If he had been a few years older or of a different sex he certainly would have considered this clandestine meeting in a more intriguing light then the mere interruption of a feast and would have certainly listened to and remembered as much of the conversation as possible. Now it was difficult to place any interpretation on the scraps he had overheard. He seemed an honest and reliable little boy, but ready enough to admit that he might have made a mistake. He thought that Sally had talked about "the light" but he might have imagined it. He hadn't really been listening and they were speaking quietly. On the other hand he had no doubt at all that it was Sally he had seen and was equally firm in his belief that it was not a friendly meeting. He couldn't be sure of the time when he left the stable.
Teas began about half past three lasted as long as people wanted them and the food held out. Johnnie thought it must have been about half past four when he first made his escape from Mrs. Cope. He couldn't remember how long he was hidden in the stable. It had seemed a very long time. With that Dalgleish had to be content. The whole thing was suspiciously like a case of blackmail and it seemed likely" that another assignation had been made. But the fact that Johnnie had not recognized the man's voice seemed to prove conclusively that it could not have been either Stephen Maxie or a local man, most of whom would be well known to him. That at least supported the theory that there was another man to be considered.
If Sally were blackmailing this stranger and he was actually at the church fete, then things looked brighter for the Maxies. As he thanked young Johnnie, warned him against talking to anyone else about his experience, and dismissed him to the comforting pleasure of revealing all that had passed to the vicar, Dalgleish's mind was already busy with new evidence.
Chapter Six
The Inquest was fixed for three o'clock on Tuesday and the Maxies found they were almost looking forward to it as at least one known obligation which might help to speed the slow, uncomfortable hours.
There was a sense of constant unease like the tension of a thundery day when the storm is inevitable and yet will not break.
The tacit assumption that no one at Martingale could be a murderer precluded any realistic discussion of Sally's death.
They were all afraid of saying too much or of saying it to the wrong person.
Sometimes Deborah wished that the household could get together and at least decide on some solid basis of strategy.
But when Stephen hesitantly voiced the same wish she drew back in sudden panic.
Stephen talking about Sally was not to be borne.
Felix Hearne was different. With him it was possible to discuss almost anything.
He did not fear death for himself nor was he shy of it and he apparently saw no breach of good taste in discussing Sally Jupp's death dispassionately and even lightly. At first Deborah took part in these conversations in a spirit of bravado. Later she realized that humor was only a feeble attempt to denigrate fear. Now, before Tuesday luncheon, she paced between the roses at Felix's side while he poured out his spate of blessedly foolish chatter, provoking her to an equally dispassionate and diverting flow of theories.
"Seriously, though, Deborah. If I were writing a book I should make it one of the, village boys. Derek Pullen, for example."
"But he didn't. Anyway, he hasn't a motive."
"Motive is the last thing to look for.
You can always find a motive. Perhaps the corpse was blackmailing him. Perhaps she was pressing him to marry her and he wouldn't. She could tell him that there was another baby on the way. It isn't true, of course, but he wasn't to know that.
You see, they had been having the usual passionate affaire. I should make him one of the quiet, intense kind. They're capable of anything. In fiction, anyway."
"But she didn't want him to marry her.
She had Stephen to marry. She wouldn't want Derek Pullen if she could have Stephen."
"You speak, if I may say so, with the blind partiality of a sister. But have it your own way. Whom do you suggest?"
"Suppose we make it Father."
"You mean the elderly gentleman, tied to his bed?"
"Yes. Except that he wasn't. It could be one of those Grand Guignol plots. The elderly gentleman didn't want his son to marry the scheming hussy so he crawled upstairs step by step and strangled her with his old school tie."
Felix considered this effort and rejected it.
"Why not make it the mysterious visitor with a name like a cinema cat. Who is he?
Where does he come from? Could he be the father of her child?"
"Oh, I don't think so."
"Well, he was. He had met the corpse when she was an innocent girl at her first job. I shall draw a veil over that painful episode but you can imagine his surprise and horror when he meets her again, the girl he has wronged, in the home of his fiancйe. And with his child too!"
"He has a fiancйe?"
"Of course. An extremely attractive widow whom he is determined to snare.
Anyway, the poor wronged girl threatens to tell all so he has to silence her. I should make him one of those cynical, unlikeable characters so that no one would worry when he got copped."
"You don't think that would be rather sordid? What about making it the Warden of St. Mary's. It could be one of those psychological thrillers with highbrow quotations at the beginning of the chapters and a lot of Freud."
"If it's Freud you fancy I'd put my money on the corpse's uncle. Now there would be a fine excuse for some deep psychological stuff. You see, he was a hard, narrow-minded man who had turned her out when he heard about the baby.