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 tha