Fallen Into the Pit

Four

« ^ »

George went into the yard of the Shock of Hay by the private way, and tapped at the scullery door; and there was Io filling a kettle at the tap, and putting it on the gas-ring for the late cocoa on which they usually went to bed. It was getting round to closing-time, and warm, merry murmurs came in from the bar along the passage, the mellowest noise George had heard in Comerford all that day. It took a solid evening of drinking, leisurely but devoted drinking, to get rid of the hag on Comerford’s back these days. There were no individual voices in this noise, it was as communal as the buzzing of a hive of bees, and as contented. He liked to hear it; it soothed his over-active mind, even while he was thinking out the first question for Io, who welcomed him with an unsuspecting smile. Pussy, of course, was in bed already, though it was questionable whether she was sleeping. No one who wanted information would have dreamed of going to the Shock of Hay until after Pussy’s bedtime.

“Come on in!” said Io resignedly. “We’re nearly through, and you don’t have to be official tonight—Dad’s going to be only too glad to get ’em out on time, believe me. Go into the kitchen, will you, Sergeant, and I’ll be with you in a minute. And keep your voice down, or the quiz-child will be out of bed and stretching her ears.”

“Anybody’d think you were expecting me,” said George, ducking his head under the low scullery doorway, where even Joe Hart, who was about five feet seven inches square, had to stoop.

“You’d have hard work to find one person among that gang out there,” she said, nodding briskly in the direction of the murmurous bar, “who isn’t expecting you—any minute. You’re the most expected man in Comerford, bar none.” But he could tell from the serenity of her voice and the undisturbed tiredness of her eyes that the true meaning of what she said had not yet penetrated into her own mind. She looked at him, and he was still human, he had not become a symbol. She smiled at him nicely, following him into the kitchen and patting the back of a chair at him invitingly. “Sit down until I can get Dad for you. I’ll take him off in the bar until ten, it won’t be long.”

“No, stay!” said George. “I’d like to talk to you. In fact, I probably need to talk to you more than to your father—if you were looking after the snug last Wednesday, that is.”

Io had already turned cheerfully away to relieve her father of his duties in the bar, but she swung round in the doorway and looked back at him with eyes suddenly widening and darkening, in a sharpened awareness. She came back slowly into the room, and closed the door behind her, one hand smoothing uncertainly at the skirt of her pink cotton frock.

“Me? The night before Pussy came in and—the night before they found him?”

“The night he was murdered,” said George.

“Yes, I see! You know,” she said slowly, “that’s funny! I knew what you’d come about, of course. What else could it be? I guessed that much. And I knew everybody was somehow mixed up in it—I mean, from the impartial view. But the only person I didn’t think of as being involved was me. Do you suppose that’s the same with all those fellows out there? Everybody’s talking about the murder, there isn’t anything else worth talking about in Comerford just now. But how funny if every one of them sees all the rest as actors and himself as the audience!”

“Until I come along,” said George wryly, seeing the first veil of removal drawn between his eyes and hers. He felt himself being geometricized into a totem as she looked at him. The law! An idol which does condescend to wield a certain benevolent guardianship over us; but beware of it, all the same, it exacts human sacrifice.

“Poor George!” said Io, breaking all the rules deliciously. “It isn’t very nice, is it? But you can’t help it. Go on, then, ask me anything you like. I don’t quite see how I can be any good, I didn’t know anything about it until you sent Pussy home, and even then she wouldn’t let on what had happened, the monkey! She had an awful nightmare in the night, and then I found out. By next day it was a great adventure, and she was Sexton Blake and Tinker and Pedro all in one, but it didn’t look quite such a picnic at one o’clock in the morning. I was in the snug as usual that evening—I mean the Wednesday evening. So go ahead, and ask me things. But I can’t imagine I’ll be much help.” She sat down opposite to him, and folded her hands submissively in her lap, and looked at him gravely with her large brown eyes.

“Can you remember who was in, that night? All the regulars? Wedderburn and Charles Blunden? Jim Tugg?”

Io shut her eyes and recited a list of names, fishing them up out of her memory one by one, the first few readily, including the quarrelsome friends of whose presence she could never go unaware for long, then single names coming out of forgetfulness with distinct pops of achievement, like champagne corks. “And Tugg—yes, he was in some time that evening, I’m sure. I remember his dog having a bit of an argument with Baxter’s terrier. You know what terriers are. Yes, he was here.” She added disconcertingly, suddenly opening her eyes upon doubt and wonder, upon the crack in the wall of Comerford’s peace: “Why did you ask me specially about him? You don’t think that he—?”

“I just collect facts,” said George. “If witnesses can account for every minute of a man’s time between nine and eleven on that evening, so much the better for him. Every one canceled out is one with a quiet mind—at least on his own account. So let’s not look any further for my motives. What time did Jim come in?”

“Oh! Oh, dear, that’s something quite different. I served him, of course, and I know he was there, because of the dogs—but what time he came in, that’s another thing. The news was on when the terrier came in and started the row, I remember that. But honestly, I can’t remember how long he’d been there then.”

“Never mind! You could hardly be expected to keep the lot of ’em in mind.” The news had been on, and Jim Tugg noticeably there at the Shock of Hay. The news had been on, and Chris Hollins talking cattle-transport with Blunden at the Harrow. “What time did he leave? Any clue?”

She shook her head helplessly. “I didn’t notice him go. You know, he isn’t a man who makes a noise about what he does. I think—I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there at ten, when everybody was saying good-night. But he seldom stayed until ten, so perhaps I’m not really honestly remembering that, only taking it for granted. Doesn’t he remember himself?”

“Not exactly. He thinks he left about half-past nine, maybe a little earlier.”

“One of the others might remember properly,” she said, with a sudden warming smile. “Baxter might, after having his dog nipped for its cheek. Only I’m not sure he wasn’t away first himself. I never thought it would be so difficult to answer these questions, but it is. I didn’t have any special reason to take note, you see.”

“Of course not! Don’t strain your memory, or you’ll begin to imagine things and mix days up altogether. If anything flashes back of itself, well and good, but don’t chivvy it. One of the others may have had things fixed in his mind by some little incident.” He met her eyes squarely, and asked without warning: “What about Wedderbum and Blunden? Any clear recollection of their comings and goings?”

As if he needed to ask! Everyone knew that she had no peace from them, that she was forced to take notice of them because they took fierce notice of her, of every word she shed in their direction, and every glance, skirmishing over them like rival center-forwards in a hockey bully. Her pink-and-white face flamed, but she smiled, not too grudgingly, sensing first only his delicate little poke at her own self-esteem. Only then did the second stab reach her. Chad and Charles, they came into it, too. He saw her smile ebb, and her breath halt for an instant as it went home. Nobody is safe! Take care how you speak of one friend to another friend from now on. Take care particularly of every word you say to George Felse. After all, he is the police. And virtually, you’ve got everybody’s life in your hands. Charles’s life among the rest! Or was it Chad’s she thought of first? Comerford would have said Charles’s, but there was no way of being sure until she was sure herself.

George felt her withdraw herself, not stealthily, only delicately, in a shocked quietness, as decisively as if she had walked backwards from him out of the room, to hold him in her eye every step of the way. Her look, which had been as limpid as crystal, grew opaque and shadowy as a thicket of bracken in its covert brownness. Her voice quietened by a distinct degree, answering discreetly: “Well, they were both here, but I didn’t notice exactly when they came in, I was rather busy. Only when they began to fight, as usual, I couldn’t very well help noticing, could I?”

“Literally fight?” asked George, with a smile he was far from feeling.

“No, of course not, it was only the same as it always is.” Her brow darkened, clouding over at their idiocies. “But they were far too busy with each other to be wasting any time thinking of knocking anyone else on the head,” she added firmly.

“They were there when the dogs began to scrap?” asked George again, doggedly ignoring his dismissal from individual personality.

“Yes, I’m sure of that. Charles was nearest, and he caught hold of the collie by the tail to make him break. They were both here before nine.”

“And did they leave together?”

She said rather grudgingly: “No. They—behaved a little worse than most nights—at least, Chad did. Good Lord, wouldn’t you think after all he’s been through he’d have some sense of proportion? Wouldn’t you, honestly? And yet, just because Charles asked me to go to the carnival dance at Comerbourne with him, and I said I would— Why shouldn’t I go to a dance, if I’m asked?” she demanded of George, forgetting for the moment how much of a policeman he had become, and how little of a friend and neighbor. “Oh, not a word about the actual issue, of course, he just quarreled with Charles and with me and with the whole snug about everything else you can think of. Half of it was in Latin, or something; anyhow, I didn’t even know what he was calling us. He got rather tight, and went off in the sulks, before ten o’clock. I can’t be exact about the time, I didn’t look at the clock, but it seems it must have been nearly half an hour before closing-time when he went.”

“They don’t give you much peace between them, do they?” said George, greatly daring.

Io looked at him for a struggling moment between indignation and laughter, and then collapsed without warning into an amused despair somewhere between the two. “Sometimes I’d like to knock their two silly heads together, and see if I could knock any sense into either of ’em. I don’t want to be bothered with them, I’ve something better to do with my time; but I’d like them both, if only they’d let me. When they act like squabbling children, it isn’t so easy.”

Even in her confidences, now, there was a note of constraint, as if she watched him covertly to see how he took every word. Not only the wicked, apparently, flee when no man pursueth, for reach as he would, he could lay no hand on Io.

“Was he very drunk when he went off? That’s most unusual for him, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s hard to describe. He was more drunk than I’ve ever seen him, and he’d been drinking in a more businesslike way than usual, but he was perfectly capable. Walked straight as an arrow. It seemed to make him more and more of a schoolmaster, if you know what I mean. By the time he went I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, it was so high-flown.”

“I take it he was heading straight for home?”

“Oh, you must ask him that, I don’t know.” She brightened at having reached something she honestly did not know, and stretched her small, shapely feet out before her with satisfaction. The murmurs from the bar, coming in only very softly, sounded like bees in lime flowers, drowsy and eased at the end of the day.

“I will. And what about Charles? He stayed till ten?” Why shouldn’t he, reflected George, when he had got rid of his rival for once, and scored a minor triumph with the girl? He wouldn’t go home until closing time that night, of all nights.

“Oh, he was the last out of the snug. He wanted to hang around and talk, even at that hour, but I was tired, and fed up with the pair of them.” She made a wry face which somehow only accentuated the softness and sweetness of her mouth, the brown, harassed gentleness of her eyes. “I didn’t behave so well myself. And he went home. But he was quite pleased with himself, was Charles. And Chad—well, I don’t honestly think either of them had any time to think about anyone but himself that night.”

“Probably not,” agreed George, cocking an ear toward the bar, where the clock was just striking, a few minutes ahead of its time. “Is Chad there tonight? I need to talk to him; perhaps I could catch him now.”

Io let him go, watched him go with a grieved, withdrawn face. Chad was certainly there among the regulars stirring in the snug, they had both heard his voice lifted in good-nights just after the clock struck; and certainly he would go home to his rather rigidly retired cottage up the hill, where his mother kept house for him in a chilly, indifferent gentility, by the lane and the fields, on which quiet road one could talk to him very earnestly, and not be observed or interrupted. And of course she was sure that Chad could fill in the details of his better-forgotten evening minute by minute, like a school exercise. In any case, what was Chad to her but an ill-tempered nuisance? Still she watched George’s purposeful exit to the yard and the lane with reluctance and regret, and would have liked to put a few miles between them until someone, someone who knew how to be more wary for Chad than he was likely to be for himself, had pointed out to him how times and people were changed in the village of Comerford.

A hand reached down through the banisters, and tweaked at the topmost of Io’s brown curls. Green eyes shone upon her quietly from the stairs.

“What did I tell you?” said Pussy, dangling her plaits as deliberately as if they had been baited. “He thinks it’s old Wedderburn! Now what are you going to do about it?”