She did this, and then went on, in her rich, slightly drawling voice:
‘I have seen him drag you into the bushes. It occurs to me that he thinks you are dead. I have seen him dash away. I wait. I listen. Yes, he has gone for good. I emerge. I search the bushes.’
She did so.
‘I discover you lying prone upon the ground.’
She drew aside the hazel boughs and grinned fiendishly down upon the prostrate Aubrey.
‘Keep still. You are unconscious, remember. I seize you by the heels. (Yes, I really must provide you with some new flannels, child.) I drag you out into the clearing. I examine you. It occurs to me that I hate and fear you; that James Redsey believes he has accidentally killed you; that it is a golden opportunity to be rid of you for ever. I gag you with your own shirt, in case you should commence to recover consciousness before I decapitate you. Yes, it does seem a little indelicate on my part, but I’m afraid it must be done!’
She jerked at the buckle of his suède belt, and with incredible swiftness pulled his shirt over his head – (‘Here, I say, though!’ protested Aubrey, through two thicknesses of cream flannel) – and with a deftness born of nursing-experience in mental hospitals she turned him over and pulled the shirt off.
‘You won’t be cold. You’ve your vest,’ she observed thoughtfully. Aubrey was unable to reply, for in Mrs Bradley’s steel fingers the shirt made a clumsy but effective gag. She secured it in place by a clever use of the sleeves. The tail hung like a beard over his breast until she flung it up over his face, almost suffocating him.
‘I secure your wrists with your own belt,’ she continued. ‘Kick out hard if that shirt hurts too much. Then I put my foot against the soles of your shoes, seize your bound wrists and jerk you into a sitting position. Then I slip your bound wrists over my head so that you are clinging to my neck. Then I straighten myself (Heavens! What a length you are, child!) and carry you over to the Stone of Sacrifice. I lay you out flat on the top of it, face uppermost. Then I hack off your head! . . . No, not really. Cheer up! Some blood runs down the Stone. Poor boy! You are rather uncomfortable.’
She released his mouth and his wrists, and Aubrey swung himself to the ground. Mrs Bradley carefully unrolled the shirt, and shook it out. Aubrey disappeared modestly behind the Stone and put it on. He reappeared grinning and chafing his wrists, obviously not at all impressed by her version of how Sethleigh had been treated.
‘You’re hefty,’ he said admiringly, ‘but really –’
Mrs Bradley shrugged her thin shoulders.
‘Are you willing to conclude the little drama?’ she asked. ‘Good. Well, I wonder what to do next. SuddenlyI hear voices. A man and a girl are approaching the Stone. I have little time to think or to act. I lay the body on the ground a little way from the Stone’ – her eyes, assisted by the reading-glass, searched the grass – ‘here, I think, but the exact spot is not important. I take up the gag – that is, your shirt . . . (Yes, I know I have, but the murderer had less consideration. Besides, Sethleigh was dead – you’re not!), and take the head away with me. Also I release the wrists and take away the belt also.’
‘Old Rupert generally wore a silk scarf on grey bags,’ observed Aubrey helpfully, but still refusing to take her seriously.
‘Indeed? Easier to tie him up, then. I now conceal myself near at hand. The next bit of the proceedings is still rather obscure. You see, undoubtedly Margery Barnes and the man – whoever it was – I think I know, but I haven’t proved it yet – came upon the scene very soon after the head was hacked off. Now, I do not fancy the man saw Rupert Sethleigh’s dead body immediately they entered the clearing, and Margery Barnes undoubtedly did not see it at all. I don’t think it is outside the bounds of probability to suppose that she saw the Stone from the opposite side as they emerged from the path into the clearing and so did not spot the body. Just go over to the path down which James Redsey disappeared a little while ago, and tell me whether you can see me from there.’
She lay full length on the spot where she supposed the dead body of Sethleigh had been placed.
‘You cannot see me? Very well,’ she called. ‘Walk towards the Stone and sit down. Now get up and bear away to your left. Now glance this way and stand still the minute you can see any part of me.’
Aubrey walked on, round the immense Stone. This was rather a rag. He espied one of Mrs Bradley’s shoes, and halted.
‘Your foot!’ he called out promptly.
‘Very well. Walk on, and stop the moment you can see the whole of me.’
Aubrey obeyed.
‘Very well. Now run over to Dr Barnes’s house and bring Margery here, when you have marked the spot where you are standing. Here’s my penknife.’ She sat up, delved in her pocket, and tossed the knife with unerring aim. ‘Open the big blade and stick it in the ground.’
Aubrey was about to ask what excuse he should make to Margery for hauling her up to the Manor Woods on a hot and tiring afternoon, when Mrs Bradley stood up.
‘And when Margery has shown us exactly where she sat while the young man told her those tales of his, and I have told her the name of the said young man, I think we shall begin to find matters moving towards the detection of the murderer,’ she said. ‘Did Rupert buy his grey flannels ready made?’ she continued abruptly. ‘Oh, and do you know whether he was wearing a vest that Sunday night?’
‘No. Had ’em tailored by the chaps who made all his other clothes – Roundway & Down. Yes, always wore cellular trunks and vest – you know the things?’
‘Oh, thank you! That simplifies matters,’ said Mrs Bradley. Aubrey turned to go for Margery Barnes, but his movement was suddenly arrested. With a sharp sound, a yard-long arrow stuck quivering in the trunk of a tree. It had missed Mrs Bradley’s head by less than three inches.
‘Good Lord!’ said Aubrey, rather pale.
Mrs Bradley cackled with genuine gratification.
Before she could make any remark, however, the sallow-visaged Savile came bounding into the clearing past the white-faced, startled boy, and ran swiftly up to her. In his right hand he carried a six-foot long-bow. He was clad in a drab-coloured waterproof, and had a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. On his head was a green cap decorated with a startlingly tall pheasant’s feather. He raised this extraordinary headgear as he approached.
‘Dear me!’ he exclaimed in tones of consternation. ‘How terribly careless of me! I almost killed you! My dear Mrs Bradley, I scarcely dare hope that you will accept my apologies! This is what comes of practising for amateur theatricals!’
He opened his waterproof with the hand which was not holding the bow, and displayed a suit of Lincoln green.
‘How very charming!’ exclaimed Mrs Bradley. ‘Do let me hold your long-bow whilst you remove this outer husk.’
She seized the bow, and Savile, smiling in his suave, deferential, deprecating way, delicately removed the sad-coloured garment and stood displayed in all the beauty of Robin Hood tunic and hose. The reason for the feathered cap was now made apparent. A bulge they had noticed beneath the waterpoof transformed itself into a handsome hunting-horn, and, round his waist, Savile was wearing a leather belt on which a deer-skin wallet was gallantly and nattily slung.
It was an attractive costume, and Savile’s perfect figure set it off to great advantage.
‘Jolly fine,’ said Aubrey politely, with a boy’s instinctive aversion to fancy dress. Savile glanced down at slender legs shapely as an actor’s, struck an attitude, and smirked unpleasantly.