Saltmarsh Murders

think they’ve got it. No doubt at all but, to their way of thinking, poor Bob done it. No, what the inspector has been going round for is to find something to bolster up the truth a bit. If he can’t find anything, he can’t, and no great harm done. The lawyers must do the best they can with what they’ve got already, that’s all. But, on the other hand, he don’t want to hit a snag, sir, do he? I mean, that ’udn’t be human nature, saving your presence, Mr. Wells. As it stands, it’s a very nice case! You wouldn’t expect ’em to go out of their way to queer it.”

I nodded gloomily. So did the two young men. The point was well put, of course.

“I’ll be going, then,” I said. “Thanks, Brown.”

“I’d heard tell that the little old party from London was a rare wonder at finding out things,” said Brown, escorting me to the door, “but I expect she doesn’t take much interest in us country folks, sir.”

“Oh, I don’t know so much,” I said, wagging my head a bit. I didn’t think I ought to tell him that she had discovered that Burt was a smuggler, so, looking pretty mysterious, of course, I pushed on to the Manor House, and was soon telling the assembled company, which consisted of Sir William, Margaret, Bransome Burns and Mrs. Bradley, everything which Constable Brown had said. I concluded by saying that matters looked utterly hopeless for Candy.

“Anyway, Brown seemed inclined to take your name in vain,” I said to Mrs. Bradley, “so I upheld your reputation as best I could.”

“I don’t think you need have troubled yourself, Mr. Wells,” said Margaret, rather cuttingly. I perceived, of course, that I had dropped a bit of a brick, so I hastened to gather up the fragments.

“Oh, no, no! Of course, rather not,” I said, in my heartiest, mothers’-meeting voice. “Of course not. Certainly.”

“I hope,” said Mrs. Bradley, “that you didn’t mention Burt?”

“Not a syllable, on my word,” I replied eagerly, frightfully thankful, of course, that I had put that particular temptation behind me. “I didn’t think it would be wise. Fancy his smuggling liquor, though,” I added, with an amused but tolerant smile.

“He doesn’t!” said Mrs. Bradley. Her usually mellifluous voice was so sharp, and her scowl so particularly ferocious that I merely said:

“Oh, doesn’t he?” And left the rest to fate. Mrs. Bradley changed the subject so abruptly that my suspicion that she was side-tracking the truth became amplified. However, I judged it wiser to lie low for a bit.

Sir William said:

“What evidence do they offer against Candy, besides the motive?”

“Opportunity,” said Mrs. Bradley, “He was at the inn when the murder was committed. There is an odd fifteen minutes of his time that he can’t account for satisfactorily.”

“It’s simply horrible,” said Margaret. “He couldn’t have committed a murder! Why he used to be in my Lads’ Bible Class.”

“He isn’t capable of it,” exclaimed Sir William. I was glad to hear them championing the man so warmly and I glanced from face to face to see whether they all agreed. I was surprised at the peculiar expression on Bransome Burns’ unprepossessing countenance. His lips were drawn back from his ugly teeth in a malicious smile.

“Good heavens!” I thought. “He believes Sir William did it!”

Almost as though I had spoken the words aloud, Mrs. Bradley observed:

“Of course, there is this point to be considered. You do not believe that Candy was capable of murder. I believe he was.”

“But—” thundered Sir William. At least, he would have thundered the sentence had he been permitted to conclude it, I think. But Mrs. Bradley interrupted him.

“I am not convinced of Candy’s innocence. I believe that Candy was capable of murder, but I also know”—she looked at each of us in turn—“that there are others in this village who are potential murderers. Take Sir William, for example.”

Sir William got a bit purple at that, of course, and was obviously working himself up into one of his terrible rages, when Mrs. Bradley checked him.

“Don’t show off, dear host,” she said. “Mr. Bransome Burns will bear me out.”

Bransome Burns—I rejoice to think that Mrs. Gatty called him a shark—he was a blue-nosed shark if ever I saw one—I never have seen one of course—stuck his forefinger behind his collar stud and made polite, deprecating noises. All the same, there was a cold gleam in his nasty, fishy eye. He had not forgotten the day he kicked the dog. I could read the man’s mind like a book.

“Then,” said Mrs. Bradley, turning suddenly on me and leering with a kind of fearful joy, “there is our young friend, Mr. Wells.”

“I a murderer?” I ejaculated. It was laughable! I had picked up the poker at Burt’s bungalow, of course. And (I should admit it if pressed) I had picked it up with the idea of swiping Burt a meaty, fruity slosh over the head if he kicked up rough or turned in any way nasty. But the Bradley was biting the hand that would have defended her. I could hardly say so, of course.

“Then there is Mr. Burt,” said Mrs. Bradley. I could agree to that. I myself had heard Burt confess to her that he would kill if he were forced by pressure of circumstances so to do.

“Then there is Mrs. Coutts,” said Mrs. Bradley, “although I confess up to the present I have no proof except psychological proof (which is incontrovertible, but not acceptable yet to the lay nor the legal mind)—that Mrs. Coutts is a potential murderess. And then,” she added, grinning at us, “there is myself. I actually have a murder to my credit. I was tried for it and acquitted, but I did it, boys and girls, I did it.”

She shook her head sadly, and then turned to me.

“Do you really believe that Candy was incapable of murder?” she asked.