She was gone before the flabbergasted Helm could make any reply. His state of mind was comic. Was she a fool? He decided, finally, that, yes, she was. He gazed earnestly at his half-finished rockery when she had gone. Disconsolately he kicked the nearest piece of stone. It had cost pounds for the materials to be transported to the bungalow. What had that funny old girl said about it? He was not sure that he wanted to remember. He walked into the tiny bungalow and drummed on the large, galvanized-iron bath. Ten thousand pounds! The first thing the police do in a case of suspected murder is to dig up the rockery!
How the devil had she guessed?… What was there to guess, anyway? She knew nothing of Susie. Nobody knew anything of Susie… yet!
But his peace of mind had been disturbed. He put on his hat and locked up the railway-carriage bungalow and went to the cinema. ii
Noel Wells escorted Mrs. Bradley to her lodgings and left her with Miss Lincallow.
“And have you been to see that man again!” Miss Lincallow exclaimed. “How can you bring yourself to associate with him?”
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Bradley, making no attempt to answer the question, “did your niece keep a diary?”
“She did, poor girl,” replied Miss Lincallow, “and you shall see it, for there’s nothing in it of any consequence.”
She went away to get it. Mrs. Bradley, a little surprised at having achieved her object so easily, was soon in her own sitting-room, the diary in her hand. She skimmed through the entries for the first half of the year, her eyes sharp to discover any references to other members of the school staff, and especially to those who might have been implicated in the murder, but apart from memoranda with regard to playing tennis with Miss Freely, going to tea with Mrs. Boyle once, and with the Headmaster twice, refereeing a match for Miss Camden and going on a school outing with some of the children and Alceste Boyle, there was no reference to any one of them.
The various entries for June and up to the date of the school entertainment, Mrs. Bradley read more slowly, but her trouble was wasted. From beginning to end of the diary there was not a scrap of information which served to throw any light upon any of the circumstances of the diarist’s death. The references to Helm, for instance, were six in number, and referred to the burglar alarm, which appeared to have been genuine, various encounters with the man, together with a summary of the conversations which had ensued and which appeared each time to have taken a particularly formal turn, guided thereto by Calma herself, Mrs. Bradley supposed, and Miss Ferris’s opinion that he was clever. On the other hand, it was possible to imagine that, like many diarists, Miss Ferris refrained from committing to paper any details which might be embarrassing if they were made public.
There were references to the various contretemps which preceded the night of the opera—the quarrel about the netball match, for instance, and the damaging of Mr. Smith’s Psyche; the discovery that Hurstwood was in love with Miss Cliffordson, and that she had allowed him to kiss her; but, of all the obvious omissions, the most noticeable, Mrs. Bradley decided, was that of the fact that Moira Malley had sat to Mr. Smith as a model for the Psyche. Calma may have decided not to include this fact of the sittings, but if she had not known that Moira had given them, the girl was automatically cleared from all suspicion of having committed the crime.
Mrs. Bradley went to the telephone and put through a trunk call. It was not yet four o’clock, so that afternoon school would not be over. It happened to be the last full day of the term. The school was due to break up on the following noon. Alceste Boyle answered the telephone.
“Find out whether Miss Ferris knew that Moira Malley sat to Mr. Smith for his Psyche, will you, my dear?” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Certainly I will. I suppose that I had better ask Donald,” said Alceste. “Hold on a minute.”
The seconds ticked away. Then Alceste’s voice came through again.
“I couldn’t get it any other way, so I had to ask the poor child. She doesn’t think anybody knew. She hopes nobody knew. I’m sending her home to Ireland for Christmas. Hurstwood is top of the Sixth, but poor little Moira is seventeenth out of a form of twenty. What do you think we can do about it? She must get her scholarship, or she can’t possibly go to college.”
“What is she worrying about?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
“Finding the body like that, I think. Horrible for her.”
Mrs. Bradley had just rung off when tea was announced, and she was finishing her second cup when Miss Lincallow came in.
“I’m ever so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Bradley,” she said, “but there is a young man in Holy Orders on the front step. He won’t come in, but he says he must speak to you immediately with your hat and coat on.”
Noel Wells certainly had the appearance of excitement which Miss Lincallow’s style of narrative had led Mrs. Bradley to expect.
“My dear boy, what is the matter?” she asked, as they ran down the steps and on to the pavement.
“I don’t know,” said Wells, “but I don’t like it. He brought a woman home with him at half-past three, and since then he’s been carrying pailfuls of sea-water up to his beastly bungalow.”
“Round this alley into the office of my friend’s garage,” said Mrs. Bradley. Once inside, she raised her melodious voice and called: “Tom! Tom, dear child!”
Young Tom came running. He was bareheaded and in his mechanic’s overalls.
“The car, quickly, Tom!” said Mrs. Bradley.
Tom was young. He grinned and jerked his thumb.
“Out there, ma’am. Shan’t be a tick,” he said.
“Come, child,” said Mrs. Bradley to Noel Wells. She caught his hand and, running, took him round to the front entrance of the garage. Out came the car, young Tom at the wheel.
“That railway-carriage bungalow!” said Mrs. Bradley. “Never mind the police!”
“Good Lord!” said Tom, impressed. Luckily they did not meet a single policeman on the way. The car pulled up outside the gate of Helm’s residence, and all three ran up the pebbled path. It was Mrs. Bradley who thundered on the door. It was Tom who gripped a spanner purposefully in his right hand.
Helm opened the door. He was wearing a dressing-gown. His unstockinged feet were encased in carpet slippers.
“Go back to the car, Tom,” said Mrs. Bradley over her shoulder. Tom obeyed.
“So sorry, dear lady,” said Helm, with a nervous titter. “Just going to have a bath. No idea anyone would think of calling. A nice hot sea-water bath for my rheumatism. So good. So comforting.”
“I’ve brought my son,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But we certainly must not disturb you now. Come, Noel, dear.”
Wells lolled his tongue like an idiot and hoped he was not overdoing it. He was tall enough to see over Helm’s shoulder. The bungalow appeared to be empty. The steaming bath of water was in the centre of the floor. As though obeying Mrs. Bradley, he turned and walked uncertainly down the garden path.