“Oh yes.”
He looked blank for a minute, then caught Bradstreet’s wink.
“That is,” Bradstreet said, “if Mrs. Rattray will excuse us.”
Her face contracted with disappointment. She tried to smile.
“Of course,” Rattray said. “We can go down to the end of the garden. You’ll be all right, won’t you, my dear? I’ll be in sight, if you want anything. Then we shan’t bore you, talking business.”
She gave her sickly smile again, and followed them with murderous eyes as Rattray led the way.
“David,” she called thinly, after he had gone a few yards.
He stopped.
“Yes, dear?”
“Hadn’t you better put on your coat, if you’re going to sit still? You don’t want to catch a chill.”
“I’ll be all right.”
She uttered a forlorn little cry, and he turned again.
“I’m quite warm, truly. Look—I’ll get it, and have it by me. Then I can put it on if I want it. Excuse me,” he said to the others, and ran off, with stiff self-conscious strides, leaping a flower bed. She watched him go, turned to the three men with her pretence of a smile, then stared at the corner of the house till he came back, a brown sports coat over his arm.
He waved it at her. She called a pet name softly: they could only tell what it was from her expression.
“Now, gentlemen.”
He came up with them, energetic and manly, and conducted them to a white painted seat at the garden’s end. It was semi-circular, comfortably low, and backed by several clumps of lavender, on which the butterflies were ceaselessly busy.
“Nice garden you’ve got here, Mr. Rattray,” Ellis said.
“I could make it much better, if I had more time. A schoolmaster’s days are pretty full. And, what with other activities—well, I can’t give it all the attention I should like.”
“You do a lot in the village, I understand.”
“I do what I can,” Rattray answered shortly, looking straight in front of him at the grass border. “What with the Scouts, and the Institute, and a weekly lecture at the camp, I’m kept pretty busy. Those are in my spare time, of course.” He cleared his throat. “In times like these, I feel that each of us must contribute all he can to the common cause. If we do nothing for our fellow creatures, how can we expect them to do anything for us—to put it no higher than that? We can’t take more out of life than we put into it.”
Having uttered these sentiments, he looked briefly and earnestly in the face of each in turn, as if to see whether they agreed with him.
Ellis uttered a purr of approval, causing Gilkison to glance at him in wry apprehension. It was usually the prelude to sarcasm or hilarity: a device to encourage the victim to further excess, until he should have exposed himself beyond hope of recovery. In spite of their long friendship, Gilkison could never bring himself to trust in Ellis’s restraint or common sense. However often he assured himself that too much hung on a moment or an interview, he always trembled lest Ellis ruin everything by some irresponsible outburst of levity. He could never accustom himself to the practice of a mind so unlike his own.
“Indeed,” Ellis concurred. “Indeed.” He sighed. “I wish more people felt as you do, Mr. Rattray. It would make all our problems easier. The Inspector and I might have nothing to do, it’s true; but what would that be, compared to the interests of the community?”
Careful, oh, careful, you ass, groaned Gilkison inwardly, looking in terror to see Rattray draw himself up, offended. But the schoolmaster replied in perfect seriousness.
“I see you are an idealist, Mr. McKay. Rather an optimist, too, if you will allow me to say so. I fear that wrongdoing will not be so easily rooted out. No.”
He shook his head, then looked up sharply at Bradstreet.
“Am I to gather that Mr. McKay is also connected with the police?”
“Yes.” Bradstreet completed the introduction. “I did not give the full particulars just now, for fear of alarming Mrs. Rattray.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Rattray. “Thank you. That was indeed kind.”
He gazed at Bradstreet, then turned to the others.
“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Bradstreet got up.
“Detective Inspector McKay would like to ask you a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind, now that I have introduced you, I’ll go back to the station. I’ve a good deal on my hands.”
All three watched him as he went towards the verandah. He stopped for a few moments by Mrs. Rattray’s chair, and they heard the kindly rumble of his voice, sympathetic, reassuring. She turned her face up to him, shielding her eyes against the light, and her tones followed his across the grass, unsteady, overcharged, squeaky with pleasure.
Rattray breathed out strongly through his nose.
“A fine chap, Bradstreet,” he said. “It’s a privilege to know him.”
“I only made his acquaintance yesterday,” Ellis said, “and I feel already as if we’d been friends for years.”
“I wouldn’t say he was altogether an easy man to know. A great deal is obvious at the first meeting, but there are depths beyond.”
“I’m sure there are.” Ellis looked at him respectfully. “I see you’re a student of character, Mr. Rattray. That’s splendid. Because,” he went on, in answer to Rattray’s stare of surprise, “it’s on questions of character that I wish to consult you.”
He repeated, almost word for word, what he had said to Eunice Caunter about his desire for a general picture of the situation at the Baildons’, and their relationship towards the chief figures in their circle.
To his surprise, however, Rattray did not bite. He nodded two or three times while Ellis was speaking, and continued to look at him fixedly for some seconds when he had finished.
“Quite,” he said. “Yes. I can see the value to you of a general survey of the position. But, surely, you are looking for something with a particular bearing on what has happened? It appears to me, for instance, that an analysis of Mrs. and Miss Baildon’s attitude towards Mr. Baildon can interest you only if you have reason to suspect one or other of them. I trust that is not the case?”
“Inspector Bradstreet and I suspect no one, Mr. Rattray. We cannot yet even be positive that there is anything to suspect. But to suspect no one is to suspect everyone. That is to say, if Mr. Baildon’s death was not an accident, the only people we can competently declare to have had nothing to do with it are Inspector Bradstreet and our two selves. At least—I think we may also exclude Mrs. Rattray.”
He smiled, but got no answering smile. Rattray evidently thought the pleasantry in bad taste.
“It’s all very well for you, Mr. Rattray. You live here, and know the people intimately. I don’t. You can decide at once, on your knowledge, that A and B and C may be eliminated. I can’t. What’s more, I’m not allowed to. For me, nothing is allowed to count but sheer, hard, police court evidence. But look what a lot of time I can be saved, if someone who knows will give me a hint or two and stop me from looking in the wrong direction.”
“But, Mr. McKay, you have just made it plain to me that you are not allowed to rely upon hearsay evidence.”
Ellis rubbed his hands, and gazed at him admiringly.
“I see I have come to the right man,” he said. “Look, Mr. Rattray. I’ll put it this way. Let us imagine that you have just been appointed to the headmastership of a new school.”
He stopped, for Rattray had started violently. However, he said nothing, so Ellis continued:
“A week after you arrive there to take up your duties, there are several cases of theft. Now: you can’t convict your thief except on material evidence. But do you mean to tell me you aren’t going to consult the teachers who have been there all the time, and shape your conduct with some reference to what they tell you about the various pupils?