“Ah’ll done go and hang ’em on de line now,” he said. “Den we’ll talk, if you please.” His manner had changed for the worse, it seemed to me. However, he brought another chair so that I could sit down. He himself leaned against the door-post, folded his arms across his splendid chest and surveyed us with a fair amount of hostility.
“And now, what, folks?” he said, insolently. Mrs. Bradley leaned forward.
“You recollect which day it was that Miss Cora went away, Mr. Yorke, don’t you?”
“Ah does that.” He recited, almost mechanically, like a child who has learned a lesson, “Miss Cora done go to catch the 3.30 train from Wyemouth Harbour on Tuesday, August 4th, de day after de Bank Holiday. Ah nebber seen Miss Cora no mo’.”
Mrs. Bradley fixed him with her dreadful gaze. “What about Tuesday night?” she asked quietly. The negro shook his head.
“Ah nebber seen Miss Cora no mo’ after she done leave this house to catch her train,” he repeated, stolidly.
“Oh? Look here, Foster, what were you doing on that Tuesday night?”
“Doing nothing,” said the negro, sullen as a child who is being found out.
“It won’t do,” said Mrs. Bradley, patiently. “Listen, Foster. Miss Cora died in this house. I want to know where you were when she died.”
CHAPTER XV
black man’s maggot
« ^ »
For a moment I thought the negro had not understood the purport, so to speak, of Mrs. Bradley’s words. Then I saw his gritted teeth as his mouth widened into a grin of surprise and terror.
“Miss Cora nebber died in dis hyer house,” he said, almost in a whisper. His eyes rolled horribly in his head with fear. Mrs. Bradley said rapidly in French:
“Oh, heavens! I forgot these people are afraid of ghosts!” Foster’s anguished gaze rested on me. His big mouth was trembling. He looked a sorry spectacle.
“Mister Wells, pray to de Lawd! Oh, mercy, pray to de good Lawd fo’ me!” he said. Sweat glistened on his brow. He was in anguish. I put out my hand and touched him. His hand was quite cold.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “it’s quite all right. Quite all right. Don’t be alarmed.”
His teeth were chattering with fright. Mrs. Bradley said in French:
“Give him the Swastika from your watch-chain to hold. Be quick.”
I complied. The poor man held it as though it were a talisman. It was, I think, to him. Gradually his shiverings ceased. He shook himself as though ridding himself of some clinging, clammy presence. Then he said:
“I done tell all I know.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“You don’t tell Mr. Burt. De debbil’s in dat man.”
We promised. He sat on the edge of the mangle and told us his story. Briefly it was that, having seen Cora off to the station and, after tea, Burt to the patrolling stunt that we all turned out for that night, it struck the negro that, as his employer was pretty certain to be late home, he might as well go into Wyemouth Harbour by bus and have a couple of hours at the pictures. He had left the Bungalow at a quarter to seven, he said, and he arrived back at just after eleven. He had seen the big picture, but had not stayed longer for fear Burt should return from the sea-shore before he himself arrived home from Wyemouth Harbour.
“Now,” said Mrs. Bradley at this point of the story, “what did you see when you came home?”
“Nothing,” replied the negro.
“Think again,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Did you come in by way of the front door or the back door?”
“Sho’, Ah entered by de back door, same as Ah does always,” replied Yorke.
“Was it exactly as you left it?”
A light seemed to dawn on the negro.
“Now yo’ done say dat,” he replied, “Ah remembers having to use de front-door key after all, because de back door am locked and bolted. I done say to myself, ‘You fergit, and leabe de house by de front door, yo’ fool nigger.’ ”
“And did you leave the house by the front door?” asked Mrs. Bradley, keenly.
“Ef Ah done dat, Ah gone done it in my sleep,” said the negro emphatically. “Ah didn’t nebber in my life use the front door, ’cept Ah come in with Mr. Burt or Miss Cora.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well, now, Mr. Yorke, who usually locked the back door at nights? Was it you, or Miss Cora, or Mr. Burt?”
“Ah lock dat back door soon as we’m all fixed in fer de evening,” replied Foster. “Ah takes no chances wid folks”—he shivered, and rolled his eyes—“walking in at dat back door and coming peeking ober my shoulder after de sun goes down. Mr. Burt lock de front door when dey go up to bed. Ah don’t nebber hab no sorter truck wid dat front door. Dat’s why Ah surprised myself walking in and out dere dat Tuesday.”
“What did you do when you returned?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
