“I know you didn’t, but from what you’ve told me it’s plain enough that one of your patients told you all the current ‘Torrington-isms,’ to quote your word. I know the way news seeps around a village like this one, and I know how determined villagers are not to share their news with outsiders, but a doctor very soon ceases to be an outsider. In the nature of things confidences come his way, as they’ve certainly come yours.”
“To a certain extent, yes,” replied Ferens guardedly.
Macdonald chuckled. “Meaning an uncertain extent. I argue this way. It’s obvious you were interested in the Torrington situation. So should I have been. It had a fantastic quality, because the woman herself was fantastic. The most dramatic thing that happened in this village for years was Nancy Bilton’s death—Milham in the Moor has an unusually clean sheet in such matters as suicide and sudden deaths. Nancy Bilton was a maid at Gramarye, under Miss Torrington. Can you honestly say that you never asked your gossip-patient who was the seducer of Nancy Bilton, Dr. Ferens?”
“Well, there you’ve got me,” said Ferens resignedly. “I did ask.”
“I was sure you would have. I should have myself in the same circumstances.”
“You’ve done a perfectly logical piece of argument,” said Ferens, “but it’s not going to help you much. My gossip-patient, as you call her, died a fortnight ago. She was aged seventy-nine and she died of cancer. I saw her every day for the last few weeks of her life, and the one thing she enjoyed was a nice gossip. But I don’t know how truthful she was, let alone accurate. She told me some pretty weird stories, some of which were certainly untrue.” He broke off, and then added: “You can’t check up on any of this. It’s not evidence, only hearsay.”
“I know that. I’m not asking you for evidence to enter in court. I’m asking you which way the wind blew, to help me to shape a case.
“It’s not going to help you, because the chap’s dead. He was a National Service man, and he was killed in a plane crash. I haven’t tried to get any corroborative evidence of this, but I think it’s probably true,” Ferens added. “If the chap responsible for her condition had been in the village or locality at the time of the girl’s death, I think his identity would have been admitted, or at any rate there’d have been such a lot of gossip it’d have got round. But since the chap was overseas and couldn’t have had any hand in the girl’s death, no one would name him. According to my old biddy, the argument went, ‘He couldn’t have killed the girl. Naming him would only make more trouble for those who’re alive.’ ”
“Yes. I follow that,” said Macdonald, “but there’s another point. If the chap’s identity was known in the village, how was it that Miss Torrington didn’t get wind of it? I gathered she was one of those females who pries out secrets.”
“She certainly was. Thinking it out, it’s my belief that Miss Monica Emily Torrington did know, but thought it more profitable to keep her information to herself. I may be quite wrong there, but that’s my guess. And when the chap was killed, about six months after Nancy Bilton’s death, that was that.”
“Was it? Or did she try to make trouble with his family?”
“How could she? It was all over and done with. Countryfolk don’t make heavy weather of such little slips, you know. The lad marries the lass if he’s let her in, and nobody thinks any the worse of either of them. The infant is born in wedlock and the time which elapses between the wedding day and the lying-in is nobody’s business. In any case, there was no family for Monica Emily to make trouble with. Only a widowed mother who lives on her widow’s pension.” He turned and looked at Macdonald, his eyebrows tilted up. “I suppose you won’t give me any peace until you’ve got the name, but don’t go worrying die poor old girl. She’s Mrs. Bovey—Mrs. Susan Bovey. She lives in one of those picturesque hovels across the bridge. The boy’s name was Stephen, hie had an older brother who was killed in Burma in 1945 and Mrs. Bovey’s left all by herself. If you’re seen on her doorstep the whole village will start buzzing, and I think she’s had trouble enough. Let the dead bury their dead is sound counsel.”
“Not in criminal investigation,” said Macdonald dryly, “though I agree with you that no detective has any right to cause avoidable distress. You’re probably aware that Sergeant Peel thinks the two deaths are connected—Nancy Bilton’s and Miss Torrington’s.”
“What evidence has he? That’s only Peel’s little idea, and it’s the sort of idea which leaps to the mind all too easily.”
“Peel’s no fool, you know,” said Macdonald reflectively, “and his little idea has some foundation in the accumulated experience of police work. A murderer who has pulled one job off successfully has been known to repeat himself .”
Dr. Ferens moved restlessly: a movement of discomfort which did not escape Macdonald’s notice.
“Peel’s got an idea that there’s what he calls a killer in the village,” said Ferens. “I don’t believe it.”
“But Monica Emily Torrington was murdered,” said Macdonald quietly. “At least, that’s what Reeves and I believe. Perhaps you’d like to enter for Reeves’s competition and demonstrate how to knock yourself silly by hitting your head on the handrail of that bridge when you come over dizzy. Do you really believe a woman the height of deceased could have done it?”
“No. I suppose I don’t. But neither am I prepared to say it’s impossible,” replied Ferens. “Casualties do some funny things. Incidentally, I haven’t heard the result of the autopsy. Am I allowed
