The Croaking Raven

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I suppose most young babies look much alike,” said Dame Beatrice. The old man—Laura still thought of him as an old man, in spite of his self-declared age—shot a swift and suspicious glance at her, as though he suspected that there was something behind this apparently innocent observation.

  “A lot less alike as they get older—even twins,” he said. “Anyway, when it comes to claiming Dysey Castle, Eustace has—or had—nothing to fear from me. Wouldn’t have the mouldering old death-trap for anything you could offer me, especially after Tom’s tumble. Something damned odd about that, you know. Always wondered whether Etta worked it. You see, between ourselves—and, as he’s dead and buried now, it don’t matter a cuss either way—there’s not much doubt Tom went to that tower to meet a woman, and, from what little I know of Etta, she isn’t the gal to stand for anything like that, house-party or no house-party, high jinks or no high jinks.”

  “So there were high jinks, were there?” asked Dame Beatrice. “Setting that aside, however, it strikes me as curious that, since he was dead at the time, Thomas Dysey seems to have signed the lease for my tenancy of the castle.”

  “Eh? What was that again?”

  “The contract I received had been signed by someone calling himself T. H. V. Dysey—and, of course, we have this ghost who sings.”

  “Well, I’ll go so far as to admit that a ghost might sing, but I do not think a ghost would eat. What’s your opinion?” said the owner of the chalet, totally ignoring the question of the signature on the lease.

  “It coincides with yours, except that I am not prepared to believe that a ghost might sing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know so much,” said Laura. “There have been stories—real-life ones, I mean. What about the Drummer of Tedworth and all those bell-ringing ghosts? Then it’s said that the ghost of the Black Prince is sometimes accompanied by the sound of music, and what about the boy with the flute at Liphook? Then there is the organ-player in some church in Herefordshire, and that other one in a theatre in York—”

  “None of them seems to have sung,” Dame Beatrice pointed out. “However, no doubt Mrs. Dysey signed the agreement. You said that her name is Etta, shortened, no doubt, from Henrietta, and H. is the second initial of the signature. Tell us more about the house-party, Mr. Dysey.”

  “Don’t know that there’s any more to tell. No idea who Tom was likely to date up in the small hours, if that’s what you mean. Hadn’t noticed any goings-on—not that I should. Not my line, that kind of thing. Never had much time for women—not that I’d blame any man for wanting a change from Etta. Don’t know why she couldn’t use her full name. Henrietta’s all right. Dignified, old-fashioned sort of name. Etta’s like something out of one of those idiotic novelettes women used to read in my young days. Henry’s called after her, but I don’t suppose she wants to remember that. The Etta business came about because of it, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Neither of the ladies cared to comment upon this indication of a pre-nuptial escapade on the part of Mrs. Dysey, and Laura went on with the previous subject.

  “Were there many guests?” she asked. “At the house-party, I mean.”

  “Depends what you call ‘many.’ There were Tom and Etta, me, Eustace, Binns (who’s a doctor), Mrs. Binns, the vicar and his wife—over from Ravens Dysey, you know—and a couple of second cousins of some sort—goodness knows where Etta dug them up—silly girls, giggled most of the time. No young men there for them to flirt with, I suppose. Oh, and the Chief Constable and his wife were invited, but did not accept.”

  “How convenient,” Dame Beatrice remarked.

  “Eh? I don’t follow you.” Again he turned his suspicious glance on her and then on Laura.

  “I beg your pardon. I was thinking aloud,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Bad habit. Might land you in trouble. Talk in your sleep?”

  “I really have no idea. My husbands were too kind to remark upon it if I did, but unfortunately their testimony, one way or the other, is no longer available to us.”

  “Oh, a widow, are you?”

  “Thrice.”

  “Well, you look pretty well on it. What d’you do? Poison ’em off?”

  “No, neither did they commit suicide, oddly enough.”

  To Laura’s relief—although she had a feeling that Dame Beatrice, who took a beautifully detached view of life in general, and of the eccentricities of most of her acquaintances in particular, was enjoying the outrageous conversation—the boat now came chugging back to the landing-stage and its occupants stepped ashore.

  “I must have an outboard engine fitted to my pram dinghy,” said Hamish, coming up to his mother, “as soon as I can afford it. A one-to-two h.p., you know. Mr. Henry says you don’t want to over-power your craft. His is a four-horse, but then his dinghy is a great deal bigger than mine. Sometimes he sails her, and then she’s almost a yacht. Oh, and he’s promised to let me be in control of her after tea, when we take her out again.”

  “We’re not staying to tea,” said Laura.

  “Not? But, mamma, we’ve been invited! Mr. Henry says his housekeeper has been cooking cakes and making savouries all the afternoon.”

  “Of course you’re invited. Took it for granted,” said the older Dysey. “Can’t disappoint my housekeeper. Of course you’re invited, young fellow, and if Mrs. Dysey’s cooking doesn’t give you nightmare, nothing will. Go along to the kitchen with Henry, and see what she’s up to. You may be given a taste or two—who knows?—but don’t eat too much and spoil your tea.”

  “Right. Thanks awfully! Being on the water makes you hungry, doesn’t it?” said Hamish. He went with Henry to the chalet.

  “Nice little lad. You two his mother and father?” asked Mr. Dysey, as Gavin sat on the grass beside his wife’s chair.

  “So we have always believed,” Gavin replied.

  “Just thought I’d ask. Henry’s a fly-by-night, you see. Wrong side of the blanket. Adopted him when he was three. Henry thinks I’m his father, but I ain’t—oh, not by a long chalk. Swore my housekeeper to eternal secrecy. Price of her silence was to marry her. Haven’t regretted it. She knows her place and keeps to it. Henry thinks she’s my second wife and that his own mother is dead.”

  “Then why does he call you his uncle?” demanded Laura, who felt that Dysey could scarcely expect to be the monopolist of embarrassing questions.

  “Eh? Oh, that’s his idea of fun. Come on. Time for tea.” He got up, offered (surprisingly) a gallant hand to Dame Beatrice to help her out of her deckchair, and escorted her across the lawn. Gavin jumped up, gave Laura a kiss, which she promptly rubbed off, and said,

  “Something a trifle odd about that bird. I entirely agree with your summing-up of him. He’s far too informative. What did he talk about before I happened along?”

  “Goodness knows! I think he’s mad,” said Laura, “and he was horribly rude to Mrs. Croc. And you’re not to take mean advantages when I’m in a deckchair and can’t fend you off.”

  “Beg pardon. Yes, that swan over there does seem to wear a slightly disapproving look. Come on. Somebody mentioned tea.”

  “By the way,” said Laura, as they walked towards the chalet, “this older brother who was killed. You’ve made it clear that the police suspected murder, but what was the verdict at the inquest?”

  “Death by Misadventure. Although impoverished, the Dyseys, it seems, are still an important family hereabouts, and I suppose a local jury weren’t going to stick their necks out further than they could help. Incidentally, your idea that our Mrs. Dysey is staying here doesn’t seem to work out.”

  “No. The so-called housekeeper certainly isn’t our Mrs. Dysey.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Internal Evidence

  “An earthly nourrice sits and sings,

  And aye she sings, ’Ba, lily wean!

  Little ken I my bairn’s father,

  Far less the land that he staps in.”

  The Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie


  The following day was Saturday, and Gavin had decided to spend most of the morning in a complete exploration of the castle, leaving an equally painstaking survey of the house until the servants had gone off for the afternoon and evening. He was to leave early enough on Monday morning to reach his Scotland Yard office at ten. Jonathan and Deborah, with Jonathan driving, and the chauffeur George, bringing Dame Beatrice’s car, were due to arrive at the castle in time for tea. Jonathan was coming by way of Evesham and Warwick, George direct from London.

  “Very satisfactory,” commented Gavin, when, on the Saturday morning, he received the news of these arrivals. “So long as Jon is here, I shan’t lose any sleep.”

  Having said this, and meant it, he went off on his tour of inspection. He began it at the gatehouse. If only he had had another man at his disposal, he would have suggested that they should tour the walls and the flanking towers in opposite directions. By this means, any lurking trespasser must have been caught.

  The gatehouse at Dysey Castle was of simple pattern, consisting of two sturdy towers each with its spiral staircase. These towers were joined above the archway by a small square chamber which had been the porter’s room. It could be entered from one of the towers, but not from the other, as it had only one doorway. The newel staircase in the “blind” tower was continued upwards, however, and led to an archway opening on to the battlements, so that it was possible to make a complete circuit of the outer defences.

  With this in mind, Gavin walked out on to the parapet of the curtain walls and began his tour. He went slowly, and subjected every yard of the way to a keen scrutiny. In one of the embrasures of the crenellation between two merlons he noticed a piece of paper. On going forward to inspect it, he saw that it was a pound note affixed to the stonework by a lavish amount of chewing gum. He left it where it was and continued his tour, but there was nothing else of note and he did not mention his find to the others until he returned from depositing the servants at the bus stop after lunch.

  “I shall wait up tonight,” he told Dame Beatrice, “and see whether I can catch the blighter red-handed. I suppose it’s pretty obvious who he is, but he can’t make free of our premises, even if he is prepared to pay for the food he takes from our larder.”

  “You mean he is my ex-patient,” said Dame Beatrice. “It is likely enough. I wonder what his object is in haunting the castle like this?”

  “That’s what I mean to find out. It’s a very odd way to behave, look at it how you will, unless he’s suffered a relapse since you had him, and has gone off his head.”

  “I should wish to join you in your vigil tonight. If it is Eustace Dysey, I shall be the best person to question him, since I know him already and can identify him for you.”

  “Right. I shall have to tell Laura what we’re doing, and instruct her to stay in charge of Hamish and the servants. She won’t be very pleased. She’s a spirited lass and loves a spice of adventure. Well, now, I’ll take a good look round the house, and then I’ll take her and Hamish for a drive, if you feel you can cope with the visitors this afternoon.”

  The house yielded nothing of note, and he drove off with his wife and son, leaving Dame Beatrice at the receipt of custom in the gatehouse archway. She had taken with her an ancient leather-covered volume, a diary kept by a Dysey of the eighteenth century. It had been pounced upon, early in their tenancy of the castle, by Hamish, but the difficult, crabbed writing, eccentric spelling and quill penmanship of the diarist had soon defeated the little boy, so Dame Beatrice had been spending time copying out the more interesting items, which Laura had then typed so that her son could enjoy them.

  Dame Beatrice was reading and copying one of these extracts when the first of the visitors turned up, a middle-aged woman on a bicycle. Dame Beatrice put a bookmark to keep her place in the diary, and greeted the newcomer with a welcoming leer. She had a feeling that she had seen her, or someone very like her, before.

  “Half-a-crown?” said the woman. “It seems rather a lot, and, in any case, I am a member of the National Trust, and should come in free of charge.”

  “I am sorry to say that we are not connected with the National Trust. This is private property,” said Dame Beatrice equably. “If you do not wish to pay, you can get quite a good view of the fortifications by walking round the outside of the curtain walls.”

  “Oh, but I’m psychic,” said the woman. “I can achieve a perfect rapport. This place is haunted, of course. Which is the Bloody Tower?” She removed a shabby handbag from the handlebars of her machine and counted out a shilling, two sixpences, a three-penny piece, and three pennies and deposited these in the pudding-basin which did duty as a toll-dish.

  “You would like me to show you the Tudor house first,” suggested Dame Beatrice, “and then you will be at liberty to explore the rest of the buildings for yourself.”

  “You mean I may go round on my own?”

  “Certainly. Come this way, please.”

  “But where did the murder take place?”

  “I do not know of any murder, but I believe a body was found at the foot of that central tower beyond the kitchen garden.”

  “Are there emanations?”

  “I should be sorry to think so, but I am afraid I am not skilled in such matters.”

  “Training and technique make a difference, of course. I studied in Vienna before the war. Scultzmann, you know.”

  Dame Beatrice did not know, but she nodded briskly, said, “Really? How interesting,” and led the way into the house. By the time the woman had come out again into the courtyard, a Women’s Voluntary Services contingent had rolled up in a motor-coach, and two cars were waiting behind it. Dame Beatrice directed the motor-coach on to the grass verge and, mindful of the principle established so successfully by Hamish, mulcted the car drivers of a shilling each and advised them to park in the courtyard.

  By the time she had dealt with the new arrivals, the bicycle and, presumably, its owner, had disappeared. Dame Beatrice had left the Visitors’ Book open on the small table in the gatehouse entrance, and went over to it to find out whether the pupil of Herr Scultzmann had signed her name. There it was—Henrietta Dysey. Dame Beatrice waited until the coach-party were beginning to trickle back and take their seats in their vehicle, and then she went into the house and took the signed lease out of a drawer. The signature, with its three bold initials, was in entirely different writing from that of the Henrietta Dysey in the Visitors’ Book, and, in any case, the woman on the bicycle did not in any way (except in general shabbiness) resemble the châtelaine of Dysey Castle, although she certainly resembled someone.

  Dame Beatrice emptied the pudding-basin of its respectable cargo of half-crowns and other coins, checked the amount, and carried the money into the house. Then she returned to her post, noted that underneath Henrietta Dysey’s signature there appeared another entry, “W.V.S. Party led by Lilian Calder (Mrs.),” and two more marked “P. H. and Mrs. Rush,” and “Thomas Pierce and wife,” and then she sat down to the eighteenth-century diary. She waved a yellow claw in response to the fluttering hands of the W.V.S. members, and watched the coach back and turn, before she settled down to her studies. The people who had come in the two cars removed themselves unobtrusively, and nobody else turned up at all. At four o’clock Zena the kitchenmaid abandoned her novelette and brought out tea and thin bread-and-butter, a chore which she had wished on herself in gratitude for a kindly hearing of her troubles. At six o’clock she and Dame Beatrice carried the gatehouse paraphernalia indoors and Dame Beatrice resumed work on the diary in her own room. Gavin, Laura, and Hamish returned to the castle at seven.

  After the evening meal of cold consommé, ham, tongue, salad, a sherry trifle, and cheese, Gavin announced his intention of perambulating the curtain walls again before dark. He returned with a ten-shilling note, two half-crowns, a florin, and six pennies, and told Dame Beatrice that the pound note had gone (although much of the chewing-gum remained) and that the seventeen shilli
ngs and sixpence had been left on the floor, the ten-shilling note anchored by the other coins.

  “That must be Henrietta Dysey,” commented Dame Beatrice. “She objected strongly to paying for admission, and has reimbursed herself.”

  “Must be who?” demanded Laura. “You don’t mean the Mrs. Dysey who let us the castle?”

  “No, I do not, but this woman signed the Visitors’ Book in that name, so I imagine she is entitled to it. I shall take pleasure in describing her to the Dyseys at the riverside chalet to see whether they can tell us more about her. The Clan Dysey appears to be a large one. Moreover, this woman reminded me strongly of someone I have seen before.”

  Hamish went to bed without fuss (as usual) at half-past eight, and at ten minutes to ten Laura drove to the bus stop to pick up the three servants in Gavin’s car. Dame Beatrice and Gavin walked out to the gatehouse and carried folding chairs and rugs up the newel stair to the porter’s room to keep watch. Every ten minutes or so, one or other of them stepped out into the open to look and to listen, but there was no sound of singing. At six o’clock on the Sunday morning they went back to the house for breakfast and then retired to bed until lunch at half-past one. No food had disappeared from the larder. Laura, who never needed much sleep, had prowled about in the kitchen regions for the better part of the night, and reported that she had seen and heard nobody.

  “I take it that the pound note was our friend’s farewell gesture,” said Gavin, “but I’m just as glad Jon’s coming, all the same.”

  Half-way through the afternoon, Dysey and Henry turned up. They gave no explanation of their visit, stayed to tea and, when tea was over and the evening had advanced almost to sunset, still gave no indication of departure.