Saltmarsh Murders

CHAPTER XIV

twentieth-century usage of a smugglers’ hole

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Mrs. Bradley was better than her word. It was exactly five days after the result of Bob’s trial had been announced in the evening papers, that she returned to Saltmarsh. That is to say, it was on the late afternoon of Thursday, October 29th, that she walked into the vicarage and informed us that, in the opinion of everyone in legal circles whose opinion she had been able to hear—and their name, it appeared, was pretty well legion, of course, as her son was in the thick of things—Bob’s appeal could not fail.

“A verdict in the teeth of the summing up is usually reversed on appeal, I believe,” said old Coutts, who, of course, knows nothing at all about it—a fact which his wife was very quick in bringing to his notice. I do dislike that woman. When she is in the right I dislike her rather more than when she is in the wrong.

Mrs. Bradley had received a cordial invitation from Sir William to continue in residence at the Manor House until the mysteries of Saltmarsh were thoroughly cleared up. He had been much entertained by Mrs. Bradley’s brilliant deductions as to the whereabouts of Cora McCanley’s body, and his theory, often and loudly expressed, was that Bob was innocent, and that the murderer of Cora had also murdered Meg and the baby.

Next morning, at about eleven o’clock, I was not too pleased to receive a summons from Sir William to visit the Manor, “with all my shorthand at my finger-tips.”

Daphne and I were inspecting the store of apples in the loft, when the message came. It is a useful work, that of inspecting the storage of apples, and I was annoyed at being called away to other matters.

To my astonishment, the Chief Constable of the County was with Sir William and Mrs. Bradley, and Sir William’s first move, after bunging my name and station at the great man, was to clear out and leave the three of us in possession of the library. I was given a nice notebook, a set of beautifully sharpened pencils, and a comfortable, workmanlike seat at the big table. The other two sat in armchairs on either side of the fire.

“Now, Mr. Wells,” said the Chief Constable, beaming. He looked like an inspector of schools, or like the gently smiling crocodile of the classic. They are awfully alike, you know, both in appearance and character.

I hitched my chair forward rather nervously, and grinned.

“At your service, sir,” I replied, suitably I hope.

“You have been sent for to act as Mrs. Bradley’s secretary. You are under pledge of secrecy on account of everything that is said in this room from now onwards, until you are released from that pledge,” he said. (I have been released from it by now, of course, or I should not be discussing these matters.)

I bowed, feeling rather like a League of Nations Conference on the White Slave Traffic, of course.

“Please take down everything that is said, in your beautiful shorthand, Noel, my dear, and later, when you have read it over to me, transcribe it into your nice legible longhand,” said Mrs. Bradley kindly. “Are you ready?”

Well, they talked, of course, and I took down. That’s about all it amounted to.

“You think, then,” the Chief Constable began, “that the unfortunate lad will be acquitted?”

“If the police could possibly discover the murderer of Cora Mc-Canley, I think it would be certain,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “The bodies of Meg Tosstick and the baby have not been found yet, I take it?”

“No. The police have followed up every possible clue. I don’t think they have left a single stone unturned,” the Chief Constable replied, “but, so far—nothing!”

Mrs. Bradley grimaced, I suppose, at this. I didn’t look up from my notebook, so, of course, I can’t be certain, and there was a longish pause. At last she said:

“The criminal is rather a remarkable person. Let me outline to you what I think he has done. I am assuming, by the way, that we are dealing with one criminal who committed both crimes; not with two murderers.”

“You say ‘he,’ as though it could not be a woman’s crime,” said the Chief Constable.

“My mind is open on the point,” said Mrs. Bradley, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a woman’s crime. Of course, Cora McCanley was a big girl and Meg Tosstick a little one, but both appear to have been stunned before they were strangled.”

“Oh, so Cora was strangled too,” I thought to myself, as I waited for the next remark to take down.

“Yes. Surprise is a great factor, of course, in a strangling crime,” said the Chief Constable. “And there are such things as drugs, of course, or the victim being attacked during sleep. She had quite a lump on the back of her head, as you say. She may certainly have been stunned first.”

“During sleep,” said Mrs. Bradley, thoughtfully. There was a long pause. Then she went on, “You mean that she was sleeping beside her murderer, and that he attacked and killed her?”

It occurred to me that Mrs. Bradley was determined to shield Sir William.

“Well,” said the Chief Constable, slowly, “if she had a lover, you see, and was expecting to go off with him—I wonder where she was killed! That’s what the inspector and his people have been trying to get at. But the trail stops dead at Wyemouth Harbour Station.”

“The Pier-head Station?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“Oh, no. The main line Central Station,” replied the Chief Constable. “She took a ticket for London, as we should have expected her to do if her story of going to join the touring company were true. The next thing we know for certain is that she did not join the company. We can’t prove whether she actually went to London or not. It’s as though, when Cora McCanley stepped past the barrier to board the London train, she stepped into thin air.”

“Have you considered the possibility of her having crossed the line by the footbridge and boarded a train which was returning to the Pier-head Station?” asked Mrs. Bradley.