The Death-Cap Dancers mb-59
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The Death-Cap Dancers
( Mrs Bradley - 59 )
Gladys Mitchell
While en route to visit relatives, Hermione Lestrange falls into company with three agreeable women who are spending their autumn holiday in a forest cabin. Out for a drive, the group discovers a battered bicycle by the side of the road, and closer inspection reveals the unfortunate owner, seemingly dead from head wounds, her body found in a nearby ravine. The police are contacted, but Hermione becomes concerned that suspicion may fall on herself and her new acquaintances, as the scene resembles a hastily covered-up automobile accident. Fearing the worst, she rings up her great-aunt and voices her fears.
The young women are ultimately exonerated, but in a quite unforseen way: there is a second murder, and an attempted third, and each of the victims or near-victims (including the roadside casualty) is a member of a touring folk-dancing troupe staying at a local hostel. The newest attacks occured after a performance of hornpipe- and morris-dancing which Hermione and her friends had attended. One dancer was set upon and her body pushed into a broom closet; another troupe member--a man still wearing a lady's wig to replace the absent cyclist in dances--was knocked unconscious and left for dead in the bushes outside. While Inspector Ribble concentrates his investigation on the movements of the folk-dance group, Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley considers a longer list of suspects. The Home Office psychoanalyst also imagines a wider range of scenarios than her more dogmatic police counterpart, some of which put Hermione and her friends in danger. Sending her great-niece (and her group) back to her father's pig farm in Stanton St. John, Dame Beatrice builds the case study of a very disturbed individual--someone who takes pleasure in pushing the death-cap mushroom into a victim's wounds.
The Death-Cap Dancers
Gladys Mitchell
Bradley 59
1981
‘Gladys Mitchell is a wittier and more original writer than Sayers or Christie. She has succeeded in devising a structure which can accommodate the untoward, the ambiguous and the unaccountable; at the same time, many of her novels conform, in outline at least, to a classic detective pattern.’
Patricia Craig in The Guardian
To the long life and happiness of
ADRIAN STEWART SHERATON,
born on St. George’s Day, 1979
‘…for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.’
William Shakespeare
Sonnet VI
THE DEATH-CAP DANCERS
Chapter 1: WOOD PIMPERNEL
Hermione Lestrange — Hermy One to her intimates — stopped the car, got out and surveyed her surroundings. For the last two or three miles she had been uneasily aware that in taking what she had hoped would be a short cut as well as serving to take her off the main road for twenty miles or so, she must have misread the map and was now in a wilderness of cotton-grass, peat-bogs and heather.
She was on an unfenced moorland track which rose and dipped with the undulations of the landscape, bending away in a direction which she was certain could not be the one she wanted.
She had pulled up at a solitary signpost which to her slightly disordered mind represented nothing so much as a gibbet. It had only one arm and this pointed along an even narrower road than the one she was on and read, tersely and unhelpfully, Wayland Only.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Hermione aloud. All round her were the Yorkshire moors on their high plateau. In the far distance she could make out a line of blue hills. The autumn evening was coming on and there were pockets of mist in the dips and hollows. The road she was travelling seemed to go on for ever, losing itself on the downward slopes and appearing again on the rising ground beyond them.
She had two chances, as she saw the situation. One was to push on in the hope of striking the main road after all; the other was to reverse the car, return to the little town of Gledge End on whose outskirts she had turned off on to the moors and begin again from there.
Whatever she did she was unlikely to reach her destination until after dark. She was an adventurous soul, but the thought of being benighted on the moors was enough to daunt the stoutest hearted, so she was about to take the sensible course and reverse the car when she was aware of three women emerging from a dip in the moor. Two of them were giving the third a ‘bandy-chair’.
When they saw Hermione and the car the two supporters dumped their burden in the heather and one of them remained beside her while the other ran forward waving her arms. With sinking heart Hermione realised that she was going to be asked to give the three women a lift and she knew that in such a place and at such a time of day there was no way in which her conscience could allow her to refuse such a request.
It was an uphill run to where Hermione was standing and the woman was panting as she came near. She was wearing a yellow woollen cap surmounted by a pom-pom, jeans, a sweater and an anorak and appeared to be about thirty years old.
‘Oh, I say, you’ve got a car,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything of the Good Samaritan about you, would you — could you — give us a lift? My idiot sister has wrenched her ankle and I don’t think we can possibly carry her home.’
‘I’ve got to do another eighty miles or so, and I’ve lost my way,’ said Hermione. ‘I was just going to turn the car and go back to Gledge End. I could take you that far if it would be any good.’
The woman looked back at the other two. The one in the heather was being hauled to her feet. Clutching her companion, she hobbled a step or two and then sank down again.
‘Gledge End would be better than nothing,’ said the woman to Hermione. ‘I daresay we could hire a car from there. Actually where we are staying would be on your way, give or take half a mile or so. Look, we really are in a bit of a spot. Couldn’t you stretch a point for once? Honestly, it would hardly take you out of your way at all, and we really would be damned grateful.’
Mist in the hollows of the moor was rising higher and thickening. There was a dank smell of autumn in the air, the smell of damp, dead bracken and dying heather. A wind had got up and the darkening evening was chilly.
‘Get in,’ said Hermione. ‘The back seat, perhaps, and then the injured ankle can slide in beside me when we pick her up. I’ll run you home and book in at Gledge End. I shall never get to my aunt’s tonight. What do I do when we’ve picked up the other two?’
‘Reverse and then take that turning to Wayland. We’ve got a cabin in Wayland Forest. Only took it over this morning and now this has to happen.’
The woman who had remained with the unfortunate casualty appeared to be of about the same age as the one who had waylaid Hermione. The victim was younger and Hermione surmised that she was a contemporary of her own.
The Wayland turning began to leave the moors behind. The first indication that they were entering the forest was that the wayside verges had become wide stretches of rough grass instead of heather. Beyond them, on the right, was a plantation of young conifers and on the left a thick, densely populated wood of mature trees. The car was on the outskirts of Forestry Commission property.
‘Did you say you might stay in Gledge End for the night?’ asked the woman who had asked for a lift. ‘Do you know somebody there?’
‘No, but there are hotels. They won’t be full at this time of year.’
‘Oh, but why bother with hotels? We can put you up for the night if you don’t mind a bunk bed and a continental quilt to cover you.’
‘I shall have to telephone my aunt.’
‘Nothing easier. There’s a call-box at the warden’s office and a carpark where it’s perfectly safe to leave the car.’
‘I can’t wish myself on you like that.’
‘I’m not so silent that I can’t say thank you,’ said Erica Lyndhurst. ‘We’re very grateful, I can tell you, and we’ll be delighted to put you up after you’ve telephoned your folks.’
‘Do you have a name?’ asked Hermione’s seat-mate, the girl with the wrenched ankle. ‘I hardly dare open my mouth to ask because I’m well and truly in the doghouse, but I couldn’t help twisting my ankle. A grouse got up almost under my feet and I was so startled that I stepped back and my foot went into a hole.’
‘I’m Hermione Lestrange.’
‘Benenden, Roedean or Cheltenham Ladies’ College?’ enquired Isobel, who seemed to be the liveliest of the three.
‘Remand home, approved school and Holloway Gaol, if you must know,’ said Hermione, who was feeling more cheerful.
‘Our kind of woman, in fact,’ said Isobel. ‘But let us sort out the subordinate clauses. The name Lestrange rings a warning bell, although I expect I’m on the wrong platform. I attended a lecture given by an eminent psychiatrist called Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley and was much impressed. She was speaking about the problems of the one-parent family and when it came to question time I was determined to get in on the act, so I said that in my experience — I’m a schoolmistress, as you may have deduced — many of the children who came from one-parent families (mostly when the parent was a widow) were, I had to admit, far better behaved than those from many of the families where there were two parents. I asked her to explain this.’
‘But it’s not always true,’ said Tamsin.
‘I never said it was. I said it was true of many families.’
‘What was her answer?’ asked Hermione.
‘She said that enlightened mums expected good conduct, and therefore stood a good chance of getting it. She asked whether that didn’t apply to classroom discipline, too, and, of course, it does. She then referred me to the famous speech made by Gussie Fink-Nottle to the boys of Market Snodsbury Grammar School in which, quoting, no doubt, from a higher authority, he had assured the lads that education was a drawing-out, not a putting-in. She then reminded me that Mr Fink-Nottle was strongly under the influence of alcohol at the time, and hoped that she had answered my question to my satisfaction.’
‘It sounds typical of my great-aunt. The Delphic Oracle could have taken her correspondence course. I often think she ought to have gone in for politics. Personally I am the complete dumb-cluck of the family. I help my father on his pig-farm.’
‘I’m a painter of pot-boilers,’ said Tamsin, ‘and I hope this ankle isn’t going to be a perishing nuisance because I want to spend the next fortnight painting the forest and the moors.’
‘Well, you haven’t broken it, anyway,’ said Erica. ‘I’ll strap it up for you when we get back. I’m always dealing with minor accidents on the site.’
‘Erica’s father is a builder and surveyor,’ said Isobel, ‘and she’s stinking rich. She only bothers to know us because I was at school with her.’
‘I act as my father’s accounts clerk and general dogsbody,’ explained Erica, ‘and now he’s made me a partner. Our work slackens from now until the spring, so I thought I’d take a couple of weeks off. These two girls make a change, I must say, from a world of rough, hearty, booze-swilling workmen, much as I love ’em.’
‘Tamsin can get away any time she wants,’ said Isobel, ‘on the pretence of finding something to paint.’
‘Christmas and birthday-card subjects and, on commission, people’s dogs and horses,’ said Tamsin. ‘Any chance your father would commission a picture of his pet pig?’
‘Whereas I,’ continued Isobel, ‘am tied to school holidays. This time they’ve extended the usual half-term break from a week to a fortnight to conserve the winter fuel, so that accounts for my stabilising presence among you all.’
‘I suppose the four of us make a pretty good cross-section,’ said Erica. ‘We represent the land, commerce, education and the arts.’
‘Pigs, houses, schools and daubs,’ said Tamsin. ‘You three have your uses, I suppose, but what about me?’
‘At least you found a means to get us a lift home,’ said her sister, ‘and for that I am truly thankful. We went much further than we intended,’ she added, speaking to Hermione, ‘so her wretched ankle actually came in useful.’
The car began a long gradual descent and picked up a sandy road bordered by deciduous trees with a group here and there of Scots pines. Soon Hermione obtained a glimpse of wooden cabins half-hidden among the trees. Occasionally the car, which was now doing only about twenty miles an hour, passed little groups of walkers.
Under Tamsin’s directions, Hermione at last pulled up in a large gravelled carpark not far from a complex of buildings which included a public call-box.
‘Have you change for the phone?’ asked Erica, whom Hermione was soon to recognise as the unofficial mother to the party.
‘Oh, yes, thanks. I won’t be long.’ The result of the telephone call was unexpected. One of her aunts answered it and there was evident relief at that end of the line.
‘Thank goodness you phoned! We’ve been on to Stanton St John, but, of course, you had left. My dear, of all things, the maid has got mumps, so, of course, you mustn’t come anywhere near us at present. Your mother says you haven’t had it and it can be serious at your age. So glad you’ve found somewhere to stay the night. We must fix up your visit for another time. So glad you are able to ring.’
‘O.K.?’ asked Isobel, when Hermione returned to the car. ‘We really ought to walk to our cabin from here, but the ankle had better be taken up to the door. We’ll get Tamsin indoors, then perhaps you’ll bring me back here where you have to leave the car, and you and I can then walk back together.’
‘What are all these buildings?’
‘The warden’s office and flat, a big lounge for the cabin people if they want a get-together, a television room, a playroom for the kids if the weather turns wet, a shop where we get our milk and newspapers and any oddments we run short of, a badminton court, a billiards room — you name it, it’s here.’
Hermione backed the car and, again directed by Tamsin, drove to the cabin which the three women had rented.
‘We’re rather on the outskirts, in a way,’ said Isobel, ‘although not far from the carpark, thank goodness. There is only one other cabin opposite ours, and even that you can only see through the trees. We don’t know what the people are like. We only came down today. Oh, well, here we are. Our home sweet home for a fortnight.’
Wooden steps led up to the front door of the cabin, and the structure itself seemed to be completely made of wood. Leaving Tamsin standing on one leg with Isobel supporting her, Erica unlocked the door and the three of them disappeared inside. Hermione unlocked the boot of the car and took out her own two suitcases which she put down at the foot of the steps. Erica came out again with Isobel and they picked up the suitcases and took them inside. Isobel rejoined Hermione and they drove to the carpark, left the car and then walked back among the trees.
It was not yet dark, but the number of leaves still on the trees made it shadowy in the woods. There were fallen leaves and pine-needles on the ground and miry patches in places along the walk. The air was fresh but not cold, and as they walked the few hundred yards which separated the carpark from the cabin, Hermione began to wish that she were staying.
The same thing appeared to be in Isobel’s mind. She asked what Hermione proposed to do now that she could not go to her relatives.
‘Go home, I suppose,’ said Hermione.
‘Why don’t you stay with us? The cabin is supposed to sleep six and there are only the three of us at present. Don’t make up your mind until yo
u’ve seen what it’s like, but I’m sure we’d be glad to have you if you cared to muck in.’
Lights were on in the cabin when they reached it. Tamsin, her ankle strapped up, was lying on a settee in the living quarters and Erica was in the kitchen preparing a meal. Isobel showed Hermione round the neat, well-ordered little holiday dwelling. It consisted of a lounge containing a settee, armchairs and a large dining table with benches, and there was a radiator for warmth. Opening off the lounge were the two bedrooms, a kitchenette and a shower-room. One bedroom had a double and a single bed in it and a settee which could be turned into another bed. The smaller room contained two bunks, one of which had to be reached by means of a vertical ladder. There were two entrances to the cabin. The one by which Hermione had been brought in opened into a vestibule where coats, outdoors shoes, Wellington boots and waterproofs could be left and in it there was another radiator to assist in the drying of wet clothes.
There were drawers, cupboards, wardrobes and shelves in every part of the cabin, but all were arranged as neatly and in as space-saving a manner as they would have been in an up-to-date and well-equipped caravan.
In contrast to the somewhat primitive appearance of the outside of the cabin, the inside walls were of shining, smooth, polished panelling. Outside the back entrance, which was by way of sliding french doors, there was a verandah with a table and benches for alfresco meals.
‘It’s a bit of a nuisance that all the mod con is in one room,’ said Isobel, ‘but I suppose to separate the mod from the con would be too much to ask. Otherwise we approve of the set-up. Yours is the top bunk, unless you’ve got no head for heights. Erica has bagged the big bed and Tamsin is to have the single, so, if you have an objection to the top bunk, the settee is available.’
‘Supper up! Come and get it,’ said Erica.
No objection was raised by anybody when Erica suggested bed at ten. Hermione, in the top bunk, woke early the next morning. The windows were high up in the wall and from where she was she could see the forest tree-tops. The windows did not open, but the bunkroom was supplied with the necessary ventilation through airholes also high up on the wall. She learned by her watch that it was almost seven o’clock. The sky would have paled sufficiently, she decided, for a before-breakfast walk. She felt for the top of her ladder and descended cautiously, without disturbing Isobel. She picked up an armful of clothes, sneaked out into the lounge, promised herself a shower when she got back, dressed and went out on to the verandah. Everything was quiet. Out on the moor on the previous evening there had been a wind, although it had not dispersed the rising mist, but here in the forest the silence was like that of an empty cathedral.