When Last I Died (23 page)

Bella Foxley, whatever her peculiarities, was no lunatic, and Mrs. Bradley abandoned, without regret, the theory that the idiot boy had been a witness of the murder of Tessa Foxley. The more likely explanation, it seemed, was that he had been a witness that Bella had indeed saved her sister from a suicidal drowning.

The next task, that of tracing the man who had bigamously married Tessa, proved less difficult and complicated than she had feared. The man, who had served a prison sentence, was working in a Salvation Army shelter. He responded readily to Mrs. Bradley's advertisement, established his identity by appeal to the Court missionary and admitted that Tessa had been 'kind of weak in the head.' He also stated that it was not for her 'or the likes of her' he had 'done his stretch,' that he believed she had had money, but that this proved 'the biggest washout of the lot,' and that he was 'going straight' and didn't 'need to be afraid of no-one.'

Painstakingly, Mrs. Bradley sifted fact from opinion, and opinion from lies, and convinced herself that she was left, at the end, with a residue of truth which, if not particularly valuable in itself, had its point as contributory evidence. Tessa had been weak. vacillating and of suicidal tendencies.

"In fact, I wouldn't help to hang Bella Foxley or anybody else...."

"Even the rice-pudding Muriel ..." interpolated Ferdinand, with a grin ...

"... upon such evidence as we have in connection with Tessa Foxley's death," said Mrs. Bradley.

"So what?" her son not unnaturally enquired.

"So—another interview with the prisoner so that I can explore fresh avenues," said Mrs. Bradley, with a cackle of pure pleasure.

"'So we sought and we found, and we bayed on his track,'" quoted Ferdinand unkindly. But his mother's only response was another cackle.

"Something up her sleeve," thought Ferdinand uneasily. "Now where have we all slipped up?"

This second interview was not, in some ways, either more or less satisfactory than the first one had been. The prisoner, puffy under the eyes and with skin as unsavoury as ever, raised sardonic eyebrows and greeted Mrs. Bradley ironically.

"What, you again?" she said. Mrs. Bradley agreed, cheerfully, that it was.

"And when do we go through the performance again?" enquired Bella Foxley.

"I don't know exactly. But, tell me, Miss Foxley—that diary of yours. Your own unaided work—as they say in competitions for children—or not?"

"Diary? Oh, diary. I suppose Eliza Hodge handed it over?"

"Well, yes and no. A small boy, my grandson, discovered it in your aunt's house. Eliza lets the house during the summer months, as I daresay you know."

"Very nice, too. Yes, I believe I did keep a diary. Why? I haven't kept one for—since—Oh, well, you probably know the date of it."

But she looked hopefully at Mrs. Bradley as she said this, as though anticipating that Mrs. Bradley might not know.

"Well, the date of the year was on it—printed on it—and although that, in itself, is not, perhaps, proof positive that the items were written in that same year, the chain of events with which the diary seems to be concerned dates it without doubt. Tell me, Miss Foxley—for I gather you do not propose to answer my former question ..."

"Which one?"

"Whether the diary was your own unaided work."

"Oh, lord! Of course it was! What a silly question!"

"You will take back that unkind remark later on, I think."

"Maybe. And—maybe! Well, go on."

"By all means. Time is short, of course."

"You're dern tooting it's short," Bella agreed. "They'll get me next time, I reckon. Well, I should worry! I've not had so much luck in my life that I expect to get away with this. Shoot!"

"These Americanisms—the cinema?" Mrs. Bradley enquired.

"Oh, possibly. I used to live there, nearly, in the evenings. Only thing to do, and the best way, anyhow, to get away from the atmosphere of that poisonous Institution for a bit."

"Ah, yes. You weren't happy there."

"When I say I'd sooner be here," said Bella vigorously, "I'm not saying one-half. Does that convince you?"

"I don't need convincing. The diary would have convinced me."

"The diary? But I didn't put anything in the diary about the Institution, did I? I used to be pretty careful about that."

"Really? You surprise me," said Mrs. Bradley, grinning like a fiend.

"I don't remember any of it," said the prisoner, scowling in the effort of recollection. "But I do want to ask
you
something. Exactly what is your object in pushing in here? You were against me at the trial, you and that precious Muriel, and that oaf Lawrence. What's the big idea of turning prisoner's friend all of a sudden? "

"Not prisoner's friend; seeker after truth," Mrs. Bradley corrected her. "And, of course, you are at liberty to refuse to answer my questions. You are at liberty to tell me not to come again."

"Oh, it makes for a good laugh once in a while," said Bella, "and, as you say, I needn't answer; and, not being quite so gone on the truth as you are, I can always tell a lie."

"So you can," replied Mrs. Bradley, unperturbed. "I think I know most of the truth, mind you," she continued. "Enough of it, anyway, to be able to pick out your lies. Did you tell the truth in court, by the way, about the boys?"

"Not exactly, but near enough to make no difference to the jury."

"You mean that you did send them to Mr. Turney?"

"No, I didn't
send
'em, but when he offered to
have
them I let them go."

"Do you ever wish you hadn't?"

"No, I don't."

"It was a terrible death," said Mrs. Bradley, her eyes leaving those of the prisoner and wandering vaguely towards the door.

"It's over now," said Bella, "and they're better out of the world, two kids like that. What chance did they ever stand? Who'd give them a chance? Poor little wretches! Thieves and murderers before they'd hardly begun their lives at all."

"I saw in the diary that you held strong views on the subject," said Mrs. Bradley.

"You saw—Don't be daft! I never put any of my real opinions in that diary, that I'm positive I didn't!"

"Well, at any rate, it seems to have got round that you held strong views of that kind."

"Oh, maybe. I generally used to say what I thought, to one person and another."

"Especially to one person," said Mrs. Bradley, with peculiar emphasis. To her great interest, an ugly, purplish flush spread over Bella Foxley's face and down her thick neck.

"You're wrong!" she said, huskily. "I never told Tom all that much."

"No, I'm not wrong," replied Mrs. Bradley. "Now, this question of mine which seems so long in coming. Do you happen to know—I ask it in the most disinterested and scientific sense—but
do
you happen to know how your Cousin Tom met his death?"

"Considering I was tried for murdering him," said Bella, in strangled tones, "I suppose I ought to know!"

"Ah, but you were acquitted. Tell me what you really think."

Bella looked at her suspiciously.

"What
is
all this?" she said. Mrs. Bradley nodded mysteriously.

"We are coming to something, I do believe," she said. "Come along, Miss Foxley. Do your best. It won't seem as strange to me as it might to some people."

"I don't see it would sound strange, exactly, to anyone," said Bella, recovering herself a little. "After all, one of the little devils had committed murder already ..."

"Ah," said Mrs. Bradley. "So you think the boys killed Cousin Tom?"

"Well, I suppose it was a fact that they'd already pushed him out of the window once."

"That would account for his having made no particular complaint, 1 suppose," said Mrs. Bradley, as though she agreed with the supposition.

"Well, he couldn't very well inform against them, considering how he'd been hiding them from the police and using them, could he, poor fellow?"

"I suppose not," said Mrs. Bradley; but she seemed to have lost interest in the subject. "You do realise, though, don't you, that the boys were already in the cellar when your Cousin Tom fell out the second time?"

She looked expectantly at Bella. The prisoner's face was livid.

"I heard that in court, but it didn't—it wasn't true. I happen to know that for a fact, if it's facts you're after," she said. Her sombre eyes smouldered. She did not speak again for a minute or two. The heavy, rather turgid mentality behind that ugly fore- head and those angry, defeated eyes was accustoming itself to a new and terrible conviction, Mrs. Bradley surmised. She rose.

"Think it over," she said, almost kindly. "And when you go next into the witness box, I think I should tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, if I were you. Even if it does no good, you'll feel the better for it. And, you know, Miss Foxley, if I were you—and I mean this in the most ..."

"Disinterested way," said Bella, with a return to her former irony.

"If you like. Anyway, I should make up my mind to tell the court exactly what you were doing and where you were when the boys ... need I say the rest? ... when the boys were dying."

"And now," said Mrs. Bradley brightly, "for another go at our patient Griselda."

"That fatheaded widow, I suppose you mean?" said Mr. Pratt, who was again a weekend visitor at the Stone House. "That woman ought to be stood on hot bricks or something, to wake her up and bring her to, I should say. She simply threw away the case for the prosecution—simply threw it away."

"
Mea culpa,
" said Mrs. Bradley inexcusably. Pratt, lighting a pipe, looked at her steadfastly.

"You're up to something," he said. "Don't tell me we've got to whitewash the unspeakable Bella?"

Mrs. Bradley grinned and asked him whether, in such case, she could count upon his assistance.

"Count on me in any way you like," responded Mr. Pratt gallantly. "But tell me all first. I am all ears and curiosity."

"Well, come with me to interview Muriel Turney, then," said Mrs. Bradley. "We can do it to-morrow. It isn't so far from here. I don't need to notify her that we are coming. She is pretty sure to be at home. And this evening, between now and the time you go to sleep, I wish you'd re-read Bella Foxley's diary. I am going to confront her with it when I visit her next time. I think I may get some interesting reactions."

"You know, you're a public menace," said Mr. Pratt.

"I am wondering," said Mrs. Bradley, "whether—but let me begin at the beginning."

Muriel looked at her in perplexity. Her weak face was pale, and she had given a cry of surprise and, it seemed, of relief, when she had opened the door to find Mrs. Bradley waiting on the step.

"Yes, certainly," she said vaguely. "Sit down, won't you?"

Mrs. Bradley sat down.

"To begin at the beginning, then," she said——" or, rather, at the end, if you do not object to a paradox—what are you going to do if, after all, Bella Foxley is acquitted? It is a fact we have to face, you know, that she may be. What further steps are you prepared to take?"

"Why—why, I don't know, I'm sure. Do you mean you think she
will
be acquitted?"

"I was surprised that they did not acquit her this time."

"Yes, I suppose—that is, it would have been dreadful, wouldn't it? Do you really think she'll get off?"

"We must be prepared for it," repeated Mrs. Bradley. "Now, then, what do you say?"

"Why, nothing. Poor Bella! I suppose she's been punished already. Perhaps it would be for the best."

"Did your husband possess a sense of humour?" asked Mrs. Bradley. Muriel, not unnaturally, looked completely bewildered by this question, which appeared to have no bearing whatsoever upon what had already been said. She begged Mrs. Bradley's pardon nervously.

"That's all right," said Mrs. Bradley benignly, waving a yellow claw. "Don't mention it."

"I—I don't think I heard what you said."

"Oh, yes, I expect you did. What did you think I said?"

"Had—had Tom a sense of humour?"

"That's it. Well, had he? In his writings, more particularly."

"Well, he—sometimes he would be a bit what he used to call jocular—about the spirits, you know, and what they said."

"He used to be a bit jocular," said Mrs. Bradley solemnly. Then she shuddered—or so it seemed to the unhappy Muriel.

"Of course, a lot of his writing had to be very serious. It was kind of technical," Muriel added. "The Society of Psychical Research ..."

"You don't tell me that he wrote for their journal?"

"I—Oh, well, perhaps he didn't, then. I really don't know what he wrote for. He never bothered me with it. He always said I needn't trouble my head."

"And—was all the love-making on one side?"

"Don't beg my pardon," said Mrs. Bradley gently. "Yes, that was what I said."

"But—I mean—isn't it rather—married people don't talk about such things."

"Why not?"

"Well ..."

"I thought most of the divorce cases were because of it."

"Because of ...?" Muriel's colour heightened. She half rose from her chair. "I don't think I understand what you're talking about."

"Well, this: the boys were starved to death—or nearly to death, we'll say. The bodies—alive or dead—that didn't seem to matter very much to a cruel and wicked woman—were buried. Well, it struck me afterwards—after the trial, I mean— that there was a discrepancy somewhere. Do you see what I mean?"

"No. No, I don't."

"Curious."

"I don't know what you're getting at," said Muriel wildly and shrilly. "But if you say any more about those wretched boys I shall scream."

"Are we alone in the house?"

"I don't know."

"And yet you came to the door. Do you answer the door all the time?"

"Yes. It is an arrangement with my landlady. She answers all the knocks some days, and I answer them the other days. It's just an arrangement."

"Very sensible indeed. What were we saying?"

"I don't remember."

"I do. I mentioned a discrepancy. I wondered whether you would help me to understand. Possibly it is perfectly plain and straightforward, but I can't quite follow it. You remember the first time your husband fell out of the bedroom window?"