The Saltmarsh Murders

by Gladys Mitchell

  She spoke gently, but her terrifying, black, witch’s eyes never left Burt’s angry face. I was horribly alarmed to see Burt’s furious expression. The odds were too frightfully unequal. Unostentatiously I bent and picked up the poker. It was a nicely balanced, fairly weighty weapon, and swung prettily between the fingers. I dangled it, getting the feel and the balance of it. Mrs. Bradley was grinning with a kind of fiendish blandness at Burt, whose neck was beginning to swell.

  “You wouldn’t commit a murder, Edwy, would you?” asked the terrible little old woman.

  “I—don’t—know!” said Burt, taking a stride towards her. “I might—if I were hard pressed!”

  “Tut! tut!” observed Mrs. Bradley. She pointed a yellow talon at him. “Naughty boy! Sit down!”

  Burt sat down. He even grinned, sheepishly, of course. I replaced the poker, as unostentatiously, I trust, as I had taken it up. He glared at me.

  “Damn your eyes, you poodle pup!” he said. I smiled, weakly, of course. Mrs. Bradley said:

  “Why were you so rough with the vicar, Edwy?”

  “He put up such a fight,” said Burt. “He knocked poor old Foster about. If Foster weren’t a black, he’d have had a face like a rainbow.”

  All sorts of things began to emerge from the back of my mind, and take shape, and slip into place. The vicar had mentioned two men with blackened faces. Why on earth hadn’t it dawned upon me that one of them might have been a real negro? Mrs. Bradley had started from that point, probably, and argued the whole matter from Foster Washington Yorke to Burt. The Bungalow was much the nearest dwelling house to the cove, of course, and smuggling was much the most obvious thing to connect with the appearance of the ship which Coutts had seen, although Sir William had scouted the notion when his butler had put it forward.

  “I suppose the whole thing connects up with Lowry, the landlord of the Mornington Arms,” I said to Mrs. Bradley, as the boisterous wind nearly blew us off our feet and into the village below. I believe Mrs. Bradley was going to dismiss this idea as absurd, when suddenly she prodded me in the ribs in an ecstasy of joy.

  “My dearest, dearest child!” she observed, cackling like a hen with an egg. “What a sweet idea! No, just fancy! I should never have thought of connecting Landlord Lowry with the smuggling!”

  I was not as surprised as she seemed to be. My experience of the sex, consisting, as it does, of a knowledge of the vagaries of such different ornaments of womankind as Mrs. Coutts, Mrs. Gatty, my mother, my sisters and Daphne, has led me to the inevitable conclusion that, outside certain well-defined and exceedingly narrow avenues of knowledge, women are singularly ill-informed. Mrs. Bradley might have deduced that Burt was a smuggler, but apparently the fact that wines and spirits were the smuggled articles had completely escaped her. I dare say she was not even aware that such imports are dutiable. I gave her a short, but I trust, informative discourse, upon the subject of import duties. We were almost running down the hill, and the wind was tearing and shouting behind us. My talk was a summary of the first of my winter lectures to the Boys’ Club, of course, a series of talks entitled, “Great Englishmen.” The first lecture was to be the life of Sir Robert Walpole. She seemed interested, I thought, and certainly thanked me warmly when we arrived at the Manor House. I was relieved when she had gone. Daphne and I talked about the Harvest Festival and other matters until supper time. After supper, to my surprise, I received a summons from Sir William to go at once to the Manor House, as Mrs. Bradley wished to see me. Had the message come from Mrs. Bradley herself, I am strongly disposed to believe that I should have ignored it, or, at any rate, sent an apology in lieu of going to see her. But a message from Sir William was a different matter. I begged the vicar not to sit up for me, took my hat and waterproof, for the night had set in wet once the great wind had dropped, and was soon on my way to the Manor House.

  I could not help thinking about the murder as I walked at a good brisk pace along the main road, away from the village. There are no cottages near the Manor, except for the dwelling of Constable Brown. It heartened me to remember that this ignorant but staunch keeper of the village peace was convinced of poor Bob Candy’s innocence. It struck me, as I came abreast of his cottage, that it would be a good plan to stop there for a moment on my way to the Manor House and find out how far the Wyemouth inspector had gone in his investigations of the crime. Brown, I decided, would probably know all that there was to know, as he went everywhere with the inspector and took copious, albeit laborious, notes of all that his superior said and did. The inspector, I suppose, was flattered by this proceeding, and suffered the constable gladly, fool though he considered him, I expect. He wasn’t, of course. Not at all a fool. Brown, I mean.

  I knocked at the door and it was opened by Mrs. Brown. She invited me in and showed me into the parlour, which was immediately inside the street door, of course. There I found Constable Henry Brown and his two lodgers. I had thought a good deal about those lodgers. After all, I argued, surely it was more sensible to suppose that a stranger had murdered Meg Tosstick rather than that one of our own villagers had done such a dastardly thing! I observed the young men narrowly, but could not conscientiously admit that either of them showed symptoms of abnormal depravity. Neither had they the nervous, hunted look that I associate with unconvicted murderers. Not that I had ever seen any, of course, at that time.

  Brown had no real news to give me. The inspector, he said, had now finished interviewing everybody in the village who could possibly be expected to know anything at all about the murder, and it had advanced the case against Bob Candy no further. That was the most optimistic thing he could find to say, and it was not particularly cheering. Brown ventured the opinion that the prosecution would have an easy job of it at the trial.

  “You see, Mr. Wells,” said the good fellow, “the police have got their case all mapped out, like. They don’t really want no more evidence to hang poor young Bob with. They’ve been getting their witnesses ready, that’s all. Who to call, and who not, as you might say, sir. The inspector don’t want to find anything now as’ll put him in a muddle, don’t you see.”

  “Do you mean, Brown,” I said, rather horrified, of course, “that the police don’t want to get at the truth?”

  “Oh, they want the truth all right, as you might say,” Brown replied, waving his pipe, “but, you see, sir, they think they’ve got it. No doubt at all but, to their way of thinking, poor Bob done it. No, what the inspector has been going round for is to find something to bolster up the truth a bit. If he can’t find anything, he can’t, and no great harm done. The lawyers must do the best they can with what they’ve got already, that’s all. But, on the other hand, he don’t want to hit a snag, sir, do he? I mean, that ’udn’t be human nature, saving your presence, Mr. Wells. As it stands, it’s a very nice case! You wouldn’t expect ’em to go out of their way to queer it.”

  I nodded gloomily. So did the two young men. The point was well put, of course.

  “I’ll be going, then,” I said. “Thanks, Brown.”

  “I’d heard tell that the little old party from London was a rare wonder at finding out things,” said Brown, escorting me to the door, “but I expect she doesn’t take much interest in us country folks, sir.”

  “Oh, I don’t know so much,” I said, wagging my head a bit. I didn’t think I ought to tell him that she had discovered that Burt was a smuggler, so, looking pretty mysterious, of course, I pushed on to the Manor House, and was soon telling the assembled company, which consisted of Sir William, Margaret, Bransome Burns and Mrs. Bradley, everything which Constable Brown had said. I concluded by saying that matters looked utterly hopeless for Candy.

  “Anyway, Brown seemed inclined to take your name in vain,” I said to Mrs. Bradley, “so I upheld your reputation as best I could.”

  “I don’t think you need have troubled yourself, Mr. Wells,” said Margaret, rather cuttingly. I perceived, of course, that I had dropped a bit of a brick, so I hastened to gat
her up the fragments.

  “Oh, no, no! Of course, rather not,” I said, in my heartiest mothers’-meeting voice. “Of course not. Certainly.”

  “I hope,” said Mrs. Bradley, “that you didn’t mention Burt?”

  “Not a syllable, on my word,” I replied eagerly, frightfully thankful, of course, that I had put that particular temptation behind me. “I didn’t think it would be wise. Fancy his smuggling liquor, though,” I added, with an amused but tolerant smile.

  “He doesn’t!” said Mrs. Bradley. Her usually mellifluous voice was so sharp, and her scowl so particularly ferocious that I merely said:

  “Oh, doesn’t he?” And left the rest to fate. Mrs. Bradley changed the subject so abruptly that my suspicion that she was side-tracking the truth became amplified. However, I judged it wiser to lie low for a bit.

  Sir William said:

  “What evidence do they offer against Candy, besides the motive?”

  “Opportunity,” said Mrs. Bradley, “He was at the inn when the murder was committed. There is an odd fifteen minutes of his time that he can’t account for satisfactorily.”

  “It’s simply horrible,” said Margaret. “He couldn’t have committed a murder! Why he used to be in my Lads’ Bible Class.”

  “He isn’t capable of it,” exclaimed Sir William. I was glad to hear them championing the man so warmly and I glanced from face to face to see whether they all agreed. I was surprised at the peculiar expression on Bransome Burns’ unprepossessing countenance. His lips were drawn back from his ugly teeth in a malicious smile.

  “Good heavens!” I thought. “He believes Sir William did it!”

  Almost as though I had spoken the words aloud, Mrs. Bradley observed:

  “Of course, there is this point to be considered. You do not believe that Candy was capable of murder. I believe he was.”

  “But——” thundered Sir William. At least, he would have thundered the sentence had he been permitted to conclude it, I think. But Mrs. Bradley interrupted him.

  “I am not convinced of Candy’s innocence. I believe that Candy was capable of murder, but I also know “—she looked at each of us in turn—” that there are others in this village who are potential murderers. Take Sir William, for example.”

  Sir William got a bit purple at that, of course, and was obviously working himself up into one of his terrible rages, when Mrs. Bradley checked him.

  “Don’t show off, dear host,” she said. “Mr. Bran-some Burns will bear me out.”

  Bransome Burns—I rejoice to think that Mrs. Gatty called him a shark—he was a blue-nosed shark if ever I saw one—I never have seen one of course—stuck his forefinger behind his collar stud and made polite, deprecating noises. All the same, there was a cold gleam in his nasty, fishy eye. He had not forgotten the day he kicked the dog. I could read the man’s mind like a book.

  “Then,” said Mrs. Bradley, turning suddenly on me and leering with a kind of fearful joy, “there is our young friend, Mr. Wells.”

  “I a murderer?” I ejaculated. It was laughable! I had picked up the poker at Burt’s bungalow, of course. And (I should admit it if pressed) I had picked it up with the idea of swiping Burt a meaty, fruity slosh over the head if he kicked up rough or turned in any way nasty. But the Bradley was biting the hand that would have defended her. I could hardly say so, of course.

  “Then there is Mr. Burt,” said Mrs. Bradley. I could agree to that. I myself had heard Burt confess to her that he would kill if he were forced by pressure of circumstances so to do.

  “Then there is Mrs. Coutts,” said Mrs. Bradley, “although I confess up to the present I have no proof except psychological proof (which is incontrovertible, but not acceptable yet to the lay nor the legal mind)—that Mrs. Coutts is a potential murderess. And then,” she added, grinning at us, “there is myself. I actually have a murder to my credit. I was tried for it and acquitted, but I did it, boys and girls, I did it.”

  She shook her head sadly, and then turned to me.

  “Do you really believe that Candy was incapable of murder?” she asked.

  “I have not heard you prove anything which persuades me that he murdered Meg Tosstick,” I said.

  “You will at least allow that he could have murdered her,” she said. “Why, child, he had the virus in his blood!”

  “Well, Lowry knew of that fact, and yet risked employing him as barman and as chucker-out,” I said.

  “Yes, so he did,” admitted Mrs. Bradley. I forbore to press the point, except to add:

  “The moral is obvious to me.”

  “Oh, yes, so it is to me,” said Mrs. Bradley hastily. Anxious apparently, to change the subject, she remarked:

  “About Burt’s smuggling, Sir William. You are here in your private capacity, and not as a Justice of the Peace? That is understood?”

  “Well, not exactly. Perhaps I’d better go,” Sir William said. Huffy, of course, at being called a murderer. Margaret followed him out, but Bransome Burns stayed with us.

  “What made you think of liquor?” enquired Mrs. Bradley of me. She seemed amused.

  “Obvious,” I said.

  “Yes,” she retorted swiftly. “Obvious that it couldn’t have been liquor. If it had been, do you not think that every soul in this village, man, woman and child, would have been aware of the fact, and would have got his pickings out of it? But nobody knew. Nobody was interested. And why? Because Burt smuggled books, not liquor. Banned books, dear child. Nasty, pornographic literature, dirt and offal, dear child, and did not even make a fortune out of them, so his conduct really was inexcusable!”

  She hooted with outrageous laughter. Bransome Burns said nervously,

  “How beastly. What’s happened to his wife, by the way? I used to talk to her down at the post office sometimes, but I haven’t seen her since the murder.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Bradley answered, before I had a chance to do so. “She is absent from the Bungalow.”

  “Oh, really?” said Burns. “Nice-looking girl. Pity she married that rotten fellow.”

  So we talked about the Burts until I took my leave.

  CHAPTER VIII

  BOB CANDY’S BANK HOLIDAY

  I was not as much surprised as I might have been. Burt was exactly the opposite of my conception of a distributor of indecent literature, it is true; on the other hand, his language was of that revolting type which revels in causing embarrassment to those that hear it. I frowned judicially and stared in dignified displeasure at the carpet. I did not really know what to say, of course. Luckily, Mrs. Bradley was at no loss for words. She continued, after giving me sufficient time to digest the tidings.

  “Of course, he won’t be able to carry on the good work.”

  “Certainly not,” I agreed. “I say! I bet Lowry was in on the game, whether it was books or beer! He’s a proper old miser, you know, and not one to let good money slip past him—well, bad money, I mean, of course!”

  I laughed at my own joke, but Mrs. Bradley did not seem frightfully amused. I take it, from my fairly close observation of the sex, that women have not a very keen sense of humour. I played my trump card, however, and caused the old lady to sit up a bit, I fancy.

  “You see,” I said, “he must have used Lowry’s secret passage sometimes to escape detection, and he could hardly do that without Lowry’s connivance, could he?”

  I don’t know why it is, but the mention of a secret passage always interests people. It interested Mrs. Bradley, and she asked me a lot of questions about it. I could not tell her much more than the fact that there was such a smugglers’ passage leading from Lowry’s cellars to the Cove, that it had been blocked up, but that I did not see why it shouldn’t have been unblocked by Lowry and Burt.

  “Why choose the Cove, if not for the secret passage?” I asked, triumphantly. Mrs. Bradley still looked interested.

  “A baby could have seen through that lonely bungalow business,” she said, at last. “If ever the situation of a
house shrieked that something illegal was going on, the situation of that one did so. Add to that an occupant, who, far from observing the most elementary precautions, goes out of his way to waylay and half-murder the local vicar, and plays a silly and cruel trick on a little jackal like Gatty, and places himself, as you say (I hadn’t, of course!) in the hands of a fox like Lowry, and something is bound to go wrong. If I hadn’t put two and two together, someone else would have done so, and then——”

  “Yes, all for the best. After all I do think that the public morals——” I began, but Mrs. Bradley cut me short.

  “I never did, and I never shall, believe that vile things affect the minds of any but the vile,” she said, firmly. “Besides, evil and filth are the most incomparably dull, boring, surfeiting things in the world. See the published works of George Bernard Shaw.” She hooted. “Corruption, as he indicates, is not only nauseating to the senses, but it palls upon the imagination. Evil is the devil’s worst advocate. Refer again to the above-mentioned sources. Why, child, you, as a priest, should know that it is the little insidious vices, treachery, malice, envy, jealousy and greed, covetous-ness, slandering, sentimentality and self-deception that enslave mankind, not filthy postcards and erotic literature, Mrs. Grundy, my dear.”

  She spoilt it all, of course, by howling like a hyena and poking me in the ribs until I was forced to remove myself out of reach of her terrible yellow talons.

  “‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ you mean?” I suggested, by way of finishing the conversation. But she only shrieked louder than ever. A most extraordinary woman. Sincere, in her way, of course.

  “Then I suppose that even murder——” I began, when the air was still again. I had not the slightest idea of how I was going to finish the sentence. My object was to change the subject of conversation. I never like people to know that they have worsted me in an argument. I feel that I owe it to the cloth to keep my end up and the Anglican flag flying.

  “Oh, murder!” said Mrs. Bradley, fastening on to the word with grim relish. She wagged her head at me. “Murder is a queer crime, young man. If it is a crime.”