Bell drew in his breath. “You take it cool.”
“Only way to take it,” Reggie murmured, and Bell shifted uncomfortably. He has remarked since that he had seen Mr. Fortune look like that once or twice before - sort of inhuman, heartless, and inquisitive - but there it seemed all wrong, it didn’t seem his way at all.
Reggie settled himself in his chair and spoke - so Bell has reported, and this is the only criticism which annoys Mr. Fortune - like a lecturer. “Several possibilities to be considered. The boy may be merely a precocious rascal. Having committed some iniquity which the little girl knew about, he tried to drown her to stop her giving him away. Common type of crime, committed by children as well as their elders.”
“I know it is,” Bell admitted. “But what could he have done that was worth murdering his sister?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. However. He did steal. Proved twice by independent evidence. Don’t blame if you don’t want. ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’ I agree. Quite rational to admit that consideration. We shall certainly want it. But he knew he was a thief; lie knew it got him into trouble - that’s fundamental.”
“All right,” said Bell gloomily. “We have to take it like that.”
“Yes. No help. Attempt to murder sister may be connected with consciousness of sin. I should say it was. However. Other possibilities. He’s a poor little mess of nerves; he’s unsound, physically, mentally, spiritually. He may not have meant to murder her at all; may have got in a passion and not known what he was doing.”
“Ah. That’s more likely.” Bell was relieved.
“You think so? Then why did he tell everybody he did mean to murder her?”
“Well, he was off his head, as you were saying. That’s the best explanation of the whole thing. It’s really the only explanation. Look at your first idea: he wanted to kill her so she couldn’t tell about some crime he’d done. You get just the same question, why did he say he meant murder? He must know killing is worse than stealing. However you take the thing, you work back to his being off his head.”
Reggie’s eyelids drooped. “I was brought here to say he’s mad. Yes. I gather that. You’re a merciful man, Bell. Sorry not to satisfy your gentle nature. I could swear he’s mentally abnormal. If that would do any good. I couldn’t say he’s mad. I don’t know. I can find you mental experts who would give evidence either way.”
“I know which a jury would believe,” Bell grunted.
“Yes. So do I. Merciful people, juries. Like you. Not my job. I’m lookin’ for the truth. One more possibility. The boy’s motive was just what he said it was - to kill his little sister so she shouldn’t get wicked and go to hell. That fits the other facts. He’d got into the way of stealing; it had been rubbed into him that he was doomed to hell. So, if he found her goin’ the same way, he might think it best she should die while she was still clean.”
“Well, if that isn’t mad!” Bell exclaimed.
“Abnormal, yes. Mad - I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“But it’s sheer crazy, sir. If he believed he was so wicked, the thing for him to do was to pull up and go straight, and see that she did too.”
“Yes. That’s common sense, isn’t it?” A small contemptuous smile lingered a moment on Reggie’s stern face. “What’s the use of common sense here? If he was like this - sure he was going to hell; sure she was bein’ driven there too - kind of virtuous for him to kill her to save her. Kind of rational. Desperately rational. Ever know any children, Bell? Some of ‘em do believe what they’re taught. Some of ‘em take it seriously. Abnormal, as you say. Eddie Hill is abnormal.” He turned and looked full at Bell, his blue eyes dark in the failing light. “Aged twelve or so - too bad to live - or too good. Pleasant case.”
Bell moved uneasily. “These things do make you feel queer,” he grunted. “What it all comes to though - we mean much the same - the boy ought to be in a home. That can be worked.”
“A home!” Reggie’s voice went up, and he laughed. “Yes. Official home for mentally defective. Yes. We can do that. I dare say we shall.” He stood up and walked to the window and looked out at the dusk. “These children had a home of their own. And a mother. What’s she doing about ‘em?”
“She’s been here, half off her head, poor thing,” said Bell. “She wouldn’t believe the boy meant any harm. She told me he couldn’t, he was so fond of his sister. She said it must have been accident.”
“Quite natural and motherly. Yes. But not adequate. Because it wasn’t accident, whatever it was. We’d better go and see mother.”
“If you like,” Bell grunted reluctantly.
“I don’t like,” Reggie mumbled. “I don’t like anything. I’m not here to do what I like.” And they went.
People were drifting home from the common. The mean streets of Blaney had already grown quiet in the sultry gloom. Shutters were up at the little shop which was the home of Eddie Hill, and still bore in faded paint his father’s name. No light showed in the windows above. Bell rapped on the door, and they waited in vain. He moved to a house door close beside the shop. “Try this. This may be theirs too,” he said, and knocked and rang.
After a minute it was opened by a woman who said nothing, but stared at them. From somewhere inside came the sound of a man’s voice, talking fervently. The light of the street lamp showed her of full figure, in neat black, and a face which was still pretty but distressed.
“You remember me, Mrs. Brightman,” said Bell. “I’m Superintendent Bell.”
“I know.” She was breathless. “What’s the matter? Are they - is Eddie - what’s happened?”
“They’re doing all right. I just want a little talk with you.”
“Oh, they’re all right. Praise God!” She turned; she called out: “Matthew, Matthew dear, they’re all right.”
The man’s voice went on talking with the same fervour, but not in answer.
