because it hadn’t even occurred to me that there would be anything he couldn’t tell me. But he flew into a fearful rage and accused me of taking the family’s side against him and of not trusting him. It was a horrible shock, and so unfair after all that had happened. For the first time I began to wonder if I had been right to trust him so completely—and I told him so. Then he said a lot of beastly things I wouldn’t have believed him capable of saying, and accused me of never having really cared for him, which couldn’t have been more untrue. It was utterly sordid and humiliating. In the end, I—I told him that I never wanted to see him again, and I walked off.”
“And was it true—that you never wanted to see him again?”
Barbara gazed out over the fie
lds. “I suppose not,” she said slowly, “but that was how I felt at the time. I was terribly hurt. I’d always thought I knew Neville, and suddenly he’d become quite a different person—a hateful person that I couldn’t understand at all. I felt helpless and I wanted to get away from him.”
James nodded gravely. “That all seems very natural to me, Miss Rutherford—but why did you keep it to yourself?”
“Oh, I don’t know—pride, I suppose. I’d insisted so much that I believed in Neville and that I was standing by him. I could hardly go crawling back to the family after what I’d said and tell them that I’d been a credulous little fool. If I’d begun to change my mind about him, that was my affair.”
“At least,” said James, “you should have told me.”
“When you asked me about it yesterday, the others were there. If we had been alone, perhaps I would have told you.”
“We were alone this morning,” James reminded her.
“I know, but—well, when you told me what Neville had really been like, there didn’t seem any point in anything any more. And he was dead—what was the use of going back over all that old ground?”
“None, perhaps, from your point of view, but quite a bit from mine. I’m trying to make all allowances for your state of mind, but I must say that you’ve shown a capacity for concealment which, frankly, I hadn’t suspected in you. Now I’m afraid you’ll have to work your passage a bit further. You didn’t, by any chance, suppress the fact of your quarrel with Hutton because you were afraid you might be connected with his death?”
“Good heavens, no!” She looked at him wide-eyed. “You surely don’t think that I shot Neville?”
“I don’t know,” said James unhappily. “I’m told that at some stage of this quarrel with him you were seen standing beside him with the gun in your hands. How did that happen?”
The rouge on Barbara’s face showed up hectically against her white skin. She was very tense. “It—it was sort of mechanical,” she said. “You see, when we sat down on the bank the gun was lying on the grass between us. I suppose I must have taken hold of it while we were talking—quite unconsciously—and so I happened to be holding it when I got up to go.”