“Then I think it was very, very cruel of you to allow the poor child to perjure himself,” she said. “We shall have him attempting to commit suicide before the trial if you go overburdening his already heavily burdened and not very powerful mind. A nice thing for my poor Ferdinand to attempt—the defence of a would-be suicide who has been charged with murder! You are a selfish and mutton-headed little boy, Noel Wells!” She then softened towards me, of course. No woman can remain angry for long with a younger man. I have often noticed that.
“Do use your brains sometimes, dear child,” she said, very kindly. “I know it hurts, but persevere.”
There could be no reasonable doubt of my perseverance, in that and other directions. I was even making headway with old Coutts about speeding up my marriage with Daphne. But I could not share Mrs. Bradley’s cock-eyed point of view about Bob. If she could not make up her mind whether he was guilty or innocent she had no right to interfere with the course of justice. I was sticking up for Candy because, in my heart of hearts, I believed him innocent.
Mrs. Bradley said, after a pause:
“Don’t you see that the murder of Meg led on directly, and, in a sense, inevitably to the murder of Cora? Don’t you see that there was never any reason strong enough for Bob to kill Meg of his own accord? Either he is innocent or else he had to be induced by someone else to commit the murder.”
“Oh, I see that well enough,” I said eagerly. “He didn’t commit the murder, therefore he was not induced to do so. You know that I still believe him innocent of the murder, don’t you?”
“First,” said Mrs. Bradley, taking no notice of my remarks, “whoever murdered Cora had planned the murder very carefully, and wanted to distract attention from it. That is quite certain, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You mean those bogus letters and things?”
“It was not a bogus letter,” Mrs. Bradley reminded me, “if you are referring to the missive received by Burt. It was a genuine letter, written by Cora for a special purpose, and it fulfilled that purpose, but not quite as Cora had intended that it should. It was written with the idea of indicating to Burt that she was in a different locality from the one where her body actually was at the time of posting the letter. Only, you see, her body was dead, not alive, when the letter was posted. That bit of the story was the one which Cora did not foresee. I don’t imagine her lover foresaw it, either.”
“But why did her lover kill her?” I asked. We seemed tacitly agreed to refer to Sir William by this pseudonym.
“The question is not ‘Why did he kill her?’, but ‘Did he kill her?’ isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
The woman was tiresome, of course. She grimaced at me, and wagged her yellow forefinger, and continued:
“He amused himself with her, and fooled her into believing that the two of them would go off together, probably just for the length of time that her engagement with Home Birds might be expected to last. Cora was fond of Burt, in a way, you see, and would not want to leave him for good and all. But we have no positive indications that it was her lover who killed Cora McCanley. Cora belonged to a definite type of uneducated female. Such girls have no outside interests and they have no faculties within themselves for creating amusement or interest of any kind. They are usually very prodigal of their charms, within limits, and are curiously insensitive to a man’s failings provided he has good-humour and a certain amount of money. Hoodwinking the preoccupied Burt was probably Cora’s sole means of entertaining herself in this somewhat one-horse village. To take an instance of what I mean. You remember the night that William Coutts was left with Cora while Burt and Yorke went down to the village for some books, don’t you?”
“Gatty on the roof of the Bungalow, you mean?” I asked, with my usual keenness.
“Yes. What impression did you receive of Cora’s state of mind?”
“Well, when I got there,” I said, weighing the thing, “she seemed to me frightfully jumpy.”
“Yes. And she certainly did not believe the noises had been made by boys on the roof, did she?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t suppose she did.”
“Why do you think she was so scared, Noel?”
“Well, William was scared too,” I remonstrated.
“Yes, of course. Fear is much more catching than any other disease that I know,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But will you admit that Cora may have believed it was her lover on the roof, and that Burt would discover him when he returned with Yorke from the station?”
“What, Gatty?” I said, amazed. “By Jove, that would account for Mrs. Gatty being so weird in her ways, wouldn’t it? You know, the unfaithful husband stunt, and so on. And yet you can’t somehow visualize little Gatty in the rôle of Don Juan, can you? Besides, you agreed that the lover came from the Manor House, and Gatty—”
Mrs. Bradley sighed, although I couldn’t at the moment detect any reason for it.
“I am not talking about Gatty,” she said, in a pained tone.
“But it was certainly Gatty on the roof,” I riposted lightly. “You can’t deny that.”
“I have no wish to deny it,” said Mrs. Bradley wearily, I thought. The woman was getting old, of course.
“It was Gatty on the roof. That has been proved. The point I am trying to make is that Cora fancied it might be, not Gatty, but this lover of hers. Got it, dear child?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Of course,” I said, grasping the thing in a flash, of course, immediately it was put to me in an intelligent manner. “Then he couldn’t have been very heavy, could he, and yet I should have thought—”
Mrs. Bradley weighed the point.
“We might test that,” she said thoughtfully. “Besides, I would be glad of an excuse to go up to the Bungalow. I want to see how Edwy David has taken the news. He must have heard by now. Go back to the vicarage and get William Coutts, and I will go to the Moat House and collect Mr. Gatty.”
I, too, was intensely curious to note how Burt had taken the news of Cora’s murder, but, as our rather curious quartette ascended the steep, rough track that led past the stone quarries to Burt’s bungalow, I experienced decided qualms about asking him to take part in Mrs. Bradley’s little test. Her idea was to get Burt, Gatty, and myself to climb on the roof, and, at a given signal from her, to take it in turns to crawl about above the dining-room. William Coutts was to be in the dining-room and record in a notebook all the differences he could detect in the amount of noise, scraping or anything else that went on above his head. He was to number the climbers 1, 2, and 3, without knowing the order in which we were to perform our antics up above, and was to put a cross beside the number whose sounds were most similar to the sounds made by Gatty on the night in question.
William was fearfully bucked. Burt was morose. He informed us all that he had not been a scrap surprised at the news. He had been perfectly certain that Cora was deceiving him because she had become a model of wifely virtue during the past summer. My words, of course, not his. His would belong more properly in Restoration comedy than to a simple chronicle of our Saltmarsh happenings. He betrayed no sign of grief, beyond a certain preoccupation and a good deal of irritability, and consented readily, if profanely, to crawl about his roof at Mrs. Bradley’s bidding and to allow Gatty and me to do so. He addressed Gatty quite civilly and offered us drinks all round. Mrs. Bradley accepted them for us, but stipulated that the trial was to take place first.
It was a beautiful day. The weather had steadily improved since the murders, I don’t know why, of course, and I sprawled in the broad sunshine with my seat in a kind of broad guttering between two slopes of roof, my back against the sunny side and my long legs up the shady side. The slope was gradual, the sun was hot, and I tilted my hat over my face and waited for the signal. Burt was number one on the list, Gatty was the second player, I was last. After about five minutes, the signal came. I cautiously lowered my legs, heaved my body first to a squatting and then to a kneeling position, and wormed my way across to the slope above the dining-room. Gatty had confessed to the wearing of tennis shoes on his nocturnal ramble, and so the three of us were similarly shod. As I crawled along, I could see into Burt’s back garden. There on the step was the coloured man, Foster Washington Yorke. He had a woodman’s axe in his hands again, and he was splitting a billet of wood. There was something kingly about the bloke, and I should have liked to watch him at his work. As it was, however, silence was essential to our plan. I tried to attract his attention, but at that moment Mrs. Bradley came round the corner of the Bungalow and invited him to desist.