Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  Chapter Four

  CORNERS—THE FIGHT—AT IFFLEY

  Hugh was waiting for her.

  “Would you mind coming into the house and having a talk with Mrs. Fossder?” he said. “She’s cut up, of course, but it—she’s being jolly good about it. Quite composed. As a matter of fact, she’s intensely angry. She puts the whole thing on to Simith. Well, it is a bit odd, you know.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Where does this go when it passes the house?” she asked as they stopped for a moment at the gate. She waved her hand onwards to indicate the little lane in which the house was set.

  “It’s a cut through to the river,” Hugh replied. “Flooded at its lower end in spring, and fearfully boggy now. I don’t think Foss­der went—in fact, of course he didn’t. He passed the car, and must have crossed by the mill—or where the mill used to be. That was the way that Jenny and I went after him later on.”

  They went up the path to the house, and Jenny, who had seen them from a window, came herself to the door before they rang.

  Mrs. Fossder was white, and looked very ill. But her voice was as full and purposeful as it had been when she had ordered Hugh away on the previous night.

  “My husband’s been murdered,” she said.

  “Manslaughter, anyway,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly. “What have you got against Mr. Simith, my nephew Carey’s neighbour?”

  “They never got on. Edmund lost a case for him, and Simith never forgave it. He knew Edmund had a weak heart—everyone knew it—he’s had it for years, and always had to be careful. He wouldn’t drive a car in case of having a seizure when at the wheel.”

  “Do you know what made your husband so anxious to keep the tryst with Mr. Tombley?”

  “Yes. It was some ridiculous wager in connection with the Sandford ghost. He was to meet Geraint Tombley at Sandford. They were to share two hundred pounds if they would go. Poor Geraint Tombley! Poor boy! He has a bad time with that wicked old man.”

  “Your feelings for Tombley, then, are not the same as your feelings for Simith?” Mrs. Bradley said. Mrs. Fossder opened her eyes.

  “Good gracious, no! Quite different. Simith is a nasty, common person. Tombley is a gentleman. But, of course, as Simith’s nephew, my husband would not consent to his engagement to Fay, even although she desired it.”

  “It seems to me much more likely,” said Mrs. Bradley bluntly, “that a young man of Tombley’s age should have chased your husband along the towing path—that is, if anyone did—than that a man of Simith’s age should have done it.”

  “You don’t know Simith,” said Mrs. Fossder. “That’s plain. He’s tried to murder his nephew more than once. He’s a terribly vindic­tive old man, and has a very bad reputation in other ways.”

  Mrs. Bradley remembered the fight between uncle and nephew which she and George had witnessed upon their arrival in the neighbourhood of Stanton St. John. It had been obvious then that the aggressor was Simith. Tombley, with his pig-bucket, had been doing little more than defending himself.

  She nodded.

  “May I see the letter which your husband received from Reading? I heard it was anonymous,” she said. Mrs. Fossder went out of the room. “I can’t believe it was Simith,” Mrs. Bradley whispered. Hugh grimaced.

  “I can’t make head or tail of it,” he said. “I’ll tell you another thing—”

  But before he could do so, Mrs. Fossder came back.

  Mrs. Bradley read the letter. It contained nothing beyond a statement of the terms of the wager and a proposal that Fossder and Tombley should meet at Sandford Church. Mrs. Bradley consulted her map. The church was off the main road, and lay on the northern side of the little road that led to the weir and the paper mill.

  “There was another anonymous communication—the one with the little shields,” said Mrs. Fossder. “You noticed the cross in paint on the gate?” She held out another envelope. Of the pencilled shields—there were two on the same piece of paper—one bore a cross, the other what looked rather like a sketch of some diamond-shaped trellis.

  “One is a cross, and the other a criss-cross,” said Mrs. Fossder. “Only, the cross isn’t Christian!”

  “Oh, yes, I think it is,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It’s an heraldic one, and is known, I believe, as the Cross Patée or Formée. But about Mr. Simith—”

  “Hugh told us he was out last night,” said Mrs. Fossder, catching her teeth in her bottom lip and frowning. “Mrs. Bradley, I know he had something to do with poor dear Edmund’s death. I feel certain that he was there. Hugh said he did not get home until half-past two o’clock. Isn’t that proof positive for us?”

  “Well, no, I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But I want to check up some times. Now, Jenny, you begin.”

  Jenny stirred uneasily, and, looking at Mrs. Bradley, and then away, said doubtfully,

  “It was striking twelve when I went to meet Hugh in the garden.”

  “Go on,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “We talked a little, and then we got into the car. The chauffeur drove off, and we stopped for a minute or two, just this side of Rose Hill—well, just on the slope as you turn up out of the village going towards Littlemore.”

  “I say!” said Hugh. “Not a lunatic’s joke, by any chance? Some poor unhinged blighter thinking he himself was the Sandford ghost?”

  “The most unlikely thing in the world,” said Mrs. Fossder. “Lunatics never think of themselves as obscure sort of people like that George Napier, a gentle, inoffensive Catholic priest. They imagine themselves to be someone everybody knows—world-builders—more often, world destroyers—but always people of power and influence. They are often martyrs, but not the kind of martyrs who only figure in local legends afterwards. Still, no doubt the authorities will tell us whether all their charges were accounted for last night. My husband was interested in lunatics, and really rather afraid of them,” she added. “I believe his interest was really somewhat morbid. He used to visit the asylum occasionally. We got to know one of the doctors there. He used to come here to tea. Poor man! He died last year. He was really very nice, and most interesting on the subject of his work.”

  Mrs. Bradley looked at Jenny.

  “Then your man George turned the car, and we went to the lock. We crossed the river and walked towards Sandford. We had not gone very far before I—before I stumbled over him.”

  “Which way was he facing?” Mrs. Bradley enquired. It was Hugh who had to reply, for Jenny was overcome.

  “He was face downwards, and the head was towards Folly Bridge.”

  “But that looks as though he was coming away from Sandford, not going towards it!” Mrs. Fossder exclaimed.

  “We ought to be able to trace the ghost, if there was one,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Mrs. Bradley,” said Mrs. Fossder, looking her full in the face, “I have heard that you are a very clever woman. You came to this hateful affair with an open mind. Will you answer me one question?”

  “Willingly,” said Mrs. Bradley gravely. “I do believe that your husband was deliberately murdered. I’m not trying to get away from that.”

  “How did you know what it was my aunt wanted to ask you?” asked Jenny, when they reached the front door.

  “It was obvious, child. I can’t tell you how I knew.”

  “Then ought we to call in the police?”

  “I cannot advise you, child, with regard to calling in the police. What has your doctor said?”

  “He signed the certificate. Said uncle was liable to fall dead of any kind of over-exertion or even sudden shock, so there won’t have to be an inquest.”

  “I’m afraid there’s hardly a case for the police, then, at this juncture, child, you know. Dangerous practical joking would be the most you could hope to make out of it, even if you could discover the practical joker. And if I understand your aunt aright, what she wants is someone hanged. Like poor George Napier,” she added.

&nb
sp; “I think he was only drawn and quartered,” said Hugh. Mrs. Bradley looked at him and shuddered.

  “By the way,” she said, “was Mr. Fossder deaf?”

  “Deaf? Not a bit,” replied Jenny. “His hearing was rather acute. I believe,” she added later to Hugh, as they took their leave before Hugh got into the car beside Mrs. Bradley, “Carey’s aunt is more angry at the foolishness of the crime than at its wickedness.”

  “It doesn’t sound to me foolish, you know,” said Hugh. “I should call it rather a brainy effort myself. Incidentally, Mrs. Fossder’s taking it pretty well. I’m really rather surprised.”

  “Hugh, who do you think it was?” asked Jenny, after a pause.

  “I’d plump for Tombley without a thought,” said Hugh, “if I could prove he wasn’t at Roman Ending between half-past ten and one o’clock last night. But, you see, to prove that—”

  “You would have to interview separately Tombley and Simith, and perhaps the pigman, Priest,” said Mrs. Bradley, poking her head out and grinning like the sea-serpent at them. “Go in, child. You’ll get a cold,” she said to Jenny. Jenny obeyed, and waved to them before the laurels hid her. “Your point about Tombley, I suppose,” added Mrs. Bradley, “is that, in spite of the message he asked you to deliver, Tombley did keep the appointment, although not, from poor Mr. Fossder’s point of view, in an entirely acceptable manner.”

  “Exactly,” Hugh replied gravely. “Poor little Fay!”

  “I like your fiancée,” said Mrs. Bradley smoothly. “Some time I must meet that little sister.”

  “Well, not her sister, actually,” said Hugh, “but the Fossders treat them alike. The person I really want you to meet is Pratt.”

  “But I’ve met him,” said Mrs. Bradley. Hugh nodded and laughed.

  “But not in his fullest beauty,” he remarked.

  “Well, it’s been a very odd Christmas Day,” said Carey, as they sat down to tea at six. Denis took a stick of celery.

  “All I want,” he said, and bit off a piece with great solemnity. “I’m not very keen on tea, today, for some reason.”

  “Saving up for supper, Scab?” asked Hugh.

  “Been eating all the afternoon,” said Carey. “Kids are disgusting, really!” He punched Denis lightly in the ribs. Denis wriggled, and took another bite from the celery.

  “What have you two been doing?” he asked, pausing in his mastication to stare at them.

  “Been over to see Mrs. Fossder,” Hugh replied.

  “I told old Simith about that this afternoon. He was surprised. Said he’d never believed in ghosts, and said I was pulling his leg. So I said, ‘Well, you ought to know! Where were you last night, Mr. Simith? That’s what we’d like to find out.’ It didn’t go awfully well. He went most frightfully red, and his eye went frightfully blue, and he took the most frightful whack at me with his stick, and called me what they call you in these parts when they mean—” he glanced at Mrs. Bradley and paraphrased swiftly—“that you’re rather interfering, and then, of course, I legged it, and there was Tombley standing by and laughing like the silly jackass he is. Oh, and I’ve seen three grey horses for you, in case the ghost was in its coach, you know.”

  He pulled out a piece of paper (laying down the celery to do so) and spread it out on the table. The flattering interest and breathless attention with which his remarks were received he found peculiarly gratifying. His relatives very seldom took him seriously. First Hugh and then Mrs. Bradley bent over the paper. On a rough but remarkably well-sketched map of the neighbourhood, the three grey horses were indicated in the form of elaborate question marks. One was on Simith’s farm.

  “Amazing!” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Three of them!” said Hugh.

  “And you’d have nothing on earth to do,” said Denis eagerly, “but lead them out through a gate.”

  “But surely they’re stabled at night?”

  “I expect the ghost would have got one out in the daytime, wouldn’t he, Aunt Bradley? I asked Priest what he thought, and he said he would.”

  Mrs. Bradley caught Hugh’s eye over the top of the child’s bent head. Hugh raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Bradley nodded.

  “He’s done very well,” said Hugh.

  “Is it really any good?” asked Denis.

  “Unspeakably helpful,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “Please may I keep that piece of paper?”

  She impounded it forthwith. Denis returned to his celery. Later he managed two pieces of Christmas cake and half a dozen chocolate biscuits.

  “That’s better, Scab,” said Carey. “I don’t want to send you home thin.” Denis smiled politely and went off with Carey after tea to play darts in the gallery upstairs. Hugh lit a cigar, and said to Mrs. Bradley, when Mrs. Ditch had come in and cleared away,

  “Not exactly helpful, I suppose? But the little devil’s got brains.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. “That’s interesting about Simith owning a grey. Simith was certainly doing something unusual, if not unlawful, last night, and Priest bears neither of his employers much goodwill, I should say.”

  “Still, Scab’s proved one thing. There doesn’t seem much shortage of greys, and—of course the coach is absurd, but if the fellow was on horseback—”

  “True.” Mrs. Bradley looked thoughtful. “What did you make of the Fossder household today?”

  “Nothing in particular. Mrs. Fossder’s a very brave woman, I think.”

  “Or a very vindictive one,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And, by the way, there’s something you can do.”

  “Me personally?”

  “None other. I want you to find out from Jenny the terms of Fossder’s will as soon as it is proved.”

  “Oh! Motive for the crime, if any, you mean?”

  “That is what I mean. Although—” she frowned a little.

  “Say on,” said Hugh. “By the way, I can tell you the terms of the will, unless they’ve been altered recently.”

  “I suppose Fossder was meant to die?” said Mrs. Bradley musingly, half to herself.

  “You mean perhaps it wasn’t murder at all, but simply a joke with a very unforeseen ending? It’s much the more likely, you know, in which case, you can’t necessarily implicate any of the people who knew how bad his heart was. Probably they would lay off any practical jokes.”

  “I wish,” said Mrs. Bradley, beginning her knitting, “I had any pretext whatever for examining Fossder’s heart.”

  “It would mean a post-mortem, and the doctor has written the certificate.”

  “Yes, I know. What a bit of luck for the murderer—”

  “If any!”

  “Yes. Suppose that someone saw it done.”

  “Couldn’t. It was pitch dark.”

  “Heard something, then.”

  “Could you prove anything from that?”

  “Of course you could. Why not?” She grinned at him evilly. “Men have been hanged on very much slighter evidence.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. What we want to do, I should say, is to sort out the people at Roman Ending, and see what they have to say about last night. Simith and Tombley were both away from home at some time during the night. That’s clear enough. Tombley even came here, as though to see how the land lay regarding my going to Iffley. I expect, if we knew all, it was Tombley who damaged the car. Now, I propose that we all go over there as though to pay them a visit. Get your chauffeur to take on the pigman for a bit; then Carey and I could separate uncle and nevvy, and you could go the rounds and ask the questions.”

  “It will have to be done tomorrow. There is no excuse we could offer for disturbing them again on Christmas Day. Denis and I walked over their land this morning; Denis has been there again this afternoon. We really must leave it until tomorrow, I think.”

  “Very well,” said Hugh. “I agree entirely. You know, I did wonder at one point whether Mrs. Fossder killed her husband, but one hardly likes to think so, without something definite to go on.”

  Mrs. Bradl
ey shrugged.

  “Wives do kill husbands,” she said, “and husbands wives. But I do want to know about that will.”

  “In a nutshell, Pratt gets the practice—he was Fossder’s partner, you know—and the three females get the money—in equal shares, I believe. I don’t know how much it amounts to—precious little, I should think.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “That’s very interesting. So that if Geraint Tombley were short of a few hundreds, all he would need to do, having frightened Mr. Fossder to death, would be to marry Fay immediately, and hope she would be willing to hand him over the money.”

  “But I don’t think the money can amount to enough for that,” objected Hugh. “A country lawyer couldn’t have much to leave, and old Fossder used to dabble in speculations a bit, you know. Soon lose a packet that way.”

  He turned to his book. Mrs. Bradley continued her knitting and read modern verse, frowning slightly.

  Denis and Carey came down.

  “Let’s have some drinks. Scab, you shall have a cocktail if you swear not to tell your mother. What do you say?” said Carey. “Oh, by the way, Hugh, a note for you from Roman Ending. Tombley just brought it over. Said he wouldn’t stop, as his uncle was left with the whisky.”

  Hugh read the note.

  “An offer to lend us their gramophone all day tomorrow,” he said. “I told them we’d got some new records. When we return it, we’d better lend them the records.”