The Saltmarsh Murders (6 page)

“The most amazing sight on earth?” I said, screwing up my eyes as I considered her question. “Oh, I don't know.” I laughed. “A bargain sale, I should think.”

“I once saw two sharks fighting,” said Sir William, coming courteously to my rescue. The telling of the story restored his good-humour. Mrs. Bradley lay back in her chair and listened. Watching her, I was reminded of a deadly serpent basking in the sun or of an alligator smiling gently while birds removed animal irritants from its armoured frame. Margaret waited until her father had concluded his tale, and then she said.

“Cochet playing tennis is the most wonderful sight on earth. I saw him at Wimbledon last year.”

She sighed.

“Last summer wasn't brilliant, was it?” she said. She stood up and went over to the window. “But this year beats everything. Did you ever know such weather? It's the sort of weather to make morbid people commit suicide. I'm glad I have a naturally optimistic temperament.”

She turned round.

“Ring the bell, please, Mr. Burns,” she said. Burns complied. Then, re-seating himself, he said:

“The most wonderful sight on earth is a woman trying to extort money from her husband. She is capable of as many tricks and artifices as an ape, and as many changes of colour as a chameleon.”

We all protested; Sir William violently, myself weakly, of course, Margaret indignantly and Mrs. Bradley humorously. Burns grinned his fat financier's grin.

“Well, be honest now,” he said. There was always, even in his most innocent remarks, an undercurrent of suggestion that his hearers were
not
honest which got my goat rather, “Have any of you ever
heard
a woman trying to get money out of her husband? Straight, now!”

Margaret, whose good-humour, like that of most young women of her age, was as quickly restored as it had been disturbed, laughed, and said:

“By accident, yes.”

“Oh?” said her father, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, the Burts,” replied Margaret. “I was not meant to overhear, of course, but Mr. Burt has a voice like a megaphone and Mrs. Burt—Cora McCanley, you know—screeches like the low-class young woman she really is, especially when she gets angry. I had gone up to the Bungalow to collect Burt's subscription for the village lending library—you remember we started it last winter, Mr. Wells?—and they were arguing, dreadfully loudly, about Burt's meanness and Cora's extravagance. She declared he never gave her any money beyond the bare housekeeping allowance, and he declared that she didn't want fine clothes to wear in a place like Saltmarsh. It was horribly unpleasant. Oh, well, never mind them! Let's get the tea cleared away, and then, Mr. Burns, you are to find some way of amusing us until it is time to dress for dinner.”

Burns smiled, and racked his brains in a truly gallant
attempt to think of some form of entertainment. By the time the tea-things had disappeared he was ready.

“You stand over here,” he began, and trod heavily upon the dog. The dog sprang up with an anguished yelp. Burns shouted to Margaret:

“Sorry! I didn't mean to do that. I was just going to say——” The dog began barking and Margaret stooped to caress and soothe him. The dog, a well-behaved, good-tempered chap, strove to show that there was no ill-feeling by leaping up, first at Margaret, and then, very suddenly, at Burns. Burns, obsessed, as I say, by a nervous dread of dogs which he had contracted, I suppose, as a very small child and had never been able to conquer nor even thoroughly control, shouted and struck at the excited animal.

“Down, boy, down!” said Margaret, laughing. I made an ineffectual grab at the dog's collar and tripped and fell flat, thus adding to the confusion.

“Down, sir!” said Sir William, rising to control the dog. “Hurt yourself, Wells?”

I shook my head and apologised for being clumsy. I had to shout, for the noise was indescribable.

“Quiet! Quiet!” bellowed Burns, dashing his hand wildly down at the animal's eyes, and kicking him with a heavily-shod foot. The dog gave way with a yelp, and then flew at the foot, fastened his teeth in Burn's sock and began to worry his prey frenziedly. Burns also was frenzied and tried to beat off the dog. Nearly mad with terror, he seized a cut glass vase from the mantelpiece and smashed at the dog's head with it. Margaret cried out; her father swore horribly; I believe I yelled, too. The dog, sensible of anger, let
go and leapt out of harm's way, and the glass vase crashed to the ground. Before anyone could prevent him, Sir William had gripped Burns by the neck and had begun very efficiently to throttle him to death. Burns' eyes bulged. He gurgled. Margaret shouted. Mrs. Bradley leapt from her chair, and, with great presence of mind, seized a vase containing flowers and flung its contents, which, of course, included a fair amount of cold water, abruptly and forcibly into Sir William's face. Sir William loosed his hold. Margaret, shaking at the knees, gripped the dog by the collar and put him outside the door. Mrs. Bradley sat down again and wiped her thin yellow fingers delicately upon a silk handkerchief. The two men glared at one another. Then Sir William, muttering, turned aside and began to wipe his hair, his face and his suit. Altogether it was an embarrassing occasion, and I was glad to take my leave. Margaret seemed anxious to have me stay for dinner, but I had several things to talk over with Daphne about the fête, and, besides, I was not particularly keen on remaining. Mrs. Bradley walked with me to the gate. Suddenly she said:

“So it was the Burts?”

“Yes,” I replied. “At least, Burt denied making the bet with Mr. Gatty, but did not deny incarcerating him in the crypt.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. I had already told Sir William and the others about the person or persons unknown who had bunged loose tiles at William and me from the roof of Burt's bungalow. I had remarked that I suspected some of the choir lads. I repeated this observation.

“Don't say a word about it to them, young man,” said Mrs. Bradley; and she would not allow me to leave her until I had promised.

I found Daphne in what was still called the playroom. It was a big, bare, chilly room at the top of the house, and I was surprised that she had chosen it. It was to get away from her aunt, I suppose. They did not hit it off, of course, Daphne and Mrs. Coutts.

“Sit down somewhere, Noel,” she said. “I say, what's all this about people trying to kill William and you last night?”

I had to tell her, of course, and then I pledged her to secrecy. She said:

“Oh, I shan't tell. But it's all over the village.”

“But how?” I asked. “William?”

“He says not.” Daphne frowned. “It's those beastly boys,” she said. I agreed, but told her that I had been compelled to promise not to tackle them on the subject. She said suddenly:

“They say Mrs. Gatty was quite normal before he made her live there. It sounds rather awful, doesn't it? I suppose that is what the divorce courts call mental cruelty.”

She turned her candid, beautiful eyes away from me, but took hold of my hand.

“It's all very queer, anyhow,” I said. “By the way, I wonder whether we shall be able to get hold of a small bell tent for the fortune telling on August Monday?”

“Oh, we can have it. I meant to tell you. I saw Tommy Manley, and he saw William, and William saw the scoutmaster and he says we can borrow it without charge, so I've invited the troop to the fête. William
is very pleased, I think. Comic how I have to approach him through Tommy, isn't it? The Scouts are going to give us a display of camp-craft and gymnastics and I've put a special Scouts' Hundred Yards Handicap into the sports programme. I must let uncle know. And I must get hold of the prize list from him. The Girls' Egg and Spoon Over Eleven can't have less than three prizes, because there are fifteen entries, so I must cut down the Boys' Over-Fourteen Two-Twenty to a first and second, because there are only seven entries for that, and even at that I had to bribe Oliver, the gardener's boy at the Manor House, to go in for it, or there would have been only five.”

“Six, surely?” I said.

“No. By getting Oliver to enter I also secured the entry of a boy named Briggs who hates running and hates Oliver. But he hates Oliver more than he hates running, and is entering the race in order to hack Oliver on the ankle as they fight for inside places on the bend.”

I couldn't help laughing, but we had to get on with the business in hand.

“I am going to enjoy this fête,” I said. “What do you think I ought to wear for the fortune-telling?”

“I've renovated my old gipsy costume,” said Daphne. “We'll go and try it on you.”

“I shall sport a small beard, I think,” I said. “The Bearded Woman. We ought to charge threepence a time. I suppose my customers will be mostly the village girls, and they haven't much money.”

“I'd thought of sixpence,” said Daphne, “so as to dodge threepenny bits. Besides, you don't want to be
absolutely overrun. I vote we make it sixpence, with an extra sixpence for advice about their love affairs. You ought to coin money. We won't tell uncle and the Adjutant about it though. They might not like the idea of the curate doing a stunt like that.”

“No, don't disclose my identity to anybody,” I said, grinning lovingly at her. “It will be more fun if I am supposed to be a stranger.”

Daphne sighed enviously.

“I expect you will have a screamingly funny time,” she said. “I should love to be hidden in the tent so that I could listen to you. And now sit quite still while I read to you the list in my diary. There's always something crops up at the last minute. Listen. Deck-chairs, bell-tent, marquees, refreshments, roundabouts, swings, houp-la, cocoanut shy, eggs and spoons, hurdles, potatoes, marking flags, tennis court marker, measuring tape, bunting, orchestra, fairy lamps, starter, judge, referee, whistle, handbell, megaphone, officials' badges, gate stewards, prizes, urns, helpers, course stewards—I can't think of anything else, but I know there must be heaps. Oh, yes! Winning post tape! Why on earth didn't I keep last year's list!”

She drew her legs up on to her hard, springless armchair, and turned over the pages of her diary, reading to herself the record of the holiday from which she had returned some weeks before. Then she came to the entries for the past week, and at once the little pencil began tapping against her small teeth and a worried frown gathered upon her brow. I was sitting on the arm of her chair, of course, and she allowed me to read what she had written.

Saturday, July 25th:
The weather fine for a change. What a summer! Taken into Fellonbridge by Sir William in his car. Nice of him. So glad uncle and he do not quarrel, as some rectors and squires do. He was ever so nice; asked about holiday and date of going to College. Arrived home at five-ten in time for tea. Poor old Bill looked glad to see me. Has marked out quoits pitch. Challenged me to a game before I got my hat and coat off.

Sunday, July 26th:
Uncle preached rather red-hot sermon on text, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” The Adjutant very fed up with him, as the sermon obviously aimed at the critics of Meg T. whose baby was born last Friday week. As the Adjutant is quite the leader of the anti-Meg movement, uncle's sermon rather a slap in the eye. Several of the congregation waited in the porch to shake his hand. Even the Lowrys attended Morning Prayer. The two of them seem to have been the Good Samaritans, which again puts the Adj. in a false position, as that, of course, is her role in the village. I suppose it is pretty awful to hate your aunt and disagree violently with nearly everything she does, says and thinks. But I
do
hate her. And yet I believe she's much more upright than uncle. Of course, she isn't my real aunt, only my aunt by marriage. What a comfort!

Monday, July 27th:
This beastly fête! Nothing else talked about! I'm sick of the sight of the village, I've been into it so many times to-day! Borrowed ten deck-chairs, two camp stools, a wicker invalid carriage and
a bath-chair to seat the Specials. Hope they enjoy themselves, rotten, snobbish old cats! Called at the public house (side door!) to see Meg Tosstick. They wouldn't allow me to see her or the baby. Nobody has seen it they say, except Meg herself and Mrs. Lowry. Mrs. Lowry was a midwife before she helped at the inn, so Meg did not have a doctor. I expect the poor baby is deformed and that is why they are not letting people see it. I didn't like to suggest that to Mrs. Lowry because it isn't my business, anyhow, so I just said I hoped Meg would soon be better. She smiled at that, and said she had offered her a place as maidservant as soon as she was strong enough to take it. I did not tell the Adj. that I had visited the inn. I am supposed to be a high-minded, innocent girl, which is the Adj.'s description for what I should call a priggish, ignorant fool. I told Noel. He went rather red and changed the subject. I suppose he's had to promise not to talk to me about it. Absurd! I'm eighteen.

Tuesday, July 28th:
My darling Margaret came over this morning, with a woman called Bradley, a most fearful and wonderful creature, just like a lizard or something quite scaly and prehistoric, with a way of screeching with laughter which makes you jump. Margaret seems to dote on her quite lavishly, which made me fearfully sick, as the woman really is most frightful in every way. However, she took the Adjutant down a peg by informing her that her “animosity against the young woman Tosstick was really a sign of subconscious jealousy.” The Adj. went purple round the gills and said haughtily that she “could conceive
of no cause whatever for jealousy in connection with improper young persons of the Tosstick type.” Then the Bradley, ignoring the Adj.'s denial, grinned like a man-eating Ganges mugger, and supposed that the Adj. “had passed the age for child-bearing.” The Adj. nearly threw a fit, and the Bradley continued to grin widely. The meeting broke up in disorder after that, and while Noel, who was purple with embarrassment, carted off the terrible Mrs. Borgia, Margaret and I foregathered somewhat hysterically in my bedroom and smothered our yelps of joy in the pillows. Margaret tells me that Sir William has had one of his old fits because one of the servants cheeked him, or something. She seems fearfully worried about it. I suppose the ever-present thought that uncle or the Adj. might at any moment kill somebody in a fit of rage would be a bit sobering even to Bill and me. Comforted her by telling her I was certain Sir William would never go to any real lengths, although I'm quite, quite certain in my own mind that he will. But I have adored Margaret ever since she was our Head Girl and I was a frightened rabbit in the Lower Second, and I would tell any lie to buck her up. Mrs. Gatty has told everybody, except Constable Brown, that her husband has been murdered, but Constable Brown got to hear of it, and came round to ask uncle how to spell “felonious “and to give it as his opinion that the poor old lady has bats in the belfry, as Noel says, because, whenever she sees Brown, she will keep telling him that he reminds her of a patient ox, and that he needn't mind being compared to one because, besides being mentioned in the Bible, oxen have large, sad, beautiful eyes and lovely natures.
Poor Brown snorted a bit to uncle and uncle comforted him and told him he was to open the bowling at the Pavilion end against Much Hartley on August Bank Holiday. Uncle is easily the most tactful man I know. I'm sure tact comes before godliness, and as for cleanliness coming after it—well, poor William will never qualify at all, and yet the Adj. would qualify easily, and that
can't
be right.