There remained only to set up a scapegoat, just in case by any chance the fact that Elsa had not drowned naturally might come to light. He began to drop small hints into the receptive ear of Mrs. Butcher. Mrs. Butcher was ever so surprised that Mrs. Fletcher-Store should care to go swimming all alone even on these moonlit nights. ‘Yes… Well…’ said Gerald, not actually speaking the words: ‘if she is alone.’ And permitted himself a sigh and resolutely went forward with the work. And he would see Elsa off—taking his time about it, to accustom Mrs. Butcher to a ten-minute absence—and come back into the room wearing a troubled look, a look of wretchedness resigned. ‘Got to put a good face on things,’ he once volunteered to Mrs. Butcher; and seemed about to blurt out confidences but, thorough gentleman that he was, bit the words back. Mrs. Butcher exuded sympathetic understanding but remained mute. What she thought of Mr. Fletcher-Store’s Raff reminiscences also remained unspoken.
The day came: an evening of moonlight, conveniently obscured by drifting patches of cloud. While Mrs. Butcher sorted out her work, he walked to the gate with Elsa and a short way down the path, as he had recently taken to doing ‘to be out of the woman’s way—she gets into such a flap’. Beyond the gate were some heavy rhododendron bushes and behind these he had left the bucket of salt water, and beside the bucket, the fleece-lined jacket. ‘Good heavens,’ said Elsa, in her irritable way, ‘what on earth’s that doing here?’
‘I must have dropped it,’ he said, not bothering what excuse he made; and stooped and picked it up. And in a moment it was round her body, back to front, and tightly belted, pinning her arms to her sides, its over-long sleeves muffling her hands and the possibility of scratching claws. And he had whipped out the bucket and pushed her head into it. She fought and struggled with all her wiry strength but he was half her weight again, and she strait-jacketed in wool and leather. Even before he could have hoped for it, it was all over. He pushed the body in beneath the bushes, tipped the water out of the bucket, hurried back to the shed and, with the jacket, left it there. And in no time at all, was back with Mrs. Butcher, the glass of whisky in his hand: it was a naughty little secret he had taught her to share with him, to account for passing minutes; this time he had had it all ready to hand. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘let’s get on.’
But the hand that held the glass was shaking and, ‘You look rather pale, Mr. Fletcher-Store,’ said Mrs. Butcher, all little-woman concern.
Even this he had been prepared for. ‘Damn hand’s pretty painful,’ he confessed. ‘Didn’t want to say anything.’ And indeed the struggle with Elsa had wrenched unpleasantly at the bandages, the whole thing was now violently throbbing. ‘Digging celery today; probably opened up the wounds a bit.’ He had even dug some celery, to make that ring true.
‘I don’t think you should be using it, honestly I don’t, for all this heavy outdoor work.’
‘Someone has to do it. Not that I mean… Clever woman, my wife, you know,’ said Gerald, stoutly. ‘Got to stick to her writing—that’s where the money lies. Famous in her day, you know. Not much fun for her, stuck out here,’ he added, after what appeared to be a moment’s rueful reflection. ‘Not after all that. Damn good-looking she was, you know, and a bit of a girl for the—’ But he broke off and looked away and took a gulp of whisky. ‘All quite innocent, Mrs. Butcher, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Mrs. Butcher, playing up to dear Mr. Fletcher-Store’s conjugal loyalty.
‘Not many people around here, Mrs. Butcher? I mean,’ he said, putting on an air of surreptitiously feeling his way, ‘not many people of—well, of our sort of age, you know? No one she could pal up with?—she and I, of course I mean.’
But no, Mrs. Butcher knew of nobody this side of Hartling and after that it was, well a very church-y crowd, all centring on the Cathedral, all as it were turning their backs on this part of the country and facing towards the city. ‘It’s mostly farm-hands and so on, who go to the pub in Hartling; even the farmers go into town for their amusements, in these days of fast cars. Fred, my husband, he works for old Lord Hartling, you see, or we wouldn’t be living out this way, I can assure you. If, any time,’ said Mrs. Butcher, timidly, ‘you and Mrs. Fletcher-Store would care to drop in on us for an evening… But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much company for someone like her…’
Mr. Fletcher-Store made civil noises but she could see how abstractedly he gazed out of the window towards the bay where his lady supposedly disported herself in and out of the water with her problematical love. ‘Well, I suppose we must get on, or we shall never get done.’