“I suppose this sort of thing amuses you.”
“It doesn’t amuse me a bit. She’s no good. She’s damn’ bad for that poor girl. You ought to see those letters. All intense and gooey and squarmy—if they’re no worse.”
Gilkison looked up.
“Are you suggesting——?”
“Emotional vampirism. The woman has no drama in her life, so she vamps up her personal relationships. Bad enough among adults, but damnable with a child. Hitting below the belt. Nagging. Doing the ‘don’t you love me’ stuff. No wonder there’s all that strain—particularly if Joan’s fond of the creature.”
“All very interesting, I’m sure,” Gilkison commented acidly, “but I can’t see that it advances you very far.”
“Can’t you though. What do you say to this?”
He pulled out the letter from his pocket, and began to read.
“ ‘Darling Joanikins, I am longing to get my arms around you and have a real good talk.’ There—I thought that would get you. Bad luck, Gilk. She loves another.”
“Really, Ellis. Sometimes you are quite insufferable.”
“Shut up. I’ll miss out a page or two, in deference to your feelings. Here we are. ‘Joanie dearest—when shall I kill your father for you? Honestly, it seems the only thing I can do for you, now!’ (Got the force of that ‘now’? Now that Rattray is on the job.) ‘I’ve often planned how I’d do it. I’d go in, as bold as brass, one day when you’re both out, and he’s sitting in his room reading. He’ll be so deep in his book, he’ll never hear me. Shall I hit him over the head from behind, with a mallet or a hammer? Perhaps that would be messy, and I can’t bear blood. And he’d have horrid blood. No’—listen to this, Gilk—‘perhaps it would be better to strangle him in his muffler. One would only have to get the two ends, and pull, and pull, and pull. I’d crouch down, so as not to pull the chair over backwards. It would be very quick, I feel sure. Then I’d push over all that case of books on top of him, and he’d be so crushed and buried that everyone would think that was what had killed him. Then I’d slip out by the back way, and no one would know, and you and your mother would come back and find yourselves free, free for always.”
He looked up.
“Now then. What do you think of that?”
If his aim had been to impress Gilkison, he had certainly succeeded. The bookseller’s pale face was long with concern.
“But, good heavens, Ellis! This is serious.”
“It is. Damn’ serious.”
“Do you believe she did it?”
“Not she. But”—he tapped the letter—“this wouldn’t do her any good with a jury. Remember Mrs. Thompson—Thompson and Bywaters? It’s a dangerous letter, all right. Old Bradstreet won’t half look solemn at it. And, if we put it in at the inquest——”
“Ellis. I don’t understand you. If you don’t believe she did it, what are you——”
“The serious part of this letter, my good fool, is its possible effect on Joan. Now, do you see?”
“Good God, Ellis. You mean, it might have put it into her head?”
“Never mind about that. It’d be quite bad enough to think that her friend actually did it. Carried out the plan. A terrible letter to have in one’s possession, now that Matt’s dead.”
“When was it written?”
“Don’t know. Fool of a girl writes ‘Tuesday’ and things like that on her letters. It’s since Rattray began coaching Joan—we get that from the ‘now’: it can’t mean anything else, that I can see—and he’s told us that was ten months ago.”
“Joan may have forgotten it, then.”
“Would you forget a letter like that—from someone you thought a lot of—in view of what’s happened?”
“Has she been at the letters, since it happened? She might, to refresh her memory.”
“ ‘Refresh’ is good. She might, but I don’t think she would. I saw no sign of it, anyway.”
“What will she do, if she goes to them, and finds the letter isn’t there?”
“That we shall have to see. I mean to keep a pretty close watch on Joan Baildon. Poor child! what a load to lay on her.”
He walked over to the window, and looked out.
“How much longer are you going to be grubbing about here? I want my tea.”
“I’ll come and have some with you. But I must come back here again afterwards. You don’t realise what a lot I have to get through.”
“You’re not going to try to value them all?”
“Not this time. But I want to check over the most important items, and get an idea of the extent of the library.”
“How many books had the old devil got?”
“Between thirteen and fourteen thousand, I should think.”
“God. That ought to fetch some money for those two. Gilk?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like this case.”
“I can understand that.”
“One thing we’ve got now, anyway.”
“What?”
“Why those two—Rattray and your bit of skirt—are so cagey about each other. They’re jealous as hell.”
“Over Joan, do you mean?”
“Yes. Each goes all tense when the other’s mentioned. Rattray, the professional Christian, tries to be fair, but his foot stops tapping. The girl doesn’t try to be fair. She gets at Joan in her letters.”
“Aren’t you reading a lot into the one word ‘now’?”
“I tell you, she keeps harping on it. Go upstairs and read for yourself.”
Gilkison drew himself together with a fastidious shudder.
“No thanks. I’m quite content to take your word for it.”
“A pretty kettle of fish. I don’t like it; but it’s damned interesting. Come on; let’s get our tea.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After tea, Gilkison returned to his work, and Ellis went up to the station to see how Bradstreet was getting on.
The Inspector had not come back, so Ellis engaged in a long conversation with the sergeant, who, to his unbounded delight, turned out to be a gramophone enthusiast. When Bradstreet returned, he found them deep in a discussion of West Country singers, the general paucity of their records, and the sad fact that so few were still listed in the catalogues.
“Charles Saunders,” lamented the Sergeant. “I ’eard ’im frequent. A lovely singer: and not a record left. I’ve never even yerd one.”
“I have one,” said Ellis, “but only one.”
“Frank Webster. There was a brave tenor, now: and I ’aven’t but the one record of ’im.”
“I heard him with Tetrazzini, ’way back. I was only a boy.”
The Sergeant saw Bradstreet, and rose respectfully. Ellis looked up.
“Hallo, Bradstreet. Well, Sergeant—you must come and hear some of my records, when you’re next in town. Bradstreet—your sergeant is a very intelligent man. He collects records, and has all kinds of sound ideas. Promote him at once.”
The Sergeant reddened to an incredible colour. Bradstreet smiled easily.
“All right. Go off and get some tea.”
“Well, you old devil,” said Ellis, as soon as they were alone. “How did it go?”
“Pretty much as you expected, I reckon, or you wouldn’t have asked me to do it.”
“Bradders! Bradders! I never thought to hear you speak such bitter words.”
Bradstreet fished in his pocket, produced a large spectacle case, and put the glasses on his nose. He took out his notebook, licked his thumb, and turned the pages. Ellis watched him with affectionate delight.
“Mr. Pawle had nothing, except that he confirmed the bit about handing the paper over the wall. He never posted any letter for the old man.