Goodnight Monsieur . . . Dianne de Poitiers.
Minnie the femme de chambre tells me today that Madame A. had insisted on opening the front door herself, on Sunday morning. Because of my terrible suspicions I find this disturbing.
D. de P.
Bumpher had formed an excellent opinion of the French governess ever since the day when they had driven to the Picnic Grounds with Edith Horton Not the type of young woman to lose her head without any reason. He read the letter again with growing uneasiness. The Bumphers’ neat weatherboard villa was close to the Police Station in a neighbouring back street, and here he presently surprised his wife by appearing on the verandah with a request for a cup of morning tea. ‘Right here in the kitchen – I happened to be passing our gate with a few minutes to spare.’ While the kettle was boiling he asked casually, ‘You off to one of your bun fights this afternoon?’ Mrs Bumpher sniffed. ‘Since when have I been out to tea? If you’d like to know, I’m going to clean right through the house for Easter.’
‘I was only asking,’ said her husband mildly. ‘Because last time you went to a social you brought home those cream puffs I like – from the Vicarage – and a lot of gossip.’
‘You know very well I’m not one for gossip. What is it you want to find out?’
He grinned. ‘Shrewd little woman, aren’t you? I’ve been wondering if you ever heard any of your lady friends mention Mrs Appleyard at the College?’ In Bumpher’s experience it was amazing how an ordinary housewife seemed to know by instinct things that might take a policeman weeks to find out. ‘Let me see. Well, I have heard it said the old girl’s a bit of a Tartar when she flies into one of her rages.’
‘Flies into rages, does she?’
‘I’m only telling you what I hear. Smooth as silk to me, if I happen to run into her in the village.’
‘You know anyone who’s actually seen her in a rage?’
Drink up your tea while I think . . . you know the Comptons down at the cottage with the quince trees where the College gets their jams? Anyway, the wife told me she was terrified of making a mistake in the account because once when her hubby was away she had to take it over by hand and it was a pound out and Mrs Appleyard sent for her and gave her hell. Mrs Compton thought the old girl was going to have a stroke.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Only that a girl by the name of Alice who works at the College told that woman in the fruit shop that she drinks a bit. This Alice hadn’t ever seen her tiddly or anything but you know how people talk in this town! Especially since the College Mystery.’
‘Don’t I just!’ Over a second cup of tea he tried to extract a few crumbs of information about the French governess by announcing she was to be married next week. ‘Go on! I’m not much of a one for the Frogs, as you know (remember that fellow who played the flute?), but I must say I thought this one was a real pretty girl the only time I was close enough to see her face.’
‘Where was that?’
‘At the Bank. This Mademoiselle was cashing a cheque and Ted – that’s the teller with the ginger hair – gave her too much change. She’d gone half way down the street before she noticed it and brought it back. I remember because Ted remarked to me at the time: “My word Mrs Bumpher, there’s honesty for you! I would’ve had to pay back that money out of my own pocket.”’
‘Well, thanks for the tea – I’ll be off now,’ said Bumpher, pushing back his chair. ‘Expect me when you see me this evening. I may be very late home.’ There was a lovely piece of rump steak for tea but Mrs Bumpher had been married for fifteen years and knew better than to ask why.
The promise of fine weather for Easter continued all through Thursday. By twelve o’clock it was almost hot, and Bumpher taking notes in the stuffy privacy of his office took off his jacket. Mr Whitehead too had taken off his coat to fork over the dahlias. As soon as he had finished his early dinner the gardener went into the tool shed and dragged out the hose, already rolled up for the coming winter, with the intention of watering the hydrangeas before the bed got too dry. Tom asked if he could lend a hand, otherwise he was going to take Minnie for a stroll down the road. The gardener said no, he had the place in pretty good shape to leave for a day tomorrow, but would Tom give the hydrangeas a bit of a sprinkle if the sun came out again strong, like today, on Good Friday? Tom promised, and taking Minnie by the arm was mercifully spared from participation in subsequent happenings during the next few hours.
The hydrangea bed, eight feet wide and running along the back of the house for most of its length, was the apple of Mr Whitehead’s eye. This summer some of the flower heads were at least six feet above the ground. He had just fixed his hose on to the nearest garden tap when he noticed an offensive smell which seemed to be coming from the direction of the hydrangeas. Before turning on the tap he thought he had better investigate or Cook would be kicking up a shine with a stink so close to the kitchen door. He had been too busy with the autumn pruning the last few days to stop as he often did to admire the close growing hydrangea bushes, their dark glossy leaves crowned with clusters of deep blue flowers. Now to his annoyance he saw that one of the tallest and most handsome plants, in the back row, a few feet out from the wall directly below the tower, had been badly crushed and broken, the beautiful blue heads limp on their stalks. Possums! The darned things were always gallivanting about on the leads. Tom had even found a possum nest in the tower last year. Tom would have gone crashing into the bushes there and then in his heavy boots in search of a dead possum. The gardener, however, removed his waistcoat, took a pair of secateurs from his trouser pocket in order to make a clean snip at the broken flower stalks, and began crawling carefully between the bushes on his hands and knees so as not to disturb the young growth at the base of the roots. He was within a few feet of the damaged bush when he saw something white beside it on the ground. Something that had once been a girl in a nightdress, soaked with dried blood. One leg was bent under the tangled body, the other wedged in the lower fork of the hydrangea. The feet were bare. The head was crushed beyond recognition, even if he could have forced himself to look at it more closely. Even so he knew that it was Sara Waybourne. No other girl at the College was so small, with such thin arms and legs.
He managed to crawl out on to the path that ran beside the bed and was violently sick. The body from here was entirely hidden by the dense screen of foliage. He and Tom and the maids must have passed it dozens of times during the last few days. He went into the wash-house and splashed his hands and face. There was a bottle of whisky in his room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and poured himself a small drink to settle his wildly leaping stomach and went straight round the house to the side door and across the hall to Mrs Appleyard’s study.