I persuaded him to abandon the idea of going to Brown with the story, but he insisted on getting Mrs. Bradley right away. I was in favour of the scheme, for it would relieve us of his company, so I decided to incite him, so to speak.
“They’ll be having dinner,” I objected.
“Shouldn’t think so,” said William, who hates to be thwarted. “You see, Noel, Sir William starts it at six-thirty, anyway, and it’s now just after eight. Come with me, Noel, there’s a good chap.”
I refused, of course. No, but honestly, I didn’t think the thing could be very serious. So he tooled off by himself.
He was ushered into the presence of Margaret Kingston-Fox in the Manor drawing-room, and Margaret, who is Sir William’s daughter, and rather a Juno to look at, introduced him to one of the most frightful-looking old ladies—(according to William, of course)—that he’d ever seen. She was smallish, thin and shrivelled, and she had a yellow face with sharp black eyes, like a witch, and yellow, claw-like hands. She cackled harshly when William was introduced and chucked him under the chin, and then squealed like a macaw that’s having its tail pulled. She looked rather like a macaw, too, because her evening dress was of bright blue velvet and she was wearing over it a little coatee (Daphne’s word, of course, not mine)—of sulphur and orange. William’s first conclusion was that if Mrs. Gatty were bats, this woman was positive vampires in the belfry. She had the evil eye, according to William. Her voice, when she spoke, though, was wonderful. Even William, who has no ear for music although, for the look of the thing, being the vicar’s nephew, he has to sing in the church choir when he is on holiday from school—even William could tell that. She and Margaret listened to his story quite gravely, and Mrs. Bradley offered to accompany him to the Moat House and see what was to be seen. Margaret was inclined to favour the idea that Mr. Gatty had been murdered, but, pressed for a reason, could only say that he was a horrid little man and that such awful things happened nowadays. So all three of them went to the Gatty residence. Sir William and the men were finishing the port, of course, and did not accompany them. Didn’t know they were going, in fact, I suppose.
Mrs. Gatty herself opened the door to them, and Margaret opened the conversation by asking whether Mr. Gatty had indeed met with foul play. Mrs. Gatty did not answer that, but kept looking nervously at Mrs. Bradley and muttering,
“Serpent, or is it crocodile? Serpent, or is it crocodile?” Just the sort of remark, in fact, that gave visitors such a bad impression. Luckily, however, Mrs. Bradley, who had been staying at Sir William’s house for more than a week, and so, of course, must have heard of poor Mrs. Gatty and her peculiarity, was not put out by the quaint old girl’s rather remarkable greeting, and replied courteously,
“Crocodile, I think. I am generally considered to be definitely saurian in type. Yorkshire people often are, you know. It is interesting, I think, to note how the types vary from county to county, and even from village to village.”
This launched Mrs. Gatty on her favourite topic, it seems, and Mrs. Bradley had some difficulty in switching the conversation back to Jackson Gatty.
“Ah, Jackson,” said Mrs. Gatty. “Yes, Jackson, of course. Well, it’s all over, bar the discovery of the body.”
“And where is the body?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
“If you only knew this village as I know it,” said Mrs. Gatty, to William’s great disappointment, for, of course, he wanted to hear details of the murder, “you would sit here and laugh and laugh and laugh, just as I do. Oh, it’s too funny for words! Of course, the vicar’s wife is the funniest of the whole lot.”
“Look here, Mrs. Gatty,” said William, but no one took any notice of him.
“I call her Mrs. Camel,” went on Mrs. Gatty, “because she squeals and bites on the slightest provocation, and then kneels to pray. And then there’s that creature at the Bungalow. A Kept Woman, my dear Mrs. Crocodile! What do you think of that?”
“Shocking, interesting and anachronistic,” replied Mrs. Bradley. At least, that is what I think William meant to say; and Mrs. Gatty, I suppose, spent quite a couple of minutes digesting this summary of the world’s Babylonian heritage, for William says that she sat quite still for ages, while he finished dotting down the conversation in his Scout’s notebook. At last she nodded in a solemn manner.
“Somebody at the Manor House could say more than that if he chose. And then take this girl Tosstick,” she continued. “That whole business is incredible to me, simply incredible from first to last. First, she is not the kind of girl to have an illegitimate child at all; secondly, she ought to publish the father’s name, as all the village girls do, so that we can all make sure she is treated rightly by the young fellow; thirdly, I suppose the child is deformed as no one is allowed to see it; and, lastly, there is the singular conduct of the people at the inn.”
“In what way is their conduct singular?” enquired Mrs. Bradley, politely.
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Gatty. “It just strikes me as singular that they should be so charitable. You know, that Lowry even gets a commission on the cocoanuts for the village fête, and he never gives the village children more than a farthing on the bottles they bring back. They find them in the roads left by picnicking parties, and he ought to give the poor little dears a halfpenny, as I do when they bring me bottles for my home-made wine. He is certainly dead by now. Jackson, I mean, of course.”
William noticed that Mrs. Bradley had also produced a small notebook, and was surreptitiously dotting down—in shorthand, William thinks—all that Mrs. Gatty said. I discovered afterwards that it was none of the recognised methods of writing shorthand, of course.
“Poor Jackson,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Well,” said Mrs. Gatty, “if a man will be a wolf, he must be caged like a wolf. And the joke of that is, that he is caged in the sheep-fold. That’s funny, now, isn’t it?”
“Funny and clever,” said Mrs. Bradley, noting it down.
“Caged, you know,” said Mrs. Gatty. “So funny that he should be caged. What awful weather for the time of year!”
“And caged in the sheep-fold! I must remember that!” said Mrs. Bradley. She gave her awful cackle, William said, and rose to go. When they all got outside the Moat House, and Mrs. Gatty had shut the door, Mrs. Bradley sent Margaret home to the Manor House and was just about to speak to William when Mrs. Gatty came flying down the drive and grasped Mrs. Bradley’s arm.
“And do you know what I think?” she said.
“No,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“I think Mrs. Camel believes her reverend husband is the father of Meg Tosstick’s baby,” said Mrs. Gatty.
(William, in his narrative to me, interpolated here, “What rot, Noel, isn’t it?” I concurred verbally with this view, but inwardly I was far from sure. The woman Coutts is capable of any frightful thought, so far as I can see!)
Mrs. Gatty, having voiced her opinion, turned and darted up the drive again, and Mrs. Bradley said to William:
“Has the church a crypt, child?”
“Yes,” said William. The evening was drawing in.
“Then lead me to it,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And let us hasten, for I perceive that it is beginning to rain.”
So William escorted her to the church. They passed through the lych-gate and skirted the south door, which is early Norman, of course, and soon reached the flight of stone steps which lead down to the crypt. A heavy iron gate breaks the flight about two-thirds of the way down.