Death and the Maiden

Chapter Seventeen

‘They enquired after Nancy very civilly and sent Compts. . . . It was an awkward day for visiting . . .’

Diary of a Country Parson: the REVEREND

JAMES WOODFORDE, Vol. 3, 1788–1792.

Edited by JOHN BERESFORD

‘SO THAT young Connie was telling lies about hating the Tidsons,’ said Laura, when the report from Lewes had come in, and Connie’s messenger had been named by the police of that ancient and interesting town, who, incidentally, had nothing whatever against him. ‘I should never have thought it!’

‘And you need not think it now,’ said Mrs Bradley. She and her secretary were again alone at the Domus, for the Tidsons and Miss Carmody had departed (with the full complement of luggage, this time) and with them, in the sense that they had caught the same train and were not due to return to Winchester that summer, had gone Kitty and Alice. ‘If we could find Connie’s letter it might throw some light upon her relationship with the Tidsons, although not very much, I imagine, but I still do not believe there is any love lost. And now I think that you and I, child, should return to Kensington, calling for Connie first and taking her with us. A short course of your bracing society will be the very thing for her, I imagine. We must re-orient her mind.’

Laura looked disappointed.

‘Cheer up,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘We can do no more here for the present, so nothing is lost by our return. The rest lies with the police.’

‘But what about those stones? The weapons, you know,’ said Laura. Mrs Bradley shrugged.

‘The police will find them,’ she said. ‘But there is one more thing we have to do, now that the Tidsons and Miss Carmody have gone. It is something that will interest you, I think. I have arranged that nothing is to be touched in their rooms until to-morrow. Young Mr Gavin is coming this afternoon, whilst most of the guests are out, to blow chalk all over the furniture. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Fingerprints!’ said Laura with enthusiasm. ‘And then we can compare them with those they’re going to find on the stones. By the way – a thing I didn’t know before – fingerprints don’t wash off, not even in running water. David Gavin was telling me about it. Oh, and talking of David, and to cut short a long and embarrassing story—’

‘Dear, dear!’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Don’t tell me I’m going to lose you! I might have guessed that I was playing a foolish, short-sighted game when I introduced a Scotsman into your life!’

Laura grinned.

‘You’ve guessed it,’ she said contentedly. ‘Yes, the lad and I have come to a sort of understanding. I’m not to interfere with his career, and he’s not to take me away from my job, and we fight all the time in any case, but, apart from that, there seems little reason why the wedding bells, as such, should not peal out in the comparatively near future. Your congratulations are neither solicited nor desired. I think, myself, I’m being a bit of a fool, but you probably know how it is.’

‘Well, well!’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Dear me! And I never suspected a thing!’

‘Call yourself a detective!’ said Laura. ‘I thought it stuck out a mile! Still, we haven’t really seen much of one another yet, you know, and it’s a nuisance I shall have to be the one to have the children. It’s such a waste of time, and the sort of thing calculated, I should fancy, to drive intelligent females mad, but there it is. Three boys and a girl is my schedule, to be produced within nine years. What do you think? Is that reasonable? I thought I’d get it over, you know, and then take up motor-racing or something. I shall try to get some sort of foster-mother for the offspring – someone like old K., who’s good with children.’

Mrs Bradley hooted with respectful amusement, and then said soberly:

‘Talking of foster-mothers—’

‘Ah, yes, that Grier woman,’ said Laura. ‘Look here, let’s order some of Thomas’ champagne cocktails. Do you remember him giving Mr Tidson more brandy in his? I wonder whether he’d do the same for us? Perhaps I had better not suggest it.’

She summoned Thomas, and informed him that she was shortly getting married and required something to drown her sorrows.

‘Och, aye,’ replied Thomas. He looked at her oddly, shook his head, made a scraping noise in his throat, and then went out.

‘Something on his conscience,’ said Laura. ‘You’d better get him to spill it. There’s not very much gets past the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

‘You may be right in both surmises,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘but I don’t think we’ll trouble him at present. I fancy that he was merely expressing disapproval of lawful matrimony.’

After lunch Gavin arrived, looking pleased with himself. With him came a fingerprint expert, and, assisted (or, as Gavin informed her, hindered and interrupted) by Laura, they tested every article of furniture in the bedrooms of Miss Carmody and the Tidsons for fingerprints. A splendid set of Connie’s prints had been taken at Mrs Bradley’s Stone House by Laura upon a tumbler. This she now proudly produced, to the amusement of Mrs Bradley and the staggered incredulity of her swain.

‘Thought they might come in useful at some time or another,’ she observed. ‘I’ve been preserving this exhibit under my tallest hat ever since I brought it back from Wandles Parva. Don’t look so moonstruck, David,’ she added to Gavin. ‘Stranger things will happen in the future, so you’d better prepare yourself now.’

‘You’re telling me!’ said Gavin. ‘What’s the matter with this room, Buckle?’ he suddenly demanded, turning off to address his expert. ‘Can’t we get cracking?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, sir, except that every single print has been wiped off everything,’ replied the fingerprint expert, straightening himself from a kneeling position beside the wardrobe drawer.

‘Have you tried the jerry?’ Laura indelicately demanded. Buckle unearthed the repository and carefully tested it, using a dark-tinted powder on its glaze.

‘Nothing doing,’ he said at last. ‘And there isn’t another thing, sir. I’ll say that whoever used this room last must have had prints on record, sir. Very wily birds, to have covered their tracks as well as this, I reckon.’

‘Guilty consciences, too,’ said Gavin. ‘Cheer up, Buckle! Better luck in the next room, I dare say.’ He led the way to the bedroom Miss Carmody had occupied. Here the conditions were vastly different. Miss Carmody’s room was practically knee-deep in fingerprints, as Laura chose to express it. The prints, announced Gavin with considerable confidence, belonged to three or four different people. Buckle agreed.

‘Miss Carmody, the housemaid, and the porter who brought down the luggage (those on the finger-plate of the door, sir), and a set belonging to some other person who came in.’

‘Crete Tidson,’ said Gavin, ‘very likely.’

‘So, if some of these are Crete Tidson’s fingerprints, she can’t have anything to hide,’ suggested Laura.

‘If she had anything to hide, her prints wouldn’t be in this room at all,’ agreed Gavin. ‘Even so, it doesn’t get us much further. We shan’t find Tidson’s prints on the stone if he’s the murderer. Still, there are other possibilities. Now we’d better do Mrs Tidson’s room – she didn’t share with her husband – and if she’s left prints we may take it she’s nothing to hide.’

Crete’s room, however, was as bare of prints as the first room which had been tested.

‘Damn!’ said Gavin. ‘Ah, well, these we’ve got will have to be compared with the prints we’ve found on our collection. If anything tallies, we may be a step further on, and we may not. Plenty of people pick up stones and heave them into a river, goodness knows!’

‘The only thing is,’ said Laura, ‘that there aren’t all that number of biggish stones on the river banks for people to pick up and heave. Can’t you get something from that?’

‘True for you, we might be able to,’ said Gavin. ‘Anyway, we have to wait and see.’

Waiting and seeing produced a definite result. One of the inspector’s collection of large, heavy stones bore undoubted traces of blood. It also bore Connie Carmody’s fingerprints. It was also very neatly labelled Weir.

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Gavin, as much dismayed by this discovery as even Laura could have wished. ‘Here’s a pretty how-de-do, I don’t think! What are we going to do now?’

‘We must see whether it’s human gore,’ said Laura, with vivid recollections of the smell of the very dead dog. Gavin brightened; then he resumed his former lugubrious expression. ‘Even if it is the dog, it’s a bit of a pointer,’ he said. ‘Mrs Bradley has said several times that practice makes perfect, you know. And someone who knew that Connie had killed the dog moved it to where we found young Biggin.’

‘That surely lets Connie out?’ said Laura. ‘And, anyway, you’ve still some of your big stones to test.’

‘Scores, if not hundreds,’ Gavin replied. ‘But, before I go any further, I suppose I shall have to interview this Connie – confound her for a red-herring and a nuisance!’

‘The sooner the better,’ Mrs Bradley agreed when she was asked. ‘Let us go to Lewes at once. This ought to be cleared up immediately. We must frighten the life out of Connie, although I hesitate to add “for her good.”‘

‘For the good of the general public, I should have thought,’ said Laura. ‘Honestly, the girl must be demented.’

‘Oh, she is not quite as bad as that! Let us agree that she has become slightly abnormal.’

‘Life with Auntie Prissie? Morbid streak emphasized by unsympathetic atmosphere? Persecution mania—?’

Mrs Bradley cackled.

‘But not engendered by the aunt,’ she said. ‘Connie’s condition is largely the result of shock. Of two successive shocks, in fact.’

‘How come?’

‘Connie learned, for the first time, at the dangerous age of thirteen, that her life and that of young Preece-Harvard were destined to flow in very different channels. What she was not told – thanks to a streak of unselfishness oddly mixed in with Mrs Preece-Harvard’s character – is that she is young Arthur’s half-sister, the illegitimate daughter of his father. There followed for Connie, immediately upon this realization, the further shock of the parting, abrupt and cruel, from this half-brother, whom she loved with a passion deeper than that of a mother.’

‘Since then she’s turned round on Arthur P-H, though, and would like to kill him,’ said Laura. ‘Inversions, and so forth, I take it. Ah, yes, I get it all now.’

‘I don’t know whether you do,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Think it over, and don’t be misled. I have had no reason to alter my opinion that Connie would rather die than harm that boy. She does not, of course, feel the same about Mr Tidson.’

‘Why are you keeping her more or less of a prisoner? And why have we got to have her with us for a bit?’

‘Well, I’m afraid for Connie. She is not, in one sense, completely responsible for her actions.’

‘But isn’t she going to start a job, or something?’

‘I only wish I thought so! Now, before we leave Winchester, there is one thing I would very much like to do.’

‘Set that man free. He’s bound to be let go, though. They can’t pin anything on him.’

‘He’s a strong-willed fellow,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘He’s fond of his wife, I think, and doesn’t want to hurt her unnecessarily.’

‘So he gets himself arrested for murder on the word of that awful Grier woman! Can’t see much chivalry in that!’

‘I think he may have chosen the lesser of the two evils. But my lawyer is going to try to get at him.’

‘Ferguson?’

‘Yes. He has had one interview already. It was abortive. Here is Ferguson’s report. It is just what I had expected. Never mind! He will try again.’

Laura opened the envelope which Mrs Bradley handed her.

‘He won’t see me. He won’t see anybody,’ wrote Mr Ferguson. ‘He says he does not wish to be legally represented; that he did not commit the murder, and that the police can fry in hell.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Laura, folding up Mr Ferguson and handing him back. ‘Now what?’

‘Now we do what I have been waiting to do – but we could not do it whilst the Tidsons were here – we interview the young woman who is the cause of all the trouble.’

‘The naiad?’

‘No. The missing sweetheart. The woman that this stupid, chivalrous Potter really was visiting that night.’

‘Oh!’ said Laura. ‘What a hope!’

‘Of finding her, do you mean? I have every hope. She has a jealous husband or cruel parents, she is known to Mrs Grier, and she may have left Winchester since the murder of little Grier.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t know – in the sense you mean.’

‘I think I understand. She was with Potter on the night and at the time of the murder. She has been too scared, because of husband or parents, to come forward and give the chap his alibi, and, because she’s a coward (as aforesaid) she’s cut and run. Is that it?’

‘And very plainly stated, except that she may not have left Winchester.’

‘But what about Potter? Isn’t he a fool not to name her? Is that where the chivalry comes in?’

‘Yes. But there are other points as well. I should think he’s been expecting her to come forward, and his despairing reception of Mr Ferguson shows that he no longer thinks she will. He hasn’t brought the subject up himself for two reasons: first, he loves his wife, but rather as a son loves his mother. He doesn’t want to upset her more than she’s been upset already. It has upset her to believe that he was involved with the odious but middle-aged Mrs Grier, but he knows that she doesn’t really believe her own wild accusations about that. If it came out, however, that he has been visiting a young and passably good-looking woman, and was with her on the night of the murder—’

‘She’d probably rather have him hanged than have him home, poor blighter,’ said Laura.

‘I suppose,’ Mrs Bradley went on, ‘that he does not believe for an instant that he, an innocent man, can be condemned.’

‘And he may be right, at that,’ said Laura. ‘Anyway, I suppose it’s worth the risk, from his point of view. But suppose he is condemned? What then?’

‘Well, we’ll make up our minds that he won’t be.’

‘Right. Pity if he’d kept his mouth shut and all for nothing. I do admire people who hope for the best and don’t babble. When do we begin this Sherlock stuff to find the missing woman?’

‘In the same way that Holmes began his search for the missing racehorse,’ said Mrs Bradley, with a cackle. ‘We note that the dog gave the game away by not barking in the night. You remember?’

‘I like having my leg pulled,’ said Laura, with great good-humour, ‘and especially by intellects I respect; but there is a limit, and you’ve reached it. Are you talking of Mr Tidson’s dog? I call that a very mysterious animal, you know.’

Mrs Bradley cackled.

‘But I am not joking,’ she protested. ‘Come with me, and you’ll see.’

Mrs Bradley went first to Mrs Potter.

‘Where did your husband work?’ she asked as soon as the front door opened.

‘Oh, it’s you, mum,’ the poor woman said. ‘He worked for Mr Rummidge.’

‘How do I get there?’

‘Have you got anything to go on?’

‘I know who the murderer is. The police know, too.’

‘Then why don’t they let Potter go?’

‘They will. You must go on being patient. It won’t be for much longer now. Whereabouts is this place? And how long will it take me to get there?’

‘It’s just over the other side there. Take quarter of an hour, maybe. I don’t know ’ow quick you can walk.’

‘Right. Thank you. Cheer up, Mrs Potter! This business is very nearly settled and – I don’t think you’ll have much more trouble to keep your husband at home once you’ve got him back. How is your little girl? Is she still away?’

‘No, poor mite. Her cried to come home, so I had ’er. She knows where her dad is. The other children took care of that!’

‘Ah, well, we were all cruel at their age. How are you off for money?’

‘I’ve all I want,’ said the woman, flushing. ‘You’re working, then?’

‘What else can I do?’

‘What indeed?’

‘I don’t mind work. I’ve worked ’ard all my life. It’s the worry that kills!’

‘Very true. Well, don’t worry any more. Everything will turn out all right. You see if it doesn’t. Have you been to visit your husband?’

‘He won’t ’ave no one, Potter won’t. E’s obstinate.’

‘He feels he’s been badly treated, and so he has.’

‘It’s his own silly fault!’ said Mrs Potter, her chin shaking. ‘He done wrong, and now it’s come ’ome to ’im.’

‘You’ll have to forget all that, and allow him to make a fresh start. Men will be men, you know!’

‘They’re beasts, the whole lot of ’em, mum! That’s what they are! Fair beasts!’

‘Attractive beasts, too,’ muttered Laura. ‘I say,’ she added, when they were away from the house, ‘what price this Potter finding the kid on his way to work? Does that wash?’

‘Not well,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘I think he was infatuated with this young woman of his, and, like many another Romeo, went out of his way to pass the house where she lived. I hope so, anyway, as I particularly want to find out where that was without asking the natives any questions. Potter has kept his secret, and I shouldn’t care to—’

‘Blow the gaff on him? Quite right. Where now? Round here to where he found the body?’

Beyond the wide shallow water a narrow road branched off which led vaguely in the direction indicated by Mrs Potter as leading towards Mr Rummidge’s works.

Before long they came to some houses, not more than eight of them, an ugly, small, red-brick row with long and narrow front gardens and paved paths up to the front doors.

Mrs Bradley scanned the row for a moment. Then she seemed to make up her mind. Leaving Laura standing in the lane, she walked up to the third house and knocked.

Laura, trying to work out what had led her redoubtable employer to make up her mind to try this particular house, decided that it was because of a very fine geranium, almost a tree, which stood on a small wicker table just inside the parlour window.

Sure enough, as soon as the door was opened, Mrs Bradley pointed to the geranium and asked permission to buy it.

‘Buy it?’ said the woman who had answered the door.

‘I don’t know as we can sell it. What would you want it for, like?’

‘My sun-parlour,’ Mrs Bradley answered. ‘I have one or two plants, not nearly as good as yours, and I was told in the city that your daughter would be willing to sell it.’

‘My daughter?’ She turned, and called loudly, ‘Come here, Linda! Just a minute, dear!’

In response to the command, a young woman of about twenty-five appeared. She had a dab of flour on her chin. This drew attention to her beautiful complexion. She had short sleeves which showed well-turned, strong, attractive and shapely arms, and her hair was fair and abundant.

‘This is it,’ thought Laura, watching. The door closed behind Mrs Bradley. Laura strolled off down the lane, and waited for almost twenty minutes. At the end of that time Mrs Bradley rejoined her.

‘Geranium not for sale,’ said Laura, grinning, ‘but everything else according to plan. Did you bounce the girl into confessing?’

‘Oh, that wasn’t the girl,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But I’ve got the girl’s name and address. And you’re right about the geranium. It isn’t for sale.’

‘What made you think it might be the right house? – especially if it wasn’t.’

‘I did not think it was the right house, child. I do know, however, that people with very large geraniums, or aspidistras, or whatever it may be, are often the village newsmongers.’

‘How come? – Oh, I see! They take cover. The potted plant acts as a screen.’

‘Exactly, child.’

‘And did you – er – get what you wanted?’

‘In very good measure. Both the mother and the daughter knew that Potter came to visit along here, although they did not know his name and do not connect him with the murder. They do know, however, that he has ceased to come. Most valuable of all, they gave me the name of the girl and the address of the house. There is a strict father, and Potter did come fairly late at night, and once or twice was not seen to take his departure. I did not press them for dates, and they do not realize how much they told me, still less that I was particularly interested. The geranium remained, so far as they were concerned, the main subject of conversation. I bought half a dozen eggs from the back-garden fowls, and here we are, on the way to get Potter released. The daughter was jealous, by the way. Potter is a desirable fellow, you know.’

‘Well, but aren’t we walking away from the house you want?’

‘I don’t want the house, child. I want to interview the girl on my ground, not on hers. I shall write her a threatening letter.’

‘That should winkle her out of her home and along to the Domus, I’ll bet!’

‘I hope so. If it doesn’t, I shall visit the place where she works. I shall threaten, at any rate, to do so. I think that perhaps she’ll see reason.’

These bullying tactics succeeded. Potter’s young woman turned out to be a weakly-looking creature of about thirty, fair-haired and with insipid pretensions to prettiness. Mrs Bradley made mincemeat of her in no time, and hauled her along from the Domus, where they met, to the police station, where they parted, and, having scared her almost to death, left her to the local Superintendent.

Against her evidence, abetted by that of the neighbours – that Potter visited her during licensing hours, whilst her father was at the public house – no case against Potter could stand.

‘That ought to frighten old Tidson,’ said Laura, who felt rather worried. She confided this emotion to Gavin, who replied:

‘That will be taken care of.’

‘Sez you!’ observed Laura, with more thoughtfulness than these words merit.

‘No, really,’ Gavin objected. ‘Not a word will come out in the papers about the release of Potter, and he’s been advised to say nowt. Of course, plenty of people will know he’s cleared, and that’s as it should be, after all; but officially no news will leak out, and we’re only needing time to get on to Tidson. It needs his hat to turn up. Potter swears he saw it when he picked up the boy—’

‘I suppose,’ said Laura, struck by a sudden idea, ‘he did find the boy where he said he did?’

‘Yes. We’ve found a woman who was on her way into Winchester to pick up a very early bus. She saw him lift the boy up (she didn’t know, of course, that the kid was dead), and she wondered whether she ought to stay and help. But she’d got the day off from work to go into Southampton to see whether she could get a pair of shoes, and was late already for the bus she intended to catch, so she didn’t wait. She didn’t mention the hat, and we didn’t feel we could put a leading question. If it was there, she hadn’t noticed it.’

‘Oh, well, then, that’s that,’ said Laura. ‘But you’ve got to keep an eye on Mrs Croc. I’m not having her scuppered by Tidsons. By the way, was it wise to let him get clean away from Winchester?’

‘We’re having him tailed all right. The local superintendent – an awfully good chap and a mine of information on dryfly fishing, by the way – isn’t sorry to have Tidson go. He pollutes the air of Winchester, according to the superintendent, and will probably cause Saint Swithun to turn in his grave.’

‘He’s a horror,’ said Laura stoutly. ‘You’ve got to get him, you know.’

‘Don’t worry. But we haven’t found the weapon yet, and when we do it won’t have his fingerprints on it. I wonder when he moved Grier’s body from the weir? On that early morning trip, I guess. He’s been intelligent, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘No peculiar absences from the Domus except the telephone one – he must have been windy about something that night; I don’t believe he just wanted Connie’s address—’

‘He’s got frightful cheek,’ said Gavin, ‘and doesn’t mind taking a few risks. He worked out that nobody could connect his absence from the hotel with the murders – or, at any rate, nobody could prove it had anything to do with the murders – and he did want something out of Mrs Bradley’s room. Connie’s address was easily the most likely thing he would be looking for.’

‘All right. Granted,’ said Laura. ‘All the same, if she’d come back and found him—’

‘She wouldn’t have found him. She’d have found Crete, and Crete would have been ready with some plausible tale.’

‘Come to borrow an aspirin tablet. I know. Well, I hope you get him!’

‘We’ll get him,’ said Gavin. ‘Only, you see, it takes time.’

‘And, but for Mrs Croc., you’d have hanged Potter without a qualm.’

‘I shouldn’t think so, you know. But she certainly put us on to Tidson. That I’ll admit, although I can’t see yet where it gets us. We can’t prove a thing.’

‘I see now why Miss Carmody was so worried about Tidson in the first place.’

‘Was she worried about Tidson?’

‘Well, she called Mrs Croc. in at once to give his reflexes the once-over. And she told Mrs Croc. she was sure he had murdered little Grier.’

‘Did she? That’s rather interesting. What had she got to go on?’

‘Only the naiad. But there must have been something else, surely?’

‘Perhaps not, you know, if she knew – as she did know, of course – that Tidson was the next heir to the Preece-Harvard money and estates, and had made an idiotic excuse (the naiad is idiotic, isn’t it?) to get down to Winchester near the boy who was keeping him out of the inheritance.’

‘Yes . . . but considering we admit he’s been rather intelligent for a murderer, wasn’t it a suspiciously silly excuse? He wouldn’t want to attract attention, surely, to the fact that he meant to come to Winchester when the boy, when he isn’t at school, lives so frightfully near, at Alresford.’

‘That point has worried me a bit, but perhaps he’s forgotten, living abroad for so long, that English people don’t stay at home in August. I should think he expected to find the boy at Alresford, and is keeping his hand in now until he can get at the kid.’

‘But – keep his hand in? That’s insane!’

‘Well, isn’t the naiad insane? It’s all of a piece!’