The White Cottage Mystery (17 page)

On this particular afternoon, however, a remark of Norah's had brought an echo of the whole mysterious business.

‘Oh,' she had said, ‘of course, Joan is coming to tea. She sails on Friday.'

W.T. looked up. ‘I haven't seen her since – since – that affair,' he said. ‘Let me see, she's twelve and a bit now, isn't she?'

Norah nodded.

‘Yes, and looks sixteen,' she said. ‘An extraordinary child – just the same as she was as a kid – just as reticent and sort of “fey”.'

The old detective set his teacup down on the table before he spoke.

‘She doesn't like England, I understand,' he said. ‘Going back again after only one term at school?'

‘Yes. Isn't it absurd?' Norah laughed as she spoke. ‘I wrote Grace and told her that we'd look after the child in the holidays, but Joan wants to go back – she says she hates being at school.'

‘She's an odd sort of kid,' put in Jerry. ‘Not the type to get on well at school – a wild creature, very frank and unexpected.'

‘Hush!' said Norah. ‘She's coming down the path. Don't let her think you're talking about her.'

The conversation was duly changed, and Jerry and his father were discussing the condition of the lawn by the time the young lady in question came up.

W.T. looked at her with interest.

She was a tall, sturdy youngster, heavy-boned and strong, with big black eyes and long pig-tails. She walked with a stride, her little frill of skirt fluttering about her long legs, absurd and inadequate, a polite gesture to convention only.

The detective could see what Jerry had meant when he said that she was not the type to get on well at school.

She was obviously a creature who required freedom. A young savage almost. There was no self-consciousness in her bearing. She smiled frankly round the table and sat down.

‘Oh,' she said, looking at W.T. as Jerry introduced him, ‘I've heard of you from Mother.'

‘I remember
you,'
said the detective. ‘Have you forgotten me?'

The child looked at him doubtfully.

‘I don't remember you,' she said. ‘Was I very young?'

‘You were – rather. They tell me you're going to leave us. You've only just come.'

She nodded and laughed.

‘I know. I can't stand it at school – I don't fit in over here. Miss Garnham says I'm not civilized.'

‘You like it better over there?'

‘Rather!' There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in her young voice. ‘It's –
big
over there,' she said; ‘big enough to move about and stretch yourself – d'you know?'

W.T. laughed and nodded.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘I know.'

The girl turned to Norah.

‘How are your children, Auntie?' she inquired.

‘All right,' said Norah, and added after a frown and a pause, ‘except for one thing. Do you know, I think your long association with crime, Dad, is – is coming out in Bill.'

‘My dear!' expostulated Jerry.

W.T. laughed. ‘This sounds serious,' he said. ‘What signs of depravity has young four-year-old been showing?'

‘Well,' said Norah, ‘I hardly like to say it, but he –
steals!'

‘How horrible!' said W.T. ‘I'll get a warrant.'

Norah grimaced at him.

‘Don't tease me,' she said. ‘I'm really quite worried about it. He stole a whole bladder of lard off one of those tray things outside a pork-butcher's when I left him there in the pram – and hid it under the coverlet. I didn't find it till I got home … I felt so terribly awkward going back to pay for it.'

‘Oh, my dear girl, you are an old silly.' Jerry put his arm round his wife as she spoke and hugged her.

Norah raised her eyebrows.

‘I don't know what you're all laughing at,' she said. ‘I thought it was awful. Fancy going into a shop and saying, “ Please can I pay for that bladder of lard you've lost? My baby stole it.”'

‘My dear child,' W.T. spoke mildly, ‘if I may mention it, Bill's crime seems only to horrify you so much because of the awkwardness it caused you.'

‘Not at all,' said Norah. ‘I was thinking entirely of my son's moral nature. A baby who would steal a bladder of lard would steal anything.'

‘Rather,' said Jerry. ‘The kid's a fool. That's all there is in that.'

‘I don't think so,' said Norah. ‘I think it shows a definite criminal tendency. When I said, “Did you take that, Bill?” he beamed at me, and said, “No.” … So I spanked him, of course.'

‘Poor old Bill,' said Jerry, whose sympathies were with his son entirely.

‘I'm quite worried about it,' Norah persisted. ‘Wouldn't it be awful if he grew up in the habit of stealing.'

W.T. opened his mouth to reply, but Joan, who had listened to the conversation unsmilingly, forestalled him.

‘I shouldn't worry, Aunt,' she said. ‘I think you do things without realizing that they're wrong or dangerous when you're a child. I remember firing a gun at a man once.'

W.T. put out his hand to lay it on her arm, but Jerry's expression prevented him. Both the boy and his wife had turned to the child, their eyes wide and inquiring, the laughter dying suddenly out of their faces.

Joan continued, quite unconscious of the effect she was producing, while W.T. leant back in his chair, his eyes closed and his face immovable.

‘Of course, I don't remember it very well,' the child went on. ‘I think it must have been when we first went out to the Argentine … I only remember the man's face. He was very big and fat and red, with little monkey eyes.' She paused and laughed. ‘Have I shocked you all?' she said. ‘Don't worry – I don't think I hurt the man.'

Norah drew a sharp breath. Her face was very pale.

‘Tell us about it, dear,' she said, striving to keep her voice steady. The child looked at her curiously, but was nothing loth to talk, and went on with her reminiscences light-heartedly.

‘I don't remember anything about it really,' she said, ‘except that I did it. I know I hated the man – I used to call him Satan to myself. Old Estah said he was Satan. Do you remember Estah, Aunt?'

Norah nodded. She was white to the lips, and Jerry, who was none too steady himself, put his hand over hers.

W.T. alone was apparently unmoved by the story. He sat quiet, his eyes shut.

‘Estah hated this man,' Joan continued. ‘She used to tell me how wicked he was until I was terrified of him. He used to make trouble. I remember people were always cross when he was about.'

‘Yes?' said Jerry, unable to keep silent any longer. ‘And so you shot him?'

Joan laughed.

‘Uncle Jerry, that sounds dreadful!' she said. ‘I don't really remember what had happened, but I know I hated Satan, and one day I was in the garden with a pail in my hand. I don't remember where it was or what I was doing – it's rather like a dream now – but I know I passed a door, and looked in and saw Satan leaning over a table laughing at me. I was just scared of him, and I hated him, and I suddenly remembered that there was a gun in the corner of the room …' She paused and looked round her. ‘It sounds shocking, doesn't it,' she said, and laughed again. ‘Estah had told me about the gun. She said to me, “Don't touch that; it might go off and hurt somebody.” And so when I saw Satan there I remembered the gun, and I remembered thinking that he ought to be hurt if he was so wicked.'

Jerry's hand closed tightly over his wife's, and she trembled beside him.

‘I lifted the gun,' the child went on; ‘it was terribly heavy; I could hardly carry it. Satan just laughed at me, and that made me cross, so I banged it down on the table at him and I squeezed the trigger part with all my strength. There was an awful bang, and I shut my eyes and ran out into the garden and picked up my pail … I don't remember any more. But I'm sure that happened.'

There was utter silence for some seconds after she had spoken, and presently her gurgling chuckle echoed again.

‘It sounds awful, I know,' she said, ‘but I'm sure it did him good. I never remember hearing of him again, anyway. I scared him, I suppose. I know I felt I must be very quiet about it in case Estah was cross with me for touching the gun. So Bill's no worse than I was, Aunt.'

Norah took out her handkerchief and hid her face in it, and W.T. spoke, forcing a jocular note into his voice.

‘Joan,' he said, ‘that's a very shocking story. I am appalled by it. When I think I am having tea with a young woman as wicked as all that it horrifies me and makes my hair go white.'

‘It's white already,' said Joan, laughing at him.

He drew her towards him and perched her on his knee.

‘That shows how clever I am,' he said, ‘and how unutterably old and respectable; and so you mark well what I say. Don't you go telling fairy-stories like that to everyone you meet.'

The girl blushed.

‘That's not a fairy-story,' she said. ‘I did …'

‘No,' said the old detective very firmly. ‘Don't believe it. That's a dream. Haven't you ever dreamt something so clearly that you thought in the morning that it was true? I dreamt I was an ancient Briton once. I was so convinced about it that I nearly came down to breakfast in a skin rug – that's what happened to you.'

‘I don't think so,' the child said doubtfully. ‘I do remember Satan, and –'

‘Of course you do,' said W.T. ‘And don't I remember the coracle I sailed in, and my dog that was as big and as fierce as a lion? Of course I do, but it didn't happen; it wasn't true. Honestly Joan, wasn't it a dream?'

The child hesitated.

‘It was an awful long time ago,' she said at last. ‘It might have been a dream …'

‘Of course it was,' said W.T. ‘Of course it was; and a bad dream, too. You can do better than that … When are you going back to school?'

‘Now,' said the child, grimacing at him. ‘I've got to get in to prep., but I'm not worrying – in a week's time I'll be free for ever and ever and ever.'

W.T. released her.

‘Good-bye, then, my dear,' he said. ‘Put that cake of Norah's in your satchel – perhaps with care you could eat it in prep. – and, Joan …'

‘Yes?'

‘Never tell your dreams.'

‘All right. Good-bye, Aunt Norah. Good-bye, Uncle Jerry.' She took the cake and ran off, a wild colt of a creature – all legs and arms.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jerry looked at his father.

‘Dad – you – you
knew
,' he said huskily.

The old man nodded.

‘Yes,' he said slowly. ‘There's the truth of the White Cottage Mystery … Estah Phillips was the murderess of Eric Crowther, although she never knew it.'

Norah began to cry softly, and Jerry put his arm round her.

‘Hush,' he said. ‘It's nothing to worry about … It can't be helped. It's one of those queer terrible judgements that do happen from time to time. Don't cry, old lady.'

Norah sat up, and wiping her eyes, hastily turned to the old man. ‘How did you find out?' she demanded.

W.T. hesitated.

‘I made a vow never to breathe a word about that murder,' he said at last, ‘but now you know so much you may as well hear it all. It was Gross who first gave me the hint. I was in despair, as you know – everyone ought to have done it, but by the evidence nobody had. I took down
Gross's Criminal Psychology
and opened it at random, and almost the first words I read were something like this:

The child has its own views as to what a person's deserts are. These views can rarely be judged by our own.

He paused and stared in front of him, recalling the scene to his mind.

‘Of course,' he went on at last, ‘I didn't pay much attention to them at first, but somehow they took hold of my mind. I began to think of the child, and of that queer old woman Estah, who was just the type to bring up a kid with a hatred of Crowther. After all, I argued, a child only knows what it is told. The difference between God and the Devil is only clear to it because it has been
told
that God is good and Satan is bad.'

Again he was silent but neither of his listeners spoke, and by and by he went on.

‘Estah had been pretty frank with me – more than likely she talked a great deal to the child … The way the murder was committed suggested that it was unpremeditated, but not accidental–whoever had killed Crowther meant to kill him at the moment but had not thought it out beforehand. Again, the child was the only person round that side of the house, and the child was the only person who, probably not realizing what she had done, would not have the crime on her conscience and so become nervy. The more I thought of it the more it struck me as being true. For a moment I thought that she was too small to lift the gun, but again when I reflected I realized that she was not. The way the gun was fired from the table fitted in with the theory, too. It seemed to grow more and more likely every time I thought of it.'

‘And so you went to Estah?' said Jerry.

W.T. nodded.

‘I did,' he said; ‘but not until I had remembered one thing – Cellini's story of the flicker of white round the window-post. Mrs Christensen, I knew, had worn a tweed costume in the garden. Norah had on a blue frock, and Estah was in black. And women don't wear white frilly petticoats nowadays, I understand. The only likely person to be in white was the baby – her skirts, too, would be full enough to swing out a little behind her. As soon as I had this clear in my mind I went to Estah. She admitted she had talked to the child about Crowther, and told me that the baby called him Satan.'

He paused and sighed.

‘I asked her for the frock that the child had worn on the day of the murder, and as soon as she brought it out I knew I was on the right track. It was a very frilly, white affair with an enormously wide skirt.'