The Saltmarsh Murders (8 page)

Bob, therefore, was a real loss to us. He would give no reason for dropping out at the last minute, except to say that Lowry had given him a holiday until six o'clock
and he didn't want to go to the fête, so he was going off by himself. In the end, we had to let it go at that. A cursed nuisance, of course. We argued for about an hour, but it was not a scrap of good. The poor mutt had made up his mind. Apart from this, I went to bed a happy man. I soon fell asleep, and dreamed about Daphne. It was one of those nebulous dreams. Nothing exactly happened, but we were together and I was extraordinarily bucked. William woke me at six-thirty on the following morning to come and bowl to him, and I was so full of beans that I actually arose from a perfectly comfortable bed, and went and did it. Got him second, fifth and seventh balls, too.

T
he fête at Saltmarsh was an all-day affair. The villagers paid sixpence to be admitted, and the tickets, printed by Daphne and perforated by me, were in three portions, so that persons who left the grounds to go home to a mid-day meal or to their tea, could be readmitted without further charge. People from all the outlying villages came to the fête, and occasionally we got a beanfeast party in motor-coaches, or people from the adjacent seaside resort of Wyemouth Harbour. We reckoned upon taking twelve pounds at least in ticket and gate money, five pounds from the fair people, at least twenty pounds for refreshments—(this of course, was
not
all profit, since we had the caterers to pay) and anything from five pounds upwards from the various amusements which we ourselves had staged. Of these, I may say that the cocoanut-shy was the most profitable, although we had made up our minds this year that the fortune-telling must be made a great success. The fortune-telling was an innovation, of course, and we wanted it to justify itself. It had been impossible to arrange it during the afternoon because of the cricket match, but stumps were to be drawn at six precisely, and it would take me less than half an hour to bathe, change, have my tea and sneak into the fortune-teller's little tent.

The match began at ten-thirty. We had first knock and made one hundred and five, of which I contributed thirty and the vicar a snappy twenty-seven. As at the last moment Bob Candy had refused to play, and, as we simply had not another male in the village who could hold a bat, so to speak, we consulted with the rival captain, a large, red fellow called Mogston, and decided to play Daphne, who added a beautiful twenty-six to the score and then touched a fast one and point held it.

It was turned two o'clock by the time our innings was over, so we adjourned for an hour and left Much Hartley just three hours in which to beat us.

“We
must
get them out,” said the vicar. Old Brown, the constable, bowling slows, opened at the pavilion end, and I took the other. We had altered the field a bit to give Daphne the job of wicket-keeper, for she could get old Brown's slows all right, and was thoroughly accustomed to my bowling, of course. We were lucky from the outset—so lucky that I might have known something was going to happen. Their captain, a left-handed bloke, carted old Brown's first ball clean over my head into the road, and his second, curiously enough, into mid-off's hands. Bob Candy at mid-off would have dropped it as sure as eggs, but this mid-off, sometimes called William Coutts, stuck to it and shrieked his appeal. The umpire, Sir William, of course, woke up, started visibly, and gave the man out. The next bloke played out the over very cautiously. Then Daphne, the peach, picked my first ball off the bat, and their second man retired to the pavilion. Suffice it
to say that we dismissed Much Hartley for seventy-nine runs in two and three-quarter hours.

Daphne and I made tracks for the vicarage, William made a bee-line for the fête, and the vicar stayed to give the visiting team their tea. The squire sheered off home for his tea, promising to return and help with the sports finals.

“Funny about Bob Candy,” said Daphne, as I sat on the edge of my bed while she sewed me into my fortune-teller's skirt in order that no risks might be run of my coming apart in the excitement of the job. “He's so keen on cricket.”

I hadn't time to talk about Bob Candy. To tell the truth, now that this fortune-telling stunt had come to fruition, I had the most fearful wind up. Besides, I had been in the open air for more than eight hours, all told, and I was tired and sleepy. However, the ghastly business had to be gone through with, so, putting my coat on over the get-up, and cramming the fortuneteller's beard, hair and hat into a small gladstone, I set out for the fête. I was lucky enough to get into the tent without attracting much notice. William, whose job it was to stand outside the tent and blow his scout's bugle until a crowd collected, was already on the scene. He stuck his head inside the opening of the tent.

“The cocoanut-shy is doing fine, Noel,” he said. “Mr. Burt is the very chap for the job, and old Froth-blower is backing him up like a good ‘un. How do you feel?”

“Rotten,” I replied, getting out the appurtenances and sticking them on. “How do I look?”

“All right. Shall I start playing now?”

“I suppose so,” I said. The little tent contained a small table and two chairs. Two candles, which I had lighted before I donned the hair, beard and hat of the fortune-teller, stood in saucers on the table. A skull, made of white calico and stitched on to a piece of black casement cloth, showed up rather eerily just beside me. William set his bugle to his lips and began to blow.

I suppose I put up a pretty good show, really, take it all in all. Of course, I got on better with our own village people than with the strangers, because I knew more about them. For the look of the thing, and so as not to give the show away, Daphne came in and had hers done. She murmured, as I bent over her hand:

“Nearly through, darling! Stick it! They are going to start the dancing in a minute. The Adj. has already gone into hiding, I expect. I haven't seen her about lately. I shall go home as soon as you've finished, I think. I'm awfully tired. We've to take William with us. Them's her orders. He won't half be sick, poor kid.”

“How's Burt got on?” I murmured.

“O.K. Also A.
I
. I like them, Noel. She may be a dreadful woman, though I wouldn't take the Adjutant's word for it, but she's got an awfully kind heart. Did you know uncle has had an awful row with Sir William over the children's sports? Seems silly, doesn't it, but they say it was awful. All about nothing, too. You know those boys uncle turned out of the choir? They claimed the right to run in the choirboys' hundred, because they had put their names down before they were chucked out, and Uncle wouldn't have it at
any price. Unfortunately, they had already run in their heats, while uncle was playing in the cricket match this morning, and both had qualified for the final. The rotten part of it was that Sir William upheld the boys. Uncle was furious, but he kept his temper. Sir William lost his, and called uncle a something parson in front of all the village people, so uncle punched him in the eye and there was the most frightful schemozzle. Uncle stuck to his point, though, and the whole race was abandoned. Sir William has gone off in the most terrible rage, and his eye is swelling up already. Isn't it a rotten, beastly thing to have happened?”

I agreed, and was about to enter into the thing more deeply when the flap of the tent was pushed aside and young William came butting in.

“Noel! Noel!” he said, “Aunt Caroline's here and she wants you at once. Uncle hasn't been home yet, and it's nearly ten o'clock, and she's heard about the row he had with Sir William, and she says you know what Sir William's temper is, and she's worried to death. I say, she
is
in a stew, so do buck up, there's a good chap!”

I did know what the Squire's temper was. Hadn't I seen him trying to throttle the financier, Burns, merely for treading on the dog? What would he not do in return for a punch in the eye in front of all the village! I pulled off hat, hair and beard, put on my overcoat, blew out the candles, and, followed by Daphne, I tore out of the tent, and, together with William, we hastened to the vicarage.

Mrs. Coutts was not having hysterics, of course. She
was not the type for that. But she did look fearfully white and groggy. I volunteered to go and find Sir William and see what he could tell us of the vicar's movements after he had left the fête. Daphne volunteered to come too, but, much as I would have liked her company, I thought somebody ought to stay with Mrs. Coutts. I wouldn't have William, either, because I knew that his aunt would worry all the time he was out. Off I went, alone, therefore, to the Manor House, to see what was what. They were all in bed except Mrs. Bradley. The servants were all at the fête, so she came to the front door and let me in. From the park, through which I had just walked, came the sound of the brass band playing for the dancing. I entered the Manor House and followed Mrs. Bradley to the library, where there was a small but cheerful fire. She invited me to sit down and then she asked whether she had to cross my palm with silver. It says something for my state of mind that I had completely forgotten my gipsy costume. My overcoat had fallen away and disclosed a bright red skirt to her somewhat hawk-like gaze. I frowned and shook my head.

“No. I've come with rather serious news,” I said.” The vicar can't be found. Er—we believe he had some sort of a dust-up with Sir William late in the afternoon, and it struck us, perhaps——”

“That the poor man may be lying at the bottom of the stone quarries with a broken neck,” said the frightful little old woman.

“I'm not joking, you know,” I said stiffly. Her remark seemed to me in poorish taste, of course.

“Neither am I, young man,” she said, poking me in
the ribs with a forefinger like the end of an iron bolt. “So come along at once, in case he isn't dead.”

“But is Sir William at home?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And in any case I don't believe he would do the vicar any harm, but we'll go and see.”

“But not the stone quarries?” I said.

“Why not? I've often thought them a perfect gift to a simple-minded murderer who could retain sufficient gumption to push his victim over the edge and then leave the thing alone, and keep his mouth shut and his nerves in working order.”

“Footprints?” I said.

“Grandmothers!” retorted Mrs. Bradley with, I am bound to confess, a certain tartness in her tone which jarred upon me. I mean, I am one of those men who have simple faith in woman being the gentler sex and all that. Anyhow, the next thing I knew was that we were walking through the park, dodging the crowds. We called at Constable Brown's house and took him and his two lodgers, a couple of second year undergraduates named Miller and Bond who had been spending a few weeks in Saltmarsh to do some quiet reading, along to the vicarage to find out whether the vicar had turned up. He had not, so, shutting our ears to William's entreaties to be allowed to accompany us, we set out for the quarries. Mrs. Bradley had a powerful torch, Brown had his policeman's lamp and the two undergraduates carried a bicycle and a car lamp respectively. I walked with Mrs. Bradley, and, as we mounted the uneven track which led uphill to the quarries, an idea occurred to me which I communicated to Brown.

“Mr. Burt,” I said, “who lives just over yonder at the Bungalow, would help in the search, I'm sure. Shall I go and knock him up?”

Brown, who seemed oppressed with a sense of personal responsibility for the vicar's uncanny disappearance, assented, and we all took the road to the Bungalow. Two rooms were lighted up. I knocked at the door, but nobody came. Queer, of course. I knocked again, and waited, but there was no answer. Apparently Burt and Cora were still at the fête, so we proceeded with our search.

Even by day the stone quarries give me the hump. By night I found them quite alarming. I kept thinking of all the holes that weren't fenced, and tried to remember the paths where they were. We picked our way carefully along narrow paths made partly by men's feet and partly by sheep and ponies. We shouted as we went along, and queer echoes came back at us. We travelled in Indian file for a time, until Mrs. Bradley said:

“I think we ought to separate at the next junction of the paths.”

Having no light, I decided to follow her. Miller came with us, and Bond and the constable bore away from us to the left. For two hours, I should think, we called and listened. It was useless to descend the quarries, of course, as well as extremely dangerous. We could check the position of the other party by the lights they were carrying. At last, as though by mutual consent, although nothing had been said, we foregathered and decided to return to the village. I think the constable still wondered what on earth induced us to come to the
stone quarries, and I myself was beginning to think ridiculous my idea that the squire had done the vicar some mortal injury as a result of their quarrel.

“He's probably at home by now, cursing me for keeping him out of bed,” I said to Mrs. Bradley.

“I am sure I hope so, young man,” said the little old woman. I offered to escort her home, but she would not hear of it. However, I hope I know my duty to the sex, so I followed behind, and, in Indian file, we crossed the park, whence all the revellers had departed, and gained the front door. Sir William himself opened it. He was in pyjamas.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and where did you leave the vicar, Sir William?”

“The vicar?” said Sir William. “On the sports field, damn his eyes! The interfering, muddle-headed, self-opinionated damned ass! Yes, and you can tell him so from me, Wells!” he continued, suddenly spotting me behind Mrs. Bradley.

“Then you haven't made away with him?” I said idiotically.

“I'd like to,” said Sir William, savagely, “Are you coming in, or going out? One or the other, only make up your mind quickly, because I'm going to shut this damned door.”