He spoke slowly and evenly, without any suggestion of sharpness in his voice, as patiently as a schoolmaster might talk to a dull pupil, and with the same expectant note of one who hopes for the right answer. Hannah’s mental age, he had concluded, was about twelve, but on the whole a very unintelligent twelve.
“Him didn’t ask me,” she said, pulling at her fingers till the joints cracked.
“He asked you if anything was missing,” Macdonald persisted. “You knew this bag was missing, but you didn’t say so.”
There was a long pause: then she answered as a dull child might answer: “If so be I had, sergeant’d have said I stole mun. I know he. Terr’ble sharp him be.” She broke off and then added: “Us all knew Sister kept that bag by her. I said to cook, ‘Sister’s old bag’s not nowhere’ and Cook said, ‘That be’n’t our business. Us hasn’t got t’ old bag. Likely it fell in mill-race or maybe they’ve got it. But it be’n’t our business.’ And I said, ‘that’s right, that be. If I say Sister’s old bag be’n’t here, sergeant will say, “’Tis that old fool Hannah stole he’. ” Him went all around, opening everything with Sister’s keys, counting this, counting that, spying and staring and jumping out on we with questions till us was fair dazed like.”
Some part of Macdonald’s mind was almost fascinated by the sing-song drone of Hannah’s voice: there was a peculiar primitive rhythm to her sentences, and this, together with the liquid Devonshire vowels, gave the effect of some ancient ballad, akin to song rather than speech.
“What did she keep in this bag, Hannah?” asked Macdonald, sensing that he was more likely to get an answer by the method of assuming that Hannah knew all that there was to be known.
“Us never knew for sure, sir. If Sister sent for we, ’twasn’t like you saying, ‘Come right up to table’ or, ‘Sit down, Hannah.’ Us stood by the door and took our orders without drawing near. And if so be, ’twas something to be fetched and paid for, Sister would put the money down on that table there, always just right, and make me count it out, but fares or stamps or register letter, and she’d say, ‘Put that in your pocket, Hannah, to keep it safe.’ But she’d never open her bag and take out her purse. ‘Never put temptation in no one’s way’ Sister would say, meaning them young girls we had who knew no better,” ended Hannah sanctimoniously.
“Did Sister carry the bag about with her when she was in the house?” asked Macdonald.
“No, sir. Only when her went out. Her locked it away in the house. I can’t say for where. I never did see where she kept mun, and none other did, neither.”
“But she kept her keys in the bag, Hannah,” said Macdonald mildly, careful not to let his voice give away that he was getting more and more interested. She came right up to him, a withered elderly little body who put out a knobbly hand and touched Macdonald’s arm with the confiding gesture of a child.
“Her had two lots of keys, her must have,” said Hannah. “Her never did say so, and I never saw them together, but her must have had two lots.”
“How do you know?” asked Macdonald, and she replied simply:
“Them had different key rings. One was brass, one was steel.”
The phrase ‘out of the mouths of babes and sucklings’ flashed through Macdonald’s mind: he had had previous experience of the fact that illiterates, and even partially defective persons, could be very observant of small details which pass unnoticed by the intelligent.
“I’m glad you told me about the key rings, Hannah,” he said. “That may be very helpful. Now there’s another thing you could do for me. I want to see the medicine cupboard again.”
“You can and welcome, but I never touched he since you saw it afore.”
“I don’t expect you have, but I know now what a good memory you’ve got. You’ll be able to tell me just what you did when the children had their medicine. I expect you know all the bottles and all the doses, too.”
“Them has been the same so long I couldn’t help but know they,” she replied. “When the war come, they began to give ’em all cod liver oil, the dear lord knows why. Them did well enough without it. But mostly ’twas the same. Doctor he wasn’t one to change. Him be a wise and good man, kind him is, kindest soul I do know. Him’s the same to all, saint and sinner too. You ask in village, they’ll tell you.”
“Yes. They all say the same,” agreed Macdonald. “They like Dr. Ferens, but they miss old Dr. Brown.”
“He was homely like. Never frightened the childer,” said Hannah.
“Look, Hannah: as we’re going upstairs, you can show me just what happened when Dr. Brown came for his weekly visit. He came on Monday mornings, didn’t he?”
“Iss. Mondays at eleven to the minute. I was always ready for he, to open door and take he up to dispensary, and the childer, they was ready and waiting, too.”
“I’ll go to the front door and you can let me in and pretend I’m doctor,” said Macdonald, and she nodded, evidently quite proud to be asked to assist.
Hannah was nothing if not thorough. She had been drilled to the same actions for so many years that she performed them accurately. On opening the front door, she said: “Good morning, doctor” and waited.
Macdonald said: “Good morning, Hannah… My hat and gloves…” (He had neither.)
“And your stick,” she said firmly, setting them on a chair in dumb show. “If you’ll kindly step upstairs, Sister’s quite ready.”
She led the way up to the
