“No,” Bradstreet said. “I wouldn’t go that far. But, if I’d been her, I’d have been tempted.”
“Put it there, pal. You and me’s buddies. Now—let’s forget that unsavoury fellow and his ugly face. I prescribe a nice ride, and a scramble on the Hoe. Do you scramble, Bradder? My grandmother used to recommend me to go for a scramble. It sounds so nice. Come on. Give us an appetite for our tea, and then—home. Lord—it’s hot.”
Bradstreet looked at the sky, screwing his face into a small boy’s grimace.
“Sun’s scalding,” he said. “Looks like thunder.”
“Will it rain? I loathe getting wet.”
“Not yet, I reckon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ellis woke next morning from deep sleep, and lay staring at the ceiling. It looked back at him, unnaturally bland, reflecting the sunlight from outside, which, thrown up by a neighbouring roof, was reaching it before it reached the walls. There had been a storm the evening before, with heavy showers, and more than once in the night Ellis had heard the rain.
For a few seconds his mind floated, like an untroubled cloud: and he wondered at it, since somewhere, far below, there lurked a feeling that it should not be untroubled, and, therefore, he felt the beginnings of a vague surprise.
Then, with a shock that twisted some little cold thing in his stomach, he remembered the long and fruitless discussion he had had with Bradstreet on the way home, and afterwards. Was there any possible way of keeping Nelder’s evidence out, and so protecting Mrs. Baildon and Joan?
Bradstreet, with the slow casuistry of the countryman, had argued that to put in the evidence was to prejudice the Baildons’ case, and so defeat the ends of justice. The question of stealing books was irrelevant to the graver charge which overhung and which so easily might fall upon them. Why, then, bring it in?
And Ellis, feeling for the man, loving him, and wishing with all his heart that they could do as they wished, felt bound to put the other side: knowing all the time that Bradstreet saw it as clearly as he did, and would be constrained by it.
“After all, Bradder,” Ellis had asked him brutally, “who do you think did scupper Matt?”
And Bradstreet, with a sigh that was almost a groan, could only answer, “I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”
So, remembering all this, Ellis’s face darkened, till he looked like a dissipated and sulky cherub, and he jumped out of bed with an oath, a cloud over his day.
The cloud did not prevent him from making a very robust breakfast. Volatile and highly suggestible, he had reacted to the cheering influence of silky porridge, of pink, crisped bacon and eggs, of toast and marmalade and hot strong coffee, when the little waitress, to whom he and all he did were a perpetual marvel, summoned him to the telephone.
Ellis stumped across the room, napkin in hand, and belched as he reached the instrument.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo. Bradder? Well, how goes it? Thought up a solution to our puzzle of last night?”
“No.” Bradstreet’s voice was grave. “I’ve got something more serious to think about. Eunice Caunter’s been found murdered.”
“Good God! how? Where?”
“Strangled. On Higworthy Common, a mile from the camp.”
Ellis whistled.
“I’ll come right along.”
“I’m sending a car. Save time.”
Ellis returned hastily to the table, told the news to a shocked and startled Gilkison, gulped down another cup of coffee, and was ready for the car. The constable who was driving explained that they had to pick up the photographer, and that Inspector Bradstreet would be ready for them when they returned. It was the quickest way round.
The photographer was collected, carrying a large tripod and looking apprehensive. He got in beside the driver, and they drove to the station. Bradstreet came out at once.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. But it’d have taken longer to fetch him first.”
“That’s all right. Where d’you say she is?”
“Higworthy. Won’t take us long.”
“Seen her?”
“Yes. Left the sergeant in charge.”
“Who found her?”
“Chap taking his dog for a run. He told the village constable, who rang us.”
The morning was unnaturally clear, and a pearly cloud or two drifted low down on the horizon. The grasses gleamed with drops.
“It must have rained a lot. That should help.”
Bradstreet grunted. “I’ve never found it did, very much.”
He was disinclined to talk. Inside five minutes the car drove on to a small common that rose a little above the road, and was dotted with generous furse bushes.
“Popular resort, at night?” Ellis asked.
“M’m.”
“Godsend to the camp, I should say.”
“We’ve had complaints.”
The local man was keeping a lookout. He signalled to them, then approached. Evidently he was in a high state of excitement. He began a fresh account to Bradstreet, stammering in his eagerness, but the Inspector cut him short.
They followed a trodden path for a hundred and fifty yards, then turned off among the bushes. The furze grew high: each bush was a complete protection.
“She mightn’t have been found for weeks in here,” Ellis said to Bradstreet.
“No. But there’s a good many people about this time of year.”
Ellis glanced at the wrappings and empty packets of cigarettes that lay in the shelter of several of the bushes. They rounded an extra large one, and came on the sergeant.
“Here you are, sir.”
Eunice Caunter was lying on her back. One leg was straight, the other bent sideways. Her skirt was partly pulled back, and the bent leg showed a stretch of thigh between her stocking and her knickers. Her clothes were soaked with rain. One arm was flung stiffly outwards, with some torn ends of grass clutched in her rigid fingers.
The face was turned away. They had to walk round her to see it. It was not pleasant: there was no doubt about the way she had died. A purplish bruise on each side of her throat confirmed that she had been strangled.
Ellis uttered an exclamation, and fell on his knees. He looked close, then turned to Bradstreet a face from which the colour had gone.
“Good God! seen this?”
Bradstreet nodded glumly. Ellis looked back, shuddering. Into each of the dead girl’s nostrils something had been inserted. It looked like paper.
“What’s the sense of that?” Ellis said, half to himself.
“Stop her breathing, perhaps?”
“Couldn’t be. Unless he plugged ’em and then held a hand over her mouth. She’d never let him. No, this was done afterwards. Some perversion here. I don’t like it, Bradder.”
He got up, brushing his knees absently. There was a wet stain on each. “Have ’em photographed,” he said.
They stood by while the photographer did his work. The poor man’s hand shook, and the sergeant kindly came to his help. He looked very pale about the gills. Then the sergeant came over to where Ellis and Bradstreet stood.
“I’ve had another look round, sir,” he reported to Bradstreet. “There’s hardly a sign. The rain has washed it all out. The soil is very light hereabouts,” he explained to Ellis. “It takes impressions fairly well, but they come out just as easy. The grass is all freshened up with the rain, too. It’s hardly crushed at all where she struggled.”
“It was a strong man did that,” Ellis said. “She was a well-built girl. She wouldn’t go easily. Unless he did it suddenly, as a climax to lovemaking.”
Both Bradstreet and the sergeant appeared to be shocked at this. Each avoided the other’s eye, and neither looked at Ellis. Ellis observed Bradstreet from screwed-up eyes.