'Has she hurt herself?' I asked, when the child had gone.
'Yes, badly, I'm afraid. I came on ahead to tell you. The doctor and Nigel are bringing her in.'
'How bad is it?' I asked.
'Worse than bad,' said Harlow. 'We're in for trouble, mater. The poor girl has copped it.'
'Do you mean-you don't mean-rape?' I asked, my thoughts flying in horror to the gypsy encampment on Lye Hill, although previously I had dismissed such an idea.
'That remains to be discovered,' said Harlow grimly. 'Take hold on yourself, mater. The primary fact we have to face is that the poor kid is dead.'
'Dead?' I said, in stupid repetition of the unbelievable word.
He nodded. 'I'd better go back and help them along with her,' he said. 'I thought you ought to know, though, before they bring her into the house. Will you ring the police?'
'The police?' I echoed, stupidly again.
'Yes, of course. We mustn't delay. Ring them at once.'
'But what shall I tell them?'
'That we have to report the finding of a girl's body near the sheepwash at the foot of Lye Hill. Just tell them that. All further information can wait until they arrive.' He went off and I did as he suggested. The police asked on the telephone whether we knew the girl's identity. I replied that we did, and was told that they would be along immediately and that nothing was to be touched. I indicated that this was nonsense and that the body, as the girl was a guest of mine, would be brought to the house, but the policeman at the other end, having given his orders, had rung off.
I sat and waited. At the end of about an hour Harlow returned. I told him what the police had said. He nodded.
'Just as well we had young Tassall with us,' he said. 'Told us the very same thing. He and Nigel are standing by.'
'But, surely, in a case of accidental death...'
'Accidental nothing, mater.'
'What on earth do you mean?' I felt myself beginning to tremble and my head to swim.
'Tassall thinks she's been attacked.'
'Not-oh, no! No!' I cried.
'Steady on, mater. We've got to face facts.'
'But if she's been attacked-and is dead-'
'That's it,' he said. 'Murder. Not very nice for us, is it? What on earth possessed her to leave the drive and go right down Lovers' Lane at such an hour? We shall never know, I suppose, but there it is. Sit down, mater. I'll get you a drop of brandy.'
Well, Mrs Bradley, the poor child's body was never brought to the house. The police, when they had made their preliminary investigation, had it taken to the mortuary in the town and as I had the girl's home address and telephone number (since it was I, as hostess, who had issued the invitations to the birthday party, although the original invitation had been sent to the girl's brother) I was able to get in touch with the relatives.
I do not think I closed my eyes that night or, rather, early morning, and later in the morning, of course, the police came again. They wanted the names and addresses of everybody who had been present at the party. They were very polite, but very inquisitive.
What kind of party? List of guests? Drinks? Drugs? Quarrels? Rivalries? Jealousies?
Really, Mrs Bradley, you cannot imagine!
It was not that kind of party, I assured them. The young people had been dancing and playing at charades and the girl in question, Merle Patterson, had said she was going out for a breath of air. Others did the same, but nobody else went further than the terrace.
Was I sure of that?
No, not to be able to swear to it, but so I had been informed.
Had the girl come with a male escort?
No. She had been one of a party of four, all old girls of my grand-daughter's previous school.
And so on and so forth. Everybody in the house was questioned, and this included the servants. Just as the inspector had released me from his mesmerism-for, indeed, I was quite bemused by this lengthy interrogation-my butler informed me that Mrs Landgrave from the village was asking to speak to me.
'Oh, send her away,' I said. 'She must come at some more convenient time. I can't see her now. Ask her to leave a message if it's anything to do with Mr Ward.'
Well, it was! Ward had not returned to his lodgings for the past two nights and Mrs Landgrave thought I ought to be told.
One dreadful detail has been brought to our notice. The police believe they have found the weapon the murderer used. A heavy spade had been thrown into the deepest part of the sheepwash and the nature of the poor girl's injuries-but, no! I cannot go on! We are living in a nightmare. I do hope you have not altered your plans in order to come here, but you will understand that for you to visit us at present would be a waste of your time.
* *
Doctor Tassall's Letter
By this time you will have heard our bad news. It never occurred to me, dear godfather, that when you encouraged me to study medicine I should be called as a witness at the inquest on a case of murder, but so it has proved. Mrs Kempson, into whose well-ordered, not to say snobbish and sheltered, existence some rain has now fallen for the first time, I fancy, since the death of her husband, let your name drop at some time during that ill-fated birthday party, but I did not let on that I knew you, as I feared she would not believe me. As I am hoping to become her grandson-in-law, I did not want to antagonise her more than I could help and I thought that for me to claim acquaintanceship, not to say godsonship, with so eminent a personage as yourself might cause her to think me even more of a mountebank than she does at present. Besides, she would be bound to find out (unless you will reinstate me in your good graces) that you have banned me from your house since I told you I had broken with my little blackbird, Merle, and wanted to marry Amabel Kempson-Conyers.
First I ought to explain about Amabel, and this is where I throw myself, dear godfather, on your mercy. She is a beautiful young hussy whom I encountered under romantic circumstances a year ago in Paris, where I was celebrating the lucky fluke which enabled me, at the end of my course, to put the magic letters M.B. after my name.
She and another rash child were playing hooky from their finishing school one evening when they were accosted by a couple of amorous French youths of undesirable type. I contrived to break up the little party by claiming to be Amabel's brother and suggesting that I should whistle for the gendarmes if the boys did not abandon their obvious intentions. One of them pulled a knife, so I laid him out, took the girls back to their home from home, expressed the hope that both would receive a sound spanking from the dragon-in-charge and handed them over to the concierge with a large bribe to persuade her not to give them away.
That, I supposed, would be the end of it, but this was not to be. No, I'll be honest, godfather. I hoped it wouldn't be the end of it, so, having extracted from the young delinquents on the way home the information that they were in the first weeks of their year at finishing-school, I began to haunt the Sights of Paris in the hope of catching up with Amabel again.
It came off in the Louvre. Half-a-dozen young beazels, all demureness and devilment, were being towed around the galleries by a couple of grim, black-clad females of official aspect and, directly she spotted me, Amabel gave a slight squeal, grabbed one of the females, chattered away in French, broke ranks and, seizing my hands, kissed me fervently on both cheeks, rushed me up to the rest of the gang and introduced me as her brother(!).
After that, it was all gas and gaiters-nothing to it. I wrote her a prim, brotherly letter in case their mail was censored, received a reply, and that was the beginning of the end; at least, I hope so, for I intend to marry her. She needs a firm hand and I am the man to supply it. Unfortunately, if I make known (at this stage) my intentions, honourable though they are, there is the chance that old Mrs Kempson will persuade the parents to make Amabel a ward of court and rob me, no doubt, of access to her, unless I fancy a spell in chokey which, quite frankly, dear godfather, I most emphatically do not.