‘Yes-’
‘It’s just as if you were part of me – part of the boy I was. You can’t ever get away from what you’ve been, and you really are a part of that. I found that out when I came back, and now I keep finding out that you’re still a part of me. It goes deep down as far as I can get. If it’s been like that and it’s like that now, don’t you think it’s good enough to suppose it will go on being like that? You know, when you said you didn’t want me to make love to you because you’d rather keep something that was real, you made me think. And what I thought was this – why, we’ve got the real stuff – it’s there – we can’t get away from it – it’s as solid as wedding cake, but what’s the matter with having the almond paste and the sugar icing too?’
This time she didn’t speak. The no-coloured eyes were very bright and rather scared. His arm came round her neck, the hand under her chin tipping it up.
‘Hate me?’
‘Not dreadfully.’
‘That’s something. Like me?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Impassioned creature! Love me a little?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
The scared look went out of her eyes. A sparkle made them brighter than before.
‘You haven’t said you love me. Do you?’
‘Quite a lot, Jan.’
She repeated the words gravely – ‘Quite a lot.’
It was at this moment that Miss Sophy opened a round blue eye. It rested hazily upon the agreeable spectacle of two young people embracing one another, and closed again. Miss Sophy was no spoilsport. It was only when the subsequent soft murmurings became so articulate as to make her feel she was eavesdropping that she most regretfully stirred, rustled her cushions, yawned with emphasis, and sat up. The embrace, alas, was over. Dear Janice had a very becoming colour. Dear Garth was also somewhat flushed. She beamed upon them.
‘My dears – how nice!’
Garth had the hardihood to enquire, ‘What, Aunt Sophy?’
Miss Sophy patted her curls.
‘I believe I have had quite a nap,’ she said, and beamed again. ‘Very pleasant – very pleasant indeed. I had a most agreeable dream – if it were a dream.’
Before she could receive any reply the door was opened. Chief Detective Inspector Lamb appeared – a solid presence, but with an air of haste.
‘Beg pardon, Miss Fell.’ He came in and shut the door behind him. ‘I suppose, between you, there isn’t much you don’t know about this village. Can you tell me who keeps brandy in the house?’
‘Brandy?’ said Miss Sophy in a surprised voice. “I think we have some.’
Lamb looked past her.
Janice said quickly, ‘Mrs Bush – her aunt has spasms. She lives with them – she’s bed-ridden. They always have brandy in case-’
‘Is anyone ill?’ said Miss Sophy in a bewildered voice.
Lamb gave a kind of snort. He had an exasperated air. He said testily, ‘He isn’t ill, he’s dead!’ and went out of the room and shut the door. You couldn’t say that he banged it, but he certainly shut it a little more loudly than he need have done.
Miss Sophy opened her eyes as far as they would go.
‘Why did he want the brandy?’ she enquired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FREDERICK BUSH STOOD looking down from his spare height upon the two London police officers who had summoned him to this interview. Invited to take a seat he did so, retaining an upright carriage and his habitual air of dignified melancholy. He had removed his cap, and held it now in the hand which rested upon his right knee.
Lamb looked shrewdly at him and said, ‘Thank you for coming here, Mr Bush. We are checking up on the events of Tuesday night, and I think perhaps you can help us.’ He reached across the table with a paper in his hand. ‘This is a transcript of the evidence you gave at the inquest. Will you look it through and tell me if you agree that it is correct.’
Bush took the paper and laid it upon his left knee. He then put down his cap upon the floor, produced a leather spectacle-case from an inside pocket, opened it, and put on the spectacles, all in a very deliberate manner. After which he picked up the paper, read it through without haste, and laid it back upon the table.
Lamb watched him.
‘You find that correct?’
Bush was putting away his glasses. When the case was back in his pocket, he said, ‘Yes.’
Sergeant Abbott, writing down that single word, made the mental comment that the interview bore a certain resemblance to a slow-motion picture. Shorthand, he considered, was going to be thrown away on Mr Bush.
Lamb was speaking.
‘Have you anything to add to that statement?’
Bush said, ‘No.’ He took his time over saying it.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Bush – it is your habit, is it not, to make the round of the church and churchyard every night?’
With no more hurry and no more hesitation than before, Bush again said, ‘Yes.’
‘At what hour?’
Frank Abbott thought, ‘I’ll get something that isn’t a yes this time anyhow. I’m about tired of writing it.’
The answer came as the others had come, and without change of voice. ‘Ten o’clock.’
‘You made this round on Tuesday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so at the inquest?’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
‘It didn’t occur to you to volunteer a statement?’
‘No.’
‘You answered only what you were asked. If you had been asked, you would have said that you had made this round?’
‘Yes.’
Frank thought ruefully, ‘We’re off again.’ His mind played with questions which could not be answered by a mere affirmative.
Lamb said, ‘Then we’ll get back to this round you made on Tuesday night. When did you start out?’
‘A little before my usual time.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not bound to a time. I suit myself.’
‘And why did it suit you to make an early start on Tuesday night?’
This time there was a definite pause before the answer.
‘I don’t know that I can say. You don’t have to have a reason for everything you do.’
‘You say you went out before your usual time. How much before?’
‘I couldn’t rightly say – a matter of ten minutes perhaps.’
‘Did you hear the shot?’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t because you heard the shot that you started out before your usual time?’
‘No.’
Lamb looked at him shrewdly. The melancholy calm of look and manner were unimpaired. He had picked up his cap again and was holding it on his knee as at first, but in a closer grip. A knuckle showed bloodless where pressure tightened the skin.
Lamb said in an easy voice, ‘Very well – you went out on your round. Now tell me just where you went and what you did. And don’t leave anything out because you haven’t been asked – I want the whole bag of tricks.’
Bush put his left hand in his pocket, pulled out a red bandanna handkerchief, and solemnly blew his nose. It was a leisurely affair. So was the return of the handkerchief. So was the measured fall of words which followed.
‘I went out of my front door into the street and a bit along till I come to the churchyard gate and in.’
‘That would be the gate that opens on the village street?’
‘Yes. And along the path on the right, and right round the church, and out by the gate where I come in.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No.’
‘And that was all?’