‘The same thought struck me,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But the boy might have fallen and stunned himself, as the doctor suggested at the inquest, and have tumbled into the water. He had a bad bruise on his head.’
‘But the bump was on top of ’is head, and he was laying face downward in the water,’ said Mr Potter. ‘That’s why the coroner would give an open verdict. Quite right, too, in my opinion. There’s been too many murders since the war.’
After a slight pause, Mrs Bradley again asked whether the parents had not missed the boy on the Wednesday evening, and repeated her observation that a very long time had passed before he was found. Had not the parents looked for him, she enquired.
‘Foster-parents. He wasn’t theirs,’ said Mrs Potter. ‘But miss the boy? Not them! Down at the Bull and Bushell, same as usual. Wednesdays and Saturdays was their nights, and that’s where they was, chance what! What do you say, Ted? You ought to know where old man Grier spends his time!’
Mr Potter confirmed this view, and said he had seen them in there. He had popped in for half a pint, he added (with an appealing glance at his wife), and there they both were.
‘Was that generally known?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘That they frequented this public house on Wednesdays and Saturdays?’
‘Known all along ’ere, at any rate.’
‘And in the city?’
‘Us takes no truck in the city. Nought but ecclesiastical that don’t be.’
‘I see.’
‘Till late years, been a separate village, us ’ave. Worked in the city, maybe, some of us ’ave, but nothing to do with their affairs. Don’t know nothing about ’em, anyhow. The Dean, he see to Winchester. Us keep ourselves to ourselves.’
‘Yes, I see. Then – don’t the children go and play along the river past Winchester? Do they never go into the water-meadows towards St Cross?’ demanded Miss Carmody, the nymph and Mr Tidson foremost in her thoughts.
‘Why should ’em?’ asked Mr Potter in surprise. ‘Got our own river, ’aven’t us, ’ere in the village? Why should ’em go? If they think to go further, they goes over to the reck, like, or to that there bit of a brook by King Alfred’s gate.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘What kind of boy was Bobby Grier? Did the other boys like him?’
‘That I couldn’t tell you, mum. Little enough I knowed of him. My little un, now, her could tell you. But he wasn’t Mrs Grier’s own, as I daresay you ’eard us say a minute ago.’
Mrs Bradley nodded. The little girl Potter was not visible when the two elderly ladies left the house, and Mrs Bradley was about to suggest that they should return to the Domus when Miss Carmody said surprisingly and suddenly:
‘I think we ought to tax that Grier woman with Edris.’
‘Tax her?’ Mrs Bradley enquired.
‘Certainly. Edris must be the man the police will want for the murder. There! It is out! I’ve said it!’
‘But why should you say it?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. ‘What makes you connect your Mr Tidson with the death of this boy?’
‘Little enough, in one sense, but a very great deal in another,’ Miss Carmody mysteriously replied; and they walked back to Mrs Grier’s house. The house was quiet now. The curiosity of the villagers was sated, the front door was shut and the family had settled down to tea.
After Mrs Bradley had knocked twice, the door opened to about one-seventh of its possible semi-circumference, and a suspicious eye peered forth.
‘When did you first miss Bobby?’ enquired Mrs Bradley, deeming that surprise tactics would be the best method of approach.
‘We never,’ said the owner of the eye. ‘And we don’t want no more bothering. We got the funeral to see to.’ The door slammed. Mrs Bradley took Miss Carmody by the hand and hurried her up the street, and they came back to Winchester by way of Water Lane into Bridge Street. All the way Miss Carmody asked only one question, but it was one which Mrs Bradley found herself unable to answer satisfactorily.
‘Don’t you think the little boy was murdered?’
‘Only by the pricking of my thumbs, and that will hardly impress the police,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘It is the bump on top of his head that interests me most. I felt for it, as, no doubt, you noticed. It was a bad enough blow to have stunned him, and I have no doubt it did, but it certainly did not kill him. The question, of course, is how he came by it.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Carmody, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘he might have knocked his head accidentally and then felt faint or confused and fallen forward into the water. But there was that sandal which Edris put on the dust-cart. Crete mentioned it to me last night, and then, I think, wished she had not, and, certainly, I would never have dreamed of reminding her about it. Of course, she might be very glad to get rid of Edris, and if he were proved to be a murderer . . . You know, I’m afraid of Edris. He is really a very strange man . . .’
Mrs Bradley said nothing. She was too much astonished to speak. There were various ways in which a wife could have reminded Miss Carmody about the sandal, and Mrs Bradley could not help wondering whether Miss Carmody’s remark was not uncomfortably disingenuous. After all, it was rather more likely, considering all the circumstances, that Miss Carmody, rather than Crete, should be anxious to be rid of Mr Tidson.
Another picture rose unbidden before Mrs Bradley’s inward eye – the picture of a tall, mild-mannered spinster visiting the Cathedral by moonlight. By moonlight, Mrs Bradley reflected, glancing sidelong at her companion, almost everyone takes on a personality not entirely righteous or his own. ‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,’ . . . She suddenly cackled, startling a baby and a dog.
‘Why do you laugh?’ Miss Carmody nervously enquired.
‘I laugh at my thoughts,’ Mrs Bradley replied,’ although they are not really much of a laughing matter. How steeply the High Street mounts to the West Gate, does it not?’
‘Well, and what do you think of my naiad now?’ enquired Mr Tidson, when the party met for cocktails before dinner. ‘I have a theory that the boy was drowned in pursuit of her, you know. She may even have beckoned him in.’
‘Yes, you said so before,’ said Crete. ‘But we do not see what you have to go on.’
‘He was a fine little boy. I’ve seen him,’ said Miss Carmody. She described the afternoon visits which she and Mrs Bradley had paid, but did not reconstruct their conversation.
‘These parents who go off in the evening and leave their children to fend for themselves are incurring a very serious responsibility,’ said Mr Tidson, beaming upon Thomas as he beckoned him to come to where they sat. ‘Champagne cocktails, I think, this evening, Thomas.’
‘Verra guid,’ said Thomas, indicating by his tone that it was very far from that. ‘And for the young leddy?’
‘Gin and Italian,’ said Connie, ‘and get an evening paper, Thomas, will you?’
‘There’ll be nae mair peppers the night, but ye may borrow mine if ye’ll promise no to do the crossword,’ said Thomas. ‘Ye filled in victors for lictors on Wednesday, and put me out terrible.’
‘But “victors” was right! I looked at the answers next day!’ said Connie indignantly.
‘I dinna work out the crossword to get it right,’ said Thomas withering her. ‘Ony fule can dae that! But if ye pit lictor where it should hae been victor, ye get mallet in place of velvet and that gives ye antimony instead of enticing. Enticing! Well, well!’ He laughed shortly. ‘Enticing, where he could hae pit antimony!’