The Death-Cap Dancers (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “So this boy would know the murderer. If so, he’ll be in a very dangerous position once he is in circulation again.”

  “Oh, the police will have got the name from him and made their arrest long before he is discharged from hospital,” said Isobel confidently.

  “But he must have been attacked from behind, it’s thought. Do you like pigs?” asked Hermione.

  “The non sequitur of the century! I’ve never asked myself. I like bacon and ham and the occasional cut from a good joint of pork—don’t get much chance of that. Living alone, I rely on chops and steaks. But pigs? I don’t believe I have ever been acquainted with any.”

  “I wondered whether you’d care to come to Stanton St. John for a day or two, to finish the holiday. I should like to invite the other two as well. It seems a pity to break up the party before the end of the week. What do you think? Erica gave me her phone number before we split up, and you’ve got it, too, I suppose. Should we ring her? Just as you like, of course.”

  “I do like pigs,” said Isobel. “I dote on them. Oh, yes, do ring her, Hermy! It’s a great idea. The only thing is—well, for all four of us to descend on your parents seems a bit much, doesn’t it?”

  “Heavens, no! My mother adores having the house full of people, and we’ve plenty of room to put up a dozen guests. My father is never happier than when he is showing off the pig population to anybody who will go the rounds with him, and so I know he will be glad to see us. Isobel—” She broke off and gazed at her friend, her eyes alight and wide open.

  “Say on. You have our ear,” said the older woman.

  “Isobel, why did my great-aunt insist that Tamsin should not go to her own home until the murderer is caught?”

  “Oh, you know Tamsin. She has given John Trent her home address.”

  “John Trent? Oh, but, surely—”

  “I know. I can’t believe it, either.”

  “It couldn’t be John!”

  Isobel shrugged her shoulders and looked out of the window at the grey London sky.

  “Why should John have told those lies about seeing you skid the car into that tree?” she said. “If it had been Tamsin I could understand it. She’s crazy about him, you know, and, being about as goofy as they come, she makes no secret of the fact, but why should he tell lies to the police to keep you out of trouble?”

  “Not, as you so tactfully point out, because of my womanly charm, but because of his own chivalrous nature, I suppose. Let’s phone mother and then Erica, shall we?”

  “The Ewe and Lamb first, dearie. I am so much impressed by Dame Beatrice that I don’t take any further steps without her knowledge and consent. She told us about John’s lie.”

  Laura took the call and relayed it to Dame Beatrice, for they had just finished dinner when the message came through.

  “An excellent plan,” said Dame Beatrice, when she had gone to the telephone. “I hope you will all have an enjoyable few days at Stanton St. John. Tell nobody where you are going and ask Miss Tamsin Lindsay and Miss Erica Lyndhurst to leave no forwarding address. These are probably unnecessary precautions, but, as I have heard it said, better to be safe than sorry.”

  “There is something I’m dying to ask you, great-aunt, but I don’t suppose you would answer me.”

  “No, I would not, at this juncture. Let us say, in Laura’s elliptical phrase, that your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true.”

  “How right you probably are. Good-bye, my child, and bless you.”

  The girls had split up into couples immediately the inquest on Judy Tyne was adjourned and they were free to leave the forest region. The telephone conversation was held on the same evening, Monday, and by tea-time on Tuesday, the day on which Dame Beatrice had concluded her interviewing of the members of Wild Thyme, the four from the forest cabin were reunited at Carey Lestrange’s farmhouse at Stanton St. John in Oxfordshire.

  Following this, events at the Long Cove Bay hostel and in Wayland forest took a new turn. The first intimation of this came to Ribble’s notice by way of a telephone call from the police station at Long Cove Bay itself. It was to the effect that the police there had been told of a broken window in the Youth Hostel and the theft of the warden’s records.

  “Wouldn’t bother you with this except that you’ve had trouble over that group of folk-dance people with two of them murdered, and they all stayed at the hostel and were resident there when the first girl was killed,” the message ran. “Don’t suppose there’s any connection, but thought we would let you know.”

  Ribble who, with his sergeant, had been making so-far fruitless house-to-house enquiries at Gledge End in an attempt to trace the missing tandem, gave up the quest temporarily and went over to the hostel.

  Mrs. Beck was in her cottage.

  “I reported it because of the broken window and my register gone,” she said. “Nothing else missing? Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? I never leave any money there and, as it happens, I didn’t have any hostellers that night. Time of year, you see. Folks don’t much fancy walking or cycling on the moors when it comes near to November. Besides, these murders have been in all the papers. The nuisance I’ve had to put up with from reporters! You the same, I suppose, Inspector. But who on earth would want to make off with my registers?”

  “I suppose somebody wanted some names and addresses, Mrs. Beck.”

  “To burgle their houses? Seems far-fetched to me. You don’t find well-off folks using the hostel. They would stay at hotels, wouldn’t they? My members’ homes wouldn’t be worth burgling.”

  “You never know, Mrs. Beck.”

  His private opinion, expressed later to Dame Beatrice was: “If your ideas are the same as mine about this business, ma’am, I reckon this latest effort is an attempt to throw dust in our eyes. He had no need to steal the hostel register because, to my way of thinking, he already had stayed there. He would have had ample opportunity, if so, to take a look at the books, and most likely no need to do so, anyway, since he already knew the address he wanted. This must have been to try to make out that he had never seen the register or been in the hostel before. The Long Cove Bay chaps have had a look for the record, but ten to one it’s in the sea by now, and no use to anybody.”

  “Have you any news about the missing tandem?”

  “Nothing helpful, no, ma’am. Several people saw a man riding it solo, but nobody seems to have taken enough notice of it to be able to describe him and the different opinions as to which direction he was taking are enough to drive me haywire. He certainly didn’t ditch the tandem anywhere near Gledge End, or we would have found it by now.”

  “It looks less and less like one of the Wild Thyme dancers, don’t you think?”

  “So you’ve hinted before, ma’am, and I don’t want you to name me any names. I can’t pre-judge the case and I’ve got to get sufficient evidence to produce in court. I take it that you can’t supply me with that?”

  “Most unfortunately, no, I cannot, and you are right not to allow prejudice to distort your mind.”

  “That Willie Nicolson distorts it, ma’am. He’s a Highlander and that race are apt to be very dark horses compared with the likes of you and me. Devious is the word.”

  “My secretary is a Highlander, and a more open, and, in every way, a more ingenuous woman, I have yet to meet.”

  “The ladies come outside the scope of my argument, ma’am. I’m only saying that Nicolson was the owner of that tandem.” He chuckled and rang off, but there was soon another story to be told and it concerned another set of records, this time those of the forest warden. When she heard of this, Dame Beatrice confessed to Ribble that she was perturbed.

  “There is only one interpretation to be put upon these two thefts, Inspector,” she said. “Our murderer is what my secretary would call ‘in business’ again.”

  “You may well be right, ma’am, and a very nasty business it is. What’s in his mind, do you suppose?”


  “Revenge.”

  “Sounds more like a foreigner, then.”

  “Well, the English are not good at hating, but, unlike Bottom, who could merely gleek, no doubt they can murder, upon occasion.”

  “And the Scots, ma’am?”

  “Ah,” said Dame Beatrice, “I see that you are still barking up the same tree. ‘Out with your man and set him against the wall.’ Your mind still runs on Mr. Nicolson.”

  “It would, if I had a little more to go on,” said Ribble. “He has no alibi for the first murder and, as I see it, the rest of them would lie themsleves black in the face to cover up for him for the second one.”

  The story told by the forest warden was similar, in many respects, to that told by Mrs. Beck. Having received his telephone call, Ribble went to see him.

  “You know the set-up here, Inspector,” he said. “Non-residents are entitled to enter the forest on payment of a toll, so although we have a check on all the cabin parties, we have virtually none on our occasional visitors. However, I really can’t think that one of these could be responsible for the disappearance of my records. I mean, somebody just passing through could have no possible interest in them.”

  “What records would these be, sir? Names and addresses of—your cabin people?”

  “Exactly. I need them for reference and, in any case, they are nobody else’s business and are not in any way what one may call confidential. Why should anybody take my records?”

  “You don’t suspect any, in particular, of your tenants, I suppose, sir?”

  “Nobody in particular, but it is possible, I suppose, that one of the younger men might want to check the address of a young woman who had taken his fancy.”

  “Was any damage done, sir?”

  “The window-catch on the ground floor—my office is on the ground floor with my flat above it—the window-catch had been forced, so I suppose the intruder climbed in by the window. The door has a Yale lock and there had been no tampering with that. No, there was no actual damage. I have no lock on my desk or to any of the drawers in it, and I have never troubled to lock my filing-cabinet as it never contains anything of a strictly confidential nature or anything of value. Money is never left on the premises. I need hardly tell you that.”

  “When did you miss the records, sir?”

  “Immediately before I telephoned you. I have my routine and I adhere to it. My office hours—that is to say, the times when I am available for interviews or to listen to complaints—are from nine until eleven each morning and from five o’clock to six each afternoon. I very seldom get complaints, but I like to welcome new residents on the first evening of their stay. As for my morning sessions, they are devoted to paperwork and sometimes to checking on those visitors who propose to take the long forest trail. As you probably know, there are four marked trails in the forest. One is a short walk which takes about three-quarters of an hour, the second and third take from an hour and a half to two hours. There are coloured route-signs which are simple to interpret. The long trail, however, covers ten miles and we like to know at what time the walkers set out and we ask them to clock in at the office when they get back.”

  “So you check in this way in case anybody gets lost, I suppose.”

  “That is the idea. They can hardly get lost unless they stray from the marked course, but part of it is in open country and then, if the mist comes down suddenly, or if they loiter too long and it gets dark, well, then they can be in trouble and we advise them before they start to stay put until the search party finds them if they do get lost or benighted.”

  “Yes, sir, very interesting, but what about the theft of your records? You telephoned me at ten this morning and you say you did so as soon as you discovered the records were missing. Could I have the whole story?”

  “Oh, certainly, but there is not much I can add to what I said over the phone. We let the cabins on a weekly basis from Saturday to Saturday. We don’t encourage people to clock in before lunch because the cabins are cleaned when the outgoing tenants leave at ten or earlier on the last Saturday of their stay. Some people book for a week, others for longer. A fortnight is the average in the summer, a week in Spring or at this time of year.”

  “So in mid-week you would not be as busy as at weekends, whatever time of year it was.”

  “That is correct. I left the office at six last evening when everything was still in order and came in at nine this morning as usual. I did not take my records out of the filing-cabinet immediately, as I had some odds and ends of correspondence to clear up and that involved nothing but opening my desk.”

  “May I look at your filing-cabinet, sir? Detective-Constable March will check it for fingerprints. We have some from a break-in at the Youth Hostel at Long Cove Bay which we should like to match.”

  “You mean the same man broke in there?”

  “We shall know when we have the prints.”

  “But a person who would use a youth hostel is hardly a person who would book accomodation in the forest, Inspector. Aren’t the hostellers birds of passage? Here, you know, we never take bookings of less than a week, except—”

  “Except when the police commandeer a cabin for a couple of days. Yes, I know. Much obliged for your help in that little matter, sir.”

  “Oh, I made the books tally up to a point. I recorded your dancers as having been accomodated in the cabin evacuated at the beginning of the week by those four women who went off at such short notice. The cabin had been paid for, you see, and they were not entitled to any reimbursement, neither did they ask for any. Your dance people did not occupy that particular cabin, but it tidied things up a little to pretend they did.”

  “So you dealt with your correspondence, sir, and then went to your filing-cabinet?”

  “That’s right. I thought it ought to be on record that those girls had left. I mean, it would look very odd if they were—if they had a road accident in, say, Cornwall, when they were supposed to be on holiday up here. Well, of course, when I looked for the file on Cabin Eight it wasn’t there.”

  “Was that the only file which was missing?”

  “No. Several others had gone, and that one was among them. All the missing files were under the initial L.”

  “L could be for Lestrange or for Lyndhurst. That might be significant. Well, I’m glad you reported this, sir. It may help us. As soon as Constable March has finished, perhaps you will permit me to inspect one or two of the files which are left.”

  “You think my loss may tie up with the theft at the hostel?”

  “I don’t think anything at the moment, sir. I am still collecting what evidence I can.”

  “You don’t mean that this ties up with the murders, do you? I have had three cancellations of late autumn bookings already.”

  “I don’t think anything and I don’t mean anything. Finished, March? Right, then. By your leave, sir.” He went over to the filing-cabinet.

  He was patient and thorough. It had occurred to him that L also stood for Lindsay. Only the L files were missing.

  “The interesting thing is, ma’am,” said Ribble, “that one missing file was that of the cabin which the forest warden had let to the four young ladies.”

  “Are the files comprehensive?”

  “How do you mean, ma’am?”

  “Do they list the names and addresses of all the occupants of a cabin, or do they show only the name of the person who made the booking?”

  “Oh, this warden is very conscientious indeed, ma’am. The name and address of the person who booked is on the file, and marked with a red asterisk, but also on the record are the names and addresses of the other tenants. As he explained to me, he cannot be too careful, as the tenants are not covered by insurance so far as the Forestry Commission is concerned, so he feels personally responsible for the safety of every one of them. Of course, family parties (which he says a great many of them are) go down under the name of the husband and under his address, and the rest is written off as Mrs. Whatever-t
he-Name-Is and the number of children, but if it’s a mixed party or a male or female party of adults, all the names go down and any addresses which are different from the address of the person who makes the booking.”

  “The system sounds very thorough.”

  “Well, ma’am, when you multiply the number of cabins with a possible five or even six people in each, he’s responsible for a fair number of holidaymakers. I shall be interested to see whether the dabs from the hostel and the dabs from the filing-cabinet can tell us anything. I took the precaution of fingerprinting the dancers before I let them go.”

  “You shall pursue the dabs; I will become a dabbler,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I propose to roam the wild wet woods in search of Amanita phalloides.”

  “Ah, this Death-Cap toadstool the murderer seems so fond of.”

  “To sum it up in those words seems to suggest that he might choose to eat it, in which case our hunt would not be up, but over. It is a little late in the season to find this particular fungus, but, as the murderer seems to have access to it, there must be some specimens about.”

  She set out, accompanied by Laura.

  “I suppose I mustn’t ask any why or wherefore?” said the latter, when they reached the entrance to the forest.

  “Better not. Can you keep the car down to about twenty-five miles an hour, stopping now and then, opening the bonnet and affecting to tinker with the engine? I want to give somebody a chance to catch up with us and pass us.”

  “I should think they would be glad of the chance if I’m to drive so slowly. I’m consumed with curiosity, needless to say. Are we being pursued by wicked men? Is my wallet safe?—not that there’s very much in it.”

  “There was a tandem parked outside the Ewe and Lamb.”

  “Couldn’t be the tandem, could it? That one must have been jettisoned miles away from here.”

  “One would suppose so, but a means of transport is a means of transport and not (except in gangster films) an amenity which is too readily sacrificed. Besides, what you so rightly distinguish as the tandem is the last thing the police will be expecting to find so near Gledge End, from which it disappeared. A bold bluff pays off more often than not.”