Adders on the Heath (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  That evening, just as she was going up to get ready for dinner, Dame Beatrice was called to the telephone. It was the Superintendent at the other end.

  “Mr. Campden-Towne called us up,” he said, “to report an accident. He says two girls were run down somewhere near here. He doesn’t know where, but says that the number of his car was given in error and that he knows nothing about it.”

  “Shades of Hamish!” said Dame Beatrice, who had received a concise and truthful account of his outing from the boy.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Come over this evening at about half-past eight, if you can. I may have some news for you.”

  “It would help a good deal if you have. I don’t mind saying that we’re getting browned-off with house-to-house questioning. We no longer suspect Mr. Richardson, but can’t get on to much else. There’s no doubt Campden-Towne and his wife were represented by the Maidston couple at that London hotel, and I’ve questioned them again, but nothing seems to come of it. Campden-Towne says he made the booking but couldn’t keep it, and so sent the Maidstons. Using a false name isn’t a criminal offence in itself. There’s got to be a crime connected with it.”

  “I should have thought there were two crimes connected with it,” said Dame Beatrice.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Return of the Prodigals

  Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique but creditable.

  Oliver Goldsmith

  “Things begin to add up, ma’am,” said the Superintendent. “Following your call, we got the addresses of the two young ladies you mentioned and I sent a uniformed officer to see them. They have asked for police protection.”

  “I hardly think they need it, Superintendent, now that the fact of attempted murder is out.”

  “What about this young Master Gavin, who seems to have set the cat among the pigeons?”

  “He will be safe enough here. He will not be allowed out alone.”

  “Campden-Towne is hardly likely to have a line on him, I suppose, but I think it might be wise to keep an eye lifting. There’s been something very fishy going on. If only we knew what it was!”

  “I can tell you what I think it was,” said Dame Beatrice. “It was espionage. I have puzzled over the facts so far as we know them, and the most significant, it seems to me, are that Mr. Campden-Towne is in shipping and that he pretended to be in London when, actually, he had passed over his booking to the Maidston couple. Have you discovered where the Campden-Townes did spend the night of the murders?”

  “No, ma’am, we have not. We’ve been to every hotel, guest-house, and pub in the Forest and beyond. I’ve come to the conclusion that they must have been staying at a private house, and, if they were, then a needle in a haystack isn’t in the picture, is it?”

  “Have you tried Mr. Campden-Towne’s office in Southampton?”

  “No, but it’s an idea, especially if the two murdered men were in his pay. But where would his wife have been, if she wasn’t at home that night?”

  “With him. He must have needed some help in moving the bodies from the car, and she is a well-built, strong creature, is she not?”

  “I’d better see her again. I shall never break him down, but she might be more vulnerable.”

  “I doubt it, Superintendent. She is quite intelligent, I’d say, and she must realise, surely, that her safety, apart from her livelihood, is completely bound up in that of her husband. Besides, I imagine she is in love with him. Of course, she is entirely under his thumb.”

  “But this espionage business. It seems far-fetched to me.”

  “It may be far-fetched, but let us take the facts. We know that ponies have disappeared. We know that Colnbrook and Bunt were often out on the Lawn here and on the big common at the end of this road, where there are always ponies grazing. Now I thought at first that the ponies were stolen by night and shipped off from Southampton for what they would fetch abroad, particularly in America, although it seemed a big risk to take for the sums of money involved. Then Laura brought back a book on the New Forest which the young women at the riding-stables had lent her, and when she had finished with it I took it up, out of idle interest. However, I read it with an interest which was anything but idle.”

  “But—espionage, ma’am. Aren’t we perhaps wandering from the point a bit?”

  “By no means, Superintendent. My attention was attracted to some diagrams in the essay entitled The New Forest Commoners.* From it I learned that the four Agisters employed by the Verderers mark the tails of the animals in a manner approved by the Court of Verderers, so that if a stallion (in particular—the mares do not travel or stray so much) wanders from his own part of the Forest, he can be returned when the creatures are rounded up for sale.”

  “Yes, I know all that, ma’am. Each district has its own special pattern. Right round the tail for Number One District, one cut out of offside for Number Two, and so on.”

  “Exactly. Two cuts out of offside for Number Three and one cut out of nearside for Number Four. Not at all unsightly, not cruel, since only the hair is cut, but distinctive and simple. Well, it seemed to me that, with certain alterations and additions, which, I am afraid, would also involve an extra branding of the animals, a code could be worked out.”

  “It sounds fantastic to me, ma’am.”

  “Oh, would you say that? I don’t see why it should not work with remarkable efficiency. There would be no documents, as such, and no telephone calls. The ponies themselves would be the documents. Much less clumsy than the wartime, ‘John is well again’ and all that kind of thing.”

  “But with the same purpose in mind, you think?—a way of sending information to, and about, secret agents? If so, it will have to go beyond me, ma’am. I’d better get the Chief Constable on to it.”

  “Let us catch our murderers first. From that the rest will stem.”

  “I’d rather have it that way, ma’am. Your idea is most ingenious, I admit, but—well, I don’t know. It still seems far-fetched to me. Anyway, I’ll get on to Campden-Towne’s Southampton office and see what comes of that.”

  “Well, I can do no more here, Superintendent, so I shall return home. My address is The Stone House, Wandles Parva. That will always find me, even if I go to London.”

  “Many thanks, ma’am,” said the Superintendent, writing it down. “And thanks for your help. It’s started a hare, anyway.”

  “You might do worse than bully the Maidstons a bit.”

  “Now, ma’am, you mustn’t suggest that a police officer ever bullies anybody.”

  Dame Beatrice cackled.

  “By the way, what about Mr. Richardson? I should like to invite him and my nephew to stay with me at the Stone House for a while,” she said.

  “I see no objection to that, ma’am. Would you let me know if he leaves your home? We should just like to have knowledge of his whereabouts.”

  “I thought you no longer suspected him.”

  “Well, that’s true enough, but we may need him as a material witness later on.”

  “I see,” said Dame Beatrice, perceiving clearly that, so far as the Superintendent was concerned, Richardson was by no means out of the wood. “Very well, then. You shall be fully informed of his movements.” She saw the Superintendent off and then went back to Laura, who was helping Hamish with a crossword puzzle.

  “I still think the word we want is egret, not heron,” said Hamish, “because then it fits with equal, radical and tiara. Oh, yes, you did say tiara. Did you know they’ve lost one of the royal jewels at the Tower of London? It’s not very valuable in itself, but does it have sentimental value? I mean, suppose I found it, could I get a decent reward, do you think?”

  “I think you’d probably end up in Borstal. Oh, hallo, Mrs. Croc., dear! You arrive at a timely hour. My offspring is driving me up the wall.”

  “I wonder why they call us offspring,” said Hamish. “I understand that the birth of a human being is rather a slo
w process.”

  “Oh, go and buy yourself something at the village shop,” said Laura. “And please take a jolly long time about it.”

  “My mother,” said Hamish formally to Dame Beatrice, “is rather peeved because she can’t remember what is interesting about Cantor Taratosh. It only needs eight letters and it’s a four one three. I say it’s Shot a Rat, although I don’t see why he should.”

  “You are correct,” Dame Beatrice assured him. “The Fall of Mendel Krick by Isaac Babel, was produced by the B.B.C.’s Drama Department, and the incident to which you refer took place during a service in a synagogue in the ghetto of Odessa during the Tsarish régime. One more thing, when you have pencilled in your crossword puzzle—oh, by the way, twenty-two down should be Calvin, not calves—we are returning home.”

  “Ma said it should be Calvin,” said Hamish generously. “Sorry, Ma. That makes isobars come right, so that’s the end of it. Why do we have to go home? I like it here.”

  “Mr. Richardson and Uncle Denis are coming back with us.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different. Will they stop playing golf and help me with my homework?”

  Dame Beatrice could not promise either of these things. Hamish took his pocket-money and himself off to the village shop and Dame Beatrice took Laura into her confidence.

  “Oh, Lord!” said Laura, at the end of the recital. “Think we ought to have let Hamish go into the village alone? That skunk did try to run down those two girls, you know.”

  “I do not believe he would risk running down Hamish in the village street in broad daylight, child.”

  “There’s a nasty bend before you get to the water-splash.”

  “Mr. Campden-Towne will have no check on the boy’s movements, my dear Laura, but, if it will save you from feeling anxiety, let us order the car and go after the boy.”

  “Good heavens, no! Hamish would loathe it. I couldn’t do that. We shall have to chance it. Anyway, you say he’ll be all right and I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Well, I hardly see how Mr. Campden-Towne could find out (except by clairvoyance) that Hamish would go to the village just at this particular time.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just a fussy old hen.”

  “Oh, no, you are not. We shall need to be careful in the future. Mr. Campden-Towne will discover where we have gone and it is at the Stone House that we shall need to keep watch. We do not want Hamish to be kidnapped and held as a hostage for our good behaviour. I am glad we shall have the two young men and George with us. They must help us to garrison the place.”

  “It sounds like fun. All the same…”

  “We had better have the car,” said Dame Beatrice.

  Hamish was surprised to see them. They met him on the village side of the water-splash.

  “Hallo,” he said. “I didn’t know you were going for a drive. Anywhere decent?”

  “Hop in, if you’ve bought what you want,” said Laura crossly. “Sit beside George.”

  “Have a toffee, George?” said Hamish, between whom and the chauffeur there had always existed a warm friendship. “Where are we going?”

  “Along the Bournemouth road for a bit, sir.”

  “Bournemouth? Not a bad idea.”

  “Along the Bournemouth road,” said Laura frostily. Hamish turned his head, politely pouched his piece of toffee in his left cheek, and asked (as well he might, having given her no cause to take offence),

  “What’s the matter, Ma? Have I done anything I shouldn’t?—or said anything, I mean?”

  “Good gracious, no,” said Laura, recovering her equanimity, “of course you haven’t. And we will go to Bournemouth, if that’s what you’d like.”

  They went to Bournemouth and Hamish and his mother swam in the warm September sea. Dame Beatrice sat in the lounge of the hotel and made notes. George gossiped with the man in charge of the hotel garage. A fine and pleasant time was enjoyed by all. They had dinner in Bournemouth and did not return to the New Forest Park Hotel until ten o’clock. Hamish was sent to bed and a telephone message was waiting for Dame Beatrice from the Superintendent.

  “I have passed on your ideas and they have been received with interest, but with a good deal of caution. I will get in touch with you later on, if I may.”

  Dame Beatrice telephoned back and told the Superintendent that she would be delighted to be in touch with him again.

  “So, next time I reach you, ma’am, you’ll be at your own home?” he asked.

  “At the Stone House,” said Dame Beatrice. They returned to it on the following day.

  “I say,” said Hamish, “do I have to go to the vicar tomorrow morning? It’s Divinity and his views are a bit dim, you know.”

  “You’re not thinking of becoming a minister of religion?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Oh, no. I am an informed agnostic. It’s the same with ghosts,” said Hamish.

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. You remember the person who said, ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m afraid of them,’ don’t you?”

  “Really, my dear Hamish?”

  “Well, it’s the same with me and religion.”

  “Believe me, a very well-balanced point of view. It will all sort itself out in time.”

  “What do I do now, though?”

  “Be strong and very courageous.”

  “Be your age,” said Hamish, rudely and unkindly.

  Dame Beatrice cackled and, with a thin but iron arm, forestalled Laura’s intention of clouting her son. “Sorry,” said Hamish, without conviction. “That was nasty of me, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” agreed Dame Beatrice. “One should respect the aged. I refer, of course, to myself.”

  “I do respect you. Where do we go from here?”

  “Into a state of siege.”

  “Siege? You mean the house might be surrounded? Oh, good! What about sharing out the guns?”

  “Noiseless warfare!” said Dame Beatrice, impressively. “Knives, as the gentleman said, are a different matter.”

  “George once told me that, given a decent-sized spanner, he could take on three gunmen and lay them out.”

  “George issued an understatement. He often does. He is a Londoner. He could lay four of them out.”

  They had left the hotel at just after three and had driven along the Forest roads for an hour before they ended up at Lymington to make for the Stone House. Richardson had telephoned his mother, for Dame Beatrice, in semi-serious mood, had informed him that he might have to fight for his life if he came to her home.

  Five o’clock found them all at tea in Dame Beatrice’s comfortable drawing-room and at six o’clock Celestine, Dame Beatrice’s housekeeper, parlour-maid, housemaid, friend, and jealous guardian, addressed her spouse Henri, who was enjoying a bottle of wine and a snack of bread and cheese in the kitchen.

  “Madame enrages herself. She has enemies.”

  “She does not enrage herself,” protested Henri, “but I think there are some things in the air.”

  “What makes the young Monsieur Richardson?”

  “He is, perhaps, a murderer.”

  Celestine shrieked.

  “A murderer? An assassin? But no!”

  “One does not know.” Henri took up his largest carving-knife and sharpened it with great solemnity. At this moment Hamish walked into the kitchen.

  “I say,” he said, “the cakes and things at tea were all right, but isn’t there something to eat?” His eye fell on the manoeuvres of Henri. “Gosh!” he added. “Are we really in a state of siege? Aunt Dame said so, but I thought she was having me on.”

  Celestine hastened to provide him with cold pie and cocoa, viands at the sight of which she herself flinched, but which, she had long realised, were one of the stays of English youth.

  “You,” said Henri, with ferocious humour, producing a large but superseded carving-knife, “must be well-armed, monsieur, should a siege take place. Accept this, if you please.”

  “K
nives!” quoted Hamish, flourishing the one provided. “This is the life! Oh, thanks a lot, Henri!” He retired, making large passes in the air.

  “You are a monster who lives by the death of little children!” shrieked Celestine. “Sharpen an axe!”

  Henri, who had lived with his wife for more than thirty years, realised that she was in what the English would call “one of her moods,” and that, as she was thus possessed, the simplest way to avoid difficulties was to placate her by implicitly obeying her orders. Accordingly, he brought in his largest axe from the weatherproof woodshed and solemnly put on it a lethal cutting-edge. He displayed his handiwork. His wife nodded.

  “It is well,” she said. “There are sweetbreads for dinner. I hope the young men will like them. Dame Beatrice does not eat glands. For her…”

  “A curried egg and much Melba toast.”

  “Call for Georges.”

  Henri retired to the back door and let out an ear-splitting whistle. There was a rattling of footsteps as George descended from his eyrie above the garage, his own choice of residence, since he could have had a good bedroom in the house if such had been his desire. He came into the kitchen and spotted Henri’s weapon. He eyed it and took it up.

  “Changing your job, brother?” he asked. “Plenty of work in the woods near where we’ve been staying.”

  “And a dangerous place to stay!” said Celestine sharply. “What made Madame in such a locality?”

  “Oh, we had our usual murders. I think Madam is wise to the identity of the criminal. In other words, she reckons her job there is just about cleaned up. That’s why we’ve come back home.”

  “This house will be a battlefield. You will see. We shall sell our lives dearly. All the same, this imbecile had no right to give a young boy a carving knife. He will suicide himself.”

  “Not Master Hamish,” said George. “But what is all this, anyway?”

  “I think it is nonsense, but it is as well to be prepared. One hears of terrible things, and we have a young boy in the house. He may be attacked, murdered, kidnapped! Who can tell?”

  “From what I gathered, he did stick his neck out. Accused some gentleman of attempting to run down two girls.”