Villainy at Vespers by Joan Cockin

Author:Joan Cockin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Galileo Publishing
Published: 2022-11-07T10:27:20+00:00

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1 The chart was as formidable as Cam feared, and as it only contained information which has already been given to the reader we can spare him a reproduction.

CHAPTER XI

The sigh of a soul tried beyond endurance came from Honeywether’s direction. Distressed as he was by Miss Cornthwaite’s tears, Cam could hardly suppress a grin at his colleague’s accumulating trials. The silence into which fell explosively Miss Cornthwaite’s unpractised sobs became increasingly oppressive. Cam got up and put a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

“That’s all right, now,” he said kindly. “You’re safe now, whatever has happened. But cry a little more and you’ll feel better.”

The head-mistress blew her nose firmly, adjusted a hatpin which had held her felt hat in position throughout and looked at Cam with cold rebuke. “I’ve no intention whatsoever of crying,” she said. “Cry indeed! What rubbish!” With a deep breath she recovered her poise and she turned again to Honeywether with grim self-possession. “Well?” she enquired. “What do you intend to do about it, Inspector? Is everyone in tire village to be murdered without the police raising a finger? Is assault and battery to become the official Trevelley pastime?”

“Madam,” replied Honeywether aggressively, “if you would have the goodness to tell me what has happened I may be able to help. You come in here and say that someone’s been trying to murder you! Well, I can’t just take your word for it, you know. You’ll have to give me some evidence.” The Inspector’s tone was that of someone who is sick and tired of people rushing to him every other minute with murder to report.

“Is it likely,” Miss Cornthwaite asked with acerbity, “that I should tell such a silly story unless it were true? You aren’t suggesting that I am a notoriety seeker, I hope—an exhibitionist?” She paused for a moment to glare at Honeywether, who merely repeated:

“Well, ma’am? Your story; your story.”

“Half an hour ago,” Miss Cornthwaite recited in a businesslike way, “I was walking along the cliffs towards Poltherow. I was alone. There was no one in sight. I had met no one since leaving the village except Mrs. Copperman, who was returning to the village from the American children’s camp. Just before you reach the camp there is a rock in the cliff-top which juts seaward some three feet. Although it looks precarious it is very comfortable and perfectly safe. Quite often I watch the sunset from there and indeed at all times of day you will find someone or other—usually visitors, of course—sitting upon it admiring the view. You call it Peter’s Perch locally, I believe. When I reached this spot I sat down. It was very quiet. I saw no one either upon the cliffs or down below me on the sand at the foot of the cliffs, although, in admiring the view, I looked all round me.” Miss Cornthwaite took a deep breath and went on rather rapidly. “I had been sitting there about ten minutes.

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