Where would she go after — after she did it? Anywhere, she thought, elated. Across the Channel; Europe, maybe even America.
Elizabeth stood by the window, watching and waiting. She waited an hour. Still, Austerberry didn’t leave the church. Her courage started to fade. What on earth was Clarence doing talking with that shifty little man? What would the Reverend Clary and a humble, often drunken, little handyman have in common?
Curiosity boiled up inside her. She gently opened the screen door and started across the grass towards the church. That stone and brick house of God was in utter darkness. Not a light showed anywhere. Had Clarence left with Austerberry? It didn’t seem likely.
Feeling her way, she crept along the damp stone wall of the church and reached the little side door. Her fingers found the latch. She lifted it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, leaving the door open. Then she felt her way past the altar and through the choir stalls to the door of her husband’s study. Pale light showed under the door. Why hadn’t she seen the little gleam of light outside, from the window? She took a deep breath, opened the door. Her eyes widened and a hand rose to stifle a cry. The Reverend Clarence stood in the middle of the room, in front of his littered desk. On the desk were piles of one pound and five pound notes, each pile neat, bundled and held together with thick elastic bands.
On the floor lay Arthur Austerberry, his mean eyes wide open in terror, one knarled fist held out as if to protect himself. A great gash covered the left side of his face. The long, black poker, made of heavy wrought iron, lay on the floor beside the body. It was covered, at the heavy end, with blood and dirty brown hairs.
“Elizabeth!” Clarence Clary sobbed, his face twisted in despair. “I killed him — heaven help me!”
“How?” Elizabeth was suddenly calm. Her mind was working overtime. “What happened?”
Quickly Clarence told his story. Old Sara MacDonald had finally died, but in her last few words she had instructed Doctor Adams to send Austerberry over to the church with her bequest. He waved towards the money on the table. Clarence went on, “Arthur came with the money. I made him stay while I counted it. There was a hundred pounds missing. I accused Arthur of having opened the parcel and stolen the money. He denied it and tried to make a break for the door. I grabbed him and we struggled. The money fell from his pocket.” Clarence ran a hand wearily across his eyes. “I grabbed the poker and—” He stopped and started to cry, his hands shaking.
“And you killed him,” Elizabeth finished calmly.
“Yes.” Clarence straightened, took a deep breath and moved toward the desk.
“I must phone the police and confess.” His face was tragic in its despair.
“Nothing of the sort!” Elizabeth moved quickly and firmly. “He’s dead. We can’t change that. And you killed him.” She looked at her sniffling husband. “You are a murderer, Clarence.” She let the words sink in, then said with finality, “But you are not calling the police!” She stood between Clarence and the desk. “After all,” she spoke hurriedly and with conviction, “he was a thief and fought with you. In a way, what you did was in self-defence.”
“Yes!” Clarence Clary’s face filled with wild hope. “That’s it! Self-defence!”
“All right!” Elizabeth felt tall and strong. Her new power over her husband made her feel heady. She suppressed a giggle. “Here’s what we do. We bury the body in the old graveyard behind the church. Remember that tomb that’s partially caved in? We’ll slip him in there and leave him. The graveyard has been abandoned for the past fifty years. Nobody ever goes there. He’ll never be found.”
“Yes!” Clarence looked at his wife with awe and respect. He said greedily, his confidence reborn, “Why should I suffer? It was an accident. But a police inquiry would ruin me.”
“Exactly,” Elizabeth agreed coldly. “Now let’s get him out of here and inside that old tomb.”
Together they lifted the body, he at the head and she at the feet. Outside all was blackness, the moon blanketed with cloud, the stars beyond the mist. Twenty minutes later they were back inside the little room. Elizabeth calmly picked up a clean altar cloth and wiped the poker. She did a complete job. “It’s chilly in here,” she commented dryly, and picked up the waste paper basket and dumped the contents into the fireplace. “Light it,” she ordered. Without a word, Clarence Clary struck a match and set the paper ablaze. Elizabeth tossed the bloody cloth into the flames.
“Tie all that money together and wrap it up, tightly.” She stood over her husband and watched his shaky attempts to make a parcel of the money. Finally it was done. Elizabeth dropped the parcel into her sewing case and shut the lid.
“Now,” her voice dropped to a soft whisper, “get on the phone. Call the police, tell them that Arthur Austerberry ran away with the money.”
“What!” Clarence Clary gaped, his mouth open. “You can’t be serious?”
“Do it!” Elizabeth stamped her foot. “Do as I say!”
Puzzled, bewildered, but still in awe of this new and powerful Elizabeth, he picked up the phone and dialled. “Police? This is Reverend Clary. Yes, that’s right. Look here — something has happened. Yes, here at the church. That scoundrel Arthur Austerberry is...” He never finished the sentence.
Holding the poker in both hands, Elizabeth brought it down upon the back of Clarence’s unprotected head. There was a dull thud. Without a sound, Clarence Clary fell across the desk, the telephone spilling to the floor, the wires dangling. Elizabeth hit him just once more. Then, using her old cotton dress, she carefully cleaned the poker and laid it on the desk near her husband’s broken skull. Then she picked up her sewing case and left the room.
Elizabeth Clary was sitting in the old rocker near the kitchen stove when the low, almost apologetic, knock sounded on the back door. Sighing, she stood up, saying, “That you, Clarence? Must you always knock? Come on in, darling.”
The door opened and the large, burly figure of Police Inspector Michael Manners filled the doorway. He held his hat in his hands and his round red face was squirming with pity. He gulped twice before a sound escaped his lips. “Mrs. Clary, ma’am, I’m sorry to bust in on you at this late hour, but...” Words failed him.
Elizabeth jumped up, smiling happily. “Come in, Inspector. It’s kind of you to drop by.” She held out her hand. “But if you want Clarence, he’s over at the church.” She shook her head. “Sometimes, Inspector, I wish my husband weren’t quite so wrapped up in his profession. Sometimes I get very lonely, even if he is just across the courtyard. Really, he works too late. Shall I call him?”
“No!” The Inspector said hurriedly. He thought, “How am I going to tell her? She’ll be an awful lot more lonely after tonight.” For the first time in his career he hated his job. “You’d better sit down, Mrs. Clary. I’ve some bad news. It’s...” he started to stammer. “It’s the Reverend, he’s...” Finally he told her.
Elizabeth Clary fell away in a dead faint, with a little gasp.
Inspector Manners swore under his breath and promised himself that he would see that swine, Arthur Austerberry, swing on the gallows.
Three weeks later, small, timid and alone, Elizabeth Clary stood on the station platform waiting for the train that would take her away. Beside her, his face still drawn with pity, stood Inspector Manners, holding her shabby little valise. He didn’t speak. What could he say? Arthur Austerberry had vanished. Not a trace of him nor the money could be found. Inspector Manners felt he had let Elizabeth Clary down rather shabbily, as did most of her late husband’s parishioners. A few of them stood in a tight little knot, a few steps behind the Inspector.