Tom was young. He grinned and jerked his thumb.
“Out there, ma’am. Shan’t be a tick,” he said.
“Come, child,” said Mrs. Bradley to Noel Wells. She caught his hand and, running, took him round to the front entrance of the garage. Out came the car, young Tom at the wheel.
“That railway-carriage bungalow!” said Mrs. Bradley. “Never mind the police!”
“Good Lord!” said Tom, impressed. Luckily they did not meet a single policeman on the way. The car pulled up outside the gate of Helm’s residence, and all three ran up the pebbled path. It was Mrs. Bradley who thundered on the door. It was Tom who gripped a spanner purposefully in his right hand.
Helm opened the door. He was wearing a dressing-gown. His unstockinged feet were encased in carpet slippers.
“Go back to the car, Tom,” said Mrs. Bradley over her shoulder. Tom obeyed.
“So sorry, dear lady,” said Helm, with a nervous titter. “Just going to have a bath. No idea anyone would think of calling. A nice hot sea-water bath for my rheumatism. So good. So comforting.”
“I’ve brought my son,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But we certainly must not disturb you now. Come, Noel, dear.”
Wells lolled his tongue like an idiot and hoped he was not overdoing it. He was tall enough to see over Helm’s shoulder. The bungalow appeared to be empty. The steaming bath of water was in the centre of the floor. As though obeying Mrs. Bradley, he turned and walked uncertainly down the garden path.
“Dear lady, the loss is mine,” Helm was saying.
“Go in, go in! You’ll catch your death of cold,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Have your nice bath. I’ll come another day.”
She gave him a little push and pulled the door to. It slammed. Noel Wells was round on the bedroom side of the house, peering in at the window, his long nose touching the glass.
“ ‘Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see anyone coming?’ ” said Mrs. Bradley behind him.
“I’m sure she’s here,” said Wells. “I wish we could warn her.”
Mrs. Bradley did not hear him. She was round at the living-room window, watching Helm. He was an interesting study. He was positively dancing with rage. His hands clawed the air. Three times he kicked the bath with his slippered foot.
“Come, child,” said Mrs. Bradley to Noel Wells, as she came up behind him. Wells shook his head.
“I’m staying here until that woman comes out,” he said, “and then I’m going to tell her who Helm is. He can’t see us. It’s nearly dark out here.”
“You’ll wait too long, dear child,” said Mrs. Bradley gently. “While Helm was opening the door to us I saw her leave the bungalow by way of the bedroom window. She’s half-way to Bognor by now.”
“But she must have been undressed,” protested Wells.
“She wasn’t. She was wearing a knitted suit and a waterproof, and she is fairly young,” said Mrs. Bradley gravely. “Get into the car as quickly as you can, and we’ll follow her. Right away, Tom!”
The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared, however, for they overtook nobody answering to the given description. Mrs. Bradley clicked her tongue. The foolish girl, whoever she was, might at least have been given a friendly warning, if they could have found her.
chapter twelve: sweetheart
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When Susan Cozens was found drowned at the “Swinging Sign” inn, a week after Mrs. Bradley had gone back to her home for Christmas, it was Looney Thomas who voiced the general opinion. He said he was not surprised. It was common belief that the inn was haunted. None of the local people would have dreamed of leasing it. They would not have expected customers, if they
Nevertheless, there seemed little of the moon’s madness, and still less of the cloven hoof, about Malachi Spratt and his wife. He was a decent, clean, cheerful man of forty when he bought the “Swinging Sign” on the London Road, not five miles out of Bognor Regis, and his wife Dora was a slow-moving, strong, big, industrious creature, quietly-spoken, self-contained, civil and obliging. The people found her generous, too, and, in their ills and their troubles, sympathetic and comforting beyond the ordinary. She had married beneath her, it was said; but she and her husband were an excellent match—he so lithe and quick—it was rumoured that he had held a wrestling championship somewhere, sometime; but wrestling was not a local sport, so nobody was sufficiently intrigued by the rumour to find out the time, district and kind of wrestling involved—she with her apparent languor behind whose slow grace burned fires of energy.
When they had owned the “Swinging Sign” for about twenty months, a son was born to them, and everyone in the village foretold disaster. Their luck had been too good. For one thing, although the village people feared the lonely inn, motorists on the London Road did not. Spratt’s bar might often be empty, but his saloon lounge, his bar parlour, his six fine bedrooms and his garage were often filled to capacity with foreigners, Londoners and their cars. He had twice entertained a Gretna couple, and once a man absconding with company funds. All who came were welcome, as long as they were quiet and paid their score. Many people came again and again, for the reckoning was moderate, the food and drink reasonably good, and the beds comfortable. By the time young John was rising twenty, his father was sufficiently rich to be thinking about rebuilding the “Swinging Sign” and laying the ghost.
Upon mentioning this to one of his clients, however, he was persuaded by the young fellow to give up the idea. The ghost was advertised in an important and distinguished Sunday paper as an extra inducement to stay a week- end at the “Swinging Sign” and business became more brisk than ever. Unfortunately, the luck did not last, for, almost coincident with young John’s twenty-first anniversary, a new by-pass road was opened which diverted traffic
