“You mean the lover?”
“I mean the lover. The lover was afraid of Burt. Cora wasn’t. Do you see a motive for Cora’s death?”
“Not altogether,” said I, groping dimly.
“You remember the quarrel between Burt and Cora?”
“Yes.”
“And the reason for it?”
“Money again?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so. I think they quarrelled because Burt had found out that Cora had a lover and wanted to know his name. But that is mere guesswork on my part. Go on,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“She thought she might be able to tap the lover, found she couldn’t, and threatened to give him away to Burt. She would get off with a hiding from Burt, but the lover would be manhandled by Burt and perhaps chucked into the stone quarries. The lover may even have been hidden somewhere, listening to the quarrel.”
“Full marks, this time,” said Mrs. Bradley, patting me on the shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it better myself. After all, one could hear the voices of Cora and Burt a mile off when both of them were angry. You remember that Margaret Kingston-Fox heard them, for instance, and she is the last person one imagines eavesdropping.”
“But you gave me all the tips,” I said, blushing modestly, and referring to her praise of my efforts.
“Yes, well, it may easily have happened, that way,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Is that the telephone I can hear?”
It was. A maid came in to say so. Mrs. Bradley was wanted on the telephone. I waited. She came in looking rather worried.
“Sir Malcolm has kindly rung up to inform me that the end of the passage which opens into the cellars of the Mornington Arms is blocked up. Bricked in, he says. He has questioned the whole staff and the two Lowrys, but nobody remembers the bricking-up being done. It is obviously old work, and has not been disturbed for years. If further proof were needed that the passage has not been used from the end which comes out at the inn cellar, the bricks are covered with the cobwebs of years!”
“So nobody could possibly get from the inn to the Bungalow along the secret passage,” I said. “But then, we never thought anybody did. It was only Cora, and she came from the Cove end,” I continued, feeling my way through the maze.
“We had better go and worry Burt again, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly. “Will you accompany me?”
“With pleasure,” I exclaimed. A thought struck me. “I wonder what Foster Washington Yorke was doing on the night that Cora was murdered?” I said. Mrs. Bradley looked at me with sheer admiration in her keen black eyes.
“Child,” she said, “go right to the top of the class. By heaven, Holmes, this is wonderful!”
She slapped me very heartily and painfully between the shoulder-blades.
“In forty-five minutes, or less, I hope and trust that your intelligent question will be answered to your satisfaction,” she said. “And mine,” she added, on a grim note.
Burt was out when we arrived at the Bungalow. This served our purpose pretty well, as we were able to interview Foster Washington Yorke undisturbed. He was not chopping wood this time. He was doing some washing—shirts, I think, but whether his own or Burt’s, I could not say. He smiled politely when he saw us, and removed his dark brown hands from the tub.
“Finish the good work,” said Mrs. Bradley, seating herself on a scullery chair. “I suppose you can talk and work, can’t you?”
“Ef youse come to ask me questions about po’ Miss Cora, madam,” said the negro, unexpectedly and emotionally, “no, Ah can’t work and talk about her.”
He bent to his task and sloshed the shirts about in a heartfelt sort of way. He had been fond of Cora, of course.
“Ah’ll done go and hang ’em on de line now,” he said. “Den we’ll talk, if you please.” His manner had changed for the worse, it seemed to me. However, he brought another chair so that I could sit down. He himself leaned against the door-post, folded his arms across his splendid chest and surveyed us with a fair amount of hostility.
“And now, what, folks?” he said, insolently. Mrs. Bradley leaned forward.
“You recollect which day it was that Miss Cora went away, Mr. Yorke, don’t you?”
“Ah does that.” He recited, almost mechanically, like a child who has learned a lesson, “Miss Cora done go to catch the 3.30 train from Wyemouth Harbour on Tuesday, August 4th, de day after de Bank Holiday. Ah nebber seen Miss Cora no mo’.”
Mrs. Bradley fixed him with her dreadful gaze. “What about Tuesday night?” she asked quietly. The negro shook his head.
“Ah nebber seen Miss Cora no mo’ after she done leave this house to catch her train,” he repeated, stolidly.
“Oh? Look here, Foster, what were you doing on that Tuesday night?”
“Doing nothing,” said the negro, sullen as a child who is being found out.
“It won’t do,” said Mrs. Bradley, patiently. “Listen, Foster. Miss Cora died in this house. I want to know where you were when she died.”
CHAPTER XV
black man’s maggot
« ^ »
For a moment I thought the negro had not understood the purport, so to speak, of Mrs. Bradley’s words. Then I saw his gritted teeth as his mouth widened into a grin of surprise and terror.
“Miss Cora nebber died in dis hyer house,” he said, almost in a whisper. His eyes rolled horribly in his head with fear. Mrs. Bradley said rapidly in French:
“Oh, heavens! I forgot these people are afraid of ghosts!” Foster’s anguished gaze rested on me. His big mouth was trembling. He looked a sorry spectacle.
“Mister Wells, pray to de Lawd! Oh, mercy, pray to de good Lawd fo’ me!” he said. Sweat glistened on his brow. He was in anguish. I put out my hand and touched him. His hand was quite cold.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “it’s quite all right. Quite all right. Don’t be alarmed.”
His teeth were chattering with fright. Mrs. Bradley said in French:
“Give him the Swastika from your watch-chain to hold. Be quick.”
I complied. The poor man held it as though it were a talisman. It was, I think, to him. Gradually his shiverings ceased. He shook himself as though ridding himself of some clinging, clammy presence. Then he said:
“I done tell all I know.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“You don’t tell Mr. Burt. De debbil’s in dat man.”
We promised. He sat on the edge of the mangle and told us his story. Briefly it was that, having seen Cora off to the station and, after tea, Burt to the patrolling stunt that we all turned out for that night, it struck the negro that, as his employer was pretty certain to be late home, he might as well go into Wyemouth Harbour by bus and have a couple of hours at the pictures. He had left the Bungalow at a quarter to seven, he said, and he arrived back at just after eleven. He had seen the big picture, but had not stayed longer for fear Burt should return from the sea-shore before he himself arrived home from Wyemouth Harbour.
“Now,” said Mrs. Bradley at this point of the story, “what did you see when you came home?”
“Nothing,” replied the negro.
“Think again,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Did you come in by way of the front door or the back door?”
“Sho’, Ah entered by de back door, same as Ah does always,” replied Yorke.
“Was it exactly as you left it?”
A light seemed to dawn on the negro.
“Now yo’ done say dat,” he replied, “Ah remembers having to use de front-door key after all, because de back door am locked and bolted. I done say to myself, ‘You fergit, and leabe de house by de front door, yo’ fool nigger.’ ”
“And did you leave the house by the front door?” asked Mrs. Bradley, keenly.
“Ef Ah done dat, Ah gone done it in my sleep,” said the negro emphatically. “Ah didn’t nebber in my life use the front door, ’cept Ah come in with Mr. Burt or Miss Cora.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well, now, Mr. Yorke, who usually locked the back door at nights? Was it you, or Miss Cora, or Mr. Burt?”