Mrs. Sturdy guffawed, and her cheroot landedon the rag rug beside her chair. She stamped it out with one savageblow of her leather slipper, as she said to Cobb, “I take it you’rereferrin’ to the gentleman who puked all over yer boots onmy verandah a coupla weeks ago?” She raised her gin-glass towardsher mouth, but snorted so vehemently at her own witticism she hadto stop it mid-way and watch it splash across her lap. “God damnit!” she cried, still laughing. “I hate to waste the stuff on agood dress!”
But Cobb was not eyeing the gin-stain seepingamong the tulips. He was reminded once again of that incident onthe verandah: not the vomit on his boots but the threat thatHarkness had made. Cobb could not remember its precise nature, buthe knew it was made against Elmgrove and that it had been utteredin deadly earnest. It was clear now that Giles Harkness had to beconnected somehow with the murder of Graves Chilton. Even thoughHarkness could not have known the man, he must have viewed him as ausurper, and would have found a ready ally in Austin Bragg. Butwhen could they have met to collaborate?
“What can you tell me about Harkness?” Cobbasked after a pause, in which his hostess found time to lightanother cheroot with a nearby candle.
“Well, for one thing, he ain’t here,” shesaid, finally getting the gin where she had been aiming it, andcapping the pleasure with a hefty puff on the cheroot.
“You mean he’s left yer place?”
“I do. The bastard skedadelled a week agoSunday. Up an’ left early in the mornin’, owin’ me fifty cents rentmoney. If he ever shows his ugly mug here again, I’ll run his ballsthrough my sausage-grinder.”
Cobb sighed. Harkness apparently haddisappeared just two days after that Friday evening when Cobb haddragged him out of The Cock and Bull and dropped him on Mrs.Sturdy’s porch. This was not the sort of news Cobb wished to hear.“Any idea where he went?”
“I know exactly where he went.”
“Outta town?”
“All the way to Burford, a hundred milesoutta my reach!”
“How do you know this, if he just up an’ tookoff?”
“Found a letter in his room, didn’t I? Seemssome farmer down that way raises a few horses an’ heard our friendwas outta work. The letter invites him to come down an’ try hishand at tamin’ them broncos. But the only thing I ever seen himtame was a bottle of cheap sherry.”
“I’d like to see this letter, if Imight.”
“I’ll get it fer ya. Meanwhile, unbutton thatdreadful jacket an’ make yerself comfortable.”
She got up with some difficulty and lumberedinto one of the nearby rooms. Cobb tried not to watch her tulipsshimmy. A minute later she came out with the letter. Cobb read itright through. It was definitely a job offer from one SimeonMortimer near the village of Burford.
“An’ you’re sure he left town on account ofthis?”
“I’ve had two of his drinkin’ pals lookin’out fer him. He ain’t appeared in any of his usualwaterin’-holes.”
Disappointed, Cobb realized there was littlemore to be gained here. At the door, he tried one last question.“Did Harkness ever have any contact, here or elsewhere, with afella named Austin Bragg?”
“Don’t know the name. An’ Mr. Harkness didn’tentertain a lot.”
Cobb thanked her and headed down the porchsteps.
“Hey,” Mrs. Sturdy called after him, “youain’t touched yer drink!”
***
At four o’clock Marc could contain himself nolonger. He had spent a frustrating half-hour making notes on theinterview with Abel Struthers and then reading carefully throughthe notes Cobb had left from his morning downstairs. It simply hadto be Bragg. The disgruntled Tremblay was a possibility, of course,in that he could have taken the laudanum when he left the bathroomabout a quarter to ten, doctored the sherry he had cached in hisluggage, and slipped down to Chilton’s office after he heardLaFontaine come back. But the motive was weak. There were manyother ways in which Tremblay might wreck the negotiations, short ofmurdering the butler and risking the noose. Tremblay had beenthrough the wars, perhaps had killed even, but he had a needyfamily back in Quebec and had ambitious plans for his own future.Moreover, Marc did not want it to be him.
Marc decided he would not wait for Cobb withnews of a conspiracy between Bragg and Harkness: he would go toPrissy Finch and break Bragg’s alibi. He met Macaulay outside thebilliard-room, looking frayed and anxious.
“We’re getting close,” Marc said. “I need tofind Miss Finch right away.”
Macaulay seemed desperate to ask for details,but said evenly, “I sent her down to the kitchen for biscuits aminute ago.”
Marc headed for the servants quarters. As hewent down the stairs and pushed open the door to the kitchen, healmost knocked Prissy and her tray of sweets flying backwards.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not to worry,” Prissy said quickly enough,but she was obviously flustered.
But not by the sudden appearance of thepolice interrogator: it was the scene behind her that had upset herand sent her hurrying towards the stairs. Hetty Janes was sittingin Mrs. Blodgett’s rocking-chair with a ten-fingered grip on itswooden arms. She was rocking furiously up and down, like a child inmid-tantrum, and tears were streaming down her face. Her sisterTillie was waving ineffectually at the rocker as it whizzed backand forth past her, and chanting, “It ain’t yer fault, Het, itain’t yer fault! You gotta stop!”
Before Marc could blink or say a word, Prissyhad scooted past him and up the stairs to the rotunda. In front ofhim, Hetty Janes — startled by the abrupt arrival of a tall,authoritative gentleman — stopped rocking. For several seconds theonly sounds in the room were the diminishing squeaks of the chairand the ritual snuffling of the distraught young woman.
“Oh, Mr.Edwards,” Tillie cried as she reachedout and finally brought the rocker to a halt. “You’ve come just intime!”
“I have?”
“Hetty has somethin’ she’s gotta tell you,but we ain’t been able to quiet her down enough to have her utter asensible word. She keeps blamin’ herself, which ain’t right.”
Hetty choked back a sob far enough to say, “Ijust hope we ain’t woke up Mrs. Blodgett. You mustn’t tell her,Til. Promise.”
“She won’t blame you anyways, Het. You knowthat, so there’s no need to carry on so. It ain’t the end of theworld.”
Marc took a couple of steps towards thesisters, who had momentarily forgotten him. “What isn’t the end ofthe world?” he said gently. “What is it you need to tell me,Hetty?”
Hetty blushed extravagantly, but was alreadyso red and blotched from weeping that it made little difference toher ravaged appearance. She looked at her sister: “Oh, I couldn’t,Til. You gotta do it for me.”
“I’d like one of you to tell me,” Marc said alittle less gently.
“It’s embarrassin’ fer everybody,” Tilliesaid, “but it’s gotta be said. Mr. Edwards, Austin was fibbin’ whenhe told you he spent the night with Prissy. He couldn’t have,because he never left Hetty’s bed, not fer one minute.”
Marc was speechless. The claim seemedincredible. Why would Bragg coerce or wheedle his fiancée intolying for him if he had a ready-made alibi in Hetty Janes? More tothe point, would the too-handsome fellow deign to spend a night ofpassion with such a plain, thin little thing? Something was amisshere.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Tillie said.“But Prissy an’ Austin had a dreadful row — we both heard it — an’Prissy went slammin’ inta her room. Hetty says Austin saw her dooropen an’ her peekin’ out, an’ he just sidled up an’ eased her backinside. He was mad at Prissy an’ he wanted to get even.”
Hetty began to snuffle again.
“He put his hand over her mouth an’ — an’ hadhis way with her,” Tillie said in a tone that conveyed bothamazement and outrage.
Marc wanted to ask why Hetty had not criedout, but suspected the answer would be too painful for everybodyconcerned.
“It was me who let him stay,” Hetty bawled.“I’m the one to blame. And I’m sure Prissy guessed what I done whenshe seen me in such a state next mornin’.”