Fen Country by Edmund Crispin Read Free Book Online Page A

caught by a woman’s handkerchief, lipstick stained, which lay on the dresser, and which Mrs. Blench, following his glance, thrust into her pocket with a murmured apology. Mrs. Blench wore no make-up of any kind; it was to be presumed, therefore, that Bessie had taken advantage of the gap between his aunt’s departure and his own arrival to pay a visit.
    In accordance as much with his own inclination as with his aunt’s instructions, Wyndham locked up carefully that night; then, having undressed, swallowed a sleeping-pill and presently contrived to drop off. This time, however, his slumber lasted little more than an hour and he knew from experience that it was useless to try to recapture it once it had gone. Cursing, he sat up in bed and groped for a cigarette. Outside, it was a still night; and—
    But was it so still? Just what was that rustling and trampling in the garden?
    Thoroughly disquieted, Wyndham got out of bed and went to the window; and what he saw caused him to fling it open, calling out.
    At the bottom of the garden, where there was a gap giving access to the forest proper, lit by a gibbous moon but barred with shadow, two indistinct figures struggled and swayed. Even as Wyndham watched, one of them seemed to break away and the other to fall… Bedroom slippers; staircase; and so out through the unbolted back door.
    Thus it was that he came to Mrs. Blench, where she lay fully dressed, panting and exhausted, beside the rubbish-heap. But her assailant was gone; and when he moved to follow, Mrs. Blench caught at him and held him, fiercely.
    “I told her I knew about this Bessie creature,” said Wyndham after lunch next day, remembering the serio-comic “dialogue” which had followed the previous night’s events, “and she didn’t attempt to deny that that was who it had been. Police, I said—wrote, rather. But no, she wasn’t bringing the police into it, not to set them on to her own flesh and blood. I don’t know what to do. It’s obvious the sister’s lurking about somewhere in this neighborhood. And although it’s possible I’ve scared her off for good, I shouldn’t like to bank on it.”
    Gervase Fen, who had dropped in on his way back from Southampton to London, and who had been told the whole story in detail, said thoughtfully: “No, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the end of it yet… Have you been out today at all?”
    “Not so far.”
    “Good. I shouldn’t, if I were you. Stay in the house—or the garden—and keep an eye on things. Look here, could you put me up for the night? I know you’re not in the mood for visitors, but—”
    “I’d be glad to,” said Wyndham, sincerely. “You think something more is going to happen tonight, do you?”
    “Yes. We’re not going to face it alone, either. If you’ll excuse me for an hour or so, I’ll drive into Lyndhurst and have a word with the inspector there.”
    With the result that that night, a decent interval after having apparently retired to bed, two male figures might have been seen descending shakily from their bedroom windows. “We’ll lay our ambush well away from the house,” Fen had said; and in fact they were some distance into the forest before they came to their rendezvous with the police. For more than an hour the party waited vainly, then at long last came footsteps—but moving away from the direction of the cottage, Wyndham noticed, not toward it. For a moment this perplexed him—until he realized that this must be Mrs. Blench, not Bessie; that Mrs. Blench was boldly (or foolhardily) seeking her sister out in order to—
    That was when the figure actually came into view. In the leaf-filtered moonlight it had a curiously humped look, and it was moving slowly, apparently with effort… It came closer. It was there. And suddenly the powerful beam of the inspector’s torch was shining on Mrs. Blench’s face, and on the thing that she carried…
    He said: “Bessie Moulford, I arrest you for the murder of your