“No. I’ve come with rather serious news,” I said. “The vicar can’t be found. Er—we believe he had some sort of a dust-up with Sir William late in the afternoon, and it struck us, perhaps—”
“That the poor man may be lying at the bottom of the stone quarries with a broken neck,” said the frightful little old woman.
“I’m not joking, you know,” I said stiffly. Her remark seemed to me in poorish taste, of course.
“Neither am I, young man,” she said, poking me in the ribs with a forefinger like the end of an iron bolt. “So come along at once, in case he isn’t dead.”
“But is Sir William at home?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And in any case I don’t believe he would do the vicar any harm, but we’ll go and see.”
“But not the stone quarries?” I said.
“Why not? I’ve often thought them a perfect gift to a simple-minded murderer who could retain sufficient gumption to push his victim over the edge and then leave the thing alone, and keep his mouth shut and his nerves in working order.”
“Footprints?” I said.
“Grandmothers!” retorted Mrs. Bradley with, I am bound to confess, a certain tartness in her tone which jarred upon me. I mean, I am one of those men who have simple faith in woman being the gentler sex and all that. Anyhow, the next thing I knew was that we were walking through the park, dodging the crowds. We called at Constable Brown’s house and took him and his two lodgers, a couple of second year undergraduates named Miller and Bond who had been spending a few weeks in Saltmarsh to do some quiet reading, along to the vicarage to find out whether the vicar had turned up. He had not, so, shutting our ears to William’s entreaties to be allowed to accompany us, we set out for the quarries. Mrs. Bradley had a powerful torch, Brown had his policeman’s lamp and the two undergraduates carried a bicycle and a car lamp respectively. I walked with Mrs. Bradley, and, as we mounted the uneven track which led uphill to the quarries, an idea occurred to me which I communicated to Brown.
“Mr. Burt,” I said, “who lives just over yonder at the Bungalow, would help in the search, I’m sure. Shall I go and knock him up?”
Brown, who seemed oppressed with a sense of personal responsibility for the vicar’s uncanny disappearance, assented, and we all took the road to the Bungalow. Two rooms were lighted up. I knocked at the door, but nobody came. Queer, of course. I knocked again, and waited, but there was no answer. Apparently Burt and Cora were still at the fête, so we proceeded with our search.
Even by day the stone quarries give me the hump. By night I found them quite alarming. I kept thinking of all the holes that weren’t fenced, and tried to remember the paths where they were. We picked our way carefully along narrow paths made partly by men’s feet and partly by sheep and ponies. We shouted as we went along, and queer echoes came back at us. We travelled in Indian file for a time, until Mrs. Bradley said:
“I think we ought to separate at the next junction of the paths.”
Having no light, I decided to follow her. Miller came with us, and Bond and the constable bore away from us to the left. For two hours, I should think, we called and listened. It was useless to descend the quarries, of course, as well as extremely dangerous. We could check the position of the other party by the lights they were carrying. At last, as though by mutual consent, although nothing had been said, we foregathered and decided to return to the village. I think the constable still wondered what on earth induced us to come to the stone quarries, and I myself was beginning to think ridiculous my idea that the squire had done the vicar some mortal injury as a result of their quarrel.
“He’s probably at home by now, cursing me for keeping him out of bed,” I said to Mrs. Bradley.
“I am sure I hope so, young man,” said the little old woman. I offered to escort her home, but she would not hear of it. However, I hope I know my duty to the sex, so I followed behind, and, in Indian file, we crossed the park, whence all the revellers had departed, and gained the front door. Sir William himself opened it. He was in pyjamas.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and where did you leave the vicar, Sir William?”
“The vicar?” said Sir William. “On the sports field, damn his eyes! The interfering, muddle-headed, self-opinionated damned ass! Yes, and you can tell him so from me, Wells!” he continued, suddenly spotting me behind Mrs. Bradley.
“Then you haven’t made away with him?” I said idiotically.
“I’d like to,” said Sir William, savagely, “Are you coming in, or going out? One or the other, only make up your mind quickly, because I’m going to shut this damned door.”
“Good night. Good night, Mrs. Bradley,” I said, as curtly as I could. Then I ran back to the vicarage. Brown and the undergraduates were there, but Mrs. Coutts was not. She came in about ten minutes later, sat down at the table with a face like chalk, and her fingers went drumming, drumming, on the cloth. She said that she had searched Sir William’s shrubberies from end to end. Old Brown had his helmet off and was scratching his head in the intervals of assuring us all that there was nothing more to be done until the morning. William was standing by his aunt and looking washed out and scared stiff. My poor little Daphne was crying, and the two undergraduates were trying to stifle their yawns and betray their concern at one and the same time. Of course, it was after twelve midnight by this time, and we were all just about all in.
I was able to assure them that I felt certain the squire had done Mr. Coutts no bodily injury. This had its effect. Brown and the undergraduates made a move towards the door. Daphne sat up and dried her eyes. Two spots of colour came into Mrs. Coutts’ cheeks. Suddenly young William hooted:
“I say! Mrs. Gatty’s locked him up, I bet! Like she did Mr. Gatty in the crypt! You know!”
There was a sensation. Dash it, it seemed quite feasible. The poor woman was bats enough for anything. So off I went with Brown to the Moat House, leaving Bond and Miller to hold the fort at the vicarage.
The Gattys were in bed, and were not too pleased at being disturbed. Old Gatty was distinctly querulous, in fact, and wanted to know what the hell, and a lot of things like that when we hiked him out of bed to answer a few leading questions. He is one of those weird birds who wear night shirts. Most embarrassing!
When he heard the news, however, he calmed down and was most obliging. He went into the bedroom—we were interviewing him just outside his bedroom door with two startled maidservants goggling at us over the banisters of the landing above—and dug Mrs. Gatty out of bed. She appeared in curling rags and a dressing-gown and with her gold-rimmed pince-nez stuck firmly on her nose. I suppose she slept in them, or didn’t feel dressed without them, or something.
“The vicar?” she said.
“Yes,” we said.
“Dear me!”
“Yes.”
“Missing?”
“Yes.”
“You know,” said Mrs. Gatty, in the voice of one who sees a great light, “he must have fallen down the stone quarries. Most dangerous, those workings. I’ve always said so.”
You know, she really sounded quite sane, and old Gatty looked at us as one who should say:
“All done by kindness, mesdames and messieurs!”
We took our leave, and Brown returned to his home and I to the vicarage. We sent William to bed, and, in the end, I persuaded the others to go, too. Mrs. Coutts, I expect, lay awake all night, but having left the door unbolted, so that, if the vicar should return, he could let himself into the house with his key, I rolled into my bed and was soon asleep. I was pretty well tired out, you know, what with one thing and another.
CHAPTER VI
a student of dickens
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