“I know she said they did,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But I am sure that was an untrue statement. They did let her in, and it was she who ordered them not to admit anyone else because the baby took after her husband in appearance. She had a fairly firm hold over the Lowrys, remember.”
“A hold over them!” I said. This, of course, was a new one to me.
“They were incestuous,” said Mrs. Bradley. She paused. “I suppose it is because we have inherited the Jewish code of morals that incest is considered to be a sin,” she continued, watching my face. “Biologically I believe there is no weighty reason against it. However, most people regard it as a somewhat undesirable social foible, and Mrs. Coutts certainly put pressure on the Lowrys—blackmail, some people would call it—when she discovered that they were brother and sister and had indulged at some time or another in an illicit relationship.”
“Oh, yes. She would find it out, if there was anything nasty going on,” I said, bitterly. “She loved evil. It fascinated her, I think.”
“She had her punishment,” said Mrs. Bradley, seriously. “She found out that Meg Tosstick was with child, and she guessed that it was her own husband who had seduced the girl.”
“Didn’t she know for certain?” I asked.
“Not until the birth of the child, I think. The resemblance then was unmistakable. Some new-born babies bear a most extraordinary resemblance to one of their progenitors, as I said; this resemblance tends to become less marked as the child grows older. I am sure that Meg did not confess, and I don’t think Mr. Coutts was very likely to do so, was he?”
“His life was pretty much of a hell as it was,” said I. “I don’t suppose he wanted to make matters worse.”
“Yes, it must be hell to be compelled to lead the existence of a monk when one’s urge for procreation is very strong,” said Mrs. Bradley. “That was the trouble, of course.”
“But surely—” I said awkwardly, lacking her beautifully scientific detachment—“Cora McCanley, I mean—”
“Oh, Mr. Coutts was not Cora McCanley’s mysterious lover,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Nor was Sir William Kingston-Fox.” She smiled wickedly at me. I could have kicked myself for jumping to conclusions. “Don’t you remember telling me what a long holiday Mr. Bransome Burns was spending in these parts?” she said. “Burns was a financier. That, to the impecunious Cora, meant a good deal, of course. She had dug enough money out of Burns to go for that jaunt to London that I spoke about, and had made up her mind to go. Then, as I told you— only you were convinced I was talking about Sir William—Burns telephoned to put her off, and she arranged to hoodwink Burt, and, later, return to the Bungalow. The idea of deceiving Burt, with whom she had quarrelled violently, appealed to Cora, just as I said before, and the story I told of her return and the manner of it was also true. I don’t know how long she had been at the Bungalow waiting for Burns, who couldn’t get away from you all on the seashore that night, when Mrs. Coutts arrived by way of the underground passage from the inn. Cora must have been fearfully annoyed at first, and then fearfully alarmed. Mrs. Coutts strangled her to death after having stunned her with the poker. Do you remember Burt’s poker? And do you remember that the Chief Constable told us Cora had had a blow on the back of the head?”
I nodded, and shuddered, of course; I remembered how I myself had picked up that poker once with the intention of knocking out Burt with it.
“And, of course, if anybody had seen Mrs. Coutts on her way back from the Bungalow that evening, she had her reason ready. She pretended she had gone out to look for you all and persuade you to come home, didn’t she? Do you remember that? Only, she gave the wrong time, I expect, to her husband. She went to the Bungalow much earlier than she said, and she had to race back to the inn to get hold of Lowry and tell him he must remove Cora’s body.”
“I remember how fearfully knocked out she was on that Tuesday night,” I said. “It’s a wonder her heart stood the strain of the two murders, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes and no,” said Mrs. Bradley. “She probably considered that she was doing the will of God in ridding the earth of what she considered to be two dreadfully depraved and wicked people. She knew that Cora was an actress, and she knew that the vicar had yielded to temptation in the form of Meg Tosstick. She grew suspicious even of little Daphne, you remember, and it is a very good thing, Noel, that you were sentimental enough to mount guard over the girl as you did. Of course, as the mania took root, there is no doubt that she would have considered herself a crusader against all sexual intercourse. She was the wrong age, my dear Noel, to make the discovery that her husband had deceived her. It was an awful tragedy, that meaningless death of poor Cora McCanley.”
“Do you think Coutts will get over it?” I asked.
“Yes, when the trial of Lowry is over, I am sure he will,” said Mrs. Bradley. “He’s had a shock, but it isn’t as though he was fond of her, you see.”
“Then how did Lowry come in?” I asked.
“He was paid by Mr. Coutts to look after Meg Tosstick,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and I think it was his own idea, not Mrs. Coutts’, to change the bodies of the two girls when she had made him drag the body of Cora to the inn. Do you realise he had no alibi (except that supplied by his sister) after the bar opened on that Tuesday evening?”
“And the baby?” I said.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Bradley, “the baby is alive somewhere, I have no doubt. Mrs. Coutts wanted to kill it, I expect, but found she couldn’t. Women are strangely inhibited from killing children, Noel, my dear.”
APPENDIX
mrs. bradley’s notebook
« ^
July 7th: To Saltmarsh, at the invitation of Sir William Kingston-Fox, Ferdinand’s schoolfellow. Nice of the man to ask me. Shall be bored stiff, I expect.
July 9th: Not so dull as I expected.
Sir William fulfilled boyhood promise of good looks and uncontrolled temper. I like the daughter. A very charming child. But why on earth does the man propose to marry her to Bransome Burns? Burns is keen on the match. Horrible!
July 15th: To-day I met some of the local celebrities, including the vicar’s wife and a certain Mrs. Gatty. Interesting contrast in mental defectiveness. Must have a go at Mrs. Gatty and see what can be done. Exhibitionist. Mrs. Coutts a bad case of sadism plus inverted nymphomania, I think. Very curious and interesting, but I doubt whether my attentions would be received in the spirit in which they would be offered. She won’t upset the general public unduly if she does not break loose. Woman has brains, of course, and is a remarkably fine pianist. Got herself pretty well under control, at present. Obviously does not know the strength of the devil within her. Let us hope nothing ever happens to unchain him.
July 17th: The village humming with news this morning. Some unfortunate girl has had an illegitimate child. I didn’t know people bothered about such things nowadays.
July 28th: It is not the illegitimacy which is causing the excitement, but the facts that (1) the girl won’t name the baby’s father and (2) she won’t allow anybody to see her or the child. I met the curate to-day. A nice, rather weak-chinned youth. I also met the rest of the vicarage household. A jolly little boy of fourteen or so, a remarkably beautiful young girl at whom the curate casts the most ridiculous sheep’s eyes the whole time—bless their hearts!—and the vicar. Heigho! The devil a monk would be! Took some pains to stir up Mrs. Coutts in order to test her reactions. She is absolutely unhinged on the subject of sexual relationships, and the vicar is horribly ill at ease. It would be quite in order to suspect that he is the father of the illegitimate child at the inn. Mrs. Coutts has seen that child, I am certain. Poor woman! She is in hell.