“I could do with one myself. But, as I was saying—everything you said about him, the way he was all wild one minute, and quite calm the next: everything goes to show he was mad. I don’t mind betting the jury will think so too.”
“Bradder, I’d love to have you on my side in a row; and I’d hate to have you against me.”
“I expect that’s meant to be rude.”
“Far from it. Exactly the reverse. It’s an honest compliment, straight from the heart. I—hallo.”
There was a knock, and the sergeant put his head round.
“Reverend Rawlings to see you, sir.”
Bradstreet looked at Ellis.
“Show him in,” he said.
Mr. Rawlings came in. He was very pale, and his shoulders were bent forward. He came straight up to Bradstreet, ignoring Ellis.
“Inspector. I feel it is my duty to hand you this.”
He drew an envelope from his pocket, and with shaking hand gave it to Bradstreet. Bradstreet glanced at it, and raised his brows.
“Rattray’s writing,” he said.
The vicar inclined his head.
Bradstreet took out the letter, a single sheet, and spread it out on the desk. For what seemed a long time he read it. Then he looked once more at the envelope.
“Posted last evening, in time for the last collection. Seven-thirty,” he added, to Ellis. “That means his mind was made up before you met him.”
“I don’t want to seem inquisitive,” said Ellis, “but you haven’t yet told me what’s there. Is it his confession that he killed the girl?”
“Yes. And Matt Baildon.”
“What!” Ellis shouted.
“That’s right. Both of ’em. He says here ‘a double crime.’ And he says again, at the end ‘with these two terrible crimes on my conscience’ ”——
“Show me.”
Ellis snatched the letter. His lips moved, muttering aloud the incriminating words. He stared at the paper incredulously, then looked at Bradstreet, his face blank with bewilderment.
“I don’t understand it,” he stammered. “I—it’s——”
Then, with a rush, his forces returned. The colour flooded his face. He slammed the letter down on the desk.
“I don’t believe it,” he roared. “It’s not possible. It—it doesn’t make sense.”
Bradstreet and the vicar exchanged glances of commiseration. The vicar shook his head.
“There’s no going beyond what he says, I’m afraid,” Bradstreet said slowly.
“Indeed, no.” The vicar’s voice was broken. “I only wish there were. A churchwarden, too. One of my greatest helps. A man I would have staked my life on.”
Ellis looked at him with warm sympathy.
“He killed the girl, sir, in a fit of hysterical passion. But he didn’t kill the old man.”
“He says he did. No man would accuse himself of such a crime unnecessarily.”
“It’s my belief he was mad,” Bradstreet said. “If that is any consolation to you, Mr. Rawlings.”
“If he wrote that letter, and meant it, he must have been mad,” Ellis said. “Otherwise——” He began to pace the room, in a fury of agitation. After three or four lengths, he turned to them, his eyes projecting so that the whites showed all round.
“I’m the one that’s mad,” he cried. “I’d better give up the job.” He pointed to the letter. “If that’s true, then everything I know is nonsense; and I must be mad. Vicar: I pledge you my sanity Rattray didn’t kill Matt Baildon.”
The vicar shook his head again.
“I wish I could believe you, sir. But this poor, poor girl——” He clucked his tongue. “Will you want me any longer?” He asked Bradstreet. “Or may I go?”
“No, we needn’t trouble you any more, Mr. Rawlings. You have been of great help to us. Thank you very much.”
Ellis walked to the door with the vicar, full of sympathy and distress, but saw that his company, far from being a comfort, was unwelcome. The old man shrank visibly from him, and went off, head down, murmuring to himself.
Ellis looked after him, and went back to Bradstreet.
“Well, Bradder. The home team bats on a good wicket.”
“Meaning, exactly——?”
“The case is going the way you want it.”
“The way I want it!” Bradstreet exclaimed. “I don’t want any of it. I only——”
The telephone leaped into shrill sound, cutting him short. He stretched out a weary hand.
“Hallo. Yes. What?” There was a pause, while the other voice quacked lugubriously. “She’s all right, you say? Right. I’ll be round.”
He put the receiver back, and lifted a round gray face.
“Joan Baildon has tried to kill herself.”
Ellis hit the table, and swore violently.
“We’ve let her down again! If that child gets over this, it’ll be no thanks to us. What’s she done?”
“Aspirins. Fortunately, there weren’t enough. Carter’s with her.”
“Who was it rang?”
“Nancarrow. The man I put to watch the house.”
“Well.” Ellis heaved himself up. “We’ll go.”
They did not speak in the car; but, as they got out, Bradstreet said, “Do you mind seeing to this?”
“Not a bit. I’d rather.”
Bradstreet went in first. Dr. Carter was in the hall, talking over his shoulder to Mrs. Baildon. Gilkison, pale and solemn, peeped out behind him.
“She’ll do, now,” Carter was saying. He caught sight of Ellis, and bristled like a large dog. “More of your work,” he snarled. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Don’t talk like a child,” Ellis shot back at him “This is a murder case.”
So furious was his tone, and so menacing his glare, that the big doctor recoiled. As Ellis advanced to the stair foot, he put out an arm.
“Leave her alone. She must have absolute quiet.”
“Out of my way.”
Ellis pushed past him and up the stairs.
“I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” Carter called after him: but got no reply.
“May I come in?”
Ellis opened the door, and closed it gently after him. Joan Baildon was sitting up in bed. She was very pale, and her eyes without the glasses had, despite their drowsiness, a queer beauty.
Ellis sat on the bed, and took her hand. She smiled wanly, and did not resist.
“You are a silly girl. What did you go and act the goat like this for?”
“I did it. I killed father.”
“Now, now, now.” He wagged a finger at her. “You did nothing of the kind.”
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
“There’s a positive orgy of confessions to killing your father. You’re too late. You should have thought of it sooner.”
Terror glimmered in her eyes.
“Why—who——” she whispered.
“David’s confessed that he did it.”
“David!” She sat straight up in utter astonishment. “David! Nonsense!”
“My very words. But not his. Bradstreet and Co. will take his.”
“But—what did he say? When? Oh, I can’t—it’s not true. He couldn’t have said it.”
“He wrote to the vicar, and said he had killed Eunice, and then spoke of his ‘double crime,’ and ‘two terrible crimes.’ ”
“You idiot!” Relief brought a touch of colour to her face. “He didn’t mean that!”
Ellis leaned forward.
“What did he mean?”
She pulled her hand free, and threw herself back, hiding her face in the pillow.
“Joan. Tell me, please. What did he mean?”
A muffled murmur came: “I can’t tell you.” Ellis looked down at her compassionately.
“I think I know. It was what happened between him and Eunice on Sunday evening. Wasn’t it?”