Death and the Maiden mb-20

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Arthur was a most devoted husband,’ Mrs Preece-Harvard went on. ‘Priscilla, I believe, expected that there would be something, but, as it happens, she is well enough paid.’

  ‘You mean by Connie’s companionship and affection, no doubt?’

  ‘I mean by the gift of a hundred a year, which comes from my late husband’s private fortune, and has nothing to do with the estate,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard sharply. ‘And if anything happens to my son, I shall be left without even this wretched hundred a year for myself, and this Tidson man, whom I have never met, will inherit everything that is Arthur’s. This wretched Tidson, or his descendants (if he has any) are likely to inherit, anyway, for Arthur has told me that he has thought about his future and is going into the Church. He believes in the celibacy of the clergy, and will never marry. Such a very curious thought for a boy of his age!’

  Mrs Bradley decided that it was, on the whole, and in the particular circumstances in which Arthur found himself, quite a natural thought for a boy of his age, but she did not say so. Tea arrived, Arthur returned, and the talk turned to other subjects. Mrs Bradley returned to the main theme, however, as soon as opportunity offered. This occurred when Mrs Preece-Harvard sent her son upstairs for her library book, which she wanted him to go out and change for her after tea.

  ‘I’d better go now,’ said Arthur, affecting a humorous resignation, but obviously not sorry to escape.

  ‘Very well, dear. Don’t be long. The girl has my list,’ said his mother, ‘but look inside the book first to make certain that it is quite clean.’

  Arthur consented to do this, and took himself off. Mrs Bradley gazed after his tall, thin figure, and then said abruptly:

  ‘It must have been hard on Connie to know the truth.’

  ‘The truth about what?’

  ‘Her birth. Her illegitimacy.’

  ‘Oh, but she doesn’t know a thing about that!’ exclaimed Mrs Preece-Harvard in genuine consternation. ‘Surely no one would be so unkind! I mean, I didn’t like Connie, and she was always a thorn in my flesh, but there was never any question of anyone telling her about herself, you know.’

  ‘Miss Carmody?’

  ‘Most certainly not! Priscilla has far too much nice feeling. What good would it do to tell Connie? She knew she was not my daughter, and Arthur never told her that he was her father. Of that I am perfectly certain. He said to me just before he died: “I suppose you will have to tell Connie. Keep it dark as long as you can, and, when you tell her, take care you let her down lightly. It isn’t the fault of the child.” An idea, of course, which I share with all sensible people,’ Mrs Preece-Harvard concluded.

  Mrs Bradley bowed her head.

  ‘And there was no way in which Connie could have found out by accident?’ she asked.

  ‘That she was my husband’s daughter? Oh, dear, no!’

  ‘How many people knew she was illegitimate?’

  ‘Well, apart from our tiny circle, hardly anyone knew, I imagine. This Tidson person had to know, of course. His lawyers wrote to our solicitors. Not that it made any difference to his position, detestable little man!’

  ‘Oh, do you know Mr Tidson?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘No. I have never met him, but I know I should not like him if I did.’

  ‘“Nothing can clear Mr Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn,”’said Mrs Bradley under her breath.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t think that!’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard at once. ‘There is certainly no guilt about it! I am not as prejudiced as that! But one hears things, and I have always been glad that the Canary Islands are quite a long way off. Didn’t he marry a native girl or something?’

  ‘No. His wife is of Greek extraction, and a very beautiful woman,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘So far as you know, then, this Mr Tidson is the only person outside your immediate circle (who are all pledged to silence on the subject) to be aware of the fact that Connie is your late husband’s daughter?’

  ‘Certainly. Connie was always known as Carmody, even before Priscilla took her on. That was Priscilla’s idea, and a very convenient one for us. But really—!’

  ‘You are wondering why I am interested,’ said Mrs Bradley, interpreting Mrs Preece-Harvard’s obvious thought. ‘The fact is that Miss Carmody has reason to think (from Connie’s peculiar behaviour) that someone has told the girl the truth.’

  ‘Then it must be that Tidson person, or his wife. Most likely the wife. These people have no sense of decency,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard at once. ‘I am sorry if that has happened. The girl will feel that she has no claim on Priscilla. Connie was always independent and rather proud. I never liked her, but I never bore her any ill-will. A thing like that is a shock to a child. I think it a very great shame!’

  Mrs Bradley felt herself warming towards Mrs Preece-Harvard. Besides, she had found out from her all that she wanted to know. The depths of Mr Tidson’s villainy, she felt, were completely unmasked. She was contemplating these depths when Arthur Preece-Harvard came back with a library book.

  ‘Thank you, darling. And now I shall need my glasses,’ said his mother.

  ‘There is just one point, though,’ said Mrs Bradley, as soon as Arthur had gone. ‘Connie would have been two years old at your marriage. Would she retain any memories of those two years which might lead her to discover the truth for herself, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, she lived with Priscilla until my marriage,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard. ‘That is why Priscilla was ready to have her back. She is very fond of Connie. She always has been.’

  When tea was cleared, Mrs Bradley suggested that the mother and son might care for a drive in her car before she returned to Winchester. Mrs Preece-Harvard, who had taken an enormous, although, on the whole, an irrational fancy to Mrs Bradley (since she liked and admired her for just those qualities which Mrs Bradley did not possess, but with which she had, with some histrionic ability, endowed herself for the afternoon), accepted on behalf of her son, but excused herself from the outing on the plea of a necessary rest before she dressed for dinner.

  Arthur had thawed at the prospect of inspecting the car, and seemed pleased, in a reserved fashion, to go for a drive. He himself selected the route from George’s maps, and they drove alongside the River Stour to Blandford St Mary and then to Puddleton, and came back through Bere Regis to Bournemouth.

  Arthur sat beside Mrs Bradley for the outward journey, and by George on the return one. He was a well-informed boy, and conversation did not flag. By the time they reached the furthest outward point, and left the car whilst they explored Puddletown, the Weatherbury of Thomas Hardy, and went into the church to look at the Norman font, Mrs Bradley and the boy were on terms of considerable mutual confidence.

  It was when they came out of the church that he mentioned Connie Carmody, and asked how she was.

  ‘She is pretty well, I think,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Is she – does she – has she forgiven us yet?’ asked the boy, with a sidelong glance. He kicked a stone out of his path in an attempt to give a lightness to the question which, it was easy to tell, it did not hold for him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Bradley answered. ‘What should you do if you met her suddenly?’

  ‘I don’t know. We used to have pretty good times together when we were small. Of course, that was some time ago.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘When you do cross-country running, are you always alone?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m never alone. And, in any case, Connie isn’t likely to be about in the winter, is she? Anyway, I don’t do much running, you know, except perhaps on a remedy. I mug pretty hard. One can’t do everything in toy-time, so I don’t have time for thoking, although, of course, I play games.’*

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. She asked no more questions, and Arthur, at her suggestion, with which he seemed eager to comply, sat beside George in front on the homeward run.

  ‘What do you make of him,
George?’ she asked, as George put the rug over her knees preparatory to beginning the journey back to Winchester.

  ‘I could not say, madam. He seems a pleasant enough young gentleman, but I couldn’t quite make him out.’

  ‘No. I feel like that myself. Poor boy! I do not envy him his mother, his riches, his relatives, or his vocation.’

  ‘He goes to a very fine school, madam.’

  ‘Yes. We will envy him his school, then.’

  ‘Straight back to Winchester, madam?’

  ‘Please, and as quickly as we can.’

  ‘I say,’ said Laura, when Mrs Bradley had concluded a very late dinner, ‘what do you think of Alice’s eye? Take a deck.’

  ‘What am I supposed to think of it?’ enquired Mrs Bradley, examining a slight, purplish bruise just above Alice’s left cheekbone.

  ‘I chucked the soap at her,’ went on Laura, ‘and that’s the result. We wondered how it compared with the Tidson and Carmody bruises, that’s all. Remember? You told us about your piece of soap and young Connie Carmody and the ghost.’

  ‘I remember. But bruises prove very little.’

  Laura looked disappointed.

  ‘I thought it might be a jolly good clue,’ she argued. ‘Not that I meant to hurt her. I suppose it wasn’t Connie you hit with the soap that night, by the way?’

  ‘I’ve wondered that myself,’ said Mrs Bradley, untruthfully. ‘Incidentally – although I dislike to disconcert you – it was the nailbrush, and not a piece of soap, which struck the ghost. I cannot help feeling that one would bruise more easily from the one than from the other.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Laura grinning. ‘That experiment of ours washes out, then.’

  Mrs Bradley cackled, and the subject was dropped. When she got to her room that night she locked the door, closed up the other entrances, and settled down to re-read George’s notes on the Preece-Harvard will. They disclosed nothing that was now new. One way and another, she had learned from other sources all that the will could tell her, and the fact that Connie was young Preece-Harvard’s half-sister she had been able to guess and had had the guess confirmed. The important point was that, if Arthur Preece-Harvard died, the entailed estate passed to Mr Tidson, who happened to be the nearest male heir. This was the clue to the whole strange business, Mrs Bradley conjectured, but was not one which could be translated into anything at all suspicious unless Arthur Preece-Harvard should be murdered.

  She burnt the notes in the fireplace, scuffled the thin, black, curled-over sheets together, looked out of the window, and then prepared herself for bed. She was almost immediately asleep, and nothing occurred to disturb her.

  Next morning she went out early and saw, at the bottom of the High Street, the long-striding, hatless, beautiful figure of Crete Tidson. Mrs Bradley took great care not to catch up with her. She could not help wondering what it was which had tempted Crete out and at such an early hour.

  Crete stood on the bridge for a time and watched the passage of the water under the old mill. Then she crossed the road, but, almost immediately she had done so, she seemed to change her mind, and, instead of following the riverside path, she struck eastwards along the main road, and, walking extremely fast, had soon rounded a bend.

  Mrs Bradley, abandoning her original project of walking as far as Saint Cross alongside the water, set out in Crete’s wake and discovered that she was in for a longish walk – or so she thought at first.

  The matter, however, became more mysterious than this. About a mile beyond the town a by-road branched southward from the main road, and then made a right-angle turn to the east, so that, by following it, one could get back into the town.

  Crete followed this road. In the bend a car was drawn up. Crete began to whistle the tune of a popular song. Out from the car came a man’s hand, and out of the hand fell a letter. The car, which was facing the same way as Crete and the advancing Mrs Bradley, then drove off. Crete stooped, picked up the letter, and walked straight on in the wake of the car.

  Greatly intrigued by these manœuvres, Mrs Bradley, who felt that she had seen all there would be to see, turned at once, and returned to Winchester by the way she and Crete had both come. By the time Crete reached the hotel, Mrs Bradley was upstairs, and she descended, as though for the first time that morning, to discover Crete at the vestibule sideboard on which it was Thomas’ custom to place the newspapers and the letters of the guests.

  Crete looked up and wished Mrs Bradley a very bright good-morning. It was clear she did not know she had been followed. Mrs Bradley responded with suitable enthusiasm, and, immediately after breakfast, rang up Gavin at his hotel. He came round to the Domus at a quarter past eleven, so that it looked as though he had merely dropped in for a drink. She outlined to him the provisions of the will, and detailed her conversations with Arthur and Mrs Preece-Harvard.

  ‘But that’s what you thought,’ said Gavin, referring to all Mrs Bradley’s conclusions. Mrs Bradley agreed.

  ‘Have you found the stone with which the dog was killed? And have you found out who moved the dog and when?’ she enquired. ‘I shall be interested to see the stone when you find it. It will certainly – well, almost certainly, let us say – be found at the bottom of the river. To-morrow I shall go fishing.’

  ‘I could come with you.’

  ‘No, no. To-morrow perhaps you had better come nowhere near me at all.’

  ‘Right. Forgive me for asking, but have you ever done any fishing?’

  ‘A little. Enough to know how to make a cast.’

  ‘I’ll let you have some of my flies. Do you want to borrow a rod? Tell me what your idea is.’

  ‘I think it is time the murderer realized that I am dangerous, and had the chance to knock me on the head.’

  ‘Oh, but look here, I say, you must be careful! It wouldn’t do—’

  Mrs Bradley cackled, and poked the young man in the ribs.

  ‘Talking of accidents,’ she said, ‘you haven’t yet told me all about the nymph who caused you to get so wet. You remember? You came to the hotel—’

  ‘And Thomas put me in here, in the smoke-room, and told me not to move out of it because of the hotel carpets! Yes, I remember, of course. Well, you remember that at just after five it came on to rain?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember. And you went in after the nymph. That, too, I know. But where exactly did you see her?’

  ‘You know that little road which connects the Southampton Road with the new by-pass? It runs past the swimming pool and over a couple of bridges. Well, beside the first bridge there is an old, broken, wooden footbridge under which the stream is fast and a good bit deeper than one imagines, and rather narrow.

  ‘Until the rain came on, it was pleasant there, and I was standing on the wooden bridge, looking fairly aimlessly at the water, when I spotted a sort of commotion. I watched, and the sedgy reeds parted and I saw – I swear it! – a woman’s head with fairish hair coloured something between the green of an olive and the yellow of a dead wild-iris leaf. It was gone the next second, but I heard a laugh, and then an exclamation in Greek.’

  ‘In Greek?’

  ‘In ancient Greek, too! “Too cold and chilly,” was the exact exclamation I heard. At least, that would be the translation.’

  ‘It sounds like a quotation from the Frogs of Aristophanes, does it not? “Too cold and chilly,” is a line in the Frogs, I think.’*

  ‘It is most likely. I do know, anyhow, that I agreed with the remark when I had lowered myself into the stream. I hadn’t stopped to think before that! I was anxious only to find this naiad who spoke Greek.’

  ‘Did she fly from you as soon as you entered the stream?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I didn’t find her. The stream was deeper than I thought, and it was running pretty fast, and I was wading against the current. I caught just a glimpse of her, you know, while I was still on the bridge, or perhaps that was only my fancy. Anyway, it was apparent that there was nothing more to see, exc
ept old Tidson, who was very calmly fishing from behind a clump of tall reeds. He cast very badly, as a matter of fact, and nearly hooked me. I can easily understand he hooked his hat! I climbed out near to where he was, and told him I’d seen the nymph and had even heard her speak. I asked him whether he’d spotted anything moving, but he said he hadn’t seen a thing, except a very impressive trout which he insisted upon describing in far too elaborate detail. He did say that he had heard a voice coming across the water, but that he hadn’t really taken any notice. At the time he heard it, he thought that this special trout had taken his fly, and he wasn’t in the least interested in anything else in the world.’

  ‘What kind of fly?’

  ‘A hackle caperer, he said. What difference does it make?’

  ‘I should have thought it might have been a sherry spinner at this time of year, that’s all. But pray go on with your story.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t much more to tell. I felt compelled to apologize to Tidson for walking about where he was fishing, but he seemed to have taken it all in pretty good part, and the last I saw of him was when he began packing up his belongings to go home. I came on here to see you, and that was that.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I must see what Mr Tidson has to add to it all. It would be a pity if, after all this time, he had lost the chance of seeing his nymph. I should call it quite unbearable, in fact.’

  The inspector looked her straight in the eye.

  ‘And, after that masterly display of side-stepping, what do you really think?’ he demanded. ‘I suppose you mean that the nymph I heard and half-saw was Mrs Tidson, but, if so, what was she up to?’

  ‘Trying to work herself up to the point of committing suicide, perhaps,’ said Mrs Bradley. Gavin looked at her, but she seemed to be thoroughly in earnest.

  ‘Weave your spells,’ he said. ‘I am your attentive and open-mouthed listener. Go ahead, please, and be as theoretical as ever you like. After all, the atom bomb began as a theory, I suppose.’