‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs Bradley with brusque finality, and left her. This was at nine of the church clock that morning. It was now a quarter to three, and the bus with its cargo of pleased old ladies had bucketed round the corner and was well upon its way. Having watched it out of sight, Mrs Bradley now sought out Aubrey Harringay.
‘First of all, I want James Redsey,’ she said. ‘Do you think he will come with us?’
Aubrey went to enquire, and found Jim in the billiard-room, listlessly knocking the balls about. He looked tired and worn. It had been an anxious fortnight. At any moment, he felt, the inspector might have him arrested for the murder of his cousin, and he knew just enough about the law to realize that it is easier to get caught in its gigantic and terrifying machinery than to get clear again. He slept badly, ate little, brooded, and loafed. Even Felicity, who loved him, had scolded and poured scorn on him.
‘You look like a murderer!’ she said one day, in complete but helpless exasperation. ‘Why don’t you buck up and look as though you don’t care?’
‘Well, I don’t,’ grunted Jim. ‘It isn’t much use caring, old thing. But if you caught that inspector’s eye boring holes in the back of your neck as often as I do, and if you never opened a door but he was behind it, and if you couldn’t even have a bath without seeing his ugly face come goggling against the frosted glass of the window or hearing his silly voice asking you idiotic questions through the ventilator shaft, perhaps you’d feel much as I do – that the Third Degree and the Spanish Inquisition were bedroom farces compared to the hunted-cat life I lead while he’s conducting his damned investigations. Why, I even took my aunt’s pet bowwows to my bosom the other day because Marie bit a piece out of the lad Grindy’s trousers, and he fell over Antoinette into the water-lily tank! And you know my general opinion of those galvanized sugar-pigs of hers!’
His voice was surcharged with emotion. Felicity pressed his hand.
And now, to add to his trials, here was this frightful dame named Bradley coming and invading the place and sending him idiotic invitations to play silly party games with pencils and paper at her house, and wanting him to take her into the woods, and show her the exact spot where he’d punched the blighter Rupert’s fatheaded jaw for him! It was a bit thick. He was damned if he’d go! Damned, he went.
Mrs Bradley grinned evilly. He thought he had never seen such a wicked old woman. She reminded him of some dreadful bald-headed bird he had seen in a picture at some time. Not that she was bald-headed, of course – but you got the same sort of sick feeling when you looked at her. And yet, on second thoughts, wasn’t she more like one of those reptiles – no, not reptiles! What was that word? – saurians! When she was amusing herself at your expense, which was ninety per cent of the time – and the other ten per cent was when she didn’t even seem aware that you were on the map at all! – her little smile was like that he had seen on the face of a newt – no, a sand lizard! – no, one of those repulsive-looking giant frogs. But when the woman really got in a nasty one and grinned a bit wider, why, then you could see what she must have been in a former existence! Those reincarnation johnnies were right! The bally woman had been on the earth before – as an alligator! Ugh! Man-eating! Ugh! He was jolly glad he hadn’t cut up old Rupert and hung him on hooks! He felt certain that, if he had done so, Mrs Bradley would not only have been perfectly aware of the fact, but was quite capable of thinking out a better way of doing it, and of disclosing the same with her hideously sinister cackle. He shuddered.
The three of them walked silently across the park.
At the edge of the Manor Woods, Mrs Bradley halted.
‘You first,’ she said to Aubrey. ‘Mr Redsey next. I will come last. Forward, children. Straight to the Stone of Sacrifice.’
A comparatively short walk in single file, along the narrow winding path by which Aubrey led them, brought them to the circle of pines. Even on this brilliant summer afternoon the place was eerie, gloomy, and chill. A faint wind moaned in the tops of the trees, although Jim Redsey felt certain that when he crossed the park the air had been hot and still.
Mrs Bradley walked up to the Stone of Sacrifice and laid a claw-like yellow hand upon its surface. The stone was reptile-harsh and curiously cold to the touch. She drew her hand away and gazed benignly at the strange old rock.
‘It reeks of evil,’ she said solemnly. ‘What blood was shed; what wicked deeds were done; what screams, what torture, and what agony this ancient monument has heard and seen, by great good fortune we shall never know.’
She turned abruptly to Jim Redsey.
‘Take the child over to the spot where you knocked your cousin down,’ she said.
Jim touched Aubrey’s arm and they walked about twelve paces.
‘Here,’ he said laconically. (Easier to humour the old girl. What was the game, anyway?)
‘Very well. Lie down, boy.’ Aubrey extended his thin form on the ground. ‘Like that, Mr Redsey?’
‘No. Get your head round to the left a bit more. Stick. That’s right.’
‘Thank you, Mr Redsey. Now haul him into the bushes. Oh, by the arms, was it? I don’t think your clothes will hurt, child. You must pick out the pine needles afterwards. Now, Mr Redsey, come out again and go off in the direction of the “Queen’s Head” at the pace which you took on the night of June 22nd.’
Jim leapt away to the right, crashing through bushes and leaping over brambles, and was lost to sight in less than three seconds.
‘Thank you!’ called Mrs Bradley. But the opportunity for flight thus offered him was too good to be missed, thought Jim. He affected not to hear her, ran swiftly down the path, and vaulted the wicket gate. He then walked at a swinging pace down the Bossbury-London road towards Culminster and re-entered the Manor grounds through the lodge gates.
Mrs Bradley chuckled gently.
‘Never mind. He’s done all that I wanted him to do,’ she said. ‘Now I want you to crawl out of those bushes where you are and advance into the clearing. Come slowly. You’re not feeling very well or very happy after that crack on the head you received when you struck your head against a tree in falling. Hands and knees. That’s right. And you are wearing a white shirt and light-grey flannel trousers.’ She stared unseeingly at his navy-blue blazer and white flannels. ‘At eight o’clock on a fine summer evening. At a quarter to nine on a fine summer evening. Yes, quite so. Get up, child. A great black slug. Indeed?’
She shook her head and wrinkled her brow.
‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘all these things are sent to try us. I’ll buy you some new flannels, boy, if you’ve spoilt those. Come and have another look at the Stone. Where are those bloodstains? H’m!’
She produced a reading-glass and examined them closely.
‘They haven’t found the weapon yet,’ said Aubrey unexpectedly, ‘with which old Rupert was done in. Wonder what it was?’
‘The weapon,’ responded Mrs Bradley, lowering her voice and almost hissing the words into his ear, ‘is washed and inspected so often that, if we saw it, the inspector wouldn’t know and I wouldn’t know and you wouldn’t know whether it was verily used to murder Rupert Sethleigh or not.’
‘Oh, you mean one of those butcher’s tools! Of course,’ agreed Aubrey, edging away from her.
Mrs Bradley cackled softly.
‘Perhaps I do mean that. And perhaps I don’t,’ she observed helpfully. ‘Go back into the bushes and lie down as you did before. Do you mind removing your blazer first? Thank you so much. That’s right. Hang it over that little branch over there.’
Aubrey walked off and was soon lost to sight in the hazel-copse.
‘Now we will try again,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Redsey has run away. You are unconscious. I am the person for whom the police are looking. I have seen Redsey knock you down. I conceal myself behind a tree.’