Upon finding me seated upon Daphne’s bed she decided that the worst had happened. (It hadn’t, of course.)
“You’re enough to make it happen, aunt,” said Daphne, in tears at the nasty things which were being said. “Here, Noel, darling!” And she handed me the ring. I received it dumbly and dropped it into my pocket. Then we kissed with histrionic effect, and I stood aside to let Mrs. Coutts pass out. She didn’t budge, so I didn’t. I wasn’t going to leave Daphne to be chewed up after I had gone. In the end she went, and I followed her out. I gave the ring back to Daphne next day, of course, and she explained that she had only returned it to save her bally aunt throwing a fit. Mrs. Coutts’ nerves and temper had been steadily deteriorating since the murder of Meg Tosstick. She chivvied her husband, who had been like a goaded bull since the village pound business, and also had practically said in so many words that he might think himself lucky he got off as well as he did. She muttered something about seducers and the cloth which sounded to me rather hotter even than her usual diatribes. The remark was equally divided between the Reverend and myself, of course. I believed the woman was mad. Really I did! I would have married Daphne on the morrow if it could have been managed, to get her out of it all, for it was beginning to tell upon the poor kid, but, apart from the fact that a curate can’t very well get married at a registrar’s office, I had passed my word to old Coutts to hold off until Daphne was older.
Well, I had to usher the Bradley into the vicarage, for the rain began to come down pretty heavily, and we both got pretty wet, walking from the Moat House. Nothing would satisfy Mrs. Coutts, who had taken a violent fancy to Mrs. Bradley, than to rig her up in dry clothes, shoes and stockings and have a fire lighted. Daphne grabbed me in the hall when the two of them had gone upstairs, and said:
“Oh, Noel! Uncle’s been talking to the inspector who’s in charge of the case, and he says there’s sure to be a local crime wave for a bit. He says these crimes get imitated—these sort of crimes. I think it’s horrible.”
The talk at tea was about the murder, of course. Mrs. Coutts spread herself on Immorality, as usual, and Mrs. Bradley listened, and prompted her when she seemed like drying up. I was pretty well fed with the conversation, and so was Daphne.
At six the Bradley tore herself away and beckoned me to follow her. I went, of course. I really don’t know why. She saps my will power, that woman. I had intended to stay with Daphne and discuss the Harvest Festival, but I followed Mrs. Bradley as meekly as a dog and we took the road which leads towards the stone quarries and then stops abruptly half way up the slope. She said, as we journeyed onward, shouting against the wind:
“I know Mr. Burt’s little game. Are you afraid of him?”
“Of course I am,” I yelled.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she bellowed. “Why don’t you like me, Mr. Wells?”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just went pretty hot and stammered a bit, of course. She mouthed at me:
“I want your help. It would be easier if you could overcome your prejudice.” She paused and, added, fortissimo, “I could overcome the vicar’s, if you liked, you know.”
“What is his?” I shrieked.
“You want to marry his niece,” she screamed. The wretched woman seemed to be wise to everything. “And I know a few bishops and things,” she added at the top of her voice. I halted and looked down at her. I hope my face was grim.
“You are trying to bribe me, Mrs. Bradley,” I ejaculated.
“Yes, yes, of course, dear child,” she hallooed into my left ear. Horribly moistly, of course.
“It’s a bargain. Come shake hands.”
She took my hand in her skinny, yellow claw. Heavens! What a grip she had! Harder even than Mrs. Coutts’, with her pianist’s wrists and fingers.
“Stay here,” she shouted. “If I don’t emerge from Mr. Burt’s bungalow in half an hour from now, inform the police!”
“Do you think Burt is the murderer?” I yelled. Horrible thing to have to shout at the top of one’s voice. So libellous, of course.
“I believe he is a violent man when roused,” shrieked Mrs. Bradley. I settled the dog-collar with a hand that trembled.
“I’m coming too,” I shouted in her ear.
“Hero!” retorted Mrs. Bradley, letting out her unearthly screech of mirth. Incidentally, she was speaking the truth, of course. I was carrying a blackthorn walking stick. I surveyed it doubtfully and then quietly parked it at the side of the road. Unarmed, I might be less liable to attack, I thought. I quaked and was in anguish as we mounted the rough track. Heavy clouds raced across the sky, driven by the same strong wind as was almost blowing us backwards down the hill. The quarries were silent and deserted. The workings were no longer used, and the deep holes were supposed to be fenced in. It occurred to me with horrible clearness just how simple it would be for a man like Burt to throw us over the edge where the fences had rotted away. Cora’s presence might have saved us, but Cora, where was she? According to all accounts she was touring in the North-East of England with a show called Home Birds. Still, I took comfort from the indomitable-looking little old woman at my side. Her yellow face was set, and her thin lips were tightly closed as she concentrated all her energies upon forcing an uphill way against the buffetings of the wind. She turned and yelled at me:
“You didn’t mind coming before!”
“No!” I yelled in agreement, holding on to my hat with both hands. “It’s the Gattys. They’re both mad, I think!”
“Both what?”
“Mad!”
“What?”
“Mad!”
“Oh, yes.” She grinned, and waved her hand. Burt was standing at the gate of his bungalow. To my astonishment he waved back, ran to meet us, put his great hand at Mrs. Bradley’s back and literally ran her up the hill in the teeth of that dreadful wind. When, panting and nearly cooked, I arrived at the Bungalow, it was to find Mrs. Bradley seated comfortably in an arm-chair drinking beer, and Burt straddled across the hearthrug, his back to a blazing fire, roaring and slapping his leg at one of the lady’s queer jokes. Cannot understand them, myself. He also had a glass in his hand. Foster Washington Yorke had admitted me, of course, and, as soon as I had accepted Burt’s cordial invitation to be seated, he brought me a glass of beer, too.
“Oh, yes,” said Burt, as one who was continuing a conversation which my entrance had interrupted. “We did push him into the crypt. I told his wife where he was, you know, and made sure she’d go along and let him out. The little snoop was rubbering round the cove (Burt’s words, of course, not mine), and we collected him and tied him up until we had finished our job. I forgot him after that.”
“Mr. Burt,” said Mrs. Bradley, calmly. “I think you will have to promise me that your fortune-hunting is over. No more cargo must be landed at Wyemouth Cove and brought to this house. You understand, don’t you? And—er—about your quarrels with your wife—”
She spoke gently, but her terrifying, black, witch’s eyes never left Burt’s angry face. I was horribly alarmed to see Burt’s furious expression. The odds were too frightfully unequal. Unostentatiously I bent and picked up the poker. It was a nicely balanced, fairly weighty weapon, and swung prettily between the fingers. I dangled it, getting the feel and the balance of it. Mrs. Bradley was grinning with a kind of fiendish blandness at Burt, whose neck was beginning to swell.
“You wouldn’t commit a murder, Edwy, would you?” asked the terrible little old woman.
“I—don’t—know!”said Burt, taking a stride towards her. “I might —if I were hard pressed!”
“Tut! tut!” observed Mrs. Bradley. She pointed a yellow talon at him. “Naughty boy! Sit down!”