Merlin's Furlong (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  The servant spread his hands again.

  “I do not know. Once the professor was changed for dinner I was free. I come back here to my good and dear Mrs. Richards, and get my supper and help to wash up. Then to my bed-sitter, as one says, and to study those books which I have been able to borrow from the professor’s store.”

  “But what makes you think that Professor Havers gave the diptych to Mr. Aumbry?”

  “I heard them discussing it. Mr. Aumbry had arrived at six o’clock, and before I took Professor Havers up to bathe and to dress him, there were drinks to be brought in, and, of course, the parcel.”

  “Ordinary, normal drinks?”

  “Oh, yes. A very nice sherry and a sidecar I mixed myself.”

  “No cock’s blood, or anything of that sort?”

  “Oh, no!” He laughed joyously. “Nothing like that!”

  “I suppose the magic doll was in the parcel. Had the professor ever used dolls before?”

  “Yes, but brought by him into the house from a destination unknown to me. But once he had a cat image, not a doll. There was a suicide after that, Mrs. Bradley…Mrs. Lestrange Bradley, I should say.”

  Mrs. Bradley left the puzzling man and returned to Moundbury, where she saw the Chief Constable again.

  “Mio capitan,” she observed, “nada tenéis que temer por vuestra tetera.”

  “How much?” the Chief Constable enquired.

  “I merely suggest that you do not worry about your teapot.”

  “Why should I? Don’t care much about tea, anyway.”

  “Oh, don’t you know the story? It’s a good one. A Spanish sailor was cleaning a beautiful solid silver teapot belonging to the captain of his ship when, unfortunately, he dropped it overboard. He went to the captain, and said, ‘Captain, can a thing be said to be lost when one knows all the time where it is?’ The captain replied that of course such a thing could not be lost. ‘Then’ said the sailor, ‘have no fear for your teapot, for I happen to know that it rests on the bottom of the sea.’”

  She smiled encouragingly. The Chief Constable did not seem to find the story amusing.

  “I suppose you mean…” he began. Mrs. Bradley waved an attenuated yellow claw.

  “I don’t mean anything,” she declared, “except that time, which, in due course, is bound to produce the teapot, is also, at present, on our side. What do you make of the maids who disappeared from Merlin’s Castle?”

  “Oh,” said the Chief Constable, his face clearing, “we’ve traced the maids all right. That is to say, there weren’t any. Needless to say, we’re trailing that manservant the boys met and are going to hold him for questioning. But, as it happens, we’ve also hit upon a first-class suspect for the murder of Aumbry.”

  “Any connection with the murder of Professor Havers, I wonder?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Yet the cases, I feel, must be connected.”

  “Yes, dash it, so do I. Could it have been those three boys?”

  Mrs. Bradley shook her head.

  “I really don’t know,” she replied. “And yet they’re mixed up in the business. Somebody who knew that they were coming this way to try to regain the diptych took advantage of the situation, and murder resulted, one feels.”

  “I know. I think the same. But, as far as I can see, the only person who could possibly have known of their coming was Professor Havers himself, and he’s one of the murdered men.”

  “Very difficult. Very difficult, indeed,” said Mrs. Bradley; but her parchment countenance gleamed with unholy joy. “You were saying, however, that you had discovered another person who may have had some interest in the death of Mr. Aumbry.”

  “Yes.” The Chief Constable proceeded to relate the strange story of Mr. Aumbry’s will. “So we’re going to ask Mr. Richmond Aumbry some questions,” he concluded. “Harder questions than we asked him yesterday, I mean.”

  Mrs. Bradley wagged her head sorrowfully.

  “Poor young man,” she observed. “I wonder whether I might see him?”

  “Yes, of course you can. But it does seem rather a coincidence that if Aumbry had lived a little longer he would most probably have remade his will in favour of the nephew whom he had always trusted and liked, Mr. Godfrey Aumbry.”

  “You mean Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite,” said Mrs. Bradley, in a tone of reminiscence. The Chief Constable took no notice. He was not an addict of Wilkie Collins, and did not follow her train of thought. “Where does Mr. Richmond Aumbry live?” Mrs. Bradley added.

  It proved that Richmond Aumbry lived in Wallchester. This might be coincidence only, Mrs. Bradley thought. She put it to the Chief Constable.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “It does seem a bit queer that Havers lodged there, too. Still, there seems no connection between Havers and Richmond Aumbry, and none between Richmond and the university.”

  “Richmond is a poet, you say?”

  “He is alleged to be.”

  “You have not read his work?”

  “Modern poetry is not in my line, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. But it is very much in mine, and I feel that in Richmond’s poetry lies the answer to our smallest and least important riddle.”

  “Which one is that? Oh, you mean whether or not he killed his uncle in order to inherit?”

  “I would like to visit him,” said Mrs. Bradley, without attempting to answer the questions. “Meanwhile, what happens to my clients?”

  “Your what?”

  “My clients. The Three Wise Men. The three gentlemen in the burning fiery furnace. The three men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. The three Norns. The Furies. The crown of triple Hecate. The three hostages of fortune. The Three Musketeers. The three clever monkeys. The three tiers of the royal crown of Egypt. The Three Blind Mice…that more than anything else…two of them, at any rate!”

  “There are two things you haven’t mentioned,” said the Chief Constable.

  “Both might be blasphemous, and blasphemy is the epitome of bad manners. So now for Mr. Richmond Aumbry’s address. For ‘carry the dead corse to the clay, and I’ll come back and comfort thee.’”

  “Comfort well your seven sons,” retorted the Chief Constable. Mrs. Bradley, who had but two, hooted in admiration of this most apposite suggestion and took down the address which the Chief Constable hurriedly dictated. “And now,” he added, “kindly suggest to Richmond Aumbry that the law is not really an ass.”

  “Take things as you find them,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “Law, like pie-crust, was probably made to be broken.”

  “It happens, anyway,” the Chief Constable disconsolately confessed. “Look at these wretched boys! Whether they were actually concerned in the murders or not, the fact remains that they were there…there in both houses, mark you! I’m guilty of suppressio veri and that’s not at all a nice idea to go to bed with.”

  “You should try a wife,” suggested Mrs. Bradley.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Merlin’s Vivien

  “She will fling dragons’ teeth broadcast for you…and sweep away the prodigious crop, and fling more, and show you that, though now a mumbling old crone, she has had a tremendous past.”

  —Noel Pocock, An Adriatic Cruise

  The tall house to which Mrs. Bradley’s chauffeur drove her was on the Milden Road and had obviously come down in the world. The door was opened by a colored girl who made the sign against the evil eye the moment she encountered Merlin’s aunt.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley, “do you live here?”

  The girl stood motionless in fright. Mrs. Bradley walked in and demanded to be taken to Mr. Richmond Aumbry. The girl fled, and Mrs. Bradley was left to contemplate either a hideous bead curtain which screened the kitchen regions from front-door visitors, or, if she preferred it, a sage-green wallpaper about a quarter of which had been torn off by (presumably) childish fingers, since childish scribblings were all over the rest of it to a height of three and a hal
f feet from the floor. The linoleum was in holes, showing unwashed floorboards, and the only decorations, apart from some youthful attempts at art on the bare-plaster patches of the walls, were a couple of pictures hanging from nails. These depicted a sheep struggling in deep snow against a lurid winter sunset, and a dead fish lying across a basket of pears flanked by a jar of hollyhocks.

  A door on the floor above opened, and a man’s voice demanded angrily:

  “Is that you, Phyllis? Or is it Bluna?”

  “It is neither,” Mrs. Bradley replied in her deep and lovely voice. “It is Fear, my little Hunter, it is Fear!”

  “Then come on up,” said the man disgustedly, “and don’t waste my time if you can help it.”

  Mrs. Bradley responded to this invitation by climbing uncarpeted stairs to where a thin, unkempt, unshaven, extremely good-looking young man stood defensively upon the narrow landing.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Aumbry,” she said. “I wonder whether you will be good enough to spare me a few minutes? I’ve come from the Chief Constable with reference to the murder of your uncle at Merlin’s Furlong.”

  “That old Scrooge!” said Richmond. “Can’t he lie still where he is?”

  “I said his murder, Mr. Aumbry.”

  Richmond waved an agitated fountain pen so that a blob of ink flicked irritably on to the wall.

  “What do you want?” he growled. “Here, perhaps you had better come in!”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  In contrast to Richmond, the room into which he admitted her was remarkably neat and clean. He pulled forward an old but quite comfortable armchair, unearthed a packet containing three cigarettes, offered her one, smiled with relief when she refused it, lit one himself, screwed the top on his pen, and then, taking the cigarette from his mouth, said cheerfully:

  “Well, they haven’t arrested me yet.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but unless we can obtain some very definite evidence of your innocence, that is only a question of time.”

  “But I didn’t do it, you know.” He smiled. “Uncle was a nuisance, particularly over that last will. In fact, I’m not at all sure that he hasn’t avenged himself. There’s no hatred like the hatred of love turned sour.”

  “He did once love you, then?”

  “Oh, yes. Until I crossed him for good and all. And, mind you, I quite enjoyed scrapping with him. That’s the devil of it now.”

  “The only devil is remorse,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Granted. Not that I feel overwhelmingly remorseful. But, look here, what do you want?”

  “First, I want to know why Bluna, the late Professor Havers’ woman-servant, is living in this house.”

  “How should I know? You’d better ask Phyllis. We can’t really afford servants, but the poor girl can’t cope with a job and the kids and the house.”

  “Who worked here before Bluna came?”

  “Eh? Oh, a charwoman of sorts. An awful creature…dirty, slack, unreliable, and a sneaker of rationed goods. You know the type.”

  “I have heard of it. It usually works for dirty, slack, unreliable, and slightly unprincipled employers.”

  Richmond Aumbry laughed.

  “Touché,” he said, “but you mustn’t blame anyone but me. Why on earth Phyllis sticks to me I don’t know. And now this wretched business of my unlamented, screw-loose, abominable uncle! What did you say you wanted?”

  “I am sent to find out what light you can throw on your uncle’s death.”

  “None. I’m as much in the dark as everybody else. We all went there, as you probably know. By the way, you’re not from the press, are you?”

  “No. I have no connection whatever with the press. I am a friend of the Chief Constable of South Moundshire and his fellow workers. By profession I am a psychiatrist.”

  “Look here, I’m not mad, you know.”

  “No, no. I quite agree there.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then. I mean, if I’m arrested I’m quite fit to plead. What are my chances, do you think?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” Mrs. Bradley callously replied. “Certainly not better than that.”

  “I know.” He looked gloomy and flicked ash on to the floor. Then he took out his handkerchief and scrubbed the ash away again, finishing by rubbing the sole of his shoe over the spot where the ash had fallen. “I suppose Uncle Aumbry’s will can stand?” he added. “If I’m not hanged for murder, I mean.”

  “Did anyone, apart from yourself, have any motive for killing your uncle, do you know?”

  “For killing him? No. He was a curmudgeonly old devil with a sense of humour (i.e., cruelty) all his own, but except for me…this wretched inheritance, you know…I don’t think anyone had sufficient motive for killing him. In fact, the thing’s a mystery. I suppose it couldn’t tie up in any way with old Godfrey being hit over the head and his papers rifled, could it? Because that was a queer do, too.”

  “I should like some details. When did this happen, and why?”

  “When, I can tell you. Why, is completely beyond me. Uncle had invited us all down, as he sometimes did, and got Godfrey to make out his will. According to Godfrey (who’s got no reason for lying) this will was what everyone had expected. Godfrey was to get most of the boodle, Frederick not much, and my brother Lewis and I were to get damn all. Then it appears that Uncle Aumbry went out of the room to fetch something or other, and while he was gone somebody sneaked in behind Godfrey, who had his back to the door, clouted him over the head with some unspecified implement, and went off with his briefcase, rough draft, and notes. Upon this, Uncle Aumbry conceived the freakish notion of making a new will leaving everything to me, which said document the old fool gave me to post to his London bank. It was all according to Cocker, properly signed and witnessed, and somebody was even sent out with me to make sure it went into the pillar-box. So you see what a spot I’m in! The old devil most certainly intended only to lead me up the garden, but before he could revoke the will and have it made out again in Godfrey’s favour (because without a doubt that’s what he intended all along) somebody bumped him off, and the police, quite naturally, have decided that the somebody was me.”

  “Your alibi?”

  “I haven’t got one.”

  “None at all?”

  “No. You see, at the time this seems to have happened I was dodging a bloke with a writ, so it didn’t pay me to appear in public. I’d taken a job looking after a public lavatory in Keymouth.”

  “Why Keymouth?”

  “Because I thought it wasn’t a place my creditors were likely to think of. I literally went to earth, and it wasn’t until I saw the report of Uncle Aumbry’s death in an evening paper one of the clients gave me that I knew anything about it.”

  “But surely the local council…?”

  “Not a hope. It was a put-up job between the regular chap and me.”

  “But how did you hear of the job?”

  “In the place itself. I’d thought of Keymouth because it’s biggish and a good long way from Wallchester. I dived down into this place because I thought I’d spotted a chap who knew me, and the man in charge was bemoaning the fact that his stand-in was down with flu and so couldn’t take his turn on duty, and I just chipped in and offered to do the job and we had it all fixed up in no time. He showed me the routine and I told him I’d do full time if he liked, as I was on the run from a woman who was trying to get me to the altar. It worked all right.”

  “Yes, but can’t he supply you with an alibi?”

  “Only one of sorts. There would be nothing to prove that I hadn’t slid out, killed Uncle Aumbry, and slid back again, you see. It isn’t all that far from Merlin’s Furlong to Keymouth. In fact, my other good reason for choosing Keymouth was that it wasn’t a big fare from Merlin’s Furlong where I was staying, of course. I had a note from Phyllis to tip me off that I was being served on, so I hopped it, and two days later Uncle Aumbry was killed.”

  “Hm!” said Mrs. Bradle
y. “And with his fortune you could have settled all your debts and freed yourself and your wife from a great deal of anxiety and discomfort!”

  “Exactly. So you see what a spot I’m in.”

  “The police, of course, know that you were staying so close at hand?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve told them everything. It seemed the only thing to do.”

  “Would that all innocent but suspected persons were as clear-thinking and courageous!”

  “You do think I’m innocent, then?”

  “Such is my supposition at the moment. Now, tell me, Mr. Aumbry…even allowing for the fact that your uncle was a cruel old man…did not the new will which you posted occasion you a great deal of surprise?”

  “Yes, in a way. Of course I didn’t know the exact terms of the will. However, I knew my uncle. Under no circumstances whatsoever would he have permitted me to obtain any benefit from his money. I had accustomed myself to that idea. But he did indicate he’d made me his heir, and the fact that I knew it…and the others knew I knew it…doesn’t really give me a fighting chance. It was so obviously I who killed Uncle Aumbry! You can’t get away from that point. Nobody can. I myself can see it very clearly. Who stood to gain by Uncle Aumbry’s death? I did. Far from being cut out of his will, I became the main inheritor of his property. Why shouldn’t I have knocked him on the head before he had time to remake his will in favour of my cousin Godfrey, leaving me out of it all?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Mrs. Bradley warmly concurred. “The only trouble is that it isn’t in character.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “That you, my child, should ever do anything so crude, especially to gain an inheritance.”

  “Oh?” He seemed suddenly deflated. Mrs. Bradley kept a curious eye, meditative and medical, upon him. “I’d have you know that if I’d thought of this way of killing Uncle Aumbry without anybody having a clue to the murderer, I’d have killed him out of hand,” he said defiantly.

  “I don’t believe it for an instant,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But if you’d been the murderer there would have been clues in plenty. So far, there seems to be none except motive.”

  “But that sticks out like Boston Stump and one can’t avoid spotting it. But, you know, if I committed murder and didn’t intend to leave clues, I shouldn’t leave any. I’ve plenty of brains.” He looked at Mrs. Bradley in challenge, but she ignored the gambit, so, after a slight pause, Richmond added, “If only there were a hint of anyone else! But there isn’t the smallest doubt that I’m the one and only suspect.”