The Saltmarsh Murders (3 page)

There was a light in the hall, and a light in one of the rooms when I arrived. Just as I was about to knock on the door I heard a scraping sound on the roof, but thought it must be the Bungalow cat. Then I banged at the door and was almost shot on to my face by having the knocker suddenly wrenched from my grasp by some muscular blighter tugging the door open with such force that I tumbled over the step and cascaded down the polished linoleum of the passage. Before I could apologise for hurtling in upon the household, the door was slammed behind me, and a voice, male, said, “It's young Wells.” A second voice, William Coutts', exclaimed, “It's Noel!” And a third voice, female, the same which had squealed over the wire
at me some forty-two minutes earlier, exclaimed, “Thank goodness, someone's come for you, ducky!”

I was conducted into the lighted room, and, at intervals during the next hour, some of which was spent at the Bungalow, and some on conducting William back to the vicarage, I heard a somewhat weird story from the boy. William, although in some ways the most placid kid I know, does somehow contrive to get himself mixed up in any excitement that is going on. Even when his prep, school caught fire, William was the only kid out of the whole ninety-odd who had to jump out of an upstair window on to the sheet held out below. Old Coutts had to take him away soon after that, because he was always getting into trouble for scrapping with kids who tried to rub his nose in the dirt for him. Old Coutts admires a scrapper, and wrote a strongish letter to the headmaster for punishing William, and then removed the kid and sent him to Yeominster.

Considering that William had only achieved the distinction of leaping into space because he was in process of regaining admission to the building by night after having been out in the orchard sneaking the head beak's apples, I thought, personally, that old Coutts' letter was a bit thick. Still, it was no business of mine, of course.

W
illiam Courts' adventures began when the Scouts took their troop cart up to the Moat House on that same Wednesday evening to collect Mrs. Gatty's three deck chairs for the fête. Mrs. Gatty is fond of boys, and she invited the Scouts into the dining-room and fed them with cake and home-made ginger-beer and home-made treacle toffee. Then, while the rest of them returned with the chairs, William, as Patrol Leader, politely offered to stay and wash up all the plates and glasses. Mrs. Gatty was rather bucked with the offer, because, of course, the maid was out and the cook was in the middle of dinner. It was about seven o'clock or perhaps half-past seven, and still daylight, although the weather, for the end of July, was fearfully unseasonable. In fact, I can't remember a wetter or more depressing summer. Our one hope was that the Bank Holiday Monday would be fine.

William returned to the vicarage in a state of great excitement. This was unusual, for, as I say he was one of those biggish, hefty, good-humoured, practical-minded kids who are always on good terms with everyone and never get seriously ragged even at school, except in the incident last recounted, so to speak. That was an exception. His nature was placid, and he was
inclined to accept things as they came without annoyance, question or perturbation. Thus, when he burst in on Daphne and me with the air of one who has discovered the Gunpowder Plot, I was somewhat astonished. But I couldn't take him seriously. He told me that Mr. Gatty had been murdered. Daphne was scared, so I rose to it.

“Sez you!” I observed, ruthlessly.

“No,” said William. “I had it from Mrs. Gatty herself while we were washing up. She says the deed is done, and that she wanted to tell you and Daphne, only you didn't seem interested in anything but deck-chairs.”

I frowned and lent the theme a little concentrated thought. Those were the words she had used to Daphne and myself in connection with her husband, but one takes it for granted that with anyone of Mrs. Gatty's singular mentality a few odd remarks are in character and need not be regarded with the same amount of close attention that they would excite if they were uttered by some more normal person. On the other hand, those particular words, “The deed is done,” do sound a trifle sinister, even when uttered by somebody short-circuited in the brain line. I questioned William closely, but could not shake his evidence. He was going to Constable Brown, our village keeper of the peace, he said, to place matters before him. I was struck quite suddenly with a better idea. Anything, of course, to get rid of William, so that we could be on our own, but not, I thought, the Robert, who is unquestionably wooden-headed, although a jolly good chap.

“Listen, William,” I said. “There's an old lady called Mrs. Something Bradley, or Mrs. Bradley Something—I forget which—staying with Sir William Kingston-Fox at the Manor House. She's one of those psychology whales. Take her along to see Mrs. Gatty to-morrow morning. She'll turn her inside and out, and find what the trouble is. Believe me, it won't be a case for the police.”

I persuaded him to abandon the idea of going to Brown with the story, but he insisted on getting Mrs. Bradley right away. I was in favour of the scheme, for it would relieve us of his company, so I decided to incite him, so to speak.

“They'll be having dinner,” I objected.

“Shouldn't think so,” said William, who hates to be thwarted. “You see, Noel, Sir William starts it at six-thirty, anyway, and it's now just after eight. Come with me, Noel, there's a good chap.”

I refused, of course. No, but honestly, I didn't think the thing could be very serious. So he tooled off by himself.

He was ushered into the presence of Margaret Kingston-Fox in the Manor drawing-room, and Margaret, who is Sir William's daughter, and rather a Juno to look at, introduced him to one of the most frightful-looking old ladies—(according to William, of course)—that he'd ever seen. She was smallish, thin and shrivelled, and she had a yellow face with sharp black eyes, like a witch, and yellow, claw-like hands. She cackled harshly when William was introduced and chucked him under the chin, and then squealed like a macaw that's having its tail pulled. She looked
rather like a macaw, too, because her evening dress was of bright blue velvet and she was wearing over it a little coatee (Daphne's word, of course, not mine)—of sulphur and orange. William's first conclusion was that if Mrs. Gatty were bats, this woman was positive vampires in the belfry. She had the evil eye, according to William. Her voice, when she spoke, though, was wonderful. Even William, who has no ear for music although, for the look of the thing, being the vicar's nephew, he has to sing in the church choir when he is on holiday from school—even William could tell that. She and Margaret listened to his story quite gravely, and Mrs. Bradley offered to accompany him to the Moat House and see what was to be seen. Margaret was inclined to favour the idea that Mr. Gatty
had
been murdered, but, pressed for a reason, could only say that he was a horrid little man and that such awful things happened nowadays. So all three of them went to the Gatty residence. Sir William and the men were finishing the port, of course, and did not accompany them. Didn't know they were going, in fact, I suppose.

Mrs. Gatty herself opened the door to them, and Margaret opened the conversation by asking whether Mr. Gatty had indeed met with foul play. Mrs. Gatty did not answer that, but kept looking nervously at Mrs. Bradley and muttering,

“Serpent, or is it crocodile? Serpent, or is it crocodile? “Just the sort of remark, in fact, that gave visitors such a bad impression. Luckily, however, Mrs. Bradley, who had been staying at Sir William's house for more than a week, and so, of course, must have heard of
poor Mrs. Gatty and her peculiarity, was not put out by the quaint old girl's rather remarkable greeting, and replied courteously,

“Crocodile, I think. I am generally considered to be definitely saurian in type. Yorkshire people often are, you know. It is interesting, I think, to note how the types vary from county to county, and even from village to village.”

This launched Mrs. Gatty on her favourite topic, it seems, and Mrs. Bradley had some difficulty in switching the conversation back to Jackson Gatty.

“Ah, Jackson,” said Mrs. Gatty. “Yes, Jackson, of course. Well, it's all over, bar the discovery of the body.”

“And where is the body?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“If you only knew this village as I know it,” said Mrs. Gatty, to William's great disappointment, for, of course, he wanted to hear details of the murder, “you would sit here and laugh and laugh and laugh, just as I do. Oh, it's too funny for words! Of course, the vicar's wife is the funniest of the whole lot.”

“Look here, Mrs. Gatty,” said William, but no one took any notice of him.

“I call her Mrs. Camel,” went on Mrs. Gatty, “because she squeals and bites on the slightest provocation, and then kneels to pray. And then there's that creature at the Bungalow. A Kept Woman, my dear Mrs. Crocodile! What do you think of that?”

“Shocking, interesting and anachronistic,” replied Mrs. Bradley. At least, that is what I think William meant to say; and Mrs. Gatty, I suppose, spent quite a couple of minutes digesting this summary of the world's Babylonian heritage, for William says that she
sat quite still for ages, while he finished dotting down the conversation in his Scout's notebook. At last she nodded in a solemn manner.

“Somebody at the Manor House could say more than that if he chose. And then take this girl Tosstick,” she continued. “That whole business is incredible to me, simply incredible from first to last. First, she is not the kind of girl to have an illegitimate child at all; secondly, she ought to publish the father's name, as all the village girls do, so that we can all make sure she is treated rightly by the young fellow; thirdly, I suppose the child is deformed as no one is allowed to see it; and, lastly, there is the singular conduct of the people at the inn.”

“In what way is their conduct singular?” enquired Mrs. Bradley, politely.

“I don't know,” replied Mrs. Gatty. “It just strikes me as singular that they should be so charitable. You know, that Lowry even gets a commission on the cocoa-nuts for the village fête, and he never gives the village children more than a farthing on the bottles they bring back. They find them in the roads left by picnicking parties, and he ought to give the poor little dears a halfpenny, as I do when they bring me bottles for my home-made wine. He is certainly dead by now. Jackson, I mean, of course.”

William noticed that Mrs. Bradley had also produced a small notebook, and was surreptitiously dotting down—in shorthand, William thinks-—all that Mrs. Gatty said. I discovered afterwards that it was none of the recognised methods of writing shorthand, of course.

“Poor Jackson,” said Mrs. Bradley.

“Well,” said Mrs. Gatty, “if a man
will
be a wolf, he must be caged like a wolf. And the joke of that is, that he is caged in the sheep-fold. That's funny, now, isn't it?”

“Funny
and
clever,” said Mrs. Bradley, noting it down.

“Caged, you know,” said Mrs. Gatty. “So funny that he should be caged. What awful weather for the time of year!”

“And caged in the sheep-fold! I must remember that!” said Mrs. Bradley. She gave her awful cackle, William said, and rose to go. When they all got outside the Moat House, and Mrs. Gatty had shut the door, Mrs. Bradley sent Margaret home to the Manor House and was just about to speak to William when Mrs. Gatty came flying down the drive and grasped Mrs. Bradley's arm.

“And do you know what I think?” she said.

“No,” said Mrs. Bradley.

“I think Mrs. Camel believes her reverend husband is the father of Meg Tosstick's baby,” said Mrs. Gatty.

(William, in his narrative to me, interpolated here, “What rot, Noel, isn't it?” I concurred verbally with this view, but inwardly I was far from sure. The woman Coutts is capable of any frightful thought, so far as I can see!)

Mrs. Gatty, having voiced her opinion, turned and darted up the drive again, and Mrs. Bradley said to William:

“Has the church a crypt, child?”

“Yes,” said William. The evening was drawing in.

“Then lead me to it,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And let us hasten, for I perceive that it is beginning to rain.”

So William escorted her to the church. They passed through the lych-gate and skirted the south door, which is early Norman, of course, and soon reached the flight of stone steps which lead down to the crypt. A heavy iron gate breaks the flight about two-thirds of the way down.

“Do you just want to squint through the railings, or shall we go inside?” asked William.

“I should like to go into the crypt,” replied Mrs. Bradley.

“All right. I'll go home and get the key,” said William obligingly. He surveyed his companion. “I suppose you wouldn't like to get down from the inside of the church, would you?” he asked. “We needn't bother about the key, if you could get down the steps inside. I can put the lights on.”

“It would suit me far better,” said Mrs. Bradley. “William, I think Mr. Jackson Gatty, either dead or alive, is in the crypt.”

“Who said so?” asked William, thrilled.

“Mrs. Gatty herself, but she doesn't know she did,” replied Mrs. Bradley.

“Golly!” said William, irreverently. He led the way into the church, up the aisle, and into the vestry. Here he stooped and pulled aside a strip of cocoanut matting. A trap-door was disclosed, of course. The vicar's predecessor had it made, I think.

“Now you be careful,” said William. “This trapdoor is fairly new. They used to bury people in the crypt, and the tale is that some old girl jazzed it down
the steps here and bagged a couple of skulls. So the chap who held the living before my uncle got it, had that iron gate put on the outside steps, and this trapdoor built over the inside ones, and, you'll see in a minute, the trapdoor is about two feet away from the top of the steps, so that it's tricky work getting down.”