“Oh no,” replied Pussy. “Anyone could have walked in and snaffled a few while the Major was out fishing. But all the same, I think he killed her. Miss Haddox said that Mrs. Mumsby turned her attentions away from him as soon as she set eyes on Claude. You see, she was a wealthy widow – the Major knew that – and he was furious at the idea of losing all her money if she didn’t marry him. The Major has obviously got to the age when he’s attracted by anything in skirts, and when a man gets that way, he’s capable of anything.”
“Hey, hey,” exclaimed Gunn. “What’s the old boy been up to now? Play fair, Pussy. You can’t condemn a man as a murderer just because he’s been gloating over your legs, if that’s the trouble.”
“Not in these trousers!” retorted Pussy. “I can’t think why so many people think trousers are indecent on women. They’re really far more respectable than short skirts and silk stockings.”
“We won’t go into that here.” said Gunn. “If you can think of anything likely to be useful in connection with that fly, let’s hear it.”
Pussy thought seriously for a moment.
“Well,” she said at length, “Miss Haddox recognized the fly which Major Jeans made for me as the same kind that was in Mrs. Mumsby’s hand. Mrs. Pindar didn’t react to it at all, but I’m sure she’s hiding something she doesn’t want us to find out.”
“And your mother?” asked Gunn.
“You can’t possibly suspect her!” cried Pussy, as if that settled the matter once and for all, and the others did not pursue the subject.
“General Haddox dropped a salmon fly near Mrs. Mumsby yesterday, and went to look for it today,” said Mr. Winkley. “But it wasn’t this fly, if we can believe him. It was a Bloody Butcher.”
“Well, so is this,” said Pussy.
“No,” explained Mr. Winkley, secretly thinking that she was quite one of the least intelligent females it had ever been his lot to meet. “That’s a different kind of fly altogether. It’s –”
“I know,” returned Pussy blandly, “but this is a bloody butcher all the same.”
“Shut up,” ordered Gunn, softening the words by kissing her hand. “It amounts to this, then,” he went on, turning to Mr. Winkley, “Mrs. Mumsby was killed by a poisoned salmon fly. The murderer dipped the barbed hook into a bottle containing a solution of prussic acid, and pulled it into her hand by means of a piece of gut threaded through the eye. Then he cut the gut off close to the eye, and went away leaving the fly in her hand.”
“Why did he leave the fly?” asked Pussy. “If it hadn’t been for that, Mr. Winkley would never have suspected murder.”
“Because, numbskull, he knew that someone might come along at any minute, and catch him removing the fly. It would have to be cut out, and he might get blood on his hands, and certainly would get it on the knife. Also, he wanted the fly to stay in her hand as long as possible, so that the poison would do its dirty work properly.”
“All right,” returned Pussy. “I accept your apology. Go on, Shylock.”
Gunn did not bother to correct her.
“We haven’t got the bottle. It may either be still in the murderer’s possession, or else at the bottom of the lake, but if we did happen to find it, still corked, on dry land, we should know that it was the right one on account of the smell, because Scheele’s acid, which I presume was the particular form of prussic acid used, smells stronger than cyanide. Am I right?”
Mr. Winkley smiled.
*“A masterly exposition, Mr. Gunn. Please go on,” he said.
“We haven’t got the bottle, but we have got the fly. At the moment it seems to throw suspicion upon Major Jeans, but that may be the murderer’s intention. So the best thing to do is to keep our eyes open, and go on asking questions until we find something else out. I shall get into the police force yet, at this rate.”
“Your feet are too small, and your head’s too big,” retorted Pussy.
“You’ve made one mistake,” said Mr. Winkley. “The gut was not cut off the fly in the way you have suggested. I ought to have told you about that, but you could have deduced it for yourself if you’d looked carefully enough. You know that gut is attached to an eyed fly by a knot of some kind. It’s usually a turle knot or a half-hitch jam which is used, but I have known fishermen who couldn’t tie anything better than a granny. Anyway, if you cut the gut off the fly, you always leave the knot behind, and there was no vestige of gut left on the fly in Mrs. Mumsby’s hand.”
“He might have undone the knot,” suggested Pussy.
“That’s not as easy as it sounds,” smiled Mr. Winkley. “It would probably take several minutes to untie a knot from gut even with the aid of a pin, and the pull on this fly would have made it so tight as to render such a procedure almost impossible. I think that if we are right in saying that the murderer pulled the fly into her hand, then some form of delayed slip-knot must have been used.”
“Or else it was spirited away by magic,” said Pussy.
“There’s too much magic about it altogether for my liking,” returned Gunn. “Too much theorizing and guessing, too. The only thing to do is to go on asking questions, and to compare the answers until we find some discrepancy between them. The trouble is that we can’t do it openly, and from Pussy’s experience so far, it looks as if everyone is ready to resent being questioned.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Winkley; “but it’s very natural. Most people in this world have a secret of some kind to hide, however small, and they naturally resent inquisitiveness from casual acquaintances. Besides, everyone poses a bit on holiday; it’s part of their enjoyment to pretend to be a little better or worse than they really are. Take the old examples of the shop-assistant who poses as a society lady, or the duke who pretends to be his own valet. Those are big examples, certainly, but we are all guilty of similar pretences in a lesser degree.”
“I’m not,” returned Pussy. “I’m what I am, and I don’t pretend to be anything else, and anyone who doesn’t like me can do the other thing.”
“That’s where you are mistaken,” was Mr. Winkley’s reply. “You’re one of the people who make themselves out to be worse than they are. Or else you really are that rara avis, an honest woman.”
Ignoring Gunn’s murmured, “He’s calling you a bird, dearie,” Mr. Winkley went on:
“The only thing we can do is to keep our ears open and find out as much as we can without appearing to be over-curious, and we must pool our information.”
He picked up the scraggier of the two flies, and dropped it into an envelope, which he sealed and placed carefully in his black morocco pocket-book.
“Do you want to keep Exhibit B as well?” asked Pussy. “You can if you like.”
“No,” replied Mr. Winkley slowly. “Wear it in your hat as you had intended, but mind you don’t lose it. Remember, it’s evidence.”
“Right,” she replied, picking it up. “Come on, Piggy. I’ll play you a hundred up before dinner.”
“Oh Lord!” groaned Gunn. He was about to run his fingers through his hair when he realized that it was glossily brilliantined for the evening, and smoothed it lightly down instead. “No peace for the wicked,” he grinned.
“By the way,” remarked Mr. Winkley as they were marching off, arm in arm, “you two haven’t answered any questions yet. Do you mind telling me where you were yesterday morning? We shall never make good detectives unless we suspect one another. There must be no exceptions.”
The two young people smiled at him as if they had nothing to hide.
“We drove the Iron Lung up to Hafod-y-llyn, and fished,” said Gunn. “I thought you knew that.”
“Oh yes, I knew that,” replied Mr. Winkley, “but I was talking to the ghillie you took with you, and he told me that you only stayed up at the lake for an hour. You were no sooner in the boat than you wanted to get back to the hotel, according to him.”
“I suppose it was a bit of a blow to him,” said Gunn, “although I paid him for the full day, so
he didn’t lose by it. But neither of us is terribly keen on fishing, and that mountain lake is so gloomy, and the scenery so bleak, that we got bored and gave it up. That’s all.”
“What time was it when you got back to the hotel then?”
“About twelve, I think.”
“I see. Mrs. Evans says that you were not in to lunch. Do you mind telling me where you were between one o’clock and ten past two, when Mrs. Mumsby was killed?”
Pussy clung tightly to Gunn’s arm, and gazed apprehensively at Mr. Winkley.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed in alarm. “We couldn’t possibly tell you that!”
Chapter 19
Mrs. Mumsby’s funeral had been fixed for the following morning at twelve o’clock, and half an hour before that time, a group of guests, as sombrely attired as their holiday clothes would admit, gathered together in the hall.
Miss Haddox, true to her principle, was not present; she and the General had booked Hafod-y-llyn, the small lake named after the water-lilies which fringed its edge, and had gone up there over an hour before in their car. Mr. and Mrs. Pindar had gone for a day’s sea-fishing. (“And you couldn’t really expect them to bother about funerals on their honeymoon, the dears!” said Mrs. Evans.)
The rest of them eyed one another with justifiable curiosity.
Gunn’s tribute to the occasion was expressed by a black tie, and evening-brushed hair. Mr. Weston was impeccable in a navy-blue pin-stripe suit. Claude wore grey, with a broad-brimmed black felt hat of the kind associated with Spanish grandees and Mr. de Valera. Major Jeans was most strikingly dressed in black morning coat, striped trousers, and top hat.
Mrs. Partridge wore one of her favourite black-and-white ensembles, while Pussy, they all noticed with some relief, had exchanged her pullover and long, flapping trousers, for a neat, short-skirted costume, in which she lost a great deal of personality. On her head she wore a black Basque beret, adorned with the Major’s fly.
For some reason the fly seemed to fascinate the other visitors, and from time to time they stole glances at it, until Pussy, always sensitive to personal criticism, exclaimed irritably:
“I’m sorry about the family crest, but it happens to be made on a barbed hook, and it won’t budge without tearing the material. I really don’t see why I should ruin a perfectly good beret for the sake of the late lamented Mrs. Mumsby, and it’s the only hat I’ve brought with me. Of course, if you’d rather see me walk into church without –”
“We were all admiring it,” Mr. Weston interrupted, in his pleasant voice. “That colouring looks so pretty against the black background.”
“Major Jeans made it for me yesterday,” explained Pussy, somewhat mollified.
She noticed that the Major was smiling at her, and frowned in response.
It’s a pity I can’t be nice to him, she thought, but he’d only take advantage and try something else on. Really, he’s quite distinguished-looking when he’s dressed in something smarter than those awful old fishing tweeds, and so few men look well in formal morning or evening clothes. Piggy always looks as if his evening suit will go baggy at any minute when he’s at a dance, and his tail-coat never has that stand-by-itself look, although he goes to a good tailor. But I must say that I give the “Galloping Major” – funny how catching this habit of nicknaming people is! – full marks this morning. Mother looks jolly nice, too. I wish she’d let me wear black-and-white outfits; they’re so becoming. Come to think of it, they make rather a nice pair standing together. Mother’s about the right age for him, too. After all, Father was killed in 1917, a few months before I was born, and Mother must have felt pretty lonely all these years without a man. But what’s the use of thinking of things like that with a man like the Major who only makes love to girls young enough to be his daughters? He must be fifty if he’s a day – even older than the Merry Widow.
This thought jerked her back to the present, and she remembered that she definitely suspected Major Jeans of being Mrs. Mumsby’s murderer.
It’s strange that he’s dressed so suitably, she thought. He looks like the chief mourner. I know that I never go away, even to a fishing hotel, without packing the odd evening dress, but I should think it’s unheard-of for a man to take morning coat, striped trousers, and, above all, a top hat with him on a fishing holiday. Unless – well, unless he had reason to believe that he would need to wear them at a funeral like this. They look brand-new, too. But would any man be so callous as to go and order a new suit, so that, after he had murdered someone, he could attend the funeral suitably dressed? It’s pretty hard to believe, yet murderers are always vain, they said: that’s partly why they’re easy to catch.
This thought encouraged her to speak.
“That’s a nice suit you’re wearing, Major,” she remarked in her most blatant voice. “I don’t suppose the natives of Aberllyn have seen anything so beautiful in a hundred years.”
Even Gunn was embarrassed by her words, and tried to nudge her into silence, while her mother frowned.
Major Jeans glanced at the girl, ran his finger round the inside of his stiff collar like a boy about to recite, cleared his throat, and tried to make the best of it.
“Not unsuitable, though, I hope,” he said rather hurriedly. “I can’t leave clothes like this at the Club; the moth gets into them. My last suit was ruined by the little blighters – I had to get measured for a new outfit. I always keep one in case anyone in the family dies, and dying is a little habit that everyone develops sooner or later. But the moths are a nuisance. I’ve tried everything for them, even cyanide, but that’s no good after a day or two, so I decided that the only thing to do is to carry them around with me and give them plenty of fresh air. I suppose you thought I was expecting a funeral, eh?”
He sounded uneasy, and so succeeded in confirming Pussy’s suspicions, especially as she had never heard of anyone killing moths with cyanide before.
“Well, I didn’t suppose you were expecting a wedding,” she retorted.
Major Jeans looked as if he would have enjoyed turning her over on his knee and getting to work with a slipper, but Mrs. Partridge achieved better results with a few well-chosen words.
“Don’t you think you’ve got too much lipstick on, Pansy?” she said. “Remember we’re going to church.”
“No, I don’t,” snapped Pussy. “If God can see me in church, He can see me here. You know I never take it off for anyone, except the dentist.”
But Mrs. Partridge noted with some satisfaction that her daughter’s cheeks showed a natural red beneath their rouge.
At that moment they heard voices coming through the reception office from the adjoining sitting-room, and soon afterwards, Mrs. Evans, in full mourning, joined them in the hall. She was accompanied by a thin, bloodless-looking man with greying hair, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and morning dress, and carrying a top hat and gloves. As soon as he saw the top hat, Major Jeans stepped forward and shook hands, before he knew who the man was.
“Mr. Proudfoot, Mrs. Mumsby’s lawyer,” explained Mrs. Evans, as she pulled on a very tight black kid glove.
The lawyer shook hands correctly, and amended this perfunctory introduction by saying to everyone at large.
“Of Proudfoot, Greensleeve and – er – Proudfoot.”
“He must be ‘and Proudfoot’,” Pussy whispered to her mother, but Mrs. Partridge did not smile in reply, for the lawyer’s advent had in some manner contrived to make the atmosphere more funereal than before.
I suppose they get used to attending funerals, she thought, and they put on a suitable manner. I’m sure he says “er” to sound more impressive. It probably goes down well with his clients.
But in this she wronged him, for his hesitating manner of speaking was quite natural. He always spoke like that at home. With a wife like his, he had to sound apologetic.
“Very sad for Mrs. – er – er – to die so suddenly,” he said. “She was a – er – lady who had a great zest for life.”
&nb
sp; “Aren’t any of her relations coming today?” asked Mrs. Partridge.
“No, no. I’m afraid the poor – er – lady” (he was not, thought Mrs. Partridge, the only one who hesitated before using the word in connection with Mrs. Mumsby) “was quite alone in the world. She told me that she had found – er – friends and a – er – haven in this hotel.”
“There!” said Mrs. Evans. “She always said she’d be happy to end her days here, and I hope she was. I’m sure Evans and I did everything we could to make her comfortable, and we were so fond of her, poor dear.”
She produced a clean handkerchief, but found no tears to wipe away, and Pussy, remembering her quarrel with Mrs. Mumsby in the office the day before she died, did not wonder at this.
“She must have had a pretty penny to leave to someone,” remarked Mr. Winkley. “I suppose she made a will.”
Pussy and Gunn exchanged glances, while Mr. Proudfoot looked offended at Mr. Winkley’s bad taste.
“Oh yes,” he said. “She made a will.”
Claude, who had been sitting beside his father on a small settee in the corner of the hall, suddenly jumped to his feet.
“Stop it, can’t you? Stop it!” he cried. “She’s dead, as dead as a – a fish. Can’t you leave her in peace even now? You all hated her when she was alive, all of you; now you’re pretending that you doted on her, and all because you’re hoping to get some of her money. I can’t stand it, I tell you, I –”
“Claude!”
His father laid a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder, and Claude sat down heavily, and buried his face in his hands.
The noise of crunching tyres came to their ears.
“The hearse!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans.
She moved to the front door and began talking to a man with clammy hands, who had swung down from beside the driver.
The little church was not far from the hotel, and no cars had been ordered. The visitors formed themselves into a procession of self-conscious pairs, and walked slowly behind the four ghillies who, as bearers, followed immediately behind the motor-hearse. All the population of Aberllyn who were not bed-ridden or in their cradles, kept pace with them in jostling groups on either side of the road.
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