The Longer Bodies (17 page)

Priscilla nodded.

‘Don't elaborate, dear,' she said, gently but firmly. ‘It's quite clear. In fact, I've thought it out for myself ages ago.'

‘Yes. Quite. Well, you see, if Hobson had been me, or Frank, or M., or Cowes, or even Brown-Jenkins, I should say at once that Anthony did him in on the principle of clearing the field for himself. Then, if that had been so, the attempt on me last night would have been the next logical step, and that would be followed now by deep-laid plots against the rest of you in turn.'

‘
The Greene Murder Case
,' said Priscilla, nodding her head sagely. ‘You might lend it to Celia when you've finished it. She hasn't read it.'

‘Well, I won't say the book didn't give me the idea,' admitted Hilary, ‘but, you see, the murderer has started all wrong. Instead of laying for one of us, he's only hit a bloke on the head who had nothing to do with the case: to wit, Hobson. Now he makes a rather pie attempt on me, and even gets Cowes to lure me out of danger while Rome burns.'

‘What
is
it that you're trying to say, angel?' asked his sister plaintively.

‘Well, I began by saying that if Anthony thought Great-aunt had decided that the men of the family were a bit of a washout—and don't forget that she's now seen:

1. Malpas muff the high jump at five feet eleven;
   
2. Frank make his record long jump of nineteen feet seven inches, a distance which a schoolboy champion can equal;
   
3. Cowes put the shot once on his own toe, twice behind him instead of in front, once into the bathchair—luckily when she'd just got out of it to hobble over to Kost and curse him for letting us get slack—and once a distance of nearly fifteen feet, after which he retired to bed for two days, suffering from strained eyebrow or something;
   
4. Brown-Jenkins persistently refuse to make any attempt at mastering the pole-vault action ever since Kost handed him backchat on the subject nearly three weeks ago;
   
5. Me make my record throw with the discus of fifty-eight feet nine inches—'
   

‘That sounds good to me,' said Priscilla meekly.

‘Well,' returned Hilary, ‘I know that the world's record figures for the event are one hundred and fifty-eight feet, one and three-quarter inches, that's all.'

‘Yes, but that wasn't an Englishman,' retorted Priscilla.

‘U.S.A.,' said Hilary patiently. ‘And M.C. Nokes's English native record is one hundred and twenty-six feet one inch,' he added, ‘so poor H. is a bit of an also-ran, isn't he? No, the point I'm trying to make is this. She might have made up her mind that we men are a dud lot, and so the girls will inherit. Well, if Anthony found that out, you see—'

‘Thank you,' said Priscilla stiffly. ‘Your remarks are in rather dubious taste, dear, aren't they? Hullo! The inspector has left the door ajar and that ginger cat has just got into the sunk garden. Great-aunt hates the sight of him, so I'd better chase him out.'

She entered the sunk garden and called the cat. Having ejected him and closed the door, she returned to her brother.

‘The gardeners must have dumped a fresh load of gravel in there,' she said. ‘What else were you trying to lead up to in your Bright Talks to Young People?'

Hilary considered.

‘Oh, ah, yes!' he said. ‘My second point. As Hobson was murdered instead of one of us, and as it was Cowes who invited me to play chess up at the house and so probably saved my life, Anthony must be the murderer. Especially as he's apparently made a bolt for it.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Priscilla. ‘Oh, here comes the inspector again. I wonder whether he's found out anything. What's in the parcel, do you suppose?'

‘If they could find the weapon it would be something,' said Hilary. ‘You knew M. and I went to the inquest on Hobson, didn't you?'

‘Yes. Was the weapon mentioned?'

‘Well, the medical evidence was to the effect that, beyond the fact of its being blunt, smooth, and possibly rounded at the end, and that it seemed unlikely that more than one blow had been struck with it, there was no indication as to the nature of the instrument with which the blow had been delivered.'

He hailed the approaching police officer.

‘I suppose you haven't discovered the weapon yet,' he said.

Bloxham looked grave, and glanced at the brown-paper parcel he was carrying.

‘Well, I hope not, sir,' he replied, and walked past them and entered the sunk garden.

‘Now, what do you suppose he means by that?' enquired Priscilla. ‘Oh, and by the way,' she added, ‘I'm going to dinner with the Digots tonight. Ought I to ask the inspector's permission, do you think? They are having a most thrilling visitor.'

‘Who is it?'

‘Beatrice Lestrange Bradley. I've heard her lecture. She is marvellously clever.'

‘Oh, yes. The psychology bird. Evil-looking old dame. She had an honorary degree shoved on her while Frank was up, I remember. Weird kind of creature, rather like a vulture to look at, and with much the same sort of nature. Has a brilliant son, hasn't she?'

‘Nothing like as brilliant as herself,' retorted Priscilla, quick to defend her sex. ‘And, talking of dinner, there's the whistle for lunch. I do hope Mr Bloxham didn't annoy cook, because I'm frightfully hungry, but only if there's something nice to eat.'

Mr Bloxham had not annoyed the cook. He had tapped on the door of the outer scullery and had been bidden to step within. Confronting him was a smallish kitchenmaid, and behind her, with a soup ladle grasped menacingly in her right hand and a gigantic pepperpot in her left, was the formidable Mrs Macbrae.

‘Ou, come ben,' she observed, replacing her weapons on the kitchen table much as her forebears might have laid aside their arms upon perceiving the form of friend where they had expected foe. ‘Ye'll be the police.'

The inspector acknowledged the compliment of being referred to in the plural by a genial smile which widened as Mrs Macbrae continued judicially, ‘I doubt ye'r ower young tae tak' sic responsibeelity on ye tae be speirin' at a wumman auld eneugh tae be your mither. I thocht ye were that sneakin' devil of a Herrin' that I wis takin' the pepper tae ye. But come ben. Ye're a braw bonnie laddie, though no ower gifted, I'm thinking. What will ye be speirin' aboot this time? Ou, ay, and whiles I'm thinkin' aboot it—will a footprint be ony manner o' guid tae ye? Forbye, I hae a grrand ane I'll show ye.'

She led him into the outer scullery. On the windowsill a large aluminium dish-cover had been placed. She lifted it and disclosed the muddy print of a shoe.

‘'Twas no there when I went to my bed the night, forbye I always shine my electric torch on the ledge to drive off the old tomcat that gets roosting there, and the sill was white as the snaw. Look for yoursel'. There's no onything but the footprint. Very exceptional, that, ye'll be thinkin', and ye'll be thinkin' right. I ken verra well wha made yon track, and I doubt 'twas no leddy.'

‘It's the print of a lady's shoe,' said Bloxham, eyeing it through a magnifying glass.

‘Ou, ay. Nae doubt aboot it. But no leddy made it. Noo, ask yoursel', as a sensible laddie, dae ye see Miss Caddick climbing windowsills and sic havers? Weel, 'tis her print. I wouldna let her have the shoon till I'd shown ye the marks. But 'tis Herrin' did that same, the smotherin' kelpie. Here's the shoon. Do ye look them weel ower.'

‘Yes,' said Bloxham. ‘I see your point, Mrs Macbrae, but—' He replaced the shoes on the floor.

‘Dinna ye see? He was oot last nicht! Look at the dirrt! Where will ye find dirrt like yon? I'll no deceive ye, ye puir haverin' body that canna credit the evidence o' your ain senses! 'Tis by the water. Soople your limbs, and rin doon there. 'Twill na tak' ye mair than a meenute. See for yoursel', mon! See for yoursel'! And, if he was oot, he could hae set light to the wee hoose! Ou, ay! And speir at him aboot the wee beasties! I'm thinking he'll be too frightened tae lee. Ask him did he no gang for the wee beasties!'

‘The rabbits?'

‘Ay, laddie! The rabbits! He was oot the nicht the wee hoose burned. And he was oot the nicht Hobson deid.'

‘Look here,' said Bloxham, abandoning the unprofitable footprint, which he had turned to reexamine, ‘what are you insinuating?'

‘I'm no insinuating onything, in a way o' speaking,' replied Mrs Macbrae, with dignity. ‘I'm plying your puir brain wi' a few random suggestions. And if ye're going tae turn ungrateful, I'll tell ye nae mair. Na, na—I'll see masel' drooned first!'

The inspector grinned good-naturedly, and was about to leave her and walk out into the kitchen garden when his eye chanced to fall upon a curious instrument hanging by a leather thong from one of the great beams of the ceiling.

‘What's that thing?' he asked, as casually as he could for excitement.

Mrs Macbrae glanced up at it.

‘I'm thinking it's twae things in ane, laddie,' she said solemnly. ‘I wouldna hae spoken o't had ye no spoken first. Yon club was brocht hame frae Jerusalem by my sailor son, and is thocht tae be a weapon left behind by ane of the Crusaders wha focht in the Holy Wars. Masel' I'm no all that sure that the same wasna used to knock the man Hobson on the heid. It would hae daen that fine, ye ken. It's fu' weighty, and verra bonnie tae the hand.'

She reached up and slipped the weapon from its strap. Bloxham took it in his hands.

‘Why, the top must be solid iron,' he said, testing it for weight and balance.

‘Ay, verra likely,' agreed Mrs Macbrae unemotionally. ‘Well, there y' are. I've helpit ye all I can. Good day tae ye. Mind and speir at the man Herrin'. Herself climb ower windowsills! The puir haverin' creature must hae been daft tae think he could tak in Janet Macbrae like that!'

‘I must keep this for the present,' said Bloxham, still holding the iron-headed club.

‘Emily, do ye be bringing a wee bit o' brown paper for the gentleman,' commanded Mrs Macbrae. ‘Ye'll no be breakin' it?' she enquired anxiously of Bloxham, as she wrapped up the weapon for him. ‘My laddie's a braw laddie, and I wouldna like him tae be thinkin' I was ower fou wi' his gifties.'

It was an exceedingly thoughtful inspector of police who passed Hilary Yeomond and his sister, and walked up the steps of the front garden. Having gained the terrace, he paused and glanced back. The heap of sand left by the gardeners seemed to have grown larger. Annoying of Mrs Puddequet to allow people all over the sunk garden. What had the man on duty been up to, to allow people to throw loads of gravel all over what might prove to be valuable clues? Still fuming, he thundered at the front door of the house, and was readmitted to the drawing room.

Old Mrs Puddequet was still there, although Malpas had gone, and the inspector was invited to remain for lunch. He declined the invitation, and said abruptly:

‘I must return immediately to Market Longer. I shall be glad if you will arrange for all your household—family, servants, everybody—to be at home this afternoon.'

After his departure, Great-aunt Puddequet was wheeled in to lunch, where she made known the inspector's decree to the assembled members of the family.

‘Bother him!' said Priscilla. ‘I do hope he won't be long over it, whatever it is. I'm going to dinner at the Digots'. Will you drive me over, H.?'

Lunch over, Great-aunt Puddequet was proceeding to her room, where she proposed to rest until the arrival of the inspector, when one of the maids came up to the bathchair and said breathlessly:

‘If you please, mam, could you give us some idea what to do with Mr Timon's food until he comes back?'

‘Comes back?' squealed Great-aunt Puddequet, who had not enjoyed the lunch. ‘Comes back where?'

‘To his lunch, mam. If you please, mam, his bed haven't been slept in and he was not there to take his breakfast, and he isn't here to have his lunch, either. We only wondered whether cook ought to keep something hot for him, like, or whether perhaps he wouldn't be back until tonight or anything.'

‘What
is
the girl talking about, Companion Caddick?' squealed Great-aunt Puddequet. ‘Here, take me to my room, and get me settled, and then you can come back and find out all about the matter. If that boy has taken my chequebook without my permission he can take himself off for good, but he must be found by the time the inspector arrives. Mind that!'

Miss Caddick pushed the bathchair into the bedroom, and prepared her mistress for a short siesta, then, dutifully, she returned to the girl.

‘Now then, Emily,' she said, ‘you must tell me when Mr Anthony was last seen.'

‘Well, miss, he was not at dinner, was he? He changed his clothes, and then he went to the lecture with Mr Kost in the village hall.'

‘Lecture? Oh, yes, I know. Mr Kost wanted some of the young gentlemen to accompany him. It was a lantern lecture about sport or something, wasn't it?'

‘That's right, miss. That's why Mr Kost had his supper so early. Quarter to seven instead of quarter-past eight. But Mr Anthony never come back to sleep. Couldn't 'a' done. His bed's not been touched.'

‘Never came back to sleep,' repeated Miss Caddick, thoughtfully. Suddenly her pale eyes lighted up. ‘All right, Emily. I will tell Mrs Puddequet what you say. Keep a lookout in case he returns, because the inspector is coming to question us all again.'

The maid disappeared below stairs, and Miss Caddick, filled with the joy of the huntress, hastened on to the terrace.

‘Of course,' she thought as she traversed the hall, ‘Mr Anthony set fire to Mr Hilary Yeomond's hut, and has fled the consequences. What a bad boy! I must be on the spot to break this momentous news to the inspector as soon as he appears.'

She had not long to wait. As soon as she stepped outside the front door of the house she was alarmed to notice Hilary's dog Moggridge scratching busily at a heap of gravel in the sunk garden. Miss Caddick was afraid of dogs, and especially of Moggridge, who was no thoroughbred, and no beauty, and had a strong strain of bloodhound in his makeup. She leaned upon the stone balustrade and called to him to desist. Moggridge raised his great square head for half a second, wagged his tail, and burrowed on at his research work. Miss Caddick was about to call out to him again when the inspector, followed by the sergeant, pushed open the wooden door of the sunk garden and stood watching the dog at his toil. Suddenly Bloxham bent down and peered intently at the heap of gravel which Moggridge was scattering in all directions. The sergeant stood stolidly by.