Death and the Maiden mb-20

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Well, now,’ said Mrs Bradley, when she and Connie had seated themselves on the turf and were gazing across to the hills on the opposite side, ‘go ahead, and please don’t leave out anything.’

  ‘The ghost?’

  ‘The ghost, child.’

  ‘And would you really change rooms with me? Really?’

  ‘Certainly. I confess I should like to see a ghost. One reads so much and experiences so little of these things. This hotel – who knows? – may be a place of first-rate psychic interest and importance.’ She cackled, but Connie remained serious.

  ‘Well, if you really wouldn’t mind, I’d be terribly glad. It’s a nun, you know. I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes? A nun?’

  ‘In a white habit. She’s fairly small and she – and she squeaks.’

  ‘Squeaks?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how else to describe it. She frightened me horribly. I hid my face under the bedclothes, and prayed for her to go away, and when I peeped next time she was gone.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the room did she appear?’

  ‘Close by the dressing-table, I think. But I couldn’t say for certain. It seemed between there and the fireplace.’

  ‘Have you any idea of the time when she appeared?’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t exact. I heard a clock strike three very soon after she had gone.’

  ‘You know it was striking the hour?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It had done all its chimes, and then it struck three clear notes. I expect you’ve heard the clock I mean. I think it’s somewhere near, but in the town, not in the hotel.’

  ‘Well, child, we shall see what luck I have. If you are ready, let us climb to the grove of trees.’

  ‘You go,’ said Connie. ‘I’d sooner look at the view.’

  Mrs Bradley got up, and climbed, by a broad turf path closely worn to the chalk of the hill, to a grove of trees on the summit. Here she poked inquisitively about among the tree-trunks and discovered what looked like a tramp’s lair in a hole in the ground where, at some time, possibly, a tree had been uprooted. There were the remains of a fire, a couple of rusty tins which had not been opened but were dented all over as though they had been flung against the trees, two great hunks of badly mildewed bread, and a heap of dead leaves which might have been used as a bed.

  Although an ancient British track was believed to have run up and over the hill, it was not very likely, Mrs Bradley thought, that a modern tramp would have troubled to take the same route when roads went in every direction around the base of the hill. She was interested in these evidences of human occupation, therefore, particularly as they did not look like the remains of a picnic.

  She poked into the hole with her foot, and turned up an old leather sandal. She was sufficiently interested in this to continue poking. She felt that Connie was watching her, so she thoughtfully pushed the heap of leaves over the sandal and strolled towards the bushes as Connie came into view.

  ‘Thought I’d come up after all!’ said Connie, panting. ‘Anything to see up here?’

  There was a miz-maze cut in the turf nearby. Mrs Bradley referred to this fact, and they left the trees and came out into the open. There were legends to account for the miz-maze. Mrs Bradley detailed these, and the time passed pleasantly.

  ‘You’ll remember not to mention the exchange of rooms,’ said Mrs Bradley, as they descended by a path on the other side of the hill. They came out upon Twyford Down and crossed the golf course.

  ‘I shan’t say anything! They’d all think I was crazy,’ Connie replied. ‘I suppose we’d better let the chambermaid know, but she isn’t likely to mention it, and, if she did, it would only be to Aunt Prissie, and I don’t much mind her knowing. It’s the other two, especially Uncle Edris. I am really afraid of that man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let anyone know, and I’m sure we can square the chambermaid. Let’s keep the whole thing to ourselves,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But why should you fear Mr Tidson?’ She neither expected nor received an answer to this question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Connie, ‘but I do.’

  They followed a footpath across the golf course, and came out on to the by-pass road, which they crossed. Then they took the towing-path, beside what was part of the old canal, on the other side of the railway, Connie leading the way. Suddenly, as they came in sight of the weir, she turned and said:

  ‘You said you wanted exercise! Do let’s run!’ And, on the words, she fled like Atlanta, but what she was running away from Mrs Bradley could not determine.

  Mrs Bradley was intrigued by Connie’s story of the ghost. Not altogether to her surprise, the next news of the visitant came from Crete Tidson, who said at tea, when the party were all assembled at a table in the garden:

  ‘I hear that this house is haunted. I do not think I should come here any more.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ enquired Miss Carmody abruptly. ‘A ghost never harmed anyone yet. Personally, I should rather like to see one. What do you say, Connie?’

  Connie laughed without mirth, and said that she supposed it might be interesting.

  ‘Very interesting indeed,’ said Mr Tidson, waving a piece of bread and butter. ‘Extremely so. But I don’t know what you mean when you say that a ghost never harmed anyone yet! What about the one in Berkeley Square? And on the Canaries we heard rumours of volcanic entities – enormous, nebulous creatures that come out of the mountains, you know – which are supposed to be capable of driving people insane.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I have stayed in the Canaries several times, but I never heard such a story.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘But living there is a different matter entirely from merely staying. I could tell you, out of my own experiences—’

  ‘Eat your bread and butter, Edris, or, at least, stop waving it about,’ said Crete. ‘Your experiences are in no way unique, and I don’t suppose for one moment that anybody wants to hear about them.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what somebody does want,’ said Connie, who desired above all things to have the subject changed, ‘and that somebody is myself. I do want to visit the College.’

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘We must remember that we have young Arthur Preece-Harvard at school there. And although he is on holiday at present—’

  ‘By Jove, yes!’ Mr Tidson cried loudly, putting down his cup at a warning exclamation from his wife. ‘Arthur Preece-Harvard! I had forgotten all about him! I must certainly visit the College. But not to-morrow, Connie, my dear. I am hot on the track of my nymph, and all else must wait, for fear lest the scent should grow cold.’

  ‘I think I must come nymphing with you one day,’ said Mrs Bradley, soberly. ‘One should not miss these excitements.’ To her surprise, Mr Tidson assented with great enthusiasm.

  ‘Nothing I should like better! Nothing! Nothing!’ he cried. ‘Oh, yes, do come! These sceptics—’ he waved towards his wife, Connie and Miss Carmody – ‘are most discouraging. If I were a sensitive man I should have become depressed.’

  ‘Well, thank heaven you’re not, then, a sensitive man,’ said Crete. ‘It is very kind of Mrs Bradley, don’t you think, to take interest in your silly old nymph?’

  ‘I know it is kind of her,’ Mr Tidson retorted. ‘It is also intelligent and enlightened of her. It is good to find someone else among the prophets, and I greatly look forward to her company.’

  Mrs Bradley, extremely puzzled by his reactions, since she had deduced that the very last thing Mr Tidson desired was that anyone should accompany him upon his expeditions, looked forward keenly to the outing.

  At Mr Tidson’s request, they set out directly after tea, at a time when there were numbers of people everywhere in the city, and a procession of visitors between Winchester and St Cross along the river.

  ‘Where do you expect to find her to-day?’ Mrs Bradley briskly enquired, as though the expedition were of the most ordinary nature.

  ‘That remains to be seen
,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘I have not yet discovered where she hides, but I think I ought to take cover to-day and give her a chance to appear.’

  ‘Is the late afternoon a good time? I should have thought that all these people – the little boys particularly – would most certainly have frightened her away.’

  ‘Oh, I think she likes little boys,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘These, for instance; dear little chaps. Perhaps they are hardly safe. One never knows.’ He smiled at the boys as they passed.

  Once past the Winchester playing fields, the stream ran past the wall of a garden, and, after that, it crossed the end of a road in a wide, deep opening rather like a small pond. Boys were paddling, sailing their boats, poking into the river bed with willow sticks, collecting minnows in jamjars and in other ways enjoying themselves while the sun shone and the long summer daylight lasted.

  ‘Of course, Crete and I have no children,’ said Mr Tidson.

  ‘Then you are fond of children?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, as she fell into step beside him, and they walked on past the end of the row of small houses.

  ‘Everyone is fond of children; I am, perhaps, more attached to them than most are,’ he replied.

  ‘How do you suppose Bobby Grier came to drown himself like that?’ asked Mrs Bradley, full of Miss Carmody’s dreadful theories and greatly desirous of putting them to the test.

  ‘I do not suppose he did.’

  ‘The water-nymph?’ She glanced at him sharply. ‘I don’t believe a word of that, you know.’

  ‘I do not believe it, either, in this particular case,’ said Mr Tidson. He kicked a stone out of his path. ‘I think some villainy was at work there. Don’t ask me what. I have nothing to go on, of course, but my opinion is (I think) the same as yours, and I have my reasons for holding it. The nymph may be here. I think she is. She may drown little boys. I think she does. But I don’t think she drowned little Grier.’

  ‘Really? What do you think, then?’

  ‘It is what I think of,’ said Mr Tidson, somewhat mysteriously. ‘Repressed spinsters, monomaniacs, sex-maniacs, mass murderers . . . lorry-drivers . . . curates . . . kindly persons with nasty little bags of sweets and horrid little pockets full of gooseberries. Goblin market, you know. I think of them all, but mostly, of course, of the spinsters.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Bradley looked astounded.

  ‘Very, very sad,’ Mr Tidson continued. ‘When one lives side by side with one of them, one gets to see their point of view, you know. Very odd things, repressions. Charlotte Corday, and so on.’ He shook his head, stopped suddenly, looked at the sky, and then said with some abruptness, ‘I am not in the mood for my nymph. I am going home.’

  * Doubtful. It is probably a widely-held theory, but does not, of course, apply to Poltergeists.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Take two Oounces of Jesuit’s Bark, infuse it in Spring-water . . .’

  Mrs SARAH HARRISON OF DEVONSHIRE

  (The Housekeeper’s Pocket Book, etc.)

  Mrs BRADLEY was as interested in Mr Tidson’s unexpected views as, if he had intended to interest her, he could have wished. She did not betray her feelings further, however, but startled Mr Tidson by giving a short, harsh cackle.

  ‘It seems a pity to go home straightway,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t we do a little sightseeing? What about the Cathedral?’

  ‘Not that, if you have no objection. If we are going to stay out, let us take a good long walk to give us time to forget what I have said. I think you know that I intended nothing definite. It is just that one sees what one sees, one hears what one hears, and one understands with whatever understanding one has been granted by omnipotent Providence.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’ asked Mrs Bradley. Mr Tidson waved a plump hand.

  ‘Live and let live!’ he replied. ‘And now for a really long walk. Emotion shall be dissipated in action.’

  Mrs Bradley was astonished by this change of plan, and she wondered what, in Mr Tidson’s opinion, constituted a long walk. He turned left along the road and they walked on to the by-pass and then began to climb Saint Catherine’s Hill.

  Mrs Bradley made no comment. She merely lengthened her stride and had the satisfaction, very soon, of hearing her companion begin to puff and blow. She smiled, and went almost at a run up the short turf mound as it rose ever more steeply to the earthworks.

  Soon she had outdistanced Mr Tidson. She stopped when she reached the fringe of the grove of trees, and waited for him to join her. He was pouting and scowling like a bad-tempered little boy, but Mrs Bradley, unperturbed by this emotional display, raised a skinny arm and pointed downwards towards the water-meadows and over the plotted landscape with its intersecting carriers and brooks.

  ‘I suppose you have brought your field-glasses?’ she enquired. ‘Otherwise you will scarcely see her from here.’

  ‘See whom? Not the nymph?’ Mr Tidson’s ill-temper vanished. ‘I believe,’ he added, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face, ‘you are as interested in her as I am! Confess, now, if you are not!’

  ‘I am quite as interested,’ said Mrs Bradley emphatically. ‘But I’m still not sure that I believe in her, in spite of all you can say.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Mr Tidson anxiously. ‘I do think you’d better, you know. You must try to forget what I’ve said this afternoon. I believe in my nymph fully, and you would be well advised to do the same.’

  ‘Perhaps it would make things simpler,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘But what do I see down there by the old canal?’

  ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘That way, look! To your left. Isn’t some kind of disturbance going on? There, by the railway signal. Look!’

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ said Mr Tidson peevishly. But she noticed he had turned very pale and his plump cheeks shook. ‘We can go back that way, if you like, but I think you must be mistaken. That is – those are – the grounds of a private house. We can’t get in, even if we do go down there. I know it well.’

  ‘I should like to go back that way,’ said Mrs Bradley. She started off at the same tremendous pace as she had set in coming up-hill. Mr Tidson grunted, slipped and slithered, and then swore in the bastard Spanish he affected when something did not please him. At last he gave up any attempt to keep level with her, and found her waiting for him on the rough and muddy path which led under the railway arch at the foot of the hill.

  They returned alongside the water, but whatever Mrs Bradley had seen from the top of the hill had left no trace, and their homeward walk was uninteresting. ‘I shall come out alone this evening,’ said Mr Tidson.

  ‘I’m afraid your relative doesn’t like me very much,’ Mrs Bradley said later to Miss Carmody. ‘I think I shall go upstairs early, out of his way.’ She and Connie had already changed rooms, and Mrs Bradley, who had spent some time in examining number twenty-nine, thought that it had, as it were, some ghostly possibilities.

  A squarish Tudor window looked on to the side entrance of the hotel, and a large open fireplace seemed to speak of logs, priest-holes and a chimney with a long and interesting history. A low window-seat concealed a box, and the room also contained a massive and gloomy cupboard.

  Mrs Bradley shut the window, locked the door, took off her skirt and shoes, and, putting her head up the wide aperture and shining her torch upon the blackened brickwork, soon discovered footholds in the chimney.

  She put the torch in the fender, but where she would not tread on it when she came down again, listened at the door, wedged an armchair against the cupboard, put her heaviest suitcase, fully packed, on the window-seat, and then climbed into the chimney.

  About halfway up she discovered, as she had expected, that there was easy access to the roof, for the chimney terminated squarely and had no pot.

  The roof here was flat, and facing her was another chimney, broad-breasted and nearly three feet thick. She walked over to it, or, rather, almost crawled, hoping that she would not be detected from the garden below. Sh
e was also in mortal fear of being spotted from somebody’s bedroom window. It was by this time almost dark, however – the chimney had been like the Pit – so she hoped to remain undetected.

  It took her ten minutes to find the concealed door on the outside surface of the second chimney. The doorway had been painted to look like the brickwork, and she had to explore the whole side of the chimney, as soon as she discovered which face was of iron, before she could swing the door open.

  She managed it at last. The door was on a pivot, and, as it swung, it showed a dark flight of very narrow steps. Mrs Bradley descended into the hotel and soon found herself in a small square room. There were six feet of headroom, and the floor space, roughly, was eight feet by seven. It remained to discover how to get from this elaborate priest’s hole into one of the bedrooms or on to the main staircase.

  She listened again, but could not hear a sound. She had closed the top door behind her and now, by carefully testing the walls, she discovered that a hidden spring gave admittance not to a bedroom or to the main staircase, but to that other priest’s hole, the present, prosaic linen-cupboard passage which she had pointed out to Connie soon after their arrival at the hotel. To construct a priest’s hole to conceal another priest’s hole seemed to Mrs Bradley an intelligent thought, and she wished she could have shared her discovery.

  However, as the ghost had taken to walking, it would be as well, Mrs Bradley thought, to keep to herself the means by which it could make its entrances. She would wait, she decided, upon the order of events before she took anyone into her confidence.

  She did not undress, but sat for some time at the window, gazing out and with ears alert for sounds. There were plenty of these to be heard. Conversation, laughter, and what seemed, at one point, rather like a quarrel between Crete and Edris Tidson, came floating up out of the garden. There was the hum of traffic from the High Street, not so very far away; and, half an hour later, raucous singing from men turned out of the public house at the top of the quiet street.