‘Why not? I thought you said— ’
‘Yes, but, you see, when we were pretending to begin some archaeological excavations at the circle of the Dancing Druids, a man came up to O’Hara and asked him why he had left the car on the night when he helped to carry the body.’
‘He did? Point-blank, like that?’
‘Apparently.’
‘So all of you could swear to this man?’
‘Yes, but it wouldn’t help very much with a jury, any more than— ’
‘No,’ said Sir Crimmond, thoughtfully, ‘I can see that. There are no other material witnesses except the body, which isn’t proved to be Allwright’s. It would be young O’Hara’s story against this fellow’s denials.’
‘He might not even deny it.’
‘Eh?’
‘O’Hara may be able to recognize Battle—I call him Battle because that is who it must be—but he could not possibly identify the body he helped to carry.’
‘Oh!’
‘It was wrapped and swathed in such a way that no features were distinguishable.’
‘So?’
‘So all that Battle, who is nothing if not a resourceful and desperate man, would need to do is to provide himself with an accident case—not difficult; the gang he and Cassius have had to employ is fairly large, and one or two of them that I myself have seen must be heavy men—and take you to hospital to see it. The “case” will have been primed with a tale— ’
‘But a hospital would see through a malingerer in half a minute!’
‘The man wouldn’t be a malingerer,’ Mrs. Bradley pointed out in gentle tones. ‘He would be a genuinely wounded man. Battle and Cassius would certainly see to that. In fact, I should say that such a “case” has existed since the day that Firman saw Gascoigne and O’Hara at that farm on the Sunday morning.’
‘Then wouldn’t he give the game away through sheer annoyance at having been victimized? This fellow they crocked, I mean.’
‘Not if he has been told that his life depends upon his compliance, do you think? And, of course, he’s been very well paid. The only thing is that he was not at a local hospital. Still, they will have thought of the time-factor. He will be in a hospital outside the county boundaries.’
‘Then how are we going to get them?’
‘I want you to arrest Battle’s wife and his son David.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘It’s our only chance, and you must do it at once, and not bother about a warrant.’
‘I won’t do it! Good Lord, what next? Gangster methods, nothing less! I’m surprised at you for suggesting such a way out!’
‘Very well. It’s the only solution, so far as I can see at present.’
She was silent. The Chief Constable glanced at her once or twice, but her witch-like countenance was as calm as the face of a Chinese, and her brilliant eyes were closed, displaying long black lashes against cheeks the colour of old ivory. Her ungloved, claw-like hands were gently clasped in her lap, and the September sun glinted suddenly on the jewels in her rings, giving the Chief Constable a start, as though a dagger had been flashed before his eyes.
‘Well, suppose I did do it?’ he said presently.
‘I think that the birds might fly,’ said Mrs. Bradley, opening her eyes. ‘You can, I imagine, find some reason for arresting Battle and Cassius for trying to leave the country?’
‘Ah,’ said the Chief Constable, looking happier. ‘And you think the wife and son will give us all the evidence we want?’
‘Yes, and you will obtain more from the death of Firman. There is nothing very secret about that. But— ’
‘Don’t you think that as a result of that—if they did it! We’ve no evidence, mind!—they will cut and run before we arrest the wife and son?’
‘I don’t know whether they can.’
‘We can have the ports watched, just in case— ’
‘They won’t leave from a port,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘They will leave from their smugglers’ hole. They’ve got their own ship, remember! The one which they used to carry the pictures. But they will have to get in touch with her, and, if you act quickly, they won’t have very much time.’
‘Which of them did kill Firman, do you suppose?’
‘Cassius, I should say.’
‘But Battle—if that’s who it is!—is surely the killer, from what you’ve told me.’
‘Yes, but I expect he wanted to have Cassius as deeply implicated as he is himself. Besides, although we’ve no evidence that Cassius is a killer, there’s not much doubt that his son is a murderous little brute.’
‘Yes, but— ’
‘I always think the Copper Beeches is one of the best of the Sherlock Holmes stories, and, in my own profession, you know, we learn a good deal about parents from a careful study of their children.’
‘But I’m going to have a warrant, all the same,’ said Sir Crimmond suddenly. ‘I had to call on Beauchamp, anyway.’ He lay back in his seat, looking pleased. ‘What was that last “but” of yours?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No,’ said Laura decidedly. ‘I’m not going to be a decoy duck for anybody! If I sit for the bloke it’s to be because he wants to paint me, and not just to keep him busy while the police come along to arrest him. You can keep me out of it.’
‘I only asked! I only asked!’ said Sir Crimmond, annoyed. ‘What on earth a respectable young woman is thinking about to be painted like that by a fellow who is no better than a common criminal, I don’t know. If you were my daughter—!’
Laura put out her tongue at him, and went out, humming a tune.
‘Confound this new-fangled morality,’ growled the irate man. ‘Imagine a girl willing to be painted in the nude and yet not willing to assist the police in the execution of their duty by keeping the fellow busy until we can get along to arrest him!’
‘Speeches on morality from a man who is willing to persuade a girl to act like a Judas, and yet himself won’t do a simple, illegal little thing like arresting a man without a warrant, gives me food for thought,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I am on Laura’s side.’
‘Oh, you women always stick together!’ said the Chief Constable pettishly.
‘If we did, we should have ruled the world long ago,’ Mrs. Bradley retorted. ?Arrest the man, and don’t keep cackling about it. But, if I were you, I’d arrest the woman first. Send your police to Newcombe Soulbury, to Cottam’s and to the farm simultaneously. She’s sure to be at one of them, unless they’ve spirited her away.’
But Mrs. Battle—a name she confessed to as soon as she saw Inspector Fielding, who came (armed with a warrant), to arrest her, had not been spirited away.
‘She says she doesn’t know a thing about Battle,’ said the Chief Constable peevishly to Mrs. Bradley, later, ‘except that he belonged to a Fascist organization and had to “disappear” as a precautionary measure. She affects to believe that it’s in connection with pro-Fascist activities that we want to arrest him now, but swears she knows nothing about that side of his life. She says he’s been a good husband, and that’s all she cares about. She also reminded Fielding that we can’t use her evidence against Battle. So that’s your precious idea gone west, as I knew it would! Now what do you suggest?’
‘That you try your luck with David Battle,’ said Mrs. Bradley, unperturbed by these slurs upon her theories. But David Battle’s reactions were not more helpful than those of his stepmother. He would answer any questions the police liked to ask, he would go to prison, he would be hanged if necessary, so long as he was allowed to paint Laura Menzies as Atalanta, Hippolyta, or, as he now thought likely, Artemis Orthia.
‘Did he really say that?’ Mrs. Bradley immediately enquired.