Patricia Wentworth - The Key

‘My dears – how nice!’

Garth had the hardihood to enquire, ‘What, Aunt Sophy?’

Miss Sophy patted her curls.

‘I believe I have had quite a nap,’ she said, and beamed again. ‘Very pleasant – very pleasant indeed. I had a most agreeable dream – if it were a dream.’

Before she could receive any reply the door was opened. Chief Detective Inspector Lamb appeared – a solid presence, but with an air of haste.

‘Beg pardon, Miss Fell.’ He came in and shut the door behind him. ‘I suppose, between you, there isn’t much you don’t know about this village. Can you tell me who keeps brandy in the house?’

‘ Brandy ?’ said Miss Sophy in a surprised voice. “I think we have some.’

Lamb looked past her.

Janice said quickly, ‘Mrs Bush – her aunt has spasms. She lives with them – she’s bed-ridden. They always have brandy in case-’

‘Is anyone ill?’ said Miss Sophy in a bewildered voice.

Lamb gave a kind of snort. He had an exasperated air. He said testily, ‘He isn’t ill, he’s dead!’ and went out of the room and shut the door. You couldn’t say that he banged it, but he certainly shut it a little more loudly than he need have done.

Miss Sophy opened her eyes as far as they would go.

‘Why did he want the brandy?’ she enquired.

FREDERICK BUSH STOOD looking down from his spare height upon the two London police officers who had summoned him to this interview. Invited to take a seat he did so, retaining an upright carriage and his habitual air of dignified melancholy. He had removed his cap, and held it now in the hand which rested upon his right knee.

Lamb looked shrewdly at him and said, ‘Thank you for coming here, Mr Bush. We are checking up on the events of Tuesday night, and I think perhaps you can help us.’ He reached across the table with a paper in his hand. ‘This is a transcript of the evidence you gave at the inquest. Will you look it through and tell me if you agree that it is correct.’

Bush took the paper and laid it upon his left knee. He then put down his cap upon the floor, produced a leather spectacle-case from an inside pocket, opened it, and put on the spectacles, all in a very deliberate manner. After which he picked up the paper, read it through without haste, and laid it back upon the table.

Lamb watched him.

‘You find that correct?’

Bush was putting away his glasses. When the case was back in his pocket, he said, ‘Yes.’

Sergeant Abbott, writing down that single word, made the mental comment that the interview bore a certain resemblance to a slow-motion picture. Shorthand, he considered, was going to be thrown away on Mr Bush.

Lamb was speaking.

‘Have you anything to add to that statement?’

Bush said, ‘No.’ He took his time over saying it.

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Bush – it is your habit, is it not, to make the round of the church and churchyard every night?’

With no more hurry and no more hesitation than before, Bush again said, ‘Yes.’

‘At what hour?’

Frank Abbott thought, ‘I’ll get something that isn’t a yes this time anyhow. I’m about tired of writing it.’

The answer came as the others had come, and without change of voice. ‘Ten o’clock.’

‘You made this round on Tuesday night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so at the inquest?’

‘I wasn’t asked.’

‘It didn’t occur to you to volunteer a statement?’

‘No.’

‘You answered only what you were asked. If you had been asked, you would have said that you had made this round?’

‘Yes.’

Frank thought ruefully, ‘We’re off again.’ His mind played with questions which could not be answered by a mere affirmative.

Lamb said, ‘Then we’ll get back to this round you made on Tuesday night. When did you start out?’

‘A little before my usual time.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not bound to a time. I suit myself.’

‘And why did it suit you to make an early start on Tuesday night?’

This time there was a definite pause before the answer.

‘I don’t know that I can say. You don’t have to have a reason for everything you do.’

‘You say you went out before your usual time. How much before?’

‘I couldn’t rightly say – a matter of ten minutes perhaps.’

‘Did you hear the shot?’

‘No.’

‘It wasn’t because you heard the shot that you started out before your usual time?’

‘No.’

Lamb looked at him shrewdly. The melancholy calm of look and manner were unimpaired. He had picked up his cap again and was holding it on his knee as at first, but in a closer grip. A knuckle showed bloodless where pressure tightened the skin.

Lamb said in an easy voice, ‘Very well – you went out on your round. Now tell me just where you went and what you did. And don’t leave anything out because you haven’t been asked – I want the whole bag of tricks.’

Bush put his left hand in his pocket, pulled out a red bandanna handkerchief, and solemnly blew his nose. It was a leisurely affair. So was the return of the handkerchief. So was the measured fall of words which followed.

‘I went out of my front door into the street and a bit along till I come to the churchyard gate and in.’

‘That would be the gate that opens on the village street?’

‘Yes. And along the path on the right, and right round the church, and out by the gate where I come in.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No.’

‘And that was all?’

‘I went in, and I did my round, and I come out, and I didn’t see no one.’

Lamb said sharply, ‘Nothing to add to that?’

‘No.’

Lamb made a sudden movement. He leaned forward and thrust out a hand across the table.

‘Look here, Bush – you were seen. You didn’t see anyone, but two people saw you – a boy and a girl who were under the tree by the Rectory wall. Now what about it? What have you got to say to that?’

All the knuckles of the hand which held the cap showed white as bone. The melancholy face remained calm. Bush said slowly, ‘I don’t know what they saw. I was doing my round.’

‘They saw you come out of the church.’

‘They might have seen me come out of the porch.’

‘They saw you come out of the door, and they saw you lock it after you.’

There was a long pause. Then Bush said, ‘I was doing my round.’

‘And your round takes you into the church?’

‘It might do.’

‘Did it take you into the church on Tuesday night?’

‘I won’t say it didn’t.’

Lamb drew in his hand and sat back.

He said, ‘Look here, Bush, you’d better make a clean breast of it. If you were in the church you knew Mr Harsch was dead getting on for about two and a half hours before you went in it with Miss Meade and found the body. You can see for yourself that gives you something you’ve got to explain. If you’re an innocent man, you’ll be willing to explain it. If you’re not you’ve got a right to hold your tongue, and a right to be told that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you. Now – are you going to talk?’

There was a prolonged pause. When it had lasted for an indefinite time, Bush said in the same tone that he had used throughout.

‘Seems I’d better.’

Lamb nodded.

‘That’s right! Well, you went into the church-’

‘Yes, I went in to do my round. The rector, he’s careless with the windows.’

‘Did you see Mr Harsch’s body?’

‘Yes, I saw it.’

‘Just tell me what you did from the time you went into the church – everything.’