Death and the Maiden mb-20

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Talking of Tidson, I wish I knew what he’s playing at, to get himself arrested like this. It almost looks as though he has reason to need protection, and, if that’s so—Well, I wish I could see through his game.’

  It was not at all easy to find out Mr Tidson’s game. He was brought up in front of a kindly and puzzled justice of the peace next day, and, having made a bitter little speech to which the bench listened gravely and with great courtesy, he refused to pay a forty-shilling fine. The magistrate, clicking his tongue, was about to proffer the alternative of seven days’ imprisonment when an official whispered in his ear. Mr Tidson’s fine, it appeared, had already been paid, and Mr Tidson, looking dazed and frightened, was dismissed. He began another speech, but any protest he may have seen fit to make was smothered by the fatherly hand and arm of a gigantic police constable, who removed him almost bodily from the court as the next case came up for hearing.

  ‘Did you pay the fine?’ enquired Gavin of Mrs Bradley.

  ‘I was about to put the same question to Laura,’ she replied. ‘We are on the verge of interesting disclosures. The plot thickens to breaking point.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t pay it,’ said Laura. ‘I should think Crete must have sent the money. She’d hardly want her husband in jug.’

  Enquiry, set on foot by Gavin, proved that the philanthropist who had paid the two pounds was a young lady. The description, which followed, of her size, appearance and apparent age, certainly would not fit Crete but might have fitted Connie Carmody.

  Gavin immediately telephoned to Miss Carmody, and discovered, as he had expected, that Connie was no longer in the flat. Her bed had not been used, and her aunt could not account for her disappearance.

  ‘Well, that beats everything,’ said Gavin. ‘I suppose she had better be found at once. And now, what about this Tidson?’

  ‘He has gone to see Crete, at the Domus,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘Let us both go to see him.’

  Mr Tidson, Mrs Bradley was interested to discover, was in a remarkable state of terror. He could not answer any questions. He merely begged them to save him, but omitted to mention from what.

  Gavin commented on this. ‘That chap,’ he said confidentially, ‘will cut his own throat before we hang him if we’re not mighty careful. What do you think?’

  ‘As you do,’ Mrs Bradley responded. ‘Nevertheless, I am inclined to leave him to his fate.’

  ‘Yes, but why should suicide be his fate? What’s he been up to? How do you account for the wind-up?’

  ‘Well, I doubt if it means a guilty conscience. I don’t believe Mr Tidson is troubled by conscience at all. No, I think we are watching the unfolding of an interesting logical sequence of events.’

  ‘But where the devil is Connie?’

  ‘Here in Winchester, I imagine, lying in wait for the unfortunate Mr Tidson, instead of (as he had hoped and planned) for her half-brother, Arthur Preece-Harvard. I let the boy come back to school here because I knew he was not in danger from Connie, and Mr Tidson, who has such a powerful motive for putting him out of the way, will never dare to touch him while we’re here. It is a situation I shall watch with peculiar relish.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ asked Gavin. Mrs Bradley cackled.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, ‘there was a man who incited another man to murder their mutual enemy. But the second man, victim of the fearful poison engendered by the promptings of the first, killed, not his enemy, but the man who had slain his conscience. What do you think about that?’

  ‘I see the point of it,’ Gavin answered. ‘You believe he’s been inciting Connie Carmody to kill young Preece-Harvard, and has spent his time in Winchester demonstrating to her how easy it is to commit a murder without being found out.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Bradley, careful not to express agreement with this, ‘I don’t know about that. No doubt it would suit Mr Tidson very nicely if Connie (or anyone else) would put Arthur out of the way and leave him to inherit the money. But, of course, he made a mistake if he supposed that Connie entertained feelings of hatred for the boy. Connie, in point of fact, adores him, as she has done from their earliest years.’

  ‘Then why in the name of goodness hasn’t she given old Tidson away to us weeks ago? If she’d spilt the beans we could have acted upon her information.’

  ‘Connie, you must remember, is not only young; she is unversed in the ways of the world. She did not think we should believe her. She distrusts people – who can blame her? The world has not treated her too well. Besides, she is intelligent enough to realize that we could scarcely interfere with Mr Tidson’s plans until something more than she could tell us was proved against him.

  ‘In other ways she is not a clever girl, and she is also remarkably obstinate. It was not easy to persuade her that her best course was to go away from Winchester for a bit, and she would not have consented (even although she was terrified of Mr Tidson) if Arthur had not been safely tucked away in Bournemouth. I knew she would return to Winchester as soon as the College re-opened after the summer, and I have no doubt that she is here, that she paid Mr Tidson’s fine, and has turned the tables on him by making him fear her as much as – in fact, a good deal more than – at one point she feared him.’

  ‘Do you think she led Tidson up the garden, then, and allowed him to believe that she would kill Preece-Harvard when the time came?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was evidently horrified by him, not only because of his motive for having Arthur murdered, but sexually, of course, as well. I don’t think a young man like yourself can begin to fathom the depths of that kind of horror, which is far more than merely physical. She probably allowed him to think that she would act in accordance with his suggestions.’

  ‘Both kinds? Ah, I begin to see daylight. I suppose that accounts for the visit of the “ghost”, after which she insisted on changing rooms with you.’

  ‘The “nun” was undoubtedly Mr Tidson.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the apparition that squeaked. Always a very phony story.’

  ‘And it accounts, too, for the visitant at whom I hurled the nailbrush. That was undoubtedly Miss Carmody, who came to find out what was going on.’

  ‘Then why the black eyes of the others?’

  ‘Thereby, I fancy, hangs a tale. Anyhow, that ludicrous situation spiked poor Miss Carmody’s guns, as Mr Tidson knew it would. An elderly maiden lady cannot afford to look ridiculous if she values her self-respect. I saved her by taking her off to Bournemouth for the day.’

  ‘Not knowing that the Preece-Harvards were there?’

  ‘Not knowing at that time that the Preece-Harvards were there. It must have given Mr Tidson a shock when he knew where we had been, for I have little doubt he knew where Arthur was.’

  ‘What about that flat on the Great West Road? An address of convenience, no doubt?’

  ‘Yes. The letter about the naiad came from there, and Connie had a key which Mr Tidson may or may not have given her at some time.’

  Laura groaned.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘quite a horrid person, Mr Tidson, and Connie is—’

  ‘Connie must be a dope,’ said Laura roundly. ‘The thing is, we ought to find her before she can do Mr Tidson any harm.’

  ‘I’d leave him to it,’ said Gavin. ‘The wicked old villain!’

  ‘For murdering the boys, hoping that Connie would kill Arthur, or for trying to seduce Connie?’ Mrs Bradley ironically enquired.

  ‘The last, of course,’ Gavin vigorously and honestly replied. Mrs Bradley and Laura laughed, and the latter observed, as she tucked her strong arm into his and affectionately dug her elbow into his side:

  ‘Spoken like a man and a mutt!’

  ‘Yes, well now,’ said Gavin, ‘after all that, what about him?’

  ‘I think,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘that our best plan might be to await him. He’s bound to turn up.’

  The person, to everyone’s surprise, who turned up first, was young Preece-Harvard. T
hey found him at tea with Crete, with whom he seemed to get on very well. The surprise was partly on Crete’s side. It was evident she had not realized that Mrs Bradley already knew the boy. She recovered at once, and said quickly:

  ‘I was very anxious to meet him. We are related, as you know, by marriage.’

  Arthur gave his own explanation, which coincided with hers.

  ‘I had leave,’ he said, smiling at Crete, ‘as Mrs Tidson is my aunt and is going back to Tenerife so soon. I have to be back for chapel, of course. I am disappointed not to see Uncle Edris.’

  ‘Oh, he will be back before you go,’ said Crete, with a half-glance at Mrs Bradley. ‘He had to visit your Aunt Priscilla in London. I expect him at any moment now.’

  But Arthur was obliged to leave without meeting his uncle and heir.

  ‘It is sad,’ said Crete, accompanying him to the outer door of the hotel. ‘He has missed his train. It is like him. If you met him you would perhaps know him. You must say prayers for me, please, to your saint. You are quite the nicest boy. You must come to Tenerife and stay with me. I shall have a new playfellow for you, and one you will like.’

  ‘A Spaniard?’ exclaimed Mrs Bradley. Crete smiled and pressed Arthur’s arm into which she had slipped her own.

  ‘Arthur knows that I jest and make fun for him,’ she said; but when she had waved farewell to the boy and he had gone striding off down the narrow street with his black gown flying and his long grey-flannelled legs making it look even shorter than it was, she turned to Mrs Bradley and said:

  ‘I think poor Edris is in danger.’

  ‘I think he is,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘But it’s of no use to ask me to help him out of it. I don’t even know what help he needs.’

  ‘Nor I. He is with poor Prissie.’

  ‘Is he? I did not know that. He is very lucky not to be in prison.’

  ‘He sent me a telegram.’ She produced it. Mrs Bradley took it, seated herself on an oak settle which was against the vestibule wall, and read the telegram.

  ‘In London join you soon,’ Mr Tidson had written for transmission.

  ‘He comes this evening, no doubt,’ said Crete.

  But at ten o’clock that night there was still no sign of Mr Tidson. Crete, shrugging, gave him up and announced her intention of going to bed. At half-past ten Thomas came into the lounge to tell Mrs Bradley that she was wanted on the telephone. It was Gavin.

  ‘So you’re still up and about?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. The vultures gather,’ said Mrs Bradley, cackling mirthlessly into the receiver.

  ‘Is Tidson there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Expected?’

  ‘I gather that he is.’

  ‘Crete Tidson isn’t with you, is she?’

  ‘She is at the hotel, but she has gone to bed.’

  ‘She has quite recovered, I take it?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘Well, look, I’ve got a clue to the murder of that second boy. Can’t tell you over the telephone. When can I meet you to-morrow?’

  ‘As early as you like.’

  ‘At half-past ten, then. I’ll come to the smoke-room and wait there until you turn up. I think we’ve got him cold. To-morrow, then. Good-night.’

  As it happened, this appointment did not materialize at that place and time. Mrs Bradley woke early on a beautiful morning, rose at six, and by seven was walking between the lime trees towards the west front of the Cathedral.

  From the riverside path Saint Catherine’s Hill showed a long slope interrupted only by the dark shadow of the fosse, which made a sudden sharp dip in the smoothly-flowing contours of the turf. The grove of trees on the summit of the hill looked almost black. The greenish willows along the edges of the river, and marking its brooks and carriers, leaned, heavily foliaged, towards the swift, clear water; and the sedges showed the traces of yellowing autumn.

  The air was clear and fairly cold, so that Mrs Bradley, walking, not fast, but faster than she had at first intended to do, did not see Mr Tidson until she was coming back towards the city. Feeling considerably warmer by the time she had walked up and over the hill, and had come opposite the wooden bridge, she turned and walked up the path to stand on the bridge and gaze at the water flowing so deeply below her.

  It was then that she saw Mr Tidson. He was lying on his back with his head on a rolled-up coat. A cowman stood beside him as though on guard.

  ‘The young lady tried to save him,’ said the cowman. ‘I come up as soon as I could, but too late to give her any help. Her couldn’t do nothen for the poor old gentleman, her said. Her weren’t too strong a swimmer, and, in the end, her had to letten him go. Hers gone off now to get help. I offered to go, but her wouldn’t have none of that, and seeing how wet she was, I thought maybe the run ud do her good. I’m afeared there’s nothing ee can do, mum. Us pump-’andled him all us knew. He’s gone, I be afraid. Got his legs all tangled in the weeds, I reckon. Wasn’t no help for him at all. The young lady said she got there too late to do him any good.’

  Mrs Bradley thought it extremely unlikely that the weeds which she could see in the river were of the kind to twine round Mr Tidson’s legs and drown him, but she did not say so to the cowman. She knelt beside Mr Tidson, gripped his nose with a steel thumb and finger, and pressed her other hand over his mouth.

  This unorthodox treatment had on the corpse a most extraordinary effect. Mr Tidson began to writhe and struggle.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Bradley, in brisk congratulation, ‘that’s much better.’ She helped Mr Tidson to his feet and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘How wet you are! You had better run home and change.’

  ‘Well!’ said the cowherd admiringly. ‘If ever I see the beat of that there! You’d be a doctor, no doubt, mum?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Mrs Bradley, gazing benignly after the rapidly retreating form of Mr Tidson.

  ‘And that ud be the new-fangled treatment, no doubt?’

  ‘Well, the old-fangled treatment, I think,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Which way did the young lady take?’

  ‘Same as the drownded gentleman, mum. That way. I feel as if I’d seed a meracle.’

  ‘I think perhaps you have,’ said Mrs Bradley. She turned and, picking up her skirts, went hastily after Mr Tidson.

  Mr Tidson, on the unimpeachable evidence of Thomas, had not returned to the Domus. Mrs Bradley rang up Gavin and asked him to meet her without delay under Kings Gate.

  ‘This is where we practise a little mild deception,’ she said. ‘Your part is to back me up by saying little and wearing a look of deep concern.’ She then explained what had happened, and, as she talked, she hurried him along to the Domus.

  ‘Well, that finishes the naiad, I presume,’ he said, grinning broadly when he had heard all. ‘Mrs Tidson will have to be told. Can I leave you to break the news?’

  ‘I shall be glad to do so,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘We must find out first, though, how much she knows already.’

  Crete appeared to know nothing. She took the news very calmly.

  ‘So the naiad embraces him at last,’ she said, smiling slightly and focusing her large, dark eyes on the window. ‘Ah, well, it could be expected, I suppose.’ She evidently took it for granted that Mr Tidson was dead, although Mrs Bradley had not said as much.

  ‘Why did he kill those two boys?’ asked Mrs Bradley.

  ‘It was experimental, like atom bombs,’ said Crete, with a sidelong glance at her and a very slight shrug. ‘He wished to show that it could be done. It is dangerous, that mood. But he proved his point. One needs to take pains, that is all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘One needs to take pains. And what do you think happened to-day?’

  ‘Oh, I think there was a fight with the nephew, perhaps,’ answered Crete. ‘Or maybe he just tumbled in. Or maybe Connie Carmody killed him. She did not like us. We were displacing her with her aunt. There was jealousy there, do you think?’

  ‘It would be interesting t
o know,’ said Mrs Bradley, even more interested in Crete’s attitude towards Mr Tidson’s mishap than in the actual occurrence itself, which, from the cowman’s account of the matter, she had little doubt had been brought about by Connie. ‘I feel you need more sunshine and less criticism than we have here,’ she went on. ‘How would you like to return to Tenerife as soon as the inquest is over?’

  ‘I must get my fare from Prissie,’ said Crete in cool, business-like tones. ‘She will like to get rid of me, no doubt.’

  Mrs Bradley agreed with this estimate of Miss Carmody’s probable reactions, but did not say so. She merely observed in an offhand way and with her snake-like grin:

  ‘Will you need to borrow your husband’s fare, too?’

  ‘Oh, Edris!’ said Crete with something very like contempt in her tone. ‘He must be buried in England. Here in the city, no doubt. I could not support him on a ship. Suppose perhaps someone should fall in love with me on the vessel? With one’s husband dead in the baggage room—’

  ‘Well, one’s husband is not dead yet,’ said Mrs Bradley. Crete looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘It is a joke?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no. He was not quite dead when I found him,’ said Mrs Bradley. Crete, after taking a minute at least to absorb these obviously unwelcome tidings, took them philosophically, much to Mrs Bradley’s appreciative admiration.

  ‘Drowning was too good for him,’ she remarked. ‘What has been done with him now?’

  ‘He fled from the scene of the contretemps, and is now at large. I hardly anticipated that he would return to the Domus,’ replied Mrs Bradley. ‘I expect, though, that Detective-Inspector Gavin will want to find him.’

  ‘For the murders? I am afraid I have given him away. Do you think so? No matter. I take back everything I said, and I will not make any statements.’

  ‘They would be valueless,’ said Mrs Bradley calmly. ‘The evidence of a wife will not be sought for.’

  ‘So?’ Crete smiled. ‘Then I think I ask Thomas for champagne. You will pay for me for a bottle and we shall share it?’