'Good heavens, no!' cried Mr Wyck violently. 'That's the worst of you psychiatrists. Even a joke indicates morbid preoccupations to you!'
'It often does indicate morbid preoccupations,' said Mrs Bradley mildly, 'particularly if it is a practical joke.'
'I do not regard what is called a practical joke as a joke,' said Mr Wyck. 'It is often cruelty very thinly disguised, and it is always stupid. Take this last example we have had –'
'Yes, I wanted to,' said Mrs Bradley, meekly.
'Detective-Inspector Gavin is hoping to be able to take a statement from Mrs Poundbury to-morrow,' said Mrs Wyck. 'I am hoping that she will be able to tell exactly what happened and when.'
'I will prophesy,' said Mrs Bradley, 'that she will only be able to tell us when it happened. She will not, in my opinion, have the slightest idea of the identity of her assailant, or, if she has, she will not confide it to us.'
This melancholy prophecy proved true. Mrs Bradley remained in strict seclusion all next day, and at four in the afternoon Gavin came over to the School House to report that, according to Mrs Poundbury, she had been struck on the head from behind just as she was going down to the property cupboard for the pail which was required in the last play and which had been forgotten. She had gone herself because all her stage-hands were at that time in the auditorium, and her husband, who acted as stage manager, was not available, either, because he had been making up the lad Cooke a little more heavily than Mrs Poundbury had already made him up.
'So that's that. And she didn't see the second idol,' said Gavin. 'In other words, we've lost a couple of days waiting for a statement which doesn't get us any further forward.'
'It gets us further forward if by any chance Mr Poundbury was not engaged in making up Cooke,' said Mr Wyck. 'I suggest that we see Cooke at once.'
'How many of the Housemasters live in their Houses during the vacations?' asked Mrs Bradley, most obviously changing the subject.
'None of them. My wife and I will be here for part of the time, but nobody else except the servants.'
'Doesn't look as though it will help to see this boy Cooke,' said Gavin, thoughtfully. 'The chances are, he's like Issacher, and won't give Poundbury away.'
'I agree that it is highly immoral to allow boys to perjure themselves,' said Mr Wyck. But on the last morning of term Mr Poundbury asked for an interview.
'Oh, dear!' said Mr Wyck resignedly. 'I suppose Poundbury has forgotten to send to the bank for his boys' journey money.'
'That has happened before,' said Mrs Wyck, when Mr Poundbury's messenger had returned to Mr Poundbury with the tidings that the Headmaster would see him at once. 'Since then, Christopher has always kept a sum in small notes and silver ready at the end of term.'
But Mr Poundbury had nothing to say about journey money. He came in great agitation to confess to serious crime. He was closeted with Mr Wyck for about twenty minutes, and then Mrs Bradley saw him ambling, with curiously uneven, uncertain, and uncoordinated steps across the Headmaster's lawn; he was staggering from side to side with a lolling kind of movement, as though his legs had no connexion with his body except for the irresponsible liaison afforded by his trousers.
She turned to Mrs Wyck and was about to speak when Mr Wyck came into the room. His expression was that of a person who has received incredible and dreadful tidings.
'Poundbury,' he announced, 'is responsible. I never really believed it, but there it is.'
'What?' his wife enquired. 'Has there been an accident?'
'There has been no accident,' Mr Wyck replied. 'All that I can think is that the man must be off his head.'
'Why, what has he done or left undone?' Mrs Wyck asked at once.
'He confesses that it was he who struck down his wife at the top of those steps,' said Mr Wyck. 'And, of course, that makes it clear to me that he, and he alone, is responsible for poor Conway's death.'
'Did he also confess to having taken the note?' asked Mrs Bradley. Mr Wyck shook his head.
'He did not mention a note. All he said was that the sight of her made him sick, and that, before he realized what he was doing, he had hit her on the head. He adds that immediately he had done it he ran back to the dressing-room to finish making-up Cooke.'
'Did he say what he hit her with?' was Gavin's first question.
'I did not think to ask. He was greatly agitated, naturally, and said that he had confessed so that nobody else should be blamed. He also said that his wife had forgiven him.'
'I'd better see him myself,' said Gavin. He came away from the interview convinced that the confession was bogus. 'I don't know what he thinks he's up to,' he remarked, 'but his whole story is a fabrication from beginning to end. He wants me to believe that he knows nothing about the second idol beyond what he was told at the time, that he hit his wife over the head with a tack hammer he had been using to repair a bit of the scenery, and that he quite forgot he'd done it until about two days ago. Does any of that make sense?'
'The first and last statements,' said Mrs Bradley, 'but not the middle one. He may not have known about the idol unless he was the idol, and, as he would have been under great emotional stress, he may have suffered since from temporary amnesia. It is the tack hammer which makes nonsense. According to the School doctor, and according to my own examination of the injury, Mrs Poundbury was struck by something with a much broader end than a tack hammer; something more like an Indian club or a fairly heavy bottle.'
'We haven't found anything yet,' said Gavin. 'I suppose whoever used the weapon managed to get rid of it at once. I hope we find it soon, though, for the sake of the fingerprints, if any. I had better see this boy Cooke.'
Cooke declared that Mr Poundbury had not left him in the middle of making him up. Moreover, on breaking-up morning, Mr Loveday came excitedly to the Headmaster, bearing an Indian club.
'Discovered in my furnace-hole,' he announced proudly. 'As the last object found there was the idol's head, I presume that this must be the weapon which struck down Mrs Poundbury.'
Gavin, ruefully surveying the exhibit, swore quietly to himself. Then, suddenly, his sombre gaze brightened. Mr Loveday had certainly imposed his fingerprints on any others which the club might bear, but there might still be a chance of showing that it was not only the weapon which had struck down Mrs Poundbury, but that with which Conway had been stunned.
*
Before this theory could be proved, Mrs Bradley went to visit Mrs Harries.
'Item,' said she, 'one toad. Item: one stolen cockerel.'
The blind witch, fastening brilliant eyes on her, nodded.
'He wanted paddock,' she mumbled.
'Who did?'
'Paddock lighted on your bed.'
'He did. Why?'
'Then he stole the cockerel. He said it would make bigger magic than mine. But I put the three curses on him, and paddock came home again. There he is, just behind you.'
Mrs Bradley turned round. There was a toad malignantly squatting in the middle of the bare stone floor. Mrs Bradley stooped and picked him up. He was real, she was glad to discover. He sat on her cold yellow hand, his throat pulsating and his heavy-lidded eyes as wise as Solomon's. Mrs Bradley touched the top of his head. Then she carried him into the garden and placed him very gently on a flower-bed.
When she returned to the kitchen a black cockerel was dangling head downwards from the door-handle. It had not been there when she went out, and she had not heard the old woman move.
She stroked the cockerel's feathers. They seemed soaking wet. She took away her hand. It was dry. Old Mother Harries chuckled grimly. Mrs Bradley took down the bird and laid it upon the kitchen table. She examined it very carefully. The cockerel had a bruised head and had been strangled. She looked up.
'How did you know?' she demanded. Mother Harries walked to the table, picked up the bird without fumbling, carried it over to the door and hung it up again.
'These things are told me,' she said. 'I know not how they come. He is dead
. He had the potion of me. The other one had the wax and the sheep's heart and the black-headed pins. What are men to me? I am too old for love. Yet love is blind. Leave me. You know who he is. He will not escape you. There is love and there is love and there is love. His is love in the middle degree.'
'Yes, I know,' Mrs Bradley answered. She decided to try an experiment of her own. She took down the cockerel once more and laid it in the middle of the floor where the toad had been. 'Oh, look!' she suddenly cried. To her relief, the witch started back with a shriek of fear.
'By Lilith, daughter of Samael, be gone from me! Be gone! Go, screech owl! Go, contour in the form of an ass! Go, Lamia! Go, Queen of Devils! Go, go!'
Mrs Bradley grinned evilly.
'Evil word has banished evil sight. The cock has his head again, the paddock is to the garden gone, the dead man lies down speechless,' she pronounced with becoming solemnity. The old woman sank trembling into a chair.
'Who are you?' she demanded. 'Who is it that can make me see what none should see? Who told you that I told him what to do?'
19. Nymph Errant
*
Away, Hussy. Hang your Husband, and be dutiful.
IBID. (Act 1, Scene 10)
THE meeting of the governors produced no immediate repercussions. Mrs Bradley and Detective-Inspector Gavin were both present, and the former was the chief speaker and kept the governing body in their places by what Mr Wyck referred to later as 'the iron hand of the expert witness'. Mr Poundbury's unfortunate and ill-timed confession was not mentioned by anybody, and neither was Mr Loveday's discovery of the Indian club, for this object was suspect. Gavin, in fact, stated flatly to the Headmaster that he considered Mr Loveday over-zealous.
'I don't say he manufactures evidence to give himself a kick out of this case, but he certainly does make a pest of himself,' he said. Mr Wyck was too loyal a Headmaster to concur verbally in this opinion of a member of his Staff, but his sympathies were with Gavin. 'Oh, well,' the latter concluded, 'now for Mrs Poundbury.'
As soon as the meeting of the governors was over and they had been fed and cossetted by Mrs Wyck, and had been seen off by Mr Wyck, Mrs Bradley had gone to see Mrs Pound-bury. She got rid of the nurse, looked at the patient's temperature chart, and then got down to business, for it had been agreed that she should question Mrs Poundbury first, and Gavin's more formal interview should come afterwards.
Mrs Poundbury's story was that she did not know who had struck her down, and that she had not seen the second idol. Mrs Bradley appeared to accept these statements, and returned to the subject of the note.
'Oh, that wretched note! I'm sick to death of it!' said the invalid. 'Why must you drag it up again?' Mrs Bradley did not trouble to answer this question.
'You say you had it in your possession up to the time you were attacked?' she said. Mrs Poundbury was emphatically certain that she had. 'Think carefully, then,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Who else, except for myself and little Ingpen, could have known that it had been found, and that you had it?'
'No one but Gilbert. I told him about it and showed it to him.'
'What did he say?'
'He was rather angry. He said that I ought not to have taken any notice of it when I received it, or else that I ought to have shown it to him then. He said that I could think myself lucky that I had not been charged with Gerald's death.'
'He knew that you had kept the assignation?'
'Yes, he did know that – well, I think he knew.'
'From whom did the note purport to come?'
'From Gerald, but it was typed and not signed. I knew it was from him, though, because he had put our secret mark on it.'
'Yes?'
'It was a tiny design which you can make on the typewriter by using an open bracket, two colons and a closed bracket, like this (::). It means I hold you in my heart. I used to put it in my letters to him, too. All this, of course, was before we broke it off, but when I saw this sign on the note, 1 knew where it came from.'
'I see,' said Mrs Bradley. 'And you kept the appointment when and where?' Something in her tone caused the patient to say quickly:
'Don't you believe what I'm saying?'
'Finish saying it, and I will answer that question,' Mrs Bradley replied.
'Oh, well, you see –' She watched, fascinated, as Mrs Bradley drew out a small note-book and began to flick back the pages.
'Yes?' said Mrs Bradley, unscrewing the top of her pen.
'Well,' said Mrs Poundbury, 'you remember taking me to the cottage – Gilbert's – no, I mean, Gerald's cottage?'
'After we had picked the Brussels sprouts? – I do.'
'And you remember you tried to trick me by pulling up outside the wrong cottage?'
'Yes.'
'And the trick came off,' said Mrs Poundbury, without bitterness. 'Well, I met – I mean, I expected to meet Gerald there that night. Of course, he wasn't there.'
'No, he wasn't there. At what time did you arrive?'
'I – well, let me see! Oh, at about ten, I should think.'
'How did you get in?'
'I had a key. Each of us had a key – Gerald and I, I mean. We each had one. Oh, dear!'
'Where is your key now?'
'I threw it away as soon as I knew of Gerald's death.'
'Where?'
'I – I don't remember.'
'Mrs Poundbury, you've had a nasty knock on the head and I don't want to say anything which might distress you, but this I do say: tell me the truth. Believe me, you have nothing to lose, and your husband, whom I believe you love, may have everything to gain.'
'I am the best judge of that,' said Mrs Poundbury. 'But, if you want to find the key, you had better look in the river. Exactly where I threw it in I have not the faintest idea. I was terribly upset by Gerald's death, and I was terribly afraid that Gilbert might have done it, so my first thought was to –'
'Are you sure that the key is not in your husband's possession?'
Mrs Poundbury looked thoroughly alarmed by this question, and there was a pause whilst she thought it over.
'I – I am sure Gilbert hasn't a key,' she feebly replied.
'I am sure you are right,' Mrs Bradley cordially agreed. 'All right, Mrs Poundbury. By the way, you do realize, don't you, that far from shielding your husband by telling me that you kept the appointment, you are exposing him to very great danger?'
Mrs Poundbury lay back and closed her eyes.
'You ought not to come here and bully me,' she said feebly.
'My dear girl!' said Mrs Bradley sadly. 'I know perfectly well who committed the murder. If you really love your husband, do not expose him to suspicion.'
Upon this sinister note they parted, and, Gavin also having failed to impress her with the danger of manufacturing information, she was given a few hours to get back to normal and improve upon her story before he resumed the interview.
'While I'm giving her the time to cook up some more lies, I think I'll have a go at Kay again,' he said. 'He's still at his cottage. He and his wife have nowhere to go for Christmas, I understand, so they're staying put, and are having an old aunt, or someone, to stay.'
*
Mr Kay was no more delighted to see the police than he had been the first time he encountered them. Grudgingly he invited Gavin in, and, even more grudgingly, offered him a chair.
'I'll sit at the table, if I may,' said Gavin, easily and pleasantly. 'I can write better there.'
'I'm not going to make a statement,' said Kay flatly, 'so you can begin by writing that.'
'There's no question of a statement,' said Gavin. 'I just want a little help from you, that's all.'
Mr Kay, with a very rude remark, implied that the police could go elsewhere for help.
'Look here,' said Gavin, 'I know how you feel, of course, but I've got my job to do and my job is to clear up this business of Mr Conway's death. If you won't answer any more questions, you won't, and you'll be within your rights, but I don't mind telling you that
you're still pretty high on the list of suspects. We know you hated Conway and we know why. We know you were out of your cottage that night, and we know where you were and approximately when, and we know all about old Mother Harries and her spells. So what about it?'
'So what about what?' said Kay offensively. 'I'll tell you what I told the other nosey parkers. You can get to hell out of here, and do your dirty job yourself. You'll get no help of any kind from me. If you think I killed that poisonous swine, well, go ahead and prove it. But you'll have your work cut out. As for the witch, I was doing folk-lore research, as you know.'
'Did your wife keep an assignation with Conway that night?' asked Gavin, without moving from where he sat. Kay half-rose, but then sat down again. To Gavin's surprise he pulled out, filled, and lighted a pipe before he answered the question. Then he said composedly:
'How the hell should I know? She doesn't go shouting that sort of thing all over the place. People don't. She keeps her own counsel, the same as I keep mine. And to save your breath and the strain on your intellect, I might as well anticipate your next question: I don't know where Brenda went or what she did, because she was away from home on holiday, and I'd gone out to see a man about a dog. Does that satisfy you?'
'Of course it doesn't,' said Gavin. 'Look here, Kay, be a sensible chap and come across with what you know. Give me the dope, and stop hedging. You know I'm not accusing you of having murdered Conway.'
'Aren't you?' said Mr Kay bitterly. 'You're the only person who isn't then, I should say. No, it isn't any good, Mr Nark. I'm not saying anything at all unless you charge me. And then I'm saying it all in front of my lawyer. I don't like ruddy little blasted policemen, especially when they're so obviously English and clean-limbed, and particularly especially when they talk with a bloody Oxford and Cam-bridge B.B.C. accent. See?'
'I see,' said Gavin, unperturbed. He took out his own pipe. 'Well, now, every drop of blood in my veins is good Scots on both sides for four generations. I was educated at Loretto and at Edinburgh University. My complexion isn't particularly ruddy, and, compared with you, you undersized, miserable runt, I'm not exactly little. So what?'
Tom Brown's Body Page 20