“Oh, Meg’s body must have been washed up somewhere by now,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I believe the police have been called upon to identify nearly a dozen drowned bodies, strangled and not, but, of course, identification is almost impossible and not really very important now.”
“Look here, Mrs. Bradley,” I said, after a pause, “what
“What
“Yes,” I said. “I know you have told me he didn’t murder Cora, but how can you be sure? I mean—” I went on, without giving her a chance to butt in with some of her leg-pulling stunts that make me forget what it is I have set out to say—“you have told the Chief Constable that you believe Cora was murdered actually in the Bungalow itself. You have shown, very reasonably, I admit, that she could have returned to the Bungalow by way of the shore, or the cliffs, and the smugglers’ passage without being seen. But you have not shown how her lover could have come to her there and murdered her; whereas, if she did return, as you have said, what could be more natural than that Burt should have killed her that night when he returned from that patrolling of the sea-shore?”
“Lots of things,” said Mrs. Bradley, drily. “First, I cannot believe that Burt would kill a woman.”
“He could beat one, anyway,” I said.
“Oh, my dear boy!” said Mrs. Bradley, laughing. “Besides, I don’t think the beatings Cora McCanley received from Burt can have upset or hurt her very much, or she would have left him. She always had plenty of opportunity to do so if she chose. Her charms were decidedly of the marketable type. No, it was lack of money that Cora always complained about, nothing else.”
“Well?” I said, letting it pass.
“I believe Burt would kill a man,” she said, calmly.
“You mean the lover?”
“I mean the lover. The lover was afraid of Burt. Cora wasn’t. Do you see a motive for Cora’s death?”
“Not altogether,” said I, groping dimly.
“You remember the quarrel between Burt and Cora?”
“Yes.”
“And the reason for it?”
“Money again?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so. I think they quarrelled because Burt had found out that Cora had a lover and wanted to know his name. But that is mere guesswork on my part. Go on,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“She thought she might be able to tap the lover, found she couldn’t, and threatened to give him away to Burt. She would get off with a hiding from Burt, but the lover would be manhandled by Burt and perhaps chucked into the stone quarries. The lover may even have been hidden somewhere, listening to the quarrel.”
“Full marks, this time,” said Mrs. Bradley, patting me on the shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it better myself. After all, one could hear the voices of Cora and Burt a mile off when both of them were angry. You remember that Margaret Kingston-Fox heard them, for instance, and she is the last person one imagines eavesdropping.”
“But you gave me all the tips,” I said, blushing modestly, and referring to her praise of my efforts.
“Yes, well, it may easily have happened, that way,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Is that the telephone I can hear?”
It was. A maid came in to say so. Mrs. Bradley was wanted on the telephone. I waited. She came in looking rather worried.
“Sir Malcolm has kindly rung up to inform me that the end of the passage which opens into the cellars of the Mornington Arms is blocked up. Bricked in, he says. He has questioned the whole staff and the two Lowrys, but nobody remembers the bricking-up being done. It is obviously old work, and has not been disturbed for years. If further proof were needed that the passage has not been used from the end which comes out at the inn cellar, the bricks are covered with the cobwebs of years!”
“So nobody could possibly get from the inn to the Bungalow along the secret passage,” I said. “But then, we never thought anybody did. It was only Cora, and she came from the Cove end,” I continued, feeling my way through the maze.
“We had better go and worry Burt again, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly. “Will you accompany me?”
“With pleasure,” I exclaimed. A thought struck me. “I wonder what Foster Washington Yorke was doing on the night that Cora was murdered?” I said. Mrs. Bradley looked at me with sheer admiration in her keen black eyes.
“Child,” she said, “go right to the top of the class. By heaven, Holmes, this is wonderful!”
She slapped me very heartily and painfully between the shoulder-blades.
“In forty-five minutes, or less, I hope and trust that your intelligent question will be answered to your satisfaction,” she said. “And mine,” she added, on a grim note.
Burt was out when we arrived at the Bungalow. This served our purpose pretty well, as we were able to interview Foster Washington Yorke undisturbed. He was not chopping wood this time. He was doing some washing—shirts, I think, but whether his own or Burt’s, I could not say. He smiled politely when he saw us, and removed his dark brown hands from the tub.
“Finish the good work,” said Mrs. Bradley, seating herself on a scullery chair. “I suppose you can talk and work, can’t you?”
“Ef youse come to ask me questions about po’ Miss Cora, madam,” said the negro, unexpectedly and emotionally, “no, Ah can’t work and talk about her.”
He bent to his task and sloshed the shirts about in a heartfelt sort of way. He had been fond of Cora, of course.
