All Fall Down

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The car came round for Ellis soon after breakfast. There was a bruise where Rattray’s fist had landed, but it had not interfered with his sleep, and he decided that it was not going to interfere with his meal.

The sergeant was at the door.

“You all right, sir?”

“Grand. Well—what’s the news! Found him?”

“Yes, sir. Railway line.”

“Like that, eh? Well—maybe it’s the best way out. Poor devil!”

They got into the car.

“I think the Inspector feels that way too, sir. At least, mostly.”

Ellis nodded. “You mean, we may have some trouble with the evidence.”

“I suppose it’ll come in that he was mad.”

“That would save trouble, certainly. We shouldn’t have to find a motive.”

“Was he mad, d’you reckon, sir?”

“When he killed her? No: not in the legal sense. I think he had a motive. A reason, anyway.”

The sergeant said no more. Evidently the subject still troubled his sense of delicacy, as his colour rose a little, and he concentrated on the steering wheel.

They reached the station, and Ellis went in to Bradstreet.

“Well, Bradder. That’s that.”

“Yes.” Bradstreet’s eyes were heavy and a little bloodshot.

“Bradder! You haven’t been to bed.”

“Too much to see to. How are you feeling?”

“Still a bit sore. Otherwise, fit as a flea.”

“Good.”

“When did you find him?”

“Twenty to six. In Prowse’s Cutting. Only a couple of miles away.”

“Had he been there long?”

“Four or five hours.”

“Instantaneous, I hope.”

“Must have been.”

Ellis pulled himself a chair, and sat down.

“Sorry,” Bradstreet said: and yawned.

“Well, Bradder, he’s saved us quite a bit of trouble. It’ll be easy to bring in a verdict of unsound mind.”

“To cover all three?” Bradder raised his head.

“Now, now, now! My dear Bradder, you know as well as I do there isn’t a scrap of evidence to connect him with the Matt business.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Bradstreet said. “To my way of thinking, he’s the only person we have got definite evidence against. He went into the house on Friday afternoon, on his own admission. He was observed to come out in a hurry and to look up and down the road, to see if anyone was watching. We don’t know how long he was in the house—we’ve only his own word that he was there just long enough to return the book: but, even if that’s true, it wouldn’t have taken long to do the job.”

“And to risk the row of upsetting all those books?”

“Not much risk. Joan was in the garden. It wouldn’t take him a minute to make sure that Mrs. Baildon was out. He’d only to look in the kitchen, and tiptoe quietly upstairs. Her bedroom and the bathroom are side by side, and, this weather, the doors’d be open.”

Ellis shook his head decisively.

“It’s physically possible, Bradder. I’ll admit that. But it’s wrong. There’s no motive.”

“I don’t see that. Not if he was mad.”

“I keep telling you he wasn’t.”

“I don’t see it,” Bradstreet persisted stubbornly. “I can’t see how you make that out. Everything you told me about him—that night when he came in and found you with his wife——”

“Damn it, Bradder. Don’t put it like that. You make me want a bath.”

“I could do with one myself. But, as I was saying—everything you said about him, the way he was all wild one minute, and quite calm the next: everything goes to show he was mad. I don’t mind betting the jury will think so too.”

“Bradder, I’d love to have you on my side in a row; and I’d hate to have you against me.”

“I expect that’s meant to be rude.”

“Far from it. Exactly the reverse. It’s an honest compliment, straight from the heart. I—hallo.”

There was a knock, and the sergeant put his head round.

“Reverend Rawlings to see you, sir.”

Bradstreet looked at Ellis.

“Show him in,” he said.

Mr. Rawlings came in. He was very pale, and his shoulders were bent forward. He came straight up to Bradstreet, ignoring Ellis.

“Inspector. I feel it is my duty to hand you this.”

He drew an envelope from his pocket, and with shaking hand gave it to Bradstreet. Bradstreet glanced at it, and raised his brows.

“Rattray’s writing,” he said.

The vicar inclined his head.

Bradstreet took out the letter, a single sheet, and spread it out on the desk. For what seemed a long time he read it. Then he looked once more at the envelope.

“Posted last evening, in time for the last collection. Seven-thirty,” he added, to Ellis. “That means his mind was made up before you met him.”

“I don’t want to seem inquisitive,” said Ellis, “but you haven’t yet told me what’s there. Is it his confession that he killed the girl?”

“Yes. And Matt Baildon.”

“What!” Ellis shouted.

“That’s right. Both of ’em. He says here ‘a double crime.’ And he says again, at the end ‘with these two terrible crimes on my conscience’ ”——

“Show me.”

Ellis snatched the letter. His lips moved, muttering aloud the incriminating words. He stared at the paper incredulously, then looked at Bradstreet, his face blank with bewilderment.

“I don’t understand it,” he stammered. “I—it’s——”

Then, with a rush, his forces returned. The colour flooded his face. He slammed the letter down on the desk.

“I don’t believe it,” he roared. “It’s not possible. It—it doesn’t make sense.”

Bradstreet and the vicar exchanged glances of commiseration. The vicar shook his head.

“There’s no going beyond what he says, I’m afraid,” Bradstreet said slowly.

“Indeed, no.” The vicar’s voice was broken. “I only wish there were. A churchwarden, too. One of my greatest helps. A man I would have staked my life on.”

Ellis looked at him with warm sympathy.

“He killed the girl, sir, in a fit of hysterical passion. But he didn’t kill the old man.”

“He says he did. No man would accuse himself of such a crime unnecessarily.”

“It’s my belief he was mad,” Bradstreet said. “If that is any consolation to you, Mr. Rawlings.”

“If he wrote that letter, and meant it, he must have been mad,” Ellis said. “Otherwise——” He began to pace the room, in a fury of agitation. After three or four lengths, he turned to them, his eyes projecting so that the whites showed all round.

“I’m the one that’s mad,” he cried. “I’d better give up the job.” He pointed to the letter. “If that’s true, then everything I know is nonsense; and I must be mad. Vicar: I pledge you my sanity Rattray didn’t kill Matt Baildon.”

The vicar shook his head again.

“I wish I could believe you, sir. But this poor, poor girl——” He clucked his tongue. “Will you want me any longer?” He asked Bradstreet. “Or may I go?”

“No, we needn’t trouble you any more, Mr. Rawlings. You have been of great help to us. Thank you very much.”

Ellis walked to the door with the vicar, full of sympathy and distress, but saw that his company, far from being a comfort, was unwelcome. The old man shrank visibly from him, and went off, head down, murmuring to himself.

Ellis looked after him, and went back to Bradstreet.

“Well, Bradder. The home team bats on a good wicket.”

“Meaning, exactly——?”

“The case is going the way you want it.”

“The way I want it!” Bradstreet exclaimed. “I don’t want any of it. I only——”

The telephone leaped into shrill sound, cutting him short. He stretched out a weary hand.

“Hallo. Yes. What?” There was a pause, while the other voice quacked lugubriously. “She’s all right, you say? Right. I’ll be round.”

He put the receiver back, and lifted a round gray face.

“Joan Baildon has tried to kill herself.”

Ellis hit the table, and swore violently.

“We’ve let her down again! If that child gets over this, it’ll be no thanks to us. What’s she done?”

“Aspirins. Fortunately, there weren’t enough. Carter’s with her.”

“Who was it rang?”

“Nancarrow. The man I put to watch the house.”

“Well.” Ellis heaved himself up. “We’ll go.”

They did not speak in the car; but, as they got out, Bradstreet said, “Do you mind seeing to this?”

“Not a bit. I’d rather.”

Bradstreet went in first. Dr. Carter was in the hall, talking over his shoulder to Mrs. Baildon. Gilkison, pale and solemn, peeped out behind him.

“She’ll do, now,” Carter was saying. He caught sight of Ellis, and bristled like a large dog. “More of your work,” he snarled. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Don’t talk like a child,” Ellis shot back at him “This is a murder case.”

So furious was his tone, and so menacing his glare, that the big doctor recoiled. As Ellis advanced to the stair foot, he put out an arm.

“Leave her alone. She must have absolute quiet.”

“Out of my way.”

Ellis pushed past him and up the stairs.

“I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” Carter called after him: but got no reply.

“May I come in?”

Ellis opened the door, and closed it gently after him. Joan Baildon was sitting up in bed. She was very pale, and her eyes without the glasses had, despite their drowsiness, a queer beauty.

Ellis sat on the bed, and took her hand. She smiled wanly, and did not resist.

“You are a silly girl. What did you go and act the goat like this for?”

“I did it. I killed father.”

“Now, now, now.” He wagged a finger at her. “You did nothing of the kind.”

“How do you know? You weren’t there.”

“There’s a positive orgy of confessions to killing your father. You’re too late. You should have thought of it sooner.”

Terror glimmered in her eyes.

“Why—who——” she whispered.

“David’s confessed that he did it.”

“David!” She sat straight up in utter astonishment. “David! Nonsense!”

“My very words. But not his. Bradstreet and Co. will take his.”

“But—what did he say? When? Oh, I can’t—it’s not true. He couldn’t have said it.”

“He wrote to the vicar, and said he had killed Eunice, and then spoke of his ‘double crime,’ and ‘two terrible crimes.’ ”

“You idiot!” Relief brought a touch of colour to her face. “He didn’t mean that!”

Ellis leaned forward.

“What did he mean?”

She pulled her hand free, and threw herself back, hiding her face in the pillow.

“Joan. Tell me, please. What did he mean?”

A muffled murmur came: “I can’t tell you.” Ellis looked down at her compassionately.

“I think I know. It was what happened between him and Eunice on Sunday evening. Wasn’t it?”

She nodded into the pillow. Her shoulders were shaking. He patted her arm.

“I thought so. Poor chap. Poor David. Why did he have to take it so hard? Why kill the girl?”

She turned a tear-stained face. “He’d have had to kill himself or her. He—oh.”

She buried her face again. For a few seconds there was no sound but her sobs.

“Joan. Listen. Just one moment, there’s a dear. Joan, I won’t ask you anything I’ve no business to know. What was between him and you is sacred, and no one shall touch it. But there are one or two things I must ask.”

He waited for a few seconds.

“How do you know what you’ve just told me? I stopped you from seeing him last night, and I stopped him from seeing you.”

“Oh, why did you?”

“He’d killed one girl: and, in his twisted mood, how could I dare let him meet you?”

“David would never have harmed me, never, never, never!”

“I couldn’t risk it, Joan. And I didn’t want him to add to your burden by telling you more than you should know.”

“Anything was better than not knowing.”

“You were afraid, then——?”

“Oh, don’t ask me! Don’t keep probing at me.” She flung herself sideways, her face away from him. “Here,” she said suddenly, groping beneath the pillow; and handed him a crumpled letter.

Ellis stared at it, and at her.

“How did you get this?”

“We’d an arrangement, that in an emergency he’d put a message in a certain place, and make a certain signal. Last might he made the signal.”

“The house was being watched, you know.”

“The place was down at the side, by the currant bushes.”

“When did he do this—oh, never mind. You got it, that’s all that matters. Will you show me the bit I ought to see?”

“Don’t you want to see it all?” she asked bitterly.

“You’ll have to hand the letter over, I’m afraid. That’s the law. But this, now, is between you and me.”

“Very well. Don’t read the last page.”

He read all he needed to read, and put the letter back in its envelope.

“You may read it all, if you want to,” she said, from the pillow.

“That’s kind of you. But I don’t think I will.”

“You will afterwards, so why not now?”

“I won’t, at any time. Not the personal part.”

“It won’t matter to me if you do or not.” She sat up. “You’ve got to arrest me. Nothing’ll matter.”

“I’m certainly not going to waste my time arresting you.”

“But you’ve got to. I’ve confessed. I killed father.”

“You did no such thing.”

“I did. I did. You can’t say I didn’t, when I say I did.”

“I can. I do. I know you didn’t.”

“How?”

“Because you didn’t know that the second edition of Lakewater had been substituted for the first with the cancelled advertisement. You expected to find the ordinary first edition.”

She looked at him blankly.

“What on earth has that got to do with it?”

“It’s got everything to do with it. Come off it, Joan. I know the whole bag of tricks.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I know how Eunice dressed up and helped you——”

“Eunice!” She stared, then laughed. “Oh! You mean, selling the books? That wasn’t Eunice.”

“Who was it, then?”

“That was auntie. Auntie Martha.”

“The hell it was!” ejaculated Ellis. “Well, I’m damned! The old coot.”

“You’re not to talk that way about auntie.” She was smiling now, and her eyes were alive. She might have been convalescent from ’flu or a cold. “There, you see, you’re quite wrong. That’s what comes of being so cocksure.”

“It does. It does indeed. I thought that because Eunice helped you with the typing, she sold the books.”

“Wrong again!”

“The letter was typed on her machine.”

“I know. I typed it.”

She laughed at his face. Then her own clouded again.

“Eunice wasn’t so friendly to me lately. Though I’m sure she’d have helped if I’d asked her. Only, as things were, I didn’t like to.”

“I know. She was jealous because David came to give you lessons. She thought David was ousting her from the first place in your affections.”

The girl stared at him.

“You are blind! You’ve got everything wrong. She wasn’t jealous because she thought I was fond of David. She was jealous because she thought David was in love with me, instead of with her. That was why she—she——”

“Tempted him, that night?”

She covered her face with her hands.

Ellis got up.

“Well,” he said heavily. “You’re right. I’ve made a rare fool of myself.”

She looked at him between her fingers.

“Where are you going?”

“To get on with things. We haven’t got your father’s murderer yet.”

“I tell you, I did it.”

“Don’t go on saying that, like a parrot.”

Suddenly Joan began to scream at the top of her voice.

“I did it, I tell you, I did it! I killed daddy!”

Ellis jumped. It was the first time he had ever heard her use the pet name, and he guessed how far back into childhood her evil hour had thrown her. Before he could say anything, the door opened slowly, and Mrs. Baildon stood there.

Her face was white as paper. Her great eyes seemed jet black.

“Be quiet, Joan.” The voice was deep and difficult. She turned to Ellis. “Don’t you believe her.”

“I don’t, Mrs. Baildon. Not a word.”

“Yes.” She swayed on her feet, and recovered, holding on to the doorpost. “Come with me,” she said to Ellis. “I have something to say to you.”

A cry of despair came from her bed. “Mummy! darling mummy!” Then, to Ellis, “Don’t believe her! Don’t believe her! Don’t believe her!”

Mrs. Baildon closed her eyes.

“Don’t waste time,” she said. “There isn’t much.”

Ellis started, and looked at her closely.

“Mrs. Baildon——”

She motioned him to be silent. “Come.”

He gave Joan a swift glance, and held the door for her mother. The girl lay back with a face of utter grief: but it was the grief of a child, no longer the frozen unnatural grief of one old before her time.

Mrs. Baildon was unsteady on her feet. Ellis took her arm.

“I’ll get you Dr. Carter.”

“No. There isn’t time.”

He led her into her room, and lowered her into an armchair. Breathing heavily, she sat with closed eyes, holding the arms.

“Listen. I killed Matt.”

“I know, Mrs. Baildon.”

She nodded. “I came back from Miss Jenkinson, to get something I’d forgotten to bring for Martha. I came in the back way. Joan was reading. She didn’t see me.”

“You planned it well.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t plan it at all.”

The words came slowly, chosen with care, driven out by an effort of the will.

“I came back to get a recipe I’d promised Martha. Matt called to me. ‘Get me the paper knife.’ He always spoke that way, but somehow, this time, something went snap inside me. I went into the room. He was sitting in his chair. He didn’t look round. It came into me all of a sudden. I looked at him. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Put it down.’ I took the two ends of his muffler. I pulled them down, and I leaned right on them with all my might. The chair was close in against the bookshelf. I did it that way because, else, the chair ran on its wheels and eased the pull, and this way, it pressed against me, and I was against the books. Out of one eye I saw his hands beat at the air once or twice like a kitten. Then he went limp. I threw the ends of the muffler across his shoulders, I shoved the chair nearer the window, I pushed him out on the floor. Then I went round and shook the bookcase. I had to shake hard. I nearly did it wrong and brought the books down on top of me. Then I went away down to Martha.”

She was breathing faster and more noisily.

“It all looked so ordinary . . . by the time I got to Martha . . . I couldn’t hardly believe I’d done it. I half believed I’d find him as usual when I got back.”

“Did you tell Miss Attwill?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Baildon.”

She did not seem to hear. He bent down, and spoke in her ear.

“Mrs. Baildon. We’ll want a bit more. Try to tell me, for Joan’s sake. We want her absolutely clear. I knew she hadn’t done it, because of the changed copy of Lakewater. It was a shock to her to find the second edition. Did you change that?”

She shook her head.

“Who, then? Joan was taken by surprise, all right. I can’t believe she was acting.”

“M—Martha. She saw in the Literary Supplement that a copy had fetched a big price. . . . I took the best one, and put the other first edition in its place. Then Martha came, not knowing. She thought I’d forgotten it. . . . Not that day. Afterwards. So there was only the other copy . . . and I’d only time . . . to put it . . . so that he . . . the man . . . shouldn’t . . . see the gap.”

Her head dropped forward. Ellis stood back, looking down at her. He took her hand, pressed it, then hurried down the stairs.

“Fetch Carter back, quick.”

“What is it?” Bradstreet asked.

“The mother. I don’t know what she’s taken, but she’s made no mistake about it.”

Bradstreet ran out, and called to the sergeant. Then he came back, his face gray. Ellis took his arm.

“I’m sorry, Bradder. She’s told me everything.”