The Noose

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘Don’t rightly see what you’re talking about. But if you …’

  But Dyson was looking at his watch upon his wrist. He said, cutting across the other’s speech:

  ‘Didn’t know it was so late. Must cut along. I’ll come back for that talk. Tomorrow say. Just a few words.’ His glance swept over Dollboys, taking him in from head to foot. He thrust his pipe into his mouth and went out by the way he had come. As he closed the back door behind him he smiled. A thoughtful smile. Mr Dollboys was negative indeed. And steady enough. But Mr Dollboys had very soon ceased his gun-play. And at the last Mr Dollboys’ forehead had been glistening with sweat.

  Dyson went slowly across the fields to his cycle.

  V

  Mrs Murch was wroth. It was after five o’clock when the slow thudding crunch of Mr Murch’s boots was heard upon the little gravel path leading to the cottage. And Mr Murch’s tea had been waiting since four-fifteen.

  Mr Murch entered the kitchen. In his policeman’s uniform Mr Murch was not without a certain impressiveness, when helmeted. He took off the helmet now. A bald and pinkly-flushed scalp gave him at once the look of a self-important infant who from somewhere had procured, and stuck on none too skilfully, a moustache of gingery crepe hair.

  Mr Murch aimed at the cheek of Mrs Murch a kiss. But it bounced on air, for Mrs Murch saw it coming. She said, with asperity:

  ‘Nice time to come in! And you with nothing ’cept the Malldene licenses to ’tend to!’

  For a second Mr Murch debated within himself the advisability of a tale of sudden and dramatic duties. But his invention—and he knew it—was not equal to this. He fell back on truth. He pulled up a chair to the table. He sat in it heavily. He loosened the collar of his tunic and said:

  ‘Sorry, Mother. Met a chap an’ got talkin’. Int’restin’ chap. Bin in P’lice. Stayin’ ’ereaways for a ’oliday. Fact ’e’s up at the ’Orsenound. Name o’ Spike or somep’n. Very int’restin’ chap. Lot o’ tales ’e ’ad …’

  Mrs Murch laid before her husband, with a force which swayed the solid table, a plate of toast. She said:

  ‘An’ you told ’im some back, I’ll lay. Fairy tales.’

  ‘If y’want to know,’ said Mr Murch with dignity, ‘on’y one of my ’speriences I told ’im of was the murder.’

  Mrs Murch banged down the teapot now. ‘An’ ’ow you enjoyed that talk!’ she said. ‘Since I forbid any more on the subjec’ in this ’ouse a couple o’ months since, this must be the first chance you’ve ’ad. An’ I’ll wager you made the most of it. And I’ll wager your p’lice friend didn’t hurry off neither!’ She poured tea into a great cup.

  Mr Murch took a draught from that cup. He sighed and wiped his moustache. He said:

  ‘If you want to know, ’e was int’rested, very much int’rested. ’E’s a intelligent ’uman bean. Of which’—here Mr Murch inhaled more tea—‘there are precious foo about.’

  Mrs Murch sniffed. But as ill-temper abated, some slight curiosity took its place. She sat down to face her husband. ‘Why should ’e be so full of int’rest. Don’t they ’ave any crimes round ’is way?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Mr Murch plainly resented this slur upon his acquaintance’s usual environment. ‘More,’ he said with much emphasis, ‘than the general publick knows of. Lot more … An’ bafflin’ crimes at that … But what ’e was int’rested in was the p’lice aspeck o’ Blackatter’s murder. ’Ow we ’andled such things down in the country. An’ such like.’ Mr Murch chuckled; a gratified sound. ‘An’ I told ’im …’E was int’rested. As neat an’ quick a job, ’e says, as the London p’lice could of done … Ay, ’e said that.’ Mr Murch leaned back in his chair and looked out through the window with a far-away look.

  ‘Which,’ said Mrs Murch, now again her pleasant self, ‘is only what they said down here. The very words the Chief Constable used.’

  Mr Murch nodded. ‘That’s right; so ’e did. But ’e’s not a p’liceman, as you might say, Colonel Ravenscourt isn’t. Pleasant to ’ear the same words from a man in the game …’ He drank more tea, with an enjoyment by no means silent.

  ‘Ar!’ said Mrs Murch in agreement.

  VI

  Anthony stood in the inn’s porch and watched the thick and shambling figure of Tom loll, slouching, off into the evening darkness; a full Tom and a happy Tom, the richer by one shining penknife and an equally shining coin.

  Anthony turned on his heel to re-enter the inn. But he did not. For there came to his ears the sound of his own car. He waited. With a white, hard glare of headlights it swung, throbbing, into the yard, White at the wheel. It slowed; stopped. Lucia came from it. Anthony went down the steps to meet her. She said, clutching at his arm:

  ‘I’m cold, cold, cold!… Did you bring tails or only a dinner-jacket?’

  Anthony put an arm about her. ‘Come and get warm. I brought both. Why?’ He led her in silence into the house and upstairs to their room where a fire of coal and logs shot blue and orange flames halfway up the chimney.

  She stood before this blaze and let him slip the fur coat from her. She said:

  ‘Why d’you want tails? Because we’re going to a party. Yes, we are! Tonight!’ She turned to face him. Her hands came up and gripped each a lapel of his coat. Her eyes were shining. Her breath came quick. Her lips trembled a little with excitement. ‘Oh, Anthony!’ she said. ‘It seems … it does seem … there is something helping us. There is! Listen: When you sent me to the Marstons’, I thought—I really did, darling—I thought you were just being kind and finding something for me to do; something I couldn’t make a muddle of because it wasn’t really anything to do … No, it’s no good starting to say you wouldn’t do such a thing, because you’re perfectly capable of it and it’s quite likely!… But whether you intended it that way … all right, you didn’t then!… Whether you intended it that way or not, I think it’s been useful. Darling, everybody was there, this afternoon of all afternoons. You remember what you said to us after lunch, about being certain that we should only find anything by looking among “the gentry”? …’

  Anthony groaned. ‘Woman, woman! I said nothing of the sort. “Certain” is a word I’m careful with. I treat it tenderly. I said, in almost these words: It won’t pay us to ignore the local heads. The nobs. The only possible link between our X and Bronson and Blackatter is blackmail. And you don’t blackmail someone who’s got nothing. We should ignore the lowly in riches and go for the middle and highs.’

  ‘You said,’ said Lucia with a fine and illogical indignation, ‘“particularly the highs”.’

  Anthony grinned at her. ‘Very probably. Because highs are worth more than middles. And because they’re more improbable. And if there’s any answer to this riddle, it’s an improbability. Go on, now.’

  She made a small grimace at him. She said:

  ‘Betty Marston was charming to me. Nice of her, I thought. We’ve only met about half-a-dozen times. It was her At Home day. I babbled. I didn’t know I could be so terribly unlike me so easily. I was the talkative wife. I took you at your word, darling. You said: tell the world what we’re at. And I did. I really did. They’d all ’ve thought I was mad, if it hadn’t been for your name. They all knew about you. Betty began to tell them, but they all knew. I looked down my nose and literally simpered. When I’d told them what you were in this part of the world for, there was a noise like the parrot-house. I’ve always wondered what “a sudden hum of conversation” meant. I know now, only “hum’s” not a loud enough word … But it was wonderful luck! You wanted the news spread. And instead of it taking a day and a night and perhaps more, here it is simply bubbling over the whole county. And you wanted—didn’t you?—to see the local high-lights. And here am I, with an invitation to both of us which’ll let you see them—all of them—all at once and tonight. I …’ She ceased abruptly. A soft rapping had come upon the door.

  ‘Come in!’ said Anthony.

  The door opened. Bronson’s wife stood in the door
way, just beyond the bright circle of light cast from the globe in the ceiling. She stood tall and straight and still. In that stillness was a tension which had about it something terrible. It was untold by outward sign, yet to the watchers it was the more apparent for its invisibility. It held them motionless too—for a moment which seemed minutes.

  Lucia went towards her at last. With a smooth rush, like something released, suddenly, from powerful bonds which spring.

  At this approach, Selma Bronson moved. A sudden movement; a movement which was like the reaction of an automaton to the pressing of a switch. She thrust out an arm. At its end the hand stood up almost at right angles, palm forward, fingers rigid. She said:

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Her voice was low, and hard. It was as if each word were cased in metal. And then: ‘I am sorry!’ she said, ‘I did not think. I was afraid that you might touch me. You would not, I know. But I was afraid.’

  Lucia looked at her dumbly. Anthony, with a savage little flick, hurled his cigarette into the fire. He came forward. He said:

  ‘Did you want us, Mrs Bronson?’ The words were meaningless, but in his voice was an inflection which brought the dark eyes of Lucia round to him in a sudden gratitude.

  Selma Bronson bowed her head. In the half-light in which she stood, the smooth, ash-blonde hair glinted as if it were silver. She said:

  ‘I wished to ask, is there … anything? Yet?… It is foolish of me, I have tried not to come; to worry. But I have come … Is there … anything?’ She finished. Her hands, dangling by her sides, clenched suddenly into white fists. That was her only movement. Her eyes were upon Anthony.

  He met their gaze with his own. The green eyes looked into the blue. He said, slowly and with a deliberation:

  ‘Yes. There is more than I had any hope for.’

  A small sound came from the white throat. The tall figure swayed. A slight movement. Instantly it was still again and erect. Its impassive rigidity told of a strength of will and body almost more than human. Lucia sobbed, once.

  Anthony spoke again. He said:

  ‘You can help. You must tell me a thing. On that night, was there bright moonlight?’

  There was a pause. Her throat moved. She said at last:

  ‘There were clouds. Black clouds. And a high wind. There was moonlight, but not all the night. Early it was a black night.’

  ‘Until—?’ said Anthony.

  ‘Until,’ she said, ‘at least the half an hour after ten.’

  Anthony bowed. He smiled a grave, small smile. He said:

  ‘And that has helped me too. It was what I wanted to hear. Unless you wish it, I won’t explain now. There are other things I shall want to ask you. In the meantime … we do what we can. Everything we can.’

  ‘I know,’ said the woman. ‘I cannot thank you. But I do thank you.’ She turned. There was a little, eddying draught. And then a soft click as the door closed.

  Lucia sat, heavily, upon the bed’s edge. She covered her face. Anthony put a hand upon her shoulder. She showed him a face drained of colour. She said:

  ‘My God! Before she came in, I was laughing. Laughing! My God, I laughed before she came in. I laughed. I was laughing!’ Her voice broke on a sob. The sob became another sob and that sob laughter not good to hear; a choked, rising crescendo.

  Anthony took her by the shoulders. He shook and went on shaking. He said, in a voice which grated:

  ‘Stop that at once!’

  The sound ceased. The shaking ceased. His wife leaned her head against his body.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ Anthony said. ‘I’m a brute. But well-intentioned with it … Where, my delight, is this party you’re so proud of?’

  Lucia dabbed at her eyes. ‘General Brownlough’s. He’s rather a dear … I think.’ She looked up suddenly at Anthony. ‘It is useful, this chance of meeting them all at once, isn’t it?’

  Anthony nodded with decision. ‘’Course. You’re right, luck’s with us … so far.’ To a new knocking upon the door he said: ‘Come in!’

  It was the pretty and diminutive Annie, who said that below were three gentlemen who asked for Mr Gethryn. Mr Pike and the other two gentlemen who …

  ‘I’ll come down,’ said Anthony, cutting her short.

  But she lingered. She seemed to be about to shut the door upon herself but did not. Her charming gaze sought Anthony’s. Her negligible weight was shifted from one foot to the other. Her small face was a dull and angry red. But her eyes were bright and a little furtive. Anthony said, slowly:

  ‘I—will—come—down.’

  She went then. Anthony looked at Lucia, Lucia at Anthony.

  ‘Merely your beaux-yeux?’ said Lucia.

  Anthony shook his head. ‘I fancy not. Something worries the chit. What is it? What’s the tangled web she weaves. Or isn’t there one. D’you know, I could bear to know all about this.’ He pointed a finger at his wife. ‘Your job, Corporal.’

  VII

  They went downstairs then, to find in the Smoking Room Pike and Flood and Dyson.

  ‘Pike,’ said Anthony when they were settled, ‘open the ball.’

  Pike did not lose time. ‘I spent most of the afternoon, sir, with the local PC—Murch. He’s the ordinary blockhead; not so stupid as some nor so clever as others. I got a deal of information. What use it may be, I can’t tell. But I’m ready with it, sir.’ He tapped thoughtfully upon the notebook in his pocket. ‘It’ll likely come in when we least expect it. After Murch and I went on a general sort of gossiping tour, as you might say. On the lines you suggested, sir. I got the tone of the district, I think. And it’s just what you might expect—and no more. All very surprised they were—at the time. Didn’t seem possible that Bronson could be a murderer. But there it was; no denying the facts and all that …’ Here Pike hesitated, to add at last: ‘Can’t help feeling, sir, if I may say so, that I must’ve caused more talk than I got, if you follow me. I was tactful all right. But that’s no matter. If they haven’t got on to it already that there’s some sort of something doing in the Bronson case, they very soon will …’

  Anthony interrupted. ‘And that, Pike, I don’t mind about. Not one little bit. In fact I’m glad. I’ve said before, we’re working this business upside-down, so we may as well be thoroughly inverted. Instead of keeping quiet, we’ll be noisy—(a) because owing to the time-limit we couldn’t be quiet even if we wanted to, and (b) because it’ll pay us. If we beat round the pool hard enough and loud enough we may scare something up. Someone may show his hand through fear. Whereas if he didn’t know there was any bobbery going on, he wouldn’t. And our object is, primarily, to save Bronson from the nine o’clock walk. Our ends won’t be met if we let them hang him and then catch the real It … No’—he looked round at his listeners—‘make a noise by all means, even when there’s nothing real to make a noise about. Only keep the noises sinister … Anything more, Pike?’

  Pike shook his head. His long face was set and sad. He said:

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ Again he tapped the notebook in his pocket. ‘Not until my notes re Murch’s talk come in useful.’

  ‘You found,’ asked Anthony, ‘no feeling, nor any suggestion of any feeling, that anyone you saw thought there was even a possibility of Bronson’s innocence?’

  Pike shook his head. ‘None, sir. None whatever. I think the general run of ideas is that Blackatter’—he dropped his voice suddenly and looked over his shoulder at the closed door—‘is that Blackatter was mixed up with Mrs Bronson.’

  ‘Which,’ said Anthony, ‘is the natural and easy thing. It explains everything for them. It’s the line of least resistance for their atrophied minds.’

  ‘That,’ said Lucia, ‘also seems the impression in the upper circle … Fools!’

  Pike shook his head again, slowly and hopelessly. He said:

  ‘If you ask me, the job’s impossible. Can’t be done. Not in the time. Even if there is a job …’

 
; ‘Mr Pike!’ said Lucia.

  Pike jerked himself upright in his chair. His face flushed. ‘I’m sorry!’ he said.

  Lucia smiled at him. He flushed yet more darkly and became busy with pipe and pouch. The silence was broken by Flood. Flood said, in a brisk and matter-of-fact voice:

  ‘Half the trouble—if not all of it—is that defence of Bronson’s. He or his counsel or both ought to be spanked. Look at their case. Just look at it—or the mess they made of it! All “no’s” or “don’t-knows” is what it came to. “Did you go to meet Blackatter that night?” “No.” “Why did Blackatter seem to refer, in your bar that night, to a possible meeting that night?” “Don’t know.” “Did you hear what he said?” “No, he said something, but I didn’t catch it.” “Did you see Blackatter in Bellows Wood?” “No.” “How did you come to be lying, stunned, where you were found?” “Don’t know. Something hit me.” “You didn’t fall, then, and strike your head against the tree-stump?” “No. Something hit me.” “Were you aware that traces of blood and hair from the wound in your head were found in that tree-stump?” “No.” “If you didn’t go to Bellows Wood to meet Blackatter, what were you doing there?” “Nothing. Walking home.” “Had you been shooting?” “No. I’d taken my gun to Blackfan coverts but I hadn’t used it.” “Were you trespassing, or poaching, in Blackfan?” “No. I have permission to shoot there.” “Do you generally do your shooting at night?” “No. Hardly ever. But I always carry the gun.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” “You had not fired the gun that night or during the day?” “No.” “How then, was it found with a recent discharge from both barrels?” “Don’t know.” “Were you acquainted with Blackatter before he came to live in this district?” “No.” “Had you any dealings or meetings with him other than those to do with your inn?” “No.”’