Brazen Tongue (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  This observation also appeared to delight him, for he repeated it, with winks and chuckles.

  “Didn’t know her own night-gown when she saw it! What can you make of that!”

  “You mean she didn’t see it very often?” asked Mrs. Bradley sedately. Mr. Dewey, gasping for breath, said that it was a good thing his old woman couldn’t hear him passing remarks on such a subject with a strange female, but there, what was life if you couldn’t have a bit of a laugh now and again?

  Mrs. Bradley confessed that she did not know, and watched him anxiously whilst he went off into fresh paroxysms.

  “Thing is,” said Mr. Dewey, when he recovered, “that night-gown didn’t come from Mrs. Platt, and it didn’t come from Dale End. Name of Murdon, she is. Up at Dale End, I mean. It came”—he lowered his voice—“from Doctor Triblett’s Home.”

  “A nursing home is that?”

  “They call it a nursing home. It’s for the Mentals, really.”

  “But how do you know that’s where it came from?”

  “Ah, thereby hangs a tale. I tried to get the police to listen to it, but, bless you, they didn’t want no information from me. ‘I tell you, John Bradbury,’ I says to the sergeant—that being my name for him on account of a tale I could tell you later—‘I tell you,’ I says, ‘that thereby on that night-gown hangs a tale.’ It was the discovery of that poor creature in the tank that led me to tell him. But would he listen? You’re telling me.”

  He sat back, apparently well satisfied with this narrative. Mrs. Bradley, deeply and genuinely interested, pressed for details.

  “But, tell me, Mr. Dewey,” she said, “the tale that hangs upon the night-gown, and how you know where it came from.”

  Mr. Dewey cleared his throat, smiled with great enjoyment, and began.

  “Well, returning to our mutton, if you’ll excuse the French, it was like this here. You recollect my observations re laundry marks? Well, it all followed on from that. You see, I said there wasn’t no name on it, and the wrong laundry mark, but what I didn’t say was that there was teeth-tears.”

  “Teeth-tears?”

  “Ah. Tears things with their teeth, some of ’em do, like rabbits tearing greenstuff. I could show you if I had that night-gown here.”

  “But what about Mrs. Murdon at Dale End?”

  “Her? Oh, I couldn’t say, beyond she denied it was hers, and beyond I can back up what she says—although my old woman don’t know that, and a good job too, says you.”

  “Now, one last question, Mr. Dewey. What is Mrs. Murdon’s laundry mark?”

  “Fifty, done in red, and so she told ’em, and so it was on the night-gown—as they showed her.”

  “Thank you very much. It is immensely good of you to have helped me. Where did I leave my crab? Ah, there it is. Oh, there’s one more point. Does the nursing home ordinarily send its washing to this place next door to you?”

  “Be funny if it did, wouldn’t it?” His intelligent little eyes twinkled at her. Mrs. Bradley chuckled.

  “But, if you will forgive what is probably a stupid question,” she said, “if the nursing home does not send its washing next door, how do you know that the teeth-tears in the night-dress relate that night-dress incontrovertibly to the nursing home?”

  “Because I delivers fish there, of course. Many the time I’ve seen her, poor dumb creature, a-biting and a-tearing at her clothes—nearly always a night-gown it is, because they dursen’t let her out of their sight, and if so be she do happen to give ’em the slip, why then, you see, the police soon take her up again. Happened once or twice that has. Good-looking, too, in a way; or was, before she got bloated, poor soul. Some of us has had more than our fair share of mercies, sometimes I think.”

  Mrs. Bradley sincerely and solemnly agreed, and there was a short silence before she asked the next question.

  “Tell me,” she said, “was the woman found in the cistern the woman we are referring to—the dumb, tearing creature in the night-gown?”

  “No, not her, poor soul. Everybody in this town knows her, I reckon, and the dead woman nobody don’t know. The corpse, oh, no, that wasn’t her. Besides, I’ve seen her since. Always deliver there myself, I do, not liking to send the boys, them being impressionable and young. I’m there on Wednesdays and Fridays, regular order, that is, and sometimes kippers, say, or a box of smoked sprats, or something extra. Partial to fish they are, there, but whether it’s the doctor or his patients as eats it, I couldn’t rightly say.”

  “What is the name of the doctor in charge? I wonder whether I know him?”

  “In your line is it, doctoring? Well, this one took it over from old Doctor Triblett a matter of two year ago. Name of Lecky; Doctor Aloysius Lecky. Very clever they say he is, and very kind to the patients, though there’s rows with the relations if any of ’em happens to give him the slip. Carelessness, they call it. Criminal negligence, once he got had up for, but nothing was proved against him. A good-’earted fellow he is.”

  “Lecky?” said Mrs. Bradley thoughtfully. “I think I must just look him up. I thought I knew all the alienists in this country.”

  “There is one thing you ’aven’t asked me, you know,” said Mr. Dewey, going with her to the door.

  “And that?”

  “Which way the wind was blowing when that there night-gown must have come over my wall.”

  “I know which way it was blowing,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “I’ll back you couldn’t say for sure.”

  “I think I can. Your garden runs north and south.”

  “Correct, although not many females would know it.”

  “Therefore, to come over that wall”—she pointed—“the wind would have to be west or near enough. But it wasn’t. It was north-east for three days running just then.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” said Mr. Dewey.

  • CHAPTER 10 •

  George II jug, London, 1740. Made by Edward Feline.

  Antique dealer’s advertisement.

  • 1 •

  The lane wound uphill for more than half a mile. It seemed to leave the town abruptly, at a house called Ollans, and then to climb into the country past a reedy lake, a long brick wall, and a couple of roughly marked football pitches.

  The house which broke the wildness was fronted by a deep wide ditch which had all the obvious advantages of a castle moat. On the far side of the ditch was a wall, and on top of the wall, which merely shored up the ditch and dropped down into it, was a smooth lawn dignified by two cedar trees.

  Mrs. Bradley would have walked past, not realising that this was her destination. Fortunately, however, her attention was attracted by a tall and, at first sight, exceedingly beautiful red-haired woman wearing nothing but a long white night-dress. The coarse bright hair leapt from her crown like flames. Her thick white arms were bare. Her feet were shod in Wellington boots, and, as though to demonstrate this, she stretched out one leg to attract Mrs. Bradley’s attention. She also laughed. Her mouth was orange-red, and her small teeth, gleaming like the fangs of a she-wolf and as pointed as the incisors of a vixen, glistened with saliva, a drop of which was running down her chin. She then waved at Mrs. Bradley, who waved back, and smiled at her.

  By the time Mrs. Bradley reached the gate the woman was gone. An unweeded gravel drive, fretted by wheel-ruts and tyre marks, led to a very fine Georgian doorway and porch, and also to a Pickwickian gentleman in riding costume who stood in the entrance watching her as she approached.

  “Ah, Doctor,” said Mrs. Bradley, stretching out a yellow claw and cackling harshly at him, as he shrank away from the greeting. “Who would have expected you here? And you have changed your name, I notice. By deed poll, I hope, and not merely as a temporary convenience? And how many patients have you? And why do their night-gowns blow into other people’s back yards? Or are they, perhaps, flung there?”

  The stout man retreated as precipitately as though her questions were bullets, and she concluded the last a
nd least pertinent to a closed and bolted door. She heard the bolts grate home, and cackled again as she turned away and walked back along the gravel drive to the gate.

  The red-haired woman was on the lawn again as she passed by along the road. Mrs. Bradley jumped down into the ditch and, finding some sort of cat-hold on the brick-work climbed the wall.

  The woman stood like a nervous but inquisitive animal, fascinated, but prepared for instant flight. Mrs. Bradley felt in the capacious pocket of her skirt and brought out a packet of chocolate. The woman retreated a step or two, then chuckled on a low note, stood still, and watched craftily whilst Mrs. Bradley undid the paper wrapping and displayed the contents.

  In less than five minutes they were happily eating and talking, and Mrs. Bradley had a complete mental image of the night-gown—its material, make, fastenings and laundry mark. The madwoman made no objection to Mrs. Bradley’s antics, but faithfully followed every movement and then imitated the whole series, monkey-like, on Mrs. Bradley’s own costume.

  Then both of them laughed, and Mrs. Bradley, gently taking her leave, dropped into the muddy ditch again, scrambled up the bank, and was off.

  She looked back and waved when she got to the bend in the road. The madwoman made no obvious response, but was watching her. Then she began twisting her hands one over the other.

  “I must have you out of there, my woman,” said Mrs. Bradley, halting and watching these motions. “What do you think you’re doing that for, I wonder?” She herself imitated the movement as she made her way back to the town.

  “What qualifications has Doctor Lecky?” she demanded of her sister-in-law that evening.

  “I have no idea, but I don’t think a private asylum is an asset to the neighbourhood,” Lady Selina replied. “I do hope, Adela, that you are on the way to getting Sally out of this foolish scrape.”

  “You can hardly call getting mixed up with murder a foolish scrape, Mother,” her daughter protested. “What do you know about Doctor Lecky, Aunt Adela?”

  “First that he is not a doctor, unless some obscure American university has bestowed the degree on him since I last met him; second, that his name is not Lecky,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “It is interesting. The last time I saw him was when he was being tried for murdering his wife.”

  “But he was let off?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But he did it?”

  “To the best of my belief. You remember the Ball case, Selina?”

  “And we’ve had three murders here,” said Sally.

  “Yes, child.”

  “And he’s mixed up in them, in some way that you haven’t told us.”

  “Sally,” said Mrs. Bradley, before Lady Selina could speak, “do you remember you once wanted to write a detective story?”

  “Oh, and I bothered all sorts of people to give me tips, and I read books about poisons, and tried to get in at the Old Bailey. Yes, it was rather fun, but the story gave up on me at Chapter Four, so that wasn’t very much good.”

  “Could you pretend that you wanted to write another?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve begun one.”

  “How many people know that?”

  “Oh, about a hundred, I should imagine. I told everybody, because I thought it might keep me up to scratch. I thought I was bound to get it finished if simply everyone was pining to read it, and kept on asking me about it, but I think I’m fed up with it now. The real thing is much more exciting.

  “Ferdinand,” she added, at table, “thinks he’s going to keep me away from the trial. Let him attempt it, that’s all.” She shot a defensive, half-defiant glance at her mother.

  “Ferdinand is a very able boy,” Mrs. Bradley observed with a grin.

  “Yes, but I want to go,” said her niece, annoyed. “I’ve never attended a trial, and how am I ever going to be able to do a trial in a detective story if I’ve never been to one?”

  Neither of her elders replied. The next morning, before dawn, Mrs. Bradley was up, and was walking to the bus-stop, which was about three-quarters of a mile from the house.

  The first bus came up empty, and dawn was breaking as it reached the outskirts of the town. Mrs. Bradley got off at the Town Hall and walked to the point from which she had first set eyes on the red-haired woman in Doctor Lecky’s garden. This time the garden was empty. The sun was rising, and the lawn was ragged with the rain which had fallen during the night. Mrs. Bradley again walked up the drive. All the windows of the house were heavily shuttered, but, while she watched, a servant came round the side of the house, and unbolted the shutters of the front rooms. Seeing Mrs. Bradley she paused, hesitated, and then came up to her.

  “Did you have an appointment, madam?” she asked nervously. Mrs. Bradley grinned and asked:

  “What have you done with my stepdaughter?”

  “Your stepdaughter, madam?”

  “Yes, yes. A woman with red hair. A paranoiac.”

  “A woman with red hair? Oh, madam…”

  She put a hand to her mouth, as women will who are going to scream. “Oh, madam! She’s run away! Out all night the doctor was, and two of the men, and both the bloodhounds, and everyone.”

  “And didn’t they find her?”

  “Not so far as I know. But the doctor he hasn’t come back yet.”

  “I shall call in my solicitors,” said Mrs. Bradley grandly. “Neglect, that’s what it is. You may tell your employer…No, I won’t come in. I won’t wait to see him. I won’t see anyone. It’s a disgraceful and monstrous thing, and the poor woman must be traced.”

  She walked rapidly to the gate, and hurried away down the hill. On her way to the bus stop she called at the police-station. The sergeant was more than willing this time, to hear what she had to say. The inspector, excellent young man, although it was still very early, was already in his office and at work.

  “I want you to help me find one of Doctor Lecky’s patients,” she announced when she saw him. “I am responsible for inciting her to escape.”

  “What for?”

  “To find out how simple it is for the inmates to leave that house without being immediately detected.”

  “Well, Sally,” she added at breakfast, “I’ve seen your nice inspector again.”

  “I know. He rang me up.”

  “When, child?”

  “”Twenty minutes ago. He said you wanted him to chase an escaped lunatic.”

  “I insisted, child.”

  “But, Auntie, he hasn’t got time! He told me so over the ’phone. He wants clues, not lunatics.”

  “But the lunatic is a clue, child.”

  “In that case,” said Sally, getting up from the table, “I’ll go and help him chase her. What is she like?”

  “Tall, red-haired, beautiful (except that she is coarsened because of her disability) and dressed in a white night-gown.”

  “Sally,” said Lady Selina decisively, “you have promised to go shopping for me in the town this morning. I can’t spare Parkes, and I can’t go myself because it’s my First Aid morning.”

  “Oh, yes, Mother, but after all…”

  “But, Sally, I don’t want you to go chasing my lunatic,” said Mrs. Bradley firmly. “You would only terrify the poor creature if you caught her.”

  “So will Ronald. He’s an awful ass.”

  “Yes, child. But I shall be with him, and so no permanent harm will result from what he does.”

  “You’re really going sleuthing with Ronald? I do call that unfair! If you vamp him, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Mrs. Bradley grinned. She was interested to note a distinct improvement in her niece’s spirits. Lady Selina, bidding her daughter not to be vulgar, produced a neat shopping list.

  “Here are the things I want,” she said, as she handed it over.

  “I suppose I can have enough petrol for my own car?” Sally enquired. “I can’t drag things home in the bus, and you know that most of the shops have given up sending. It says so in the windows.�
��

  “They will send for me,” said Lady Selina, getting up to go to her First Aid class at which, now, she was an instructor.

  “But, Mother, that’s horribly unpatriotic. After all, there’s not much sense in saving your own petrol if you’re going to waste other people’s.”

  “The tradesmen,” said Lady Selina, “do not come under the heading of ‘other people.’ I trust, Adela,” she added, “that your lunatic, when found, will be returned to her proper sphere. I don’t want her brought in to lunch.”

  • 2 •

  The red-haired woman had not travelled very far. About an hour after Doctor Lecky and his helpers had come back to a late breakfast, the quarry rose up from behind a massive burial vault on which she had spent the night, muttered and giggled a bit, and then began to gather flowers from the graves. As she plucked she sang, tunelessly but, to Mrs. Bradley’s trained intelligence, comprehensibly, all the verses of a folk song entitled “The Saucy Sailor.”

  “Ah, here you are, my dear,” said Mrs. Bradley. The cemetery was to the west of the town, a big open space decorated by a grey stone building vaguely ecclesiastical in conception, through the middle of which was a gateway and a road for funeral carriages. The shop of a monumental mason flanked the railings on the east side of the cemetery, and a florist’s jostled a second-hand furniture shop on the west, where the open ground with its headstones was bounded by a wall.

  Mrs. Bradley had not immediately fixed upon the cemetery as the madwoman’s sanctuary, but that was merely because she did not know that it existed. Having, however, tried two churchyards without success, she enquired of the inspector whether there were any more churches in the neighbourhood, and it was then that he had mentioned the cemetery.

  The inspector, being young and enthusiastic, was very much impressed by her ‘second sight’ as he called it, but Mrs. Bradley had based her search for the woman on evidence gained from the previous day’s conversation. The same conversation had convinced her that the woman’s case was one which would yield, in time, to patient and sympathetic treatment. The deaths of her husband, child, and mother in (Mrs. Bradley thought) a railway disaster had resulted in what seemed total mental derangement.