“Don’t handle that more than is necessary, please,” Duffy interjected. “There might be fingerprints.”
“Oh!” She snatched away her hand and stared at the envelope for a few seconds as if it were radio-active; then, holding it gingerly by a corner, she returned it to its pigeon-hole. “Funny how the realisation that one has recently met the victim brings home to one the full horror of murder,” she resumed. “At least I find it so.”
“I think it’s a fairly general feeling. Have you still got the note that she left here while you were out?”
“I’m sure I must have thrown it away.” She looked at the detective in some astonishment. “Why?”
“Just that it might have been timed. We’re trying to make out a time-table of her movements during the eleven or twelve days that she was over here. It’s as well to find out everyone whom she met.”
“The note was headed Thursday noon, I remember. I hope to heaven it wasn’t what Mary said in all innocence that brought the poor thing to Moore Court–to her death.”
“The murderer would have had to know about it too, you know. I think the possibility of a coincidental meeting is very remote. But I don’t know quite what Mary said: the first I heard of her having said anything was on the boat.”
“Oh, it didn’t amount to much really.” Miss Walton leaned back in her swivel-chair and fixed her eyes on a grocer’s complimentary calendar over her desk while in her plummy voice she went on to describe her meeting with Joan Allison. “This young woman came into the shop where I was getting ices for the children; she said good morning, addressing us all by name. I assumed she was someone I should have known–but I’m not going over all that again. She asked Mary if she were looking forward to the wedding on the following day–a girl who had been nursemaid to the children was getting married, you see–and Mary said she was longing to go but couldn’t because everyone was being herded off to Dublin to satisfy her grand-mother’s matriarchal urges. I think that was the expression she used. I was the more surprised, and distressed, because she and my aunt normally dote on each other and agree about everything.”
“Yes,” Duffy murmured encouragingly.
“Oh, well, then the child went on to say that all the family, except her grandmother, believed the trip would be a waste of time and that, while they were in Dublin, their cousin Hector would land at Shannon and would find Moore Court deserted when he got there. She inferred that there were wheels within wheels and that great offence would be given by their not turning up at the wedding. She got it all out so quickly I couldn’t stop her. This was just outside the door of the shop, too, and people were going in and out all the time. Anyone might have heard.”
“I see.” For a moment Duffy listened to the throbbing of the boats engine; an increase in the volume of sound confirmed that it was indeed approaching. “Two points arise out of that,” he said. “I’ve always thought it odd that the whole family went to the airport. Mr. O’Brien Moore would surely have constituted an adequate welcoming committee by himself. It seems a long journey for an old lady and for a child as young as Michael. Apart from that, I’m surprised at Mary talking as she did to a comparative stranger; I may be wrong but I got the impression that she didn’t much care for Joan Allison. Can you make any comment at all?”
“Now that you mention it, it does seem odd.” Cynthia Walton turned to stare at the detective, but her eyes were unfathomable. “I shouldn’t really have expected Mary to know the woman. But if you’re right and she disliked her, she might have prattled away about the first thing that came into her head to hide the fact. Some people do that, you know.”
Duffy nodded. “I agree. A good point.”
“In my aunt’s case––” She hesitated. “I–I hate speaking ill of anyone as good and faithful as Martin Clohessy, but it was quite obvious that he’d go up the mountain and get poteen and arrive at the wedding so bottled that he’d have to be thrown out. My aunt may have been glad of the opportunity to avoid the unpleasantness both for herself and the children–and for Martin. They’re all very fond of him. They need to be, I’m afraid; with poteen on board he’s a menace.”
“I see. Do you agree with Mrs. O’Brien Moore that it’s impossible that Clohessy, drunk or sober, could have committed the murder?”
“Psychologically impossible you mean?” She considered the matter judicially. “Yes, I think so. He certainly wouldn’t plan a murder at Moore Court, and if he killed in a drunken frenzy the first thing he’d do would be to get rid of the body. Even if he was incapable of walking he’d go on his hands and knees to drag it away into the bushes before passing out. He’s fanatically loyal–and I really mean fanatically. Moore Court has an almost religious significance for him; and not only for him.” She gave a short, hard laugh. “I think we’re all a little tarred with that brush, particularly perhaps those of us whose connection with the place is indirect. It seems tremendously important to us that it should go on, because–as long as it’s in O’Brien Moore hands–it symbolises the family. The fact that that sort of feeling is dying out all over the world makes us hold all the faster to it here.” Her face was flushed, as if she had been brought to talk of something indelicate; she laughed again briefly. “I suppose I’m being incomprehensible? I must seem a strange product of the Columbia School of Journalism.”
“I think,” said Duffy, “that I understand perfectly.”
For some seconds the sound of running feet and heavy breathing had been audible; now Mr. K., ears a-flop, burst into the room and launched his fore-quarters onto his mistress’s knees where he rested, panting vociferously. Behind the dog came the children, and in their wake followed Hector, lending a supporting arm to a fat, red-faced woman in a cotton apron.
“Glory be to God! Miss Walton dear, are ye safe?” The woman inquired in a loud voice that was somewhat handicapped by the fact that she had not paused to regain her breath. “Isn’t it terrible the wickedness that’s abroad in the world to-day? No one is safe, high or low, gentle or simple.” She sank heavily into a convenient chair. “Well, I’ve flopped,” she announced resignedly and began to fan herself with her apron.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have come over, Mrs. Scully,” Cynthia Walton protested. “They shouldn’t have let you. I only wanted to know if you had seen any strangers in the lane to-day. This is Superintendent Duffy of the Civic Guards, by the way. He will be interested.”
Mrs. Scully extended a podgy hand after having polished it on her apron. “Well now, it’s the fine big man he is,” she said approvingly. “He’ll be well able to deal with the miscreant, when he locates him–and, please God, it will be soon. There was so a strange motorcar down this way less than an hour ago. I couldn’t see it properly over the top of the hedge, only the roof and the dust and it going like a streak of lightning. But ’twas no kin of Miss Walton. I said to myself at the time–‘It’s a black stranger,’ I said. ‘The saints preserve us! What’s his business?’”
“When did he go back towards the main road?” Duffy asked.
“Twenty minutes later, maybe, an’ he still going like the wind. I wasn’t quick enough either time to get a decent look at him.”
“Then how can you be sure it was a stranger?”
“Oh, sure no decent Christian would drive down the bohereen at a rate of knots like that. And didn’t see the root of the car? ’Twas small and black. No one that has a small black car ever comes down here, except the canon, or the doctor, or Flynn the agent an odd time–and none of them would drive as if seven scarlet divils were after them, and it couldn’t have been the writing woman that was down here on Tuesday–isn’t she dead?” Mrs. Scully struggled to her feet. “I must be off now, Miss,” she said. “Murderers or no murderers! I left the bread in the oven.”
“I was going to make some tea.” Cynthia Walton, too, got up, pushing Mr. K. back to the floor. “Stay and have a cup?”
“Thank you, Miss, but my bread will be destroyed if I don’t hurry. When the boys get back
to-night I’ll send Tomeen over with his gun to guard the house, so that you can sleep easy in your bed.”
“I’ll be all right.” Cynthia Walton gave the older woman a smile that was almost affectionate. “I have Mr. K. to look after me and I have a gun. My father left me a perfectly good Colt revolver which I’m quite capable of using. It’s all wrapped up in oily rags on the––” Suddenly she froze and her face blanched. Without a further word she dashed from the room.
Uninvited, her guests followed her to the box-room and grouped themselves about the door while she climbed onto a stool to search a high shelf. She groped behind a double row of jars of home-made jam, then groped again; frantically she searched a third time before turning a frightened face to Duffy.
“It’s gone,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “My gun’s gone.”
CHAPTER VI
THERE WAS no time for tea. The gun’s disappearance had underlined the seriousness of the situation, although its urgency might not be so great as seemed to be the case. Miss Walton had not checked on the presence of the Colt for some weeks; it could have been removed on some previous occasion. There was, too, the possibility that some relatively innocent explanation might yet be found of the recent intrusion at the cottage. The likelihood, however, was that the new developments were merely part of the pattern that was centred on the murder at Moore Court, and the taking of a fresh weapon suggested further violent intent. It is understandable, therefore, that Duffy was anxious to lose no time in crossing the water to regain the mobility afforded by his car. In his most piercing tones Michael advanced an additional reason for haste.
“Casey’s cutter is coming round the island,” the little boy reported after a reconnaissance to the end of the lawn. “There are lots of men in her and she’s heading for our jetty.”
Duffy closed the book in which he had been noting the particulars of the missing gun and returned it to his pocket; he followed the rest of the party down to the water’s edge.
“Would you look at the villains!” exclaimed Mrs. Scully in a voice that might well have carried to the other side of the bay. “The saints preserve us. What’s their business at all?”
Under bare spars the cutter was heading for Moore Court, moving with the unnatural uprightness of a boat designed for sail which is for the time being propelled by an engine. The occupants did not look like holiday-makers. Nevertheless Duffy felt that he would not require more than one guess as to their business.
“It looks as if the Press has arrived,” he observed, climbing down into their own little craft. “Let’s go. I’ll see you later this evening, Miss Walton.”
“Reporters is it?” Mrs. Scully raised her podgy hands to Heaven. “Have they no shame? If one of ’em sets foot on this side of the bay, I’ll have Tomeen cut the ground from under him with his shotgun. Let you hurry now, sir,” she added encouragingly to Duffy, “and put them foreign barbarians under lock and key where they belong.”
The boat was already under way, with Duffy, Hector and the two children aboard, and under the influence of a fully opened throttle was rapidly widening the gap between it and die shore. Cynthia Walton stood, a lone figure on the jetty, one hand raised in a gesture of farewell, while her dog rushed madly up and down the steps and barked his personal valediction; behind them Mrs. Scully could be seen waddling heavily up the lane towards her own home, her oven and her bread. The detective was not particularly happy about the situation but, since there was no telephone within miles, he could do no more than make the best speed possible towards Moore Court. He turned his attention to the cutter, whose course was converging with their own.
“The distance is about the same but they have the legs of us,” pronounced Mary judicially. “They’ll get there first. I hope the dogs bite them.”
It was in the main a silent passage; everyone’s attention seemed to be concentrated on the unequal race. Only when it was over and the supposed reporters had vanished in the trees did Hector venture to ask a question, perhaps with the intention of distracting the children from thoughts of the invasion of their home.
“Where does Peregrine Walton live?” he inquired.
“Right up there at the end of the bay,” said Mary, pointing away from the island along the length of the narrow stretch of water across which they were moving. “By road his place is about half-way between us and Aunt Cyn’s.”
“Then it wouldn’t be too far for her to go and spend the night with her brother if she feels at all nervous,” Hector observed. “She might prefer that to Tomeen and his blunderbuss. What do you think, Mr. Duffy?”
“She might feel happier,” the detective agreed, “though I doubt if there’s any real danger–to her at any rate.” He was far from being convinced but he saw no reason to dwell on the matter in front of the children. “Anyhow I shall have men on the watch to-night.”
“Aunt Cyn never sets foot in Uncle Perry’s house,” said Michael matter-of-factly.
Hector swung round in astonishment to the little boy. “Why on earth not?” he inquired.
“Because,” began Michael. “Er ah um.” He abandoned an effort of concentration and grinned engagingly. “I don’t know.”
“Because of Lua.” Mary’s voice was low and her expression was that of one both baffled and wearied by the unpredictability of the young. “Michael darling, you shouldn’t repeat things that you overhear and don’t understand. We all say things we don’t mean sometimes.”
“I don’t,” replied her brother promptly, “except when I’m playing and say things that I imagine–like crocodiles.”
Duffy’s mind had leapt to the significance of the exclamation mark in the chief superintendent’s list; after Dr. Walton’s name had been written that of–“Miss Lua Kennedy, his secretary!” A maiden lady might well resent the existence of her brother’s mistress, but there had been no sign of antagonism between the two women in the drawing-room at Moore Court. Perhaps it was only the matriarchal influence of Mrs. O’Brien Moore that had preserved the peace; there still remained, however, the fact that Lua had borrowed Miss Walton’s boat for her sunbathing expedition to the island when she could, presumably, have had her choice of two or three boats from the Moore Court jetty, a point which was no farther from her employer’s house and quite as convenient to her objective. The detective wished that he could in decency ask questions.
“I suppose you might as well know it all,” said Mary obligingly. She had apparently been brooding on the subject. “Aunt Cyn dotes on Uncle Perry and thinks she should be the one to help him with his writing. After all, she studied to be a writer–though I don’t think she can be a very good one–and she’s very hot on shorthand and typing. It’s funny: Uncle Perry hasn’t a clue about how she feels–or else he pretends not to notice, like Grandmama.”
So this was the official explanation. Duffy wondered whether Mary really believed it or merely accepted it as a pious fiction; it was probably at least a part of the truth. The detective now felt himself at liberty to seek further enlightenment. “Can you tell me why Miss Kennedy makes a habit of borrowing a boat from someone who dislikes her?” he asked. “She could have had one of yours, couldn’t she?”
“Of course. But Lua doesn’t realise the way Aunt Cyn feels either. She probably thinks of her as rather a shy person who needs to be taken out of herself–and that’s just what Lua tries to do. She’s always running after Aunt Cyn and trying to be all girls together. And Aunt Cyn detests it and detests her more every day, though she hides it.” She brooded for a few seconds in silence, before adding–“Of course Pop would lend a boat any time. He likes Lua.”
Hector brought the discussion to a more personal level. “Do you like her?” he asked.
“Me? Like Lua, do you mean?”
“Yes. You’re a literary person too, aren’t you? You’re just as much entitled to be jealous of anyone who monopolises the genius of the family.”
“Oh, but I don’t do shorthand, and I type very slowly.�
� She was completely serious. “I think Uncle Perry’s perfectly right to have somebody that he enjoys dictating to. Aunt Cyn’s much too formidable. You can’t dictate to a person that you’re a bit in awe of, can you? Not properly I mean. It’d prevent your thoughts from flowing freely.”
“It certainly would,” the American agreed. He stifled a chuckle. “I’m sure my thoughts would flow beautifully freely working with Lua.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t stand for it, if I felt like she does,” Mary pursued.
“Stand for what?” Hector’s thoughts were apparently flowing in the wrong channel.
“For anyone getting in my way.” She glanced quickly at Duffy and coloured slightly; it seemed that she had forgotten his presence. “Grown-ups are afraid to be ruthless,” she said sourly and relapsed into silence, returning her attention to steering the boat.
As they rounded the end of the jetty, it became evident to them that the cutter was moored fore and aft in such a way as to cut off direct access to the steps. It was necessary in consequence to clamber across the larger boat to get to land; this brought much carping from the children, though it delayed their disembarkation by no more than a few seconds. Michael suggested that the interloper should be cut adrift, but was dissuaded by his sister from what she contemptuously described as an unsubtle course of action. Delaying only to detach the outboard engine from the stern of their own craft and return it to its place in the boat-house, tire whole party set off at a jog-trot up the path that led to the house. Curiosity had got the better of them all.
The small group on the steps of the house was composed of unmistakable newspapermen; they were in colloquy with a maid, only a thin vertical section of whom was visible round the edge of a door which was obviously on its chain. It appeared that an impasse had been arrived at; one or two of the men had broken away from the group, and a cameraman was backing off from the house to get a good angle for a photograph. The police car, parked unobtrusively under the shadow of the trees, had not yet apparently been recognised; neither its driver nor Sergeant O’Callaghan was to be seen. It was safe to assume that the family was “not at home,” but it did not follow that the reporters, led by the high pressure operators of the Daily Record, would allow the matter to rest there.
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