‘More murders, do you mean?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘It depends on the murderer’s commonsense, I imagine.’
‘Then psychology doesn’t really help?’
‘I don’t know. I only find that few murderers seem to be blessed with commonsense.’
‘Suppose there were no more murders—’
‘The police would continue to investigate the Winchester deaths. There is no doubt at all about that.’
‘They would? Ah, but they’ll never be able to get any further with those, and neither will you. As I see it, if nobody else gets murdered, it will be impossible to show a motive for the deaths of those two boys.’
‘And a very well-reasoned conclusion,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘In other words,’ said Connie, ‘the reason for those boys being killed is so far-fetched that nobody would believe it, and I am the only person to have worked it out.’
‘What is the reason? Let us see whether I can believe it.’
‘That wouldn’t help. Besides, once you knew, I don’t believe I’d be safe.’
‘Safety is a comparative term, I feel. “Safe where all safety’s lost; safe where men fall.” You can finish the quotation, I presume?’ said Mrs Bradley.
In spite of the warmth of the sun and the effort of walking uphill, for there was a steep ascent through Cliffe to Lewes High Street, Connie gave a shudder.
‘Somebody walking over your grave,’ said Mrs Bradley absently. ‘I shall say good-bye for the present, as soon as we reach your hotel. If you find you must communicate with me, write to the Stone House and not to the Domus. And here we are.’
‘Sauve qui peut,’ said Connie. ‘And honi soit qui mal y pense. Good-bye.’ She managed to smile.
‘Winchester, madam?’ asked George, who had brought the car round to the front of the hotel.
‘No. London. The will, the will. We will see Cæsar’s will.’
‘Very good, madam.’ He paused. ‘I could do that for you, madam, if you wished. There is no need to put yourself to fatigue.’
‘Very well, George. To Winchester, then, and, as we go, I will tell you what I want to know. Preece-Harvard is the name of the testator. He died in 1933, if the information at my command is correct and my faculty of simple arithmetic not at fault. Anyhow, I’m fairly sure of the name. However, since all men are liars, if no Preece-Harvard is available, try Carmody and also Tidson. One never knows.’
‘They are not uncommon names, madam. Could I have the address to assist my researches? The county, perhaps?’
‘Hampshire. The town might be Alresford and it might be Andover. Alresford is the more likely.’
‘Thank you, madam. I will do my very best.’
‘Yes, George, I’m certain you will.’
George drove Mrs Bradley back through Havant and Fareham, and then turned north for Bishop’s Waltham. They reached Winchester at just after five. Most of the guests at the Domus were finishing tea. Mr Tidson was not among them. Crete, at a table between two young men (strangers to Mrs Bradley), and Kitty, Alice and Laura, who were sharing a table, greeted Mrs Bradley as she entered the sun-lounge, and the Three Musketeers made room for her at their table.
‘How’s Connie?’ Laura enquired.
‘Not in an optimistic frame of mind,’ replied Mrs Bradley. ‘What have you done with Miss Carmody and Mr Tidson?’
‘They’ve gone to see a man about a dog,’ responded Laura. ‘No, honestly! Mr Tidson conceived this idea of purchasing a hound, and Miss Carmody went with him to choose it. It appears that he saw an advertisement in the local paper, and has gone off to take his pick.’
‘What sort of a dog?’ enquired Mrs Bradley, interested.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t show us the advertisement. Will the management let him keep a dog?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘There are kennels out in the yard in front of the lock-up garages.’
Mr Tidson came back at six accompanied by Miss Carmody and a half-grown dog of mixed ancestry. Mrs Bradley who, although not in the strict sense a dog-lover, was knowledgeable about breeds, could not help wondering why anyone with quite such a curate’s egg to dispose of should have spent money on an advertisement.
The mystery was soon solved.
‘Oh, I didn’t care for the Sealyhams,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘I really want a watch-dog, you know.’
‘And I didn’t care for the price!’ Miss Carmody added. Mr Tidson hastily continued his remarks.
‘So we went to Oliver’s Battery, as I remembered hearing somebody in the bus talking about puppies for sale at one of the new houses up there. The puppies were golden retrievers, very beautiful, but this was the little chap which took my fancy! He is the son of the yard-dog, and as soon as I saw him I said to Prissie here, “That is the fellow for me!” Did I not say that, Prissie?’
‘Yes, you did,’ Miss Carmody replied.
‘And for five shillings, including the collar and a piece of string, he was mine,’ said Mr Tidson, in triumph. ‘I shall, of course, buy him another collar and a lead. And now to obtain a kennel in which he can be left for the night.’
‘You will never be able to go fishing with a dog like that!’ said Crete, regarding the animal with contempt and a certain amount of dislike.
‘He will not disturb the fish,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘Some dogs learn to retrieve fish.’* He took the dog under his arm and rang the bell.
‘Thomas,’ he said, when the old man appeared in the doorway, ‘what about a kennel for – what shall I call him?’ he added, turning to Mrs Bradley.
‘Pedigree Kelvin Grove,’ she responded at once. Mr Tidson pulled at his lower lip and looked like a little boy who knows he is being teased but does not see the point of the joke. ‘The song,’ Mrs Bradley kindly explained. ‘“Through its mazes let us rove,” you remember.’
Thomas gave vent to a high giggle, took the dog from Mr Tidson and said, with unusual heartiness:
‘I’ll tak’ him tae Henry mysel’, and bring ye the number of his kennel.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Tidson, retrieving the dog. ‘No, I thank you, Thomas. I will speak to Henry myself. Come, Kelvin.’ And he carried the dog through the french doors of the sun-lounge into the garden and took the narrow path beside the air-raid shelter which led round into the yard.
Mrs Bradley rang up Connie from the inn at which Gavin was staying, told her of Mr Tidson’s dog, and observed that Miss Carmody seemed easier in her mind. Connie, who had been anxious about her aunt, replied with great cordiality, said that she looked forward to taking up her new post, and added that she had hired a horse in Lewes and had had some good gallops on the Downs.
‘Doesn’t sound as though she were short of money,’ said Laura. ‘I say, I don’t like that tyke of Tidson’s. It’s a nasty, snappy, yappy little beast.’
Mrs Bradley expressed her concern, and invited Laura to walk to the bus station with her to catch a bus for Oliver’s Battery.
‘Don’t tell me you’re inquiring into the antecedents of Tidson’s hound,’ said Laura, grinning.
‘No, no, child. I want nothing except a walk. The air is good up there, and there is a barrow I would like to inspect.’
The ride to Oliver’s Battery was a short one, and the walk from the bus stop fulfilled Mrs Bradley’s promise, for the air was fresh and keen, and the walking, although rough, was rewarding. Laura smoked a couple of cigarettes whilst Mrs Bradley poked around in a declivity which might have been an accident of nature, the opening to a Neolithic flint mine, the burial chamber of a badly excavated round barrow, or a partly-worked modern chalk-pit, and they returned to the Domus satisfied, pleasantly tired and very hungry.