Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  She took Carey’s outstretched hand and finished surmounting the stile, and as they walked on up the road he said, “I’ve been checking up a few facts and things, you know.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded. She continued to nod for some time, rhythmically and slowly, and as though she had forgotten she was doing it. The road wound gradually uphill. Soon they could hear the running of the roadside brook.

  “Proceed, moon,” she said encouragingly.

  “It’s about Tombley and his uncle.”

  “Ah!” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “You see, there’s every reason why Tombley should murder his uncle, and not much reason why anybody else should. You don’t mind if I talk in words of one syllable, do you? Mine, unlike Tombley’s, is not a powerful intellect. Now, you say that Simith was murdered at Roman Ending, but actually I agree with Tombley that there is very little proof that Simith was murdered at all. Why couldn’t you have left the whole thing alone, and let it be thought an accidental death? It would have saved a whole heap of trouble!”

  “And then—!”

  “I don’t know.” He laughed and put his arm round her bony shoulders. “I know you had to point out the broken nose and the bruised back as evidences of murder, but, after all, they may not have been. Tombley and Simith used to fight like fiends. It was usually Simith’s fault, but he might easily get the worst of it with a powerful chap like Tombley—”

  “All this is well beside the point, dear child. You said you had facts. What are they?”

  “First of all, there’s that business of the ghost. I spotted the hand of Tombley in that from the very beginning, and so did you, I think. But I don’t believe he meant anything more than a stupid—”

  “Practical joke,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Do you remember,” she added, “that when Tombley called here on Christmas Eve he mentioned his uncle’s weak heart?”

  “I know. I thought it very interesting.” He grinned. “His uncle hadn’t a weak heart, I think you are going to say. Well, I happen to know that he hadn’t. And how do I know? Because, two days before you came to stay here, he was out trotting after the beagles or something, over on the other side of the village. You know those fields out there, opposite the pub? He went several miles, and came back without a sign of having run himself out. A very hearty old boy. Surprisingly spry. So you see that, unless he’d contracted a weak heart within the last week or ten days, Tombley was lying about him, which looks a bit suspicious, in the circumstances.”

  “Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley, as they turned off towards Old Farm. She reversed the ash-plant she carried, addressed a rounded stone, and lifted it very neatly over the low stone wall. “Go on, child.”

  “On the other hand,” continued Carey, “Fossder really did have a weak heart, and Tombley (if the ghost was Tombley) chased him and upset it pretty badly—so badly that he died.”

  “I know. It’s certainly a coincidence, but it may be nothing more. But I had already given a certain amount of consideration to the point, and admit that it is significant. Tombley must have had Fossder on his mind.”

  “That’s what I think. I mean, unless he had weak hearts on the brain, why should he have mentioned them? He could just have said that his uncle’s absence worried him.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Yes, well— Now, what about this business of the boar? You think that Nero killed Simith, and that my boar, Hereward, was taken to Shotover to make it look as though the death had taken place there instead of at Roman Ending.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded. “A mistake which Tombley would never have made,” she said. “Does it not strike you as rather significant, child, that all that elaborate staging of the scene deceived nobody at all? And now I’m going back to Roman Ending. I’m going to drop in again on Tombley straight away.”

  “When he’s not expecting us, you mean?”

  “When he’s not expecting me. You, child, will remain outside the house and talk pig with Priest, and note carefully what he says. I have a shrewd notion that poor Tombley wants to confide in me, and he certainly won’t do it while you’re there, that I know.”

  “Confide in you?”

  “Well, yes, child. I expect he wants to find out whether I’ll put him in touch with my son. He’ll want somebody clever to defend him at the trial—if it comes to that, later on.”

  “Ferdinand?”

  “Ferdinand, child. A very clever boy.” She grinned reminiscently. “A very clever boy.”

  “I see. He really thinks he’ll be arrested, then, for the murder?”

  “Yes, child. But I am going to prevent it, if I can.”

  “Oh?”

  “They couldn’t convict him on the present evidence.”

  “Ah! Give him enough rope, you mean? But do you think you’ll find some more evidence, then? I should have thought that, coupled with Fossder’s death—”

  “But, child, nothing can be coupled with Fossder’s death. That’s just the trouble. Fossder’s death, so far as the police and the general public are concerned, was a most regrettable accident, but still—an accident. Hugh has made no statement to the police about the finding of Fossder’s body. There has been no need, in view of the medical certificate.”

  “You don’t still think that Hugh—that there was anything—you know—funny about Hugh’s behaviour that night?”

  “I still think Hugh’s behaviour that night was extremely odd, and that Jenny is to be pitied.”

  “Being with him when the body was found, you mean? Still, they’re in love.”

  “Hm!” said Mrs. Bradley. “And, as we know, ‘amor omnia vincit’—even commonsense!”

  Her tone was so unusually acid that Carey glanced at her in great surprise, and with a certain amount of disquiet, but she relieved his feelings by cackling harshly. In the quiet of the leafless little wood, she reverted to the subject of the boar.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” she said. “What I think happened,” she added. “You, out of your technical knowledge, can correct me if I say something silly about the animals.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Nero is so dangerous that nobody but Priest can approach him.”

  “OK. I’m pretty sure that Tombley dare not, anyway.”

  “Therefore, unless Priest is the murderer, Nero did not leave his sty.”

  “So.”

  “If Nero did not leave his sty, Simith was put into Nero’s sty to be savaged to death. The only question is, who put him there?”

  “Well, who did?”

  “We have a fairly wide field of choice. There was no danger in putting him in. The danger lay in taking him out.”

  “Priest, again, is the only person who could take him out.”

  “Yes, I see. We may take it, then, that Priest did so. Tell me, child, how do boars react to cold water?”

  “What, to drink?”

  “No. Suppose I attacked a boar by swilling him with icy water from a hose, or even a bucket, what would be the result?”

  “You might intimidate him for a time. Same with lions. Ah! I see what you’re after! You think there was an accomplice!”

  “Oh, I am sure there was an accomplice!”

  “I thought I was getting warmer, but I ain’t. Who was the accomplice? Linda Ditch? She isn’t too keen on Priest, even though she’s married him, you know.”

  He laughed. A startled bird flew out of a tree with a screech. Mrs. Bradley chuckled.

  “Well, you do seem Linda Ditch-conscious,” Carey went on merrily.

  “And rightly so, you will find,” said his aunt with a nod.

  Carey thought this over, and shrugged his shoulders. Just then they emerged from the wood and followed an almost indecipher­able path towards Stanton Great Wood. The path branched off into another wider one which led eastward to Roman Ending. Again they found themselves looking down on the farmhouse and barns and the movable pigpens scattered about the fields.

  “Come along,” said Mrs. B
radley. “But, mind, you’re to stay outside.”

  She hurried down the long green slope, taking the shortest way across the grass. A gap in the stone wall had been rudely fenced, but beside it a couple of loosened stones stood out like steps, and, agile as a goat, she skipped over on to the other side, and set off towards the house. Priest was harnessing an old grey mare to one of the pig-houses, preparatory to moving it to another part of the potato field where the pigs were rooting and feeding. Carey stopped to talk to the pigman. Mrs. Bradley walked briskly up to the house, and, finding the back door open, walked in boldly.

  “Anyone at home?” she called. Tombley, pen in hand, looked out from the parlour doorway, an ugly scowl on his face. It changed to a smile at the sight of Mrs. Bradley.

  “Lestrange with you?” he asked. Mrs. Bradley nodded, her bright eyes on his face and her mouth pressed into a little birdlike beak as she looked him all over again.

  “To make certain I don’t get murdered,” she answered brightly.

  “Come into the parlour,” said Tombley. “No, wait a bit while I sign the last one of these letters, and then I’ll come outside. Lestrange will have more confidence in me if he actually sees us together.” He finished his letter and sealed the envelope. “I’m glad you’ve come back,” he said. “You knew I wanted to talk to you, I think.” He led the way into the yard.

  Mrs. Bradley stared at a boarded hurdle which was leaning against the wall. “What’s that for, child?” she asked. Geraint Tombley eyed it without interest. His heavy face was dirty-looking with lack of sleep. His cheek showed incipient beard. His eyes—small and intelligent as those of the pigs themselves—were gazing at the sleeve of Mrs. Bradley’s winter coat, which she smoothed with an ungloved yellow claw as she stood there talking to him.

  “You see,” he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, and I know you’re very clever. That’s not flattery. Of course, I could flatter you if I liked, and make you believe every word, but, honestly, Mrs. Bradley, I’m not flattering you—”

  “Oh, no. You’re underestimating me,” said Mrs. Bradley calmly. Tombley raised his small eyes to hers, and shifted the chewing gum he was masticating to the other side of his mouth. Suddenly he turned his back on her and spat the gum at some pigs. One young porker snapped it as it fell. Tombley jerked his head towards the rooting animals.

  “Now uncle’s gone, I’m going in for Swedish methods, like Lestrange. That is, if you get me off. Look here: I’ll tell you—what do you want me to tell you? I want you to be on my side. There are all sorts of awkward patches, and I want your advice very badly. And if I don’t get a word with you very soon, they’ll jug me, and then it’ll be a darn sight more awkward for me to be able to get you on my side.”

  Mrs. Bradley cackled. It was an odd sound. Geraint Tombley had heard it several times. He could not persuade himself he liked it. Ghoulish was the word which best described it, he thought. To bring this terrible little old woman into the heart of his affairs was rather like asking a shark to defend one from cannibals. The shark might, and, he was certain, could eat the cannibals—in this case that particularly nosey inspector of police—but would it not turn upon him and engulf him also as a kind of relish to the meal? He shuddered.

  “You see, I’m the old man’s heir,” he continued. “I don’t know whether you knew? And if he was murdered and I get the benefit of his death, well, that is a motive straight away. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “No, no. You’re right. Indisputably,” said Mrs. Bradley, grinning.

  “Secondly, I haven’t got an alibi.”

  “Why should you have an alibi, dear child?”

  “Well, if I had one, that would clear me, wouldn’t it?”

  “It might,” said Mrs. Bradley cautiously.

  “But of course it would. A man can’t be in two places at the same time!” He bent and gently smacked a porker which was thrusting itself against Mrs. Bradley’s leg. “Suppose I had been in—suppose I had been with a party of people, from ten o’clock until four in the morning. Wouldn’t that clear me completely? One important point which did not emerge at the inquest was the exact time of my uncle’s death. It was sworn to, to within three hours, but I should have thought—suppose, for instance, that I had been invited to Old Farm—”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, gazing benignly at him. “Well, suppose you had been invited to Old Farm?”

  “Yes, well, supposing I had been, there would have been you to swear to me—”

  “Not at midnight, child. I was in bed by eleven that night, and, after that, I could not swear positively to anything.”

  “Carey, then. Carey would have been up.”

  “I doubt it, child. We keep reasonable hours at Old Farm. Even Hugh, the hectic Londoner, reforms when he comes to the country.” She paused and eyed him. Tombley shuffled his feet. “An alibi to cover the dead hours of the dark can often be established by one’s bedfellow, though, if one has a bedfellow, child.”

  Tombley leapt to his feet.

  “Now, who the hell—?” he shouted. His large face began to go purple and his little eyes gleamed red. His thick lips were drawn back, and his teeth showed yellowish. Suddenly his eyes began to water. “Bit my tongue,” he said.

  “I am not surprised,” said Mrs. Bradley placidly. “You did have a bedfellow, then. Was she in this house? Who was it, child? I think you’d better tell me.”

  “It was Linda Ditch,” growled Tombley, “but I dare not ask her to swear me an alibi. It wouldn’t make any difference to me, anyway. She’s got a bad reputation around these parts. The police would just say she was lying. She—” His voice tailed off. Then he began to bluster. “Don’t look at me like that! Call me a liar outright! Go on! But you’ll have to prove it!”

  “Yes, child. I’ll have to prove it. Nevertheless, you are telling me lies, and, if you do that, I won’t help you.”

  “Oh, I expect Mrs. Ditch has told you about Uncle Simith. Old Satyr! Old devil!” said Tombley, attempting, with a boldness which Mrs. Bradley admired, to bluff his way out of embarrassment and dismay.

  “Was he?” she said. “And Linda Ditch was a victim, poor girl? Is that really so? Dear me! A pity that the lion should lie down with the lamb!” She grinned at him with fiendish, frightening amusement.

  Tombley was moved to protest. “I like her. She’s not a good girl, as you say, but she suited me, Linda did. And I suited her. And I wish I could have married her. More suitable, really, I suppose, for her to have married Priest. But, anyway, you needn’t sneer at her!”

  “Splendid,” said Mrs. Bradley, with apparent absentmindedness. “Bless you, bless you, my child! But you’re not a convincing liar. Why not tell me the truth? Go on about your alibi.”

  “Well,” said Tombley, “who’d believe her, anyway? They’d say she was out to help me because I saved her from uncle. And, besides, they’d say I was jealous of him, and in love with the girl myself. And they’d say I killed him for her sake as well as the money. Or else they’d say I bribed her to say she’d slept with me. No, no! I’m not bringing Linda into it, thank you very much!”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. She stepped back a couple of paces, avoiding a couple of pigs, and studied him, her black eyes bright with amusement.

  He stared back, unresentfully.

  “What’s got to happen is this,” he said, when he had returned her gaze for a minute or two. “I believe you’re on my side, and it comes to this: the murderer has got to be found. Otherwise I’m for it.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Very well, then, child. I will see what I can find out. Mind! Whatever I find out you will have to put up with! I’m not going to—”

  “Soften the evidence,” said Tombley, with a grin. Mrs. Bradley cackled. “Come in,” he added, and led the way to the house.

  “I don’t propose to tell you again that you haven’t been speaking the truth, dear child,” she said. “I know your motive in lying. But some time or other
I want you to tell me all you know about the Sandford ghost.” She seated herself beside the kitchen fire.

  “The—” Tombley stared at her in genuine amazement.

  “Including the why and wherefore,” said Mrs. Bradley quietly.

  “I thought I wouldn’t keep that secret,” said Tombley. “Yes, I was the ghost. I did it to give old What’s-his-name a fright. It’s lucky I haven’t a motive for killing him, otherwise I suppose they’d say that was murder too.”

  “You did have a motive,” said Mrs. Bradley soothingly. “But, all the same, child, it would be wiser far to tell me the truth about that. You haven’t the same reason for secrecy this time, surely, have you?”

  She had spoken gently and quietly, but Tombley suddenly growled, bent forward, and put his finger between the bars of the grate. He kept it there, whilst he counted aloud to five.

  “See that?” he said. He held out the burnt finger for inspection.

  “Clearly,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “I trained myself to do that when I was ten. I wanted to be like Red Indians—impervious to pain.”

  “But Red Indians are not impervious to pain; they merely know how to endure it,” Mrs. Bradley pointed out, leaning forward and watching him closely.

  “Yes, well, I’m impervious to it, see? But you’re not!” said Tombley, seizing her skinny claw and dragging it near to the fire. “If I held your finger on those bars, you’d scream!”

  “Very probably,” said Mrs. Bradley composedly. She lunged forward suddenly, poked her free hand out sharply, twisted her prisoned hand away, and sat back, staring unwinkingly at his watering, bloodshot eye.

  “I only wanted to frighten you,” he said. “I wouldn’t have burnt you really.”

  “Bless you, child, I know that. That’s what I’ve been saying to Carey all along.”

  Tombley held a handkerchief to his eye, and looked at her in perplexity.

  “I suppose we’re talking about the same thing?” he said doubtfully.

  “Your chivalry,” said Mrs. Bradley sweetly.

  “You’re too many for me,” said Tombley. “Damn it, I see that you know! I thought at first you were bluffing. What are you going to do?”