Tom Brown's Body

'Do tell me.'

'I should prefer you to tell me.'

'Oh, well, there's Gilbert, of course, as you keep on hinting,' said Mrs Poundbury, disingenuously, 'and Mr Loveday, Miss Loveday, Mr and Mrs Kay, John Semple, and poor old Mr Pearson, I suppose, since Marion became engaged to Gerald Conway. Daddy Pearson couldn't stand him, you know. Then, of course, there are always the boys! Issacher would have a grievance, no doubt, and Takhobali perhaps . ..'

'Takhobali? Ah, yes, what do you know of him?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

'Well, he is rather an interesting boy. He is West African, and rather uninhibited from a European point of view, although I expect he observes all sorts of tabu of his own.'

'I will continue to make his acquaintance,' Mrs Bradley promised. 'Is there anyone else you can think of?'

Mrs Poundbury considered the question carefully, and then replied, with an irritating affectation of honesty: 'Well, of course, there's always me. Poor Gerald was quite a nuisance at times, you know. I'm not at all sorry to be rid of him. Blackmail of a sort, too. Not money, of course, or anything like that, but just that little bit of extra pressure on me to go his way because, if I didn't, Mr Wyck would be informed of a few little things which wouldn't prejudice him in my favour and which might have cost Gilbert his House.'

'Oho!' said Mrs Bradley. 'So the land lay that way? I wonder whether you would care to drive through the village with me? There are some things over which I think you might be able to help me. What do you say?'

'I'd love to come. I've nothing more to do now we've picked the Brussels sprouts, and I never bother much about lunch because Gilbert lunches in Big School with the boys. I won't be more than five minutes.'

To Mrs Bradley's great astonishment she was quite as good as her word, and reappeared in four minutes' time ready for the drive. Together she and Mrs Bradley walked over to where Mrs Bradley's car was garaged, and soon they were heading for the School gate and the road to the village.

'Are we going shopping?' Mrs Poundbury presently enquired.

'No. We are going to the cottage which Mr Kay may have visited on the night of Mr Conway's death,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'I think the sight of the cottage may inspire you to make some valuable observations.'

'What makes you think I should know the cottage?' Mrs Poundbury enquired.

'Oh, it is a theory of mine that you may know it,' said Mrs Bradley vaguely. 'Anyway, here we are.'

'But this isn't the . . .'

'Ah,' said Mrs Bradley, 'you are right. This is not the cottage. It shows me that you know the right one when we come to it.'

'I may as well admit that I do,' said Mrs Poundbury, 'but I know nothing of the old woman who lives in it. Gerald always went in by himself.'

'What for?'

'Oh, herbs and things. He was rather interested in the old woman's remedies, I believe.'

'But not in her love potions, charms, and black magic?'

'Goodness, I shouldn't think so. Why?'

'Did he ever get you to try any of her concoctions?'

'No,' said Mrs Poundbury, with decision, 'he did not! And I never met the old woman.'

Mrs Bradley was so certain that this was a lie that she did not attempt to press the question or to get Mrs Poundbury to enlarge upon her answer. She drove on to Mrs Harries's cottage, and stopped the car.

'Are we getting out?' Mrs Poundbury enquired. She sounded nervous.

'I am,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'You, of course, will please yourself what you do.'

Mrs Poundbury got out, and followed Mrs Bradley up the path to the door. Mrs Bradley turned the handle and walked in, announcing her presence, as usual, on a loud and tuneful note. There was no reply, so she walked across the small front room to the kitchen. There was still no sign of Mrs Harries, so she went out through the kitchen to the long and narrow back garden.

The elderly witch was sweeping together the dead leaves which had fallen from the hazels.

'Bonfires?' enquired Mrs Bradley. The crone looked towards the direction from which the voice came.

'Ah, it's you,' she said. 'You're standing on Tom Tiddler's Ground. Did you know?'

'Yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'I did know, and I am trusting to you to get me out of it. How often did Gerald Conway come here?'

'Conway?' said the witch. 'A deep and resounding delivery, a conceited presence, a bull of a man, a bully of a man, a woman's man, a despicable fool of a man, a drowned man, his own worst enemy?'

'I feel that you have summed him up well. How often did he come?'

'Hereabouts and thereabouts, five times in a month, seven times in a year. Now he lies dead, and none so poor to do him reverence.'

'He didn't come five times in a month,' said Mrs Pound-bury from behind Mrs Bradley's shoulder. The blind woman started.

'Strange,' she muttered. 'I did mot know that anybody else was there. Who are you?'

'Never mind,' said Mrs Poundbury. 'I am nobody you would know.'

'You were born in the dark,' said the sibyl. It was Mrs Poundbury's turn to look startled and anxious. She did not leave it at that, but turned and fled from the presence of the witch.

'Born in the dark and now lives in the dark,' said Mrs Harries. 'I suppose my potions were for her? Did she come here with him?''

'It is possible,' said Mrs Bradley guardedly, feeling that it was not yet clear whether Mrs Poundbury and Mrs Harries had met before. She went a little nearer to Mrs Harries and said in low tones, 'I wonder whether it is of any use to ask how many times you let a room in this cottage of yours?'

'I shall answer you, although it is none of your business,' replied the witch. 'You have heard the answer once, and I will repeat it. I let the cottage five times in a week. That was during the summer. In August. Yes, back in August. I was paid well.'

'Ah, yes, I see. But you were gone each time before your tenants came in? You never spoke to the woman who came here with Mr Conway?'

'Never. It was in the contract.'

'And have you retained the contract?'

The old crone looked suddenly crafty. She shook her head.

'I know better than to keep evidence for which I might pay heavily,' she said. Mrs Bradley had a sudden idea which she did not disclose to her hostess. The latter lived up to this title by fishing in the pocket of the coarse apron she was wearing and producing an onion. 'Take it,' she said. 'I have said the runes over it. It will smell like a pomander from the moment you take it from my hand.'

Mrs Bradley was the least suggestible of women. She took the onion and sniffed at it delicately. An aroma, very faint but undoubtedly characteristic, of clove pinks, came from it. The crone chuckled and mumbled. Mrs Bradley took another sniff at the onion, and there was no doubt about the scent. She closed her eyes, concentrated mentally on the smell of onion, and achieved the result she intended. The onion, unlike Ben Jonson's rosy wreath, again smelt only of itself. She put it back gently into the old woman's hand. The witch grimaced and then nodded.

'We be of one blood, thou and I,' said Mrs Bradley. She went out to the country road, very thoughtful, and joined Mrs Poundbury, who was now seated in the car.

'Well?' demanded Mrs Poundbury.

'No, it wasn't you,' said Mrs Bradley. 'At least, I hardly think so. You knew the cottage but I don't think you've ever been inside it before. And if it wasn't you ...' She did not finish the sentence. There was no need.

'Ah!' said Mrs Poundbury, enlightened. 'She's an uncanny old thing,' she went on. 'I was born in the dark, you know. The electric light failed as I decided to embark upon a separate existence. But how could she possibly have known?'

Mrs Bradley did not attempt to answer this rhetorical question.