Читать книгу Murder in the Mill-Race - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 20

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It was early in the morning of Midsummer Day that Anne Ferens heard her front-door bell jangling away. She had been awake for some time, delighting in the sunshine and the bird song, and debating in her own mind whether she would go to church to honour St. John Baptist (as a Christian should) and the summer solstice (as a pagan should). Anne wasn’t quite certain which element was predominant in her mind on that divine morning, but she certainly woke up quoting “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.”

It was half-past six when the bell rang, and she said, “Oh bother!” because Raymond hadn’t got to bed until after two, for he had been out to a confinement at Long Barrow, away up on the moor. Nevertheless, he woke up when the bell rang, and was out of bed before Anne was.

“Bad luck, but it’s a heavenly morning,” she said to him, as he snatched his dressing-gown and went out of the bedroom muttering, “I bet it’s that Chandler girl ... she just can’t count.”

He was back within a minute, all the comfortable sleepiness gone from his face, and he snatched at his shirt and trousers without a word.

“What is it, Ray? Can I do anything?”

“No, and nobody else either, I imagine. It’s Sister Monica. She’s drowned in the mill-race. Young Rigg found her and came pounding up here.”

Anne gave a gasp, and Raymond said: “Yes, here’s trouble ...” as he flung his clothes on.

“Shall I come?” she asked.

“Lord, no. Stay here and get breakfast. I shan’t be long. It’s the police they want, not me—but one’s got to do the usual.”

He snatched his coat and hurried out of the house, across the garden, through the gate in the yew hedge and across the dewy lawns of the Manor, taking the short cut to the steep path down through the park. All around him thrushes and blackbirds were calling from the tree tops, and chaffinches and bullfinches poured out their clear liquid song: the air was fragrant with the sweetness of midsummer, fragrance of pinks and roses in the garden, hay and meadow flowers in the park. Fat white lambs rushed to mother ewes as Ferens made his way down the steep path, the world vivid and vibrant with life and sunshine.

Raymond Ferens found a sombre group standing by the mill stream. Venner, the big rubicund miller, was there, and Jack Hedges, the cowman from Moore’s Farm. Wilson, in charge of the generating engine, and Bob Doone from the saw mill, were there. They stood round the long dark-cloaked body which lay beside the bank, with wild roses stretching out delicate sprays of palest pink, gold centred, above the pallid face and dead white hair.

“A bad business, doctor. Nought we could do,” said Venner.

Ferens knelt down beside the dead woman: one touch was enough to tell him she had been dead for hours.

“We’m telephoned to sergeant at Milham Prior,” said Venner. “He’ll be along soon. Hours ago it be since her was drowned, be’n’t it?”

Ferens nodded as he busied himself over his examination. “Yes. Several hours. Do you know where the body was found?”

“By them piles, doctor. Her was swept down by the stream and her cloak caught in them bolts and the weeds twisted all around she. I helped get her out, and a tidy weight her was.”

“She’m been wandering at nights, months past, she has,” said Wilson. “Reckon her mind went, poor soul. Brooded over that young maid, maybe. Same place ’twas. I mind that well.”

“Wandering at nights?” asked Ferens sharply.

“ ’Tis true enough, doctor,” said Venner. “Us have seen her. Down through the park she’d come. My wife, she saw her once in the moonlight and fair scared she was. Looked all strange with that white hair and the dark cloak.”

“Iss ...” Jack Hedges gave the sibilant affirmative which still sounded strange to Raymond Ferens’ ears, accustomed to Midland voices. “Us have seen her, too, like a fay, fair moonstruck. Us marked that. Fearful, ’twas.”

“I reckon ’twas brooding like. Her threw herself in, poor soul,” said Venner, and the others made mournful sounds of agreement.

“We’d better wait until the sergeant comes before we move her,” said Ferens, “but we shall have to decide where to take her body. There will have to be a post-mortem. I don’t think it’s desirable to take her to Gramarye, with all those small children there.”

“You’m right there, doctor,” said Venner. “All they tiny tots don’t want no more fearsome things. I’m meaning childer should be kept clear of corpses and all,” he added hastily. “But Dr. Brown, he’ll be along any minute. My wife went to tell he. A shock, ’twill be, poor old gentleman. He thought the world of Sister. He’ll best decide where to take her. Knows everything here, Dr. Brown does.”

Ferens nodded. He had got up from his place by the body, removing his useless thermometer. The body was stark cold, the temperature of the swirling water which came down from the moor. The woman had drowned—no doubt about that—and the rest could wait.

“You’re quite right,” he said to Venner. “Dr. Brown shall decide. I sent Rigg on to the Manor. Lady Ridding will tell them at Gramarye. Ah, here is Dr. Brown.”

The sound of Brown’s ancient car was known all over the village, and its brakes squeaked vilely as he pulled up on the road beyond the Mill House. He came slowly towards the bridge and leant heavily on the hand rail as he crossed the stream. He was pallid and looked worn and weary, but not without dignity, and he walked steadily up to the body and stood looking down at the clay-coloured face and sodden white hair. Venner spoke, very gently.

“We’m sorry, doctor. Her had worked here a powerful long time.”

“Yes ... Too long. She wouldn’t give in,” said the old man. “I’ve been worried about her. I should have made her give up—but it was her life.”

“She knew she was failing like, and chose to finish it,” said Venner. “Poor soul—but she do look peaceful now. Where shall we take her, doctor?”

“We were waiting for the sergeant from Milham Prior,” said Ferens, his voice quiet and normal, “but it’d be as well to decide where to take her. There’s a stretcher in the Red Cross cupboard at the Institute, I believe.”

“Yes. We got it in 1939,” said Brown, as though he were glad to turn to ordinary trivial things. “You can bring her to my house, Venner. That’ll be best. The examination ... should be simple.” He glanced at Ferens and the latter replied:

“Yes. She was drowned.”

A klaxon horn shrilled importantly somewhere up the hilly main street of the village, and some cows bawled as though in protest. Hedges suddenly jumped.

“That’ll be sergeant,” he said. “I know that dratted horn of his. Maybe I’d better go and see to my cows. Milking’s got to be done, no matter what.”

“Aye, Jack. You’ve got to milk the cows, no matter what,” echoed old Brown. “Life goes on, thank God, no matter which of us passes out. You go and get on with your milking and I hope that hustling policeman hasn’t knocked your cows sideways. What does he want to blow his horn at the cows for?”