All Fall Down

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ellis, Bradstreet and Gilkison sat round a table in the garden of the Plume of Feathers.

“Never,” Ellis was saying, “have I made a bigger fool of myself, I was wrong in every material particular.”

“Except who did it,” Bradstreet corrected him. “You got ’em both.”

“But for the wrong reasons—which doesn’t count. Like getting the right answer to a sum from the wrong working. No marks. Two out of ten, at the most. No, Bradder, I mucked it. I mucked it from A to Z.”

“You didn’t muck Rattray. You put me on to him.”

“I only got him by a long shot. It’s no good knowing who did a thing if you can’t prove it. Besides, who the hell else could have done it? There wasn’t even another suspect. The best we could do was a mythical soldier.”

“You insisted that the two murders were separate, and I wouldn’t have it.”

“I couldn’t see anything to connect ’em. Listen, now, to the tale of my boss shots. Take Matt first. I saw there were only two people in it, the two people who stood to gain everything if Matt died, and to lose a hell of a lot, if, with Gilkie’s help, he found his books had gone. I ruled out Joan, soundly enough, but because I decided her mother had put the second edition in place of the first: and it wasn’t the mother at all. I put the murder on Mrs. Baildon because the motive was overwhelming, and because I saw she could have sneaked back easily at any time in the afternoon. Her alibi wasn’t worth a damn. Old Martha would swear to anything, and not bat an eyelid. There were motive and opportunity: and the thing turns out to have been quite unpremeditated.”

“You weren’t to know that. No one could know.”

“It’s no good to spot the culprit for the wrong reasons. No, Bradder. You don’t get me out of it like that. I made another whacking great error, too.”

“What was that?”

“Martha. I never suspected her.”

“What of?”

“The murder. Man, surely, you see? If she could give Mrs. B. an alibi, Mrs. B. could just as well give her one. What was to stop Mrs. B. sitting down at the cottage, and Martha nipping up and throttling old Matt? And it never once crossed my mind.”

“I did think of that,” Bradstreet said.

“The devil you did! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see how it would help.”

Ellis looked at him affectionately.

“You so-and-so old such-and-such! how much else have you been keeping up your sleeve? Well; to resume. I was plain wrong about Rattray and the Caunter girl and Joan. I thought the Caunter girl was jealous because Joan’s affections were being transferred to Rattray. Actually, she was jealous because Rattray’s affections were being transferred to Joan. So she set to work to seduce him. The poor devil was sex-starved, with that wretched sickly wife of his, and, on Sunday evening, she succeeded. The result on him was terrible: witness the state he was in when he rushed in and found me in his sitting-room. And, once he’d controlled it and driven it inwards, it was worse still. He was a strict Christian: he’d been false to all his standards, and he’d made himself unworthy of the romantic affection between him and Joan. So, when the Caunter came at him again, the very next night, to consolidate her victory, or else to revile him for ruining her—she was a born scene-maker, and you bet she used her chance to the full—he went right off the deep end, and probably without meaning to, he throttled her. He was a very strong man: I dare say he just took her by the neck and shook her a bit too hard.

“Then, when he realised what he’d done, he went into a trance of horror, and automatically tried to make her dead face look like the only other dead face he’d seen.”

Bradstreet shifted uneasily, and made a sound of protest.

“All right, Bradder. We’ll skip that bit. God knows what agonies the poor devil went through after that. Anyway, he decided to make an end of himself. He wrote to the vicar, and he wrote that heart-breaking letter to poor little Joan. This one was too late for the post, so he set off to deliver it himself. I met him, and hindered him: but he managed to deliver it none the less.”

“I’ve spoken to Nancarrow about that,” Bradstreet said. “He swears he never saw or heard a thing.”

“I’ll believe him. Rattray in that state would be cunning as a weasel. Ask Nancarrow if he heard a cat on the prowl.

“Was that the signal?” Bradstreet’s brow furrowed. “She must have had a lot of false alarms.”

“Not from an arranged sequence of miaows. Anyway, that’s what happened. Joan told me, this afternoon.”

“How was she?”

“For the moment, marvellous. There’ll be a terrible reaction, of course. She doesn’t realise it, yet. Poor child! It’s enough to kill her. Everyone she loved gone, except old Martha. A formidable exception. Old Martha will pull her round. She’s with her now, chatting away, as ordinary as you please.”

“Did Joan know her mother had done it?” Gilkison asked.

“Her mother didn’t tell her. God knows what she guessed.”

“It’s terrible,” Bradstreet said. “What will become of the child?”

“Leave it to old Martha. She’s got it all taped. Joan’s to move straight to her, the books are to be sold, the house, everything. A clean sweep . . . then Oxford, and a clear run to the future. I believe it’ll work, too. This is all so fantastic, so violent, it will fall away from her like a dream: with the help of a clean, immediate break.”

“It’s a mercy you came in time to get the facts from that poor woman.”

“Yes.” Ellis made a grimace. “I don’t think she knew it would act so quickly.”

“How did she get it?”

“Matt had ’em, on Carter’s prescription. He’s a caution, that old boy. He roared at me for not calling him sooner: but he had to admit he couldn’t have done anything. Truculent, soft-hearted old swab.”

“Well,” Bradstreet said, “thank goodness it’s all over.”

“Amen to that,” Ellis replied. “I can’t make a fool of myself any more—till next time.”