Fen inclined his head, to indicate his thorough understanding of this fact.
‘Nor she didn’t mix much wi’ the natives, neither. Some on ’em’ – Mr Beresford spoke in tones of enlightened scorn – ‘some on ’em said she were a witch. But oi don’t ’ave no truck wi’ talk like that. There may ’a’ been witches once – that oi don’t deny. But science ’as got rid on ’em – ain’t that so, sir?’
Fen agreed – rather dubiously, however – that that was so. ‘So she had no friends?’ he suggested.
‘Not ’ere she didn’t. And oi’ll tell you more, sir.’ Mr Beresford leaned forward confidentially and tapped his forefinger on the table. ‘She drank.’
He sat back again to focus the effect of this revelation on his audience.
‘Drank,’ he repeated impressively. ‘Now, oi’m a drinkin’ man meself, sir, but there’s drinkin’ and drinkin’.’ He made the sound commonly transcribed as ‘pfui!’ ‘An’ oi don’t know about you, sir, but oi don’t trust folks as drinks alone under their own roof-tree. T’ain’t natural, to my way o’ thinkin’.’
Fen made the deprecatory sounds which were expected of him. ‘And no relatives?’ he said. ‘No husband?’
‘As to an ’usband, oi never laid eyes on ’im,’ Mr Beresford responded. ‘They do say as ’e upped and left ’er when she went on the drink, but that’s no more ’n talk. Don’t you rely on it, sir. All oi’m sayin’ now is that ’e never showed up ’ere.’ Mr Beresford paused to drink, holding up a hand to check comment. ‘But as to relatives, she ’ad a son, that oi knows. A married son. And off she’d go to visit ’im, whiles, though what ’is wife ’d think of ’er dirty ways…’
He shook his head at the visions of domestic tension conjured up by this reflection. Fen said, ‘And where does this son live? Somewhere in the neighbourhood?’
‘Ah. That oi’m not sure on. Not nearby, though; oi think ’tis in one o’ them big cities.’ Mr Beresford brooded. ‘’Tis funny you should be askin’ me about ’im,’ he commented after a moment.
‘Oh? Oh? Why?’
‘There were another gen’l’man – let me see, now, today’s Saturday, so it would ’a’ been on Thursday ’e come in ’ere; anyway, ’e wants to know about Mother Bly, and what’s become on ’er, and oi tells ’im she’s gone off to see ’er son and ’e wants to know where this son lives, only, as oi say, oi can’t satisfy no one about that.’ A shade of aggrievedness became apparent in Mr Beresford’s manner. ‘Oi ’adn’t much use for ’im – this chap as was askin’ questions. ’Adn’t even the decency to order ’alf a pint. One o’ them teetotals, I dare say.’
A possibility occurred to Fen. ‘He wasn’t by any chance from the school?’
‘Well, sir, ’e might ’a’ been. They masters come ’ere, whiles, for a pint or two, it not bein’ far. Only oi’d not seen this one afore.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘’E were elderly,’ said Mr Beresford, ‘and thin and strongish, with grey ’air.’
Though vague enough, it would do for Love, Fen reflected, and if it had been he, then a definite connection was established between the death of Mrs Bly and the murders at the school – a connection which so far he had had no other ground than instinct for suspecting.
‘And fair put about, ’e were,’ Mr Beresford proceeded, ‘when ’e found oi ’ad no idea where this son might live. Ah. Clicked ’is tongue an’ shook ’is ’ead like he were on ’ot bricks. ’E asks me, do I know when Mother Bly be comin’ back ’ere to Ravensward, an’ oi tells him, today. An’ that cools ’im down a bit, an’ away ’e goes without so much as a good mornin’ to me. Ah.’
Mr Beresford paused to cool his retrospective indignation with a pull at his tankard, and Fen said, ‘Then Mrs Bly has been away recently?’
‘Amn’t oi tellin’ you that?’ Mr Beresford eyed Fen sorrowfully, commiserating, it seemed, the tardiness of his understanding. ‘She’m away visiting ’er son since – let’s see now – We’n’sday, it were. Ah. That’s it, We’n’sday. We’n’sday morning she were waitin’ for the bus to Castrevenford. “Off again, Mother Bly?” oi says to her. “Just till Saturday, Mr Beresford,” she answers, “just till Saturday.” An’ sure enough, back she comes, this very mornin’.’
Which meant, Fen reflected, that her son’s home could not be at any very great distance. It occurred to him to enquire about her sources of income.
‘She ’as the old-age pension, o’ course,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘And ’er son, I think ’e give ’er somethin’, whiles. Must ’a’ done. Where’d she get the money for ’er drinkin’, otherwise?’
‘Did she own anything valuable, do you know? Anything that would be worth stealing?’
Mr Beresford slowly shook his head. ‘Oi doubts it, sir. Drink were all she thought on. She’d ’a’ bartered ’er own soul for drink.’
‘Still, I noticed when I was in the cottage that a new stove had been installed in the kitchen.’
Mr Beresford seemed abashed at having his assertion so promptly refuted. ‘True ’nough,’ he muttered. ‘That’s strange, that is. Queer.’ He pronounced the word with such minatory emphasis that they were positively startled; it seemed an epitome of all the eccentricities that had been practised since the world began. ‘But Mr Taverner,’ Mr Beresford added, ‘’e’ll know ’bout that.’
‘Mr Taverner?’
‘’Twere ’im as put stove in.’
‘Mr Taverner’s the local plumber and carpenter,’ Daphne explained.
‘Ah. That’s so, Miss Savage. ’E’ll be in ’ere at one, so you can talk to ’im yourself. Ah.’ Mr Beresford brooded. ‘Now, that’s interesting, that is.’
Fen repressed an earnest desire to ask what was interesting, and waited until Mr Beresford should think fit to offer enlightenment of his own accord. This he did after some premonitory sucking at his pipe, which had long since gone out; he said, ‘You was askin’, sir, if Mother Bly ’ad anythin’ worth the stealing.’ Fidgeting somewhat, Fen agreed. ‘Well, sir, it’s just come to me as there were some old things Mr Taverner found when ’e were puttin’ stove in. Ah. ’Idden in the fireplace, they was. An old picture, oi think oi ’eard, and summat else. Now, oi don’t know as anyone ’d be wanting to steal an old picture – and ’twere only a liddle tiny thing, by all accounts – but oi’m just tellin’ you, sir, in case it might be important.’
An old picture, Fen thought: probably the miniature that had been found in Mrs Bly’s pocket, and if that, then conceivably…
‘I suppose Mr Taverner will be able to tell me what else there was,’ he said.
‘Surely, sir. I wouldn’t ’a’ mentioned it, only…’
‘I’m very glad you did mention it, Mr Beresford.’ A curious premonition was stealing over Fen – the sense of being on the brink of some unimaginably exciting discovery, and looking back on it afterwards, he was astounded to realize that he had had at this stage no inkling of what it might be. He meditated. Mr Beresford had supplied some information which might prove useful: that Mrs Bly had been away, from Wednesday until this morning; that Love (if it were Love) had been enquiring about her; that she would have, in the normal way, nothing to justify a robbery, but that some ‘old things’ had been found when the stove was installed…Certainly Mr Taverner must be questioned. And there was another line of enquiry which might yield results.
‘Mr Beresford,’ he said, ‘do you happen to know a master from the school named Somers?’
‘Ah, that oi do, sir,’ Mr Beresford replied readily. ‘Oi might almost say ’e’s one o’ my regulars. A very nice young gen’l’man, only quiet. Comes ’ere alone, mostly.’
‘And did he have any connection with Mrs Bly?’
‘Not as oi knows on, sir. Oi never ’eard ’im talk on ’er.’
‘I see.’ Fen was momentarily disappointed. ‘Has he been in here at all this week?’
Mr Beresford emptied his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Let
me see, now. Let me see…’E were ’ere Monday evenin’ and again Tuesday evenin’, but oi ’aven’t seen ’im since. Monday ’e were talking to Mr Taverner. And Tuesday, ’e were that lively, I ’ad to mention it to ’im. “Why, Mr Somers,” oi says, “you’re on top o’ the world tonight. ’Ave you been left a fortune?” An’ ’e said, “Something like that, Mr Beresford,” ’e says, “something like that,” an’ ’e grins.’
Mr Beresford himself grinned, illustratively. But for what followed they were completely unprepared. Mr Beresford raised one hand, brought it down on the table with an explosive impact, and said, ‘Wait, now!’ in tones of such violence and urgency that Daphne upset the remainder of her beer. Mr Beresford apologized, but hurriedly; his impassive features were as nearly excited as they could ever be. While Daphne scrubbed at her dress with a handkerchief, and Fen shifted hastily away from a Niagara of beer which was pouring over the edge of the table, Mr Beresford took no other action than to raise his forefinger impressively, in token of some inspiration which had visited him.
‘Charlie Rumbles,’ he breathed at his distracted audience. ‘Charlie Rumbles.’
At first, and not unnaturally, they took this to be a comment on the digestive processes of some local worthy, and stared at Mr Beresford in surprise; but they were soon disabused of the notion.
‘’E saw ’im,’ Mr Beresford proceeded, pronominally obscure. ‘E saw ’im leave ’er cottage.’
Fen ventured to ask for elucidation.
‘Charlie Rumbles, it were.’ Mr Beresford was cooling off rapidly, and seemed, indeed, rather confused and ashamed at his outburst. ‘You ’aven’t spoiled your pretty frock, I ’ope, Miss Savage?’
‘No, no,’ said Daphne gallantly. ‘Tell us what Charlie Rumbles saw, Mr Beresford.’ She scrubbed more fiercely than ever.
Mr Beresford, however, was by now mindful of his responsibilities. He fetched a cloth from the bar and mopped the table with it. Only when this operation was complete, and Fen had ordered a second round of drinks, did he return to the matter in hand.
‘What you was askin’, sir, was if Mr Somers ever ’ad aught to do with Mother Bly. An’ oi said no, ’aving forgotten about Charlie. Y’see, Charlie, ’e’m a bit ’ollow up ’ere.’ Mr Beresford tapped his forehead significantly. ‘Can’t always rely on ’im. So when ’e tells me, just afore closin’ time Tuesday, as he’s seen Mr Somers leavin’ Mother Bly’s cottage earlier on – well, oi didn’t pay much attention. Oi thought to meself, ’e’s imagining things. And that’s ’ow oi came to forget.’
He drank deeply, with a penitential air. For the moment Fen made no reply, for he was considering the sequence of events elicited in the last few minutes. Mr Taverner discovers some ‘old things’ in Mrs Bly’s cottage; Mr Taverner talks to Somers; Somers visits Mrs Bly and is subsequently much elated. Fen glanced at the clock over the bar and saw that the hands were close on the hour.
‘And you’re expecting Mr Taverner?’ he asked.
‘Prompt at one, sir. Any minute, now. And ’e’ll be able to ’elp you, take my word for it. ’E’s a edicated man, is Mr Taverner, and a famous preacher.’
‘A preacher?’
‘Lay preacher, sir. ’E’s preached all over county. But ’e ain’t no ’oly Jesus, mind you,’ Mr Beresford added – a recommendation which struck Fen as quaint. ‘’Cept on Sundays, ’e likes ’is pint same as the next man.’
Mr Beresford paused to listen; footsteps were approaching the bar door, and as the latch was lifted the clock whirred and struck one. The door opened, and Mr Taverner, followed by a diffident, shambling, overgrown youth, entered the room.
Apart from his carpenter’s clothes, which were stained with paint and impregnated with sawdust, Mr Taverner resembled a superior butler. His face was fleshy, of an ochre hue, with pouches beneath the eyes, and his body was shaped like a pear. A Johnsonian portentousness emanated from him. The wooden floor creaked beneath his substantial weight. A chisel projected from his breast pocket. He wished the company good morning in a mellow, rotund parsonical voice. Then he moved with a measured and dignified tread to the bar, where he received, and paid for, the pint of bitter which Mr Beresford drew for him, leaving the overgrown youth to order his own drink. A subdued colloquy followed, and at its conclusion Mr Taverner approached Fen and Daphne with the same impressive, tank-like motion. To Daphne he bowed, and then addressed himself to Fen.
‘I believe, sir,’ he said, ‘that I am to have the pleasure of your acquaintance.’
Fen rose, shook him gravely by the hand, and invited him to be seated; at which Mr Taverner approached an empty chair, grasped it firmly by the back, shook it – apparently in order to satisfy himself that its joints were firm – and having shifted it to a place out of the sun, lowered himself on to it with staid deliberation. He then slaked his thirst and placed the tankard on the table. The overgrown youth, who had obtained a half pint of mild, sat down to his left and a little behind him. He seemed to be some kind of an assistant, and in his attitude to Mr Taverner there was something of awe. Just so, Fen thought, must a mediaeval apprentice have regarded his master. Mr Beresford, pursuing some unguessable errand, had disappeared into the furthest recesses of the bar.
Mr Taverner cleared his throat. ‘In the midst of life,’ he observed, ‘we are in death.’ His gaze was fixed speculatively on Fen, as though measuring him for a coffin, and he paused to allow time for his text to be assimilated. ‘Naturally, sir, I am greatly shocked to hear of Mrs Bly’s violent demise. It would hardly be exaggerating to say that I am overwhelmed.’ Fen thought that he had seldom seen anyone more resistant to overwhelming than Mr Taverner. ‘And I am sure that my assistant, Mr Tye’ – here he turned a cold, appraising eye upon the overgrown youth – ‘is as grieved as I am myself.’
‘Yes, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye obsequiously.
‘That being so,’ Mr Taverner went on, ‘I shall be delighted to offer you my fullest cooperation in apprehending the murderer.’ He glanced quickly about him, as though envisaging a pitched battle on the spot, and waved one hand in a sternly militant gesture. ‘So also will Mr Tye.’
‘Yes, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye.
‘It’s extremely kind of you,’ said Fen. ‘If you wouldn’t mind answering one or two questions…’
‘My conversation,’ said Mr Taverner with elephantine jocosity, ‘shall be yea, yea, and nay, nay. The gambit, sir, is yours.’
‘I’m chiefly interested in this new stove which you installed recently in Mrs Bly’s cottage.’
‘Ah, yes. I’m bound to confess, sir, that the nature of the commission surprised me, and that at first I was reluctant to undertake it. Isn’t that so, Mr Tye?’
‘Yes, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye.
‘For the mercenary but unavoidable reason that I anticipated difficulty in obtaining payment for my services. However, I did, in fact, undertake it, and I was, in fact, paid.’ Mr Taverner jingled the money in his pocket, presumably by way of confirming this last statement. ‘The previous stove, of the oil-burning variety, was damaged beyond all repair, and although Mrs Bly had – shall we say – abandoned the great majority of civilized practices, cooking facilities were still needful to her.’
‘And I understand,’ Fen interposed rather fretfully, ‘that you found—’
Mr Taverner raised his hand. ‘All in good time, sir. I am coming to that. In order to install the new stove, it was necessary for me to level the kitchen hearth. Mr Tye will agree, I think, that this labour was not superfluous.’
‘No, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye. ‘I mean, yes, Mr Taverner.’
Mr Taverner bestowed on him a pitying glance, but refrained from comment. ‘I was obliged, in fact, to remove a number of bricks from the hearth. And what did I find? A cache, sir, a cache.’
He drank deeply and with evident enjoyment. ‘A dry cavity,’ he resumed, ‘lined with mortar. Romantic, was it not?’ Here Mr Taverner smiled in what he evidently supposed to be a whimsical and indul
gent fashion. ‘But alas, there was no buried treasure – nothing, that is, except a locket and some bundles of old yellowed papers. Naturally, I acquainted Mrs Bly with my discovery.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Fen, whose impatience was rapidly developing into a frenzy. ‘But as to these papers—’
‘Acquainted her, I say, with my discovery.’ Mr Taverner frowned reproof of Fen’s unseemly precipitation, and Daphne laid a cool and soothing hand on Fen’s arm. ‘She was, I fear, disappointed. I think you will find that Mr Tye received the same impression.’
‘Yes, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye hurriedly.
‘She hoped, you understand, for something of value, something which she could sell. Well, there was, of course, the locket, which I told her might realize a few pounds, being of silver. “And what about the papers, Mr Taverner?” she asked. “Shall I be able to sell them?” Naturally, sir, I laughed at her. “No one wants old papers, Mrs Bly,” I told her. “The letters you may as well burn. But for the other packet you might get a pound or two from a museum.” You will scarcely guess, sir, what she answered.’ Fen made an uninterpretable noise. ‘She said, “A hundred pounds, Mr Taverner, that’s what I’ll ask for them. And if I don’t get it, I’ll burn ’em along with the others.”’ Fen uttered a small, pitiful sound. ‘We had a good laugh over that, sir.’
Fen grinned mirthlessly; he was clutching the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white. ‘Can you describe these papers at all, Mr Taverner?’
‘Undeniably they were old. Very old. Yellow, as I said, and eaten away at the edges. Am I right, Mr Tye?’
‘Yes, Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Tye automatically.
‘Both packets were in the same handwriting, very crabbed and faded, and with some strange misspellings. One of them, as I told you, consisted of private letters. The other seemed to be some kind of poetry, though I confess I could make little of it, beyond the title.’
Fen leaned forward. ‘And that was?’
‘Love’s Labour’s Won,’ said Mr Taverner.
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