‘This second boy had been knocked on the head and killed.’
‘He had been struck dead, yes. There was no doubt, in this case, about that. Further, the lump on his skull was approximately in the same position as that on Bobby Grier’s head. Further, his leg, as you know, and two of his fingers were broken. He was a weakly boy, and did not look as old as his age, which was nearly eighteen. The police searched the place where he was found, and have concluded that someone (who may or may not have been the murderer) thrust the body on to the concrete after it had been dead for some days. The boy Biggin must have been killed only a very short time after little Grier – possibly on the same night—’
‘Possibly to shut his mouth,’ said Alice, ‘and that Tidson—’
‘I am not, as I tell you, accusing Mr Tidson, although much of his behaviour has been suspicious,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You see—’
‘Don’t bother about me,’ said Alice. ‘I’m not at all squeamish; you can tell me anything. And I’ve read all the morbid psychology books, you know. Umbrellas and things,’ she added helpfully. Mrs Bradley cackled, but refused to be drawn by this remark.
‘It is all a question of motive,’ she said. ‘No-one except Potter can be shown to have had any motive for killing either of the boys, and at present the death of this second boy has not predisposed the police in Potter’s favour. They think, like you, that the second murder was an attempt to screen the first, but they cannot, of course, at present, show any connection whatever between little Grier and this boy Biggin. Still, that may not be necessary. Another task awaits us, and ought to be dealt with soon. I want to find out what Connie Carmody is doing. I had a telephone message which mentioned her name, and the caller apparently thought I could be persuaded to believe that she could be in two places at once.’
Alice looked intelligent, and said, ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Bradley responded. ‘You wouldn’t care to go down with Miss Trevelyan to my house in the country, and find out whether Connie has escaped from the clutches of my servants, and, if so, where she’s gone, and, if not, how she is feeling, I suppose?’
‘Leaving Laura here?’
‘Well, yes, I have work for Laura.’
‘Oh, well, I’d like to go, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Bradley, with a sudden screech of laughter. ‘Of course! Of course! Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.’
‘No, really,’ said Alice, bewildered. ‘I only meant—’
‘Off with you, then. You know the address, and so does Kitty Trevelyan. Don’t say a word to the Tidsons or to Miss Carmody, and don’t write letters to me here. When (or if) you see Connie, give her my regards and ask whether there is anything she needs. We must try to make plans to amuse her, and help her to pass the time. Whatever you find out you must tell me over the telephone, but only if it seems of any importance. The pass-word,’ Mrs Bradley added, ‘is Buttercup, but if you forget, and say Daisy, we shall manage.’
Alice looked at her wildly, received a poke in the ribs for encouragement, and went off to find Kitty and acquaint her in private of their errand.
Chapter Thirteen
SIR IZAAK WALTON (
WHEREVER he had been during the previous night, whether to put through a bogus telephone call or on some other private business, perhaps of an amorous kind, Mr Tidson had appeared at breakfast, Mrs Bradley had been interested to note, in very good time, in a light grey suit, with a cheerful morning countenance, and certainly with the appearance of one who had taken his usual night’s rest in a guileless bed.
It was not until the following breakfast time, however, that Mrs Bradley recounted to him, across the short distance which separated her table from that of Miss Carmody and the Tidsons, the tale of the telephone and the ghost. Mr Tidson expressed surprise and Crete amusement. Miss Carmody showed deep and obvious concern. No one gave any indication that it was known that Mr Tidson had left the hotel after dark on the night in question, but, as soon as the meal was over, Mr Tidson earnestly requested Mrs Bradley to show him the spot along the river from which she had seen the nymph.
There was a solitary fisherman on the bank as they made their way across the water-meadows. It was Detective-Inspector Gavin. He was in cover behind high reeds from which he made a very pretty cast just as they approached along the path.
‘Don’t let us go too close,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘There is a man who knows what he is doing. Let us leave him in peace to do it.’
Mrs Bradley was only too willing to do this. She had an appointment with Laura at the pool below the little wooden bridge, and she did not want her secretary to catch cold. The morning, although well advanced, was fairly chilly.
Cresses at the mouths of the drains lay close and thick, but not sufficiently so to check the bubbling flow of the water. There were startwort, dropwort and water crows-foot to be recognized by those who knew them; the grass, hiding boggy holes and the plashy flats and marshes, gave place to the stiff, thick reeds at the edge of the river. Beyond the bridge a line of dark woods hid the road. The river wound and turned. There were cattle along its banks, and the rough yellow flowers of the fleaban were thrusting up between cowpats and soggy hoof-marks. Every stream was marked by its line of willows, and, as the fisherman cast, a kingfisher swooped like a jewel.
There were slow swans stately on the main stream, and a very old willow tree leaned out over the water. The current distorted the green and silver reflections, and carried the image of hawthorn bushes as shadows under the bank. Beyond this dusk the grey-green waters were bright, and those in the fullest light were iridescent, like crystal, or solidly flowing like clear, green, moulded glass.
‘A morning for gods and maidens,’ said Mr Tidson, rapturously sniffing the air. ‘She cannot resist such a day! You really believe you saw her?’
‘I know I did,’ said Mrs Bradley positively. ‘What’s more, I can see her again.’
She pointed. They had almost gained the bridge. There was the flash of a white body followed by the sound of a splash.
‘Somebody bathing,’ said Mr Tidson uneasily. ‘That was no nymph, dear lady.’
‘I wonder?’ said Mrs Bradley. They took the narrow path which led to the bridge, but, by the time they got to the broad wooden planks, there was nobody anywhere to be seen.
Mr Tidson stood in the middle of the bridge and gazed downstream. Mrs Bradley crossed to the opposite bank of the river, and, disregarding the mud, the cowpats and the grey-spined thistles around her, walked in the direction of some willows from whose shade she could keep Mr Tidson and the whole of the plank bridge in view.
There was a short but dramatic sequence of events. From the brimming blue-grey carrier, which cut the meadows with a beautiful, swift-running arc of clearest water, came Laura Menzies like an otter. She was wearing a brief green bathing suit, and she moved with barefoot noiselessness, crouching behind the stiff reeds. She crossed a slip of the meadow behind Mr Tidson and the bridge, waded into the river, walked to the wooden supports, climbed up, and, just as the little man turned to see her (for the bridge shook under her antics), she came behind him, seized him by the leg, and, with the heave of a coalman emptying a two-hundred-weight sack, she tipped him with strength and celerity into the six-foot pool.
The ripples round Mr Tidson widened and shimmered. They gurgled in eddies under the holes in the bank. They slapped with shivering ecstasy into the tree-roots, and danced among the stems of the reeds.
Laura leaned over the rail and studied the patterns on the water. Then, finding that Mr Tidson, when he came to the surface, merely submerged himself again, and was, moreover, choking and in distress, she ducked under the rail, grinned evilly, gave him a last, pleased glance, dropped carelessly into the pool and scooped him out.
She dragged him up the bank through the mud, and laid him face downward on the grass. She then raised his head and turned it sideways, and set to work to pump the water out of him, displaying a horrid skill and unfeeling
