The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop

cried in a loud voice rich with direful woe:

‘Glory be to God, your honour’s reverence, Mr Broome! There’s Mistress Margery from the doctor’s house below does be after saying she’s done the murder herself itself entirely!’

‘Where is Miss Margery?’ enquired the vicar.

‘Sure, herself is below stairs waiting on your reverence.’

‘And don’t call me your reverence! I’ve told you before that I am not of the Roman persuasion.’

‘More’s the shame to you, then,’ retorted Mary Kate, recovering her wonted poise with speed and certainty, ‘that you wouldn’t be an honest Christian man – and you to be baptizing the babes and burying the old people and all!’

The vicar, as usual, was left without the honours of war, and Mary Kate retired in triumph from the study. She returned in two minutes and ushered in a stammering and shame-flushed Margery Barnes.

‘Please, may I shut the door?’ she asked timidly when Mary Kate had departed. ‘I – what I have to say is absolutely private. I don’t – nobody else – I couldn’t let everybody know.’

The Vicar of Wandles Parva laid down his pen and turned to face her. Without meeting his quizzical gaze, Margery went over to the door and closed it.

‘Now then,’ said the Reverend Stephen. ‘What’s all this? Some dark deed, or what?’

‘It’s partly about me and partly about somebody else,’ said Margery, looking past him and collecting her thoughts, and – or so it seemed to the vicar – her courage. He looked at her, half amused, and saw a red-faced, slightly perspiring, fair-haired, short-skirted, ingenuous maiden of eighteen, curiously like – who was she curiously like? He frowned. Margery caught his eye, and avoided it again.

‘Mr Broome,’ she said at last, ‘do you think – I mean, there’s no chance of Jim Redsey being arrested, is there? You hear such horrible rumours down in the village about him.’

‘I don’t know.’ The vicar looked thoughtful. ‘I believe there’s a good deal of evidence against him. He’ll have to stand his trial if he is arrested, of course, unless anything turns up to point out the real murderer. It is a very nasty, puzzling business, this murder; isn’t it? I shouldn’t think too much about it, if I were you.’

‘You don’t believe Jim Redsey did it, do you, Mr Broome? I can see you don’t! Oh, I’m so glad!’

‘Why, no, I don’t believe he did it. And you don’t believe it either, I see.’ The Reverend Stephen Broome picked up his pen and rustled some papers suggestively. But Margery refused to be turned out of the study by the feeble hints of work to be done. She crossed one thick, sturdy leg over the other and leaned forward confidentially.

‘I know he didn’t do it,’ she said unexpectedly.

‘What?’ The vicar looked startled.

Margery nodded her head emphatically.

‘If I – if I tell you what I know, will you back me up with Father?’ she demanded.

‘What have you been up to, then?’ The vicar laid down his pen and began to fill his pipe.

‘I’ll tell you.’

She uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, with her elbows among the vicar’s scattered sermon papers, and began.

‘Rupert Sethleigh was supposed to have been killed on Sunday night, June 22nd, wasn’t he? And, at about nine o’clock, Jim Redsey was in the “Queen’s Head”. Well, if anybody saw Rupert Sethleigh alive after Jim Redsey had knocked him down and gone off and left him for dead, would it prove that Jim was not – would they – I mean, they couldn’t think Jim did it then, could they?’

‘I couldn’t say. It would make a difference, of course, because the police would then have to prove that Redsey returned and finished off the job, and, from what I understand of the matter, it would be impossible to prove that.’

‘Could they – would they try to prove that?’

‘Well, I expect so. You see, the police seem to have a very strong case against Redsey. I’m afraid I don’t read the papers, so I am not at all clear how far the police theories have gone, but one hears things. . . . Look here, why don’t you go and tell what you know to the inspector? He’ll be able to advise you far better than I can.’

‘But what about Father? He’ll be furious when he knows what I’ve done!’

‘Well, you’ll have to face up to it. You didn’t do anything desperate, I suppose?’

He surveyed her quizzically.

‘I’ve brought up a daughter myself,’ he added, ‘so I know the sort of thing they get up to.’

‘I went into the Manor Woods to – to meet a man,’ confessed Margery, blushing furiously under her freckles and looking about ten years old.

‘The dickens you did!’ And the vicar grinned wickedly.

‘Yes. I don’t know what Father will say! He’s frightfully particular about – about things like that.’ To Margery, obviously, it was no grinning matter.

‘I see. Well, I’ll try and cope with him; but, even if I can’t mitigate his wrath, you must take comfort from the fact that you’ll be doing the right thing, and the big thing, in owning up like a sportsman. See?’

‘Yes,’ said Margery lugubriously. ‘What sort of view will the inspector take? I mean, will he be like you or – or pious and horrified, like Mother and Father?’

‘You’d better trot along and see,’ said the vicar seriously. ‘Oh, half a minute! Here comes Felicity, I think.’

He walked to the end of the passage, called her into the dining-room and said to her quite solemnly:

‘Child, have you ever been to the Manor Woods by night to meet a man?’

Felicity stared at him.

‘Well,’ pursued the vicar, ‘why did Margery Barnes go? She’s in my study, by the way. Perhaps you’ll go in to her.’

‘Margery? She never did! Little idiot! Who was the man?’

‘I don’t know who the man was,’ the vicar replied. ‘Will her father be very angry?’

‘She’s never going to tell Dr Barnes?’ cried Felicity, horrified.

‘Wouldn’t you tell me?’

Felicity kissed the top of his nose.

‘It’s rather different, silly. Dr Barnes will eat her! And that idiotic Mrs Barnes, who can’t pass a cow in the lane without wanting to squeal, will back him up when she returns from her holiday. But why is she going to tell him? I shouldn’t, if I were his daughter!’

‘She’s going to tell the inspector first.’

‘The inspector? What for? You know, sweetest, it’s rather morbid, I think – this passion for confessing one’s sins to all and sundry. By the way, do you know Mrs Bradley’s trying to find out all about – Oh, I say! ’

Her grey eyes grew wide with surmise and fear. ‘It isn’t anything to do with the murder that poor little Margery –!’ Without staying to finish the sentence, she flew into the study. At the same instant, Mrs Bradley was announced at the front door. Felicity, who had had barely time to greet the doctor’s daughter, left Margery alone and went down into the hall.

‘Felicity,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘don’t you think it would be rather nice to take your Sunday-school class into Culminster and show them the cathedral? And the market cross? And the museum? So interesting for the dear children.’

‘Yes, I know,’ replied Felicity, puckering her brow. ‘It would be interesting, and I’d love to take them, but their parents can’t afford the bus fare, and it’s too far to walk. And I can’t afford to pay for the dears,’ she added, ‘much as I’d like to do it.’

Mrs Bradley fumbled in her skirt pocket and drew out a large practical purse.

‘In the interests of their education,’ she said, opening it, ‘I hope I may be allowed to provide their fares.’ She pulled out a pound note. ‘And their teas.’ She pulled out another. ‘Sufficient? Good.’

She waved aside Felicity’s thanks.

‘Don’t encourage them to look at the case on the north wall of the museum. It contains, among other things, the model of a Roman shield, and, if you stand at the far end of the room opposite the door, half-close your eyes, and peer diligently behind that shield, you can see something extremely interesting. But do not show it to the children. I am very anxious for you to come, immediately upon your return, to my house and tell me what you have