The Saltmarsh Murders (29 page)

Mrs. Bradley, to whom the suggestion seemed to be made, shrugged her shoulders.

“I can write the certificate if you like,” she said. “I am qualified to do so.”

“Yes. … Thank you,” said old Coutts.

He sat down and put his hands to his face.

“This is my fault,” he said. Mrs. Bradley sat down, too, and motioned me to a seat.

“Let us not talk of faults,” she said gently. “Perhaps I am at fault, too. I knew that I was going to cause her death. I had to choose between killing her through shock, or as an alternative——”

Old Coutts lifted his head.

“As an alternative?” he repeated heavily.

“Letting her stand her trial,” said Mrs. Bradley.

“She did commit the murders, then?” Coutts asked. He did not seem in the least surprised.

Mrs. Bradley inclined her head.

“And she would have committed others,” she said. “That is why I had to make a choice.” She looked gravely and sadly at the body. “I have made it,” she concluded. “There was Daphne to consider. …”

“Yes … “said old Coutts. “Thank you.” He got up and stumbled out of the room. We could hear him walking up and down his study. Up and down … up and down.

“I had better tell you everything, Noel, I think,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Poor boy. You look tired.”

“I'm ill,” I said. I went outside, and, for some reason, was horribly sick. When I came back, fit for society but shaking at the knees, Mrs. Coutts' body had been covered. I could make out its thin, rigid, pathetic outline under a dark-blue bed-cover.

“She murdered Meg Tosstick on the Monday, Cora McCanley on the Tuesday and made an attempt on Daphne Coutts on the following Saturday week. You remember the incident at the organ? As soon as you told me about that, I knew all the rest. The vestry door was the clue.”

“But that wasn't Mrs. Coutts, surely?” I said. “Why, she was prostrate in bed with one of her fearful headaches when we arrived home.”

“She was prostrate in bed with a heart attack brought on by rage, excitement, and the expenditure
of nervous and physical energy,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Did you know her heart was weak?”

“Well, more or less, I suppose,” I said.

“And, of course, her nervous system had been in a state of attrition for years,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Terrible. Poor, poor woman.”

She sounded so genuinely sorry that I gazed in astonishment. After all, this was the “poor, poor woman “who would have allowed Bob Candy and the innkeeper, Lowry, to be hanged for her crimes.

“Mr. Coutts allowed temptation to overcome him in the matter of Meg Tosstick while she was a servant in his house,” said Mrs. Bradley in a level voice that did not comment, criticise or condemn, “and, of course, Mrs. Coutts found it out. Do you remember the first time she came back from the inn when she had seen the mother and the newly-born child?”

“Oh, yes, I remember her coming in,” I said. I did, of course, very vividly. “But you are wrong about one thing. She did not see the mother and baby. The Lowrys refused her admittance.”

“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 might,” 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.”

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

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.

July 29th:
The girl was a maid-servant at the vicarage when the child was conceived. There can be no reasonable doubt of the vicar's implication. How tragic, and how immeasurably absurd!

My other patient, Mrs. Gatty, was rather extraordinarily amusing yesterday. Somebody locked her poor husband in the church crypt and she didn't want him released. There is another queer specimen in Saltmarsh, and that is Mr. Edwy David Burt, up at the Bungalow. And even our Mr. Burns is betraying unsuspected depths. I believe he has given up sighing for the moon (i.e. Margaret Kingston-Fox) and is consoling himself with a nice piece of cheese to whom I have not been able to fix a name. What a scandal-mongering old woman I am! It's living in the country does it! Well, well!

August 2nd:
My fat little exhibitionist excelled herself to-day. Very funny indeed.

August 4th
: Village life is too exciting for me. Spent most of the night hunting for the vicar, only to discover to-day that he was chained up in the pound. Burt, of course, assisted by the negro servant. The same mental
groove as the “Gatty in the crypt” incident. Out-Gattying Mrs. Gatty, in fact. No wonder the poor boy doesn't make a fortune at his job. No imagination. There is something startlingly reminiscent of crime in this banal repetition. I suppose Burt didn't murder that poor girl yesterday?

August 6th
: No, no! It couldn't be Burt. Why has Cora McCanley disappeared from the Bungalow? It is getting serious. What shall I do?

August 17th: Where is Cora McCanley?
Of course it is Mrs. Coutts, but, poor woman, she is not responsible for her actions. The attack on little Daphne proves it. What on earth shall I do? She can't go on killing people. Besides, I could not prove anything at present, even if I decided to inform the police. But there is no other solution to this frightful business.

Motive

Opportunity

Psychological factors.

All fit. But the woman is clever. All her wits about her at present. Terrified of discovery, too. Take the facts.

1
.
Meg Tosstick.

A. Time of the murder—9.0 p.m. to 10.30 p.m. on the night of Saltmarsh fête. Ideal opportunity. Everyone absent from the inn except those who were actually on duty all the time.

Question arises here. Did Mrs. Coutts commit the murder with her own hands, or did she prevail upon this poor boy Candy to strangle the girl? My mind is open at present, but if she incited Bob, what was her argument, I wonder? He would have killed Meg long enough ago if the fact of her seduction were sufficient to account for the murder. Shall get Wells to visit Bob and get his account of the way in which he spent the Bank Holiday.

And now for Burt. Indecent literature, I presume. Otherwise why was Burt so angry when the vicar seemed interested in Saltmarsh Cove, whose very name is associated with smugglers? Burt is a “literary man,” so smuggled books would be more in his line than smuggled beer. Psychological factor here, too. Besides, the landlord of the Mornington Arms has a secret of his own already, I fancy, and wouldn't risk breaking the law.