The Whispering Knights (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  She reached the iron railings, almost fell against them, clasped them with both hands, and fought for breath after her panic-stricken run up the hill. She was in a state of quite unreasoning terror, convinced not only that Owen was pursuing her as Daphne was pursued, but that it was not in the least likely that she herself would be saved by being turned into a laurel tree, still less that she would be turned to stone to become the stone king’s paramour.

  Owen, making heavy going on the steep slope, was uttering hoarse, meaningless noises, but he was getting nearer. She let go of the railings and dodged behind the stone. Then began a deadly and terrifying game of catch-as-catch-can. It did not last for long. There was a pounding of boots on the hill and a voice shouted, “We’re here, miss! Run for the stile!”

  Obeying, as women will, a confident male command, Capella eluded Owen, who was closing in, and raced downhill. At the stile were Laura and Dame Beatrice.

  “Can Marsh hold on to Owen long enough to complete the evidence against him of murdering those two women?” Laura enquired.

  “Oh, yes. The police will charge him with attempted rape, although, but for her quick thinking in making for the King Stone, which gave her a chance to elude him, I think that he would have murdered her. He is quite unhinged.”

  “You might have told me you thought all the time that Owen was the murderer.”

  “I am not sure that I did think of him all the time. The tour was over before I thought of him at all, and even then there were other candidates for the role of murderer. If Catherine knew, or even if she only surmised, that Lionel and Clarissa were passing as husband and wife, they had a strong motive for getting her out of the way.”

  “But they wouldn’t have needed to murder Mrs. Le Mans as well.”

  “Until Catherine was murdered in exactly the same way, Mrs. Le Mans did not fit into the picture at all. Still, so long as murderers insist on repeating their methods, people such as the police and myself stand a fair chance of catching them.”

  “But you had your doubts about Owen long before either of the murders took place, didn’t you?”

  “Doubts, in a sense, yes, but I did not envisage him as a murderer. The doubts began when rumours reached me that I had been invited to join the tour for a reason I had not been given. I dismissed them at first because they emanated from the mischievous Stewart and I put their dissemination down to his slightly perverted sense of humour.”

  “But then there was the Truth Game.”

  “Yes, indeed. Perhaps that was the beginning of my suspicions. The game was played under rules invented by Owen and I was soon fairly certain that it was he who entered my room that night and purloined Catherine’s set of answers.”

  “It could just as well have been Lionel or Clarissa, as I think we said at the time.”

  “Oh, yes, and I bore them in mind. However, I always came back to the fact that it was Owen who invented that strange version of the game.”

  “Suppose you had not left your door open while you were out of the room, how would he have got possession of Catherine’s answers?”

  “He would probably have asked me to allow him to look over all the papers. I should hardly have refused such a request, as he was giving the prize.”

  “But he preferred the other method, although it was risky?”

  “Apparently he did.”

  “He must somehow have kept in touch with his ex-wife, but why did he need to kill her?”

  “As a matter of expediency. It was Catherine who had to die before she could marry Stewart, but I think he felt that his wife would know who Catherine’s murderer was, and so she had to be disposed of first; that, of course, is only guesswork on my part, but the air service between Inverness and Stornoway made the whole enterprise feasible.”

  “What did you make of Sister Veronica?”

  “Sister Veronica is gifted with one form of extra-sensory perception and is a religious mystic. In that flitting figure—of a man, remember—I think she saw the spirit of evil. Owen was evil, and that fact conveyed itself to her. Unfortunately her extra-sensory powers are limited. She sensed the presence of evil power, but could not determine which of us was the human element through which power could work.”

  “So that’s why she didn’t see anything at the circles on Machrie Moor. Owen wasn’t with us.”

  “And never again has she visited stone circles when he was present.”

  “Well, there’s one thing: now that a description of Owen can be circulated, the Scottish police ought to be able to trace his movements on Lewis.”

  “Oh, yes. Once the end of a ball of wool is found, the unravelling is merely a matter of time. I imagine we shall find that, although they were divorced, his relationship with his wife had remained outwardly amicable, although I expect the alimony was expensive. But it was when he decided to murder Catherine in order to secure his inheritance that his wife had to be eliminated, too, for the reason I gave you. She probably met him at Stornoway airport with a car by previous arrangement. If you remember, we were all supposed to be going to Lewis in the first place. Oh, well, the rest is a matter of police routine. It may take some time to build up a case, but they will manage it.”

  “Do you know what I think?” asked Laura.

  “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t.”

  “I think Owen invited you to join the tour because he realised he was beginning to go over the border and he wanted you to keep an eye on him, not on one of the others.”

  Dame Beatrice gazed at her secretary in simulated admiration, but there was no time to pursue Laura’s theory because they received an unexpected visit from Stewart. He gave them a lively account of his researches in Ireland and Brittany—“Er Lannic and Gavrinis, you know”—but made no mention of Owen or Capella. Laura asked him whether he had visited the Rollright Stones since his return from Brittany.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “I went to the Whispering Knights, but never a murmur out of them. The barley had all been reaped.”

  “So Capella wouldn’t have him,” said Laura later to Dame Beatrice, “and a good thing, too. He’s in love with stone circles, not with wedding rings. He’d be the most selfish of husbands.”

  “I suppose man’s love still is of man’s life a thing apart,” said Dame Beatrice sententiously.

  “At any rate, it’s no longer woman’s whole existence, thank goodness!” retorted Laura.

  About the Author

  Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.