Saltmarsh Murders

go up to the Bungalow, and make them tell me the truth, but it is so awkward now that Noel has got them to help with the fete. We always make it a hard-and-fast rule never to be rude to anybody who has promised to help with the fete. How thankful I shall be when it is all over! The Adj. has implored Bill to come home not later than seven o’clock, and Bill (who must be a bit scared, although he swears he isn’t) has promised faithfully. How I love Margaret and Bill! I love them so much that I really believe, if the Adj. were lovable, I could love her for their sakes, because they make me so good and happy. But of course she isn’t lovable. I wonder why uncle married her? Sometimes I think he is awfully sorry he did. I’ve thought that ever since I was fourteen. It would explain so much if they simply hated one another.

However, I suppose they don’t. Noel—I can’t bear to write things down about Noel. Not “real” things, anyway.

Friday, July 31st: It’s awful, but I’m afraid to be out alone. I keep finding excuses to take Bill with me. I even welcomed an offer from the Adj. to accompany her into Aldbury to see the caterers. I am a miserable funk. The queer thing is that I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Uncle announces that the supposed attack on Noel and Bill was some naughty boys, and he has turned Bob Matters and Joey Baylis out of the choir, although they deny it and Bill believes them. Noel has gone to tea at the Manor House, blow him! I’m scared, and I—”

Here Daphne put her hand over the page, and laughed and I kissed her, and she threw the diary on to a small side table.

“I believe the Borgia is as mad as Mrs. Gatty,” said Daphne to me a little later. “I don’t understand her at all. She says such silly things, and then laughs like a hyena.”

“Oh, she’s all right,” I said, recollections of a certain rather brilliant piece of deduction coming into my mind as I reflected upon how Mrs. Bradley had put two and two together over the discovery that Gatty was in the church crypt.

Saturday passed without incident. Sir William’s park presented the usual heart-breaking spectacle of wheel-ruts in the turf, half-unpacked roundabout and swing-boat stuff, and patches of mud where grass should have been. A dozen or so of the village children had managed to sneak in and watch the proceedings. Daphne, Mrs. Coutts and I were everywhere at once; the cocoanuts were delayed en route, and William Coutts was sent off on his aunt’s bicycle to see what had become of them; Lowry, the innkeeper, applied for, and was refused, even the right to sell mineral waters on the great day; the vicar helped the local troop to pitch the bell-tent and the fair-people erected their marquees. The fair lent us their big marquee for the refreshments, and paid five pounds for the privilege of attending the fete with roundabouts and swings. They were also under contract not to damage the turf, of course. “Sez you!” as William succinctly observed. Anyway, we all returned to the vicarage that evening with the feeling of a job well done, I suppose. I know that I did. It had begun to rain. A slight but determined drizzle had commenced, and at seven o’clock, just as our vicarage party was sitting down to a belated and badly-needed tea, the rain was falling steadily.

“We shall have to put Much Hartley in first, uncle,” observed William, holding his slice of bread and jam out at arm’s length in order to inspect the large semi-circular inroad which his first bite had made. He giggled suddenly.

“Much Hartley,” he said, indicating the jam. The joke lasted him, on and off, for the duration of the meal. His was a simple nature, of course.

“Mr. Gatty is leaving on the tenth and going to Switzerland,” said Daphne suddenly.

“What?” said her aunt. “Who told you that?”

“Mrs. Bor—Bradley, Aunt. It’s part of Mrs. Gatty’s cure, but Mrs. Gatty doesn’t know he’s going.”

“You know, that’s an extraordinary woman, that Mrs. Gatty,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe she’s mad at all. I believe it’s simply a pose to obtain sympathy. It’s her husband I’m sorry for.”

“You would be,” remarked Mrs. Coutts, with bitterness. She was eating nothing, and she poured out for herself another cup of tea.

“A little bread and butter, my dear Caroline,” said the vicar. He had shaved early that morning and already the bristles of a new crop of stubble were visible upon his chin. He felt it, unconscious that he was doing so.

“Oh, please keep your hand away from your face, Bedivere,” said Mrs. Coutts. She spoke sharply, for she was tired out. Daphne put down her knife and was about to speak when her uncle prevented it by saying to me:

“Come along to the study, Wells, will you, and hear my headings and sub-headings for to-morrow?”

“I do hope you are going to make an announcement about the fete,” said Mrs. Coutts, reverting to a week-old argument. “And I hope you will put it strongly. The behaviour last year made me shudder!”

“Then all I can say, my dear,” retorted Bedivere Coutts, who was also tired, I suppose, “is that some people must be very fond of shuddering. Kindly remember that you are not compelled to stay and shudder. Show a little decency and come home at the proper time on Monday evening. Really, I advise it!”

He was remorseful, I should imagine, before the sentence was concluded, but he would not admit it. Somehow one never did admit to being in the wrong to Mrs. Coutts. She was a singularly ungracious woman, of course. Instead, the vicar rose from the table, signed to me to accompany him, and left the dining room. I did not follow immediately. It seemed rather frightful to walk out on the woman like that. I hesitated. Mrs. Coutts put her head down and began to cry. William Coutts rose from the table and stood kicking the edge of the fender in miserable and self-conscious embarrassment. He felt, I suppose, that there was something which ought to be said, something which ought to be done. The sight of his aunt’s bowed head must have given him the most unpleasant sensations. The kicking of the fender grew unendurable to Mrs. Coutts, I think. Besides, she knew that Daphne and I were still in the room. She raised her head, glared through her tears at her nephew and cried impatiently:

“Oh, go away! You and your din! You and your everlasting din!” So we went, all three of us. Really, there was nothing else to do. We all felt pretty miserable, I think, even Daphne, who detested her aunt, of course.

CHAPTER IV

maggots in the church porch and public house maggots

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Mrs. Coutts concluded Sunday breakfast with a third cup of tea and a final despairing exhortation to the vicar to