“No. They found something much more unexpected. This is in confidence, of course. There were traces of alcohol. Deceased must have lowered some potent tots some few hours before her death.”
Ferens lowered his fist with a bang on the table. “But, good God, that’s ludicrous. The woman was a rabid teetotaller. It’s unthinkable . . .”
“Possibly, but it happens to be true,” said Macdonald placidly, “and the fact may account for the well-attested dizziness suffered by deceased.”
“Well, that’s the last thing I ever dreamt of,” said Ferens, “though I suppose the same thing’s been known to happen before. Elderly women of irreproachable character sometimes take to drink quite inexplicably.” He broke off and sat in deep thought, his chin in his hands, and Macdonald did not interrupt him. At length Ferens looked up with a start. “Sorry. I was thinking. The whole thing’s altered by that piece of evidence, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Well, damn all, if the woman was drunk it accounts for everything. She may have had a fall sometime before she toppled into the stream.”
“I didn’t say she was drunk. I said they found traces of alcohol,” said Macdonald. “She hadn’t taken anything for some time before she died. One of the things I want to know is where she got the stuff from, or who gave it to her, likewise where she kept it. But that all comes under the heading of routine—domestic enquiries. One routine question for you, Doctor. You were out at a case on the night Miss Torrington was drowned?”
“Yes. I didn’t get in until about two in the morning. I was out at a maternity case on the moor. I drove back up the village street, past the Mill House. Not a soul about, not a light showing anywhere, and a midsummer night to dream of, by gad. I don’t think it got really dark all night, and the village street was white under the moon. You could sec as clearly as in daylight.” He paused, and then added: “I did think of parking my car by the smithy, way down the hill, and walking up through the park, just because it was such a gorgeous night. If I’d done so, I might have been more useful to you.”
“Who knows?” said Macdonald meditatively. “Well, I’ve kept you away from your hay fever for long enough. In conclusion, is there anything you’d care to add, or opinion you’d like to express?”
“Nothing of any use to you,” said Ferens. “In my own mind I think it’s probable that the Torrington woman did shove Nancy Bilton into the midstream. That is to say, deceased was unbalanced. If she’d taken to drinking, that in itself shows she was abnormal; it was such a startling departure from the habits of a lifetime, and I’m the more disposed to believe that she got herself drowned without assistance from anybody else.”
2
When Macdonald left the Dower House, he found Reeves looking out for him in the little square on the hilltop.
“Had a successful shopping expedition?” he enquired.
“Very,” said Reeves. “I’ve sent my missis some Devonshire cream. Got it at the Manor House Creamery. Very high-hat. D’you know what it costs? Ten bob a pound including postage—and the tin. I liked that bit. A very nice specimen in the way of land girls there. I said I’d go in again tomorrow. You can pay for the next lot. Send some to the old man. How was trade with you?”
“So-so. The things which weren’t said were more enlightening than those uttered—as usual. Now I’m going to see the bailiff, Sanderson. Would you like to come too?”
“Not unless you want me. I’d like to prospect in the park. Learn that path off by heart and find just what you can see and what you can’t see. Shall we be doing the Gramarye place later?”
“Yes. In an hour’s time. The children have been packed off, but the nurse and the cook are still there.”
“O.K. I’ll be there. I have a feeling the things they haven’t said are more interesting than those they have. Exert a little leverage.”
“First find the lever. ‘Give me a lever and a place to stand on and I will move the world.’ ”
“Who said that?” demanded Reeves.
“The same bloke who said ‘Eureka,’ ” replied Macdonald.
Reeves knew that one. “Have you?” he enquired.
“No, but I’ve got the glimmering of an idea,” said Macdonald.
CHAPTER IX
John Sanderson lived in a beautiful little stone house not far from the park gates at the top of the hill. It was an early Georgian house with a porch whose classic gable was upheld by slender Ionic columns, elegantly fluted, and there were Ionic pilasters on the house front.
Sanderson himself opened the door: he was a big fellow, Macdonald noted, squarely built, with a square face whose low forehead was lined as though he were given to worrying. He looked a countryman, not a townsman, though he spoke without any accent whereby you could place him.
“Yes. Come along in. Chief Inspector Macdonald, isn’t it? I’m having tea. Will you join me?”
“Thanks. I’d be glad of a cup,” rejoined Macdonald, and while Sanderson fetched another cup and plate, the C.I.D. man took in the small dining room. Good old furniture of the right period, pleasant curtains, some good etchings and pewter tankards and plates. “I envy you your house, Mr. Sanderson.”
“You’re not the only one. It’s a good house and I like houses of this period. It happens to have been the bailiff’s house ever since it was built. Sugar?”
“No, thanks. Part of my job consists of taking an interest in other people’s. I should think yours is a very satisfying job.”
“Yes. It is. I’m interested in buildings and in the land. I couldn’t ask for a better job than I’ve got here. Which brings us on to your job. The late Warden of Gramarye would have got me sacked if
