The car went upwards on the Sittaford road.
Thirteen
SITTAFORD
Emily was rather fascinated by her first view of Sittaford. Turning off the main road about two miles from Exhampton, they went upwards over a rough moorland road until they reached a village that was situated right on the edge of the moor. It consisted of a smithy, and a combined post office and sweet shop. From there they followed a lane and came to a row of newly built small granite bungalows. At the second of these the car stopped and the driver volunteered the information that this was Mrs. Curtis’s.
Mrs. Curtis was a small, thin, grey-haired woman, energetic and shrewish in disposition. She was all agog with the news of the murder which had only penetrated to Sittaford that morning.
“Yes, of course I can take you in, Miss, and your cousin too, if he can just wait until I shift a few duds. You won’t mind having your meals along of us, I don’t suppose? Well, who would have believed it! Captain Trevelyan murdered and an inquest and all! Cut off from the world we’ve been since Friday morning, and this morning when the news came you could have knocked me down with a feather. ‘The Captain’s dead,’ I said to Curtis, ‘that shows you the wickedness there is in the world nowadays.’ But I’m keeping you talking here, Miss. Come away in and the gentleman too. I have got the kettle on and you shall have a cup of tea immediately, for you must be perished by the drive up, though of course, it’s warmer today after what it’s been. Eight and ten feet the snow has been hereabout.”
Drowned in this sea of talk, Emily and Charles Enderby were shown their new quarters. Emily had a small square room, scrupulously clean, looking out and up to the slope of Sittaford Beacon. Charles’s room was a small slit facing the front of the house and the lane, containing a bed and a microscopic chest of drawers and washstand.
“The great thing is,” he observed after the driver of the car had disposed his suitcase upon the bed, and had been duly paid and thanked, “that we are here. If we don’t know all there is to be known about everyone living in Sittaford within the next quarter of an hour, I’ll eat my hat.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting downstairs in the comfortable kitchen being introduced to Curtis, a rather gruff-looking, grey-haired old man, and being regaled with strong tea, bread and butter, Devonshire cream and hard-boiled eggs. While they ate and drank they listened. Within half an hour they knew everything there was to be known about the inhabitants of the small community.
First there was a Miss Percehouse, who lived in No. 4, The Cottages, a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die, according to Mrs. Curtis, six years ago.
“But believe it or not, Miss, the air of Sittaford is that healthy that she picked up from the day she came. Wonderfully pure air for lungs it is.
“Miss Percehouse has a nephew who occasionally comes down to see her,” she went on, “and indeed he’s staying with her at the present time. Seeing to it that the money doesn’t go out of the family, that’s what he’s doing. Very dull for a young gentleman at this time of year. But there, there’s more ways than one of amusing yourself, and his coming has been a providence for the young lady at Sittaford House. Poor young thing, the idea of bringing her to that great barrack of a house in the winter time. Selfish is what some mothers are. A very pretty young lady, too. Mr. Ronald Garfield is up there as often as he can be without neglecting Miss Percehouse.”
Charles Enderby and Emily exchanged glances. Charles remembered that Ronald Garfield had been mentioned as one of the party present at the table-turning.
“The cottage this side of mine, No. 6,” continued Mrs. Curtis, “has only just been took. Gentleman of the name of Duke. That is if you would call him a gentleman. Of course, he may be and he may not. There’s no saying, folks aren’t so particular nowadays as they used to be. He’s been made free of the place in the heartiest manner. A bashful sort of gentleman he is—might be a military gentleman from the look of him, but somehow he hasn’t got the manner. Not like Major Burnaby, that you would know as a military gentleman the first time you clapped eyes on him.
“No. 3, that’s Mr. Rycroft’s, little elderly gentleman. They do say that he used to go after birds to outlandish parts for the British Museum. What they call a naturalist he is. Always out and roaming over the moor when the weather permits. And he has a very fine library of books. His cottage is nearly all bookcases.
“No. 2, is an invalid gentleman’s, a Captain Wyatt with an Indian servant. And poor fellow he does feel the cold, he does. The servant I mean, not the Captain. Coming from warm outlandish parts, it’s no wonder. The heat they keep up inside the house would frighten you. It’s like walking into an oven.
“No. 1, is Major Burnaby’s cottage. Lives by himself he does, and I go in to do for him early mornings. He is a very neat gentleman, he is, and very particular. He and Captain Trevelyan were as thick as thieves. Friends of a lifetime they were. And they both have the same kind of outlandish heads stuck up on the walls.
“As for Mrs. Willett and Miss Willett, that’s what no one can make out. Plenty of money there. Amos Parker at Exhampton they deal with, and he tells me their weekly book comes to well over eight pounds or nine pounds. You wouldn’t believe the eggs that goes into that house! Brought their maidservants from Exeter with them, they did, but they don’t like it and want to leave, and I’m sure I don’t blame them. Mrs. Willett, she sends them into Exeter twice a week in her car, and what with that and the living being so good, they agreed to stop on, but if you ask me it’s a queer business, burying yourself in the country like this, a smart lady like that. Well, well, I suppose I had better be clearing away these tea things.”
She drew a deep breath and so did Charles and Emily. The flow of information loosened with so little difficulty had almost overwhelmed them.
Charles ventured to put a question.
“Has Major Burnaby got back yet?” he asked.
Mrs. Curtis paused at once, tray in hand. “Yes, indeed, sir, came tramping in just the same as ever about half an hour before you arrived. ‘Why, sir,’ I cried to him. ‘You’ve never walked all the way from Exhampton?’ And he says in his stern way, ‘Why not? If a man has got two legs he doesn’t need four wheels. I do it once a week anyway as you know, Mrs. Curtis.’ ‘Oh, yes, sir, but this is different. What with the shock and the murder and the inquest it’s wonderful you’ve got the strength to do it.’ But he only grunted like and walked on. He looks bad though. It’s a miracle he ever got through on Friday night. Brave I call it at his age. Tramping off like that and three miles of it in a snowstorm. You may say what you like, but nowadays the young gentlemen aren’t a patch on the old ones. That Mr. Ronald Garfield he would never have done it, and it’s my opinion, and it’s the opinion of Mrs. Hibbert at the post office, and it’s the opinion of Mr. Pound, the blacksmith, that Mr. Garfield ought never to have let him go off alone the way he did. He should have gone with him. If Major Burnaby had been lost in a snowdrift, everybody would have blamed Mr. Garfield. And that’s a fact.”
She disappeared triumphantly into the scullery amid a clatter of tea things.
Mr. Curtis thoughtfully removed an aged pipe from the right side of his mouth to the left side.
“Women,” he said, “talk a lot.”
He paused and then murmured.
“And half the time they don’t know the truth of what they are talking about.”
Emily and Charles received this announcement in silence. Seeing that no more was coming, however, Charles murmured approvingly.
“That’s very true—yes, very true.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Curtis, and relapsed into a pleasant and contemplative silence.
Charles rose. “I think I’ll go round and see old Burnaby,” he said, “tell him the camera parade will be tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Emily. “I want to know what he really thinks about Jim and what ideas he has about the crime in general.”
; “Have you got any rubber boots or anything? It’s awfully slushy.”
“I bought some Wellingtons in Exhampton,” said Emily.
“What a practical girl you are. You think of everything.”
“Unfortunately,” said Emily, “that’s not much help to you in finding out who’s done a murder. It might help one to do a murder,” she added reflectively.
“Well, don’t murder me,” said Mr. Enderby.
They went out together. Mrs. Curtis immediately returned.
“They be gone round to the Major’s,” said Mr. Curtis.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Curtis. “Now, what do you think? Are they sweethearting, or are they not? A lot of harm comes of cousins marrying, so they say. Deaf and dumbs and half-wits and a lot of other evils. He’s sweet on her, that you can see easily enough. As for her, she’s a deep one like my Great Aunt Sarah’s Belinda, she is. Got a way with her and with the men. I wonder what she’s after now? Do you know what I think, Curtis?”
Mr. Curtis grunted.
“This young gentleman that the police are holding on account of the murder, it’s my belief that he’s the one she’s set on. And she’s come up here to nose about and see what she can find out. And mark my words,” said Mrs. Curtis, rattling china, “if there’s anything to find out she will find it!”
Fourteen
THE WILLETTS
At the same moment that Charles and Emily started out to visit Major Burnaby, Inspector Narracott was seated in the drawing room of Sittaford House, trying to formulate an impression of Mrs. Willett.
He had not been able to interview her sooner as the roads had been impassable until this morning. He had hardly known what he had expected to find, but certainly not what he had found. It was Mrs. Willett who had taken charge of the situation, not he.
She had come rushing into the room, thoroughly businesslike and efficient. He saw a tall woman, thin-faced and keen-eyed. She was wearing rather an elaborate knitted silk jumper suit that was just over the border line of unsuitability for country wear. Her stockings were of very expensive gossamer silk, her shoes high-heeled patent leather. She wore several valuable rings and rather a large quantity of very good and expensive imitation pearls.
“Inspector Narracott?” said Mrs. Willett. “Naturally, you want to come over the house. What a shocking tragedy! I could hardly believe it. We only heard about it this morning, you know. We were terribly shocked. Sit down, won’t you, Inspector? This is my daughter, Violet.”
He had hardly noticed the girl who had followed her in, and yet, she was a very pretty girl, tall and fair with big blue eyes.
Mrs. Willett herself took a seat.
“Is there any way in which I can help you, Inspector? I knew very little of poor Captain Trevelyan, but if there is anything you can think of—”
The Inspector said slowly:
“Thank you, madam. Of course, one never knows what may be useful or what may not.”
“I quite understand. There may possibly be something in the house that may throw light upon this sad business, but I rather doubt it. Captain Trevelyan removed all his personal belongings. He even feared I should tamper with his fishing rods, poor, dear man.”
She laughed a little.
“You were not acquainted with him?”
“Before I took the house, you mean? Oh! no. I’ve asked him here several times since, but he never came. Terribly shy, poor dear. That was what was the matter with him. I’ve known dozens of men like it. They are called women haters and all sorts of silly things, and really all the time it’s only shyness. If I could have got at him,” said Mrs. Willett with determination, “I’d soon have got over all that nonsense. That sort of man only wants bringing out.”
Inspector Narracott began to understand Captain Trevelyan’s strongly defensive attitude towards his tenants.
“We both asked him,” continued Mrs. Willett. “Didn’t we, Violet?”
“Oh! yes, Mother.”
“A real simple sailor at heart,” said Mrs. Willett. “Every woman loves a sailor, Inspector Narracott.”
It occurred to Inspector Narracott at this juncture that the interview so far had been run entirely by Mrs. Willett. He was convinced that she was an exceedingly clever woman. She might be as innocent as she appeared. On the other hand she might not.
“The point I am anxious to get information about is this,” he said and paused.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“Major Burnaby, as you doubtless know, discovered the body. He was led to do so by an accident that occurred in this house.”
“You mean?”
“I mean, the table-turning. I beg your pardon—”
He turned sharply.
A faint sound had come from the girl.
“Poor Violet,” said her mother. “She was terribly upset—indeed we all were! Most unaccountable. I’m not superstitious, but really it was the most unaccountable thing.”
“It did occur then?”
Mrs. Willett opened her eyes very wide.
“Occur? Of course it occurred. At the time I thought it was a joke—a most unfeeling joke and one in very bad taste. I suspected young Ronald Garfield—”
“Oh! no, Mother. I’m sure he didn’t. He absolutely swore he didn’t.”
“I’m saying what I thought at the time, Violet. What could one think it but a joke?”
“It was curious,” said the Inspector slowly. “You were very upset, Mrs. Willett?”
“We all were. Up to then it had been, oh, just lighthearted fooling. You know the sort of thing. Good fun on a winter’s evening. And then suddenly—this! I was very angry.”
“Angry?”
“Well, naturally. I thought someone was doing it deliberately—for a joke, as I say.”
“And now?”
“Now?”
“Yes, what do you think now?”
Mrs. Willett spread her hands out expressively.
“I don’t know what to think. It—it’s uncanny.”
“And you, Miss Willett?”
“I?”
The girl started.
“I—I don’t know. I shall never forget it. I dream of it. I shall never dare to do table-turning again.”
“Mr. Rycroft would say it was genuine, I suppose,” said her mother. “He believes in all that sort of thing. Really I’m inclined to believe in it myself. What other explanation is there except that it was a genuine message from a spirit?”
The Inspector shook his head. The table-turning had been his red herring. His next remark was most casual sounding.
“Don’t you find it very bleak here in winter, Mrs. Willett?”
“Oh, we love it. Such a change. We’re South Africans, you know.”
Her tone was brisk and ordinary.
“Really? What part of South Africa?”
“Oh! the Cape. Violet has never been in England before. She is enchanted with it—finds the snow most romantic. This house is really most comfortable.”
“What led you to come to this part of the world?”
There was just gentle curiosity in his voice.
“We’ve read so many books on Devonshire, and especially on Dartmoor. We were reading one on the boat—all about Widdecombe Fair. I’ve always had a hankering to see Dartmoor.”
“What made you fix on Exhampton? It’s not a very well known little town.”
“Well—we were reading these books as I told you, and there was a boy on board who talked about Exhampton—he was so enthusiastic about it.”
“What was his name?” asked the Inspector. “Did he come from this part of the world?”
“Now, what was his name? Cullen—I think. No—it was Smythe. How stupid of me. I really can’t remember. You know how it is on board ship, Inspector, you get to know people so well and plan to meet again—and a week after you’ve landed, you can’t even be sure of their names!”
She laughed.
“But he was such a nice boy—not good-looking, reddish hair,
but a delightful smile.”
“And on the strength of that you decided to take a house in these parts?” said the Inspector smiling.
“Yes, wasn’t it mad of us?”
“Clever,” thought Narracott. “Distinctly clever.” He began to realize Mrs. Willett’s methods. She always carried the war into the enemy’s country.
“So you wrote to the house agents and inquired about a house?”
“Yes—and they sent us particulars of Sittaford. It sounded just what we wanted.”
“It wouldn’t be my taste at this time of year,” said the Inspector with a laugh.
“I daresay it wouldn’t be ours if we lived in England,” said Mrs. Willett brightly.
The Inspector rose.
“How did you know the name of a house agent to write to in Exhampton?” he asked. “That must have presented a difficulty.”
There was a pause. The first pause in the conversation. He thought he caught a glimpse of vexation, more, of anger in Mrs. Willett’s eyes. He had hit upon something to which she had not thought out the answer. She turned towards her daughter.
“How did we, Violet? I can’t remember.”
There was a different look in the girl’s eyes. She looked frightened.
“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Willett. “Delfridges. Their information bureau. It’s too wonderful. I always go and inquire there about everything. I asked them the name of the best agent here and they told me.”
“Quick,” thought the Inspector. “Very quick. But not quite quick enough. I had you there, madam.”
He made a cursory examination of the house. There was nothing there. No papers, no locked drawers or cupboards.
Mrs. Willett accompanied him talking brightly. He took his leave, thanking her politely.
As he departed he caught a glimpse of the girl’s face over her shoulder. There was no mistaking the expression on her face.
It was fear he saw on her countenance. Fear written there plainly at this moment when she thought herself unobserved.
Mrs. Willett was still talking.
The Sittaford Mystery Page 9