“Yes,” said Dinah. She turned rather white and added quickly: “In the end she just blundered past us and went on up the lane.”
“What did you do?”
“I went home.”
“And Mr. Jernigham?”
“He went up to Cloudyfold, I think.”
“By the steep path? He didn’t walk down with you?”
“No,” said Dinah. “He didn’t. There’s nothing in that.”
ii
“I cannot see,” said the rector, “that this unhappy story can have any bearing on the tragedy.”
“I think I can promise,” said Alleyn, “that any information found to be irrelevant will be completely blotted out. We are, quite literally, not interested in any facts that cannot be brought into the pattern.”
“Well, that can’t,” Dinah declared. She threw up her chin and said loudly:
“If you think, because Miss Prentice made us feel uncomfortable and embarrassed, it’s a motive for murder, you’re quite wrong. We’re not in the least afraid of Miss Prentice or anything she may say or do. It can’t make any difference to Henry and me.” Dinah’s lower lip trembled and she added: “We simply look at her from a detached analytical angle and are vaguely sorry for her. That’s all.” She uttered a dry sob.
The rector said: “Oh, my darling child, what nonsense,” and Dinah walked over to the window.
“Well,” said Alleyn mildly, “let’s go on being detached and analytical. What did you both do on Saturday afternoon? That’s yesterday.”
“We were both in here,” said Dinah, “Daddy went to sleep. I went over my part.”
“What time did you get to the hall last evening?”
“We left here at half-past six,” answered Mr. Copeland, “and walked over by the path through our garden and wood.”
“Was anybody there?”
“Yes. Yes, Gladys Wright was there, wasn’t she, Dinah? She is one of our best workers and was in charge of the programmes. She was in the front of the hall. I think the other girls were either there, or came in soon after we did.”
“Can you tell me exactly what you did up to the time of the catastrophe?”
“I can, certainly,” rejoined the rector. “I saw that the copy of the play and the bicycle bell I had to ring were in their right places, and then I sat in an arm-chair on the stage to keep out of the way and see that nobody came in from the front of the hall. I was there until Dinah came for me to speak to Miss Prentice.”
“Did you expect Miss Prentice would be unable to play?”
“No, indeed. On the contrary, she told me her finger was much better. That was soon after she arrived.”
“Had you much difficulty in persuading Miss Prentice not to play?”
“Yes, indeed I had. She was most determined about it, but her finger was really very bad. It was quite impossible, and I told her I should be very displeased if she persisted.”
“And apart from that time you never left the stage?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, I did go to the telephone before that, when they were trying to get Mrs. Ross’s house. That was at half-past seven. The telephone is an extension of ours and our maid, Mary, is deaf and takes a long time to answer.”
“We were all frantic,” said Dinah, from the window. “The squire and Henry and father and I were all standing round the telephone, with Miss Campanula roaring instructions, poor old thing. The squire hadn’t got any trousers on, only pink woollen underpants. Miss Prentice came along, and when she saw him she cackled like a hen and flew away, but no one else minded about the squire’s pants, not even Miss C. We were all in a flat spin about the others being late, you see. Father was just coming over to ring from here, when we got through.”
“I returned to the stage then,” said the rector.
“I can’t tell you exactly what I did,” said Dinah. “I was all over the place.” She peered through the window. “Here’s Henry now.”
“Why not go and meet him?” suggested Alleyn. “Tell him how I’ve bullied you.”
“You haven’t, but I will,” said Dinah.
She opened the window and stepped over the low sill into the garden.
“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn, when the window had slammed.
“She’s a good child, really,” said the rector sadly.
“I’m sure she is. Mr. Copeland, you see what a strange position we are in, don’t you? If Miss Prentice was the intended victim we must trace her movements, her conversation — yes, and if we could, even her thoughts during these last days. We are in the extraordinary position of having, apparently, a living victim in a case of homicide. There is even the possibility that the murderer may make a second attempt.”
“No! No! That’s too horrible.”
“I am sure that, as your daughter says, you know a great deal about these two ladies — the actual and, as far as we know, the intended victim. Can you tell me anything, anything at all, that may throw a glint of light on this dark tangle of emotions?”
The rector clasped his hands and stared into the fire.
“I am very greatly troubled,” he said. “I cannot see my way.”
“Do you mean that you have got their confidence, and that under ordinary circumstances you would never speak of your knowledge?”
“Let me make myself clear. As no doubt you already know, I have heard the confessions of many of my parishioners. Under no condition will I break the seal of the confessional. That goes without saying. Moreover, it would serve no purpose if I did. I tell you this lest you should think I hold a key to the mystery.”
“I recognise the position,” said Alleyn, “and I shall respect it.”
“I’m glad of that. There are many people, I know, who regard the sacrament of confession in the Anglo-Catholic Church as an amateurish substitute for the Roman use. It is no such thing. The Romans say, ‘You must,’ the Protestant Nonconformists say, ‘You must not,’ the Catholic Church of England says, ‘You may!’ ”
But Alleyn was not there for doctrinal argument, and wouldn’t have welcomed it under any circumstances.
He said, “I realise that a priest who hears confession, no matter what faith he professes, must regard the confessional as inviolate. That, I take, is not what troubles you. Do you perhaps wonder if you should tell me something that you have heard from one of your penitents outside the confessional?”
The rector gave him a startled glance. He clasped his hands more tightly and said:
“It is not that I believe it would be any help. It’s only that I am burdened with the memory and with a terrible doubt. You say that this murderer may strike again. I don’t believe that is possible. I am sure it is not possible.”
“Why?” asked Alleyn in astonishment.
“Because I believe that the murderer is dead,” said the rector.
iii
Alleyn turned in his chair and regarded Mr. Copeland for some seconds before he answered.
At last he said: “You think she did it herself?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“I suppose I must. Mr. Alleyn, I am not, unfortunately, a man of strong character. All my life I have avoided unpleasantness. I know this very well and try to conquer my weakness. I have vacillated when I should have insisted; temporised when I should have taken definite action. Because of these veritable sins of omission I believe I am morally responsible, or at any rate in part responsible, for this terrible crime.”
He paused, still looking at the fire. Alleyn waited.
“On Friday night,” said Mr. Copeland, “the Reading Circle met in the rectory dining-room. It usually meets in St. Giles Hall; but because of the preparations for the play they all came here instead. It was Miss Campanula’s turn to preside. I went in for a short time. Dinah read a scene from Twelfth Night for them, and after that they went on with their book. It is G. K. Chesterton’s The Ball and the Cross, and Miss Campanula had borrowed my copy. When they had finished she came in here to return it. I was alone. It was about a quarter past ten.”