The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop

‘Very well. That’s a thing that can be proved. Go on. We’ll assume for the moment that he was at the major’s.’

‘I can’t think of anybody else! Oh, yes!’ She glanced mischievously at the Reverend Stephen Broome. His pipe was well alight now. He was sprawling back in a deck-chair with his black shining alpaca jacket wide open, showing his black clerical vest and the little gold crucifix he wore. His long, black-trousered legs were stretched out in front of him, and his large, strong, long-fingered hands were clasped behind his head.

Mrs Bradley chuckled.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘his clothes are certainly black enough, and he asked for it just now! He shall have it, too! We will assume that it was the Vicar of Wandles Parva whom you saw crawling out of the bushes, and we will try our circumstantial evidence on him. Mr Broome!’ She prodded him in the stomach with her mauve and white parasol. ‘Wake up!’

‘Eh?’ said the vicar, who had been far away, as usual. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He raised himself and blinked at her with his heavily lidded blue-grey eyes.

‘Where were you on the evening of Sunday, June 22nd?’ asked Mrs Bradley keenly.

‘At church, I expect.’

‘Yes. And after church?’

‘Went for a walk, I expect. I generally do, while Felicity gets the supper.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Haven’t the least idea. Round and about, you know.’ He lay back in his chair again, and puffed away at his pipe.

‘We’ll assume he went for his walk in the Manor Woods,’ said Mrs Bradley to Margery, disregarding the vicar’s shake of the head. ‘Now, then.’

‘You must go on,’ said Margery. ‘I can’t get any farther.’

‘Very well. At five minutes past eight we see Rupert Sethleigh stretched senseless on the ground. James Redsey catches hold of him under the arms and drags him into the bushes. James disappears in the direction of the Bossbury road, en route for the public house. In a few minutes Rupert regains consciousness. The church service of Evening Prayer is concluded at a quarter to eight. The vicar leaves the building at eight o’clock perhaps –’

‘Five to,’ came in lazy tones from behind the pipe.

‘Very well, Mr Broome. It makes it all the worse for you. Gives you five more minutes for the murder. At five minutes to eight he goes off for his walk. He enters the Manor Woods by the wicket gate. He walks along the path which leads to the clearing. He is just in time to see the cousins quarrel, and he witnesses the blow which stretched Sethleigh senscless on the ground. He marks the spot where Redsey hides the body. Influenced unconsciously by Redsey’s action in dragging his cousin in among the bushes, he concludes that Sethleigh is dead. He hates Sethleigh. When Redsey has fled from the woods, the vicar parts the bushes and has a look at the man he loathes.’

‘The man he loathes?’ said two voices.

‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Bradley, surprised. ‘Everybody who met him seems to have detested Rupert Sethleigh. Why should the vicar be any exception?’

‘His cloth,’ suggested Mrs Bryce Harringay in honeyed tones, directing a languishing glance at the sprawling figure of the Reverend Stephen Broome. ‘The feelings of an ordained priest –’

‘Oh, rubbish!’ said Mrs Bradley brusquely. ‘An ordained priest feels like any other father of a charming daughter, I suppose? Why shouldn’t he?’

Felicity turned her nose up.

The vicar went on smoking – less placidly. A slight frown gathered between his contemplative eyes.

Margery Barnes held up a shapely bare arm and eyed its contours with artless satisfaction.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley, under her breath. ‘No,’ she added immediately.

‘Go on,’ said the vicar. ‘Don’t mind me. I shall go to sleep as soon as I’ve finished this pipe.’

‘By the way,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘do you carry your tobacco in a pouch?’

‘Used to,’ replied the Reverend Stephen Broome.

‘What do you use now?’

The vicar looked embarrassed.

‘Well – er – as a matter of fact, you see –’ he began confusedly.

The company sat up and began to look interested. Felicity scowled, and glared at Jim Redsey, who was grinning broadly.

The half-amused tone in Mrs Bradley’s voice had gone when next she spoke. Her words seemed almost unwilling to issue forth.

‘When the vicar found Sethleigh he had an unpleasant shock,’ she said.

The vicar’s unhappy expression changed to one of thoughtful serenity at the resumption of the tale. He lay comfortably back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘He found that Sethleigh was not dead,’ contributed Aubrey.

‘Thereupon, although he was disappointed and furious to think that this man had escaped,’ continued Mrs Bradley, ‘he helped him out of the bushes, and Sethleigh lay down on the Stone of Sacrifice to recover. The sight of his prostrate form incensed the vicar to the point of madness. He drew out his penknife –’

‘Never carry one,’ came in muffled tones from behind the pipe.

‘And stabbed Sethleigh in the throat.’

Margery Barnes glanced fearfully behind her. Felicity said crossly:

‘What nonsense!’

‘Then he heard voices,’ pursued Mrs Bradley, unperturbed by this frank comment, ‘the voices of Margery Barnes and Cleaver Wright. Hastily he lowered the body of Sethleigh to the ground on the side of the Stone which faces the Manor House. Then, stooping low so that the Stone would cover him, he entered the woods on the house side, and gradually worked his way among the trees and bushes until he had partially compassed a circular course, and was hidden in the bushes – where, Margery?’

Margery sat up, blushing hotly. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, met Mrs Bradley’s basilisk gaze, and was prompted to reply:

‘Do you mean where did I see that man come crawling out? Oh – er – well, it was about opposite the right- hand side of the Stone if you had your back to the Bossbury road.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Mrs Bradley, with a courteous inclination of the head. ‘Well,’ she continued abruptly, ‘when Margery fled from Cleaver Wright, that young man, finding no pleasure, but rather a somewhat ludicrous dismay, in finding himself left seated upon the pine-needles, got up and strolled across the clearing. His experience of women taught him that the chances were in favour of Margery’s return when she recovered from the fright he had given her –’

‘I wouldn’t have gone back there for anything,’ declared Margery vehemently.

‘So he walked round the Stone to examine it. The thing has its fascination. On the farther side of it he came upon Sethleigh’s body. He knelt to examine it. In doing so he got a good deal of blood on to the knees of his trousers. Now mark the sequel to that. The corpse had bled from the neck. There was no blood probably on Sethleigh’s trousers. They were grey flannels supported merely by –’ She glanced enquiringly at Mrs Bryce Harringay.

‘A coloured silk scarf, I believe,’ supplied that lady. ‘But I really must say, Mrs Bradley –’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘A coloured silk scarf. Cleaver Wright is quick-witted. He realized that Sethleigh had been murdered. He felt the blood of Sethleigh wet against his shins. At any second Margery Barnes might return.’

‘Ugh! Don’t!’ screamed Margery, covering her face.

‘So Wright hastily dragged off the trousers of the corpse, pulled off his own flannels –’ She glanced enquiringly at Margery. Aubrey tapped the girl on the arm to attract her attention. Margery lowered her hands and nodded.

‘Yes, he was wearing grey flannel trousers that evening,’ she admitted.

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Bradley, satisfied. ‘I knew it. He then left his own trousers lying on the ground and darted into the woods, where he assumed the nether garments of the murdered man. Then he emerged from the bushes, went