DEVIL'S RECKONING

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I

Mrs. Bale finished scrubbing out the wash-house of her cottage and, after looking round approvingly, emptied the pail. Then she returned to the kitchen, where the flowers which had been left during the course of the day lay in a bowl. It was the afternoon of Saturday, October 9th, and Mrs. Bale was alone, for her husband had gone off on his bicycle the eight miles to Flaxmouth, to have a look round the market.

She was a middle-aged woman, cheerful, bustling and intensely alive. It was a favourite saying of hers that time must hang heavy with those that couldn't find something to turn their hands to. This aphorism cannot have been born of her own experience, for nobody had ever known her idle. The flowers were the next job, for among the manifold duties she had taken on in the little village of Dellmead was the decoration of the church for Sundays.

As she glanced at the bowl, she thought the contents were not too bad for the time of year. Several of the neighbours had dropped in with bunches of assorted blossoms. Her own contribution was some fine sprays of golden rod from the front garden. Miss Hilary had brought some chrysanthemums that morning. Parson himself, barely half an hour ago, had called with an armful of Michaelmas daisies. One way and the other, she ought to be able to make a proper show. She put on her hat, arranged the flowers in a basket, and set out.

Her way took her along the straggling village street, bordered on one side by cottages, set some distance apart, and for the most part thatched, and on the other by a wide expanse of flat meadowland. On every side rose the downs, heaving their bare shoulders above the hollow in which the village lay. High above them, the sky was overcast with fleecy clouds rolling in from seaward. As Mrs. Bale tripped along, stopping now and then to exchange a word with the few neighbours she met, it seemed to her that there was a hint of rain in the air.

At the end of the village she reached the only signpost that the place possessed. It stood at a drunken angle, for a harvest wain had bumped into it a couple of months earlier, and it seemed nobody's business to set it straight again. In any case, the wording on its two arms was almost indecipherable. Not that this worried Mrs. Bale, who had lived in Dellmead all her married life. One arm read, “Flaxmouth, 8 miles.” The other, quite simply, “Church.”

She turned off along the narrow lane indicated by the latter, and almost immediately began to climb steeply. For over a quarter of a mile the lane, barely wide enough to allow the passage of a car, corkscrewed up the face of the down. It led first past a chalk-pit, with the ruins of a limekiln, long disused. Then past a gate, beyond which a garden sloped downwards towards a big Queen Anne house, partially hidden by a clump of beeches. On the gate was a brass plate, rather unexpectedly polished, bearing the inscription, “CJ. Grinstead, F.R.C.S., M.R.C.P.”

Still climbing, Mrs. Bale passed the gate, and shortly afterwards reached the summit of the down, where stood the little church with its short stumpy tower. In the porch she paused and sat down, a trifle out of breath. The basket of flowers had been heavier than she had reckoned for. Beneath the overshadowing canopy of cloud the atmosphere was marvellously clear. Wave after wave of rolling downs spread southward, towards the blur on the horizon that hung above the invisible Flaxmouth. Farther to the right, a gap in the continuity of the downs allowed a glimpse of the distant grey sea. Nearer at hand, the village lay before her like a child's toy; the flat meadowland, looking from here like a vast bowling green; beside it the scattered cottages, among them the village shop and post office, easily distinguished even at this distance by a big brightly coloured tin sign, advertising some polish or other, attached to the wall. At the farther end of the village, high up on a mound of its own, was a building which at first sight suggested a medieval fortress. All that was visible of it from the church was a forbidding stone wall, pierced here and there with narrow openings. From it the ground fell almost sheer to the flat expanse below.

This building was in fact no medieval stronghold, but nothing more romantic, than the local inn, with the rather unusual sign of the Crossbeam. This puzzled the few strangers who penetrated to Dellmead, until they became acquainted with local legend. The wall seen from the church was of undoubted antiquity, but was the only remaining vestige of the original building. A comparatively modern house had been constructed against it, the frontage of which looked out the other way. The inn, though small, had accommodation for a couple of visitors. One, in fact, a Canadian, Mr. Stewart Martin, was staying there at the present time. The tenant was Frank Vivian, who with his wife had taken over a couple of years previously. Although not natives, the Vivians could scarcely be described as strangers. They had formerly kept a beer-house in Flaxmouth, when Frank Vivian had been in the habit of visiting Dellmead, to have a drink at the house of which he eventually became landlord.

Standing at a lower level than the inn, but at no great distance from it, was the vicarage, which, as it stood, dated from the early nineteenth century. The site, however, was very much older than that. On it had stood a very early house, probably a hunting-lodge, contemporary with Prayver Priory, the ruins of which were still to be seen in the garden of the house now occupied by Dr. Grinstead. Why this position, nearly a mile from the church, had been chosen for the vicarage, nobody could now say. As usual, the building was on a generous scale, far too large for the present vicar, a widower in the thirties, with an only child, a boy now at school.

In remote English villages it frequently happens that surnames and place-names have become inextricably mixed. The explanation is simple enough. John, the swine-herd, was distinguished among his fellow Johns by the appellation of John of Withyford, from the village whence he came. In succeeding generations his descendants dropped the “of” and became known as Withyfords. It was not surprising that the vicar, the Reverend Justin Prayver, should bear the name of the ancient Priory. The reason for his doing so was simple. The flat meadowland had originally been known as the Pre Vert, becoming anglicised to Prayver. The Priory, established in the thirteenth century, naturally adopted that name. As did Rene de Pontorson, who styled himself Baron Prayver, when he acquired the surrounding lands a couple of centuries later.

And Justin Prayver was his descendant. At the time of his birth he had no prospects of succeeding to the title, being the son of a junior branch. But as a boy he had studied the family history, and conceived a romantic attachment for the place of its origin, though by that time the Prayvers had long ago abandoned the neighbourhood. After he was ordained, he was appointed to a curacy in the diocese, and when, a few years later, the living became vacant, was inducted as Vicar of Dellmead.

A series of deaths in the family had ensued, until less than a year before the present time, Justin had inherited the title and with it what little was left of the family fortunes. The dignity and the added wealth meant little enough to him, though he was glad for the sake of his son Michael, to whom he was devoted. But it set his parishioners a perplexing problem. They were accustomed to addressing him as “Mr. Prayver,” or just simply “Parson.” Were they in future to call him Lord Prayver? Justin himself solved the problem for them. He announced that he was a minister of religion first, and a peer merely by accident. He preferred the homely appellation Parson. If they were to address him more formally, it should be as the Reverend Prayver, no more.

Something of all this may have passed through the mind of Mrs. Bale as she sat for a few minutes in the porch of the church, regaining her breath. She was an intelligent woman, and not much given to flights of imagination. But even she was not quite uninfluenced by the legends which had clustered so thickly about the locality. It was one thing to go alone to the church in broad daylight. She had done that, hundreds of times, without untoward result. But it would be quite another to pay a solitary visit there, or even to cross the meadowland, in the dark. It was more than doubtful whether she, or many of her neighbours, would have consented to undertake that.

She got up briskly, telling herself that it was time to get a move on. Picking up the basket, she opened the church door, which was never locked in the daytime. Parson was very particular about that, maintaining that a church should always be accessible during reasonable hours. He kept the key himself, visiting the church in the morning to open it, and again in the evening, towards sunset, to lock it up for the night.

Within the church it was dark, for but little of the October afternoon light straggled through the narrow stained glass windows. But to Mrs. Bale, familiar with her surroundings, this was no deterrent. The church was not lighted electrically, depending for illumination upon a number of oil lamps, and it was certainly not worth her while to light one of these. She walked to the vestry, the tiled floor resounding to her footsteps. A slight shiver shook her, and she realised that the interior was distinctly chilly. Before very long, it would be time to get the furnace going over Sundays.

She reached the vestry, and busied herself there for a few moments. She put down the basket and took the empty vases from the shelf on which they were assembled. Then she picked up a large water-can, and with it left the building. In the churchyard, sloping gently towards the shoulder of the down, was an old well, equipped with a rather rickety windlass and bucket. She lowered the bucket into the well, and drew it up again, the windlass creaking rheumatically. As she filled the water-can, the clouds parted, and low down in the western sky appeared a pale autumn sun.

Re-entering the church, carrying the water-can, Mrs. Bale found a welcome change. The sun was streaming through the west window, filled with pale coloured glass. The details of the interior were fully revealed, the rows of pews, with here and there a shabby hassock. Against the north wall was a canopied tomb, with a slab upon which, if tradition were to be believed, had once lain a carved effigy. But this had long since disappeared, leaving the slab bare and naked. It was now used as a convenient place upon which to stack a couple of dozen hymn-books.

A shaft of sunlight, tinged a pale red by the glass of the west window, now fell upon this, compelling Mrs. Bale's attention. She glanced in this direction, then stopped dead, and stared intently. A trick of the light, surely, which made her see things. The effigy she had so often heard about, but of course had never seen. Well, it was there, back again. The effigy of a woman, lying peacefully, her hands folded upon her breast.

However could it have got there? Mrs. Bale put down the water-can, and tiptoed between the pews towards it. As she approached, she felt a surge of shocked resentment. The figure was there, all right, but it was not an effigy, but a woman of flesh and blood, and she was asleep. What did the hussy mean by stretching herself out like that on a tomb in church and going to sleep? Boiling with indignation, Mrs. Bale reached the motionless woman, laid her hand upon her shoulder, and shook her sharply.

It was only then that Mrs. Bale realised, with a gasp of horror, that the woman was dead.

II

Death, of himself, was no stranger to Mrs. Bale. She was familiar with most of his aspects, for she was usually called upon to assist in the laying out of those villagers who died from natural causes. But death in these unwonted surroundings took her unawares. She recoiled, shuddering, striving to overcome the impulse which made her rush from the building. In a second or two she pulled herself together, and peered intently at the dead face. She had never seen it before, it was the face of a complete stranger. As she looked, the clouds covered the sun once more, and a sudden shroud of darkness enveloped the figure.

This was too much for even Mrs. Bale's nerves. Quite unashamedly, she ran at full speed out of the church, to halt only when she reached the open air. She clasped her hand to her chest, breathing deeply, by no means really sure of the reality of her experience. She wasn't going inside again by herself to find out, that was a sure thing. What then? There was nobody about, nor likely to be, till Parson came to lock up. The doctor, of course. He was the nearest. He'd pretty sure to be at home at this time of day.

Hurrying as she did, it did not take Mrs. Bale very long to reach the gate on which the brass plate was displayed. She opened it, and pursued her way towards the house. As she did so, a girl appeared from behind a shrubbery, tall and handsome, with a competent expression. She was wearing an overall and garden gloves, and carrying a pair of shears. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bale!” she exclaimed gaily. Then, observing the consternation written large on Mrs. Bale's face, her voice took on a note of concern. “Why, whatever's the matter? You look as if you'd seen a ghost!”

“I've seen a sight worse than that, Miss Hilary,” Mrs. Bale replied breathlessly. “Is the doctor at home?”

Hilary Grinstead had never seen Mrs. Bale, usually so matter of fact, in such a state. Realising that something very much out of the ordinary must have happened, she laid down the shears and took off the gloves. “Yes, the doctor is in,” she said. “Come along, I'll take you to him.”

She led the way to the house, of which the front door stood wide open. Within was a vast hall, which immediately gave the visitor the impression of a museum. It was fitted with tables and glass-fronted cases, all piled with antiquities of every kind. For antiquities, particularly those of local origin, were Cecil Grinstead's obsession. It was because the neighbourhood of Dellmead abounded in such things that he had settled there, some years earlier, in a big house built by a Lord Prayver in the eighteenth century, since fallen into disrepair. He had restored as much of it as he required for his use, leaving the rest more or less ruinous. He was a bachelor, and his niece Hilary lived with him and supervised his household, which consisted of a series of daily helps from the village.

Hilary opened one of the doors that led from the hall, and ushered Mrs. Bale into a room as unlike a doctor's surgery as could be imagined. No bottles or instruments were visible, merely a quantity of books, and more cases filled with miscellaneous objects. The fact was that Cecil Grinstead, though fully qualified, practised merely as a sideline. He had ample means, enabling him to indulge his hobby without bothering about professional-earnings. It sometimes seemed that he regarded his patients as a nuisance. He was not in any way neglectful, and was always ready to give attendance at whatever inconvenience to himself. But it was his habit to pack off any case which threatened to be in the least serious, to the hospital at Flaxmouth, where the patient would be off his hands.

As the two women came in, Cecil Grinstead was sitting at a table in the window. He was in the early fifties, with iron-grey hair, massively built. His features were keen, and his expression slightly sardonic. He was examining an ancient copper coin with the aid of a reading-glass. As the door opened, he laid these aside and looked up expectantly. “I've brought Mrs. Bale to see you. Uncle,” Hilary explained crisply.

“Sit down, Mrs. Bale,” said Grinstead, assuming the professional manner. “Now, tell me the symptoms.”

Mrs. Bale flopped down into the chair and shook her head helplessly. The contrast between the dim and chilly church and this comfortable room was so great that the story she had to tell seemed incredible, even to herself. “It's not symptoms, sir!” she exclaimed incoherently. “It's what's lying up yonder, in church. I'd gone up as usual to do the flowers, and I might never have noticed it if the sun hadn't come out all of a sudden.”

Hilary, suspecting this was not to be a medical consultation, had remained in the room, just inside the doorway. Her uncle glanced at her, seeking some explanation of Mrs. Bale's words, but she shook her head-"I don't quite understand, Mrs. Bale,” Grinstead said gently. “What did you see lying in the church while you were doing the flowers?”

Mrs. Bale gulped excitedly. “I didn't know whether to believe my eyes or not,” she replied, in a curiously dazed voice, “And I wouldn't have gone back for another look, no, not if you'd paid me. But it was there, right enough. On that old slab where the hymn-books lay.”

Although Cecil Grinstead did not attend divine service, he was thoroughly familiar with every detail of the church, having frequently explored it for its antiquarian interest. “That old slab?” he asked. “You mean, I suppose, the fifteenth-century tomb of Alicia, Lady Prayver? Well, and what did you see lying on it?”

“A woman!” Mrs. Bale replied in a sepulchral whisper. “Lying there like a stone image. And she's dead!”

Grinstead, startled out of his accustomed calm, leapt to his feet. “What are you talking about?” he exclaimed angrily. “Stone image! Nonsense! Nobody knows what has become of that effigy. What do you mean?”

“Im sorry, sir,” Mrs. Bale replied timidly. “But I saw her there, I'll take my oath on that. And she wasn't stone, really, but a dead woman. I know that, for I touched her.”

Grinstead stood frowning at her incredulously, so long that he seemed completely nonplussed. “I must look into this,” he said at last with decision. “You'd better come with me, both of you.” Without stopping to put on coat or hat, he strode out of the house, to the gate, and up the lane, Hilary and Mrs. Bale following. In her haste Mrs. Bale had left the church door open, and without pausing he entered. The clouds had gathered more heavily than ever, hiding the sunset, and the church was almost in complete darkness. He felt his way towards the canopied tomb, stumbling over a hassock as he went. In such dim light as there was the figure upon it showed an unmistakable outline. Grinstead, tense and rigid, regarded it for a moment. Not until he had put out a hand and felt soft flesh did he relax. “It is a woman, after all!” he muttered in a tone of unexpected relief. “But what does this mean?”

He was speaking to himself, but the two women had followed him into the church and now stood beside him. His words, overheard by Mrs. Bale, restored her confidence. It wasn't a dead body she was afraid of, she had seen plenty of them in her time. Relieved by the assurance that she had not been the victim of some satanic manifestation, her natural common sense returned. “It's too dark to see proper, sir,” she said. “I could light one of the lamps, if I had a match. There's a box kept in the vestry. I'll go and fetch it.”

“Don't trouble,” Grinstead replied briskly. “I've got some matches in my pocket. Here you are.”

Mrs. Bale took the chimney from the lamp which stood on a pedestal at the end of the nearest pew. Striking a match from the box which Grinstead offered her, she applied it to the wick and replaced the glass. The lamp burnt up, throwing a diffused light on the figure on the slab. The three bent over it intently. It was that of a handsome, slim-figured woman, whose appearance suggested that she was under forty. Her complexion was elaborately made up, and she was expensively, even extravagantly dressed, with a profusion of rings and a heavy amber necklace. Her garments showed no sign of disorder, and her expression was completely peaceful, as was the position of her folded hands. Of blood or injury no trace was visible.

Grinstead was the first to speak. “Who is she?” he asked. “Do either of you know her?”

Both Hilary and Mrs. Bale shook their heads. But Hilary had caught sight of something which her uncle had not noticed. On the pile of hymn-books, stacked on the farther side of the slab, against the wall, lay an ornamental handbag. She pointed this out. “There may be something in that to tell us who she is,” she replied.

Grinstead reached over the body, picked up the bag, and carried it under the lamp. He opened it, and turned over the contents. A note-case, with a wad of notes in it, some small change, a box of face powder, and a lipstick. Nothing else, not even a handkerchief. Nothing that could throw the least ray of light upon the identity of the owner.

Grinstead put the bag back where he had found it. “After all, it's not my job to find out who she is,” he said. “I'm a doctor, not a detective. But what am I to do about it? I can't make a proper examination, here of all places. The vicar wouldn't think it decent. We'll have to get her taken away somewhere, and that's the job of the police, I suppose. I tell you what, Hilary. Run down to the house and ring up Hayes. Tell him to come along here and bring a stretcher with him.”

Hilary nodded, left the church, and started down the lane. She found the gate open, and as she walked towards the front door, a man appeared, and took off his hat. “Good evening, Miss,” he said pleasantly. “I rang the bell, but I couldn't make anybody hear. I've come to call for the bottle of medicine the doctor promised to make up for my wife”

“Good evening, Mr. Vivian” Hilary replied. “I'm sorry you've been kept waiting. The medicine is all ready. Come in, and I'll get it for you. But if you'll excuse me a minute, I've got a telephone call to make first.”

She entered the house, followed by Vivian, and went to the telephone, which was fixed in the hall among the museum pieces. She rang up the policeman's house, which was some little distance outside the village, on the Flaxmouth road. Mrs. Hayes answered the call. She was sorry, but her husband had been called to Flaxmouth on duty. She expected him back by the six o'clock bus, and would give him the message as soon as he came home.

As she turned from the telephone, Hilary's mind worked swiftly. The nearest bus stop was three miles away, at the Windmill Inn, on the main London-Flaxmouth road. Hayes would surely have ridden there on his bicycle, leaving it at the Inn. Allow him half an hour to get home, and another ten minutes to reach the church. He couldn't be expected much before a quarter to seven. It was barely a quarter to six now.

Vivian was absorbed in contemplation of a shapeless block of stone lying on one of the tables. He was very obviously doing his best to conceal his interest in the message, which he must have overheard. “I'll go and get the medicine for you now, Mr. Vivian,” said Hilary. The dispensary was her own private domain, for she always made up the medicines for her uncle, who very rarely entered the place. She went there and fetched the bottle, which was already labelled and wrapped up.

“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said Vivian, as she returned and handed him the medicine, “but is the doctor at home? I'd like a word with him if he is. My wife is still a bit queer, and I'd like to speak to him about her.”

Again Hilary thought rapidly. Was it any good making a mystery? Vivian had heard the message, and the wildest interpretations of it would be all over the village as soon as the Crossbeam opened. In any case, the discovery of the body could not long be kept a secret. Besides, the appearance of the dead woman suggested that she had come from a town, probably Flaxmouth. Vivian had lived there for years, and might possibly know her by sight.

A more immediate and practical consideration decided Hilary. Wherever the body was to be taken, stretcher-bearers would be required. Hayes wouldn't be able to manage it by himself. Her uncle was not accustomed to physical exercise of that kind. Vivian was strong and vigorous, the very man to help. “My uncle isn't in just now, Mr. Vivian,” she said. “He's up at the church. I'm going back there now, and if you like to come with me, you can speak to him.”

Vivian, struggling not to display his curiosity, agreed readily. They reached the church, to find it comparatively brightly illuminated. Whatever might have happened, Mrs. Bale, fortified by the presence of the doctor, was not to be deterred from the business which had brought her. She had lighted a lamp in the vestry, and another in the chancel, where she was bustling about arranging the flower vases. Cecil Grinstead was sitting motionless in a pew beside the tomb, steadily contemplating the body.

He looked up at the sound of Vivian's boots clattering on the tiled floor, and Hilary approached him. “Hayes is out, and won't be here Just yet,” she explained. “But I've brought Mr. Vivian with me. He wants to speak to you.”

“Speak to me?” Grinstead replied. “A church is a queer consulting-room, but why not? Come along, Vivian, and tell me what I can do for you. Mrs. Vivian is better, I hope?”

Vivian, who had remained bashfully in the background, now came forward. “It's the wife I want to speak to you about. Doctor,” he began. Then for the first time he became aware of the body lying on the slab, now, in the light of the lamp, so obviously not a stone effigy. Involuntarily he recoiled a step. “What's that?” he asked sharply.

“That's what we're all wondering,” Grinstead replied in a tranquil tone. “She's dead, and there's nothing to be afraid of. Have a look at her. You may be able to tell us who she is.”

Hesitatingly Vivian approached the slab and bent over it. As he did so, his back was turned to Grinstead and Hilary, and they could not see his face. He stiffened suddenly, and uttered a strangled gasp. It seemed that he had been suddenly petrified, so long did he remain stooping and rigid. Half a minute or more passed in silence, then Grinstead spoke. “Well, Vivian, do you know her?”

The doctor's voice seemed to restore Vivian's power of movement. He straightened himself with a jerk, and turned round. As the light of the lamp fell on his face, it revealed an expression of dazed bewilderment. “Know her, Doctor?” he replied, with an obviously forced heartiness. “No, that I don't. She's a complete stranger to me. And she doesn't look to me in the least like anyone I've seen about these parts. Sorry, but I can't help you there. I'll be getting along.”

Hilary interposed. “I thought perhaps Mr. Vivian might be willing to stop and help with the stretcher,” she remarked.

“Sorry, Miss, but I couldn't possibly do that,” Vivian replied hastily. “You see, it's just on six, when my bar opens. I don't like leaving my wife to serve by herself, seeing she's not quite up to the mark. I'll see you another time. Doctor.” And without further apology he walked swiftly out of the church.

“Vivian seems upset,” Grinstead remarked. “I can never understand the horror some people have of dead bodies. This woman is past doing anyone any harm, poor thing. What's puzzling me is, what to do with her.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Hilary replied. “Why not carry her down to the Priory?”

Her uncle turned upon her, almost roughly. “The Priory!” he exclaimed. “Whatever put that idea into your head?”

“It's a very good idea,” Hilary replied, surprised at the vehemence of his tone. “You know very well there's no proper mortuary in the village. The Priory is quite close, and we could put her in the refectory. It's fairly weather-proof, and the door locks.”

Grinstead seemed slightly mollified. “The refectory?” he said, after a pause. “Well, yes, that's not such a bad idea after all. I could manage to examine the body there, I suppose. I shall have to ring up the coroner. Yes, what is it, Mrs. Bale?”

Mrs. Bale, the flowers arranged to her satisfaction, had appeared beside them, the empty basket over her arm. “I was wondering if you'd be wanting me any more, sir,” she replied.

“No, not now,” said Grinstead. “You'd better get off home while there's still enough light for you to see your way down the lane. And don't talk about what's happened, Just yet. We don't want the whole village flocking up here with their mouths agape. Time enough for that when the inquest's held.”

“I'll keep my mouth shut, never fear,” Mrs. Bale assured him. “Good evening, sir. Good evening. Miss Hilary.” As she went out, Grinstead watched her with a sardonic smile. “She'll be seeing spooks all the way,” he remarked, as the sound of her hurrying footsteps died away. “I suppose we shall have to stop here till Hayes comes. I hope he'll get a move on.”

Hilary made no reply. She seemed to be listening for something, and after a while strolled restlessly towards the door. Before long she heard steady footsteps approaching, not from the lane, but from the opposite direction, the gravel path which ran across the churchyard. The steps became more rapid as they neared the porch, and Justin Prayver appeared. He was tall and slim, with a scholarly face, but far too sympathetic an expression to be in any way ascetic. He was wearing clerical attire and his shoes were flecked with the white dust of the downs.

He paused abruptly as he saw Hilary standing there. “Why, Hilary!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “I didn't expect to find you here. I was coming to lock up, and then I saw a light through the window—”

“Uncle Cecil is here,” Hilary replied. “Something extraordinary has happened. He will tell you.”

To Prayver the extraordinary thing was that Grinstead should be in the church at such a time. The two men were, superficially at least, very good friends. But Prayver privately deplored the doctor's rather ostentatious avoidance of Christian observance. Good fellow though he might be, in the vicar's opinion he was no more or less than an unredeemed pagan. Could it be that his presence in the consecrated building indicated his sudden and most unexpected conversion?

Justin Prayver went in, leaving Hilary standing in the porch. He made his way towards the lighted lamp, beneath which was visible Grinstead's iron-grey head, as he sat in the pew. At the sound of the vicar's approach he turned. “Hallo, Prayver!” he exclaimed. “So it's you. It was Hayes I was expecting.”

Prayver seemed completely bewildered. “Hayes?” he replied. “Your niece tells me something extraordinary has happened.”

“It has,” said Grinstead dryly. “Look at that tomb there and see for yourself.”

Prayver turned towards the tomb, and started back. He glanced inquiringly at Grinstead, who shook his head. “No, I didn't put her there. I know no more about it than you do. It was Mrs. Bale who found her, and she came to me.”

As Vivian had done before him, Prayver bent over the body. His immediate reaction was a gasp of incredulous amazement. Then, after a long interval of gaping, he bent still lower and examined the rings on the folded hands. “Poor soul!” he muttered, as he straightened himself. “So this is the end. May she rest in peace!”

“Eh?” Grinstead exclaimed. “You know who she is, then?”

“Yes, I know who she is,” the vicar replied very quietly. “This is Lady Prayver.”

Grinstead heaved himself to his feet. “Don't talk such nonsense, man!” he exclaimed angrily. “Lady Prayver's effigy is-” He checked himself, and went on more soberly. “Anyway, that's not an effigy, as you can see very well for yourself. It's a woman of flesh and blood, and she's dead.”

The vicar held up his hand to restrain him. “Not Lady Alicia Prayver, whose tomb this is,” he replied softly. “But Lady Coral Prayver.” He paused, then added, scarcely above a whisper, “My wife!”

III

On THE next day, Sunday, Inspector Arnold, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Metropolitan Police, was lunching with his friend, Desmond Merrion, at the latter's rooms in St. James's. Arnold was on that day on waiting duty, in case of any occurrence requiring the attention of an inspector, and had therefore left a note at Scotland Yard indicating where he was to be found.

It was just as well he had, for half-way through the meal the telephone bell rang, and Merrion's man, Newport, informed Arnold that Scotland Yard was on the line and wished to speak to him. With a grunt of disgust, Arnold got up and went to the instrument. He held a conversation, then came back to the dining-room, his notebook open in his hand. “Just my luck!” he exclaimed. “I never seem to get a quiet day. Sorry, but I shall have to get along.”

“Well, we were told long ago what a policeman's lot was,” Merrion replied equably. “What's the trouble now?”

“Oh, one of those confounded provincial Chief Constables,” said Arnold irritably. “They always come bleating to us when they run against anything out of the ordinary. I shall have to go, as I'm available.” He turned to his note-book, and went on. “Place called Dellmead, eight miles from Flaxmouth. Woman found dead, murder suspected. Local constable, Hayes by name, has particulars. Will I contact him? That's all.”

“Sit down and finish your lunch,” Merrion replied firmly, “This sounds as though it might be interesting. I know within a little where Dellmead is, for at one time I knew that part of the country slightly. While we are finishing our meal, Newport shall bring my car round, and I'll drive you down.”

Arnold fell in with this readily enough, and not many minutes later they set out. Merrion took the main road to Flaxmouth, on which, at that time of year, the traffic was not too dense. He pushed along at a good speed, and soon after three o'clock reached the Windmill Inn. Beside this was a turning, with a signpost indicating Dellmead, 3 miles. Merrion took this road and followed its narrow windings till they reached a detached house, in front of which stood a notice-board, headed, 'Downshire County Constabulary.' “This looks like the place,” Merrion remarked.

Hayes, who had evidently been on the look-out, appeared as the car drew up. He was a youngish man, with a pleasant and intelligent face, and not too formal a manner. Arnold and Merrion got out of the car, and the former spoke. “You're Hayes, I expect. I'm Inspector Arnold from the Yard, and this is my friend, Mr. Merrion. I brought him along, as he's a bit of an expert. So you've got a suspected murder on your hands? Tell us about it.”

Hayes saluted smartly. “I'm very glad you've come, sir,” he replied. “If you gentlemen would care to come inside—”

They followed him into the house, and sat down. “I've got the particulars here, sir,” said Hayes, producing his notebook.

“Tell us the story in your own way,” Arnold replied. “And I'm sure you won't mind if I smoke a pipe while you're telling it,” Hayes, much relieved by the informality of Arnold's tone, assured him that he was welcome. While Arnold filled his pipe, Merrion produced his cigarette case and offered it to Hayes. Within a minute or two, all three were smoking contentedly.

“Well, sir, this is all I know about it,” Hayes began. “Yesterday afternoon my super called me into Flaxmouth. I went off on my bicycle, left it at the Windmill, and caught the half-past two bus. While I was out, my wife took a telephone message, at 5.35. It was from Miss Hilary Grinstead, speaking for her uncle the doctor. The message was for me to go up to the church to meet the doctor, and bring the stretcher with me.

“I got back to the Windmill by the bus, a few minutes after six, and rode home here. My wife gave the message, and I went along to the church with the stretcher. It was 6.25 when I got there. I found Miss Grinstead in the porch, and she asked me to go in. The vicar and Dr. Grinstead were there, and they showed me the body of a woman lying on an old tomb. The doctor said that she was dead, and had been for two or three hours at least. He told me—”

“Never mind for the moment what he told you,” Arnold interrupted. “I'll hear what he's got to say for myself, later on. It's your story I want first. You knew this woman, I suppose? Who was she?”

Hayes rubbed his nose doubtfully. “Well, that's just it, sir. I didn't know the woman, for I'd never set eyes on her before. But the vicar, who was there, as I've said, told me that she was his wife.”

“What!” Arnold exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me that you had never set eyes on the vicar's wife?”

Hayes shook his head. “It's this way, sir. Nobody knew that he had a wife alive. When Mr. Prayver, or Lord Prayver, I should say, for that's what he's been these last few months, came here some years back, he had only a little boy and a housekeeper, Mrs. Fitton. There was never any mention of a Mrs. Prayver. I don't know that I ever heard him say so in so many words that he was a widower, but that's what every one supposed him to be. And now he says that this woman is his wife.”

Doubt was discernible in every accent of Hayes' voice. “You don't altogether believe him,” Arnold remarked. “Yet I don't see why he should claim the woman as his wife if she wasn't. Hasn't she been identified by any one else?”

“No, sir, she hasn't,” Hayes replied. “Dr. Grinstead didn't know her. And it seems Mr. Vivian, that keeps the Crossbeam here, went up to the church while she was lying there, but he didn't know her either. I don't think she can have been in Dellmead before.”

“Do you know how and when she got here?” Arnold asked.

“I've been making inquiries about that, sir,” Hayes replied. “Yesterday afternoon the landlord of the Windmill saw a woman answering to her description get off the bus from Flaxmouth a little after two. She looked about, as if she was a stranger, then started off this way. And there's another thing, sir. Miss Grinstead thinks she may have seen her go up the lane past the doctor's house a little after three, but she can't be sure about that.”

“We'll talk to Miss Grinstead presently,” said Arnold. '“Who actually found the body, and when?”

“A woman in the village, Mrs. Bale, sir. She always does the flowers in the church on Saturday afternoons. She went up there with her basket yesterday afternoon, sometime between three and four, she thinks. And after she'd been there a few minutes she saw the body lying on this old tomb, and ran straight down to the doctor's.” Hayes paused, and then went on diffidently. “It's a queer thing about that, sir. You see, if the woman was the vicar's wife, she'd be Lady Prayver. And that old tomb she was lying on belongs to a Lady Prayver, who was murdered ever so long ago, so they say.”

“I don't know that that's got much to do with it,” Arnold remarked. “What makes you suspect that this woman was murdered?”

“The doctor can tell you best about that, sir,” Hayes replied-"He says the cause of death was poisoning.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “What did you do with the body?”

“We couldn't leave it in the church, sir, and there's no mortuary here. But the doctor said we could put it in the ruins of the old Priory, that stands in his garden. There's a bit of it still standing, and the roof isn't too bad. The refectory, the doctor calls it. He told me it's where the old monks used to have their dinner. So we put the body on the stretcher, and the vicar and I carried it down between us. It's not more than a few hundred yards.”

Arnold nodded. “Very well. Now look here, Hayes. You know the people here, I don't. It seems that you have reason to suspect murder, and that means a murderer. Have you any ideas about that?”

Hayes hesitated. “Well, no, sir. I shouldn't like to say I have. I don't know anybody round these parts who'd do such a thing.”

“I'll put it this way,” said Arnold quietly. “The vicar claims the dead woman as his wife. When a wife is murdered, it's only natural to ask the husband what he knows about it. What sort of a fellow is this vicar of yours?”

“One of the best, sir!” Hayes replied enthusiastically. “Everybody likes him, even the chapel folk. He'll always do a kindness whenever he can, and it's grand to hear him preach. He puts things in a way you can't help listening to. I wouldn't have believed there was anything shady about him. I can't understand why if he had a wife all the time he never said anything about her. It doesn't seem like him to me.”

“And I gather it wouldn't have been like him to poison his wife, if he had one,” Arnold remarked. “All the same, I've known crimes committed by the most unexpected people. From what you tell us, it seems that this woman must have died between three and four yesterday afternoon. Do you know where the vicar was at that time?”

“I asked him that, sir,” Hayes replied. “He told me that he left the vicarage by himself about, half-past two, with some flowers for the church. He left these with Mrs. Bale, then walked out over the downs, thinking out his sermon for today. He came back through the churchyard about six, to lock up, as he always does. He doesn't remember meeting anyone on the downs.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Arnold. “It seems to me the first thing to be done is for Mr. Merrion and I to get our bearings. The place where the body was found, first. Can we get into the church now?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Hayes replied. “It's always open, and evening service isn't till six. There's not likely to be anybody there now.”

“We may as well get along there in the car,” Merrion suggested. “Hayes can show us the way.”

They set out, past the leaning signpost, and up the lane by the doctor's house. Arrived at the church, they got out, and from the porch Hayes pointed out the principal landmarks. Near at hand, the roof of the doctor's house, with nearby a corner of the Priory ruins visible among the trees. Farther away, the straggling village, with the vicarage at the farther end of it, and the gaunt wall of the Crossbeam set on its steep mound. Then they went inside, where Hayes showed them Lady Alicia's tomb, and demonstrated the position in which the body had been found upon it.

Merrion's interest was centred in the tomb itself. The lettering upon it was almost indecipherable with age, and was in medieval Latin. He managed to make out a word here and there, or if not a complete word, at least a few letters. “DOMINA ALIC . . . AET XXXI. . . . VEN . . . MCCC. . . . UXOR. . . PRAE. . . .”

Enough to go upon, Merrion thought, in the light of the remark Hayes had made. Sometime in the fifteenth century, the Lady Alicia had died at a comparatively early age. “VEN” suggested that her death had been ascribed to poison. The tomb had been erected by her husband, the Baron, whose name might then have been spelt Praevor, or Praevert. Interesting from an archaeological point of view. But rather out of date as a clue to the present tragedy.

“I took the lady's handbag home with me, sir,” Hayes was saying. “There was nothing in it to show who she was. And when the doctor and I looked over her clothing after we'd got her down to the Priory, we couldn't find any laundry marks.”

“We shall have to accept the vicar's word, for the present,” Arnold remarked. “Now I'd like to see the woman who found the body, Mrs. Bale you said her name was, I think. Is she a reliable sort of person?”

“Oh, yes, sir, quite,” Hayes replied. “Her husband has a small holding, and they're a very steady couple. She's very well thought of.”

“Then we'll go and see her now,” said Arnold. They returned to the car, and under the direction of Hayes, Merrion drove to Mrs. Bale's cottage. There they found her and her husband sitting in the kitchen. Mrs. Bale told her story clearly enough, and with remarkable composure. “It gave me a proper turn at the time,” she said. “But I've got over all that now.”

“I think you kept your head wonderfully, Mrs. Bale” Arnold replied. “I'm sure you won't mind if I ask you a few questions. Can you tell me what time it was when you got to the church?”

“Not to the minute, I can't,” Mrs. Bale replied. “I didn't take any particular notice of the time when I started, but it must have been well after three. I didn't hurry myself, for I had all that basket of flowers to carry. And when I got there I sat myself down in the porch for a while, to get my breath after climbing the hill. I dare say it was four o'clock before I first went in. And then I came out again and drew a bucket of water from the well before I saw what was on the slab.”

“Did you see any one about on your way to the church, or while you were up there?” Arnold asked.

Mrs. Bale shook her head. “I spoke to one or two of the neighbours as I went through the village. But I didn't see a soul after I'd turned the corner. And there was nobody about round the church when I got there, I'm sure of that.”

“Not long before you left here, you saw the vicar, didn't you?” Arnold suggested.

“That's right,” Mrs. Bale agreed. “He came along while I was scrubbing out the wash-house. He'd brought a whole bunch of Michaelmas daisies for the church, and he said if I liked he'd take them up himself and leave them in the vestry. But I said he'd best leave them here with the rest, and I'd take the lot up myself. And that's what he did.”

“Did he seem to you Just as he always was?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Bale replied. “I didn't notice any difference. He didn't stop more than a minute or two. Just asked me how I was and how my husband was getting on. I can't tell you what time he was here. But I dare say it was half an hour, or maybe a bit more than that, before I started out.”

Mrs. Bale had nothing to add to this. “The vicarage next, I think,” said Arnold, as they left the cottage. “Are we likely to find the vicar at home, Hayes?”

“I should think so, sir,” Hayes replied. “If not, Mrs. Fitton will be able to tell us where he is.”

“Oh, yes, his housekeeper that you told us about,” said Arnold. “I shall be glad to meet her. What sort of a person is she?”

Hayes grinned. “She's a bit of a holy terror, sir. It isn't often that she has a civil word for anybody, except the vicar himself, and she'd do anything for him. She doesn't come from these parts, and she doesn't seem to have made any friends since she's been here. Except maybe Mrs. Vivian, the landlord's wife, and she's just such another. Folk are afraid of her tongue, that's what it is, and I don't wonder. I don't know how it is that the vicar puts up with her.”

“She shows a different side of her nature to him, I dare say,” Arnold remarked. “How long has she been with him?”

“A matter of three or four years, sir,” Hayes replied. “When the vicar first came, he took an old Mrs. Cawston to look after the house. But she died, and it wasn't very long afterwards that Mrs. Fitton came along. But where she came from, and how the vicar found her, I've never heard. She's been here with him ever since then.”

“All right, go ahead,” said Arnold. They drove along the village street, skirting the mound on which stood the Crossbeam, Merrion glanced at this as they passed. “That's the pub on top there, you say,” he remarked. “Do you mean to tell me that you have to go mountaineering whenever you want a drink? You'd have to go on hands and knees to climb that slope.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Hayes replied. “That's only the back of the pub you see from here. There's a way round to the front that we passed a little way back. It goes up the hill, but nothing like so steep as this.”

A few hundred yards farther on they came to a drive gate, which stood open. Hayes indicated that this was the entrance to the vicarage, and Merrion drove in. The drive was short, and the building immediately became visible. Nothing of the medieval hunting-lodge remained but a squat round tower, in striking contrast to the Victorian primness of the rest of the house, in which it was incorporated. They drew up at the front door, got out, and Hayes rang the bell.

After an interval the door was opened by a tall, gaunt middle-aged woman, with a forbidding expression. She stood squarely in the doorway, as though denying entrance, and glowered at the three men. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fitton,” said Hayes ingratiatingly. “Is the vicar at home?”

“No, he's not,” Mrs. Fitton replied sharply. “You ought to know better than to ask, Mr. Hayes. He's gone to Sunday school, in the parish room.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hayes. “Can you tell us when he's likely to be back?”

“When it suits him, I suppose,” Mrs. Fitton replied unhelpfully. “If you and your friends want to see him, you'd better come again later, when he's had his tea. He'll speak to you then, I dare say.”

As she made to shut the door in their faces, Arnold tried his hand at conciliation. “Mayn't we come in and wait for him?”

Mrs. Fitton shook her head. “Whoever you may be, nobody is coming into this house while the vicar's out.”

“Let me show you who I am,” Arnold replied quietly. He took out an official card and gave it to her. But her inspection of it did not daunt her in the slightest. “That's as may be,” she said. “But if it's the vicar you want to see, you'll have to stop outside till he comes home. And that's all I've got to say.”

“Not quite all, I hope, Mrs. Fitton,” Arnold replied. “You won't let anybody into the house while the vicar is out? If a woman who was a stranger to you had called here while he was out yesterday afternoon, you wouldn't have let her in?”

But the mention of a strange woman did not disconcert Mrs. Fitton in the least. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she snapped. “Nobody called here yesterday afternoon. And if they had they'd have been told the same as I've told you.”

This was her parting shot. She slammed the door violently, leaving the three of them standing outside. “Well, there you are, sir,” said Hayes philosophically. “I told you she was a holy terror.”

“You weren't far wrong” Merrion remarked. “The vicar keeps a very good watchdog, that's a sure thing. We can't carry the house by storm, I suppose. And it might be a bit too dramatic to intrude upon the Sunday school”

“We'll have to wait,” Arnold replied irritably. “Confound that woman! I've never been treated like that before. Never mind, if she knows anything, I'll get it out of her all right. She'll climb down before I've done with her.”

But he had not to nurse his ruffled dignity for very long. Before a few minutes had elapsed, they heard footsteps at the gate, and the vicar appeared in the drive, unmistakable in his clerical hat and collar. At a nod from Arnold, Hayes went to meet him and explain who his visitors were. The vicar advanced with outstretched hand. “I am very glad to meet you, gentlemen,” he said. “I am only too ready to throw any light I can upon this terrible tragedy. Will you come into my study, where I shall be entirely at your disposal?”

IV

He opened the front door, which was not locked, and they entered the hall. As they did so, Mrs. Fitton appeared, completely disregarding the visitors, but with a pleasant smile for the vicar. “Will you be wanting your tea now, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, please, Sarah,” the vicar replied. “Tea for four, of course. Will you bring it to the study?”

Merrion caught the scowl upon her face as she turned to carry out instructions. He hoped that it would not occur to her to put poison in the teapot. Hardly likely, for she wouldn't risk any harm befalling her employer. They followed the vicar into the study, a bright, comfortable room with rows of books showing every sign of having been frequently handled. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” said the vicar hospitably. “Mrs. Fitton will bring us tea in a few moments. I am at your service until it is time for me to leave for Evensong at six o'clock.”

“I hope we shan't take up too much of your time,” Arnold replied. “You know what our business is, no doubt. I understand that you have identified the woman found dead in the church yesterday as your wife. You have no doubt about that?”

“No doubt whatever.” the vicar replied unhesitatingly. “I recognised poor Coral as soon as I saw her yesterday evening. But her presence under such circumstances was so unexpected that at first I could hardly believe my eyes. However, I examined the rings she was wearing, and among them I recognised one that I had given her.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “But you will realise that the matter of identity is of the first importance. And at present your evidence on that point is entirely unsupported. Can you suggest any witness who could confirm it?”

The vicar shook his head. “So far as I know. Coral had no relations living. The only people who knew us during the time of our married life are dispersed long ago. Of them, the only one who could identify Coral with any certainty is now, I believe, in South America, and I do not know his address. But the matter is beyond doubt. I have here a copy of my marriage certificate.”

He got up and went to a desk standing by the window. While he was searching in a drawer which he unlocked, Sarah Fitton entered with the tea-tray, which she laid on the table without a word. When she had gone out again, the vicar produced a document. He handed this to Arnold, then busied himself in pouring out tea.

Arnold looked at the document without very much interest. It certainly established that in the year 1934, Justin Henry Prayver had married Coral Mary Findon in London. But that was no evidence whatever that the dead woman was in fact the said Coral Mary Findon. Yet why should the vicar say she was if she wasn't?

He handed the certificate back, and stirred the cup of tea the vicar gave him. “I don't want to ask impertinent questions,” he said. “Your private life must be entirely your own concern. But is there nobody in Dellmead who knew Lady Prayver?”

“Nobody!” the vicar replied. “Although I have been careful never to utter a falsehood, I have always let it be understood that I was a widower. Even Sarah Fitton, and, of course, my son Michael, have always believed me to be such. I have held no communication with my wife for the past twelve years, and was completely ignorant of her whereabouts during that period.”

“You parted by mutual consent?” Arnold suggested. “The parting was not of my seeking,” the vicar replied sombrely. “Coral was restless and dissatisfied. The fault was mine, for I should have foreseen that she would never be content as the wife of a country parson.”

He paused, sipping his tea, absorbed in his own memories. “I see no reason why I should make any secret of the past,” he continued after a while. “I married very young, immediately after I had taken my degree at Oxford. I was my own master, for both my parents were dead, and I had a small competence of my own. Coral and I were married in London, and spent some months subsequently in Italy.

“It was shortly after our return to England that the divergence made its appearance. It had always been my intention to enter the Church, and my marriage had not affected my vocation. It had, if anything, strengthened it, for I have always held that a wife can be of the greatest help to even a young parson. But Coral was violently opposed to the idea. She had, I think, believed that by becoming my wife she had established a prior claim upon my life. I was at pains to make it clear to her that I should seek ordination without delay.

“But she would have none of it. It seemed to her that I was deliberately sacrificing our freedom. Her argument was that my means made it unnecessary for me to adopt any profession, least of all to enter Holy Orders. That that was my sole ambition did not weigh with her. She envisaged a life of enjoyment, the perpetual indulgence in what she regarded in her own words as a good time. I need not weary you with the tedious argument between us. Finally she confronted me with an ultimatum. Either I abandoned my resolve, or she would leave me.

“I could give her only one answer. No tie, even that of marriage, can hinder a man who, as I did, honestly and sincerely believes that his vocation lies clearly before him. I told Coral that my decision was irrevocable. And she was as good as her word. We parted, not in anger but finally, she agreeing to leave our son, then hardly more than a baby, in my care. In fairness to her, I must say that once we had parted she made no demands upon me.”

“Lady Prayver had resources of her own, perhaps?” Arnold suggested.

The vicar's face clouded. “So far as I am aware she had none. I do not know how she earned her livelihood during the past years. As I say, there has been no communication whatever between us. I am in complete ignorance of where she has been living. I can only hope that she has found rest at last.”

It was pretty clear to Merrion that the vicar guessed how his wife had earned her livelihood. Her appearance suggested that the means she had found had been lucrative. And that something of the sort was passing through Arnold's mind was plain from his next question. “Although Lady Prayver had left you, you took no steps to divorce her?”

“Obviously not,” the vicar replied tranquilly. “My faith does not allow me to admit the possibility of divorce.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Arnold awkwardly. “I hope you will forgive the indiscretion of my question. You say you have had no communication with Lady Prayver. Is it possible that, unknown to you, she had previously visited Dellmead?”

“I hardly think that is possible,” the vicar replied. “Without any inquisitiveness on my part, very little happens in the parish that I do not get to hear of. The presence of any stranger here is always the subject of remark. Between us, Hayes and I know of all the comings and goings. Isn't that so, Hayes?”

“I think you are right there, sir,” Hayes replied. “I had never seen the lady or heard of her being here.”

“Then we may take it that she was a complete stranger to every one in Dellmead, with the exception of yourself?” Arnold asked.

“I think you may,” the vicar replied. “Which implies, of course, that her reason for coming here yesterday was to find me.”

“That must certainly have been so” said Arnold significantly. “Yet she gave you no warning of her coming?”

The vicar shook his head. “She gave me no warning. Had she done so, I should have welcomed her back. She had every right to seek out her lawful husband. No doubt, poor soul, she desired reconciliation.”

“You were out when Lady Prayver arrived at the village,” said Arnold. “Where were you exactly between three and four?”

“On Thunder Down,” the vicar replied. “Hayes knows where that is, the high land to the westward, three miles from here. It is a favourite walk of mine when I am in search of solitude. The chances of meeting any one there, at this time of the year at least, are extremely remote, and I am free to indulge my own thoughts. I came back across the downs and through the churchyard, intending to lock the church door on my way home.”

“You were out all the afternoon, alone?” Arnold remarked. “Do you make a habit of doing that?”

“My parishioners take up a good deal of my time,” the vicar replied. “I find some respite from them necessary occasionally, especially when I wish to compose a sermon. I like to get right away, where I can pursue my train of thought without interruption. That is why I frequently go for a long stroll across the downs. If my boy is at home from school, he usually comes with me. If not, I go alone.”

“And yesterday afternoon you were alone, and met nobody?” Arnold persisted.

“I was alone and met nobody,” the vicar replied. “I repeat, and Hayes will bear me out, that except during the holiday months. Thunder Down is unfrequented. I met no one from the time I left the village till I reached the church on my way back. I should perhaps explain that, in that direction, there are no houses between the downs and the churchyard.”

Merrion, who had shown some signs of impatience during this conversation, thought it time to change the subject. “I am very interested in that tomb in the church,” he said. “Is there any history attached to it?”

The vicar smiled. “Hardly history. It is known that some time in the fifteenth century, probably during the reign of Henry VI, a certain Rene de Pontorson, a Norman who adhered to the English cause, was driven from his estates in Normandy by the victorious French. He emigrated to England, and was made a baron, taking the title of Prayver. At the same time he was given a grant of land, upon which he built a residence, probably little more than a hunting-lodge. The round tower, which you may have noticed attached to this house, is all that remains of this building. There is no monument of any kind to him in the church, so it is probable that he died elsewhere.

“Of his son, Gaston, the second baron, we know rather more. After his father's death, he seems to have settled here permanently, and to have become a benefactor of the Priory, a Franciscan foundation, which was then flourishing. He took to wife Alicia, in whose tomb you are interested. The inscription, so far as I have been able to decipher it, indicates that she died by poisoning. After her death, Gaston assumed the Franciscan habit, and entered the Priory, where he died. The title passed to his cousin, Jean, who seems to have disposed of his land here.

“So much for history. The rest is purely legend, compiled from rather untrustworthy references in old documents. It is said that the Lady Alicia was of humble birth and doubtful morals. Whether or not Gaston neglected her in favour of the friars I do not know. But the legend has it that she entered an intrigue with the keeper of the inn, which stood on the same site as the present one. One wall of the original building still remains, and it is said that the Lady Alicia caused a tunnel to be dug between the inn and the round tower here. Vestiges of such a tunnel have been found, but I doubt whether it was the work of Lady Alicia. It is far more likely to have been dug very much later, in the days when smuggling was a profitable occupation.”

“But to return to the legend. The inn-keeper's wife discovered the intrigue, and contrived to poison the Lady Alicia by means of a sack of posset with which she presented her. In revenge for this, the inn-keeper, in a fit of fury, strangled his wife. In those days, apparently, justice took no account of what has so ridiculously come to be known as the unwritten law. He was tried for the crime, and duly hanged on a gallows erected for the purpose outside his door. And that is how the inn acquired the curious appellation of the 'Crossbeam'”

“That's most interesting.” said Merrion thoughtfully. “It must be particularly so to you, as the present representative of the family. Jean disposed of his land here, you say. Were you the first of the Prayvers to return?”

“So far as I have been able to ascertain,” the vicar replied. “From the time of Jean until the middle of the eighteenth century the family records are very sketchy. I fancy the Prayvers must have fallen upon evil days and become inconspicuous. But somewhere about 1750 Geoffrey, Baron Prayver, seems to have restored the family fortunes. How he did so is not at all clear, for he seems to have been reticent as to the source of his wealth. But he built a big house in Leicestershire which now, in these changing times, has become a lunatic asylum. Since then the family has gradually decayed, and with it, I regret to say, the bulk of Geoffrey's wealth. My boy and I are now the sole representatives.”

“It was not, I suppose, by accident that you came to Dellmead?” Merrion asked.

“Far from it,” the vicar replied. “It was always my ambition to officiate in the parish which had seen the origins of my family. When the late incumbent died, I was enabled to take his place without any difficulty, for no other candidates presented themselves. The fact is that the living is worth very little, and no incumbent without some means of his own could adequately perform his duties. It was some years after my wife had left me that I was inducted.”

“I expect you wasted no time in unearthing what you could of the family history?” Merrion suggested.

“No time at all,” the vicar replied. “And I received enthusiastic help from Dr. Grinstead, who is a keen antiquary. But we found disappointingly little. The only lasting memorial seems to be Lady Alicia's tomb, which is, unfortunately, imperfect. Dr. Grinstead possesses a very fine drawing of it, bearing the date 1725. Every detail of the tomb is carefully depicted, but on the slab, now bare, is shown a very beautiful effigy of the Lady Alicia, carved in stone.”

“Is it known when and how that effigy disappeared?” Merrion asked.

The vicar shook his head. “All we have been able to discover is that during the latter part of the eighteenth century the incumbent was a pluralist. He held other, and presumably more lucrative livings, and absented himself entirely from this parish. During this period the church was neglected and fell into disrepair. This would have afforded an opportunity for the removal of the effigy. There is reason to believe that it had disappeared before 1778.”

“How do you fix that date?” Merrion asked.

“In this way,” the vicar replied. “If you care to examine the slab carefully, and in a good light, you will see roughly carved upon it by some vandal, initials and a date. The carving is in the centre of the slab, where the effigy had lain. The initials are, I regret to say, my own, J. P., and the date is 1778. It is pretty clear that the effigy must have been removed before the carving could have been carried out.”

Merrion was about to make some comment, but Arnold, who in his turn had been growing restive, anticipated him. “We mustn't waste the vicar's time,” he said. “It's getting on for evening service. I'm sure we're all most grateful to you for your hospitality. Lord Prayver. We won't intrude upon you any longer.”

The vicar saw them to the door, and they re-entered the car. “What made you waste all that time chin-wagging over that old stuff?” Arnold demanded irritably as they drove off. “We didn't come all this way to pick up tips about ancient history.”

“Perhaps not,” Merrion replied. “But I always like to get the atmosphere of the place. And the time wasn't entirely wasted, after all. A small point emerged which perhaps you didn't notice. You didn't seem to be listening very closely.”

“Why should I listen to all that rot?” Arnold asked. “What happened centuries ago doesn't interest me. I'm here to investigate the death of Lady Coral, not of Lady Alicia.”

“Both are alleged to have been poisoned,” Merrion replied tranquilly. “Well, never mind. What do you deduce from the interview?”

“I'm not sure, yet,” said Arnold. “We've got more to learn yet before we can take any definite line. But it seems to me that the vicar's position isn't any too good. He admitted that nobody here but himself knew the dead woman, or who she was. He had scruples about divorcing his wife, so his only way of getting rid of her was to murder her. He says that he was away out on the downs when the woman was killed, but he can't produce any evidence in support of his statement.”

“All that's true enough,” Merrion agreed. “But what was his motive? His wife deserted him long ago. What's more, since then she had left him in peace and made no demands upon him.”

“That's what he says,” Arnold replied darkly. “But how do we know it's the truth? She may have been pestering him all this time. Not coming here, but writing to him threatening to make his life hell if he didn't send her money. Or there's another possibility. He may have put her out of the way because he wanted to marry somebody else.”

“Not Sarah Fitton, I expect,” Merrion remarked. “Well, we won't argue now. Where do you want to go next?”

“Why, to the doctor's, surely!” Arnold replied. “It's facts I want, not legends.”

V

They drove through the village, and up the lane to the gate with the brass plate. Here they left the car, walked to the house, and rang the bell. Hilary opened the door, and in reply to Hayes' inquiry, told them that the doctor was at home. She took them to the room in which Mrs. Bale had been received the previous evening.

“I was expecting the police to get busy,” said Grinstead, when Arnold had introduced himself and Merrion. “I'm here to answer questions, and tell you anything I can. What do you want to know? Fire away.”

“I'd like to have the medical evidence first,” Arnold replied. “Hayes has told us the story, up to the point where the body was deposited in the refectory of the Priory here. You carried out an examination?”

“I did,” Grinstead replied. “It was getting on for eight o'clock by the time we'd got things fixed. There's no light laid on in the Priory ruins, of course, but I rigged up a couple of oil lamps and did the best I could with them. There were no signs of injury to the body, and I was unable to ascertain the cause of death. But from the tests I made, I satisfied myself that the woman had been dead for at least four hours.”

“That was at eight o'clock,” said Arnold. “Death must have taken place not later than four?”

Grinstead nodded. “That is so. I then rang up the coroner, and made my report to him. When he heard that I hadn't been able to find the cause of death, he said that he would like a post-mortem, and that if I had no objection he would ask the divisional surgeon from Flaxmouth to come out and lend me a hand with it. I told him that would suit me, for I didn't pretend to be a pathologist, and my experience of post-mortems was a bit rusty.

“The divisional surgeon, whom I know well enough, drove out early this morning, and we got down to it. I needn't trouble you with the technical details. It is enough to say that we established beyond any reasonable doubt that the cause of death had been a powerful overdose of morphia, or some similar drug. My friend took away certain specimens with him, and when these have been examined we shall know what this particular drug was. Further, we were able to determine that the drug must have been injected, not taken by mouth. And, on careful examination, we found a recent prick on the left forearm, which might very well have been caused by a hypodermic needle. I should say that no alternative to poisoning was possible. The woman was organically sound, and apparently in perfect health”

“I see,” said Arnold. “A clear case of deliberate murder?”

“May I put in a word?” Merrion interposed before Grinstead could reply. “I'd rather like you to tell us this, Doctor. How long would it be after such an injection before the woman became incapable of movement?”

“Well, that's rather hard to say exactly,” Grinstead replied. “Not more than a very few minutes, certainly.”

“Then, would this have been possible?” Merrion asked. “Lady Prayver gave herself the injection, and having done so, threw away the syringe. She then entered the church and laid herself down on the tomb to die.”

“Suicide?” Grinstead exclaimed doubtfully. “I'm bound to say that I hadn't thought of that. Yes, I suppose it's Just possible.”

“But not very likely,” Arnold remarked. “However, it might be worth while hunting round for the syringe. You might see to that, Hayes. Now, Doctor, I'd like to hear your account of what happened after you got to the church.”

Grinstead told his story in a few words. “I was completely baffled,” he said. “I couldn't make out where the woman had come from. I've lived here a good many years, and I know everybody for some distance round. She was a perfect stranger to me. And when Vivian came along, he said she was to him. But I've been wondering.”

“What has made you wonder?” Arnold asked.

Grinstead hesitated. “I'll try to explain. Vivian's not the sort of chap who's easily upset, as Hayes will tell you. He's of the phlegmatic type, and takes things as they come. Even his wife's tantrums, which he bears with the most exemplary patience. But he seemed for once to be completely taken aback when he saw that woman. And when my niece suggested that he might stop and lend a hand with the stretcher, he turned tail and bolted. I thought at the time that his behaviour was due to instinctive dread of a dead body. But somehow I shouldn't have expected that of Vivian.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “You think that he may have recognised the woman, and for reasons of his own did not wish to acknowledge doing so?”

“I don't know,” Grinstead replied. “As things have turned out, it doesn't seem at all likely. Then Prayver came along, and as though it was the most natural thing in the world, announced that this unknown woman was his wife. Upon my word, I thought for the moment that the whole affair must be a ridiculous dream.”

“You do not think that Lord Prayver can have been mistaken?” Arnold asked tentatively.

“A man ought to know his own wife, surely,” Grinstead replied. “But it was utterly unexpected. We had all supposed that he had been left a widower long ago. I can't bring myself to believe that he would have said she was his wife, if he wasn't sure of it. My impression of Prayver has always been that he wouldn't tell a lie to save his life. And yet, even people whom you think you know through and through do and say the most unaccountable things sometimes.”

“Lord Prayver helped to carry the stretcher from the church to the Priory, I understand?” Arnold remarked.

Grinstead nodded. “He insisted on doing that. He said that it was only fitting that he should help to carry his wife's body.”

“Thank you for what you've told me. Doctor,” said Arnold. “Now I wonder if I might have a word with Miss Grinstead?”

Grinstead glanced at the clock, which showed the time to be five minutes to six. “Hilary will have gone to church by now,” he replied. “She's very regular in her attendance. But if you gentlemen care to wait until she comes home, I shall be delighted to have your company. It's not so very often that I have the pleasure of entertaining visitors.”

Hayes excused himself, on the pretext of duties to perform. Actually he wanted his tea, a more substantial meal than a cup of tea and a slice of bread and margarine at the vicarage. But Arnold and Merrion remained, and after some desultory conversation, the latter introduced the subject of the local legend. “Lord Prayver has been telling us about the Lady Alicia's tomb,” he remarked. “It seems there is rather a curious story attached to it.”

“You've heard that already, have you?” Grinstead replied. “That Lady Alicia was poisoned by the inn-keeper's jealous wife? It's a good enough yarn in its way, but I shouldn't care to vouch for the truth of it. In those days, diagnosis was little more than guesswork. If anyone died of an obscure disease, death was usually attributed to either poison or witchcraft. According to the inscription. Lady Alicia's husband appears to have favoured the poisoning theory.”

“Yes,” said Merrion. “And, according to the vicar, abandoned the world, and retired to the Priory.”

“There is very little doubt about that,” Grinstead replied. “Whether that was entirely due to grief at his wife's death is not certain. He seems to have had leanings towards religion before then. He must have become Prior before he died, for his name appears as such in the Priory records.”

“So the vicar is not the first Lord Prayver to enter Orders,” Merrion remarked.

Grinstead smiled. “No. But there was an interval of some five centuries between them. And during that period holiness does not seem to have been a conspicuous virtue of the Prayvers. He told you something about the family, I dare say?”

“Merely an outline,” Merrion replied. “He told us that you had helped him to trace the family history.”

“That is quite true,” said Grinstead gravely. “I already knew a great deal of the family history. I have lived here for some twenty years, and have had exceptional opportunities for learning about the Prayvers. But I have not thought fit to tell our worthy vicar everything that I have discovered. It would shock him too profoundly.”

Arnold, who at Grinstead's invitation had lighted his pipe, pricked up his ears. “What was that. Doctor?” he asked.

Grinstead was thoroughly enjoying himself. It was to be supposed that in so remote a spot as Dellmead he rarely had the pleasure of an appreciative audience. “Well, it's rather a long story,” he replied. “But it may serve to pass the time till Hilary comes back from church. And it will be simplest, perhaps, if I tell it from my own point of view.

“Antiquities have always been my hobby, although as a young man I adopted medicine as a profession. I practised for some time in a London suburb. Then my father died, leaving me sufficiently affluent to indulge my own inclinations. I decided to settle down in some place rich in antiquarian interest. In the course of my reading I had come across several references to Prayver Priory, and the neighbourhood seemed promising.

“I came here, and at my first exploration found this house empty and ruinous, with what remained of the Priory in its grounds. It seemed to me the very place I was looking for, and I made inquiries. These led me to a firm of lawyers in Flaxmouth. From them I learnt that, in the latter years of the nineteenth and early years of the present century, the house had been owned by Sir William Hunworth, who had a racing-stable and exercised his string on the downs. Somewhere about 1910 Sir William had become bankrupt and died, almost simultaneously. The house had become empty and uncared for. During the 1914-18 war it had been occupied by the military, which effectively completed its ruin. The only surviving Hunworth was a spinster lady living in Brighton. Both she and the lawyers were only too glad to get the place off their hands, and after some haggling it became mine.

“As soon as I secured possession, I set to work, with the assistance of an architect, to see how the house could be made sufficiently habitable for my requirements. In the course of poking about, we found a space for which the architect's measurements could not account. We found that a small room had been walled up, door, windows and all. We broke into this, and found it stacked with documents, dating from the eighteenth century, and in a very good state of preservation.

“To me, of course, these were indeed treasure-trove. I had the documents removed to a place of safety, and as soon as I was installed in the house, set to work to study them. There was a lot of rubbish, of course. Household accounts, records of sales and purchases, and so on. But in addition, there was much that I found of very great interest. To begin with, there were several papers revealing the origin of the house. It had been built between 1730 and 1740 by Justin Prayver, the younger brother of Geoffrey, Baron Prayver. This I found exciting, for the name linked up with the Priory. It was, of course, long before the vicar came here, that the name had no other significance for me.”

“So the vicar was not the first Prayver to return to Dellmead, after all,” Merrion remarked.

“He believes he was,” Grinstead replied. “I have told him nothing of all this, for his own sake. He is a man of intense religious convictions, and likes to think of himself as the successor of Gaston, the saintly Prior. It would disturb his peace of mind profoundly if he knew that a far less remote Prayver had been an active devil-worshipper.

“But I'll come to that in a moment. I have found no record of the family earlier than the two brothers, Geoffrey and Justin. But their early history seems to have been a bit lurid. Among the documents were a large number of letters which showed that the two brothers were partners in business, nothing more nor less than slave-trading. And a very lucrative business it must have been, for they amassed what for those days was a large fortune, which they divided between them.”

Merrion smiled. “The vicar told us that he didn't know the origin of Geoffrey's wealth.”

“I thought it best to withhold the information from him,” Grinstead replied dryly. “After all, I suppose his private income is derived from the remains of Geoffrey's fortune. If he knew how that had been obtained, his conscience might impel him to hand over the whole capital to some charity.”

“The letters suggest that Geoffrey became a model of respectability, and, as the elder brother, devoted himself to reinstating the family as a pillar of the state. But the vicar's namesake, Justin, pursued a very different course. He apparently never married, though there is abundant evidence that women figured in the orgies which took place at the Hall, as he called this house which he built. And orgies there were, not only material, but spiritual as well. It is a curious, and to a student of such matters, a most interesting fact that very few records were kept of the latter.”

Grinstead paused, savouring his thoughts, and Merrion wondered how much in sympathy he might himself have been with those orgies. And after a while he went on: “I don't know where Justin derived his ideas from in the first place. It is not impossible that during his slave-trading days he obtained some knowledge of Voodoo. This he may have grafted upon the black magic current at the time. He appears to have been inspired, or assisted, by an unfrocked priest, who appears in the records as Asmodeus. And the pair of them collected round them a number of people who had leanings towards the darker forms of the occult.

“The records, which seem to have been kept by Justin himself, do not suggest that they attempted anything very original. They followed the classic line in invoking the Devil as their superior power. Witchcraft, in the strict sense of the word, seems to have been only a sideline, though they formed the traditional coven, with Justin as Grand Master. They seem to have concentrated mainly upon attempts to raise the spirits of the dead. And in this they were guided largely by the local legend. They made repeated attempts to raise the spirits of the Lady Alicia, the inn-keeper, or the inn-keeper's wife. You might almost say that they conducted a scientific inquiry for the purpose of determining the truth of the legend. And, as I'll tell you in a minute, the records claim that one at least of their experiments was successful”

Merrion nodded. “I have some slight acquaintance with the principles of black magic. Where were these experiments carried out?”

“They seem to have varied the place according to the nature of the ceremony,” Grinstead replied. “They even met in the flat meadowland at the foot of the hill, the old Pre Vert. Some of the villagers, it appears, were admitted to those ceremonies. Incidentally, that is how the village, until then known as Prayver, acquired its present name. The site of the coven meetings came to be known as the Devil's Mead, and this became corrupted to Dellmead. The Black Mass was celebrated, by Asmodeus, of course, in one of two places. Either in the church, which was at that time practically abandoned, the parson being an absentee. Or in the chapel of the Priory, which was then standing.

“These practices lasted for a good many years. The records are not always dated, but the earliest appears to have been written between 1750 and 1760. The last, the most interesting of all, bears a date in August, 1779. It was obviously written by a very frightened man, whom the context shows to have been Justin. The handwriting is shaky, the wording incoherent, and there are many erasures. It isn't at all easy to make out what happened, or, more correctly, what Justin imagined to have happened.”

“Is this record a description of the successful experiment you were going to tell us about?” Merrion asked.

“Hardly a description,” Grinstead replied. “Rather the terrified account of one who had witnessed it. But the records of the previous few weeks furnish the clue to the nature of the experiment. Various preliminaries were made towards the holding of a particularly powerful Black Mass, at which an intense effort was to be made to raise the spirit of Lady Alicia.

“The great day, or rather night, came, and the whole gang assembled in the Priory chapel. You've got to remember that they were all probably more or less drunk, and were suffering from mass hysteria. They had made up their minds that something must happen, and to their excited imaginations it did.

“We can imagine the scene, though Justin doesn't paint it for us. The chapel was comparatively small, as can be seen from the foundations, which still exist. The dozen or so people present would pretty well fill the chancel. The time was midnight, and a not very brilliant illumination would be provided by a few candles. And here I may add a conjecture of my own. There was, at one time, an effigy of Lady Alicia on her tomb in the church. I think it quite likely that Justin and his gang removed it and placed it on the altar in the chapel. Such an action would be fully in accordance with the traditions of the Black Mass. Before the altar, Asmodeus, fully robed, carried out the blasphemous celebration.

“It was at the critical moment, the desecration of the Host, that whatever it was happened. According to Justin, they raised not the spirit of Lady Alicia, but the Devil himself. He says that in the moment before the lights went out he saw a monstrous figure rise out of the altar and lean with outstretched hands towards Asmodeus. He heard a fearful scream, but saw no more then, for the chapel was plunged into utter darkness.

“The congregation, not unnaturally, panicked, and fought their way out of the place. Not until daylight did any of them, and then apparently only the most courageous, venture to return. Then they found Asmodeus lying dead before the altar, with every bone in his body broken. Quite obviously, this was no case for the coroner. The matter must be kept a profound secret between themselves. So they took up a flagstone in the floor of the chapel, dug a hole, and buried Asmodeus in it.”

“That's rather a tall yarn. Doctor,” Arnold observed sceptically. “What do you suppose really happened?”

Grinstead shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. That is what Justin genuinely believed to have happened, I assure you. He had no doubt whatever that the death of Asmodeus had been due to some supernatural agency. It happened so long ago that conjecture is futile. You can suppose if you like that some member of the gang had a motive for murder, and chose this melodramatic opportunity for committing the crime.”

“It's very much in the classic tradition,” Merrion remarked. “One rather wonders whether Justin had been studying the authorities. What effect did this alarming experience have upon him?”

“It seems to have scared the wits out of all of them,” Grinstead replied. “They regarded it as a warning against dabbling any further in the occult. The gang dispersed without attempting any more experiments. Justin, at all events, was taking no chances. A few days later he emulated Guy Fawkes. He procured a barrel of gunpowder, and, taking advantage of a thunderstorm, blew up the chapel with it, leading the villagers to believe it had been struck by lightning. Since then the debris has been cleared away, and only the foundations can now be traced.”

“If your conjecture about the effigy is correct, that went up with the rest,” Merrion remarked.

“Exactly,” Grinstead replied eagerly. “And the fragments would be unrecognisable. It's a great pity, for it was an exceptionally fine piece of work, in wonderful preservation. At least it must have been, judging from a drawing I have.”

“And what became of Justin?” Merrion asked.

“The documents I found are rather vague about that,” Grinstead replied. “So far as I can make out, he left here. He may have gone to live with his brother Geoffrey. He died a year later, in 1780, and this property passed to Geoffrey, who sold it. After that, I know nothing definite. Tradition has it that the Hall was occupied by many families, who in turn left it because they believed it to be haunted. It was not until Sir William Hunworth's time that anyone stayed here very long. Perhaps he was immune from supernatural manifestations. I can only say that, rather to my disappointment, I have experienced none during the twenty years I have lived here. But the village still believes the house to be haunted. I doubt whether any of the inhabitants would consent to sleep here.”

The door opened, and Hilary came in. She seemed rather surprised to find the visitors still there, and turned to go out again. But her uncle stopped her. “Don't go, my dear, I think Mr. Arnold wants a word with you.”

“It's about Lady Prayver, Miss Grinstead,” said Arnold. “Didn't you tell Hayes that you saw her going towards the church yesterday afternoon?”

“Not exactly that,” Hilary replied. “I told him that I saw somebody, whom I'm pretty sure was a woman, stop outside our gate. What happened was this. I was in the front garden, cutting away dead stuff round the shrubberies. Someone came up the lane and stopped at the gate. From where I was I could only catch a glimpse of what looked like a woman's dress. I was ready to come out and meet her if she came in, but she didn't. After a moment she went on, towards the church, I'm pretty sure.”

“Can you tell me what time that was?” Arnold asked.

“Not very accurately, I'm afraid,” Hilary replied. “I was out in the garden the whole afternoon. The woman stopped at the gate some time before I came in to get tea, and that was about four. After tea I went out again, and was there till Mrs. Bale came.”

“It was probably a little after three o'clock?” Arnold suggested.

Hilary shook her head. “Really, Mr. Arnold, I don't know. All I can say is that it was between two and four.”

“Did anyone else come up the lane while you were in the garden?” Arnold asked.

“Again, I don't know,” Hilary replied. “I don't remember noticing anybody. I only noticed the woman because she stopped for a moment, and I expected her to come in. If anyone had gone past without stopping, I don't suppose they would have attracted my attention. I was too busy with what I was doing.”

“Thank you. Miss Grinstead,” said Arnold. After a few more words with the doctor, he and Merrion left the house. “I find this place full of interest,” Merrion remarked as they walked towards the gate. “The Devil's Mead, eh! It seems an appropriate spot for queer events to happen. Well, where next?”

“It's getting late,” Arnold replied. “I don't know what your plans may be, but I'm wondering where I'm going to put up to-night.”

'I'm going back to town,” said Merrion. “You might try the Crossbeam. I'll drive you there, and you can ask if they will take you in. Anyhow, I'd like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Vivian. Come along, it's after seven, and they're sure to be open.”

VI

Merrion found the turning leading off the village street towards the inn. It curved upwards, with not too steep a gradient, this side of the mound being far less precipitous than the one facing the meadow. It was by now quite dark, but as they neared the top the headlights of the car revealed the building.

As they approached they found that this, the front of the inn, was comparatively modern. It had a door, over which hung a sign, depicting two vertical pillars with a horizontal bar lying upon them; not unlike a goalpost on a football ground, but taller and narrower. On either side of the door was a bay window, with curtains drawn. Merrion stopped the car, switched off the lights, and they got out. As they walked towards the door, they heard voices, and saw a light through a chink in the curtains of one of the windows. “The pub is open, then,” Merrion remarked as they walked in. “Now where do we go?” They paused and looked about them. A wide passage-way stretched before them, with a staircase at the farther end. On either side was a door, one marked “Public Bar,” the other “Smoking Room.” Merrion opened the latter.

“We'll try this, it'll be quieter,” he said. “Hallo, it's dark. Wait a moment.” He felt inside the doorway and found a switch. “That's better,” he said as the light came on. “We've got the room to ourselves, anyhow.”

It was rather a dreary room, with a second door at the back, and it had the air of not being very frequently used. The walls were hung with sporting prints, and a few oil-paintings of horses. “I expect these date from the time of Sir William Hunworth's racing establishment,” Merrion remarked. “Now, how do we call attention to our presence? Let's try this.” A bell with a protruding knob stood on one of the tables, and as he spoke he struck it.

For a minute or so there was a silence, broken only by the sound of voices from the bar across the passage. Then the door at the back opened, and a surly-faced woman appeared. She did not seem in the least pleased to see her customers, but scowled at them malignantly. “Yes, what do you want?” she asked sharply.

“You must be Mrs. Vivian, I think,” Arnold replied. “I want to know first if you can put me up for the night?”

“No, I can't,” she replied without hesitation. “We've only got one room, and that's occupied.”

“That's a pity,” said Arnold. “It can't be helped, I suppose. Can I speak to Mr. Vivian?”

“He's serving in the bar” Mrs. Vivian replied. “You can go in there and speak to him if you want to.”

Arnold felt his patience wearing thin. “I am an inspector from Scotland Yard,” he said. “Here's my card. If you care to see it. Now, will you kindly ask Mr. Vivian to come in here and see me.”

She scowled and went out. A minute later Vivian appeared. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “You want to speak to me?”

“I should like a few minutes' conversation with you,” Arnold replied.

“All right,” said Vivian. “I'll fix that. Just a minute while I ask the wife to mind the bar for a bit.”

“While you're doing that, you might fetch us a couple of glasses of bitter, and whatever you fancy for yourself,” said Merrion.

Vivian went out, to reappear shortly with a tray on which were three glasses of bitter. “Now, let's sit down and have a chat,” said Arnold. “You can guess what my business here is, I expect. The woman who was found dead in the church yesterday. You saw her, I understand. What can you tell us about that?”

Vivian shook his head, and it seemed to Merrion that a wary look came into his eyes. “Not much, I can't,” he replied. “It was this way. Yesterday afternoon, not long before opening time, I went along to the doctor's to fetch some medicine for my wife and speak to him about her. That's the time he's usually in his surgery, but when I rang the bell I couldn't make any one hear. Then Miss Hilary came along and took me in. I heard her telephone a message for Mr. Hayes, and then she got me the medicine. And when I told her I'd like to see the doctor, she said I'd better come along to the church with her.”

“And when you got there the doctor asked you to look at the dead woman,” Arnold suggested.

“That he did!” Vivian replied feelingly. “I wasn't expecting anything like that, and it gave me a nasty turn, I promise you. Lying there so peaceful, just as if she'd been carved out of stone!”

“It wasn't because you recognised her that you had such a nasty turn?” Arnold remarked casually.

“Recognise her!” Vivian exclaimed, with a nervous glance, towards the closed door. “Why, however should I do that? I'd never set eyes on her before I saw her lying there dead on that slab.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” Arnold asked. “Look here, Mr. Vivian. The vicar, Lord Prayver, has identified this woman as his wife. So far, we have only got his word for that. Can't you help us in any way?”

Vivian shook his head resolutely. “It's the first I've heard of the vicar having a wife. We all thought she'd died long ago and left him a widower. The chaps are always saying that they wondered why he never married again. He's a real good 'un, is the vicar. A proper parson, and as good a man as ever stepped. And he's not above coming into the bar now and again and having a glass of beer and a chat with the men.”

“It's not the vicar, but his wife that I'm asking you about,” said Arnold. “Once more, are you sure you had never seen her before?”

“How should I have seen her?” Vivian protested. “As I tell you, every one here thought the vicar's wife was dead long ago. She'd never been to see him all the time he was here. You see for yourself I couldn't have known her.”

“Very well,” said Arnold. “Now I'll ask you something else. Where were you between three and four yesterday afternoon?”

“Why, here, where else?” Vivian replied. “We weren't open then, of course. The wife was upstairs, lying down, for she's been a bit off colour lately. And I was doing jobs about the place. Washing the glasses and sweeping out the cellar and all that. I didn't go out till I went to the doctor's, and that was after five.”

“And there was nobody but Mrs. Vivian and yourself about the place?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yes,” Vivian replied. “Mr. Martin must have been about. I saw him when I was starting for the doctor's.”

This was a new name to Arnold. “Mr. Martin?” he repeated. “Who is he?”

“Why, the gentleman who is staying here, to be sure,” Vivian replied, in a tone that suggested his relief at finding a subject other than that of the dead woman. “And a very nice gentleman he is, too. Comes from Canada.”

“Spending a holiday in England?” Arnold suggested. “Hardly the best time of year for that, I should have thought.”

Vivian shook his head. “Mr. Martin isn't exactly spending a holiday. He told us why he wanted to stay here when he first came. You see, during the war we had a lot of Canadian troops in these parts, and some of them were living in the huts they put up in Friar's Park, between here and the Windmill. Mr. Martin's son, that he speaks of as Barry, was one of them, and he got killed in the Dieppe raid. And Mr. Martin is looking for anyone who might have known him.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Has he found any one yet who knew his boy?”

“I don't know that he has, though he's been with us for a week,” Vivian replied. “He goes around, talking to people and asking them. He started with us, of course, but he couldn't tell us much. The Canadians used to come here quite a lot, and very good company they were. But I can't say that I ever got to know the names of them. I only wish Mr. Martin could find somebody who remembered the lad. It would comfort him to hear about him.”

“Perhaps he will, in time,” said Arnold, finishing his beer. “I needn't keep you from the bar any longer, Mr. Vivian.”

The speed with which Vivian took himself off was almost ludicrous. Merrion smiled as he shut the door behind him. “Our friend the landlord has something on his conscience, but I don't think it's murder,” he remarked. “Now, about ourselves. You can't put up here, for Mr. Martin has the only room. And you can't do any more sleuthing this evening. You'd better run back to town with me. I'll give you a meal of sorts and a bed. Newport can drive you down here again in the morning. I can't come myself, for I've an appointment which will take up the best part of the day.”

Arnold agreed to this, and they drove back to Merrion's rooms, where Newport provided them with a late supper. After this, they settled down comfortably to smokes and drinks. “Well,” said Merrion meditatively, “we've had a most interesting afternoon. I've formed my own impressions, and I'd like to hear yours.”

Arnold grunted. “It seems to me we've wasted a lot of time talking about things that have nothing whatever to do with the case. All those legends and mumbo-jumbo, I mean. And I can't say that I think very much of that suicide theory of yours. My idea is that the parson did his wife in because she threatened to be a nuisance.”

Merrion smiled. “First, I would point out that I don't cling to the theory of suicide. I merely advanced it as a possibility. And second, I'm glad to note that you accept the woman as the parson's wife. I don't think, after what we've seen and heard, there can be any doubt about that.”

“What makes you so sure?” Arnold asked suspiciously.

“The parson himself, to begin with,” Merrion replied. “I think you must have been struck by the fact that every one we have spoken to has complete confidence in his rectitude. I feel pretty sure that he wouldn't have claimed the woman as his wife if she wasn't. I don't see why he should have made a false statement.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Look here. He has a wife alive somewhere, but nobody knows what has become of her. He fixes up for this strange woman to come to Dellmead, and murders her. He takes everything out of her bag which would give a clue to who she really was, then says she was his wife. Don't you see? When he gets a death certificate in the name of Lady Prayver, he's free to marry again if he wants to.”

“And you're fond of accusing me of an over-vivid imagination!” Merrion exclaimed. “No, that won't do. I'll admit it's a possible, though desperately far-fetched motive. But it's far too subtle for a man like the vicar. No, I'm perfectly satisfied that the dead woman was Lady Prayver. And I'm not relying on the vicar's word alone.”

“You've nothing else to go upon, that I can see,” Arnold objected.

“I'm not so sure,” Merrion replied. “I think it must have been obvious to you that Vivian wasn't telling the whole truth. He's not very good at prevaricating. His embarrassment when you were asking him about the dead woman was in striking contrast to the freedom with which he talked about Mr. Martin, who obviously had nothing to do with the matter. And it struck me that he wasn't nearly so surprised as he ought to have been when you sprang upon him that the vicar had identified the woman as his wife. My impression, from Vivian's manner and from what the doctor told us of his behaviour in the church, is this. When he saw her he was very much surprised to see her lying there. But he recognised her at once, and knew who she was.”

“Then why on earth doesn't he say so straight out?” Arnold demanded.

“That's for you to find out,” Merrion replied. “I have a very strong feeling that there are more secrets hidden in Dellmead than have yet been revealed. The doctor, for instance, has one of his own, I'm pretty sure, and it's in some way connected with Lady Alicia's tomb. I shouldn't be surprised if he indulged in black magic himself. He simply revelled in telling us about Justin Prayver the demonologist and his goings-on.”

“Oh, confound you and your legends!” Arnold exclaimed. “I'm fed up with them. Why can't you stick to facts?”

“The significance of the local legend seems to have escaped you,” Merrion replied. “Let me try to make it clear to you. We'll assume, if you like, that the woman was murdered. In spite of my suggestion of the possibility of suicide, I think that in all probability she was. Why then was her body laid upon the tomb? The only possible answer is that the murderer wished to bring out in the strongest possible relief the analogy between his victim's death and Lady Alicia's.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Arnold grumbled. “What was the idea?”

“The murderer was invoking the power of suggestion,” Merrion replied. “It has begun to work already. You remember the remark Hayes made, early on? He couldn't help reflecting that the woman was lying on the tomb of a former Lady Prayver, who had been murdered long ago. Now, follow the suggestion to its logical conclusion. Lady Alicia, says the legend, was poisoned by the inn-keeper's wife. Who then should have poisoned Lady Coral?”

“That sour-faced woman, Mrs. Vivian!” Arnold exclaimed. “You don't really think so, do you?”

“No, I don't altogether,” Merrion replied. “But I'll bet that when the villagers hear the whole story, they will. They'll see history repeating itself, plainly enough. That's why the body was put where it was, probably by someone who wished to divert suspicion from himself. For you, the significance of the matter is this. The murderer must have been familiar with the legend. From which we may infer that he lives in Dellmead.”

“What have I been telling you?” said Arnold complacently. “It was the parson who told us of the legend.”

“Yes,” Merrion replied doubtfully. “Under the circumstances, we're bound to suspect the parson, I know. But, altogether apart from the fact that I can't imagine him as a murderer, there are, it seems to me, other suspects and other motives.” ,

“Well, let's hear about them,” said Arnold philosophically. “But you might keep your imagination on the lead.”

“Im not going to suggest anything as wild as you did just now,” Merrion replied. “Well, let's have a look over the field. To begin with, what about that dragon, Sarah Fitton? Murder would be the merest trifle to her, if it suited her convenience. No, I'm not suggesting that her motive was the desire to marry the vicar. She's the last person to whom I should attribute any tender passion. But don't you see? If the vicar and his wife had become reconciled, and she had returned to live with her husband, it's a thousand to one that she would have found no use for Sarah. And if Sarah lost her job, she wouldn't stand much chance of finding another. Nobody less tolerant than the vicar would put up with her.”

“Well, that's a motive of sorts,” Arnold admitted. “But what about the opportunity?”

“The vicar was out from half-past two onwards,” Merrion replied, “leaving Sarah to her own devices. Did she go out too? Beyond that we can't go at present, for the theory of Sarah's guilt involves a number of factors of which we are ignorant. Did Sarah know that the vicar's wife was still alive? If so, did she know that she would come to Dellmead yesterday afternoon? Is it possible that somehow she contrived that visit? Or was the event very much simpler than that? Did Sarah by chance meet Lady Prayver, who told her who she was and asked where the vicar lived?”

“Do you suppose that Sarah is in the habit of taking a hypodermic syringe with her when she goes for an afternoon walk?” Arnold asked scornfully.

“It hardly seems likely,” Merrion replied equably. “Which suggests that if Sarah was the criminal, the job was premeditated. I've had that syringe in mind all along. There's always the faint possibility that Hayes may find it thrown away somewhere outside the church. But I'm very much inclined to think now that he won't.”

He paused to light a fresh cigarette, and went on. “Doesn't it strike you that Dellmead has always been a battleground between two opposing forces? The Priory on the one hand, and the characters of the legend on the other? The good seems to have prevailed in that campaign. But in the eighteenth century the fortunes of war were reversed. Evil, with Justin Prayver and his colleague Asmodeus as its captains, seems to have held the field unopposed. Now the scales are once more equal, with the vicar representing the Spirit of Light, and the doctor the Spirit of Darkness. Eh?”

Arnold grunted. “I knew you would let your imagination off the lead,” he replied tolerantly.

Merrion smiled. “It must be allowed to frisk about a little. You never know what scent it may pick up in the grass at the side of the road while you're plodding along the highway. But I'll call it to heel, if you insist. Now, here's a straight-forward question for you. If, before yesterday's events, you had been in Dellmead and for some purpose wanted a hypodermic syringe, where would you have been most likely to find one?”

“I should have gone to the doctor, and asked him,” Arnold replied. “I see what you're driving at. But—”

“I know what you're going to say,” Merrion interrupted him. “What possible reason could the doctor have had for murdering the vicar's wife on her first appearance in Dellmead? Never mind about motive for the moment. Just consider opportunity. Miss Grinstead says that she was out in the garden all the afternoon. Where was her uncle all that time? He could have left the house by the back way without her knowledge and been back by teatime.

“Now, consider what Miss Grinstead told us. While she was in the garden, she heard rather than saw a woman come up the lane and pause for a moment at the gate. That seems to me a perfectly natural event. We may suppose, I take it, that Lady Prayver came to Dellmead in search of her husband, and that she had never been to the place before. She did not want to attract attention to herself by asking the way. Being in search of the vicar, she naturally looked for the vicarage. The vicarage is usually to be found somewhere near the church. On reaching the signpost, she saw the arm indicating the way to the church and, quite sensibly, followed the direction.

“Before long she came to a house which must surely be the vicarage. She was about to open the gate, when the brass plate caught her eye. That showed her clearly enough that the house was not the vicarage. So she went on, expecting to find another house before she reached the church, or perhaps beyond it. Anyhow, she went on. And not very long afterwards she met her murderer. Not, I think, by chance, but because he had set out to intercept her.”

Arnold started to make some comment, but Merrion silenced him with a wave of the hand. “Let me finish. Miss Grinstead says that she was working among the shrubberies, and that from there all she could see was part of a woman's dress. We'll accept that for the moment. But I noticed, as we opened the gate this afternoon, that part of the house, with two or three of the upper windows, was visible. Consequently, any one at the gate would be visible from those windows. If the doctor had been standing at one of them, he would have had a clear view of Lady Prayver as she paused to survey the plate.

“Finally, here's a very small point. As you know, I'm a great believer in the importance of trifles. When Miss Grinstead came back from church this evening, she seemed surprised to find us still with her uncle. But how was that? If she came back by the lane, she must have seen the car standing outside the gate, and that would have told her we were still in the house. The explanation must be that there is a short cut between the church and some door at the back or side of the house. And it is this short cut that the doctor, having charged a hypodermic syringe and put it in his pocket, may have taken to intercept Lady Prayver.”

“Yes,” said Arnold indulgently, “As usual, you've got a marvellous theory. But you haven't told me why.”

“Because we don't yet know enough to guess at the motive. But here are a few points to digest at your leisure. Everybody has told us that it was believed, or supposed, in Dellmead that the vicar's wife had died long ago. That is probably true, as far as the majority were concerned. But there may have been exceptions, people in the vicar's confidence, to whom he had revealed the truth. Sarah Fitton, for instance, and possibly Miss Grinstead.”

“Why Miss Grinstead rather than her uncle?” Arnold asked.

“Do you remember a remark of Vivian's?” Merrion replied. “The chaps were always saying they wondered how it was that the vicar didn't marry again. If he contemplated a second marriage, who more eligible than Miss Grinstead? Again, is her regular attendance at church founded solely on devotion? Unfortunately, the vicar couldn't marry her while his first wife was alive. May he not have hinted as much to her?”

“And she passed the word to her uncle,” Arnold remarked.

“Maybe,” Merrion replied. “Though it's not utterly impossible that she took matters into her own hands. You've got a lot to find out still before you decide about that. Meanwhile, we haven't exhausted the list of candidates for crime. Vivian knows something, but what exactly I'm not at all sure. He and his wife may have acted in collusion, or either of them independently. Their alibis are far from convincing. As to their motive, I don't pretend to guess. Again, it's up to you to unearth the facts. And as I expect you'll want to make an early start in the morning, it's about time we went to bed.”

VII

After an early breakfast, Arnold set out in Merrion's car next morning, with Newport driving. They reached Dellmead shortly after nine, and pulled up at Hayes' house. Having sent Newport and the car back to London, Arnold knocked on the door. It was opened by Mrs. Hayes, who informed him that her husband had gone up to the church to look for something.

Arnold knew what this something was, and decided that Hayes might be left to his own devices. His own inquiries could best be pursued single-handed. He told Mrs. Hayes that he would meet her husband later, and strolled away towards the village.

He had just passed the signpost, and was on his way towards the vicarage, when he saw a man coming towards him. He did not look like one of the villagers, for his clothing was rather that of a town-dweller. He was big and burly, smoking a cigar and swinging a walking-stick. As he drew nearer, Arnold perceived that he had strong and determined features and resolute eyes. His age might have been fifty or thereabouts.

He seemed considerably more interested in Arnold than Arnold was in him, for he stared intently. And when they were only a few paces apart, the stranger stopped and lifted his hat politely. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “May I ask if you live in this neighbourhood? I hope you will forgive the liberty of the question.”

“No, I don't live anywhere about here,” Arnold replied “But can I help you in any way?”

The other shook his head sadly. “I am afraid not. But I owe you an explanation for my question. My name is Stewart Martin, and my home town is Winnipeg. For the past week I have been staying at the inn, inquiring for any one who might have known my boy Barry, who was stationed near here during the war for quite a long while.”

“I have heard of you, Mr. Martin,” Arnold replied. “I will introduce myself in turn. I am Inspector Arnold, of Scotland Yard.”

Martin nodded comprehendingly. “Ah, yes, I understand. Mr. Vivian has told me something of this strange tragedy.”

This seemed to provide a promising opening. “I wonder if you would repeat what Mr. Vivian told you?” Arnold asked.

“Why, certainly,” Martin replied. “It was on Saturday afternoon that I met him, shortly before six, within a few yards of where we are standing now. He was hurrying back to the inn, and looked as white as a sheet. He appeared so distressed that I stopped him and asked if anything was the matter. He told me that Dr. Grinstead had shown him a dead woman lying on Lady Alicia's tomb in the church, and that the unexpected sight had upset him badly.”

“Did he tell you who the dead woman was?” Arnold asked.

Martin shook his head. “Not then. He hurried away before I could ask any more questions, and I didn't speak to him again that evening. But if one stays at an inn and talks to the people who come there, one hears many strange rumours. And yesterday evening, when things were quiet after closing time, Mr. Vivian told me that he had heard that the dead woman was the wife of the vicar, and that he couldn't understand it at all.”

“You have met the vicar, I dare say?” Arnold suggested.

“I have indeed,” Martin replied. “He was one of the first to whom I applied for news of my son. He was most sympathetic, but was unable to give me any information. I formed the highest opinion of his character and integrity. I may say that I was given to understand that he was a widower, with one son, now at school.”

“Yes,” said Arnold. “Did Mr. Vivian make any further remarks to you about the dead woman?”

“Well, no,” Martin replied. “Rather to my surprise, he didn't. He's a very good fellow, and he and I have become quite friendly. As a rule, he is ready enough to spin long yarns about anything that may have happened. Especially when Mrs. Vivian is not about. In her presence he hasn't nearly so much to say for himself. But he tries to avoid the subject of the dead woman. Perhaps he hasn't yet got over the shock of being confronted with her. And a severe shock it evidently was. When he first told me, I thought that Dr. Grinstead must have been playing a trick upon him.”

This was rather obscure. “Why should you have thought that, Mr. Martin?” Arnold asked.

Martin smiled faintly. “It was the mention of Lady Alicia's tomb. You see, I have become acquainted with Dr. Grinstead and his charming niece. Several times since I have been here I have been to the house and had a chat with the doctor, who is a very learned antiquarian. One of his favourite topics of conversation is the tomb. He took me up to the church on one occasion to point it out to me. And then he showed me an old drawing of it, in which there was the effigy of a woman lying on the tomb. The doctor said that it was a thousand pities that the effigy had disappeared, and that no trace of it could be found. When Mr. Vivian told me what he had seen, it passed through my mind that it might have been recovered and replaced, and that the doctor had told him it was a dead woman, just by way of pulling his leg.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn't merely an effigy that Mr. Vivian saw,” Arnold remarked. “Now, Mr. Martin, you've been so kind in answering my questions so far that I venture to try your patience a little further. Were you at the Crossbeam on Saturday afternoon?”

“Only for part of the afternoon,” Martin replied. “For a long time it has been my habit to rest for an hour or so after lunch, whenever I am able to do so. On Saturday I was resting in my room till shortly before three, when I went out.”

“When you left the house, did you see either Mr. or Mrs. Vivian?” Arnold asked.

Martin shook his head, “No, I saw neither of them, and all was quiet. Mr. Vivian has told me since that he was in the cellar at the back, and that Mrs. Vivian was lying down. She has complained of not feeling well lately, but my private opinion is that it's no more than a fit of the sulks. Between ourselves, Mr. Arnold, she seems to lead her unfortunate husband a dog's life. I don't know how he manages to put up with it as he does.”

Arnold made no comment on this. “Can you tell me which way you went when you left the Crossbeam?” he asked.

Martin smiled sadly. “Yes, I can tell you that. I came along this way, turned into the Flaxmouth road, and walked as far as Friar's Park, where my boy was in camp while he was here. You'll think me incurably sentimental, Mr. Arnold, but Barry was our only child, and my wife and I were utterly devoted to him. I want to take home with me a convincing picture of his surroundings during the last months of his life. I spent a long time wandering round the park, in the faint hope of finding some memory of him, if only his initials carved on a tree. It was while I was on my way back from there that, as I have told you, I met Mr. Vivian.”

“You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Martin,” said Arnold. “Did you see anybody you knew while you were out?”

“Let me think,” Martin replied. He paused thoughtfully for a moment, then waved his stick towards the flat meadow stretching away in the direction of the downs. “Yes, I saw the vicar in the distance, over that way. I don't think I noticed anybody else I knew by sight. Oh, yes, I did, though. I saw the vicar's housekeeper in the village street.”

“You turned at the signpost and walked along the Flaxmouth road,” said Arnold. “Did you meet anyone after that?”

“Nobody I knew, so far as I remember,” Martin replied.

“The dead woman is believed to have walked here from the Windmill about that time,” Arnold suggested. “You did not by any chance meet her between the signpost and Friar's Park?”

Martin shook his head. “So far as I can recall I met nobody on the Flaxmouth road. And the object for which I am here makes me observant of people, hence my venturing to address you. I feel quite certain that if this woman had passed me, I should have noticed her.”

After a few more words they parted, and Arnold went on his way towards the vicarage. His conversation with Martin had in some ways been illuminating, for as a visitor and not a resident his outlook was impartial. He had seen both the vicar and Sarah Fitton. He had not seen either Mr. or Mrs. Vivian, and when he left the Crossbeam all had been quiet. Vivian' s unwonted reticence upon the prevailing topic struck him as peculiar.

As he reached the turning which led to the front of the inn, Arnold hesitated. It might well be that Vivian or his wife held the key to the mystery. But on second thoughts he went on his way. Before confronting Vivian again, it would be as well to collect as much information as he could. He reached the vicarage and rang the bell.

Sarah Fitton opened the door and scowled at him balefully. “The vicar isn't in,” she said, without awaiting his question. “He went up to the church, only a few minutes ago. He's got a christening on, and he's gone to get ready for it.”

“Are you sure of that, Mrs. Fitton?” Arnold asked. “I've just come through the village. How is it that I didn't meet him?”

She eyed him scornfully. “You think you're clever, don't you?” she replied. “You didn't meet him because he doesn't go that way. He goes across the meadows and up through the churchyard, like one with sense would do.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Well, if the vicar's out, I'll have a few words with you. Will you let me in, please?”

Reluctantly she stood aside. “I wouldn't have, but that the vicar said if you or the other one called while he was out I was to let you in,” she grumbled. “Well, and what do you want a few words with me about?”

“You should know that, surely,” said Arnold as he entered the hall. “When did you first learn that the vicar was not a widower?”

“That's my business, not yours,” she snapped. “I'm not answering any questions like that, I may tell you.”

This seemed to Arnold tantamount to an admission that she had known. “Did you keep the knowledge to yourself?” he asked.

“You've no right to talk to me like that!” she raged, goaded to fury. “Keep things to myself, indeed! Do you suppose I go round about blabbing about the vicar's business? I don't speak of it, even to you.”

“Very well, then,” Arnold replied. “We'll talk about your own business. On Saturday afternoon about three o'clock, you were out in the village. What were you doing?”

“What do you suppose I was doing?” she asked scornfully. “Just taking the air? I don't see that it's any concern of yours, but all the same I'll tell you. I was going to the shop. They hadn't sent the proper rations, and it's not the first time it's happened. I gave them a piece of my mind, I can promise you that.”

Arnold felt quite sure that she had. “And while you were out, you met Lady Prayver?” he suggested.

She glanced at him. “Oh, so that's it, is it? Well, you're wrong. I didn't meet any one I didn't know. So I can't have met Lady Prayver, as I don't know her, never having set eyes upon her.”

“You only met people you knew,” said Arnold. “Were your friend Mrs. Vivian or her husband among them?”

“No, I didn't see either of them,” she replied. “Rose Vivian has been poorly this last day or two, and hasn't been out much, and I didn't see him. Only the gentleman that's staying with them, mooning about as usual.”

Finding Sarah Fitton uncommunicative, Arnold left the house. As he walked back, under the steep bank of the mound on which stood the Crossbeam, he saw two figures crossing the meadows from the direction of the church. These he made out to be the vicar and Hayes, and he strolled across to meet them. The vicar greeted him cordially, and Hayes saluted. “Good morning, Lord Prayver,” Arnold replied, “I'll see you a little later on at your place, Hayes.”

Hayes went on, leaving the vicar and Arnold standing on the track which wound across the meadows. “You were looking for me, Mr. Arnold?” the vicar suggested.

“I called at the vicarage and had a few words with Mrs. Fitton,” Arnold replied. “May I ask how long she has been in your service?”

“Four or five years now,” the vicar replied. “Her manner is unprepossessing, I fear, but she's an excellent housekeeper.”

“She is not a native of this part of the country, I understand,” said Arnold. “How did you get in touch with her?”

“Purely by chance,” the vicar replied. “I have a friend, a parson like myself, who is the incumbent of a parish in the Midlands, We correspond regularly, and in the course of one of my letters I happened to mention that the woman who had been looking after my house for me had died, and that so far I had found nobody to replace her.

“My friend replied by return, telling me of a most unfortunate incident which had occurred in his parish. The district nurse had been proved guilty of professional misconduct, in consequence of which her patient had died. The nurse had been suspended, and was now without employment. Local feeling against her was very strong, and it was more than doubtful whether, with her record, she could secure a nursing Job elsewhere. My friend said that he was most anxious to find employment for her in some place where she was not known. If I would give her a trial as a housekeeper, it would be an act of Christian charity on my part. I did so, and have never found cause to regret it.”

“I must ask you a personal question, Lord Prayver,” said Arnold. “Did this friend of yours know that you were not, in fact, a widower?”

“He knew that my wife had left me, and the circumstances under which she had done so,” the vicar replied. “I do not see how he could have known whether she was alive or dead. Had he heard anything of her, he would have told me.”

“Mrs. Fitton and Mrs. Vivian are on friendly terms, are they not?” Arnold asked.

The vicar smiled. “That is so. The more malicious among my parishioners have remarked upon the affinity which exists between birds of a feather. It is unfortunate that both women are in the habit of displaying their animosity in public. But so far as Sarah Fitton is concerned, that is only an outward manifestation. She has always served me faithfully and cheerfully.”

“And Mrs. Vivian?” Arnold suggested. “I saw her yesterday evening, and was hardly favourably impressed.”

“You would probably not be,” the vicar replied. “Mrs. Vivian is one of those unhappy people who appear to have a grievance against the world and every one in it. Several times I have tried to talk to her, but have never been able to elicit anything but most unreasonable grumbling. It is most unfair on her husband, who is extraordinarily patient with her. Perhaps the secret of her discontent lies in the fact that they have no children.”

“What is your opinion of Mr. Vivian?” Arnold asked.

“Frank Vivian is a very good fellow indeed,” the vicar replied heartily. “I am not one of those prejudiced people who regard the local inn as a haunt of vice. On the contrary, I regard it as a very wholesome meeting-place, and I go to the Crossbeam myself now and then. And if one of my parishioners occasionally drinks more beer that is good for him, I do not consider that does him any great moral harm. Vivian, besides being an excellent landlord, exercises a very good influence in the village. I have no hesitation in claiming him as one of my friends.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Arnold. “Do you see very much of him?”

“I do when my boy Michael is at home,” the vicar replied. “Vivian is almost absurdly devoted to the lad. They met quite by chance when Michael was only a toddler, very shortly after we came here. Vivian hadn't taken over the Crossbeam then, but was fond of coming here and walking over the downs. One day as he was passing the vicarage gate he saw Michael just inside, and stopped and spoke to him. They struck up a friendship at once. And since Vivian has had the Crossbeam they see a lot of one another in Michael's holidays. It is typical of Vivian's good sense that he will not let Michael go to the Crossbeam. He always comes to the vicarage, and asks me if he may have a chat with the lad. I sometimes have the feeling that he envies me, having no son of his own.”

“Is it possible that Vivian can have learnt the truth about Lady Prayver?” Arnold asked.

The vicar shook his head. “Certainly not from me. And, until now, I have always allowed Michael to believe that his mother died when he was a baby. I intended to tell him the whole story when he was old enough to understand such things.”

“Did Mrs. Fitton know how matters stood?” Arnold persisted.

The vicar frowned slightly. “You appear to consider that my silence amounted to prevarication, Mr. Arnold. Let me assure you that I have never descended to uttering a deliberate lie. On one occasion Sarah Fitton asked me where my wife was buried. I could only reply that I did not know whether she was indeed buried. And, lest that should lead to any misapprehension, I went on to tell her that my wife had left me many years ago, and that I had heard no word of her since. I asked Sarah, as a personal favour to myself, not to repeat this. She gave me her promise, and has, I am sure, kept her word.”

“Is it quite impossible that any of these people should have known Lady Prayver in the past?” Arnold asked.

“It is manifestly not impossible.” the vicar replied. “Their paths may have crossed long ago. But I am convinced that nobody now living in Dellmead can have known my wife since she became such.”

Feeling not altogether satisfied with what he had heard, Arnold parted from the vicar, who continued his way towards the vicarage. Arnold took the opposite direction, following the track which, as it left the meadows, rose gently to the churchyard. He passed through this to the church, finding the door unlocked and the building empty.

He stood by the porch, considering the hint Merrion had let drop. There must be some way to Dr. Grinstead's house, other than the lane. He could see the roof of the house and, nearer to hand, a ruined wall, no doubt the remains of the Priory. Setting out to explore, he found in the hedge surrounding the church a gap, from which a trodden path led in the direction of the ruins. He set along this, and in a surprisingly short time reached a flat weed-grown expanse, on which ancient foundations were discernible. On his right rose a confused mass of ruins, broken-down walls and doorways. On his left was a building in a rather better state of repair. Its construction showed that it must at one time have formed part of the Priory. But at some period the arched windows had been bricked up, and the roof rather surprisingly repaired with corrugated iron, now holed and rusty.

Arnold picked his way among the ruins until he reached a shrubbery at the farther side. Through this ran a fairly well-worn track, which seemed to lead in the right direction. He took it, and after a few yards, on turning an abrupt corner, found himself unexpectedly just outside a side door of the house.

As he contemplated this, wondering whether he should knock or make his way round to the front, the door opened suddenly. A middle-aged woman appeared, wearing an apron, with a cloth tied round her head, and carrying a rug, which she obviously intended to shake out. Seeing Arnold, she stopped short. “And what might you be wanting?” she asked suspiciously.

“Good morning,” Arnold replied in a disarming tone. “I'm afraid I lost my way. I want to see Dr. Grinstead.”

The woman turned and shouted into the house, “Miss Hilary! There's someone here who wants to see the doctor.”

A voice from within answered her. “All right, Mrs. Wimborne, I'll come along.” Hilary appeared, glanced at Arnold, and smiled. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Arnold! You want to speak to my uncle? Do come in. He'll be delighted to see you.”

From the side door a passage led to the museum-like hall, and Arnold followed Hilary along this. They found Dr. Grinstead in the hall, arranging specimens in one of the cases. “Here's Mr. Arnold to see you, Uncle,” Hilary announced.

The doctor looked round from what he was doing. “Why, good morning to you, Mr. Arnold! What can I do for you to-day?”

By this time Arnold had thought out his pretext. “Only a formality. Doctor,” he replied. “As a matter of routine I ought to see the body. It is still in the refectory, I take it?”

“Yes, it's still there,” Grinstead replied. “Hayes said that would be the best place for it till after the inquest, which is fixed for tomorrow, I hear. I'll take you there myself. Excuse me a minute.”

He went to his study, and returned with a gigantic key, nearly a foot long. Armed with this, they went out by the side door and through the shrubbery to the building with the corrugated iron roof. “This is the refectory,” said Grinstead, waving the key towards it. “It's about all that's left of the Priory. Sir William Hunworth had it repaired after a fashion and turned into a barn. That accounts for the windows being blocked and that hideous tin roof. The door's round the corner.”

Arnold followed him to a massive wooden door, studded with iron nails, which at first glance looked as if it would withstand a siege. But closer inspection revealed that this appearance of strength was deceptive. The hinges were almost rusted away, and the wooden post into which the lock fitted was rotten and powdery. Grinstead inserted the key, but as he started to turn it the door swung ajar, with a harsh grating sound.

“That's queer,” he muttered as he peered at the lock. “Why, look here, man alive! The door's been forced!”

VIII

Arnold, bending down to look, had no doubt that the doctor was right. The latch of the lock was shot forward, but there was nothing left for it to engage with. A strip of the rotten door-post had been torn off, and lay on the ground just inside the door, which opened inwards. And an indentation on the post showed where some implement had been inserted.

Grinstead pushed the door wide open and entered, closely followed by Arnold. Enough light came through the doorway and through the many cracks in the roof to render the interior visible. It was completely bare but for a rough bench, which had at some time been built against one of the walls. On this lay something covered with a sheet. Grinstead stepped swiftly up to this, and drew back one end of the sheet. “Well, it wasn't body-snatchers, anyhow,” he said. “She's still here. Another puzzle for you to solve, Mr. Arnold. It beats me altogether.”

Arnold looked at the shrouded body, and at a heap of clothing on the bench, a few feet away. “When were you last here. Doctor?” he asked.

“Not since the divisional surgeon and I finished our job yesterday morning,” Grinstead replied. “I locked the door behind us then, and put the key in my study. I haven't had any occasion to come here since then.”

“Somebody else had, apparently,” Arnold remarked. “What's that heap of clothes lying there?”

“What the woman was wearing,” Grinstead replied. “We had to undress her before we could get on with the postmortem. We took off all her clothes and trinkets and piled them there, where you see them.”

“I wonder if they've been tampered with?” Arnold suggested. “You might look over them. Doctor, and see if anything' s missing.”

Grinstead set to work, turning the articles over one by one. With a perplexed expression he repeated the process before he spoke. “Yes, there is something missing. She was wearing an amber necklace. The divisional surgeon, who is a bit of an expert on jewellery, drew my attention to it particularly. He said it was of a most unusual pattern, and therefore fairly valuable. And it certainly isn't here now.”

“You're quite sure that it was on the bench here when you left the place yesterday?” Arnold asked.

“Absolutely certain,” Grinstead replied. “We put all the trinkets together, the necklace, half a dozen rings, and a couple of brooches. The rings and brooches are still here, as you see, but the necklace has gone. It's the most extraordinary affair I ever came across. I don't begin to understand it.”

“It doesn't strike me as very extraordinary that somebody should steal a valuable necklace,” Arnold remarked.

“The other things are worth something, too, but they haven't gone,” Grinstead replied. “But that's not my point. The door must have been broken open last night. And there are precious few folk in the village who would come to the Priory ruins by night at the best of times, let alone when a dead woman was lying among them. I told you as much yesterday evening, if you remember. Everybody believes the place is haunted.”

“And who are the stout-hearted few who would brave the spooks?” Arnold asked.

Grinstead shook his head. “Well, upon my word, I don't know. I should have said Vivian, but after the way he behaved when he saw the body, I don't know. Prayver, of course, for he sets his face firmly against any sort of superstition. That tigress of a housekeeper of his, I dare say. I don't imagine the devil himself would daunt her. Hayes, perhaps. My niece and I. I can't think of any one else.”

“The next question is a fairly obvious one,” said Arnold. “Who knew of the existence of the necklace?”

“The people who saw the body, to begin with,” Grinstead replied. “And that's rather queer, when you come to think of it. The same set of people as before, with the exception of Sarah Fitton and the addition of Mrs. Bale. Of course, you never know who Vivian or Mrs. Bale may have spoken to about it. But there's just this. Only four people knew that the necklace was to be found in here last night. The divisional surgeon, Hayes, my niece and myself.”

Arnold walked to the door and had another good look at it. Forcing it open could have presented very little difficulty. Given a suitable tool, such as a crowbar, the rotten wood would have yielded with the minimum of pressure. The door was completely hidden from the house by the shrubbery, and from the direction of the church it could be reached unobserved. “Whose idea was it in the first place that the body should be brought here?” Arnold asked.

“My niece's,” Grinstead replied. “And a jolly good idea it was. I hardly know where else we could have put it.”

“Handy to the church, too,” Arnold remarked. Then, with an abrupt change of subject, “Tell me what you know about the Vivians, Doctor.”

Grinstead looked at him shrewdly. “I've known Vivian for a good many years, ten or twelve, I dare say, and have always had a good opinion of him. Before he took over the Crossbeam he was often here, and I used to meet him occasionally. He had a pub in Flaxmouth then, and he said he liked to get away from the town when he could and enjoy a good walk over the downs. At that time the Crossbeam was kept by rather a doddering old chap, who was getting past his job.

“Then one day, about five years ago now, I was walking through the meadows and came across Vivian. He told me that the old chap had made up his mind to retire, and go and live with his widowed daughter in Flaxmouth. Vivian told me that he was applying to the brewers for the tenancy, and hadn't much doubt that he would get it. He got it all right, and not very long afterwards he moved in. It wasn't till then that I met his wife.”

“Who doesn't hit it off very well with her husband?” Arnold suggested.

“She's not the sort of woman who'd be likely to hit it off with anybody,” Grinstead replied. “If she'd lived a couple of hundred years ago she would have been ducked as a scold. There's a dewpond not very far from the Crossbeam that would have served the purpose admirably. Unfortunately, those good old customs have fallen into abeyance.”

Arnold smiled. “It is rather a pity. All the same, Vivian and his wife manage to rub along together somehow?”

Grinstead shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know much about their private lives. You ought to talk to Stewart Martin. He's been staying at the Crossbeam for a week or more, and ought to have had more opportunity for observation than I have. I'm sorry for that poor chap, and I encourage him to come and have a chat with me whenever he feels like it. He was wrapped up in a boy of his who was in camp at Friar's Park before he was killed at Dieppe. Now Martin has come over here to try to find any one who remembers the lad and could talk to him about him.”

“I met Mr. Martin just now, and he told me that.” Arnold remarked.

Grinstead nodded. “Yes, he tells every one he meets. Just on the chance that they can put him in the right direction. But, though I don't tell him so, it's pretty hopeless. When the Canadians were here, they didn't mix much with the locals. It might have been different if they had been billeted in the village, but they weren't, they were in a camp by themselves. It always seemed to me that when they had any time off, they made straight for Flaxmouth. You can hardly blame them, for there wasn't much to amuse them here.”

Arnold steered the conversation back to the point. “Mr. Martin told me that it seemed to him that Mrs. Vivian led her husband a dog's life. Now, I wonder if you can tell me this, Doctor? Did Lord Prayver and Vivian know one another before Lord Prayver came here as a vicar?”

“I can't tell you that,” Grinstead replied. “All I can say is that I have never heard any suggestion that they did. My impression is that Prayver first met Vivian in the same way that I did, by seeing him casually when he used to come over here from Flaxmouth. I can guess what's in your mind. My suggestion that Vivian may, in fact, have recognised the dead woman when he saw her. But if he did, I can't understand how.”

“Let's speak plainly, Doctor,” said Arnold. “You've told me that Vivian's behaviour on Saturday afternoon seemed rather strange to you. Has it struck you since that it might have been the behaviour of a guilty man?”

“Hardly that,” Grinstead replied. “His reaction seemed to be due to amazement, and was, I am sure, perfectly genuine. Naturally, I have done little but wonder who could have murdered the woman. Your friend Mr. Merrion was quite right to point out the possibility of suicide. But I shall be very much astonished if it turns out that she took her own life. As for Vivian, I find it very difficult to imagine where he could have acquired a syringe and a supply of the drug.”

“You have such things in your dispensary, of course,” said Arnold. “And I imagine it wouldn't be impossible for a person who knew the way about to get in there without your knowledge?”

“Well, I suppose not,” Grinstead admitted doubtfully. “But I don't think it very likely that anyone would.”

“It didn't seem very likely that anyone would break in here,” Arnold remarked. “Have you checked your drugs and syringes to see whether anything is missing?”

“I haven't,” Grinstead replied. “But I dare say Hilary has. You see, the dispensary is her preserve. Before she came to live with me when her mother died, she qualified as a dispenser. Now she does all my dispensing for me. I very rarely go into the place myself. I can trust Hilary to look after everything in there.”

“Perhaps we could ask Miss Grinstead,” said Arnold. “But just one more question first, Doctor. Did you see anyone hanging about near the church on Saturday afternoon?”

Grinstead shook his head. “I didn't go outside the house that afternoon till Hilary and I went to the church with Mrs. Bale. Such few patients as I have I visit in the morning. And when I was in the village on Saturday morning Percy Wimborne stopped me and gave me two or three old coins he'd found. He's our local handyman, and he found them beneath some floorboards he was taking up. I spent the afternoon in my study, examining the coins and comparing them with others I have. Hilary and I had tea in there together.”

“Then of course you couldn't have seen anybody,” said Arnold cheerfully. “Shall we go back to the house and speak to Miss Grinstead?”

“By all means,” Grinstead replied. “I'll ask Mrs. Wimborne to tell her husband to come up and fix this door somehow. He won't mind if it's broad daylight and I'm with him to scare away the spooks.”

They went back to the house, where they found Hilary helping Mrs. Wimborne with the dusting. “Mr. Arnold wants you to show him the dispensary,” said Grinstead. “Take him along, will you, while I have a word with Mrs. Wimborne?”

“Will you come with me, Mr. Arnold?” said Hilary. The house seemed to be all dark passages. She took him along one of these, their footsteps making no sound on the thick matting. Some way along it she stopped and opened a door, which, as Arnold noticed, was not locked. “This is the dispensary, Mr. Arnold,” she said. “Come in.”

Arnold entered and looked about him. The appearance of the room in which he found himself suggested that it had originally been the butler's pantry, now converted to its present use. There was a sink and a tap, rows of jars and bottles, and several cupboards. Everything was neat and in perfect order. “This is what I wanted to ask you. Miss Grinstead,” said Arnold. “Is anything missing from here? A hypodermic syringe, for instance?”

Hilary nodded comprehendingly. “I see what you mean. I'll look.” She opened a cupboard and took from it a black bag. “This is what my uncle takes when he goes on his rounds,” she went on. “I always see that it's got everything in it he's likely to want. There should be two syringes in it. Yes, here they are.”

As she was speaking, she had opened the bag. She took out two small cases and opened them for Arnold's inspection. In each of them was a syringe, clean and in order. “There should be two more in this drawer, among the other instruments,” she remarked. The drawer on being opened revealed two similar cases, each with a syringe in it. “Those are all the syringes we have, and they're all there,” she said.

“What about the drugs, Miss Grinstead?” Arnold asked. “Is there any chance of them having been tampered with?”

“I shouldn't think so,” Hilary replied. “But we'll look, just the same.” She went to a desk and took from it a small key with which she unlocked one of the cupboards. In it were a very few small bottles and boxes. “We don't keep a large stock,” she explained. “If my uncle has to prescribe anything unusual, we send into Flaxmouth for it. No, none of the drugs in here has been touched. And when I opened the bag I saw that the ones in it were correct.”

“Who, besides yourself, comes into this dispensary?” Arnold asked.

“Nobody except my uncle, and that only very rarely,” Hilary replied. “I do all his dispensing for him. The last bottle of medicine I made up was on Saturday morning, for Mrs. Vivian.”

“And Mr. Vivian called for it that afternoon,” Arnold remarked. “When patients call for medicine, do you ever bring them in here?”

“Never,” she replied. “I come here and fetch it. Or, if I am likely to be out when they call, I put it in my uncle's surgery for him to give to them. As I say, nobody from outside ever conies in here.”

Arnold thanked her, and they went back to the hall, where Grinstead had resumed his pottering among the specimens. He looked up as they joined him. “Well, is everything correct?” he asked.

“Miss Grinstead assures me that everything is correct,” Arnold replied. “I needn't trouble either of you any further just now.”

As he walked down the lane after leaving the house, he mentally marshalled the facts. Miss Grinstead maintained that nobody but her uncle and herself ever entered the dispensary. On the other hand, there was nothing to prevent anyone doing so, for the door was apparently not kept locked. The only person who could vouch for the correctness of the stock of syringes and drugs was Miss Grinstead. On Saturday afternoon, Grinstead could have gone to the dispensary without her knowledge, while she was at work in the front garden. Alternatively, she could have gone there without her uncle's knowledge, while he was in his study.

Arnold found Hayes waiting for him at his house. “Well, have you anything to report?” he asked.

“Not very much, I'm afraid, sir,” Hayes replied. “When you saw me just now with the vicar, I'd been spending a couple of hours hunting round the church for that syringe. I looked everywhere I could think of, in the hedges and that, but I couldn't find anything. I even hunted round the church itself, but I didn't find anything there either.”

“I didn't much expect you would,” said Arnold. “Anything else?”

“Only about the inquest, sir,” Hayes replied. “The coroner rang through to say he'd hold it here at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, and told me to get him a jury. I've fixed up with the vicar to use the parish room, and I'll pick up a jury this afternoon. There won't be any trouble about that.”

“Very well,” said Arnold. “Now I've something to tell you. First of all, do you remember what jewellery the dead woman was wearing?”

“I think so, sir,” Hayes replied. “She was wearing a lot of rings and a brooch or two. And round her neck she had a string of yellow stones. Amber, the doctor said they were.”

Arnold nodded. “And do you know what became of this jewellery?”

“The doctor told me, sir,” Hayes replied. “When he spoke to me yesterday morning, after the divisional surgeon from Flaxmouth had gone, he said that they had put the clothing and all by the body on the bench in the refectory, in case anyone should come along offering to identify the body or the clothes and things.”

“Well, I've a piece of news for you,” said Arnold. “Just now I asked the doctor if I might see the body, and he took me to the refectory. When we got there, we found the door broken open and the amber necklace gone.”

Hayes stared at him incredulously. “The door broken open, sir? Whoever would have done a thing like that?”

“You can go and look for yourself, if you don't believe me,” Arnold replied. “You'll find it's as I tell you. As for who would have done such a thing, you ought to know that better than I do. Someone from the village, I suppose.”

Hayes scratched his head in perplexity. “I don't know who'd care to go near the Priory, sir, and with a dead body there and all. And the necklace has gone, sir? What did they want to take that for?”

“Not to hang round a girl friend's neck, I imagine,” Arnold replied. “I'm told it's fairly valuable. But we've more important things than stolen necklaces to worry about. Look here, Hayes. You know the Dellmead folk pretty well, and you must have your own ideas. Who murdered Lady Prayver, and why?”

Hayes frowned in considerable embarrassment. “I shouldn't like to say, sir. But if she was Lady Prayver, I don't see why anyone should want to murder her except her husband.”

“I think we've got to accept it as a fact that she was Lady Prayver,” said Arnold. “But let's put the vicar on one side for a moment. Failing him, do you know of any one here likely to commit murder? Put motive out of your head.”

“No, that I don't, sir,” Hayes replied with heartfelt sincerity. “Nothing like it has ever happened since I've been here.”

“I don't suppose it has,” Arnold remarked dryly. “I'm not asking you if you've got a professional murderer in the parish. Now, I'll give you a lead. I'm pretty sure that Vivian knows, or at least suspects, something about that woman. I'll go so far as to say that I believe he recognised her when he saw her. Never mind about why he should have wanted to murder her, just answer this question. Is he the sort of man who would have done such a thing?”

“Well, sir, I can only say this,” Hayes replied. “He's lived with that shrew of a wife of his all these years without murdering her. That being so, it doesn't seem to me very likely that he would have murdered anyone else.”

Arnold laughed. “That's a pretty good argument. Let's think of someone else. The woman was killed by the injection of a drug, which rather suggests that a medical man may have had a hand in it. What about Dr. Grinstead?”

“Well, I don't know, sir,” Hayes replied. “It's often struck me that the doctor's a bit queer in his ways. He never seems to bother much about his patients. All he cares about is turning up old junk that's no good to anybody. You've seen all that rubbish that he's littered up his house with. He can't be quite right in the head.”

“Perhaps not,” Arnold remarked with some amusement. Dr. Grinstead's peculiarities might loom large in the eyes of a country policeman. But from the eccentricity of a hobby to homicidal mania was a long step. Yet Merrion had seemed to have his doubts about the doctor. And there was that curious incident of the theft of the amber necklace. Could Grinstead have taken it to add to his collection, masking his act by forcing the refectory door? However this might be, it was by now well past noon, and Arnold was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. “Do you think, if I went along to the Crossbeam, they'd give me something to eat?” he asked.

Hayes assured him that he would get something, if it was only a snack. He walked to the inn, and finding Vivian in the bar, broached the subject to him. “Why, yes, that'll be all right,” Vivian replied. “We've pretty nearly always got something in the house. My wife will be getting Mr. Martin's lunch before very long. If you don't mind having yours at the same time, it'll save trouble.”

Arnold made no objection to this arrangement, and ordered a glass of beer to while away the time till lunch was ready. Two or three of the villagers came into the bar while he was there, eyeing him with considerable awe, but making no attempt to enter into conversation. In a quarter of an hour or so Mrs. Vivian appeared, looking, Arnold thought, if possible less genial than ever. “Your lunch is ready,” she said sharply, beckoning to him. “Come this way.”

He followed her to a small room behind the smoking-room, with a table laid for two. Martin was already seated at one side, and welcomed Arnold courteously. “Mrs. Vivian told me that I was to have the pleasure of your company, Mr. Arnold. I am delighted, for I very much dislike having my meals in solitude.”

Arnold sat down, and Mrs. Vivian brought in the first course. A slice of cold boiled fowl, baked potatoes and sprouts. This was followed by apple-tart and custard. Arnold enjoyed his meal, but found his companion rather wearisome. Stewart Martin was evidently a man of one idea, and took every advantage of a fresh listener to whom to unburden himself. He indulged in a long and rambling monologue, of which the subject was his son Barry. Arnold was compelled to listen to the lad's life history, from the time of his birth until his departure from Canada in one of the earlier drafts.

He excused himself as soon as he decently could and left the inn. His intention was to have an interview with Vivian, but he was tactful enough to postpone this until after closing time, half-past two, when the landlord would be at leisure. It occurred to him to fill up the time till then in exploration. From the pull-in at the front of the house, a metalled track ran round one side, and, following this, he found that it led round to the back, against the ancient wall with the narrow windows. In this wall was a door, now shut, and outside it were stacked a number of empty bottles in cases, ready for collection on the next visit of the brewers' dray. From this fact Arnold guessed, rightly, that the door gave access to the cellar.

For a few yards beyond the wall the ground was flat. Then it dipped abruptly, developing into the precipitous descent which Arnold had already seen from below. Standing at the edge of the mound, a wide expanse was spread out before him; the sharp drop to the foot of the mound, round which curved the road, with the vicarage to the left, and the scattered cottages of the village to the right; beyond the road the flat meadows, with the downs surrounding them; the church standing on its own slight eminence; a little lower a clump of trees, through which could be seen part of Dr. Grinstead's house.

Arnold sat down on one of the cases and lighted his pipe. The scene was so peaceful that it seemed impossible that it could be the setting of a tragedy. Yet, if legend and the doctor's stories were to be believed, this quiet countryside had a long record of grim happenings. The immediate point was, who had been responsible for this latest development?

Arnold was pondering this question, when he heard a grating sound at his elbow. The cellar door swung open, and an instant later Vivian appeared, a case of empty bottles in his arms.

IX

He seemed surprised to see Arnold sitting there, for he hesitated a moment before adding the case to the stack with a resounding crash. “Why, Mr. Arnold, you gave me quite a start!” he exclaimed. “I didn't expect to find you here.”

“I have a way of turning up in unexpected places,” Arnold replied. “Wonderful view you've got at the back here. It's after closing time, isn't it? Suppose you sit down too, and we'll have a little chat together.”

The prospect of a little chat did not seem to appeal to Vivian very much, for his eyes flickered. He stood for a moment, fidgeting and undecided, then reluctantly pulled one of the cases towards him and sat down on it. “I haven't got too much time to spare, Mr. Arnold,” he muttered. “There's a lot to do in a place like this, even when the bar's not open.”

“I dare say there is,” Arnold replied. “But you'll have to spare me a few minutes, all the same. Now, look here. I want the truth about this affair. You recognised that woman as soon as you saw her lying in the church. Who was she?”

Vivian glanced about him apprehensively. Then with a sudden movement he got up. For a moment Arnold thought that he was going to run away. But he merely closed the cellar door, then came back on tiptoe to his seat. “If I tell you, Mr. Arnold, it won't go any further, will it?” he asked in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“Well, that depends,” Arnold replied. “You can't expect me to make any promises. If your knowledge of this woman has any bearing on her death, you'll have to make a statement in the witness-box. You understand that, surely?”

“It's nothing to do with her death,” Vivian replied hastily. “I know no more about that than you do, Mr. Arnold. It's my wife. If she got to know that I'd been friendly with another woman she'd go off the deep end worse than ever. And there's the vicar too.”

“Let's get this straight,” said Arnold quietly. “You knew this woman and were on friendly terms with her?”

“Years ago, before I was married.” Vivian replied. “It's fifteen years and more since I last saw her. But I recognised her as soon as I saw her lying there. She hadn't changed much. Older, of course, but still the same.”

“If you recognised her, why didn't you say so, instead of trying to make a mystery of it?” Arnold asked.

Vivian shot a furtive glance at the wall behind him. “My wife,” he replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I never told her I had another girl friend. And I didn't see any need that she should find that out now.”

“You ought to have told the truth and faced the music,” said Arnold severely. “Tell me the whole story.”

“It's all so long ago,” Vivian replied apologetically. “When I was living with my people at Runnelford in Oxfordshire, my father had a draper's shop there, and I used to help behind the counter. I was courting my wife then; she was the daughter of a farmer who lived a little way outside the town. And a matter of fifteen years or more ago my mother died, and my father gave up the business and retired. He didn't live very long after that, poor old chap. And I got married, and my wife and I took a little country pub, not far from the farm where her people lived.”

“That's all very interesting,” Arnold remarked dryly. “But where does this woman come in?”

Vivian took a deep breath. “I'm coming to that. While we were in Runnelford she and another girl, a friend of hers, came to the town and opened a teashop. Coral Findon, her name was then. They were both handsome, good-looking girls, and they must have made quite a good thing of it. The young chaps from Oxford used to come out to their shop quite a lot. I never saw much of the other girl, but Coral Findon used to come to our shop, and that's how I got to know her.”

“And you struck up a friendship with her?” said Arnold. ''Yet you give me to understand that you lost sight of her?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Arnold, it was this way,” Vivian replied with obvious embarrassment. “I didn't want my wife to know about her. She'd have been terribly jealous if she'd known that I was friendly with Coral. So after I left Runnelford I didn't see her again. It wasn't until Saturday that I set eyes on her.”

“But no doubt you heard that she had got married.” Arnold remarked. “Now that you've gone so far you may as well tell me the whole truth. You knew that your old friend Coral Findon had become Lady Prayver?”

“How could I know that?” Vivian protested. “I did hear that Coral had married a young chap who was learning to be a parson. But I never knew Mr. Prayver, as he was then, before he came to live here. And he didn't bring his wife with him, and we all supposed that she was dead. How could I have guessed that she was, or had been, Coral Findon? And when you told me that evening that the dead woman was the vicar's wife, that seemed to me another reason for keeping my mouth shut. The vicar wouldn't like it to be known that his wife had once been friendly with a chap like me.”

“Well, I don't know,” said Arnold doubtfully. “It sounds a pretty queer story to me. You knew this woman, and her presence here would obviously be disturbing to your peace of mind. How did you know that she was coming?”

“I didn't know!” Vivian exclaimed. “I hadn't heard of her for years. She might have been dead long ago for all I could tell.”

“Then it was entirely by chance that you met her between three and four on Saturday afternoon?” Arnold suggested quietly.

The full implication of his words dawned upon Vivian. “I didn't meet her, I'll swear to that,” he replied earnestly. “I can see your meaning well enough, Mr. Arnold. It's your job to suspect people, and I can't blame you for suspecting me. But I put it to you this way. If I had murdered Coral, would I have gone up to the church with Miss Hilary when she asked me? And would I have told you that I had known her at one time, long ago?”

Arnold was impressed by his evident sincerity. “Well, perhaps not. But tell me this. If you didn't murder her, who did?”

Vivian shook his head. “I can't believe it was the vicar. I wouldn't have thought that he would have hurt a fly. But who else? Coral must have left him long ago, and it's not likely he wanted her back again. How has she been living all this time without a husband? There's that lad, young Michael, growing up. What sort of a mother would he think her?”

“You and the boy are very good friends, I hear,” Arnold remarked.

“Why, yes,” Vivian replied, in some confusion. “Friends, if you like to put it that way, though I shouldn't claim so much for myself. I've every respect for the vicar, and naturally for his son too. He's a good lad, is Master Michael, and he seemed to take to me the first time we met. He'll make a first-class cricketer, some day, and he likes me to go and bowl to him in the vicarage paddock.”

Arnold nodded. “Quite so. You're certain that Mrs. Vivian doesn't know that at one time you were friendly with his mother?”

“Good heavens, yes!” Vivian exclaimed. “I've never spoken a word to her about Coral. And you see how it is, Mr. Arnold. If she gets hold of the story now, there's no telling what she'd twist it into.”

It was plain to Arnold that his anxiety on this score was genuine enough. “Well, I don't know,” he said. “I shall say nothing to Mrs. Vivian, and you won't be called as a witness at the inquest. But if ever there should be an arrest, you'll certainly be called upon to give evidence. I think you must see that for yourself.”

“I wish I'd never gone to the church with Miss Hilary,” Vivian replied ruefully. “If I hadn't, I should never have known that it was Coral who'd been killed. And then I shouldn't have been called upon to say anything.”

“Your confidence is safe with me, at all events for the present,” said Arnold. “But I warn you, if it turns out that you haven't told me the whole truth, you'll be for it. All right, I won't keep you from your job any longer.”

He got up and walked away, round the house and down to the village. Then, feeling the need of a little quiet meditation, he strolled on to the meadows, and set out at a leisurely pace towards the downs beyond. Nobody was in sight in that direction, and he had the countryside to himself. He lighted his pipe once more, and allowed his thoughts to wander at will.

Vivian would certainly not have invented the story of his former friendship with Coral Findon, and in that respect at least his statement could be accepted. But was it true that since those old days he had not seen her again until that confrontation in the church? In other words, had he met her on Saturday afternoon and murdered her?

On the whole, Arnold thought not, although a motive might be attributed to him. If Coral, who had so unexpectedly become Lady Prayver, had returned to live with her husband, she would have recognised Vivian, and recalled her ancient friendship with him. Mrs. Vivian would have raised hell, and made her husband's life unbearable. Better ensure Coral's silence before she had time to indulge in awkward reminiscence.

But although motive was understandable, opportunity most certainly was not. It seemed to Arnold that the murderer must have been expecting his victim's arrival in Dellmead. How else explain his possession of a syringe charged with a deadly drug? Such things were not to be readily obtained on the spur of the moment. True, they might have been obtained from Dr. Grinstead's dispensary. But with the doctor in his study and his niece in the front garden, it would not have been easy to procure them without the knowledge of either.

And it did not seem very likely that Vivian had been expecting his old friend to turn up. Her only reason for coming to Dellmead could have been to see her husband. Even if she knew that Vivian was in the place, there would have been no point in warning him of her intention. Then, Vivian's own defence had been perfectly logical. He would not have accompanied Hilary Grinstead to the church, knowing that he would be confronted with his victim. And most certainly he would have vehemently denied all knowledge of her. He could safely do this, for nobody in Dellmead, even the vicar, could be expected to have any, knowledge of their former intimacy.

Looking at it from another direction, Arnold saw that Vivian's statement threw some light upon the vicar's. Incidentally, it removed any doubt that the dead woman had been the vicar's wife. They had both called her by the same Christian name, and Vivian had heard that she had married a man who was training to be a parson. It was curious that a man so firmly set upon his future career as the vicar should have chosen to marry a girl from a teashop. He could hardly have expected that she would turn out to be the ideal parson's wife. He had only himself to blame for the failure of the marriage. All things considered, it was greatly to his advantage that she should have left him.

That was just it. The vicar must have realised this more clearly than anyone. And there was that revealing remark of Vivian's. What would the boy Michael think of such a mother? Suppose that the vicar had known that his wife intended to return to him? After all, it seemed unlikely that she had descended on Dellmead out of the blue without previous warning. He might have set out to meet her, armed with the syringe, ready charged.

How had he obtained the syringe and the drug at, it must be supposed, comparatively short notice? Not from Dr. Grinstead's dispensary, for, if his niece had told the truth, he must have put the syringe back after committing the crime, and that seemed hardly possible. But it occurred to Arnold that the vicar might have found what he wanted very much nearer home. Sarah Fitton had at one time been a nurse, and must have been in possession of drugs and medical apparatus. It was not at all improbable that she had brought these with her when she took up her post as the vicar's housekeeper.

Was the vicar aware of this, and had he borrowed from her stock? Or had it been Sarah Fitton who had taken the situation into her own hands? She had known that it was not established that the vicar's wife was already dead. She might have intercepted a communication from her to him, announcing her intended arrival. She had every reason for dreading Lady Prayver's installation at the vicarage as its mistress. She might have been tempted to commit the crime, and then to arrange the new Lady Prayver so appropriately on the tomb of the old.

And then that inexplicable and apparently irrelevant theft of the amber necklace. Taken by itself, that was a most amazing incident. Very few people knew that the dead woman had been wearing jewellery, or that this had been left with the body in the refectory. It was altogether too fantastic to suppose that some crook had seen her wearing the necklace and followed her. That would mean that she had been murdered for the sake of the necklace, and that the murderer had delayed snatching his booty until the body had been disposed of. On the other hand, it was a matter of common agreement that very few people in Dellmead would venture to penetrate the Priory ruins by night. Of those who might be considered sufficiently strong-minded, neither Vivian nor Sarah Fitton could be imagined to have a use for an object which could be so easily identified. There was no point in the vicar taking it, for it would come into his possession in due course. It really looked as though the doctor, with the unscrupulousness of the connoisseur, had coveted it to add to his collection. Anyhow, the theft furnished no clue to the murder.

Arnold's meditations had carried him, bodily at least, further than he realised. He had been dimly conscious that for some time past he had been climbing gently but steadily. Now he stopped and looked about him, to find himself on the slope of the downs, which still rose for some distance ahead. Turning round, he saw with mild surprise that he had walked a considerable way, perhaps a couple of miles from the village. From the slope on which he stood, all the now familiar landmarks were visible in the clear afternoon air. And from this height he could see, beyond the village, a long stretch of the road winding from the signpost, past Hayes' house, towards the Windmill.

It dawned upon him, from the direction that he had been given, that he was on the verge of Thunder Down. That was where the vicar had taken his walk on Saturday afternoon. Mr, Martin had seen him setting out that way. He, too, could have kept watch on the stretch of road from the Windmill and with a pair of binoculars have identified anyone walking along it. Walking rapidly back, he could have intercepted any such person in the neighbourhood of the church. And then?

But Arnold's immediate problem was more personal. What was he going to do with himself? He would have to attend the inquest next morning, and it seemed hardly worth while making his way back to London for the night. He had brought a suitcase with him, and left it with Mrs. Hayes that morning. But the Crossbeam offered no hospitality, and he was not anxious to offer himself as a guest to either the vicar or the doctor. The obvious solution was to put up at a hotel in Flaxmouth. This meant walking to the Windmill and taking a bus from there.

Arnold started to walk back, more briskly than before. The only one of his Dellmead acquaintances whom he saw was Mr. Martin, pacing thoughtfully along the village street, swinging his walking-stick. Arnold avoided him, reached the signpost and thence Hayes' house. Hayes reported that he had collected a jury, but had so far learnt nothing about the missing necklace. When Arnold told him of his intention of spending the night in Flaxmouth, Hayes suggested that a bus left the Windmill at half-past six. It would take him the best part of an hour to walk there. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hayes would be only too pleased to get him a cup of tea. While he drank his tea, Arnold discussed the situation with Hayes, then, soon after half-past five, set out, carrying his suitcase. The sun had already set, and in the growing dusk the road was lonely and deserted. But he had not gone very far when he saw a car approaching him, and as it drew near he recognised it with a thrill of thankfulness. The car stopped, and Merrion put his head out of the window. “Hallo, are you alone?” he asked.

“Of course I'm alone,” Arnold replied. “What do you mean? Anyway, now you're here, you can give me a lift.”

“I thought by this time you'd have arrested the murderer, and I expected to see him handcuffed beside you,” said Merrion. “And of course I'll give you a lift. That's what I came down for, after I'd finished my business. You didn't think I was going to leave you stranded in this inhospitable countryside, did you? Jump in. Where are you bound for?”

“My idea was to put up in Flaxmouth,” Arnold replied. “I shall have to be here for the inquest in the morning.”

“I had much the same idea myself,” said Merrion. “Anyway, I've brought a suitcase with me in case we wanted to put up somewhere. I've been to Flaxmouth before now and stayed at the White Hart. Quiet, sedate and comfortable. We'll try our luck there.”

He turned the car and they drove to the Windmill, thence along the main road to Flaxmouth. Arrived at the White Hart, they were told that they could be accommodated. Having dined as well as restrictions allowed, they sought out a quiet corner and sat down to talk.

Arnold described the conversations he had had during the day, and the conclusions he had drawn. “This is how it seems to me,” he said. “Two people in Dellmead had been acquainted with this woman. But neither of them was aware of the other's knowledge. Vivian didn't know that his former friend had married the vicar. The vicar didn't know that his wife, when she was Coral Findon, had been friendly with Vivian. So we may take it that there was no collusion between them. But one or other must be the murderer. And, after my chat with him this afternoon, I don't think it was Vivian.”

“Pointing an accusing finger at the vicar,” Merrion replied: “Who, if I am any judge of men, is the most unlikely murderer I ever came across. For the moment I'm interested in what you tell me about Grinstead's dispensary, and the syringes and drugs you found there. I've been thinking about the affair as I drove down, and it has dawned upon me that it may not have been murder, after all.”

“You're not still harping on that suicide theory of yours?” Arnold asked scornfully. “You can put that idea out of your head. Hayes has had a thorough look round, and there's no syringe to be found.”

“No, not suicide this time,” Merrion replied. “But there's a third possibility you haven't taken into account. Accident.”

“Nonsense!” Arnold exclaimed. “How could the woman have been accidentally injected with a fatal drug?”

“It could have happened,” Merrion replied. “I'll work off a bit of my imagination on you. It seems pretty clear that when the woman got to Dellmead she had walked all the way from the Windmill. I expect she was pretty much disturbed by the prospect of the meeting with her husband, if for no other reason because she would have a good deal to explain. The net result was that by the time she reached the doctor's gate, she felt faint to the point of collapse.

“At the gate she saw the doctor's plate, and decided to seek his assistance. She didn't go on up the lane, as Miss Grinstead says she did. She opened the gate and went in. Miss Grinstead intercepted her, asked her what she wanted, and was told she wanted to see the doctor. Miss Grinstead took her to her uncle's surgery, and there she collapsed good and proper.

“Now Grinstead, however learned an antiquarian he may be, is not the most brilliant of doctors. His idea of restoring the woman was to give her an injection which would act as a pick-me-up. Telling his niece to keep an eye on the patient, he went along to the dispensary and charged a syringe. But he miscalculated the dose, or more likely took a drug from the wrong bottle. He came back, administered the injection, and in a very few minutes the wretched woman died under the horrified eyes of his niece and himself.

“It was a pretty bad business, for it wouldn't do Grinstead any good if the truth became known. Worse, who would believe the truth? Not you, my friend, for one. You would jump to the conclusion that he had found out who the woman was, and murdered her for some sinister purpose of his own. The body must be taken out of the house and deposited in some place which would not lead to suspicion of the Grinsteads. Why not the church, to which they could convey the body between them, by that back way you've been telling me about? A wheelbarrow would come in handy. I expect Miss Grinstead was using one while she was clearing out the shrubberies. And, given the church, why not the tomb of the Lady Alicia? For some reason or other, the doctor's mind seems to run on that and its missing effigy.”

“It's odd you should say that,” Arnold remarked. “Mr. Martin said to me this morning that Lady Alicia's tomb was one of the doctor's favourite topics of conversation. All the same, I can't help thinking that your theory of accident is a bit far-fetched. It doesn't seem to me a very likely thing to happen.”

“Is it any less likely than that the vicar deliberately murdered his wife?” Merrion asked. “You may have to fall back on my theory in the long run. Now let's talk about something else. That astonishing yarn you told me about the theft of the necklace. We seem to be confronted with a modern version of l'affaire du collier. What's your view?”

Arnold shook his head. “I'm blest if I know. I'm pretty sure that no village pilferer would have had the guts to take it from where it was. I can only suppose that the doctor must have coveted it.”

Merrion smiled. “So the doctor comes into the picture again. You may be right. But another possibility occurs to me. Do you remember the vicar telling us that his identification of his wife was confirmed by her wearing a ring he had given her?”

“Yes, I remember that,” Arnold replied. “But I fail to see the connection.”

“I'll explain it,” said Merrion. “You tell me that the only article of jewellery that was taken was the necklace. That seems to rule out the village pilferer, who would certainly have snaffled the lot. The necklace is said to be of an unusual pattern, and therefore easily recognisable. If recognised, it might be traced, and as a result light thrown upon a hidden chapter of its owner's history., Now do you see what I'm driving at?”

“Yes, I get you now,” Arnold replied. “You mean that by tracing the necklace it could be discovered who had given it to her. That person does not wish it to be found out that he ever knew the woman, which means Vivian. And Vivian is one of the very few people in Dellmead sufficiently free from superstitious terrors to have tackled the job. I'll pass the tip on to Hayes.”

X

Arnold and Merrion drove to Dellmead next morning, where they found everything prepared for the inquest. Hayes had arranged the parish room as a court, and assembled a jury, four men and three women, none of them known to Arnold.

The proceedings revealed nothing that was not already familiar to the jury or, for that matter, to those villagers who represented the general public. Even the vicar's evidence of identification caused little sensation, for it had already been whispered who the dead woman was. Dr. Grinstead and the divisional surgeon supplied the medical evidence. The borough analyst said that he had examined certain specimens delivered to him by the latter. He had found in them a toxic quantity of a substance which he had identified as morphine or one of its derivatives. Mrs. Bale told her story, and Hayes gave formal evidence. Neither Hilary nor Vivian was called, as they could add nothing relevant to the inquiry.

The coroner summed up, succinctly and to the point. He had no doubt that the jury would accept the medical evidence as to the cause of death. Being less imaginative than Merrion, he went on to suggest that there could be very little doubt that a dastardly crime had been committed, though the court had heard no evidence pointing to the perpetrator. In returning their verdict, the jury must confine themselves to the statements of the witnesses, and must not allow themselves to be influenced by anything they might have heard outside the court.

The jury retired, but were absent less than five minutes. On their return the foreman, who was the proprietor of the general shop, announced that they had reached a unanimous verdict. Deceased had died of poisoning by morphia, wilfully administered by some person unknown. The coroner expressed himself as being in complete agreement with this verdict. He understood that the police were engaged in investigation, and trusted that the criminal would be brought to justice in due course. It was noticeable that neither the coroner nor the jury expressed the usual sympathy with the husband of the deceased.

After the proceedings had concluded, Hayes reported to Arnold. He had nothing fresh to say on the subject of the murder, as it now officially was. He had made inquiries about the necklace, so far without result. He had been to the Crossbeam and spoken to both Mr, and Mrs. Vivian. They had denied all knowledge of the matter. Vivian had been vague about having seen the necklace at all. He had been so taken aback on being confronted with the dead woman that he hadn't taken any particular notice of what she was wearing. None of the customers had mentioned the necklace.

Arnold and Merrion walked away from the parish room together. “Well, that's that,” said the former. “It rather struck me that, with very little encouragement, the jury would have named the vicar as the murderer. But there's not sufficient evidence to justify his arrest. The defence would maintain that there was no case to go before a jury. What next?”

“A glass of beer at the Crossbeam,” Merrion replied unhesitatingly. “After that, as far as you're concerned, a policy of watchfulness. It's no use running round in circles and getting hot and bothered in the process. In cases like this it always takes time and patience to arrive at the truth. And, for my own part, I still don't believe that the vicar did it.”

As they went on their way towards the Crossbeam, they saw Stewart Martin coming towards them. He was walking much more rapidly than usual, brandishing his walking-stick, and was seemingly in a state of intense excitement. In recognising Arnold, he stopped and addressed him volubly. “Congratulate me, Mr. Arnold!” he exclaimed. “I've struck a clue at last!”

Arnold's mind was wholly engaged upon the inquest. “A clue?” he replied eagerly. “Tell me about it, Mr. Martin.”

“Why, it was quite by chance,” said Martin. “I've been talking to a man in the Crossbeam. I'd never met him before, and when I asked him where he lived, he told me on the Flaxmouth road, not far from Friar's Park. And when I asked him if he remembered the Canadian troops being there, he said he remembered them very well. He has an orchard, and his wife used to sell them apples. One or two of them came to the house several times. I'm sure that one of them must have been my boy, for he was passionately fond of apples. I'm going along to see the woman straight away”

“Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Martin,” Arnold replied, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. As Martin hurried on his way, Merrion smiled. “Isn't that just what I've been telling you?” he said. “Patient inquiry has led your friend Mr. Martin to his clue. Isn't it just as likely that patience on your part will be equally rewarded? Come along, I could do with that glass of beer. And local gossip ought to be particularly interesting this morning.”

They reached the Crossbeam, and this time entered not the smoking-room but the bar. The place was packed, and Vivian, single-handed, was doing his best to cope with the situation. It seemed that the inquest had by common consent been adjourned to the inn, for with the exception of the coroner and the witnesses, almost every one who had participated was there, jury, general public and all. Nearly every one was expressing his or her own opinions, and in the turmoil the entrance of Arnold and Merrion passed almost unnoticed. With a gesture to Arnold to keep in the background, Merrion edged his way to the counter and after a while succeeded in being served with a couple of glasses. He carried these to where Arnold was standing in one of the windows, and both of them kept their ears wide open.

It was clear that only one topic engaged the occupants of the crowded room. And on that topic there was a sharp divergence of opinion, the contending voices being more or less evenly divided. One party asserted that the vicar must be the guilty man. Who else could it have been, since nobody else in Dellmead had ever set eyes on the lady? Their opponents indignantly denied the imputation. The vicar was the nicest gentleman they'd ever known, always ready to do anyone a kindness. It was ridiculous to suppose that he could be a murderer. Some people talked a lot of adjectival nonsense.

“The wretched woman seems to have been slain to provide a Dellmead holiday,” Merrion remarked. “I imagine it must be a long time since this bar was as crowded as it is now. And if things go on like this, there'll be a free fight before closing time.”

As they listened, they became aware of another sound, faintly audible in snatches above the controversy. Vivian must have heard it too, for he kept turning his head nervously towards the back of the bar, from whence the sound came. Gradually the company in the room became aware of it, and one by one fell silent to listen,

In the comparative hush the sound resolved itself into two female voices, high and shrill, in altercation. It was impossible to distinguish the words, but it was very evident that a violent quarrel was in progress. Then came the tramp of determined footsteps in the back passage and a ringing note of defiance. “And let me tell you this, Mrs. Vivian. You needn't ever think I shall ever darken your doorway again, after what you've just said to me.” Followed immediately by the slamming of a door which shook the house.

There was a general snigger, and someone spoke. “That's Sarah Fitton. Having a row with your missus, by the sound of it, guv'nor.” Merrion, looking out of the window, saw that the speaker was right. Sarah Fitton stalked past her head in the air, and a look of savage determination in her eyes.

The incident passed into oblivion, and the argument was resumed with redoubled fervour. By the time that Arnold and Merrion elbowed their way out, voices had become more heated and invective more lurid. “It's no business of mine,” said Arnold, when they were outside. “All the same, I'd like to warn Hayes to keep his eye on the place. As much for Vivian's sake as anybody's. He won't want a rough house on his premises.”

“All right,” Merrion replied. “I was going to suggest that we went back to Flaxmouth for lunch. We can pass the word to Hayes on the way.”

They had left the car parked by the parish room, which was situated where the turning to the Crossbeam diverged from the village street. They started from here and stopped at Hayes' house. When Arnold had told him that things appeared to be getting lively at the Crossbeam, they drove on, and a mile or more farther on overtook Mr. Martin, still walking rapidly.

Merrion pulled up and offered him a lift. But Martin, while thanking him profusely, declined. “It's very good of you,” he replied, waving his stick in the direction of a cottage, surrounded by an orchard, a couple of hundred yards along the road. “It's not worth your trouble, for I'm nearly there. That must be the place, I'm quite sure. I trust I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again.”

“He's a queer chap,” Arnold remarked as they drove on. “Fancy coming all this way from Canada on the odd chance of finding someone who remembered that boy of his! Well, I hope he won't be disappointed.”

“I only wonder someone hasn't pretended to remember the lad before now,” Merrion replied cynically. “There'd be a handsome reward forthcoming, I don't doubt. Your Mr. Martin might be worth cultivating, if only as an impartial observer of Dellmead politics. By this time all the residents are so prejudiced one way or the other that you couldn't rely on anything they said. I wonder what those two tigresses, Sarah Fitton and Mrs. Vivian, quarrelled about? We've heard they were close friends.”

“I dare say they're in the habit of falling out and making it up again,” said Arnold. “That sort of woman thoroughly enjoys a good row. If Mrs. Vivian's upset, she'll take it out of her husband, I don't doubt.”

The two of them lunched at the White Hart, and then drove back to Dellmead. “If you take my advice, you won't ask any more questions just yet,” said Merrion, while they were on the way. “Just let things simmer for a bit. I suggest we spend our afternoon strolling round and watching how people carry on. We might pick up an idea or two that way. You never know.”

Hayes, on whom they called first, smiled at Arnold's rather anxious inquiry. “Oh, that's all right, sir. I went up to the Crossbeam and stood outside the windows for a while. There was a bit of a racket going on inside when I got there, but as soon as they saw me they quieted down sharp enough. It wasn't very long before they'd all come out and gone home to their dinners.”

A good example of the sobering effect the mere sight of a policeman has on the average Englishman, Merrion thought. They left the car at Hayes' house and walked on. “Let's start up the lane past the doctor's, and see what's doing there,” Merrion suggested.

But when they reached the gate, they found nothing doing and saw nothing about. They continued up the lane, and as they neared the church, heard sounds of activity. Not until they had walked round into the churchyard did they discover the origin of these sounds. Then they saw a middle-aged man energetically engaged in digging a grave. As he became aware of their approach, he desisted from his work and regarded them inquiringly, leaning on his spade. “Good afternoon,” said Arnold cheerfully. “You're the parish gravedigger, I suppose?”

“Looks like it,” the man replied, with some scorn for the fatuousness of the question. “And several other things besides. My name's Wimborne, and I'm working to the vicar's order. The lady's to be buried to-morrow afternoon.”

“I've heard your name before” said Arnold. “The doctor's got a job for you too, hasn't he?”

“That's right,” Wimborne replied. “I fixed him up before I started here. Just for the time being, as you might say. To make a proper job, it would want a whole new doorpost, and the old ruin's not worth that. I told the doctor that he'd have to get a permit for that, and he said it could stand over for the present. I've fixed it so that it won't be so easy to break open again in a hurry. I can't make out who it was that came along and interfered with it.”

“You don't know anyone who'd be likely to break into the ruins?” Arnold suggested.

“No, that I don't.” Wimborne replied emphatically. “It's a chancy place, specially at night. All bits of stone and holes that a chap might break his legs over before he knew what he was up to. I wouldn't risk my limbs there in the dark, for one.”

Quite obviously, Wimborne would not admit his fear of the supernatural. His pretext for avoiding the haunted spot was as good as any. And if the gravedigger held those views, it was pretty certain that his cronies shared them. Arnold chatted to him for a minute or two longer, then left him to resume his work.

“I'd like you to show me that back way to the doctor's house,” said Merrion, as they retraced their steps through the churchyard.

Arnold led him to the gap in the hedge, and they looked through it. The ruins of the Priory were in full view, but there was nobody about. They waited for a while, but the only sound that came to their ears was a regular thudding as Wimborne flung his spadefuls of earth. “Let's go and have a closer look,” said Merrion. “We shall be trespassing, I suppose, but there's nobody to see us. Anyhow, we can shelter behind your authority.”

They went down the track and walked round the ruins. Arnold pointed to the building still standing. “That's the refectory. The door's round the corner. Come along and I'll show you.” They strolled round, and Arnold pointed out the marks on the doorpost. Wimborne had made things secure with a couple of heavy staples, a chain and a padlock.

Merrion nodded and they turned away. As they once more came in sight of the open track, both stopped dead in amazement. There was Dr. Grinstead, standing among the grass-grown foundations. How in the world had he got there, during the few seconds that they had been round the corner? He had certainly not come through the shrubbery from the house, for if so he must have passed close by them. From any other direction his approach would have been visible. It was as though he had suddenly materialised from thin air. Or perhaps it wasn't the doctor at all, but the ghost of Asmodeus, still bound to the scene of his iniquities.

He was standing with his back to them, but as they advanced towards him he turned sharply, resolving any doubt of his identity. On seeing them, he started guiltily, then, recovering himself, hurried to meet them. “Why, this is an unexpected pleasure!” he exclaimed volubly. “You gentlemen have been at the house to look for me, no doubt? I am very sorry I was out. I am often to be found pottering among the ruins here. It is my ambition to draw up complete plans of the Priory as it once stood, from which a model could be made by a pattern-maker.”

“We owe you an apology, Doctor,” Arnold replied. “We're trespassing on your property. But I wanted to show Merrion where the door of the refectory had been forced open. I hope you'll forgive us.”

“Why, of course!” Grinstead replied. “I hope that between you, you will be able to throw some light on that extraordinary incident. Now you're here, you'll come into the house, won't you?”

“I'd rather you showed us over the ruins, Doctor,” said Merrion. “I'm particularly interested in that chapel you were telling us about. You said there was nothing of it left, but where exactly did it stand?”

“The chapel?” Grinstead replied nervously. “It's not very easy to trace the foundations. I shall have to have some excavation done before the outline can be traced with certainty. The west door must have been about there.”

He pointed to the spot where he had been standing when they first caught sight of him. Merrion moved off in that direction, but Grinstead hastily called him back. “Don't go that way, Mr. Merrion. The ground is very treacherous, and you might easily twist an ankle. Let me show you where the chancel stood. The foundations are more easy to make out there.”

He led Merrion off in a slightly different direction, talking hard as he went. “The chancel was at the east end, of course. I have been able to form a very good idea of its extent, but not of the nave. It is possible that in the case of a chapel which existed solely to accommodate the friars, no nave at all existed. You see on the ground there the outline of the chancel. Now over here is something that I'm sure will interest you. A ruined footing which shows definitely that it was part of a cloister.”

Grinstead moved on, but Merrion did not follow him. Instead, he turned back towards the spot which the doctor had indicated as the position of the west door. He kept his eyes on the ground, and shortly perceived a trap-door, almost, hidden among the tangled grass and weeds which surrounded it. “What's this, Doctor?” he asked.

“Do be careful, Mr. Merrion!” Grinstead exclaimed apprehensively. “It's shockingly dangerous going where you are now. That? Oh, that's nothing of any antiquarian interest. Only the old Priory well. Now, come over here and do be careful how you go.”

To Grinstead's obvious relief, Merrion rejoined him and was shown the vestiges of the cloister. He simulated a keen interest, and the doctor gradually drew him away to the remote end of the ruins. At length Merrion thanked him for his guidance. “It's been very good of you to show me round, Doctor. And now I really mustn't keep Arnold hanging about any longer.” Declining Grinstead's renewed invitation to come back to the house, Arnold and Merrion took their leave of him and returned by the track to the church. “A very interesting experience,” Merrion remarked as they started towards the meadows. “I told you that we might pick up an idea or two by looking round. What is the dark secret that the doctor hides among the ruins?”

“I'm blest if I know,” Arnold replied. “He was very much upset when he saw us watching him.”

“He was,” Merrion agreed. “And he did his best to ride me off that trap-door. And I'm bound to admit that I found his explanation of it a bit curious. I'm no antiquarian, but I could see for myself that it was within the circumference of the chapel walls. I'll admit that the Priory must have had a well, but I refuse to believe that it was situated inside the chapel.”

“Why do you suppose that the doctor told you it was a well if it wasn't?” Arnold asked.

“I'll answer that by another question,” Merrion replied. “Where did he suddenly appear from like that? Wells are associated with truth, and the doctor was certainly not truthful when he was talking to us just now. My belief is that it isn't a well at all, but a secret hiding-place. And what's more, that the doctor came out of it just before we saw him.”

'A hiding-place, eh?” said Arnold. “What do you suppose he's hiding?”

“That's the question I'm asking you,” Merrion replied. “The necklace, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be something that is no business of ours. I doubt whether it's worth your while to apply for a search warrant. Now, suppose we go for a walk in the direction you took yesterday. I want to see the lie of the land for myself.”

They set off towards the downs, Merrion studying the contours as they went. “This is what strikes me,” he said, after a while. “Anyone familiar with the district, and choosing their route properly, could reach the church unobserved from almost any direction. From the village, by keeping to the rough ground on the farther side of the lane from the doctor's house; from the vantage point you found yesterday by following the fold of the downs. Unobserved, that is, from any of the houses or gardens in the village, and from the lane leading from the signpost to the church.”

“What you mean is this,” Arnold replied. “The vicar could have got from the downs to the church without being seen.”

“Not only the vicar,” said Merrion. “Anyone who might have been following her along the road. And, just as important, he could have got away again. And now that we've settled that, we may as well stroll back. If we wander slowly towards the Crossbeam, it'll be opening time when we get there.”

Although they did not hurry themselves, it was not quite six o'clock when they reached the inn. “We've a few minutes in which to kick our heels outside,” Merrion remarked. “Let's go and enjoy the view from the back.”

They strolled round the house, to find that a couple of empty barrels had been added to the pile of cases. The cellar door was wide open, and they could hear sounds of movement within. Very shortly another barrel appeared in the doorway, with Vivian propelling it from behind. He upended it beside the others, then caught sight of Arnold and Merrion. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, without evincing any great surprise.

“Good afternoon,” Merrion replied. “We're waiting for your house to open. It looks as though you were expecting your brewer.”

Vivian nodded. “To-morrow morning. The dray always comes Wednesdays, and I like to have the cellar clear for them. I've only got a few gallons left, for that crowd this morning pretty well cleared me out. I shall roll the last barrel out first thing in the morning. But there's no reason why you gentlemen should wait outside. You can come through this way, if you like.”

They entered the cellar, the floor of which was only a few inches below ground level. The massive walls and vaulted roof showed that it was part of the original building. Along one wall ran the horse upon which the barrels were supported, but this was now bare, except for one barrel, already tipped. Vivian jerked his head towards this. “Barely enough for this evening,” he remarked ruefully. “Still, after what they drank this morning, the chaps shouldn't be too thirsty. Now, if you gentlemen will go through, I'll draw you a couple of glasses and bring them along.”

A doorway at the inner end of the cellar led into a back passage. As they went along this, Arnold and Merrion caught a glimpse of the kitchen, in which Mrs. Vivian was viciously poking the fire. They reached the bar, and in a few moments Vivian followed them, bearing the glasses on a tray.

Merrion took a draught. “That's good.” he said conversationally. “We've had a very interesting afternoon, Mr. Vivian. Dr. Grinstead showed us over the Priory ruins. You know them well, I expect?”

“Well, I can't say that I do,” Vivian replied. “The doctor isn't very keen on taking people to the ruins. He says there are too many pitfalls, and if anyone met with an accident he'd be to blame. Some little time back he wanted to block up that gap in the hedge by the church. But it seems there's an old right-of-way from there through the ruins down to the meadows, so he couldn't do it. He was quite a bit upset about it.”

“I don't imagine that the right-of-way can be very much used,” Merrion remarked.

“I don't know that it is,” Vivian replied. “I've never been along it myself, for one. But you know how stubborn village folk can be. If anyone wants to stop a right-of-way they're sure to kick up a dust, even though it hasn't been used for years.”

“You've heard that a piece of jewellery was stolen from the refectory, some time during Sunday night?” Merrion asked.

Vivian nodded. “Yes, Mr. Hayes came here and spoke to me about it. I can't make it out at all. All the folks round about here are scared stiff of the place, and wouldn't go near it after dark. It's a knock-out, that it is.”

After some further conversation Arnold and Merrion finished their beer and went out. “If Vivian is a liar, he's a most convincing one,” Merrion remarked as they walked back to the car. “I can't help thinking that the doctor's at the bottom of all this mystery. But how to catch him out beats me. Well, we shall see.”

XI

Percy Wimborne lived with his wife in a cottage about half-'way along the village street. He was active and energetic, and, in his capacity of village handyman, never lacked occupation. In fact, he had been known to say that if the days were twice as long, he would never find time to do all the jobs that folk wanted done. His wife was almost equally occupied. In addition to spending every morning at the doctor's, she helped one or other of her neighbours most afternoons.

Percy was an early riser, and on Wednesday morning he carried out his usual routine. He was up well before sunrise, while it was still dark. His first job was in the kitchen, where he lighted the Primus and put on a kettle. As soon as this was boiling, he made a pot of tea, from which he poured two cups. One of these he took up to his wife. The other he carried out by the back door to the shed he had built for himself in the garden. Here he put the cup down on the bench, lighted the lamp, and began sorting out the tools he would want for his day's work.

The shed was packed full of the miscellaneous objects that he kept ready to hand, almost everything that could be employed in first-aid repairs. Percy was a skilled workman, and could be relied upon to make a good job of anything with which he was entrusted. As he sipped his tea, he ran over in his mind the most urgent pieces of work awaiting him. There was that grave, to begin with. An hour's work would see that finished. The new boards hadn't come for that old floor at the shop, so that would have to wait. Mr. Vivian had got on to him about the guttering on his roof. It leaked and ran down water over the front door. He'd have to find time to go and have a look at that. And that chair with a broken leg Mrs. Bale had brought him. She'd mob him proper if he didn't get that mended for her.

He started on the chair, and in half an hour or so had effected a most creditable repair. Then he turned to the door of the shed and looked out. The sun was just rising above the thin mist of an autumn morning. A few yards from the door was the low hedge, dividing the garden from the roadway. On the farther side this was unfenced, and the meadows spread away beyond it. There was little else to be seen through the haze, and no one was about at this early hour.

Percy stood where he was, leaning against the doorpost. Breakfast would be ready before very long; he could hear his wife bustling about in the kitchen. When he'd had that, he'd go along to the churchyard and get that job finished. Then he'd leave Mrs. Bale's chair, and go on to the Crossbeam to see what was wrong with the guttering.

As he reflected, he gazed idly across the familiar meadow. The haze prevented him from seeing very far, and in any case there wasn't likely to be anything to see. Then, in the growing light, he saw to his mild astonishment that there was something. Away over to the left, a few yards beyond the edge of the road. Its outline was blurred, and all Percy could make of it was that it was a dark object of considerable size. It might be a calf lying down, but it was too early in the day for the cattle to be turned out. He watched it for a while, and it remained completely motionless.

His curiosity aroused, he set out to discover what it might be. He went out of the garden gate, across the road and on to the meadow. As he neared the object, he discerned its shape and nature. It was a beer barrel.

There was no doubt about it, but how in the world had it got there? His first clue to this was the white chalky soil adhering to it. It had been rolled there, but why? It had had a pretty rough passage, too, for several of the staves were cracked, and the hoop nearest the head was out of place. As Percy frowned at the riddle, a faint breeze sprang up, driving the haze before it. He looked up, to find himself a short distance from the foot of the mound on which stood the Crossbeam.

Why, that was it, of course. Mr. Vivian always put his empty barrels out on Tuesday, ready for the brewers' dray next morning. Someone had played him a trick. There'd been a fine to-do up there the day before, so they said. Some mischievous spark had pushed one of the barrels over the edge. It had rolled down the steep slope, over the road, and come to rest in the meadow. Just the sort of silly trick some of the younger folk would play. Percy put his hands to the barrel, with some vague idea of rolling it back to the edge of the road. But it unexpectedly resisted his efforts. To his amazement he discovered that it was so heavy that it must be full, or nearly so.

He scratched his head in perplexity. Mr. Vivian wouldn't have left a barrel outside with anything in it. Still, it was 'none of his business. Besides, breakfast must be ready by now. He'd have that, then slip up to the Crossbeam and tell Mr. Vivian. He might be able to see about the guttering at the same time.

Breakfast did not take him long. He told his wife about the barrel, but she merely shrugged her shoulders at such ridiculous tricks. Then he set out for the Crossbeam. It was still early, barely seven o'clock, and though smoke was beginning to rise from the cottage chimneys, he met nobody on the road. He reached the Crossbeam, to find everything quiet and locked up, and hammered on the front door.

It was quite a while before this produced any result. Then a window opened and Vivian thrust his head out. “Who's kicking up all that racket?” he demanded irritably. “Why, it's you, Percy! You're never going to start on my guttering at this time of night, surely? We're not out of bed yet.”

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Vivian,” Percy replied. “But I thought you ought to know there's one of your barrels lying in the meadow yonder.”

“One of my barrels?” Vivian exclaimed incredulously. “In the meadow? How ever did it get there?”

“Rolled down from your back, by the look of it,” Percy replied. “And from what I can tell, it's full, or pretty nigh.”

“Can't be,” said Vivian. “All right, thanks for letting me know, Percy. I'll see about it as soon as I'm dressed.” His head disappeared from the window. Percy looked up at the guttering, and his experienced eye told him at once what was the matter. A bracket had given way and would have to be replaced. He couldn't do anything on the spot, for it would mean a new bracket and a long ladder. He turned away and went back towards the village.

As he reached the corner where the turning from the Crossbeam joined the village street, he met Hayes, pedalling slowly on his bicycle. “Morning, Percy!” said the policeman. “Going to get some rain before night, I reckon.”

“Morning, Mr. Hayes” Percy replied. “We could do with a shower. Just been up to see Mr. Vivian. Someone's been having a joke with him. Rolled one of his blessed barrels down the hill into the meadow. And hasn't done it no good, either.”

“Why, that's a silly thing to do,” said Hayes. “I'll have to get on his track, whoever it was. Where is the barrel?”

“Can't see it from here,” Percy replied. “I'll show you, if you care to come along my way.” They had not walked many yards before the barrel came in sight. “Well, that's a rum 'un, and no mistake!” Hayes exclaimed. He laid his bicycle beside the road, and he and Percy walked over the meadow. “It's not an empty one, neither,” Percy remarked.

Hayes regarded the barrel thoughtfully. It was a thirty-six-gallon beer barrel, branded on the head with the usual brewer's marks. A spike was in the vent, and a cork in the bung. And, as Percy had already noticed, it was pretty badly damaged. “Not empty?” said Hayes. “It must be. Look at those staves all cracked. If there'd been anything in it, it would have run out long ago.” He pushed the barrel vigorously. It rolled over a little way, then, when he took his hands away, rolled back to its former position.

“Well, that's queer!” Hayes exclaimed. “There's something in it, but not beer, I'll swear. You've told Mr. Vivian?”

Percy nodded. “That's right. He said he'd be along as soon as he'd got dressed.”

“I'll wait here for him,” said Hayes. “I'll tell you what, Percy. Slip across to your place and get a hammer. Then, when he comes, we'll knock off that hoop and see what's inside. It doesn't look altogether right to me.”

Ten minutes later Vivian arrived, to find Hayes and Percy standing guard over the barrel, the latter with a hammer in his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Vivian,” said Hayes. “What do you know about this?”

Vivian shook his head. “Nothing, beyond that it's one of my barrels all right. A thirty-six that I put out yesterday afternoon ready for the brewers. But who had the neck to roll it down here is more than I can say.”

“You recognise the barrel, then?” said Hayes heavily. “What's inside it?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Vivian replied. “It was empty when I put it out. You don't suppose I leave full barrels outside the door, do you?”

“It may have been empty when you put it out,” said Hayes, “but there's something in it now. I'll have to ask you to let us see what it is.”

“I'd very much like to see myself,” Vivian replied. “Percy here knows how to get the head off a barrel, I dare say.”

Percy set to work to knock off the top hoop, which offered surprisingly little resistance to his hammer blows. In a few seconds it had fallen to the ground, allowing the ends of the staves to spring open. Percy inserted the flat end of his hammer and prised out the head. Then he recoiled with an exclamation of horror. “Look there!”

Hayes and Vivian bent down to look into the barrel, to be rewarded by a sufficiently grim spectacle. The barrel contained the body of a woman, fully clad, with her knees doubled up to her chin. “Stand aside, Mr. Vivian!” said Hayes commandingly. He knelt down, inserted his arms, and very carefully drew the body out. As it lay on the grass in the full light of day, there was no doubt as to its identity. It was the body of Mrs. Vivian.

The three men stood in silence, staring at the body for a full minute. Then Hayes spoke in a tone of portentous gravity. “It is my duty, Mr. Vivian, to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. How did this happen?”

Vivian, who was staring with the vacant expression of a sleep-walker, pulled himself together. “I can't tell you that, Mr. Hayes,” he replied quietly. “I saw Rose last about eleven last night. She was all right then. I can't say any more.”

Hayes made a rapid note of this. “Very well, Mr. Vivian,” he said sternly. “If you have nothing more to say, you had better go back to the Crossbeam, and stay there till you are wanted.”

Vivian nodded, and without a word strode off. Hayes watched him till he disappeared round the bend of the road, then turned to Percy. “We'll have to get the doctor along. Jump on my bike and go and ask him to come here as soon as he can. Then slip along to my place, ask my wife to let you have the stretcher, and bring it back here”

Left alone, Hayes took off the cape he was wearing and draped it over the body. So Vivian had been driven to it at last, he thought. It wasn't very surprising, but he'd have to go through the hoop, just the same. But fancy putting her in the barrel and rolling her down the hill like that! It was with some relief that Hayes reflected that he would have the most competent assistance in dealing with the situation. Mr. Arnold and his friend would turn up before very long.

As he stood there waiting, several of the villagers passed along the road, to stop and stare with curious eyes. But they saw nothing but the barrel with a shapeless heap beside it, for Hayes waved them on. Then Dr. Grinstead appeared in sight, black bag in hand. He had taken the disused right-of-way and was hurrying across the meadow. “What's all this?” he demanded as he reached the spot. “I was just sitting down to breakfast when Percy Wimborne told me you'd found another body.”

Hayes removed the cape. “That's right. Doctor. And you can see for yourself who it is.”

Grinstead evinced no surprise. “Mrs. Vivian!” he exclaimed thoughtfully. “Well, she's been asking for trouble ever since I've known her. But I'm sorry, not for her, but for her husband. I don't see how he can possibly get away with it.”

He knelt down and made a rapid examination of the body. “Of course she's dead all right,” he continued. “Been dead some hours, too. We shall have to get her inside somewhere, so that I can look into things properly.”

“I've thought of that, Doctor,” Hayes replied. “What about that place of yours where we put the other one?”

But Grinstead shook his head determinedly. “Not on your life. I'm not going to have my property turned into a public mortuary. You'll have to think again, Hayes.”

At that moment Percy arrived with the stretcher and overheard the doctor's remark. “There's that old tool-shed behind the parish room,” he suggested. “It's empty, and there's plenty of room. And the door locks properly, too.”

“Good for you!” Grinstead exclaimed. “The very place. But we'll have to ask the vicar's permission. And he'll have the key, or at all events he'll know who has. I'll walk to the vicarage and ask him myself.”

He went off, leaving Hayes standing by the body, and Percy fidgeting beside him. “You won't be wanting me any more, Mr. Hayes,” said Percy, after an awkward silence. 'I've got my work to do. There's that grave to be finished, and now, from what I can see, there'll be another one to be dug. I'll be getting along, if there's nothing to hinder me.”

“Off you go, then,” Hayes replied readily. “1'11 know where to find you if I want you.” He was not left long alone after Percy's departure, for very soon he saw Grinstead and the vicar hurrying towards him from the direction of the vicarage. “This is a very terrible thing, Hayes,” said the vicar as they came up. “Dr. Grinstead has told me that you would like to put Mrs. Vivian's body in the shed behind the parish room. I have no objection, and I have brought the key with me. Shall we carry her there now?”

Hayes agreed, and the vicar insisted on helping with the stretcher. He deemed it his duty to carry out this office for one of his parishioners. They set out, Grinstead with his black bag leading the way. The distance was no more than a couple of hundred yards, and the stretcher with its burden was laid on the floor of the empty shed. Hayes, with a keen sense of the importance of evidence, went back to the meadow. He laid hands on the barrel and rolled it majestically to the shed, where he up-ended it at the head of the stretcher.

“You'd better leave me to it,” said Grinstead. “I'll have a good look over her, and give you my opinion later on.”

“Does Mr. Vivian know what has happened?” the vicar asked as he and Hayes left the shed. “If he does not, I am the most suitable person to break the news to him. In any case, I must call and express my deepest sympathy.”

“He knows all right, sir,” Hayes replied significantly. “And I'd rather you didn't go and see him just yet, if you don't mind. Not until he's given some explanation. And I expect Mr. Arnold when he hears about it will want to see him first.”

The vicar nodded. “Very well, Hayes. The matter is in your hands, of course,” He went off across the meadow towards the church, this being his usual hour for unlocking the door. Hayes mounted his bicycle and rode back to his house, where he put a call through to the White Hart. When Arnold came to the telephone, he gave him a very guarded message. “P.C. Hayes speaking from Dellmead, sir. Something very strange has happened. I think you'll like to hear my report as soon as possible.”

Arnold understood that whatever it was that had happened, Hayes did not want to discuss it over the telephone. “All right, Hayes,” he replied tersely. “Mr. Merrion and I are just finishing breakfast. We'll be at your house within half an hour.”

Hayes had not had his own breakfast yet. As he and his wife sat down to their meal, he told her the story. “There can be no question who did it this time,” he said. “I only wonder that Vivian put up with her for so long.”

“I'd never have believed such a thing of him,” Mrs. Hayes replied. “He's always so quiet and good-tempered.”

“I wouldn't have believed it either,” said her husband. “But there it is, and there's no getting away from it. Nobody could suppose that one of the customers put Mrs. Vivian in that barrel and pushed her down the hill. It must have been done last night, after the place was closed. There'd only be three of them there then: Vivian and his wife and Mr. Martin. You can't make out that Mr. Martin did it, for whyever should he? And that leaves only Vivian.”

“Yes, that's right,” Mrs. Hayes agreed. “But I can't make it out. If he meant to make away with her, poor thing, why didn't he do it before now?”

“Ah, that's just it!” Hayes exclaimed darkly. “It's all come out now, I don't doubt. It was Vivian who killed Lady Prayver, though what made him do that is more than I can fathom. His wife found out that he'd done it, and he killed her to shut her mouth. But why he went about it in such a way is more than I can make out. He must have known that the barrel would be seen as soon as daylight came. And then it would be found out what was in it.”

Mrs. Hayes' sympathy was evidently for Vivian rather than his wife. “I think the poor man must have lost his head,” she replied. “And I don't know why he should have killed Lady Prayver. All the same, it will be just as well if things turn out as you say. There's plenty of folk in the village who think it was the vicar who murdered his wife, and that's a thing I could never believe of him. And after this they won't be so free about airing their opinions.”

“Well, Mr. Arnold will be along in a few minutes,” said Hayes. “It'll be for him to say what's to be done.” He left the table and went to the front door, where he stood waiting for the expected car. He had fully decided to take no steps until Arnold's arrival, not even to report the matter to his superiors at Flaxmouth. Time enough to do that when the doctor had made his report, and Mr. Arnold had seen Vivian. He'd have to make the arrest himself, he supposed. Then he'd have to fix up for a car to take the chap into Flaxmouth to be charged.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, a car approached from the direction of the Windmill. It did not stop, but as it passed, he recognised the occupants. The undertaker's men from Flaxmouth; getting ready for Lady Prayver's funeral this afternoon. It wasn't likely that he'd have time to attend that himself. Those chaps would have another job in a day or two. Queer how it was that things like that never seemed to come singly.

A couple of minutes later another car appeared. This time it slowed up and stopped. Hayes saluted smartly as Arnold got out and spoke to him. “Well, here we are, Hayes. What is it now?”

“Mrs. Vivian has been murdered, sir,” Hayes replied. “If you'll be good enough to step inside, I'll tell you about it.”

XII

Arnold and Merrion entered the house, where they listened to the surprising story. “So the legend repeats itself,” Merrion murmured thoughtfully, when Hayes had come to an end. “First, Lady Prayver, then the inn-keeper's wife.”

“And it looks like repeating itself to the end,” Arnold remarked grimly. “As I understand you, Hayes, it must have been her husband who murdered Mrs. Vivian?”

“I don't see who else, sir,” Hayes replied. “He wouldn't make any statement when I asked him. I told him to go back to the Crossbeam and stop there. I thought you'd be wanting to question him for yourself, sir.”

“Quite right,” said Arnold. “The best thing we can do is to go along to the Crossbeam straight away.”

Merrion drove them there in the car, and on their arrival they found the front door locked. Hayes knocked upon it sharply, and in a minute or so Vivian appeared, looking haggard and distressed. “You know very well why we have come here,” said Arnold sternly. “We want to talk to you and hear your explanation of what has happened.”

Vivian led them into the comfortless smoking-room. “Now then,” said Arnold. “You've already been cautioned, I understand. What do you know about your wife's death? We want the whole truth, mind.”

“I know nothing about it,” Vivian replied earnestly. “You, won't believe me, I dare say, but it's the gospel truth, just the same. I last saw Rose, alive and well as usual, a little before eleven last night.”

“What were you both doing at that time?” Arnold asked.

“Finishing our supper in the kitchen,” Vivian replied. “We couldn't sit down to that till after the bar was closed at ten o'clock, and we never finished until a bit before eleven. Rose, who hadn't been very fit lately, told me she was tired and was going to bed. I went back to the bar to tidy up and make things ship-shape. When I came back to the kitchen, half an hour or so later, I didn't see Rose, and supposed she had gone up to bed like she said she was going to.”

“Wait a minute,” said Arnold. “When you went up to bed yourself, did you find Mrs. Vivian there?''

Vivian shook his head. “It's not that way. Rose and I slept in separate rooms, and have done ever since we've been here. When I did go upstairs, I saw that her door was shut and that there was no light showing under it.”

“Very well,” said Arnold. “We'll go back a little. You came into the kitchen after you'd tidied up the bar. What did you do next?”

“I went round to see that all was shut up and the lights were out,” Vivian replied. “That's what I always do, last thing. I'd locked the front door after the customers had gone at ten o'clock. I looked at that to make sure, and it was all right. Then I went into the cellar, tried the door there, and found that it was properly fastened. There was only the side door left. I leave that unlocked till the last, in case any of us want to slip out for anything. I could hear Mr. Martin tapping away on his typewriter in his room, so I knew he was in, and, as I say, I thought Rose had gone to bed. So I locked the side door and went up to bed.”

To Merrion, who was a pretty good judge of such matters, Vivian's manner seemed that of a man telling the truth. Arnold, too, must have shared this opinion, for his tone became less menacing. “And the barrel, Mr. Vivian?'' he asked. “What about that?”

“It was the one you gentlemen saw me roll out yesterday afternoon,” Vivian replied. “I know that, for it was the only thirty-six I had last week. The rest were all eighteens. I left it where you saw me put it, and I didn't go out to the back again.”

“Were you busy in the bar last night?” Arnold asked.

“Not out of the way,” Vivian replied. “Most of them had had all they wanted in the morning. just the few regulars who always come along for a pint or two and perhaps a game of darts. I managed by myself, and didn't have to call on my wife to help in the serving.”

“Can you tell us how Mrs. Vivian occupied herself while you were in the bar?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yes, pretty well,” Vivian replied. “She was in the kitchen most of the time, I expect. She had Mr. Martin's supper to get. He always likes to have that at half-past seven. Then there was our supper, later on. She didn't go out, that I know of.”

“Mr. Martin was in the house all the evening?” Arnold suggested.

Vivian nodded. “I saw him come in not so very long after you gentlemen had gone. After he'd had his supper he came into the bar for a bit, as he usually does. That would have been between eight and nine. And as I say, just before I went to bed round about half-past eleven I heard him tapping away on his typewriter in his room.”

“I'd like to see him,” said Arnold. “Where is he now?” “Upstairs in his room, I think,” Vivian replied. “I got him some breakfast just now and told him what had happened.”

At Arnold's request Vivian led them upstairs and tapped on the door of Mr. Martin's room. A brisk voice bade them enter, and Arnold, Merrion and Hayes did so. The room was furnished as one might expect in a country inn, but it was sufficiently spacious to contain a writing-table, on which was a portable typewriter.

Sitting at this table was Stewart Martin, reading a letter. Merrion, glancing at the envelope lying on the table, saw that, it bore a Canadian stamp and postmark. Martin laid the letter aside and stood up. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said gravely. “I can very easily guess the purport of your visit. Mr. Vivian has told me of this dreadful thing that has happened.”

“We're wondering whether you can throw any light upon it, Mr. Martin,” Arnold replied. “You were in the house most of the evening?”

Martin nodded. “Practically all of it. I came in, I think, a little before seven, and came up here. At half-past Mrs. Vivian called me down to supper. When I had finished, I went into the bar for a while, as I like to talk to the villagers.

After that, I came up here and typed a long letter to my wife. I didn't go downstairs again before I turned in.”

“When did you last see Mrs. Vivian?” Arnold asked.

“I don't remember seeing her after she had given me my supper,” Martin replied. “I don't think she came into the bar while I was there. And I certainly didn't see her after I'd come upstairs.”

“Did you hear any quarrel or disturbance while you were typing your letter up here?” Arnold asked.

Martin smiled faintly. “I did not. But if anything of the kind had occurred, I doubt whether I should have noticed it. My mind was too fully occupied with a discovery I had made, and which I was describing to my wife.”

“A discovery, Mr. Martin?” said Arnold. “May I ask what sort of discovery that was?”

“Why, of course!” Martin replied. “I told you about the woman who lives in the cottage with the orchard near Friar's Park. Well, I found her at home, and had a long talk to her. She remembers two Canadian soldiers who repeatedly came and bought apples from her. And I'm sure one of them must have been my boy, for when I told her his name was Barry, she said that she was almost certain that she had heard one of them call the other that.”

Merrion had strolled to the window, and stood looking out. The room was at the front of the house and the window overlooked not the meadow, but the undulating country stretching towards Flaxmouth. Merrion reflected that Martin, sitting typing here, would not have been likely to have heard what was going on at the back. Even the sound of the hoop being hammered off the barrel so that the head could be removed.

“I'm very glad to hear that you've been successful, Mr. Martin,” Arnold was saying. “You were so absorbed in the letter you were typing that you heard nothing unusual. Anyone might have entered or left the house without your knowledge?”

“Why, yes, easily enough,” Martin replied. “To tell the truth, I didn't even notice the men leaving the house at closing time, and they usually make a certain amount of noise. In fact, I don't remember hearing anything till I'd finished typing, and all was quiet. Then I heard Mr. Vivian coming upstairs. Not long after half-past eleven, I think.”

“And after that you heard nothing?” Arnold suggested.

“Nothing whatever,” Martin replied emphatically. “I went to bed, but though as a rule I go to sleep fairly quickly, last night I couldn't get off. I was too excited by my discovery. It must have been an hour or more before I got off to sleep.”

“After which you slept soundly till this morning?” Arnold asked.

“Fairly soundly,” Martin replied. “But I am not at any time a very heavy sleeper. I understand what is in your mind, and I can safely say this. Any disturbance in the house would most certainly have awakened me. I was in fact awakened early this morning by a knocking on the door, after which I heard Mr. Vivian speaking to someone outside.”

“That was Percy Wimborne, sir,” Hayes prompted. “He came up to tell Mr. Vivian about the barrel he'd seen.”

Arnold nodded. “Well, I'm much obliged for what you've told us, Mr. Martin. I'm afraid your plans will be upset?”

“I hardly know what to do,” Martin replied ruefully. “Obviously I can't stay here, intruding on Mr. Vivian in his bereavement. It's really very awkward. You see, the woman—Mrs. Kennet her name is, by the way-tells me that her sister was living with her while my boy was here, and she thinks she may remember him better than she does herself. The sister is now in London, but Mrs. Kennet has promised to get her down this week-end. I can't leave the neighbourhood until I've seen her. I'm going to try to find lodgings in the village.”

Shortly afterwards they took leave of Mr. Martin and went out. “What sort of a woman is this Mrs. Kennet, Hayes?” Merrion asked as they got into the car. “She's not leading our friend Mr. Martin up the garden path?”

“I don't think she'd do that, sir,” Hayes replied. “Both she and her husband are decent hard-working folk. And it's quite true her sister was living with her during the war. She was bombed out, quite early on.”

“I'm not concerned with Mr. Martin's affairs,” Arnold remarked testily. “We've more important things to think of just now. The next thing is to hear what Dr. Grinstead can tell us. You might drive us to his place, will you, Merrion?”

Hilary opened the door when they arrived, and showed them into her uncle's surgery. Grinstead welcomed them with almost exuberant good humour. “Come in and sit down!” he exclaimed. “I've got some surprising things to tell you. I thought at first we'd gone right back into the middle ages. Rolling people about in barrels was quite a common form of punishment in those days. Usually, to make things livelier for the victim, they drove nails through the staves, so that the points stood out inside. But, as it turns out, my antiquarian interests have been disappointed.”

“I hardly understand you, Doctor,” said Arnold, a trifle stiffly. “Will you tell us the result of your examination?”

“I'm trying to,” Grinstead replied. “The first thing I discovered in examining Mrs. Vivian's body was that it bore no trace whatever of scars or contusions. Now perhaps you'll understand what I've just said.”

“I do, at all events,” Merrion remarked. “If Mrs. Vivian had been rolled down the hill in the barrel, her body would have shown obvious signs of very considerable battering all over?”

“It would,” Grinstead replied dryly. “No medical knowledge is necessary to understand that. One thing at least is perfectly certain. Mrs. Vivian, alive or dead, was not in the barrel when it was rolled down the hill. Another thing is equally certain, and Hayes, who has seen it, will agree with me. The condition of the barrel shows clearly enough that it was rolled down the hill.”

Arnold looked bewildered. “How did the body get into the barrel, then?” he asked. “And what was the cause of death?”

“How the body got there is your affair, not mine,” Grinstead replied. “As for the cause of death, it's what you might have expected it to be. The legendary inn-keeper's wife was strangled, as you may remember. And Mrs. Vivian was strangled, too. By a pair of hands whose owner knew how to apply them in order to cause death in the shortest possible time.”

“We needn't drag the legend into it,” said Arnold irritably. “Let's stick to present facts. When was she strangled?”

“That's never an easy question to answer,” Grinstead replied. “My opinion, based upon the degree of rigor mortis and the body temperature, is that death took place during last night. Not earlier than ten, and certainly not later than midnight.”

“I ought to see the body for myself,” said Arnold. “You locked up the shed, I expect, Doctor. What did you do with the key?”

Grinstead opened a drawer of his desk and produced the key. “Here it is. You'd better take charge of it. I've rung up the coroner and told him what I've just told you. He'll let Hayes know about the inquest later.”

They left the doctor's house and drove to the shed, where they examined the body, and more particularly the barrel. “The doctor's right, there's no doubt about that,” Merrion remarked. “The barrel was most obviously rolled down the hill, but the body wasn't in it then. And it seems to me that throws an entirely fresh light upon the affair.”

“Your imagination has formed a theory already?” Arnold asked. “Well, let's hear it.”

“Not exactly a theory,” Merrion replied. “But I think we can clear our minds a bit. The first assumption was that the body had been put in the barrel before it was rolled down the hill. We can accept the doctor's opinion that the death took place between ten and twelve. Personally, I am inclined to believe Vivian's statement that he had supper with his wife and last saw her shortly before eleven, even though that is not confirmed by Mr. Martin, who doesn't remember seeing her after about eight. In which case Mrs. Vivian must have been strangled between eleven and midnight.

“Now, so far as we can tell, there were only three people at the Crossbeam at that time. If the body had been rolled down the hill in the barrel, the murder must have been committed in, or just outside, the inn. Therefore one of the other two people present at the time must have been the murderer. It seems unlikely that the preoccupied Mr. Martin should have murdered his landlady. But her husband might well have become exasperated at her continual nagging. I expect that's very much as you see things, isn't it, Hayes?”

“Well, yes, sir, it is,” Hayes replied. “I didn't see who else but Vivian could have done it.”

“Exactly,” said Merrion. “But now we have to consider an entirely different set of circumstances. The body was not rolled away in the barrel. And that means nothing more or less than this. The body was put into the barrel after it had come to rest in the meadow. And surely that is conclusive proof that Mrs. Vivian was not murdered in or just outside the Crossbeam. A body could not have been carried down that almost precipitous slope. It would have to be conveyed all the way round by the road, a task, I imagine, beyond the power of any man. In other words, the murder was committed not far from where the body was found. And that almost, if not quite, clears the two people at the Crossbeam.”

“Yes, that sounds good enough,” Arnold remarked. “But what makes you say if not quite?”

“Because this possibility exists,” Merrion replied-"Mr. Martin says that while he was in his room typing, he was so absorbed in what he was doing that he took no notice of anything else. If Vivian had left the inn and come back again, between eleven and half-past, Mr. Martin wouldn't have heard him. I don't think it is in the least likely that he did. My impression was that he was telling the strict truth. But the possibility cannot be entirely ignored.”

“You're always talking about possibilities,” Arnold growled. “But this time even you can't suggest that Mrs. Vivian committed suicide, or that she got strangled by accident.”

Merrion smiled. “Oh, no, she was murdered all right. It's merely that I like to keep an open mind. Now, let's get back to this barrel. If the body was put in it when it was already lying in the meadow, it must have been rolled down there earlier. And that might have been any time after dusk. Vivian says that he didn't go out to the back again after we were talking to him there yesterday afternoon. And I might point out that it doesn't follow that it was the murderer who rolled it down.”

“Oh, come now,” Arnold protested. “That's nonsense. Who else would have rolled it down and why?”

“Just another of my possibilities,” Merrion replied equably. “Some gay young spark who wanted to take a rise out of Vivian. The murderer merely took advantage of his escapade. But I confess I don't think it's very likely. I'm pretty sure that the murderer meant to create the impression that the crime was committed at the Crossbeam, being familiar with the legend.”

“Oh confound the legend!” Arnold exclaimed. “What the dickens has that got to do with it?”

“Quite a lot, it seems to me,” Merrion replied. “Don't you realise what a powerful influence the legend, subconsciously, perhaps, would exert upon a local jury? If it were believed that the crime had been committed at the Crossbeam, the inference would be that history had repeated itself. That the inn-keeper's wife had once again been murdered by her husband.

“We know now that the crime wasn't committed there, and that's about all we do know. But we can make certain deductions. The most important of these is that Mrs. Vivian left the Cressbeam, probably about eleven o'clock, and never returned. I'm inclined to accept Vivian's statement that shortly before that time she told him she was going up to bed. As a matter of fact she didn't do that, but went out instead, by the side door. And she must have gone of her own free will. If any violence had been employed, the disturbance she would have kicked up would have aroused the attention even of Mr. Martin.”

“What did she go out for, at that time of night?” Arnold asked.

“Only her murderer can tell you that,” Merrion replied. “My idea is that she went out by previous appointment, to meet someone without her husband's knowledge. Who was that someone?”

“Wait a bit!” Arnold exclaimed. “I've got an idea about that. Don't you remember when we were at the Crossbeam yesterday morning? The violent quarrel we overheard between Mrs. Vivian and Sarah Fitton?”

“I've been remembering it for some time, and wondering when you would too,” Merrion replied. “Go ahead.”

“This is how it may have been,” said Arnold. “Sarah meant to get her own back. She went to see Mrs. Vivian again in the afternoon, and pretended to make it up with her. She said that she had something particular to tell her, which nobody else must know about. Between them, they arranged to meet on the meadow, after Mrs. Vivian was supposed to have gone to bed. At sometime before they met, Sarah crept round to the Crossbeam and rolled the barrel down. How's that?”

“Pretty near the wicket, I dare say,” Merrion replied.

“And you can add this, if you like, that remark of the doctor's. That the owner of the hands that strangled Mrs. Vivian knew how to apply them in order to ensure death in the shortest possible time. Sarah has been a nurse in her time, and may be supposed to have a sufficient knowledge of anatomy.”

Arnold turned to Hayes. “Well, let's have your opinion now. What do you think about it all?”

“Well, I hardly know, sir,” Hayes replied cautiously. “I didn't know about the quarrel, and I'd never heard that Sarah Fitton had been a nurse. All the same, I wouldn't put it past her, no, not by a long way. But this is what's in my mind, sir. If Mr. Vivian didn't murder his wife, it doesn't seem so likely now that he murdered Lady Prayver.”

“Well done, Hayes!” Merrion exclaimed. “You've rescued us from the unsubstantial realms of speculation, and brought us back to solid earth again. In fact, you've put your finger on the heart of the matter. Is there any connection between the two crimes?”

“It doesn't seem very likely that there are two murderers at large in Dellmead,” Arnold replied. “What do you say, Hayes?”

“It doesn't seem likely to me either, sir,” said Hayes. “It seems to me that one murder must have led to the other, as I've thought all along. But how is more than I can say now.”

“By now, you mean that since it would appear that Vivian didn't murder his wife after all, you don't see the link?” Merrion remarked. “I don't see it either at present, but, all the same, it probably exists. What about having a word with Sarah Fitton?”

XIII

They left the shed and were about to re-enter the car when Mr. Martin came towards them from the direction of the vicarage. On seeing them he hurried forward and started talking volubly. “I know you'll be glad to hear that I've got fixed up,” he said. “I went along to see Lord Prayver, for I thought he'd be sure to know if there was anyone in the village I could lodge with. And what do you think? As soon as I told him what I wanted, he said that he would be only too pleased to put me up at the vicarage for as long as I cared to stay. I feel completely overwhelmed by such kindness.”

“You're lucky, Mr. Martin,” Arnold replied impatiently, making a move to get into the car.

But Martin was not disposed to let his audience escape so easily. “Of course I shan't impose upon Lord Prayver's hospitality more than absolutely necessary,” he went on. “I know how difficult it is in these days to cater for a visitor. I can sleep at the vicarage, but I shall try to arrange to have my meals at the Crossbeam. I don't think Mr. Vivian will raise any objection to that. I'm on my way to see him about it now.”

“I shouldn't waste any time if I were you, Mr. Martin,” Arnold replied. To his relief, Martin went on his way, brandishing his stick in farewell. “That chap would talk the hind leg off a donkey,” Arnold remarked as at last they got into the car and drove on. “And always about his own affairs, too. I wonder if the vicar realises what he's let himself in for?”

“He wouldn't think about that, sir,” Hayes replied. “He's always ready to do anyone a kindness, whoever they may be.”

“He'll have had enough of Mr. Martin before he's done with him,” said Arnold. “And I wonder what Sarah Fitton thinks about having someone extra in the house? Well, we shall hear what she has to say before very long.”

When they reached the vicarage, it was the vicar himself who opened the door. “Come in!” he said warmly. “This is a terrible thing to have happened. I have obeyed your wishes, Hayes, and have not yet seen Mr. Vivian.”

He took them into the study and asked them to sit down. “It is a terrible thing,” Arnold replied gravely. “You are aware of the facts, I believe. Lord Prayver. I may say, however, that there is every reason to believe that Mrs. Vivian was not murdered at the Crossbeam, but on the meadow. Have you any opinion as to who may have murdered her?”

“Not murdered at the Crossbeam!” the vicar exclaimed. “Then Vivian is exculpated. That is the greatest relief to me. I could never have believed him guilty of such a dreadful crime. But to answer your question, Mr. Arnold. I can form no opinion of who may have murdered the poor woman. This being the second entirely motiveless murder within three days, I can only suppose that some homicidal lunatic is concealed in the neighbourhood”

“That is possible,” Arnold agreed. “Did you not tell us that Mrs. Vivian and Mrs. Fitton were great friends?”

“I did,” the vicar replied. “It will be a great shock to Sarah when she learns what has happened.”

“But surely she must know already!” Arnold replied. “Haven't you told her?”

The vicar shook his head. “I have told nobody, though I have no doubt the news is common property by now. But Sarah had left before anyone could have had the opportunity of telling her.”

Arnold leapt to his feet in excitement. “Left! Do you mean that Mrs. Fitton has gone away, Lord Prayver?”

“No farther than Flaxmouth,” the vicar replied. “She always goes there on Wednesdays to do the weekly shopping. She goes with Ketley, the carrier. He leaves here at nine o'clock, and gets back about six. She asked me whether I should like her to stay at home to-day and attend the funeral. But I told her she must have her day out as usual. I know she enjoys her visits to Flaxmouth. It is the only relaxation she allows herself.”

Arnold sat down again. “I see. I thought for the moment you meant that she had left for good. As a matter of fact, I want to talk to Mrs. Fitton. Are you aware that she went to the Crossbeam yesterday morning, after the inquest?”

“I was not aware of it,” the vicar replied. “But it does not surprise me in the least. There was nothing unusual in her doing so, for she has frequently gone there to see her friend Mrs. Vivian.”

“They parted on far from friendly terms,” said Arnold significantly. “Mr. Merrion and I were at the Crossbeam, as it happened, and we overheard a violent quarrel between Mrs. Fitton and Mrs. Vivian.”

The vicar frowned. “Indeed? I am afraid that Sarah is only too apt to allow her tongue to get the better of her. I found at lunch-time yesterday that she seemed upset about something. How remorseful she will be! The fact that they parted in anger will add to her grief when the news of her friend's death is broken to her.”

It was clear that the implication had not dawned on the vicar's kindly heart. “You saw Mrs. Fitton at lunch-time,” said Arnold. “Can you tell me how she spent the remainder of the day?”

“In performing her usual duties, I imagine,” the vicar replied. “The household routine proceeded quite normally. I saw her at intervals throughout the afternoon. Hilary Grinstead called here on her uncle's behalf, and Sarah showed her in, I saw Sarah again when she brought my tea, and later when she served dinner. I had no particular conversation with her. I do not know whether she went out in the intervals. She usually divides her time between the kitchen and her sitting-room.”

“What was the last time you saw Mrs. Fitton yesterday evening?” Arnold asked.

“I spoke to her when I had finished dinner,” the vicar replied. “That was at eight o'clock, or a few minutes later. I spent the rest of the evening in this room until I went to bed, and saw or spoke to no one.”

“Did Mrs. Fitton seem perfectly normal when you saw her this morning?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yes, I think so,” the vicar replied. “She called me with a cup of tea at seven as usual, and served breakfast at eight. I haven't seen her since then. I was just going out when Dr. Grinstead came, and met him outside the front door. After I had spoken to Hayes, and we had carried the body to the shed, I went to the church. By the time I had got back here, Sarah had gone with Ketley.”

“So Mrs. Fitton did not see Mr. Martin when he called here just now?” Arnold suggested.

At the mention of Mr. Martin's name the vicar smiled. “No, I let Mr. Martin in myself. I had some difficulty in understanding the purpose of his visit, for he seemed unable to get to the point. He told me an involved story about his son Barry and about Mrs. Kennet and her sister who lives in London. Then at last it came out that after what had happened at the Crossbeam he felt he could not stay there, but that it was absolutely necessary for him to stop in the neighbourhood over the week-end. Finally he asked me if I knew anyone in the village who let lodgings, and I told him at once that he was welcome to stay here. He seemed most grateful.”

“Won't you find him rather a disturber of your domestic peace?” Merrion asked.

“No doubt I shall,” the vicar replied. “Mr. Martin is alarmingly loquacious. But I feel it my duty to put up with such a minor inconvenience if by so doing I can be of service to a fellow Christian, and in this case one for whom I feel the deepest sympathy. I can well understand how the loss of his only boy must prey upon Mr. Martin's mind.”

But Arnold was not interested in Mr. Martin and his troubles. “We were talking about Mrs. Fitton,” he said. “You say that she has her own sitting-room. Have you any objection to showing it to us?”

The vicar hesitated. “! don't like to intrude upon Sarah's privacy. Have you any definite reason for wishing to see the room, Mr. Arnold?”

“Well, you see, it's like this, Lord Prayver,” Arnold replied diplomatically. 'I'm bound to do all I can to uncover the motive for the murder of Mrs. Vivian. Mrs. Fitton appears to have been her closest friend. It is just possible that she has in her possession some clue to what I am seeking.”

“Very well,” said the vicar. “I am naturally most anxious to put no obstacle in your way. Under the circumstances I can raise no objection. Will you come with me?” He led the way through the hall to the back of the house, where a short passage led to a heavy oak door. This was unlocked and he opened it. “Will you go in? I will await you in the study.”

As soon as they entered the room, Merrion realised that it was the interior of the round tower, the last vestige of the hunting-lodge of the medieval Prayvers. The room was circular in shape, with thick stone walls pierced with windows high up, and was furnished sparsely but comfortably. A modern fireplace had been put in, and among other things were a couple of easy-chairs, a table on which stood a sewing-machine, and an oak chest.

“Queer sort of place,” Arnold remarked. “Look at those walls! More like a prison than anything else. It suits Sarah Fitton well enough, I dare say. I wonder if she's made a bolt for it. Eh, Hayes?”

“I don't know, sir,” Hayes replied doubtfully. “What the vicar says is right enough. Ketley does go to Flaxmouth on Wednesdays, and has room for a couple beside him on his van. I'd heard that Sarah Fitton usually went with him, but it had slipped my memory. Ketley's a quiet sort of chap who wouldn't take any notice of Sarah's tongue.”

“Well, if she doesn't come back on the carrier's van this afternoon, we'll soon find her,” said Arnold. “It's a chance of looking through her belongings, anyhow. And I'm inclined to start on that oak chest.”

He tried the lid of the chest and found it unlocked. The chest was packed full with oddments of all kinds, mainly clothing and household draperies awaiting repair. Arnold took these out one by one and laid them on the floor beside him. “Looks as if we'd drawn a blank,” he grumbled as he proceeded. “There's nothing here but a lot of old rags.”

Merrion watched him with amusement as he delved into the chest, picking out now a torn sheet, now a faded curtain. “The woman's a magpie!” Arnold exclaimed. “Whatever does she want to hoard all this junk for? Well, that's pretty well the lot. Hallo, what's this?” He discarded an old ironing blanket with a large hole in it, and looked sharply at the object which its removal had revealed. This was a leather case, bearing a faded red cross. He lifted it out and laid it on the table and tried the fastening. “It's locked,” he said significantly.

Merrion examined the fastening for himself. “It's the same sort of gadget that you find on an attaché case,” he remarked. “And in my experience the same key can be made to open most of them. I've got one here. You can try for yourself.”

He took a bunch from his pocket and selected a key. He handed it to Arnold, who inserted it in the fastening. After some manipulation this flew open. The case contained a package of lint, some bandages, and various other first-aid materials. Beneath these were a number of phials, each containing a few small tablets. Finally a metal box. Arnold opened this, and from it, with an air of triumph, took a hypodermic syringe and a couple of needles.

He laid down the syringe and picked up the phials one by one. Each was labelled. “Here you are!” he exclaimed “Here's one with morphine written on it. And it's nearly empty. There's only one tablet left in it. We know now who killed Lady Prayver!”

Merrion smiled at his enthusiasm. “That's rather a long jump,” he said. “I'd rather start by putting it this way. You've found a clue which indicates who might have murdered her. I'm not surprised at your coming across those things. As soon as we heard that Sarah Fitton had been a nurse, I suggested that she still might have something of the sort about her, if you remember.”

“Oh, of course,” Arnold replied acidly. “You'll say that you knew all along what I should find in the chest.”

Merrion shook his head. “No, I shan't say that. I'll limit myself to pointing out that your find wasn't altogether unexpected. Well, let's hear what you're going to make of it.”

“It's simple enough,” Arnold replied. “Sarah Fitton found out somehow that Lady Prayver was coming here last Saturday. We know she went out that afternoon. She hung about by the signpost for Lady Prayver to come along from the Windmill. Lady Prayver didn't know Sarah, but Sarah was able to recognise her. Perhaps the vicar has a photograph hidden away somewhere and Sarah had seen it. Anyway, Lady Prayver came along. Sarah expected her to come here, looking for her husband. That would have been all right, for the vicar was out and the coast was clear. But Lady Prayver, not knowing her way, took the direction of the church. Sarah followed her there, got into conversation with her, and stabbed her with the needle. Then, when she'd arranged her on the tomb, she came quickly back here.”

“Well, yes,” said Merrion doubtfully. “There's just one thing I'd like to point out. You found the syringe and the drugs without any difficulty. Anyone else having access to this room could have found them with equal ease. I wonder if Sarah is in the habit of entertaining her particular friends here. And the next act in the melodrama?”

“Mrs. Vivian, you mean,” Arnold replied. “We know from what the vicar told us a few minutes ago that Sarah has no alibi for that. There was nothing to prevent her going out last night without his knowledge. She hadn't enough morphine left to play the same trick again, so she hit on the idea of strangling Mrs. Vivian, in such a way that the job would be put to the credit of her long-suffering husband. That was my idea before.”

“It was,” Merrion agreed. “And I'm not contradicting it. But it seems to me there are several loose ends to be tied up. In the first place, why should Sarah have found it necessary to murder her best friend?”

“For fear that she would give her away.” Arnold replied unhesitatingly. “It isn't likely that Sarah had told Mrs. Vivian in so many words that she had murdered Lady Prayver. But Mrs. Vivian must have known something, if only that Sarah had this syringe and the drugs. They quarrelled, as we know, and Mrs. Vivian threatened to tell what she knew. Sarah wasn't risking that. She arranged with Mrs. Vivian to meet her on the meadow last night, and bumped her off.”

“I don't know,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “Your theory is all very well, but at present it's as full of holes as a colander. And you'll have to get those holes plugged up before you arrest Sarah on a charge of murder. I'll just point out some of them. How did Sarah know not only the day, but the time, that Lady Prayver was to arrive here? Did the vicar know and tell her? If so, why, instead of waiting for his wife, did he go for a walk across the downs?”

“The vicar didn't know,” Arnold replied. “Lady Prayver wrote him a letter which Sarah intercepted.”

“Recognising on the envelope the handwriting of a woman she had never met?” Merrion suggested.

Arnold considered this for ” a moment. “I've got the answer to that. The vicar has some old letters from his wife hidden away somewhere. Sarah had ferreted them out, and as soon as she saw the envelope she recognised the handwriting.”

“All right,” said Merrion. “Sarah's motive was that if Lady Prayver came back to live with her husband he would no longer require a housekeeper. With her past, and not very engaging manner, she would have difficulty in finding another job. Doesn't it strike you that, having committed the crime, it was very careless of Sarah to leave the weapon where anybody could find it?”

“You've answered that question for yourself,” Arnold replied. “Somebody had found it before the crime, or knew where it was. Mrs. Vivian or the vicar, I dare say. If Sarah had made away with it after the crime, it would have looked suspicious.”

“You're doing quite well.” said Merrion easily. “Now, the murder of Mrs. Vivian. In spite of the fact that they had quarrelled violently only a few hours before, she consented to meet Sarah on the meadow at dead of night, and secretly.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “That's easy. Sarah implored her to meet her so that they could make up their quarrel and become friends again. From what I've seen of both of them, I shouldn't be surprised if they had quarrelled and made it up again often enough before. And the time was when Mrs. Vivian would find it most easy to slip away from the Crossbeam.”

“I'm inclined to think that Mrs. Vivian must have played a less passive role than you cast her for,” said Merrion. “However, they met as arranged, and as they indulged in an embrace of reconciliation Sarah fell upon her friend and strangled her. Then there was the body to be disposed of. The barrel was ready to hand, whether Sarah had pushed it over the edge or not. But there, it seems to me, we come up against another puzzle.”

“What is it this time?” Arnold asked with an air of patient resignation.

“Getting the body into the barrel,” Merrion replied. “To do that, Sarah had to remove the head. It isn't every one who knows that the way to do that is to knock off the end hoop. I don't doubt that you'll tell me that Sarah's father was a cooper, and that she spent her girlhood among barrels. But if it turns out that he wasn't, how did she learn the trick?”

“I don't know,” said Arnold. “Since she must have known all about it, does it matter? Mrs. Vivian, being a publican's wife, must have known, and perhaps she told Sarah at some time. It's not a point worth bothering about. We've been here long enough. I'm going to put all these things back as I found them, then we'll go and see the vicar.”

“I shouldn't let him know just yet what your suspicions are,” Merrion remarked.

“I shan't,” Arnold replied curtly. He relocked the leather case and put it back in the chest, laying the various pieces of material in layers upon it. Then he closed the chest, and after a final look round the room the three of them returned to the study. The vicar was writing at the table, and looked up as they came in. “Ah, here you are,” he said, laying down his pen. “Well, Mr. Arnold, have you found anything to throw light upon Mrs. Vivian's death?”

“Nothing,” Arnold replied, truthfully enough. “That's a very queer room of Mrs. Fitton's.”

“The tower room, we call it” said the vicar. “Sarah is very fond of it. She says that it makes her feel nice and private. She asked if she might have it as her sitting-room as soon as she came to me. Before that it had been used as a lumber-room. I had it made habitable for her, and the furniture in it is her own.”

“I suppose she entertains her friends in it when they come to see her?” Arnold suggested.

“Sarah has very few friends,” the vicar replied. “So far as I know, the only person who used to come to see her was Mrs. Vivian. But of course her visitors came and went by the back door, and it is unlikely that I should have seen them.”

“There's one thing I should like to ask you. Lord Prayver,” said Merrion. “Have you ever thoroughly explored the Priory ruins?”

“I can hardly say that I have ever explored them thoroughly,” the vicar replied. “Grinstead regards them as his own particular preserve. You might almost say that he is jealous of anyone else seeing them. He has shown me the rough lay-out. But he told me it would be a long time before he was able to establish the details with complete accuracy.”

“The natural secretiveness of an antiquarian,” Merrion remarked. “I'm sure we needn't intrude upon you any longer.”

They left the house, the vicar escorting them to the door. “Time we went back to Flaxmouth for lunch,” said Merrion as they drove off. “We can drop Hayes on the way. Hallo, here's yet another visitor to the vicar.”

As he spoke, they were turning out of the vicarage gateway. Hilary Grinstead stood on one side to let the car pass, then entered. “She was here yesterday,” Merrion went on. “With a message from her uncle, the vicar said, if you remember. Has she got another message from him, I wonder?”

“It's not our business if she has,” Arnold growled. “What time does the carrier usually get back from Flaxmouth, Hayes?”

“About six, sir,” Hayes replied. “Sometimes a bit before and sometimes a bit later.”

“He has to pass your place, I suppose?” Arnold suggested. “Well, keep a look-out for him this afternoon, and see if Sarah Fitton is with him. Then ring me up at the White Hart at Flaxmouth and let me know.”

They dropped Hayes at his house, then drove on. “You heard what I told Hayes,” said Arnold. “I think we'd best keep out of the way this afternoon. We don't want to butt in on Lady Prayver's funeral. If Hayes reports that Sarah hasn't come back with the carrier, we'll get on her track in Flaxmouth. If he reports that she has, we'll drive over here and see her.”

“Yes, that's quite a good plan,” Merrion replied. “You seem to have made up your mind about Sarah, and I'm bound to admit it looks rather as though you were right. But there's one thing that puzzles me. If Sarah killed Lady Prayver, did she steal the amber necklace? And if she didn't, who did, and why?”

XIV

A FEW MINUTES after six, when Arnold and Merrion were sitting in the lounge at the White Hart, the former was called to the telephone, and heard Hayes speaking. “Mr. Arnold, sir? Ketley has just gone by with his van. Sarah Fitton was sitting beside him and she had a lot of parcels on her lap.”

“Good enough,” Arnold replied. He rang off and returned to Merrion, to whom he imparted the news. “What about it?” he said. “If you don't mind getting out the car, we'll drive over there and put her through it.”

Merrion shook his head. “Upsetting the vicar's dinner, to say nothing of our own,” he objected. “What's the hurry? If Sarah has come home with her shopping, she won't run away now. We'd much better dine here quietly and get to Dellmead between half-past eight and nine. We shan't be such a nuisance to the inhabitants at that time.”

“You'll have it your own way, I suppose,” said Arnold. “But the only person we're going to disturb is Sarah.”

“We can't disturb Sarah without disturbing the vicar,” Merrion replied. “But that's not the whole point. Dellmead's a pretty sinister place, with its legends and ruins and round towers and all. And, as we know, strange things happen there at night. It might be worth while to prowl round for an hour or two in the dark.”

Arnold agreed to this. When they had dined they set out in the car and arrived at Hayes' house soon after half-past eight. “We needn't drag you along, Hayes” said Arnold. “If we want you, we'll ring you up from the vicarage. And there's no use letting all the village know we're about. We'll leave the car here, and come back and fetch it later on.”

They had brought torches with them, but for the present they had no need to use them. The night was bright, with the promise of a frost, and the moon in her first quarter shone clearly. “Not so dark as I could have wished,” Merrion remarked as they walked away. “However, it will be better when the moon sets, which it will before long. I only hope we don't meet too many people.”

He need not have been anxious on that score, for they walked the whole length of the village without encountering a soul. There were lights in many of the cottage windows, but the inhabitants appeared to be all indoors. “They don't seem to keep very late hours in Dellmead,” said Arnold. “Look here, I've been thinking. That confounded bore Martin will be at the vicarage by this time, and we don't want to get held up by him. You remember what the vicar said about Sarah's visitors going to the back door? Well, I think that's what we'd best do.”

When they reached the vicarage, they saw a light showing faintly through the drawn curtains of the study window. Avoiding the front door, they made their way round the tower to the back, where they found a second door, upon which they knocked. Within a few minutes a light above it was switched on from the inside, and the door opened. Sarah Fitton, wearing an apron, appeared, and looked at them malevolently. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “What do you want?”

Arnold stepped into the doorway beside her. “We want to speak to you, Mrs. Fitton,” he said sternly. “You must let us in, please. And you must take us to your own room, where we can talk without troubling the vicar.”

“Well, if you want to come in, you'd better,” said Sarah ungraciously. “I wouldn't have it without asking the vicar, but he's got a gentleman with him and I don't like to disturb him. Come on.” She turned, and they followed her to the tower room. A light was on there, and a piece of material was inserted in the sewing-machine. “Now, then, what is it?” she asked.

“We'll sit down, if you don't mind,” Arnold replied. “That's better. You've heard what happened to your friend, Mrs. Vivian?”

“My friend!” Sarah exclaimed. “She's no friend of mine since yesterday. Yes, the vicar told me as soon as I got back from Flaxmouth this afternoon, and serve her right, that's all I've got to say.”

Arnold was somewhat taken aback by the venom of her tone. “And why should it serve Mrs. Vivian right?” he asked.

“Why, for what she said to me yesterday morning,” Sarah replied. “I went up to see her, as I often did. And she said that after what had been told at the inquest, it was clear enough that the vicar had murdered his wife. The very idea! I turned round and asked her how she dare say such a thing, and we had words. I told her I'd never go to her house again after that. It's a judgement on her, that's what it is.”

“Then you don't believe yourself that the vicar murdered Lady Prayver?” Arnold suggested innocently.

“Believe it!” Sarah exclaimed with withering contempt. “Who but a born idiot could believe such a thing of the vicar?” She paused, then went on significantly, “Or someone who wanted to put the blame on somebody else's shoulders.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mrs. Fitton,” said Arnold. “If the vicar didn't murder Lady Prayver, who did?”

“That's what you're here to find out, I take it,” Sarah replied sharply. “It's no good asking me. People who talk like Mrs. Vivian did to me are likely to know something about it.”

“When did you last see Mrs. Vivian?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yesterday morning, as I told you,” Sarah replied. “And that was the last I meant to see of her, too.”

“You stuck to that determination?” Arnold suggested. “You didn't see her again, yesterday afternoon or evening?”

“No, that I didn't!” Sarah exclaimed indignantly. “Even if she had come here, I wouldn't have let her in till she'd taken her words back.”

“Mrs. Vivian used to come to see you fairly often,” said Arnold. “You brought her into this room, I expect?”

“Where else would I bring her?” Sarah replied. “This is my own room, that the vicar let's me have.”

“When did Mrs. Vivian last come to see you here?” Arnold asked.

“One afternoon last week,” Sarah replied. “Friday, it must have been. She came to see me, and stayed chatting quite a while. She said she was feeling poorly, and I told her she'd better see the doctor, and he'd give her a bottle of medicine.”

Arnold remembered that Vivian had called at Dr. Grinstead's house on Saturday afternoon to fetch a bottle of medicine for his wife. “I see. While Mrs. Vivian was here, did you ever leave her alone in this room?”

“Why, naturally!” Sarah replied. “I've got the house to look after, haven't I? She was alone in here on Friday, while I was in the kitchen getting the vicar's tea. And when I'd done that, I got a pot for us too, and brought it in here.”

Arnold nodded. “On Saturday afternoon the vicar went out. Not long afterwards you went out too, to the shop, you told us, I remember. You went out by the back door, no doubt. Did you lock it behind you, as nobody was left in the house?”

“No, I didn't,” Sarah replied. “I wasn't out more than half an hour at the most. I've never locked it till last thing at, night. But I shall keep it locked now, after what's been happening in the village these last few days.”

“I should, if I were you,” said Arnold. “What do you keep in that oak chest over there?”

Sarah scowled at him. “I don't know what business that may be of yours. Things belonging to the house. The mending, mostly.”

“Anything else besides the mending?” Arnold asked. “Anything belonging to yourself personally?”

“A few things, I dare say” Sarah replied. “There's a first-aid outfit that belongs to me, for one.”

“A very useful thing to keep handy,” Arnold remarked. “The vicar knows you've got the outfit, I suppose?”

“What are you trying to make out?” Sarah demanded angrily. “That I keep things from the vicar? Well, I don't. He knows about the outfit right enough. Even if I hadn't told him I had it, he's seen me using it often enough when Master Michael's at home. Boys like him are always managing to break their knuckles or something of the kind.”

“And he comes to you for first aid?” said Arnold. “Did Mrs. Vivian know about the outfit?”

“I dare say,” Sarah replied. “If she didn't, her husband does. He was here one day in the summer holidays, playing cricket in the paddock with Master Michael, and got a crack on the fingers from a ball Master Michael bowled to him. Master Michael brought him in here, and I got out the first-aid outfit and bound it up for him.”

“There's a hypodermic syringe among the other things, I expect,” Arnold remarked casually. “Do you ever have occasion to use it?”

Sarah never turned a hair. “Yes, there's a syringe. But I've never used it since I've been here.” Then, suddenly, the significance of the question struck her like a blow, and her truculence returned with redoubled force. “Lady Prayver was killed by an injection!” she exclaimed with blazing eyes. “And because of that, you're trying to make out that the vicar did it with my syringe. Well, I'll tell you what I told Rose Vivian. If you say that, you're a bloody liar!”

“I haven't said it,” Arnold replied sternly. “Did you use the syringe yourself, Mrs. Fitton?”

She stared at him, then burst into a peal of mocking laughter. “I? That's a good one. Why, I've never so much as set eyes on the poor lady. If that's the idea you've got into your head, you're welcome to it. Perhaps you'll explain how I could have killed Lady Prayver when I didn't set foot near the church the whole afternoon?”

Arnold was acutely conscious of Merrion's smile of amusement. “I may be able to explain everything in my own good time,” he replied, with what dignity he could. “If you didn't kill Lady Prayver, why did you strangle Mrs. Vivian?”

“I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, that's what you think,” Sarah replied severely. “It's my belief that you've been drinking, otherwise you wouldn't sit here asking such silly questions. It's true it was all I could do to keep my hands off Rose Vivian when she said what she did yesterday morning. But I didn't strangle her, and that's that.”

“And you mean to pretend that you didn't roll that barrel down the hill from the back of the Crossbeam?” Arnold asked.

She looked him squarely in the face. “Isn't it about time that you understood me once and for all? The last words I spoke to Rose Vivian were that I would never darken her door again. And I'm a woman that keeps her word. I've kept away from the Crossbeam from that moment to this. I didn't kill either Lady Prayver or Rose Vivian and, what's more, I don't know who did. If you take my advice you'll keep off the drink, then you'll find your head will be clearer. And if you can't talk sense, you'd better clear out, you and your friend. I've got my work to get on with.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion, who nodded. They got up and walked out, Sarah seeing them to the back door and locking it behind them. “You caught a tartar that time,” Merrion remarked, as they made their way towards the vicarage gate. “Sarah's a good hater, but at the same time she's a staunch upholder of the vicar. And although I fancy she suspects something, I'm pretty certain she's not a murderess.”

“She's a brazen-faced hussy if she is.” Arnold growled. “What do you think she suspects?”

“Perhaps suspects is the wrong word,” said Merrion. “Say rather that, without admitting it even to herself, she can't understand who but the vicar could have murdered Lady Prayver. I'm no psychologist, but it seems to me a natural reaction on her part to defend him tooth and nail. Anyhow, her thoughts, however deep, aren't evidence.”

“She doesn't carry on like a woman who has committed a murder,” Arnold admitted.

“She didn't,” Merrion agreed emphatically. “And it seems that anyone could have borrowed her syringe and a dose of morphine. And yet, somehow, I don't feel that was the way of it. It strikes me, my friend, that this is one of the most baffling puzzles we've ever been up against. That is, unless both murders were completely motiveless.”

They passed through the vicarage gateway, and walked back towards the centre of the village. By now the moon was setting behind the downs, and darkness was advancing swiftly. Very few lights were to be seen in the windows, the gaunt back wall of the Crossbeam was unenlivened by any glimmer. Above the meadow thin wisps of mist moved stealthily, like phantom figures. No human being was in sight or sound.

“This is an eerie place!” Merrion exclaimed. “One can imagine it as the kingdom of the Powers of Darkness. Haunted, not by any feeble spectre, but by Evil itself; the force that inspired the devil-worshipper Justin Prayver and his crony Asmodeus. This is the very setting for any number of murders. What if the force was responsible? Eh?”

“It's hardly the explanation I should care to lay before a jury in broad daylight,” Arnold replied.

“Not in that form,” Merrion agreed-"But the force might act through human agency. What we now call madness used to be attributed to demoniac possession, you know. And the devil could find no more suitable place than this in which to work.”

They had reached the corner where the road ran upwards to the Crossbeam. Merrion stopped abruptly. “In spite of Sarah's admonition, I'd step up and have a drink, if I were you,” he said. “You've got a full half-hour before closing time.”

“Not at all a bad idea” Arnold replied. “Come along and if we meet the devil on the way, we'll run him in.”

“Thereby ushering in the millennium.” said Merrion. “But I'm not coming. You go along and have a chat with Vivian.”

“Not coming!” Arnold exclaimed. “What do you mean? What are you going to do with yourself, then?”

“Never you mind,” Merrion replied. “Hobnob with the devil, perhaps. Now, you run along, there's a good fellow. I'll meet you at Hayes' place later on.”

Arnold knew his friend well enough to be sure there was some purpose behind his words. He merely shrugged his shoulders and set off, leaving Merrion standing at the corner. He met no one else until he reached the front door of the Crossbeam, above which a light was burning. He paused for a moment and listened, expecting to hear the hum of voices from within, but the only sound that came to him was the melancholy hooting of an owl in the distance. He went in and entered the bar. It was empty but for Vivian, leaning despondently with folded arms on the counter. Vivian's face lightened perceptibly as Arnold came in. “Good evening, Mr. Arnold. I'm glad to see you, I'm sure.”

“Good evening,” Arnold replied, looking round the deserted bar. “What's become of your customers this evening?”

Vivian laughed, shortly and contemptuously. “Gone home. There were a few of them here early on, but as soon as it was getting dark they drank up and sneaked out. The truth is, Mr. Arnold, that after what's happened the whole village is scared stiff, like a lot of old women. They won't stop out after dark for a long time to come, you'll find.”

That explained the almost uncanny emptiness of the village street. “Well, it gives me the chance of a quiet chat with you, anyhow,” said Arnold cheerfully. You might draw me a pint, and one for yourself at the same time.”

Vivian drew the beer, and they wished one another good health. “I wanted that.” said Arnold. “I've been talking to Mrs. Fitton, and I found her a bit exhausting. Now, Mr. Vivian. As we're alone, would you care to tell me what you know about your wife's death?”

Vivian must have been expecting this question, and showed no astonishment at it. “I'll say the same to you, Mr. Arnold, as I said to the vicar,” he said earnestly. “He came to see me this afternoon, like the good soul he is, and said that he was here to do anything he could for me. And I told him this. I said that I trusted and respected him enough to tell him the truth, whatever it might be. And the truth was, on my sacred oath, that I never laid a finger upon Rose.”

Although he seemed desperately sincere, Arnold made no comment, and after a long pause Vivian went on. “I know what you think, and what everybody who knew us must think. It's no secret that Rose and I didn't live happily together. I made a mistake in marrying her, and for many years now I've lived to regret it. There have been times, often enough, when I've wished her dead. But somehow, even when she was at her worst, I found something else to occupy my mind. It never entered into my mind to beat her up, let alone kill her. And I didn't kill her last night.”

“Mrs. Vivian had not discovered that at one time you knew Lady Prayver?” Arnold asked searchingly.

Vivian shook his head. “I'm sure she hadn't. If she had, she'd have been on to me about it, and she never did. There's nobody knew about that, not even the vicar. And I hope you'll never tell him, Mr. Arnold.”

“I see no need to, for the present at all events,” Arnold replied. “Now, look here, Mr. Vivian, your position is in one way the same as the vicar's. You say you did not kill your wife. Who, then, do you suppose did?”

“The vicar never killed Coral,” said Vivian firmly. “That's one thing at least you may be sure of. He came here to see me, fresh from burying her, and if there's a saint in this world, it's him. He didn't kill her, any more than I killed Rose.”

“You haven't quite answered my question,” said Arnold quietly. “Who do you suppose killed Mrs. Vivian?”

Vivian picked up his mug of beer, tasted it, and put it down again, “I don't know!” he exclaimed violently. “Sarah Fitton was here yesterday morning, and she and Rose had words. You were here yourself, and I dare say you heard them at it.”

“I did,” said Arnold. “Did Mrs. Vivian tell you afterwards what they had quarrelled about?”

“She didn't, and I didn't ask her,” Vivian replied. “It seemed to me the less said about it the better.”

“Had Mrs. Vivian and Sarah Fitton ever quarrelled as violently as that before?” Arnold asked.

Vivian shook his head. “Not that I know of. But you must understand, Mr. Arnold, Rose never told me much about anything, least of all what she and her friends said to one another. I dare say they had their disagreements, women usually do. But if they did, they soon made friends again.”

Arnold changed the subject. “There's something in particular I want to ask you. You told me that when you last saw your wife, she said she was going to bed. It seems that she did not do so, but in fact left the house without your knowledge. Can you suggest any reason why she should have deliberately deceived you?”

“I've been wondering that myself.” Vivian replied. “There was no need for her to tell me a lie. If she had said she was going out, I shouldn't have done anything to stop her. I never interfered with anything she wanted to do.”

“Perhaps she might have been going to meet someone, and didn't want you to know anything about it?” Arnold suggested.

“I don't know who that could have been,” Vivian replied. “If you mean, was she going out to meet a chap, I don't think that's very likely. Rose wasn't the sort of woman who interested men overmuch. And if she'd thought better of it and was going to see Sarah Fitton, why should she have hidden that from me?”

“I don't know why she should,” said Arnold, “Who else, beside Sarah Fitton, did Mrs. Vivian speak to yesterday?”

“So far as I know she didn't go outside the house all day,” Vivian replied. “Bar the customers, I don't suppose she spoke to anybody but myself, and Mr. Martin when she took him his meals.”

“Mr. Martin has left you, he told me,” Arnold remarked. “So now you're left all alone?”

“That's right” Vivian agreed. “And if I don't do more trade than I've done this evening, my hands won't be overfull. But Mr. Martin hasn't exactly left. He's going to sleep at the vicarage, but I told him he could have his meals here. You see, I've got a catering licence, so I can get food for him easier than the vicar could. I've arranged with Mrs. Wimborne for her to come in and do the cooking. And Mr. Martin has kept on his room. He said he'd like to be able to use it now and then in the daytime, if he wanted to, for he didn't want to be in the vicar's way more than he could help.”

“Naturally,” said Arnold. “What about yourself? Have you made any plans yet?”

“I shall stop on here,” Vivian replied. “I expect half the village will say that I murdered Rose, but I can't help that. I'm not going to run away from their tongues. You wouldn't, if you were me, would you, Mr. Arnold?”

“If I were conscious of my innocence, I should stick it,” said Arnold. “There's this about it. Your customers will have to come to the house or go thirsty. But will you be able to manage single-handed?”

“With Mrs. Wimborne coming in to help, I shall,” Vivian replied. “And when I spoke to her she told me that her husband, Percy, wouldn't mind helping me serve in the bar when I have a busy time. I'll get on somehow, never fear.”

No other customers appeared, and at ten o'clock Arnold said good night to Vivian and left the Crossbeam. It was by now almost quite dark, with only a few feeble stars showing above the rising mist. With the aid of his torch he picked his way down the hill to the corner, and thence to the signpost. He had the village entirely to himself, and by this time the windows were darkened. He turned into the Flaxmouth road, and when he reached Hayes' house, the first lighted window greeted him. Hayes opened the door and answered his inquiry. “No, sir, Mr. Merrion's not here. I haven't seen him since you and he left the car here, a while back.”

“Where the dickens can he have got to?” Arnold grumbled. “I'll come in and wait for him, if I may. The village isn't very festive this evening. Vivian says they're all indoors, shaking in their shoes. Have you anything fresh to report?”

“Only this, sir,” Hayes replied. “The coroner rang through just after you had left the car. He's going to hold the inquest on Mrs. Vivian at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and he told me to arrange for the parish room and a jury.”

Arnold nodded. “I'll be there. In fact, I'll be over in the morning. I wish Mr. Merrion would hurry up.”

XV

Merrion waited at the corner until the sound of Arnold's footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned and crossed the road to the meadow. In the fading moonlight he could see his way clearly enough, and before he had gone many yards the thin mist enveloped him. Nobody could see him from the village.

As he struck the track leading across the meadow to the church, he chuckled quietly to himself. Arnold most certainly would not approve of what he was about to do. A conscientious policeman was inhibited from unorthodox methods. If he were caught breaking the law, which wasn't very likely, Arnold could not be held responsible. He followed the track walking swiftly and noiselessly, until he reached the churchyard. The owl, which appeared to be located in the trees surrounding the doctor's house, welcomed him dolefully.

He sat down on one of the tombstones and waited for the moon to set. At this elevation he was above the mist, which lay like a sea on the meadow beneath him. Above it he could see the village in ghostly outline, dominated by a dark mass which must be the back wall of the Crossbeam. As he watched, a sudden shooting star flashed for an instant above it. A portent? No portent, however terrifying, would seem out of place in Dellmead.

The moon set, suddenly, as it seemed, plunging the scene in darkness. Merrion stood up and stretched himself. Time he got moving, with the stealth of a nocturnal cat. To his eyes, by now accustomed to the dimness, the stars gave just enough light to enable him to pick his way. Feeling each footstep, so as to make no sound, he crept with infinite caution through the gap in the hedge, and thence along the rough path leading to the Priory ruins.

A sudden sound, seemingly right above his head, made him stiffen suddenly, becoming invisible against his background. But it was only the owl, resentful of this intrusion upon its solitude. It hooted once more, then sailed away. Merrion caught a glimpse of its noiseless and shadowy wings against the sky. He went on with redoubled caution until he reached the edge of the ruins. Strangely enough, they seemed to be deserted by the creatures of the night. No rat or rabbit rustled among the rank grass and weeds. Perhaps they, like the villagers, were infected by the horror of mysterious evil. The silence was complete, and no glimmer shone through the shrubbery from the direction of the house.

For several seconds Merrion listened. Then, step by step, he groped his way to the foundations of the chapel, and dropped on his hands and knees. He had memorised the plan, and it did not take him very long to find the trap-door.

Bending down, he applied his ear to the surface of the wood. No sound, not even the faintest trickle of water, rewarded him. After listening for several minutes, he was satisfied that if. the door concealed a hiding-place, this was now unoccupied by any living creature.

He passed his hands over the wooden surface of the door, found the ring, and pulled at it warily. The door resisted his efforts, and was evidently secured by some hidden fastening. But Merrion, who had anticipated something of the kind, had come prepared. He took from his pocket a tyre lever, borrowed from the car, and with it proceeded to feel between the edges of the door and the housing.

He soon came across what he had expected: a spring catch which yielded to the pressure of the lever. Holding the catch back with one hand, he tugged at the ring with the other. This time the door lifted easily enough, revealing a pit of utter darkness. Merrion took his torch from his pocket, and thrust his hand at arm's-length into the pit. Then he switched on the torch. Its light showed, not the shaft of a well, but a flight of narrow stone steps.

Merrion folded the door right back, then very cautiously descended the steps. Not until he could tell that he was at the bottom, a matter of a dozen steps, did he venture to switch on his light again. He found himself in a vaulted chamber, paved with flagstones, on which were carved inscriptions in medieval Latin. A modern folding-screen, standing on the flagstones, shut off the eastern end of the chamber, which appeared otherwise empty. Merrion realised at once that he had penetrated to the crypt of the Priory chapel.

But whatever secrets it had, these were not immediately apparent. Why had the doctor told him that the trap-door covered a well, and shooed him away from the spot? Merely because he wished to keep an antiquarian secret to himself? That seemed hardly likely. There must be something in the crypt which the doctor wished to hide from all eyes but his own.

That quaintly incongruous screen seemed to point the way to the secret. It stretched from wall to wall, across the whole width of the narrow crypt. Merrion folded back one leaf and stepped behind it. Only a few feet of empty space extended from the screen to the eastern wall, and he threw the light of his torch upon this. Against the wall stood a stone altar. And on the altar lay something arrayed in a white linen shroud.

Even Merrion's rock-like nerves recoiled at this, and the torch quivered in his hands. Its quivering light seemed to endue the object beneath the shroud with life. But that could not be. Hidden though it was by the folds of linen, its outlines were unmistakably those of a human form.

It cost Merrion a sensible effort to step forward. Even then he hesitated before, with a swift movement, he swept the shroud aside. Then he uttered an involuntary gasp of amazement and relief. He had revealed, not as he had expected, a human body, but an effigy carved in marble. An effigy beautifully preserved, of a woman in medieval dress, her hands folded upon her breast. The long-lost effigy of the Lady Alicia!

By the light of his torch Merrion examined the figure. It was quite evident that it had been treated with loving care, for there was no trace of dirt, even in the finer folds of her dress. The purpose of the seeming shroud had no doubt been to preserve the figure from dust. And that of the screen to create an atmosphere of privacy. The effigy was no doubt the doctor's greatest treasure, and he had done his best to hide it from prying eyes. Hence, of course, his reluctance to allow visitors to see too much of the ruins. And, for that matter, his obsession with the subject, which even such a comparative stranger as Mr. Martin had noticed.

But Merrion had not embarked upon his adventure in search of effigies. The object of the doctor's secrecy was now obvious. He wished to retain the effigy as his own property, but if its existence became known, he would be unable to do so. Public opinion, headed by the vicar, would insist upon its restoration to its proper place: the tomb in the church. The question, as Merrion saw it, was this. If the doctor was capable of hoarding the effigy, was he not capable of hoarding anything else that might have captured his fancy? And would he be overscrupulous in his methods of obtaining such an object?

Merrion made a rapid survey of the crypt. But it was quite bare, and contained no receptacle in which an object could be hidden. Its present employment seemed to be solely as a sanctuary for Lady Alicia's effigy. Merrion could not help wondering whether the doctor confined himself to the contemplation of its beauties. Or, in his visits to the crypt, did he indulge in magic rites designed to evoke the spirits of the departed? Of the fact that he was fascinated by the contents of the records he had found, there could be no doubt. And if he practised necromancy, might not fresh sacrifices be required by the evil powers he supplicated? Ritual murder was by no means unknown, even in this enlightened age.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, Merrion examined the flagstones. It seemed to him that one might be movable, covering a hiding-place. But they were all firmly fixed, and showed no signs of having been disturbed for centuries. In front of the altar he found one with a well-worn Latin inscription. In this he was able to decipher the name of Prayver, the holy Prior, buried here by his brethren. The vicar would be highly interested in that stone, Merrion thought. But, while the effigy lay on the altar, the doctor could not very well show it to him.

Merrion replaced the shroud, and adjusted the screen as he had found it. There was no point in leaving anything to show the doctor that his secret had been violated. Then, switching off his torch, he ascended the steps, pausing to listen as his head came above ground. But perfect silence reigned, and after a few seconds he emerged. He closed the trap-door and satisfied himself that the spring catch had swung back into position. Then, still with great caution, he retraced his steps, along the track to the gap in the hedge, and so to the churchyard.

From that point he felt no need for concealment. He walked boldly down the lane, noticing, as he passed the doctor's house, a light in one of the upper windows. But as he pursued his way to the signpost, and then along the Flaxmouth road to Hayes' house, he met nobody. He knocked at the door, and Hayes admitted him to the room in which Arnold was waiting. “Hallo!” Arnold exclaimed. “Here you are at last! Where have you been to all this time?”

“Amusing myself in my own fashion,” Merrion replied lightly. “If you're ready, we may as well be getting along.”

“I've been ready this last half-hour,” Arnold growled. “All right, Hayes, I shall be along in the morning. Good night.”

They went out, got into the car, and drove off. “Now perhaps you'll tell me what you've been up to,” said Arnold.

“I think not,” Merrion replied. “You might not approve. I had an idea where that amber necklace might be, but it turned out I was wrong. Well, have you made up your mind who the murderer was?”

“No, I haven't,” said Arnold. “I don't think now that it was Sarah Fitton. I had a chat with Vivian after I left you, and he seemed straight enough. I'm half beginning to believe there must be a homicidal maniac lurking about.”

“Perhaps,” Merrion replied thoughtfully. “Something of the sort has passed through my mind this evening. Not a maniac exactly, but someone whose mind has become warped by the evil influences of this place. A killer who kills for reasons which would not be appreciated by anybody but himself. A resident, not a stranger.”

“I don't know what you're hinting at,” said Arnold. “Can't you speak out plainly?”

“I can't, even to you,” Merrion replied. “The sort of darkness I'm contemplating is not to be expressed in plain words. Let's approach it from another direction. Set motive aside, or imagine if you like that the motive for these two murders would be inexplicable to any ordinary person. Were both women murdered by the same hand?”

“I've considered that question pretty carefully,” said Arnold. “There is no evidence to show that they were. On the other hand, it doesn't seem very likely that there can be two independent murderers, even in Dellmead.”

“Yes,” Merrion agreed. “I think we may safely assume that we have only one individual to deal with. And I'm going to make a further assumption. That individual was not particular who his victims were, though he may have had a preference for women. Now, take first the case of Lady Prayver. She was a stranger, known only to two people in Dellmead, neither of whom, I feel pretty certain, murdered her. We know her route from the Windmill to the church. And we are told that she was last seen alive at the doctor's gate. If the murderer had seen her there, not knowing who she was, might she not have struck him as a suitable victim?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Arnold replied. “But why the tomb business?”

“I've got my own ideas about that,” said Merrion. “They're a bit tangled, I'll admit. The murderer's mind, and for that matter his motive, were inspired by the Dellmead legends. The body was arranged in such a way as to resemble the effigy of Lady Alicia as nearly as possible. Now we come to the second victim, Mrs. Vivian. To a murderer inspired by the legend the selection of the inn-keeper's wife was inevitable.”

“I believe you're moon-struck!” Arnold exclaimed. “Are you trying to make out that these murders were committed by someone whose only object was to reproduce that confounded legend?”

“Not exactly,” Merrion replied. “But it's pretty obvious that the murderer was familiar with the legend. But we agreed to put motive aside. We have to ask ourselves who had the opportunity of murdering Mrs. Vivian.”

“As I told you, I had a chat with Vivian,” said Arnold. “If I'm any judge of such things, he told me the truth. His wife told him she was going to bed, but she must have gone out instead. He can't suggest why she should have taken the trouble to deceive him like that. He wouldn't have raised any objection to her going out if she wanted to.”

“No, but he might have followed her to see what she was up to,” said Merrion. “And she wasn't risking that, for what she proposed to be up to wouldn't bear watching. No, I'm not casting suspicions on Mrs. Vivian's chastity. But she went down to the meadow, and, according to the doctor's records, very queer things used to take place there at one time.”

“What on earth have you got into your head now?” Arnold demanded.

“Something as unsubstantial as that mist we saw on the meadow just now,” Merrion replied. “What took Mrs. Vivian to the meadow at that time of night? The obvious answer to that is that she went to meet someone. And it doesn't seem to me utterly impossible that the pretext of the meeting was the performance of some magic rite or other. It had probably happened before. But on this occasion the rite culminated in the strangling of Mrs. Vivian.”

“All that's pretty vague,” Arnold remarked. “What I understand you to mean is this. Somebody in Dellmead performs magic rites which involve the ritual murder of women. Who is he?”

By this time they had reached the outskirts of Flaxmouth, and Merrion, watching the traffic lights, did not answer immediately. “Who is he?” he said, as the amber changed to green. “Only one person seems to fit the bill, I think, Dr. Grinstead!”

A few minutes later they were sitting in a quiet corner of the lounge at the White Hart. Merrion glanced round at the shaded lights, and the decorous, matter-of-fact furnishing. “Bit of a contrast, eh? Barely a couple of hours ago I was very much alone in a haunted land of mystery, where almost anything might happen. In these surroundings, the sort of ideas I've been indulging in seem utterly fanciful. Yet the fact remains that two women have been murdered, for no apparent reason.”

“You may be on the right track,” Arnold replied. “But is it necessary to drag magic into it? It strikes me there may have been a perfectly natural motive, which we've already touched upon. Hilary Grinstead seems to have been a fairly frequent visitor to the vicarage these last few days.”

Merrion nodded. “Yes, I know, but there are difficulties. How did she or her uncle know who the strange woman was?”

'Not much difficulty there,” Arnold replied. “Here's a theory for you. The vicar fell in love with Hilary, and she with him. But he told her that he couldn't marry her because he had a wife alive, and his conscience would not allow him to divorce her. Then, some time last week, he told her that he had heard from his wife, saying that she was coming to Dellmead on Saturday afternoon. Hilary was on the lookout, and knew who the strange woman must be.”

“Yes, that's possible,” Merrion agreed. “And Mrs. Vivian?”

Arnold stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That's not quite so easy. The obvious answer is that she knew something about the killing of Lady Prayver. How she knew I can't explain, unless she was wandering about by the church that afternoon. Anyhow, she told the doctor that in his own interests he'd better meet her on the meadow at eleven o'clock last night. He did so, and she demanded money as the price of holding her tongue. The doctor knew how to ensure that far more economically.”

“Well, maybe,” said Merrion. “If you can fix either crime on the doctor, you won't have to worry about motive. Well, we shall see how things turn out tomorrow. It's high time we went to bed, now.”

When they reached Dellmead next morning, Hayes reported that nothing fresh had occurred during the night. He had already been round the village and had found everything normal. Now he was going to make the necessary arrangements for the inquest.

Arnold and Merrion left him to it, and walked to the doctor's house. Hilary admitted them and took them to the surgery, where her uncle was sitting reading the morning paper. He welcomed them with his usual warmth and asked them to sit down. “Always pleased to see you,” he said cheerfully. “My time is yours. What do you want to talk about?”

“Mrs. Vivian,” Arnold replied. “If you've got any ideas on that subject. Doctor, we should be glad to hear them.”

Grinstead shrugged his shoulders. “I expect every one who knew her shares my ideas. To put the matter brutally, her murder was long overdue.”

“Yes, I know.” said Arnold. “But if it should turn out that it wasn't her husband who murdered her after all?”

“I sincerely hope it will turn out that way,” Grinstead replied. “I've always liked Frank Vivian, and had the greatest admiration for his patience. I should be deeply grieved if he were to suffer the fate of his legendary predecessor. But if he didn't strangle his wife, I am utterly unable to suggest who might have done so.”

“We've been looking at it like this,” said Merrion. “You are quite certain that Mrs. Vivian cannot have been in the barrel when it was rolled down the hill. The inference is that she was strangled not at the Crossbeam, but on the meadow. That seems to exonerate her husband, and suggests a prearranged meeting between her and someone else. But there a difficulty arises. Didn't you tell us that very few people in Dellmead would venture on to the meadow at night?”

“I did,” Grinstead replied. “And Frank Vivian is one of them. There weren't many of the others.”

“You don't share the local superstitions, of course,” said Merrion lightly. “You wouldn't mind crossing the meadow at night? It would be a convenient short cut from here to the vicarage, for instance.”

Grinstead looked at him sharply, then laughed. “No, I shouldn't mind. In fact, I have crossed the meadow in the dark before now. But I have never experienced any supernatural manifestations. Very much to my disappointment, I may say, for they would have aroused my deepest interest. I have never even encountered a coven of witches.”

“Would you be greatly surprised if you did?” Merrion asked quietly.

“Well, I don't know,” Grinstead replied. “If I did, I should attribute it to the stimulating effect of alcohol upon the imagination. I should think that I was seeing something which actually happened long ago. There is no doubt that at one period a coven of witches used to meet on the Devil's Mead. But the practice has long been discontinued.”

“Are you sure of that?” Merrion asked. “Relics of witchcraft still crop up, as I know from personal experience.”

“They do,” Grinstead agreed heartily. “I should very much like to hear of your experiences some time, Mr. Merrion. But Dellmead, I fear, has become decadent. The ancient practices no longer flourish here, and have been forgotten.”

“Leaving behind them, however, an unexplained sense of fear,” Merrion remarked. “By the way. Doctor, I suppose it's quite certain that the effigy of Lady Alicia was destroyed when the chapel was blown up?”

Grinstead started, but recovered himself instantly. “The fate of the effigy is unknown. It has not been seen since its removal from the tomb in the church. But we are straying from the purpose of Mr. Arnold's visit. Failing her husband, I can make no suggestion as to the murderer of Mrs. Vivian. The only person in Dellmead with whom she was at all intimate was Sarah Fitton.”

“With whom she quarrelled on the morning before her death,” Arnold remarked meaningly.

Grinstead raised his eyebrows. “Quarrelled? I was not aware of that. Well, I will not invite your confidences, Mr. Arnold. But if your surmise proves to be correct, it would not altogether surprise me.”

They took their leave of Grinstead and walked from the house. “What's the doctor hiding up his sleeve?” Arnold asked.

Merrion laughed. “I know one thing he's hiding, and that makes me think there may be others. Never mind for the moment. Let's go and see Vivian. The Crossbeam ought to be open now.”

On their way through the village they saw in the distance Mr. Martin, who waved his stick at them excitedly. They did not stop, but took the turning to the Crossbeam. Arrived there, they found half a dozen regular customers in the bar. They apparently did not regard Vivian as a murderer whose company was to be avoided. Or perhaps it was that they considered his action to have been fully justified. Naturally, in his presence, they avoided the subject.

Vivian seemed fairly cheerful. “No, nothing fresh,” he said in reply to Arnold's question. “Mr. Martin came here to breakfast, and Mrs. Wimborne was on the spot to give it to him. He went up to his room and typed for a bit, and he hasn't gone out very long. He told me that he spent last evening having a most interesting talk with the vicar.”

“I hope the vicar found it equally interesting,” Arnold replied. “For my own part, I find Mr. Martin's conversation rather tiring.”

Merrion picked up the glass that had been set before him. “Have you seen Dr. Grinstead lately, Mr. Vivian?” he asked.

“I haven't seen him since Saturday afternoon,” Vivian replied. “It isn't often that he comes here.”

“He hasn't been here recently to attend Mrs. Vivian?” Merrion suggested.

Vivian shook his head. “The doctor doesn't come to see his patients unless they're too ill to get out of bed. He expects them to go to him. My wife did go to him on Saturday morning, but I don't think she went out again after that.”

They finished their drinks, then walked to the car and drove to Flaxmouth for lunch. In the afternoon they returned for the inquest. The scene was the same as it had been two days earlier. Vivian gave evidence of identification and told his story. Grinstead, this time untrammelled by the presence of a medical colleague, gave his evidence at considerable length and with great gusto. Mr. Martin was called, but was unable to add anything to what he had already said. He spoke volubly and with his usual excitement, contriving to expend a vast quantity of words upon the little he had to say. Percy Wimborne and Hayes described the finding of the body. The coroner, who had maintained an attitude of reserve throughout the proceedings, summed up. He was not satisfied that sufficient facts had come to light to enable the jury to arrive at a verdict. In view of the fact that investigations were being undertaken, he proposed to adjourn the inquiry for a week,

“Just as well, I think” Merrion remarked, as he and Arnold walked away from the parish room. “Now, what's that, I wonder?”

A smart and striking-looking car had stopped a little way down the village street, and the driver was speaking to a passer-by, obviously inquiring his way. Having obtained his information, the occupant of the car drove on. As he passed them, Merrion saw that he was a youngish man, dark and sunburnt. The car went on till it reached the vicarage gate, and there turned in.

“Someone to see the vicar,” said Merrion. “Well, it's no business of ours, I suppose.”

XVI

Neither the vicar nor his housekeeper had attended the inquest. The vicar was sitting in his study when the car pulled up at the front door. Supposing that his visitors must be Arnold and Merrion, he took no notice, waiting for them to be shown in. Before very long Sarah Fitton appeared. “Mr. Bayloss to see you, sir,” she announced unemotionally.

The vicar leapt to his feet, and dashed to the door with arms outstretched. “Ronnie!” he exclaimed, clasping the hands of the man who entered. “This is a miracle! Where have you come from? Sit down and tell me all about yourself. I haven't heard a word about you since that day you left Oxford, fifteen years and more ago.”

Bayloss laughed. “Under a cloud, I'm afraid. I was a silly young ass in those days, and nobody realises it better than I do. How you stuck to me as you did is more than I can understand. Since then, you'll be glad to hear, I've made good. You may remember that I had relations in the Argentine. I went out there and got properly down to work for the first time in my life. I struck lucky and did very well for myself. And this is the first time I've been home, all these years.”

“I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you!” the vicar replied. “Now you're here, you must stop with me for a few days. There are many things that I must talk to you about. How did you know where to find me?”

“I had no difficulty about that,” said Bayloss gravely. “You don't need me to tell you how sorry I am, Justin. I felt that I must come and offer you my deepest sympathy. You see, it was like this. I landed on Tuesday evening. On Wednesday morning, yesterday, I opened a newspaper and your name caught my eye at once. The account of the inquest told me enough to find you. I knew you had always meant to take orders, and I saw that you had become vicar here. I also saw that you had succeeded to your family title. Finally, that you had married, and that Lady Prayver had been killed. I thought perhaps —”

The door opened and Mr. Martin came in. He stopped abruptly on seeing the visitor. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he began, but the vicar interrupted him. “That's all right, Mr. Martin. Come in and let me introduce my dearest friend of long ago, Mr. Bayloss. Ronnie, this is Mr. Martin from Canada, who is staying with me for a few days.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bayloss,” said Martin, as they shook hands. “The vicar here has been kind enough to put a room at my disposal. I am here looking for traces of my boy, who was stationed here during the war. And I'm happy to say—”

While he was talking, the vicar excused himself. He went out and sought Sarah, to whom he explained the situation. “Mr. Bayloss is one of my oldest friends, and he must stay here for a few nights. Do you think you can manage, Sarah?”

Oh, yes, I can manage well enough, sir,” Sarah replied. “I'd go to any trouble to oblige a friend of yours. It'll be all right, especially as Mr. Martin is having his meals out. And Mr. Bayloss can have Master Michael's room.”

“Michael's room!” the vicar exclaimed. “Why, yes, of course he can. That will be most suitable. I will leave all the arrangements to you, Sarah.” He went back to the study, where he found Martin still talking excitedly. Once again he had found a fresh audience to listen to his story. Apparently oblivious of the fact that Bayloss and the vicar must have much to say to one another, he monopolised the conversation for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Kennet was sure that it must have been his boy Barry she had known. Her sister, who was expected from London on Saturday afternoon, would surely confirm it.

There followed a detailed biography of Barry, from the cradle onwards. It was not until nearly seven o'clock that Martin desisted. “It's time I was going along to the Crossbeam for my evening meal,” he announced as he rose from the chair. “After that I have a letter to type out in my room there. My wife likes daily reports upon what I learn about Barry. But I will get back as soon as I can, and I shall hope to have the pleasure of further conversation with you, Mr. Bayloss.”

“My word!” Bayloss exclaimed when Martin had left the room. “If that chap isn't a Member of Parliament in his own country, he ought to be. I never heard any one talk like that in my life. You must find him a bit of a trial, don't you, Justin?”

“I'm sorry for him,” the vicar replied. “And I therefore do my best to put up with his somewhat wearying repetitions. It's obvious that he's so wrapped up in the memories of his boy that his mind has no room for anything else.”

“Just like you!” Bayloss exclaimed. “You were always ready to shoulder everybody's troubles, my own included. But what about your own? I don't want to ask inquisitive questions, but can't I shoulder them in turn?”

“My troubles are nearing their end,” the vicar replied enigmatically. “Or are they merely beginning? That will be for you to decide when you have heard what I have to tell you. Are you married, Ronnie?”

Bayloss shook his head. “No, I have remained my own master. I'm not exactly of the marrying type. But forgive me, Justin.”

At that moment Sarah announced that dinner was ready. As they had their meal, their conversation, as though by mutual consent, was confined to the experiences Bayloss had met with in the Argentine. When they had finished they returned to the study.

“Let's hope Mr. Martin's letter will occupy him for some little time,” Bayloss remarked. “What have you to tell me, Justin?”

The vicar sighed deeply, for what he had to say might result in a dagger being driven into the depths of his heart. While he hesitated for words a rumble of distant thunder broke the silence of the study. “Ronnie, don't you know?” he asked at last gently. “You say you learnt from the newspapers that I was married. Surely you know who my wife was?”

“I wondered,” Bayloss replied. “The papers gave her Christian name as Coral, but did not mention her maiden name. I remember Coral Findon, who used to run that tea-shop at Runnelford we went to sometimes. But surely—?”

The vicar nodded slowly. “Yes, I married Coral Findon. She had a boy, whom we christened Michael. She left me when her son was little more than a baby. We never met again until last Saturday, when I saw her dead. But the boy has become to me the dearest thing on earth. I could not love him more if he were my own son. That is why I am able to sympathise so deeply with Mr. Martin. But the future must be yours to decide entirely, Ronnie.”

“Mine?” Bayloss replied. “You know very well that I'll do all in my power to help you, Justin. But I don't understand.”

“Don't, Ronnie!” the vicar exclaimed. “You and I can surely be perfectly frank with one another. You know that the boy is yours.”

Bayloss stared at him for a few seconds, wondering if it were possible that the tragedy of his wife's death had turned his brain. “Will you tell me why you say that the boy is mine?” he asked quietly.

“I will tell you exactly what happened after your departure,” the vicar replied. “You will forgive me reminding you that that departure was notorious, owing to the circumstances surrounding it. On the following day I received a message from Coral, begging me to go and see her, as she was in the most desperate trouble. I went to the shop in Runnelford, and she took me into a private room. She said that she knew me as a friend of yours, and implored me to tell her where you had gone to.

“I replied, quite truthfully, that I didn't know, but that I thought it highly unlikely that you would appear in Oxford again. At that she burst into tears, and declared that you had deserted her. Brokenly she told me the distressing story. You had promised to marry her, and on the strength of that promise she had gone away with you for a week-end. As the result, she was now the expectant mother of a child of which you were the father. What was she to do?”

“You solved her problem for her by marrying her?” Bayloss asked grimly.

“My time at Oxford ended with that term” the vicar replied. “Financially, I was my own master, I thought you had troubles enough already, without this being added to it. I had always admired Coral, and believed, perhaps mistakenly, that at heart she was thoroughly sound. I felt that it was not for me to judge her transgression. Yes, Ronnie, I married her, and the boy, your boy, was born. I have often tried, unsuccessfully, to trace your features in his.”

As he finished speaking the thunder rumbled again, nearer at hand. Bayloss looked at his friend in profound admiration and pity. “You offered yourself as a sacrifice to save me?” he said quietly. “Knowing you as I do, it is what I should have expected of you. Will you believe me if I swear to tell you the truth by all that you hold sacred?”

The vicar nodded. “I shall believe your word without the oath, Ronnie.”

“The boy is not my son.” said Bayloss solemnly. “I confess to a mild flirtation with Coral. A dozen other fellows of our time would confess the same. But no more than that, no intimacy of any kind whatsoever. I never asked her to marry me, and I never spent a week-end with her at any time. I am sorry to say, Justin, that Coral traded on your well-known kindness of heart. She wanted a husband very badly, and it was clever of her to ascribe her condition to your friend. She knew, as every one else did, that I had had to make myself scarce, and that it was most unlikely that you would have the opportunity of asking me the truth of her story. In short, she appealed to your chivalry, and got away with it.”

The vicar leant back in his chair. “I believe you, Ronnie,” he replied simply. “I should not have accepted Coral's story so readily. It implied a slur upon your integrity. I can only ask your forgiveness.”

“No need for that,” said Bayloss. “I don't wonder that you believed what Coral told you. There were so many slurs upon my integrity just about then that one more or less wasn't here or there.”

“I must readjust my thoughts,” the vicar replied slowly. “I loved Michael first, for I believed him to be the son of my closest friend. Since then he has become as dear to me as though I had been his father. On the whole, what you have told me relieves me of an anxiety which has often troubled me. I have always had at the back of my mind the fear that you would some day reappear to claim him and take him from me. Now that fear at least is set at rest.”

Bayloss smiled. “Even had I been his father, I should never have had the heart to take from you anybody you loved.”

The vicar shook his head. “You haven't seen him yet. When you do, you will understand how his father would have loved him. And now that Coral is dead, who that father was we shall never know.”

“Wouldn't you feel better about it if you never knew?” Bayloss asked.

“I should prefer to know the truth,” the vicar replied. “Is it fair to Michael for me to continue to act a lie to him in allowing him to believe that I am his father? Some day he must know the truth. And, now, what am I to tell him?”

“I expect he'd rather have you for a father than anyone else,” said Bayloss. “Justin! If I didn't know, but only guessed, would you like me to tell you? Think before you answer me.”

“Your question requires no thought” the vicar replied unhesitatingly. “Tell me what you believe.”

“I went to that teashop a lot more often than you did,” said Bayloss. “I remember that it wasn't very often that I could persuade you to go with me. In consequence, I saw a good deal more of Coral than you ever did. I've confessed to flirting mildly with her, as many others did. But she never gave us too much encouragement. I got the impression that at that time she was infatuated with someone more of her own walk of life. That handsome young chap from the draper's shop over the way.”

The vicar shook his head. “My memories of Runnelford are very dim. I only went there with you, until that time when Coral sent for me. I don't remember a draper's shop, and certainly not a young man working there.”

“I remember him well enough,” said Bayloss. “He was always dropping into the teashop, and when he did. Coral had no eyes for anyone else. But his name escapes me for the moment. Wait a minute. Let me try to visualise the draper's shop, and the name written over the door. I've got it! Vivian! And the young chap's name was Frank.”

The vicar stared at him, speechless with amazement. “Frank Vivian!” he exclaimed at last. “Do you really mean that, Ronnie?”

“I mean that he and Coral seemed on pretty good terms at the time we're speaking of,” Bayloss replied. “More than that I can't say.”

Restlessly the vicar jumped up and began to pace the room backwards and forwards. The storm was approaching rapidly, and a flash of lightning shone through the drawn curtains, followed by a peal and the pattering of heavy drops of rain. The vicar, rapt in his thoughts, paid no heed. “This is dreadful!” he muttered, rather to himself than to his companion. Then, with a distracted air, he sat down again. “You're right, Ronnie,” he said heavily. “Listen, and I'll tell you.”

He paused, while the rain beat upon the window-frames and swished on the gravel drive beyond. “It was soon after Michael and I first came here,” he went on. “A man, walking along the road, stopped and spoke to Michael, who was playing just inside the gateway. At that time Michael was rather shy with strangers as a rule, but he took to this man at once. I went out, to find them talking together. The man told me that his name was Vivian, and that he kept an inn at Flaxmouth.

“That was the beginning of my acquaintance with Vivian. After that, I saw him frequently. He told me that he liked to get away from the town as often as he could, and take a walk in the fresh air of the downs. Whenever he came to Dellmead, he called here and asked if he might see Michael. I thought it was merely because he was fond of children. He told me that though he was married he had none of his own. But I understand now what has always seemed curious to me. There has always been more in his affection for Michael than mere interest in a stranger's child.”

“He knew from the first that he was Michael's father?” Bayloss suggested.

“I think he must have,” the vicar replied. “And I believe that by some strange instinct Michael was drawn to him in turn. They took to one another naturally, so much so that at times I have felt almost jealous of the way in which Vivian was able to monopolise Michael's attention. Then, after a while, the landlord of the inn in this village retired. Frank Vivian applied for the tenancy and obtained it.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Frank Vivian is living in Dellmead now?” Bayloss exclaimed. “It's most extraordinary!”

“Not so extraordinary as it appears,” the vicar replied. “He seemed strangely anxious to secure the tenancy of the Crossbeam. I say strangely, for I have been told that this is not nearly so profitable a business as the inn he kept in Flaxmouth. He gave as his reason for making the change his desire to get out into the country. But I have little doubt now .that his true reason was to be as near as possible to Michael. During the boy's holidays, they seem always to be together.”

A peal of thunder almost drowned the vicar's last words. He paused, then added abruptly, “Yesterday morning, Frank Vivian's wife was found murdered. A second tragedy, following the death of Coral.”

“Would you care to tell me about it?” Bayloss asked quietly.

“I will tell you everything,” the vicar replied. Briefly, but without omitting any essential fact, he described the events of the last few days. “You see now, Ronnie,” he concluded gloomily. “I believe that I was the only person here who knew Coral. But I was wrong. Frank Vivian also knew her. And I fear there can be little doubt that he murdered her.”

“I'm bound to say it looks rather like it,” Bayloss agreed. “But why exactly?”

“I can only suppose because he feared that Coral had, come to take Michael away,” the vicar replied. “I don't understand it. It is a complete mystery to me how they met that afternoon.”

“Perhaps Coral told him she was coming,” Bayloss ' suggested. “How much of all this are you going to tell the police, Justin?”

“Nothing!” the vicar exclaimed. “Nothing, until I have seen Vivian and threshed the whole matter out with him. Ronnie, I can't rest until I know the whole truth. I must go and talk with Vivian now. You'll come with me?”

“Of course I will,” Bayloss replied. “But ifs no sort of evening to walk. I'll run you along in my car.”

As they left the study, Sarah Fitton crossed the hall to the front door. She opened it, to admit Mr. Martin, who was wearing a raincoat from which the water was running off in streams. “I'm afraid you've got wet, Mr. Martin,” said the vicar. “You'll excuse us, I know. Mr. Bayloss and I are just going out in the car. Sarah will get you anything you want.”

“Certainly, certainly!” Mr. Martin replied heartily. “You won't mind if I've gone to bed before you come back, will you? I have, as you say, got very wet, and I don't want to risk catching a chill.”

They went out, and the vicar stood in the porch while Bayloss fetched the car. The storm seemed almost directly overhead, with the rain pelting down and flashes of lightning followed almost immediately by shattering peals of thunder. As the vicar waited, a flash lighted up the sky behind the church, revealing it for an instant set in a sea of fire. The peal which followed seemed to rock the vicarage to its foundations.

It was nearing ten o'clock when they set out. The road at the foot of the mound was running with water. In the glare of the headlights they could see the spray thrown up by the front wheels. Every few seconds a flash lighted up not only the road but the whole surrounding countryside. They had instantaneous glimpses of the frowning back wall of the Crossbeam, and also of the downs beyond the meadow. But of human activity there was no sign.

Under the vicar's direction, they turned the corner and drove up the sloping road to the Crossbeam, where they pulled up. The lamp over the front door was switched on, and light was showing through the chinks in the curtains of the bar windows. “I'll go first and show you the way,” said the vicar as they got out of the car.

A vivid flash illuminated the scene as he opened the front door. Entering the bar, they found it empty, though the lights were switched on. There came another flash, more vivid than any yet, and in an instant they were enveloped in utter darkness. The simultaneous crash of thunder rattled the glasses on the shelf behind the bar.

“That was pretty close!” Bayloss exclaimed. “What's happened to the lights?”

“The transformer which serves the village has been struck, I expect.” the vicar replied. “That happened once before, and we were deprived of current for many hours. This is really most awkward.”

“I've got a torch in the car.” said Bayloss. He groped his way out and returned with a powerful torch, sweeping the room. It was empty, and the absence of litter on the floor showed that few if any customers had been there that evening. On the counter was what appeared to be a piece of paper with the contents of the till spread on it, and an empty glass. The vicar picked up the glass and rapped with the base of it on the counter. “Are you there, Mr. Vivian?” he called.

But there was no reply. The storm continued unabated, with the rain pouring down in torrents and the thunder pealing almost without cessation. The vicar called again loudly, the tension of his nerves audible in his voice. But the darkness surrounding the beam of the torch was the only response. “I must find him!” the vicar exclaimed. “Perhaps he is in the kitchen. I can find my way there, if you will lend me the torch, Ronnie.”

Bayloss handed him the torch and followed him as he strode out, along the passage to the kitchen. There everything was tidy and in order, but Vivian was not present. “He can't be far away,” said the vicar. “He wouldn't have left the lights on in the bar if he'd gone out. And surely he'd hear us if he was in the cellar.”

“It's pretty noisy” Bayloss remarked, as a peal of thunder drowned the vicar's voice. “Better go and look.”

They left the kitchen and, proceeding down the passage, found the cellar door ajar. As the vicar pushed it open, a blinding flash enveloped the house, penetrating the narrow windows of the ancient wall. For an instant the gloomy vault was brightly illuminated, but the vicar's cry of horror was lost in the deafening crash. It rumbled away, leaving an uncanny silence, in which the cellar was enshrouded in total darkness.

“What's the matter?” Bayloss called out. “Are you all right, Justin? What's happened to the torch?”

“I-I've dropped it,” the vicar replied in a shaking voice. “Don't move, I'm feeling for it.”

Bayloss took a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light. By the flickering gleam the vicar could be seen bending down, groping on the floor with outstretched hands. “There you are,” said Bayloss. “Right in front of you.”

The vicar picked up the torch and fumbled with it. “It won't work, Ronnie!” he exclaimed desperately. “I must have broken it.”

“Bulb's gone, I expect,” Bayloss replied. “Doesn't matter much. Vivian can't be in here.”

Even as he spoke, another flash filled the cellar for an instant with brilliant light. During that moment was revealed a human form, suspended in mid-air. Then once more utter darkness.

XVII

Bayloss, sensing that his friend was badly shaken, took charge of the situation. “Stay where you are, Justin,” he said quietly. “I won't be more than a minute or two.” He struck another match, and by its aid returned to the kitchen.

There he rummaged about until he found a candle and a carving knife. He lighted the candle. Like some sinister penitent, he went back to the cellar, the lighted candle in one hand and the knife in the other. Just inside the doorway was a case of empty bottles. He picked up one of these, stuck the candle in the neck, and held it aloft.

The flame flickered and smoked in the draught, giving an eerie appearance of life and movement to the hanging man. Frank Vivian was suspended by the neck from one of the beams which ran across the vaulted ceiling. Beneath his feet a step-ladder lay collapsed on the floor. The vicar pointed with shaking finger. “Look, Ronnie!” he whispered. “The legend!”

The point of this remark was lost upon Bayloss. “Not much legend about the poor chap,” he replied. “We've got to get him down. It's dimly possible there's some life left in him. Stand by to lower him, Justin.”

He set up the step-ladder and climbed it until he was able to reach the rope above Vivian's head. He had set the candle down on one of the barrels, thus leaving his hands free. The carving knife turned out to be fairly sharp, and with it he sawed at the rope. Repeated flashes of lightning illuminated the macabre scene; the hanging man, twisting slowly as the rope frayed away, Bayloss poised on the step-ladder, the vicar standing below with upstretched arms as though in supplication. At last only one strand of the rope remained. “Hold him now,” said Bayloss. He sawed more vigorously than ever, and the strand parted. As it did so, he swiftly thrust an arm round Vivian's shoulders. The vicar grasped his legs, and between them they lowered him to the floor.

Bayloss took the candle from the barrel and laid it beside the prostrate man. “I've picked up something about first aid.” he said, as he knelt down and loosened the noose round Vivian's neck. He felt the pulse and sought for any sign of respiration, then shook his head. “No good, I'm afraid, but we ought to get a doctor to him. Will you ring up the nearest, Justin?”

“There's no telephone here,” the vicar replied helplessly. “There's one in the box outside the post office. Wait!” With an effort he pulled himself together. “This will be best, I think,” he went on. “We had better call Hayes, the local policeman. But you don't know where he lives, of course.”

“As it happens, I believe I do,” said Bayloss. “As I drove here this afternoon, I saw a notice-board belonging to the local constabulary, just before I got to the village. That will be the house, I expect?”

“Yes, that's where Hayes lives,” the vicar replied. “If you wouldn't mind going there? You can tell Hayes what has happened, and he can ring up Dr. Grinstead. You can pick him up and bring them both back here.”

“Right!” Bayloss exclaimed shortly. “I'll get along straight away. You'll be all right, Justin?”

“I shall be all right,” the vicar replied. Bayloss made his way out. The vicar heard the car start up and drive off. Then he in turn fell on his knees beside the body and covered his face with his hands. But the familiar power of prayer had deserted him, driven from his mind by the horror of the situation. Michael's father, dead at the very moment his identity had been revealed. And the mystery of Coral's death, which must now for ever remain unsolved.

He rose to his feet at last, and stood there waiting. The storm seemed to be passing. The flashes were less frequent, and the peals followed them at ever-lengthening intervals. Somewhere outside the rain had overflowed the spouting, and a stream of water was falling with a steady plashing sound. The candle flickered and almost went out as a breath of fresh cool air swept through the cellar. The vicar shielded it as best he could, and listened.

Before very long he heard the car approaching, and went to the front door to meet it. A few watery stars were beginning to appear in the rear of the retreating cloudbank. The car swung round, dazzling him with its powerful headlights, till Bayloss switched them off as he pulled up. Grinstead was the first to get out of the car. “It's that confounded transformer again,” he was grumbling. “Plunged us all in the dark of a sudden. I rang up the electricity people at once, and they said they'd see about it the first thing in the morning. Well, Prayver, this is a bad business. Queer that it should be Vivian this time, eh?”

He was joined by the other two, and the four of them entered the house. Both Hayes and the doctor had brought torches with them, and in addition Hayes had provided himself with a hurricane lamp. They entered the cellar to find it in darkness, for the candle had blown out. Hayes lighted his lamp, and Grinstead bent down over the body, while Bayloss pointed out to Hayes the position in which the body and the step-ladder beneath it had been found.

After a while, Grinstead straightened himself. “He's stone-dead, of course,” he said. “Strangulation by the rope, I think. The drop doesn't seem to have been deep enough to break anything. Been dead an hour or so, I should say.”

Hayes looked at his watch. “It's a quarter to eleven now,” he remarked. “What time was it when you got here, sir?”

“I couldn't say, exactly,” replied the vicar, to whom the question was addressed. “But the lights went out just after we got here.”

“There's an electric clock in the bar,” said Hayes “We'll see in a moment what time it stopped.” He bent over the body and examined it. Vivian had been fully clothed, in a dark suit which Hayes recognised. He ran his hands through the pockets, and produced from one of them an object wrapped in paper. As he regarded this, he uttered an involuntary grunt of amazement. His action had revealed the missing amber necklace.

It was left to Grinstead, who was watching him, to speak. “Well, I'm blest! You've seen that before, haven't you, Prayver? It's the necklace Lady Prayver was wearing when we found her in the church.”

The vicar, freshly bewildered by this strange incident, merely nodded. Hayes put the necklace in his pocket and looked round the cellar, occupied with his own thoughts. He couldn't very well order out the vicar and Dr. Grinstead, though he would dearly have liked to do so. His concern was due to the fact that before he had left his house, on being summoned by Bayloss, he had put a message through to Arnold at the White Hart, asking him to come to the Crossbeam. Arnold had promised to do so immediately, and probably wouldn't be best pleased at finding a crowd in the place.

It did not take long for Hayes to make up his mind. “We'll just go into the bar to see what time that clock stopped,” he said briskly. “And then there won't be any need for me to detain you gentlemen any longer.”

They followed him in procession to the bar, where he directed the ray of his torch on to the clock. The hands had stopped at three minutes past ten. Grinstead meanwhile was sweeping the counter with his torch. He paused as the light revealed the pile of money. “Hallo, what's this doing here?” he asked.

“I couldn't say, sir,” Hayes replied. “But I'd better check it over.” They watched him as he counted the coins over, one by one. They were all silver, of varying denominations. Six half-crowns, nine florins, four shillings, and eleven sixpenny pieces. Hayes added them up aloud. “Forty-two shillings and sixpence. That's right, isn't it, sir?”

“That's what I make it,” Grinstead replied. “Eh, Prayver?”

But the vicar's mind was elsewhere. He had watched, not the value of the coins, but their number, as Hayes counted them out. “Thirty pieces of silver!” he exclaimed. “The price of innocent blood. And Judas went and hanged himself!”

“Yes, sir,” Hayes replied uncomfortably. “And now you gentlemen will like to be getting home. There's no more to be done till the morning.”

Bayloss took this very broad hint. “I'll drive you home, Doctor,” he said. “Come along, justin. We can't do any more here.” They said good night to Hayes and filed out. Hayes, watching their departure, could trace their progress by the glare of the headlights. After a minute or two he re-entered the house. Arnold must find everything in its original position. He put the coins back on the piece of paper, noticing as he did so that it was in fact an envelope. Then he went to the cellar, where he hung the hurricane lamp on a convenient nail. He relighted the candle which Bayloss had stuck in the neck of the bottle, and carried this to the bar, standing it on the counter. Then, by its light, he proceeded to scribble his notes.

The storm had swept away inland, with distant rumblings and faint flashes on the horizon. The silence was otherwise disturbed only by the trickle of water as it drained away from the pools formed by the rain. The sky was clear, with bright stars, and the setting moon shedding a subdued and unreal radiance. And the Crossbeam was uncannily still, with not even the rustling of a mouse in the dark kitchen.

Hayes, busy with his notes, suddenly pricked up his ears. Perhaps it was only Mr. Bayloss' car, driving along the lower road on its way back to the vicarage. No, the car was coming up the hill. Already he could see the beam of its headlights through the chinks in the curtains. He went to the door as the car drew up and came to a halt. Arnold descended from it. “Hallo, Hayes!” he exclaimed. “What's up now? You haven't dragged us out at this time of the night for nothing, I suppose.”

“No, sir,” Hayes replied as he saluted. “You'll like to see for yourself, I expect.”

Arnold entered the house, followed closely by Merrion. “It's confoundedly dark in here.” he grumbled. “Why don't you switch the lights on?”

“I can't, sir,” Hayes replied. “That storm we had just now has put them out of action all over the village. I've done the best I could manage. Will you come this way, sir, into the cellar?”

He went in front with his torch, the other two following him, and so they reached the cellar. The hurricane lamp, hanging on its nail, cast uncertain shadows, leaving the further recesses in darkness. Hayes halted just inside the doorway. He said nothing, but directed the beam of his torch on the body lying face upwards on the floor.

“Vivian!” Arnold exclaimed. “He's dead, of course. How did this happen?”

Hayes made no audible reply, but shifted the rays of his torch to the end of the rope still hanging from the beam. Arnold stepped forward and perceived the other end of the rope, still loose round Vivian's neck. “Hanged himself, eh!” he muttered thoughtfully. “Who found him?”

“The vicar and a friend of his, a Mr. Bayloss, sir,” Hayes replied. “They came in here at ten o'clock.”

“The vicar and a friend of his!” Arnold exclaimed. “What did they come here for? Not just to get a drink, I suppose. Especially as ten o'clock is closing time.”

“I don't know what they came for, sir,” Hayes replied. “I didn't care to ask too many questions till you came. But this is what Mr. Bayloss told me, sir.” He repeated what he had heard from Bayloss, and his own experiences after he arrived at the Crossbeam. “And there's something else, sir” he went on significantly. “I went through Vivian's pockets and in one of them I found that necklace that was stolen from the Priory.”

“The devil you did!” Arnold exclaimed. “Well, things seem to be clearing themselves up at last. It's easy enough to see how Vivian made away with himself. He climbed up the step-ladder, tied the rope round the beam and his own neck, then kicked the ladder away. That was it, wasn't it?”

“That was what Mr. Bayloss thought when he told me what he and the vicar had found, sir” Hayes replied. “It was Mr. Bayloss that cut him down.” he said. “And the doctor thought the same, sir. Death by strangulation, he said it was. Just what you'd expect from a short drop like that.”

To Merrion, observing the strange scene, the legend seemed to have completed its full cycle. Almost inevitably, the inn-keeper had been hanged, not this time by the arm of justice, but by his own act. He listened as Hayes continued his account. “Everything is just as I found it, sir,” he was saying. “Perhaps you'd like to see what's in the bar?” As Arnold nodded, Hayes unhooked the hurricane lamp and held it aloft with the air of a torch-bearer. Arnold and Merrion followed him to the bar, where he deposited the lamp on the counter, and pointed to the money and the envelope. “I've counted the money, sir,” he said. “Forty-two and six. When the vicar saw me do it, he said there were thirty coins, and seemed to think they had something to do with Vivian hanging himself. I can't say why, I'm sure.”

Merrion smiled. “I think I can. They are all silver coins, I see. Is there anything in the envelope?”

“I couldn't say, sir,” Hayes replied virtuously. “I haven't touched it. I left it for Mr. Arnold to see.”

Arnold picked up the envelope and examined it. It was square, of ordinary correspondence size, and of quality considerably above the average. It was not fastened down, and Arnold opened the flap. Within, he found folded a sheet of equally good quality notepaper. He drew this out and unfolded it.

On it were a few lines, typewritten, and showing the touch of an unpractised hand. There were many errors, and the spacing of both words and lines was irregular. No capital letters or stops had been employed, the sentences being divided merely by gaps. The wording was as follows: “to all whose business this will be when i am found hanging dead i killed coral because i don't want the vicar or rose to know and i killed rose because she found out and said shed tell if i didn't do what she wanted this is the truth and i can't hide it any longer and id rather take my own life than have somebody do it for me goodbye all" This was followed by a bold and scrawling signature in pen and ink, “Frank Vivian.”

Arnold studied this for a minute or two, then handed it to Merrion. “Well?” he asked.

“He was hardly an expert typist,” Merrion replied. “But he's made his meaning clear, except for a few obscurities. To begin with, what didn't he want his wife or the vicar to know?”

“I can tell you that,” Arnold replied. “He didn't want either of them to know that he had been on friendly terms with Lady Prayver before her marriage. He told me that himself.”

Merrion raised his eyebrows slightly. “I see. Next, what had his wife been trying to blackmail him into doing?”

Arnold shook his head. “I've no idea. Mrs. Vivian had views of her own, I dare say.”

“I expect she had,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “But what did he mean when he said he couldn't hide the truth any longer? Was it merely that his conscience was on the verge of explosion? Or did he know that some definite evidence of his guilt was about to come to light? You can't answer that question either, I know. And finally, why, since he was obviously unfamiliar with the working of a typewriter, did he use one on this occasion?”

“Probably because he considered typescript more impressive than handwriting,” Arnold replied. “And he had a machine ready to his hand. We know that Mr. Martin had a typewriter in his room.”

“It will be easy enough to identify the machine on which this was typed,” said Merrion. “If you notice, it has a characteristic of its own. The 't' is bent, and slopes backwards slightly. It wouldn't be a bad idea to go up to Mr. Martin's room and see whether his machine is still there.”

Arnold agreed and, preceded by Hayes carrying the hurricane lamp, they went upstairs. Mr. Martin's room was in perfect order. His typewriter, with the cover secured over it, stood on the table, and beside it was a folder containing sheets of notepaper and envelopes. These corresponded exactly with the paper and envelope found on the counter. Merrion removed the cover from the machine, inserted one of the sheets, and with expert fingers typed upon it the words, “this is the truth.” He removed the sheet and handed it to Arnold. “That settles one point, anyhow. If you look at that, you'll see that the t's slope backward exactly as they do on Vivian's message.”

Arnold nodded as he looked at the words typed on the paper. “Yes, I see that. Vivian could have got in here any time while Mr. Martin was out. Well, Hayes, it's up to you. You'll find out who last saw Vivian alive, won't you?”

“There shouldn't be any difficulty about that, sir,” Hayes replied. “I don't suppose there were many customers here this evening, leastways after dark. But Mrs. Wimborne had arranged to do the cooking, and Mr. Martin must have come up for his supper. It'll be one of them who saw him last, I expect.”

“Well, there's nothing to be done till daylight,” said Arnold. 'I'm tired of stumbling round the house in the dark. The best thing we can do is to lock everything up, and you can take the key of the side door home with you. I'll be over again pretty early in the morning, and we can finish up the affair for good and all.”

Having locked up the house, they drove away, dropping Hayes at his door. “Well, that's all settled,” said Arnold comfortably, as they went on towards Flaxmouth. “Not quite in the way I expected, I'm bound to admit.”

“Oh, it's settled all right as far as you're concerned” Merrion replied irritably. “Vivian's suicide and confession are all that the law will demand, I don't doubt. And having received them, justice will be satisfied. But that will still leave a dozen questions unanswered. To take one at random. Why did Vivian steal the necklace from the refectory, then put it in his pocket before he hanged himself, so that it must be found on him?”

Arnold laughed. “Your curiosity will have to remain unsatisfied. I'm merely a policeman, sent here to find out who murdered Lady Prayver. Now that I have found out, my job is finished.”

“Is it?” Merrion replied viciously. “I wonder. No, don't talk to me now. Ask yourself once more the question you put just now. What took the vicar and this mysterious friend of his to the Crossbeam this evening? Put that in your pipe and smoke it during the night watches.”

XVIII

Next morning they made an early start, and reached Dellmead by half-past eight. They called to pick up Hayes, then drove straight on to the Crossbeam. As they drew up outside the front door, Mrs. Wimborne appeared from round the side of the house. Seeing Hayes, she hurried towards him. “I can't make it out, Mr. Hayes!” she exclaimed in a worried tone. “I promised Mr. Vivian I'd come up to get the breakfast ready. But all the doors are locked, and I can't make anyone hear.”

Hayes glanced at Arnold, who was getting out of the car. “Mr. Vivian won't want his breakfast this morning,” said Arnold. “He met with a very serious accident last night. But I'd like you to come in and have a word with me, if you will.”

Hayes unlocked the side door, and they went into the kitchen. “You came here yesterday evening, didn't you, Mrs. Wimborne?” Arnold asked.

“That's right,” Mrs. Wimborne replied. “It was about six when I got here, and my husband came with me. Mr. Vivian was in the bar, and I left my husband there with him while I came in here and started getting the supper. Mr. Vivian had his while my husband looked after the bar. Then Mr. Martin came in, and I gave him his in the back room. I didn't wait to clear up, for I meant to do that this morning. And it was about half-past seven when my husband and I came away.”

“Did Mr. Vivian seem his usual self?” Arnold asked.

“Why, yes, I think so,” Mrs. Wimborne replied. “He was a bit quiet, but that's what you'd expect after what happened to poor Mrs. Vivian. Percy had started on her grave before he came up with me. Anyhow, Mr. Vivian ate his supper.”

“Who was here in the house when you left?” Arnold asked.

“I couldn't say for certain,” Mrs. Wimborne replied. “There were two or three chaps in the bar, and Mr. Vivian was talking to them. I don't know who they were, for I didn't go in, but Percy could tell you. And Mr. Martin was in the back room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wimborne,” said Arnold. “I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Vivian is dead. We needn't keep you here any longer now. I expect you've plenty to do. Good morning.”

“Percy will have yet another grave to dig,” Merrion remarked as Hayes led Mrs. Wimborne to the side door and locked it behind her. “Didn't it strike you that she didn't seem very much astonished when you told her that Vivian was dead? The village is so saturated with the legend that they'll all think it the most natural thing in the world.”

“Never mind what the village thinks,” Arnold replied. “Let's go and have a look at that cellar by daylight.”

They went down the passage, to find Arnold's hopes of viewing the cellar rather too optimistic. It was in almost complete darkness, for very little of the autumn light penetrated the deep and narrow windows. “See if you can get the door at the back open,” Arnold said to Hayes, who had rejoined them.

Hayes began to make his way across the floor. But at that instant the cellar was flooded with light, so brilliant in its suddenness that they were momentarily dazzled. “Why, what's up?” Arnold exclaimed.

“It's the lights come on of themselves, sir,” Hayes replied. “The electricity people must have got the transformer going again. I saw their van go by a little while before you called for me.”

“It mightn't be a bad idea to see which lights were on when the current failed.” Merrion remarked. He left the cellar, to find the light in the passage burning. In the bar, all the lights were on, as was the outside one over the front door. The lights in the kitchen and smoking-room were off. In the back room the light was also off, but the table was laid, with the remains of Mr. Martin's supper upon it. Upstairs, there were no lights in any of the rooms or on the landing.

Merrion returned to the cellar, where Arnold and Hayes were examining everything carefully by the light which now streamed in through the wide-open door. “Hallo, there you are,” said Arnold, looking up as Merrion came in. “We've found nothing fresh, but it's all plain enough. We can't leave the body lying where it is, though. You'd better get it to that shed by the parish room, Hayes. Wimborne will lend you a hand, I dare say. But what are we to do about the house?”

“That'll be all right, sir,” Hayes replied. “I reported by telephone to the sergeant on duty at Flaxmouth last night. He said he'd let the brewers know their tenant was dead. They'll send someone out to take charge, sure enough, sir.”

Arnold and Merrion left the Crossbeam. “We'd better go to the vicarage and hear what Mr. Martin can tell us,” said Arnold as they got into the car. “It will probably turn out that he was the last person to see Vivian alive.”

As they approached the vicarage, the vicar and Bayloss came out of the gateway and set off across the meadow towards the church. “That's the fellow we saw in the car yesterday afternoon.” Merrion remarked. “I wonder what brought him here just now? He seems to have played a leading part in last night's drama. You'll want a few words with him later on, I expect. As he and the vicar have gone out, the coast is clear for us to interview Mr. Martin.”

Sarah Fitton admitted them at the front door, and eyed them sardonically. Her expression indicated her feelings clearly enough. They might have saved themselves the trouble of their foolish questions. “If it's the vicar you want to see, he's just gone out,” she said. “He and his friend Mr. Bayloss, who came here yesterday afternoon.”

“It's Mr. Martin we've come to see,” Arnold replied. “Is he at home?”

“He's in bed,” Sarah replied. “I saw he wasn't any too well when I took him his cup of tea first thing, so I told him to stay where he was for a bit, and I'd get him a hot bottle. He's caught a chill, that's what it is.”

“Will you ask him if he feels well enough to see us?” said Arnold.

Sarah went upstairs, leaving them standing in the hall. In a minute or so she reappeared, leaning over the landing at the head of the stairs. “Mr. Martin says he'll see you,” she called down. “Come along up.” They mounted the staircase, and Sarah led them into a room where Mr. Martin was lying in bed. “Here's your visitors, Mr. Martin,” she said as she went out and shut the door.

Mr. Martin certainly looked a sick man. His eyes lacked lustre, his cheeks were flushed, and his manner was listless. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in a husky voice from which the usual excitement had departed. “Please sit down.”

“I'm sorry to find you out of sorts like this, Mr. Martin,” said Arnold, as he and Merrion each drew a chair up beside the bed-"You have heard, I expect, that Mr. Vivian is dead?”

“Yes, I have,” Martin replied fretfully. “The vicar came in and told me, just now. It's really most vexing, and I don't know what I shall do now. I can't impose upon the vicar's hospitality for meals, especially now that Mr. Bayloss has come. I seem to be dogged by misfortune, just as I am nearing my goal.”

It seemed that Mr. Martin regarded Vivian's death as a personal grievance. “You were at the Crossbeam yesterday evening, I understand,” said Arnold. “You saw and spoke to Mr. Vivian, I suppose?”

Martin frowned. “Yes, I was there. It was while I was coming back in the drenching rain that I got soaked to the skin and caught this confounded chill. I knew I should; I told the vicar so when I came in.”

“It's most unfortunate,” said Arnold, a trifle impatiently. “Will you tell us when you last saw Mr. Vivian?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Martin replied. “I'll tell you exactly what I did. I was so interested talking to Mr. Bayloss that I didn't leave here till seven o'clock. It wasn't raining when I walked to the Crossbeam, but I felt it was going to, and fortunately I took the precaution of wearing a raincoat. When I got there, Mrs. Wimborne told me my supper was nearly ready, and when I'd been upstairs to my room I sat down and ate it.

“When I had finished, I strolled into the bar as I always do at that time. There were a couple of men there whom I'd often seen before, but they went out shortly afterwards. I stayed talking to Mr. Vivian for a while, then went up to my room, as I had a letter to type. It was, I think, about half-past nine when I left the Crossbeam and walked back here through the pouring rain.”

“It must have been about eight o'clock when you were talking to Vivian,” Arnold remarked. “Did he seem in his normal spirits?”

“Well, no, hardly that,” Martin replied. “One could hardly expect him to be particularly cheerful under the circumstances. He seemed to me very depressed. Gloomy, I think is the word to describe his state of mind. His wife's death, or rather the manner in which it took place, was sufficient to account for that. But he did not speak of it to me. He complained that his regular customers were avoiding the house because they were afraid to go out in the dark. And he said that if this went on through the winter he would lose all his trade and be ruined.”

“Did you and Vivian talk about anything else?” Arnold asked.

“Let me see, now,” Martin replied. “I talked to him about my boy, but he didn't seem greatly interested. Indeed his attitude was almost unsympathetic. Oh, yes, and I told him that an old friend of the vicar's had come to see him, Mr. Bayloss. He seemed quite interested in that, and asked me if I knew when and where the vicar had known Mr. Bayloss. Of course I didn't, and told him so. And then, just as I was leaving the bar, he made rather a curious remark. He said that if the legend was anything to go by, he wouldn't be surprised if it was his turn next.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion, who nodded comprehendingly. “You left the bar and went up to your room, Mr. Martin,” he said. “Did you find everything there in order?”

Martin raised his eyebrows slightly. “It's curious that you should ask that. Everything was apparently in perfect order. But when I went to my typewriter, I found that the cover was on crooked, and not fastened. I had not used it since the previous day, and when I had finished I am quite sure that I put on the cover and fastened it correctly. I am very particular about little things like that. And as soon as I started to use the machine I could tell it had been tampered with. One at least of the letters, the 't', was bent.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Now, when you had finished your letter, you came downstairs and left the Crossbeam. Did you see Vivian on your way out?”

“I didn't actually see him,” Martin replied. “But I spoke to him. When I came downstairs, I looked into the bar to say good night. All the lights were on, but the room was empty, and Mr. Vivian wasn't there. Then I saw that the cellar lights were on, and knew that was where he must be. I called out to him, 'Good night, Mr. Vivian, I'm going along to the vicarage now or something to that effect. And he answered me, 'Good night, Mr. Martin, and good luck if we shouldn't meet again'. Then I went out and found it was raining in torrents.”

“Didn't Vivian's remark strike you as rather strange?” Arnold asked.

“Not at the time,” Martin replied. “I thought it was merely a jocular reference to what he had said a short time previously about the legend.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion, and they both stood up. “I hope you'll soon get over your chill, Mr. Martin,” said Merrion. “They're nasty things when they get hold of you. Don't you think you'd better send for Dr. Grinstead and get his advice?”

A sudden flash of repugnance came into Martin's lacklustre eyes. “I shouldn't think of it, Mr. Merrion,” he replied hastily. “Please do not suggest such a thing to anybody. I have very little faith in doctors. Besides, this is merely a temporary indisposition. I shall get up shortly, and by this afternoon I shall be quite myself again.”

“Well, you know best,” said Merrion cheerfully. He and Arnold left the room and went downstairs. As they crossed the hall, the front door opened and the vicar and Bayloss came in.

“Good morning,” said the vicar. “We saw your car outside and guessed you were here. Allow me to introduce my very dear old friend, Ronnie Bayloss.”

They shook hands, and Arnold spoke. “Could we have a few words with you both, Lord Prayver?”

“By all means,” the vicar replied heartily. He took them into the study, where they sat down. “I want you to tell us about last night" said Arnold. “I understand from Hayes that you went to the Crossbeam together and found Vivian hanging in the cellar?”

The vicar turned to Bayloss. “Tell them, Ronnie. Your description will be more objective than mine, I expect.”

Bayloss gave a clear and succinct account of their experiences. “I don't know whether we ought to have left him hanging till the police had seen him.” he went on. “If we did wrong, I take all the blame. But it seemed to me best to cut him down, on the off chance that there was still a spark of life left.”

“You did quite right under the circumstances,” Arnold replied. “Then you went to fetch Hayes and Dr. Grinstead, leaving Lord Prayver at the Crossbeam?”

Bayloss nodded. “I had already spotted where Hayes lived. I drove straight there and told him what had happened. He went to the telephone and called Dr. Grinstead's number. A lady, who I understand is the doctor's niece, answered, and told us that he was out, but that she expected him home any moment. Hayes then made a second call, to you, I believe, Mr, Arnold. We then got into the car, and Hayes showed me the way to the doctor's house. He was in by the time we got there. He joined us in the car, and we drove back to the Crossbeam.”

“The doctor must have been pretty wet, if he'd been out in all that rain,” Merrion remarked.

“I didn't notice that he was,” Bayloss replied. “In any case, the rain was passing away by then. As soon as he saw Vivian, he told us there was nothing any of us could do about it.”

“And none of you had any doubt that it was a case of suicide?” Arnold asked.

“Speaking for myself, none whatever,” Bayloss replied. “It was clear enough that the poor chap had hanged himself.”

Arnold had brought with him the typewritten confession. He took it from his pocket and gave it to the vicar. “I should like you to read that, Lord Prayver” he said.

As the vicar complied, his expression became one of profound pity. “Poor soul, poor soul!” he exclaimed softly. “Guilty though he may have been, it is not for us to judge him. May I show this to Ronnie, Mr. Arnold?”

“Certainly,” Arnold replied. The vicar handed the paper to Bayloss, who studied it carefully. He made no comment, but handed it back to Arnold, who laid it on the table. “There is one point upon which you can perhaps enlighten us, Lord Prayver,” he said. “Those words, 'I killed Coral because I don't want the vicar or Rose to know.' Can you suggest what may have been in Vivian's mind when he wrote that?”

The vicar and Bayloss exchanged significant glances. The latter would have spoken, but the vicar silenced him with a gesture. “No, Ronnie, it is for me to answer Mr. Arnold. The boy Michael, Coral's son, is not my son. For many years I have believed that I knew who his father was, but I was wrong. I now know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that Frank Vivian was his father. That is what Vivian did not want his wife or I to know.”

“He told me that he had known Lady Prayver before her marriage,” said Arnold. “He did not, of course, tell me that he was the father of her son. May I ask when and how you learnt this, Lord Prayver?”

The vicar glanced at Bayloss, who replied: “I told Justin yesterday evening. I knew of the intimacy between Coral Findon, as she then was, and Frank Vivian. And when Justin told me that he was not Michael's father I was able to suggest the strong probability that Vivian was. I understand that the affection he showed for the boy confirms this probability.”

“You knew Frank Vivian,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “Would he have remembered you?”

“I think he would have remembered my name, at least,” '' Bayloss replied. “At one time he displayed signs of jealousy of my perfectly innocent friendship with Coral. And I think, too, that this is fairly certain. He would be aware that if I learnt that Justin was not Michael's father, I should be able to make a pretty shrewd guess as to who was.”

Arnold was quick to see the drift of this. “We've just been talking to Mr. Martin,” he said. “He told us that he had mentioned to Vivian that an old friend of the vicar's, a Mr. Bayloss, had come to see him, and that Vivian had displayed interest in the remark. That may explain a sentence in his confession. 'This is the truth, and I can't hide it any longer.'”

Merrion shook his head slightly and turned to Bayloss. “You arrived here in your car about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Did you leave this house before you and Lord Prayver went to the Crossbeam shortly before ten?”

“No, I didn't.” Bayloss replied. “I was indoors here all the time till Justin and I went out.”

“Of course,” said Arnold impatiently. “I should like to ask you a question, Lord Prayver. Why did you and Mr. Bayloss go to the Crossbeam yesterday evening?”

“Surely the reason is obvious,” the vicar replied. “It was not until after dinner that I learnt from Ronnie the truth about Michael's parentage. I could not rest until I had confirmation of this from Vivian himself.”

Arnold would have continued the conversation, but Merrion forestalled him. “We need intrude no longer. Lord Prayver,” he said as he rose to his feet. “You and Mr. Bayloss have plenty to say to one another, no doubt. Good morning to you both.”

The vicar saw them to the front door, and they entered the car. “What did you want to rush away like that for?” Arnold demanded resentfully as they drove away.

“Because there was nothing more to be said just then,” Merrion replied. “We've learnt something that throws a vivid light upon Vivian's activities, and we'd better give ourselves time to digest it. The vicar and Bayloss won't run away. You can see them again whenever you want to. Meanwhile, we'll call on the doctor. You'll want to hear his report.”

Arnold agreed, and they drove on for a few yards before Merrion spoke again. “Just one point. You were wrong about your explanation of that sentence in the confession. It wasn't the arrival of Bayloss that made it impossible for Vivian to hide the truth any longer.”

“How do you make that out?” Arnold asked. “It seems to me pretty obvious that it was.”

“Because you haven't considered the facts,” Merrion replied. “To begin with, when did Vivian type out that confession? Obviously, before Mr. Martin went to the Crossbeam about seven yesterday evening. He had no opportunity of doing it after that, at least till Mr. Martin left again. But he didn't do it then, for Mr. Martin found that the machine had been tampered with when he sat down to type his letter.

“In other words, Vivian had composed the sentence about not being able to hide the truth any longer before Mr. Martin had told him that Bayloss had turned up. Can he have learnt of this from any other source? I think not. At the time when Bayloss passed us in his car Vivian was still in the parish room. The only people besides Mr. Martin who knew of Bayloss' arrival were the vicar and Sarah Fitton, and neither of them is likely to have told Vivian.”

“I see the point,” said Arnold. “But, after all, it's not of the slightest importance.”

“Perhaps not,” Merrion replied. They had reached the doctor's gate, and got out of the car. Mrs. Wimborne opened the front door, and told them that the doctor was at home. She took them to the surgery, where Grinstead greeted them with his usual heartiness. “Good morning, gentlemen!” he said. “I was rather expecting a visit from you. Sit down. This is a bad business, but perhaps in a sense it's a blessing. The whole problem is solved now.”

“So it seems,” Arnold replied. “You have no doubt that Vivian committed suicide. Doctor?”

“I fail to see how he could have been hanged by anyone else against his will,” said Grinstead dryly. “No, I have no doubt whatever. When he kicked the ladder away, the rope strangled him. He chose that method because he had the legend in mind, I expect. And I'll answer your next question before you ask it. He can't have been dead very long before he was cut down. His death must have occurred shortly before ten o'clock.”

“You should know, for you were able to examine him fairly soon,” Merrion remarked. “It was lucky you got home before Mr. Bayloss and Hayes called for you. You must have got soaked, being called out on a night like that, Doctor?”

“What are you talking about?” Grinstead replied. “I wasn't called out. Who put that idea into your head?”

“Oh, I thought you must have been, since you weren't at home when Hayes rang through,” said Merrion quietly.

Grinstead frowned. “I didn't happen to be in the house, that was all. There was a terrific thunderstorm, and one flash seemed to be right on top of us. I went out to see if anything had been struck, but fortunately it hadn't.”

“It was most fortunate,” Merrion agreed. “Isn't it a fact, Doctor, that sorcerers believe that certain powers can most easily be invoked during a thunderstorm? That, for instance, if a man should die while a storm was raging, by employing the proper magic his spirit can be recalled when conditions are similar?”

Grinstead grew very red. “That belief was held at one time. It's sheer nonsense, of course.”

“Oh, there might be something in it,” Merrion replied easily. “And someone did die during last night's storm. It would be an interesting experiment to attempt to recall Vivian's spirit when we have another.”

Grinstead looked at him searchingly. “May I ask what exactly you are driving at, Mr. Merrion?”

“Will you tell us exactly where you were at, say, a quarter to ten yesterday evening?” Merrion asked.

“No, I won't!” Grinstead replied violently. “I fail to see that it is any business of yours. And if you have nothing better to do here than ask impertinent questions, I suggest that you should terminate your visit.”

XIX

Merrion smiled, but made no reply. He beckoned to Arnold, and the two of them left the house. “Whatever made you talk to the doctor like that?” Arnold asked in a shocked tone as they regained the car.

“Don't you see?” Merrion replied. “I was clearing the air, that's all. As you know, all along I've had my suspicions of the doctor, but they're set at rest now. He wasn't responsible for Vivian's death, anyhow.”

“I never supposed he was.” said Arnold. “Have you gone off your head? What do you mean by your suspicions being set at rest?”

“Listen,” Merrion replied gravely. “I'm not nearly so satisfied as every one else seems to be. Vivian may have taken his own life, but I don't believe he did so because he was overwhelmed by the guilt of murder.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Arnold exclaimed-"What about that confession? He wouldn't have confessed to what he hadn't done.”

“He wasn't the only person who had access to Mr. Martin's typewriter,” Merrion replied. “No, don't ask me about it yet. The situation is far too complicated for any hasty guess-work. For the moment I'll only say this. If Vivian wasn't a murderer, someone else is, and it is only reasonable to suppose that person to have inspired Vivian's suicide. I thought it might have been the doctor. But I'm pretty sure now that he wasn't at the Crossbeam yesterday evening.”

“You're talking in riddles,” said Arnold. “How can you be sure? He wouldn't tell us where he was.”

“Exactly,” Merrion replied. “If he had been at the Crossbeam, he'd have been ready enough with an explanation where he was. The very fact that he wouldn't tell us shows that he was up to mischief, but not of that particular kind. And his manner when I talked about practising sorcery during a thunderstorm told me pretty clearly what he was up to. But that's really no business of ours. All that matters is that he wasn't at the Crossbeam.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “Your imagination has run away with you properly this time. Fortunately, the coroner will rely on his own common sense. He'll accept the evidence as it stands, without speculating about what might have happened.”

“I dare say he will,” Merrion replied, without much enthusiasm. “Anyhow, you'll want all your evidence verified before the inquest. The signature on that paper, for instance. The best thing we can do now is to get back to Flaxmouth and see the brewers who own the Crossbeam. They ought to be able to tell you whether the signature is genuine or not.”

This seemed to Arnold quite a good idea. They drove to the brewery, and were shown into the presence of the manager. Arnold introduced himself, and produced the confession. “I'll ask you to keep what's typed on that to yourself for the present,” he said. “But will you look at the signature and tell me if you think it's genuine?”

“I couldn't say off-hand,” the manager replied. “But we have Vivian's weekly orders, signed by him. I'll send for them.” He rang through to the order department, and a clerk appeared shortly with a file. “Here we are,” the manager continued. “These are Vivian's weekly orders for the whole of this year. Look through them for yourself.”

Arnold and Merrion did so. The file contained a series of printed forms, setting out so many gallons, of ale, beer, numbers of bottles, and so forth. The requirements were entered in ink, and each form was signed “Frank Vivian.” On comparison of these signatures with the one on the confession, it became quite obvious that the latter was perfectly genuine. It could even be seen to have been written with the pen and ink habitually employed by Vivian.

“There doesn't seem to be any doubt,” said Arnold as he handed back the file. “I expect you've heard what has happened at the Crossbeam?”

The manager nodded. “The police informed us this morning. And very sorry I am to lose an excellent tenant, especially under such tragic circumstances. We have arranged to put one of our representatives into the house until we have found a new tenant. But after what has happened at Dellmead recently, I'm afraid that won't be any too easy.”

After some further conversation, Arnold and Merrion left the brewery and went to the White Hart to lunch. “There's a lot in what our friend said just now,” Merrion remarked. “It isn't everybody who'd care to take over the Crossbeam just now. Well, the signature's genuine all right; there's not a shadow of doubt about that.”

Arnold laughed. “I'm glad you're satisfied at last,” he said.

“I'm very far from satisfied,” Merrion replied. “To my mind, as things stand, they don't make sense. Far too many questions are left unanswered. We'll accept the fact that Vivian was the father of Coral's son. Bayloss presumably knows what he's talking about, and Vivian's behaviour towards the boy bears him out. But was that sufficient motive for his murdering her when she turned up suddenly out of the blue? It hardly seems to me adequate.”

“It wasn't that fact in itself,” said Arnold. “The motive is plain enough from Vivian's confession. He didn't want the vicar to know that he was Michael's father. The vicar himself says he didn't know that till yesterday. Coral, finding Vivian hanging round, might have been scared into telling him. But what seemed even more alarming to Vivian was this. If the story had come out, Mrs. Vivian would most certainly have made his life unbearable.”

“Yes,” Merrion replied doubtfully. “All right. I won't put any of the other unanswered questions, for they must be obvious, even to you. We'll get back to Dellmead and see what fresh surprises that sinister village holds for us.”

When they had finished lunch they drove back along the now familiar road. Merrion was silent and thoughtful, and merely grunted in reply to his companion's attempts at conversation. They reached the Windmill, and turned off towards Dellmead. Not long after they had passed Friar's Park, they saw an unmistakable figure advancing towards them. It was Mr. Martin, brandishing his walking-stick, and stepping out like a man in the very best of vigorous health.

“Well, I'm blest!” Merrion exclaimed. He slowed down and pulled up as they met. “Good afternoon, Mr. Martin,” he said. “I'm very glad to see you up and about again. I congratulate you upon a miraculously rapid recovery from your chill.”

Martin's eyes were sparkling, and he seemed to be positively quivering with excitement. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Merrion!” he replied gaily, his words tumbling over one another as though striving to keep pace with the speed of his thoughts. “I never allow myself to be laid up for very long. The triumph of mind over matter, you know. I'm on my way to see Mrs. Kennet and find out if there's any chance of her sister arriving this evening. I'm so looking forward to the prospect of meeting her that I can hardly contain myself.”

He waved his stick exuberantly and went on his way. Merrion moved off, and drove on frowning. The road was perfectly clear, and no one was in sight. But suddenly the car swerved, and only a violent application of the brakes saved it from the ditch. “Hallo!” Arnold exclaimed in alarm. “What's the matter? Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Merrion replied. “I didn't mean to startle your nerves like that. Yes, I'm alt right. But a sudden functioning of my brain transmitted itself to the steering-wheel. It shan't happen again, I promise you.”

They drove on and pulled up outside Hayes' house. “We'll leave the car here, I think.” said Merrion. “You'll want to hear Hayes' report.”

“And what about you?” Arnold replied. “You want to hear it too, I suppose?”

“Not in the least,” said Merrion. “I can't pretend an interest in formalities just now. My imagination demands the stimulus of a solitary walk. Don't you worry about me. We'll meet again later on.” He went off swiftly before Arnold could raise any objection. His route took him, not through the village, but up the lane towards the church. And it seemed that he moved circumspectly, as though wishing to avoid observation. He passed the doctor's gate without meeting anyone. Then, at the bend of the lane, where it swung round towards the church, he ran full tilt into Bayloss and the vicar, walking towards him. There was, of course, no avoiding them. “Good afternoon,” said Merrion pleasantly. “Nice and fresh after the storm last night, isn't it?”

“It's a lovely afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” the vicar replied. “Ronnie and I have been for a walk, and now we're going to call at the doctor's. I want to introduce Ronnie to Hilary. Will you turn back and come with us?”

“I'd rather not, thanks very much all the same,” said Merrion hastily. “Arnold would be wondering where I'd got to.” He went on, but his furtive manner had left him. By the greatest of luck, the people from whom he had wished to conceal his destination were disposed of for the present. He reached the churchyard, to see, some little distance away, Percy Wimborne enlarging a grave already begun. The vicar's charity, it appeared, extended even to the dead. Whatever might be the verdict upon Vivian, he would not deny him the last privilege of burial in consecrated soil. Frank Vivian would lie beside his murdered wife.

He did not stop to speak to Wimborne, but descended the hill and took the path across the meadow. With no attempt at concealment, he walked boldly through the vicarage entrance. But he skirted the front of the house, made his way to the back door, and knocked upon it. After an interval the door opened and Sarah Fitton regarded him with no cordial surprise. “What do you want here?” she asked coldly. “If it's the vicar you're after, he's gone out with Mr. Bayloss.”

“It's you I'm after, Mrs. Fitton,” Merrion replied. “I believe if you will, you can help us to clear up all this mystery. May I come in and talk to you for a few minutes? I'm quite sure you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say.”

Meanwhile Arnold was discussing matters with Hayes. The coroner, on being informed of Vivian's death, had exhibited some impatience. There were other demands upon his time besides the rapid depopulation of Dellmead. It was now Friday afternoon, and it would be impossible for him to hold an inquest during the week-end. He would hold it in the usual place at eleven o'clock on Monday morning. And, following it, he would resume the inquest on Mrs. Vivian.

“I've got Vivian along to the shed, sir.” Hayes went on. “'I spoke to the vicar, and he says he'll be responsible for the arrangements. Mrs. Vivian is to be buried tomorrow, and Vivian on Tuesday, after the coroner has issued the certificate. I don't think there's anything else, sir.”

“No, I don't think there is,” Arnold agreed. He stayed talking to Hayes for a few minutes longer, then went out and strolled towards the village, wondering idly what had become of Merrion, who, as usual, had a bee in his bonnet. He could never rest content with things as they stood, but must always be chasing imaginary hares. In the present case, his trouble probably was that the problem had solved itself without his intervention.

For solved it was, without any shadow of doubt. Vivian's signature to his confession was perfectly genuine. It was ridiculous to suppose that he would have accused himself of two murders if he had not in fact committed them. Mr. Martin's statement showed clearly enough that he had been contemplating suicide, and anybody less absorbed in his own affairs than Mr. Martin would have perceived it. The clue to the whole matter had been Vivian's former intimacy with Lady Prayver. Arnold was inclined to blame himself for not pressing the point when Vivian had first admitted it.

It was a curious business, and it seemed to Arnold that there were some pretty curious folk involved in it. The vicar, first, living for years as an ostensible widower, with a boy who was not in fact his son. He had believed, wrongly, that he knew who the boy's father was, and had not learnt the truth until after his wife's death. Then the father, married to a shrewish wife, but unable to resist hanging round for any opportunity of being with his son.

And as for Lady Prayver herself? Arnold could guess that the vicar had married her out of the kindness of his heart rather than because he had felt any deep affection for her. He had been entirely mistaken in his belief that his vocation and a woman of that type could run successfully in double harness. Lady Prayver had solved his problem for him in her own way. But where had she been all these years? And why had she reappeared so unexpectedly? Surely someone in Dellmead must have known of her intended arrival. Not her husband, but her former lover.

The minor characters were an odd lot too, when you came to think of it. Sarah Fitton, with her dubious past. She was obviously devoted to the vicar, but was ready at any moment to quarrel with everyone else, including her former friend, Mrs. Vivian. And the doctor, far more absorbed in his hobbies than in his profession. Whatever those hobbies might be, they seemed to have their sinister side. What had he been up to during the thunderstorm that he had so violently refused to say where he had been?

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. These questions might torment Merrion's imagination, but they were no concern of his own. His business was to set out the facts of a crime, or rather a series of crimes. And, as things had turned out, his task was a simple one. The picture was there, in outline, if not in every detail, for all to see.

Vivian must have been forewarned of Lady Prayver's intended visit to Dellmead. Her presence in the village must inevitably lead to his former intimacy with her becoming known. Rather than risk that, he had decided to kill her before anyone else in the place had seen or spoken to her. He had secured a syringe and a supply of morphine, probably from the chest in Sarah Fitton's room. He had laid in wait for his victim, followed her to the church, and killed her there.

The rest followed in natural sequence. He could have had little compunction in killing his wife, with whom he had existed on cat-and-dog terms for so many years. How she had found out that he had killed Lady Prayver, or alternatively that he had had a son by her, must remain a matter of conjecture. He had rolled the barrel down the hill, then somehow lured his wife to the meadow, at a time when all the customers had left the inn and Mr. Martin was safely upstairs.

Finally, his own suicide, because the truth could no longer be hidden. In spite of Merrion's objection, he must by some means have learnt that Bayloss had arrived at the vicarage. His guilty conscience did the rest. Bayloss would recognise him, and be well aware of his former association with Lady Prayver. This had been sufficient to stampede him into throwing up the sponge and taking his life in desperation.

Arnold's meditations had taken him on to the meadow and towards the downs. He turned, to see Merrion coming towards him. “Hallo?” he asked suspiciously when they met. “What have you been doing?”

“Oh, just exercising my wits,” Merrion replied. “It's a perfect afternoon for a gentle stroll. We needn't turn back yet. Let's wander over the downs for a bit, and enjoy this charming countryside for the last time together.”

“Charming?” said Arnold. “You didn't make that remark about it the other evening when we were here.”

“Perhaps I meant charming in another sense,” Merrion replied lightly. “The place positively reeks with incantations. And the doctor is the high priest. I'm perfectly certain he was working magic last night.”

“Never mind about the doctor,” said Arnold-"I've got more serious things to talk about. Magic isn't in my line.”

“As a policeman, you mean?” Merrion replied. “I'm not so sure. Witchcraft and its associated practices are still crimes in the eyes of the law. But we won't argue about that. Let's hear these serious things of yours.”

Arnold, nothing loath, complied with this invitation. He knew well enough that Merrion's judgment, once it could be divorced from his frivolous imagination, was sound enough. He set out at considerable length the course of events as they appeared to him. “Take it from me, that's about what happened.” he concluded.

Merrion smiled. “It's a photographic reproduction of appearances. Absolutely logical, and with all the loose ends neatly tied up. In fact, I don't suppose you've ever had to deal with a problem which solved itself so satisfactorily. But appearances are proverbially deceptive. And unless I'm very much mistaken, my friend, you're utterly wrong.”

“Wrong!” Arnold exclaimed indignantly. “What the devil do you mean? I may be wrong about some of the details, but not in the essential facts of the affair. They are as plain as a pikestaff, for every one to see.”

“Yes, that's just the trouble” Merrion replied quietly. “So plain that nobody need be tempted to look behind them. Well, never mind. It's about time we were turning back now. It'll be six o'clock before we get back to the village. We may as well call at the Crossbeam and have one before we leave for Flaxmouth.”

“What do you want to go to the Crossbeam for?” Arnold asked warily.

“Why do men frequent pubs?” Merrion replied. “If you don't want a drink, I do. This country air makes me thirsty. Come along, and let's see what sort of a shape the brewer's representative is making of things. He'll be glad of your moral support, I dare say.”

They strolled back, and reached the Crossbeam just after six. Behind the counter they found a stranger, to whom Arnold introduced himself. “Glad to meet you, sir,” the man replied. “I'm carrying on here as best I can. Everything seems in order, as far as I can make out. There's just one thing I'd like to ask you about. A Mr. Martin called, and said he had some things in a room here. He said he'd arrange to fetch them away tomorrow. Will that be all right?”

“It'll be all right as far as I'm concerned,” Arnold replied. “Mr. Martin has been staying here, you know.”

The other smiled. “So he told me, sir. And he told me a lot of other things besides. All about a son of his who'd been stationed here in the war and got killed at Dieppe. I thought I should never get rid of him.”

“Mr. Martin is inclined to be talkative,” Merrion remarked. “What time was it when he came here?”

“About two o'clock,” the man replied. “And it was nearly half-past before he left. I never saw a man so excitable in my life. And all about nothing in particular, so far as I could make out.”

They stayed long enough to drink a glass of beer, then walked back to where they had left the car. Hayes was out, presumably summoning the jury for the following Monday. “We'll see him in the morning,” said Merrion. “No use hanging about here now. We'll get along back to the White Hart in comfortable time for dinner.”

“I'm not so sure about seeing Hayes in the morning,” Arnold remarked as they drove off. “There's nothing more for me to do in Dellmead till the inquest on Monday. My plan is to go home for the week-end.”

“Why not?” Merrion replied. “But I think we ought to visit Dellmead just once more before that. It's really a matter of getting the statements of the people who'll be giving evidence at the inquest. It's hardly fair to leave that entirely to Hayes.”

“What's come over you?” Arnold asked in surprise. “I thought you told me not so long ago that you weren't interested in formalities.”

“I might have changed my mind,” Merrion replied. “The best plan will be to hold a sort of committee meeting at the vicarage. The three most important witnesses, the vicar, Bayloss and Martin, will be there already. Hayes can come with us, and we can get everything cut and dried. Then, if you still feel like it, I'll drive you back to London.”

“It's not a bad idea.” said Arnold. “But still, I'd like to know what's exactly at the back of your mind.”

“Curiosity is always at the back of my mind,” Merrion replied. “Quite frankly, I'm hoping that one or other of the witnesses will reveal something that will disturb your smug complacency. No, it's no use asking me any more questions now. You'll just have to possess your soul in patience until to-morrow morning.”

XX

On Saturday morning they left the White Hart after breakfast and drove quietly to Dellmead. On the way a motor cycle overtook them, and they recognised the rider as the brewer's representative. Merrion laughed. “He wasn't spending the night at the Crossbeam, and I don't altogether blame him,” he said. “Which means that the house has been unoccupied and locked up since closing time. Which would have been a disappointment to anybody who wanted to get in.”

“There's nobody in Dellmead who'd go near the place by night now,” Arnold remarked.

“That's rather a sweeping statement” Merrion replied. “There are one or two people, even in Dellmead, who aren't afraid of spooks. The doctor, for instance, who would like to be on intimate terms with them. Well, here we are.”

As they pulled up outside the policeman's house, Hayes came out. Arnold explained that he was about to take statements, and told him to get into the car. They drove on through the village to the vicarage, where they got out and rang the front-door bell.

It was answered almost immediately by Sarah Fitton, who seemed to have been expecting them. In reply to Arnold's question, she said that the vicar had just come back from unlocking the church and was in the study with Mr. Bayloss. She showed Arnold and Hayes into the room, then came back to Merrion, who had lingered behind. “It's all right, sir,” she whispered mysteriously. “It's just as you thought. I've got it, safely enough.”

“Well done, Mrs. Fitton!” Merrion replied. “Have it ready when you're sent for.” He went into the study, to be greeted by the vicar and Bayloss. Then he glanced round. “Isn't Mr. Martin with you?” he asked. “He's gone out, perhaps?”

The vicar frowned slightly. “Mr. Martin is in his room, not at all well,” he replied. “I am really feeling rather anxious about him. He was quite well yesterday evening, and sat talking with us in here until fairly late. But in the night I heard someone walking about the house, and went out of my room to find Mr. Martin. He apologised for disturbing me, and said he was restless and couldn't sleep. A little while later I heard him unlock the back door and go out. And Sarah tells me that when she went to call him this morning she found him lying on his bed with his clothes on.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Merrion politely. “What do you think is the matter with him?”

“I can only suppose that his excitement has proved too much for him,” the vicar replied. “He made a most astonishingly rapid recovery from his chill yesterday. He came downstairs, ate a hearty lunch, and then went out. When he came back he told us that Mrs. Rennet's sister would be here this afternoon. I believe that the anticipation of at last meeting someone who actually knew his boy has brought him to the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“Dr. Grinstead ought to see him,” Merrion said firmly. “I know that he professes an aversion to medical advice. But, after all, he knows the doctor, who might call on the pretext of paying him a friendly visit. What do you think, Lord Prayver?”

“I should certainly like Grinstead to see him,” the vicar replied. “As he is my guest, I feel responsible for Mr. Martin. I will ring up Grinstead now, and ask him to come here as soon as he can make it convenient.”

Bayloss got up. “Ring him up, Justin, and tell him I'm on my way to fetch him in my car,” he said. “That'll save him the walk, and on the way I can explain to him that he'll have to approach Mr. Martin tactfully.”

So the matter was arranged. While they were awaiting Grinstead's arrival, Merrion contrived to monopolise the conversation, giving Arnold no opportunity of asking the vicar for his statement. They had not very long to wait before the car returned and Bayloss and Grinstead came in, the latter carrying his black bag. He looked round, nodding to each in turn, but reserving for Merrion a somewhat frigid look. “1'11 go and see Mr. Martin,” he said briskly.

The vicar took him upstairs, but within a very few minutes he returned. “I can't make the chap out!” he exclaimed irritably. “He won't tell me his symptoms, and said there was nothing I could do for him. I don't know what's the matter with him, but he seems to be suffering from some sort of acute depression. Anyhow, he said he'd get up and come downstairs.”

“I know Arnold wants to see him,” said Merrion. “Would you mind keeping a look-out for him, Mr. Bayloss, and bringing him in here?”

Bayloss nodded, and went out into the hall, leaving the door open. Very shortly they heard slow and uncertain footsteps descending the stairs, then the encouraging voice of Bayloss. Mr. Martin stumbled into the room, Bayloss shepherding him like a faithful dog. His appearance was hardly prepossessing. He was unshaven, and his clothing was rumpled and in disorder. In his wavering eyes was a wild, unseeing look, and he scarcely seemed to recognise those present in the room. The vicar rose from his chair and stepped forward to meet him. “Come along and sit down, Mr. Martin,” he said sympathetically, taking his arm. He led him to his own chair, deposited him gently in it, then found another for himself.

Mr. Martin's entrance seemed to have produced the awkwardness that many people feel in the presence of a sick man. Grinstead, his professional instincts aroused, watched speculatively the spasmodic working of his quivering features. It was left to Merrion to break the silence. “I'm very sorry to see you looking like this again, Mr. Martin,” he said. “You seemed so fit when Mr. Arnold and I met you yesterday afternoon. Is it a return of your chill, or are you feeling the lack of your usual stimulant?”

Mr. Martin had hardly seemed to be listening. But Merrion's last word galvanised him as though by an electric shock. He started violently in his chair, then stiffened into tense immobility. “I hardly know what you mean.” he muttered, with obvious insincerity.

“I think you do, Mr. Martin,” said Merrion impressively. “It is not the first time that I have seen people in your condition. But we needn't discuss that just now. Tell me, what brought you all the way from Canada to Dellmead?”

Martin's expression brightened a trifle. “Why, surely everybody knows that,” he replied. “I came here because my boy Barry had been in camp at Friar's Park during the war, and I wanted to find anyone who knew him.”

“Quite so,” said Merrion. “And that gave you an excellent pretext for being on the spot when Lady Prayver arrived here so unexpectedly. When had you last seen Lady Prayver, Mr. Martin?”

There was a quick shuffling sound as the others started in amazement at these words. The vicar gasped and leaned forward eagerly. A look of terror flashed into Mr. Martin's eyes as he dragged himself to his feet. “I knew nothing of Lady Prayver,” he replied unsteadily. “You will excuse me, gentlemen. I must go out and get some fresh air. I feel stifled. Besides, I have to see Mrs. Kennet's sister. She is coining here from London to-day.”

He shambled heavily towards the door, but, at a swift glance from Merrion, Hayes who was sitting nearest it, stood up and barred the way. At this opposition Martin suddenly lost control of himself. He put his head down and charged like an angry bull. Hayes, caught unawares, went spinning and fell with a crash in the doorway. As Martin stumbled over his prostrate form, Arnold, closely followed by Bayloss, flung themselves upon him. With a mighty sweep of his arms he hurled them away and reached the hall. But they returned to the attack, reinforced by Hayes, who picked himself up and joined the fray vindictively. Martin's strength was superhuman. For a full minute he wrestled with the three of them, and it almost seemed as though he might escape. But in the end they mastered him and brought him back into the room. His violent struggle had exhausted him, and he fell limp and quivering into his chair.

“I don't think he'll give any further trouble now,” said Merrion quietly, as Arnold and Hayes took up their positions watchfully, one on either side of him. “May I ask you to ring for Mrs. Fitton, Lord Prayver?”

The vicar had been watching the scene with horror-stricken eyes. Violence in his quiet study was something entirely outside his experience. He nodded silently and pressed the bell-push. Almost immediately Sarah Fitton appeared, surprisingly carrying her handbag. She glanced at Martin, whose already dishevelled appearance had not been improved by his latest adventure, and smiled maliciously.

“I know the vicar won't mind if you take a seat, Mrs. Fitton,” said Merrion. “That's right. Now, will you tell us about the conversation you and I had yesterday afternoon, and what you did after that?”

Sarah Fitton, finding herself the centre of interest, prepared to enjoy herself. She laid the handbag on her knees, and began primly. “Mr. Merrion came to see me yesterday afternoon, and we had a talk. He asked me if I didn't think that Mr. Martin had got over his chill very quickly, and I said I did. I'd never seen anything like it before. He was weak and helpless like a baby one minute, and then as soon as my back was turned he was as right as ever, and all excited. Mr. Merrion said he knew he looked all right, because he'd just seen him.”

“Arnold and I met him in the car,” Merrion interposed. “His recovery struck me as so miraculously rapid that it gave me an idea. The impact of this on my brain was so violent that I'm sorry to say I nearly ditched the car. I apologise for interrupting you, Mrs. Fitton. Please go on and tell us the rest.”

Sarah glanced apprehensively towards Martin. But he was sunk in stupor, and was apparently paying no attention to what was being said. “Mr. Merrion asked me if I could account for it,” Sarah went on. “I told him I couldn't, and that all I could think of was that he must have taken something to set him on his feet. Mr. Merrion said he thought so too, and that the something he had taken must have been a drug of some kind.”

Grinstead slapped his knee in sudden comprehension. “Why, that's it, of course!” he exclaimed. “I might have diagnosed his trouble for myself when I saw him upstairs just now. The man's a drug addict. When he's had a shot of the stuff he's all right, though a bit strung-up and excited. And when the effect had worn off, he's like you see him now.”

“You've got it, Doctor,” said Sarah, in a tone which suggested that he ought to have got it long ago. “Mr. Merrion went on to say that we ought to know if Mr. Martin took drugs and how he took them. He asked me to look through Mr. Martin's things while he was out and see if I could find anything, and if I did, to take it away and hide it. As soon as Mr. Merrion had gone, I had a hunt, and I found these!”

She opened her handbag with a dramatic gesture. From it she produced a hypodermic syringe and a phial of tablets. These she held up proudly for the inspection of the assembled company. In spite of the fact that Martin seemed no more than semi-conscious, her words and action penetrated to his mind. “Damn you, woman!” he muttered venomously.

“You had better take charge of those exhibits, Arnold,” said Merrion quietly. “Mr. Martin's restless behaviour last night is now explained. He could not find the stimulant for which he so violently craved. When you heard him go out, Lord Prayver, he was no doubt on his way to the Crossbeam, where he had left a further supply. Unfortunately for him, he was unable to get in, for there was nobody there and the house was locked up. But that is merely a side issue. The point, which I am sure you will all appreciate, is this. Mr. Martin being in possession of a syringe and a supply of drugs, it is not unreasonable to imagine that he may have used them on other people besides himself.”

Merrion paused as a shiver of anticipation ran through his hearers. “Now, Mr. Martin!” he continued sharply. “Won't you answer my question? When had you last seen Lady Prayver?”

Martin shuddered, as though an icy wind had blown upon him. He was breathing hard, but seemed incapable of speech, and only mumbled inarticulately. Merrion waited for a moment, then went on. “Shall I tell you what I believe? But before I do so, let me impress this upon you. Any attempt on your part to deny the truth would be futile. You will appreciate the fact that inquiries in Canada will reveal your association with Lady Prayver. I believe, and I say this with confidence, that she had been living with you, and that she ran away in order to rejoin her rightful husband.”

The vicar, overwhelmed with shame, allowed his face to sink within his hands. But Martin appeared to be hypnotised by the stern confidence in Merrion's voice. Perhaps, even in his distraught frame of mind, he realised that the fact could indeed be established. He looked up, but his wandering eyes sought to avoid Merrion's. “Her rightful husband!” he muttered with a sneer. “Oh, it wasn't her conscience that troubled her, I promise you. She saw, in an English paper that came her way, that he had succeeded to the title, and she supposed the family fortune too. She thought it would be fine to flaunt herself as Lady Prayver. That was the way of it.”

Merrion was quick to press his advantage. “And, not unnaturally, you objected. But she evaded you, and found her way here. No doubt the newspaper she saw mentioned that Lord Prayver was vicar of Dellmead. You knew of the place already, for it was near Dellmead that your son had been encamped. But how did you contrive to get here a week before Lady Prayver?”

“She went by sea,” Martin replied, in a voice to which some faint shadow of excitement had returned. “By a ship which took ten days on the voyage to Southampton. I found that out, easily enough. So I flew over. That's how I got here first.”

“Of course,” said Merrion easily. “You came here and established yourself at the Crossbeam, with a most plausible pretext for your presence. You knew when the ship would arrive at Southampton, and you also knew that Lady Prayver would come straight here. That Saturday afternoon, a week ago to-day, you walked out towards Friar's Park and hid yourself by the roadway. You saw Lady Prayver come past on her way from the Windmill. Will you tell us what happened then?”

But Martin's feeble flash of energy had deserted him, and he relapsed into sullen silence. “You need not tell us,” Merrion went on. “The facts speak for themselves. You followed Lady Prayver, unseen by her. It was easy enough for you to do this, for you had explored the country in advance. She did not know where the vicarage was, and did not wish to draw attention to herself by asking. But she saw the church, and supposing that the vicarage would be near it, took the lane leading in that direction. You followed her, not by the lane, but through the undergrowth on the further side of it. Not until she reached the gate leading to the church door did you appear and confront her. What then?”

Martin sagged forward in his chair. Merrion's uncanny mastery of detail and his own desperate craving for the drug had combined to undermine his will-power. “You don't understand,” he muttered thickly. “Coral was mine. I wasn't going to give her up to any other man, her husband though he might be. She had her chance. I asked her to come back to me, then and there, but she refused. She accused me of having been cruel to her, and said she would rather die than have any more to do with me.”

“And you took her at her word,” said Merrion sternly. “I think we can all picture the scene clearly enough. The two of you standing there, outside the church porch, with no one else within sight or hearing. You pleaded with her to return to you, and she refused. You must have anticipated this possibility, for you had with you your syringe, ready charged with what you knew to be a fatal dose of morphine. You seized her and forcibly injected the needle. She may have screamed, but you very soon overcame her brief struggle, and very soon she became unconscious.”

Merrion paused and glanced at Grinstead before he continued. “I don't know whether you had determined in advance what you would do with the body, or whether you had a sudden inspiration. But the doctor had told you about the missing effigy of the Lady Alicia. You remarked, if you remember, that this was a favourite topic of conversation with him. And the obvious means of disposing of the body occurred to you. It was not only obvious, but it was bound to divert suspicion into other channels. The effigy of Lady Prayver should be restored, not in stone, but in flesh and blood.”

Grinstead looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I may have spoken to him about the missing effigy” he said. “I expect I did, for he always seemed interested when I talked about the antiquities of the place.”

Merrion smiled faintly. “Perhaps you'll tell us more about the effigy some day. Doctor,” he replied. Then he turned again to Martin. “We have had a demonstration of the strength of your muscles. It was child's play to you to pick up the unconscious Lady Prayver and carry her into the church to the tomb. Having laid her there, you left the scene, confident that the crime would never be traced to you. What connection could there be between you, a visitor from overseas, and the wife of the vicar, whom nobody in Dellmead except him had ever seen? But it occurred to you later that one clue to that connection did in fact exist. The rather striking amber necklace which Lady Prayver had been wearing, and which you had given her. The very faint possibility existed that inquiries would be made about the necklace, and that it would be traced to you.

“Almost anyone else, I think, would have accepted that risk, and left things as they were. But the excitement and exhilaration consequent upon your habit of drug-taking inclined you to desperate and ill-advised actions. You learnt that the body had been deposited in the Priory refectory, and you assumed that what Lady Prayver had been wearing would be there too. On Sunday evening, after dark, you slipped out of the Crossbeam, and made your way to the Priory, taking with you an implement of some kind. You broke into the refectory and abstracted the necklace. Would you care to explain how it came to be found in Mr. Vivian's pocket after he was hanged?”

But Martin did not reply. His eyes were closed and he seemed to have sunk into such a state of apathy as to take no interest in the proceedings. Arnold, who had listened in growing amazement to Merrion's reconstruction of the crime, endeavoured to rouse him. “Come now, Mr. Martin!” he exclaimed briskly. “Are you prepared to make a statement? If you do, it is my duty to caution you that I am at liberty to use it in evidence.”

Martin opened his eyes and stared blankly before him. Then suddenly his derisive laughter echoed horribly round the room. “Statement? What do you want me to say? You've heard, haven't you? Coral won't belong to anyone else now. That's the end, isn't it?” Then the defiance m his voice changed abruptly to piteous supplication. “Give me back my syringe!” he whined. “Just this once, or the torture will drive me mad.”

Grinstead leant forward. “The man's a pathological case,” he whispered. “I won't answer for the consequences if he doesn't have a shot of something to pull him together. Shall I give him one?”

But Merrion shook his head. “Not yet!” he replied firmly. “This is not the end. Listen to me, Mr. Martin. You shall have a dose of the drug, but not until you have told us the whole truth. You have admitted murdering Lady Prayver, but that is not the only crime on your conscience. We must hear the sequel from your own lips. As you will no doubt realise, nothing that you can say now will affect your position in the slightest. Then perhaps your craving shall be indulged.”

Martin snatched at the straw. “You'll give it to me?” he asked eagerly.

“If you tell us the whole truth,” Merrion replied. “Now then. Why did you strangle Mrs. Vivian?”

XXI

Martin evinced no embarrassment at this abrupt question. It was clear to those watching him that he was consumed by an overmastering desire, beside which everything else faded into insignificance. So habituated had he become to the drug that deprivation of it was almost unendurable agony. It was doubtful whether he heeded Merrion's hint that he could not make matters any worse for himself. To escape from his torment he would satisfy his demand, even though it should cost him his life.

He began to speak, in so low and quivering a voice that they had to bend forward to hear him. “It was the necklace. You were right about that, for I had given it to Coral, and several people knew I had done so. The man I bought it from would have recognised it at once. I didn't think of it at the time, but later on I remembered it, and it seemed to me dangerous to leave it where it was. I didn't know until Sunday morning where the body had been put. But I was in the village when I saw a car drive up to the doctor's, and I guessed that a post-mortem was to be held. I watched for quite a long time, but the car did not move and nobody came away. The body must therefore be not far away. I went round to the back, and at last I saw the doctor and another man come out of the refectory and lock the door behind them.

“When they were out of the way, I looked at the door and saw it could very easily be broken open. That evening, between nine and ten, when both Mr. and Mrs. Vivian were busy in the bar, I slipped out of the Crossbeam, taking with me the poker from my room. I went across the meadow to the Priory ruins, feeling quite sure that nobody would be there after dark. But just as I came in sight of them, I saw a light, which seemed to come out of the ground. I stayed very still and watched. The light rose from the ground, and I saw it came from a torch which someone was carrying towards the house.”

“Can you suggest who that might have been, Doctor?” Merrion asked innocently.

“Why, it must have been myself,” Grinstead replied, endeavouring to hide his confusion. “I usually take a walk round at that time to see that everything's safe. But I don't know what he means by that nonsense about the light coming out of the ground.”

“An optical illusion, I expect,” said Merrion carelessly. “Go on, Mr. Martin. When you saw that the coast was clear, you forced open the refectory door, went in and took the necklace?”

“That's right,” Martin replied unemotionally. “I took it back to the Crossbeam and put it in a drawer in my room there, where I thought it would be safe enough. But I had reckoned without Mrs. Vivian's prying eyes. On Tuesday, when she brought in my lunch, she whispered to me that Mr. Hayes had been asking about a necklace that had been stolen. She said that we'd better talk it over together where no one would overhear us. We could meet on the meadow that evening, after she and her husband had had their supper. When I looked in the drawer after lunch, the necklace had gone.”

“You saw at once that Mrs. Vivian's game was blackmail?” Merrion suggested. “If she told the police where she had found the necklace, awkward questions would be asked, leading to you being suspected of the murder of Lady Prayver. So that evening, before you kept your appointment with Mrs. Vivian, you rolled the barrel down the hill?”

“I knew about the legend, of course,” Martin replied. “I'd heard the old story from the doctor. And I thought when she was found in the barrel every one would suppose her husband had killed her. And if he had, it wouldn't be a very long jump to suppose that he had killed Coral as well. He had a motive for that which might come to light.”

“You knew that Vivian was the father of Lady Prayver's son?” Merrion asked.

“Coral had told me the name.” Martin replied. “And when I came here I found that the landlord of the Crossbeam was also Frank Vivian. I couldn't believe he was the man, for at first it seemed that the coincidence was too extraordinary. Then when I thought about it, I saw that it wasn't a coincidence at all. Vivian had come here in order to be near his boy. I, of all people, could understand that he should do that.”

“Meaning that your pretext for coming here was, in its way, perfectly genuine?”

Martin's feeble voice took on a new note of sincerity. “You need have no doubt of that, at least. My boy was everything to me, and his death was the bitterest blow I had ever experienced. It was when the news came that I first took to drugs, in the hope of drowning my sorrow. Had Barry lived, I should never have left my wife and taken up with Coral. Then none of this would have happened.” He closed his eyes and let his head sink forward. “It doesn't seem quite real to me now,” he went on dreamily, after a while. “As though it l had been somebody else, not myself. Yes, I rolled the barrel I down the hill, and then I went down to the meadow, with a hammer I had found in an outhouse at the Crossbeam. I knocked off the hoop and took out the head. I knew how to do that, for as a boy I had often watched coopers at work.

“I came back to the Crossbeam, and waited until the bar was closed and the Vivians were having their supper. Then I went out by the side door, which was always left unlocked till Vivian went to bed. Very soon after I reached the meadow, Mrs. Vivian joined me, carrying her handbag. She told me that she had the necklace with her. There were two things she could do with it. One was that she could take it to Mr. Hayes, and tell him where she had found it. The other was that she could sell it back to me, at her own price, and say nothing.”

Martin's tone became even more impersonal. He might have been reciting the legendary events of long ago rather than his own actions. “It was all over in a few minutes. I had my hands round her throat before she could cry out. I knew where to put my fingers to kill her without a struggle. Then, when she was dead, I put her in the barrel, picked up her handbag and took the necklace from it. When I had replaced the head of the barrel and knocked the hoop on roughly, I went back to the Crossbeam. Vivian was busy clearing up in the bar, and didn't see me come in. I went up to my room and started typing. I had meant to throw the necklace into the dew-pond next day, but by the morning I had thought better of it.”

It had been a fine morning, but now heavy clouds were rolling up from the sea. The room was growing dark and, with his back to the window, Martin's face was hidden in shadow. The vicar rose, as though to switch on the light, but Merrion motioned him back to his seat. “I think I know why you decided not to throw away the necklace, Mr. Martin,” he said. “You had already determined upon Vivian as your next victim. Not only that the final scene of the legend should be repeated, but because an apparent suicide, with a confession, would prevent any suspicion falling upon you.”

Martin writhed in his chair. “Give me the syringe!” he muttered hoarsely. “I can't bear this much longer.”

“We haven't finished yet,” Merrion replied. “But I will save you the trouble of talking. You have made a statement regarding what happened at the Crossbeam on Thursday evening. That statement was true, up to a point. Mrs. Wimborne gave you your supper, and afterwards you went into the bar. Before very long you and Vivian were left alone in the house.

“It was a night of storm, and already the thunder was rumbling in the distance. This, together with the terror which had descended upon the village, was enough to keep any chance customer away. You stayed in the bar, talking to Vivian and drinking beer with him. Having finished your glass, you asked him to replenish it. While he was in the cellar doing so, you added a drug to his glass. Not perhaps a sufficient quantity to be fatal, but enough to render him helpless.”

“How the devil do you know that?” Martin whispered. “I didn't believe the doctor when he told me the devil walked in Dellmead, but I think now he must be right. We were drinking bitter. Vivian would never have more than one glass, and his was still half-full when he went out to fill up mine. I had some morphine, already dissolved in a little bottle in my pocket, and I poured it in. When he came back, I drank a little from the glass he brought me, and asked him if he didn't think the beer tasted rather different from usual. Of course he drank from his glass, as I knew he would. He said that he hadn't noticed it before, but now that I drew his attention to it, it did seem rather on the bitter side. It was drawn from a barrel which had only been delivered the day before, and that must account for it.”

His voice faded out, and Merrion took up the tale again. “It was not very long before Vivian was overcome. I dare say that he told you that he had come over queer, and you offered to lead him to the kitchen. But instead you led him to the cellar. He was losing consciousness too rapidly to protest, and there he collapsed. You had already explored the cellar, and knew that everything was ready there to your hand. You set up the step-ladder under the beam, and once again your extraordinary physical strength came to your aid. You lifted Vivian on to the ladder and sat him on the top of it. It was a feat that very few people could have performed. Then you tied one end of the rope round the beam and the other in a noose round Vivian's neck. It only remained to pull away the step-ladder, and the apparent suicide was accomplished.”

A log smouldering in the fireplace burst into sudden flame, throwing a flickering light upon Martin's face. It was grey, and his features were twitching convulsively. “Your setting of the scene was no doubt inspired by the legend,” Merrion went on. “The inn-keeper must be shown to have expiated the crime of murder by hanging. But this in itself was not enough. Every shred of false evidence that could hide the truth must be added. You put the necklace in Vivian's pocket. You could safely do that, for once Vivian's guilt was established no inquiry into the origin of the necklace would be made.

“You went back to the bar, took thirty silver coins from the till and laid them on the counter. That was a very neat touch. You guessed that the vicar, if nobody else, would appreciate the significance of those thirty pieces of silver, Their presence would be attributed to a gesture of remorse on Vivian's part for the shedding of innocent blood. But the confession was your strongest card. You had typed it in readiness on your own machine, taking elaborate pains to ensure that it should appear to be the work of one unaccustomed to using a typewriter. You had to type it, because you did not feel competent to reproduce Vivian's handwriting with sufficient accuracy. You even bent the 't' deliberately, in order to produce the impression of the machine having been damaged by a clumsy hand. Your wording of the confession was inspired by your knowledge that Vivian was the father of Lady Prayver's son.”

Merrion paused, then swiftly shot his question. “How did you obtain Vivian's signature?”

Martin groaned. The flame had died down, and his face was once more in shadow. His voice came in a hollow whisper, so low as to be almost inaudible. “It was on the sheet of paper already. I told Vivian that I was going to compile a scrap-book, to be a memorial of the time Barry spent here. It was to contain photographs of the scenes he had known and the autographs of everyone he might have met while he was here. Vivian's must be among these, for Barry was certain to have visited the Crossbeam. I gave him a sheet of my paper, and asked him to write his autograph across the middle of it, so that I could cut it out later and stick it in the scrap-book. He complied with my request readily enough.” His voice trailed away, then rose to a sudden blood-curdling scream. “The syringe! I can't endure this torture any longer.”

“He'd better have a shot,” said Grinstead urgently. “He'll probably have a pretty bad nervous breakdown if he doesn't.”

“It's up to Arnold, it seems to me,” Merrion replied.

Arnold nodded. “All right. We want him in the police station, not in hospital. And if he shows signs of becoming violent again, we know what to do.” He whispered a word to Hayes, who hurriedly left the room. They saw him pass the window on his way to his house. “Go ahead. Doctor,” said Arnold grimly. “You've got the doings with you, I expect.”

“I shall want some water, please, Mrs. Fitton,” Grinstead replied. As she went out he opened his bag and took from it a syringe and a tablet. When Sarah came back with the water he dissolved the tablet in it and charged the syringe. Martin, watching him with half-closed eyes, held out his arm eagerly. Grinstead pushed back the sleeve and administered the injection.

Martin uttered a deep sigh of relief and fell back in his chair, apparently asleep. The vicar switched on the light, rendering visible every detail in the room. The minutes passed, and as they watched Martin, his appearance changed gradually before their eyes. His convulsive twitching ceased, his breathing ceased to be laboured, and a healthy colour returned to his face. At last he opened his eyes and braced himself bolt upright in his chair. “Well, and now what about it?” he demanded menacingly.

“You will be taken to the police station at Flaxmouth,” Arnold replied. “There you will be charged with the wilful murder of Lady Prayver.”

“Oh, indeed!” Martin bellowed. He sprang to his feet, his fists clenched, and the light of battle in his eyes. For a moment things looked ugly. Then Hayes entered the room, something concealed in his massive hand. At a nod from Arnold he advanced upon Martin, while Arnold and Bayloss converged on him from either side. There was a sharp but mercifully short struggle, before Martin, foaming at the mouth with rage, was securely handcuffed with his hands behind his back.

“Well, that's that,” said Arnold, wiping his brow after his exertions. “Bring him along, Hayes. You'll take us to Flaxmouth in your car, won't you, Merrion?”

“Pd rather Mr. Bayloss took you, if he doesn't mind,” Merrion replied. “He'll be a more efficient escort in case of trouble.”

“I don't mind in the least,” said Bayloss. “My car is all ready at the door.” Hayes propelled the scowling Martin from the room, closely followed by the rest of the party. Martin was deposited in the back of the car, with Hayes beside him. Arnold got in beside Bayloss, and the car drove off.

The vicar, Grinstead and Merrion returned to the study, The clouds were passing, and the veil of darkness was giving place to the pale light of an October day. As they entered the room Merrion, as though absent-mindedly, switched off the light. This left the study still in comparative gloom, but the other two seemed not to notice this. They sat down in front of the fire, while Merrion strolled to the window. “Do you mind if I light a cigarette, Lord Prayver?” he asked.

“Why, of course not!” the vicar replied. “Let me offer you one. I ought to have thought of it before.”

“I'd rather smoke my own, if you don't mind,” said Merrion. He took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. The room seemed to have become very still. At last Grinstead broke what was becoming an uncomfortable silence. “That's the most amazing experience I've ever had!” he exclaimed. “How did you know, Mr. Merrion?”

“Strictly speaking, I didn't know,” Merrion replied. “And I owe you my apologies. Lord Prayver, for being instrumental in turning your study into a bear-garden. But if Martin was to be caught off his guard, while he was suffering from the deprivation of his accustomed drug, there seemed to be no alternative.”

“No apology is needed,” said the vicar. “I am only too grateful to you for revealing the truth of this terrible business. But, like Grinstead, I should very much like to know how you came to suspect Mr. Martin.”

“I did not suspect him until yesterday,” Merrion replied. “Indeed, until then, my suspicions inclined in a very different direction. Vivian's apparent suicide, convincing though the evidence seemed, was to me incredible. My experience has made me a fairly good judge of men. I could not believe that Vivian had taken his life for the reasons outlined in the confession.

“Then, yesterday morning, Arnold and I interviewed Martin in his room upstairs. I could see that he was a sick man, and at first I was prepared to accept his statement that he had caught a chill through being soaked in the rain the previous evening. But, even then, it struck me as very odd that when I suggested that he should call in Dr. Grinstead, he objected violently.”

“He as good as told me to clear out when I went up to see him just now,” Grinstead remarked.

Merrion nodded. “Exactly. He was afraid you would find out what was really the matter with him. The fact that he had in his possession a syringe and drugs was the one thing he must at all costs hide. Arnold asked him for his statement, and he made it glibly and without the slightest hesitation. He drew a perfect picture of Vivian as a man determined on committing suicide as soon as he was left alone. Every detail fitted in to a nicety. Yet, by his own showing, Martin had calmly walked out and left him to it. He did not even warn anybody of the impending tragedy.

“Then, in the afternoon, Arnold and I met Martin walking along the road. To the eyes of anyone who had seen him earlier in the day, he appeared a living miracle. Nobody could have recovered so rapidly and completely from the effects of a chill. And he was again in that state of excitement which I had noticed before. A suspicion of the truth suddenly dawned on me. His ups and downs were those of an habitual drug-taker. The rest you know. I was on my way to see Mrs. Fitton when you met me yesterday afternoon, Lord Prayver.”

“Still I don't understand,” said Grinstead. “How did you know that he had been intimate with Lady Prayver?”

“I didn't know,” Merrion replied. “But it was a matter of logical deduction. You heard Mrs. Fitton's statement, and saw the tangible evidence she produced. Martin had the means of murdering Lady Prayver, and he had had the opportunity. He had told us that he had gone to Friar's Park on the afternoon of her arrival. He could have seen her as she came from the Windmill and followed her to the church, as in fact he did. It was not to be supposed that the whim had seized him to murder a total stranger. He must have known Lady Prayver and had a motive for killing her. It was not too great a stretch of imagination to assume that he knew she was coming to Dellmead, and was here lying in wait for her.”

“And you were right,” said the vicar sadly. “Poor Coral! That she should have descended to an illicit connection with a man like Mr. Martin! Her accusation of his cruelty to her was no doubt well-founded.”

Another silence followed this remark. Neither Merrion nor Grinstead was inclined to comment upon Lady Prayver's past or her motives in attempting to return to her husband. Then, after a pause, Merrion spoke again, in a voice which held a quiet significance. “Martin seems to have been greatly impressed by what you told him. Doctor. About the legend and the effigy, I mean. It seems to have guided him in his actions very considerably.”

“Well, yes,” Grinstead replied uncomfortably. “I'm afraid that I am rather apt to inflict my interest in antiquities upon other people. But I couldn't have been expected to foresee that Martin would reproduce the legend so accurately.”

“No,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “But you see now that an interest in antiquities may prove dangerous. Especially when it leads to experiments in the darker forms of ancient superstition. As I remarked just now, my suspicions were originally diverted into channels which did not lead to Martin. They led in fact towards the Priory.”

“What do you mean?” Grinstead exclaimed indignantly. “Does that imply that you suspected me?”

“Wasn't I to some extent justified?” Merrion replied. “A man who performs magic rites during a thunderstorm might be imagined capable of more practical evil. Especially when those rites take place in the crypt of the Priory chapel.”

Grinstead seemed overwhelmed. He rose to his feet and stared at Merrion guiltily. “The crypt?” he stammered.

Merrion threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. “Yes, the crypt,” he replied briskly. “Listen, Doctor. Isn't it time now to restore the effigy of the Lady Alicia to its proper place? Fm sure you'll agree that it is. I'll leave you to fix it up with the vicar. Good morning to you both.” And before he could be stopped, he strode from the house, jumped into his car and drove away.

XXII

Martin proved an extremely difficult prisoner to handle. While still under the influence of the drug he was defiant and refused to speak. When the effects had passed away, he was ready to say anything which would procure him the reward of another dose. As Grinstead had said, he was clearly a pathological case. He appeared before the magistrates in an apparently semi-conscious state, and was duly remanded in custody.

As Merrion had forecasted, Arnold had no difficulty in establishing the connection between Martin and Lady Prayver. Inquiries in Canada revealed the salient points of Martin's history. He was a comparatively wealthy man, married, and with an only son, who had joined up shortly after the outbreak of war. He had been killed during the Dieppe raid, and the shock of his bereavement seemed to have thrown his father completely off his balance. Stewart Martin had always been a strange character, devoted to his son, upon whom he lavished all his affection, but feared by others owing to his occasional fits of violence.

Shortly after the news of Barry's death, Martin had left home, and since then had been living with a woman who called herself Coral Findon, and whose past was wrapped in obscurity. The description of this woman tallied exactly with that of Lady Prayver. The amber necklace was immediately recognised as one that Coral Findon had been in the habit of wearing, and its purchase was traced to Martin.

The prosecution decided to concentrate upon the murder of Lady Prayver, keeping the other two crimes up their sleeve against the unlikely event of an acquittal on the first charge. Martin, in one of his moods of depression, made and signed a full but incoherent confession. There was for some time considerable doubt whether he could be considered fit to plead. But the course of treatment to which he was subjected while in custody was to some extent successful. He took his place in the dock, formally pleaded not guilty, and sat through the subsequent proceedings in a state of complete apathy. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. The defence could only take the forlorn line that at the time he committed the crime Martin had been under the influence of a drug, and had therefore not been responsible for his actions.

What passed between Grinstead and the vicar after Merrion's abrupt departure was never divulged by either of them. But a few days later the village was electrified by the news that the doctor, in the course of his exploration of the Priory ruins, had made a brilliant discovery. He had come upon the long-lost effigy of Lady Alicia, in no way damaged, but in a perfect state of preservation. The event created quite a stir in antiquarian circles, The Times going so far as to publish a photograph. Sanction was obtained from the Consistory Court for the replacement of the effigy on the tomb. The work was carried out by Percy Wimborne, under the supervision of the vicar.

But the sinister chronicle of Dellmead was destined to a strange conclusion. Not very long after Martin's trial and conviction a conference was held at the War Office. A group of Very Important People was assembled in the room to the right, at the head of the main staircase, with a map of Southern England spread out before them.

One of those present laid his finger on the map. “That's the best place for a Battle Area,” he said positively. “During the war Canadian troops were stationed there, and they reported that training facilities for all arms were excellent.”

The august personage with whom the decision lay adjusted his glasses and peered at the pointing finger, and read aloud the name it indicated. “Dellmead? I seem to have seen the name in the papers quite recently. Wasn't there a murder there or something?”

“I believe there was.” one of the others replied. “But that's all to the good. The locals won't make so much fuss when they get orders to quit.”

“It could be represented to them as a purely temporary measure,” someone remarked.

The first speaker chuckled. “That dodge worked all right with the Battle Areas in Norfolk. The folk there were promised that they should be back in their homes long ago, but we're still in possession.”

“And mean to stop there,” a man who had not yet spoken replied grimly. “Yes. I am in full support of the present proposal. I know the district well, and consider it most suitable. There is a large house there, occupied at present, I believe, by the local doctor, which would serve very well as headquarters.” He took a pencil and drew a rough circle, including the whole village, the meadows, and a wide sweep of the downs. “That should be the approximate perimeter of the area.”

“Very well, then,” said the august personage, who had other more important claims upon his time. “We will consider that settled. I will take steps to have a Requisition Order prepared. You gentlemen will no doubt work out the details. Good morning.”

So it was that the inhabitants of Dellmead became displaced persons, forced to abandon their homes to the ravages of tank and mortar. If the devil indeed haunted the ancient scenes of evil, he must have chuckled at the destruction wrought. The Priory ruins housed armoured vehicles, the refectory became an armoury, the crypt was filled to capacity with ammunition and grenades. The Crossbeam, standing boldly on its mound became an obvious strong-point, and gradually crumbled away under the successive attacks made upon it. Only the church was spared, for use as a chapel by the troops. Worshippers clad in battle-dress may have spared a passing glance for the effigy of Lady Alicia.

The doctor's distress at his eviction was somewhat relieved when it was broken to him that his niece was about to leave him. He packed up his remaining treasures, not forgetting the precious Prayver records, and departed in search of some other spot in which to spend his declining years.

The vicar was offered, and accepted, a living in another diocese. He, too, departed, taking Sarah Fitton with him. Rather more than a year after Lady Prayver's death, Merrion read an item in the Marriages Column of The Times:

“Prayver-Grinstead. On November 6th, at St. Peter's, Parrybridge, the Rev. Lord Justin Prayver, to Hilary Grinstead, niece of Dr. Cecil Grinstead, M.R.C.P., F.R.C.S.”

Although the notice did not mention the fact, Ronnie Bayloss officiated as best man. And, of course, Grinstead gave away the bride.

THE END