‘Or else the key was stolen from him –’
‘More likely.’
‘Or perhaps he was bribed by the murderer to hand it over.’
‘That’s quite possible, too. I’ve interviewed the fellow – as sawny a specimen as you’d wish to meet – and he swears he did lose it, but he can’t say when or how. He had it on the previous Saturday, because he unlocked the shop with it. He thinks he may have left it sticking in the door, which has a patent lock. He has done that once or twice, and remembered it or seen it there later in the day. Personally, I got the impression he knows all about that key. I reckon he was bribed for it. Now, assuming that is what happened, you see, it means that the crime was not committed in a moment of sudden anger, but was premeditated.’
‘Yes,’ said the inspector, ‘that’s a point, sir, in Redsey’s favour, judging from what I can gather of his character. He might easily fly into a rage and hit somebody over the head, but a premeditated crime, all worked out and arranged beforehand – no, I can’t see Redsey doing things that way. Hot-headed, sir, that’s my opinion; but real vicious, no.’
The superintendent nodded.
‘But what I do think ought to be undertaken next,’ he said, ‘is a thorough search of those woods. After all, we don’t know that the dismembered body is Sethleigh. He may still be lying hidden in some bushes, for all we can tell.’
‘An idea, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘I shall need some help to do a job like that thoroughly.’
‘You’d better take a couple of men and have a go at it this afternoon,’ remarked Bidwell.
‘Very good, sir. And then there’s the question of the Bossbury corpse’s clothing. I suppose nothing’s turned up?’
‘Not a sign nor a stitch of it. I’ve still got men on the job, of course. Something’s bound to turn up in connection with the clothes sooner or later. It is just a question of time.’
‘Then there are those fingerprints on the cleaver and knife at the butcher’s shop. Luckily, Binks the butcher hadn’t handled any of his tools that morning by the time we arrived on the scene.’
‘No. We took his prints, but of course they don’t correspond with any that are on the implements. Luckily again for us, there was no confusion about the prints, because he always washes up his things, including the top of the chopping-block, before he leaves the shop each night.’
‘Of course the prints don’t correspond with any that we know?’ enquired the inspector gloomily. ‘That’s the worst of murder. It isn’t a profession, like burglary, where you can dig out the prints of all the old lags and check them up against the new stuff.’
‘Never mind,’ said the superintendent, whose self-appointed mission seemed to be the soothing of restless subordinates, ‘we’ve got the prints, and I dare say we shall find a use for them in time. They may be those of that sawny lout of a lad that serves in Binks’s shop. I’ll have another go at him to-morrow.’
II
Jim Redsey sat moodily on the steps of the Club House at Culminster and chopped viciously at the turf with his putter. He was alone. Courteously, but quite definitely, three people he knew had cold-shouldered him. Even the pro. had looked at him with a kind of dubious curiosity and had kept out of his way.
A small shrivelled woman stood at the gate and watched him.
‘Surely I’ve seen that large young man before?’ she said.
Felicity Broome nodded.
‘That’s Jimsey,’ she said. ‘Rupert Sethleigh’s cousin, you know.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Bradley. Then, after a pause, she added, ‘I am going over to speak to him, child. You stay here.’
Felicity, who had discovered to her secret amusement that people always did as Mrs Bradley told them, remained at the gate.
‘Young man,’ said Mrs Bradley.
Jim started.
‘That’s better. Put down that dangerous-looking thing and tell me why you are not playing golf to-day.’
Jim, who, of course, knew Mrs Bradley by sight, as did everyone in Wandles Parva, grinned and stood up.
‘Sit down again,’ commanded Mrs Bradley, ‘and I will sit beside you. Now answer the question.’
Jim, who was prepared to like Mrs Bradley very much simply because his Aunt Constance hated and feared her, sat down again.
‘All the cheery souls here have indicated pretty clearly that they prefer my room to my company,’ he said. ‘I believe there are rumours current that I murdered my cousin Sethleigh a short time ago.’
‘And did you?’ enquired Mrs Bradley, in her devastatingly direct fashion.
‘Well,’ said Jim slowly, ‘at one time I thought I had, but I’m glad to say that I was wrong.’
‘This,’ remarked Mrs Bradley, settling herself as for a pleasant chat, ‘sounds remarkably interesting. May I hear more about it?’
‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘I’ve made up my mind to spill the yarn to the inspector and get it off my chest, so –’
‘So I have come just in time for the dress rehearsal,’ said Mrs Bradley, with hideous laughter.
Jim took up the putter again and began digging at the turf with it while he talked.
‘We had an argument on the Sunday night, Rupert and I,’ he said, ‘It was rather a stale argument. I wanted him to lend me some money, and he refused. Well, we started in the billiard-room, and were interrupted by the entrance of my aunt, Mrs Harringay, so we cleared out. We walked into the woods, still arguing. Rupert remained cool, like the silky devil he was, but I got a bit heated, and, to cut it short, I knocked him down.’
‘Ah, yes,’ murmured Mrs Bradley, nodding.
‘I was very unlucky,’ pursued Jim. ‘The silly ass, instead of falling on the soft ground, as you or I would have done, had to go and smash his silly head against the trunk of a tree.’
‘Ah – ah!’ said Mrs Bradley, interested.
‘Yes,’ said Jim, in honest wrath, ‘it was exactly the sort of dashed annoying thing a silly fat-headed idiot like Sethleigh would do! No thought of other people’s convenience! Never did have! Well, of course he lay so still and looked so white that I thought I’d killed him. I didn’t know what to do! There he was, eyes shut, mouth wide open, looking like God-knows-what, and I was in the devil of a funk! I thought of rushing up to the house for some water. Then I decided I’d better not leave him, perhaps. Then I remembered he was supposed to have a weak heart. I knelt down and tried to feel it beating. Couldn’t feel a thing! So with that I grabbed him by the armpits and lugged him into the middle of a thickish hazel copse and removed myself from the scene of operations as quickly as I could. Well, I pelted along to the “Queen’s Head” and went in. Then I got beastly tight. Then two chaps carted me home. Then my aunt got scared to think of having a drunken man in the house, so she locked me in for the night. And that’s all, except that I spent all next day in mooning about the house and keeping people out of the woods. Rupert had not returned, you see. I took jolly good care to find that out – strictly on the Q. T., of course. I was in a funk! That ass of a solicitor turned up and wanted to interview Sethleigh and everything! My hat! That was a day! Well, that night I went to bury Sethleigh’s body in the middle of the woods. He wasn’t there! So I know I didn’t kill him. See what I mean?’
‘And that’s the story you intend telling to the inspector?’ mused Mrs Bradley.
‘Yes,’ said Redsey. He flung down the putter and stood up.
‘Time to go home for lunch,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me to let the inspector go on guessing. I hate keeping secrets. Hullo! Is that Felicity Broome at the gate? You’ll let me give you both a lift back to Wandles, won’t you?’
‘And when are you going to tell your little tale to Mr Grindy?’ asked Mrs Bradley, as the Bentley spread her wings and glided along the Culminster road towards the village.