“I put the things on the kitchen table, and went in to see how Matt was. Then——”
“You saw what had happened. I know this is very painful and difficult for you: but can you possibly remember what you did next?”
“I got to the foot of the stairs, and called for Joan. She didn’t answer. I went to the back door, and called again. The second time I called, she came.”
“Where was she?”
“In the garden. She often sits down there, to work at her lessons.”
“Yes?”
“I told her what had happened, and said she wasn’t to go in, but to fetch Dr. Carter at once. She ran off, and then I came over queer, and came upstairs.”
“Splendid, Mrs. Baildon. That’s all quite clear. Thank you so much. Now, Miss Baildon: your turn. You’ve told us about the row between your father and the American. What did you do after that?”
“I went down to the bottom of the garden, and took a chair out of the summer-house.”
“How long were you there?”
“All the time.”
“What—till your mother called you?”
“Yes,” the girl answered definitely. “Except for about ten minutes, that is.”
“Were you working all the time?”
“No. I had a bit of sewing to do, and I was reading the paper. We get it from a neighbour after he has finished with it. Father was too mean to buy one. The neighbour—Mr. Pawle is his name—leaves it in of an afternoon. He saw me over the hedge, and called to me, and handed it to me. You can ask him, if you want to.”
“Thanks. And the ten minutes when you weren’t in the garden?”
“I remembered that I’d forgotten to tell mother we were out of petit beurre biscuits. Father always would have them. So I ran down to Stevens’ to get them.”
“About what time was that?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Some time after four, I think.”
“Didn’t you have any tea?”
“I kept a biscuit, and ate a few gooseberries.”
“Joan doesn’t take tea,” her mother put in. “Or coffee. Do you, Joan? Only cold water.”
“Not like me,” Ellis said. “I take both by the bucket. But what about your father? Didn’t you have to get him his tea?”
“Father didn’t have afternoon tea. He’d have his at half past six, or seven.”
“I see. So, apart from the few minutes it took you to go to Stevens’ and get the biscuits, you were in the garden the whole time?”
Her chin came up again.
“Yes, I was.”
“And you heard nothing unusual?”
“Nothing at all.”
“If anyone had come in by the front way, would you have seen?”
“Not unless I’d been looking out particularly. There’s just one place where you can see a person’s feet through the bushes.”
“You wouldn’t hear the gate, because it doesn’t latch. Would you hear the front door?”
“No. It was open. That’s the arrangement we always make when mother’s out. If any tradesmen call, they leave whatever it is inside the door, at the foot of the stairs.”
“What about the side gate? Would you know if anyone came in there?”
“No. It’s on the far side of the house.”
“Does it lead to the back door, or the front?”
“Either. If it was a tradesman, he’d go to the front. They all know.”
“They wouldn’t all know when your mother goes out, surely?”
“On a Friday afternoon, they would.”
“But that’s the day she does her shopping. Why should they call then?”
“I didn’t say any did call. But they sometimes do.”
“They don’t start the afternoon round till about half-past three,” Mrs. Baildon said. “Sometimes, when I’ve given an order, they pop it on the van to save me carrying it.”
“I see. You’d be too far away, Miss Baildon, to hear the books come down?”
“I didn’t hear them.”
“Then you can’t give us any light at all on what happened?”
She shrugged, and tightened her lips.
“Father had an accident. What else can have happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to establish, Miss Baildon. We policemen are not allowed to take anything for granted. It makes things very wearisome for us. Now—just a couple more questions, and we’re through. Do either of you know if Mr. Baildon had been writing to any London bookseller?”
The question produced a definite effect. It seemed to alarm them both, and to make them wary: to set them back in their first defensive attitude of suspicion. Only from the suddenness of the relapse did Ellis realise how far he had succeeded in thawing them out.
They looked at each other in silence. Mrs. Baildon wet her lower lip with her tongue before replying.
“No,” she said carefully, “I don’t think so. But we wouldn’t see all his letters.”
“I understand from Dr. Carter that he had been upstairs a matter of three weeks. Any letters he wrote during that time you would have posted for him?”
They looked at each other again, with obvious relief.
“Not all,” Mrs. Baildon said. “He was very close, was Matt. If he didn’t want us to see a letter, he’d give it to Mrs. Exworthy, or anyone that called in. Even if he had to keep it in his pocket for days.”
“Mrs. Exworthy? Who’s she?”
“The woman who comes in twice a week to clean. She and Matt got on fine.”
“She wouldn’t tell us, whatever it was,” Joan corroborated. “She loves having something secret to spite us. She often hints at things she knows and we don’t.”
“An attractive character. I look forward to meeting her.”
“You won’t get much out of Jane Exworthy,” said Mrs. Baildon with conviction.
“I can but try. Who else would come in? You said he might have visitors.”
“Old Treweek,” the girl said scornfully. “Or Mr. Rawlings.”
“That’s the vicar,” said her mother.
“Or Mr. Pawle. If he’d given Mr. Rattray anything, Mr. Rattray would have told us.”
“Treweek. The vicar. Mr. Pawle. Mr. Rattray.” Ellis put down the names. “Excuse the question, Mrs. Baildon: but the impression I get on all hands is that your late husband was not exactly a popular figure. Yet, when he’s ill, he has a number of callers. How’s that?”
Mrs. Baildon looked at Joan, as if the question was beyond her.
“They didn’t call because they liked him,” the girl said. “Old Treweek may have, because he’s just such another. But, you see, father was somehow necessary to a lot of people because of his books. It wasn’t affection that brought people.”
“He didn’t object to being made use of? Didn’t he see through these visits?”
“He saw through them right enough, but it made him proud to think they had to come to him. He could crow over us better afterwards.”
“There was another side to it, Joan,” Mrs. Baildon said.
“Yes.” The girl’s colour deepened again. “People came and put up with father’s rudeness for our sake. To take him off our hands a bit. That’s why Mr. Rawlings came. And Mr. Rattray. Father would send for him sometimes, making wise to discuss how I was getting on with my work, but it was only pretence, because he didn’t know the first thing about it.”
“Mr. Rattray has been coaching Joan with her Latin,” explained Joan’s mother.
“Then, any one of those people, except Mr. Rattray, might have posted a letter for him.”
“They might. But he was so secretive, he probably wouldn’t trust it to anyone but old Treweek.”
“You say any of them might have called to see him. Can you remember if any of them did? During the past week or ten days?”