II

It was the ringing of the telephone that roused me. A persistent ringing.

I sat up in bed, glanced at my watch. It was half past seven. I had not yetbeen called. The telephone was ringing in the hall downstairs.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, and raced down. I beatPartridge coming through the back door from the kitchen by a short head.

I picked up the receiver.

“Hallo?”

“Oh—” It was a sob of relief. “It’s you!” Megan’s voice. Megan’s voice in-describably forlorn and frightened. “Oh, please do come—do come. Oh,please do! Will you?”

“I’m coming at once,” I said. “Do you hear? At once.”

I took the stairs two at a time and burst in on Joanna.

“Look here, Jo, I’m going off to the Symmingtons.’”

Joanna lifted a curly blonde head from the pillow and rubbed her eyeslike a small child.

“Why—what’s happened?”

“I don’t know. It was the child— Megan. She sounded all in.”

“What do you think it is?”

“The girl Agnes, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

As I went out of the door, Joanna called after me:

“Wait. I’ll get up and drive you down.”

“No need. I’ll drive myself.”

“You can’t drive the car.”

“Yes, I can.”

I did, too. It hurt, but not too much. I’d washed, shaved, dressed, got thecar out and driven to the Symmingtons’ in half an hour. Not bad going.

Megan must have been watching for me. She came out of the house at arun and clutched me. Her poor little face was white and twitching.

“Oh, you’ve come—you’ve come!”

“Hold up, funny face,” I said. “Yes, I’ve come. Now what is it?”

She began to shake. I put my arm round her.

“I— I found her.”

“You found Agnes? Where?”

The trembling grew.

“Under the stairs. There’s a cupboard there. It has fishing rods and golfclubs and things. You know.”

I nodded. It was the usual cupboard.

Megan went on.

“She was there—all huddled up—and—and cold—horribly cold. She was—she was dead, you know!”

I asked curiously, “What made you look there?”

“I—I don’t know. You telephoned last night. And we all began wonder-ing where Agnes was. We waited up some time, but she didn’t come in,and at last we went to bed. I didn’t sleep very well and I got up early.

There was only Rose (the cook, you know) about. She was very cross aboutAgnes not having come back. She said she’d been before somewhere whena girl did a flit like that. I had some milk and bread and butter in the kit-chen—and then suddenly Rose came in looking queer and she said thatAgnes’s outdoor things were still in her room. Her best ones that she goesout in. And I began to wonder if—if she’d ever left the house, and I startedlooking round, and I opened the cupboard under the stairs and—and shewas there….”

“Somebody’s rung up the police, I suppose?”

“Yes, they’re here now. My stepfather rang them up straightaway. Andthen I—I felt I couldn’t bear it, and I rang you up. You don’t mind?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

I looked at her curiously.

“Did anybody give you some brandy, or some coffee, or some tea after—after you found her?”

Megan shook her head.

I cursed the whole Symmington ménage. That stuffed shirt, Symmington,thought of nothing but the police. Neither Elsie Holland nor the cookseemed to have thought of the effect on the sensitive child who had madethat gruesome discovery.

“Come on, slabface,” I said. “We’ll go to the kitchen.”

We went round the house to the back door and into the kitchen. Rose, aplump pudding-faced woman of forty, was drinking strong tea by the kit-chen fire. She greeted us with a flow of talk and her hand to her heart.

She’d come all over queer, she told me, awful the palpitations were! Justthink of it, it might have been her, it might have been any of them,murdered in their beds they might have been.

“Dish out a good strong cup of that tea for Miss Megan,” I said. “She’shad a shock, you know. Remember it was she who found the body.”

The mere mention of a body nearly sent Rose off again, but I quelled herwith a stern eye and she poured out a cup of inky fluid.

“There you are, young woman,” I said to Megan. “You drink that down.

You haven’t got any brandy, I suppose, Rose?”

Rose said rather doubtfully that there was a drop of cooking brandy leftover from the Christmas puddings.

“That’ll do,” I said, and put a dollop of it into Megan’s cup. I saw byRose’s eye that she thought it a good idea.

I told Megan to stay with Rose.

“I can trust you to look after Miss Megan?” I said, and Rose replied in agratified way, “Oh yes, sir.”

I went through into the house. If I knew Rose and her kind, she wouldsoon find it necessary to keep her strength up with a little food, and thatwould be good for Megan too. Confound these people, why couldn’t theylook after the child?

Fuming inwardly I ran into Elsie Holland in the hall. She didn’t seemsurprised to see me. I suppose that the gruesome excitement of the discov-ery made one oblivious of who was coming and going. The constable, BertRundle, was by the front door.

Elsie Holland gasped out:

“Oh, Mr. Burton, isn’t it awful? Whoever can have done such a dreadfulthing?”

“It was murder, then?”

“Oh, yes. She was struck on the back of the head. It’s all blood and hair—oh! it’s awful—and bundled into that cupboard. Who can have done such awicked thing? And why? Poor Agnes, I’m sure she never did anyone anyharm.”

“No,” I said. “Somebody saw to that pretty promptly.”

She stared at me. Not, I thought, a quick-witted girl. But she had goodnerves. Her colour was, as usual, slightly heightened by excitement, and Ieven fancied that in a macabre kind of way, and in spite of a naturallykind heart, she was enjoying the drama.

She said apologetically: “I must go up to the boys. Mr. Symmington is soanxious that they shouldn’t get a shock. He wants me to keep them rightaway.”

“Megan found the body, I hear,” I said. “I hope somebody is looking afterher?”

I will say for Elsie Holland that she looked conscience stricken.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I forgot all about her. I do hope she’s all right. I’vebeen so rushed, you know, and the police and everything—but it was re-miss of me. Poor girl, she must be feeling bad. I’ll go and look for her atonce.”

I relented.

“She’s all right,” I said. “Rose is looking after her. You get along to thekids.”

She thanked me with a flash of white tombstone teeth and hurried up-stairs. After all, the boys were her job, and not Megan — Megan wasnobody’s job. Elsie was paid to look after Symmington’s blinking brats.

One could hardly blame her for doing so.

As she flashed round the corner of the stairs, I caught my breath. For aminute I caught a glimpse of a Winged Victory, deathless and incrediblybeautiful, instead of a conscientious nursery governess.

Then a door opened and Superintendent Nash stepped out into the hallwith Symmington behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Burton,” he said. “I was just going to telephone you. I’m gladyou are here.”

He didn’t ask me—then—why I was here.

He turned his head and said to Symmington:

“I’ll use this room if I may.”

It was a small morning room with a window on the front of the house.

“Certainly, certainly.”

Symmington’s poise was pretty good, but he looked desperately tired.

Superintendent Nash said gently:

“I should have some breakfast if I were you, Mr. Symmington. You andMiss Holland and Miss Megan will feel much better after coffee and eggsand bacon. Murder is a nasty business on an empty stomach.”

He spoke in a comfortable family doctor kind of way.

Symmington gave a faint attempt at a smile and said:

“Thank you, superintendent, I’ll take your advice.”

I followed Nash into the little morning room and he shut the door. Hesaid then:

“You’ve got here very quickly? How did you hear?”

I told him that Megan had rung me up. I felt well-disposed towards Su-perintendent Nash. He, at any rate, had not forgotten that Megan, too,would be in need of breakfast.

“I hear that you telephoned last night, Mr. Burton, asking about thisgirl? Why was that?”

I suppose it did seem odd. I told him about Agnes’s telephone call toPartridge and her nonappearance. He said, “Yes, I see….”

He said it slowly and reflectively, rubbing his chin.

Then he sighed:

“Well,” he said. “It’s murder now, right enough. Direct physical action.

The question is, what did the girl know? Did she say anything to this Part-ridge? Anything definite?”

“I don’t think so. But you can ask her.”

“Yes. I shall come up and see her when I’ve finished here.”

“What happened exactly?” I asked. “Or don’t you know yet?”

“Near enough. It was the maids’ day out—”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, it seems that there used to be two sisters here who liked to go outtogether, so Mrs. Symmington arranged it that way. Then when these twocame, she kept to the same arrangement. They used to leave cold supperlaid out in the dining room, and Miss Holland used to get tea.”

“I see.”

“It’s pretty clear up to a point. The cook, Rose, comes from Nether Mick-ford, and in order to get there on her day out she has to catch the half pasttwo bus. So Agnes has to finish clearing up lunch always. Rose used towash up the supper things in the evenings to even things up.

“That’s what happened yesterday. Rose went off to catch the bus at twotwenty-five, Symmington left for his office at five-and-twenty to three.

Elsie Holland and the children went out at a quarter to three. MeganHunter went out on her bicycle about five minutes later. Agnes wouldthen be alone in the house. As far as I can make out, she normally left thehouse between three o’clock and half past three.”

“The house being then left empty?”

“Oh, they don’t worry about that down here. There’s not much lockingup done in these parts. As I say, at ten minutes to three Agnes was alone inthe house. That she never left it is clear, for she was in her cap and apronstill when we found her body.”

“I suppose you can tell roughly the time of death?”

“Doctor Griffith won’t commit himself. Between two o’clock and fourthirty, is his official medical verdict.”

“How was she killed?”

“She was first stunned by a blow on the back of the head. Afterwards anordinary kitchen skewer, sharpened to a fine point, was thrust in the baseof the skull, causing instantaneous death.”

I lit a cigarette. It was not a nice picture.

“Pretty cold-blooded,” I said.

“Oh yes, yes, that was indicated.”

I inhaled deeply.

“Who did it?” I said. “And why?”

“I don’t suppose,” said Nash slowly, “that we shall ever know exactlywhy. But we can guess.”

“She knew something?”

“She knew something.”

“She didn’t give anyone here a hint?”

“As far as I can make out, no. She’s been upset, so the cook says, eversince Mrs. Symmington’s death, and according to this Rose, she’s been get-ting more and more worried, and kept saying she didn’t know what sheought to do.”

He gave a short exasperated sigh.

“It’s always the way. They won’t come to us. They’ve got that deep-seated prejudice against ‘being mixed up with the police.’ If she’d comealong and told us what was worrying her, she’d be alive today.”

“Didn’t she give the other woman any hint?”

“No, or so Rose says, and I’m inclined to believe her. For if she had, Rosewould have blurted it out at once with a good many fancy embellishmentsof her own.”

“It’s maddening,” I said, “not to know.”

“We can still guess, Mr. Burton. To begin with, it can’t be anything verydefionite. It’s got to be the sort of thing that you think over, and as youthink it over, your uneasiness grows. You see what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, I think I know what it was.”

I looked at him with respect.

“That’s good work, superintendent.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Burton, I know something that you don’t. On the af-ternoon that Mrs. Symmington committed suicide both maids were sup-posed to be out. It was their day out. But actually Agnes came back to thehouse.”

“You know that?”

“Yes. Agnes has a boyfriend—young Rendell from the fish shop. Wed-nesday is early closing and he comes along to meet Agnes and they go fora walk, or to the pictures if it’s wet. That Wednesday they had a row prac-tically as soon as they met. Our letter writer had been active, suggestingthat Agnes had other fish to fry, and young Fred Rendell was all workedup. They quarrelled violently and Agnes bolted back home and said shewasn’t coming out unless Fred said he was sorry.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Burton, the kitchen faces the back of the house but the pantrylooks out where we are looking now. There’s only one entrance gate. Youcome through it and either up to the front door, or else along the path atthe side of the house to the back door.”

He paused.

“Now I’ll tell you something. That letter that came to Mrs. Symmingtonthat afternoon didn’t come by post. It had a used stamp affixed to it, andthe postmark faked quite convincingly in lampblack, so that it would seemto have been delivered by the postman with the afternoon letters. But ac-tually it had not been through the post. You see what that means?”

I said slowly: “It means that it was left by hand, pushed through the let-ter box some time before the afternoon post was delivered, so that itshould be amongst the other letters.”

“Exactly. The afternoon post comes round about a quarter to four. Mytheory is this. The girl was in the pantry looking through the window (it’smasked by shrubs but you can see through them quite well) watching outfor her young man to turn up and apologize.”

I said: “And she saw whoever it was deliver that note?”

“That’s my guess, Mr. Burton. I may be wrong, of course.”

“I don’t think you are… It’s simple—and convincing—and it means thatAgnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was.”

“Yes.”

“But then why didn’t she—?”

I paused, frowning.

Nash said quickly:

“As I see it, the girl didn’t realize what she had seen. Not at first. Some-body had left a letter at the house, yes—but that somebody was nobodyshe would dream of connecting with the anonymous letters. It was some-body, from that point of view, quite above suspicion.

“But the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she grew. Oughtshe, perhaps, to tell someone about it? In her perplexity she thinks of MissBarton’s Partridge who, I gather, is a somewhat dominant personality andwhose judgment Agnes would accept unhesitatingly. She decides to askPartridge what she ought to do.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “It fits well enough. And somehow or other,Poison Pen found out. How did she find out, superintendent?”

“You’re not used to living in the country, Mr. Burton. It’s a kind of mir-acle how things get round. First of all there’s the telephone call. Who over-heard it your end?” I reflected.

“I answered the telephone originally. Then I called up the stairs to Part-ridge.”

“Mentioning the girl’s name?”

“Yes—yes, I did.”

“Anyone overhear you?”

“My sister or Miss Griffith might have done so.”

“Ah, Miss Griffith. What was she doing up there?”

I explained.

“Was she going back to the village?”

“She was going to Mr. Pye first.”

Superintendent Nash sighed.

“That’s two ways it could have gone all over the place.”

I was incredulous.

“Do you mean that either Miss Griffith or Mr. Pye would bother to re-peat a meaningless little bit of information like that?”

“Anything’s news in a place like this. You’d be surprised. If the dress-maker’s mother has got a bad corn everybody hears about it! And thenthere is this end. Miss Holland, Rose—they could have heard what Agnessaid. And there’s Fred Rendell. It may have gone round through him thatAgnes went back to the house that afternoon.”

I gave a slight shiver. I was looking out of the window. In front of mewas a neat square of grass and a path and the low prim gate.

Someone had opened the gate, had walked very correctly and quietly upto the house, and had pushed a letter through the letter box. I saw, hazily,in my mind’s eye, that vague woman’s shape. The face was blank—but itmust be a face that I knew….

Superintendent Nash was saying:

“All the same, this narrows things down. That’s always the way we get’em in the end. Steady, patient elimination. There aren’t so very manypeople it could be now.”

“You mean—?”

“It knocks out any women clerks who were at their work all yesterdayafternoon. It knocks out the schoolmistress. She was teaching. And the dis-trict nurse. I know where she was yesterday. Not that I ever thought it wasany of them, but now we’re sure. You see, Mr. Burton, we’ve got two defin-ite times now on which to concentrate — yesterday afternoon, and theweek before. On the day of Mrs. Symmington’s death from, say, a quarterpast three (the earliest possible time at which Agnes could have been backin the house after her quarrel) and four o’clock when the post must havecome (but I can get that fixed more accurately with the postman). And yes-terday from ten minutes to three (when Miss Megan Hunter left the house)until half past three or more probably a quarter past three as Agneshadn’t begun to change.”

“What do you think happened yesterday?”

Nash made a grimace.

“What do I think? I think a certain lady walked up to the front door andrang the bell, quite calm and smiling, the afternoon caller… Maybe sheasked for Miss Holland, or for Miss Megan, or perhaps she had brought aparcel. Anyway Agnes turns round to get a salver for cards, or to take theparcel in, and our ladylike caller bats her on the back of her unsuspectinghead.”

“What with?”

Nash said:

“The ladies round here usually carry large sizes in handbags. No sayingwhat mightn’t be inside it.”

“And then stabs her through the back of the neck and bundles her intothe cupboard? Wouldn’t that be a hefty job for a woman?”

Superintendent Nash looked at me with rather a queer expression.

“The woman we’re after isn’t normal—not by a long way—and that typeof mental instability goes with surprising strength. Agnes wasn’t a biggirl.”

He paused and then asked: “What made Miss Megan Hunter think oflooking in that cupboard?”

“Sheer instinct,” I said.

Then I asked: “Why drag Agnes into the cupboard? What was thepoint?”

“The longer it was before the body was found, the more difficult itwould be to fix the time of death accurately. If Miss Holland, for instance,fell over the body as soon as she came in, a doctor might be able to fix itwithin ten minutes or so—which might be awkward for our lady friend.”

I said, frowning:

“But if Agnes were suspicious of this person—”

Nash interrupted me.

“She wasn’t. Not to the pitch of definite suspicion. She just thought it‘queer.’ She was a slow-witted girl, I imagine, and she was only vaguelysuspicious with a feeling that something was wrong. She certainly didn’tsuspect that she was up against a woman who would do murder.”

“Did you suspect that?” I asked.

Nash shook his head. He said, with feeling:

“I ought to have known. That suicide business, you see, frightenedPoison Pen. She got the wind up. Fear, Mr. Burton, is an incalculablething.”

“Yes, fear. That was the thing we ought to have foreseen. Fear—in a lun-atic brain….

“You see,” said Superintendent Nash, and somehow his words made thewhole thing seem absolutely horrible. “We’re up against someone who’srespected and thought highly of—someone, in fact, of good social posi-tion!”