He paused on the threshold to turn his torch upon the hinges and exclaimed,
“They’re new! Look here! The door’s old, but the hinges are new! It had been wrenched off like the others, but somebody has taken the trouble to patch it up.”
He stepped inside, set the beam dancing, and turned to let Miss Silver pass.
“It’s all right—no corpses here.”
It would have been dark if it hadn’t been for the torch, the rather small window being completely blocked by one of the derelict doors, which leaned against it and took the place of a shutter. Where the leaning of the door would have admitted daylight or have allowed a light in the room to become visible at night, the gap had been filled with paper crumpled up and stuffed between wood and wall.
Frank Abbott said with a sardonic inflection,
“Someone’s been busy making this place light-proof.” He turned the torch back into the room. “He’s had a fire in the hearth too. Look at that charred wood—that’s not been here since seventeen hundred and something.”
The beam moved. It showed a couple of sacks lying rugwise across the hearth, and, standing where it would face the fire, a heavy oak settle, old but solid. The light, travelling over it, showed where a leg had been mended and not so long ago, the new wood showing up against the old. They moved round the big jutting arm, and Miss Silver said,
“Dear me!”
The settle had been heaped with fern and straw over which something had been spread. The beam went to and fro. Quite unmistakably the something was an army blanket.
Frank Abbott’s search of the Forester’s House disclosed no corpse. He came away with the certainty that Mary Stokes had fled from the place in terror, but with no further evidence as to what had caused such a headlong flight. A second certainty was that someone had been using the house—someone who had taken the trouble to rehang a door, make a room roughly habitable, and secure privacy by completely blocking the window. Without actual proof, it was impossible not to put two and two together or to resist the conclusion that Mary Stokes had a lover, and that she had been meeting him at the Forester’s House. So far so good. But there is nothing criminal about a meeting of illicit lovers. However morally undesirable such a situation may be, it is not one with which a detective sergeant from Scotland Yard need concern himself. Just where the horrid apparition of a murdered girl impinged upon these certainties, or to what extent this apparition could be identified with Mrs. Hopper’s missing lodger from Hampstead, he felt quite unable to say. The missing earring was as absent as the corpse of its owner, at least to the somewhat cursory search which was all he would permit himself.
“That room must be a mass of fingerprints, and until we’ve got them down in black and white I can’t have anything disturbed. Better get home now. I’ll get on to Smith and tell him to bring along the doings.”
After lunch Miss Silver permitted herself to rest in the very comfortable armchair which her bedroom afforded. Frank was meeting Inspector Smith from Lenton, and her kind hostess had provided a small tea-party. “Miss Alvina Grey—the late Rector’s daughter. And Mrs. Bowse—the widowed sister of our doctor, Cyril Wingfield. ” What Monica did not add was that the tea-party had been prompted by Frank.
“Collect your ablest village gossips and just prod them when they flag!”
Monica laughed.
“Darling Frank, they won’t, they can’t, they don’t know how. What do you want them to gossip about?”
“Anything and anyone, but rather specially Mary Stokes and anyone she may have been carrying on with. I can’t believe that Mary hasn’t got herself talked about in a place like Deeping.”
Monica looked thoughtful.
“Well, you know, that’s the extraordinary thing. As far as I know, there hasn’t been any gossip about her at all—except, of course, that everyone knows Joe Turnberry tried to make up to her and got his nose bitten off.”
“Oh, well, she’d be a cut above Joseph.”
“That’s what poor Joe was given to understand, and not at all politely.”
He looked at her, frowning.
“Look here, Monica, I think she’s got a lover. I want to know who he is, and I want to know as quickly as possible. I can give you a few pointers about him. He’s probably not Deeping born and bred. He’s served in the Army. And he’s got a cast-iron reason for keeping this affair with Mary dark. Can you help me out?”
Her eyes wandered from his. With characteristic irrelevance she exclaimed,
“But Frank—who hasn’t?”
“Hasn’t what?”
“What you said—served in the Army. But as to anything else, I don’t know why you think I know about the Stokes girl’s affairs, because I don’t.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Bowse and Miss Alvina will.”
“They know a great many things that never happen,” said Monica Abbott. “Cis had better go and practice the organ— she can’t stand them.” She gave a not very happy laugh. “Well, at any rate whilst they’re talking about Mary Stokes they’ll be giving Cis and Grant a rest.”
The tea-party was a great success. Miss Silver imparted a very pretty knitting stitch to both ladies, and was promised Mrs. Caddie’s recipe for strawberry jam.
“That is, of course, if I can coax it out of her,” said Miss Alvina. “I have been in the kitchen when she has made it, but you know how it is, if you are not doing a thing yourself you don’t take a great deal of notice. So I couldn’t tell you what she does to make it quite, quite different from anybody else’s and so very superior. She won’t give the recipe to anyone in Deeping, and she won’t make it for anyone but me. She might be persuaded if I said it was for a lady from London, but of course I can’t promise—”
Mrs. Bowse, a handsome, florid forty-five, came down on Miss Vinnie’s twitterings with sledgehammer common sense.
“Promise? I should say not! And as to getting a recipe out of Ellen Caddie—” she spread large weatherbeaten hands to the fire—“what a hope! She’s one of the sort that would rather die than part with any of her belongings. After all, why should she? She hasn’t got so many that she can afford to. That wretched Albert of hers may be slipping through her fingers, but at least she can hold on to her recipe for strawberry jam.”
Miss Silver coughed, and remarked that Albert was a name which had gone very much out of fashion—“But perhaps in a village like Deeping—”
Both visitors began simultaneously to inform her that Deeping had not been responsible for Albert Caddie or his name, the robust voice of Mrs. Bowse giving her an unfair advantage. It was she who in the end completed the Caddie saga.
“Served in the Commandos, and got a job as chauffeur to old Mr. Harlow. Then when his nephew Mark came in for the property he kept him on. I believe he’s very handy about the place, but he’s a lot too good-looking, and Mark will always have trouble with him—I told him so the other day, and he only laughed. Of course you can’t expect a young man to take that sort of thing seriously. Poor Ellen Caddie did a bad day’s work for herself when she married him—more fool she. Must be at least ten years older than he is, and never was anything to look at. What does she suppose he married her for? Her savings, and what Lady Evelyn left her! It’s as plain as a pikestaff—I told her so myself. ‘Ellen,’ I said, ‘you’re a fool.’ And she made a face like a mule and said she’d a right to do what she liked. ‘That’s as may be,’ I said. ‘But what is he marrying you for—you ask yourself that!’ ”
“She’s a very good cook,” said Miss Vinnie.
The sledgehammer came down again.
“And he lets her go out to cook for you instead of staying at home and doing it for him! I tell you there’s something wrong when a man lets his wife go out to work like that. I told her so straight out. ‘He’s getting good wages, and what’s he spending them on?’—that’s what I said. ‘Or who? You ask yourself that, Ellen!’ I said.”
“I shouldn’t have thought Mark Harlow could really afford to keep a chauffeur,” said Miss Alvina. “Old Mr. Harlow’s affairs were said to be very much embarrassed—and then of course the death duties—”
“Oh, but he had money of his own.” Mrs. Bowse was emphatic.
“I never understood—”
“He couldn’t keep up the place as he does if he hadn’t something very substantial.” She turned to Monica Abbott. “That’s what your son-in-law found—wasn’t it? And of course worse for him than for Mark, because he was really only quite a distant cousin, wasn’t he, and that would make those wretched duties so very much heavier. Quite iniquitous of course, but we’ll never get rid of them, I suppose. Now do tell me, Mrs. Abbott—is it really true that he’s been selling the family diamonds?”
Monica smiled vaguely. Behind the vagueness there was a burning anger. It was a solace to reflect that Mabel Bowse could have clothed herself in no more unbecoming garment than the green-and-brown checked tweed she was wearing. It was too tight, it was too bright. It bulged where she bulged, and it clung where it shouldn’t have clung. Soothed by these thoughts, she said in a dreamy voice,
“I don’t know—why don’t you ask him?”
Mrs. Bowse said, “Oh, well—” and turned without visible discomfiture to Miss Silver. “We’re all quite devoted to Grant Hathaway and most anxious to see him make a success of his experiments. It’s all very modern and scientific, and a great deal too technical for me. But of course that sort of thing just eats capital, and it’s years before you can expect any return, so I’m afraid he’s having a tough time. He succeeded a very old cousin, and the place had been allowed to go to rack and ruin.”
Monica had the feeling that she might have been allowed to explain her own son-in-law, but being cross with Mrs. Bowse didn’t get you anywhere, it just bounced off. She had passed to Mark Harlow now.
“He came into the Grange just about the same time that Grant came into Deepside, but he doesn’t attempt to farm the land himself. He’s not interested in that sort of thing. As he says, he spent the six years of the war working very hard and getting very dirty, and he thinks he’s entitled to be clean for a change and have some leisure. Well, I don’t mince my words, and I said to him, ‘You know, you’re an idle young man,’ and he laughed and said he was. Actually, you know, he’s musical—writes songs and gets quite a lot of money for them. He did the music for that revue that was so successful last year—what was it called?—all those things are so alike, I can’t remember. At least I know he did some of the songs, because he told me.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“How extremely interesting.”
Miss Vinnie murmured, “He’s really a very charming young man,” but that was as far as she was able to get. The deep, strong voice of Mrs. Bowse rolled over her.
“Well, it doesn’t go with farming, does it? He lets the land to Stokes, which saves him a lot of trouble, and Stokes is glad to get it because the grazing is so good. Stokes does a big dairy business. If that niece of his wasn’t such a finicking fine lady she could make herself very useful there. As it is, I think they’re very good to put up with her, and so I told Mrs. Stokes. ‘Why don’t you put that girl to a job of work?’ I said. And she didn’t like it a bit—got as red as if she’d scorched her face over the fire, and said Mary wasn’t strong. Well, I wasn’t going to put up with that, so I said, ‘She’s strong enough to be out till all hours, and she’s strong enough to go round with the eggs and butter to any house where there’s a good-looking young man.’ And would you believe it, she looked as if she was going to fly out at me. I really thought she was, but she stopped herself and said she must get on with her work.”
Miss Silver set down her teacup and remarked,
“So much goes on in a village, does it not? Really quite a little world. Most interesting. So Miss Stokes delivers the eggs and butter. Do you deal with her, Mrs. Abbott?”
Monica said, “Sometimes—when our hens don’t lay. Mrs. Stokes is cleverer with hers than I am. But we make our own butter. Cicely makes it. She’s very proud of her butter.”
“Most delicious,” said Miss Silver. “Country butter is always such a treat. Do your neighbours also deal with the Stokeses?”
Mrs. Bowse broke into a hearty laugh.
“Mark Harlow does, and so does Grant Hathaway. Silly, isn’t it, a farmer having to buy butter? I told him everyone was laughing over it, and he only laughed too and said, ‘Wait till my nursery grows up, then you’ll all find out what can be done in the milk and cream and butter line!’ Well, of course that’s all very well for a joke, and I’m sure I wish him every success, and so will every other woman in the place. That’s what I meant about the handsome young men. You don’t imagine Mary Stokes goes delivering down the village street? That would be rather too much like work, and not at all in her line. Oh, no, she just comes down the Lane and does Deepside, and the Grange, and Abbottsleigh, and if she doesn’t get a chance of making eyes at Grant or Mark, there’s always Albert Caddie.” She laughed in what Miss Silver considered a distressingly loud manner.
Miss Alvina sighed and said,
“I am afraid she must be very dull here—and after all it is natural for a girl to like young men.” She twittered a little as she continued. “I really don’t think it is very kind of you to talk about her like that, Mabel—and when she has had such a shock.” She turned back to Miss Silver. “Mrs. Abbott will have told you about the dreadful fright poor Mary had. She and Mr. Frank Abbott were having tea with me—so very pleasant. And then such a shock, poor Mary running in like that and saying she’d seen someone murdered.”
“Very startling indeed.”
Mrs. Bowse said, “Rubbish! Oh, not present company, you know. But this girl’s ridiculous story—pure exhibitionism the whole thing! I said so to my brother. ‘Cyril,’ I said, ‘Mary Stokes has no more seen a murdered corpse than I have. She’s bored to death at the farm, and she’s thought up a way of making everybody talk about her. You mark my words,’ I said, ‘it’s nothing but showing off.’ ”
Miss Alvina persevered in a small determined voice.
“Of course Dead Man’s Copse hasn’t at all a good name. I don’t know if you have heard the story.”
“I should like to hear it very much,” said Miss Silver.
Both ladies drew their chairs a little closer and the narration proceeded. If Frank Abbott had been there he would have been interested to notice that it varied by scarcely a word from the tale as she had told it to him.
Miss Silver listened with deep attention. When the story was done she commented on the harmful nature of a belief in witchcraft.
“It led, I fear, to many superstitions and cruelties.”
Miss Alvina agreed.
“Yes, indeed! My dear father was very much interested in the subject. He collected quite a number of stories of the kind and wrote them down. There were a few copies privately printed. I have a copy if you would care to see it. Old Mr. Hathaway had one too. He was a good deal interested in the subject himself— not Grant, you know, but the cousin from whom he inherited, old Mr. Alvin Hathaway. He and my father were very much of an age—he was ninety-five when he died—and they were very great friends. He was in fact my godfather, and I am called after him—Alvina.”
“A pretty and unusual name,” pronounced Miss Silver.
Mrs. Bowse had been supplying Monica Abbott with a number of horrid and undesired details about the decease of the village drunkard, having reached the topic via Mrs. Stokes, whose distant relative he happened to be. She now returned fortissimo to the conversation between Miss Silver and Miss Alvina Grey.
With a burst of hearty laughter she picked up the latter lady’s name and repeated it.
“Alvina—well, it is certainly uncommon. So that’s where you got it—I’ve often wondered. I shouldn’t have said thank you myself, but it’s too late to do anything about it now, I suppose. Thank heaven my parents didn’t wish anything fancy on to me! Mabel is a good plain name.”