The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley)

by Mitchell, Gladys

  ‘Whatever it is, nothing will induce me to stay here,’ said Miss Higgs.

  ‘I’d like you to, madam. I can leave a man on guard, you know. There’d be no objection to that on my part. I quite understand you feel nervous.’

  ‘You mean I’m under suspicion,’ said Miss Higgs shrewdly. ‘Well, I can’t blame you. But I’m only a very moderate swimmer, you know.’

  ‘The job wasn’t done under water, madam, and, for your information, it isn’t the kind of job a lady could very well do. Whoever secured the body in the way it was secured is either a very handy man indeed, or else he knew exactly what he wanted and got somebody else to make the tackle to his instructions.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I don’t suppose I shall get another wink of sleep while I stay here. And there’s my boy to consider.’

  Francis had returned with Godfrey at just after eleven, but long before that time the body had been removed from its extraordinary hiding-place and, after the doctor had made his examination, and the police had concluded their measurements and photography, it had been conveyed to a mortuary. The dinghy was on the lawn under guard, and the boathouse in which it had lain had been cordoned off. A patient policeman, accommodated with a deck chair and a rug by the thoughtful Miss Higgs, kept watch and ward all night over both exhibits.

  In the morning there was further questioning. The police found it impossible to accept the fact that Francis had discovered the body and yet had found no means of communicating this fact to Miss Higgs, but they could get nothing out of the boy. Godfrey had taken him to the dinghy, which was now upturned, but beyond making some inarticulate sounds and giving the boat a look of extreme horror, Francis had made no contribution.

  The police took his fingerprints, and also those of Miss Higgs. Both sets and some other (so far unidentified) prints, together with those of the dead man himself, were found on the mast and on the oars. Miss Higgs was able to supply the date on which Francis had first refused to use the dinghy or to swim in the river, and this corresponded nearly enough with the doctor’s estimate of the time of the death, allowing for the week during which Francis and Miss Higgs had been on holiday. It was fairly clear that the boy must have discovered the body as soon as they got back from Yarmouth.

  ‘There’s not much doubt about when it happened,’ said Godfrey to Mrs. Bradley, ‘but I wish they’d let Miss Higgs take Francis out of it all. It’s too much for the chap. After all, he’s told all he knows by making that plasticene model. He looks just about finished off. Isn’t there anything you can do to get him away? Surely the police aren’t such bone-heads as to think he did it?’

  ‘It is not unlikely that he did it, and poor Miss Higgs is nearly out of her mind, too. I have advised her to send for Francis’ relatives, but it seems that she does not like to make demands on them.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have shown up before this. After all, the thing is in all the papers.’

  This was true. Reporters had swarmed in by land and river to interview Miss Higgs, the occupants of the neighbouring bungalows, the agent who handled the letting, and anybody else who might conceivably have any kind of story to tell. Before they could waylay Mrs. Bradley or Godfrey they had been fobbed off by the police with the promise of a fuller report as soon as this could be furnished. The inquest was over so far as the preliminary findings were concerned, and it had, as usual, been adjourned after formal evidence had been taken. It had proved to be of exceptional interest, nevertheless, for not only was the cause of death known, but also the identity of the murdered man.

  The medical evidence made it clear that the man had been hit on the head with some heavy object and had never recovered consciousness. What the heavy object might have been the doctors did not state, and the police were far too canny to put ideas into anybody’s head at so early a stage in the proceedings.

  The coupling of the corpse to the bottom of the dinghy was likewise not described in any kind of detail, for the police believed that in the method used they might have a valuable clue.

  The identity of the corpse was disclosed by two persons who had good reason to know what they were talking about. One was the agent for the letting of the bungalows; the other was the dead man’s sister, a letter from whom had been found among his papers. It appeared that he was a misanthropic naturalist named Campbell, who, for the major part of the year, tenanted the bungalow which Mrs. Bradley had rented.

  When Mrs. Bradley heard this she was visited with a sudden inspiration which caused her to seek out Miss Higgs at the conclusion of the adjourned inquest and ask her what proved to be an important question.

  ‘I suppose the dinghy to which the body was attached was really your dinghy?’

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ Miss Higgs replied. ‘It was supposed to go with the bungalow you’ve rented, but ever since we’ve been here Francis and I have had the use of it during the summer while Mr. Campbell—you know——?’

  ‘The murdered man.’

  ‘Yes—while he was on holiday, and, of course, at other times, too. He was very good about it. Sometimes he and Francis would go out in it together.’

  Mrs. Bradley was sufficiently intrigued to continue investigations on her own account, for she had been impressed by a fact which had also interested the police, namely, that somebody had possessed sufficient knowledge of local affairs to realize that the bungalow would be empty and the dinghy available during the week in which the murder had been committed.

  ‘How many people could have known, do you think?’ she enquired of Miss Higgs. The number was disconcertingly unguessable, for it included not only the village shopkeepers, who would have had no reason for keeping the news secret, but anybody else that they might have chosen to tell.

  ‘I think I might go to Mede. It is not so very far from my own house,’ said Mrs. Bradley to Godfrey. ‘I should like to see this unnatural grandfather for myself. What would you like to do?’

  ‘Stay here with old Francis. He’s getting over the shock and he said my name this morning. It was a funny, croaking kind of noise, but it was my name all right. Miss Higgs says she’ll cook for me and see that the place is kept clean, so would it be all right if I stayed on?’

  Mrs. Bradley pursed up her beaky little mouth into a non-committal shape and looked at her grand-nephew with affection. She had no intention whatsoever of involving him in what promised to be an unrewarding and dangerous business. She knew better, at this juncture, however, than to say this to a high-spirited youth. She said, instead, that she was giving up her tenancy of the bungalow, rewarded the boy generously, and sent him off home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bowler’s Wicket

  *

  ‘… of his own self he challenged to combat all our best.’

  Iliad—Homer (Lang, Leaf and Myers)

  *

  ON THE SUNDAY morning Tom Donagh was aroused at half-past six by the drinks footman who came in with early tea and two slices of thin bread and butter.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Sir Adrian’s compliments and he expects you at the nets in half an hour. Breakfast at nine, sir, church at eleven, lunch at a quarter past one, and the rest of the day is free.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Tom, sitting up. ‘Two hours at the nets, eh?’

  ‘That is the usual arrangement for Sunday, sir. We all turn out except for the vicar, who has early service and whose views on Sunday cricket Sir Adrian has not attempted to ascertain.’

  ‘I see. So you’re in the team, too?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I keep wicket.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Henry, sir.’

  ‘Tell me, then, Henry—this match on Thursday and Saturday. What’s so important about it?’

  ‘It’s an annual fixture and it is Sir Adrian’s way of dealing with an ancient feud, sir. At one time, I believe, the two villages had an annual football match, but it caused so much bad feeling, and so many people got hurt that Sir Adrian thought cricket might be preferable.’
/>   ‘What about body-line?—or isn’t that in the local répétoire?’

  ‘It’s been known, sir. But two can play at that game. Parrish got old Wheeler, their star batsman, with one in the ribs and a split thumb the year before last, after their Bill Burt had laid out Tripp.’

  ‘Who’s Tripp?’

  ‘The chauffeur, sir.’

  ‘Good Lord! Is he a cricketer?’

  ‘He collected seven catches at silly mid-off last year, sir. He isn’t much of a batsman, but he could field a .22 bullet if it came his way. Quick as a cat, he is, and as nippy as a weasel. You’re going to like playing with Tripp, sir. Pity you ain’t a bowler. That’s when you’d find what Tripp was worth.’

  ‘Who else is in the team?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. There’s me and you and Tripp, and Sir Adrian and Mr. Derek and Walters (that’s him as you see here first, sir) and the vicar. You know about all of them. Then there’s John, the knives, shoes and wood, and there’s Inch—he’s ploughman to Farmer Somers—Cotton, what keeps the village shop, and Parrish, our second gardener. Then there’s Cornish, the landlord of the Frenchman’s Inn …’

  ‘Oh, yes. I met him last night. He told me he was twelfth man. Seemed a bit surly about it—or is that his usual style?’

  ‘He umpires if we don’t need him in the team. If he has to play, then Doctor Bazil umpires, and if the doctor has to play, then any of us as is out puts the long white coat on, and carries on giving no-balls against the visiting side.’

  ‘You seem to have it all weighed up.’

  ‘Bound to, sir. The other lot, they bring an umpire of their own. Nobody wouldn’t stand for nothing different.’

  He departed, and Tom ate the bread and butter and poured himself a second cup of tea. Then he got up, plunged in and out of a tepid bath and presented himself at the nets at seven thirty-three. Sir Adrian was looking at his watch.

  Tom had expected to be able to dodge church, but his employer proved obdurate over this. He was verbally sympathetic, mentally rigorous.

  ‘I know what you fellows feel about church-going, but I can’t afford to offend the vicar. He’s the best bat I’ve got, bar none (unless you can fill the bill) and I’m not going to put him off his stroke.’

  There were three practice nets. Tom, Tripp, Sir Adrian and the youth John were assigned to the first one, Derek, Walters, Inch and Cotton to the second, whilst the third went to Parrish and Henry. No batting was done at this third net. Henry kept wicket, and Parrish, relieved at intervals by John and Sir Adrian, bowled yorkers, googlies and in-swingers at the undefended stumps until he was called upon to go to one of the other nets to face a batsman, or was given an occasional rest.

  There was no doubt of two things. One was that Sir Adrian had built up an eleven that could have given a fair account of itself in minor county cricket. He himself was a sound, forcing batsman and a crafty slow bowler. In Parrish he had one of the most devastating fast bowlers that Tom had ever seen; a man who seemed capable of keeping a perfect length, too, and one who varied his bowling in the most bewildering and intelligent way. (Tom learned later that Parrish would certainly have become a professional cricketer but for the fanatical objections of his mother, who believed that to play games for money was a sin.)

  Derek, although he lacked his grandfather’s weight and strength, was a stylish and graceful batsman with an excellent variety of strokes and an intelligent sense of when to use them. He stood up manfully, too, to the rather terrifying bowling of Parrish. Young John, who could make the ball break both ways, had him guessing a good many times, but Derek, in playing him, was more times right than wrong.

  The other point observed by Tom was that Sir Adrian, if the luck of the game went against him, was not going to be a good loser, but this did not particularly worry Tom. He proved this when he accepted in good part Sir Adrian’s morose and jaundiced comments when, off John, he put up what would have been a sitter to first slip, and again when a ball from John which broke back caught him with a divided mind. It struck him that Sir Adrian was rather suspicious of his apparent lack of interest in the cursing he got each time.

  Breakfast and the after-breakfast pipe were more than welcome when practice was over, but at twenty minutes to eleven precisely he was collected by Sir Adrian and ordered to go to church. He allowed himself to be pushed off with Derek in the direction from which the bells were jangling.

  The congregation was conspicuously large for a village church. The vicar looked athletic and scholarly, Tom thought. Keen eyes gleamed in a thin, ascetic face, and the lean hands holding the outstretched wings of the lectern were obviously large and strong. The vicar moved, too, with a kind of soldierly grace, and the shoulders which showed off the surplice were more than ordinarily wide.

  ‘Good for a couple of centuries,’ muttered Tom, when Derek demanded of him half-way through the service and in a whisper what he thought of ‘Bonzer’ Black.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ murmured Derek, smiling with pleasure at this answer, ‘everybody comes to church on this particular Sunday to pray for the team. So nice of them, sir, don’t you think?’ He continued to smile his girlish smile, and joined in the offertory hymn in a thin, sweet countertenor which Tom found rather embarrassing. However, in friendly spirit they returned to the house for lunch. Once lunch was over Tom was reminded by Sir Adrian that he had the rest of the day to himself.

  ‘Tea, if you want it, at any time and in any place,’ said Sir Adrian. ‘Just ring Walters’ bell. Dinner at nine on Sundays in summer. Get to bed in good time. We’re playing Lord Averdon’s eleven at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. A one-day game. Just a friendly. Win, draw or lose—it doesn’t much matter. If a ball looks very fast or dangerous, don’t go anywhere near it. I don’t want bruised ribs or hands or anything like that for Thursday.’

  Tom thoroughly enjoyed the game next day, although he earned a glare of fury from his difficult and single-minded host for holding a catch which shot into his left hand when he had expected the batsman to loft the ball into the deep.

  ‘Hm!’ said Sir Adrian, as they crossed at the end of the over. ‘Not bad at all. Hurt you?’ This question was added suspiciously, for he strongly suspected Tom of having disobeyed orders.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. Sir Adrian again glared at him.

  ‘No impudence,’ he said.

  ‘None intended,’ said Tom, giving him a broad smile of complete dislike and irreverence. Sir Adrian snorted and passed on, but Derek, who was playing at mid-on, asked anxiously:

  ‘I hope it didn’t really damage your hand, sir. I say, though, it was a jolly good catch.’

  The match resulted in a draw, which apparently satisfied everybody.

  ‘Mistake to beat Lord Averdon’s eleven, sir,’ said Henry when he brought Tom a long drink at half-past seven that same evening. ‘A pleasant game, sir, I thought.’

  ‘Very pleasant indeed,’ agreed Tom. ‘Why a mistake to win, though?’

  ‘It might upset the master’s annual invitation to shoot over Lord Averdon’s coverts, sir. Sir Adrian has not yet put it to the proof.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Tom, who was beginning to appreciate wryly his employer’s mentality. ‘And what about the match to-morrow?’

  ‘Sir Adrian will inform you at dinner, sir. Allow me to congratulate you on catching out Mr. Devizes.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was meant to.’

  ‘It was not altogether an injudicious move, sir. Sir Adrian was undoubtedly impressed.’

  Tom felt that it was undignified to make a confidant of Henry, but he could not resist adding:

  ‘Well, I should scarcely have guessed it, especially after what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Blimey, I could tell you a lot more than that,’ said Henry, reverting to type.

  At dinner that evening Sir Adrian burst a mild bombshell. Tom, gazing out of the dining-room window at a green and peaceful sky, was suddenly brought back to a different kind of reality by his host, who sudd
enly remarked:

  ‘Ah-ha! Colney Hatch to-morrow. Remember that fellow who tried to murder Tripp, Derry?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Grand. I wonder whether he’s still in the eleven?’ Derek hastily swallowed a forkful of salmon mayonnaise in order not to delay his reply to his grandfather. Sir Adrian laughed heartily.

  ‘Sure to be. A fellow like that is worth thirty runs an innings before he’s batted or bowled or fielded or even barracked,’ he replied.

  Tom asked for further information.

  ‘You don’t really mean we play a team of lunatics, sir?’

  ‘Annual fixture, my boy.’ The thought seemed to give Sir Adrian joy. ‘Big mental hospital about twenty miles from here. The eleven come in motor coaches with about fifty supporters and half-a-dozen keepers … only they call them patients and nurses nowadays. Their umpire’s a loony, too, so if he comes sneaking up behind you just as their bowler starts his run, tear down the pitch like hell. He had a silk stocking last year and nearly strangled Henry. They’re all homicidal, of course. It’s a sort of second-class Broadmoor.’

  Tom decided that Sir Adrian was exercising what he probably thought was his sense of humour. He grinned, but offered no comment. Sir Adrian chuckled, and then looked at his grandson’s empty plate.

  ‘Try just a morsel of the chicken, Derry,’ he said. ‘You’ve picked up quite an appetite.’

  ‘I think I will, Grand. Thank you for noticing I was eating more than I usually do. You are terribly good to me, always.’

  Tom, who had begun to have a sneaking sort of liking for his charge, was put off again by these remarks. He scowled at his plate, but the two relatives had no eyes except for one another, and completely disregarded him.

  The match next day, although neither as dangerous nor as strange as Sir Adrian’s words had suggested, nevertheless had its own peculiarities. The eleven looked normal enough … in fact, a man in the foremost coach whom Tom mentally classed as the silk-stocking umpire turned out to be the alienist in charge of the party … and when they had changed it was seen that they were beautifully dressed in excellently-tailored flannels and sported very natty caps with resplendent scarlet peaks lined with green.