The Moving Finger

Mrs Baker paused and looked at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for reward after doing a particularly clever trick.

‘But why come to me?’ I demanded.

‘I understood, sir, that you’d had one of these nasty letters yourself, and I thought, sir, that being a London gentleman, you’d know what to do about them.’

‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I should go to the police. This sort of thing ought to be stopped.’

Mrs Baker looked deeply shocked.

‘Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t go to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve never been mixed up with the police, sir. None of us ever have.’

‘Probably not. But the police are the only people who can deal with this sort of thing. It’s their business.’

‘Go to Bert Rundle?’

Bert Rundle was the constable, I knew.

‘There’s a sergeant, or an inspector, surely, at the police station.’

‘Me, go into the police station?’

Mrs Baker’s voice expressed reproach and incredulity. I began to feel annoyed.

‘That’s the only advice I can give you.’

Mrs Baker was silent, obviously quite unconvinced. She said wistfully and earnestly:

‘These letters ought to be stopped, sir, they did ought to be stopped. There’ll be mischief done sooner or later.’

‘It seems to me there is mischief done now,’ I said.

‘I meant violence, sir. These young fellows, they get violent in their feelings—and so do the older ones.’

I asked:

‘Are a good many of these letters going about?’

Mrs Baker nodded.

‘It’s getting worse and worse, sir. Mr and Mrs Beadle at the Blue Boar—very happy they’ve always been—and now these letters comes and it sets him thinking things—things that aren’t so, sir.’

I leaned forward:

‘Mrs Baker,’ I said, ‘have you any idea, any idea at all, who is writing these abominable letters?’

To my great surprise she nodded her head.

‘We’ve got our idea, sir. Yes, we’ve all got a very fair idea.’

‘Who is it?’

I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:

‘’Tis Mrs Cleat—that’s what we all think, sir. ’Tis Mrs Cleat for sure.’

I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:

‘Who is Mrs Cleat?’

Mrs Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs Cleat should write these letters, Mrs Baker would only say vaguely that ‘’Twould be like her.’

In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.

I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.

I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his ‘Surgery’. When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.

‘Hallo, it’s you, Burton.’

‘Yes. I want to talk to you.’

I outlined my conversation with Mrs Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.

‘It’s not so simple as that,’ he said.

‘You don’t think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?’

‘She may be. But I should think it most unlikely.’

‘Then why do they all think it is her?’

He smiled.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. Mrs Cleat is the local witch.’

‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless that’s what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isn’t wise to offend. Mrs Cleat came from a family of “wise women”. And I’m afraid she’s taken pains to cultivate the legend. She’s a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. It’s been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, “Yes, he stole my apples last week” or “He pulled my cat’s tail.” Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake they’d baked to give to Mrs Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldn’t “ill wish” them. It’s superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think she’s at the bottom of this.’