Saltmarsh Murders

“Some time,” said Mrs. Bradley, thoughtfully. “I must go into the question of lying much more thoroughly. I wonder why Mrs. Gatty lies? Is it for fear, compensation or wantonness, I wonder?”

“But does she lie?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And, by the way, young man, if you are to be of any real assistance to me in this enquiry, you must not ask direct questions of the people I am interviewing. You’ll spoil everything if you do. Tell me some more about the roof of Burt’s bungalow,” she added.

“About Gatty, do you mean?” I asked.

“About Gatty. So nice to know it wasn’t a thug,” said Mrs. Bradley, nodding her head. “All the details, please.”

So I told her the tale all over again.

“I must go back to the Moat House,” she said, when I had finished. “There is just one thing I must get clear. You stay here, dear child.”

“Not much,” I said. She seemed such a little old woman, and I didn’t like those wolf-teeth that Gatty showed when he smiled. Gatty and his wife had changed jobs. He was mowing the lawn now, and she was attending to the roses.

“Here are Mrs. Crocodile and Mr. Goat,” she called to her husband. He let go the mowing machine and came toward us. I could not but admire Mrs. Bradley’s forthright methods. She said at once:

“How did you say you got down into the crypt?”

“I was thrust down there by Burt and his negro,” said Gatty. I gasped. He had distinctly told me that he went there as the result of a bet. Apparently he had forgotten that. So both the Gattys were liars, it seemed!

“Why?” asked Mrs. Bradley. “Had you annoyed him in any way?”

“I don’t think so. I believe he has some secret and that I was within an ace of finding it out. It was the night my car broke down outside Wyemouth and I had to walk home by way of the Cove and the stone quarries. I was just poking about when they seized me and carried me to the church. I can’t think why we didn’t meet anybody. When you had set me free, I decided to go to Burt’s bungalow and find out what I could, by way of revenge. Just fancy, I was in that dreadful place for about thirty-six hours! So I climbed on to the roof of Burt’s bungalow that night when I had had food and some rest, and tried to see down the skylight into his loft. I couldn’t see anything. It was much too dark. So I scrabbled about a bit and was unlucky enough to loosen two tiles. They slipped as Mr. Wells here and the lad Coutts came out on to the path. I was terribly alarmed. I thought at first the tiles had struck them. I was hiding behind the chimney stack out of reach of Burt’s horrible gun when they slipped from my hand. I still believe Burt’s got some game on, and I still mean to find out what it is!”

“Good for you,” said Mrs. Bradley, cordially. “Good luck to your mowing.”

He looked at her as though she was mad, sighed, and pushed the mowing machine forward. Mrs. Bradley turned to find Mrs. Gatty standing at her elbow.

“Darling Croc,” said Mrs. Gatty, “why do you talk with the wolf?”

“Dearest Cassowary,” retorted Mrs. Bradley, “who told you the wolf was in the crypt?”

“Nobody told me,” said Mrs. Gatty, beaming at us both through her gold-rimmed glasses like any comfortable woman of fifty. “I saw him down there. Oh, that’s wrong. Mr. Burt told me. He thought I should go and let him out, I think!”

She began to giggle at the recollection.

“And didn’t you try to get him out?” I asked. Mrs. Bradley suddenly prodded me in the ribs. I had forgotten her commands, of course. I muttered an apology, but the mischief, whatever it was, was done. Mrs. Gatty grew grave, and answered:

“No, I didn’t try to get him out. It was so right, you see. It was so satisfying. I peeped at him—he didn’t see or hear me—and then I came home and thought about him, and then, when I knew he was asleep, I went and spoke to him.”

I looked appealingly at Mrs. Bradley. In that instinctive way which women have, she seemed to understand me. Almost imperceptibly she nodded her head. Emboldened, I asked Mrs. Gatty what she had said to her husband while he was asleep in the crypt.

“I said, ‘Bogey! Bogey!’ ” replied Mrs. Gatty solemnly. I shouted with laughter. Mrs. Bradley laughed. Mrs. Gatty laughed, and up came little Gatty to know what we were laughing at. I pointed a shaking finger at his wife and feebly stuttered:

“She said, ‘Bogey! Bogey!’ ” Then I went off into fresh howls of mirth. I controlled myself at last and wiped my eyes. Old Gatty’s face was a study.

“How interesting it all is,” said Mrs. Bradley, when we had taken leave of the Gattys once more. “Child, it’s going to rain again. How provoking! You will have to take me into the vicarage for shelter, won’t you?”

Considering that we had to pass the gates of the Manor House to reach the vicarage, I thought this suggestion was a bit thick.

“With pleasure,” I said my heart sinking. She and the vicar’s wife were good for three hours if once they started gossiping. I believe the Bradley is going to put the Coutts into a book or something. There’s a sinister licking of the lips about her facial expression after she’s managed to get Mrs. Coutts to spread herself on her favourite topic. It makes my blood run positively cold to witness it. She’s a ghoul, not a woman. Mrs. Coutts’ favourite topic, of course, is Immorality, under which heading, since the dreadful death of Meg Tosstick and the removal of Cora McCanley, whom she hates, she has taken to including Daphne and me. She found me outside Daphne’s door on the night after Meg Tosstick’s murder, and promptly blew her cork out. I explained that I was only asking Daphne if she were all right and not scared, of course, but the woman insisted upon believing the worst. The next night she found me in the room, of course. I’m not going to be dictated to by a person with her frightful mentality, even if she is Daphne’s aunt.

Upon finding me seated upon Daphne’s bed she decided that the worst had happened. (It hadn’t, of course.)