When Last I Died (16 page)

"Excellent," said Mrs. Bradley. Miss Foxley, it transpired, had gone to Pond. She had affected to take some interest in the ruins of Beaulieu Abbey, then they had come back across Beaulieu Heath to Brockenhurst, and so, by way of secondary roads, to Pond. There the driver had been asked to enquire whether a car answering to the description of Mrs. Bradley's— "pretty fair description, too, madam, according to what this chap said, but she hadn't been able to spot our number-plates" —had been seen in the neighbourhood. The occupants also had been described. "The car was referred to as 'chauffeur-driven,' madam," said George, "but she must have described
you
very carefully, very carefully indeed."

Mrs. Bradley cackled, but did not ask for a repetition of the description. She fancied that it might embarrass George to give it. She merely said :

"Strange that so observant a lady did not learn our number-plates by heart, George, was it not?"

George would not permit himself to wink at his employer, but his left eyelid trembled slightly.

"Perhaps not so very strange, madam," he replied.

"I see," said Mrs. Bradley. "Who sups with the devil must have a long spoon."

George assented, but did not know, either then or afterwards, whether his employer referred to himself, herself, or the painstaking and suspicious Miss Foxley, or whether the proverb was intended as a compliment or a reproach.

On the Saturday morning George was absent. At one o'clock, however, Mrs. Bradley was called away from the table to take a telephone call.

"I am in Minehead, madam, having come here by motorcycle," said George. "The lady returned home by hired car, leaving at eight-thirty this morning, and the hired car is returning to Bournemouth now. There is no possible train back to you until after four o'clock this afternoon, so if you thought of visiting Pond without fear of disturbance ..."

"Thank you very much, George. I will go at once," said Mrs. Bradley. Go she did, leaving her lunch unfinished, to the great grief of the head-waiter, who had personally supervised her choice. She took a taxi into Poole, retrieved the car—George having given up to her the key of the garage and the ignition key on the previous night—and drove to Pond by way of Christ-church and Milton, the most direct route she could find.

She arrived in the village before two, and drove straight to the church. She did not know how much time she had at her disposal, but the grave she sought was in a far corner of the churchyard, and she found it easily. Miss Foxley had done her sister proud, Mrs. Bradley considered. A headstone of Purbeck marble inscribed with large clear lettering indicated that Bella Foxley, aged forty-five years, was at rest, and added a pious expectation that she was also at peace.

"Curious," said Mrs. Bradley aloud. If the diary were correct, Bella Foxley at the time of her death must have been at least forty-eight, and her sister Tessa somewhat older. She shook her head in admonitory fashion at the tombstone, and walked along a gravel path to a small wicket gate which led to the vicarage.

There was tennis going on on the vicarage lawn. In fact, it seemed that some kind of fête or a garden party was in progress. The vicar, a handsome, florid man, with curly hair going grey, a round, cheerful face and a grey alpaca jacket with grey flannel trousers, was among what appeared to be the female nobility and gentry of the place, handing cups of coffee. The remains of a cold collation set out on trestle tables in the shade, and now being taken away and generally cleared up by what Mrs. Bradley correctly assumed to be the vicar's wife, daughters and maidservants, explained the presence of the coffee, and just as Mrs. Bradley left the path to make her way across the lawn a small band of musicians carrying those instruments usually associated with the classical kinds of jazz, made its appearance at the front gate which led from the road.

"Heavens!" thought Mrs. Bradley. "Just my luck to arrive in the middle of a jamboree."

By this time, needless to say, she had been seen. There was proceeding a swift conference between the vicar and his wife. The latter then advanced, as it were, to the fray.

"Were you looking for anybody?" she asked.

"Well, I particularly wanted to speak to the vicar, but I am afraid I've come at an inconvenient time," said Mrs. Bradley, making polite motions of backing out again.

"Oh, well, if it is
very
important ..." said the vicar's wife, adding gently, "I don't think we know you, do we?"

"Lor' lumme, mother.
I
do!" exclaimed a young man who had come leaping across a couple of flower beds. "It's Carey Lestrange's Aunt Adela, or I'm a Hottentot."

He seized Mrs. Bradley's yellow claw and pump-handled it ecstatically. Mrs. Bradley, who had met a good many of her favourite nephew's friends, very easily placed this one.

"You must be Ronald," she said. The young man enthusiastically agreed that this was so, and informed his mother that he and Aunt Adela had knocked 'em cold on Boatrace Night by performing, with a crowd of assorted Londoners, the community dance known as the Lambeth Walk, this up the Haymarket at a quarter to twelve or thereabouts.

"And but that she can run like a deer, and has admission to the brightest little speak-easy I ever expect to attend," concluded the young man, this time on a rare, lyrical note, "we should have been up before the beaks in the morning as sure as eggs. Old Squiffy was, and received a fortnight without the option for taking a policeman's boots off."

Mrs. Bradley, aware that this panegyric was not having, from her point of view, too gracious an effect on Ronald's mother, was relieved to see that the vicar was approaching. Ronald, catching her eye, hastily informed his mother that he had been talking rot, as usual, presented Mrs. Bradley formally, and, when his father had been introduced, observed that he would leave them together, as he was required to make up a four at tennis.

"A very charming, high-spirited boy," said Mrs. Bradley in obituary tones. "My nephew Carey, whom he mentioned, is very fond of him."

"Carey? Then you must be—— Good heavens, Millicent!" said the vicar, "this is Mrs. Bradley. You know, I've often talked about her. Don't you remember that Carey was telling us about some of her cases when he was here? Do come along and have some coffee, Mrs. Bradley. Have you had lunch?"

Mrs. Bradley said that she had.

"That's fine," said the Vicar, absent-mindedly. He walked beside her to the deck-chairs. "Don't tell me we have a murderer in Pond," he added, pleased at his own joke.

"Possibly," Mrs. Bradley replied.

"Ah, poor Bella Foxley, you mean? I'm afraid we can hardly say so, though, can we? She was acquitted, you know. Poor soul! Poor soul! Such a wretched end, and hounded to it, one might almost say."

"Oh, no, one might not," replied Mrs. Bradley firmly. "That's why I'm here. I need not trouble you very much," she added, "but I want to know, first, who this is."

She took out one of George's snapshots of Miss Foxley. The vicar examined it carefully, almost as though he were handling Exhibit A at a trial for murder; as, indeed, thought Mrs. Bradley, he probably was.

"This, to the best of my knowledge, recollection, and belief," he said, "is Miss Tessa Foxley."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Bradley. "Do you mind writing that opinion on the back of the snapshot and signing your name?"

"Not at all," replied the vicar. "My pen ..." Mrs. Bradley produced her own, and watched, with a grimness strange to see upon her dread yet, on the whole, good-humoured countenance, whilst he wrote, neatly, and, to her great comfort and admiration, quite legibly, the name
Tessa Foxley,
and signed his own name underneath.

"I should, perhaps, add the date?" he suggested.

"An excellent idea," said Mrs. Bradley cordially. She had been going to suggest this herself. The vicar added the date, and handed the snapshot back.

"Now," said Mrs. Bradley, "I wonder whether you would be kind enough to describe Miss
Bella
Foxley?"

"The only thing that I remember is that she had fair hair and rather a nice complexion," said the vicar. "I should not have noticed the complexion, but for the fact that it was so different from that of her sister. One could not help remarking the difference, for one scarcely ever saw one without the other. They were very lonely, poor souls. Both had had their troubles, I understand. To tell the truth, I sometimes thought Miss Bella's troubles had unhinged her."

"When did Miss Tessa Foxley come here to join her sister?" Mrs. Bradley enquired.

"Oh, she didn't," the vicar answered. "The house was taken by Miss
Tessa,
who thereupon sent an invitation to Miss
Bella
to come and join
her.
She told me all about her sister's dreadful ordeal, said what a mercy it was no newspaper photographs were taken, and begged that we would never mention it to her sister, as it had left her very nervous and depressed. She even asked us not to disclose either of their Christian names. As a matter of fact, it was not until Miss Bella's dreadful end that anybody in the village except myself and my dear wife knew who they were, I believe."

"They kept their surname, I suppose? They did not go under a false name to the tradespeople, for instance?"

"No. And when they were together they called one another Flossie and Dossie—childhood appellations, I imagine."

"Did they seem to hit it off? No quarrels, for instance?"

"No, I am sure there were no quarrels."

"Did you ever have speech with Miss Bella when Miss Tessa wasn't there?"

"Never. But I several times spoke to Miss Tessa by herself. She told me how extremely good her sister had been to her. It seems that a wealthy aunt left all her money to Miss Bella, and that she shared everything with Miss Tessa. Then, of course, upon Miss Bella's death, it all came to Miss Tessa, and she moved away. She moved very soon after the funeral. She said she would have wished to stay on in the village, and mentioned our kindness—although I'm afraid I cannot claim that we ever did very much except to keep their little secrets—the trial, you know, and the Christian names, and so forth—and, of course, my dear wife and I used to visit them occasionally, but really a good deal of the kindness was on the other side. We never asked for a subscription in vain, for instance, at that house, and Miss Tessa was an excellent stand-by if we wanted a talk in the village hall or at a Mothers' Meeting. She was also a most excellent cook. Poor Miss Bella couldn't cook at all."

"Really?" said Mrs. Bradley. "Wasn't Miss Tessa at a Mothers' Meeting when her sister ...?"

"Very distressing," said the vicar. "Very distressing indeed. I know that she blamed herself very much. Had she been with her sister, she said, it would never have happened. The meeting was at a quarter-past two, you see, and she came back here to tea. She was here when the news was brought to her. Terribly distressing."

"Have you the same doctor now?" asked Mrs. Bradley; and when the vicar replied that they had, and that his name was Sandys, she told him that he had been more than helpful. "All the same, I'm not at all sure you haven't laid yourself open to a charge of having been accessory before the fact," she added.

"Before the fact?" said the vicar, puzzled.

"Of murder," said Mrs. Bradley. She cackled to see the expression upon his round and amiable face, accepted an invitation to return and take tea at the vicarage, and went off to find the doctor's house. Characteristically, she had not asked where it was, and, characteristically, she found it within five minutes.

"You seem to have been enjoying yourself, mother," said Ferdinand, somewhat austerely. "What the devil have you been up to?"

"Looking at
Item
one pond,
Item
one cottage,
Item
one toll house,
Item
one murderess, mark of interrogation, as our friend Stainless Stephen would say. Not to speak of interviewing a clam of a doctor, an expansive and genial vicar, and the murderess, question-mark, aforesaid," replied his mother, looking very pleased with herself. Ferdinand, who had been looming over her, sat down on the arm of a chair.

"Not there, dear child. You're too heavy for my furniture," suggested his mother. Ferdinand removed his thirteen stone to the seat of the chair without comment and looked across at her. His expression had altered considerably.

"Are you pulling my leg, Mother?"

"No, child. I've found Bella Foxley."

"Then who was it committed suicide?"

"Well, not Bella."

"The sister ...?"

"Murdered, possibly. If so, she was held head-downward in the rain-water butt outside the woodshed of their cottage in the village of Pond, transported to the pond at Pond, left there to be found by any who would, and the rest abandoned to Fate and the crass stupidity of a coroner who wouldn't believe that what the village idiot said was evidence."

"What did the village idiot say?"

"He said that it was the rain-water washed her cheeks so white."

"I seem to have heard that before."

"Yes, I have transposed his rude rustic remark into the key of the poetic."

"You couldn't take that statement as evidence, coming from such a source."

"You could investigate it, though," said Mrs. Bradley. "Instead of that, the boy was told not to waste the time of the court."

"When is all this supposed to have happened?"

"Well, the doctor put the time of death at between noon and three o'clock. She wasn't found until almost dusk. It was winter, too, which gives the idiot boy's evidence all the more importance. Whenever you would choose to wash yourself in the rain-water butt, you would hardly do so in November, I imagine. Bella must have drowned Tessa, gone straight to the Mothers' Meeting, and then had tea at the vicarage."

"But why should she kill her sister?"

"That remains to be seen. Why should she kill Cousin Tom? We know why she may have killed the old aunt."

"You'll never prove a word of it, Mother."

"Probably not," said Mrs. Bradley, in such tones of self-satisfaction that her son lifted his black brows and grinned.