of her clothing and—blood and all that, he’d had the idea of spreading a bit of plastic over the front of the car before he—well, did it. He produced the plastic folded in a bit of brown paper, and we wrapped the whole lot round a stone and sank it, then and there, in the river. There was blood on the plastic all right. It gave me the shudders.
But next thing he said, I really had something to shudder at. He said: ‘Anyway, your number’s up, mate. She’s shopped you.’
‘Shopped me?’ I said. I stood and stared at him.
‘Shopped you,’ he said. “She’d already sent off an anonymous note to the police. About the hit-and-run.’
‘How do you know?’ I said. I couldn’t believe it.
‘She told me so,’ he said. ‘It was on her conscience.’
Her conscience. Lydia’s conscience! I started to laugh, a bit hysterical, I suppose, with the strain of it. He put his hand on my wrist and gave me a little shake. ‘Steady lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t lose your head. I’m looking after you.’ It wasn’t like him to be so demonstrative, but there you are—it’s like the poem says, when times are bad, there isn’t no friend like a brother. ‘It’s just a matter of slanting the alibi,’ he said.
Well, we’d worked that out, too; like I said. There’d always be a risk that they wouldn’t accept a brother’s alibi, that we two was together. The other time, about the accident, they’d had no special reason to suspect me, they’d accepted that all right; but this might at any moment turn into a murder enquiry. And a murder enquiry into us , now they knew about the hit-and-run. But as he said—we had the alternative.
I hadn’t counted on its being Inspector Cockrill. When I realised it was him—come all the way over from Heronsford—I knew they meant business. And to be honest, it struck a bit chill to the heart of me. A little man he is, for a policeman, and near retiring age, he must be—he looks like a grandfather; but his eyes are as bright as a bird’s and they seem to look right into you. He came into the old woman’s best parlour and he had us brought in there, and he looked us up and down. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the famous Birdswell twins! You certainly are identicals, aren’t you?’ And he gave us a look of a sort of fiendish glee, or so it seemed to me, and said: ‘And devoted, I hear? An almost mystic bond, I hear? David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias and all the rest of it? In fact,’ he said, ‘you might properly be called—blood brothers?’
We stood in front of him, silent. He said at last: ‘Well, which is which?—and no nonsense.’
We told him: and no nonsense.
‘So you’re the one that killed the child?’ he said to me. ‘And drove on, regardless.’
‘I never was near the child,’ I said. ‘I was in the woods, on Monday evening—poaching.’
‘Yours is the name stated in the anonymous letter.’
‘I don’t know who wrote the letter,’ I said. ‘But no one can tell us apart, me and my brother.’
‘Even your fancy girl?’ he said. ‘It appears it was she who wrote the letter.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, ‘by my fancy girl.’
‘Well, everybody else does,’ he said. ‘All the village knows she was playing you off, one against the other. And grinning behind their hands, waiting for her husband’s home-coming.’
‘But all the village can’t tell us two apart,’ I said. ‘I was out poaching.’
‘That’s a damn lie,’ says Fred, playing it the way we’d agreed upon. ‘That was me, poaching.’
‘One of you was poaching?’ says Inspector Cockrill, very smooth. ‘And one of you was with the lady? And even the lady couldn’t have said which was which?’
He said it sort of—suggestive. ‘I dare say she might,’ I said, ‘later on in the proceedings. But there wouldn’t have been any proceedings that night, there wouldn’t have been time: because the accident happened.’
‘Why should she say so
But next thing he said, I really had something to shudder at. He said: ‘Anyway, your number’s up, mate. She’s shopped you.’
‘Shopped me?’ I said. I stood and stared at him.
‘Shopped you,’ he said. “She’d already sent off an anonymous note to the police. About the hit-and-run.’
‘How do you know?’ I said. I couldn’t believe it.
‘She told me so,’ he said. ‘It was on her conscience.’
Her conscience. Lydia’s conscience! I started to laugh, a bit hysterical, I suppose, with the strain of it. He put his hand on my wrist and gave me a little shake. ‘Steady lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t lose your head. I’m looking after you.’ It wasn’t like him to be so demonstrative, but there you are—it’s like the poem says, when times are bad, there isn’t no friend like a brother. ‘It’s just a matter of slanting the alibi,’ he said.
Well, we’d worked that out, too; like I said. There’d always be a risk that they wouldn’t accept a brother’s alibi, that we two was together. The other time, about the accident, they’d had no special reason to suspect me, they’d accepted that all right; but this might at any moment turn into a murder enquiry. And a murder enquiry into us , now they knew about the hit-and-run. But as he said—we had the alternative.
I hadn’t counted on its being Inspector Cockrill. When I realised it was him—come all the way over from Heronsford—I knew they meant business. And to be honest, it struck a bit chill to the heart of me. A little man he is, for a policeman, and near retiring age, he must be—he looks like a grandfather; but his eyes are as bright as a bird’s and they seem to look right into you. He came into the old woman’s best parlour and he had us brought in there, and he looked us up and down. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the famous Birdswell twins! You certainly are identicals, aren’t you?’ And he gave us a look of a sort of fiendish glee, or so it seemed to me, and said: ‘And devoted, I hear? An almost mystic bond, I hear? David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias and all the rest of it? In fact,’ he said, ‘you might properly be called—blood brothers?’
We stood in front of him, silent. He said at last: ‘Well, which is which?—and no nonsense.’
We told him: and no nonsense.
‘So you’re the one that killed the child?’ he said to me. ‘And drove on, regardless.’
‘I never was near the child,’ I said. ‘I was in the woods, on Monday evening—poaching.’
‘Yours is the name stated in the anonymous letter.’
‘I don’t know who wrote the letter,’ I said. ‘But no one can tell us apart, me and my brother.’
‘Even your fancy girl?’ he said. ‘It appears it was she who wrote the letter.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, ‘by my fancy girl.’
‘Well, everybody else does,’ he said. ‘All the village knows she was playing you off, one against the other. And grinning behind their hands, waiting for her husband’s home-coming.’
‘But all the village can’t tell us two apart,’ I said. ‘I was out poaching.’
‘That’s a damn lie,’ says Fred, playing it the way we’d agreed upon. ‘That was me, poaching.’
‘One of you was poaching?’ says Inspector Cockrill, very smooth. ‘And one of you was with the lady? And even the lady couldn’t have said which was which?’
He said it sort of—suggestive. ‘I dare say she might,’ I said, ‘later on in the proceedings. But there wouldn’t have been any proceedings that night, there wouldn’t have been time: because the accident happened.’
‘Why should she say so
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