“Crocodile, I think. I am generally considered to be definitely saurian in type. Yorkshire people often are, you know. It is interesting, I think, to note how the types vary from county to county, and even from village to village.”
This launched Mrs. Gatty on her favourite topic, it seems, and Mrs. Bradley had some difficulty in switching the conversation back to Jackson Gatty.
“Ah, Jackson,” said Mrs. Gatty. “Yes, Jackson, of course. Well, it’s all over, bar the discovery of the body.”
“And where is the body?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
“If you only knew this village as I know it,” said Mrs. Gatty, to William’s great disappointment, for, of course, he wanted to hear details of the murder, “you would sit here and laugh and laugh and laugh, just as I do. Oh, it’s too funny for words! Of course, the vicar’s wife is the funniest of the whole lot.”
“Look here, Mrs. Gatty,” said William, but no one took any notice of him.
“I call her Mrs. Camel,” went on Mrs. Gatty, “because she squeals and bites on the slightest provocation, and then kneels to pray. And then there’s that creature at the Bungalow. A Kept Woman, my dear Mrs. Crocodile! What do you think of that?”
“Shocking, interesting and anachronistic,” replied Mrs. Bradley. At least, that is what I think William meant to say; and Mrs. Gatty, I suppose, spent quite a couple of minutes digesting this summary of the world’s Babylonian heritage, for William says that she sat quite still for ages, while he finished dotting down the conversation in his Scout’s notebook. At last she nodded in a solemn manner.
“Somebody at the Manor House could say more than that if he chose. And then take this girl Tosstick,” she continued. “That whole business is incredible to me, simply incredible from first to last. First, she is not the kind of girl to have an illegitimate child at all; secondly, she ought to publish the father’s name, as all the village girls do, so that we can all make sure she is treated rightly by the young fellow; thirdly, I suppose the child is deformed as no one is allowed to see it; and, lastly, there is the singular conduct of the people at the inn.”
“In what way is their conduct singular?” enquired Mrs. Bradley, politely.
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Gatty. “It just strikes me as singular that they should be so charitable. You know, that Lowry even gets a commission on the cocoanuts for the village fete, and he never gives the village children more than a farthing on the bottles they bring back. They find them in the roads left by picnicking parties, and he ought to give the poor little dears a halfpenny, as I do when they bring me bottles for my home-made wine. He is certainly dead by now. Jackson, I mean, of course.”
William noticed that Mrs. Bradley had also produced a small notebook, and was surreptitiously dotting down—in shorthand, William thinks—all that Mrs. Gatty said. I discovered afterwards that it was none of the recognised methods of writing shorthand, of course.
“Poor Jackson,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Well,” said Mrs. Gatty, “if a man
“Funny
“Caged, you know,” said Mrs. Gatty. “So funny that he should be caged. What awful weather for the time of year!”
“And caged in the sheep-fold! I must remember that!” said Mrs. Bradley. She gave her awful cackle, William said, and rose to go. When they all got outside the Moat House, and Mrs. Gatty had shut the door, Mrs. Bradley sent Margaret home to the Manor House and was just about to speak to William when Mrs. Gatty came flying down the drive and grasped Mrs. Bradley’s arm.
“And do you know what I think?” she said.
“No,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“I think Mrs. Camel believes her reverend husband is the father of Meg Tosstick’s baby,” said Mrs. Gatty.
(William, in his narrative to me, interpolated here, “What rot, Noel, isn’t it?” I concurred verbally with this view, but inwardly I was far from sure. The woman Coutts is capable of any frightful thought, so far as I can see!)
Mrs. Gatty, having voiced her opinion, turned and darted up the drive again, and Mrs. Bradley said to William:
“Has the church a crypt, child?”
“Yes,” said William. The evening was drawing in.
“Then lead me to it,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And let us hasten, for I perceive that it is beginning to rain.”
So William escorted her to the church. They passed through the lych-gate and skirted the south door, which is early Norman, of course, and soon reached the flight of stone steps which lead down to the crypt. A heavy iron gate breaks the flight about two-thirds of the way down.
“Do you just want to squint through the railings, or shall we go inside?” asked William.
“I should like to go into the crypt,” replied Mrs. Bradley.
“All right. I’ll go home and get the key,” said William obligingly. He surveyed his companion. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to get down from the inside of the church, would you?” he asked. “We needn’t bother about the key, if you could get down the steps inside. I can put the lights on.”
“It would suit me far better,” said Mrs. Bradley. “William, I think Mr. Jackson Gatty, either dead or alive, is in the crypt.”
“Who said so?” asked William, thrilled.
“Mrs. Gatty herself, but she doesn’t know she did,” replied Mrs. Bradley.
“Golly!” said William, irreverently. He led the way into the church, up the aisle, and into the vestry. Here he stooped and pulled aside a strip of cocoanut matting. A trap-door was disclosed, of course. The vicar’s predecessor
