Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I suppose you didn’t pass my husband on your way?”

  “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” said Hugh, with caution.

  “Did he have his overcoat on? No matter. Either way it can’t be helped. Yes, well, you’d better be off. The girls will come over in the morning. I hope Mr. Lestrange’s aunt has come to stay with you as he promised me faithfully she would. The whole affair, in my opinion, has nothing to recommend it. It savours of—”

  “Yes, she’s come. But, look here, Mrs. Fossder—”

  “Go away. Goodnight. A Merry Christmas. Come over first thing in the morning,” said Mrs. Fossder irrevocably. She shut the window with a bang and the next moment her light was put out. There was a long silence. Hugh stepped back into the bushes and hid himself. After about three minutes the bright beam of an electric torch began to search the laurels among which he was in hiding. He had put his gloves on and had taken the precaution of holding his cap in front of his face. After a patient and exhaustive search, the torch was switched off. Hugh waited another two minutes and then ran on tiptoe across the lawn and up to the front door, where he took shelter in the porch. He knew that Jenny would manage to come down and speak to him.

  At the end of another five minutes the front door softly opened and Jenny came out.

  “Hugh,” said Jenny softly. Somewhere a clock chimed twelve.

  “Here I am,” said Hugh; he stepped out and kissed her. Jenny hugged him, kissed his ear, and pulled herself away.

  “I really must go now,” she said. “A Merry Christmas, darling! See you first thing in the morning. We can get old Bidster from the village to drive us over. Don’t you bother to come. Is Carey’s aunt really there—Mrs. Bradley? I’m longing to meet her! We all are—especially Maurice! Good night, sweet!” They kissed again. Jenny stifled a little chuckle, and murmured, “You ought to go back by way of Sandford, and see whether you can spot uncle and the ghost!”

  “Uncle and the ghost?” said Hugh. “What do you mean? Has he really gone to see it?”

  “As you say. Uncle and that Geraint Tombley are hunting the Sandford ghost.”

  “Good Lord!” said Hugh, beginning to chuckle softly. “Of course! The date that Tombley couldn’t keep.”

  “Couldn’t keep? What do you mean? Isn’t Tombley going to be there? I say, it’s a dirty trick to get uncle to go over there on a fool’s errand, Hugh! What a shame! Poor old uncle! He’s money mad! And Tombley gets half the two hundred if he’s there at Sandford as a witness.”

  “Come down and sit in the car, and tell me about it,” said Hugh. “It sounds a bit dotty to me!”

  “Of course it’s dotty,” said Jenny. They crept to the gate like cats and walked to the car. “You never in all your life heard anything half so daft.”

  Hugh helped her into the car, sat beside her, and wrapped the rug round her. He held it in place, and Jenny wriggled closer.

  “The letter came last Tuesday or Wednesday morning. It was all done up in a parcel, with two hundred pounds in Treasury notes, not registered or anything. It said in the letter that the money was a bet, and that Tombley and uncle could have half each if they would go to Sandford to see the ghost. And then those little shields—”

  “But I went after him, and told him that Tombley wasn’t coming. He took not a scrap of notice, and yet he must have understood me. Fancy his bunking off into Sandford tonight like that! It seems a bit odd, bet or no bet.”

  All Mrs. Ditch’s warnings came flooding back into his mind. Out there, in the quiet and the dark, a ghost seemed germane to the landscape, not alien—a possibility, not an old wives’ tale. He shivered and tucked his hand under Jenny’s arm. She squeezed it comfortingly.

  “Of course, it’s all rot—but he’s gone,” she said. She put back the rug. “And, Hugh, I’d better go too.” There was a pause, and, in it, Hugh kissed her.

  “I’m afraid poor uncle will get so cold. And his heart’s in a terrible state, and the cold affects people’s hearts or something,” said Jenny.

  “But they’re sure to meet in a house or somewhere,” said Hugh. He held Jenny tight, wrapped the rug round her again, and kissed her chin. “You’re coming along,” he said. “Mrs. Ditch can lend you a night-dress. Right away, George!” The car roared into the darkness and swung upslope at Iffley Turn for Rose Hill. “Look here. Perhaps you’re right. It’s a rather cold night. We’ll go and look for him if you like,” he said suddenly.

  “I say, do let’s,” said Jenny. “May I speak to your chauffeur through the tube?” She picked up the tube and told George to stop the car as soon as they had rounded the bend.

  “It might be best,” said Hugh.

  “We could drop down towards the river, leave the car, and follow him up. He’d walk along the towing path. It’s much the quickest, you know. He’s sure to have crossed the lock and walked to Sandford that way,” said Jenny.

  “Oh, yes. All right,” said Hugh. He gave the necessary instructions. George turned the car, and they dropped back into Iffley and crawled towards the lock.

  There was a toll-gate at Iffley, where once was Iffley Mill, but after eleven at night no tolls were taken and the way was left open for travellers to cross the lock.

  “Someone was drowned—a woman, I think,” said Jenny, “trying to get across when the way was closed. So now they leave it open all night long. Uncle is certain to have come this way, and his heart is so weak that he’s bound to walk quite slowly. I shouldn’t be surprised if we caught him up this side of Kennington Island.”

  They crossed the lock, first by the wooden-planked bridge which spanned the noisy waters that once drove the mill-wheel round, and then where the main stream ran quietly. Hugh was ahead, and when they reached the opposite bank he waited for Jenny. They walked side by side after that, half-running, in their haste, by the great fields, wide and unfenced, which bordered the narrow path. On the opposite bank the trees came down to the water’s edge and vaguely loomed against the flat night sky.

  “It’s rather strange in the dark,” said Jenny, softly. “I’ll tell you what! We’d better go straight to the lock and cross the river, if we don’t catch him up before then. We must hide if we see uncle coming, and follow wherever he goes. If he goes to a house—”

  “I don’t know Sandford by night,” said Hugh, “but I’m sure we’re doing the best thing.”

  “Of course, I’m not even sure that he’s got to cross the river,” Jenny said.

  “The road goes off on the other side across a little bridge where the river makes a loop below Sandford Pool. There it joins a bigger road by Radley Large Wood,” said Hugh. “He may go off that way.”

  “I thought you didn’t know Sandford in the dark!”

  “I don’t believe I know which is Temple Farm, and that’s where the ghost rides, isn’t it?”

  As he was speaking Jenny stumbled and fell. She gave a little cry.

  “I’m falling! Oh, Hugh!” She began to pick herself up. With an oath, Hugh also fell forward. He got up and took an electric torch from his pocket. The obstacle over which he and Jenny had fallen was the body of Mr. Fossder.

  “Good heavens! What’s this?” said Hugh.

  “Oh, Hugh! Poor uncle! His heart!” said Jenny, beginning to wail.

  “Hold up, Jenny. It’s quite all right! It’s quite all right,” said Hugh, as he knelt on the ground and felt for Fossder’s heart. But Mr. Fossder was dead. Hugh had not the slightest doubt of it. He raised his voice a little and spoke with curt authority.

  “Jenny, go back to the car and get George here!”

  Jenny sat in front going home, while Hugh, who had carried the body, held it, and tried to prevent it jolting, on the back seat of the car.

  George helped Hugh to lift the body out, and they bore it up to the door between the lawns and the laurels. A frightened servant came to the door and called through the letter-box to them:

  “Who be there, this hour of the night? Go away!” But the servant was ver
y soon followed by Mrs. Fossder, who had been lying awake to hear her husband come in.

  “I’m terribly sorry. An accident,” said Hugh.

  “Bring him in here!” she said. “Tell me what’s happened! His heart?” She seemed extraordinarily calm.

  Hugh and George laid the body on a couch in the drawing room.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Hugh. “I’m afraid his heart’s given it up. He must have been running, I think.”

  “He’s been murdered,” said Mrs. Fossder.

  He looked at her, then put his arm round her waist and lowered her into a chair.

  “Brandy, George. In the sideboard of the room next to this.” He had seen the bottle when Mr. Fossder had got out the whisky less than two hours before.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Bradley when Christmas breakfast was over, and Carey had gone off with Ditch and Denis to see to the feeding of the pigs. “Tell me all about it from the beginning.”

  Her black eyes were brilliant. The yellow topaz in the ring on her right hand blinked like the eye of a lazy cat as she laid her yellow hand on the carved arm of her chair, and let the firelight sparkle on the stone.

  Hugh nodded, and pushed a log with his shoe. “The more you think the thing over, the worse it looks, I should say; Fossder’s weak heart wasn’t a secret, by any means. I ascertained that from Mrs. Fossder last night. There was a bit of a fuss about the girls, you know, and old Fossder went off in the middle of it to keep this date with the ghost. It seems that Fossder had been betted a good deal of money—two hundred pounds, in fact—that he wouldn’t go out and have a look at the ghost. He could take a witness with him, and chose Tombley, I can’t think why. Well, Fossder went off, and I tore after him to give him Tombley’s message, then I went back to the house and dug out Jenny and we thought we would go through Iffley to Sandford and have a chase after Fossder, who, she thought, would get terribly cold. Well, we were walking along, gassing, when Jenny, poor kid, tumbled right over Fossder’s body which was lying facing Iffley. All I can see is that somebody must have chased Fossder along the towing path, and Fossder fell dead. That’s all. It looks pretty fishy to me. I mean, why should Fossder run and bust his heart, unless he was being followed?”

  Mrs. Ditch came in.

  “Mester Semeth got home all right,” she said. “Mester Tombley’s just come and left the message for ee, and says would ee care to go over.”

  “Any idea what had happened to him?” asked Hugh.

  “Nothing, Mester Tombley said,” replied Mrs. Ditch. “He’d ben to see a man about—”

  “A dog?” said Hugh with a chuckle.

  “No, Mr. Hugh. A boar.”

  “But they’ve got a boar. In fact, now I come to think of it, they’ve got a couple. One’s a savage old tusker nearly nine years of age and not much good for anything, and the other is a sprightly young blood of two. Do they want another boar in place of old Nero, then?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Mrs. Ditch. “He just said to give ee the message, and tell ee a Merry Christmas!”

  “Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley absently. She rose and began to collect her things—a book, some knitting, and a fountain pen. “Tell me about the two hundred pounds,” she said, when Mrs. Ditch had gone.

  “The tale of that two hundred pounds is almost incredible as I understand it at present. But, look here,” said Hugh, “I’ll find out what I can this afternoon from Mrs. Fossder herself.”

  “Yes, do.” Mrs. Bradley picked up the handbell that she used to summon Mrs. Ditch, and rang it vigorously. Walt appeared in his shirt-sleeves, grinning shyly.

  “Our mam be putten the capon en the oven, and her says well I do ee for once?”

  “You will,” said Mrs. Bradley. “What time was it when Mr. Simith came home?”

  “Last night, mam, do ee mean? Mester Tombley said it were half-past two en the mornen, ef ever ee ’eard such a theng! Him and some friends had ben out Wetney way, a-thinken of buyen a boar, ef ee ever ’eard anythen so onlikely, on Chrestmas Eve, of all times, too an’ all!”

  Young Walt seemed amused. Mrs. Bradley eyed him. He looked an intelligent youth.

  “Walt,” she said, “do you think Mr. Simith went to Witney?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Her’s purty nigh to Bampton, edden her? And he be a Bampton man.”

  “Do you know whether he was acquainted with Mr. Fossder, who lives just out of Iffley?”

  “What, Fossder, the lawyer? Ah, too an’ all he was! Dedn’t old Fossder send to him to know ef he’d wetness his well? Or so our Lender was sayen.”

  “And how did they get on together, Fossder and Mr. Simith?”

  “They never got on at all.” Walt began to laugh. “Though I only knows what our Lender says about ’em. Hate each other and trust each other. Ee do find old fellers like that, like, now and again.”

  “Oh? Thank you, Walt. What time is dinner, do you know?”

  “Our mam said a quarter after one.”

  “Then I think I’ll go for a walk,” said Mrs. Bradley. She left Hugh lying on the settee. He had a book—a Christmas present—on his chest, and his eyelids were gently closing. Mrs. Bradley went to look for Denis. She found him staring at Hereward, who, chewing thoughtfully, stared back pugnaciously.

  “Do you believe that people turn into animals when they die?” he asked, as she came up beside him.

  “No, my dear,” said Mrs. Bradley, gazing benignly on Hereward. “I certainly don’t believe anything of the kind. Do you care to come for a walk before dinner, Denis?”

  “Rather,” said Denis. The morning, though rainless, was cloudy. Mrs. Bradley looked at the sky, and then said,

  “Go and put on a coat or something, dear child. It’s cold and it’s going to snow.”

  Denis ran in, and soon reappeared, struggling into his overcoat. On his head was his cap. Mrs. Bradley eyed him approvingly, and off they went, up the cart-track and on to the road.

  “Where are we going?” asked Denis.

  “This way,” said Mrs. Bradley. They turned away from the village, and tramped downhill towards Stanton Great Wood. The road ran to within a hundred yards of the wood, and from there a footpath skirted Simith’s land. They crossed a stile, and the footpath led up to the edge of the wood and along the western side of it.

  “Have a good look at Mr. Simith’s farm,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and if you see anybody, wave. Your eyes are younger than mine.”

  They were not sharper than hers, however, for, as Denis began to lift his hand uncertainly, Mrs. Bradley waved.

  “Was it them? I wasn’t quite sure,” said Denis. A figure straightened up and waved in reply.

  “Come along,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It’s Mr. Tombley.” They left the path and set out across the next field. Tombley came towards them.

  “A Merry Christmas!” he said. “Did Lestrange get my message about my uncle, do you know?”

  “Oh, yes. Or, rather, Hugh and I did. I’m glad your uncle returned quite safely,” Mrs. Bradley said. “Have you heard about the death of Mr. Fossder? I think you knew him, didn’t you?”

  “Fossder? Dead? But—how on earth did it happen? I had a letter from him only the other day.”

  “About the Sandford ghost?”

  “Why, yes! How did you know?”

  “Hugh told me about the bet. You mentioned it, too.”

  “Oh, did we? Yes. Rather mysterious, don’t you think?”

  “Very mysterious indeed,” said Mrs. Bradley. She paused. “Last night Mr. Fossder went towards Sandford by himself, and was chased by some person or persons, and had to run, with the result that he collapsed and died.”

  “Good heavens! What a terrible thing! But where did this happen? He didn’t get to Sandford, you say? You don’t think—I say! What a terrible thing!” Tombley seemed genuinely agitated. “A terrible thing!” he repeated.

  “It is, indeed,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “The ‘ghost’ will have to be traced.”

&nbs
p; “I should think so, indeed. But it all seems quite extraordinary. Did Hugh, then, go over after all? But, if he did, that means he gave Fossder my message! I sent a message to say I could not go, because of uncle, you remember. But I thought Hugh said the car was out of action—”

  “They got it right in the end, and Hugh went over rather late. He said he went after Mr. Fossder with your message, but appa­rently it didn’t make any difference. Mr. Fossder would not return with him to the house. What were the arrangements, child, exactly, between you and Mr. Fossder?”

  “We were to meet at Iffley Mill, and cross the lock, and walk along the towing path to Sandford.”

  “Are you certain those were the arrangements?”

  “Perfectly certain. Ten to twelve was the time.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley, as though satisfied. “Was Fossder a nervous man, Mr. Tombley?”

  “Lawyers aren’t usually nervous. Excuse me! Promised the vicar I’d go to church.”

  “Have you got your Christmas dinner on to cook?” asked Denis, suddenly.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Parsons came in. We shall do very well. A nuisance, of course, about Linda. Times are not what they were!” said Tombley, quite good-humouredly.

  As no adequate reply to this—at least, no reply that she wanted Denis to hear—occurred to Mrs. Bradley at the moment, she turned and walked back to the footpath, the boy beside her. They retraced their steps to regain the road and were back in good time for Christmas dinner. Hugh came in shortly afterwards.

  “Finished your nap?” Mrs. Bradley enquired, with her usual mirthless smile. Hugh dropped his eyes and then laughed.

  “Nap? Oh, yes, thanks. Thought better of it, and went for a stroll instead. I think I’d better go over to Iffley this afternoon,” he added. “After all, the old chap would have been a relation of mine, if he’d lived until after my marriage.”

  Mrs. Bradley looked interested. “Do you mind if I come as well?” she asked, before anyone else could speak. “Not to the house, of course, but into Iffley? I think I should like the drive.”

  “May I come too?” asked Denis. Carey caught his aunt’s eye.

  “I was depending on Scab for table tennis,” he said; so Denis, always good natured, remained behind, whilst Mrs. Bradley and Hugh went off in the car together. Mrs. Bradley drove. She had brought out an ordnance map, and, whilst Hugh was with Mrs. Fossder, she cruised about in the car. The route she took branched off at Littlemore, crossed the main road below Cowley, went out of its way to Garsington, and then, by Coombe Wood, into Wheatley. It met the main road at Wheatley, then followed it past Hill House, through Forest Hill, and so a mile or two northwards back to Stanton St. John. Then she returned across country direct to Headington Quarry and back to Iffley. There she left the car outside the public house, and went for a very short stroll along the towing path. There was nothing to show where the body of Fossder had lain. She spent some moments, on her return to the house, studying the cross on the gate.