Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I onderstands,” said Priest, “and I warnts to be the Fool. I ent no Apollinaris, as well I knows!”

  “Well, I’d sooner dance like ner play,” Ditch remarked. “My dancen days beant over yet, be a long chalk, or so I do pray.”

  “Who’s for a drink?” suggested Carey hospitably. He yodelled loudly and clearly, and Mrs. Ditch came in with bottles of beer. They had turned her out of her kitchen whilst the dancing was being practised.

  “And how do Mester Pratt be shapen now?” she enquired, as she studied his streaming brow with a mixture of Spartan calm and motherly interest.

  “One will get it right if one dies! There is time to master it yet!” said Pratt, with enthusiasm.

  “Well, of course, ee ent Headenton yet, and I doubt ef Bampton ud take ee,” said Ditch, deliberately, but not with unkind intent. “Ee means well, Mester Pratt, us knows ee do, and that’s the best us can say about ee at present, but ee’re parseveren wonderful, I well say that.”

  “One hoped one was improving,” ventured Pratt.

  “Oh, ah, ee’re emproven proper,” Ditch granted him magnanimously. “Emproven famous, ee are. I don’t say nothen about that. And come to Whetsun, ee’ll do as well as us others, I make no doubt of et, like.”

  “There now,” said Mrs. Ditch. “Ee mustn’t lose heart, then, Mester Pratt, do ee see? Tesn’t everybardy can dance the Morris, is et now, our dad?”

  “Tes a Mestery,” said Ditch, “a prarper Mestery, and very, very old. Tesn’t right that nobody should be larnen of er too easy.”

  Denis came down to Stanton St. John in his Uncle Ferdinand’s car on the Saturday before Whitsun, and spent two hours in the kitchen with Mrs. Ditch, playing the Morris tunes on his violin. Mrs. Bradley had a twenty minutes’ interview with her son, and at the end of it Ferdinand returned to London. Carey and Ditch were superintending the storing of bottled beer, and Young Walt was feeding pigs. Our Bob was plucking and singeing a couple of fowls destined for Whit-Sunday dinner, and was listening with a critical, well informed ear to the notes of the violin.

  “How’s that, Bob?” Denis would ask, having played a tune six times.

  “Ah, that’s all right, Mester Denis.”

  Mrs. Ditch was ironing the Morris shirts, and pressing the dancers’ white trousers. The shirts were of linen with beautifully pleated fronts and sleeves. The Morris costumes had been worn by the men on the last Monday evening practise, and since then Mrs. Ditch had washed the clothes with proud and loving hands. When she had ironed the shirts, and pressed the white flannel trousers under damp cloths, she was to press out the ribbons and ribbon rosettes with which the dancers’ costumes were always decorated. Denis laid down his violin.

  “And how’s the murder going, Mrs. Ditch?”

  “Now, now, Mester Denis!” Mrs. Ditch began.

  “Oh, rot! I know there has been a murder and it doesn’t do me any harm to ask about it, does it? They haven’t caught anybody yet.”

  “The old lady, your great-auntie, is expecten to capture him on Monday,” said Mrs. Ditch unwillingly. “She seems to think he might interfere with that Priest while he’s a-dancen, and then she can nab him up queck.”

  “I say!” said Denis. “How frightfully decent that would be! I say, I should like to see that! I say! I bet I stick to Aunt Bradley like a leech! I say, I shan’t need to, shall I? I mean if I play for the dancing, I’ll see it all happen, I suppose! I say! That’s most frightfully decent! Thanks awfully for telling me, Mrs. Ditch.”

  “Now, none of your nonsense, Mester Denis! Ef anythen was to happen, why, what en the world should us do?”

  “Did Aunt Bradley say when it would happen? Which dance, I mean, or anything definite, or anything?”

  “Her ded not. Her can’t tell, I reckon. And I, for one, don’t like the sound of et. There’s that there Mester Pratt. He’ve emproved quite wonderful these last two weeks, he ’ave, but ’twouldn’t take much, I reckon, to throw him out, and then our dad’ll be vexed, and so I tell ee.”

  “I expect it will buck him up. The excitement, I mean. I jolly well know it will me! I bet I’ll play better than ever on Monday, Mrs. Ditch! Who’s taking round the hat?”

  “Et ought to be our dad, as trainer. The Fool is often the trainer,” said Mrs. Ditch. “But dad, he loves the dancen, and don’t care so much for the foolen, and he’ve passed et on to that Priest, as done very well last year. But it seems as though the old lady have warned him of danger. He don’t seem too happy, I don’t thenk, some’ow, lately. Brooden and spiteful, he is, and got somethen on his conscience, I shouldn’t wonder. And our Lender playen up, and never comen ’ome to him at all. Oh, dear! Now I dedn’t ought to ’ave telled ee that!”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Denis. “I won’t tell any one else.”

  Mrs. Ditch laughed and blessed his innocent heart. Denis looked grieved, and decided to change the subject.

  “Have you found out any more about the priest’s hole, Mrs. Ditch?”

  “Speaken for myself, I have not. But your great-auntie, the old lady, had a try to get back ’ere from underneath the woodshed at Roman Enden, but nothen come of et. Goes round and round, that passage do, or so our Lender telled me long enough ago. Used to be a very old ’ouse there, I ded ’ear, one time and another, and they’d be part of the foundations, likely as not, I reckon. Ef ee warnts to know how to get out of that there priest hole, or whatever ee likes to call et, go up to the lettle old double-u—I expect ee knows where I mean—and take up the oilcloth on the floor. Mind how ee goes, and be careful down they steps, else ee’ll break your neck afore Monday, and then et’ll be who’d a-thought et!”

  “I can hear someone calling,” said Denis suddenly. He put down his violin, and opened the kitchen door.

  “It’s Hugh,” he said. “He’s shouting to know if there’s anybody at home. I suppose the carrier has just brought him over from the Plain.”

  “That means lunch time, then. Go ee and get Mester Carey,” commanded Mrs. Ditch.

  They all went the round of the pig-houses after lunch, and then Hugh and Mrs. Bradley became audience, and Mrs. Ditch critic-in-chief, whilst the Morris side performed for the very last time before the great annual display during Whitsun week. The side wore their working trousers and tennis shoes, and were in their shirt sleeves, except for Maurice Pratt, who was dressed in shorts and a singlet. His long thin body looked longer and thinner than ever, and drooped, in the picturesque phrase of Young Walt, “like a daffy-delly as have er ’ead too ’eavy for her stalk.”

  He commended this simile to Carey, who laughed and smacked his head, and it was in light-hearted fashion that the rehearsal proceeded. Even Ditch, dancing as well as ever, forbore to stop the music, or offer any criticism, and Pratt, to the surprise of his companions and to his own relief, made not a single mistake.

  On Whit-Sunday morning, Mrs. Bradley rose very early, and, having made herself a cup of tea, walked through the little wood and across the fields to Roman Ending. Priest was in the entrance to one of the pig-houses, mixing pig food. His face brightened when he saw her.

  “I got they pictures, mam, ee was arsken me about. Here em be. Mester Lestrange brought em over, all coloured pretty like this ere, last night.”

  He produced the two little shields. On one was the Chief Dancetté, on the other the Bâton Sinister.

  “Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley, taking them away and putting them into her pocket. “But you haven’t received any others, drawn in pencil? Just these from Mr. Lestrange?”

  “That’s all, mam. Gev me last night.”

  “Well, now, I think you had better get away at once. You say you’ve got relations living in Berkshire. I should go to them today. I’ll get George to drive you over. Keep hidden until after tomorrow night. Then you can come back here.”

  “But I can’t be away all day tomorrow, mam! What about that there dancen?” Priest protested.

  “I can’t help the dancing. They’ll
have to find somebody else.”

  “Damned ef they do,” said Priest. “No, mam, et ent no good. I be goen to dance the Morris Fool tomorrow. I don’t know why ee’ve pecked on me to be the next one murdered, and I don’t take et very kind. Suppose I ’ave behaved like a fool over Mester Semeth when I found him in wi’ Nero, what’s that got to do with me be-en murdered? That’s what I’d like to know. I ent goen to be murdered! Bless ee, I ent done nothen to be murdered for!”

  “You know, you’re a stupid fellow,” said Mrs. Bradley severely, “and if you’re going to be obstinate—still more, if you tell me all these silly lies—I’ll leave you to your fate, whatever it is!” She drew near to him and looked him in the eyes. “You killed a pig on Christmas morning. You took the body of Simith out of Nero’s sty on Boxing Night. You went to fetch Mr. Lestrange’s boar at one o’clock the next morning. You helped to take Simith’s body over to Shotover Common. You helped to drench it in pig’s blood to mislead the public into thinking that the killing was done at Shotover instead of at Roman Ending. You—”

  “Killen o’ the peg, or killen o’ the man?” enquired Priest with an expression of childlike innocence upon his ugly face.

  “You’ve been a living menace to the murderer ever since. On top of all that, do you really think he’ll spare you?” demanded Mrs. Bradley, without answering his question.

  She waited a moment for an answer to her own, but none, it seemed, was forthcoming. Priest went on stirring the pig mixture, his repulsively ugly countenance now in complete repose.

  “Why don’t ee ’ave me arrested, and ’ave done with et?” he enquired.

  “Because I can’t frighten the murderer yet, with advantage. You ought to see that.”

  “Meanen ee can’t get him ’anged, cos ee ent got et black enough again him? Meanen too and all, as ee can’t prove nothen agen me?”

  “Meaning just that, my good fellow.”

  “Who know ee’ve come over ’ere s’mornen?”

  “Nobody, so far as I am aware. You could murder me with confidence—I don’t say with impunity, although that, too, might be true.”

  “Then I’m damned ef I don’t have a try! Ee’ve pestered me these seven or eight weeks good.” He lifted the stick with which he was stirring the pig food.

  “Tes iron!” he yelled, as he brought it down with a swing. Mrs. Bradley leapt nimbly aside, and the descending bar struck the top of the copper, in front of which she was standing, with so much force that a sharp pain flew up Priest’s arm almost to the elbow and he dropped the weapon in order to hold his wrist. Mrs. Bradley picked up the iron bar, and handled it as though it had been a rapier.

  “Quick march, outside,” she said, as she gave him a vicious poke. He swung on her, but a smart push in the diaphragm settled his hash. He doubled up. Mrs. Bradley poked him upright. He turned, and, cursing her, began to walk to the door. Half-way up the centre gangway, he essayed a surprise attack, and received another jab.

  “Ee’ll enjure me for life, that’s what ee’ll do!”

  “So would the hangman, if you had killed me,” said Mrs. Bradley, laughing.

  Her tone, however, was so implacable, and her behaviour so much at variance with that which he had always expected from her sex, that he thought it might be as well to comply with her wishes. She marched him up to the house and suddenly electrified him at the very door by blowing shrilly three times upon her fingers, and bringing Tombley out in protest.

  Tombley was sketchily dressed in pyjamas and a blazer, and had not shaved.

  “Good morning, Geraint,” said Mrs. Bradley, grinning. “Has there been any post this morning?”

  “Well, no. It’s Sunday. What are you doing with Priest?”

  “Teaching him the art of self-defence. You can go back and feed the pigs now, Priest, if you want to.”

  “Half a minute, Priest,” said Tombley. “A letter came for you last night. Your speaking about the post reminded me,” he said to Mrs. Bradley.

  “I thought it might,” said Mrs. Bradley, with her disquieting grin.

  “Here you are,” said Tombley, handing it over.

  “Ent got a stamp on,” said Priest, turning the envelope over in his hand. He seemed to be very uneasy, and was obviously in no hurry to open it.

  “Open it, man,” cried Tombley, who seemed to be equally uneasy, “or give it here to me! Anyone would think it would bite you!”

  “Ee better ’ave et, then. My readen ent all that flowent.” And Priest, apparently glad to be relieved of the responsibility of opening the missive, hastily pushed it into his employer’s hand. Tombley tore it open. Inside was a sheet of rough unlined paper, and on it were drawn two little shields. The first bore the device of the Chief Dancetté, as Mrs. Bradley herself had sketched it out for Carey to copy, and the second showed the Bâton Sinister, also according to her prophecy.

  “Why, what on earth is this!” exclaimed Tombley, holding the paper at arm’s length as though it had the power to do him harm. He looked at Mrs. Bradley. “It’s like the paper uncle had on him when he died.”

  “Oh, you knew about that, Geraint, did you?” said Mrs. Bradley. Priest looked at her, and muttered uneasily something she did not catch. Then he went slouching off, leaving the paper still in Tombley’s hand.

  “Oh, dear! He’ll want this stick thing,” said Mrs. Bradley. She aimed it high in the air. It turned over once like a caber and came to rest about twenty paces in front of the astonished pigman. He walked forward and picked it up, and then turned round to look back in the direction from which it had come. Mrs. Bradley waved her hand and went into the house with Tombley.

  At tea-time the inspector and a constable appeared at the door of Old Farm.

  “What now?” enquired Mrs. Bradley, taking the inspector into the garden to look at the early roses.

  “Outrage in the church of St. Peter ad Vincula at South Newington, mam.”

  “Where is South Newington, Inspector?”

  “It’s on the River Oke, mam, and also lays between Chipping Norton and Banbury.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s some connection between the outrage, whatever it is, and the murder of Becket, inspector.”

  The inspector gaped at her.

  “Then ee’ve ’eard about the similar outrage en the Cathedral, mam?”

  “No. But if you are going to mention the Becket window—“

  “Well, I be jiggered, mam! Ee do know all about et, say what ee well contrary.” He gazed at her in honest admiration. Mrs. Bradley grinned and shook her head.

  “I assure you I have heard nothing, dear child,” she said. “Recapitulate, if you please. Charlie won’t mind hearing it all again.”

  The fresh-faced constable smiled, and strolled away out of earshot.

  “The report come en last night about South Newington, and in view of them earlier outrages which ee always thought had some connection with this ’ere case, I ’opped over there meself en the car with Charlie, to see into et like, on the spot. Nothen to find out really, any more than there was at Sandford and Horsepath. Just a bet of paper—that adhesive stuff they sells in rolls all ready gummed to use—ee’ve seen the tack, I suppose?—pasted on the wall en the shape of an arrow, and the point of the arrow pointing to the wall painting they oncovered there some while back, showen the murder of Becket. I never should a-knowed that that was what et was, ef I hadn’t asked the parson.”

  “And the Cathedral outrage?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  “Nothen much. Pretty much the same as t’other. Another paper arrow stuck on the wall, pointen to the window that shows the murder of Becket. Here’s the arrow. We couldn’t get et off whole.”

  “A comfort the murderer doesn’t do much damage in the churches,” said Mrs. Bradley. “In fact, he seems to be a person of sensibility and refinement. Well, look here, child. Tomorrow you shall make your arrest. And there won’t be any difficulty about it. In fact, you may even have the extreme felicity of seeing the murder commi
tted, since I cannot persuade the victim to stay away from the revels.”

  “And who be the victim, mam?” enquired the inspector.

  “The pigman, Priest, of course,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “You really ought to offer him police protection.”

  “Just as you say, mam,” replied the inspector doubtfully. “Ere, Charlie, I warnts ee,” he called. The youthful constable came up. “Get on your bike and run over to Lettlemore, well ee, and bring back young Billy Middlen on your step. I be goen to put the two on ee on to Priest, and see ef ee can stop him be-en murdered! Be good practice for ee! Bet of Scotland Yard work for a change!”

  When the inspector had gone, Mrs. Bradley walked into the house. The first person she met was Denis. He was looking very solemn and excited, and was obviously bursting with news.

  “I say, Aunt Bradley!”

  “Say on, dear child.”

  “I say, you know, old Hugh has had one of those papers!”

  “What papers, child, do you mean?”

  “You know—those little shields. Or, rather, just one little shield. He’s in a frightful stew. He thinks he’s going to be killed, like those two old men who got them.”

  “And what is on the shield this time?”

  “Well, it’s really only a hand, but what seems to scare him is that this hand is the left one. Is the left hand worse than the right, Aunt Bradley, or something?”

  “It depends upon the meaning one attaches to the word ‘sinister,’ child, you see. I think Hugh does very well to be alarmed. There is still Whit-Monday to come, however, and the Morris men . . .‘their pypers pyping, their drummers thundering, their stumpes dauncing, their belles jyngling, their handkerchiefs fluttering about their heads like madde men, their hobbie horses . . .’ How does it go on?”

  Carey came in, laughing.

  “ ‘. . . and other monsters skirmishing amongst the throng,’ ” he said.