Death and the Maiden (8 page)

‘Yes, you did say it, Ted, but I dunno as you ought to repeat it in front of strangers,' said Mrs Potter, glancing at the strangers to see the effect of his words. Relations between the Potters were not too good, Mrs Bradley noticed. She wondered what the woman suspected, or, possibly, knew.

‘What made you think of murder, Mr Potter?' asked Miss Carmody keenly, leaning forward, her hands on her knees.

‘Why, nothing,' he replied, a trifle confused, ‘except – well, you know 'ow it is, mum. It struck me comical, like, as a biggish lad like Bob should a-got hisself drownded in about six inches of water, as you might say, for 'e laid very near the edge, half into some plants. And another
thing—' He lowered his voice and gave a furtive glance at his wife. The two of them were certainly on the defensive with one another, almost as though they had quarrelled but did not want strangers to know it.

‘You be careful, Ted!' said the woman. He shrugged his wide shoulders, but seemed disposed to obey her.

‘Yes, Mr Potter?' said Mrs Bradley, with hypnotic effect. Miss Carmody sat straighter in her chair.

‘Oh nothing, excepting a soft straw hat laid underneath him. I didn't tell the police. They'd 'a thought I was making it up. You see, mum, it wasn't there when I went to work after taking of 'im home and making Ma Grier call the doctor.'

‘Ma Grier!' said Mrs Potter scornfully. ‘That's a new name for 'er, ain't it? And you shouldn't of mentioned that 'at! Very likely your fancy, I reckon. And as for 'im not being drownded, you know very well that 'is poor little head was right under! You said so yourself to the coroner! Don't you remember? Bob was drownded. His head was right under. That's what you said, and you can't go back on it now.'

‘Well, right enough, so it was right under,' Mr Potter admitted hastily. ‘But if these 'ere ladies 'ave seen the place, I'll back they know what I'm a-gettin' at. Not deep enough to drown in, not for a lad of his sense.'

‘The same thought struck
me
,' said Mrs Bradley. ‘But the boy might have fallen and stunned himself, as the doctor suggested at the inquest, and have tumbled into the water. He had a bad bruise on his head.'

‘But the bump was on
top
of 'is head, and he was laying face downward in the water,' said Mr Potter. ‘That's why the coroner
would
give an open verdict. Quite right, too, in my opinion. There's been too many murders since the war.'

After a slight pause, Mrs Bradley again asked whether the parents had not missed the boy on the Wednesday evening, and repeated her observation that a very long time had passed before he was found. Had not the parents looked for him, she enquired.

‘Foster-parents. He wasn't theirs,' said Mrs Potter. ‘But
miss the boy? Not them! Down at the
Bull and Bushell
, same as usual. Wednesdays and Saturdays was their nights, and that's where they was, chance what! What do you say, Ted?
You
ought to know where old man Grier spends his time!'

Mr Potter confirmed this view, and said he had seen them in there. He had popped in for half a pint, he added (with an appealing glance at his wife), and there they both were.

‘Was that generally known?' asked Mrs Bradley. ‘That they frequented this public house on Wednesdays and Saturdays?'

‘Known all along 'ere, at any rate.'

‘And in the city?'

‘Us takes no truck in the city. Nought but ecclesiastical that don't be.'

‘I see.'

‘Till late years, been a separate village, us 'ave. Worked in the city, maybe, some of us 'ave, but nothing to do with their affairs. Don't know nothing about 'em, anyhow. The Dean, he see to Winchester. Us keep ourselves to ourselves.'

‘Yes, I see. Then – don't the children go and play along the river past Winchester? Do they never go into the water-meadows towards St Cross?' demanded Miss Carmody, the nymph and Mr Tidson foremost in her thoughts.

‘Why should 'em?' asked Mr Potter in surprise. ‘Got our own river, 'aven't us, 'ere in the village? Why
should
'em go? If they think to go further, they goes over to the reck, like, or to that there bit of a brook by King Alfred's gate.'

‘Yes, I see,' said Mrs Bradley. ‘What kind of boy was Bobby Grier? Did the other boys like him?'

‘That I couldn't tell you, mum. Little enough I knowed of him. My little un, now, her could tell you. But he wasn't Mrs Grier's own, as I daresay you 'eard us say a minute ago.'

Mrs Bradley nodded. The little girl Potter was not visible when the two elderly ladies left the house, and Mrs Bradley was about to suggest that they should return to the
Domus
when Miss Carmody said surprisingly and suddenly:

‘I think we ought to tax that Grier woman with Edris.'

‘Tax her?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

‘Certainly. Edris must be the man the police will want for the murder. There! It is out! I've said it!'

‘But why should you say it?' Mrs Bradley enquired. ‘What makes you connect your Mr Tidson with the death of this boy?'

‘Little enough, in one sense, but a very great deal in another,' Miss Carmody mysteriously replied; and they walked back to Mrs Grier's house. The house was quiet now. The curiosity of the villagers was sated, the front door was shut and the family had settled down to tea.

After Mrs Bradley had knocked twice, the door opened to about one-seventh of its possible semi-circumference, and a suspicious eye peered forth.

‘When did you first miss Bobby?' enquired Mrs Bradley, deeming that surprise tactics would be the best method of approach.

‘We never,' said the owner of the eye. ‘And we don't want no more bothering. We got the funeral to see to.' The door slammed. Mrs Bradley took Miss Carmody by the hand and hurried her up the street, and they came back to Winchester by way of Water Lane into Bridge Street. All the way Miss Carmody asked only one question, but it was one which Mrs Bradley found herself unable to answer satisfactorily.

‘Don't
you
think the little boy was murdered?'

‘Only by the pricking of my thumbs, and that will hardly impress the police,' Mrs Bradley replied. ‘It is the bump on top of his head that interests me most. I felt for it, as, no doubt, you noticed. It was a bad enough blow to have stunned him, and I have no doubt it did, but it certainly did not kill him. The question, of course, is how he came by it.'

‘Well,' said Miss Carmody, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘he
might
have knocked his head accidentally and then felt faint or confused and fallen forward into the water. But there
was
that sandal which Edris put on the dust-cart. Crete mentioned it to me last night, and then, I
think, wished she had not, and, certainly, I would never have dreamed of reminding
her
about it. Of course, she might be very glad to get rid of Edris, and if he were proved to be a murderer . . . You know, I'm afraid of Edris. He is really a very strange man . . .'

Mrs Bradley said nothing. She was too much astonished to speak. There were various ways in which a wife could have reminded Miss Carmody about the sandal, and Mrs Bradley could not help wondering whether Miss Carmody's remark was not uncomfortably disingenuous. After all, it was rather more likely, considering all the circumstances, that Miss Carmody, rather than Crete, should be anxious to be rid of Mr Tidson.

Another picture rose unbidden before Mrs Bradley's inward eye – the picture of a tall, mild-mannered spinster visiting the Cathedral by moonlight. By moonlight, Mrs Bradley reflected, glancing sidelong at her companion, almost everyone takes on a personality not entirely righteous or his own. ‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,' . . . She suddenly cackled, startling a baby and a dog.

‘Why do you laugh?' Miss Carmody nervously enquired.

‘I laugh at my thoughts,' Mrs Bradley replied,' although they are not really much of a laughing matter. How steeply the High Street mounts to the West Gate, does it not?'

‘Well, and what do you think of my naiad now?' enquired Mr Tidson, when the party met for cocktails before dinner. ‘I have a theory that the boy was drowned in pursuit of her, you know. She may even have beckoned him in.'

‘Yes, you said so before,' said Crete. ‘But we do not see what you have to go on.'

‘He was a fine little boy. I've seen him,' said Miss Carmody. She described the afternoon visits which she and Mrs Bradley had paid, but did not reconstruct their conversation.

‘These parents who go off in the evening and leave their children to fend for themselves are incurring a very serious responsibility,' said Mr Tidson, beaming upon Thomas as
he beckoned him to come to where they sat. ‘Champagne cocktails, I think, this evening, Thomas.'

‘Verra guid,' said Thomas, indicating by his tone that it was very far from that. ‘And for the young leddy?'

‘Gin and Italian,' said Connie, ‘and get an evening paper, Thomas, will you?'

‘There'll be nae mair peppers the night, but ye may borrow mine if ye'll promise no to do the crossword,' said Thomas. ‘Ye filled in
victors
for
lictors
on Wednesday, and put me out terrible.'

‘But “victors” was right! I looked at the answers next day!' said Connie indignantly.

‘I dinna work out the crossword to get it
right,'
said Thomas withering her. ‘Ony fule can dae that! But if ye pit
lictor
where it should hae been
victor
, ye get
mallet
in place of
velvet
and that gives ye
antimony
instead of
enticing. Enticing!
Well, well!' He laughed shortly. ‘
Enticing
, where he could hae pit
antimony
!'

‘That's a very odd sort of man,' said Mr Tidson, gazing with nervous interest at Thomas' retreating form and at the two dragon's eyes of silver buttons on the back of the old man's livery; for Thomas acted both as porter and cocktail waiter in the same greenish uniform. It had silver-braided cuffs and silver buttons, and he had worn it for years past. It was almost threadbare, but nothing would induce him to take to the new and smart blue-and-gold suit which the manageress had been anxious to provide. He had confided to Connie when she had come down early one morning and had discovered him, with the coat off, going over the buttons with plate powder, that he liked fine to gie his wee lozenges a bit of a shine, for, between themselves, (meaning himself and Connie), they minded him on a kiltie suit he had had as a wee laddie in Kilmarnock.

‘He is not only an odd sort of man; he is a very intelligent fellow,' said Miss Carmody. ‘And he serves very good sherry,' she added, ‘although perhaps that is more to the credit of the hotel than to his own personal credit.'

‘We are not having sherry to-day, though,' said Crete, ‘and Thomas does not approve of champagne cocktails.'

She smiled at Thomas when he returned with the glasses. Thomas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the smile, but did not move a muscle of his Covenanting face as he set the cocktails down on the polished table.

‘I think,' said Mrs Bradley suddenly, ‘that Connie ought to take me up all the hills to-morrow. Will you?' she added, turning to the girl. ‘I believe you walk fast and far, and I feel the need of exercise.'

‘I'd love to go with you,' replied Connie. ‘But what about you, Aunt Prissie?' she added, turning towards Miss Carmody.

‘You and Mrs Bradley would walk my legs off,' Miss Carmody comfortably replied. ‘I shall write up my Mothers. It is a task much overdue. I will sit with Crete whilst she does her embroidery. What do you say, Crete, to that?'

‘She says nothing,' said Mr Tidson, raising his glass. ‘What can she say, my dear Prissie? Convention does not permit her to say that she prefers her own company, and if she does pretend to welcome your presence you are not to be blamed if you think her protestations sincere.'

He sipped his cocktail thoughtfully after this rather rude speech, then suddenly started, and called excitedly for Thomas. The factotum appeared, and gazed with disapproval at the party.

‘What will ye?' he enquired, looming like a minor prophet with a major message, uncompromisingly beside the tiny table.

‘This cocktail! Where's the brandy?' Mr Tidson demanded. Thomas picked up the glass, bent bristling brows upon the complainant, walked to the window, held the innocent drink to the light, and then replied in justly withering tones:

‘I will be speiring.'

‘Oh, dear!' said Miss Carmody, taking up her drink. ‘You've annoyed him! Next time we shall get no brandy in them at all! You are rather provoking, Edris!'

‘I am a connoisseur,' Mr Tidson replied. ‘And when a connoisseur finds that what should be a masterpiece is nothing of the kind, honour compels him to say so. I suggest, my dear Crete, that you put your cocktail down.'

‘Just what she
is
doing,' said Connie vulgarly, watching Crete's tasting of the mixture. Thomas returned at this juncture with the glass on a silver salver.

‘Your drink, sir –
laced
,' he observed.

‘Splendid!' said Mr Tidson, sipping his drink. He waited until Thomas had gone, and then remarked, ‘It is amazing, my dear Connie, what a display of firmness will do.'

‘You must try it some time, Uncle Edris,' said Connie angrily. Mr Tidson looked at her with an expression of concern, gulped his drink hastily, and choked.

‘It's a verra great peety ye wouldn't be content with the proper mixture,' said Thomas, coming back with a table napkin and mopping up the cocktail that was spilt on Mr Tidson's light-grey suit. ‘Maybe anither time ye'll admit that this hoose kens whit's
guid
for ye.'

This classic setting down of Mr Tidson struck everybody dumb except Connie, who, to the consternation of the guests at another table, suddenly put down her glass and went into hysterical laughter.