This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
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Etext courtesy Satanus
BILL BUTLER sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The operation confirmed his improbable fancy that the sun was shining. He extended an arm to the window curtains. They could be drawn back without getting out of bed, so narrow was the room, the bed so broad. He blinked at turquoise sky and sparkling pasture, at amber cloud pierced by a sharp mountain ridge.
He strode into the kitchen—three strides sufficed—disengaged his wife from the patent boiler and the patent cooker, and kissed her earnestly.
“Feeling good?” she asked.
“Are things what they seem or is visions about?”
“You're not my husband. You're up before I called you.”
“Methought it wasn't raining. Isn't it, Nancy?”
“It's a beautiful day. And the eight o'clock forecast was fine.”
“Help! But Scawgill Edge stands clear. The first time in months. Hark to the voice of strange command to rise and follow the ways that wend over the hills and far away. Gird up your loins.”
“I wish I could, Bill. My poor child, the sweep is coming.”
“Why is he? We didn't get into the place till autumn.”
“The chimneys must be swept before winter. I told you the sweep would come to—day.”
“These patent stoves burn smokeless fuel. They shouldn't want the chimneys swept.”
“Don't argue. Run and get your bath while there's hot water. I'm raking the fires out.”
“You should try to keep 'em in. Then the precious patents would conk out of themselves.”
“Idiot!” said Nancy, and ejected him.
She gave him breakfast in the kitchen—it was the one warm room—a pleasant room, all cream paint and stainless steel, except the speckled grey enamelled boiler and cooker, occupying half of it—it looked east over an orchard of trim bush apples to the stark line of Scawgill Edge.
“The Edge isn't clear,” said Nancy.
“The sun's clearing it right along. We'd have had a grand day up there.”
“Too much of a day. You're not quite fit for big hikes yet.”
“I'm that fat I split my pants. If I don't walk it off you'll be shamed.”
“Fat? You are my shame—a shameful skeleton. Mrs. Honey asked if she might do the cooking, no offence, dearie, it worried a gentleman his lady should cook and just nature Mr. Butler couldn't relish his victuals.”
“I always believe Mrs. Honey. Everything she says she contradicts next time we meet. Comfortable female, which is unusual in her size. The little ones are generally determined and tremendous.”
“Mrs. Honey is determined, though so comfortable. I suppose I'm not.”
“Not you, my girl. That is why I love you.”
“Because I'm weak in the head?”
“Because you've a first—class open mind, because you see excuses for everybody—because I couldn't do with—out you.”
Nancy came to him and ruffled his hair. “You might have done better with someone else, Bill.”
He jumped up and grasped her and shook her. “Stop! I only meant you could have had a nicer place than this.”
“This is paradise—with you.”
“And the sweep,” said Nancy.
A piercing voice cried, “I've come, Mrs. Butler, good morning, regular settled fine and bright it is, not as I'd trust it, too clear, and the papers was late.”
“You're early, Mrs. Honey,” said Nancy.
“I couldn't bear you to start the sweep yourself, my dear.”
Bill fled out to the garden. Mrs. Honey's conversation amused him; Mrs. Honey in action made the place a shambles. Worse for Nancy than him. Or was it? Nancy could control any creature if she chose. Why let the Honey heathen rage? Nancy delighted to play the angel of the storm, arrange difficulties, organise troubles.
Yes. She insisted he wasn't fit in order to keep on reconditioning him. No—he was an ungrateful brute. She'd work herself to death for his comfort.
But why had she said he'd have done better with someone else? There wasn't a girl he cared about except her. Did she mean the dashing damsel at Upgill, Esther Kemp? Not his pick. Streamlined, over sexed. A bird of prey. Yet Nancy had an eye on the wench—an encouraging eye.
Queer family the Kemps. Old Kemp, the father, rough and tough money grubber, drove his quarrymen hard and housed 'em in pig—sties. Gilthwaite village was a nineteenth—century eyesore. Yet Kemp had ideas. He'd done imaginative rebuilding in spots. His own new house, Upgill, looked half crazy and altogether attractive. He'd made a wonderful job transforming a row of hovels into the ornate cottage Nancy jumped at. Mad place, outside, a pink Italian villa, living —room, a baronial hall, kitchen, an operating theatre, umpteen other rooms microscopic, innumerable infuriating gadgets, but the whole show smiled.
And old Kemp had contrived it and—before he built Upgill—inhabited it himself—though he exuded black—blooded gloom.
Almost incredible he was the father of his children. They were amazing different from him and each other. Frank Kemp, normal plus, jolly good chap, and all round efficient. No decent creature could help liking Frank and he liked everybody—his one fault. He even liked Esther. Perhaps brotherhood exempted him from her predacious sex stuff.
Disgusted at reverting to Esther, Bill abandoned meditation on the queerness of the Kemp family and admired—the landscape. Gilthwaite valley, Gilwater below, and omitting the quarry ugliness, the flashing tarn and Scawgill's stark edge above.
A grand day to do the long Edge tramp. He could, in spite of Nancy. He was fit enough, not a shake, not a tremor, all the rainy cold autumn, fighting fit, the malaria bugs had worked 'emselves out. Yes, but he couldn't push off and leave Nancy to slave at her chores all day.
Conscious of virtue, he spent the morning in a stroll round the fields to the village, that he might get the belated papers for Nancy. She read the births, marriages and deaths. Also he might get a scrap of edible fish and, if very lucky, some kind of fruit.
The Gilthwaite fishmonger—greengrocer combination offered hake and haddock, equally noxious and consoled him with exotic expensive plums. As he left the shop, a man rushed out of the ironmonger's and accosted him, a man he didn't know from Adam.
“Mr. Church only just gave me Mrs. Butler's message, Mr. Butler. I'll come up and attend to the roof at once.”
Bill gasped. “What's the roof done?”
“Oh, I see. You were out at the time. One of your chimney pots fell and smashed the roof and the ceiling.”
The unknown hurried away to a van.
Bill trudged after him, puzzled, anxious. A lorry hooted and stopped. The driver sprang at Bill calling: “Mr. Butler, sir, it's all O.K., I opened the door and got the soot,” jumped on the lorry again and roared off.
A second unknown, more mysterious. Why had he visited the cottage? What door had he opened? Why had he touched the soot? Were the Gilthwaite people gone crackers?
The assurance of the driver quenched alarm about Nancy. Anyhow she couldn't have telephoned the ironmonger to send up the first unknown if she were much hurt. But the Gilthwaiters—a nonsense rhyme taped them —“far and few, far and few are the lands where the jumblies live.”
He climbed the steep straight lane to the cottage at cheerful speed, descrying no break in the roof, uncertain of the original number of chimney pots. As he entered the cottage Nancy met him, clutched him and giggled! “Oh Bill, you've lost a lot. I've had a wonderful time! The sweep was magnificent.”
“Was he? C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas le pot de cheminee.”
“Chimney pot? That gave the ultimate joy, the happy ending not the odd start. Mr. Vole is an angelic babe —”
“You know your sweep's name. Wise girl.”
“I am. I didn't know how to open the door in the cooker flue.”
“Your patent stoves are unknowable.”
“Mr. Effing knew them.”
“Who on earth is he?”
“The coal merchant. He brought up a lorry load of anthracite, bless him, and opened the flue door with the larder door handle and the soot came out, clouds and clouds, and the larder door won't open now. Mr. Vole kept beautifully calm. Mrs. Honey stormed. Mr. Vole went on to the living—room, said he remembered the chimney pot had a cap. I stayed in the kitchen. Mrs. Honey needed converse, crashes quieted her. A crack on the roof, a plaster fall in the living—room. Mr. Vole said his brush might have brushed the chimney cap off. The angel was almost cross with the cap and the pot. I had rare fun consoling him and Mrs. Honey.”
“You would have. I am not envious, though I admire.”
“Darling! I phoned Mr. Church to send Mr. Tollitt.”
“What is Tollitt?”
“The painter, you know.”
“I don't. Nor do I know why the painter should mend the roof and obtain and erect chimney pots.”
“The painter is the builder. He won't have to buy a chimney pot, thank goodness, for he says you can't nowadays.”
“I am relieved. Are we to beg, borrow or steal a pot?”
“One of the pots we have will do.”
“Has the crazy cottage umpteen spare chimney pots?”
“Two—below the back shed. You never notice anything.”
“Uncountable unaccountable rum things about. Weird person the cottage constructor and former inhabitant, old Kemp.”
“Why on earth grouse at Mr. Kemp? He made the cottage delightful and let us buy it, and now we could sell it for much more than we paid.”
“Nancy the financier.”
“Stop blethering. Mr. Tollitt examined the roof and said all safe, just one slate cracked, he'd cement it and put up the chimney pot and do the ceiling this afternoon.”
“Quick on the job.”
“And Mrs. Honey is determined to stay until he's finished, and clear all the mess he makes.”
“Poor Tollitt.”
“She likes him. She's his aunt by marriage or something.”
“Everybody in Gilthwaite is related to everybody else. Stern strain.”
“You drivel. You wanted a walk. We can walk the rest of the day. I've packed lunch.”
“Providence taking charge, pressed me I should purchase plums, as I perceived no pears. Put the prize in the pack, pretty one. My private personality plays alliteration's artful aid. We'll pick a place in the pleasant pasture near the pure tarn and peck the precious parcel to pieces, and presently proceed to potter up to the peak, the Edge high point.”
“No, child, not comic. Nor shall we climb the Edge. We'll eat below the tarn and stroll round.”
“If you please. Pray mind you preserve your protective p's and q's, pride in your port, poisonous petty prejudice plucked from your pink person and pushed off.”
“Imbecile,” said Nancy. “Close down.”
“Perhaps you're right. I pulled a poor punch. I'm pumped. Pardon —”
“No,” Nancy interrupted, “no more.” She went into the cottage and returned with a rucksack. “Give me your fruit.”
“Plums, precious.”
She threw the rucksack at him and marched away.
He followed but kept behind her.
She stopped. “You were tiresome,” she complained.
“I was silly. I am often silly, not often so silly.”
“Why were you?”
“I don't know the answer. Overwhelmed by general craziness.”
“The sweep and the chimney and the roof,” Nancy laughed. “It was a mad morning. You've won the finest afternoon ever.”
“I hope you're right. Splendacious view up Scawgill way.”
“Look at the valley, the whole valley, shining emerald and amethyst down to Gilwater.”
“If you talk jewellery, Gilwater is turquoise and moonstone. I'd call it a calm, smiling face. Look up at the tarn.”
“The tarn's no jewel, it's anthracite black.”
“It flashes diamond bright, joy out of black gloom.”
“Romantic, melodramatic simile. Come on, Bill. We agreed to lunch there and I'm perishing empty.”
The view they enjoyed at the tarn six hundred feet higher, excluded the dull eastward slope, the quarry gash and rubbish and the village, included only three or four human dwellings: the quaint flat—roofed semicircular house, Upgill, which Kemp had erected for himself; Gilthwaite Park, a dull nineteenth—century structure, home of the valley landlord. Colonel Hawley; and remote in the yellow—grey mountain solitude, one white farm.
The tarn was not altogether natural. A track had been made to it, streams had been led into it, it had been deepened to yield water power for the quarry a thousand feet below. The engineering had not injured the comical tortuous pattern of cultivated little field and meadow spreading from the valley to the unfenced mountain pastures. No human work spoilt the giant cliff of Scawgill Edge.
“Rare day,” said Nancy.
“Gorgeous. At the top,” said Bill.
“Another day'll come.”
“Jam to—morrow.”
“Jam now. See the mellow light on the waterfall, heavenly, and the bracken there, shining russet, gold, purple. Let's walk that way, along the middle stream.”
“Squdge on, squdge on, the web foot way, and merrily hent the ooze, ah, a merry heart goes all the way, a sad one drops in a snooze, ah.”
The streams were overflowing. Nancy plunged across bog and announced: “Kind of path.”
“Old track round the Edge.”
“How long have you known it?”
“I don't know it, except from the map.”
“Isn't it used?”
“Who would use it the dem' demp moist unpleasant weather we've had?”
Nancy left the path to admire glistening bracken.
“Stop!” Bill called.
“What's the matter?”
“Grave incident.”
“Foolish. Those are sheep's bones.”
“No, my girl. Human.”
She examined them. She shivered. “They are—they're quite white —long dead—were they a man or a woman?”
“I can't judge. You go home and 'phone the police. I'll stay on the spot.”
“Why?”
“The police would miss it if I didn't stay. Off you go.”
In fact he stayed to look for another bone unsuccessfully.
He did descry another man—a square—shouldered man walking down the tarn track. Old Kemp—avoiding him, avoiding Nancy.
ON CHRISTMAS Eve the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department apologised to Mr. Fortune. “You are necessary, Reginald.”
“Me?” Reggie groaned. “At the worst time of the year—in hoary winter's night—me mountaineering? Oh no, no. Let the local expert do the local job.”
“The local police, Ribland County and Ribham City, are unable to agree what the job is.”
“Two police forces! Two disagreeable quarrelsome constabularies! I am not in their battle.”
“You won't have to climb mountains. They are agreed the search was thorough, found all that remained of the body. The head is missing.”
“Oh! I wonder.”
“A missing head implies murder, doesn't it?”
“It did—in the Crippen case—in several cases. Wondered if police found every article there was to find.”
Lomas chuckled. “Your usual dim view of police intelligence. The Ribland Ribham medical experts say the bones are those of a woman over twenty, under thirty, have had no flesh on them for six months or a year, and the time and cause of death are quite uncertain and her appearance in life indescribable.”
“Shy experts.”
“Not of your class, Reginald.”
“Expert medical intelligence often dim, same like police. I should say the medical men also differed, each backing his own constabulary, but unlike the police, wouldn't quarrel, agreed on a compromise, taking each police force anywhere and nowhere.”
“Could an expert fix the approximate date of death?”
“I haven't the slightest idea.”
“It's not impossible?”
“It's impossible to tell.”
“Till you try?”
“Oh no. No. Not me.”
“Public services throughout the region are involved.”
“Officials in the case! Leave it alone. Leave bumble fight bumble.”
“A woman was killed. A Ribham woman is missing.”
“Official woman?”
“She was secretary to the Clerk of the Ribham District Water Board. She was last seen on May 8th at the office.”
“Husband—home—people?”
“She wasn't married, she lived in a flat, there is no trace of any relations.”
“Usual private contacts missing. Odd. Age? Appearance?”
“Other women say she was thirty—five and looked twenty, short, plump, brunette.”
“Could delight men. Ever go anywhere with any man?”
“The women say she hated men.”
“Including her chief? Perfect female secretary.”
“Quite. We've all wanted to kill one. If she was killed it wasn't a crime of passion.”
“Of pure bumbledom?”
“The local authorities are fighting over development plans.”
“Planners always fight one another.”
“Ribham District Water Board and Ribland Regional Electricity Board covet the same valley, Gilthwaite, which has a lake at the bottom and a tarn at the top. The Electricity Board plans to extend the tarn for a power station below. The Water Board plans to extend the tarn and the lake as coupled reservoirs. Miss Naomi Griffiths —”
“The virginal secretary?”
“Yes. Of course she had inside knowledge of the Water Board plan, and if the bones found are hers, she died near the essential tarn.”
“Verdict, murder by a board or two. Evidence has uses.”
“The evidence is quite inadequate to justify a murder charge. The dead woman's identity is not established. The Ribham water people assume she was Miss Griffiths and was murdered, the Ribland electricity people jeer at the assumption, and city and county are in a scandalous wrangle.”
“What is the assumption? Perfect female secretary sold Electricity Board the Water Board secret plan? If she had, Electricity officials had no motive to knock her out, overwhelming motive to keep her alive, selling secrets.”
“Buying secret information is a dirty and dangerous trade. Wishful buyers have an immense number of motives to eliminate willing and unwilling sellers. Miss Griffiths may have sold every secret of value. She may have refused a sale and threatened exposure. In either case the buyers would want to shut her mouth.”
“Abstract view. Vague view. Leaves every question open.”
“The woman's disappearance from Ribham shows she was uncomfortable. It is impossible to judge whether she was crooked or not. The Ribham officials and police maintain she was quite straight, and suspect Ribland officials contrived her death because she'd discovered tricks of theirs. Ribland officials insist the tricks are on the other side, they know nothing of the woman, and the Ribland police insist the dead woman is not Miss Griffiths.”
“All officials and police, avoiding, same like you, fundamental question, why dead woman, Miss Griffiths or another, approached the top essential tarn. Sounds a long way up and from anywhere.”
“I don't know the district. Mardale's going back after Christmas. He'll introduce you to the bones and the officials, take you to the death place and everywhere else.”
“Yes, I am needed. I hate you. I wish you the unmerriest Christmas. Sole comfort, I like Mardale. He respects no opinion. Tell him I'll drive him to Ribham on the 28th.”
“Poor Mardale,” Lomas chuckled. “Thanks very much, Reginald.”
MRS. HONEY scolded Nancy for worrying over old bones. “Which plenty there are lying out up the mountain, and what you can't help you oughtn't think of, dearie.”
Four days later, Mrs. Honey came to the cottage eloquent, gushing varied information. “My dear, those bones you and Mr. Butler found, it was a woman, the doctors say, though I never trusted any doctor, and the police say she was murdered, at least that's one story. I always thought it was a woman myself, you know. As for her being murdered, I wouldn't be too sure, dearie. I have always said, there's women fairly ask for it, making men mad. Not but what the other way round happens just as often, men driving women so distracted they kill their men, or if natural nice women, kill theirselves. But you mustn't believe every story, my dear, one's only good till another is told, which many others there is. It ain't our own proper police say she was murdered, it's the Ribham police that came and ferreted all the village, on account of a Ribham young lady, a lady clerk, leaving sudden without notice last May and not having been heard of since. You know what young women are, dearie, ladies or no, they go off their heads for a man. All nonsense, the Ribham police saying a chap murdered her up at the quarry tarn. Gilthwaite ain't a visitors' place, any stranger is noticed. Strangers wouldn't find the track to the tarn. No, dearie, the Ribham young woman couldn't have gone up unbeknownst and she ain't been seen in the village, the police asked everyone, showing her photo, even went and asked Mr. Kemp and Mr. Frank Kemp and Colonel Hawley himself. I reckon Colonel Hawley gave 'em fleas in their ears and Mr. Kemp. But you needn't worry, they won't ask Mr. Butler, him and you didn't come to Gilthwaite till Michaelmas. If you'd like to know what I think, dearie, I think the Ribham young lady eloped with her fancy man, no Gilthwaite chap, and the woman, if woman it was, whose bones you found, she was hiking, climbing as young women do nowadays and silly they are, and died accidental as they do on the mountain, or killed herself intentional, frightened of having a child, betrayed by her lover.”
“As they are in the films,” said Nancy; escaped from Mrs. Honey, and reported her eloquence to Bill. “Isn't she marvellous? She distrusts everyone and everything, and has the weirdest ideas of her own.”
“Incompatible ideas. The woman's death was accidental and suicide, she was a stranger to Gilthwaite and a stranger couldn't have found her way to the tarn. No Gilthwaite man could have murdered her, and old Kemp and young Kemp and Colonel Hawley were suspected by the police. The marvellous Mrs. Honey told you I'd be suspected if we'd come to the cottage a little earlier, also told you the woman wasn't murdered by a Gilthwaite resident, I could have killed her before I came into residence.”
“Bill! Mrs. Honey didn't mean anything like that.”
“She wanted to make your flesh creep.”
“Have police shown you the Ribham woman's photograph?”
“No, the innocent police assumed a newcomer must be innocent.”
“That's not funny. Do you think she was murdered?”
“If her head had been found I'd have thought she wasn't.”
“Ghastly animals and creatures eat corpses, don't they?”
“Yes. I wouldn't expect they'd eliminate a human skull. I think an inhuman human creature abolished it to prevent anyone recognising her.”
“No one could recognise her just from her skull.”
“The skull might have been discovered with flesh on. It probably would have been if the weather hadn't been uncommon awful. You and I would have gone up to the tarn many a day.”
“Should we? It wasn't your choice. I wish I hadn't chosen it. I've never seen anyone else go.”
“The locals don't walk for pleasure. Old Kemp was up there when we found the bones. He might have observed 'em at an earlier date. He deliberately ignored your rush off and my stand still.”
“He's always wrapped up in himself.”
“I couldn't agree more.”
“Bill! You can't suspect Mr. Kemp. He has no energy for anything but his quarry, he's too old.”
“For killing a woman? I'm not certain of the age limit. The police suspected him and Colonel Hawley, who is even older than old Kemp.”
“Just village gossip. Mrs. Honey herself said it was nonsense, suspecting the old men. She loves all the Kemps.”
“The village does not love old Kemp. Mrs. Honey also said the police suspected young Kemp.”
“Frank? That's ridiculous. Everyone likes Frank Kemp.”
“Yes. Frank is a jovial soul, as likeable as young Whitfield, the quarry manager. Very different from his misanthropic father and his terrific sister.”
“Esther Kemp has no use for men.”
“Hasn't she! She has none for women, my girl, except her precious self.”
“Bill! You can't imagine she had anything to do with this woman's murder.”
“If I were a woman I wouldn't want Esther Kemp jealous of me.”
“You're horrid. Esther couldn't have been jealous of a woman who never lived here. It's absurd, idiotic. You're just talking to annoy.”
“No. To get what you think of Esther. If you thought her all right I'd believe she is.”
Nancy frowned. “Esther's hard to know, she doesn't wrap herself like Mr. Kemp, but she's always changing.”
“How right you are. ...”
A large car climbed from sodden plains towards a yellow sunset, and the moors and mountains of Ribland. The chauffeur at the back sucked his teeth in protest against Mr. Fortune's driving.
Inspector Mardale encouraged it. “You can let her out now, sir. Only long distance lorries and sheep use this road and the sheep are agile.”
“Bleak brown waste,” Reggie complained. “Is the Gilthwaite mountain of the female bones same kind?”
“It has shape and form, it's quite as wild.”
“She walked among the untrodden ways. Why did she?”
“You've come to answer that one, Mr. Fortune. I can't. All I have about the missing Ribham woman indicates she never walked the mountains.”
“Curious. Lived unknown and few could know when Naomi ceased to be.”
“There's no hard evidence Naomi Griffiths is dead, no evidence the dead woman was Naomi. No other woman in these parts is missing. There is no probability a strange woman would walk where the bones were found.”
“So you conclude no woman died, though one is dead. Interesting idea.”
“I'm not interested in paradoxes, Mr. Fortune. Not many women go long walks alone. Any woman off her head might go anywhere and commit suicide.”
“Suicide possible, yes. Any evidence Naomi was off her head?”
“Her chief and her acquaintances say she was calm, cool, level —headed.”
“Your own type, Mardale. Chief—acquaintances—didn't she have a friend?”
“No intimate friend, by all accounts.”
“I wonder. Secretive on her private life.”
“Very. She may have been intimate with a man—not with a Ribham man, she couldn't have kept that secret.”
“Gilthwaite man?”
“The Ribland police swear she never visited Gilthwaite, the Ribham police she knew Gilthwaite people. There isn't a shred of evidence either way.”
“What are the local police theories? Ribland theory, dead woman not Naomi Griffiths, simple, clear and unsatisfying. Ribham theory, indefinite, obscuring the obscure. Naomi was murdered at Gilthwaite—by a Gilthwaite man for private reasons, love, hate—also for public reasons, water scheme, electricity scheme. Are you backing Ribland or the diverse Ribham views?”
“I am neutral. You're too absolute about the differences of view. Private and public reasons could have combined in Naomi's murder.”
“Love, hate, greed, ambition can combine, yes. Public reasons are apt to stick out. Are they visible in a Gilthwaite man?”
“The Gilthwaite big noises might oppose the water and electricity schemes—an old chap, Kemp, the quarry owner, and the district landowner, Colonel Hawley.”
“Also old?”
“Prehistoric, I understand, old—time squire.”
“Well, well. Naomi, between twenty and thirty, if Ribham experts are accurate, improbable she had a love affair with an aged man.”
“She wouldn't be the first young woman who had, and Kemp is said to have chased girls.”
“Hadn't chased Naomi in Ribham. If Naomi was the dead woman she chased Kemp—or someone else—in the Gilthwaite wilderness.”
“I agree, Mr. Fortune, if Naomi Griffiths was murdered, it wasn't a crime of simple passion, it was for self—protection. She knew the Ribham secret scheme, she knew the murderer. She could trick him, cheat him, blackmail him, endanger him.”
“Not a simple case, no. You are wise, Mardale. You include at large, you evade concluding.”
“Up to you, Mr. Fortune.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Reggie sighed. “I am blind. Not only woman missing, normal natural objects missing. Or are they?”
Mardale frowned. “Her head—I don't know of any other part.”
“Her clothes,” Reggie murmured. “Were her clothes found?”
“I'll enquire,” Mardale snapped.
“Good of you,” Reggie purred, and accelerated through denser traffic, interrupting the conversation.
After a few hazardous minutes, he gasped, “My only aunt!” He pointed at smoke covering the sprawl of a large drab town. “Is it Ribham?”
“You should see it on a wet day,” said Mardale. “It generally is wet.”
“Like a brown mud pie as it is,” Reggie groaned. “Not a place to stay in.”
“You don't know how right you are,” said Mardale. “It is a thriving city.”
NANCY BUTLER took Bill away from Gilthwaite to spend Christmas with her maiden sister, Catherine Eliot, an Oxford don, and brought Catherine back with them.
Bill was amazed at the invitation and at Catherine's accepting it. He did not dislike his sister—in—law—in her proper place—which was not an isolated ill—equipped mountain cottage. And Nancy had refused to have anyone till the spring.
His amazement increased as he observed Nancy's determination Catherine should accompany him whenever he went out. He was not annoyed. Catherine amused him. He was anxious. He supposed Nancy couldn't stop worrying he wasn't fit.
Very different, Nancy and Catherine, except in appearance. Both tall and buxom, bronze hair, blue eyes. Nancy, gentle, sweet, innocent. Catherine, proud, scornful, omniscient. Yet she could talk pleasing nonsense—intentionally and unintentionally—and she made Nancy walk with them in the afternoons.
On the last afternoon but one of the year they walked round Gilthwaite Park, up the valley.
“A mountain is unnatural,” said Catherine. “It exudes moral uplift.”
“You're incredibly young,” said Bill.
“The celibate enjoys perpetual youth.”
“Unable to grow up.”
“I am infinitely maturer than you and Nancy.”
“A shocking infant.”
“Every woman is more mature than any man, from her beginning to her end.”
“And teaches her grandfather to suck eggs.”
“She may teach her husband to take care of himself,” said Nancy.
“By that sin fell the angels,” said Catherine.
“What does that mean?”
“You are ambitious.”
A big man strode towards them, stopped and saluted. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Butler. Hallo, Butler. You're free of the park, you know. Walk through any time you want.” He stared at Catherine.
Nancy thanked him and introduced Miss Eliot and Colonel Hawley.
Colonel Hawley saw at once they were sisters, the best compliment to both, was certain they had had a merry Christmas, hoped Miss Eliot would stay in Gilthwaite a long while.
Catherine did feel tempted.
Colonel Hawley croaked laughter and marched off.
“Ye dragons and all deeps!” said Catherine.
“Not a dragon, a dragoon,” said Bill. “The original Colonel Blimp.”
“He has the cavalry swagger. You have the infantry prejudice. He isn't Blimp, he's terrific, a modern Viking.”
“Catherine! Our legs are not pulled. Nancy is grieved, I am disgusted at the sham you've fallen for Hawley. It is odd he fell for you, but that's no excuse.”
“I was mere camouflage. Nancy is his real flame.”
Nancy laughed. “I am not inflammable. You don't know how fascinating you are, Catherine. The man never thrust himself on me and Bill.”
“What does he do?”
“He doesn't,” said Bill. “His ancestors grabbed the valley and made the quarry, curse them. He's mortgaged one and sold the other.”
“And thus he bore without abuse the grand old name of gentleman. A magnificent compliment, his ultimate discovery Mr and Mrs. Butler exist.”
“Thank you, Catherine. The old dud has no existence himself.”
“He seemed an animal tremendously alive.”
“He is a futile person,” said Nancy. “His life is hunting and shooting.”
“The blood sports that made England what she isn't, the mother of the free. A prehistoric person. You civilised people are unjust to the type. The noble savage is no futile fool.”
“Right you are, Catherine,” said Bill. “He's Mrs. Harris.”
“Too difficult.”
“The illiteracy of Oxford. Mrs. Betsy Prig, in just wrath at appeals to Mrs. Harris, told Mrs. Sairey Gamp, who invented her, 'there's no sech a person'. The case of your noble savage is identical.”
“Beyond argument. You could abolish anyone,” Catherine smiled.
“I'd rather keep Nancy, and—to quote the old dud—'I hope Miss Eliot will stay a long while'.”
“Oh, that's enough about Colonel Hawley,” Nancy cried. “Forget him and stop jabbing each other.”
“My wife is not amused, Catherine. I own my jabs were blunt japes.”
“Alas, my poor brother, mine were pointless.”
“Unwounded, I apologise.”
“I'm sorry I wasn't injured.”
“We kiss again with tears, Nancy.”
“You don't know how, Bill. Get on. I want to get up high.”
“The multitude below live, for they can, there,” said Catherine.
“In plain English, the higher you go the fewer,” said Bill. “Up and up, Nancy. Few I am but fit.”
Nancy ignored their impudence and marched on ahead of them. . . .
“Strike me pink,” Bill exclaimed. “A crowd.” He stopped. “An unreasonable crowd. One, two, three, four incomprehensibles.”
“Nancy appears to know them,” said Catherine.
“I know them. Each one,” said Bill. “Not as a quartette.”
“Three men. One woman,” said Catherine. “Who is the polyandrous female?”
“Miss Esther Kemp, daughter of the quarry owner.”
“A handsome girl.”
“If you like them like that. With Miss Kemp, her aged parent—a combination I have never observed till now—and her brother, Frank Kemp —an uncommon combination—and Stephen Whitfield, the quarry manager —often about with Frank Kemp—not with Miss Kemp nor old Kemp.”
“It's the holiday season.”
“Old Kemp is reputed allergic to holidays.”
“And Bill Butler is without affection for the Kemps old and young, though Nancy Butler likes them all.”
“Nancy likes everyone as much and as long as the most amiable soul can. I'm not that amiable. I can and do like Frank Kemp—quite a decent fellow. The old man and the girl scare me.”
Catherine walked on to Nancy and the Kemps and Whitfield. Bill remained aloof from the conference.
Nancy was enjoying herself. Nothing odd in that. Her deplorable habit to enjoy meeting people. Uncommon odd the Kemps met her, were so talkative, so forthcoming, made such a lot of her and Catherine.
Not old Kemp—he was as usual, dumb and glum. But Frank and Esther, extra merry, caressive, possessive, and Whitfield supported them, quiet, light—handed.
They formed a jumbled column, put Nancy between Esther and Frank, Catherine on Frank's other side, Whitfield hovering behind Nancy and behind Catherine, old Kemp behind Whitfield, and marched away from the quarry and the Kemps' house.
Bill did not join the march, was puzzled and annoyed to see them approach and stop at his cottage gate. He followed quick.
“Were you thinking great thoughts, Mr. Butler?” Esther enquired.
“Yes. Thinking of you, Miss Kemp.”
“What do you think of me?”
“It would make you blush.”
“I can.”
“Her capacity is unlimited,” said Frank. “She's tempting you, Butler.”
“Impossible,” said Bill.
“Mr. Butler wouldn't yield to temptation,” Esther laughed.
“Do come in.” said Nancy.
“I should love to, but —”
“Oh, come and have tea.”
Esther looked at her father, who shook his head.
“I'm afraid we must get back,” said Frank.
“What a pity. Come next week, then,” said Nancy.
Esther and Frank and Whitfield accepted the invitation. Old Kemp muttered: “Thanks, Mrs. Butler. If I shouldn't see you again—Happy New Year.”
Entering the cottage Bill asked, “Why on earth?”
“You were abominably rude,” said Nancy. “Wasn't he, Catherine?”
“He is a fearful man.”
“I funk father and daughter Kemp. You evade the question, Nancy.”
“I invited them because I wanted them. Esther's interesting, Frank's charming, all good nature and good brain; Mr. Kemp makes me feel sorry for him.”
“The question remains evaded. Why on earth did the Kemp family and Whitfield meet us? Why were they—except old Kemp—all over you and Catherine? Just like Colonel Hawley.”
“They just wanted to be sociable and agreeable—unlike you. You are a pig, Bill.”
“Why the Kemps met the Butlers is not the darkest question,” said Catherine. “Why did Mr. Kemp indicate he wouldn't see Nancy again and wish her a Happy New Year?”
Bill laughed. “He wasn't jibing at Nancy. He always exudes gloom, a universal blackout.”
“You haven't answered the question. What is the cause of his gloom?”
“Sour joyless nature.”
“You are cruel,” Nancy exclaimed. “Mr. Kemp is old and tired and lonely.”
“With his son and daughter?” Catherine asked.
“His wife died years ago,” said Nancy.
“That explains everything,” Catherine smiled.
THE CITY of Ribham is both ancient and modern. It has a Norman castle and an early English cathedral, and around them miles of nineteenth—and twentieth—century factories, warehouses, suburbs. It commands pleasant country, its inhabitants are reputed to do themselves exceedingly well and never to die.
Ancient and modern, stone and brick and cement, it is all drab, reddish brown, Mr. Fortune's original view, that it is horrible, was not changed on acquaintance.
He sat curled up in an uneasy chair by his bedroom fire, smoking a pipe, eyes closed.
Mardale entered. “A little wet to—day, Mr. Fortune.”
“Nasty wet.”
“Have you come to a conclusion?”
“Oh no! No! The mind is impotent. Sad but true, local medical expert dimness reasonable. Ascertained facts are uncertain. Woman about thirty, under five and a half feet, expired some time ago, her bones had lain in or on damp earth almost a year when found at Gilthwaite.”
“What caused her death?”
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! I haven't the slightest idea.”
“What about the removal of her head?”
“Absence of head interesting and curious. Impossible to tell why it was removed.”
“A murderer would remove it to conceal her identity.”
“Oh yes. And dumb inhuman animals would remove it to eat.”
“Can't you tell whether the head was cut off or broken off?”
“All the bones were gnawed and pecked. Marks of a knife, if any, now obliterated. I don't know the Gilthwaite mountain animals. I should say fox, rat, dog, raven, crow, attacked the corpse. Which, does not explain how she became a corpse. There is an odd unmedical fact, complete obliteration of her clothes. Improbable an animal ate them. Probability the clothes obliterator murdered the woman which, as he intended, leaves us ignorant who she was and who he was.”
“Quite. Vainly conjecturing on conjectural personalities and forming no conclusion.”
“My dear Mardale! Unjust to yourself. You know you know everything about Naomi Griffiths. Tell me.”
“The only distinctive thing about her is there's little to know. She was an efficient office machine, her one interest function. Civil, without friends. She wasn't ugly, nor particularly attractive, dark, plump figure, shortish.”
“How short?”
“Not much more than five feet, to judge by photographs.”
“Oh! Interesting! The dead woman was less than five feet six and was broadhipped. Could be Naomi Griffiths. Ribham police idea could be justifiable. Have they unearthed anyone at Gilthwaite who had any contact with her?”
“Enquiries at Gilthwaite have been an absolute flop.”
“Your enquiries?”
“No. I am only allowed to advise.”
“What is your estimate of the Ribham police?”
“Average. Crude but conscientious.”
“Not enough. The defunct woman, Naomi or another, must have had some acquaintance with Gilthwaite, some objective there. Intelligent enquiry essential and would unearth both. How do the Ribham police account for Naomi visiting Gilthwaite?”
“Their theory is she went to meet or to watch a Ribland Electric official. The Ribland Board has had planners in the Gilthwaite area on survey.”
“Well, well. And the Ribland police theory is the defunct was not Naomi, was an anonymous female whose disappearance kith and kin, employer and all, have omitted to report. Two theories, each just conceivable, each unconvincing.”
“So you end with no conclusion, Mr. Fortune.”
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! We have not ended. We haven't begun. Sad city, Ribham, enfeebling city. Is Gilthwaite a liveable place?”
“I shouldn't advise you to try. It's a quarry village. Down at Gilwater there's a hotel famous for honeymoons. That would suit you.”
“Well enough, if Gilthwaite vale has a usable road. You'll protect my innocence from honeymooning.”
“The zigzag of the road'll protect the natives from your dangerous driving. But what can you ascertain at Gilthwaite now?”
“I haven't the emptiest idea,” Reggie murmured.
IT WAS a dark afternoon, Scawgill Edge cloud—capped, mist rolling up the valley. Bill's desire to go high Nancy forbade, would not go out herself, and ordered Catherine not to let him take her above the tarn.
“Is an anxious wife a crown to her husband?” Bill enquired of Catherine, as they left Nancy.
“Husbands are vain folk. No husband has the wife he deserves.”
“The benevolent unjust rule of providence. A casual husband has an anxious wife, a thoughtful husband a selfish one. Which is Catherine marrying?”
“Men can marry inferiors and enjoy it. A woman cannot. I am therefore unable to marry a man.”
“Hard lines, Catherine.”
“Smiling on me.”
“The jolly celibate. Keep it up—and keep up, we're far below the tarn.”
“The mist is closing down and darkening.”
“Oh no. The eddies are whirling round and round.”
“A foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.”
“Quite light now high up. Go on.”
Catherine had stopped. “What was that?” she asked.
“What was what?”
“The noise.”
“I heard nothing.”
“A kind of crash, like stones falling.”
“Stone falls aren't unusual in winter, but wouldn't reach us. Go ahead.”
“I'd rather not. It's deadly dark.”
“Wait a bit. It'll clear.”
Through the mist a man reeled towards them and panted: “Seen anyone?”
“We have not. Anything wrong, sir?” Bill enquired.
“Taken a toss. Where've you come from?”
“A cottage in the mountain lane. Do you know Gilthwaite?”
“I don't know where I am.” The man swayed.
Bill held him. “Come along and have a drink.”
“Who are you?” the man muttered.
“The names are Butler and Miss Eliot. I'm reconditioning from Burmese malaria. My wife gets anxious if I'm late on tea.”
“My own name is Irvine,” the man responded.
“Can you walk?” Catherine asked.
“I was a trifle dizzy but the enfeebling sensation has passed.”
“Fine,” said Bill. “It isn't a long walk to the cottage.”
Irvine walked as if he were uninjured.
“What made you dizzy?” Catherine asked.
“I happened to fall.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was. Your kind self and Mr. Butler are the only persons I have encountered.”
“Were you climbing?”
“I am no climber, in the technical sense. I am a humble mountain walker.”
“Did you go up from Gilthwaite?”
“From the Gilwater road. I have no use for quarry villages.”
“Gilthwaite is a peach,” said Bill.
“Was it the first time you'd walked these mountains?” Catherine asked.
“The first I ever walked this side. I rarely get an opportunity to walk anywhere.”
Catherine ended her cross—examination at a shout from Bill. “Here we are, Nancy.”
Nancy opened the cottage door. “Come along, children. You're late.”
“My wife—Mr. Irvine. He took a small toss, Nancy.”
“I am glad Bill found you, Mr. Irvine. We are on the 'phone. I'll call the doctor.”
“You needn't trouble, thank you. I'm not hurt.”
In the cottage Irvine was as uncommunicative as in the mist outside. Except that his clothes were wet and bedraggled no evidence of his fall appeared.
He swallowed cup upon cup of tea, rejected Bill's offer to show him the way to the Gilwater road, thanked Nancy in the curtest polite phrase, and departed.
“I am afraid he was badly hurt,” said Nancy.
“He is an impudent youth,” said Catherine.
“Nothing like as young as you, but wicked—queer,” said Bill.
“You are cruel,” said Nancy. “The man was hurt, you know he was, and you jibe at him.”
“He told us he was hurt,” said Catherine. “He also told us he wasn't, insulting our intelligence. He answered natural questions by an evasive account of himself. He is unbelievable, a ridiculous mystifier.”
“You scared him, Catherine,” Bill laughed.
“Nonsense,” said Nancy. “He was in pain, not fear.”
“He exhibited much alarm,” said Catherine.
“Rather,” said Bill.
“You couldn't have frightened him, Catherine,” said Nancy. “And if he had been frightened of anyone he wouldn't have gone away by himself, when Bill offered to go with him.”
“You incorrigible optimist,” Catherine smiled. “He lied about his actual injury and yet no one had frightened him.”
“You're a cynic,” said Nancy. “Mr. Irvine is quiet and reserved, a most attractive man.”
“Darling,” said Bill.
NANCY lit the lamps. Bill wheeled the tea—table into the kitchen. Catherine turned on her bath water.
These operations voices outside disturbed.
“Half a minute.”
“Easy, Stephen.”
“Right.”
“On you go now.”
Bill opened the door. The lamplight fell upon a trio, Esther and Frank Kemp and Stephen Whitfield. His head was bandaged with a red handkerchief.
“Hallo, Bill,” said Frank. “Steve's met trouble. Can we use your 'phone to get our car?”
“Come in, old chap. Come and talk to Nancy, Miss Kemp. I'm a first —class first—aider. Come on, Whitfield. Let me look at the damage.”
“Thanks!” said Whitfield. “It's nothing much. It's a shame to bother you.”
“Rot,” said Bill; left Esther and Frank to Nancy and Catherine, took Whitfield into the bath room and untied his bandage. There was a large swollen wound in his hair, a little one on his face.
He explained that he had been knocked down and passed out, couldn't imagine what hit him.
Bill thought it certain he'd been stunned by an attack from behind, the minor damage to his face was caused by his falling on it. “Before you passed out, had you seen anyone, Whitfield?”
“Not a soul. It was too misty.”
“Where were you?”
“Walking round the hillside.”
“I was up there this afternoon and heard a crash—possibly a stone fall.”
“I heard nothing.”
“What time did you start your walk?”
“About three.”
“Has anyone any reason to attack you?”
Whitfield laughed. “I am important. I may have unknown enemies. I rather think the fellow who broke my head took me for someone else, some more important person.”
“It's an ugly wound.” Bill completed the first aid. “You need a doctor, Whitfield, and the police.”
“Thanks very much, old chap. Frank'll drive me down to the doctor and get the police on the job.”
Bill ushered him into the living—room. “Why, Steve,” Esther exclaimed. “You are clean, you are beautiful. What a miracle.”
“How do you feel?” Frank asked.
“Quite comfortable.” Whitfield smiled at Nancy's anxious eyes. “I can't thank your husband enough, Mrs. Butler.”
“Are you sure you're fit to go home?” Nancy cried.
“You're always sure of yourself, aren't you, Steve?” Esther patted him.
Whitfield chuckled and told Nancy he was absolutely sure.
“Off we go.” said Frank. “You are kind, Mrs. Butler. All the best, Miss Eliot. Cheero, Bill!”
“Frank has no manners,” said Esther. “Please, Nancy, bring everyone to us soon.”
When they had gone. “An amiable damsel.” Catherine remarked.
“You mean the opposite,” said Bill. “And right you are.”
“I am very fond of Esther,” said Nancy.
“Like the young lady of Riga, you are very fond of a tiger.”
“That's idiotic. Esther's just a natural high—spirited girl.”
“With unnatural inhibitions,” said Catherine.
“Again you mean the opposite,” said Bill.
“No!” said Catherine. “The girl has an inferiority complex.”
“Fine old phrase, meaning you don't understand her and you don't like her. Now then, had Esther and Frank any idea how Whitfield was knocked out?”
“They couldn't imagine—he was unconscious when they found him, and they saw no one.”
“It's Whitfield's own story and almost his own words.”
“Is that a reason to doubt it?” Catherine asked.
“I am not doubting it, I think it's true, if not the whole truth. Has either of you told Frank or Esther about Irvine?”
“Nancy and I omitted to mention Mr. Irvine's existence.” said Catherine. “Have you told Mr. Whitfield his evasive account of himself?”
“Like you and Nancy, I thought Irvine outside the picture the Kemp —Whitfield combine paint. Whitfield was stunned by a blow from behind. He couldn't have damaged Irvine. Yet Irvine had crashed; he was all muddy wet and shaken and scared. It's evident a man attacked him. He told us, as Whitfield told us, he'd not encountered anyone, and each may have told the truth. Yet Irvine in his first dizzy reaction asked if we'd seen anyone. He knew a man was out for his blood. Allow a possibility, Whitfield's the man —-”
“And abandon hope of an intelligible explanation of Mr. Irvine's and Mr. Whitfield's obscurities,” said Catherine.
“I'm quite sure Mr. Irvine doesn't know Mr. Whitfield,” said Nancy, “and it wasn't Mr. Whitfield who hurt Mr. Irvine and Mr. Irvine couldn't have wounded Mr. Whitfield.”
“You darling,” said Bill. “Yes, Irvine and Whitfield are alike innocent. And in their innocence an unknown man sought their blood.”
“One man?” Catherine asked. “We have no proof the man who alarmed Mr. Irvine is the man who stunned Mr. Whitfield.”
“Two unidentified killers at one time and place? Not likely, Catherine.”
“The fact Mr. Irvine was alarmed does not validate your assumption a man attempted to kill him.”
“Both of you are horrible,” Nancy cried. “ You argue as if Mr. Irvine and Mr. Whitfield were quite untrustworthy, loathsome, wicked creatures, as if they hadn't suffered.”
“I admit I am unable to trust any of our visitors,” said Catherine. “They exhibited an abnormal reticence. Mr. Irvine withdrew himself under a screen of lies. Mr. Whitfield omitted to state why he, the quarry manager, walked round the hill this afternoon alone. Mr. Frank Kemp concealed the reason he walked the same way at the same time. Mr. Irvine, Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Frank Kemp agreed in ignoring the obvious question why an attack was made. The amiable damsel, Esther Kemp, appeared comparatively at ease and out—spoken. She gave no definite information, but she chaffed Mr. Whitfield and her precious brother.”
“I don't know why you call Frank Kemp precious,” Nancy exclaimed.
“He manifested that he has a gentle heart and loves everyone.”
“You're always sneering.”
“But why despise Frank, Catherine?” Bill asked. “He is really genial.”
“A perfect little gentleman,” said Catherine. “Esther and Mr. Whitfield are intelligent and vigorous.”
“Frank isn't weak,” Bill retorted. “He's the natural decent man.”
“I thought him excessively civilised, Esther much more natural and masculine —”
“Esther! She's extravagantly feminine.”
“Poor you,” Catherine smiled. “Mr. Whitfield understands her and she him.”
MR. FORTUNE came dreamily out of his bedroom at the Gilwater hotel, a bedroom exquisite for a honeymoon. The usual certainty had not occurred, the incredible had. It hadn't rained in the night and the morning was fine.
“I didn't expect you'd get up this early,” said Mardale.
“My dear fellow! Every prospect pleases and only the coffee is vile.”
“What is your special prospect?”
“The female bone site.”
“It'll be icy cold on the mountain.”
“The earlier investigation was not hot.”
Reggie's driving up the zigzags of the valley road amazed Mardale as excessively slow, cautious, observant. And Reggie babbled: “Kind valley. The lake is violet blue. The stream makes a joyful noise. There's gold in the green banks, coltsfoot, primroses.”
“You're talking Wordsworth,” said Mardale. “No flowers high up.”
“Flowers irrelevant, yes. Which way did Naomi, if Naomi it was, go up to the unflowery bone site?”
“The question is conjectural and the answer is conjectures multiplied. If Naomi went up to the bone site alive, she probably took the train from Ribham to Gilwater, the railhead, then walked along this valley road through Gilthwaite, or along footpaths above the valley. The negative evidence she wasn't observed in Gilthwaite opens any way you choose.”
“Evidence a murdered person wasn't seen not true of flowery murder. However. Balance of probability is, Naomi, if murdered, had avoided Gilthwaite, walked high footpaths, not the low road. Distressin' probability. No choice, Mardale. We take the high path.” He stopped the car and gazed at the dark jagged undulations of the mountain to Scawgill Edge. “How high?” he asked, tears in his voice. “The path, where is it?”
“You could have driven further,” Mardale laughed. “Now we strike up across the meadows. You'll have to climb a thousand or fifteen hundred feet. The gradient would have been easier if we'd started to climb a mile back.”
“Not tactful, no,” Reggie answered. “No joke, no use.”
“You hadn't informed me you meant to walk from below Gilthwaite.”
“Oh, my Mardale! Obvious need to walk the way she probably walked.”
“It's blind speculation which path she took. Try this one.” Mardale vaulted a field wall.
Reggie scrambled over, toiled over slippery drenched earth to a kissing gate and the open mountain. “Where now?” he panted.
“Up left and up and up.” Mardale chuckled.
Reggie stood still. “Bleak, bare, lonely.”
“Not attractive to visitors.”
“Attracted one female and one murderer.”
“Because it is lonely all round.”
“I wonder. Loneliness convenient for murder. No reason a female should visit loneliness for getting murder. Push on to the bone site.”
“As quick as you please.” Mardale strode away. Reggie did not hurry.
Near the tarn Mardale stopped and announced: “There's a man coming up from Gilthwaite.”
“Two men are visible,” Reggie drawled. “They are not coming our way. They are keeping low. Otherwise no particular direction.”
“There are two,” Mardale admitted. “There was only one. They're looking for somebody or something.”
“They could be. Do you recognise them?”
“No, I don't think I've ever seen either of 'em. And judging by their clothes they're not Gilthwaite men.”
“Another couple of unknown visitors to the loneliness—unconcerned with the bone site and Inspector Mardale—don't delay—speed up—we are not quick on the job.”
“You kept the speed down,” Mardale retorted. “It's probable these two were out to observe us.”
“No one, except me, knew you and I would come here.”
“A lot of people knew we'd come to Gilwater. Anyone intimate with the dead woman would expect us up here.”
“Oh my Mardale! A sanguine conjecture, flattering our vanity. And you rejected my humble one. Have we alarmed the murderer?”
“As we can't prove the death was murder, the murderer, unless he's an idiot, can't be frightened. He'd naturally watch our investigation.”
“And these two gentlemen are looking the other way.”
“They appear to be. An old dodge.”
“Wet way, our way,” Reggie moaned. “Up and up—do we come up out of the squelch and quake and bog?”
“It's unique gathering ground for water—hence the local jealousy about it.”
“Hence an urban female would not enjoy a walk on it. Or has it drier paths than you chose?”
“It has innumerable paths. It may have a dry one. I chose the shortest one from where you chose to leave the road. And here we are at the meeting of the three streams, near which the bones were discovered.”
“Waterfall close. Streams expansive. Very very wet place. At the time of the bone find was it all this wet?”
“Just as it is, I'm told.”
“Exact bone site, please.”
Mardale led him up the central stream through slough.
“Oh!” Reggie exclaimed. “Less wet. Bracken, nice gleaming bracken and gorse. My Mardale! Have we come to a firm path?” He looked up and down. “Yes, real path above, washed out below. Interesting and instructive. Naomi vanished early in May. At that date all the path could have been quite firm. She could have had an agreeable walk up.”
“You're not explaining why Naomi Griffiths should walk up to this loneliness.”
“Joyful region when equipped with spring flowers and birds.”
Mardale grinned. “Quite. She came to hear the birds and pick the flowers.”
“And add in the spring young woman's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” Reggie examined the bracken. “Intelligent and zealous police combed the earth. No useful facts now. A vacuum. Which nature abhors. So do I.” He wandered away.
“Are you off?” Mardale laughed.
“I am empty.” Reggie wandered further up the path, stopped and inspected a clump of gorse. He knelt, he thrust a careful hand into the spikes.
Mardale's attention was engaged by the two men, descending quickly towards the valley road.
Reggie extracted from the gorse a bird's nest, and from the nest a little scrap of delicate fabric. He sat on his heels and extracted another tiny piece.
Mardale came to him. “Those fellows have run out on us. Whatever are you doing? Bird's nesting?”
“There is no bird in any last year's nest. Nor egg. This was once a yellowhammer's. Droll bird with song 'Little bit of bread and no cheese.' The usual yellow—hammer nest is grass and moss, lined with hair. So is this one, built last spring. In the hair lining there was an unusual material.” Reggie exhibited the little scraps of fabric. “What is your opinion?”
“Apparently cloth,” said Mardale. “I'm not a textile expert. Birds put any old stuff into nests.”
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! Vague and rash. It is fine silk and an alluring apricot colour. You knew the obliterations of the defunct woman's clothes and head were equally odd and instructive. Now you know her body was stripped of its clothes near this yellow—hammer's nest.”
“You're going great on little evidence. You assume the cloth in the nest was torn off a fine silk frock she wore—to walk the mountain.”
“Not off a frock, no. Your innocence is enviable. Off cami —knickers, slip, lingerie. A mountain rig, frock or coat and skirt, wouldn't tear. Delicate undies would. How else could the yellow—hammer acquire apricot silk? No how. And the bird acquired it at the time Naomi Griffiths vanished, at the place a female was left without a head. Rational explanation, the female was Naomi, was murdered, and the careful murderer obliterating her identity, wasn't careful enough, in stripping her tore her undies. Where are the undergarments Naomi owned but had not put on the day she vanished?”
“I never thought of enquiring about her wardrobe. Your idea is ingenious, Mr. Fortune. I don't know that it's any use. My innocence of female underclothes has been informed plenty are silk. I am not able to imagine Naomi Griffiths unique, the one woman who owned apricot silk underwear.”
“Imagining futile. Employ rational intelligence. What Naomi owned and did not take with her should yield a clue to her private affairs and to the murderer.”
“An absolutely blind bet. The likeliest is the men who watched us.”
“My dear fellow! Try everything. Come and try Naomi's underthings and all that was hers in Ribham.”
BILL AND Catherine annoyed Mrs. Honey and Nancy by assisting the domestic labours and, for peace and quiet from Mrs. Honey's rage, Nancy went out with them and sandwiches. They climbed to the open mountain and ate a late lunch.
“As an English winter afternoon this is tolerable,” said Catherine.
“It's perfect,” said Nancy. “Exquisite.”
“Golly!” said Bill.
“Aren't you enjoying it?” Catherine asked.
“All the more now I see your dearly beloved Esther Kemp approaching with Frank.”
They arrived, Esther respectful and affectionate to Nancy, exuberant to Catherine, joyous to Bill, Frank an amiable smile at large.
“How is Mr. Whitfield?” Nancy enquired.
“Pretty good, thank you,” Frank answered. “I say, Bill, did you come across a fellow yesterday before we brought Whitfield to your place, a fellow who'd run into trouble?”
“I met a man who said he'd taken a toss and said he wasn't hurt.”
“Nothing like as much hurt as Whitfield?”
“He hadn't a visible wound.”
“I suppose you didn't know him?” said Esther.
“I know nothing about him. He said his name was Irvine.”
“A mysterious person,” said Catherine. “Are you interested in him, Mr. Kemp?”
“Rather! As he had an accident at the time Whitfield got wounded.”
“How did you hear of his accident?” Catherine asked.
“It's a village story, I've only just heard.”
“I wish Mr. Butler had told us yesterday he met the mystery man,” said Esther.
“When you found Whitfield you hadn't seen anyone,” Bill answered. “When I met Irvine I hadn't seen anyone, and Whitfield and Irvine said they saw no one. Assuming each told the truth, Whitfield didn't attack Irvine nor Irvine Whitfield. And if I had told you I'd met Irvine it wouldn't have helped you to find the chap who knocked Whitfield out. Whitfield said he'd get the police on the job. Has he, Frank?”
“I rang the police myself last night. They're hopeless. I can't think why any fellow should aim to do Steve Whitfield in.”
“No trouble between Whitfield and your quarry fellows?” Bill asked.
“None, old man, none at all.”
Esther laughed. “No, Mr. Butler, it is not Stephen Whitfield who controls the quarry, it is father—till Frank grows up.”
'“Or you,” Frank chuckled.
“I hope Mr. Kemp wasn't terribly distressed,” said Nancy.
“A bit,” said Frank. “The guv'nor's jolly keen on Whitfield.”
“There's no question about father's keenness,” said Esther. “Or Mr. Whitfield's. Real strong men aren't deceptive, are they, Mr. Butler?”
“I've always told myself the people who deceived me were idiots,” said Bill.
“A great compliment to your own brain. Have you told yourself Mr. Irvine was an idiot?”
“Are you certain Irvine deceived me?”
“You said he left you in the dark.”
“A nasty dark horse, Bill,” said Frank. “If you run across him again tell us.”
“Good—bye, Mrs. Butler,” said Esther. “You must all come to my New Year party.”
“Please,” Frank added, and they went off.
“Are you annoyed at their suspecting you, Bill?” Catherine enquired.
“Suspect Bill!” Nancy gasped. “They don't. They wouldn't. Horrid idea, Catherine, just horrid.”
“All right, Nancy,” Bill laughed. “Catherine wanted to make your flesh creep. It's quite possible Esther suspects me of tricks, as I have no use for hers.”
“Esther isn't like that, Bill, not at all,” Nancy protested.
“Well, cut Esther out. Frank has no tricks and I agree Frank doesn't suspect me. He is extremely keen on Whitfield and therefore much bothered about him.”
“Mr. Frank Kemp is an ingenuous young man,” said Catherine. “He has to suspect someone of attacking his friend, Whitfield, and he is unable to suspect anyone. Is his father equally keen on Whitfield and equally ingenuous?”
Bill blinked. “Ingenuous isn't the adjective I'd apply to old Kemp.”
“You suspect the father?”
“You have an evil mind, Catherine.”
“Suspect Mr. Kemp?” Nancy exclaimed. “Ridiculous! I loathe this talk of suspicions.”
IN RIBHAM'S luxury hotel Reggie wailed; “Not a nice abode, no.”
“But you've gratified the Chief Constable, Mr. Fortune,” said Mardale.
“Gratifying policemen is the one object of my existence.”
“The Ribham Chief's view of your bird's nest was dim. He takes a joyful view of your apricot silk lead to Naomi Griffiths. Reasonable man, isn't he?”
“Oh yes. Unusually reasonable official. Accepted the lead he wanted. Has he all Naomi's possessions?”
“Her furniture's warehoused. Ribham police headquarters have her clothes and other articles. They're being dug out. You might look through them yourself.”
“Please. At once,” said Reggie.
The clothes were numerous and various, all expensive, outer garments, quiet, austere, undergarments, delicate, light and bright.
“Pink silk, green silk, blue silk, all gay and jolly,” said Mardale. “No apricot, Mr. Fortune.”
“Absence of apricot remarkable, yes. Diversity of attire also remarkable. Clothes Naomi wore on top inconsistent with her underclothes. Two sides —one for exhibit—one for—herself—and intimacy.”
“Are women like that or are they?”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! There are no women. Only one woman and another and another and another, all unlike. Just like men. Naomi was a woman who did not exhibit her tastes. Yet she can't have been quite as secretive as appears from the articles in the Ribham police display. Apricot silk not the only article conspicuous by its absence.”
“Are you giving an explanation of the apricot silk wash out?”
“Absence of apricot silk easy to explain. Naomi had just one apricot silk rig and wore it at death. You observe she was keen on varying her colour. Absence of letters, papers, all that would reveal her friends and intimates, explicable equally easily by the ascertained presumption the man who killed her obliterated all that would yield evidence against him.”
“Very easy, Mr. Fortune, too easy. Presumption is right. Ascertained isn't. I presume Naomi did not wear apricot silk. If she didn't, your bird's nest find indicates that the murdered woman was not Naomi —the reverse of your presumption. I presume the absence of letters indicates she didn't keep them.”
“Oh! How rational! Are you presuming she didn't wear a head or didn't keep it attached to her body?”
“I agree your presumptions are possible. I think the murdered woman may have been Naomi, I think Naomi a doubtful character. All those expensive clothes weren't bought out of her office salary.”
“You assume she was getting money for services rendered elsewhere. Unknown services to an unknown man.”
“It's not impossible she was financed by a lover. It's not impossible she sold office information.”
“Either assumption possible, yes. And others. What is the Ribham view?”
“Undefined. The Chief Constable has ordered enquiries at the drapers and dressmakers about apricot silk and Naomi. You can take it he'll never believe she did anything wrong. She was a Ribham official. He'd like to prove she was the murdered woman and the murderer wasn't a Ribham man.”
“The affirmative, woman was Naomi, can be proved. The negative, murderer was not any man in Ribham, impossible to prove without affirmative proof who murderer was.”
“Quite. And no hope of the Ribham Chief proving what he wants to prove, what you want to prove or what actually occurred.”
“I am encouraged by your sympathetic stimulus. What I want is the truth. Immediate need, elimination of obscurities, of the fog over Naomi's journey to the mountain. Why did she go? Corrupt or honest, in love or unattached, why a mountain tramp?”
“That's your old original problem. And your bird's nest evidence leaves it, as it was, insoluble.”
“Oh, no! No! Every problem the human mind can set, the human mind can solve. Further and intensified and extended enquiries needed. We lack local knowledge. A Gilthwaiter may have been intimate with Naomi.”
“The Ribham police searched Gilthwaite and the whole valley and found no trace of her in the district.”
“Ribham city police—it isn't their district. County police—Ribland police—ought to have searched.”
“They have and they found nothing.”
“What policemen haven't found isn't evidence, Ribham police ignorant of the district, Ribland police uninterested in Naomi.”
“Ribham and Ribland took opposite lines, Ribham to find evidence Naomi was murdered, Ribland to find evidence the dead woman wasn't Naomi. The fact they found none is evidence the woman hadn't any Gilthwaite contact.”
“Hostile policemen united in total failure to eliminate obscurities. You might ask the Ribland police if they know of other obscure episodes at Gilthwaite.”
Mardale looked quizzical. “What's the idea? The Ribland police are quite straight. If they tell me they don't know of another Gilthwaite episode, what next?”
“You might tell them of the fellows we observed up above Gilthwaite.”
Mardale laughed. “You've altered your opinion. You were certain the fellows weren't watching us.”
“Opinion unaltered. They weren't. Their activity near the bone site odd and obscure. Is the Ribland police intelligence active?”
“Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Fortune. Not of your unerring judgment.”
“Ask 'em,” said Reggie.
THE Ribland Chief Constable was glad to see Mardale. Had intended to 'phone him. A fresh break had occurred. . . .
Mardale introduced the fresh break to Reggie. “This is Mr. Andrew Irvine, Mr. Fortune, an engineer advising the Ribland Electricity Board on development operations.”
Reggie nodded, contemplated Irvine's lumpy bulk and hard face and, murmured: “Well, well. Trouble at Gilthwaite?”
Irvine scowled. “I'm requested by the Ribland police to inform you of all that happened. Yesterday I went to examine the Gilthwaite watershed potential. The afternoon was misty. I descended from the tarn and on the way fell and lost my senses a while. I'm certain I was knocked down. I had not observed anyone, but when I came to myself again I found that my marked map and notes of the potential had been stolen.”
“Was visibility in the afternoon worse than usual?” Reggie enquired.
Irvine frowned. “It's never good in a January afternoon.”
“Where were you when you lost consciousness?”
“About half way down from the tarn to the valley.”
“Oh! Not quite exact. We have a map. Six—inch ordnance. There is the tarn. Where exactly was your fall?”
Irvine glowered. “Exactitude is impossible. I was below the thousand contour.” He put a pencil aslant the map. “On that line.”
“Which is the line to Gilthwaite from the spot a woman's bones were found.”
“I know nothing about a woman. It's the easiest line from the tarn dam to the Gilthwaite road.”
“Could anyone make money by stealing your notes?”
“There is competition for the Gilthwaite water. Ribham claims it all and objects to the Ribland claim it should be largely utilised in electricity production.”
“Ribham wanted your notes to frustrate the Ribland electricity development and arranged the stealing?”
“I do not accuse Ribham, I indicate the value of advance knowledge of the electricity plan.”
“You are careful. Have you been to a doctor about your injuries?”
“It was unnecessary. I was not seriously injured.”
“You were stunned. May I look at your head?”
“If you like.”
“Oh, yes,” Reggie murmured. “An extensive bruise. From ear to ear. When you recovered consciousness did you see anybody?”
“Walking on I met two people. They said they'd not seen anyone.”
“Local people?”
“Yes. A man and a woman from a cottage on the hill. They took me there, very nice but inquisitive. The man offered to accompany me down the road. I pushed off.”
“You suspect these people?”
“No. Not suspect. I am not inclined to trust them.”
“I admire your caution. What is the man's job in the Gilthwaite area?”
“He didn't tell me. He's an educated man. There's no job for him at Gilthwaite.”
“How often have you been on the Gilthwaite mountain?”
“Several times recently.”
“What is recently? Before or after the woman's bones were found?”
“1 don't know when they were found.” Irvine jumped up. “All I do know I've told you.” He strode out.
Mardale laughed. “No wonder he quit. You asked him the nastiest, naughtiest questions, Mr. Fortune. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“Oh no, no. Never enjoy annoying a dumb animal. Questions necessary. You were dumb, Mardale. Why not ask the questions yourself?”
“I'm only a simple policeman. I avoid trick questioning—especially the trick of omitting facts.”
“Yes, your simplicity did not allow any doubt you were hiding facts you considered valuable.”
“I left Irvine ignorant I've ascertained the man he met, the man he said he distrusted, is the man who found the bones.”
“Oh! Queerest complexity yet. Are you assuming Mr. Irvine does not know the man was the bone finder?”
“Irvine overstressed repetition he didn't know anything of the bones and the woman.”
“Keen on himself, our Mr. Irvine. Extremely keen. What is the Ribland view?”
Mardale laughed. “The Ribland Chief thinks Irvine a splendid fellow and a scurvy knave.”
“Not impossible Irvine is both. Why splendid?”
“As an electric engineer advising Ribland. The hostile Ribham and Ribland agree in the belief their officials are magnificent.”
“Why scurvy knave?”
“For letting Ribland down, losing Ribland electric plans—or selling them to Ribham.”
“Oh! Old Ribham ideas on Naomi taken over by Ribland, varied and used on Irvine. In the Ribham ideas a corrupt Ribland official eliminated Naomi to get Ribham water plans, or to stop her informing Ribham of a Ribland effort to corrupt her. The Ribland variation makes Irvine an idiot who gave away, or a knave who sold, electricity plans to a corrupt Ribham official. Original ideas and variation up against actualities they do not explain. Why was Naomi at Gilthwaite? Why was Irvine bruised from ear to ear? He couldn't have managed that himself. Who struck him?”
“Are you quite certain the bruise isn't a fake?”
“Oh my Mardale! Try to hit yourself hard between the ears.”
“Do you think Irvine's vagueness on the exact place he was knocked out natural?”
“Could be natural.”
“Your questioning implied you thought it unnatural.”
“Could be. Questioning failed to determine which.”
“I enjoyed the questions. The men we saw above Gilthwaite were Irvine and a Ribland police inspector, and the inspector couldn't extract anything definite from Irvine.”
“You are, like Irvine, a mystifier. Why wait till now to tell me all that?”
“I assumed you'd extract a lot from him a simple policeman couldn't.”
“Now you have enjoyed your joke you might tell me what Irvine told the Ribland inspector of the people he distrusted.”
“People? Irvine said he distrusted one man, the one he met after his knockout.”
“He distrusts everyone. You are not excluded from everyone. Am I to agree with him in distrust of you?”
“Sorry, Mr. Fortune.” Mardale chuckled. “I'm talking as quick as possible. An hour after Irvine's knockout a Gilthwaite resident was discovered severely wounded and unconscious near the line on the mountain Irvine told you he took.”
“People were active up the mountain yesterday. Irvine, before the knockout, could have wounded the Gilthwaite resident. Gilthwaite resident could have stunned Irvine and been wounded by a third person. No doubt your intelligence has ascertained the motive of the person who attacked the Gilthwaiter.”
“There isn't the faintest clue to motive. It isn't impossible one person attacked both the Gilthwaiter and Irvine. It's impossible the motive was the same in each case. Your idea, Irvine wounded the Gilthwaiter is just possible. Can you imagine a motive for Irvine?”
“Oh no. No. I have no imagination. I want evidence. Who is the Gilthwaite resident?”
“A young fellow, the manager of the quarry, an excellent chap, the Ribland police tell me, and they know all about him, he's been at the quarry years.”
“Was the wound in his head dangerous?”
“Very severely wounded, according to the medical report, no actual danger.”
“Type of wound stated?”
“A wound by a heavy weapon at the back of his head.”
“Oh! Struck from behind. Like Irvine. Whoever struck them must know the Gilthwaite mountain extremely well. Who discovered the unconscious quarry manager?”
“Two young people, the son and daughter of the old fellow who owns the quarry.”
“They would know the mountain?”
“They're all right. Frank Kemp—the son—and Whitfield—the quarry manager—are close pals, and Whitfield and Miss Kemp on affectionate terms. Frank and she brought Whitfield—this is quaint—to the cottage of the man Irvine met and distrusted. The man gave Whitfield skilful first aid and the Kemps took him home in their car, rang the doctor and the police.”
“Quaint, as you say. Conduct of Kemps all right, as you said. But notably quaint. We had better return to our admirable Gilwater hotel.”
“What can we do there?”
“I should like a little talk with the man Irvine disliked, the man the Kemps quaintly chose to give Whitfield first aid. I should like a little talk with the quarry—men about the Kemps and their father, the old quarry owner.”
“Do you imagine the quarry and the attack on Irvine and the attack on Whitfield are somehow connected, the motive of each attack furnished by the quarry business?”
“I never imagine. I enquire in every direction. Would it hurt the quarry if Ribland took Gilthwaite water for producing electricity?”
“I shouldn't have thought it would. The quarry can't need all the water.”
“Ribland could want all. And Ribham could want all for domestic use.”
“Oh Lord,” said Mardale. “Now you're explaining the murder of Naomi —inventing a murder motive—she was killed by the Kemps to prevent Ribham obtaining the water their quarry needed. It's unimaginable, Mr. Fortune.”
“It is possible. None of the numerous and various possibilities is probable. Three certainties. One, Naomi was murdered, Irvine and Whitfield were attacked by a person not a stranger to Gilthwaite. Second certainty, by a strong person. Third certainty, by a person interested in the Gilthwaite water.”
“It's uncertain the murdered woman was Naomi. And it's uncertain the
same person attacked Whitfield. It's uncertain and unlikely the person
who committed the murder is the person who attacked Irvine and
Whitfield both.”
“Certain enough the woman was Naomi. Two or even three offensive
persons, perhaps. If so certain all frequent Gilthwaite, all are hefty,
one at least anxious about Gilthwaite water development. Does any
Gilthwaite resident fill the bill? A Kemp? Papa or son? Anyone else?”
“You have nothing hard. And what we have on the Kemps actually clears them.”
“Nothing hard, no,” Reggie murmured. “No one clear.”
IN THE kitchen Mrs. Honey was eloquent to Nancy. Bill and Catherine in the living—room were unintentional listeners.
“Excuse my being after my time, dearie,” Mrs. Honey panted, “which I always have said isn't right nor fair. There's such goings on in the village, I couldn't come up my usual. Poor Mr. Whitfield, dearie, he's frightful bad, worser nor was expected. The quarrymen aren't half mad about it, they're that fond of him. I reckoned he'd soon get right again after the way Mr. Butler treated him, my dear. It's awful. And there's the police fussing about, worrying everyone, what do they know of Mr. Frank and old Mr. Kemp and the other gentleman what was hurt, and Mr. Butler and Miss Eliot brought to you, dearie? The police is asking about Mr. Butler himself, shameful, I call it. But you needn't worry, my dear. Everyone in the village likes Mr. Butler, no one'd say a word against him. I can't think what the police are up to, that I can't. Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Frank are as good as brothers, same as David and Jonathan in the Bible, not to say more, considering Miss Esther and Mr. Whitfield are known sweethearts. And of course the quarrymen like Mr. Frank, though not like they like Mr. Whitfield. It's old Mr. Kemp they dislike, he's rough on them. But for Mr. Whitfield managing the quarry they'd have struck often, leastways that's what they say, dearie. Not as I'm one as believes in strikes, nor in what I hear. Old Mr. Kemp isn't really rough, just an old—fashioned gentleman, and the quarry would have stopped years ago if he hadn't taken it over and run it his way. Mr. Whitfield manages it very nice, but all the same, my dear, old Mr. Kemp had the hard time and kept the men employed. Yet there's no denying he is rough and Mr. Whitfield liked by everyone. And —-”
Bill jumped up and strode out, Catherine after him. “The attraction of a land flowing with milk and honey I am unable to understand,” said she.
“Mrs. Honey is the milk of human kindness,” Bill answered. “Awful cloying in flood. Every bubble and burble contradicting the other. There is probably a definite village view of the Kemp—Whitfield alliance. I'm going to see if I can get it.”
“I'll go with you,” said Catherine. “The amiable Mrs. Honey's obscurance of the truth interested me.”
“Her contradictions let out partial truth, not obscured it.”
“She avoided Mr. Irvine's part and made the truth of his injury obscurer than ever. Do you believe it unrelated to the Kemp—Whitfield alliance?”
“I believe nothing about Irvine. The village view excludes all strangers, concentrates on its own folks.”
“Mr. Whitfield was a stranger introduced to Gilthwaite by Mr. Kemp.”
“By the Kemp interest he acquired Gilthwaiter native rank.”
“And much more esteem from the village than Mr. Kemp. A change of positions Mr. Kemp cannot enjoy.”
“You've used one Mrs. Honey story. Use the others.”
“Which? She said and denied Mr. Kemp was brutal. She said Mr. Whitfield was capable and generous, Frank Kemp charming and insignificant.”
“Probably half right and three quarters wrong.”
“No doubt she has a large margin of error. Do you consider Mr. Kemp brutal?”
“Tough and glum.”
“Frank appears utterly insignificant.”
“Frank isn't pushful. I don't think it a defect, Catherine. You would.”
“No, Bill, I like you,” said Catherine. They approached a row of tiny empty hovels. “What were these abominations?” Catherine asked.
“Quarrymen's houses—late Victorian—the quarry's golden age. It employed many more men before old Kemp's day. The upper part, the quarry end of the village, is cramped slum, the lower part tolerable enough.”
“You are not persuading me to admire the Kemp family efficiency.”
“The old man is responsible. Frank would rebuild the slum if he were allowed.”
“I do admire Frank. He has no power, no responsibility, but he has good intentions.”
The village street broadened to decent cottages, larger houses, shops.
“Every shop is a club in Gilthwaite,” said Bill. “Take the ironmonger's first. It's the club of the aristocrats.” Mr. Church, the ironmonger, exhibiting furniture, while one assistant sorted potatoes and another arranged glass and china, was talking and listening to talk about the Kemps and Whitfield.
Sceptical talk, unanimous in disbelief Whitfield was much hurt, in disbelief old Kemp took much account of him, in disbelief of anything but mild and amiable.
Bill asked Mr. Church to send up oil and led Catherine out. “The very important people are of your opinion, nothing is true and nothing signifies. We'll go to the tobacconist—barber—confectioner—bicycle dealer club, frequented by the ordinary people.”
The tobacconist and his wife in an overcrowded shop, debated with the ordinary people charges against old Kemp. No one acquitted him of profiteering and slave—driving. There were fierce accusations he had attempted to murder Whitfield, but the accusers could not convince everyone. Everyone, it emerged, did not think Frank Kemp a simple innocent.
“Well, Catherine, are you happy?” Bill asked, as he closed the tobacconist's door. “You objected to Frank's insignificance. You've got ordinary people believing he's the devil of a fellow.”
“I understood you were to obtain the definite village views of the Kemps and Whitfield. You haven't. Your important people believe nothing. Your ordinary people believe anything.”
“And thus Mrs. Honey's contradictions are justified. There isn't a village view, but innumerable indefinite incompatible views.”
A shabby fat man lurched towards them and croaked: “Nice day, Mr. Butler. How is your good lady?”
“All right, thanks, Ibdon. How are you?”
“I can't get a job, sir. I'm reckoned too old for the quarry now, sir. It's a hard life, Mr. Butler.”
Bill gave him half a crown. From the tiniest of shops Esther Kemp emerged, said it was lovely meeting them and asked Ibdon what on earth he was doing.
“Just talking, Miss. Mr. Butler's a proper gentleman.” Ibdon sniffed and lurched away.
“What has the proper Mr. Butler done with Nancy?” Esther enquired.
“Nancy is Martha, cumbered with much serving. How is Whitfield?”
“Stephen is cumbered with taking care of himself. We are all much obliged to you.”
“Not a bit. Is there an idea how he was hurt?”
“It's an absolute mystery. Poor Stephen hasn't the dimmest idea. We can't imagine one. He has no enemies in the world. The police are asking all sorts of people. Have they asked you?”
“They haven't yet. It wouldn't be any use. If Whitfield has an enemy I wouldn't know.”
“My father and Frank are immensely fond of Stephen and anxious about him. I am a little anxious. Have you seen Frank? He wanted to know if you'd met that Mr. Irvine again.”
“I've neither seen Frank nor Irvine.”
“Look, that is Frank coming out of the post office.”
“And stopping to talk to Ibdon.”
“Ibdon stops every proper gentleman. You know why. Come along and rescue Frank and he and I will walk up with Miss Eliot and you.”
“Delighted!” said Catherine. It was Esther's first reference to her.
Frank greeted her effusively. “I needn't ask how you are, Miss Eliot, you look so splendid. What do you think of our village?”
“It is not my ideal.”
“I say, Bill,” Frank cried, “did you take Miss Eliot all round?”
“Not the quarry end.”
“Oh well! Come and have lunch with us.”
“Thanks, old chap. But Nancy is tied up at the cottage and we must get back to her.”
“How right you are,” said Esther. “Nancy must bring you and Miss Eliot to dine with us. I'll 'phone and fix the day.”
“What day suits you, Miss Eliot?” Frank asked.
“I am Nancy's guest,” said Catherine, and walked on.
Frank did not allow her to walk alone, and Esther required all Bill's attention.
“Most men prefer women utterly unlike them,” she informed him. “You don't, Mr. Butler. Nancy is very like you, tall and blonde and eyes of the same blue. You're exceptional. Look at Frank. He's just like me, short, dark and plump. And Miss Eliot is like Nancy and you. Frank couldn't help adoring her.”
“I don't think Nancy and I are much alike—on the surface. And there's not much external resemblance between Nancy and Catherine.”
“You don't see yourself as you are, Mr. Butler. Don't you think I'm like Frank?”
“You are certainly not plump.”
“How would you describe me?”
“'Awkward question. The inadequate answer is, rather small, svelte brunette.”
“That's rather flattering. Big blond men like you and Stephen generally are flattering to little women.”
“About men and women the only general rule is there are no general rules.”
Esther laughed. “Can I have heard that before? Stephen says things like that.”
“Of course. Whitfield and I are exactly alike.”
“Not quite. You're a trifle reserved, aren't you? Stephen is always open.”
“Enviable character. And extremely unlike mine.”
“Why do you want to persuade me there isn't anyone on earth like you?”
“I am vain, uncommon vain. Forget it and talk of shoes and ships and sealing—wax and cabbages and kings.”
Frank Kemp, talking to Catherine, did not ask her embarrassing questions. His talk was all of himself and the village.
He'd never been long away from Gilthwaite, except his school years. He ought to have been in the army, but his father needed him at the quarry and it was a reserved occupation, so he couldn't decline a partnership. His job was the electric engineering. He couldn't have got on without Stephen Whitfield. The big difficulties were labour and the village condition, tangled up. They had no right to expect their men would endure the housing. Part of the village was awful. Father had reconditioned all he could, not easy, through one world war and the slump between the wars; impossible to recondition through stoppage in the second war and the shortages after it. Frank hoped they'd ultimately reach agreement on a large building plan.
Catherine said she appreciated his difficulties. Frank said it was awfully nice of her and they all said goodbye.
Bill and Catherine found Nancy laying the lunch table. “Where have you been, children?” she asked.
“In the village and with the Kemps,” said Bill. “Did Frank flirt, Catherine?”
“The poor creature explained himself and apologised for himself.”
“Frank is too modest. Esther is not. She shocked me.”
“You're both disgusting,” said Nancy. “How is Mr. Whitfield?”
“That's a riddle. Esther abounded in praise of Whitfield but didn't tell me how he's going on.”
“Frank assured me Mr. Whitfield is indispensable,” said Catherine, “and avoided any reference to Mr. Whitheld's disablement.”
“You both talk as if you hated the Kemps.”
“It is impossible to hate Frank Kemp,” said Catherine. “He is inane, he is nothing.”
“I don't hate Esther,” said Bill. “If I were compelled to live with her I might. An occasional dose of her amuses me.”
“Esther has intelligence,” said Catherine, “and energy.”
“Femininity supercharged.” said Bill.
“This is all clever silliness,” said Nancy, “and there's nothing more boring.”
“Excuse us,” said Bill. “Esther announced she'd 'phone you an invitation to dine.”
“How odd,” said Nancy. “While you were out Colonel Hawley called and asked us to lunch on Wednesday.”
'“Struth!” Bill exclaimed. “A Hawley lunch and a Kemp dinner. Catherine! Observe the effect of your fascinations.”
“I am interested,” said Catherine. “Are we to lunch with Colonel Hawley?”
“I accepted,” said Nancy. “He's never asked us before.”
“The Kemps have talked of asking us,” said Bill. “We've no actual invitation now.”
“Esther will 'phone,” said Nancy.
“I expect she will and I hope she'll invite us. I should like to know what the Kemps and Hawley want of us.”
In the evening Esther 'phoned and begged Nancy to come on Saturday, the earliest day father was free, or any day next week.
Nancy accepted Saturday.
MR. FORTUNE is apt to breakfast late. As he wandered down the Gilwater hotel stairs, Mardale came up and informed him the Ribham Chief wanted another conference.
“Not with me, no,” Reggie purred. “With you.”
“I thought you'd be keen to hear if he'd got anything.”
“I've had enough of Ribham.”
“What's your programme to—day?”
“Explorin' every Gilthwaite avenue. Lookin' for the imperceptible.”
Reggie ate an unhurried breakfast, drove up the valley and parked his car out of sight of Gilthwaite. He walked through the village, found the miserable slums and wandered to and fro, inviting the attention of their occupants.
A shabby fat man accosted him. “Nice day, sir, only it's bitter cold, cruel on the rheumatics, sir.”
“Oh yes, yes,” Reggie nodded. “You would have rheumatism in this place.”
“I have it awful bad, sir, from the soaking wet work at the quarry, sir.”
“Is there a quarry here?”
“There's nothing but the quarry, sir. No other job, and after the rheumatics I caught there I'm on the dole.”
Reggie gave him ten shillings.
“Lord bless you,” Ibdon croaked. “You're very handsome, sir.” He proceeded to elaborate a woeful account of the quarry. Reggie did not interrupt.
Ibdon's eloquence attracted other listeners, quarry—men and their wives, who did interrupt, supporting or opposing his complaint the quarry owner was brutal.
Reggie yawned and strolled away, mildly pleased.
Mr. Ibdon was an obvious humbug, yet a little useful truth shone from him. There were disputes about the running of the quarry and a number of quarrymen were antagonistic to the ownership.
Would all that explain the assault on Whitfield? Ibdon and his friends complained of the quarry owner, not of the quarry manager. Odd there was no reference to Whitfield and his wound. Quarrymen must have ideas about the assault. Not unknown for disgruntled employees to assault a manager. But quarrymen wouldn't have attacked Irvine. Odd they said nothing of the attack on him. Possibly the attackers mistook him for Whitfield. Possibly they stunned him to prevent him observing them assault Whitfield.
Quite possible the Whitfield assault was induced by labour trouble at the quarry.
If quarry conditions were as bad as the village housing conditions, not improbable men felt like murdering. Yet impossible the murder of Naomi was induced by trouble at the quarry or in the village.
Reggie found a cart track from the village towards the mountain. It went near Upgill, the quaint semi—circular house of the Kemps. That interested him. “Built by fellow with a jolly idea,” he murmured. “Fellow able to pay for new jollity. Wonder who fellow is.”
The track zigzagged above the quarry. In roar after roar the noon blasting echoed through clouds of dust and smoke.
He waited till the quarry was again visible. An ugly rubbish heap, but a lot of men and equipment in it. Overhead were transport and electric cables. Though the village had no electricity, the quarry produced electricity. How? There was a flume from the tarn dam. So it would be most inconvenient for the quarry owner if Ribland or Ribham obtained the tarn water. He and his son had motive enough to knock out Irvine and steal his notes on the water the Ribland Electricity Board could obtain. Also a motive to eliminate Naomi if she'd sold 'em or wouldn't sell 'em the Ribham Water Board plan. No motive to crock Whitfield.
Reggie contemplated the landscape. The spot at which Naomi's bones were discovered was much higher than the tarn. A lane from the quarry went up to the tarn and beyond. The spot at which Irvine and the Ribland police inspector were active, at which Irvine must have told the police he was knocked out, was much lower. Uncertain where Whitfield was assaulted, but presumably nearer the Irvine spot than the Naomi spot. Otherwise Frank Kemp and Miss Kemp would have taken him down the quarry lane. Where was the cottage to which they did take him, the cottage of the man who found Naomi's bones and met Irvine? Oh. Pink villa, un—English, Italian—French, quietly jovial. The one inhabited cottage in sight. A long way up above the tarn, on the mountain, farm buildings. Very remote, the farm people. How would they bring stuff to Gilthwaite? Was the lane by the tarn wide enough for carts?
Sheep were being driven down from the farm on a track to the valley below Gilthwaite, a track that passed the Irvine spot and the cottage. Reggie followed the sheep. They were driven into a meadow. The oldish man who had driven them went up again towards the farm.
“Lovely afternoon,” said Reggie.
The man was all a farmer. “It's too clear,” he answered. “I wouldn't trust it.”
Reggie asked if he'd had a bad autumn.
He'd never known worse and he'd been at Scawgill Edge forty years and a rotten autumn always led to a hard winter.
“I suppose in the winter you can't keep the sheep on the mountain.”
“Of course not. In an ordinary winter the mountain's perishing cold, with extra wet it's deadly.”
Reggie nodded. “A hard life. I expect you see very few people at Scawgill Edge.”
“A hard life but a good one. I can do without seeing people.”
“They are a nuisance, aren't they?”
“I'm not worried by trespassers.”
A young woman climbed an adjacent stile and exclaimed: “Hallo, Ullock! How are you getting on?”
“Nicely thank 'ee, Miss Kemp. How's yourself and your father?”
“Splendid! Father was grumbling you never come to our place. Come along now.”
Ullock obeyed.
Reggie admired the ingenuity of Miss Kemp. She had detached Ullock from him. And her ingenuity revealed what Ullock concealed, her father's acquaintance with Ullock and the isolated Scawgill Edge. Revealed alarm Ullock might give her father away.
She was very quick on the job. She couldn't have known he would talk to Ullock. Had she heard of his talk to Ibdon and followed him up from the village? The only possible explanation—bar blind chance. Another talk might be useful, a talk to the man of the pink cottage.
The cottage had a neat little garden. A buxom woman was tidying the tidiness. Reggie asked her if she could tell him how to get down to Gilwater. She smiled. “There are many ways down. The easiest is by our lane and the valley road. The pleasantest is by the field paths. They're difficult to trace.”
“I have a map,” said Reggie. “I wonder if the field paths are on it.” He opened it. “Where am I?”
She laughed. “You are here—at this blob—our cottage—New Cottage.”
“Oh! Unnamed on the map.”
“I expect it hadn't a name when the map was drawn.”
“Is it as new as that?”
“It's an old cottage rebuilt.”
“You've made a fascinating place of it.”
“It is amusing, isn't it? But we didn't rebuild it. Mr. Kemp did it for himself.”
“An architect?”
“No, he owns the Gilthwaite quarry.”
“He has taste. Has he done much rebuilding?”
“Not very much.”
“I saw an uncommon jolly house near the quarry. Did he build that one?”
“Yes, it's a most interesting, imaginative house.”
Reggie exhibited no interest in Kemp's imagination. “I envy your garden,” he said. “Christmas roses and crocus and primroses and aconite and snowdrops and daphnes and violets all together. It's magnificent floriferous for early January.”
“We are rather proud of the garden. But we're told we haven't had the worst of the winter.”
“That sounds like the usual farmers' scare. Is winter very cold up here?”
“We've no experience. We're not afraid of cold.”
Reggie shuddered. “I am. I am not braced by cold. I am terrified.”
A man and a woman opened the garden gate and exclaimed: “Here we are, Nancy.”
“But you were going to tell me the pleasantest path to Gilwater,” said Reggie.
“Which do you think, Bill?” Nancy enquired.
Bill stared at Reggie, Reggie contemplated Bill.
“There is no pleasantest path,” said Catherine. “Ideas of pleasure are individual.”
“I have an ordinary mind.” said Reggie. “Which is the ordinary preference?”
“Which way did you come?” Bill asked.
“Through Gilthwaite village. Which is not my idea of a pleasant way.”
“If you wanted a mountain, walk, you ought to have cut out the village.”
“Mountain walkers who know Gilthwaite would avoid it.”
“Are you a mountaineer?” Catherine asked.
“Oh no! No! Even in my remote youth I was satisfied to admire the mountains without climbing them. The point is how do mountain walkers cut out the unpleasant village, how —-”
“Why do you think Gilthwaite unpleasant?” Catherine interrupted.
“It isn't comfortable.”
“Are you a housing reformer?”
“In principle, not in practice. I was about to ask how mountain walkers avoid Gilthwaite and walk from the valley up here.”
“There are umpteen ways,” said Bill.
“And umpteen walkers?”
“No, very few.”
“Which is the way the few walk?”
“Different ways.”
“Curious and interesting.”
“What is curious?”
“Your different walkers were, and they interest me. You know the story about Gilthwaite?”
“You mean about the woman, the woman's bones?”
“The woman—there's no light on her, is there?”
“Not that I know of,” said Bill.
“I mean the story Gilthwaite is to be inundated.”
“How?”
“The whole valley, like valleys elsewhere, damned and made into a lake for urban water supply.”
“That's all new to me,” said Bill. “If it's true, it's damned hard on the village.”
“It would be horribly cruel,” said Nancy.
“"Untrue stories are told,” said Catherine.
“Oh yes, yes,” Reggie agreed. “More stories told than are true. I was askin', is it probable, is it connected with your curious walkers' different ways?”
“I know nothing about their connections,” said Bill.
“Why are you interested in them?” Catherine asked.
“Ordinary human interest in queer stories. Is there a local landowner who'd fight against the inundation of the valley?”
“The quarry owner would object,” said Bill.
“Quarry owner?” Reggie looked at Nancy. “That's Mr. Kemp? Does he own the village?”
“Yes. Poor Mr. Kemp! He would object. Colonel Hawley would fight.”
“Who is he?”
“The ancestral Gilthwaite landlord. He sold the quarry and the village to Mr. Kemp years ago. He still owns all the rest of the valley.”
“Well, well. The valley may be preserved. You haven't told me the pleasantest path to Gilwater.”
“The first path on the left is pleasant enough,” said Bill. “Follow it right down.”
“Thanks very much.” Reggie strolled away.
“You were communicative, Nancy,” said Catherine.
“He was rather attractive.”
“He was rather ingenious than ingenuous.”
“He was deuced tricky,” said Bill. “But what the deuce was his object?”
“It was plain. He came to ask Mr and Mrs. Butler catch questions about people on the mountain and Gilthwaite people.”
“Now tell me why he's interested in Irvine and Gilthwaite.”
“I take it he is investigating the Gilthwaite mysteries.”
“A detective? Not he. Nothing like one.”
“I'm sure he isn't,” Nancy exclaimed. “He's just an ordinary agreeable person.”
“I didn't say the young gentleman was a detective,” Catherine retorted.
“Young?” Bill laughed. “He's older than I am.”
“Everyone is, Bill,” said Catherine.
“He's middle—aged, forty or fifty.”
“He looks young,” said Nancy.
“Confound his looks. He's no innocent. What is he?”
“Probably an unscrupulous business man,” said Catherine.
“You think he's speculating on his yarn of the inundation of the valley. That's reasonable enough.”
IN HIS bedroom at the Gilwater hotel, Reggie sprawled by the fire and dozed till Mardale woke him.
“Have you explored every avenue, sir? Left no stone unturned?”
“Exploration incomplete but illuminating.” Reggie summarised his Gilthwaite conferences.
“Very useful, Mr. Fortune. You have the whole affair wide open. Kemp is a brute. His daughter is alarmed a farmer might split on him. He needs all the local water for his quarry. The respectable Butlers are uncommunicative about the Kemps and the dead woman—and Irvine. So you establish a probability the Kemps murdered the woman and assaulted Irvine and I admit it's quite possible. Then you argue the valley landlord would lose his land by inundation if public authorities exploited the Gilthwaite water, so it's probable he committed the murder and the assault. I admit a possibility—if he thinks the valley would be inundated.”
“How right you are. Any other criticism?”
Mardale was annoyed. “That will suffice. Your possibilities are contradictory.”
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! Innumerable other possibilities you ignore. Value of incomplete exploration is light on the Gilthwaiters —slum village—quarry trouble—complaints against Kemp—Kemp's association with a remote farmer—activity of Miss Kemp—and odd omission of everyone to say anything about the wounded quarry manager, Whitfield.”
“Everyone you interrogated was unresponsive. The failure to obtain any comment on Whitfield has no particular significance.”
“Particularly and peculiarly odd the quarry management was cursed and the quarry manager unmentioned. All the blame on Kemp and none on Whitfield.”
“It's usual and natural to blame the boss, not the manager.”
“Oh yes. Is that the reason Whitfield was wounded and Kemp wasn't?”
“Are you suggesting Whitfield was wounded by a quarry man?”
“I never suggest the unreasonable. The fact quarry—men don't blame Whitfield is instructive. It indicates Kemp may have wounded Whitfield.”
“I couldn't agree less,” said Mardale. “It's incredible a quarryman wounded Whitfield and inconceivable Kemp did.”
“Various motives conceivable for Kemp, Whitfield too popular, Whitfield knew a secret that would ruin Kemp, Whitfield crooked in the water business.”
“That's blind speculation.”
“Oh no. It's a summary of rational theories why Whitfield was wounded.”
“If Kemp had wanted to get rid of Whitfield he'd have sacked him.”
“An interesting point. To sack Whitfield wouldn't eliminate him. Nor would a wound. For elimination it would have been necessary to kill him. And the actual wound was not dangerous, and Whitfield has not accused anyone. I think the man who wounded him was only concerned to escape his observation.”
“I don't understand you.”
“Man who knocked out and robbed Irvine broke Whitfield's head to prevent Whitfield recognising him.”
“That is quite possible. You contradict your theories of Kemp's motive to wound Whitfield.”
“Testin' every possible theory,” Reggie drawled, “involves contradictions, establishin' and reconcilin' 'em by ultimate truth.”
“I have no use for that sort of philosophizing. You're incomprehensible. Why did you tell the Gilthwaiters the whole valley would be inundated? You haven't an idea what the plans are. Talking of an absolute wash—out incited Gilthwaite men to attack the planners.”
“Oh no! No! Irvine, the Ribland planner, was attacked, and Naomi Griffiths, who knew the Ribham plan, was murdered before I talked of inundation. I wanted Gilthwaite residents to tell me who would oppose large plans. And they said Kemp would object, Colonel Hawley would fight. Did the intelligent Ribland and Ribham police ever tell you anything of Colonel Hawley?”
“The two police forces know everything about him, and neither has any suspicion of him.”
“Oh yes, yes, very important person, impossible to suspect. However, Naomi was murdered, Irvine was robbed, Whitfield was wounded and Gilthwaiters say Colonel Hawley is fierce.”
“They said he'd fight the inundation of the valley. He won't until it's planned and there's no reason to think—or allege as you alleged —it will be.”
“Oh my Mardale! How scathing! Yet there is a reason Naomi was killed.”
“No doubt there is. You are not justified in assuming the reason for her murder came out of the Gilthwaite water business.”
“Always allowed the reason could have come out of a love entanglement. I see you have something up your sleeve. Why not produce it?”
Mardale laughed. “You've taken every conceivable and inconceivable view. Anything and everything discovered you're able to boast you saw all the time. The Ribham Chief has discovered he was wrong. Enquiries of dressmakers about apricot silk and Naomi dug up a young lady fitter who'd handled her in her underclothes, and testified she always wore silk, only once apricot silk. The fitter remarked to her it was an unusual colour but exactly the colour for her. Naomi blushed and said it had just been sent her, it was rather wonderful. That convinced the fitter it was given her by a man. The Ribham Chief is also convinced and struck all of a heap. Poor old fellow, he was absolutely certain the virginal Naomi never misbehaved, the Ribland officials eliminated her as an impediment to their plan. He owns he deceived himself and apologises for his ignorance Naomi was intimate with a man. He accepts that it wasn't an official but a lover who killed her, and concealed her identity by taking away her head and her clothes.”
“Honest old fellow, the Ribham Chief, open—minded old fellow, open to admit evidence. Yes. Quite usable evidence, if used with care. No use against the fact that there have been assaults on people at Gilthwaite which were unconnected with Naomi's love life.”
“I intended to congratulate you on your bird's nest apricot silk clearing the issue. Aren't you pleased?”
“Issue isn't clear. I should be delighted if we had finished with officials. We haven't. The obscurity of bumble in the case is not removed. And Naomi's underclothes lover is not exempt from suspicion he was affected by the bumble plans.”
“Whatever you tell me you also deny. Was Naomi's murder a love crime or a profit crime?”
“I should say it was both.” Reggie answered.
“Would you say the lover is a Gilthwaite man?”
“I think if we tried we should find him at Gilthwaite.”
“Which man would you choose?”
“No one man. Any able—bodied knowledgeable man financially interested in Gilthwaite water.”
“There isn't a crowd. You let out almost every one.”
“Except Kemp, except Whitfield, except Colonel Hawley, the very important person the police couldn't suspect Ask the dumb Irvine which he suspects.
Mardale frowned. “Do you know where Irvine is?”
“Not the slightest idea.”
“He's come to this hotel.”
“Splendid. Have him at our table at dinner.”
MARDALE proceeded to the lounge and described Irvine in a remote alcove with a young woman. She was obviously enjoying herself, Irvine embarrassed, his bulldog face unresponsive to her glad eye play and voluble chatter. Quite an attractive young woman, of the little slim kind, plenty of It. Irvine, the stickiest of sticks, a ridiculous contrast with the honeymooning men about. Mr. Fortune entered the lounge and gazed dreamily at the young woman.
She jumped up. “Cheerio, be good,” she said to Irvine, and went off.
Mardale joined Mr. Fortune. “Do you know the lady?”
“She is Miss Kemp, the daughter of the Gilthwaite quarry owner.”
“The devil she is! She was hot on Irvine.”
“Nice young woman for a quiet expert.”
Mardale crossed to Irvine. “Hallo! Hallo! You never told us you were coming here. Are you dining with your girl friend?”
“I am not,” Irvine scowled.
“Dine with us, then. We have a few new points.”
“Us?” Irvine glowered. “Who are you with?”
Reggie approached. “Bad luck we missed each other, Irvine,” he drawled.
Irvine stared at him. “Where were you expecting me?”
“I wasn't. My mistake. We'll clear it up at dinner.”
Irvine allowed Mardale to lead him into the dining—room. Reggie was genially conversational about food and wine and all kinds of things and nothing in particular. Irvine sulked, boasted he'd no use for wine, only drank beer and exhibited scorn for everything else Reggie mentioned.
Reggie's geniality continued. “You know the great advantage of this hotel?”
Irvine frowned. “The one advantage is it's the only hotel in the valley.”
“It's sacred to honeymooning. Therefore everyone ignores everyone. Does Miss Kemp frequent it?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“But you've known the hotel quite a while and you know her.”
“I'd never seen her till this afternoon.”
Mardale chuckled. “You've done wonderfully well in the time.”
“Oh yes, yes,” Reggie nodded. “Very useful, Mr. Irvine's opinion of Miss Kemp.”
“I haven't any opinion.” Irvine retorted. “I saw her up above Gilthwaite and took no notice of her. When I went into the lounge before dinner she was there and introduced herself and started talking.”
“And questioning you?” Mardale enquired.
“She asked questions. She got nothing out of me. She mostly talked of herself and her people.”
“Curious and instructive,” Reggie murmured. “Earlier in the day she stopped a talk I had begun with a friend of her father's.”
“Where was that?” Irvine exclaimed.
“Where you were knocked out. Was that the spot above Gilthwaite where you noticed and didn't notice Miss Kemp?”
“I was re—examining the area.”
“On re—examining it and observing the lady, have you formed an opinion who knocked you out?”
“It is impossible to form an opinion without evidence.”
“I had a little talk to the man and woman you distrusted. Quite trustworthy people.”
“As there is no evidence at all there is none against them.”
“Lack of evidence against the Butler people is not a lack of evidence against anyone. The Butler family are clean. Yet you were knocked out, your map and notes were stolen and were, you told us, valuable to people competing for the Gilthwaite water. The Kemp family want it, their quarry depends on it, your map and notes had a unique value to them.”
“I agree the Kemp quarry requires water power. But the Kemp interest in the Gilthwaite water is not unique.”
“You tell me a Ribham official arranged your knockout to obtain the Ribland electricity plan? Not credible.”
“I am sure Ribham officials would like to get advance information of our development plan.”
“Aren't you equally sure the Kemps would?”
“The Kemps and the Ribham officials are not equally affected. The Kemps could work their quarry after the Ribland development but Ribham could not extract the water it claimed from the Gilthwaite area.”
“Oh! As your electricity plan wouldn't hurt the Kemps, the Kemps wouldn't hurt you. Did Miss Kemp tell you someone else was hurt about the time and the place you were?”
“You mean the quarry manager, I knew he'd been damaged. Miss Kemp told me he was getting on all right, but he couldn't imagine, nor could she, who broke his head.”
Mardale laughed. “Innocent young woman. She never thought of asking what you know about it.”
“She asked if I knew him. I don't. She said he was a splendid chap, her brother's dearest pal, her father relied on him absolutely. They'd be lost without him.”
“The lady did expand,” Reggie murmured. “Interestin' and impressive, her admiration of Mr. Stephen Whitfield. Are you accepting her assurance Whitfield did not knock you out and her father and brother did not break Whitfield's head?”
Irvine looked bewildered. “It hadn't occurred to me she meant that. Perhaps she did. But I don't know why she should trouble to assure me her brother and father didn't attack Whitfield.”
“The lady assumed you suspected them of attacking you, is certain the attack on you and the attack on Whitfield are connected, and was anxious for your reaction to the assurance old Kemp and young Kemp wouldn't damage their splendid indispensable.”
“That's clever,” Irvine nodded. “It may be true. She got nothing out of me. In fact I'm still unable to understand why Whitfield was assaulted. He and the Kemps had a motive for stunning me—to obtain my papers—the Kemps had no motive for assaulting Whitfield.”
“Various and numerous conceivable motives. The Kemps might have found Whitfield an obstacle to an assault on you, they may not trust Whitfield as much as the lady said, they may have knocked him out to divert suspicion of knocking you out from themselves, and the three Kemps, father, son and daughter, may not be united about Mr. Whitfield, Mr. Whitfield may have antagonised one or joined up with an enemy of the three.”
“All theoretical,” Irvine frowned.
“Oh yes. Yes. Speculative theories. Evidence inadequate for each and all. But what the lady said is evidence the Kemps are uncomfortable.”
“I agree her talk indicated they are.”
Mardale chuckled. “Why are they, Irvine? You told us your electricity development wouldn't interfere with their quarry. Why should they steal your papers?”
“To find out the extent of the development planned.”
“So Miss Kemp's glad eye gush has altered your opinion a Ribham official knocked you out, and convinced you her father and brother did.”
“I am not convinced. I think it possible.”
Mardale laughed. “We haven't exhausted the speculative theories, have we, Mr. Fortune?”
“Not yet, no. Carry on.”
Mardale continued: “What's your opinion of this one, Irvine? Inundating the Gilthwaite valley would affect the landowners. An affected landowner may have stolen your papers.”
Irvine was obviously amazed. “Nonsense,” he exclaimed. “Neither Ribland nor Ribham projected inundation of the valley—an enormous undertaking and not needed. Ample water is obtainable without damage to the land.”
“So no landowner had any cause to knock you out,” Mardale chuckled. “And the Kemps had.”
“I agree,” Irvine nodded.
“Tenable opinion,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”
WEDNESDAY morning was fine and dry. Bill seized the opportunity to spray the apple trees and had covered himself with tar oil when Nancy reminded him they were lunching at Gilthwaite Park.
“Tell the Hawley bird I'm sick. I am. I am an uncleansable stink. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten these large hands.”
“You're a fraud,” said Nancy. “You meant to dodge it. Impossible, my child.”
He amused himself on the road to the Park by fantastic suggestions of Colonel Hawley's object in inviting them. Hawley wanted a virtuous husband's advice on marriage, wanted a virginal view, Catherine's view, of an old soldier as a husband, wanted a merciful female opinion, Nancy's opinion, of Esther Kemp as a bride.
“We are not shocked,” said Nancy, “we are disgusted.”
“And bored.” said Catherine.
“So am I.” said Bill. “You let yourselves in for it. I would have avoided it.”
“You're a tiresome infant,” said Nancy.
The Gilthwaite Park dining—room confirmed Bill's ugliest expectations—it was vast, it was nineteenth—century medievalism, its overcrowded furniture effulgent in rich offensive splendour.
Yet Colonel Hawley was agreeable enough, a normal old—fashioned host, ceremonious to Nancy, paternal to Catherine, jocose to Bill. He had a thorough good lunch for them, sole and pheasant and white and red Burgundy, and he kept up a flow of innocent genial talk. Much on himself, yet he drew Nancy and Catherine out and extracted from Bill stories of the Burma fighting.
He asked no trick question. He almost persuaded Bill his object was mere amiable friendliness. Or was it? He was telling Nancy he hoped she and her sister had not been alarmed on the mountain.
“Not at all,” Nancy answered.
Colonel Hawley was afraid Miss Eliot would think Gilthwaite an unpleasant, dangerous place.
“I think it very interesting,” said Catherine.
Hawley was glad and asked Bill: “What's your opinion of the young fellow who crashed?”
“Two fellows crashed,” said Bill.
“Two, yes. Odd, what? Very odd. Whitfield, the fellow Kemp brought in to manage the quarry. He's not a stranger. The other fellow was. Who is he? What was he doing here?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“My people had a yarn you picked him up unconscious. Is that right?”
“No. He was on his feet when I met him, a little dazed. He said he'd taken a toss.”
“An accident, what?”
“I have no idea.”
“If there was another fellow about you'd have seen him.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Probably, eh?”
“No telling. Whitfield was certainly attacked around the time Irvine crashed, and didn't see the man who attacked him.”
“Irvine—you know the fellow's—name—do you know his job?”
“He didn't mention it. But I suppose it's arranging to inundate the valley.”
Colonel Hawley gulped and stammered: “Inundate? Who told you that tale? The valley won't be inundated.”
“The tale's all over the place.”
“It's all nonsense.”
“I wouldn't know. You do. You own the land.”
“Ownership has some rights even nowadays. You can contradict any talk of inundation, Mr. Butler. Have you had enquiries about the Irvine fellow and Whitfield?”
“A few.”
“Police?”
“No. Casual visitors.”
“Irvine and Whitfield didn't report to the police they were attacked, eh?”
“They may have.”
“If they had the police would have got on to you.”
“They may have reported without mentioning me.”
“The likeliest explanation is Whitfield and Irvine were scrapping and smashed each other.”
“Is there a reason for Whitfield to smash Irvine?”
“Whitfield's naughty. It's probable they quarrelled over a girl. Excuse me, ladies.”
“Scandal isn't interesting,” said Nancy.
“I've no interest in Whitfield, a common young fellow. Have you had the Kemps enquiring about Irvine, Butler?”
“A little chance talk—not nearly as much as yours.”
“Ah! I'm stupid enough to feel a bit of responsibility for protecting my people. Has anyone else enquired?”
“Village folks—and a babbling stranger.”
“Where did you come across him?”
“At our gate, he was on a walk round.”
“Where had he come from?”
“He asked the way to Gilwater. That may indicate his origin. But if he'd come from it he'd have known the way back. A mysterious chap.”
“There's a lot of mystery about the Kemps.”
Nancy rose and said goodbye to Colonel Hawley. His goodbye exuded on her effusive affection.
When she had escaped: “Intolerable creature,” she protested.
“One of the lower animals,” said Catherine. “Bill is responsible for his doing his worst.”
“Unreason, thy name is Catherine,” Bill exclaimed. “If you women had obeyed the voice of reason, my voice, you wouldn't have eaten the Hawley lunch, you wouldn't have opened your decent ears to the Hawley improprieties.”
“You encouraged his scandal—mongering,” said Catherine.
“No, no,” Nancy objected, “Bill didn't. Colonel Hawley accused Whitfield and Irvine of attacking each other and Bill asked why and Hawley poured out scandal.”
“And that, Catherine,” Bill laughed, “I hadn't expected. I had not expected old Hawley would give himself away.”
“He displayed a coarse brutal mind. He gave away nothing valuable.”
“He let out alarm and anxiety to persuade us and everyone the crimes were committed over womanising. He gave very valuable information. Didn't you observe his hatred of the Kemp family?”
“The man is a savage,” Catherine answered. “Savage emotions are not informative.”
“Bill!” Nancy cried. “Do you really think he hates the Kemps? Do you think he meant Irvine and Whitfield quarrelled about Esther?”
“He exhibited hate, he wants the Kemps, including Esther, believed responsible for the Irvine—Whitfield violence. He is obviously alarmed at enquiries into the first crime, the unknown woman murder, obviously taking evasive action, putting murder on the Kemps and Whitfield.”
“Ghastly,” Nancy exclaimed. “Impossible.”
“You invent attractive ideas, Bill,” Catherine smiled. “I disagree with Nancy. I think it quite possible Colonel Hawley murdered the woman and was accusing one of the three Kemps or Irvine or Whitfield to avert an accusation against himself. I regret I see no evidence your ideas are true.”
“What do you mean?” Nancy cried. “It's utterly impossible to believe Esther would murder anyone.”
“I cannot imagine a rational person suspecting Frank of murder,” said Catherine.
“I'm the most rational person I know,” Bill answered. “I don't suspect Frank, I don't suspect Esther. I can imagine Kemp family or business affairs tangled with the woman and the murder. The Hawley assurance they were and the tangle was sexual isn't enough to prove the opposite. Links between the obliterated woman and a Kemp or Whitfield could exist.”
“But you were certain Hawley murdered her,” Nancy exclaimed.
“I am. If he hadn't done the murder he wouldn't take fright at enquiries.”
Catherine laughed. “You frightened him. Your studied elaborate venom was terrific.”
“No, Catherine. No fear of me, fear of the enquiring gentleman he asked about. I just answered.”
“And tortured him, repeating as authoritative the speculation the ungentle gentleman offered your distrustful mind, the whole valley will be inundated.”
“Yes, the gentleman rattled Hawley, not I.”
“Yes,” Catherine jeered. “Yes, Bill, we are certain the one object of the imaginative gentleman is to rattle Hawley and Hawley is a murderer.”
THE MOUNTAIN crests, snow—covered, sparkled against an opalescent sky. A grey fog rolled in the valley, blurred the beaches of Gilwater and the lake itself. Hoar frost jewelled the trees.
“Jolly day, Mr. Fortune.” said Mardale.
“Not nice, no,” Reggie protested.
“Bracing.” Mardale chuckled.
Reggie shuddered. “Nothing nastier.”
“Arc you off to Gilthwaite again?”
“My Mardale! Hateful thought. Orpheus with his lute made trees and the mountain tops that freeze bow themselves when he did sing. I cannot lute. I do not sing. If I did the mountains would freeze harder than ever. Where is our Mr. Irvine?”
“Irvine has a conscience.”
“I had. In my youth. Well, well. You are young and brutal. Look after him on Greenland's icy mountains. Is it conscience drags him there, or Esther Kemp?”
“Irvine has no sex.”
“Respectable fellow. I have never observed you respect anyone. Watch yourself, jeering at the virtue of Irvine.”
Mardale played the simple, jolly colleague and drove an almost talkative Irvine up the valley. Unimportant talk, sport, the landscape, farming, a little professional, not the particular Gilthwaite job, nothing personal. He left Esther out.
Mardale asked only two questions. Did he want the village? No, Irvine's job was above. Could he show Mardale where he crashed? Certainly he could. Mardale would be obliged. Investigations were no fun to the poor old police. Irvine saw investigation was necessary, doubted if it was any use. Mardale hadn't a hope, expected to get dam' all. But things were what things were.
The obscure imbecility established confidence. Irvine led Mardale from road to cart track, from cart track to field path, and elaborated ample description of the way he had walked on the afternoon he crashed. And there, just about there, was the place.
Mardale looked at it, looked all round, walked to and fro. It probably was the spot, certainly the spot to which Irvine had brought the local police. Flat feet had trampled the earth. “Quite a mess,” said Mardale. “Dim view, now. Leave me to it, old boy. You have your own job. Give me a shout if you're quitting.”
Irvine wouldn't quit till dusk. Not many fine days in January, had to use every one, the weather threatened. He buzzed off.
Odd idea, his prediction settled weather would break, excepting the oddity he was on the level, concentrated on his job. Took no notice of the disappearance of Mardale into an adjacent ravine. He worked up towards the tarn.
And Esther Kemp came up the path he was using.
Esther and a man unknown to Mardale. The man couldn't be her brother, a tall blond fellow, nothing like the short, dark Kemps. He could be Whitfield. He turned, he vanished. Esther quickened up and greeted Irvine.
Mardale, dodging unobserved, found the bark of Irvine audible, little of her pianissimo.
Irvine, not embarrassed, conversational, jovial. The surly Irvine humorous. Not flirting with Esther, poking fun at her and himself. That certainly wasn't what she wanted of him. What she did want, Mardale wasn't certain. If her pianissimo asked any awkward question Irvine left it unanswered. He hadn't told her anything. Yet she appeared very pleased with him and herself as she hurried down the path. A long way down, out of sight of Irvine, the tall blond fellow rejoined her.
Mardale concluded the fellow was Whitfield and he and Esther were operating against Irvine.
Would Irvine worry, or would he? He'd stuck to his job.
When the afternoon darkened Mardale approached him. “Rare fun, old boy, what?”
“I've got through a lot, no particular fun.”
“What about Miss Kemp?”
“The youngest young thing. All a—twitter, scared of me.”
“Is she? Did she refer to Whitfield?”
“She didn't mention him.”
“Did she ask you if the police had got evidence on your crash?”
“No. She just babbled.”
“A fellow came up with Miss Kemp and lay low. After she'd babbled to you, he accompanied her down. I conclude he was Whitfield.”
“Whitfield hasn't any reason to avoid me,” Irvine observed. “I shouldn't know him if I saw him.”
“Whitfield and the girl are afraid you would.”
“They haven't any reason,” Irvine persisted.
“But you said yourself the girl is frightened of you,” Mardale quizzed him.
“She is a child, an absurdly young child.”
“I am not a child—lover,” Mardale retorted. “If you've done your do, push off to the pub, what?” Irvine nodded, and they drove back in silence. In silence Reggie listened to Mardale narrating all he had observed and heard.
“What's your opinion, Mr. Fortune?” Mardale asked.
“Very useful, very perplexin'.”
“Aren't you convinced it was Whitfield?”
“Near enough. Odd of Irvine to argue it wasn't.”
“Irvine has an excellent brain and is an absolute fool.”
“Which many there are. Yes. Quite possible the absolute fool, brain out of action, believed the Kemp girl a simple young innocent. Perplexin' questions arise, what is the girl, what is she to Whitfield and Whitfield to her, where are her father and brother in her chasing Irvine, if they are unaware of the chase, why has she left them in the dark?”
“I ask you other questions,” said Mardale. “Why the girl talked nonsense to Irvine, why Whitfield avoided him, why Whitfield and the girl are worried.”
“My dear chap. Important and bafflin' questions innumerable. Adequate enquiry should solve all.”
“Enquiry into what?” Mardale exclaimed.
“Unlimited,” Reggie drawled. “Into the past of our Whitfield, the Kemp trio, Naomi, Colonel Hawley and the present activities of Gilthwaiters.”
“The enquiry into Naomi obtained everything obtainable.”
“Oh no, no. Not adequate. Obtain more by vigorous enquiry into the Hawley, Whitfield, Kemp association.”
“There is no evidence Hawley and the Whitfield—Kemp combine are associated.”
“Look for evidence.”
“Why are you attacking Hawley?”
“Not attackin', testin'. Testin' everyone.”
“Do you think it probable Hawley murdered Naomi?”
“Probabilities absent. Hawley is one of the possible murderers.”
“Aren't we all?” Mardale laughed.
CATHERINE hated wind and declined to go out. Bill rebuked her. “You fearful female. It's a sou'—wester, wind beloved of earth and sky and sea beyond all winds that blow.”
“The poetry is an appropriate jingle,” Catherine answered.
“Take your mackintosh, Bill,” said Nancy.
“It won't rain this afternoon.” Bill evaded the mackintosh and departed.
Rain clouds were swirling over Scawgill Edge, the wind howling, yet not violent, yet the sky kept bright. All very enjoyable. Bill was very glad he'd come out alone. The sky threatened storm. Nancy and Catherine would have funked it and the threat indicated the usual Gilthwaite January deluge was imminent.
He quickened his pace for the longest possible round, and observed a man trudging the other way below. Looked like old Kemp. Glum old misanthrope, often walked by himself.
Nancy and Catherine were exhibiting pleasure and concealing their surprise at seeing Mr. Whitfield.
“I am a futile animal, Mrs. Butler,” he apologised.
“Are you quite well now?” Nancy asked.
“Quite. Thanks to you and Butler. I am shameful late in thanking you.”
“That's all right,” said Nancy.
“What a pity Bill went out,” said Catherine.
“I owe Butler a lot. He patched me up splendidly. He is fond of walking, isn't he?”
“He always has been,” said Nancy.
“Are you, Mr. Whitfield?” Catherine enquired.
“I am lazy. I don't go high.”
“That explains your not seeing Bill on your way here.”
“I came along the field path from the village. I saw no one.” Whitfield laughed. “No one ever sees anyone hereabouts. I beg your pardon, Miss Eliot, I am exaggerating, you saw the man who was injured the afternoon I was knocked out.”
“Bill and I saw him almost immediately after he was injured. We did not see you until the Kemps brought you here wounded. We saw no one else all the afternoon.”
“Nor did I. I had rotten bad luck and amazing good luck. The good predominates, Esther and Frank discovering me. Butler administering tophole first aid. Still, rotten not to know who the violent enemy was. I expect the other man wants to know who attacked him.”
“Perhaps he knows.”
“Perhaps,” Whitfield agreed. “Have you seen him again?”
“I haven't,” Catherine answered. “Have you, Mr. Whitfield?”
“I've never seen him at all. The village people complain strangers have been annoying them. Have you had any up here, Mrs. Butler?”
“The few strangers we have had were pleasant,” said Nancy.
“Have the village people had many, Mr. Whitfield?” Catherine enquired.
“More than a few.”
“What kind of annoyance did the strangers inflict?”
“The actual complaint is (omitting an adjective) nosey parkers. Did your few strangers ask questions?”
“One asked the most attractive way to Gilwater,” said Nancy.
“I imagine you know every way, Mr. Whitfield,” said Catherine. “Which do you take?”
“The road,” Whitfield shrugged. “I don't walk it.”
“The stranger talked about Gilthwaite,” said Catherine.
“Really?” Whitfield laughed. “Interesting talk?”
“Quite. He told us the valley is to be dammed and made into a lake for urban water supply.”
Whitfield grinned. “I've heard all kinds of plans are to be planned. I hadn't heard that kind. Is your stranger an engineer?”
“He did not tell us his profession.”
“Spreading alarm and despondency he'll come up against my chief, Mr. Kemp. Well, Mrs. Butler, thanks ever so and thank Bill, please. All the best, Miss Eliot.”
“A very thankful gentleman,” said Catherine.
'He was effusive,” Nancy admitted.
“He irritated you! Appalling!”
“You irritated him, and you meant to, he didn't.”
“Oh, he meant well, he meant to exhibit gratitude, that is why he was unendurable. He did not exhibit the reason he came. It wasn't gratitude, it was fear of enquiring strangers, anxiety Bill and you and I may tell a stranger inconvenient truth.”
“We don't know anything bad of Mr. Whitfield.”
“Mr. Whitfield thinks we do.”
“You're very hard on him, Catherine,” said Nancy. “His gush was unpleasant but not abnormal. A lot of young men gush.”
“Mr. Whitfield is a self—satisfied young man, he is not a gusher by nature.”
“Bill ought to have been back before now,” said Nancy.
“Poor Bill!” said Catherine. “He would have enjoyed Mr. Whitfield.”
“It's almost dark.” Nancy looked out. “Oh, someone is coming.”
Esther Kemp came and Frank. “Nancy,” Esther cried, “have you had father here?”
“No, not your father, only Mr. Whitfield.”
“Steve!” Frank exclaimed. “Steve! Has he gone, has he been gone long?”
“Not very long. Is anything the matter?”
“Father walked off by himself and we're looking for him.”
“Perhaps he has returned with Mr. Whitfield,” said Catherine.
“I bet he has. Don't forget we dine you Saturday. Crack along, Frank.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Butler, sorry, Miss Eliot,” said Frank.
“The absolute opposite of gush,” Catherine remarked on their hurried departure.
“I wish I knew where Bill is,” said Nancy.
“Though a much married husband, Bill is able to take care of himself,” said Catherine. “I don't know why the innocent Frank is looking for a vanished father.”
“It's begun to rain,” said Nancy, “and Bill wouldn't take his mackintosh.”
“Not yet a legal ground of divorce,” said Catherine.
Nancy put on her mackintosh, put Bill's over her arm, and went out and returned scolding him.
“Excuse it, Catherine,” Bill apologised. “It pleases she and don't hurt I.”
“You are inexcusable,” said Catherine. “You avoided Mr. Whitfield's gratitude.”
“Strike me pink. Whitfield on his own—to you and Nancy?”
“He was disappointed at your absence.”
“Yes, he wanted to thank you, Bill,” said Nancy.
“His first and his last words were all thankful,” Catherine sneered. “The intermediate words were not.” She gave an unsympathetic report of them.
“He's panicking at the tricky bloke who handed out the valley inundation yarn,” said Bill. “Though he declared he'd never heard it and jeered at it.”
“Which is irrational,” said Catherine.
“Other peculiarities. He declared he hadn't seen anyone as he came, reminding you he hadn't seen Esther and Frank when he was injured. Yet I saw old Kemp this afternoon.”
“Did you?” Nancy exclaimed. “Where?”
“Just below the Scawgill path, near our lane.”
“But a little after Mr. Whitfield went away Esther and Frank came and asked if Mr. Kemp had been here. They were looking for him, they were anxious.”
“The deuce they were!” Bill jumped to the 'phone. “Upgill? Butler speaking. Is Mr. Kemp in? Hallo, Frank. What about your father? Everything all right? Good. No, old boy. You didn't trouble the ladies. I say, is Whitfield quite recovered now? I missed him. Excellent. Yes, Saturday. Cheero.”
“Are we to presume Mr. Whitfield went home with Mr. Kemp or Mr. Kemp with Mr. Whitfield, or each went home alone?” Catherine enquired.
“We're to believe Frank, old Kemp is at Upgill undamaged, and Whitfield is fine and fit and on the job again. Who, if anyone, went home with whom, and where Whitfield is, no guessing. Remember Whitfield declared the tricky inundation yarn bloke he panicked at was up against old Kemp.”
“You imply we are to suspect Mr. Kemp and Mr. Whitfield. I agree. Mr. Whitfield is afraid of enquiries. But whatever offence he has committed he did not assault himself. Frank and Esther Kemp are afraid Mr. Kemp is in peril, and his own conduct betrays alarm.”
“Misanthropic old man. Possible enough he smashed Irvine and Whitfield. That doesn't explain Whitfield's panic.”
“Remember the murdered woman,” said Catherine.
“And remembering her doesn't explain the violent attack on Whitfield.”
“Of course it doesn't.” Nancy cried. “All horrible nonsense. Frank and Esther are devoted to their father and very fond of Mr. Whitfield.”
“Whitfield and old Kemp are tied up,” said Bill. “Whitfield has had the quarry job years.”
“Mr. Whitfield is versatile if the insignificant Frank and the potent Esther are both fond of him,” said Catherine.
“They are,” Nancy insisted. “Everyone knows they are.”
“They appear to be. I understand Frank's fondness, not Esther's.”
“I don't understand anything,” said Bill.”
“Whitfield panicked at enquiries and at the inundation yarn bloke. Enquiries and the inundation yarn frightened Hawley. Esther and Frank are in a panic about old Kemp. Yet Whitfield and Hawley and old Kemp can't all be linked.”
AT BREAKFAST on Friday: “Gilthwaite again?” Mardale asked.
“Oh yes, yes,” Reggie smiled. “Not havin' obtained the obtainable by enquirin', use reversed enquiries.”
“Use what?”
“My dear chap. Induce people to enquire of you.”
“That's an old one.”
“There is no new trick in our trade. We'll split the people. Kemp —Whitfield combine for me, Hawley and the Butlers for you.”
“If you like,” said Mardale.
After pouring rain all night, it was a brilliant day. As he strolled from the village, “Hounds of spring are on winter's traces,” Reggie murmured. “ Or are they? Am I?”
He contemplated Upgill. Delectable house. Jolly idea, and Mr. Kemp owned the jolly idea. Odd and instructive. He loitered about all round the house, attracting observation, went a little slow walk towards the tarn, wandered back, and in front of the house opened a map. Esther Kemp came out. Reggie remained intent on the map.
“Have you lost your way?” she enquired.
“I beg pardon?” Reggie stared. “Lost? Oh, no, no. This is Upgill, there's Gilthwaite tarn. What a splendid morning. I've never seen the tarn so colourful.”
“Have you seen it often?”
“Quite often. By Jove, I saw you going up there the other day.”
“I haven't gone there for ages.”
“I mean I was going up and saw you climbing a stile.”
“Are you interested in the tarn?”
“Interested in what happened up there. Ribham folk are very interested.”
“Are you a Ribham man?”
“Not a native, no. I've been staying at Ribham and heard the talk about the crime.”
“What crime?”
“Bones were found near the tarn, bones of a murdered girl.”
“Does anyone in Ribham know who the girl was?”
“I couldn't tell you. I'm not a policeman.”
“How can you tell she was murdered?”
“Bones found and head not found—murder, plain enough.”
“Do you go up to the tarn to look for a murderer?”
“Oh no. No. Murderer wouldn't revisit murder scene. Possible indications of his identity are discoverable. Other little crimes have occurred not far off. A Gilthwaite man wounded, a visitor robbed. The tarn area is extraordinary criminal.”
“Do you know the men?”
“Don't know the Gilthwaiter—Whitfield is the name. Know the visitor, Irvine, pleasant fellow.”
“Stephen Whitfield is my brother's closest friend. He doesn't know who wounded him.”
“If he did he'd have informed the police. Irvine doesn't know who robbed him.”
“What was he robbed of?”
“New survey map. And it is not yet known to anyone but the murderer who murdered the girl.”
“Do you think it was the murderer wounded Stephen and robbed Irvine?”
“All the crimes could be a one man job.”
“What man are you thinking of?”
“A man who has frequented the tarn area, a man who has violent passions and is extremely brutal, a man financially affected by a new scheme utilising Gilthwaite land and water.”
“Is any one man all that?”
“I wonder. No proof all crimes of one man. Quite plain Irvine didn't wound Whitfield. Quite uncertain who did. Very improbable Whitfield robbed Irvine. Very obscure who did. Impossible Irvine murdered the girl. He wasn't in this region last spring. The murderer was.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oh yes, yes. Doctors certified the date of the murder.”
“Is everyone who was here at that time suspected?”
“Only a man of the essential qualifications.”
“Who?”
“Unsolved puzzle.”
“My father, my brother and Stephen Whitfield were all here.”
“I'm not asking you about 'em.”
“My father and brother aren't the least like the awful man you did talk about, Stephen Whitfield isn't.”
“Awful one not yet visible, no,” Reggie murmured, and strolled off.
Mardale had infuriated Colonel Hawley by trespassing in Gilthwaite Park. “I understood the park was open to all, sir,” he retorted. “If you exclude me, I'll find another way.”
“Who the devil are you, sir?”
“A very uncivil question. There's the answer.” Mardale produced his card.
“All right, all right, Inspector,” Hawley apologised, “Walk wherever you like. I suppose you're employed on the bunch of crimes above the quarry.”
“Thank you,” said Mardale. “Investigation is my job. I've no idea what I'm investigating.”
“Someone murdered a woman up there, eh?”
“I haven't any evidence of murder.”
“Wasn't her head cut off?”
“Quite credible an animal took it away.”
“What animal takes a skull?”
“I'm no zoology expert. If she was murdered I haven't a view of the murderer.”
“Her murder isn't the only crime near the quarry tarn. What about the others?”
“I fail to see any link between recent assaults on two men and the murder of a woman a year ago.”
“The assaults were at the same place.”
“I didn't understand the men were assaulted close above the quarry.”
“That's where they were found.”
“I understood the exact places were indeterminable and the two men are not connected, not even acquainted.”
“Aren't they? Young Whitfield runs the quarry for old Kemp. The man Irvine was surveying the quarry tarn for Ribland electric power. The connection is devilish close, isn't it?”
“If Ribland acquired all the tarn water the quarry would be injured. Yes.”
“It would be finished.”
“But I understand Ribland has no need of all the water.”
“Any Ribland left, Ribham would grab.”
“Accepting that, Whitfield or old Kemp assaulted Irvine to steal the plan. Yes. But I can't understand why Whitfield was assaulted or who assaulted him. It couldn't have been old Kemp.”
“Whitfield and old Kemp don't love one another. Thieves fall out, don't they?”
“Not uncommon.” Mardale agreed. “Good—bye, sir.”
The abrupt break startled Colonel Hawley, as Mardale intended. He proceeded to the Butlers. His intention to startle them was frustrated. Mrs. Honey, hanging out washing in the garden, yelled: “Mrs. Butler is out and the master and the young lady, all out, walking up the mountain and being as it's such a rare fine day, which you can't never expect any nice weather this time o' year, they won't be back home not till dark, they won't, nor can you trust it to keep fine an hour. It's no use saying you ever know, you don't. But there, Mr. Butler is that set on walking and Mrs likes it, for to please him, and Miss Eliot she's a great walker, you wouldn't believe the strength of her, I never knew her equal, not a woman. But there, I've known a lot of women stronger legged than men.”
Mardale had often noticed Gilthwaite people walking round, hadn't recognised Mr and Mrs. Butler.
“Them as you noticed,” Mrs. Honey explained. “They must have been young Mr. Kemp and Miss Esther and Mr. Whitfield. They've all come up lately, which no Gilthwaite people have. Not as I'm saying them you noticed were from Gilthwaite. We've had strangers like yourself. No offence, I'm only saying you don't know who's who, and we have had trouble up here from someone. A strange gentleman hurt and Mr. Whitfield very badly hurt. Miss Esther and Mr. Frank brought him to Mr. Butler in an awful state.”
Ugly, Mardale agreed, very ugly, a police case. “The police are no use at all,” Mrs. Honey squeaked. “Fussing everywhere, worrying everyone, getting nothing. Everlasting barking up wrong trees, the police are. Not as I've any complaint of the police. I never listen to anything against 'em. I'm sure they do their best and you can't ask more. But they are useless. They run round bothering about Mr. Frank and old Mr. Kemp, everyone knowing Mr. Kemp depends on Mr. Whitfield at the quarry, and Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Frank are like David and Jonathan, close as brothers and closer.”
Vet Whitfield was violently assaulted, Mardale remarked. The police were bound to enquire about all his acquaintances. “Acquaintance!” Mrs. Honey sniffed. “I've had the nastiest acquaintances and the nicest and no fault, no merit of mine neither. You can't pick and choose who's acquainted with you, nor you can't always keep out of the way of a nasty one. Mr. Whitfield couldn't, that's how he got hurt.”
But he'd know his nasty acquaintance, Mardale argued. “There are folks you never know what they'll be up to,” Mrs. Honey retorted. “I don't blame Mr. Whitfield for not knowing the nasty beast.”
Mardale supposed there weren't a lot of brutal beasts in Gilthwaite. “No more than anywhere else,” Mrs. Honey exclaimed. “I've lived all my life in the village and a lovely life too, and I ask no better home to end my days. Not but what there are better cottages down the valley. Still Mr. Kemp can't rebuild the village now, can't afford it. Colonel Hawley never rebuilt in the easy time.”
Mardale didn't know Colonel Hawley once owned the village. “Didn't you?” Mrs. Honey cried. “The Colonel and his father and grandfather owned the village and the quarry and all round. It was just the end of the first war the Colonel sold the quarry to Mr. Kemp.”
Mardale expected the Colonel had made a pile out of the quarry. “That's right,” Mrs. Honey agreed. “His father and grandfather put what they made back into the quarry. Not the Colonel. But there, he's a soldier and all for sport, not money making like them.”
Mardale knew the kind, told Mrs. Honey inoffensive soldier jokes and went off.
He and Reggie described to each other their operations.
“You did well, Mr. Fortune,” said Mardale. “You got a lot out of Esther Kemp.”
“Did I?” Reggie yawned.
“She is scared stiff Naomi's murderer will be caught.”
“She is scared. Yes. Not clear what scares her.”
“She pretended she believed the girl wasn't murdered.”
“Oh yes. She lied quite a lot.”
“Then she urged on you the murderer attacked Irvine and Whitfield —to avert suspicion from her father and brother. They wouldn't have attacked Whitfield.”
“Perhaps not brother. Father could have. Brother could have murdered Naomi and attacked Irvine. Whitfield could. Father could have committed all the crimes. You observe Esther was anxious to know if I suspected father, brother, or Whitfield. I am not certain her insistence father and brother aren't the least like the awful man I described as the murderer was humbug.”
“You can't believe it.”
“No. Open question—the Kemp question—very open. And the Whitfield question. Take the Hawley question.”
“Also open. Hawley insisted Naomi was murdered to persuade me old Kemp murdered her and assaulted Irvine and Whitfield, to avert suspicion from himself, or to ruin old Kemp.”
“Yes. Bafflin' question. Hawley could have murdered Naomi. If he did, not probable he'd insist she was murdered, not impossible. You led him to betray equal hate of Kemp and Whitfield.”
“Fiercer against Kemp,” said Mardale.
“Oh! Take in Mrs. Honey.”
“She was all contradictions. Kemp is a shocking bad landlord and employer and he isn't. There are nasty beasts in Gilthwaite and Whitfield wouldn't know 'em. Hawley made a pile out of the quarry and he's a sportsman, not a money maker.”
“Useful informants, people who contradict themselves. They tell you the opposite aspects of truth. You obtained impressive information from Mrs. Honey. She told you Whitfield and Frank Kemp are like David and Jonathan.”
“What about it?”
“You observe Frank is Jonathan, Whitfield David.”
“If that means anything, it only means she prefers Whitfield to Frank.”
“Oh! David was a giant killer. David was immensely successful. Jonathan was the heir to his father's kingdom, but he was killed and David became king.”
“It's probable enough Whitfield is more efficient than Frank.”
“Oh yes, yes. Kemp's kingdom—village in rotten condition.”
“But what Mrs. Honey said isn't evidence.”
“Not against Frank, no. Otherwise interestin' and instructive.”
“Against old Kemp?”
“Could be.”
“Hawley said old Kemp and Whitfield don't love one another.”
“Yes. Hawley was informative. Very important element the unintentional evidence you extracted from Hawley.”
“What is your real opinion?”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! No opinion yet.”
IT RAINED, on and off, throughout Saturday, but the evening was fine. The Butlers were amazed Esther came in her car to take them to dinner at Upgill.
“Oh, Esther, you shouldn't,” Nancy protested. “We could have walked quite well. We were just starting. We're not late, are we?”
“You often are, my child,” said Bill. “But I got you ready in time for once.”
“You're not the least late. Nancy,” said Esther. “I couldn't bear you to walk. It's been such a ghastly day.”
“The improvement is unreliable,” said Catherine.
On their arrival at Upgill, Esther exclaimed:” We live in an absurd house, practically one immense room, and yet I never know where the men are.”
“A beautiful room,” said Nancy.
It was a golden semi—circle, its electric light mellow, its furniture of varied quiet harmony, its few pictures joyful. Old Kemp entered, muttered greetings and asked Esther: “What's Frank about?”
“I can't think.”
“You needn't wait dinner for him.”
One ancient maid served dinner. Kemp, Nancy on his right, Catherine on his left, appeared interested in them, and emitted adequate trivialities. Bill was uncomfortable with Esther. Her gush overwhelmed him. The dinner itself was all right, the claret tophole. Old Kemp understood wine and drinking it. Esther passed the claret, gushed on lime juice—terrific female.
They were half through dinner when Frank arrived. “Sorry, Mrs. Butler, very sorry, Miss Eliot,” he stammered, took his place on Nancy's right, avoided his father's gloomy, angry eyes and looked at Catherine.
He offered no explanation of his lateness. Neither his father nor Esther asked him to explain. Nancy endeavoured to put everyone at ease by a droll account of her housekeeping adventures. Bill assisted, chaffed her, invented incredible events. Old Kemp remained glum, Esther laughed extravagantly. Frank contrived an occasional smile. Catherine did not assist Nancy and was not amused by the entertainment. She interrupted it to ask Frank: “Has your friend, Mr. Whitfield, quite recovered?”
“Quite, thank you. Quite,” Frank stammered.
Nancy and Bill intensified joint effort to avert unpleasantness and ended the dinner agreeably enough. They rose from the table and the ancient maid served coffee in an external segment of the hemisphere room. Old Kemp produced brandy, which no one, except Bill and himself, drank, produced cigars and cigarettes. Frank was not allowed to produce anything.
A remote rumble grew louder, echoed, dwindled and rose again. “What on earth is that?” Esther exclaimed.
“It sounded like the quarry blasting,” said Catherine.
“We have no blasting at night,” old Kemp growled.
“Was it thunder?” Nancy asked.
“It—it—it isn't thunder weather,” Frank stammered.
The rumble diminished to a vague persistent boom.
All the lights went out.
“Never mind, Nancy,” Esther cried. “Sit still. I'll get candles.”
“You mustn't worry about us,” said Nancy.
When Esther's candles lit the dark room old Kemp and Frank had gone.
“All the lights in the house are out,” said Esther. “It may be the main fuse.”
“Is there another house with electricity?” Catherine asked.
“No other house near. Our electricity comes from the quarry. Colonel Hawley has an installation of his own.”
Frank returned. “It isn't the fuse,” he announced. “Either the wires are down or there's trouble in the power station.”
“Where is father?” Esther cried.
“Gone up to the quarry. I'm going now. Sorry, Mrs. Butler, sorry, Miss Eliot.”
“We are sorry,” said Nancy.
“Please don't apologise,” said Catherine.
“Crack along, old boy,” said Bill. “I hope the trouble isn't much.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Frank, and rushed away.
“You mustn't drive us home, Esther,” said Nancy. “We'll walk.”
“Of course I'll drive you. Father and Frank don't want me,” Esther answered.
She drove fast through the dark. The vague boom they heard at Upgill was inaudible on the journey, the quarry and the village were invisible, and no one talked.
“Good night,” Esther cried, as she stopped the car. “You've had an awful evening. Forget it.” She drove off before they could reply.
“How sarcastic she is,” said Catherine. “You had a very pleasant evening, Nancy. I admired your determination.”
“You were abominable,” Nancy retorted.
“Rude and ugly, Catherine,” Bill agreed. “Very rude, the unsociable guest, ugly trick hitting Frank when he was down.”
Catherine laughed. “You innocent babes. It is time Frank Kemp was a man. His father is evidently senile. Esther is more energetic, and has more intelligence than most men, but is not allowed to take her father's place. Frank is incapable of taking it and unashamed of his incapacity.”
“Nonsense!” Nancy cried.
“She only said it to annoy,” Bill added. “Her mistake. Frank is a good fellow and a very competent fellow, Catherine.”
“You said he was down.” Catherine answered. “Why was he down?”
“Being old Kemp's son isn't a cheerful job.”
“Whenever I have met him, until to—night, his enjoyment of his position was excessive. To—night he was excessively sorry for himself and gave no account of himself. I venture to assume the indispensable Mr. Whitfield saddened him.”
“Your mistake. Frank and Whitfield are close pals,” said Bill. “Frank's trouble is trouble at the quarry.”
“I am sure it is. Mr. Whitfield manages the quarry and Frank manages nothing.”
“Oh, don't argue,” Nancy exclaimed. “You don't know what has happened at the quarry.”
“Whatever it is it happened after Frank arrived late for dinner,” said Catherine.
“It may have been awful,” Nancy insisted.
“A stoppage of the quarry electric plant isn't likely to hurt anyone,” Bill answered.
“You don't know that it was just a stoppage. There was a terrible roar, like quarry blasting, as Catherine said.”
“I didn't think it like blasting and, as old Kemp said, it wasn't.”
“Do you think an electric plant stoppage would make a roar?” Catherine asked.
“I dare say it would make a bit of noise. The noise didn't last long.” Bill opened the cottage door. “All quiet now.”
“And all dark,” said Nancy.
“If the electricity is on again it wouldn't show. Kemp's house and the quarry buildings aren't in our view.”
“Isn't there a little noise?” Catherine asked.
“Rustle of wind,” said Bill. “Veering, I think, colder.”
“It is cold,” said Nancy. “Come in, Bill.”
AT AN early hour of the morning, Nancy tried to 'phone Esther, tried again and again and failed. The exchange was dumb. “I'll buzz off to the village and see what's wrong,” said Bill.
“I'll go,” said Catherine.
“I'm going,” said Nancy, “and going on to Upgill. I expect we'll meet Mrs. Honey, she's usually quite as early as this.”
Equally early Mardale informed Reggie: “A new break at Gilthwaite, Mr. Fortune.”
“David—or Jonathan now?”
“Neither. The quarry tarn dam broke last night.”
“Oh help! Anyone drowned?”
“No deaths reported yet. The village was flooded.”
“Poor people. What broke the dam?”
“No information.”
“My Mardale! You're all negative. Have you consulted our Mr. Irvine on the break?”
“Irvine isn't here, he went to Ribham yesterday for the week—end.”
“My only aunt! Call him up, he's the dam expert, put him on to it quick. And we will apply our inexpert abilities to the village.”
“If you like,” said Mardale. “Irvine's opinion might be of use. I'll ring him. Fun, spoiling his week—end. As to the village, people flooded out have been brought down to Gilwater. You can work on them.”
“Oh yes, yes. Work on them could yield a little affirmative information. Very valuable preface for our essential enquiries at Gilthwaite. Now ring Irvine and make him jump.”
The refugees from Gilthwaite were eager to talk of their sufferings. They had been all but drowned. They'd lost everything, the flood was that awful. The village'd be ruined. The quarry never ought to have allowed a flood out. Equipped with this information, Reggie strolled back.
“No Irvine to—day,” Mardale announced. “Nobody knows where he is.”
“You're perpetually negative.”
“Have you any affirmatives?”
“Affirmations strikin' and curious. We will now use our intelligence at Gilthwaite.”
Mardale was not impressed by the statements of the refugees. “Poor beggars, they only told you what we know, the flood came from the quarry tarn.”
“They affirmed what they don't know—village'll be ruined—quarry oughtn't to have allowed the flood.”
“They're sick. Quite natural.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Come along.”
The Butlers did not meet Mrs. Honey on their way to the village. They found her in the village carrying a pile of linen.
“Oh, thank God, you're all right, dearie,” she gasped at Nancy. “Such trouble as we've had I never saw nor thought of never. I've been that anxious about you and the master and the young lady, and I couldn't get up to you, I couldn't but do what I could for them as is worse off nor I am. I will be up presently, dearie, you can always be sure of me. You know you can, my dear.”
“You mustn't come up,” said Nancy. “We came to help here.”
“Bless you, dearie, you're always thinking of others, you are. You're not needed, no really you aren't. We've got the people from the drownded cottages out into those as wasn't and everyone's taken a hand as is only right. Mr. Whitfield's all over the place, superintending, wonderful good he is.”
“What actually happened?” Bill asked.
“Oh, lor, sir, didn't you hear the frightful noise last night? It was the dam Mr. Kemp put up at the tarn above the quarry, it broke, and all the water rushed down on the village. But for God's own mercy, everyone would have been drownded abed.”
“Is Mr. Frank Kemp assisting Mr. Whitfield?” Catherine asked.
“Mr. Frank's attending to the quarrymen's cottages, no knowing what old Mr. Kemp's up to. Now, Mrs. Butler, dearie, just you go home and I'll do you the usual this afternoon.” Mrs. Honey scurried off.
“She is an angel,” Nancy exclaimed. “She had a terrible night and she's quite old, and she runs about the village giving people her clothes.”
“Fine!” Bill agreed.
“An admirable woman,” said Catherine. “Useless though we are, we may as well inspect the unfortunate village. She does not admire Mr. Frank Kemp. She bestowed her admiration on Mr. Whitfield.”
“You have a nasty mind, Catherine,” Bill retorted. “She told us Whitfield is all over the place and Frank all on his own men. That's approval of Frank, not Whitfield.”
“She excused the insignificant Frank,” said Catherine, “and denounced his gloomy father. Excuses are a type of approval Frank may enjoy. I should not.”
“You're inexcusable,” said Bill. “Frank's doing his job and you're cursing him. Let's get on to him, Nancy.”
“Yes, we must.” Nancy exclaimed.
“Yes, we had better know the worst.” Catherine agreed.
They proceeded up the village street. It was a little eroded, but the shops and houses undamaged till they approached the upper part, the quarry end. The cramped cottages there had lost doors and windows, muddy streams were pouring through them.
Frank Kemp was directing the operations of men salvaging the cottagers' goods.
“Hallo, Frank!” Bill exclaimed. “What about it?”
“Oh, hallo, Butler,” Frank answered. “Everyone safe out, thanks. It might have been a lot worse. Sorry, I can't talk now.”
“Cheero,” said Bill.
“He is always sorry,” said Catherine.
Walking up to empty ruined cottages they saw old Kemp leave one and enter another.
“What's the old man doing?” Bill muttered.
“Inspecting his valuable property,” said Catherine. “Estimating his losses.”
“You're hateful,” Nancy exclaimed. “He oughtn't to go into those tumbledown places alone.”
“Right you are,” said Bill, and hurried on.
“Oh, Bill!” Nancy gasped.
One side of the cottage Kemp had entered was collapsing. As Bill reached it, it fell, and in the noise and volumes of dust he could neither see nor hear Kemp.
He groped his way to the unfallen side and discovered Whitfield leading three or four men. “Don't you try it, guv'nor,” the men were objecting.—“It ain't no use. He's fair bought it, he has. And it'll all fall any minute now.”
Whitfield laughed and scrambled through a dilapidated window and shouted: “Come on, chaps, come on!” Bill climbed in, Whitfield's men followed.
“Why Butler!” Whitfield exclaimed. “Good man. Thanks a lot. I'm afraid Mr. Kemp's had a very nasty knock.”
Kemp's arms protruded from a mound of rubble. “Now you chaps!” Whitfield cried. But only Bill was quick to help him separate the rubble and drag Kemp out.
The others assisted eagerly in lifting the old man through the window and carrying him a safe distance from the cottage.
“Who are you?” Kemp muttered. “Leave me alone.” He freed himself and stood reeling. “You, Whitfield!” he gasped. “You be off.”
Whitfield's reply was amiable. “I hope you're not badly injured, sir. We just pulled you out in time. Look, the whole cottage is falling now.”
It fell and deafened and blinded them. When the noise lessened: “Off with you,” Kemp growled.
“I'll send Frank up, sir,” Whitfield answered.
“Blast you, let Frank alone!” Kemp retorted, and stumbled off homeward.
“Well, Butler, thanks very much,” said Whitfield. “The old man had an ugly shock. I'll get on to Frank at once.”
“Yes. You tell Frank. We'll look after Mr. Kemp,” said Bill.
“All right!” Whitfield marched his men away.
“The gloomy father is not grateful,” said Catherine.
“Poor old man, he's dazed, almost unconscious.”
“He was quite conscious Mr. Whitfield rescued him and quite conscious of his ingratitude.”
“Nonsense!” Nancy exclaimed. “He wasn't grateful to Bill and Bill helped in rescuing him. He didn't know what he was saying.”
“He didn't order Bill off, he did not curse Bill. He does not loathe Bill as he loathes Mr. Whitfield.”
“No, my girl. It's common form a man who's had his life saved rounds on the saver. Whitfield pulled him out, I wasn't active, so he cursed Whitfield, not me.”
“You're an extravagant optimist, Bill,” said Catherine.
With no more argument, they followed Kemp up the lane to his house. Esther ran out, took his arm, and took him indoors.
“It's remarkable Esther stayed at home this eventful morning,” said Catherine.
“The one important remark is now we go home,” said Bill.
“Yes.” said Nancy, “I should like to talk to Esther, but she would be worried if I did.”
Mardale's comments on Gilthwaite amused Reggie. He admitted, obviously reluctant, the village wasn't as bad as he expected, the people rather better, they were making a decent show.
“Very fine show. The people who quit and affirmed the village'd be ruined are not fine, not even decent. Their affirmatives exposed are all the more strikin' and curious.”
“Their affirmatives were honest enough,” Mardale answered. “It's possible the village will be ruined. A lot of the cottages are badly damaged. I agree the quitters exaggerated, but the village people will have a hard time.”
“Oh yes! Yes! Now tell me why the quitters blamed the damage and misery they exaggerated on old Kemp.”
“The blame is always on the employer, the landlord.”
“Are the people who wouldn't quit blaming it all on Kemp? Frank Kemp's rustle round the village was welcomed.”
“Not by everyone.”
“No. There is an anti—Kemp movement which the quitters support. They couldn't have started it. Who did? Attractive and bafflin' problem. Requisite enquiry and investigation up to you. A fat unemployable, one Ibdon, is anti—Kemp and tells lies of value. Goodbye.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the tarn, to study fundamental problem, why the dam broke.”
“That's a job for an engineer.”
“When our engineer, Mr. Irvine, returns from his week—end, evidence now visible at the dam may have been obliterated.”
CHILL in the village, the January afternoon was colder up at the tarn. “If it froze I'd be warm,” Reggie panted, toiling, slowed by mud, to the dam. Half had been broken. Almost all the tarn water had escaped. “Nasty natural,” Reggie groaned. “Debris below just like glacier moraine.”
The dam was an embankment of earth, not hewn stone, but massive and apart from the break seemed ample and unweakened. “Oughtn't to have broken,” Reggie complained. “Kemps and people ought to be amazed it has. Yet I alone investigate. Oh my ghost! What is that white thing on the mud far out?”
He abandoned the question as he saw he was not alone, saw Kemp's intimate friend, Ullock, the farmer of Scawgill Edge.
“Cold afternoon,” he remarked.
“Ay, not half as cold as we'll have it. It's blowing up perishing.”
“I expect it blows very cold at Scawgill.”
“Ay, we're used to it.”
“There's an awful mess here. What happened?”
“Ay, I don't know as I remember a worse mess. It happened last night. The old dam broke.”
“I see. There must have been a frightful noise.”
“Ay, there was some noise, not as it frightened us, we're used to the quarry blasting.”
“Would the quarry blast in the night?”
“Of course the quarry wouldn't. I mean it sounded like blasting, like as if the explosives were going off accidental. Then to—day I found the dam had broken.”
“Was it broken by an explosive?”
“Of course it wasn't. The quarry isn't anywhere near the dam nor there wasn't any explosion. The noise was just the breakage and the water flooding out. When we've had months of rain like we have the mountain water is very powerful, like it is when we've had heavy snow, and heavy snow will come in a day or two.”
“Has the dam ever broken before?”
“No, there's never been no trouble with it.”
“Is it old?”
“Ay! Twenty—five year old, as 'tis now.”
“Who built it?”
“Mr. Kemp, he built it as 'tis, when he took the quarry, 'twas a little 'un earlier, just for a stone mill, he built it up for to make the quarry electric.”
“Has the break injured anyone?”
“No one was hurt. Of course, Mr. Kemp'll be out of pocket and the quarrymen'll be out of work till it's repaired.”
“Very distressin',” said Reggie. “But accidents are accidents.”
“Ay! There's no helping what's happened.” Ullock trudged off.
Reggie remained and gazed at the white thing on the mud the deepest water of the tarn had covered. Mud to the knees, he struggled out, examined the thing, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and carried it away to his car.
Twilight was falling before Mardale joined him. “Late,” he yawned, “icy late. What about the anti—Kempers?”
“There are quite a few,” Mardale chuckled. “And quite warm.”
“I am not.” Reggie started the car. “I am a frozen vacuum. Tell me all.”
“Your pal Ibdon is a nosey hound.”
“Informative liar, yes.”
“He's working an excellent line against old Kemp. The dam needed repair, Kemp wouldn't spend the needful. That's why it broke.”
“Very instructive, Ibdon affirmin' the quitters, blamin' it all on Kemp. Did Ibdon originate the anti—Kemp movement?”
“I think not, I think the origin is common dislike of old Kemp, natural dislike. Remember this morning. Frank was active in the village. Where was old Kemp?”
“Where was the essential Whitfield?”
The question amused Mardale. “Haven't you heard?”
“No. What's the joke?”
“Whitfield was digging old Kemp out of a collapsed cottage. Saved his life.”
“The ever dependable, the indispensable Whitfield.”
“And Kemp having been saved, blitzed Whitfield, told him to take a running jump at himself.”
“Extraordinary ungrateful, if your facts are all the facts. Why was Kemp in the collapsed cottage? Why was Whitfield on the spot?”
“It's no use asking me what old Kemp was up to, mooching about by himself in the deserted part of the village. He couldn't be any use to anyone there. He could have been, working with Frank in the part that isn't abandoned. Ibdon says he and Frank have quarrelled over the awful cottages he won't rebuild, says he daren't face the occupants.”
“The informative Ibdon omitted to say why Whitfield wasn't working with Frank. Have he and Frank quarrelled?”
“Everyone, not only Ibdon, says they're like brothers.”
“David and Jonathan. Frank the Jonathan, Whitfield the David. The father of Jonathan, Saul, observing everyone applauded David the giant killer, 'was very wroth'. Valuable parallel. David didn't claim he saved Saul's life, did claim he 'spared it'. Saul was not grateful. Old Kemp blitzed Whitfield.”
“Your parallel exalts Whitfield and knocks Kemp. You've changed your mind quick.”
“No change. Mind open. Your facts haven't explained Whitfield's avoidance of Frank, of the region where he was needed, his presence in the region where he wasn't needed, his arrival at the exact spot and time old Kemp's life was endangered.”
“I understand Whitfield was busy all over the village.”
“Ibdon information?”
“General talk.”
“Odd and impressive an abandoned cottage fell the moment old Kemp entered it with Whitfield near.”
“Are you suggesting Whitfield arranged the fall?”
“Probable the fall was expected by Whitfield. Obvious he had an eye on Kemp.”
“It's certain he dug Kemp out.”
“Oh yes. He obviously saved Kemp's life. But the fall isn't the fundamental problem. Until we're certain why the dam broke we have no certainties.”
Mardale affected amazement. “Weren't your investigations up at the dam any use?”
“Not negligible, thank you. An old friend of Kemp's, Ullock, a Scawgill farmer, was about at the dam. He'd heard it breakin' and thought the noise like the quarry blastin' yet rejected the idea explosion caused the break.”
“Is an explosion your idea?”
“To my ignorance of engineerin' explosion appears probable. I have actual proof Naomi's murderer believed the dam would last his time.”
“What on earth connects the dam and the murder?”
Reggie unwrapped the thing in his handkerchief.
“A skull,” Mardale gasped.
“Skull of youngish woman. I picked it up—observe the mud—where the tarn was very deep. The murderer, choppin' off Naomi's head, flingin' it into the deepest water available, was not anticipatin' the tarn would empty and the skull be evidence against him.”
“You've no proof the skull is Naomi's.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! Skull of woman about Naomi's age. Naomi's head was removed and her skeleton, bar the skull, was found above the tarn.”
“I admit the probability. Probability isn't evidence. And the skull isn't a clue to the murderer. You aren't anywhere on your fundamental problem why the dam broke. Your argument the murderer hadn't anticipated it would, and your explosion idea implies someone else needed the break. Who? Why?”
“Various answers conceivable. Old Kemp. An enemy of old Kemp. There are, you observed, quite a few.”
“Not Kemp. He needed the dam. He lost by the break.”
“Has he lost? He might gain out of insurance.”
“Very hopeful idea. What about Kemp's enemies? Which is your selection?”
“My Mardale. You select. If an enemy of Kemp blew up the dam, that enemy is also an enemy of Naomi's murderer. Criminals over—abundant. Awkward for the police.”
“Kemp blitzed Whitfield as an enemy.”
“As Saul blitzed David.”
“You can't imagine Whitfield blew up the dam.”
“I have no imagination.”
“All the incidents are utterly obscure.”
“Obscurity irritatin' not utter. Criminals loom through, fightin'.”
“I OUGHT to have got to you before, dearie,” Mrs. Honey panted. “I know I ought. Not that I ain't got to you the earliest I could, in the shocking upset in the village. I don't rightly know if I'm on my head or my heels.”
“You oughtn't to have come.” said Nancy.
“Bless you, dearie, I love to come. It's just the awful trouble between Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Kemp. You've not heard. I —-”
“We have,” Nancy interrupted. “After Mr. Whitfield brought Mr. Kemp out of a fallen cottage we heard Mr. Kemp send him away.”
“My dear! Awful, wasn't it? Yes, but there's more awful than that. Mr. Kemp he gave Mr. Whitfield notice yesterday morning. Mr. Whitfield saved his life this morning and he cursed Mr. Whitfield. You'd never believe it of Mr. Kemp, no, nor of no man if it hadn't happened. Everyone in the village is fair furious. Mr. Kemp —”
Nancy interrupted again. “Talking about it isn't any use.”
“That's right. Talking always makes bad worse. Not as this here could be made worse nor what it is. I'll do you my usual, dearie.”
Mrs. Honey stormed into the kitchen. Nancy joined Bill and Catherine in the living—room. “Poor you,” said Bill. “But the Honey explained yesterday evening.”
“I failed to discern that her eloquence included an explanation,” said Catherine.
“It's impossible to understand Mr. Kemp,” said Nancy. “And yet it's dreadful for him.”
“And it is reasonable to pity him,” said Catherine.
“Both of you are deaf.” said Bill. “The Honey explained why Frank was melancholy yesterday.”
“She offered no explanations why Mr. Kemp gave Mr. Whitfield notice yesterday morning.” said Catherine.
“And Frank and Whitfield were inseparable,” said Nancy. “It's horribly hard on Frank.”
“No, Nancy,” said Catherine. “Frank does not require your pity. He pities himself quite enough.”
“Frank's all right,” said Bill. “And I have no objection to Whitfield. I own I don't understand Kemp giving him the sack.”
“Esther may understand it,” said Catherine.
“Esther?” Nancy cried. “Esther likes Whitfield as well as Frank.”
“Mrs. Honey once announced Esther and Mr. Whitfield were like sweethearts. That may be the reason Mr. Kemp sacked Mr. Whitfield.”
“You're unreasonable, Catherine,” said Bill. “If they were sweethearts and Kemp disapproved, he'd have sacked Whitfield before yesterday.”
“Mr. Whitfield was injured before yesterday,” said Catherine.
“If you think old Kemp injured him you think nonsense.”
The arrival of Frank ended the debate.
“May I come in, Mrs. Butler?” he asked. “Good afternoon. Miss Eliot. I say, Butler, you were fine. I'm very sorry —-” Catherine laughed—“I just wanted to explain. Father isn't quite himself, the dam breaking last night was a terrific blow for the old man. Please don't imagine he's ungrateful to you.”
“I haven't earned his gratitude,” Bill answered. “Whitfield pulled him out of the ruins.”
“Whitfield told me you helped no end. And don't imagine father really knew what he was saying, abusing Whitfield.”
“I doubt if he knew what was what at the time.”
“Is it untrue Mr. Kemp gave Mr. Whitfield notice yesterday morning?” Catherine enquired.
“It is true,” Frank answered. “I'm sorry, Miss Eliot. I wish—I—I'm not able to tell you any more.”
“I couldn't 'phone Esther,” said Nancy. “I hope she's not thinking I've forgotten her.”
“She—she wouldn't think that, Mrs. Butler,” Frank stammered. “You're very kind. I must go home now.”
“Cheero!” said Bill.
“My love to Esther.” said Nancy.
“Take care of yourself,” said Catherine.
Frank looked bewildered and delighted. “Awfully nice of you, Miss Eliot.”
When he had gone. “The ineffectual imbecile supposed I was serious,” Catherine laughed.
“Your jokes are naughty, Catherine,” said Bill. “They're vitiated and they're obscure.”
“I supposed you were serious,” said Nancy. “I supposed you meant Frank should take care he isn't injured as Whitfield was.”
“I meant Frank should have taken care no one else was injured and shouldn't apologise for his father.”
“I get you,” said Bill. “You love and you loathe Frank.”
That irritated Catherine. “Frank is an unpleasant void,” she exclaimed.
“No, Catherine, we're not horrified at you, we're amused,” said Bill.
“It's ridiculous of you to jeer at Frank,” said Nancy, “and abominable.”
Mrs. Honey yelled: “Mr. Whitfield's come, dearie.” She brought him in.
“I am lucky, Mrs. Butler,” Whitfield smiled. “When I need assistance I get it from you and Butler. I know thanks are idiotic. May I explain? Without Butler I couldn't have rescued Mr. Kemp. The quick rescue averted dangerous injury, but Mr. Kemp was stunned, unconscious who extricated him.”
“Luck for Kemp you were there.”
“Bad luck the cottage fell on him.”
“Esther must be very alarmed and anxious,” said Nancy.
“Miss Kemp is devoted to her father. I understand she isn't anxious, she has no reason.”
“Is Frank Kemp taking his father's place at the quarry?” Catherine asked.
“Frank always takes charge if his father's absent. But there's nothing doing at the quarry with the dam broken. The men and the whole village are in for a rare hard winter.”
“Surely good management will assist the men and the village.” said Catherine.
“It ought to,” Whitfield nodded. “I'll tell Frank and Miss Kemp you asked about them, Mrs. Butler.”
“Please,” Nancy answered. “We shall see you again soon?”
“Thank you. You certainly shall.” Whitfield departed.
“You were viciouser than ever, Catherine,” said Bill.
“His explanation was the most interesting,” Catherine replied. “It omitted most. We did not learn from him Mr. Kemp gave him notice yesterday. He omitted to explain why, why he was not with Frank this morning, why he was close upon Mr. Kemp and what his actual relations with Frank and Esther are. Even when I pressed him he wouldn't own his management of the quarry is at an end.”
“I agree he talked short and slick. I don't go the bundle on him. I go a bit on Frank's affection for him.”
“Frank's affection and judgment are equally negligible.”
“What about Esther?”
“Esther is not devoid of intelligence. Her affection, if any, would be rational. She is also passionate.”
“More than somewhat,” Bill nodded.
“You're absurd,” Nancy cried. “You don't understand her in the least.”
REGGIE and Mardale, arriving at Gilwater, were informed nothing had been heard of Irvine.
“New problem, sir,” Mardale chuckled. “Find the vanished expert. I know experts take large week—ends, but he vanished on Friday and it's uncertain he'll be at Gilthwaite to—morrow.”
“Yes, our Irvine has obscured his activities.”
“Will you go to Gilthwaite all the same?”
“Not me, no. I'll consult another expert.”
“Who?”
“Dentist. Ribham dentist who filled Naomi's teeth. You investigate Gilthwaite again—without mention of skull.”
Coming back early in the afternoon, Reggie found Irvine asking when he would come back.
“My dear Irvine! Jovial week—end? Let's have tea up in my room.”
“I want to have a talk,” Irvine growled.
“Oh yes. Yes. Ugly and valuable week—end, my week—end.”
“The Ribland authorities 'phoned me the Gilthwaite quarry dam's broken.”
Reggie nodded, led Irvine to his room and asked, “What about it—in your expert opinion?”
“I haven't formed an opinion. The material is insufficient.”
“Are you surprised the dam broke?”
“A little. Though the dam was old it was well constructed.”
“Oh! I've heard allegations it broke because Mr. Kemp wouldn't pay for repairing it.”
“There always is an allegation like that when a dam or embankment breaks. If you ask me no repair was needed. It's impossible to be certain. A flaw might develop after the recent rain on top of a very wet year.”
“The uncertain expert is uncommon useful. A farmer up above Gilthwaite told me the dam break sounded just as if quarry explosives were going off accidental.”
Irvine frowned. “The break sounded like an explosion? Most improbable. Was there one at the quarry?”
“Oh no! No. Could explosion have broken the dam?”
“An adequate explosion can break anything. Only people who understood explosives could manage it.”
“Could you tell from inspection whether explosives were used?”
“Inspection might yield no result.”
“Will the breaking of the dam knock out your Ribland electric plans?”
“The break is a nuisance to the quarry, insignificant to the electric plan. We might have taken over the dam and enlarged it. We'll get on fast enough without it.”
“And I'm told the Ribham water plan is going on as arranged.”
“I know nothing of Ribham action.”
“My dear chap! Not you, no. But it is evident the only people sufferin' from the break are Kemp and family, his quarry men and Gilthwaite villagers.”
“Admitted. The natural inference is the dam broke by accident. You put the explosion view. What are you inferring?”
“It's an illogical inference the break was an accident. The dam could have been blown up to ruin Kemp and family.”
“Who'd want to ruin them?”
“There are anti—Kemp people and criminal people at Gilthwaite.”
“Do you mean the attack on me?”
“Before that little effort, before the dam broke, there was a murder, an uncommon ugly murder.” Producing the skull, Reggie narrated how and where he had found it. ...
“Very ugly,” said Irvine. “Are you sure the girl was murdered?”
“My dear fellow! Head removed.”
“Can you determine from the skull how she was killed?”
“No. Experts are limited, are they not? But the skull proved the murderer knew all about the tarn, is a Gilthwaite man who often went there.”
“Admitted. It also proves the murderer wouldn't have blown up the dam.”
“As you say. Yet the dam could have been blown up.”
“Who would?”
“An enemy of Kemp—and an enemy of Kemp could be an enemy of the murderer.”
“It's unimaginable anyone would blow up the dam to expose the skull and get the murderer convicted. The skull isn't enough.”
“I have no imagination. Have you imagined who attacked and robbed you and who attacked Whitfield? One man, two, or is the murderer the one lone criminal?”
“I admit I'm absolutely puzzled.”
“Not an easy puzzle, no, yet we are advancin'.”
Mardale came into the room. “Hallo, hallo, Irvine! What's the expert opinion?”
Reggie answered: “Mr. Irvine thinks it improbable the dam was blown up and certainly not blown up by the murderer of Naomi.”
Mardale laughed. “Expert certainties are useful. What about the dental expert?”
“Quite good. He identified the teeth.”
“It is Naomi's skull?”
“Oh yes. Yes. No probable, possible shadow of doubt.”
“No doubt Naomi was murdered. No line on the murderer?”
“Not yet, no. What about expert police inquiry?”
“I agree with Irvine, the breaking of the dam and Naomi's murder are unconnected. I don't agree with him it's improbable the dam was blown up.”
Irvine glared. “Have you any reason to oppose my view?”
“I have irrefutable facts against you. On Saturday morning old Kemp sacked Whitfield. On Saturday night the dam broke. Whitfield, being quarry manager, controlled explosives and knew how to use them, and it's quite a common crime of revenge, a discharged man sabotaging employer's property.”
“You're not well informed, Mr. Mardale,” Irvine grinned. “To place explosives adequate for blowing up the dam would take a long time. They couldn't have been placed between Saturday morning and Saturday night.”
“The answer is Whitfield must have known Kemp distrusted him before Saturday, and accordingly prepared the explosion ready to fire if Kemp fired him.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Whitfield couldn't ignore that blowin' up the dam immediately on dismissal would attract attention to him.”
Mardale laughed. “He had to blow it up immediately he'd got the push. And he covered himself, saving old Kemp's life.”
“Yes. Interestin' incident the cover. Well, well. Expert examination of the dam to—morrow, Irvine?”
“First thing.”
Reggie shuddered. “Freezin' cold.”
THERE was no frost at Gilwater in the morning, but chill vapour drifted down the valley.
“Leaden sky,” Reggie moaned. “Cold'll be paralysin' high up.”
The eddying vapour thinned, the sky cleared a little as they approached Gilthwaite.
“Not too bad, Mr. Fortune,” said Mardale. “The wind's changed.”
“Changin' continuous,” Reggie answered, and stopped the car. “Walk up the footpath, avoidin' the village. Oh, Irvine. If unable to avoid everyone, avoid mentionin' the skull.”
“I never give anything away.” Irvine growled.
The footpath Reggie had taken offered an excellent view of Gilthwaite, and no opportunity of avoiding observation. He lagged behind Irvine and Mardale, he contemplated Gilthwaite, he contemplated the whole landscape. Spatters of snow on Scawgill Edge were sharpened by a metallic purple—bronze horizon. Ghostly vapour haunted the devastation about the tarn.
“Infernal cold.” Reggie wailed, and quickened his laggard pace. Near the tarn the path was frozen, but not the unemptied pools nor the stream from them.
“Our engineering expert is athletic,” said Mardale. “Look at him bog jumping and rock climbing.”
The debris of the dam was not all bog, the upper section had frozen.
“Thorough fellow, Irvine,” Reggie purred.
“I like an earnest expert,” Mardale chuckled. “Did you avoid everyone, walking behind us, Mr. Fortune? Have you got anything?”
“Wasn't anyone to avoid. Wasn't anything to get. Anything, anyone may arrive now. But I've protected Irvine's operations.”
“You advertised them, loitering along where you'd be seen from the village.”
“Oh, my Mardale! If I'd only thought of that!”
“You thought of it all right. What's the game?”
“My dear chap! I told you. To prevent anyone obstructin' Irvine.”
“You've actually ensured village people'll notice activity at the tarn and come up.”
“Have I?” Reggie sighed. “If people came, which came might be instructive. Oh my aunt! Our Irvine has worked quick. He's finished.”
Irvine clambered over the jagged top of the dam.
“What about it?” Mardale asked.
“No opinion. An opinion is impossible while things are as they are.”
Mardale laughed. “Grand stuff, expert caution.”
“I need caution in my job,” Irvine answered.
“Oh yes, yes,” Reggie purred. “A lot. Will you ever be able to say why the dam broke?”
“I'm not without hope. At present I can only say it's equally likely the break was accidental and was caused by an explosion. The original breaking point is undeterminable. One or two visible fissures suggest explosion and others accident. I hope digging into the debris will yield conclusive evidence.”
“What a hope!” Mardale grinned. “An unendable job.”
“Oh, Mardale, not amusin',” Reggie sighed. “How long diggin', Irvine?”
“I can't estimate exactly, two or three days. But I can't start yet. The upper debris is frozen hard.”
“Any idea what kind of explosive may be dug up?”
“One of the explosives used in ordinary blasting.”
“What's the most ordinary one?”
“Gelignite is often used.”
“In quarry blasting?”
“Yes. I can't tell you what's used in the quarry here.”
“Impressive caution, Irvine,” Mardale laughed. “Very valuable. What do we do about old Kemp, Mr. Fortune?”
“We don't talk about him. We talk of many things, of shoes and ships and sealing wax,” Reggie answered. “Coldish, but not a bad day for January. Is it a primrose, the yellow there? Celandine, coltsfoot? Or gorse? When gorse is in flower, kissing's in season. More birds than usual, high up in January. I loathe the jackdaw blether. Ravens are tolerable. What's that? Not a hawk, not the size—must be a kestrel.”
“End of general bird talk,” said Mardale. “Arrival of particular bird.”
Esther Kemp was unaccompanied. She ignored Reggie and Mardale and asked Irvine: “What on earth are you doing?”
“Surveying the locality.”
“Why?”
“It's my job.”
“I thought you'd finished your survey.”
“I haven't.”
“Are you surveying the tarn again because the dam broke?”
“The break has affected the immediate potential.”
“Good mornin', Miss Kemp,” said Reggie. “Hope your father's recovered.”
She frowned. “Quite, thank you.”
“It was an ugly accident.”
“It was unpleasant. Father is much indebted to Mr. Whitfield.”
“Oh, much. But ugly accident. After shock of the dam break, very nasty.”
“Are you concerned with the dam?”
“Not me, no. Just accompanyin' Irvine.”
Mardale slid off.
Esther looked at Irvine again. “I suppose you're trying to find out what made the dam break.”
“I've found it an insoluble problem.”
“But you're an engineer.”
“But the dam broke on Saturday night, thirty or forty hours ago. If you'd got me at once I might have ascertained why it broke. There isn't any visible evidence now.”
“Have your people any idea, Miss Kemp?” Reggie asked.
“Of course it was accidental. The question is why the accident occurred. Was it because the dam needed repair, Mr. Irvine?”
“I am unable to tell you. I saw no urgent need.”
“Very bafflin' question, why nasty accidents occur,” Reggie murmured, and strolled away.
“Is that man a friend of yours?” Esther asked.
“An acquaintance.”
“Who is he?”
“A medical man. I came across him in Ribham.”
“Why is he here?”
“He's at a loose end.”
The conversation was stopped by the arrival of Frank and Whitfield.
“Mr. Irvine?” Whitfield asked.
“I am.” Irvine growled.
“My name's Whitfield. You and I ought to know each other. We both ran into trouble one afternoon. Any more trouble, sir?”
“None. And you?”
“None at all. An uncommon odd business our double knock out, neither you nor I having an idea how.”
“Odd enough,” said Irvine. “It isn't the only odd event.”
“You—you mean the dam breaking?” Frank stammered.
“Yes. I'd have expected it to last for years.”
“We expected it would,” said Frank vehemently.
“It was in thorough good repair, wasn't it, Frank?” said Whitfield. “The break's an absolute mystery.”
“M—maddening,” Frank stammered.
“It's a miracle no one was killed,” said Whitfield.
“I don't buy mystery or miracle,” said Irvine. “There never was an effect without an actual cause.”
“Good old logic,” said Whitfield. “Yet the cause isn't always discoverable.”
“It usually is.”
“1 say, Irvine,” Frank cried, “I say, about discovering cause, would it be a foul trick by someone?”
“That is possible. A natural cause is also possible.”
“What kind of trick?”
“If you investigated you might answer the question.”
Above the tarn Reggie shouted, “Irvine! Up here!”
Irvine shouted “O.K.,” said “Good—bye, Miss Kemp,” and went up.
“His master's voice,” Whitfield sneered.
“What's the man want of him?” Frank asked.
“Stupid!” Esther exclaimed. “Mr. Irvine wouldn't obey any man.”
“You know men, old girl.” Whitfield laughed. Esther turned and followed Irvine. Whitfield nodded at Frank. “She's on the jump. She has it out of Irvine the dam break wasn't accidental.”
“Irvine told me a natural cause was quite possible. He wouldn't tell Esther the opposite.”
“Irvine scared the girl and told you any dirty trick was possible. His object is rotting you and the old 'un, at the order of the bloke who called him up.”
“Who, who the devil —-” Frank stammered. “Why did the bloke call him? Let's go up there.”
KEEPING out of sight, Mardale crept after Frank and Whitfield. He had overheard everything and took the poorest view of every utterance. Fortune, general humbug—Irvine extravagant cagey—Esther, sham innocent—Frank an absolute vacuum—Whitfield, too knowing.
But Fortune had queered them. He was above the tarn where Naomi's bones were discovered. And Irvine was asking, “Any fresh fact?”
“Oh no. No. Not up here. Readjustin' ideas to the event below.”
And Esther asked, “Was the dam affected by anything here, Mr. Irvine?”
“I am not aware of any connection, Miss Kemp.”
“No connection intended, no,” Reggie smiled. “But an ugly accidental event occurred up here, woman murdered.”
“Why do you talk of that?” Esther exclaimed.
“Murder is disagreeable, yes, very disagreeable to think of the woman. Still, thinkm' of her very illuminatin'. Now Irvine, the car and Gilwater.” Reggie bustled him down a field path. Unseen, unheard, Mardale chuckled “Jolly neat,” at their departure and the appearance of Whitfield and Frank.
“Have you learnt a lot, old girl?” Whitfield asked.
“What—what were they up to?” Frank stuttered. “I couldn't understand. Can you? They were on the murdered woman.”
“Murdered—if she was murdered it was early last year,” said Frank. “What's the idea now?”
“I asked that, asked if they connected the murder and the dam breaking. They wouldn't answer straight. They evidently feel sure of the connection.”
“Fathead assurance,” Whitfield laughed. “They're crackers.”
“Utter rot,” Frank nodded. “Where have they gone?”
“Gilwater,” said Esther.
“Both?” Whitfield asked. “Irvine and the master mind?”
“Yes, both,” said Esther. “How you harp on obeying a master.”
“Excuse it, old girl, a very little joke, and ancient.”
“I say, Esther,” said Frank, “who is the chap, Irvine's chap?”
“I don't know.” Esther quit, off to Upgill.
Frank put an arm in Whitfield's. “Sorry, Steve. Esther oughtn't to jab you.”
“All right, old boy,” Whitfield answered. “I understand the girl, she understands me, and we like ourselves, we're very close.”
Mardale, invisible auditor, observing Frank and Whitfield take the path Reggie took Irvine, had to admit it was all mighty fine, everyone extraordinary close—Whitfield and Frank a David—Jonathan couple, Whitfield sweet on Esther, Esther acid sweet on him, kidding him. Nothing new. Just unwanted verification.
Esther had gone home. Where had Frank and Whitfield gone, down the path? Gilwater? They would be beat. As Fortune said Gilwater it wasn't there he'd taken Irvine. Mardale climbed to observe all the path and observed neither Irvine nor Reggie. Frank and Whitfield were standing still. Apparently arguing. Whitfield went on down to the village, Frank up a lane.
The lane to the pink cottage, the Butler cottage. Had Fortune gone there? Observing no alternative, Mardale trailed Frank.
In the lane Reggie and Irvine encountered Bill. “Hallo! Ogopogoing?” he grinned.
“What's that?” Irvine asked.
“Hunting an unidentified.”
“Not worth while.”
Bill stared at Reggie. “Do I know you?”
“Anonymously. The name is Fortune.”
“Mine's Butler. I didn't know you knew Irvine.”
“Oh, quite well. Irvine and I are examinin' the dam problem. Any view, Butler?”
“What is the problem?”
“Nice question. Fundamental problem, why the dam broke.”
“I haven't the vaguest view. All I know about dams is dam' all.”
“At your place you'd have heard the break. What was the noise like?”
Bill frowned. “A little like a crumph.”
“A bomb?”
“Bomb or shell. Why are you worrying?”
“The break had effects on the village. Cottages ruined. Awkward for the people. One person thought the noise like quarry blasting. Was it?”
Bill meditated. “Blasting is the only bang at Gilthwaite. But the break happened in the night. Who was the person?”
“An old fellow up above you. Were you in your 'ullage when you heard the break?”
Bill was amazed. “You're all out on it. We were dining with the Kemps and someone said the break was like blast and I thought it like a crumph.”
“Who said blast? One of the Kemps?”
“No. My sister—in—law.”
“And you said crumph?”
“I said nothing. Obviously it wasn't blast.”
“Were the Kemps all dumb?”
“They had a little what on earth is it talk, old Kemp cut off up to the quarry and Frank after him.”
“Oh! Both sure the noise indicated trouble at the quarry.”
“Sure they were—the quarry makes their electricity—all their lights had gone out—sure as death the quarry power plant was bust.”
“Very interestin'. Hope I'll see you again,” Reggie murmured, and led Irvine out of the lane into a path that zigzagged down. “Nice work,” he whispered. “See Frank runnin' up to the knowin' Butler! Butler can tell him about our urgent and alarmm' enquiries, while we tell Mardale a thing or two.”
“I'm off,” said Irvine. “I want to arrange excavation of the dam at once.”
“My Irvine! How right you are. Go ahead.” Unobserved Mardale listened to Frank and Bill. Frank asking if Bill had seen Irvine, seen the bloke with him, if Bill knew the bloke, knew what they were after, knew where they'd gone. Bill's reply not quick, calm and easy. The man with Irvine said his name was Fortune. They'd talked a little of the dam problem. No telling where they'd gone nor what they wanted. Frank angry pathetic. No telling was rotten. Bill knew the dam break broke the quarry, the village, broke father and him. Couldn't Bill tell him what the nosies were smelling at? Bill cagey. They appeared to suspect an explosion broke the dam.
Frank yapping “My God—explosion—impossible—unbelievable. Bill.”
A woman coming down the lane, handsome, icy. “What is unbelievable? Bill or a melancholy fact?” Frank stammering apologies. The woman snubbing him, ordering him up to Mrs. Butler—Mrs. Butler's order—said she—Bill grinning.
Mardale reported to Reggie. “I take the poorest view of Frank, a low view of Butler. Frank and the Butlers are intimate yet Butler gulled him.”
“Oh my Mardale! The Butlers are charmin', Mrs. Butler delightful. Butler very useful. We wanted Frank alarmed. Question now, why is he alarmed we have the idea of explosives?”
“Plain enough. The only explosives in Gilthwaite are at the quarry, controlled by old Kemp, Frank and Whitfield.”
“And you have a nice job. Asking if the quarry has a record of all its explosives, you will scare Frank and father and might scare Whitfield.”
“We've no evidence there was an explosion.”
“Butler thought he heard one. Somebody else could have.”
IRVINE, on his way to the village telephone box, met Esther. “Have you lost your way?” she jeered.
“No, quite all right, thank you.”
“You said you were going to Gilwater. You are not.”
“I am, when I've been to the village.”
“Where has your master gone?”
“Master?” Irvine frowned. “I don't have a master. The man I had with me has gone straight to the car. Are you off up to the tarn again?”
“Would you advise me to?”
“I'd advise you not to go anywhere alone.”
Esther laughed. “How kind of you, Mr. Irvine, and how fearful.”
“It is cautionary advice.”
“Who should I fear?”
“There is a violent man around.”
“One?”
“One would be enough.”
“Did one man kill the woman, attack you, wound Stephen Whitfield and destroy the dam?”
Irvine glowered. “Are you telling me the break wasn't an accident? You told me once it was. How could a man break the dam, or umpteen men?”
“You know how. You said foul tricks were possible.”
“I don't yet know a foul trick was played. I may obtain evidence.”
“And who played it?”
“Have you an idea?”
“Not only one man. One man couldn't.”
“One killed the woman, a second attacked me, a third wounded Whitfield, a fourth broke the dam? Not likely.”
“Had the killer a motive to assault you, your assailant a motive to assault Whitfield, his assailant a motive to break the dam?”
“You've thought things out.”
“You haven't answered.”
“I own you're strong on motive. Why anyone would break the dam is an unanswerable question.”
“You talked of finding evidence.”
“Can you advise me where to look?”
“No. Look everywhere.”
“I will. Mind you look after yourself, Miss Kemp.”
“Thank you. Are you expecting a fifth man will assault me?”
“Fifth or not, an assault on you is evidently possible.”
“I'm unlike Whitfield and you, Mr. Irvine. If a man attempted to assault me I should see him.” Esther turned away.
“Where are you going?” Irvine asked. “It'll be dark before long.”
“Your master'll be annoyed, you've kept him waiting.” Esther proceeded up the Butler lane.
Nancy gave Frank a maternal affectionate welcome, but her tact did not avail against the sardonic eyes of Catherine and resolute aloofness of Bill. Frank was unpleasantly effusive, Frank was disagreeably glum.
“I hoped Esther would have come with you,” said Nancy.
“Sorry,” Frank answered. ' “I don't know where Esther is.”
“Perhaps with your father,” said Catherine.
“She is, most of the time. She's off somewhere this afternoon.”
“Is your father able to go out yet?” Nancy asked.
“He goes out every day. I don't think he ought, but I can't keep him in.”
“Are you anxious he shouldn't go?” Catherine asked.
“I've reason enough.”
“And ample reason to be anxious about village and the quarry.”
“I am. I'm in an awful hole. Until the quarry's working again, and that'll be a long time, I can't do anything for the village.”
“What a number of things you can't do,” said Catherine.
“Yes, funny, isn't it?”
“I admire your enviable incompetence. You couldn't prevent the quarry dam breaking, you can't protect the village from distress, and you are very sorry for yourself.”
“That's rot. No one could have anticipated an accidental break. If the dam was blown up I'm the last on earth to know who managed the explosion.”
“As you have no knowledge at all, why imply it was blown up?”
“You said the noise was like blasting,” Frank retorted.
“Yes, you said it, Catherine,” Nancy cried, and Bill grinned.
“I did,” Catherine nodded. “And the elder Mr. Kemp said it wasn't.”
“Not quarry blasting,” Frank corrected her.
“Did your father think it was an explosion?”
“No, he had no idea.”
“Your father went out at once and you followed him. Did you agree on no idea?”
“We saw the dam had broken.”
Catherine laughed.
“I thought the noise like a crumph, Frank,” said Bill.
Frank glared. “You didn't tell me at the time.”
“At the time I thought a crumph impossible.”
“And now?”
“As Irvine and Fortune suspect explosion I'd advise you to recognise the possibility.”
“I should advise ignoring all unpleasant possibilities,” said Catherine. “To deal with them energetic intelligence is needed.”
“Catherine!” Nancy gasped. “How silly!”
“All right, Mrs. Butler,” said Frank, “Miss Eliot's justified. I haven't faced things—a lot of things. I —-”
“Oh, don't apologise,” Catherine was shrill. “Never again.”
“I am indeed justified.”
There was a knock at the door. Bill opened it. “Miss Kemp!”
“Have you seen Frank?” Esther panted.
“He's here. Come in.”
Frank jumped up. “Anything wrong, Esther?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Half an hour or more. Why?”
“Did you notice anyone in the lane?”
“Only Bill and Miss Eliot.”
“There was someone just now.”
“Irvine? Irvine's pal Fortune?”
“No, they'd gone down.”
“They could have come back.”
“They couldn't without passing me, and they haven't.”
“Was the someone you noticed keen not to be noticed?” Bill asked.
“Very, or I'd have recognised him.”
“Irvine and Whitfield didn't notice a man when they were attacked.”
“Are you certain Irvine did go down?” Frank asked.
“Yes. I met him near the village and he actually told me I shouldn't be out alone.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“The man who attacked him and Stephen Whitfield might attack me.”
“Rubbish, Esther. There's no parallel. Irvine just wanted you out of his way.”
“He is quite sincere, Frank. Now let us go home.”
“Please come again whenever you can,” said Nancy. Esther kissed her.
“I'd like a little walk,” said Bill, and he went off with Esther, Catherine with Frank.
“Have you had a jolly time at Gilthwaite, Miss Eliot?” Frank asked.
“An idle time.”
“I love idling.”
“It is agreeable to feel unnecessary.”
“Aren't we all?”
“An encouraging creed.”
“Yes, there are no superior people, Jack's as good as his master and master as good as Jack, very encouraging.”
“Until the illusion vanishes.”
“Don't you keep any illusion at Oxford?”
“Not the illusion of equal inferiority.”
“Don't you allow we're equally insignificant?”
“I should flatter myself if I did.”
“I thought I was flattering you.”
“You have talked enough nonsense,” said Catherine.
Bill and Esther were not quarrelling. “A mysterious fellow, Irvine,” said Bill. “But I'd go a lot on him. You can't be too careful, Esther.”
“No mystery at all in Irvine's advice, Bill. And I do go on it. I am careful. I hope Frank and father will be. Isn't this a lovely evening? Glorious sunset.”
The western sky blazed orange and purple—red and cast vague rainbow colours up to the dark zenith. Along the top of Scawgill Edge iron —grey mist quivered.
“Too glorious,” said Bill. “No future in it.”
“It's exquisitely lovely now.”
Catherine and Frank joined them. “More than time we were home, Esther,” said Frank. “Good—bye, Miss Eliot. Good night, Bill.”
Catherine was icy to Frank, amiable to Esther. Esther very quiet. “Watch out, Frank.” said Bill. “Let me know how things are.”
“Righto! Get on, Esther.” Frank bustled her down the lane.
“The youth is insufferable,” said Catherine. “Esther pitiable.”
“If Frank jeered at you, you've earned it. You needn't pity Esther.”
Catherine laughed. “The youth was irritated. I understood Esther always overwhelmed you, Bill.”
“You don't understand Esther. She wasn't overwhelming.”
“She was meek. Had you overwhelmed her?”
“No. She's worried, Catherine.”
“And therefore Frank's humble servant?”
“He and his father are in a jam. Esther isn't like you. Irritating Frank wouldn't amuse her.”
Catherine did not reply, turned and went back to the cottage.
“Was there anyone about?” Nancy asked.
“Only your virtuous Bill, the modest Esther, the heroic Frank and my vicious self,” Catherine answered, going into her bedroom.
And Bill told the puzzled Nancy, “She ragged Frank as usual, he dared to rag her and she's mad about it, mad against him and a little mad on him, don't know where she is.”
“I think her jeering at Frank cruel.”
“Quite. The old idea, cruel only to be kind. Stimulate the poor fish.”
“But Frank was very queer and disagreeable this evening. Absolutely unlike himself.”
“How right you are! Frank was far from frank. Yet Esther was, and genial about Irvine, confidential she was unhappy about Frank and father. It's not impossible the someone she noticed in the lane, the someone whose identity worried her and Frank, was old Kemp.”
“Why on earth should Mr. Kemp come up our lane?”
“Why should anyone? Why did the someone avoid recognition?”
“I can't believe it was Mr. Kemp.”
“He's apt to avoid Frank and Esther. And he does snoop.”
“I can't understand Frank getting angry with Esther.”
“Frank's angry with everyone, including himself. Quite unreasonable.”
“But it isn't like Frank to get in a blind rage.”
“He is not his old self. He was excessively trustful. He is excessively distrustful. Doesn't trust Esther, doesn't trust his father, doesn't trust anyone.”
“And you, Bill,” Nancy cried. “Don't you trust Frank now?”
“As Frank distrusts me, I distrust him.”
CURLED up on a sofa by a huge fire, Reggie listened to Irvine and Mardale.
Irvine had 'phoned the Ribland county authorities and arranged for the excavation of the dam as soon as it thawed. He'd gone to inform Kemp, but the old man wasn't at home nor at the quarry, nor was Frank and where they were no one could say.
“Ever evasive, old Kemp,” Reggie murmured. “But lookin' for him you've rattled him. Just what we wanted.”
“I tried to get on to Kemp,” said Mardale, “about the quarry explosives, tried everywhere, and he wasn't anywhere. Frank was up at the Butlers', Esther came down home and went up again.”
“I saw her,” said Irvine. “I didn't know she was going to the Butlers'. I've no idea why she went.”
“Interestin' question,” Reggie drawled. “To tell Frank or to ask Frank where father was—to ask the Butlers—or tell or to ask of anything or anyone else—of you, Irvine?”
“Miss Kemp wouldn't have talked about me,” Irvine barked. “She would about her own and her family affairs.”
“My dear chap! Her family affairs and you are not quite unconnected.”
Irvine scowled, Mardale grinned. “Leave Miss Kemp. Take the explosion problem. Frank swore there wasn't an explosion. Butler heard a crumph, Miss Eliot and Ullock, blast, and blast old Kemp denied. This afternoon I enquired of a few village people what they thought it was.”
“You suggested explosion?” Irvine barked.
“Suggested nothing. I'm quite clean.”
“Enquirin' of Ibdon, the useful liar?” Reggie drawled. “I asked tradespeople first. They agreed they wondered what had happened. Ibdon butted in and yowled nothing of the kind ever happened before, terrible noise, worse than quarry blasting and enormous break and ruination.”
“Our Ibdon is definite. Invaluable yowl.”
“An odd one—it amounted to a statement there was an explosion.”
“Actual plain statement.”
“Ibdon's no judge,” Irvine barked. “You are,” Mardale chuckled. “I agree Ibdon's judgment isn't evidence. But he wouldn't say what no one else said. As I'd failed to get Kemp I tried to get Whitfield. Another failure. But I have it from quarry—men Whitfield says the dam was blown up.”
“Oh my aunt!” Reggie groaned. “Whitfield, the one man who had ascertained motive to blow it up and therefore to say the break was accidental.”
“Odd of Whitfield,” Mardale laughed. “Yet he's not the only man who had motive enough.”
“Old Kemp and Frank had none,” Irvine retorted. “You're fond of the Kemps, I'm impartial. Equally uncertain of them and of Colonel Hawley. Hawley hates old Kemp owning the quarry and hate is an adequate motive for ruining a man. I got Hawley—unlike old Kemp he was accessible —asked what he thought of the break, and he said explosion. Odd the two with plain motive for destroying the dam insist explosives were used.”
“Amazin' odd agreement,” Reggie purred. “Did Colonel Hawley say who the user was?”
“He named no one. I'm uncertain whether he meant Whitfield, or old Kemp.”
“Kemp wouldn't blow up his own dam,” Irvine growled.
“Kemp might have blown it up to profit from insurance, Whitfield might have blown it up for revenge, Hawley for hate. But if Whitfield or Hawley blew it up, would each have talked about explosion?”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“Wonder away. Assume there was an explosion, assume Irvine'll prove it. What then? You haven't a hope of convicting anyone.”
“Convictin' exploder, hopeful hope. Great hope of catchin' Naomi's murderer.”
“The murderer won't be convicted on evidence from the explosion.”
“The exploder gave evidence against the murderer, revealin' Naomi's skull.”
“Her skull doesn't indicate who murdered her.”
“Indicates the murder was not the work of the exploder.”
“No clue to anyone.”
“Oh my dear fellow! Unjust to yourself. Your afternoon progress quite good.”
“Good joke,” said Mardale.
IN THE morning, Reggie looked out upon frosted earth and a yellow grey sky. “Diggin' the dam right away?” he asked Irvine.
“I haven't the men yet. I'm not sure when it'll be possible. There's a south—east wind.”
“Oh! South—east the coldest? What of the'welcome wild north —easter' and 'north wind doth blow and we shall have snow and what will the robin do then, poor thing'?”
“You're uncommon jolly about cold,” Mardale laughed.
And Irvine, looking puzzled, said, “North and northeast are always cold. A south—easter isn't predictable. If it's cold, it's devilish cold and this one's getting up in an ugly sky.”
“Painful prediction. However. If the dam isn't diggable, a visit to Gilthwaite is essential.”
The south—eastern clouds were murky bronze. Above violet snow the top of Scawgill Edge loomed black.
“Snow up there, none down here,” said Mardale.
“Not yet,” Irvine grunted.
“Bitter cold,” Reggie sighed.
Irvine nodded. “The dam'll be frozen hard.”
“Want to look at it,” Reggie murmured, stopping the car.
“If you want,” said Irvine, and they jumped out and climbed to the dam, Mardale last.
“There you are. Debris frozen steel hard,” Irvine grunted. “No telling when excavation will be possible.”
“No. As you foretold. But we've assured the Gilthwaiters concerned our interest in the dam is unfailin' keen and perseverin', and assured Mardale of a big hope askin' old Kemp are all the quarry explosives recorded and accounted for.”
“Yes, I knew that was your idea,” Mardale sneered. “And Kemp knows you haven't proved explosion and can't in the frost. I'll try the idea on Kemp but he won't panic.”
“He may not. Instructive if he don't. Try everyone. Try everything. Try Hawley again.”
“What's your try?”
“The cottage, cottage that collapsed on Kemp.” Reggie led Irvine away.
Mardale scowled and went off to Kemp's house.
“Why the cottage, Fortune?” Irvine growled.
“Need expert opinion.”
“What about?”
“Why it collapsed.” Reggie turned up a footpath.
“It isn't up here.”
“No. The Butler cottage is. Need Butler.”
They overtook Mrs. Honey. She answered Reggie's greeting with extensive information about herself, the village and people.
“I always have said and always will, nothing is near so bad as you might expect. Not but what we have had a dreadful time and likely to. But there, people are kind to each other at a pinch. Leastways mostly. We've done real well in the village, that we have. Mr. Whitfield he's been just splendid and Mr. Frank nice and good. If old Mr. Kemp would let him, he'd do proper by everyone, I'm sure. There though, it's no use thinking of what you can't have and I'm not blaming Mr. Kemp, and we'll get through the winter all right. It looks like being fearful cold. Not as I fear cold, not feeling it at my age, but think of the kiddies and all the unemployment, men on the dole until the quarry gets going again. And think of old Mr. Kemp letting everything slide, not letting Mr. Frank do anything nor Mr. Whitfield have his job back. Yet after all, I respect Mr. Kemp and when the worst is at its worst it'll mend, that's nature.”
“Quite natural, yes,” Reggie purred, and Mrs. Honey went on.
Bill strolled down the lane to Reggie and enquired grimly, “Are your intentions honourable, Fortune?”
“My intentions are. My actions questionable.”
“You've tampered with Mrs Honey's virtue.”
“Not I. I was pure as ice, chaste as snow. The lady did all the talking.”
“And denied all she told you?”
“She was inconsistent. That's why I'd like your opinion of old Kemp and the cottage collapse.”
“The Kemps are my friends.”
“Old Kemp?”
“I'm more intimate with Frank.”
“Do you think Frank and the old man are intimate?”
“What's the point of the question?”
“A murder, two assaults at least, and the village suffering from an improbable accident, the dam break.”
“And you want to prove old Kemp committed the murder and the assaults and blew up the dam.”
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! Want to prove the guilt of whoever was guilty. Quite impartial. Are you?”
“No. I like Frank. I think suspicion of old Kemp absurd. He didn't benefit by the dam break. You talked about the collapsed cottage. He wouldn't have made it collapse on himself.”
“Dam break injured him. Collapsin' cottage injured him. Yes, What made it collapse?”
“The flood water rushing through.”
“Oh! Any collapse before Kemp entered?”
“None noticeable.”
“Kemp had no luck. Take us to the unlucky cottage, please, Irvine bein' an engineer, want to estimate the demolition.”
“I'll take you,” Bill agreed. “The word for you is muck keen.”
He strode off and stopped at Nancy's call. “Where are you going?”
“The village.”
Nancy arrived and Catherine. “May we have the pleasure of going with you?” Catherine enquired.
“Oh, Mrs. Butler, Miss Eliot!” Reggie saluted. “Your assistance will be invaluable.”
“How are we to assist you, Mr. Fortune?”
“With your judgment of people and apparent facts.”
“Do you respect any judgment but your own?”
“I do more than respect, I require Mrs. Butler's judgment and yours.”
“Our judgment of whom and what?”
“Of Mr. Kemp, of Frank, of the cottage episode and Whitfield.”
“I am not to judge Mr. Kemp. He and I are barely acquainted. I regard Frank as a well—intentioned, amiable youth.”
“Catherine!” Nancy exclaimed. “You're always sneering at Frank and you don't believe the sneers.”
“You think Frank well—intentioned and efficient, Mrs. Butler?” Reggie asked,
“Yes.” Nancy hesitated. “As efficient as possible.”
Catherine laughed. “He was not efficient in the cottage episode.”
“And Whitfield was,” said Reggie. “May I hear your opinion of the episode and him?”
“I am unable to imagine why Frank was not with his father,” Catherine answered.
“Frank was busy helping the village people,” said Nancy.
“And his father not helpin' anyone, Whitfield not helpin' anyone,” said Reggie.
“I didn't expect old Kemp would help people,” said Bill. “I'm not certain Whitfield wasn't helping. My difficulty is why old Kemp went into a ruined, evacuated cottage.”
“He may have gone to see if it was repairable. But what was Whitfield doing there?” Reggie asked.
Catherine laughed. “Mr. Whitfield has not impressed you favourably.”
“Neither favourably nor unfavourably. Want your judgment of him.”
“I think him intelligent and energetic.”
“Whitfield is very popular,” said Bill. “Until old Kemp sacked him I thought no one had anything against him and no one is pleased at the sack.”
“You're a little cagey,” Reggie murmured. “Have you taken a dim view of Whitfield, or have you?”
“I haven't any view. I've found him genial enough. He never interested me.”
“But he and Frank Kemp are David and Jonathan, aren't they?”
“More or less.”
“Well, well,” Reggie sighed. “On to the cottage.”
The party of five going up the village street attracted observation and Reggie was not quick. He lingered and gazed at each damaged cottage they passed, and about each he asked Irvine.
When they ultimately reached the collapsed cottage, he asked Bill, “Is it altered or as it was?”
“Just the same. Nothing altered. No use trying to mend it.”
“I wonder.”
“All the cottages at the quarry end of the village are abominable,” said Catherine.
“Up to you, Irvine,” said Reggie. “Butler, did Kemp go in back or front?”
“The front.”
“And where was Whitfield?”
“I don't know. He led his little lot in at the back.”
“Oh! Little lot quite near. Were they a swift lot?”
“Whitfield was powerful swift.”
“You weren't slow, Butler. Good job for old Kemp you weren't.” Reggie followed Irvine into the collapsed mess and enquired, “Any idea?”
“Improbable flood made all the smash. Largely demolition work, I think. Not unjustified demolition. The cottage was a vile hovel.”
“Oh, very vile—demolition before it collapsed on Kemp—or after?
“I'm not sure. I think demolition probably induced the collapse.”
“And Butler is sure the cottage now is as it was at the instant Kemp and Whitfield and he entered.”
“Butler may be right. Adequate evidence isn't obtainable.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Look. Fat fellow talkin' to Butler.”
“Who is he?”
“Ibdon, a village gossip anti—Kemp, pro—Whitfield, useful fellow.”
“Butler seems to have no use for him.”
“No. Pity. Come and join the talk.”
Ibdon was telling Bill the village had suffered dreadful, the old cottages, if you went near 'em they'd fall on you, like that there one toppled down and would have killed old Mr. Kemp if Mr. Whitfield hadn't got him out.
“Extraordinary Whitfield was there at the time,” Reggie drawled.
Ibdon said Mr. Whitfield was there because the most awful ruination was there.
“Was it? Anyone worked on it?”
Ibdon said no one could work on them rotten old cottages.
“Pulling 'em down easy job,” Reggie drawled. “Afraid I've kept you a long time, Mrs. Butler.”
“Not at all,” said Nancy.
“Have you finished?” Catherine asked.
“Quite, thank you.”
Ibdon said winter had set in fearful cold and the unemployment'd be the worstest ever.
Reggie and Bill each gave him half a crown.
“Interestin' fellow,” Reggie murmured. “Did he ask you what interested us?”
Bill chuckled. “You made that plain.”
“Did he enquire who we were?'
“No, no enquiry, all information about the awfulness of the dam break.”
“Very informative liar.”
“People are really miserable,” said Nancy.
“Have you ascertained everything, Mr. Fortune?” Catherine sneered.
“Oh no. No. Quite uncertain, judgin' old Kemp and Whitfield.”
“Your skilful efforts at the cottage were futile?”
“I'm not skilful, only perseverin'.”
“Persevering against Mr. Whitfield?”
“In every direction till one is definite. Butler, if anything should happen to Kemp or Whitfield, or anything fresh happen, 'phone me, will you? Gilwater hotel.”
“Do you expect anything?”
“Could be.”
“All right,” said Bill.
“You are,” said Reggie.
He and Irvine walked away down the village and Catherine said, “I admire Mr. Fortune's immense self—satisfaction. A simple animal.”
“Simple!” Nancy cried. “He's inscrutable.”
“Inscrutable and bland—like a plump cat.” said Catherine.
Nancy frowned and asked Bill, “What do you think he expects?”
“I think he aimed at raising a scare over the cottage. I don't think he knows what it'll yield.”
“I think the expert Mr. Irvine expects it will not yield anything.” said Catherine.
Driving back to Gilwater, Reggie and Irvine found Mardale thought their proceedings unimportant. Mardale had rocked Kemp. The old chap swore the quarry explosives were all accounted for. But the explosive book and the records were washed away in the dam break. The one explosive used at the quarry was gelignite. Had he ever suspected it was used to break the dam? He had not. It couldn't have been. If he received an indication it was, would he suspect anyone? No, it wasn't possible.
Then Mardale asked for Frank and got him rattled like the old man —explosives all correct, all vanished, not used on the dam, no suspicion.
Mardale tried Whitfield next. He confirmed the Kemp account of the quarry explosives—all in order, impossible anyone used them on the dam. He thought the explosion idea incredible. The dam was old and a break quite natural after the uncommonly heavy rain.
Mardale admitted Whitfield, the obvious suspect, would take that line, if he had blown up the dam. Yet he wasn't rattled, he evidently had no fear of suspicion.
“You weren't askin' about the cottage collapse,” Reggie purred.
Mardale wouldn't grudge Mr. Fortune the cottage. He thought questioning Whitfield about it useless.
“No cottage questionin' yet, no,” Reggie purred.
Mardale went off to try Hawley—regular old blimp—as certain of explosion as Kemp and Whitfield certain of accidental break—yet Hawley was, next to Whitfield, the most suspect. He let out big hate of Kemp, said Kemp had wasted the quarry profits, muddled the operations, the concern was bankrupt. The dam being broken, Kemp would recover on insurance and get out, his own nest feathered, the quarry stopped, the village smashed, “Amiable chap, Hawley.” Reggie murmured. Not all humbug, Mardale grinned, no humbug about the effect of the dam break in the village, and in Hawley's park.
“His park? What's happened to it?” Irvine asked. It had an ornamental lake in it, Mardale explained, the flood out of the dam spread the lake over the park. Would Hawley want his park drowned, would he have blown up the dam?
“All the park flooded?” Irvine asked. Mardale saw a biggish extent flooded deep. “Ah! That isn't impossible,” Irvine grunted. Mardale never saw the impossible. The flooded area was freezing all round and out of the ice he'd pulled an odd bit of paper.
“Oh! Did Hawley see you pull it out?” Reggie asked. Mardale took care Hawley didn't see. Reggie gazed at the paper, crumpled oily white, at a scarlet, yellow, blue illustration and the name of a firm manufacturing explosives. “Know the explosive paper contained, Irvine?”
“Yes. Gelignite.”
“And gelignite is the quarry explosive. We are advancin'.”
“Are we!” Mardale laughed. “If the paper did contain quarry explosive, what's the significance of it in Hawley's park? Would Hawley have brought it to the park if he'd taken quarry explosive and blown up the dam?”
“Hawley wouldn't bring it intentional, no. Could have brought it unintentional.”
“Just possible. Far more probable it was brought down by the flood. Old Kemp said the explosive hut was washed away.”
“That theory's nonsense, Mardale,” Irvine snapped. “The flood coming into the park hadn't come through the quarry. But the paper isn't evidence. It may have come from anywhere any time.”
Mardale laughed. “You're a rare bird, Irvine, an expert knowing you don't know.”
“Paper unreliable evidence,” Reggie drawled. “Not uninterestin'.”
“What's the value?” Mardale scoffed.
“My dear chap! Oh my dear chap! Why wouldn't you let Hawley see the paper? You thought it evidence.”
“I never give anything away. I don't think the paper useful. I don't take your valuation—Hawley blew up the dam and unintentionally brought the explosive paper to his park—improbable. I'd say incredible. I allow Hawley had adequate motive for breaking the dam. Whitfield had, old Kemp had, we suspect the three and all the investigation leaves 'em equally—in the clear.”
“My Mardale! Investigation not ended, proceedin' and frightenin' 'em.”
“The Kemps are rattled, Hawley isn't, Whitfield isn't.”
“Hawley anxious you should notice what the break did to his park.”
“I agree he was blaming it on the Kemps. What about Whitfield? He blamed no one.”
“Stout fellow, Whitfield. Our investigation of the collapsed cottage may thin his stoutness.”
“What have you got? A vague possibility he demolished the cottage to collapse on old Kemp. Irvine said demolition was justified. Even if Whitfield did the demolition, it's incredible he anticipated old Kemp entering the cottage.”
“Incredible? Whitfield didn't prevent him enterin'. And a Whitfield jackal, the veracious Ibdon, trailed Irvine and me to the cottage and watched our activity.”
“You think Ibdon'll inform Whitfield you examined the cottage, and Whitfield'll be scared.”
“Ibdon's very informative. And I think Whitfield won't like our examinin' the Whitfield past.”
“As we failed to scare him over the dam break he won't scare over the cottage. It was unimportant. He got Kemp out.”
“Real important thing before dam broke. Naomi murdered.”
“Whitfield the murderer? Then who attempted to murder Whitfield?”
“And who attacked Irvine?”
“Yes, ask all the questions again. You said we were advancing. Can you answer one?”
“Not yet. No. Baffled to fight better. We are fightin' a lot better and quicker. Try the dam to—morrow, Irvine?”
“Try—poor chance. This infernal south—east wind has got up near gale force.”
Reggie shuddered. “Cold enough already.”
LOOKING out in the morning, Reggie groaned, “Oh no, no!”
“Jolly!” Mardale chuckled. “Perfect blizzard.” The wind howled, flung dense snow.
“Are you going to Gilthwaite?” Irvine asked.
“Yes, please.”
“You'll need chains on the wheels. Up the valley, the snow'll be thick.”
Thick it was and falling it froze, but it drifted rather than fell, and valley and mountains were not all white, not all the green pasture and brown earth of the valley, grey and black rock of the mountains, covered, yet in hollow lane and track white drift.
“Beautiful,” Reggie moaned. “Ultramarine snow. Arctic cold.”
“You were hot on Gilthwaite,” Mardale jeered.
“I am. I am heroic.”
“Where are you going first?” Irvine asked.
“The dam. Take the car to the quarry end of the village and walk on.”
“All right,” said Irvine.
“Pleasant walk,” said Mardale.
In the village the car attracted observation; they were going up the lane to the dam.
“Easy walk,” Reggie purred. “Snow not overwhelmin'. Quite genial breeze.”
“The lane is low here and sheltered,” Irvine explained.
“Buck up, Mr. Fortune,” said Mardale. “You'll be cold enough before you're hot again.”
Nearing the dam they had to fight violent wind and trudge over icebound snow.
“Quaint,” Reggie panted. “Dam debris looked like glacier moraine. Now looks like ancient everlastin' glacier.”
“Just as I thought,” said Irvine. “Big snowdrift covering the dam and all the hollow above. And when the frozen mass thaws, any trace of explosive in it will be wiped out.”
“Grand, Irvine,” Mardale laughed. “Now you know, Mr. Fortune.”
“Yes, I know what to do. Return through the village.”
“Novel idea! But you can't stand on your old explosive idea.”
“Oh yes, I am on it, not at a standstill.”
Returning down the lane they met old Kemp. He glowered at them, he accosted Mardale, “Hallo, Inspector, have you found anything up there?”
“Everything is frozen, Mr. Kemp.”
“Of course it is. Have you been to the dam?”
“Round about.”
“What did you think you'd find?”
“Entirely uncertain.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No one but you, Mr. Kemp.”
“Ha!” Kemp grunted and climbed from the lane into a path.
“Quite nice,” Reggie murmured. “He thinks we may find something. He thought we might have found someone up to something. And he wouldn't name the someone.”
“He was very rattled,” said Mardale. “As he was before. Plain enough why he wouldn't name anyone. He'd like Whitfield and Hawley suspected, but daren't accuse either.
“Possible. Also possible he don't know which to accuse. Oh my ghost!”
At the lane Whitfield and Esther were conversing.
“You fellows are fliers,” Whitfield greeted them. “What do you think of the dam now, Irvine?”
“The break is snowed under.”
“Dam break not the only question,” Reggie murmured.
“Isn't it important, Mr. Irvine?” Esther asked.
“The cause of the break is unascertainable at present.”
“Why talk jargon?” Esther retorted. “You mean you know nothing about the cause and nothing will be known.”
“Know a little,” said Reggie. “And investigatin' other questions will enlarge knowledge.”
“What are your questions, Mr. Irvine?” Esther demanded.
“Have you forgotten Whitfield was wounded, Miss Kemp?”
Whitfield laughed. “Oh Esther, you haven't forgotten Irvine was knocked out.”
“Are you afraid you will be hurt again, Mr. Irvine?” Esther sneered.
“I resent the knock out,” said Irvine. “I presume Whitfield resents being wounded.”
“I do,” said Whitfield. “I'd like to nab the man.”
“Are you trying to catch your man, Mr. Irvine?” Esther asked.
“Yes, and until I have caught him don't you go about by yourself,” said Irvine.
“One woman murdered is ample,” said Reggie.
Esther walked away towards the quarry and Whitfield shrugged, frowning and smiling, and followed.
“Very neat, Irvine,” said Reggie.
“Where do we go?” Mardale asked.
“On through the village to the collapsed cottage.”
“What's the hope of a second go?”
“Oh my Mardale! Quiet. Look.”
Ibdon was just behind them. He watched their second examination of the cottage ruins, and when they had finished, informed them the old place had been awful for years, it did ought to have been repaired. Life was awful hard in the village, not human really. The gentlemen saw it themselves, hadn't they, seeing the old cottages?
“Yes, seein' why it fell down. Now we know, thank you, Ibdon.” Reggie gave him five shillings and marched Irvine and Mardale off and purred, “Revisitin' the cottage quite effective. Watchin' it bewildered Ibdon and he'll spread alarm and despondency.”
“I own you told him an alarming lie,” said Mardale.
“Not one. I told him we now know—we know Ibdon is employed on watching our operations at the cottage. We don't yet know who the employer is, but the alarm of the employer will show.”
“Big hope!” Mardale grinned.
“You may be right, Fortune,” said Irvine. “Do you think Whitfield or the Kemps employed Ibdon?”
“Don't know what to think. Ibdon apparently violent anti—Kemp, but evident liar, could be employed by old Kemp against Whitfield, queering us. More probable Whitfield is the employer. Not improbable the employer is Hawley.”
“Gambling game,” Mardale laughed. “I've seen Ibdon talk to Hawley. He talks to everyone.”
“I don't understand the Kemps,” said Irvine. “The old man hating Whitfield, Frank and Whitfield very close, Miss Kemp as if Whitfield was her brother.”
“No, Irvine, they're not understandable,” Reggie sympathised. “But you needn't despair.”
“I don't like the outlook,” said Irvine. “I don't like Frank's avoiding his father and his sister and trusting her to Whitfield. Where was Frank when we met them?”
“Baffling question. Evasive personality, Frank.”
“The facts are evasive,” said Mardale. “What do we do now?”
“Go back to cosy warm hotel,” Reggie smiled.
Frank had gone to the Butlers and asked Bill if Irvine and Fortune made much of the collapsed cottage. Bill wouldn't know, little or much. Their talk told nothing. Frank wished he knew why they examined the cottage.
“Perhaps they are interested in your father,” said Catherine. “Haven't you examined it?”
“I—I—I've looked at it,” Frank stammered.
“One look would make much of it.”
“You know all about it. Your opinion is worth having.”
Nancy intervened. “Frank, Esther ought to have come with you.”
“She'd gone out before I started. Bill, do you know if Irvine and Fortune'll be in Gilthwaite to—day?” Bill hadn't a notion. Did Frank want them? Frank just wanted to know if they'd be around.
“Wily birds, Frank,” said Bill. “If they don't intend you to see 'em, you won't.” Frank didn't care for tricks.
“You are not incapable of protecting yourself,” Catherine sneered.
“Quite right. Self—protected by our vanity, Miss Eliot.”
“I hope your father is well, Frank,” said Nancy.
“Yes, thank you, he likes the cold weather.” Frank departed.
“The youth's impudence and panic were amusing,” said Catherine.
“You were naughty,” said Bill. “Frank wasn't frank. Panic or doubt of father.”
“He was anxious,” Nancy cried. “Anxious Mr. Fortune and Mr. Irvine shouldn't trouble his father.”
“Anxious they shouldn't trouble him,” said Catherine. “Whatever may happen to his father, the brave Frank will protect himself.”
“Vicious, aren't you?” said Bill. “I think Fortune aimed at a scare about the collapsed cottage, I don't know why it should scare Frank and old Kemp. The man it'd scare, if anyone, is Whitfield.”
“Mr. Whitfield rescued Mr. Kemp,” said Catherine. “And Mr. Whitfield had been attacked earlier. And the cottage investigation has alarmed Frank. And Frank distrusts his father.”
“Carry on. Father distrusts Frank and Esther goes with Whitfield. Add it all up. Total, nought. One little victory you have, Frank jeering at you in your own highbrow style.”
“I enjoyed the joke,” said Catherine. “Are we to go out?”
“If you like,” said Bill. “The wind's powerful.”
“You know you don't like wind, Catherine,” said Nancy.
They did not go out. But, as Catherine intended, they didn't talk any more of Frank.
If they had gone out they would have encountered wind rising and colder, and snowfall deepening every minute.
In benign comfort at Gilwater, Reggie protested, “Not nice. Snow and cold tiresome.”
“Will be worse, a lot worse,” Irvine grunted.
“Oh Jeremiah! What worse are you anticipatin'?”
“The blizzard hasn't blown itself out. And when it has there'll be a general muck.”
“Lost hope of the dam, Irvine?” Mardale grinned.
“I had no hope to lose.”
“Dam not the only job,” said Reggie.
“Are you good in a blizzard, Mr. Fortune?” Mardale asked.
“I'm persistent in every job.”
Next morning the wind remained strong and bitter cold, the valley was all white. “Quite a foot of snow on the road,” Mardale announced.
“Two or three feet, off it,” Irvine grunted. “Higher up, deep drifts.”
And Mardale asked, “Will you persist in Gilthwaite, Mr. Fortune?”
“Oh yes, yes. Persist by 'phone,” said Reggie, and 'phoned Bill.
“Are you all right, Butler? . . . Fine. . . . Very cold your way? . . . Yes. . . . Anything happened? ... I do expect trouble. Seen old Kemp, young Kemp, Whitfield? . . . Frank alone? . . . Oh. Askin' you about Irvine and me and the collapsed cottage? . . . Quite fierce. . . . Did he talk of his father? . . . Nor of Whitfield? . . . Surprisin' . . . Yes, I expect trouble.”
Bill modified the expectation in reporting to Nancy. She told him Mr. Fortune was horrible and she'd go and see Esther.
Catherine thought Esther the one competent Kemp.
“You do love Frank,” said Bill. “Nancy, it'll be a rough cold plug to the Kemps' and Catherine don't love wind.”
“I am not going,” Catherine sneered.
“Poor you,” Bill answered and Nancy and he trudged off and he chanted, “Snow deep and crisp and even. Mark my footsteps well, my girl, tread thou in them boldly, thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly.”
“The snow isn't very deep.”
“Passable here, we may get into a deep drift anywhere. It snowed all night. Everything is blurred. A little way off you can't tell lane from field.”
“It isn't snowing now.”
“That yellow sky has plenty more.”
But in the low lane to Upgill they found no difficult drift.
Esther was at home, welcomed them, obviously surprised they had come. Nancy, affectionate and tactful, ignored the surprise and joked about her own housekeeping, before she asked about Mr. Kemp.
“Father is quite well. He's at the quarry,” Esther snapped.
“And Frank?” Bill enquired.
“Frank may be at the quarry or in the village. Has Mr. Irvine been to you again?”
“Not to our place,” said Bill. “Has he been here?”
“Of course he hasn't.”
Nancy invented more domestic jokes and they left an unsmiling Esther.
“Peevish glum,” Bill remarked.
“She distrusted us.”
“Not only you and me. She don't trust Irvine, her father, Frank.”
“I believe she thinks we've helped Irvine against her father.”
“Or thinks we've helped Irvine against Whitfield?”
“No. It's her father she thought of, I'm certain.”
“Irvine and Fortune are quite respectable.” Bill answered. “Gosh! what wind. Keep close, Nancy.” They were enveloped in blinding snow squalls all the way up the lane to the cottage. “Noble plunge through, my girl,” said Bill.
“The snow flakes are huge,” said Nancy.
“Rather! May mean the end of the snow.”
“I hope it will be.”
In the cottage they found Mrs. Honey narrating to Catherine her lifelong snow experience. She'd never let snow stop her going anywhere she wanted, and if she knew herself, she'd get up to Mrs. Butler through anything. Not but what it was awful bad. She didn't remember the equal of it, except the year Mr. Honey died. She'd never forget his funeral, cruel cold, praying, and the grave full of snow. Not as that mattered to Mr. Honey, dear kind man he was. No woman never had a kinder husband, Mrs. Butler, dearie, meaning no offence to Mr. Butler, not at all.
Bill asked what it was like down in the village. Mrs. Honey wouldn't say people hadn't fair reason to complain, but in the village you could get about easy, getting up was the trouble, if she had to get higher up she would have been tired, not being as young as she had been. Ah well, never mind, old as she was, she wasn't failing Mrs. Butler.
Nancy suggested she should go back to the village at once and Bill said he'd go with her. Mrs. Honey wouldn't think of it, she would do her usual, dearie. Nancy made her go earlier than usual, but she insisted on going alone.
“Needn't worry about her,” said Bill. “It isn't snowing now.”
“It's rather dark,” said Nancy.
“Murky. She'll get home before real dark.”
“Now she and her eloquence are gone,” said Catherine, “I am able to ask if you obtained any information at the Kemps'.”
“Esther was quite well,” said Nancy. “Mr. Kemp and Frank were out.”
“What an escape!” Catherine laughed.
“No!” said Nancy.
“You escaped Frank.”
“Very poor, Catherine,” said Bill.
“I have a poor opinion of Frank. Was he with his father?”
“Why ask?” Bill enquired.
“To illuminate your ignorance of him,” Catherine retorted.
“I wonder if it will snow to—night,” said Nancy. “Let's go out and look at the sky, Bill.”
They looked at impenetrable haze. “Ugh!” said Nancy. “Fog.”
“Murk,” said Bill. “The wind's dropped.”
“Just as cold,” said Nancy.
“Not quite,” said Bill.
In the evening the telephone rang. Nancy answered. “Yes. . no . no . no . but, my dear . . oh.” She left the 'phone. “It was Esther asking if we'd seen Frank and her father. They've not come home.”
“And you were affectionate and she rejected your affection,” said Catherine.
“No joke, Catherine,” said Bill. “Was that all, Nancy?”
“She asked if we'd seen Irvine.”
“Didn't ask about Whitfield. This morning she said old Kemp was at the quarry, Frank in the village, they weren't together, she says now they've vanished together. No good looking for 'em. too dark. All dark.” He went to the 'phone... “Butler speaking. Fortune.” He spoke....
“Yes, very difficult, Butler,” Reggie murmured. “Difficult and important. Could you be in Gilthwaite at eight to—morrow morning?”
“I can,” Bill answered.
Reggie told Irvine and Mardale his story. Irvine grunted. “What do you think the Kemps are up to?”
“I wonder. Old Kemp could be running away. Frank could.”
“You aimed at scaring them and you think they're scared,” Mardale laughed.
“Aimed at scarin' everyone scarable. There may be two criminals. Are there only two? Are both Kemps? One? Or neither?”
“Have the Kemps run away?”
“Puzzlin' question. Old Kemp went to the quarry, though the quarry is stopped, Frank to the village alone. Yet both have disappeared. Possible both have been knocked out, like you and Whitfield, Irvine. Very improbable they'd be knocked out on the way home from the quarry or the village. Very improbable they'd go up the mountain way in this blizzard.”
“No use going up the mountain,” said Irvine.
“Why they went and where equally obscure.”
Mardale chuckled. “How right you are, Mr. Fortune. We go to Gilthwaite blind.”
“The pain is to arrive at eight am.” Reggie sighed.
A DIM January dawn indicated no fresh snow in the valley. There was little wind, the sky leaden.
“Dimmer and dimmer,” Reggie complained, approaching Gilthwaite.
“Very dim up Scawgill way,” said Irvine. “Thick on the Edge.”
Catherine had startled Bill and Nancy, enquiring, “Am I allowed to go with you to the village?”
“If you please,” said Bill. “We must call at the Kemps'.”
“I appreciate the obligation,” said Catherine.
At the Kemps' they were told Mr. Kemp and Mr. Frank hadn't come back and Miss Kemp was out.
Nancy said she would wait till Miss Kemp returned. Bill and Catherine went on.
“Do you imagine Esther is searching?” Catherine asked.
“I don't like the idea of her searching alone,” said Bill.
“Perhaps Mr. Whitfield is assisting her.”
“And I don't like that idea.”
“Searching from the house to the quarry and the village would involve no danger.”
“No. But she isn't on the road.”
They arrived in the village and Reggie hailed them. “Early. All very early. And cold. How are you, Miss Eliot?”
“Warmly admiring your energy, Mr. Fortune.”
“Painful. What about 'em, Butler?”
“Nothing. Esther's gone off somewhere on her own.”
“Miss Kemp?” Irvine barked.
“Oh. Whitfield gone anywhere?” Reggie asked.
“I don't know.”
“Where does Whitfield live?” Irvine growled.
“Yellow house, near the post office,” said Bill.
“I'll go there, Fortune,” said Irvine.
“My dear chap! Go easy,” Reggie answered, but Irvine strode away glowering. Reggie nodded at Mardale. “You try Ibdon, our informative Ibdon.”
“The old line,” Mardale chuckled. “What a hope.”
“Oh yes. Yes. Quite hopeful.”
Mardale went off through the village and Catherine asked, “Are we allowed to know what your old line is, Mr. Fortune?”
“You are, but not in the open street. Butler, any men working at the quarry?”
“A few maintenance men.”
“Push on to the quarry. Men should have noticed when old Kemp left yesterday and the way he went.”
“Explore every avenue,” said Catherine.
“I do. Painful job,” Reggie murmured. “Inevitable. Time fightin' job.”
Pushing on to the quarry, “It looks deserted,” said Catherine. “An abomination of desolation.”
“What you say twice is true,” Bill replied.
“Arctic wilderness and industrial ugliness,” said Reggie. “Not altogether deserted.”
The few quarrymen agreed Mr. Kemp was at work in the office till near three o'clock and when he left went down to the village.
“A bit odd, Fortune,” said Bill. “Down to the village isn't the way to his house. Going to the village he wouldn't get hurt.”
“Several problems. What was he workin' at in the office yesterday? Why wasn't Frank workin'? Why did he cease workin' near three? It wasn't near dark.”
“I imagine Frank is unaccustomed to work,” said Catherine.
“In the office,” Bill added.
“Main problem why old Kemp left work near three,” Reggie answered. “Solvin' it could solve everything. Back to the village and Irvine and Mardale we go.”
“Do you expect you will find Mr. Kemp?” Catherine asked.
“I wonder. Should find what happened yesterday.”
“Do you expect Mr. Kemp and Frank are together?”
“No expectation yet. Ah, I see Mardale coming.”
“He appears amused.”
“He always is.”
Mardale had tried Ibdon and learnt a lot. Ibdon said folks in the village weren't worrying about old Mr. Kemp nor Mr. Frank. As there was nothing doing at the quarry and Mr. Kemp didn't bother what happened to the village, him and Mr. Frank would go off. Nobody was surprised. It wasn't comfortable for 'em at Gilthwaite. Ibdon didn't know where they'd gone, no business of his, but folks saw 'em walking down the road to Gilwater, early yesterday afternoon.
“Oh! Early?” Reggie interrupted. “Exact time told by Ibdon?”
“Ibdon exact!” Mardale laughed. “Impossible. Yet he may have told the truth.”
“I don't believe old Kemp walked to Gilwater,” said Bill. “It's five miles.”
“The Ibdon tale don't require you to believe he walked all the way,” said Mardale. “He could have arranged for a car.”
“Could have, yes,” Reggie murmured. “Why did he go anywhere? Why did Frank? Why didn't they tell Esther they were going?”
Mardale chuckled. “You ought to be pleased, Mr. Fortune. Your line was scaring everyone and you've scared the Kemps.”
“Now I understand the inscrutability of the line,” said Catherine.
“I am not pleased,” said Reggie. “Butler, were you out yesterday at three o'clock?”
“Just before three Nancy and I went down to Esther.”
“Was it snowing?”
“Blinding squalls. When we got back it stopped.”
“Puzzlin' time problem. Round the hour old Kemp left the quarry, snow blindin', none after. Yet he chose to walk through it. Why did he, wherever he was goin'?”
“Nice point, Mr. Fortune,” said Mardale.
“Rather alarmin'.” said Reggie.
“You intended to alarm and are alarmed,” said Catherine, and Mardale laughed.
“Quiet, Mardale,” said Reggie. “Observe Colonel Hawley, walking fast.”
Hawley shouted, “What, Butler, my boy! How d'you do, Miss Eliot? You look in the pink. Hallo, Inspector, how are you getting on?”
“Nicely, thank you, Colonel. Have you seen Mr. Kemp?” Mardale asked.
“Old Kemp? Saw him yesterday going down Gilwater way.”
“At what time?”
“In the afternoon about three. Why? Do you —” Hawley sniffed—“do you want the old beggar?”
“I want to know where he is.”
“On the run, is he?”
“I don't know any cause he should run.”
Hawley guffawed. “Don't you? Do you know any cause Whitfield drove down Gilwater way yesterday morning?”
“You saw Whitfield drive off?”
“I didn't see the young rascal myself, but he certainly went.”
“At what time?”
“About half—past nine.”
“Driving his own car and alone in it?”
“He was alone. I am not sure, but probably in his own car.”
“Do you know whether he returned yesterday?”
“I'm told he hasn't returned yet.”
“Did he tell anyone where he was going?”
Hawley snorted. “I bet he didn't.”
“Why wouldn't he tell?”
“Don't play the fool, Inspector. Whitfield and the Kemps have gone while the going was good. And you know they have. I don't envy you the job of catching 'em now.” Hawley swaggered away.
“Even more informative than Ibdon,” said Reggie. “Not only against the Kemps, against Whitfield.”
“He would confirm the Ibdon tale, the Kemps are bolting,” said Mardale. “He hates old Kemp. But why is he against Whitfield, whom old Kemp hates?”
“Why didn't the pro—Whitfield Ibdon tell you Whitfield drove to Gilwater in the morning?”
“Ibdon wouldn't tell me Whitfield had bolted.”
“Yet if Whitfield left in the morning he's clear of suspicion about the Kemps' disappearance.”
“How brilliant you are,” said Catherine. “You suspected Whitfield and Mr. Kemp and Frank. All have disappeared and you cease to suspect Whitfield.”
“Not brilliant, no. Reasonable. If Whitfield was away, he was not here at the disappearance time. But the Hawley information is queer and enigmatic. He gave Whitfield an alibi, not himself. He was here yesterday afternoon, he could have eliminated the Kemps and he jeered the job of findin' 'em.”
“You will not find them by talk,” said Catherine.
“Oh no. No. Painful job. Irvine's a long while at Whitfield's house. Come on up.”
“All right,” said Bill. “I don't know what Irvine can be doing. I don't believe Ibdon and I don't believe Hawley. I don't believe old Kemp went to Gilwater. It's incredible the Kemps walked there. Frank has a car.”
“I agree they wouldn't walk all the way,” said Mardale. “They were evading observation.”
“I know you said they hired a car to pick 'em up on the Gilwater road. Silly idea. Walking through the village they'd be more observed than driving.”
“Persuasive argument,” said Reggie. “If they didn't walk to Gilwater, where did they walk?”
“I haven't a notion,” said Bill.
“It is almost incredible Frank walked with his father anywhere,” said Catherine.
“Yet the two went simultaneous,” Reggie murmured. “Ah! Post office —little yellow house—Whitfield's, Butler?”
“Yes. No sign of Irvine. He can't be in the house, if Whitfield isn't.”
Mardale knocked at the door and an old woman told him Mr. Whitfield went away early yesterday. Another gentleman had just called and Miss Kemp, and the gentleman took her off home.
“Irvine taking a private line.” Mardale winked at Reggie.
“Mr. Irvine is energetic, Mr. Fortune,” said Catherine.
“Painful! Painful job. On to the Kemp house,” Reggie sighed.
ESTHER arrived at Whitfield's door a little after Irvine.
“No use coming, Miss Kemp,” said Irvine. “You won't find him here.”
“Where is he?”
“The lady doesn't know nor when he'll be back.”
Esther herself questioned the lady, and was told Mr. Whitfield went off yesterday morning in his car.
“Nothing more to be got,” said Irvine. “You should get home, Miss Kemp.”
Esther rushed away and he followed. She turned upon him. “Why did you come?”
“To see if you'd come to Whitfield and to see you home.”
“Do you know anything of Whitfield?”
“Not where he's gone. Do you know anything of your father and brother?”
“I don't listen to impudence.”
“Are you more concerned about Whitfield than your father?”
Esther did not reply.
“Your father was at the quarry yesterday,” said Irvine. “Was he getting evidence on the dam break?”
“Have you any evidence?” Esther asked.
“You know he sacked Whitfield. Haven't you heard the reason?”
“I know nothing of the quarry business.”
“Isn't it your own business your father and Frank have vanished?”
“You say it's my fault?” Esther cried.
“Not your fault, your trouble. I sympathise, Miss Kemp.”
“I don't need sympathy, Mr. Irvine. I don't need instruction.”
“I advised you once not to go anywhere alone. Now Frank and your father aren't taking care of you, take more care of yourself.”
“Oh, do leave me alone!” Esther exclaimed.
“I will, when you're home,” said Irvine.
Esther rushed on and Nancy rushed from the house. “My dear, what news?”
“There is none, none at all,” Esther answered.
“Good morning, Mrs. Butler. Good—bye, Miss Kemp,” said Irvine.
“Have you seen Bill, Mr. Irvine?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, in the village, I'm going down there. Any message?”
“I expect I shall go down. Is he with Mr. Fortune?”
“He was.” Irvine left them.
“Horrible man,” said Esther.
“Irvine?”
“Dreadful, and the Fortune man.”
“Esther! They're not to blame.”
“Aren't they? All the horrible things happened after they came here.”
“No. The murder, long, long before.”
“Fortune and the policeman Mardale came because the woman was killed, and they've done nothing but make more horrors. If Irvine hadn't come father wouldn't have been worried over the dam break.”
“Oh Esther! You shouldn't accuse Irvine and Fortune. You ought to be thinking of your father and poor Frank. Didn't Irvine talk of them?”
“He did. He talked of Whitfield. And he talked of me and sympathised.”
“Irvine is quite honest.”
“An honourable man!” Esther laughed. “They're all honourable men.”
“Did he talk of finding your father?”
“No. He cross—questioned me —-”
A car stopped at the gate. Whitfield jumped out and exclaimed: “Esther, old girl! What on earth has happened? I've just heard Frank and your father are missing.”
“They are,” said Esther. “They were last night. I don't know what has happened.”
“When were they last seen? Where?”
“I saw them last yesterday morning. Father went to the quarry, Frank to the village.”
“They weren't together?”
“Of course they weren't, going different ways.”
“No, of course not. Not very likely they'd join up afterwards. Queer they're both missing. Awful hard on you.”
“Oh God! Don't sympathise,” Esther cried, and ran into the house.
Whitfield looked at Nancy. “Is anything known, Mrs. Butler?”
“I only know they have disappeared.”
“I can't understand it. Frank's the most level—headed capable fellow. And the old man is quite able to look after himself.”
Reggie and Bill and Mardale arrived. “You passed us on the road, Mr. Whitfield,” said Mardale. “Did you see the Kemps yesterday?”
“Not I, I went to Ribham early yesterday and I've just come back and heard in the village they were missing.”
“Ribham. Why?” Reggie asked.
“To see the dentist.”
“Dentist?” Reggie asked. “Which dentist?”
Whitfield looked puzzled. “John Brown—what about it?”
“Interested in Ribham dentistry.”
“Were you in Ribham all day and all night?” Mardale enquired.
“Yes. I wasn't very fit. I stayed the night at the Crown.”
“Do you know any reason the Kemps should have gone anywhere?”
“Not I. Mr. Kemp wouldn't tell me his reason. I saw Frank the evening before they disappeared and he didn't say a word about going away. Either Mr. Kemp hadn't told him the reason or told him not to tell.”
“Reason could arise subsequent to your departure,” said Reggie.
“A reason arising yesterday?” Whitfield exclaimed. “What reason?”
“I haven't the faintest idea.” Reggie murmured. “Thank you, Whitfield. Oh, Mrs. Butler, sorry, it is too cold.” He led her out of the gate.
In the road Catherine was jeering at Irvine. “No doubt Miss Kemp appreciated your sympathy.”
Whitfield drove off towards the village.
“Was she angry, Mrs. Butler?” Reggie asked.
“Poor Esther! Angry with Mr. Irvine, with me, with Mr. Whitfield.”
“Poor indeed.” said Catherine. “Angry with everyone, even Mr. Fortune.”
“Yes. Acute comment.”
“You are sympathetic, like Mr. Irvine, and with equal effect. You would make her angry.”
“Yes. I do enrage people. Not a vast amount of snow on the road, Butler.”
“None new. Any amount fell yesterday.”
“Oh. What time?”
“About three, a very big fall.”
“Huge flakes.” Nancy cried. “And terrific wind.”
“Did it go on long?” Reggie asked.
“It stopped near four,” Bill answered.
“Certain?”
“We made Mrs. Honey quit at four. Nancy and I had a look round just after, and it wasn't snowing.”
“Odd. About three Kemp and Frank walked off—in big snowfall. Could Mrs. Honey give the exact time it stopped?”
“Dim chance,” said Bill.
“Infinite chances,” said Catherine. “Mrs. Honey will give you one exact time and another and another and another.”
“Very unkind, Catherine,” said Nancy. “Mrs. Honey is a thoughtful, reliable person.”
“Thoughtful impartial observer wanted,” said Reggie. “Mrs. Honey at your cottage?”
“She usually is by nine.”
“Twenty past now. Could we go quick?”
“Are you ever, Mr. Fortune?” Catherine asked.
“If and as needed.” Reggie went on quickly up the hill. “Depth of snow varies a lot, Butler.”
“Drift, of course. It's not very hard. The top snow's melting. It was all frozen earlier. I believe the wind's going round.”
“Wind? No wind.”
“Don't you feel it a bit westerly, warmer?”
“Warmer?” Reggie gasped. “No. Piercin' cold.”
Catherine laughed. “You are not walking quick enough to warm yourself.”
“You're a brave walker, Catherine,” said Bill. “You funk wind.”
“The sky looks very threatening,” said Nancy.
“No end of murk up there,” Bill answered. “The wind has veered. Jolly uncertain prospect.”
They arrived at the cottage and Mrs. Honey opened the door.
“Oh, Mrs. Butler, I was that worried not knowing where you'd got to, dearie. Have you heard about Mr. Kemp and Mr. Frank having gone? Awful for Miss Esther it is, isn't it, my dear? I do sympathise with her, poor dear girl, like as if she was my own daughter, that I do. Not but what we don't rightly know where they gone nor why nor nothing. Mr. Frank he couldn't go and get lost he couldn't, he's that strong and knows his way everywhere better than anyone. But there, you can't be sure a man won't go wild. No offence to Mr. Butler, dearie, no. I —”
Reggie interrupted. “What are the village people saying about it?”
“Well now, sir, what could people say, except as old Mr. Kemp and Mr. Frank walked off together and the Lord only knows where they've gone to.”
“The village people know the time they went?”
“Oh yes, to be sure, they went just after three.”
“Three? It was snowing hard, wasn't it?”
“Very hard. Very uncomfortable walking in snow like that, believe me.”
“I do,” Reggie nodded. “When you went down to the village at four, was it snowing?”
“No, it wasn't. Trouble enough getting down through the snow, but it had stopped.”
“Did you see anyone else getting through the snow anywhere?”
“Well now, that's funny, that is, I did fancy I saw people, one or two people going up the track to Scawgill. Not that I could be certain they were people. I may have fancied them, it was that murky dark, you fancy what ain't there.”
“Did you fancy the two were together?” Reggie asked.
“I did and I didn't. You see I didn't see 'em plain.”
“Have you told anyone your fancy?”
“That I haven't. Not being certain.”
“Very wise. Thanks very much,” said Reggie.
“Thank you, sir. Now, Mrs. Butler, dearie, I'll do my usual.” Mrs. Honey sped into the kitchen.
“HER USUAL irreconcilable contradictions,” said Catherine.
“Yieldin' impressive evidence,” Reggie murmured.
“Do you believe she saw the Kemps?” Bill asked.
“I wonder.”
“Why on earth would they go up the Scawgill track?”
“Puzzlin' question. Where could they get to, Scawgill way?”
“The track goes up to the Edge and down the other side, the Ribham side. They wouldn't walk over the Edge to Ribham. Going up to the Edge last night would have been crazy.”
“And old Kemp and Frank are not crazy, no. Yet they vanished an abnormal way. There is a farm on Scawgill. Could they get to it up the track?”
“They could in ordinary weather.”
“Old Kemp is intimate with the farmer, Ullock.”
“He is, but why would he and Frank go to Ullock through deep snow?”
“What urgent immediate need? Bafflin' question. Yet the careful Mrs. Honey fancied two people went up. Do you know the Scawgill track, Butler?”
“Well enough,” Bill laughed. “Do you want to go up?”
“Oh yes. Yes. I do.”
“Admirable zeal, Mr. Fortune,” said Catherine.
“No. Pride and interest.”
“The track'll be hard going,” said Bill. “Are you quite fit?”
“I am a little ample,” Reggie sighed. “But the flesh is willin'.”
“Don't go where it is dangerous, Bill,” said Nancy.
“Not me.”
“I will take care of him, Nancy,” said Catherine.
“You're going?” Bill laughed. “You'll brave the wind? Marvellous.”
“Go on, Butler,” Reggie sighed. “Go quick.”
“All right. Crack down the lane and hit the track above the village.”
They were quick in the lane, not at all on the track, struggling knee deep in snow.
Mardale chuckled. “Tough job, Mr. Fortune.”
“Tiresome and useful. Observe the footprints verifyin' the Mrs. Honey evidence. People on the track yesterday afternoon.”
“What people?”
“I wonder.”
“The footprints are no use.”
“Oh yes. Two men up at least. Could have been three. One or two down. Quite good prints.”
“Not to identify a man.”
“I wonder.”
“Do you think the Kemps had a man or two with 'em?”
“They could have had Ullock.”
“And Ullock and other men could have made all the prints.”
“Yes. Ullock and another takin' stuff from Gilthwaite to his farm, from his farm to Gilthwaite.”
“That's quite reasonable. It washes out your idea the Kemps went.”
Catherine laughed. “Mr. Fortune equals Mrs. Honey in self —contradiction.”
“I believe evidence,” Reggie murmured. “Evidence after three yesterday the Kemps vanished and about four people walked Scawgill way. Bein' anxious to find the Kemps I'm goin' up.”
“Up and up and on and on,” said Catherine. “How noble of you.”
“Normal human.”
“The snow's drifted waist deep on the track,” said Bill. “Get off into the meadow above, it'll be easier.”
They climbed a wall and quickened their pace only ankle deep in the snow of the open meadow. . . .
“No footprints, Butler.” Reggie gasped.
“The wind across the open would blow them away.”
“Would it? The wind dropped yesterday afternoon.”
“On our cottage level. There'd have been plenty here. And there's a good deal now.”
“But footprints harden snow. Wind only removes the soft. The meadow is quite virginal.”
“There's never any certainty about snow prints unless they're frozen and it isn't freezing.”
“No. Yet footprints are clear on the track. Why aren't they elsewhere?”
“The track is hollow and sheltered footprints out of the wind naturally remain clear.”
“People would go the easiest Scawgill way. Is this meadow the easiest?”
“It is now. I don't know if it was yesterday.”
“People could have thought the track was. We could have another look.” Reggie scrambled up the meadow wall. “Deep drift, very deep, no footprint, ugly jumble of earth and stones.”
Bill looked. “A biggish bit of the opposite wall crashed.”
Reggie plunged down the track. “Footprints below the crash.”
Bill and the others plunged down. He had an arm in the stony jumble.
“Do you think—think Mr. Kemp —“Catherine quavered.
“I've found one man.”
“One?” she cried.
“Good God!” Bill exclaimed, and he and Irvine and Mardale worked at the stones with Reggie. . . .
They found the body of old Kemp lying upon Frank's body.
“Is he dead?” Catherine cried.
“Not yet,” Reggie murmured. “Poor hope. What's nearest, Butler? The Ullock farm?”
“Much the nearest. We can carry 'em in the meadow. One at a time over the wall.” Bill straddled it.
Reggie and Irvine lifted Kemp into his arms and he went over, Irvine straddled the wall, Reggie and Mardale and Catherine lifted Frank to him and they trudged across the meadow, Bill and Irvine carrying Kemp, Catherine indignant that Reggie and Mardale carried Frank without her assistance and uneasily.
“Observe anyone observin'?” Reggie panted.
“There isn't anyone,” said Mardale.
“Look up,” said Bill. “There is a man opening a gate.”
“Know him?” Reggie asked.
“Yes it's Ullock.”
“Hoy!” Ullock shouted. “What are you doing? What's wrong with them men?”
“Mr. Kemp, Ullock,” said Reggie, “and Frank. Badly injured, unconscious in the snow all night.”
“What, Mr. Kemp up here last night?”
“He was. May we carry him to your place?”
“Ay, ay. Bad at his age. You bring him and Frank right along. I'll go ahead and me and my lad'll warm things for 'em.”
“Excellent chap, Ullock,” said Reggie. “No unnecessary question, quick necessary action.”
Mardale laughed. “Did he know about the Kemps or did he?”
SWEATING, Reggie came out of a bedroom into the huge kitchen of Ullock's farm.
“What is your opinion?” Catherine exclaimed.
“Dim prospect. Both concussed and severe shock. Old man, ribs broken. Both very weak and exhausted.”
“Are you unable to do anything?”
“Done a little. Warmed 'cm, stimulated circulation. I say, Butler, you going home?”
“Yes, to tell my wife. I'll be up again.”
“Tell Mrs. Butler—no one else.”
“Righto.”
“I shall stay,” said Catherine. “I can assist you, Mr. Fortune.”
“Do. Stay and do night nurse.” Reggie went out, joined Mardale at the place they had discovered the Kemps, and asked, “Any idea?”
Mardale laughed. “Irvine's expert opinion is the wall could have crashed by accident and could have been pushed on to 'em struggling in the snow drift. Useful, aren't we? As we were over the dam break and the collapsed cottage.”
“From the cottage collapse Kemp was rescued by Whitfield. No rescue from the wall crash. Earlier Whitfield and Irvine were attacked by an unidentified man. And Naomi's murderer is unidentified.”
“One man? Who? Hawley?”
“The hateful Hawley. Yes, hate and gain inspired all the crimes.”
“But no evidence Hawley committed them.”
“No proof yet.”
“Do you expect the Kemps will recover?”
“Some hope.”
“If they recover they may not be able to tell how they were injured.”
“Don't expect 'em to. Like Irvine, like Whitfield, they probably hadn't seen anyone.”
“Probably a total final flop.”
“Oh no. No. Probabilities various and cheerin'. Where is our Irvine?”
Mardale laughed. “He went off to the village, he did, I bet to Miss Kemp.”
“Nice of him,” Reggie drawled. “You could do nice jobs. Enquire at the quarry if old Kemp had a message yesterday. 'Phone Ribham, enquire into Whitfield's dental alibi.”
“Nothing about Hawley?”
“Hawley didn't give himself an alibi. You could examine footprints, near Hawley's park.”
“I like the last assignment.”
“I liked Whitfield's dentist,” said Reggie and went back to the farm.
Ullock had no notion Mr. Kemp was coming up to him, didn't hardly believe it, had no notion why Mr. Kemp should. Mr. Kemp came pretty often but not likely he would in a blizzard, him knowing Scawgill thorough, knowing it'd be ruddy difficult.
“Yet he was near your farm. Was anyone else?”
Ullock hadn't seen anyone.
“Do Scawgill walls often crash in blizzards?”
“No telling when a wall will crack. Generally after frost in thaw.”
“Crash in frost yesterday a puzzle. Come and examine the wall.”
“How do you mean?”
“To find out why it crashed on the Kemps.”
Ullock didn't mind having a go and was at the wall jumble before Reggie, climbing it, inspecting crevices. He went over the jumble to a snowy thicket of gnarled oak and thorn.
“Any footprint?” Reggie asked.
“Not here. But I don't believe the wall cracked natural. I believe it was manhandled and shoved.”
“A man. Man walked up the track, arranged the crack, waited in the thicket, shoved the wall on the Kemps, and returned down the track where footprints are numerous. A man who knew the Scawgill way.”
“There ain't a lot come up.”
“Any man often—except old Kemp?”
“I'd say not. Have you one in mind?”
“Oh no. No. Hope I'll have one.”
“Ay,” Ullock nodded. “And I hope you catch the ruddy vermin.”
Irvine, as Mardale bet, had gone to Esther. She was not grateful.
“What do you want of me now?” she exclaimed.
“We found your father and Frank lying unconscious up the Scawgill track.”
“Are they—are they—dead?”
“They're badly injured.”
“How?”
“A wall crashed on them.”
“They lay out all night in the cold?”
“They were cold. We took them to Ullock's house. Fortune's attending to 'em, he's a doctor, a very good man.”
“Is he? Does he think they—they—they will recover?”
“He isn't certain.”
“They won't!” Esther gasped, ran from the room, and put a coat on.
“Are you going to them now?”
“I am going to Whitfield.”
“So am I.”
“Oh, go with me if you like.”
“I do like, and from Whitfield I'll take you to your father.”
“I don't need advice.”
“Excuse me, I'm anxious about you and your people.”
“I loathe worry about myself.”
“You're careless of yourself.”
“And of my father?”
“I've not said that.”
“You suggested it.”
“I intended to say you ought to be uncommon careful, just now.”
“Your intention!” Esther cried. “Your immense vanity.”
As they approached Whitfield's yellow house, he opened the door. “Bless you, old girl. Come in. Morning, Irvine, come right in. Have a spot of lunch.”
“No,” said Esther. “Tell him, Mr. Irvine,” and Irvine repeated his account of finding the Kemps and their condition.
“Too bad, old girl, too devilish bad,” said Whitfield. “Why on earth did they go up Scawgill, Irvine?”
“I have no opinion. Have you?”
“I haven't. Mr. Kemp goes up to Ullock now and then, doesn't he, Esther?”
“Yes, but not Frank.”
“I'm amazed your father went up in the blizzard. Did Ullock expect him yesterday, Irvine?”
“Ullock was amazed.”
“But they must have had a particular reason. They'll tell it when they're able to talk.”
“They may never be able,” said Esther.
“Don't lose hope, old girl. Irvine and I crashed and are in the pink.”
“Do you think the wall crash an accident?” Irvine asked.
“You're the expert. What's your opinion?”
“I think the crash may have been arranged.”
“The devil you do! Just like our crasher. We weren't knocked out accidentally. And we saw no one.”
“The cases aren't identical. We were not dangerously injured.”
“We had luck, old man. Butler found you, Esther and Frank found me at once. Frank and Mr. Kemp had no luck, weren't found till they'd been in the snow all night.”
“Mr. Kemp is unlucky. A cottage collapsed on him.”
“One of the cottages the dam break smashed. Butler and I got him out. Have you verified your idea explosion broke the dam?”
“I may verify it. Who would want the break?”
“Who wanted to crash you and me, who wanted to crash Frank and Mr. Kemp? A man who objected to the industrial development of Gilthwaite.”
“Colonel Hawley,” said Esther.
“Would Hawley know how to use an explosive?” Irvine asked.
“Hawley owned and ran the quarry years and years.”
“At the time we crashed did you suspect him?”
“Oh, Lord no, I didn't suspect anyone until you gave me the explosion idea and I took a poor view of the idea until you told me the way the Kemps were crashed.”
“You believe Hawley arranged the crash?”
“If anyone, Hawley.”
Irvine looked at Esther. “I am going up to Scawgill now, Miss Kemp. Will you?”
“I am quite ready?”
“All the best, old girl,” said Whitfield.
Esther took no notice, hurried out, and asked Irvine “Do you believe it was Colonel Hawley?”
“I'm doubtful.”
“You don't believe Whitfield.”
“Everything Whitfield said was reasonable, credible. But he proved nothing.”
“Have you any opinion?”
“Yes. A definite opinion Whitfield and Hawley are enemies.”
“Which tried to kill my father?”
“There is no proof the crash of the wall on your father and Frank was not an accident.”
“And you are no use.”
“You'll tire yourself rushing in the snow.”
Esther rushed dumb and enraged.
“Gently,” said Irvine. “Get off the track now, get over the wall.”
She stopped and exclaimed, “This—this wall?”
“This isn't the crashed one. Over you go,” Irvine lifted her, “and up the meadow to Ullock's.”
“Where is the crashed one?”
“Opposite. You don't want the wall. You want your father.”
“AY, AY, Miss Esther,” said Ullock, “your dad hadn't ought to have risked the blizzard. It might be worse though, one of the gentlemen being a doctor.”
Reggie came in. “You're brave and quick, Miss Kemp.”
“Is father still unconscious?”
“And Frank. Not alarmin' that. You can see them. Miss Eliot's with 'em.” Esther went into the bedroom. Reggie led Irvine out to the farmyard. “Nice job tellin' Esther all. Has she told Whitfield?”
“Of course I told her. She would go to Whitfield. And I told him. Do you object?”
“Oh no, no. Quite useful idea telling him in her presence. What was his reaction?”
“He suggested Hawley arranged the wall crash, Hawley blew up the dam, Hawley knocked out him and me.”
“Violent and comprehensive reaction. Not incredible. Hawley had motive to steal your plan, to explode the dam and to crash old Kemp.”
“Had Hawley a motive to smash Whitfield?”
“Motive to prevent Whitfield observing him steal your plan.”
“Unlikely, isn't it?”
“No. Whitfield didn't smash himself.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oh yes. Yes, quite. Wound not self—inflicted.”
“But the only crimes of which you have evidence are the attack on Whitfield and the attack on me. You'll never get evidence the dam break and the wall crash weren't accidents.”
“My Irvine! Lamentable lack of faith in resourceful effort and our zealously enquirin' Mardale. And you've forgotten Naomi's murder.”
“You have no evidence who murdered her.”
“Odd the comprehensive Whitfield omitted to suggest Hawley was the murderer.”
“Does that prove anything?”
“It proves Whitfield shy of the murder question.”
“It doesn't prove Whitfield the murderer.”
“Oh, Jeremiah. No. Whitfield isn't the only possibility. And Hawley isn't the only possible Kemp crasher. Whitfield is equally possible. Which did Esther think arranged the crash?”
“She named Hawley. But I doubt if she thinks a lot of Whitfield.”
“Impartial girl.”
“She's very distressed. I'm anxious about her safety, Fortune. I'd like to take her home.”
“My dear chap! She won't leave her father. And she's absolutely safe here at Ullock's.”
“Will you be here all night?”
“My job.”
“That'll do. I'll be up again to—morrow.”
“Splendid. Bring my tooth brush.”
Irvine departed, and after a while Bill came, carrying a rucksack. “Things for Catherine and you, Fortune.”
“Oh, Butler, very grateful,” Reggie purred.
“How are the Kemps now?”
“A little improvement.”
“Not conscious?”
“No. May be unconscious a good while yet.”
“Are you hopeful?”
“I've not told Miss Kemp and Miss Eliot I am. I'm not telling anyone. Mrs. Butler won't.”
“Nancy'll like that,” said Bill. “I don't ask you, Whitfield or Hawley.”
“The answer is, open question. Miss Eliot'll want a word with you.” Reggie brought her out of the bedroom and strolled away. Mardale was trudging up the meadow. “Information at the quarry?” Reggie asked.
“Old Kemp had a 'phone call yesterday afternoon.”
“From where?”
“Box below the village.”
“Oh! Caller untraceable?”
“Quite,” Mardale laughed. “Hawley, anyone in Gilthwaite, anyone in the valley. And on a call from Hawley or Whitfield, Kemp wouldn't have gone up to Scawgill. Quite obscure why he did go.”
“Hawley was in the village. Is there a line of footprints between his park and the Scawgill track?”
“A line downward, not up.”
“My Mardale! Excellent evidence.”
“Of what? If the prints are Hawley's he needn't have made 'em yesterday.”
“They were made after four yesterday, after the Kemps crashed, and before noon to—day. Who made 'em if not Hawley?”
“I agree Hawley may have.”
“Would anyone else walk in yesterday's snow from the Scawgill track to Hawley's park?”
“Hawley is the only likely man. But footprint evidence won't convict him of anything.”
“You think not? Is the Whitfield dental alibi verifiable?”
“John Brown, the Ribham dentist, saw Whitfield at ten—thirty, had an appointment for the usual inspection. Brown saw him last a year ago.”
“Last January. Whitfield omitted the usual inspection a whole year. Last January Naomi Griffiths was alive.”
“What of that?”
“Brown was Naomi's dentist. Recognised her teeth. Fact unknown to Whitfield. Evidence he is an old patient of her dentist very helpful.”
“It isn't evidence she and Whitfield were intimate.”
“Oh! Strikin' association. Whitfield is one of the few Gilthwaiters who could have murdered her.”
“If Whitfield murdered her, would he use her dentist now?”
“If he'd used a dentist he'd never used for the usual inspection, he'd have an unbelievable alibi.”
“True enough. But the alibi isn't only dental. Whitfield lunched and went to flicks in Ribham afternoon and evening. The police verified it all at his hotel.”
“Careful chap Whitfield. Careful the hotel should know where he was.”
Mardale laughed. “Jolly careful. He had ample time in the afternoon to dodge off to Gilthwaite and be back at Ribham in the evening.”
“Yes. Time to 'phone old Kemp about three, crash the Kemps on the Scawgill track about four, and appear at Ribham about six.”
“But no evidence he left Ribham.”
“No evidence of anyone at the 'phone box?”
“The box is a mile below the village, and in the weather yesterday, no one would notice anyone.”
“The informative Ibdon notices any amount.”
Mardale chuckled. “Ibdon'll swear Whitfield wasn't at the box.”
“Oh yes. And tell Whitfield you'd enquired about the 'phone, rattlin' him.”
“Ibdon may say Hawley 'phoned.”
“Try Ibdon.”
“I think Hawley the likeliest 'phoner. I've no use for Ibdon —evidence.”
“Use the circumstantial evidence.”
“The footprints?”
“Prints from track to park, yes. And the explosive wrappin' paper you discovered by the park lake. Interestin' questionin' Hawley and Whitfield on all the suspicious circumstances.”
Mardale laughed. “Jolly game. To—morrow, what? If the prints remain. Thawing now.”
“I know. Weather has been all against us. Now—village nine in the morning. If I can leave old Kemp.”
Mardale went down to Ibdon, who was informative as ever, but not as expected, not accusing Hawley. He'd happened to see a young fellow at the 'phone box, not a village fellow, a tall lad going off Gilwater way.
Mardale asked what Ibdon was doing at the box, received an unbelievable account and inferred Whitfield or Hawley employed him to 'phone Kemp, and he was covering one of them.
IN THE farm kitchen Reggie sat on a settle by the fire and Ullock grilled ham and Ullock's nephew laid the table.
“Real honest ham,” Reggie murmured.
“Ay, my own pig, my own cure,” said Ullock. “And you're very welcome. I only wish Mr. Kemp'd eat it.”
“Quite fair hope he'll be eating in a day or two.”
“Miss Kemp ain't hopeful.”
Catherine came into the kitchen and told Reggie, “Frank just said 'Father—sorry—father'.”
“Ay, ay,” Ullock nodded. “Like Mr. Frank that is.”
Catherine glowered. “He didn't know what he was saying, Mr. Ullock.”
Reggie went to the bedroom.
“He's unconscious again now,” Esther moaned.
“He was unconscious when he spoke,” Catherine answered.
“No, he wasn't. He meant to say it was all his fault.”
“His fault your father was injured?”
“His fault and my fault.”
“Not his fault nor yours.”
“We were —”
“Quiet,” said Reggie, “quiet,” examining Kemp and Frank. “Visible improvement. They want quiet, careful nursin'. And the nurses want food and sleep.”
“I don't,” Esther cried.
“Oh yes. You and Miss Eliot go and have food while I watch. Then you go to bed and Miss Eliot watches while I feed and I call you when she wants relief.”
'When will you sleep?” Catherine asked.
'When I'm not wanted.”
'You are extremely kind.”
'No. Doin' my job.”
'You will call if —” Esther stammered, “call me if—if there is anything.”
“I will. You needn't worry. There won't be any trouble.” . . .
Esther and Catherine gone, Reggie lit his pipe in the kitchen. “Magnificent ham, Ullock. What did you think of Frank saying he was sorry?”
“Just like Mr. Frank.”
“Did he mean it was his fault?”
“He was blaming himself Mr. Kemp came up and got hurt.”
“Do you think Frank persuaded Mr. Kemp to come?”
“I don't. I don't think anyone'd persuade Mr. Kemp against his own choice.”
“Why do you think he chose to come up in the blizzard?”
“I don't know what would make him come.”
“Very queer. Other queer things up Scawgill way. The woman murdered. The dam break. Seen anyone from the village up here about the time of the murder and the break?”
“It ain't easy to be sure. I've seen Mr. Whitfield at times and Colonel Hawley.”
'See Whitfield often last year?”
“Once in a while.”
“And Hawley?”
'Ay, late in the year.”
“And Mr. Kemp and Frank?”
“Frank ain't often up.”
“Do you know why Mr. Kemp sacked Whitfield?”
“That I don't. I bet Mr. Kemp had reason.”
“Could have, yes. Do you ever employ village lads?”
Ullock snorted. “They ain't no use. I got my own nephew.”
“Very efficient lad. You use him on any message to the village, what?”
“No. Not Bob. If I want anything done in the village, I go.”
“Helpful!” Reggie murmured, and stretched himself and closed his eyes.
“Ay, you've a right to your sleep,” Ullock nodded. “I told you I hope you catch the vermin. I ain't helping you much.”
“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow,” Reggie yawned. “What's the weather prospect?”
“A bit warmer I'd say.”
Reggie stood up. “Let's go out and try the temperature,” and having gone out, “Not at all warm,” he complained.
“It ain't near freezing and the sou'—westerly wind'll give a quick thaw.”
“Oh! Hounds of spring are on winter's traces.”
PALE DAWN light glimmered upon the beds of Frank and his father. Reggie examined them. “ Are you satisfied?” Catherine asked.
“Yes. Hopeful improvement.”
“They appear quite unconscious now. But an hour ago Frank asked 'Who's that? Who is it?' and he was not asking me.”
“No. Askin' the man who crashed the wall. A man he didn't recognise. Unlucky. Have you told Esther?”
“She was listening. I believe she suspects and yet admires Whitfield.”
“Possible.”
“She said Frank ought to have known and she ought.”
Esther came into the room.
“Good morning,” Reggie smiled. “Progressive improvement. Congratulate you.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I do. You needn't fear. I'm not leavin' 'em long.” He went out.
“Where is he going?” Esther cried.
“He is inscrutable. He is also skilful and trustworthy,” said Catherine.
Reggie had gone to breakfast. While he ate Bill and Nancy arrived. He told them of the Kemps' progress. “Could you stay the mornin' to keep an eye on Esther? She takes it all alarmin' hard and Miss Eliot had a tirin' night.”
“Of course we'll stay, Mr. Fortune,” Nancy exclaimed. “You must be very tired.”
“Oh no. No. Very jovial. Patients are recoverin'. See you in the afternoon.” He left them and Bill winked at Nancy.
“Cagey chap, my girl. He stuck us with Esther to prevent our sticking with him.”
“I'd have stayed with Esther if he hadn't asked me.”
“I'd have gone with him if he'd allowed me.”
Catherine tiptoed into the kitchen. “Don't disturb Esther. She ought to sleep.”
“You ought to,” said Nancy. “Let me —”
“I am quite fit, thank you.”
Esther came down from an attic bedroom.
“My dear,” Nancy cried. “You must be very happy.”
“Yes. They are much better. I can go out now.”
“When you've slept,” said Nancy.
“I have. I'm going out.”
“Going where?” Bill asked.
'“To the village.”
“Sloppy tramp,” said Bill.
“We'll go with you,” said Nancy.
“Oh no. I don't want anyone.”
“Catherine'll want Nancy,” said Bill. “I'm going.”
Esther hurried away.
“I regret she is going to Whitfield,” said Catherine.
“She may not be,” said Nancy.
“Where else would she go, leaving her father and Frank?”
“You think she is absolutely devoted to Whitfield?”
“Devoted to the man and detesting him, poor child.”
Bill's anticipation of a sloppy tramp was more than justified. In the slushy snow Esther lagged far behind him.
“Can't you get going?” he asked.
“I am going my own pace.”
“All right. Irvine'll come up to you.”
Esther quickened her pace.
But Irvine did not come up the Scawgill track. Esther went on to the village, to Whitfield's yellow house, and was told Mr. Whitfield had just gone out, gone along the park road.
“New line, Esther—Whitfield to Colonel Hawley,” said Bill. “Do you go it?”
“Whitfield wouldn't.”
“You thought he wouldn't.”
“Yes. I must make sure.”
“I am with you.”
Reggie, descending the track, studied the footprints on it, and from it to the park melted by the thaw, yet clearly visible. At the appointed nine o'clock he was in the village and Mardale and Irvine arrived.
“How now?” Mardale grinned.
“Quite hot.”
“How are the Kemps?” Irvine enquired.
Reggie nodded. “Walk up, Mardale?”
Mardale nodded and walking out of the village, “Frank spoke last night,” said Reggie. “Statement indicatin' he saw a man crash the wall.”
“Didn't name the man?” Mardale asked.
“No. Didn't recognise the man.”
“No earthly good a statement indicating he saw an unknown.”
“I wonder.”
“How is old Kemp?” Irvine demanded.
“Improvin'—not as quick as Frank, but he'll come through.”
“As Frank didn't recognise the man, he won't,” said Mardale.
“Not likely, no. What have you done in the great war?”
“I've telephoned Whitfield to be at the park gate at ten, and he said he would, and Hawley to be at home at ten and he said he would. But are there any footprints now?”
“Line from track clear.”
“But the prints unidentifiable.”
“Always were.”
“Quite. And the man Frank saw. Jolly gambling game. I 'phoned Whitfield and Hawley from the box below the village.”
“Useful idea.”
“I have to replace the explosive wrapping paper where I discovered it. Then we gamble on the undiscoverable.”
At the track side of the lake Mardale replaced the paper. “Correct enough,” he grinned. “Now Hawley and Whitfield. The thaw has queered all the footprints. The lake ice is thawing.”
“Never mind the thaw. Get the men,” said Reggie.
When Mardale had gone, “I don't think the paper replacement correct,” said Irvine.
“Oh, my Irvine! Absolutely. Paper just about original spot. We're doin' justice to everyone.”
“Hallo, Mardale,” Colonel Hawley barked. “How are you? I was told in the village you've found old Kemp. Is that right?”
“I found him and Frank. You were wrong about their bolting, Colonel. I found them up the Scawgill track unconscious.”
“Good God! Are they badly injured?”
“Very badly.”
“What the devil happened?”
“I'm investigating. After they were injured a man walked from the track to your park.”
“Damn you, sir, are you accusing me?”
“No, Colonel. I'm questioning you. I want your opinion of the footprints.”
“I haven't seen any. I haven't been up the Scawgill track.”
“Come and see the prints in the park. Mr. Whitfield agreed to come. He'll be at the gate now.”
“Whitfield? Devilish young rascal. Ah, he might be the footprint man. You know old Kemp sacked him.”
“Yes. Come along, please. ...”
“All well, Mardale?” Whitfield asked. “Frank out of danger? And Mr. Kemp?”
“They are not. The man who crashed them walked to the park. I want your opinion of his footprints.”
“My Lord!” Whitfield exclaimed. “It wasn't an accident! They were attacked, just as I was and Irvine was. Have you any notion who attacked them?”
“You damned rogue!” Hawley barked.
“I don't want you two attacking each other.” said Mardale.
“Old Kemp was crashed on the track, eh?” said Hawley. “He was crashed in a cottage and Whitfield there.”
“And I rescued the old man.” said Whitfield.
“Butler rescued him,” Hawley barked.
“It is a question what crashed the cottage,” said Mardale. “If the dam break made the crash, another question, why the dam broke—the immediate question is, who made the footprints. Come on to the lake.”
“Right you are,” said Whitfield, and to the lake they came, Hawley slow.
Esther and Bill arrived at the park gate while Hawley was abusing Whitfield. She stopped outside the park, silent, unseen.
When Mardale had taken them to the lake, she took Bill, silent, and again she stopped out of their sight, hearing Whitfield exclaim, “Cheero, Irvine. Good day, Mr. Fortune, are you footprint experts?”
“Not me, no,” said Reggie. “Medical. Irvine an engineerin', wall and explosive expert.”
“Where the devil are your damned footprints, Mardale?” Hawley barked. “There are none here.”
“Quite a clear line from here to the track.”
“Not footprints, places the snow has melted.”
“Places in a line. No line elsewhere.”
“The snow is melting everywhere.”
“We want your opinion, Whitfield,” said Mardale.
“I think they are footprints, old boy,” Whitfield laughed.
“They're the footprints of a man who walked from the track, after the snowstorm in which the Kemps were crashed.”
“You've got the time, old boy,” Whitfield exclaimed. “Very nice work.”
“Nice enough,” Mardale shrugged. “Colonel Hawley informed me he'd not been up the Scawgill track. Have you?”
“I have never been up it. And when the Kemps crashed I was in Ribham.”
“And your dentist examined your teeth,” Reggie purred. “Nice alibi.”
“Where were you, Colonel?” Mardale enquired.
“I told you. I was in the village, I saw Kemp going Gilwater way. I didn't see him go up Scawgill way. I've no notion when and why he went.”
“I have. I 'phoned you and Whitfield this morning from the box below the village. Were you in it the afternoon Kemp went up Scawgill?”
“I was nowhere near it.”
“And you, Whitfield?”
“In Ribham, all the afternoon.”
“Why are you asking about the box, Mardale?” Hawley demanded.
“Kemp was called from the box to go up to Ullock. Ibdon informed me it wasn't a village lad called and it wasn't Ullock or his nephew. Who did call?”
“Inform Mr. Mardale, Hawley,” Whitfield laughed.
“Damn your impudence,” Hawley barked.
“I thought as you were in the village you'd have seen the caller,” Whitfield answered.
“If I had devil a doubt I'd have seen you,” Hawley retorted.
“Kemp has been extraordinarily unfortunate,” said Mardale. “The dam break, the cottage collapsing on him, the wall crashing on him. Too extraordinary. Not all accidental. Last night Frank made a statement.”
“Frank talking? Good!” Whitfield exclaimed. “What did he say?”
“He saw a man crash the wall.”
“Who's the man?” Hawley roared.
“Who hates Kemp?” Mardale asked.
“Ah, Kemp sacked you, Whitfield.”
“Yes, Hawley. And I saved Kemp's life. And Frank and I are friends. You've done all you knew to ruin Kemp and Frank and the quarry.”
“Infernal lie. The quarry was ruined by your mismanagement.”
“Cut out the lying,” said Mardale. “You both told me you hadn't been up the Scawgill track. Which of you was up the tarn track before the dam broke?”
“Not I,” said Whitfield. “I was in the quarry all day, every day till the break.”
“I haven't been to the tarn this year,” said Hawley.
Mardale gazed at the lake and the explosive wrapping.
“Oh no, no,” said Reggie. “Were you up above the tarn last year, Colonel?”
Hawley meditated, eyeing Whitfield.
And Whitfield jeered, “You've been up often, haven't you?”
“Last year, Colonel, the murder year,” said Reggie. “Did you see anyone above the tarn?”
“I did, Mr. Fortune, I saw Whitfield enjoying a girl last May. I didn't see her face. Next time I saw Whitfield I chipped him and he said the girl was Esther Kemp.”
“You dirty dog!” Whitfield cried. “I had no girl. I told you nothing.”
Esther ran to Irvine. “It wasn't —” she stammered. “It—it—I wasn't with Whitfield.”
“Oh no, no, not you,” said Reggie. “Whitfield, when did you see Naomi Griffiths last?”
“I never saw her.”
“You didn't have the usual dental inspection for a year. You had to have one as an alibi. And your dentist was Naomi Griffiths'. He identified her teeth. You hadn't thought of that evidence. You didn't know we found her skull in the tarn.”
“I couldn't know the girl was murdered or Naomi Griffiths.”
“Ah, you're beat, Whitfield,” Hawley laughed. “Bloody brutal murder.”
“I'm not her murderer,” said Whitfield, “and I didn't try to murder Kemp, Hawley. I wasn't here. You were.”
“Murder and attempted murder not the only crimes,” said Reggie.
“No. I was wounded,” said Whitfield.
“And Irvine was attacked. And the dam was broken by an explosion.” Reggie nodded to Mardale.
“See, Hawley?” Mardale, on the verge of the lake, took from half —melted ice the explosive wrapping paper.
“Unusual paper, Colonel,” said Reggie. “Oily and illustrated and explosive manufacturers' name, and Irvine, explosive expert'll know the stuff.”
“Gelignite,” Irvine growled.
“Would that break the dam as it was broken?”
“It would.”
“Who dropped gelignite paper in your park, Colonel?” Reggie asked. “The man who exploded the dam.”
“I know nothing about the paper,” Hawley roared.
“Oh. Man who dropped it man who walked from the Scawgill track to your park.”
“Mr. Fortune has you beat, Hawley,” Whitfield laughed. “I saw you coming from the tarn track one night. You exploded the dam, you dropped the paper, you crashed the Kemps, and the —-”
“You bloody rogue!” Hawley sprang at him, they clinched, they staggered on the ice, they fell, they vanished in the turbid lake.
Irvine went into it, and Mardale. “No,” Esther cried, “Mr. Irvine!”
Bill went in. Plunging out of depth. “No go,” said Mardale. “Have to drag it.”
“Yes. If you can,” said Reggie. “Irvine, you could take Miss Kemp to her father.”
“Will you?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Irvine answered.
“Wet though he is he'll get warm,” Reggie sighed.
“Warm job dragging,” said Bill.
A long, laborious drag extracted Whitfield and Hawley.
“Still in a clinch,” Mardale panted.
“Yes,” Reggie sighed. “Have to try artificial respiration.” He tried. He failed.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Unlovely and unpleasant in their lives, in death they were not divided.”
TOILING languidly up to the farm again Reggie encountered Catherine. “What is the truth, Mr. Fortune?” she cried.
“Pontius Pilate asked that question,” he smiled.
“Pilate did not wait for an answer. I do.”
“More genial waitin' in Ullock's jolly kitchen. What have you told the victims?”
“Esther told Frank that Whitfield and Hawley were drowned. Is that true?”
“Quite. Mardale has reported their drowning to the Ribland police. Is Frank sad about Whitfield?”
“Frank is apologetic.”
“Oh. Need you sneer at him?”
“Esther told him Whitfield was an utter brute and he said he ought to have known.”
“Did old Kemp hear all that?”
“Yes. He was conscious.”
“Did he speak?”
“Two words. 'Frank, Frank.'“
“Good man.”
“Amiable youth,” Catherine shrugged. “I understand from Mr. Irvine you compelled Hawley to attack Whitfield and Whitfield to attack Hawley.”
“Oh no. No compulsion. Each maddened the other.”
“Is that the whole truth?”
“The essential truth. Whole not yet discovered. Hope Frank will supply the undiscovered. Could I see Mrs. Butler?”
Catherine went into the bedroom and Nancy came out. “Oh Mr. Fortune! It's terrible, but I think Frank is really relieved at Whitfield's death.”
“Good. And Esther?”
“I have Esther asleep, upstairs, quite quiet. Mr. Irvine has just gone away.”
“Irvine was fine. And Butler. Noble attempt to save Whitfield.”
“You are very modest.”
“Oh no. No. I was futile.”
“Did you expect they would —-”
“All beyond expectation.”
Next day Frank supplied what Reggie hoped.
“A man 'phoned father at the quarry, a man calling himself Ullock's nephew, said he'd had an accident in Gilwater, couldn't get back to the farm and Ullock was ill, would father go up. Ullock is a very old friend. Father and I went up. I saw a man where we were knocked out. I wasn't sure of him.”
“Are you now?” Reggie asked.
“I ought to have been then. I saw it wasn't Ullock's nephew.”
“Who was it?”
“Aren't you sure?” Frank exclaimed.
“Want your opinion.”
“It was a man who hated father and knew father'd go through anything to Ullock. The only man like that is Whitfield.”
“Hawley hated your father.”
“Hawley didn't know father valued Ullock above everyone. Whitfield knew. Are you suspecting Hawley?”
“I am not. It was not Hawley crashed the wall on your father and you. It was Whitfield. Why did Whitfield hate you both?”
“He didn't hate me.”
“Oh! You believe he didn't?”
“I believe he didn't expect I'd go to Ullock. He hated father, for sacking him.”
“Why sacked?”
Frank looked uncomfortable. “Father thought Whitfield a bad influence at the quarry, rousing discontent, thought he influenced me the same way.”
“And thought he influenced Esther. Whitfield aimed to get rid of your father and acquire the quarry himself. He had a very bad influence on the girl he murdered.”
“Are you certain Whitfield, not Hawley, murdered her?”
“Quite certain.”
“But it must have been Hawley wounded Whitfield.”
“Oh yes. Hawley knocked Irvine out to steal the electric plan, knocked Whitfield out to cover the stealing, and exploded the dam to ruin the quarry.”
“I've been a lot of use,” Frank groaned.
“My dear chap! You will be. Tell your father.”
And Kemp, when conscious and told, said, “You and Frank, make good, now.”
“Have you discovered the whole truth, Mr. Fortune?” Catherine asked.
“Oh yes. Beyond doubt.”
“I am by nature and education doubtful. Am I unjust in doubting you?”
“Unjust and irrational.”
“You weren't just to Frank, Catherine,” said Nancy.
“I gave Frank what he needed, an astringent judgment of his character, and it stimulated him.”
“You've nursed him affectionate enough,” said Bill. “You always liked him.”
“He will always need nursing,” said Catherine.
“Poor judgment,” Reggie murmured. Catherine walked out of the kitchen. “She and Frank?” Reggie asked Nancy.
“It wouldn't be any good,” Nancy sighed.
“I wonder. She won't forget Frank, he won't forget her, and she's born to teach. Instructive people, your people, Mrs. Butler. Without you three, couldn't have done the job.”
“You mean, Hawley and Whitfield would have got off,” said Bill.
“Without the information you supplied, they would, and Kemp and Frank would be dead.”
“You couldn't have convicted Whitfield?”
“Couldn't have proved murder without your information. I'm off to Mardale now. I expect Irvine'll come up.”
“He is a lamb, Bill,” said Nancy.
“Tigerish lamb,” said Bill.
Irvine came up and insisted on Esther going for walk, she ought to be out of doors, it was quite warm.
“You are absurdly careful,” she objected. “Alway advising and always right, aren't you?”
“Usually,” said Irvine.
“That's unpardonable.”
“I should be if I didn't take care of you.”
“Feeling free is everything.”
“You're perfectly free and safe in my care.”
Esther laughed.
On the terrace of the Gilwater hotel, “All set?” Reggie asked Mardale.
“Inquest to—morrow.”
“Am I wanted?”
“No, thank you,” Mardale grinned. “An easy old coroner, P.M by his own doctor. The Ribland police chief ate everything and congratulated me. I have also congratulations from the Ribham chief, for discovering the murderer of Naomi Griffiths. They won't want Irvine's evidence or Butler's.”
“Your evidence ample. Yes. They may well congratulate you. Vile and awkward case brilliantly terminated. One little question. Will you say who dropped the explosive paper in Hawley's park?”
“No. I shall say Whitfield accused Hawley of dropping it and blowing up the dam.”
“Quite enough, yes. Quite clear Whitfield dropped it to accuse Hawley of the explosion and made the footprints in the park from Scawgill to accuse Hawley of crashing the Kemps.”
Mardale laughed. “How right you are. Hawley blew up the dam and Whitfield faked proof he did. Whitfield murdered Naomi, Hawley didn't kill anyone, but our brilliance forced Whitfield to kill him. Jolly game, saving a rope, executing two men—one a murderer, one innocent of murder.”
“Hawley hadn't committed murder, no, until he killed Whitfield. He had tried to ruin the village and he'd have gone on trying. Double death, best possible end of nasty case and very nasty men.”
“I agree they're better dead. The saving a rope game isn't perfect justice.”
“My Mardale! Not only saving a rope, saving the village, ending the local official war, securing the future of the victims. Our job.”
“You expect the Kemps will restart the quarry?”
“Oh yes. Irvine'll arrange that for Esther and Frank'll pull it round for his father and the quarrymen.”
“Odd Frank was all for Whitfield,” Mardale grinned. “David and Jonathan, weren't they?”
'“They were. My original clue.”
“How?”
“Whitfield, David, Frank, Jonathan. And I never liked David, never believed the whole truth about David was published. So I never believed in Whitfield. And we have the truth about him.”