Tom Brown's Body

Mr Kay gave a short laugh.

'Come in,' he said. 'We seem to be fellow workers. I'm writing a book on village magic. Perhaps we can help one another.'

The cottage was beautifully kept. He led her into a room lined with books, many of them in Spanish and Portuguese. There was only one picture, but that, Mrs Bradley thought, was a Murillo. The furniture was simple, modern, and almost new. She took an armchair by the fire and looked expectantly at her host, although she could not help wondering where his wife was.

'Mrs Harries is, of course, a survival,' he said.

'On the contrary, she is a charlatan,' said Mrs Bradley firmly.

'A convincing one, then.'

'Yes, probably. How did you get on with the loaf of wax?'

'Oh, she told you about that, did she? It's rather odd, really. I tried it for Conway. Well, he's dead, of course, but he died the wrong way. He was murdered. That doesn't come into it, does it?'

'Isn't it murder, then, to achieve one's end by magical means?'

'Yes. If he'd pined away and drooped into death, I might have believed that I'd killed him. But he didn't. He was attacked and then drowned. It doesn't fit.'

'But you did wish him dead.'

'Of course.' He looked rather surprised. 'The fellow was the bane of my life.'

'And you plotted his death?'

'Certainly not. I am doing research.'

'Into witchcraft?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Oh, just that I am interested. Nothing more. I had no intention of killing Conway by witchcraft, if that is what you mean.'

'I don't mean that. There is only one way of killing a person by witchcraft. It is the way by which people are killed by it in Africa. The subject must believe that he will be killed. I don't think Mr Conway was the kind of man to believe that witchcraft could kill him.'

'No, he wasn't. That lets me out, I think.'

'And I think it might,' said Mrs Bradley, retailing this conversation later to the doctor and his wife. 'I don't believe that witchcraft can kill anybody who doesn't believe in it.'

The doctor agreed.

'On the other hand,' he said, 'it has been proved, surely, that witchcraft can be assisted. If the hated person doesn't die by witchcraft, he can be assisted to die by more ordinary and mundane methods. I don't feel inclined to suspect Kay less than I did.'

'Very true,' Mrs Bradley answered. 'But there are other, equally interesting, theories. While I was at Mrs Harries's cottage one night, two boys turned up. They were witnesses, I think, to Mr Kay's extraordinary outburst of temper during which he put his hand through Mrs Harries's sitting-room window.'

'Two boys from the School, do you mean?'

'I imagine so. They had not the voices of village boys. I was there when they arrived. I suppose that means that they were breaking School rules, for the time was well after eleven.'

'And Kay put his hand through the window? – deliberately, do you mean?'

'Well, not exactly deliberately. He was gesticulating very freely, and accidentally punched the window pane.'

'Oh, I see. And you think –?'

'I think that, one way and another, Mr Kay may have been able to sublimate his hatred. His compensation- mechanism functions well. He punched a hole in the window and he has tried to remove Mr Conway by magical means.'

'You're not serious?'

'I don't know how serious I am. I know the facts. Mr Kay has melted a wax image before his fire at home, and he has stuck a sheep's heart with black-headed pins.'

'The man must be crazy.'

'Not necessarily.'

'But you don't believe in magic?'

'Not in wax loaves and sheeps' hearts, no.'

The doctor shook his head and laughed.

'As time goes on, we shall know what you do believe, I suppose?' he said. Mrs Bradley nodded slowly and rhythmically.

'I certainly believe that Mr Kay's visits to Mrs Harries may prove to have some bearing on the death of Mr Conway,' she said, 'but what that bearing may be is entirely dark to me at present.'

'Did you hear that Conway had just become engaged to be married?' the doctor enquired. Mrs Bradley looked interested.

'To whom?' she asked.

'To the daughter of Pearson, the woodwork and metal-work master,' replied the doctor. 'He is a visiting master. He lives at the other end of the village. He is a widower with this one daughter. From what I've heard, it seems pretty certain that Pearson wasn't in favour of the match, but he turned up at the School on the night before Conway's death and gave quite a party.'

'Champagne and oysters?'

'Champagne, anyway. And the news must have come as a bit of a blow to another of the masters – young Semple. It's been obvious for some time that he's been hoping to marry Marion Pearson, and we think he must have taken an awful knock when old Pearson turned up with the champagne.'

'I like Mr Semple,' said the doctor's wife.

'And I like the sound of Mr Semple,' Mrs Bradley observed. 'I like the sound of Mr Kay, Mr Semple, and, of course, Mr Pearson. They are three of the liveliest suspects I have encountered for years.'

'Suspects? You think one of those murdered Conway? But it's incredible!'

'Yes,' Mrs Bradley agreed. 'It's incredible to you because you know them. But the incredible is not necessarily the impossible, and I, you see, am not acquainted with any of them, which makes it easier to say what I think.'

'Then one of those three, in your opinion, killed Conway V asked the doctor. 'I don't believe it!'

Mrs Bradley shrugged.

'Well, which one?' said the doctor challengingly.

'It would be immoral of me to tell you,' said Mrs Bradley, 'although I am most interested in what you've told me.'

'I don't seem to have told you very much.'

'Oh, but you have! You say that Mr Conway himself seemed surprised when his engagement to Miss Pearson was announced, and you say that it was supposed that Mr Semple might have married her and that Mr Semple was angry and upset when he heard the news, and you say –'

'Oh, heavens!' said the doctor, laughing. 'I seem to have said more than I thought I had!'

'Yes,' said Mrs Bradley cheerfully. 'By the way, I suppose you had no reason for wanting to be rid of the young man?'

'I hadn't, but I know who had,' said the doctor suddenly. 'And that's Poundbury, whom, so far, you haven't met. He was present at the inquest – a vague-looking, tall fellow about forty years old. Teaches Latin, and has a very beautiful young wife. He hated Conway like poison, and with good reason. Still, he wouldn't have murdered him, you know.'