“I don't think I could eat anything,” said Mavis, rather faintly. “I wonder if I might go upstairs and lie down quietly by myself, Miss Patterdale? Somehow, one feels one would like to be alone at a moment like this.”
To the imperfectly disguised relief of Charles and Abby Miss Patterdale raised no objection to this, but took her young friend up to her own bedroom, drew the curtains across the windows, gave her an aspirin, and recommended her to have a nice nap.
“Not but that I've no patience with these airs and graces,” she said severely, when she came downstairs again. “Anyone would think Sampson Warrenby had been kind to the girl, which we all know he wasn't. If he's left his money to her, which I should think he must have done, because I never heard that he had any nearer relations, she's got a good deal to be thankful for. I can't stand hypocrisy!”
“Yes, but I don't think it is, quite,” said Abby, wrinkling her brow. “I mean, she's so frightfully pious that she thinks you jolly well ought to be sorry if your uncle dies, and so she actually is!”
“That's worse! Don't forget the spoon and fork for the salad!” said Miss Patterdale, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.
The murder of Sampson Warrenby naturally formed the sole topic for conversation over the supper-table, Miss Patterdale making no attempt to restrain the enthusiasm of her niece and (adopted) nephew, but maintaining her own belief that it would lead to unpleasantness. Charles was able to perceive, academically speaking, that there might be a great deal of truth in this; but Abby said simply that she had never hoped to realise an ambition to be, as she phrased it, mixed up in a murder-case. Miss Patterdale, regarding her with a fondly indulgent eye, very handsomely said that she was glad it had happened while she was there to enjoy it.
The subject was still under discussion when, having washed up all the plates and cutlery, the party sat down to drink coffee in the parlour. Miss Patterdale had just ascertained that Mavis, under the influence of aspirin, had sunk into a deep sleep, when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Gavin Plenmeller, who had come, as he unashamedly confessed, to Talk About the Murder.
“Good heavens, is it all over the village already?” exclaimed Miss Patterdale, ushering him into the parlour.
“But could you doubt that it would be? We had the news in the Red Lion within ten minutes of Hobkirk's setting out for the scene of the crime. Mrs. Hobkirk brought it to us, and very grateful we were. News has been coming in for the past hour and more: I was quite unable to drag myself away, though there was a duck and green peas waiting for me at home. Instead, I ate a singularly nauseating meal at the Red Lion. I can't think how we ever came to be famed for our hostelries. Thank you, I should love some coffee! Where is the heroine of this affair?”
“Lying down upstairs,” answered Abby. “How did you know she was here?”
“It is easy to see that you are a town-dweller,” said Gavin, dropping a lump of sugar into his cup. “I used to be one myself, and I'm so glad Walter made it possible for me to return to Thornden. Life is very dull in London. You are dependent on the Radio and the Press for all the news. Of course I know that Mavis Warrenby is here! I'm delighted to learn, however, that she's lying down upstairs: I didn't know that, though I suppose I might have guessed it. Now we can talk it all over without feeling the smallest gene.”
“How much is known in the village?” asked Charles.
“Oh, much more than the truth! That's why I came. I want to know what really happened. Now, don't tell me it was an accident! That was the first rumour that reached the Red Lion, but nothing would induce me to lend it ear. Of course Sampson Warrenby was murdered! He is recognisable as a character created only to be murdered.”
“You mean if he's been a character in one of your books,” said Abby.
“Well, he may yet be that.”
“Charles thinks he must have been shot from the bushes opposite the house, on the common,” said Miss Patterdale.
Gavin turned his eyes enquiringly to Charles, who briefly explained his reasons for holding this opinion. “He was sitting in the garden with his profile turned to the lane, presumably reading some papers he's taken out with him. It wouldn't have been a very difficult shot.”
“But where was Mavis while all this marksmanship was going on? Report places her actually on the scene of the crime.”
“No, she wasn't quite that close, though darned nearly. According to her story, she was getting over the stile at the top of the lane when she heard the shot. That's where the murderer was in luck: a second or two later and she would have been on the spot—might even have stopped the bullet.”
“No, she mightn't,” contradicted Abby. “That's fatuous! The man wouldn't have fired if she'd been in the way!”
“Who knows?” murmured Gavin. “I shall go and view the terrain tomorrow morning. Can't you see the stile from the common? I rather thought you could.”
“Yes, I thought of that too,” agreed Charles. “Several explanations possible. The murderer may have been too intent on taking aim to look that way. He may have been lying with the gorse bushes shutting off the stile from his sight.”
“I find both those theories depressing. They make it seem as if the murderer is a careless, slapdash person, and that I refuse to believe.”
“But that's what they usually are, aren't they?” asked Abby. “Real murderers, I mean, not the ones in books. I know I've read somewhere that they nearly always give themselves away by doing something silly.”
“True enough,” said Charles. “It 'ud be nice if ours turned out to be a master of crime, but I'm bound to say I haven't much hope of it.”
“If you have cast your mind round the district one can only be surprised that you have any,” remarked Gavin. “Which brings us to the really burning question exercising all our minds: who did it?”
“I know,” said Abby sympathetically. “I've been thinking of that, and I haven't the ghost of a notion. Because it isn't enough to dislike a person, is it? I mean, there's got to be a bigger motive than that.”
“Besides,” said Charles caustically, “we have it on Mavis's authority that her uncle had no enemies.”
“Did she say that?” asked Gavin, awed.
“Yes, she did,” nodded Miss Patterdale. “When the detective questioned her. I must say, I thought that was going too far. Silly, too. The police are bound to find out that no one could bear the man.”
“But did you all stand by and allow this flight of fancy to go unchallenged?”
“Yes,” said Abby, “though I should think the detective must have known it was a whopper, if he happened to be looking at Charles when he said it. His jaw dropped a mile. The thing is you can't very well chip in and say the man was utterly barred, when his niece thinks he wasn't.”
“Well, I very nearly did,” confessed Miss Patterdale. “Because it's nonsense to say that Mavis thought he was liked in the neighbourhood. She knew very well he wasn't. It's all on a par with pretending to be heartbroken that he's dead. I don't say she isn't shocked—I am, myself—but she can't be sorry! I'll do her the justice to admit that she has always put a good face on things, and not broadcast the way he treated her, but I know from what she's told me, when he's been worse than usual, that she had a thoroughly miserable time with him.”
Gavin, who had been listening to this speech with a rapt look on his face, said: “Oh, I am glad I came to call on you! Of course she did it! It's almost too obvious!”
Abby gave an involuntary giggle, but Miss Patterdale said sharply: “Don't be silly!”
“All the same, it's a pretty fragrant thought,” said Charles, grinning.