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Wet Saturday
Wet Saturday
John Collier
His daughter began to shake again. “I’ll kill myself,” she said.
“Be quiet,” said Mr. Princey. “We have very little time. No time for
nonsense. I intend to deal with this.” He called to his son, who stood
looking out the window. “George, come here. Listen, how far did you
get with your medicine before they threw you out as hopeless?”
“Do you know enough — did they drive enough into your head for
you to be able to guess what a competent doctor could tell about such
a wound?”
“Is it possible?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You have got to stand it, my dear,” said her husband. “And keep
that hysterical note out of your voice. It might be overheard. We are
talking about the weather. If he fell down the well, George, striking
his head several times?”
“He’d have to had to hit the sides several times in thirty or forty feet,
and at the correct angles. No. I’m afraid not. We must go over it all
again. Millicent.”
“No! No!”
“I can’t. I… I…”
“Be quiet, child. Be quiet.” He put his long, cold face very near to his
daughter’s. He found himself horribly revolted by her. Her features
were thick, her jaw heavy, her whole figure repellently powerful.
“Answer me,” he said. “You were in the stable?”
“Yes.”
“One moment, though. Who knew you were in love with this
wretched curate?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Loudly? Did you call him loudly? Could anyone have heard?”
“No, Father. I’m sure not. I didn’t call him. He saw me as I went to
the door. He just waved his hand and came over.”
“How can I find out from you whether there was anyone about?
Whether he could have been seen?”
“He said ‘Hullo, Milly.’ And to excuse him coming in the back way,
but he’d set out to walk over to Lyston.”
“Yes.”
“And he said, passing the park, he’d seen the house and suddenly
thought of me, and he thought he’d just look in for a minute, just to
tell me something. He said he was so happy, he wanted me to share
it. He’d heard from the Bishop he was to have the vicarage. And it
wasn’t only that. It meant he could marry. And he began to stutter.
And I thought me meant me.”
“Well … Oh dear!”
“He said no. He said it wasn’t me. It’s Ella Brangwyn-Davies. And he
was sorry. And all that. Then he went to go.”
“And then?”
“I went mad. He turned his back. I had the winning post of the
croquet set in my hand –”
“No, Father.”
“And then?”
“I threw it down. I came straight into the house. That’s all. I wish I
were dead.”
“And you met none of the servants. No one will go into the stable.
You see, George, he probably told people he was going to Lyston.
Certainly no one knows he came here. He might have been attacked
in the woods. We must consider every detail . . . A curate, with his
head battered in –”
“Do you want to be hanged? A curate, with his head battered in,
found in the woods. Who’d want to kill Withers?”
There was a tap on the door, which opened immediately. It was little
Captain Smollett, who never stood on ceremony. “Who’d kill
Withers?” said he. “I would, with pleasure. How d’you do, Mrs.
Princey. I walked right in.”
“My dear, we can have our little joke,” said her father. “Don’t
pretend to be shocked. A little theoretical curate-killing, Smollett. In
these days we talk nothing but thrillers.”
It was actually five minutes before Mr. Princey and his son returned.
“Smollett,” said Mr. Princey, “will you come round to the stable for
a moment? There’s something I want to show you.”
They went into the stable yard. The buildings were now unused
except as odd sheds. No one ever went there. Captain Smollett
entered, George followed him, Mr. Princey came last. As he closed
the door he took up a gun which stood behind it. “Smollett,” said he,
“we have come out to shoot a rat which George heard squeaking
under that tub. Now, you must listen to me very carefully or you will
be show by accident. I mean that.”
“A very tragic happening has taken place this afternoon,” said Mr.
Princey. “It will be even more tragic unless it is smoothed over.”
“You head me ask,” said Mr. Princey, “who would kill Withers. You
heard Millicent make a comment, an unguarded comment.”
“Very little,” said Mr. Princey. “Unless you heard that Withers had
met a violent end this very afternoon. And that, my dear Smollett, is
what you are going to hear.”
“I have no wish,” said Mr. Princey, “that she should be proved either
a lunatic or a murderess. I could hardly live here after that.”
“On the other hand,” said Mr. Princey,” you know about it.”
“If things went smoothly,” said Mr. Princey. “But not if there was
any sort of suspicion, any questioning. You would be afraid of being
an accessory.”
“I regard it,” said Mr. Princey, “as a better risk than the other. It
could be an accident. Or you and Withers could both disappear. There
are possibilities in that.”
“Listen,” said Mr. Princey. “There may be a way out. There is a way
out, Smollett. You gave me the idea yourself.”
“You said you would kill Withers,” said Mr. Princey. “You have a
motive.”
“You are always joking,” said Mr. Princey. “People think there must
be something behind it. Listen, Smollett, I can’t trust you, you must
trust me. Or I will kill you now, in the next minute. I mean that. You
can choose between dying and living.”
“So that I shall be dead sure that you will never open your lips on the
matter,” said Mr. Princey.
“I will when we’ve finished,” said Mr. Princey. “George, get that
croquet post. Take your handkerchief to it. As I told you. Smollett,
you’ll just grasp the end of this croquet post. I shall shoot you if you
don’t.”
“Pull two hairs out of his head, George,” said Mr. Princey, “and
remember what I told you to do with them. Now, Smollett, you take
that bar and raise the big flagstone with the ring in it. Withers is in
the next stall. You’ve got to drag him through and dump him in.”
Mr. Princey wiped his brow. “Look here,” said he. “Everything is
perfectly safe. Remember, no one knows that Withers came here.
Everyone thinks he walked over to Lyston. That’s five miles of
country to search. They’ll never look in our sewer. Do you see how
safe it is?”
They went into the house. The maid was bringing tea into the
drawing room. “See, my dear,” said Mr. Princey to his wife, “we
went to the stable to shoot a rat and we found Captain Smollett. Don’t
be offended, my dear fellow.”
“You must have walked up the back drive,” said Mrs. Princey.
“You’ve cut your lip,” said George, handing him a cup of tea.
“Shall I tell Bridget to bring some iodine?” said Mrs. Princey. The
maid looked up, waiting.
“Smollett is very kind,” said Mr. Princey. “He knows all our trouble.
We can rely on him. We have his word.”
“Don’t worry, old fellow,” Mr. Princey said. “They’ll never find
anything.”
Pretty soon Smollett took his leave. Mrs. Princey pressed his hand
very hard. Tears came into her eyes. All three of them watched him
go down the drive. Then Mr. Princey spoke very earnestly to his wife
for a few minutes and the two of them went upstairs and spoke still
more earnestly to Millicent. Soon after, the rain having ceased, Mr.
Princey took a stroll round the stable yard.
He came back and went to the telephone. “Put me through to Lyston
police station,” said he. “Quickly … Hullo, is that the police station?
This is Mr. Princey, of Abbott’s Laxton. I’m afraid something rather
terrible has happened up here. Can you send someone at once?”