Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘Hope springs eternal,’ said Mark. ‘He always fancies he’s going to dig out a rabbit. Good Lord!’

  Something unearthed by the violently digging James had fallen with a thud at his feet. He bent to investigate.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ said Pulleyblank sharply. Mark lifted his head. He was rather pale.

  In a curious voice he said, ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  Pulleyblank pulled out his handkerchief and bent forward.

  The shape of the revolver showed plainly through the encrusting earth as he carefully picked it up.

  CHAPTER XX

  ‘YES, MY LAD,’ SAID the Super. ‘You did very well. And it was very good of Mr Endicott to come in with you.’

  ‘Say a kind word for the dog while you’re at it,’ said Mark, glancing at the black figure sleeping as peacefully under the table as if a visit to Lake police headquarters was all in the day’s work. ‘He did the difficult part.’

  The tone was light, but his brain was working furiously. This discovery of the weapon — was it another pointer against himself, or not? Pulleyblank, justifiably pleased at his success, could vouch for it that Mark had shown no sign of excitement or distress when he found what the dog was about. Queer, out of the innumerable burrows which pocked the bank, that James should have chosen the one into which the murderer had pushed his weapon. Once again, too near Corpse Path Cottage for comfort. But then, the cottage, so rightly named, had been the focal point of all the trouble from the very beginning. Far from the madding crowd — a place of seclusion in which to write! Oh, a hell of a joke.

  ‘Yes,’ said White thoughtfully. His eyes were on the three objects ranged before him — the revolver, rusty, caked with earth, and looking surprisingly innocent — the handkerchief of the resourceful Pulleyblank, and another square of linen, the colour of the mud in which it had lain. It was at this that the Super was looking.

  ‘You say this was dug out by the dog with the revolver?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Pulleyblank. ‘Actually it flew out just before. I didn’t pay it any heed until I bent to pick up the revolver and thought it might belong.’

  ‘I fancy it belongs all right,’ said White. He added dreamily, ‘My men searched the field and the banks. I suppose I could hardly expect them to be like Alice in the book and go down a rabbit hole.’

  Pulleyblank smiled dutifully.

  ‘It was pretty well in, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘The dog was practically out of sight.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not blaming anyone. It’s a great relief to have the thing at last. We have sent for Mr Grey, and I don’t doubt he will identify the weapon. No chance of finger prints, naturally, even if that hadn’t been seen to in the first place. Too many books written nowadays.’

  He broke off as a constable opened the door to admit Ralph Grey.

  ‘Good morning, Superintendent,’ he said, coming straight to the desk. ‘You wanted me?’

  Glancing round for the first time, he saw Endicott. There was a momentary pause. From behind his desk, White watched the two men, noting every detail of bearing and expression. Then Ralph said, quite calmly, ‘I see I’m not the only victim.’

  Mark, who had involuntarily braced himself, relaxed.

  ‘Not victims, I hope, sir,’ said the Super smoothly. ‘Merely the matter of the discovery of a weapon.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ralph, showing as little emotion as if they were discussing a change in the weather. ‘Where was it found, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘It’s no secret, sir. Mr Endicott’s dog unearthed it when he was digging in a rabbit burrow near the cottage.’

  ‘Near the cottage,’ said Ralph thoughtfully.

  Mark stiffened again, but Ralph did not pursue the subject. He was looking at the revolver.

  ‘You want me to identify this?’

  ‘If you would, sir. It’s rather dirty, but perhaps you could tell if you have seen it before.’

  Ralph bent over the table, the light showing up the patches of white at his temples. The Super saw that his hands were trembling slightly.

  ‘It’s the same type as mine. As far as I can see it is mine,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Is there any mark of identification?’

  ‘No, but under the circumstances I think there can be very little doubt. And you’ll be able to tell . . .’

  For all his self-control, he could not finish the sentence.

  Quietly, the Super did so for him.

  ‘If it is the weapon from which the fatal shot was fired? Oh, yes, sir, we can do that. And I’m much obliged to you for your assistance. How is the cow?’

  Ralph looked faintly surprised. ‘Doing very well, thank you. I’m rather busy, so if that’s all . . . ?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘You’ll keep me in touch with any developments?’ said Ralph, glancing at Mark as he moved towards the door.

  ‘I’ll do that, sir. Good morning.’

  With a murmured farewell Ralph went out. The Super stood up briskly.

  That’s that. You can take this along, my lad, and ask them to get out a report on it right away. Get yourself some food and be back here at two. Now, Mr Endicott, will you have a bite with me? We could give you a lift back to the cottage afterwards if that suited you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mark thoughtfully. ‘You’re coming there?’

  ‘Yes, I want to take a look around, and pay a few visits.’

  ‘Social calls?’ asked Mark, grinning.

  ‘Not precisely, sir,’ said the Super, and smiled solemnly back.

  He took Mark to a queer little eating house tucked modestly away in a back street belonging to the older part of Lake. Here they were served with a surprisingly good meal, without frills but well-cooked and piping hot.

  ‘Make a good meal, Mr Endicott,’ said White benevolently, adding roast potatoes to the runner beans and roast beef on his companion’s plate. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you look as if you could do with it.’

  ‘I haven’t had much appetite lately,’ said Mark, picking up his knife and fork, ‘but this certainly smells good.’

  ‘Best meal you can get in Lake,’ said the Super, setting happily to work. ‘You might pay three times as much in one of those posh hotels on the front, but you wouldn’t do half as well. And as for those shiny restaurants — blow you up for five minutes and then you want another meal. No good to me.’

  He attacked his food with a vigour which, for some time, did away with speech. Little more was said until they had each finished a mountainous helping of apple tart, and a pot of tea had arrived.

  ‘Better than the coffee,’ said White, ‘I’m a real old woman for my cup of tea.’

  He helped himself to two spoonfuls of sugar and poured out the tea.

  ‘None for you? I wish I could give it up, but the flesh is weak, and I’ve all too much of it these days. I tell you another person with plenty of weight to carry, Mr Endicott — that mother of young Marlowe. Do you know her?’

  ‘I met her once,’ said Mark, rather surprised.

  ‘Queer woman,’ said the Super, stirring his tea. ‘Nothing seems to move her, yet she knows all that goes on. And I suppose she thinks the world of that boy of hers.’

  Mark sat up suddenly. A monstrous suspicion came into his mind. He looked at the Super, calmly drinking his tea with a wild surmise.

  ‘Why are you interested in her?’

  ‘Interested? I’m interested in anyone connected with this case. That’s my job, Mr Endicott.’

  ‘But Mrs Marlowe never went out.’

  ‘So I understand, sir,’ said the Super. He added without changing his tone, ‘No more anonymous letters?’

  Mark shook his head impatiently.

  ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ he said.

  For the first time he heard the Super laugh — a chuckle of genuine amusement.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ he said, ‘Maybe you don’t know what tree I’m barking up. Let’s change the
subject.’

  ‘Just as you like. I don’t want to pry.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the Super soothingly, and chuckled again. He pulled out a pipe almost as disreputable as Mark’s own and pushed his pouch across the table.

  ‘So you haven’t had a decent meal lately,’ he observed between puffs. ‘Is Mrs Shergold still away?’

  ‘I suppose so. At all events, she hasn’t condescended to come to me. But of course, that may be merely to show that she shares the general view.’

  ‘I should go and find out.’

  ‘What? Her opinion of me?’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Endicott, don’t you be so quick. I meant find out if she’s back. No reason for you to be left in the lurch like this. My wife always says a man on his own is the most helpless creature on the face of the earth.’

  Mark looked across the table curiously. The wide face, wreathed in smoke, was calm and placid; it seemed that the one thing on Mr White’s mind was the utmost enjoyment of his pipe. Old Slow and Sure — not as slow as he looks, thought Mark.

  He said, frowning, ‘To tell the truth, I’m not too keen on visiting our friend Fairfax. He took the utmost care not to speak to me after the inquest. Slimy old devil — after what I paid for the cottage you wouldn’t think he’d have the nerve.’

  ‘There are not so many people who can fly in the face of public opinion,’ pointed out the Super. ‘Very much like sheep the general run of folk, I always say. Follow the crowd — but I understand you had company home all the same, Mr Endicott.’

  A faint twinkle lit the sleepy brown eyes. For a moment he looked a roguish Cupid, grown stout and middle-aged.

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Mark slowly, ‘there’s precious little that you don’t understand. I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me if you have made any steps forward in your investigations? I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but this affair touches me rather closely. Too closely for comfort, in fact.’

  ‘Yes. Circumstances have placed you in a very ugly spot. And in answer to your question, I may say that today I have made a very definite step forward.’

  ‘Because of the gun?’

  ‘That and other things,’ said the Super.

  He knocked out his pipe and, heaving himself to one side, began investigating his pocket.

  ‘My party. We’d best be moving now,’ he said.

  At the station they picked up James, who had been fed and cared for in his master’s absence. Pulleyblank was dutifully waiting with a note which he handed to White, who read it without comment before they all piled into the waiting car and drove out of the town.

  Pulleyblank sat in front with the driver; Mark, James, and the Super were installed in state in the back.

  ‘I’ve had the report on the weapon,’ observed the Super at length.

  ‘Oh. Was it . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely. One shot had been fired, and that the fatal one.’

  He gazed contentedly out of the window, as if all his mind was on the fleeting landscape, adding, in precisely the same tone, ‘A week’s rain is wanted now. Not a crazy storm, like that affair last week, but steady stuff. Badly dried up everywhere.’

  Mark agreed.

  ‘Very poor potato crop, I’m afraid. Very poor.’

  Mark found himself unable to continue the theme. Yet again he was wondering what might be passing behind the other man’s baffling facade. For all his pleasant ways he gave nothing away. Lately a companion at lunch, he might even now be coldly convinced that he sat beside a murderer. And if so, he would go about his business of tightening the noose as calmly as he had just uttered his remark about the weather. Slow spoken, kindly, looking anything rather than a keen-witted policeman, but definitely not to be underrated. Rather to be feared.

  He said suddenly, speaking out of his thoughts, ‘I had every reason to hate Laura. I came to the village where she was living, she was killed close to my cottage, and now you have found the gun, also close to my cottage.’

  White turned his slow gaze on his companion. He looked mildly interested.

  ‘All very true, Mr Endicott. What about it?’

  ‘Only that, in spite of it all, I didn’t do it,’ said Mark.

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, sir. Nothing. It’s the guilty party I’m after. You ought to know that.’

  For some reason a wave of relief swept Mark. It was as if, for the days since the murder, he had been a child screwing up its eyes in the dark, afraid to open them for fear of what might be there to see. And there was nothing, after all. What had he to fear? Old Slow and Sure would get there in the end.

  ‘Just you leave it to me,’ said the Super indulgently. ‘You’ve been worrying too much, and not looking after yourself properly. Do as I said and get that Mrs What’s-her-name back.’ He turned to the window again. ‘That corn looks pretty well, doesn’t it?’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘You see, Miss Faraday,’ said the Super, ‘I’m very interested in these letters, and any help you could give me would be much appreciated.’

  He sat back in his chair, feeling that he had turned his sentence rather well. Unobtrusively he looked around him. A woman’s room, definitely, but not too finicky. This chair was comfortable, even for a man of his weight; the furniture was old but solid. Plenty of books, with historical and period fiction holding a place of honour — a whole row with the name of Annabel Lee on the back. And very nice too, thought White, who in his rare moments of relaxation had a weakness for tales of damsels in distress. A nice piano across the corner of the room. Of course, Miss Faraday taught music. A handsome woman in the large photograph over the fireplace; rather a dominating face, but a humorous curve to the mouth. Not much likeness to Miss Faraday there.

  That lady sat primly on the edge of her chair like a good child, her feet tucked under it, her hands folded in her lap. She was sick with apprehension, not for herself, but for what she might be about to hear. Mark she had not seen since their walk from the hall, and as the glow of excitement had faded, the usual pitiful uncertainty had taken its place. At the time the gesture had seemed not only a far, far better thing than she had ever done, but also the one thing for her to do; ever since she had drearily wondered if she had only succeeded in being foolish yet again. He had scarcely spoken all the way back; if, by her well-meant championship she had made him feel ridiculous, Amy wished that she were dead.

  ‘The road to hell,’ she said suddenly, as if coining a phrase, ‘is paved with good intentions.’

  The Super, taken by surprise, actually jumped. Miss Faraday blushed hotly and smiled a sickly smile.

  ‘I was thinking,’ she explained lamely.

  ‘It often clears the mind to speak one’s thought aloud,’ said the Super, recovering himself. ‘I hope your own good intentions haven’t got you into trouble?’

  ‘Not into trouble. Only it’s so hard to know if what one has done was really for the best.’

  She ceased to fear her visitor and sat back more comfortably in her chair. Pretty legs, thought the Super, his fatherly smile unchanged.

  ‘When a thing is done it’s done. The moving finger,’ said Mr White, rather surprisingly, ‘writes, and having writ moves on. Etcetera.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Amy earnestly, ‘but it doesn’t prevent you from wondering if you’ve made a fool of yourself.’

  ‘That’s something we all do from time to time. But if you’re thinking of what I’m thinking, Miss Faraday, I’m sure you’re worrying yourself without cause. I think when referring to your conduct, folly is the last word Mr Endicott would use.’

  Amy suddenly liked her companion very much.

  ‘You see, I know he didn’t do it,’ she said, as if the statement explained all things.

  ‘That’s very interesting. How do you know?’

  ‘He wouldn’t, that’s all. And if he did,’ added Amy triumphantly, ‘he would have more sense than to do it on his own doorstep.’

  ‘There is someth
ing in what you say. All the same, murder has been done, and it’s my job to find the murderer.’

  Amy shivered. Murder — murderer. Such ugly words; words that screamed at you from headlines, words to touch the lives of unknown people, never of yourself — or so one had thought until now, wrapped in a false security.

  She said in a low voice, ‘If I can help . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Faraday. I am, as you might say, a seeker after truth. And it isn’t the innocent who need fear the truth. I wanted to go back to that anonymous letter of yours.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Amy. She felt vaguely disappointed.

  ‘Yes. It seems a long way from the crime, I know, but things often link up,’ He took out his wallet and extracted the familiar sheet, printed in straggling green capitals. He read, in an expressionless voice, ‘Keep away from him you (we’ll pass that bit) if you know what’s good for you. Creeping round him like a . . . um, um . . . Mad for him, you crazy old maid, but he has other fish to fry. Can’t you keep off a man who belongs to someone else?’

  He folded the letter carefully and put it away.

  ‘Very pretty. What did you think when you received it?’

  ‘I thought Jimmy Fairfax had been talking.’ She met the Super’s gaze and continued reluctantly, ‘Mr Endicott had promised to store something for me. I went round one morning and found he was ill. I put him to bed, and Mr Fairfax arrived as I was coming downstairs.’

  She paused to think how utterly unconvincing a truthful story could sound.

  ‘I see,’ said White thoughtfully. ‘Mr Fairfax.’

  ‘I never thought he wrote the letter, though. Gossip and scandal-mongering is more his style.’

  ‘And gossip spreads in a village, which makes it all the more difficult to find the writer. Do you suspect anyone?’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘There’s one thing I can’t understand, Miss Faraday. You have a nice place here, and Mr Endicott that tiny cottage. Why ask him to store anything for you?’

  ‘It was books. I didn’t want them here.’

  ‘Why not, Miss Faraday?’

  Amy took a deep breath and told him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said White. ‘That’s all very clear. I think your secret is safe with me.’