rock.
‘It reeks of evil,’ she said solemnly. ‘What blood was shed; what wicked deeds were done; what screams, what torture, and what agony this ancient monument has heard and seen, by great good fortune we shall never know.’
She turned abruptly to Jim Redsey.
‘Take the child over to the spot where you knocked your cousin down,’ she said.
Jim touched Aubrey’s arm and they walked about twelve paces.
‘Here,’ he said laconically. (Easier to humour the old girl. What was the game, anyway?)
‘Very well. Lie down, boy.’ Aubrey extended his thin form on the ground. ‘Like that, Mr Redsey?’
‘No. Get your head round to the left a bit more. Stick. That’s right.’
‘Thank you, Mr Redsey. Now haul him into the bushes. Oh, by the arms, was it? I don’t think your clothes will hurt, child. You must pick out the pine needles afterwards. Now, Mr Redsey, come out again and go off in the direction of the “Queen’s Head” at the pace which you took on the night of June 22nd.’
Jim leapt away to the right, crashing through bushes and leaping over brambles, and was lost to sight in less than three seconds.
‘Thank you!’ called Mrs Bradley. But the opportunity for flight thus offered him was too good to be missed, thought Jim. He affected not to hear her, ran swiftly down the path, and vaulted the wicket gate. He then walked at a swinging pace down the Bossbury-London road towards Culminster and re-entered the Manor grounds through the lodge gates.
Mrs Bradley chuckled gently.
‘Never mind. He’s done all that I wanted him to do,’ she said. ‘Now I want you to crawl out of those bushes where you are and advance into the clearing. Come slowly. You’re not feeling very well or very happy after that crack on the head you received when you struck your head against a tree in falling. Hands and knees. That’s right. And you are wearing a white shirt and light-grey flannel trousers.’ She stared unseeingly at his navy-blue blazer and white flannels. ‘At eight o’clock on a fine summer evening. At a quarter to nine on a fine summer evening. Yes, quite so. Get up, child. A great black slug. Indeed?’
She shook her head and wrinkled her brow.
‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘all these things are sent to try us. I’ll buy you some new flannels, boy, if you’ve spoilt those. Come and have another look at the Stone. Where are those bloodstains? H’m!’
She produced a reading-glass and examined them closely.
‘They haven’t found the weapon yet,’ said Aubrey unexpectedly, ‘with which old Rupert was done in. Wonder what it was?’
‘The weapon,’ responded Mrs Bradley, lowering her voice and almost hissing the words into his ear, ‘is washed and inspected so often that, if we saw it, the inspector wouldn’t know and I wouldn’t know and you wouldn’t know whether it was verily used to murder Rupert Sethleigh or not.’
‘Oh, you mean one of those butcher’s tools! Of course,’ agreed Aubrey, edging away from her.
Mrs Bradley cackled softly.
‘Perhaps I do mean that. And perhaps I don’t,’ she observed helpfully. ‘Go back into the bushes and lie down as you did before. Do you mind removing your blazer first? Thank you so much. That’s right. Hang it over that little branch over there.’
Aubrey walked off and was soon lost to sight in the hazel-copse.
‘Now we will try again,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Redsey has run away. You are unconscious. I am the person for whom the police are looking. I have seen Redsey knock you down. I conceal myself behind a tree.’
She did this, and then went on, in her rich, slightly drawling voice:
‘I have seen him drag you into the bushes. It occurs to me that he thinks you are dead. I have seen him dash away. I wait. I listen. Yes, he has gone for good. I emerge. I search the bushes.’
She did so.
‘I discover you lying prone upon the ground.’
She drew aside the hazel boughs and grinned fiendishly down upon the prostrate Aubrey.
‘Keep still. You are unconscious, remember. I seize you by the heels. (Yes, I really must provide you with some new flannels, child.) I drag you out into the clearing. I examine you. It occurs to me that I hate and fear you; that James Redsey believes he has accidentally killed you; that it is a golden opportunity to be rid of you for ever. I gag you with your own shirt, in case you should commence to recover consciousness before I decapitate you. Yes, it does seem a little indelicate on my part, but I’m afraid it must be done!’
She jerked at the buckle of his suede belt, and with incredible swiftness pulled his shirt over his head – (‘Here, I say, though!’ protested Aubrey, through two thicknesses of cream flannel) – and with a deftness born of nursing-experience in mental hospitals she turned him over and pulled the shirt off.
‘You won’t be cold. You’ve your vest,’ she observed thoughtfully. Aubrey was unable to reply, for in Mrs Bradley’s steel fingers the shirt made a clumsy but effective gag. She secured it in place by a clever use of the sleeves. The tail hung like a beard over his breast until she flung it up over his face, almost suffocating him.
‘I secure your wrists with your own belt,’ she continued. ‘Kick out hard if that shirt hurts too much. Then I put my foot against the soles of your shoes, seize your bound wrists and jerk you into a sitting position. Then I slip your bound wrists over my head so that you are clinging to my neck. Then I straighten myself (Heavens! What a length you are, child!) and carry you over to the Stone of Sacrifice. I lay you out flat on the top of it, face uppermost. Then I hack off your head! . . . No, not really. Cheer up! Some blood runs down the Stone. Poor boy! You are rather uncomfortable.’
She released his mouth and his wrists, and Aubrey swung himself to the ground. Mrs Bradley carefully unrolled the shirt, and shook it out. Aubrey disappeared modestly behind the Stone and put it on. He reappeared grinning and chafing his wrists, obviously not at all impressed by her version of how Sethleigh had been treated.
‘You’re hefty,’ he said admiringly, ‘but really –’
Mrs Bradley shrugged her thin shoulders.
‘Are you willing to conclude the little drama?’ she asked. ‘Good. Well, I wonder what to do next. SuddenlyI hear voices. A man and a girl are approaching the Stone. I have little time to think or to act. I lay the body on the ground a little way from the Stone’ – her eyes, assisted by the reading-glass, searched the grass – ‘here, I think, but the exact spot is not important. I take up the gag – that is, your shirt . . . (Yes, I know I have, but the murderer had less consideration. Besides, Sethleigh was dead – you’re not!), and take the head away with me. Also I release the wrists and take away the belt also.’
‘Old Rupert generally wore a silk scarf on grey bags,’ observed Aubrey helpfully, but still refusing to take her seriously.
‘Indeed? Easier to tie him up, then. I now conceal myself near at hand. The next bit of the proceedings is still rather obscure. You see, undoubtedly Margery Barnes and the man – whoever it was – I think I know, but I haven’t proved it yet – came upon the scene very soon after the head was hacked off. Now, I do not fancy the man saw Rupert Sethleigh’s dead body immediately they entered the clearing, and Margery Barnes undoubtedly did not see it at all. I don’t think it is outside the bounds of probability to suppose that she saw the Stone from the opposite side as they emerged from the path into the clearing and so did not spot the body. Just go over to the path down which James Redsey disappeared a little while ago, and tell me whether you can see me from there.’
She lay full length on the spot where she supposed the dead body of Sethleigh had been placed.
‘You cannot see me? Very well,’ she called. ‘Walk towards the Stone and sit down. Now get up and bear away to your left. Now glance this way and stand still the minute you can see any part of me.’
Aubrey walked on, round the immense Stone. This was rather a rag. He espied one of Mrs Bradley’s shoes, and halted.
‘Your foot!’ he called out promptly.
‘Very well. Walk on, and stop the moment you can see the whole of me.’
Aubrey obeyed.
‘Very well. Now run over to Dr Barnes’s house and bring Margery here, when you have marked the spot where you are standing. Here’s my penknife.’ She sat up, delved in her pocket, and tossed the knife with unerring aim. ‘Open the big blade and stick it in the ground.’
Aubrey was about to ask what excuse he should make to Margery for hauling her up to the Manor Woods on
