Sergeant Jenkins, extremely portentous, sought an interview with the owner of this hatchet.
“Er—relating to this matter of a ’atchet, left in the orchard outside Pigeonsford Cottage on the night before—well, last night: the police is seeking to establish the exact whereabouts of this ’atchet and the time it was left in the orchard outside Pigeonsford Cottage on the day before the…”
“You got the needle stuck,” said the farmer’s small boy, who, having been banished from the parlour upon the arrival of Sergeant Jenkins, now reappeared at the window. Jenkins frowned austerely.
“Left ’er there for choppin’ up sticks the follering day,” said the farmer heavily. He added truculently, for he was very much afraid: “Nothin’ wrong in that, is ther? It’s what I allus does.”
“A very dangerous ’abit,” said Sergeant Jenkins severely. “’Oo knew you was in the ’abit of leaving the ’atchet there?”
“Anybody might a known. Other ’and nobody need a known to have used it for the job. It was lying ther, just on the edge of the path, other side of the little bridge. She were an old ’atchet, all rusted up, and I didn’t set no store by ’er. Just used ’er for breakin’ up sticks…”
Sergeant Jenkins pursued his investigations as far as Torrington, whence young Dr. Newsome had been summoned to minister to Bunsen’s sister, at ten o’clock, the night before. Dr. Newsome, hopping with impatience, passed a hand over his crinkly gold hair, and confirmed that he had driven over to Tenfold, which lies between Torrington and Pigeonsford village, and visited the sick woman; that he had arranged for the district nurse to go to her, and that he had remained until the nurse arrived; that the patient’s brother had been there all the time, and that he would be very glad if the sergeant would excuse him now as he was in the devil of a hurry and already late on his rounds. The nurse, in her turn, said that she had arrived at the little cottage at about eleven o’clock, to find both Dr. Newsome and the patient’s brother there; that the brother had waited until she settled the old lady for the night, and had finally left to bicycle back to Pigeonsford, at about twenty past eleven, and that surely the sergeant could let her go now, because if he was not busy, she was, and could have told him the whole thing in five minutes without spinning it out like this for half an hour…
Trotty had been, of all things, a trapeze artist, in the buxom days of her youth. She had lived and worked, and had been going to marry in the vital atmosphere of the circus-ring, doing her job well though not brilliantly, her only spectacular performance her last. For a single day Trotty’s name had been big upon the posters all over England; thenceforward she had dragged herself through life with pitiful patched-up legs. Grace Morland’s mother had befriended her, as she befriended all the broken hearts and broken bodies that came her way; had given her some small job and later taken her into her household, where she had remained to this day, faithful, devoted, grateful and increasingly crotchety. She was a downright, humorous, ginger-haired little woman, her splendid muscle all run to firm white fat. She received three visitors from the ’Ouse without fuss, and stood, clutching for support at the back of a chair, while she spoke to them.
“Sit down, Trotty dear, do,” said Venetia, getting a chair and placing it for the old woman.
“Yes, Trotty, sit down.” Pendock took her plump little hands in his own: “I’m so sorry for you in all this trouble.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Poor dear Miss Grace; what an end for her to come to, that always lived so finicky and lady-like! I wanted to go to her, Mr. Pendock, sir; I don’t like to think of her lying alone in some cold place, with nobody she knows about her; but they won’t let me see her. You couldn’t arrange for me to see her, could you,
“Er—relating to this matter of a ’atchet, left in the orchard outside Pigeonsford Cottage on the night before—well, last night: the police is seeking to establish the exact whereabouts of this ’atchet and the time it was left in the orchard outside Pigeonsford Cottage on the day before the…”
“You got the needle stuck,” said the farmer’s small boy, who, having been banished from the parlour upon the arrival of Sergeant Jenkins, now reappeared at the window. Jenkins frowned austerely.
“Left ’er there for choppin’ up sticks the follering day,” said the farmer heavily. He added truculently, for he was very much afraid: “Nothin’ wrong in that, is ther? It’s what I allus does.”
“A very dangerous ’abit,” said Sergeant Jenkins severely. “’Oo knew you was in the ’abit of leaving the ’atchet there?”
“Anybody might a known. Other ’and nobody need a known to have used it for the job. It was lying ther, just on the edge of the path, other side of the little bridge. She were an old ’atchet, all rusted up, and I didn’t set no store by ’er. Just used ’er for breakin’ up sticks…”
Sergeant Jenkins pursued his investigations as far as Torrington, whence young Dr. Newsome had been summoned to minister to Bunsen’s sister, at ten o’clock, the night before. Dr. Newsome, hopping with impatience, passed a hand over his crinkly gold hair, and confirmed that he had driven over to Tenfold, which lies between Torrington and Pigeonsford village, and visited the sick woman; that he had arranged for the district nurse to go to her, and that he had remained until the nurse arrived; that the patient’s brother had been there all the time, and that he would be very glad if the sergeant would excuse him now as he was in the devil of a hurry and already late on his rounds. The nurse, in her turn, said that she had arrived at the little cottage at about eleven o’clock, to find both Dr. Newsome and the patient’s brother there; that the brother had waited until she settled the old lady for the night, and had finally left to bicycle back to Pigeonsford, at about twenty past eleven, and that surely the sergeant could let her go now, because if he was not busy, she was, and could have told him the whole thing in five minutes without spinning it out like this for half an hour…
Trotty had been, of all things, a trapeze artist, in the buxom days of her youth. She had lived and worked, and had been going to marry in the vital atmosphere of the circus-ring, doing her job well though not brilliantly, her only spectacular performance her last. For a single day Trotty’s name had been big upon the posters all over England; thenceforward she had dragged herself through life with pitiful patched-up legs. Grace Morland’s mother had befriended her, as she befriended all the broken hearts and broken bodies that came her way; had given her some small job and later taken her into her household, where she had remained to this day, faithful, devoted, grateful and increasingly crotchety. She was a downright, humorous, ginger-haired little woman, her splendid muscle all run to firm white fat. She received three visitors from the ’Ouse without fuss, and stood, clutching for support at the back of a chair, while she spoke to them.
“Sit down, Trotty dear, do,” said Venetia, getting a chair and placing it for the old woman.
“Yes, Trotty, sit down.” Pendock took her plump little hands in his own: “I’m so sorry for you in all this trouble.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Poor dear Miss Grace; what an end for her to come to, that always lived so finicky and lady-like! I wanted to go to her, Mr. Pendock, sir; I don’t like to think of her lying alone in some cold place, with nobody she knows about her; but they won’t let me see her. You couldn’t arrange for me to see her, could you,
Similar Books
