As it happened, she had no need to do so, for, at this moment, the vicar, who had been pursuing his studies in the Dysey library every evening, was shown in. He was carrying the tome in question. He had heard from old Mrs. Carter, Jerry’s grandmother, of the strange behaviour of the thief, and, upon examining the returned Bible, had come to certain conclusions which, in some excitement, he proceeded to impart.
“Here,” he said, laying the weighty and bulky book on the table and placing his right hand upon it, “we have a mine of information for which I am duly grateful.”
“The branches of the Dysey family tree, I am led to suppose,” said Dame Beatrice. “Laura informs me that these were often delineated at the front of the Family Bible.”
“She is right. In this particular case, the nicknames of some of the family are given, in addition to their baptismal names. Affectionately intended, no doubt, but, to my mind, in questionable taste when inscribed in the forefront of Holy Writ.” He smiled, and opened the heavy, leather-covered wooden boards of the book after he had unfastened the clumsy brass hasps which held them together. Dame Beatrice and Laura came to stand one on either side of him.
A series of egg-shaped lozenges, outlined in pale green and gold, and covered in the spidery writing of the middle and later nineteenth-century feminine calligrapher met the eye. One Thomas Dysey had been born, it appeared, in 1862 and had married Charlotte (maiden name omitted) in 1886. They had had issue. These were William (Wormwood) born 1887, married Nancy Wilkes 1909, died in battle 1916, Rowena (Rosemary) born 1888, died 1898, Lallie (Lavender) born 1890, died 1898 (presumably of the same infectious illness as had carried off her elder sister) and Charlotte (Charity) born 1892, married 1910 to Gerald Carter.
From William’s marriage came Thomas (Tom) born 1912, married Etta Frome 1938, killed by accident 1962, Eustace (Mushy) and Cyril (Cyclops), twins, born 1914. The death of Eustace was not recorded. From Tom came Bonamy, born 1940, and from Charlotte’s marriage to Gerald came John, born 1913, married Alice Dukes 1937, and from this marriage came Gerald (Jerry) born 1939, married Kate Marchbank 1963, and this marriage produced another John (Jacky), born 1965.
Dame Beatrice and Laura left the vicar to his note-taking and went down to the pleasant little morning-room on the ground floor.
“So if the Ravens’ Hoard is ever found,” said Laura, “it looks to me as though the Carters stand to get the lion’s share of it.”
“Really?” said Dame Beatrice. “What has suggested such a conclusion?”
“Your Mrs. Harrison. Doesn’t she say ‘Wormwood, Rosemary, and Lavender one each, Charity two?’ ”
Dame Beatrice eyed her secretary respectfully.
“I thought that even you, my dear Laura, would hardly have interpreted my thoughts so soon,” she said. “Of course, we may be jumping to conclusions, but the Dysey nicknames do appear to have some significance, and it certainly seems that the Carters may be more fortunate than the Dyseys if the Hoard is ever found.”
“The return of the Family Bible via the pig-sty indicates that. Whoever returned it that way must have been pretty sick about something, I’d say, and the Carters had no reason to steal their own Bible and chuck it about,” said Laura.
“But that would seem to argue that somebody—whoever purloined that Bible from the home farm—has knowledge of where the Hoard is hidden.”
“Yes, but perhaps not enough knowledge, don’t you think? I mean, if he knows where it is, what’s to prevent him freezing on to it and keeping his mouth shut?”
“Nothing, so far as I can see.”
“Ergo, he hasn’t found it, and he realises that it won’t do him much good when he does.”
“I should have thought that it would be of considerable advantage to all the Dyseys, their finances being in the parlous state of which we have cognisance. My own opinion is that the thief returned the Bible in the manner he did because he dared not risk breaking into the farmhouse a second time.”
“Then why return it at all?”
“Well, look at it,” suggested Dame Beatrice. “Pick it up. What do you suppose it weighs?”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Laura. “Not exactly the sort of thing you could shove away under your shirts and ties if you wanted to keep it hidden. But won’t the murderer have another cut at casing the joint here, if he feels he’s on the trail of the treasure?”
“I think the castle will entertain another uninvited visitor, if that is what you mean, but I also think that this invasion is unlikely until after we have given up our tenancy.”
“Whom do you think pinched the Bible from the farmhouse?”
“What I think is not evidence.”
“Here, I’ll tell you what is evidence!” cried Laura, in sudden excitement. “It came to me as I spoke of casing the joint! The concealed entrance! The third entrance and exit! The way into the priest’s hole that we’ve known must be there, but haven’t found! I know where it is! Eureka!”
“Dear me!” remarked Dame Beatrice in the mildest of tones.
“Come on!” urged Laura. “I’ll show you. Better bring a torch. It’s getting dark.” She led the way to the side door. From the kitchen came a voice with the pronounced accent of the countryside monotonously counting in French from one to twenty. Zena, Dame Beatrice realised, was under instruction from Henri and Celestine. Laura, who was carrying the torch, led the way across the courtyard and into the kitchen garden. A paved way led beside the vegetable plot to the flanking wall of the castle, and the tower where Thomas Dysey’s body had been found.
“Now,” said Laura, in low, conspiratorial tones, “to find the way in.” She shone the torch on the bottom steps of the newel staircase. “I remembered Bellairs telling me that these last two are only of wood,” she went on. “He thought it was some sort of repair job, but it suddenly dawned on me that it must be another door to the priest’s hole.”
Dame Beatrice said nothing. She laid a skinny claw on Laura’s arm. They listened. Coming from somewhere beneath their feet, it seemed, was the sound of somebody moving about.
“I think,” Dame Beatrice murmured, “that we had better leave exploration until the morning. George will be in the kitchen with the others. We will tell him and Henri to wrap up warmly. With beer and cigarettes they will, no doubt, be happy enough to sit on cushions on these steps for an hour or two.”
Having carried out this plan and returned to the morning-room, they resumed their meditations upon the entries on the fly-leaves of the Family Bible, and Laura said, “I see. You mean that, when somebody was glancing through the Family Bible, probably, at the time, just for something to do, it struck him or her that this Wormwood, Rosemary, Lavender, and Charity business had something more in it than met the eye? I bet you’re right, at that. Well, where do we go from here?”
This question was answered by the vicar, who, having tapped on the door, came in looking agitated.
“Dame Beatrice,” he said, “I think you ladies would be well advised to barricade yourselves in this room. With your permission, I will ask your servants to do the same in the kitchen while I deal with the situation. There is a miscreant in the house.”
“Dear me!” said Dame Beatrice. “What makes you think so?”
“I did not trouble to close the library door when you and Mrs. Gavin left me, and I have been aware for some time of strange noises emanating from the dining-room. I took no notice at first, but they became so persistent that I abandoned my researches and went into the dining-room in an essay to find out the cause of the disturbance. It seems to come from somewhere near the fireplace.”
“Golly! The priest’s hole!” said Laura, trying to sound surprised. “Let’s take a look.” Before either her employer or the vicar could say a word, she was out of the room and bounding up the broad, shallow treads of the oak staircase which led to the first floor and the principal rooms of the house. Dame Beatrice darted after her, and the vicar followed, but, before approaching the dining-room, D
ame Beatrice made for her own room and picked up the powerful electric torch she kept there. The vicar ran into the library and picked up the heavy hod of coal which held pride of place beside the Tudor hearth. Then he entered the dining-room, and, unable, in its evening gloom, to see anything, cried lustily, banging the hod of coal upon the wooden floor,
“Come out, sir! Come out of there at once! And have a mind upon your health! I am armed!”
“Stout work!” said Laura, almost in his ear. “Ah, here comes Mrs. Croc., the lady with the lamp!”
Dame Beatrice had brought not only her torch but a box of matches. Giving Laura the torch to hold, she directed her to focus its beam upon the long dining-table, which was plentifully furnished with candles in imitation silver sconces. These candles the temporary head of the house proceeded to light. Having done this, she approached the roped-off embrasure beside the fireplace to the accompaniment of a fusillade of blows from inside the panelling. She took a small whistle from her pocket and blew three short blasts on it.
The hammering ceased. She called out,
“Who are you?”
There was no verbal reply, or, at any rate, none that the listeners could hear, for the frenzied knocking broke out again immediately. Laura stepped up to her employer and said,
“I’d better open up, don’t you think?” Before Dame Beatrice could reply, she had stepped over the rope which cordoned off that corner of the room and the door in the panelling swung slowly open as the floor sank silently beneath her feet. Dame Beatrice directed her torch towards the aperture, and the intruder behind the panelling fell forward and cannoned into Laura, who, thus projected backwards, caught her heel against the back of the lowered square of floorboards and fell over. The vicar flung lumps of coal at the figure which had emerged from the priest’s hole, causing it to shield its head with its arms before it fell over the prostrate Laura.
At this the vicar, in Laura’s phrase, went berserk. Throwing down the hod, which immediately caused lumps of coal to cascade all over that part of the floor, he uttered a series of yelps reminiscent of an American college war-cry, and went into battle. Flinging himself on the enemy, he dragged him off Laura and, lifting him like a sack of coals, dashed him back against the silken rope of the embrasure. This broke, throwing the intruder full length at Dame Beatrice’s feet. She shone her torch into his eyes.
“Ah, it is you, Mr. Cyril,” she said, without obvious surprise. Cyril Dysey rose slowly to his feet and felt the back of his head. The vicar picked up a heavy lump of coal and was balancing it under his chin, in the manner of a man about to put the shot, when Laura picked herself up, and the trap-door and the panelling, taking their time, as usual, gracefully resumed their former positions.
“All right,” grunted Cyril. “No more rough-housing. I’ll come quietly.”
“Not until you are rendered harmless,” said the vicar. “Mrs. Gavin, if you are feeling equal to making the effort, would you kindly remove the handkerchief from my left sleeve and tie Mr. Dysey’s wrists together whilst I prepare to knock his brains out if he resists you? Now, sir, hold out your arms at full length with your wrists placed together.”
The procession down to the morning-room was a ludicrous one. The prisoner was ordered to remain where he was. Dame Beatrice and her torch were requested to descend the stairs and light the way for the others. Laura, who had been commanded to take possession of the dining-room poker, went next. When they were in position at the foot of the staircase the captive followed, attended closely by the vicar and the lump of coal.
“And now,” said Dame Beatrice mildly, when the procession had reached the morning-room, “perhaps Mr. Cyril will explain his uninvited presence in the castle at this hour of the evening. Please be seated, vicar. I do not regard Mr. Dysey as a menace to our safety.”
“No, of course I’m not,” said Cyril, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d untie my wrists. All this was quite unnecessary. I can explain everything.”
The vicar took the poker in masterful manner from Laura, and stood over the pair of them while she untied the knotted handkerchief.
“Yes?” prompted Dame Beatrice, when this operation was completed.
“I couldn’t find the dratted lever in the dark. Thought I knew just where to put my hand on it, but I haven’t been in the priest’s hole for more than twenty years, and I suppose one forgets, that’s all.”
“But how did you get into it in the first place?” demanded Laura. “Talk about breaking and entering!” she added severely.
“I know, I know. No need to make a song and dance! I’m in the wrong, I suppose.”
“What made you put yourself in the wrong?” Dame Beatrice asked. Cyril Dysey looked at her.
“Never mind that now,” he said. “Bonamy’s come home. I’m so upset I don’t really know what I’m doing. Makes it seem as though all’s been done in vain.”
“Upset, sir!” cried the vicar indignantly, before either of the others had an opportunity to ask what Dysey meant. “You are not the person to feel upset! Do you realise that, but for my fortuitous presence, these ladies might have been frightened out of their wits?”
Laura caught Dame Beatrice’s eye and grinned, but neither of them denied this slanderous and untruthful supposition. As Laura said later, “Every dog must have his day, and I don’t suppose the vicar has had the chance to be a hero since he gave up playing Rugby football.” To this equally slanderous and untruthful statement, Dame Beatrice replied, “It must take a considerable amount of muscular Christian courage to run a Youth Club in these days, I think, especially in the district where he worked before he came to Ravens Dysey.”
But before this conversation took place, which, needless to say, it did after both the vicar and Cyril Dysey had departed, Dame Beatrice addressed the latter.
“Excuse me for one moment, Mr. Dysey.” She went out of the room, presumably to release George and Henri from their vigil, and soon returned.
* * *
* Science in Crime Detection—Nigel Morland, 1958.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Ravens’ Nest
“Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,*
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en;
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.”
The Twa Corbies
“Mr. Bonamy Dysey is actually in England?” asked Dame Beatrice. “We had heard as much, of course.”
“With wife and child,” said Cyril. “It seems he married a Spanish Moroccan girl named Reina and has an infant son they call Luis.”
“And where are they now?”
“Bedded down at my place. I and my housekeeper are staying at the farm.”
“And Mr. Henry?”
“The police arrested him this afternoon. I wonder whether they’ll have the infernal impudence to arrest me, too? If they do, you’ll have to get us off, you know.”
“Yes, the police will arrest you. I have already sent for them.”
“Eh? Here, what’s this? You’re not going to give me in charge?”
“Am I not?”
“You can’t do it! Anyway, you’re not on the telephone here!”
“No, but my chauffeur is on his way to the home farm with orders from me to telephone the police from there.”
“Oh, nonsense! You haven’t spoken to your man since you got me out of that priest’s hole. I say! It was your man blocking up the exit! You—you—!”
“You can scarcely blame me,” said Dame Beatrice smoothly. “How was I to know who was in the priest’s hole? Anyhow, I expect the police at any moment.”
Her expectations were realised at the end of another hour, for her maid appeared and announced, with her usual disdain, that the police had arrived. The inspector and his sergeant followed her into the room. Cyril Dysey turned purple and began to rise from his chair, but the vicar placed a large hand on his shoulder and thrust him down again.
“Say n
othing, my dear Dysey,” he advised him, “and go quietly. Nothing is proved against you yet. For my own part,” he added, turning to the inspector, “I do not believe him guilty.”
“That’s as maybe, sir,” the inspector replied, and, having charged the fermenting Cyril with breaking and entering, he took him away.
“Well, that takes care of the chalet pair, at any rate for a time,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Did you know the police had arrested Henry?” demanded Laura.
“No, but I thought they might. They have suspected him all along. Anyhow, now that Mr. Bonamy and his son have arrived in the neighbourhood, it is just as well to have Mr. Cyril and Mr. Henry out of the way. I do not know, Vicar, whether you would wish to continue your studies?”
“I think not. I think not. I am emotionally disturbed. I am surprised and very much upset that you should have had such a frightening experience, but I did not think you would have given Mr. Cyril Dysey in charge.”
Dame Beatrice grinned mirthlessly and did not attempt to defend her action.
“And what’s our next move?” asked Laura, when the vicar had gone. “I say, you don’t really think Cyril and Henry are the murderers, do you?”
Dame Beatrice answered the first question, but not the second one.
“We will get George to drive us to the chalet. Mr. and Mrs. Cyril rowed themselves across the river and then he walked here, leaving her to get to the farm where, later, he proposed to join her, but I am not inclined for river banks and the lakeside tonight, so we will take the longer way by road.”
“But what’s the idea? Oh, of course! You think somebody may have a pop at eliminating Bonamy and his kid! In that case, wouldn’t it be a better plan to hand the guard-duty over to the gendarmes?”
“I think not. I do not suspect that an attempt on the lives of Mr. Bonamy and his son will be made tonight, but I shall be surprised if we turn out to be their only visitors.”
“As happens far too often, you speak in riddles. If you don’t suspect that the killers are going to try to do their stuff, why have you had Cyril arrested? The only point in having him and Henry flung into the jug is to make quite certain that if and when an attempt is made on Bonamy, they can’t possibly be implicated. Wasn’t that your idea?”
The Croaking Raven Page 21
