Bradshaw smiled, and did not reply. Gilkison got up.
“I can’t stand this any longer. I’m going in.”
“Polite, isn’t he?”
“You know perfectly well I’m alluding to the midges.”
“Well—we’ll come in too. One had the sauce to bite me just now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The division of labour agreed upon for the next morning was that Bradstreet should see to the tracing of the American, Mr. Stuyvesant, and of Nelder, and should set enquiries in motion as to whether anyone had been seen to enter or emerge from the Baildons’ house during the crucial two hours and a half. Meanwhile, Ellis should see to what he was pleased to call the psychological side of the case, and interview the people on the list given him by Joan Baildon.
Bradstreet suggested one exception, whom they might see together.
“Old Treweek,” he said. “I don’t reckon he’ll say anything at all to you. He won’t believe in you. But he knows me; and between us we ought to be able to make him talk.”
“Would the same apply to Mrs. Exworthy?”
“Nothing won’t apply to she,” Bradstreet grinned, lapsing for the moment into broad dialect.
“Let’s leave her for later, then. Gilk—I’d like you with me when I interview the schoolmistress. And, possibly, the vicar. You give a bogus air of respectability to the proceedings.”
“I thought you wanted me to get on with the books. After all, they’re my job. And I can’t stay here indefinitely.”
“You may have to value the lot. You heard Mrs. Baildon say she wanted to sell.”
“Impossible. It would take me a couple of weeks. Besides, if she wants to sell, I feel a delicacy about valuing them. I may want to buy quite a number myself.”
“Delicacy be damned. You can always advise her to have an independent valuation of what you intend to buy.”
“Really, Ellis. You might trust me to be aware of the elementary usages of my job.”
“Don’t talk so much. Come and lend a hand. If I’d known I was going to work, I wouldn’t have worn these clothes.”
It was one of Ellis’s delusions that he went about his official duties in sober habit. Actually Gilkison could never detect much difference between his various outfits. Some were louder, others were dirtier: that was all.
He forbore to point this out. All Ellis’s friends sooner or later forbore to point things out.
“Who are you going to take first?” he asked.
“The schoolmistress,” said Ellis.
“May she not be busy?”
“My good ass. In the first place, it’s Saturday, and Saturday is a whole holiday for schools of this type. In the second place, it’s half term, as even you must have realised.”
“Why?”
“How else do you suppose Joan Baildon would have been at home on a Friday afternoon? Use your wits.”
“I can think of several possible reasons.”
“Never mind ’em. That’s the right one. Now—Miss Caunter lives at Honeysuckle Cottage. That’s down past the station.”
“She may have gone away for the day.”
“She hasn’t. And I’ve made an appointment to see her in twenty minutes’ time. Any more backchat? Then put on your hat, and come along like a good lad.”
“What about the post-mortem?” Gilkison asked presently, as he tried to fit his long stride into some relationship with Ellis’s quick waddle.
“Starting soon. Police surgeon from Exeter. Carter assisting.”
“Is that wise?”
“Can’t stop him. Bradstreet will have tipped his man off, anyhow.”
“That seems to me a weakness of your position, Ellis, if I may say so. In so far as anyone, is a suspect, Carter is. Yet he’s allowed to assist in this business.”
“It’s only because his position is anomalous that we’ve been able to take the matter out of his hands. He can’t do anything. I don’t suppose there’s much he could do, anyway.”
“When is the inquest to be?”
“Bradstreet’s trying to fix it for Monday.”
“Are you going to want me all day, or can I have a go at the books?”
“Patience. Patience. Where the hell are these cottages? Bradstreet said down on the left. I’ll ask this old cove.” Ellis raised his voice to a shout. “I beg your pardon—but can you tell me where Honeysuckle Cottage is?”
“Eh?”
The old man put his hand to his ear in so perfectly traditional a manner that both were hard put to it not to laugh.
“Honeysuckle Cottage—where is it?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“No, my dear,” said Ellis, sotto voce. He grinned, and pointed down the road.
“Honeysuckle Cottage?”
The old man amiably surveyed the sky.
“I dare say ’twill,” he said.
“Thank you!” Ellis roared in his ear, and left him gazing in a startled fashion after them. “Let’s hope that’s not a parable of the difficulties we shall have in getting information. I’m rather afraid it is. Local collaboration, nil. Not nice, to feel that everyone’s up against you.”
“My dear Ellis. I should never have thought you’d mind for an instant.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t, eh. Let’s ask this small boy. Hallo!”
“Ullaw,” replied the urchin, unperturbed.
“That’s the boy. I began to be afraid everyone here was deaf.”
“I bain’t deaf.”
“So I see. Now—we’re looking for Honeysuckle Cottage, where Miss Caunter lives. You know—the schoolmistress.”
“Her idn’ our schoolmistress.”
“Ah. Perhaps not. But do you know where she lives?”
The child pointed with a sticky finger.
“That’s of it,” he said. “That there little ’ouse with the creepers.”
“Grand. Is the creeper honeysuckle?”
“That there’s ’Oneysuckle Cottage.”
“Thank you.”
Ellis gave the boy a penny, and went along, snapping his fingers in high good humour.
“We come to terms with the local mind, Gilk. We find it direct, practical, tenacious, and not to be diverted from the matter in hand. A good augury.”
“Particularly if the matter in hand is hushing up the affaire Baildon.”
“Don’t call it an affaire. You have the nastiest touch of any man I know. You and your old-maidish prurience. D’you recall what Augustine Birrell said about Gibbon?”
“My dear Ellis——”
“Sssh. We are there. We approach the chaste portals. Compose yourself. Nothing improper here, please.”
“I never implied——”
“Be quiet. Pull yourself together. You’re looking pink and sulky. Won’t do. Copy me. Bland and charming smiles.”
He opened the gate, and stumped purposefully up the path. With a sigh, Gilkison followed.
As he neared the door, Ellis saw an infinitesimal movement of the curtain in the front room on the right. There was no bell. He knocked, and the door was opened almost at once.
“Miss Caunter?”
“Yes. Won’t you come in?”
They followed her, Gilkison stooping to avoid the lintel, into a small, neat, crowded room. Varied and cheap though most of the furnishings were, they gave the impression of a decided personality, which was confirmed by a look at their owner.
Eunice Caunter was of middle height, with a strong, well developed figure. Her eyes and hair was very dark, and a line of down towards the corners of her upper lip hinted that it might become a nuisance later on. Her complexion was good, her features bold. Somehow, Ellis decided, she just missed being very good looking indeed. And somehow, maybe for the same reason, her feminine curves failed of their full attraction.