Collected works of j s f.., p.849
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 849
“She must have been dreaming when I heard her call out, in Mill House, the other night,” I remarked. “It was a startled cry, now I think of it.”
“Very like,” he assented. “Well, you may say we’ve had our journey for naught, but we haven’t. We know now that Mally Brewster has some certain knowledge; and if we never get to know anything from her, we may get at the secret from some other angle.”
“What I’m wondering,” I said, “is: does Mrs. Martenroyde know that Mally knows something? If so, I’m surprised that she isn’t in pursuit of her.”
“She may be, for all we know,” he answered. “There’s another road to Shawes, lower down the valley. Mally may find Hannah Martenroyde waiting for her — Hannah would know where the old woman would make for.”
We went back by the way we had come. By the time we reached the roadside the gloom of the winter afternoon had deepened into the darkness of a winter’s evening — I thought of the lonely old woman plodding her way down the fellside to the village where all her own folk lay in the churchyard. Sentimentalism, no doubt — but I half made up my mind as Eddison and I sat in the glow of the inn fire, drinking our hot and welcome tea, that I would go to Shawes next day and find out how Mally Brewster had fared.
But that was not to be. Next morning as Eddison and I were about to sit down to breakfast, Becca Thorp was shown in, and Becca was obviously full of news.
“Mr. Eddison!” she exclaimed. “I thought you’d like to know. Old Mally’s back at Mill House! Our Reuben was coming past there late last night, and he saw Ramsden and his mother drive up in their car. And Mally was with them. They’d fetched her!”
CHAPTER XIX. DR. PONSFORD CALLED IN
EDDISON POURED OUT coffee before making any remark on this piece of news, and Becca Thorp, having discharged it at him, stood open-mouthed, agog to hear what he had to say about it.
“Did your lad actually see Mally Brewster?” he asked at last.
“Oh, ay, he saw her, right enough, Mr. Eddison,” replied Becca Thorp. “Of course, he was close to ’em.”
“Did he hear anything said?” inquired Eddison. “Did she seem to be going back willingly?”
“I reckon she’d have no choice, once them two had laid hands on her,” said Becca. “You know what Hannah Martenroyde is, Mr. Eddison. I knew they’d fetch the poor old thing back. It wouldn’t suit Hannah Martenroyde to have old Mally out of her custody.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” asked Eddison.
“Nay, I reckon the old woman knows too much about what goes on, and has gone on, in that house,” replied Becca. “And once away from it, she might be letting things out.”
“Have you ever known of her letting aught out?” said Eddison.
“Nay, I haven’t, but then, you see, Mr. Eddison, Mally Brewster’s never been out of Mill House for I don’t know when,” answered Becca. “It’s well known that she’s been kept prisoner in there, same as if she was in jail. There is folks — me for one — that’s had a word or two with her now and then, through the windows. But she’s never been allowed out — never, for many a year.”
Eddison devoted himself to his eggs and bacon for a minute or two. Then he suddenly turned on the woman with a challenging look.
“I reckon you know all the village talk, missis,” he said. “Now, what do folk say about that — about Mally’s being kept from going out, and nobody allowed inside — what’s the opinion about it?”
Becca Thorp smiled and shook her head.
“Why, Mr. Eddison, it’s just a fad of Hannah Martenroyde’s, and has been since Miss Deborah died.”
Eddison turned to me when the woman had gone. “I felt sure they’d fetch her back,” he continued. “They must have gone after her, to Shawes, by the other road. And, as they’ve got her back, I don’t see what we can do, Camberwell.”
“I don’t see what I can do,” I answered. “It seems to me we’re at a stage where my services are of no use to you. I’ve no direct clue, and, whatever suspicion I may have, I’ve nothing of real value to support it. Probably the old servant could give evidence which would solve the problem, but, from what I’ve seen of her, she won’t. I dislike giving up any commission, but—”
“Now then, now then, go easy, my lad!” he interrupted. “I’m not going to let you give up any commission — my commission, anyway. Wait a bit! There’ll be something turn up that’ll start us out on a new trail, you’ll see. You’ve no particular call to go back to London, have you? Very well, then, have a bit of patience. Bide quiet — keep your eyes and ears open. All we want is just that bit of something which’ll give us an idea.”
“How to get that is the problem,” I remarked.
“I say: keep your eyes and ears open,” he repeated. “Now, there’s a chance this morning. Ramsden Martenroyde’s coming up after breakfast with some papers relating to the business. When I’ve done with them, I’ll have a word with him about this affair of the old woman. You listen, and hear what he says.”
Ramsden came up, a bundle of correspondence in his hand, about ten o’clock that morning; he and Eddison transacted their business in my presence. When it was finished and Ramsden had gathered the papers together and was about to go, Eddison stopped him.
“Ramsden, my lad,” he said, “I want a word or two with you. There’s talk going on in the village about that old lass of your mother’s, Mally Brewster. She ran away from Mill House early yesterday morning, telling a neighbour that she couldn’t bide there any longer and must go. And now I hear that you and your mother fetched her back last night. What’s it all about?”
Ramsden’s face had darkened as Eddison spoke, growing gradually sullen, resentful, obstinate.
“The old woman’s getting to her dotage,” he muttered. “There’s nobody to look after her but us — and her folks are dead. We found her wandering about there at Shawes last night, seeking a lodging, and we brought her home. That’s all there is to it — I reckon it’s nobody’s business but ours. She’s nobody to look to but my mother.”
Eddison hesitated a moment, watching Ramsden. Ramsden, getting no further remark, made for the door. Then Eddison stopped him again.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “Look here, my lad, I’ll be plain with you. I went after the old woman. She told me she couldn’t bide longer at Mill House because she was always seeing James Martenroyde’s ghost. What’s that mean?”
“I said she’s getting near her dotage,” replied Ramsden, sullenly. “She fancies things. If there’d been any of her own folk left at Shawes, we should have let her stop there, but there wasn’t, so we brought her back.”
“It’s a pity people are talking about it,” remarked Eddison.
Ramsden showed increasing sullenness.
“They’ve naught to do with it,” he muttered. “I reckon we’ve a right to manage our own affairs in our own way. The old woman’s safe there — if she’d been left up yonder at Shawes, she’d only have wandered about and come to harm.”
With that he made a sudden move for the door and went off, and Eddison shook his head and gave me a knowing look.
“Old Mally’s not so far gone as all that,” he said. “She was sensible enough when we saw her yesterday afternoon. Well, we shall have to pluck out the heart of her mystery somehow, Camberwell.”
I failed to see how we were going to do it. And I was beginning to chafe under the forced inactivity of all this; it seemed to me that I was doing no good in staying at Todmanhawe. Certainly Eddison was a considerate and most attentive host, but it irked me to feel that I was accomplishing nothing and got no more results than an occasional scrap of gossip, usually worth little, from the village folk. Once again, after Ramsden had left us that morning, I suggested to Eddison that I might as well be allowed to give up my commission; once again he begged me to wait awhile. Finally I consented to stay with him another week. During that week Colonel Houston and his daughter, who had lived at Scarthdale Arms since James Martenroyde’s funeral and had busied themselves in making arrangements for taking over the grange, left for London. A day or two later William Heggus came down to get his new orders and took up his residence at his brother’s. Beyond these unimportant events nothing happened — and as the week drew to an end I became finally resolved to throw up my commission and go away, leaving the local police to pursue their inquiries, if — which I doubted — they were still making any.
Then — and, as it always happens, suddenly — something came to stir us all up. One morning, about eleven o’clock, as I sat reading the newspapers in Eddison’s dining-room, I heard him at the telephone in the hall. A moment later he came in.
“Camberwell,” he said, “Ponsford wants to see us — at once. At his house. Something appears to have happened.”
“Didn’t he say?” I asked.
“No — only that he wants us — you, particularly — at once,” he answered. “Come on, it’s only a few minutes’ walk.”
We put on our hats and hurried down the road. Ponsford’s house stood near the big bridge; his surgery projected into the garden. As we reached the gate of the carriage drive, Beverley came racing along in his car from the direction of Shipton; a constable in uniform sat on the front seat with him; another, in plain clothes, occupied the back seat.
“What’s this?” muttered Eddison. “Is he coming here?”
That question was quickly answered. Beverley pulled up at Ponsford’s gate, gave some instructions to the policeman, and, jumping out, hastened to join us.
“Has the doctor sent for you?” he demanded. “He phoned me to come here at once. What’s the matter? Something happened?”
“We know no more than you do,” replied Eddison. “Let’s go in.”
A parlour-maid showed us into Ponsford’s dining-room, saying that the doctor would be with us in a few minutes. But she had scarcely left us when Ponsford came bustling in. I had seen a good deal of him since my arrival at Todmanhawe; Eddison and I had dined with him occasionally, and he with Eddison; now and then, idling my time away, I had dropped in on him at his surgery hours to chat. I thought him just the sort of medico that these dale people needed — a big, bluff, bearded man of rough and ready manners, brusque in his address and a bit offhanded in his procedure, but sympathetic and understanding in his treatment of the folk with whom he had to deal. He was direct and plain-spoken enough now. Closing the door behind him as he entered the room, he turned to us with an ominous shake of the head.
“Glad you’re all here together,” he said. “Now then, listen — there’s something just happened that you’ve got to hear about. Just an hour ago—”
He paused at the sound of voices in the hall without, then moved across to the door.
“That’ll be Reeves-Norton, from Shipton,” he said. “I phoned him to come along when I phoned you others. Come in!” he went on as the door opened and the parlour-maid ushered in an elderly, spectacled man of the true surgeon type. “You know these other fellows, Reeves-Norton, so I needn’t introduce you. And now that you’re all here, just sit down, all of you, and hear what I’ve got to say, and pay attention, for, by George, it’s serious! Now listen. About an hour ago I was sent for by Mrs. Martenroyde, of the Mill House — she asked that I should go at once. I went, there and then. As soon as I was in the house — which I’d never entered before — she told me that her old servant, Mally Brewster, had fallen downstairs, hit the heavy oak baluster at the bottom, and injured her head. She — Mrs. Martenroyde — had sent for her sons from the mill and they’d carried the old woman to her room. She was unconscious, and they’d sent for me. Of course, I went up to see Mally at once. I saw her — and that’s why I’ve sent for you!”
For the moment none of us spoke, but we all looked our questions, and Ponsford went on.
“Sent for you — all of you. Because I know that Mally Brewster didn’t fall downstairs, nor anywhere else!” he said with emphasis. “She’d been struck down by a heavy blow from a heavy stick — just as James Martenroyde was! That’s — certain.”
Reeves-Norton broke the silence which followed with one word.
“Sure?” he asked.
“Beyond doubt,” declared Ponsford. “Listen—” and he went into low-voiced details which I for one was unable to catch. “But I want you to come down and see for yourself — if you aren’t of my opinion, why, then, I’ve wasted my time ever since I entered Bart’s! And you others must come — if my theory’s correct there’s work ahead for you police chaps.”
He turned to open the door, but Eddison laid a hand on his arm.
“Let’s be clear about this, Ponsford,” he said. “What you say amounts to this: Mally Brewster is suffering from an injury to her head. Mrs. Martenroyde says Mally fell downstairs. You say Mally has had a blow. And you want Dr. Reeves-Norton to see Mally so that you may know if your opinion is correct?”
“I know my opinion is correct!” exclaimed Ponsford. “I’ll stake my reputation on it. Come on with you — we’re going into that house. Listen — the old woman is done for!”
“Dead?” exclaimed Eddison.
“No — but she will be before tomorrow morning,” replied Ponsford in his brusquest manner. “She’ll never regain consciousness. Come on!”
He marshalled us out and led the way towards Mill House, himself and Reeves-Norton walking in front in deep consultation, while Eddison, Beverley, and I followed. Eddison, as soon as we were out of Ponsford’s garden, began to tell Beverley of Mally Brewster’s recent escape from the Martenroydes’ service and of her speedy recapture. Beverley began to look grave and suspicious.
“Don’t fancy its appearance, Mr. Eddison,” he said. “Runs away — brought back — probably against her will — and is now dying, according to the doctor, from a blow. Ugly look, all that!”
“I quite agree,” said Eddison. “The fact is, if the old woman’s injury is really due to a blow, we’re coming to something. What do you say, Camberwell?”
“I think so,” I replied. “Ponsford, at any rate seems very certain of his assertion.”
Ponsford turned back to us as we came in sight of Mill House.
“You three had better wait outside while Reeves-Norton and I go in,” he said. “If he agrees with me — that the injury is due to a blow — I shall fetch you in, and you, Beverley, can then question Mrs. Martenroyde. According to what she told me, she and the old woman were alone in the house when what she called the accident happened, so no one can give any account of it but herself.”
We paused in the road and waited, near the corner of the garden, while the two doctors disappeared into the house. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. Then we heard Ponsford calling to us and presently found him standing near the back door, which stood open behind him.
“She’s gone,” he said quietly, as we approached him. “Died ten minutes ago. Never recovered consciousness. I knew she wouldn’t. Come in, they’re all here. Beverley, don’t you forget that there’ll have to be an inquest.”
Unchecked, we all walked into the living-room, in which, unknown to anyone, I had stood only a few nights before. As Ponsford had said, the mother and two sons were all there. Ramsden, wondering and upset, stood near the fireplace; Sugden, scowling and angry, lounged on the langsettle, his hands thrust into his pockets. Neither spoke on our entrance. But Mrs. Martenroyde, turning from some cooking operation at the hearth, gave voice at once, protestingly if not angrily.
“I don’t know what call all of you men have to come into my house in that fashion!” she said. “There’s no occasion for it. I don’t see what right you have here, Mr. Eddison, for all you’re trustee, nor what that man from London’s here for, nor what police folk are doing here. I’ve told you, Dr. Ponsford, how it happened, and I can’t see that there’s aught to be done but for you to give a certificate and let’s get the poor old thing quietly buried. What’s the use of all this to-do?”
“I can’t give a certificate, Mrs. Martenroyde,” said Ponsford. “I’m not satisfied, and if Dr. Reeves-Norton agrees with me, there’ll have to be an inquest.”
Then he motioned us to follow him upstairs, and we turned to the gloomy old hall, leaving mother and sons silently staring at each other.
CHAPTER XX. FAMILY EVIDENCE
THE FIVE OF us who had stood that morning round the dead body of Mally Brewster kept silence as to our conclusions and subsequently left the Martenroydes under the impression that the necessary inquest would be a formal affair; certainly nothing was said to give Mrs. Martenroyde the idea that she was an object of suspicion. And this conviction of security had been achieved in spite of the fact that Beverley, after hearing the first main conclusions of the two doctors, had withdrawn from the bedroom with Eddison for at least ten minutes and had, as I afterwards learned, prevailed upon the latter to keep the Martenroydes occupied in conversation while he himself made an unobtrusive examination of the ground floor of Mill House.
When, however, the diminutive Coroner began his inquiry at the village schoolroom next day, I saw that Mrs. Martenroyde had taken care to guard her own interests — Pybus, the Shipton solicitor who had defended Sugden, was there, in close consultation with her and her two sons. There, too, representing the police, was Cordukes, who had prosecuted Sugden in the magistrate’s court. And Cordukes, of course, knew what evidence the two doctors would give. As far as I was aware, he, Eddison, Beverley, and I were the only people who had any idea of what that evidence would be. Between the time at which the news of the old woman’s sudden death had spread through the village and the hour at which the opening of the inquest had been fixed, no rumour of foul play had been spread; according to what we heard from Avis Riley and Becca Thorp, our two principal sources of information, the people had accepted Mrs. Martenroyde’s story as to how Mally came by her death. Mally was an old woman, not so spry and ready on her feet as she had been; she had missed her footing on the dark stairway at Mill House, fallen from top to bottom — and there you were. It was a thing that might happen to anybody, and all this inquest business was naught but lawyers’ fuss, to put money into their pockets. Nevertheless, the villagers crowded to the schoolroom to swallow all that was available, and Eddison and I, getting there a few minutes late, had some difficulty in squeezing ourselves into the centre of this improvised court.
