The Key (22 page)

9.20 – Cyril to Cut (approximate).

9.30 – Medora Brown to Cut.

9.31 – Madoc to Cut. Row between them. Organ still playing. No evidence that it was heard after this.

9.34 – Exit Medora to house, and Madoc with key.

9.35 – Cyril to bed.

Now this is where Madoc’s statement comes in.’ He wrote upon the opposite page, and then read out what he had written.

9.43 – approx. – Madoc reenters Cut. Ezra already there.

9.45 – Harsch is shot, on the second chime of the quarter.

He looked up.

‘Madoc says he stood where he was until the third chime had gone. Says he didn’t see Ezra till after that. He thinks they both of them waited as long again before they moved. Then he saw Ezra run, and come to the door and open it. Now how long would that take? Madoc was level with the main block of the church – that would give him about a hundred yards to go, and Ezra perhaps eighty. The chimes take five seconds each – say twenty seconds before either of them moves, and twenty seconds for Ezra to reach the door and get it open. Well, there he is, looking in – and it’s forty seconds since the shot was fired. What has the murderer to do in that forty seconds? He has fired the shot, and Harsch is dead. He’s got to wipe the pistol, get Harsch’s fingerprints on it, let it drop, and scoot back the way he came. None of that would take more than forty seconds, would it? Ezra might have seen him coming out of the church. I think he must have, but we’ll have to pace it and time it on the spot. Well, Ezra sees him, but he doesn’t see Ezra – he wouldn’t have come out of the church if he had. He runs for the gate on to the Green. That’s the really dangerous part of the whole show, but he’s got to risk it. There’s a diagonal path from the church door to the gate, and it’s not very far. Ezra would have to go across country or a long way round. He hears Ezra running, but he gets to the gate and slams it. But Ezra has recognised him, and presently he tries a spot of blackmail and gets bumped off. So now we don’t know who the murderer was. I don’t think it was Madoc, because, a, it would be absolutely pointless for him to incriminate himself by saying he came back if all the rest of it was a string of lies; and, b, he certainly didn’t kill Ezra, because he was under lock and key in Marbury jail.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Nice to have something you can feel sure about, isn’t it?’

Miss Silver was giving him a very flattering attention.

‘Pray continue.’

‘Well, I don’t think it was Bush either. It can’t be if Madoc’s statement is true. And why should Madoc go out of his way to incriminate himself by admitting that he came back, unless he really couldn’t hold his tongue and let an innocent man be arrested? Which brings us back to the timetable again.

9.46 – approx. – Madoc looking into churchyard.

‘That gives him three minutes to walk back along the Cut and see Bush enter the churchyard by the main gate, and Bush one minute to come round the church and in at the side door.

9.50 – Bush finds the body.

9.52 – approx. – Gladys and Sam to the churchyard.

9.58 – Bush comes out of the church and locks the door.

How’s that?’

‘Excellent,’ said Miss Silver.

FRANK ABBOTT BURST out laughing.

‘And it doesn’t get us anywhere at all! Exit Madoc. Exit Bush. Enter invisible murderer, sex unknown. Nobody saw him except Ezra, and Ezra is no more. Please teacher, who did it?’

Miss Silver remained silent.

He quirked an eyebrow at her and said,

‘Strictly off the record and between ourselves?’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘There is so little to go on – just a few straws in the wind – nothing that could be called evidence.’

He gazed imploringly.

‘Strictly off the record, teacher?’

She said gravely, ‘I think it was one of the people who went to the Ram on Monday afternoon.’

His eye brightened.

‘Do you include Bush?’

‘I do not think that it was Bush.’

Frank whistled.

‘Who’s left? Miss Doncaster, and possibly Everton, but there’s no evidence to show that he was ever near the Ram. Oh, by the way, the Chief has checked up on him, and it all sounds according to Cocker. Stockbroker. Gregarious friendly soul. Often said he would like to settle in the country. Shell-shocked in the blitz – bad nervous breakdown – ordered a country life. Dropped out – you know how people do in London when they retire. Sounds all right, doesn’t it?’

‘He has never had anyone down to stay,’ said Miss Silver. ‘He is said to have gone over to meet a cousin in Marbury a little while ago, but that is the only evidence of contact with friends or relatives. For a friendly, gregarious person that seems a little strange.’

‘Nervous breakdowns do leave people strange, don’t they? And, you know, it’s quite easy to drop out.’

‘That is very true.’

‘Then, for what it’s worth, Mrs Mottram gives him an alibi. She says he was with her until a quarter to ten on Tuesday night, and that the shot was fired just as he said good-bye.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘A very good example of the unreliability of evidence. She told me the same story, but with a difference. She said Mr Everton heard the shot and thought that it was Giles shooting at a fox. He had just looked at his watch and said he must go, as it was a quarter to ten and he was expecting a trunk call.’

Frank Abbot’s eyes narrowed.

‘Not quite the same thing, as you say.’

Miss Silver coughed again.

‘Not quite. Mrs Mottram was one of the people I was thinking of just now when I said that those who live round the Green are so accustomed to hearing the chimes they no longer notice them. Just before I left her I asked whether she could remember hearing them when Mr Everton was saying good-bye, and she said she thought she could, but she wasn’t sure, because she hardly ever did notice them unless she was listening. She thought she heard something just as he went out.’

Frank Abbott frowned.

‘Something odd there, isn’t there? Everton looks at his watch and says it’s a quarter to ten and he must be going because he’s expecting a trunk call. Then he remarks on the shot – “Hullo, there’s Giles shooting at a fox!” or words to that effect. And then he says good-bye, and Mrs Mottram hears something which she thinks may have been a chime. Well, there simply wasn’t time for it to happen like that.’ He turned his wrist so that they could both see the second hand of his watch. ‘Look here – ding, ding, ding, ding – five seconds dead. The shot came just into the second chime – another two seconds. Everton has only got three seconds to hear the shot, say his piece about Giles shooting at a fox, say good-bye, and get going. Well, it simply can’t be done in time for Mrs Mottram to hear the remaining chime. The only drawback is she doesn’t seem sure enough about anything to make it worth while trying to build up a theory on what she may or may not have heard. I suppose she’s telling the truth?’

‘Certainly – as far as she knows it herself. She would make a very bad witness. Her mind is extremely inconsequent, and she would be very easily confused. We had better check the whole thing over with her again and see whether there is any variation from what she said to me.’

Frank nodded.

‘All right – so much for Everton. Now, what about Miss Doncaster? You say you think it was one of those people who went to the Ram on Monday afternoon who shot Harsch. As far as I can make out, you get there by what I can only describe as one of your broomstick methods, and it’s going to make the Chief feel very uncomfortable. You know, I’m beginning to suspect that he’s got a medieval streak under all that beef and brawn, and that there are times when he gets a shiver down his spine about you. I must watch and see if I can catch him crossing his fingers, or secreting a sprig of rowan in his pocket.’

Miss Silver reproved this levity, and received an apology.

‘All right, I’m back on the trail. Well, we do know for certain that Miss Doncaster was at the Ram. We haven’t any evidence at all that Everton was, and for the moment we’re not considering Bush. Well, that leaves you Miss Doncaster as first murderer, and I quite agree that she would do very well in the part – she’s cram full of envy, malice, and all uncharitableness. But we’re going to want something a little more specific than that. What can you do about it?’

‘Not very much,’ said Miss Silver. ‘She and her sister were at a finishing school in Germany for two years. They came back with a great enthusiasm for everything German. During their father’s lifetime they used to go every year to one of the German spas. This was discontinued on his death in 1912. About 1930 the sisters began their trips abroad again – Switzerland, the Tyrol, Germany. Miss Doncaster developed a violent admiration for Hitler – Miss Sophy says she was really very trying about him. But in 1938 Miss Mary Anne became paralysed and the trips had to be abandoned. Since the war broke out Miss Doncaster appears to have had a complete change of heart. She is by way of being very patriotic, and Hitler is never mentioned. Miss Sophy said it was really the greatest possible relief.’

Frank Abbott whistled.

‘Does she know how to use a revolver?’

‘I believe so. Mr Doncaster was fond of shooting at a mark. Miss Sophy says he made his daughters’ lives a burden to them about it, and it was very noisy and uncomfortable for the neighbours.’

‘None of which is evidence,’ said Frank Abbott gloomily. ‘Let’s see – we checked up on everybody in those houses. What was she doing on Tuesday night?’ He flicked over the leaves of his notebook. ‘Here we are! Pennycott – Doncasters. Maid in kitchen – heard nothing, didn’t go out. Invalid sister upstairs, back room – wireless on – heard nothing. Miss Doncaster – with sister except for five minutes somewhere between half-past nine and ten, when she went to the pillar-box opposite the Rectory and posted a letter – cannot fix time exactly – thinks it was nearly ten o’clock – met nobody, heard nothing. Well, there you are. As far as opportunity goes she had it. What about motive? I suppose she might have had that too. A violent enthusiasm for Hitler might have made her willing to work for the Nazis. It doesn’t seem credible, but she wouldn’t be the only one. I don’t know how it gets them, but it seems to. I suppose there wasn’t anything else – any private feud with Harsch? He hadn’t been treading on her toes?’

‘I have not heard anything. It would not, of course, be at all difficult to offend her.’

Frank burst out laughing.

‘I should call that a masterpiece of understatement!’

MRS MOTTRAM RANG the bell of Pennycott. At the Rectory she would have opened the door and yodelled, but the Miss Doncasters were sticklers for what they called the forms of civilised society, and what was the good of putting their backs up? It was so easy, and you did it so often without meaning to, that you couldn’t even get a kick out of it. Besides, poor old things, what a life! Year after year, with nothing happening to you – just withering up and going sour. Her heart, which was as soft as butter, really pitied them, and however rude and disapproving they were, she always turned up again, with an egg, or a cabbage leaf full of raspberries, or one of the bright unsuitable magazines showered upon her by her friends in the Air Force. She had one tucked under her arm now with a colour-print on the cover depicting a damsel in a wisp of scarlet bathing-dress about to take a header into a bright blue sea. Admitted by the elderly maid, she pranced gaily upstairs, pleasantly conscious of being young and very much alive. She found Miss Mary Anne alone in the drab room with its litter of rubbish and its dead, stale air. It was rather a relief only to have one of them to deal with. She shook hands, felt the slack, cold fingers slip away, and saw the pale glance slide disapprovingly over her yellow jumper and her rather bright blue slacks to the scarlet bathing-girl.

‘Lucy Ellen is out,’ said Miss Mary Anne in a grumbling voice. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what she goes out for – morning, noon and night, until you’d think she’d be worn out. And at the end of it I don’t know what she’s done. Shopping is what she says, but what is there to shop in Bourne? Picture postcards at Mrs Bush’s, I suppose. And off to Marbury every week. And what does she do there – that’s what I’d like to know. It’s my belief that she just walks about looking in at the shop windows, and then she has tea at the Ram and comes home again.’ The thick complaining voice was like treacle gone sour.

Ida Mottram thought it all sounded too grim for words. She sat down on the hearth in front of the languishing fire and began to poke at it with a bit of stick.

‘No wonder you’re cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll have this up in no time. I may be a fool about some things, but I’m the world’s smash hit with fires. You just wait and see!’

‘Lucy Ellen doesn’t like anyone to touch the fire but herself.’

‘Well, she can’t do it when she’s out, can she? Look, it’s coming along like anything!’ She pulled one log forward, tilted another, blew upon a brightening ember, and with a rush the flame came up.

Sitting there with the firelight on her face, she began to tell Miss Mary Anne all about Bunty’s encounter with a bumble bee.

‘And she brought it in sitting on her hand and wanted me to stroke it.’

‘How very foolish! I suppose she got stung?’

Ida giggled.

‘Oh, no, she didn’t – it loved her! But I made her put it back on one of the roses. She was so disappointed. She wanted to take it to bed with her., Don’t you think it was rather sweet?’

Miss Mary Anne sniffed. She was not in the least interested in bumble bees or in Bunty Mottram. She wanted passionately to find out whether Garth Albany and Janice Meade were engaged, and to find it out before Lucy Ellen did. Silently and resentfully, this was the game she was always playing against her sister. Tied to her sofa she might be, and Lucy Ellen free to go about and gather up the news – free to go into Marbury and have tea at the Ram – but all the same, once in a way it was she who scored. If she could get in first about Garth and Janice, Lucy Ellen would be properly taken down. Ida Mottram might know something—

She began to ask questions which circled the subject, drawing in gradually, getting nearer and nearer. It was an art in which she excelled, and Ida was no match for her. Having, in fact, nothing to conceal, she was as open as the day. Oh, yes, she thought they liked each other – why shouldn’t they? It would be very nice. Didn’t Miss Mary Anne think it would be very nice? And Miss Sophy would be so pleased – didn’t she thinks so?

‘If his intentions are serious,’ said Miss Mary Anne in her gloomiest tone.

Ida giggled.

‘People don’t have intentions now – it’s not done. They just go off and get married.’

She began to look round for something to screen her face from the fire. It was fairly blazing now, and her skin scorched so easily. She could feel her left cheek burning. She reached out to the small table by Miss Mary Anne’s couch and took a paper at random from a pile which cluttered the lower tier. Turning it over, she saw that it was a garden catalogue with a cover displaying apples, pears, plums, gooseberries, raspberries and blackcurrants, all at least twice as large as life and much more brightly coloured. She was about to say, ‘Oh, are you getting any fruit trees?’ when Miss Mary Anne remarked that young men in the Army were notorious for the way in which they flirted, and that she believed Garth Albany’s mother had been very rapid when she was a girl.

The moment passed. Ida with the catalogue spread out to shield her face, listened to the scandalous account of how the late Mrs Albany had actually kissed Garth’s father under the mistletoe at a Christmas party at the Rectory – ‘And they were not even engaged then, so it shows you what she was like.’

Sitting back on her heels, Ida turned the pages of the catalogue. She was listening as you listen to something which you have heard before, and which doesn’t matter at all. She flicked the pages over – redcurrants as big as sixpences – beans a foot long – a page with a nick in the edge and a list of apple trees – apple trees…

She stopped hearing Miss Mary Anne’s voice. There was something very odd about the page with the nick in it. Faint brown writing coming up where the paper was hot – getting more distinct as she looked at it. At the top and at the bottom of the list of apple trees – words, very odd words. Now she could read them. At the top of the list two words, ‘Am Widder’ And at the bottom of the list three more words, ‘Montag halb fünf.’

She stared at the writing, and quite unaccountably her heart began to thump. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t really begun to think what the words might mean, but they frightened her, coming up like that out of the blank spaces on the page of Miss Doncaster’s catalogue.

They frightened her because they came up so suddenly out of nothing, and because they were German words. A secret message written in German – that was enough to frighten anyone. All at once the crowded room with its dead air was like something you dreamed about and woke up shaking. Almost without thinking what she did she doubled the catalogue over and pushed it up under her jumper. She had her back to the couch. The littered table screened her. Her hands were quick and deft – much quicker than her thoughts, which were confused and lagging.

Miss Mary Anne said in her treacly voice, ‘So it all goes to show you can’t trust anyone.’

Ida Mottram got up. Her legs had a funny disjointed feeling. She kissed her hand to Miss Mary Anne and said she must really go.

‘Because Bunty is having tea with Mary Giles and Mrs Giles will be bringing her back. She sees her through the hedge on their side of the Cut and in at our garden door. There’s a gap in the hedge that Bunty can get through. So convenient.’

Miss Mary Anne looked very huffy indeed. She expected you to stay for hours and hours and hours, poor old thing. Ida shut the door on her with relief and fairly ran down the stairs and out of the house.

Outside in the road she stood still and wondered what she ought to do. It was all very frightening and very horrid, and she didn’t know what to do. She must tell someone who would know. Miss Silver would know. She must tell Miss Silver.

She ran all the way to the Rectory, to be told by Mabel that Miss Silver had gone to Marbury and she didn’t know when she would be back, and Miss Sophy and Mr Garth were gone up to Prior’s End to have tea with Miss Madoc, but they would be coming back soon, and Miss Janice would be coming back with them.

When Mabel was telling Janice and Garth about it she said Mrs Mottram seemed as if she was upset about something – ‘Not at all in her usual, Mr Garth – looked for all the world as if she was going to cry. I hope she hasn’t had bad news or anything like that, poor thing.’

It was then that Janice said, ‘Oh, I’d better go round and see.’

Ida Mottram went away very much discouraged. She went back to her own house, which was next door to Pennycott, and rang up Mr Everton. She didn’t feel like standing on anyone else’s doorstep and being told they were out. So she rang up, and there, almost at once, was Mr Everton’s kind, cheerful voice saying, ‘Dear lady, what can I do for you?’

‘You’re sure I’m not interrupting?’

She was feeling better already. Men were such a comfort – they always knew what to do. Mr Everton would know. He was being most polite in his kind, old-fashioned way. ‘If all interruptions were as pleasant as this one—’ He would be coming round at once. This was in answer to her ‘I’m so terribly worried about something.’

She hung up the receiver. Then she pulled the catalogue out from under her jumper and unfolded it. The faint brown lettering was just legible and no more. She began to think about what it might mean. Two years in a Swiss finishing school had left her with a fair knowledge of French and German. She slanted the shiny page and stared at the words on it, ‘Am Widder’. Widder – the word puzzled her for a moment. And then, like a picture on the screen, there popped into her mind Polly Pain wriggling, and twisting from one foot to another as she recited a list of animals under

Fraülein Lessner’s sardonic eye: – ‘Der Schaf, the sheep. Die Kuh, the cow. Der Widder, the ram.’

Yes, that was it. Widder was a ram. ‘Am Widder – at the Ram’. ‘Montag halb fünf – Monday at half-past four.’ Why did Miss Doncaster have a catalogue with a secret message in it which said, ‘At the Ram, at half-past four’?

Mr Everton came into the room just as she remembered that Miss Doncaster’s old cook and her husband kept the Ram at Marbury, and that Miss Doncaster always had tea there when she went in to shop.