Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘I’ve hurt my leg, Superintendent,’ he said coldly. ‘My brain, such as it is, remains undamaged. Perhaps we could go on. Take Ralph Grey first. Motive?’

  ‘Jealousy,’ said the Super, like an obedient schoolboy.

  ‘Opportunity?’

  ‘Ownership of a weapon, probably the one used for the crime.’

  ‘Alibi?’

  ‘Shaky. He was called from the vicarage to look at this sick cow. At 9.30, or thereabouts, he says, he sent his man home for supper and a rest. When he returned an hour later, Grey was still there, but it would have taken him not ten minutes to drive himself to Corpse Path — say five to walk along, meet his wife and kill her, ten minutes back again. Oh, it could have been done in half an hour, and no-one the wiser. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t believe it happened that way. In the first place the animal was really in a bad way. She’s extremely valuable, and he’s putting everything he has into working up this herd. I’ve seen the vet and cowman, and they both say that Grey, who is a marvel with animals, did a fine job in pulling her round. I don’t believe, under the circumstances, he’d have left her between life and death.’

  ‘Men have left more than a sick cow to pay a debt of jealousy. Still, I suppose it’s a point. Go on.’

  ‘He was jealous of his wife, certainly, but we know of nothing which should have led him to believe he would have found her near Corpse Path Cottage that night.’

  ‘We know of nothing, as you say. But then, there’s still a hell of a lot we don’t know. It’s possible that he had a message. And anyhow, it’s a fact that his investigation the next day led him straight to Endicott.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ said the Super, ‘straight to the cottage. If Grey suspected his wife of visiting Endicott, and went that night in search of her, why by-pass the cottage? The body was a couple of hundred yards beyond the dip, you know.’

  ‘All that’s easily overcome. Grey might have gone to the cottage first — who’s to say he didn’t? Endicott was supposed to be out at the only time when Grey could have managed it. And again, he might have seen his wife as he approached.’

  ‘I doubt it. She wouldn’t have shown herself too clearly. If he had to wait for whoever she was meeting, the obvious thing would be for her to hide herself just inside the copse.’

  ‘In that weather?’

  ‘She went out in it. And probably she couldn’t have got any wetter. I never saw such a storm.’

  ‘Well, she might have been intending to hide, and been overtaken by her husband on the way.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think she came the other way, by the path through the copse.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Otherwise she must have taken the road through the village. We’ve made very close enquiries, and she wasn’t seen. I think she would have been noticed. People did notice her, you know.’

  ‘Oh, well, have it your own way.’ Sir Henry sounded and was unconvinced. ‘I gather that you don’t think Grey did it.’

  ‘At present, sir, I don’t. He had provocation, undoubtedly, but I don’t think he did.’

  ‘Well, for the moment, pass Grey. What about Brian Marlowe?’

  ‘Motive,’ said the Super, looking down at his hands, ‘a violent infatuation for the lady, who may have grown tired of him. She had been away for a month and might have made fresh contacts. We’re looking into that. Opportunity — of getting Grey’s revolver? None. His meetings with the lady didn’t take place in her home. But there’s this — if she brought the revolver with her for reasons of her own, he might have struggled with her for possession of it, as the marks on her wrist show, and accidentally shot her, afterwards losing his head. That sort of thing does happen. Time — he drove her home from the fête just after seven o’clock, her husband having then been called to the farm. They sat in the car outside the Manor until 7.30, when the maid saw him drive away. Mrs Grey came in, saying that she had a headache and intended to lie down. The maid, who was going to the dance, then went out, returning at 10.15. She went straight to her own room and to bed.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but get back to young Marlowe.’

  ‘I’m coming to that, sir. He reached his own home at 7.45, having garaged his car. This his mother corroborates. She looked at the clock when he came in. The thunder had upset her, too, and she went to bed at nine, took some aspirins, and slept through the worst of the storm. She woke at eleven, and feeling hungry, went to find something to eat. Brian was in and told her that he had been to the vicarage to give Miss Morris a lift home on account of the rain. She was playing the piano for the dancing. The affair finished early owing to the storm, at ten minutes past ten. Marlowe arrived during the last dance.’

  ‘Ah! Then between nine, when his mother went to bed, and say five to ten when he set off for the hall, we have only his word that he remained at home.’

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  ‘But you don’t think he did it, either. You’re remarkably full of objections, I must say.’

  ‘I only want the truth, sir. It won’t do us any good to be in a hurry and get things wrong.’

  ‘I know that as well as you do. But we haven’t all the time in the world.’

  ‘I realize that, sir,’ said the Super gently.

  Sir Henry smiled suddenly. He looked at his officer rather apologetically.

  ‘Afraid my temper is none too sweet. You must put up with me — I know you’re doing your best. But why this affection for young Marlowe?’

  ‘No affection, sir. It’s just that if Mrs Grey went to meet him, I don’t think she’d need a revolver.’ There was a faint note of contempt in the slow voice. ‘He is not that sort. Weak type, too good looking. Needs a decent girl to take him in hand and make a man of him.’

  ‘You’re quite a psychologist, Super.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’ He sounded shocked. ‘Nothing like that. But I don’t think Marlowe is our man.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Henry resignedly. ‘Dump Marlowe in the ashcan with Grey. There remains this Endicott.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Super thoughtfully.

  ‘Motive, opportunity, lack of alibi. All there, aren’t they? Added to which, he’s the man on the spot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Endicott had good reason to hate Laura Grey. Their wedding in 1940 was a rushed affair, which she insisted on keeping secret. During the time of his captivity, I imagine he thought of little else than coming back to her. And he came home to find that she had left him flat.’

  ‘And he says he had no idea she was here. D’you think that holds water?’

  ‘I think he was speaking the truth. You get to know . . . but of course, finding her here and calmly masquerading as the wife of another man would be enough to make him feel murderous. He could have arranged a meeting under the threat of exposing her, and she might well feel desperate enough to bring the revolver — a struggle, and that would be that.’

  ‘And it sounds pretty good justification for a warrant, if you ask me,’ said Sir Henry emphatically.

  ‘I know, sir.’ The Super gave him a deprecating glance like a child expecting to be convicted of an act of folly. ‘But there are flaws in it, all the same. If Endicott killed his wife, why do it practically on his own doorstep, knowing that suspicion would inevitably fall on him?’

  ‘If it was, as it seems, unpremeditated, he wouldn’t stop to think of that.’

  ‘At the time, no, but afterwards he would. He’s a queer kind of fellow, but no fool. He would be bound to realize his position. It would have been easy to have moved the body, say into the copse. Or he could have left God’s Blessing the following morning. It would take a pretty good nerve to stop calmly in the cottage that night, waiting for her to be found a few yards away.’

  ‘That’s no argument. He’s a hardboiled type, and murderers have done worse than that. Look at the feller who took a girl to his bungalow for the night with the body of the woman he’d killed in the next room. I still think h
e’s suspect number one, and so do the villagers, judging from the letters you’re receiving.’

  ‘Shoals of ’em,’ said the Super gloomily. ‘All shapes and sizes. But not one of ’em in green ink.’

  The Chief Constable frowned. He looked across at White with doubt and misgiving. A good man, solid, conscientious, hardworking, but once again he wondered if he could cope — especially now — with such a task as this. No use to be precipitate, of course, but someone had murdered the wretched woman. If White were to make his slow obstinate findings in favour of every suspect, where the devil would they be? If only he had called in Scotland Yard at the time — if only he had never set eyes on that accursed horse. He pulled his moustache irritably, recalling the Super’s last words.

  ‘Green ink? You’re making a devil of a fuss about those anonymous letters. Don’t you think your preoccupation with them is holding you up?’

  ‘Why, no, sir,’ said the Super gently, ‘I can’t say that I do.’

  He put a hand in his pocket and brought out a bulky wallet. From this he extracted a small envelope, neatly labelled and dated. He laid it, with the pleased air of a good retriever, on the bed before the other man.

  ‘What’s this? Something up your sleeve, eh?’ asked Sir Henry.

  ‘It’s a fragment of paper, evidently part of a torn-up letter,’ said the Super. ‘It was found in Laura Grey’s handbag.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ objected Sir Henry. ‘I read the list of articles found in the bag. Powder box, purse, handkerchief, rouge, lipstick — no mention of a scrap of paper there.’

  ‘No, sir. We sent the bag and its contents off for fingerprint tests, and this scrap of paper was found caught in the fastening of the gold powder compact. Take a look at it, sir.’

  The Chief Constable opened the envelope, and gingerly drew out a scrap of flimsy pink paper. The edges were jagged. On it, in block capitals with the top of the ‘M’ torn away was what had obviously spelt ‘MRS’ and a curve which might have been part of a ‘G.’ The letters showed brightly green.

  * * *

  The night following the inquest, strangely enough, Mark slept like a baby. He awoke feeling improved in mind and body, investigated the contents of his larder, and cooked a weary rasher and a couple of eggs. The condemned man made a hearty breakfast, he thought, with a somewhat twisted grin.

  He knew well enough that he was not by any means out of the wood, but the first bitterness was past. He did not feel love towards the good folk of God’s Blessing, but he admitted in all fairness that there was some ground for their suspicion shown so clearly towards himself. Ralph Grey’s instant reaction had doubtless gone the rounds. Poor devil: he, like Mark, had suffered at the hands of Laura, through no fault of his own. Had he followed her that night, crazy with jealousy, and fired the shot? That, of course, would be the obvious solution — the betrayed husband, as he believed himself, taking the law into his own hands — only it had not happened like that. Mark was coldly certain of that much. Ralph had not been acting when he turned on the man he thought to be the murderer of his wife.

  But someone had shot her, thought Mark, his mind following the same track as that of the Chief Constable. She had come there to meet someone, and someone had killed her. You couldn’t get away from that. Brian Marlowe, who had been enslaved by Laura, and who was, at times, capable of losing his temper? Mark fingered his nose reminiscently and wondered. Yet the police, who, presumably, knew what they were doing, seemed to have dismissed Marlowe from their calculations. Marlowe had looked ghastly that day at the inquest, but it might not necessarily be due to guilt; and perhaps the police were actually watching him all the time, patiently waiting for proof. And if Brian, like Ralph and himself were innocent, then in God’s name, who? It was the old weary question, to which he could find no answer.

  He got up to clear the table. Looking around his kitchen, it struck him as wearing a neglected air. He wondered if Mrs Shergold had returned. A strange woman: when she was with you it was quite easy to forget her presence, but for compensation you missed her when she did not appear.

  His train of thought moved to Mr Fairfax, who was also (presumably) progressing without the aid of his good working ’ooman. Dear Mr Fairfax, with his benevolent smile and his flow of conversation — until public opinion had turned against one. Rather clever the way he had shimmered into the crowd and disappeared from view. The rabbit had not done that.

  He smiled suddenly. Bless her funny little heart, it had taken nerve to come forward and range herself at his side, so obviously his champion. Who would have thought it that first morning in the bus, when she shrunk from his merest glance, obviously regarding him as a kind of unlovely Byron, mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Their acquaintanceship had moved along strange paths, with the ludicrous never far round the corner, until now. Amy emerging from the ditch, Amy weeping on a stranger’s shoulder, Amy slinking across the field to hide with him the evidence of her guilt — all food for mirth. But Amy, small and undaunted, resolutely offering herself as a buffer between himself and an unfriendly world — something to smile at perhaps, but there was nothing ludicrous. He wondered suddenly what she would think when she heard of his marriage and felt surprisingly uneasy. It was, he discovered, of some importance that Miss Faraday should continue to believe in him.

  He said aloud, ‘When I get the chance I’ll tell her myself,’ and was vaguely comforted.

  A scratching on the door and a sharp bark told of the arrival of James. Endicott let him in and fed him, noticing that the supply of dog biscuits was running low. That meant a visit to the post office cum general stores, which he did not anticipate with enthusiasm. All the same . . .

  ‘I’m damned if I’ll hide away from them,’ said Mark, and put on some water to shave.

  Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the hollow to observe a tall figure in a sports coat and flannels, negligently strolling along the lane. Mark grinned and went deliberately on his way. James bounded ahead and greeted the stranger like an old friend.

  ‘Morning,’ said Mark.

  ‘Morning,’ replied the stranger cautiously.

  ‘I’m obliged to go to the post office,’ said Mark kindly. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did want some cigarettes,’ said the other, looking up from the wagging James with a faint smile.

  ‘Come along, then. Never let it be said that I was uncooperative.’

  ‘It’s very good of you, I’m sure, sir,’ said the plain-clothed man imperturbably.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mark graciously. ‘I shall be glad of your company.’

  He glanced at the white house which they were passing at that moment, but there was no sign of its occupant. Have to see her, he thought, before someone gets in first.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked suddenly, turning to his silent companion.

  ‘Pulleyblank,’ replied the plain-clothed man.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Mark. ‘I only heard that name once before in my life.’

  The fair skinned face of Mr Pulleyblank flushed. ‘It’s fairly common around here,’ he remarked coldly.

  ‘The fellow I knew, a Peter Pulleyblank, was in Changi Gaol with me. We were in the hospital for a good spell together. Nice chap.’

  ‘Why,’ said Mr Pulleyblank, becoming entirely human, ‘that’s my brother. I’ve heard him speak of you.’

  ‘No, is that a fact? What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He’s in a garage at Southampton — they kept his job open. Pretty well, considering a spot of tummy trouble now and then. His wife had a baby last year.’

  ‘Good for him. I must look him up — that is,’ said Mark, ‘if I have the opportunity to look anyone up in the future.’

  Pulleyblank looked uncomfortable, as if the other had committed an error of taste.

  ‘The Super’s a good man,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Old Slow and Sure, we call him, but if he is slow, he generally gets there in the end.’

&
nbsp; ‘Brother,’ said Mark warmly, ‘I only hope you may be right.’

  Miss Margetson served them both with a haughty reserve masking her blazing curiosity, and eyes strained to observe every detail. Most unusually the shop was empty, so that their business was conducted with dispatch, but as they went out they saw Mrs Richards hurrying up the path. She caught sight of Endicott and gave a quite perceptible start.

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Mark, moving to one side that the lady might pass.

  To his surprise, Mrs Richards, her colour rather high, paused.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Endicott,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I trust you are better? My husband tells me you were far from well when he called.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Endicott gravely, ‘I am quite well now.’

  He smiled at her and walked on. Mrs Richards entered the post office, feeling shaken but rather uplifted. He looked quite nice, after all, when he smiled. Her judgement had been too hasty. Her husband, moved by the behaviour of his flock to unusual indignation, had spoken strongly the night before on the subject of charity, also on the British rule of a man being innocent until he was proved guilty. Mrs Richards felt that he would be pleased with her now.

  The two men strolled back to the field gate without further encounters, chatting amiably enough of this and that. In deference to his companion’s apparent feelings, Mark did not refer to the murder again. It was James who brought them back to the affairs of the day. He had been missing for some time when Endicott, about to return to his abode, looked round for him.

  ‘Where the devil’s that dog?’

  ‘Not so far away,’ said Pulleyblank, grinning. ‘Using up a trifle of superfluous energy.’

  The two men strolled across to a spot in the bank, not far from the gate, where the hind quarters of the dog and a quivering stump of tail were dimly visible through a flying cloud of dust.