“I’ll stick it out for a bit, in case the rain stops,” she thought, and was encouraged, as she stood in the doorway with her back to the corpse, to see an edging of primrose over the nearest hills. Gradually the rain lessened, so, although the sky still looked somewhat threatening, Sally decided to try her luck in locating the hunting-lodge and sharing her uncomfortable knowledge with others of her party.
She had less than a quarter of a mile to go, but the going was rough, steeply downhill, and soakingly wet under foot. However, there was the hunting-lodge, uncompromisingly grim, and in it were the Bensons. They were understandably surprised to see Sally and also understandably unwilling to accompany her to the cottage.
“Look,” said Godiva, always the leading spirit of the two, “if the poor thing is dead, there is nothing we can do for her, is there? Well, we’re going back to the caravan—both of us, I may say…”
“Leaving nobody here on watch?” asked Sally.
“My dear soul,” said Godiva, irritated, “what monster, if there is one, which I very much doubt, is going to surface after a thunderstorm? There won’t be anything to see, you may be sure of that. Also, let Major Tamworth rage as he will, neither Winfrith nor myself has the smallest intention of rowing across to this place again, ever. You had better come over with us and report what you have found. The sooner the Calshotts know about it, the better.”
“I can’t do that,” said Sally. “I’ve left my van up the road. But, look, I do wish you’d walk up to the cottage with me and confirm that Angela is lying there.”
“Nonsense,” said Godiva. “That will be quite unnecessary. You would hardly have made up such a story. The only thing to confirm is why she did it.”
Sally saw the force of this and gave in. She squelched her way back to her van, reversed up the difficult path, turned at the top of it, and drove back to the village and from there to Sir Humphrey’s caravan.
(2)
By the time Sally had told her story to the Calshotts the rain had stopped, the storm had passed over, and the loch was shrouded in mist.
To her astonishment, although the Calshotts expressed horror, it was nothing more than a decent offering of lip-service to her news; neither did any of them appear to be surprised.
“Angela was always a misfit,” said Phyllis.
“Of course, the letter you mention tipped the poor girl over the edge, I suppose,” said Sir Humphrey.
“I suppose we have to tell the local police,” said Lady Calshott. “What a nuisance! I believe their procedures are entirely different from our own.”
“I had better go and identify the body, I suppose, before I call them. You will have to accompany me, Sally. I have no idea of how to reach the cottage from the road and in this mist I don’t relish the idea of taking the boat across the loch to get to it,” said Sir Humphrey.
“I wonder whether Godiva and Winfrith managed to get across in the boat?” said Sally. “How will you contact the police? Is there a bobby in Tannasgan?”
“Oh, I shall ring up Glasgow. I don’t believe there is a local fellow. I know the Glasgow people. Besides, it’s always best to start at the top of the tree. One cuts out all the dead wood that way,” replied Sir Humphrey. Sally tried to visualise this procedure and, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, found herself giggling.
“There is nothing funny, I should have thought, about poor Angela’s death,” said Lady Calshott frigidly.
“I’m sorry.” Sally restored herself to gravity. “It was only the way Sir Humphrey put it.”
“Well,” said he, “we had better make a start for this cottage of yours. The sooner the business is in official hands the better. I think we’ll take my car, Sally. It is probably faster than your van.”
“I think,” said Sally boldly, “that you ought to get in touch with the police at once. Then we can guide them to the cottage as soon as they arrive.”
“Something in that, perhaps. Very well. I’ll go to the post-office straight away and telephone MacIver from there. I have his home address and must just hope he’ll be there to take the call. I’ll arrange to meet his people at the pub. You’d better come with me, Sally. You’ll still be needed as a guide, I expect. I’ll buy you a drink while we’re waiting for the police to come.”
It was just over two hours after Sir Humphrey had made his telephone call before the police arrived. He and Sally had been served with drinks in the small lounge which was ordinarily kept for residents at the inn and had been asked whether they would have dinner. Sally was hungry, for her snack lunch, although satisfying at the time, now seemed to belong to a remote past. Sir Humphrey, however, did not wish the police to arrive in the middle of a meal and so declined an offer which Sally would have liked to accept, and they sat on until at last an inspector, the police doctor, a photographer, and a fingerprint officer arrived and were conducted to the ruined cottage where Angela Barton’s body was lying on the earthen floor. Although the rain had ceased, the sky was still sullen with cloud-rack. The burn which flowed under the little stone bridge seemed twice its previous width and, alongside the rough hill-road which led eventually to the last turning to the cottage, it was in lusty, noisy spate, gurgling and splashing a tumultuous, gleeful way towards the sea.
Arrived at the cottage, they all went inside. It was rather dark, for the one window in the place was tiny. Sally, having delivered the goods, so to speak, walked over soaking wet ground to the hunting-lodge. There was no sign of Godiva or Winfrith, so apparently they had carried out their plan of taking the boat across the loch and had managed this before the mist thickened. She went back to Sir Humphrey’s car, from which she had guided the police car on its way to the cottage, and sat in it, smoking cigarettes to assuage her hunger, until the party was ready to go home.
Before the police re-entered their car, however, the inspector came out of the cottage and asked permission to sit beside Sally. She gave it, realising that she was going to be questioned. The sergeant followed, took the back seat, and produced a notebook.
“You had been given the day to yourself?” said the gentle Scottish voice. “Why was that, then?”
“There were enough people to do the watching. I am here to act as liaison officer between the various parties.”
“And what made you bring your car up here to this out-of-the-way spot?”
“I felt sure there must be a road to the croft and the hunting-lodge. I asked at the inn and this was confirmed, so I took the trip, that’s all.”
“I see. When did you last see the deceased alive?”
“This morning. We walked to the post-office together to collect any letters, went back to the caravan, and then I drove her in my van as far along the south side of the loch as she wanted to go—as far, in fact, as the road permitted—and then I made my calls and reported back to Sir Humphrey’s caravan. After that I was free and I drove up here and—well—and…”
“Found the body. Aye, that was the way of it, then. Did the deceased give you anything of her thoughts as to how she proposed to spend her day?”
“She said at first that she would get some of the others to row her across the loch, I think, but I believe she changed her mind and thought she would hike as far as the head of the loch and trust to wading across the little river, which is very shallow, I believe and, until we had the storm this afternoon, not very swift or very wide.”
“Aha. Now, we found a letter beside the body.”
“Yes. I—I read it. I suppose I ought not to have touched it.”
“Och, it was only natural that you should. Well, I think that is all, Miss Lestrange. The puir woman had taken poison, of course, having first attempted to gash her throat and mebbee there was an attempt at drooning hersel’. The contents of the flask, such as remain—not all was spilt on the floor—and the dregs, if any, in the wee tin cup, will be analysed, of course, but I’m free to tell you that we shall advise the fiscal of a clear case of suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbe
d by that letter you read. Would you have any idea how old the puir body would have been?”
“I believe somebody—Sir Humphrey’s daughter I expect it was—told me that she was forty-five.”
“And unmarried?”
“Yes.”
“And she was expecting to be employed by this minister of the kirk as his housekeeper?”
“I believe she was already so employed, but was taking her holiday while the vicar had his.”
“What did the letter mean when it mentioned that the puir lady did not need to earn money?”
“Sir Humphrey might be able to tell you that. I take it to mean that she had a private income. In fact, I was told that she was rather well off.”
“Do you suppose she had the thought of marriage in her mind?”
“I have heard it suggested and, if the letter made her commit suicide, I suppose she must have considered it possible that the vicar would eventually marry her. It’s pretty obvious that the letter put paid to any such idea.”
(3)
“Of course poor old Angela was planning to marry the vicar,” said Phyllis, as the party sat down to dinner at nine o’clock that night. “I say, Sally, hasn’t it made you rather scared about sleeping alone in your van tonight?”
“Good heavens, no. Why should it?” asked Sally.
“Oh, I just wondered whether you’d care to have me join you?”
“I shall be perfectly all right, thanks.”
“Well, I only hope I don’t dream about poor old Angela. You don’t believe in ghosts, Sally, do you?”
“Only sort of.”
“Yes, that’s how I feel. If you won’t have me in your van—although I think you’re very dog-in-the-manger about it—you wouldn’t share my cabin with me, would you?”
“And sleep in Angela’s bed? If you don’t mind, I would very much rather not.”
“Oh, well!”
“Your father and I have decided that you will have his bed and he will take yours, darling,” said Lady Calshott. “Men are much less imaginative than women when it comes to supping off horrors, as the saying goes.”
Sally retired to her van at ten and locked herself in before she undressed. Instead of driving further towards the tent before she parked, she had taken the van only about fifty yards from the caravan. She needed to occupy her mind with practical matters, so before she went to sleep she had time to wonder what Sir Humphrey’s plans were. Once the procurator-fiscal was satisfied that Angela’s death was a straight-forward suicide, she supposed that, so far as the Calshotts were concerned, the expedition would be called off and the body taken back for burial. In that case, she decided that she herself would return to the comfort of her grandmother’s Stone House at Wandles Parva on the edge of the New Forest, for the discovery of the body had been a severe shock, as she was beginning to realise. When she did fall asleep, her dreams were horrifying.
On the following morning at breakfast she said to Sir Humphrey, “Does—well, does Angela make any difference to the expedition?”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” he replied. “I really suppose we had better call everything off, at any rate for a time. I am Angela’s executor and there will be her affairs to settle up, for one thing. For another, well, my wife and Phyllis are not too keen to carry on.”
“I want a word with the vicar,” stated Lady Calshott determinedly. “I cannot imagine how he could bring himself to write such a cruel letter. He might at least have waited until we got home, and then have broken the news of Angela’s dismissal gently and kindly to her. After all, it is not as though she had planned to spend the whole two months up here with us. She would have been going home today or, at the latest, tomorrow. Why could he not have waited that short time?”
“I suppose it was easier to dismiss her by letter than face to face. That is always so embarrassing,” said Phyllis. “Even with servants it is embarrassing, let alone somebody who is expecting to be your wife.”
“I have never found the dismissal of servants an embarrassment,” said Lady Calshott. “After all, they must have proved to be unsatisfactory, or they would not need to be told to go. Anyway, I am surprised at Mr. Chester, and most displeased with him, and I shall not hesitate to tell him so.”
“What about today?” asked Sally. “Do we take up our watch as usual?”
“Oh, hardly,” Sir Humphrey replied. “The police may need us and, if we all remain here, they will know where to find us. You might do visiting rounds again, Sally, if you will, and tell those who do not know of it that Angela has left us.”
“I expect Godiva and Winfrith will have spread the news,” said Sally. “I visited them at the hunting-lodge yesterday afternoon and told them what had happened.”
“I wonder whether they saw anything of Angela? They may have ferried her over there,” said Phyllis. “But what a queer place for her to choose for her picnic! One would suppose that she would have preferred to eat out of doors. And then to kill herself! But, of course, she always had a morbid streak in her.”
“There was no sign of food,” said Sally, “but I suppose she must have taken some with her, although I thought…” She broke off. Lady Calshott, who had discovered that a wasp was investigating the breakfast jar of marmalade, was paying no attention, Phyllis was pouring another cup of coffee for her father, and Sir Humphrey himself was applying himself assiduously to his breakfast. Sally was conscious of tension in the air. They were determined, for some reason, not to listen to her.
“Good heavens!” she thought. “They don’t believe it was suicide! Come to that, neither do I!” She rose from her seat at the table. “Well, I think I’d better get going on my rounds,” she said. “I’ll be back here as soon as I can. If the police want to speak to anybody, it will most likely be me again, I should suppose.”
“Yes, you run along, dear,” said Lady Calshott. “On the way, would you telephone my housekeeper to say that we shall be home in a day or two, so she must have everything in readiness?”
“No, I’ll do that,” said Sir Humphrey. “I have to telephone Glasgow anyway, to tell MacIver that we are staying put in case his people want to see us again. I must make enquiries, too, as to when we shall be able to take poor Angela home. There were arrangements to take her to the mortuary for the body to be more thoroughly examined, but I hope the fiscal will be reasonable and not hold matters up. MacIver may have influence with him and I believe it is up to him to decide whether there is a case to go to the sheriff. I anticipate no trouble of that kind, though. The wretched affair is straight-forward enough, I’m afraid. It is all very unfortunate, but…”
“I should have thought the vicar could have done with Angela’s money,” said Lady Calshott, pursuing her own train of thought. “It’s a very poor living, you know.”
“A bit of luck for us he didn’t want the money,” said Phyllis. “Anyway, he won’t get it now.”
“Unless Angela has left a foolish will,” said Lady Calshott, “and that would occasion me no surprise whatever.”
CHAPTER 11
Two Letters for Dame Beatrice
“However, sir, here is a guarantee. Look at its contents; I do not again carry the letters of Uriah.”
Sir Walter Scott.
(1)
Visiting rounds, that morning, left Sally with some very curious and interesting impressions, but did nothing to alter her overwhelming conviction that Angela Barton’s death had not been caused by suicide. Since it was hardly conceivable that it had been accidental, there was only one conclusion which seemed to fit the facts.
Sir Humphrey had made no suggestions as to how she should refer to the death when she made her rounds, so, at the first caravan, now in possession of the Parrises, Hubert Pring, and Jeremy Tamworth, she said to Marjorie, who seemed to be the only person awake, and who was standing just outside the caravan emptying a teapot, “I suppose you’ve heard about Angela Barton?”
“Gone home, has she?”
“Oh
, you haven’t heard, then?”
“Heard what?”
“I thought the Bensons might have walked over here and told you.”
“Told us what? Is Angela lost or ill or something?”
“Oh, Marjorie, she’s dead!”
“Dead? You’re not being funny, are you?”
“No.”
“But she can’t be dead! How do you know? I mean, she was all right yesterday, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. We think she’s taken poison.”
“Good God! You don’t mean that!”
“I’m afraid so, yes. Will you tell the others?”
“I suppose so. But how on earth did it happen?”
“We don’t know yet. It’s in the hands of the police.”
“The police? Oh, well, I suppose it would have to be. Not that they can do anything. Shall we all be involved, do you think? I mean, will there be an inquest? Have to be some sort of enquiry, I suppose.”
“I’ve no idea what will happen. I don’t think the procedure up here is the same as it is at home.”
“Are the Calshotts very cut up about it?”
“No, not really. Worried, of course, and shocked, but—well, no, not cut up. At least, I wouldn’t say so.”
“Angela wasn’t terribly likeable, poor thing. Do you think she found out she’d got a serious illness, and that made her do it? Personally, I’d never have the courage. Besides, there’s always a sporting chance of one’s recovering, isn’t there? I mean, the hospitals nowadays…”
“Well, I must push on,” said Sally. “No use asking whether you’ve seen anything of the monster, I suppose? That’s my other reason for coming round.”
“Save your strength, dear. We’ve seen nothing except yesterday’s storm. Don’t expect to, either. Matter of fact, except for Hubert, who wants to stick it out for another week or so, this particular outfit is talking of toddling home.”
Winking at the Brim (Mrs. Bradley) Page 10