ARREST
A period of tense silence followed on this bold declaration, ended at
last by a shuffling of feet and a succession of dry, deprecating
coughs. Then a voice came out of the smoke-laden depths of a far
corner.
“’Tis all very well to say as how this here is a free country,”
remarked the voice, “but I do allow as ’tain’t so free as that a man
may call murder agin a woman! That there be what they call libel and
slander, what folks goes to ’sizes for—it be a punishable matter
that. I count as how you’ll git yourself into sore tribulation, Bill
Carver, if so be as you do go up and down a-saying that Mistress
Braxfield her did murder pore young Muster Guy—so you will!”
“Ain’t a-saying as how her did murder he!” retorted Bill Carver.
“What I says is that ’tis my belief as how her did shoot he
dead—main different matter! Might ha’ bin done accidental, like!”
“Oh, if ’twas accidental, like, ’tis a vastly different
circumstance!” said the correcting voice. “There’s bin a deal o’
serious and bloody murders done accidental, I do allow! But it seem
strange if this here catastrophe bin brought about i’ that way.
Mistress Braxfield, she say nothing o’ that, so far.”
“’Tain’t likely as her would,” declared Bill Carver. “Her’ve more
sense! Ain’t no ’casion as I knows on for any man or woman to go for
to accuse theirselves o’ terrible doings. Wouldn’t be a common-sense
thing for anybody as that happened to come for’rard and say as they
done it! Ain’t Christian conduck for anybody to walk into a trap wi’
his eyes open, I do reckon.”
“’Tis very true!” assented another wiseacre. “Noo—I don’t count as
how any well-disposed, law abiding citizen have any call to
’criminate his-self—’tis agin religion and nature, which is powerful
commodities. Noo!—I reckon that if Mistress Braxfield done this,
accidental like, wi’ that pistol what Bill Carver refer to, she say
to herself ‘Well,’ she say, ‘this here is a sad misfortune to happen
to me, but I ain’t no call to tell about it,’ she say, and then, of
course, she say nothing. That be the way of it—common-sense, like.
And we all knows that accidents does happen to the meekest of us!”
“Accident’ll happen to I, if I don’t get homealong?” remarked Bill
Carver with a laugh, as he rose from his corner and made for the
door. “My old woman, she do have supper ready nine o’clock Sunday
nights, and if I ain’t to the minute, her’ll let me hear the sound of
her tongue. I bids ’ee all a good night!”
He strode out amidst a chorus of farewells, but stopped in the hall,
pulled up by a tap on his arm, and turned to find Blick at his elbow.
“A word with you,” said Blick. “Come in here.” He led Carver into his
sitting-room, and closed the door. “You know what I am, Carver?” he
went on in a low voice. “A detective! Very well—now, I heard what
you said in there. Is it true that you’ve seen Mrs. Braxfield
shooting at things with a pistol—early of a morning?”
“True enough, master,” replied Carver. “I seen her do that more than
once. Been working up in they woods all this winter and spring, I
have, and gone to my work uncommon early since the mornings got
light. I seen Mistress Braxfield out about her house now and again,
taking a pop at they foxes—there’s a wealth o’ them varmints up
there, and I did hear her say as they was allays at her chickens. Oh,
aye, I seen her wi’ her pistol!”
“You didn’t see her last Tuesday morning?—the morning Mr. Guy was
shot?”
“I didn’t, master, ’cause I wasn’t in them parts at all, that day—I
was over t’other side of Greycloister, two miles off.” He paused,
regarding the detective with knowing eyes. “Don’t want to make no
trouble, master,” he went on, suddenly, “but I could ha’ said a deal
more in there than what I did say!”
“What?” demanded Blick. “If you know anything, tell it!”
“Don’t know anything partic’lar,” said Carver. “But I said, in
there—accidental! Nor, there is them in the village what says—on
purpose!”
“Do you mean that there are people in Markenmore who are saying that
Mrs. Braxfield meant to shoot Mr. Guy?” asked Blick. “Is that it?”
“That’s it, master!” replied Carver. “They are saying it, some of
’em, round about where I lives—on one Mitbourne road. But only since
it come out that Mistress Braxfield’s lass—young Poppy—be wed to
Master Harry. When that comes out, the folk began to talk same as I
do tell ’ee. ‘Ah!’ says they. ‘That be the true colour of it! Her
shooted Master Guy so’s his poor brother could be Sir Harry and that
young damsel be my Lady Markenmore! So ’tis,’ says they; ‘ain’t no
doubt on ’t.’ But you’ll bear in mind, master, as how I don’t say
that. I do say her, very like, shooted he accidental.”
Blick paid no attention to Carver’s personal opinion; he was thinking
of the common gossip.
“Are many of them saying that?” he asked. “Your neighbours, I mean?”
“All on ’ems a-saying of it!” declared Carver. “Down our way, you
understand—far end o’ the village. Them here chaps what you sees i’
th’ bar there, they belong to this end o’ the place—us don’t know
what they’m thinking. But down along wi’ us, that be the general
talk—her shooted Master Guy so’s Master Harry ’ud be Sir Harry, and
the young gel’ ud be my lady! See, master?” He paused again—and
again gave the detective a shrewd, knowing look. “Her’s a sharp, spry
female, Mistress Braxfield!” he continued suddenly. “I could tell ’ee
more nor that, only I ain’t one for to get nobody into trouble. But
so I could!”
“If you know anything, you ought to tell it,” said Blick. “What do
you mean, now, about Mrs. Braxfield?”
“Well, master, I tells ’ee,” said Carver, after a pause. “Mebbe you
didn’t see I, but I was up at that Crowner’s ’quest what they held at
the Court. Mistress Braxfield, her wented into the witness-box and
gived evidence. Her said as how her see’d Master Harborough at a
certain place on the hillside from her chamber window, at a certain
time that Tuesday morning. Master, her didn’t do nothing o’ that
sort! Her couldn’t see that place from her chamber window!—’tis
impossible! I did help to build that there house of hers—Woodland
Cottage—and from her chamber window you couldn’t see that place
where she said her did see Master John. But—her could ha’ seen it,
and him, or whoever was there, from somewhere else, where very like
her was!”
“Where?” demanded Blick.
“Bit of a spinney, right against Markenmore Hollow,” answered Carver.
“Where I seen her, more than once, a-looking out for they foxes.”
Blick suddenly remembered his big Ordnance Survey Map, still pinned
against the wall. He led Carver over to it, and pointed out certain
landmarks.
“I seen a drawing like this afore, master,” said Carver. “Old Muster
Tompkins, to Beech Farm, he have one o’ them here, framed, in his
parlour—many’s the time I’ve studied he when I bin waiting there for
the old gentleman to give me my orders. And I’ll show ’ee what I do
mean about what I say.” He pulled out a wooden match from his pocket,
and proceeded to point out places and trace lines on the map before
him. “Now here be Woodland Cottage, master, so plainwritten as never
was, and there be the spot where Mistress Braxfield do say she see
Muster Harborough. But, as you see, between them two places there be
the rise of a bit of a hill! Her couldn’t see through that, nohow,
could her? No! But now you comes along here, as it med be, from her
house, across the hill-side, to this here bit of a spinney, on the
edge of Markenmore Hollow, and you sees that from that her could see,
straight down, to the place where she said she see Muster Harborough:
’tis all visible, so to speak, from that. There med be no doubt her
did see Muster Harborough at that partic’lar spot that morning, but
her didn’t see him from her chamber window, ’cause her couldn’t! If
her see’d him at all, her see’d him from that spinney, where I
assures ’ee I see her more than once, popping at they foxes.”
“Did you ever see the pistol she used?” asked Blick. He was certain
by then that at last he had got on a definite trail, and he felt that
he might as well pursue it.
“Seen it in her hand, time and again,” replied Carver.
Blick suddenly produced the automatic pistol and held it out to his
companion.
“Was that it?” he asked.
Carver looked down at the exhibit with a flash of curiosity.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “If ’tain’t, ’tis the very spit and image of
that there what I sees her handle! But they things be pretty much of
a muchness, I reckon, master.”
Blick put the automatic pistol back in his pocket, and laid his hand
on Carver’s arm.
“Now, look here!” he said. “Just you keep all this to yourself,
there’s a good man! Don’t say a word about it to anybody—not even to
your wife. I hope you won’t get into trouble by being late for your
supper. But—silence, now—not a word!”
“I understand ’ee, master,” responded Carver, with a knowing grin.
“And I ’on’t go for to breathe a syllable till you tells I ’tis
convenient. Howsomever, do ’ee remember, master, as how what I says
is—accidental it med be! Ain’t no sort of hands at shooting off guns
and pistols, isn’t wimmin, as you knows.”
When Carver had departed into the night, Blick walked up and down his
sitting-room for a good ten minutes, thinking. At the end of that
time he went up to his bedroom, got into an overcoat, and made ready
for going out. Descending to the hall, he encountered Grimsdale, just
entering the house.
“Late walk, Mr. Blick?” asked the landlord, with a smile. “Fine
night, too!”
“I’m going into Selcaster,” replied Blick, “and look here—I don’t
think I shall be back tonight; I shall stay the night at the Mitre.
You’ll see me sometime tomorrow morning.”
Grimsdale nodded in acquiescence and let his guest out. And Blick
went away along the starlit road towards Selcaster, still thinking,
speculating, putting things together, and all his thoughts and
speculations came to a point in Mrs. Braxfield.
Mrs. Braxfield was in her tidy kitchen next morning at half-past
eight o’clock, giving orders to the charwoman who always came to
Woodland Cottage on Mondays, when a knock sounded on her front door.
She opened the door herself, and confronted Blick, the Chief
Constable, and another man—in plain clothes, but obviously a
policeman. The three men, all watching her keenly, saw her start,
frown, and turn pale. But they affected to notice nothing unusual,
and the Chief Constable’s voice, addressing her, was polite and
cheery.
“Good morning, Mrs. Braxfield!” he said. “Just called to have a
little chat with you, ma’am. May we come in?”
Mrs. Braxfield turned back into the hall, and opening a door,
motioned her visitors into the room in which Blick had listened to
Mr. Fransemmery’s story three nights previously. The plain-clothes
man, entering last, carefully closed the door, and remained standing
before it.
“What do you want?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield. The colour had come back
to her cheeks, and she was looking decidedly angry; anger, too, was
apparent in her voice.
“We want to have a talk to you about last Tuesday morning, Mrs.
Braxfield,” replied the Chief Constable. “Just a quiet talk—between
ourselves.”
“I’m not so sure about that ‘between ourselves!’” exclaimed Mrs.
Braxfield with unmistakable asperity. “It strikes me that some folk,
when they say ‘between ourselves’ mean a good deal of the very
opposite. I believe some of you”—here she gave Blick an indignant
glance—“some of you have been talking about me, behind my back!
Here’s my charwoman just come up from the village, and she says
there’s talk going on down there about me and the murder!
Nay!—there’s more! They’re saying, some of them, that I had
something to do with it—did it myself, some of them are saying,
straight out! Now where’s all that originated, I should like to know?
But I’ll find out—and then I’ll see what my lawyer has to say!”
“Quite so, Mrs. Braxfield,” agreed the Chief Constable. “You’ll be
quite within your rights to do that if false rumours are being spread
about you. But we’ve heard of these rumours, and we want to ask a few
questions. I’m sure you’ll see that it will be advisable for you to
answer them—eh, Mrs. Braxfield?”
“Depends what they are!” replied Mrs. Braxfield, still angry. “I
shall please myself!”
“Well, the first thing is this,” continued the Chief Constable,
becoming somewhat sterner in manner. “I’m afraid you didn’t tell the
exact truth at the inquest the other day. You said that you saw Mr.
John Harborough at a certain spot on the hill-side from your chamber
window—your bedroom window. Now, Mrs. Braxfield, you couldn’t see
him at that place from your bedroom window—there’s the rise of a
hill between your house and that particular place. What have you to
say to that?”
Mrs. Braxfield had paled again, and started visibly at this, and her
lips compressed themselves for an instant.
“I did see him all the same!” she said sullenly. “I might get mixed
up about exactly where it was from, but——”
“Now, where was it from?” asked the Chief Constable. “Come!—you
can’t have forgotten that—an important matter!”
But Mrs. Braxfield’s lips again compressed themselves, and in the
middle of her pale cheeks, red, angry spots began to show.
“If you won’t speak, I’ll refresh your memory,” said the Chief
Constable. “Wasn’t it from the edge of that little spinney near
Markenmore Hollow? Come, now?”
“What if it was?” retorted Mrs. Braxfield.
“What were you doing there, at that time of the morning?” asked the
Chief Constable.
“That’s my business!” said Mrs. Braxfield with sudden defiance. “What
have you to do with it?”
The Chief Constable shook his head.
“Oh, well!” he answered. “If you are going to adopt that tone, Mrs.
Braxfield, we must show our hand a little more openly. Now, Mrs.
Braxfield, listen to me; we know certain things. You’ve been in the
habit of going to that spinney, or round about it, very early of a
morning, to have a shot at foxes; the foxes, we hear, have given you
trouble about your fowls. Is that so?”
“What if it is?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield. “Do you think I’m going to
have my valuable fowls and chickens carried off by foxes? I’m
not!—not for all the hunting men in the country! So there! I wish I
could shoot every fox that’s running about! As it is, all I’ve done
has been to frighten them.”
“You can settle your affairs about the foxes with the Master of
Foxhounds, Mrs. Braxfield,” said the Chief Constable good-humouredly.
“It’s a truly awful crime to shoot a fox, in the opinion of hunting
people, but it’s one that doesn’t come within police regulations. But
now, Mrs. Braxfield, what did you use in shooting at the foxes? Was
it a rifle, or a sporting gun, or a revolver? Or—was it an automatic
pistol? Come!”
Mrs. Braxfield looked from one face to another. Three pairs of eyes
were fixed firmly upon her.
“Who’s been telling you all this?” she suddenly exclaimed. “Who’s
been——”
“It was an automatic pistol, wasn’t it?” persisted the Chief
Constable. “Come, now, Mrs. Braxfield, why not answer straight out?”
“What if it was?” muttered Mrs. Braxfield.
“Then it was! Very well; now then,” continued the Chief Constable,
“where did you get it?”
Mrs. Braxfield, who until then had been standing by the table in the
centre of the room, facing her three visitors, suddenly sat down in
the nearest chair, folded her hands on her lap, looked calmly from
one to the other.
“Look here!” she said quietly, finally fixing her eyes on the Chief
Constable. “You no doubt think you’re being very plain, and
outspoken, and all that, but if you want any information out of me,
you’ll have to be a good deal plainer! And I’ll tell you straight out
that you’re not going to get me to incriminate myself! I haven’t said
that I had any automatic pistol. You said: ‘Was it an automatic
pistol that I used, to scare the foxes?’ I replied: ‘What if it was?’
That isn’t saying that it was, or that I ever had one. I’m willing to
give any information that I can, but you’re treating me with
suspicion, and I’m not going to be forced into any admission that
might be damaging—damaging to me and to others, very likely. You
treat me fair, and——”
“Mrs. Braxfield,” broke in the Chief Constable, “we’ve no wish for
anything else than to treat you fairly. But we know certain things,
and we’re bound to ask you for some explanation. Now, as you ask me
to be more explicit, I will! I may as well tell you that an automatic
pistol has been found.”
The Chief Constable stopped suddenly. Mrs. Braxfield, taken unawares,
had turned pale to the lips, and her hands tightened. She started
palpably.
“Found!” she exclaimed.
“Found, Mrs. Braxfield!” said the Chief Constable sternly. “I needn’t
ask you if you have any ideas as to where it was found—I think you
have. Now that automatic pistol has, of course, a mark and a number,
and it has been identified by a gunsmith in Selcaster as one that he
sold, comparatively recently, to Mr. Harry Markenmore—your
son-in-law. Now, Mrs. Braxfield, we know beyond any question that you
have been in the habit of using an automatic pistol of that
particular sort to scare or shoot foxes. Be candid. Was the pistol
that you’ve been using given to you by Mr. Harry Markenmore—the
pistol that is now in our possession? Come!”
Mrs. Braxfield sat silent for a while. Now and then she looked at her
questioner; now and then at the rings on her fingers, which she was
mechanically turning round and round. It seemed a long time before
she spoke. But when she did, it was to the accompaniment of an
unusually dogged and defiant look.
“I’m not going to say another word!” she said. “Bear you in mind, all
of you, that I’ve admitted nothing!”
The Chief Constable glanced at Blick and sighed—the sigh of a man
upon whom an unpleasant duty is forced, much against his will.
“Very well, Mrs. Braxfield,” he said quietly. “Then there’s nothing
else for it—you’ll have to come with us.”
“Do you mean that you’re going to take me to Selcaster?” asked Mrs.
Braxfield, with suspicious calmness. “All right!—and you’ll be more
than sorry for it, as you’ll see! Very well—I suppose I can go
upstairs and make ready?”
“No!” said the Chief Constable. “Not out of my sight, now! You’ve a
woman in the house—you can ring for her, and tell her to get all you
want. Then—we’ve a cab outside.”
“Ah!” remarked Mrs. Braxfield maliciously. “You’re only doing what
you meant to do! All right, Mr. Chief Constable, and the other two of
you—you’ll be sorry for this!”
But the Chief Constable silently motioned to Blick to ring the bell
for the charwoman.