THE EVIDENCE OF ELSIE BATT
Sergeant O’Connor was unkindly nicknamed by his colleagues at the Yard: “The Maidservant’s Prayer.”
There was no doubt that he was an extremely handsome man. Tall, erect, broad-shouldered, it was less the regularity of his features than the roguish and daredevil spark in his eye which made him so irresistible to the fair sex. It was indubitable that Sergeant O’Connor got results, and got them quickly.
So rapid was he, that only four days after the murder of Mr. Shaitana, Sergeant O’Connor was sitting in the three-and-sixpenny seats at the Willy Nilly Revue side by side with Miss Elsie Batt, late parlourmaid to Mrs. Craddock of 117 North Audley Street.
Having laid his line of approach carefully, Sergeant O’Connor was just launching the great offensive.
“—Reminds me,” he was saying, “of the way one of my old governors used to carry on. Name of Craddock. He was an old cuss, if you like.”
“Craddock,” said Elsie. “I was with some Craddocks once.”
“Well, that’s funny. Wonder whether they were the same?”
“Lived in North Audley Street, they did,” said Elsie.
“My lot were going to London when I left them,” said O’Connor promptly. “Yes, I believe it was North Audley Street. Mrs. Craddock was rather a one for the gents.”
Elsie tossed her head.
“I’d no patience with her. Always finding fault and grumbling. Nothing you did right.”
“Her husband got some of it, too, didn’t he?”
“She was always complaining he neglected her—that he didn’t understand her. And she was always saying how bad her health was and gasping and groaning. Not ill at all, if you ask me.”
O’Connor slapped his knee.
“Got it. Wasn’t there something about her and some doctor? A bit too thick or something?”
“You mean Dr. Roberts? He was a nice gentleman, he was.”
“You girls, you’re all alike,” said Sergeant O’Connor. “The moment a man’s a bad lot, all the girls stick up for him. I know his kind.”
“No, you don’t, and you’re all wrong about him. There wasn’t anything of that kind about him. Wasn’t his fault, was it, if Mrs. Craddock was always sending for him? What’s a doctor to do? If you ask me, he didn’t think nothing of her at all, except as a patient. It was all her doing. Wouldn’t leave him alone, she wouldn’t.”
“That’s all very well, Elsie. Don’t mind me calling you Elsie, do you? Feel as though I’d known you all my life.”
“Well, you haven’t! Elsie, indeed.”
She tossed her head.
“Oh, very well, Miss Batt.” He gave her a glance. “As I was saying, that’s all very well, but the husband, he cut up rough, all the same, didn’t he?”
“He was a bit ratty one day,” admitted Elsie. “But, if you ask me, he was ill at the time. He died just after, you know.”
“I remember—died of something queer, didn’t he?”
“Something Japanese, it was—all from a new shaving brush, he’d got. Seems awful, doesn’t it, that they’re not more careful? I’ve not fancied anything Japanese since.”
“Buy British, that’s my motto,” said Sergeant O’Connor sententiously. “And you were saying he and the doctor had a row?”
Elsie nodded, enjoying herself as she relived past scandals.
“Hammer and tongs, they went at it,” she said. “At least, the master did. Dr. Roberts was ever so quiet. Just said, ‘Nonsense.’ And, ‘What have you got into your head?’”
“This was at the house, I suppose?”