They Walk in Darkness Page 13

  ‘I think I agree with you,’ said Peter. ‘There’s Sherwood and his wife . . .’ He signalled to them and they came over.

  ‘I hear you are coming to dinner tonight?’ said April, smiling, and looking very pretty in a short fur coat over a black suit. ‘Anthony told me he’d invited you both . . .’

  ‘We’re looking forward to it,’ said Ann. She had taken an instant liking to this dark girl with the grave eyes and the humorous mouth when she had first met her at Miss Wymondham’s, in the same way as she had taken an instant dislike to Laura Courtland. There was something very genuine and sincere about April Sherwood. She took the trouble to think for herself and did not merely reproduce the ideas and opinions of others, which was a refreshing change in this age of standardization and mass production where the majority thought, acted, and even looked, like so many peas in a pod. She possessed the rapidly vanishing quality of individuality.

  ‘Who,’ said Peter, suddenly, ‘is that extraordinary-looking woman who’s just come in?’

  Anthony Sherwood followed the direction of his eyes and smiled.

  ‘That is our chief exhibit,’ he remarked. ‘Isn’t she, April?’

  His wife nodded, her eyes dancing.

  ‘Exhibit is right,’ said Peter, watching the woman who had aroused his interest with astonished eyes. ‘Good Lord! She must be fifty if she’s a day . . .’

  ‘Darling, I think you’re being very rude,’ broke in Ann, admonishingly. ‘The poor woman can’t help her age . . .’

  ‘She can help trying to look as though she were seventeen,’ said Peter. ‘My God, just look at her hair . . .’

  ‘Miss Flitterwyke is still under the impression that she’s both youthful and attractive,’ murmured Anthony. ‘She’s the terror of every man in Fendyke St. Mary. That’s Miss Overy from the dairy she’s talking to . . .’

  Peter looked at the two women curiously. Miss Flitterwyke was tall and very thin. Her long bony face was framed in a mass of very fluffy, very yellow hair, and as she talked she had a habit of fluttering her eyelids and simpering. In a young girl it would have been irritating enough, but in Miss Flitterwyke’s case the result was ghastly — rather like an Egyptian mummy trying to be coy. Miss Overy was a little, fat, pleasant-faced, grey-haired woman who looked acutely embarrassed at having been singled out for Miss Flitterwyke’s girlish attentions, and kept edging away in a desperate and futile attempt to evade her. Miss Flitterwyke, however, was not to be evaded. As fast as her victim retreated, she pressed forward with coy determination, fluttering like a butterfly, until finally Miss Overy was brought to a stop against the wall, and pinned there, and had to resign herself to the inevitable. Peter’s amused contemplation of this little comedy was distracted by the arrival of a newcomer; a tall, lean man with a dark, saturnine face that was deeply scored with lines. His thin mouth was turned down at the corners and his eyes glowered from under rather bushy brows. His whole face was a sneer, embittered and unpleasant, as though the world in general had done him some serious and unforgivable injury. Peter pointed him out to Sherwood and inquired who he was.

  ‘That’s Gourley,’ said Sherwood, ‘Ralph Gourley. Gruff, unfriendly-looking chap, isn’t he? Nobody likes him and I don’t think he likes anybody . . .’

  ‘He was a friend of Fay Bennett’s,’ said Peter, watching the man take up a position as far away from everybody else as he could.

  ‘Was he?’ Sherwood raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, that surprises me. I shouldn’t have thought he was friendly with anybody. He usually ignores any attempt in that direction. He always gives me the impression that, at some period or other, he’d been through a lot of trouble and suffered pretty badly. But that may be just imagination on my part. Perhaps he’s one of those people who are naturally sour and taciturn.’

  The arrival of the coroner, a genial-looking little man, who reminded Peter of Mr. Pickwick, put an end to any further discussion concerning the disagreeable Mr. Gourley for the moment. The jury were sworn, and the coroner opened the proceedings. He explained the reason for the inquiry in a speech that was admirable for its brevity, and then took the evidence of identification. Felix Courtland was the first witness called and he gave his evidence in a voice that was still thick and hoarse from cold. The reason for the presence of the Reverend Gilbert Ray became plain when he was next called to the stand and identified the body of André Severac. One of the solicitors, with the appropriate name of Laws, was next. He identified the body of Robin Mallory, and the other, a man named Taplow, completed that part of the business by identifying the body of Fay Bennett. The medical evidence followed. Doctor Mipplin repeated, at greater length and in more technical language, what he had said at the Chief Constable’s conference on the previous day. Doctor Culpepper confirmed his statement, and then Peter was called. He explained how he had come to find the four bodies in the empty house and described the circumstances surrounding his discovery in detail. The coroner asked one or two questions that did not seem very important, and then Peter was dismissed and Ann took his place. Her story was, naturally, almost a repetition of Peter’s, and she was followed by Superintendent Odds. He briefly related how he had been called to Witch’s House by Mrs. Chard, and gave an account of what he had found there, ending by asking that the inquiry should be adjourned for a fortnight in order to give the police time to collect further evidence. The coroner, who had obviously been well primed beforehand, made no demur, and the proceedings terminated. It was all very tame and, to judge from the expressions on their faces, very disappointing to the onlookers who had evidently been expecting to see, and hear, something sensational.

  Peter, on his way out with Ann, Anthony Sherwood, and April, found himself next to Detective-Inspector Donaldson.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, pleasantly.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ answered the inspector, a little curtly, he thought.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’ asked Peter.

  ‘It’s a very strange business, sir; very strange altogether, and that’s a fact.’ Donaldson looked quickly round. Ann and the Sherwoods had gone on ahead and there was nobody near them. The coroner was still collecting his papers and talking to Superintendent Odds. ‘I’ve had a look round at the cottage,’ the inspector went on, dropping his voice.

  ‘Did you find anything fresh?’ inquired Peter with interest. ‘Anything to show how that fifth person came and went without marking the snow?’

  The inspector looked at him. It was a steady, calculating look, and it made Peter feel suddenly uneasy.

  ‘There were some marks near a clump of reeds,’ he answered. ‘The snow was all churned up as though somebody had stood there for some time. But the place was a good fifty yards away. So it couldn’t have had anything to do with this unknown fifth person who locked those four dead people in that room and took away the key . . .’

  ‘There must be some explanation,’ said Peter. ‘A person can’t walk over soft snow without leaving any trace . . .’

  ‘No, sir,’ interrupted the inspector, ‘and, therefore, there’s only one explanation that I can see at the moment. There were six sets of footprints — Miss Courtland’s, Miss Bennett’s, Mr. Mallory’s, Mr. Severac’s, and your own and Mrs. Chard’s . . .’

  ‘Well?’ said Peter, as he paused, but he guessed what was coming.

  ‘They were the only ones,’ continued Donaldson, quietly. ‘Not counting, of course, the ones made later by the Chief Constable, Superintendent Odds, Sergeant Quilt, and the constables. So it would seem, sir, that the only people who could have locked that door and removed the key were you, or Mrs. Chard . . .’

  Chapter Two

  So he’s seen it, thought Peter. Somebody was bound to before very long. He’d been wondering who would be the first to suggest that solution, for, of course, it was the obvious one. It was surprising that it had not occurred to Superintendent Odds, or Colonel Shoredust. It was the logical conclusion to reach from the evidence available, but, although he h
ad been expecting it, it startled him none the less to hear it put so bluntly.

  ‘I suppose,’ he remarked, speaking as calmly as he could, ‘that is what one would be driven to think. I can assure you, however, that you’re quite wrong. Neither I, nor my wife, locked the door, took away the key, or administered the poison which killed those four people. In fact we neither of us know any more about it than we have said.’

  ‘I haven’t accused you, sir,’ replied the inspector. ‘I merely said that it would seem . . .’

  ‘That,’ interrupted Peter, ‘is pure quibbling. Now isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, no, sir,’ said Donaldson, shaking his head. ‘I’m not saying you or Mrs. Chard actually did any of the things you deny having done. I’m only offering an explanation for an apparent impossibility. Can you suggest an alternative one?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Peter, candidly. ‘I can’t. But there must be one, because the one you suggest is wrong. Why on earth do you imagine that either my wife or I should want to kill four people who were utter and complete strangers? It doesn’t make sense . . .’

  ‘No, sir,’ agreed the inspector, ‘it doesn’t make sense as you put it . . .’

  ‘There’s no other way to put it,’ said Peter, sharply. ‘You’ll have to find another solution, inspector.’

  ‘Maybe we shall, sir,’ said Donaldson. ‘I understand that you and Mrs. Chard will be staying here for some time?’ He looked hard at Peter as he spoke and there was no mistaking what he meant.

  ‘Until the end of the month,’ answered Peter. ‘You needn’t worry that we’re likely to run away . . .’

  ‘I’m not worrying about that, sir,’ said the inspector, and his tone suggested that it wouldn’t be much good if they tried. ‘Well, I must be getting along. I’ve got a lot to do . . .’

  ‘Don’t waste your time chasing wild geese,’ said Peter, shortly, and went to join Ann and the Sherwoods, who were waiting for him at the door of the hall.

  ‘Who was that you were talking to, Peter?’ asked Ann, curiously.

  ‘That was Donaldson, the detective from Scotland Yard,’ he replied. ‘He’s just informed me that you and I are the chief suspects . . .’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Ann, incredulously. ‘The man must be crazy . . .’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s anything but crazy,’ said Peter, shaking his head. ‘From his point of view he’s particularly sane. The wonder to me is that nobody else thought of it. I did . . .’ He repeated his conversation with the inspector as they all walked up the street together. ‘The only thing that prevents him detaining us both on suspicion is that he can’t find any reason why we should have killed those people,’ he concluded.

  ‘It’s ridiculous!’ said April, indignantly. ‘Absolutely ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, but I can see his angle,’ said her husband, frowning.

  ‘So can anybody,’ put in Peter. ‘It’s the natural conclusion to come to on the evidence of those footprints. We know that he’s wrong, because we know that we had nothing to do with it, but he can’t be expected to know that . . .’

  ‘Peter,’ said Ann, ‘you don’t think we’re likely to be arrested, do you?’ She looked at him in dismay, and her expression was so ludicrous that he laughed.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘not until he can find some fresh evidence to confirm his theory . . .’

  She gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then,’ she said, lightly. ‘He can’t do that so we’ve nothing to worry about . . .’

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ said Anthony Sherwood, reassuringly. ‘It would be interesting to know, though, just how anybody did enter and leave that cottage without making any tracks in the snow.’

  ‘It would,’ declared Peter, emphatically. ‘I’ve puzzled over it for hours, but I can’t see how. Unless you accept the general theory in the village that it was the Devil . . .’

  ‘I might even accept that,’ said Sherwood, ‘but I doubt if Scotland Yard would . . .’

  ‘It’s no more absurd than thinking that Ann and Peter could have had anything to do with killing those people,’ put in April. ‘That’s just silly.’

  ‘Thank you, April,’ said Peter, smiling. ‘I take that as a great compliment . . .’

  ‘Well, it is silly,’ she declared. ‘I think the police are a lot of dunderheads. I’ve always said so, haven’t I, Tony? Look at the way they messed about over all those child murders, and what good did they do? They still went on . . .’

  ‘The police are all right so long as they have ordinary, straightforward crime to deal with,’ said Sherwood, ‘but put ’em up against something that’s out of the ordinary . . . something that they don’t understand, and they’re out of their depth. They’ve nothing to go on. They can’t consult fingerprint registers and dossiers and run through the usual routine. Don’t you agree, Chard?’

  ‘Partly, but not altogether,’ said Peter. ‘It may take them longer to adjust their methods to something new, but they succeed in the long run . . .’

  ‘It’s been a jolly long run over those baby killings,’ said April, indignantly. ‘Over eighteen months and they’ve done nothing . . .’

  ‘But Scotland Yard hasn’t been handling it all that time,’ said Peter. ‘They’ve only just started . . .’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ve started very well, if suspecting us is an example,’ remarked Ann.

  ‘They don’t suspect us of having anything to do with the child murders,’ answered Peter. ‘They’re treating the two things as separate cases . . .’

  ‘Don’t you believe they are separate cases?’ asked Sherwood, quickly.

  ‘Personally I don’t,’ said Peter. ‘It’s no good asking me why I don’t. I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even know myself. But it seems to me that they must be connected . . .’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ said April, turning a questioning face to him.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Peter. ‘It’s just that I can’t imagine that in a small place like this there could be two separate murderers . . .’

  ‘That’s not a very convincing reason, darling,’ observed Ann.

  ‘I know it isn’t,’ agreed Peter. ‘It really isn’t a reason at all. It’s just my feeling in the matter.’

  They had reached the Red Lion, and Anthony Sherwood suggested a drink. The suggestion seemed agreeable to everybody and they went in. The place was very full. Apparently quite a fair proportion of the people who had attended the inquest had come along to refresh themselves and discuss the matter. Several of the newspaper reporters were drinking beer and chatting at the bar, and Peter saw the nondescript figure of Detective-Sergeant Porter standing aloof in a corner, staring into a pint tankard, and taking no notice at all of what was going on around him.

  Sherwood made his way to the bar, after finding out what they would drink, and was greeted with a beaming smile from the buxom landlady. Peter and Ann came in for some curious and interested glances, but the hostility which they had sensed before was no longer there. They had evidently been accepted as part of the community.

  Sherwood came over with two gins and Italians for Ann and April, and went back to fetch beer for himself and Peter.

  ‘The beer here is very good,’ said Peter, after sampling the contents of his tankard. ‘I discovered that the other morning.’

  ‘It’s draught Bass,’ said Sherwood, ‘but it’s mostly the way it’s kept. The best beer can be ruined if it isn’t looked after properly. Old Ruddock is an expert . . .’

  ‘Is that the landlord?’ asked Peter.

  Sherwood nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You don’t often see him about in the daytime. He leaves it to his wife. He comes out at night like the evening primrose . . .’

  ‘Anything less like a primrose than Sam Ruddock would be difficult to find,’ remarked April. ‘You’re not very good at simile, Tony.’

  ‘You seem to know everybody round here pretty well,’ said Peter, laughing. ‘H
ave you lived here long?’

  ‘Quite a while,’ answered Sherwood. ‘Must be getting on for five years now . . .’

  ‘It’s more than that, dear,’ interposed April. ‘We came here just after we were married, and we’ve been married six years . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t seem as long as that,’ he said, smiling at her affectionately. ‘We like this part of the country, you know. It’s not to everybody’s taste, but it suits us, doesn’t it, darling? I’ve got a wherry at Hinton, and when the weather’s fine we go off, for weeks at a stretch sometimes, exploring the Broads . . .’

  ‘That must be lovely,’ said Ann. ‘I should like that.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything to beat it,’ said Sherwood, with enthusiasm. ‘Give me a boat and you can have all the cars that were ever made.’ He drained his tankard and looked at his watch. ‘I say, we must be going,’ he added, hastily. ‘I’ve got an appointment at twelve . . .’

  ‘Have another drink before you go?’ said Peter, but he shook his head.

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ he said. ‘But don’t let that stop you. Come along, April . . .’

  ‘Cheerio,’ said his wife, with a smile. ‘We’ll see you both tonight. Seven-thirty, and don’t be late . . .’

  ‘I like those two,’ observed Peter, when they had gone. ‘There’s something very nice about them.’

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Ann. ‘Are you going to have another drink, darling?’

  ‘Well,’ he raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled down at her, ‘it might be a good idea, don’t you think?’

  She sighed and held out her empty glass.

  ‘To think that I am tied for life to a dipsomaniac,’ she said, dramatically. ‘I’ll have another gin and ‘it’, please, darling . . . and make it a large one . . .’

  Chapter Three

  Detective-Inspector Donaldson laid aside the transcript of Detective-Sergeant Porter’s shorthand notes, which he had been studying, and sat back with a sigh in the uncomfortable chair behind the battered desk in Fendyke St. Mary’s inadequate police station. He was quite alone in the small cottage. Police Constable Cropps was on duty, and Sergeant Porter had been entrusted with certain inquiries which would keep him occupied for quite a considerable time. Superintendent Odds, having arranged with the coroner for the inquest on the body of poor little Joan Coxen, had gone to Hinton with Sergeant Quilt, to attend to some routine work that was waiting to be cleared up, and to report the result of the inquest that morning to Colonel Shoredust.