‘Did she ever threaten to take her life?’
Sandford shook his head. ‘Never. I shouldn’t have said she was that sort.’
‘What about a man called Joe Ellis?’
‘The carpenter fellow? Good old village stock. Dull fellow – but crazy about Rose.’
‘He might have been jealous?’ suggested Sir Henry. ‘I suppose he was a bit – but he’s the bovine kind. He’d suffer in silence.’
‘Well,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I must be going.’
He rejoined the others. ‘You know, Melchett,’ he said, ‘I feel we ought to have a look at this other fellow – Ellis – before we do anything drastic. Pity if you made an arrest that turned out to be a mistake. After all, jealousy is a pretty good motive for murder – and a pretty common one, too.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said the Inspector. ‘But Joe Ellis isn’t that kind. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why, nobody’s ever seen him out of temper. Still, I agree we’d better just ask him where he was last night. He’ll be at home now. He lodges with Mrs Bartlett – very decent soul – a widow, she takes in a bit of washing.’
The little cottage to which they bent their footsteps was spotlessly clean and neat. A big stout woman of middle age opened the door to them. She had a pleasant face and blue eyes.
‘Good morning, Mrs Bartlett,’ said the Inspector. ‘Is Joe Ellis here?’
‘Came back not ten minutes ago,’ said Mrs Bartlett. ‘Step inside, will you, please, sirs.’
Wiping her hands on her apron she led them into a tiny front parlour with stuffed birds, china dogs, a sofa and several useless pieces of furniture.
She hurriedly arranged seats for them, picked up a whatnot bodily to make further room and went out calling:
‘Joe, there’s three gentlemen want to see you.’
A voice from the back kitchen replied: ‘I’ll be there when I’ve cleaned myself.’
Mrs Bartlett smiled.
‘Come in, Mrs Bartlett,’ said Colonel Melchett. ‘Sit down.’
‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t think of it.’
Mrs Bartlett was shocked at the idea. ‘You find Joe Ellis a good lodger?’ inquired Melchett in a seemingly careless tone.
‘Couldn’t have a better, sir. A real steady young fellow. Never touches a drop of drink. Takes a pride in his work. And always kind and helpful about the house. He put up those shelves for me, and he’s fixed a new dresser in the kitchen. And any little thing that wants doing in the house – why, Joe does it as a matter of course, and won’t hardly take thanks for it. Ah! there aren’t many young fellows like Joe, sir.’
‘Some girl will be lucky some day,’ said Melchett carelessly. ‘He was rather sweet on that poor girl, Rose Emmott, wasn’t he?’
Mrs Bartlett sighed.
‘It made me tired, it did. Him worshipping the ground she trod on and her not caring a snap of the fingers for him.’
‘Where does Joe spend his evenings, Mrs Bartlett?’
‘Here, sir, usually. He does some odd piece of work in the evenings, sometimes, and he’s trying to learn book-keeping by correspondence.’
‘Ah! really. Was he in yesterday evening?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re sure, Mrs Bartlett?’ said Sir Henry sharply.
She turned to him. ‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘He didn’t go out, for instance, somewhere about eight to eight-thirty?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Barlett laughed. ‘He was fixing the kitchen dresser for me nearly all the evening, and I was helping him.’
Sir Henry looked at her smiling assured face and felt his first pang of doubt.
A moment later Ellis himself entered the room.
He was a tall broad-shouldered young man, very good-looking in a rustic way. He had shy, blue eyes and a good-tempered smile. Altogether an amiable young giant.
Melchett opened the conversation. Mrs Bartlett withdrew to the kitchen.
‘We are investigating the death of Rose Emmott. You knew her, Ellis.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated, then muttered, ‘Hoped to marry her one day. Poor lass.’
‘You have heard of what her condition was?’
‘Yes.’ A spark of anger showed in his eyes. ‘Let her down, he did. But ’twere for the best. She wouldn’t have been happy married to him. I reckoned she’d come to me when this happened. I’d have looked after her.’
‘In spite of –’
‘’Tweren’t her fault. He led her astray with fine promises and all. Oh! she told me about it. She’d no call to drown herself. He weren’t worth it.’
‘Where were you, Ellis, last night at eight-thirty?’
Was it Sir Henry’s fancy, or was there really a shade of constraint in the ready – almost too ready – reply.
‘I was here. Fixing up a contraption in the kitchen for Mrs B. You ask her. She’ll tell you.’
‘He was too quick with that,’ thought Sir Henry. ‘He’s a slow-thinking man. That popped out so pat that I suspect he’d got it ready beforehand.’
Then he told himself that it was imagination. He was imagining things – yes, even imagining an apprehensive glint in those blue eyes.
A few more questions and answers and they left. Sir Henry made an excuse to go to the kitchen. Mrs Bartlett was busy at the stove. She looked up with a pleasant smile. A new dresser was fixed against the wall. It was not quite finished. Some tools lay about and some pieces of wood.
‘That’s what Ellis was at work on last night?’ said Sir Henry. ‘Yes, sir, it’s a nice bit of work, isn’t it? He’s a very clever carpenter, Joe is.’
No apprehensive gleam in her eye – no embarrassment.
But Ellis – had he imagined it? No, there had been something. ‘I must tackle him,’ thought Sir Henry.
Turning to leave the kitchen, he collided with a perambulator. ‘Not woken the baby up, I hope,’ he said.
Mrs Bartlett’s laugh rang out. ‘Oh, no, sir. I’ve no children – more’s the pity. That’s what I take the laundry on, sir.’
‘Oh! I see –’
He paused then said on an impulse: ‘Mrs Bartlett. You knew Rose Emmott. Tell me what you really thought of her.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Well, sir, I thought she was flighty. But she’s dead – and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’
‘But I have a reason – a very good reason for asking.’
He spoke persuasively.
She seemed to consider, studying him attentively. Finally she made up her mind.
‘She was a bad lot, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t say so before Joe. She took him in good and proper. That kind can – more’s the pity. You know how it is, sir.’
Yes, Sir Henry knew. The Joe Ellises of the world were peculiarly vulnerable. They trusted blindly. But for that very cause the shock of discovery might be greater.
He left the cottage baffled and perplexed. He was up against a blank wall. Joe Ellis had been working indoors all yesterday evening. Mrs Bartlett had actually been there watching him. Could one possibly get round that? There was nothing to set against it – except possibly that suspicious readiness in replying on Joe Ellis’s part – that suggestion of having a story pat.
‘Well,’ said Melchett, ‘that seems to make the matter quite clear, eh?’
‘It does, sir,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘Sandford’s our man. Not a leg to stand upon. The thing’s as plain as daylight. It’s my opinion as the girl and her father were out to – well – practically blackmail him. He’s no money to speak of – he didn’t want the matter to get to his young lady’s ears. He was desperate and he acted accordingly. What do you say, sir?’ he added, addressing Sir Henry deferentially.
‘It seems so,’ admitted Sir Henry. ‘And yet – I can hardly picture Sand-ford committing any violent action.’
But he knew as he spoke that that objection was hardly valid. The meekest animal, when cornered, is capable of amazing actions.
‘I should lik
e to see the boy, though,’ he said suddenly. ‘The one who heard the cry.’
Jimmy Brown proved to be an intelligent lad, rather small for his age, with a sharp, rather cunning face. He was eager to be questioned and was rather disappointed when checked in his dramatic tale of what he had heard on the fatal night.
‘You were on the other side of the bridge, I understand,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Across the river from the village. Did you see anyone on that side as you came over the bridge?’
‘There was someone walking up in the woods. Mr Sandford, I think it was, the architecting gentleman who’s building the queer house.’
The three men exchanged glances. ‘That was about ten minutes or so before you heard the cry?’ The boy nodded. ‘Did you see anyone else – on the village side of the river?’
‘A man came along the path that side. Going slow and whistling he was. Might have been Joe Ellis.’
‘You couldn’t possibly have seen who it was,’ said the Inspector sharply. ‘What with the mist and its being dusk.’
‘It’s on account of the whistle,’ said the boy. ‘Joe Ellis always whistles the same tune – “I wanner be happy” – it’s the only tune he knows.’
He spoke with the scorn of the modernist for the old-fashioned. ‘Anyone might whistle a tune,’ said Melchett. ‘Was he going towards the bridge?’
‘No. Other way – to village.’
‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with this unknown man,’ said Melchett. ‘You heard the cry and the splash and a few minutes later you saw the body floating downstream and you ran for help, going back to the bridge, crossing it, and making straight for the village. You didn’t see anyone near the bridge as you ran for help?’
‘I think as there were two men with a wheelbarrow on the river path; but they were some way away and I couldn’t tell if they were going or coming and Mr Giles’s place was nearest – so I ran there.’
‘You did well, my boy,’ said Melchett. ‘You acted very creditably and with presence of mind. You’re a scout, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Very good indeed.’
Sir Henry was silent – thinking. He took a slip of paper from his pocket, looked at it, shook his head. It didn’t seem possible – and yet –
He decided to pay a call on Miss Marple.
She received him in her pretty, slightly overcrowded old-style drawing-room.
‘I’ve come to report progress,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I’m afraid that from our point of view things aren’t going well. They are going to arrest Sand-ford. And I must say I think they are justified.’
‘You have found nothing in – what shall I say – support of my theory, then?’ She looked perplexed – anxious. ‘Perhaps I have been wrong – quite wrong. You have such wide experience – you would surely detect it if it were so.’
‘For one thing,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I can hardly believe it. And for another we are up against an unbreakable alibi. Joe Ellis was fixing shelves in the kitchen all the evening and Mrs Bartlett was watching him do it.’
Miss Marple leaned forward, taking in a quick breath. ‘But that can’t be so,’ she said. ‘It was Friday night.’
‘Friday night?’
‘Yes – Friday night. On Friday evenings Mrs Bartlett takes the laundry she has done round to the different people.’
Sir Henry leaned back in his chair. He remembered the boy Jimmy’s story of the whistling man and – yes – it would all fit in.
He rose, taking Miss Marple warmly by the hand. ‘I think I see my way,’ he said. ‘At least I can try . . .’
Five minutes later he was back at Mrs Bartlett’s cottage and facing Joe Ellis in the little parlour among the china dogs.
‘You lied to us, Ellis, about last night,’ he said crisply. ‘You were not in the kitchen here fixing the dresser between eight and eight-thirty. You were seen walking along the path by the river towards the bridge a few minutes before Rose Emmott was murdered.’
The man gasped.
‘She weren’t murdered – she weren’t. I had naught to do with it. She threw herself in, she did. She was desperate like. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head, I wouldn’t.’
‘Then why did you lie as to where you were?’ asked Sir Henry keenly. The man’s eyes shifted and lowered uncomfortably. ‘I was scared. Mrs B. saw me around there and when we heard just afterwards what had happened – well, she thought it might look bad for me. I fixed I’d say I was working here, and she agreed to back me up. She’s a rare one, she is. She’s always been good to me.’
Without a word Sir Henry left the room and walked into the kitchen. Mrs Bartlett was washing up at the sink.
‘Mrs Bartlett,’ he said, ‘I know everything. I think you’d better confess – that is, unless you want Joe Ellis hanged for something he didn’t do . . . No. I see you don’t want that. I’ll tell you what happened. You were out taking the laundry home. You came across Rose Emmott. You thought she’d given Joe the chuck and was taking up with this stranger. Now she was in trouble – Joe was prepared to come to the rescue – marry her if need be, and if she’d have him. He’s lived in your house for four years. You’ve fallen in love with him. You want him for yourself. You hated this girl – you couldn’t bear that this worthless little slut should take your man from you. You’re a strong woman, Mrs Bartlett. You caught the girl by the shoulders and shoved her over into the stream. A few minutes later you met Joe Ellis. The boy Jimmy saw you together in the distance – but in the darkness and the mist he assumed the perambulator was a wheelbarrow and two men wheeling it. You persuaded Joe that he might be suspected and you concocted what was supposed to be an alibi for him, but which was really an alibi for you. Now then, I’m right, am I not?’
He held his breath. He had staked all on this throw.
She stood before him rubbing her hands on her apron, slowly making up her mind.
‘It’s just as you say, sir,’ she said at last, in her quiet subdued voice (a dangerous voice, Sir Henry suddenly felt it to be). ‘I don’t know what came over me. Shameless – that’s what she was. It just came over me – she shan’t take Joe from me. I haven’t had a happy life, sir. My husband, he was a poor lot – an invalid and cross-grained. I nursed and looked after him true. And then Joe came here to lodge. I’m not such an old woman, sir, in spite of my grey hair. I’m just forty, sir. Joe’s one in a thousand. I’d have done anything for him – anything at all. He was like a little child, sir, so gentle and believing. He was mine, sir, to look after and see to. And this – this –’ She swallowed – checked her emotion. Even at this moment she was a strong woman. She stood up straight and looked at Sir Henry curiously. ‘I’m ready to come, sir. I never thought anyone would find out. I don’t know how you knew, sir – I don’t, I’m sure.’
Sir Henry shook his head gently. ‘It was not I who knew,’ he said – and he thought of the piece of paper still reposing in his pocket with the words on it written in neat old-fashioned handwriting.
‘Mrs Bartlett, with whom Joe Ellis lodges at 2 Mill Cottages.’
Miss Marple had been right again.
Chapter 42
The Hound of Death
‘The Hound of Death’ was first published in the hardback The Hound of Death and Other Stories (Odhams Press, 1933). No previous appearances have been found.
It was from William P. Ryan, American newspaper correspondent, that I first heard of the affair. I was dining with him in London on the eve of his return to New York and happened to mention that on the morrow I was going down to Folbridge.
He looked up and said sharply: ‘Folbridge, Cornwall?’
Now only about one person in a thousand knows that there is a Folbridge in Cornwall. They always take it for granted that the Folbridge, Hampshire, is meant. So Ryan’s knowledge aroused my curiosity.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you know it?’
He merely replied that he was darned. He then asked if I happened to know
a house called Trearne down there.
My interest increased.
‘Very well indeed. In fact, it’s to Trearne I’m going. It’s my sister’s house.’
‘Well,’ said William P. Ryan. ‘If that doesn’t beat the band!’
I suggested that he should cease making cryptic remarks and explain himself.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘To do that I shall have to go back to an experience of mine at the beginning of the war.’
I sighed. The events which I am relating to took place in 1921. To be reminded of the war was the last thing any man wanted. We were, thank God, beginning to forget . . . Besides, William P. Ryan on his war experiences was apt, as I knew, to be unbelievably long-winded.
But there was no stopping him now. ‘At the start of the war, as I dare say you know, I was in Belgium for my paper – moving about some. Well, there’s a little village – I’ll call it X. A one horse place if there ever was one, but there’s quite a big convent there. Nuns in white what do you call ’em – I don’t know the name of the order. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Well, this little burgh was right in the way of the German advance. The Uhlans arrived –’
I shifted uneasily. William P. Ryan lifted a hand reassuringly. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a German atrocity story. It might have been, perhaps, but it isn’t. As a matter of fact, the boot’s on the other leg. The Huns made for that convent – they got there and the whole thing blew up.’