“Stevens said the girl came in for half a pound of petty—what d’you call ’em—biscuits: showed me the order.
“The vicar had nothing. He looked in once when Matt was ill, but only for a short time; and he posted no letters.
“Miss Jenkinson said that Mrs. Baildon was with her for upwards of half an hour. She isn’t positive of the time, but knows Mrs. Baildon left before four, because she pressed her to stay for tea, which she has round about four or ten past.” He looked up. “Did you get confirmation of Mrs. Baildon’s statement from Miss Attwill?”
Ellis grinned.
“I got a lot from Miss Attwill, but not that.”
“You mean she didn’t confirm it?”
“I didn’t trouble to ask her. She’s heart and soul for those two. She’d swear anything to shield ’em. As good as told me so. Don’t worry about that. We can clear it up, if we want to.”
Bradstreet once more consulted his notebook.
“Old Exworthy. She gave me sauce to start with, so I had to scare her a bit. I’m pretty sure she didn’t post anything to Nelder.”
“A good afternoon’s work, Bradders. Very good.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Bradstreet shut his notebook and put it away. “Did you get anything?”
“I got plenty. Whether it’s any good is another matter.”
He told Bradstreet of his interviews, and of the search in Joan’s bedroom, and finally handed him Eunice Caunter’s letter.
Bradstreet read it slowly. His face became grave.
“Ah,” he said. “A very awkward letter. Very awkward indeed.”
“Shall we put it in at the inquest?”
The Inspector rubbed his moustache. He gave Ellis a quick glance, and was met with a broad grin.
“All right, Bradders, I shan’t cry, if you crab my wonderful, wonderful find. You are a lamb.”
Relief beamed over Bradstreet’s face. As often in moments of feeling, his speech broadened.
“I was going to say, I don’t reckon ’twould be really fair, without we were minded to follow it up.”
Ellis shook his head decisively. “She didn’t do it. But the letter has a nasty follow up. More than one, in fact.”
“Why I don’t think we ought to put it in,” Bradstreet continued, following the line of his thought, “she’s not too well liked hereabouts, isn’t Miss Caunter, and the jury, being anxious to clear the Baildons, might read more into that letter than what you or I would.”
“There’s another reason, you old ruffian.” Ellis pointed at him. “You wouldn’t want to put it in, no matter how much the village loved Miss Caunter. People might think it had put ideas into someone’s head. I know you can trust your local jury, but——”
“I don’t think you ought to say that,” Bradstreet protested. “If I thought it was my duty to put the letter in, I’d put it in. But, as things are——”
“I know you would, you old idiot. But you wouldn’t want to. Which—please—is all I said. Get out, man! Don’t you dare to take umbrage at me.”
Bradstreet’s brow cleared. He grinned, a shade ruefully.
“This thing has got me worried, I won’t deny. It may seem funny to you, but we’re jealous for our good name, in these parts.”
“I know. Three complete strangers have seen fit to buttonhole me, and assure me that the only local sources of sin are the aerodrome and the camp.”
“And, of course, knowing the Baildons personally——”
“Yes. Horrid job, ours, sometimes, isn’t it?”
“It’s got to be done.”
“Of course it has. And, most of the time, you like it. Don’t you, now?”
“I can’t say I think much about it, one way or the other. I’m not what you’d call a thinking man. At least, I suppose—I don’t know.” He looked up at Ellis. “I reckon I just go ahead with the job in hand.”
“Thank heaven you do. No police force, no army, no navy, no country could be run if there weren’t a number of people so constituted. What’s troubling you? D’you look on that as a drawback?”
Bradstreet’s brow was corrugated.
“I can’t help feeling one ought to be able to do both. Think about the job, and yet do it.”
“Which is just what you’re doing now. It isn’t always pleasant, that’s all. Well—we can’t do any more to-night. I’m going home.”
“So am I, in a few minutes. I’ve a trifle or two to clear up first.”
“See you soon, then. Glad you don’t want to put in that letter.” Ellis chuckled. “You ought to have seen your own face, when I gave it to you.”
“I was a bit worried, I allow.”
“Thought I thought I’d made a find, and was carrying on like a hen that had laid an egg.”
“I don’t reckon you’re much like a hen,” Bradstreet began gravely—and broke off, as Ellis pretended to aim a blow at him, and went out.
As soon as he got back to the Plume of Feathers, Ellis went up to his room and began a long letter to his wife. It was his habit, when working away from home, to send her a resume of the case on which he was engaged, partly because she was interested, and partly to clear his own mind. The necessity for giving someone else a vivid picture of the circumstances and characters often brought out ideas which were lurking in the background, and gave a significance to things which he had not consciously noticed. The practice had its dangers. Attempted too soon, it could head his ideas in the wrong direction, and he had always to fight against the tendency to make a good story. But, once he had reached a certain point in a case, the writing became a necessity, both giving shape to the mass of collected detail, and a lens through which to view it.
For some forty minutes Ellis wrote fast and steady. His handwriting was curiously round and unformed, and gave a deceptive air of candour to what he wrote. At Oxford, his tutor had more than once urged him to cultivate some degree of illegibility, or at least a few mannerisms, lest examiners, finding his work easy to read, should suppose that there was nothing in it. Ellis had managed a mannerism or two, but no illegibility at all. An increase in speed had not detracted from the blank simplicity of his script. The hand of an idiot child, Kathleen called it: and the facial contortions accompanying its production, the frown, the tongue curled round the left-hand corner of the mouth, added a further plausibility to her picture.
By degrees, the pace of the writing slowed. Ellis stopped between sentences, looked out of the window, scowled, started determinedly again, only to stop once more. He put down his pen, squeezed his fat chin, and stared from bulbous eyes.
“Damn!”
With a simian grimace, he picked up his pen, and wrote faster than ever.
“You see now why I don’t like the smell of this case. The Bradder doesn’t like it either, and with even better reason, poor chap. On a cold view of the facts, there is only one place to look, and neither of us wants to look there. Put down on paper, nothing else will make sense. With one exception, the reasons pointing away don’t amount to a row of beans, compared with all that points there. We must be damned careful, my girl. Damned careful. An idea one hates can be just as fascinating as one that seems absolutely irresistible.
“What are the indications worth? How much is there that brands us as crass sentimentalists for not wanting to follow where it points? For, unless something quite fresh turns up, for anyone else to have killed Matt would be sheer altruism, or a fluke.
“1. Self-interest bulks a good deal larger as a motive than altruism: and you know what I think of the story-book killer who crams a murder into twenty seconds, on the spur of the moment, when people’s backs are turned, in circumstances he couldn’t possibly have foreseen.
“2. Of the two people concerned, only one has an alibi, and that none too good. One party to it can’t swear to the time, and ’tother would swear to anything. The distances are short, too.