“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. Country folk 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 the 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. He 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 hand rail 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 to ask if they found any cerebral abnormality to account for her famous dizziness?”
“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 some time before she toppled
