The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley)

by Mitchell, Gladys

  On either side of the passage opened the dressing-rooms; the room on the left was for the home team, that on the right for the visitors. Opening off these dressing-rooms, still further to the left and right respectively, were wash-rooms containing bowls and showers, and at the end of the passage were a kitchen used only for the preparation of tea—lunch was taken at the house—and a small, well-stocked bar. The kitchen was on the visitors’ side of the pavilion, the bar on the home side.

  The dead man was lying sprawled along the line of the showers. There were four of these and his head was on one of the drains. The door had been partly pulled to, probably (the police thought) by the murderer, so that from the outer room, that is, the dressing or changing-room, the body was out of the line of vision.

  Alibis were prolific among both spectators and players. The spectators, thanks to Sir Adrian’s arrangement whereby they were cut off from the pavilion by the tall fence (which they had surmounted in order to join in the affray but which no one had scaled during the match) could be ruled out at once and were soon allowed to return home. Members of the visiting eleven were more subtly and closely questioned, but it did not appear that any of them could be involved. They had either already batted or else were waiting to bat, and in both cases they claimed that all could be accounted for, since all, except the two players actually at the wickets when the murder must have been committed, had been seated on the verandah of the pavilion intent on the game.

  The opposing eleven, (Sir Adrian and his side), were likewise accounted for (except for Derek Caux), since they had been fielding at the time, and the two umpires, of course, had been on duty. It seemed clear at first that person or persons unknown must be guilty unless Derek Caux himself had done the deed. The barman and the two youths who looked after the kitchen could provide one another with alibis similar to those of the visiting team. They also, and in one another’s company, had been watching the game from the far end of the pavilion steps, they said. There seemed no reason to disbelieve them.

  According to the medical evidence, (which was again reviewed and analysed at the inquest), the unfortunate captain of Bruke must have been struck down with his own cricket bat almost as soon as he had retired to the pavilion after having been given out—or, rather, after having elected to put himself out. The handle of the bat showed no fingerprints. Death had been not instantaneous but to all intents and purposes so, for the victim could not have recovered consciousness. To the relief (if such it could be considered) of his friends, it was made clear by the doctors that even if the attack had been known of immediately it had been delivered, his life could not have been saved.

  Sir Adrian, who seemed cheerful, ate a large dinner at a late hour and discussed the murder with gusto. Derek, who seemed tired, ate very little and half-way through the meal asked to be excused, left the dining-room, and did not return. Tom, who naturally was anxious to learn what he could about the dead man, chiefly out of what he himself recognized to be a rather unworthy feeling of Sunday newspaper curiosity, gleaned what he could from Sir Adrian’s apparently unguarded remarks, but went to bed not very much the wiser for them.

  One point, according to Sir Adrian, did emerge. The dead man was known to have one great enemy. As, however, it seemed impossible that this man could have killed him, the fact (if fact it was) did not much impress Tom.

  ‘Yes, if he hadn’t been umpiring at the time, which he most certainly was,’ said Sir Adrian, ‘it would have been Peter Cornish. Bad blood between him and Witt for years. Began during the war, although nobody ever quite knew the rights and wrongs. Remember when there was that appalling shortage of wines and spirits? Well, it seemed to break out about then. I don’t know whether it was black market stuff or something of that sort. Often tried to get the truth out of Cornish, but he used to turn quiet and very nasty. He wouldn’t stick at much. I remember his losing his temper during a darts match once. He wasn’t playing, but somebody from Bruke was making trouble. Cornish borrowed a couple of darts from one of our fellows and literally pinned back the ears of the chap who was making the fuss. Fellow happened to be standing with his back to a door and leaning against it, don’t you know, and Cornish just flipped the darts hard at him, and, before anybody realized what was happening, one of the darts had gone into the lobe of his left ear, and there he was, squealing like a pig, pinned to the planks of the door. Didn’t see it myself. Wish I had. Oh, he’s a quick-tempered bloke, get him roused.’

  ‘What happened about it?’ asked Tom, who did not believe the story and who had an uneasy feeling that Sir Adrian had some ulterior motive in telling it.

  ‘Nothing. Cornish pulled out the dart, gave the fellow a double whisky and threw him out. Chap left the district soon after. Couldn’t live it down, you see. Got the kids calling after him, and all that kind of thing. Oh, people behave themselves in Cornish’s pub, I can tell you.’

  ‘What kind of fellow was Witt—apart from anything he had to do with Cornish?’

  ‘A rat,’ said Sir Adrian concisely. ‘Don’t ask me to put my finger on the spot. I can’t. Decent family connections, too, but a heel. De-bagged at Oxford, interviewed by the Jockey Club—nothing actually said either time, so far as I can find out, and, of course, he wasn’t warned off—I’m not claiming that!—but there’s always been a slightly foul smell about him.’

  ‘Has he lived in Bruke all his life?’

  ‘No. The family property was in East Anglia, I believe, but they sold up when taxes and death duties began to drain the life out of the place. He came to Bruke a year or two ago, well after the end of the war. Bought a smallish house in the village and gradually edged himself in. This is the second year he’s captained the eleven. They lost their best bat near the end of the war and were glad to get him.’

  When dinner was over Tom decided to take a stroll round the cricket field. His real object, although he would scarcely confess it to himself, was to try to discover some clue to the identity of the murderer. It was too much to believe that somebody had sneaked through the house and so to the pavilion, yet if both teams and all the spectators were exonerated there seemed nothing else to believe, and there was something on Tom’s mind and conscience, and he thought that a lonely stroll on the deserted field might help him to clear his thoughts.

  His walk was a short one, however. A large form loomed at him and an official voice said kindly:

  ‘Sorry, sir, but you must smoke your cigar in the garden, like, to-night, if you wants a bit of fresh air.’

  Tom had not realized that the police would still be in possession of the pavilion and its approaches. He apologized, bade the officer good night, went back into the house and up to his own room. He switched on the light and found Derek, still in his evening clothes, seated upon the bed.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d turned in long ago.’

  ‘No,’ said Derek, turning his large eyes on Tom. ‘I wanted to ask your advice.’

  ‘About this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Donagh, do they know exactly when Mr. Witt was killed?’

  ‘Near enough, I expect. It must have been almost directly he’d finished his innings.’

  ‘Yes, because otherwise his own men would have missed him. They would expect him, when he’d had a wash, or whatever he wanted, to come to the verandah and watch the rest of the play.’

  Tom had not thought of this method of assessing the time of Witt’s death, but he could see the force of it.

  ‘Yes, that’s about right,’ he said, ‘and somebody—the scorers, probably—will be pretty certain to know when his innings finished.’

  ‘You remember I wasn’t fielding all the time? Grand made me go and lie down after lunch because he thought the rain was too heavy. I don’t see that I have any alibi, sir.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ said Tom, in great relief. ‘Thank goodness you’ve mentioned it first! I thought I was going to have to, and I didn’t know what to do about it! Still, everybody else on the field would have known, s
o I had almost decided to say nothing, especially as I’m sure you didn’t do it.’

  ‘That’s awfully nice of you, sir. To—not to have been going to say anything, I mean. But do you think I ought to say something to the police?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Tom. ‘Somebody’s sure to blow the gaff on you as soon as the police get down to brass tacks.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Well, some of the Bruke fellows will, even if our own blokes keep their traps shut.’

  Dreek looked vastly relieved.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for helping me. And you don’t think you yourself are going to say anything about it?’

  ‘I don’t see at present why I should.’ He was very glad later that he had not made a more definite promise. ‘There’s only this, though, old man,’ he added awkwardly. ‘As it’s bound to come out sooner or later, you might be better advised to mention it yourself. I don’t know, really, but what it mightn’t be a good idea in the end.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ cried Derek, looking wildly scared. ‘Oh, no! I don’t want to, really! It’s too much to ask! It’s too much!’

  ‘All right, then, don’t do it,’ said Tom. ‘Anyway, sleep on it. Things often look quite different in the morning.’

  The morning brought another surprise, and one of a different kind. Derek, looking blithe, came down as Tom was in the middle of breakfast. Sir Adrian had had his meal early and was at the moment passionately disputing with the police the possession of his pavilion and cricket-pitch.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Tom. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir. Oh, dear! Fried eggs again! Isn’t there anything else?’

  ‘Kippers.’

  Derek helped himself and sat down.

  ‘I think I shall go for a good long walk, sir. The police will be about, and they frighten me. I’m sure I shall find myself telling them things, true and untrue, if they begin to question me. I’m better out of the way.’

  Tom wondered whether the police would allow him to remove himself from their vicinity so easily. It could only be a matter of time, he thought, before somebody, either in Mede or Bruke, made reference, with or without malice aforethought, to the fact that Derek had not been fielding at the probable time of Witt’s death.

  To his surprise, the police made no demur at all when Derek decided, at ten o’clock, to leave the house; but, to his considerable annoyance, they did question his own right to go as far as the village in search of tobacco.

  ‘If you will kindly tell me the brand which you prefer, sir, I will gladly go and get it for you myself,’ said the smart young constable.

  ‘Huh! Hendon?’ said Tom disagreeably. The smart young constable paid no attention to him whatsoever. Tom, who was well-balanced and honest, apologized. ‘But you did let young Caux go out,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes, sir. We have no reason at present to worry about young Mr. Caux.’

  ‘Meaning you have about me, then?’

  ‘No, sir, of course not.’

  Tom was puzzled. If he had been on the job, he considered—meaning that if he had been a policeman—he would have been the very last person to suspect Thomas Donagh of having been concerned in this particular murder. He did not, at that moment, suspect Sir Adrian of having provided some subversive propaganda, but this thought came to him later.

  Derek had eaten his breakfast, an unusually large one for him, and then had gone out. Tom had not enquired where he was going; he assumed that it was to the village. At any rate, Derek returned at eleven o’clock in high excitement.

  ‘Mr. Donagh, do you believe in Fate?’

  ‘I suppose so, in a way. Do you?’

  ‘Do you believe in doppelgangers, then?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Oh, you know! Your image coming out of a mirror and all that sort of thing. Or your twin. I think I’ve seen my twin.’

  ‘Your twin?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I told you. Francis. We were parted when Grand took me on, and Francis was sent away.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Do you really mean that you’ve seen him?’

  ‘They’re coming here now. I rushed ahead to tell Grand. It must be Francis. I know it must. Where is Grand? Is he back yet?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ said Tom. ‘Will he—er——’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he won’t be very pleased. That’s why I thought I ought to tell him. He’s never even let me mention Francis, once I’ve begun on the subject.’

  He went off, almost at a trot, and reappeared shortly in resplendent raiment and with his hair newly brushed.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Tom. ‘Determined to outshine the twin brother?’

  ‘Oh, he has a lady with him,’ explained Derek. ‘At least, she looks like a witch but I suppose she’s human.’

  At this moment the bell rang, and after the slightest pause Henry ushered in Francis Caux and his new and involuntary guardian, Mrs. Lestrange Bradley. Derek went forward at once to do the honours, and the deaf and dumb boy began to speak.

  ‘You are Derry. I am glad to see you. I am Francis. We are twins. There was a dead man underneath the boat. I do not like dead men. Do you like dead men?’

  ‘Have you ever seen a tree walking?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired. Giving her a look of extreme horror, Derek fainted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Questing Fairy

  *

  ‘But when to dine she takes her seat, What shall be our Tita’s meat?’

  Michael Drayton: The Fay’s Marriage

  *

  MRS. BRADLEY CACKLED.

  ‘Your half of this nutshell appears to be sensitive to superstitious ideas,’ she observed conversationally to Donagh. ‘Why should that be, I wonder?’

  She knelt beside the fallen youth and, to Tom’s astonishment, (for she was elderly and looked frail), lifted him on to a chair. She patted him lightly on both cheeks, observed in a deep and musical voice that he was subject to hysteria, and then quickly brought him round.

  ‘It isn’t anything to do with hysteria,’ Tom explained. ‘We’ve had rather a ghastly experience here. A man was set on and killed in our cricket pavilion the other day, and naturally Derek’s upset.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mrs. Bradley benevolently. She peered at her patient and then looked calmly at his twin brother. ‘You see, you are the better man,’ she remarked. ‘I observe, too, that you have recovered those powers of speech which you lost at the age of …’

  ‘Six,’ said Derek faintly, sitting up. ‘We were six when my father and mother were killed. Or were we seven? Francis was with them. He never really talked again, and the accident had made him deaf as well, so Grand wouldn’t have him live with us. I hate Grand. I always have.’

  ‘Nobody would have guessed it,’ said Tom drily, recollecting various sickly manifestations of babyish affection on Derek’s part and of senile doting on that of his grandsire.

  ‘I had to pretend. I might have killed him.’

  Tom mentally dismissed this as adolescent moonshine.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it remains to be seen what he’ll think of Francis now.’

  ‘Who is Grand?’ asked Francis. His speech was hoarse but perfectly comprehensible. ‘Does he live in this house?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘May I ask whether you, too, are a member of the family?’ she added, looking at Tom.

  ‘No. I’m a holiday tutor. I don’t know much about things, I’m afraid. I began work less than a week ago. But from what I’ve gathered, I doubt whether Sir Adrian …’

  Mrs. Bradley nodded.

  ‘I know. But I’m afraid there was nothing else for it.’ Briefly she explained the circumstances which had led to the visit. ‘So there seemed nothing else that I could do,’ she concluded. ‘I can scarcely, on such short acquaintanceship, make myself responsible for the young man, and yet it was not reasonable to leave him alone at Wetwode.’

  ‘Wetwode? In
Norfolk? I know it well. Spent several yachting holidays on the rivers and Broads.’ The boys had wandered off and were examining the portraits of cricketers on the walls. ‘So that unfortunate twin found this body under the dinghy,’ Tom continued in a low tone.

  ‘Yes. It seems that the centre-board of the dinghy was up, and this puzzled him. Then possibly he tried to row the boat, but it must have been at once obvious that there was something wrong. He then may have dived in to find out what was the matter, and at first found no way to communicate to anyone else the dreadful thing he had seen. I do not claim that that is exactly what happened, but it may have been.’

  ‘And that didn’t loose his tongue, but meeting Derek did. Extraordinary that that should have been the greater shock. Well, look here, I’d better go and find Sir Adrian.’ He grinned. ‘He’s a funny chap, and the news of his grandson’s return had better be broken to him gently.’

  He sauntered away. In about ten minutes he returned with the baronet. Sir Adrian’s face was beaming.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ he said. ‘Well, well, well, well, well!’

  But Francis flinched from him.

  ‘He meant we were seven, not six,’ he said wildly, adressing Mrs. Bradley in his guttural tones.

  Back in Wetwode Mrs. Bradley reconsidered her plans. There seemed no point in remaining longer at the bungalow unless she wanted to find out more about her neighbours. There seemed little chance of that at the moment, so she wrote to her friend the Chief Constable of Hampshire pointing out that she would be at her Hampshire residence, the Stone House, Wandles Parva, for the following few weeks. She added that she would be interested to know how events shaped at Mede.

  He drove over on the following morning and found her cutting roses for the house.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, regarding with approval mingled with awe her beehive hat tied under the chin with purple ribbon, her thick tweed costume (unsuited to the warmth of the day) and her motoring gloves and elastic-sided boots. ‘Glad to find you at home.’