Tom Brown's Body mb-22

by Gladys Mitchell

  'Nothing to tell,' said Micklethwaite, shrugging his curiously wide, slim shoulders. 'I suppose Conway thought I cribbed. I didn't, and I didn't want the prize. I shall say no more about it.' Neither did he.

  'A Judo expert? Hm!' thought Mrs Bradley. She returned to consult Miss Loveday.

  'I know nothing much of Micklethwaite, save that he once made a rather interesting statement to me,' said Miss Love-day solemnly. 'He once told me that the Prophet Samuel was responsible for all the misdeeds of King Saul. Could that be possible?'

  'Psychologically quite possible,' Mrs Bradley briskly replied. 'Is that the statement to which you refer?'

  'Oh, no,' Miss Loveday responded. 'It was not that at all. I am not at all biased, and all my religious convictions are open to be disputed by clever boys. There is nothing more instructive than argument which is conceived in a scholarly spirit and carried on in a gentlemanly manner. No. He once told me that he hated cruelty; this after I had seen him throw a little non-swimming boy over his head into deep, deep water.'

  'A Judo expert. Hm!' thought Mrs Bradley again. She went to her room in Mr Loveday's House and re-read her notes. Then she went in search of Mrs Poundbury, whom she found in the kitchen garden behind her husband's House – it was the pride of Mrs Poundbury that she rarely had to buy fruit, herbs, or vegetables for her husband's boys – helping the maid to gather Brussels sprouts.

  She straightened up at Mrs Bradley's approach and smiled like an angel. She was, as Mrs Bradley again appreciated, an exceptionally beautiful young woman. Moreover, her anxieties seemed to have been resolved.

  'Good morning,' she said. 'You're not going to be any luckier than last time if you've come to pump me about Gilbert. Won't you come into the house?'

  'No. I'll pick Brussels sprouts,' said Mrs Bradley. 'They seem to be very fine ones.' She set to work.

  'That will be enough, I think,' said Mrs Poundbury, at the end of twenty minutes. 'The boys like them, but they take a long time to prepare. I usually help with them during the afternoon. We give them to the boys at six o'clock.'

  'Your husband does notice, I suppose, whether the boys have anything to eat or not?' Mrs Bradley enquired, as her hostess led the way to the House.

  'I hardly think so,' Mrs Poundbury replied. 'Gilbert lives in the fourth dimension. By the way, I do hope you didn't carry away any – well – strange ideas last time? I like Gilbert, and –'

  'You mean you are in love with him?'

  'Oh, yes.' Mrs Poundbury smiled. 'There are some things that he doesn't muddle, you know.'

  'Ah,' said Mrs Bradley, who had known from the moment they met that Mrs Poundbury was no longer associating in her own mind the eccentric Mr Poundbury and the fact of murder. 'Quite so. But you've made him very angry once or twice.'

  'Twice,' Mrs Poundbury agreed. 'Once when Gerald Conway suggested that he and I should run away together, and once when I told him that I thought Socrates was a silly old man.'

  'And did you take Mr Conway seriously?' Mrs Bradley enquired. Mrs Poundbury laughed outright, and Mrs Bradley liked her the better for it.

  'Oh, yes, in a way,' she said. 'But really it was all ridiculous. When I told Gilbert, he punched Gerald in the stomach, and made him feel very ill; and then he punched him in the stomach again, and, when he fell down, Gilbert kicked him. When I remonstrated, Gilbert said, "Oh, did I kick him? Well, once is no good!" And he kicked him several times more. So I didn't want to run away with Gerald after that. And, of course, Gerald had his real girl and definitely wanted to get married.'

  Mrs Bradley was delighted with this account of the relationship between Mr Conway and the Poundburys, and said so.

  'It's so nice of you,' said Mrs Poundbury, wide-eyed with innocence. 'Gilbert is interested in violence. He says that without violence the world would have ceased to turn on its axis. His view is that effort is a moral, not a physical, attribute. He wrote a little treatise about it in connexion with football.'

  'Did you read the treatise?'

  'Oh, yes. I understood some of it, but not all. I don't really believe in violence because it seems to me to be uncontrollable. Everything worth while must be subject to some sort of law, I feel. Do you agree?'

  She looked even more innocent than before, and Mrs Bradley knew quite well why she had been told about the fight and about the treatise. 'You see,' Mrs Poundbury was saying, in effect, 'Gilbert didn't need to murder Gerald Conway. He had already revenged himself on him, and had rationalized his emotions about him.' She respected Mrs Poundbury for this attitude, and changed the conversation.

  'What kind of boy is Micklethwaite?' she suddenly enquired.

  'He is an unbearable boy,' Mrs Poundbury replied, betraying no surprise at the sudden change of subject. 'Of course, he is not in our House.'

  'I wondered whether he was likely to commit murder.'

  'Oh, I should think he might. Do you suspect him of it?' Mrs Poundbury enquired.

  'He is at the back of my mind,' Mrs Bradley answered. 'But, then, so are several other people.'

  'Do tell me.'

  'I should prefer you to tell me.'

  'Oh, well, there's Gilbert, of course, as you keep on hinting,' said Mrs Poundbury, disingenuously, 'and Mr Loveday, Miss Loveday, Mr and Mrs Kay, John Semple, and poor old Mr Pearson, I suppose, since Marion became engaged to Gerald Conway. Daddy Pearson couldn't stand him, you know. Then, of course, there are always the boys! Issacher would have a grievance, no doubt, and Takhobali perhaps . ..'

  'Takhobali? Ah, yes, what do you know of him?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

  'Well, he is rather an interesting boy. He is West African, and rather uninhibited from a European point of view, although I expect he observes all sorts of tabu of his own.'

  'I will continue to make his acquaintance,' Mrs Bradley promised. 'Is there anyone else you can think of?'

  Mrs Poundbury considered the question carefully, and then replied, with an irritating affectation of honesty: 'Well, of course, there's always me. Poor Gerald was quite a nuisance at times, you know. I'm not at all sorry to be rid of him. Blackmail of a sort, too. Not money, of course, or anything like that, but just that little bit of extra pressure on me to go his way because, if I didn't, Mr Wyck would be informed of a few little things which wouldn't prejudice him in my favour and which might have cost Gilbert his House.'

  'Oho!' said Mrs Bradley. 'So the land lay that way? I wonder whether you would care to drive through the village with me? There are some things over which I think you might be able to help me. What do you say?'

  'I'd love to come. I've nothing more to do now we've picked the Brussels sprouts, and I never bother much about lunch because Gilbert lunches in Big School with the boys. I won't be more than five minutes.'

  To Mrs Bradley's great astonishment she was quite as good as her word, and reappeared in four minutes' time ready for the drive. Together she and Mrs Bradley walked over to where Mrs Bradley's car was garaged, and soon they were heading for the School gate and the road to the village.

  'Are we going shopping?' Mrs Poundbury presently enquired.

  'No. We are going to the cottage which Mr Kay may have visited on the night of Mr Conway's death,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'I think the sight of the cottage may inspire you to make some valuable observations.'

  'What makes you think I should know the cottage?' Mrs Poundbury enquired.

  'Oh, it is a theory of mine that you may know it,' said Mrs Bradley vaguely. 'Anyway, here we are.'

  'But this isn't the . . .'

  'Ah,' said Mrs Bradley, 'you are right. This is not the cottage. It shows me that you know the right one when we come to it.'

  'I may as well admit that I do,' said Mrs Poundbury, 'but I know nothing of the old woman who lives in it. Gerald always went in by himself.'

  'What for?'

  'Oh, herbs and things. He was rather interested in the old woman's remedies, I believe.'

  'But not in her love potions, charms, and black magic?'

&
nbsp; 'Goodness, I shouldn't think so. Why?'

  'Did he ever get you to try any of her concoctions?'

  'No,' said Mrs Poundbury, with decision, 'he did not! And I never met the old woman.'

  Mrs Bradley was so certain that this was a lie that she did not attempt to press the question or to get Mrs Poundbury to enlarge upon her answer. She drove on to Mrs Harries's cottage, and stopped the car.

  'Are we getting out?' Mrs Poundbury enquired. She sounded nervous.

  'I am,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'You, of course, will please yourself what you do.'

  Mrs Poundbury got out, and followed Mrs Bradley up the path to the door. Mrs Bradley turned the handle and walked in, announcing her presence, as usual, on a loud and tuneful note. There was no reply, so she walked across the small front room to the kitchen. There was still no sign of Mrs Harries, so she went out through the kitchen to the long and narrow back garden.

  The elderly witch was sweeping together the dead leaves which had fallen from the hazels.

  'Bonfires?' enquired Mrs Bradley. The crone looked towards the direction from which the voice came.

  'Ah, it's you,' she said. 'You're standing on Tom Tiddler's Ground. Did you know?'

  'Yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'I did know, and I am trusting to you to get me out of it. How often did Gerald Conway come here?'

  'Conway?' said the witch. 'A deep and resounding delivery, a conceited presence, a bull of a man, a bully of a man, a woman's man, a despicable fool of a man, a drowned man, his own worst enemy?'

  'I feel that you have summed him up well. How often did he come?'

  'Hereabouts and thereabouts, five times in a month, seven times in a year. Now he lies dead, and none so poor to do him reverence.'

  'He didn't come five times in a month,' said Mrs Pound-bury from behind Mrs Bradley's shoulder. The blind woman started.

  'Strange,' she muttered. 'I did mot know that anybody else was there. Who are you?'

  'Never mind,' said Mrs Poundbury. 'I am nobody you would know.'

  'You were born in the dark,' said the sibyl. It was Mrs Poundbury's turn to look startled and anxious. She did not leave it at that, but turned and fled from the presence of the witch.

  'Born in the dark and now lives in the dark,' said Mrs Harries. 'I suppose my potions were for her? Did she come here with him?''

  'It is possible,' said Mrs Bradley guardedly, feeling that it was not yet clear whether Mrs Poundbury and Mrs Harries had met before. She went a little nearer to Mrs Harries and said in low tones, 'I wonder whether it is of any use to ask how many times you let a room in this cottage of yours?'

  'I shall answer you, although it is none of your business,' replied the witch. 'You have heard the answer once, and I will repeat it. I let the cottage five times in a week. That was during the summer. In August. Yes, back in August. I was paid well.'

  'Ah, yes, I see. But you were gone each time before your tenants came in? You never spoke to the woman who came here with Mr Conway?'

  'Never. It was in the contract.'

  'And have you retained the contract?'

  The old crone looked suddenly crafty. She shook her head.

  'I know better than to keep evidence for which I might pay heavily,' she said. Mrs Bradley had a sudden idea which she did not disclose to her hostess. The latter lived up to this title by fishing in the pocket of the coarse apron she was wearing and producing an onion. 'Take it,' she said. 'I have said the runes over it. It will smell like a pomander from the moment you take it from my hand.'

  Mrs Bradley was the least suggestible of women. She took the onion and sniffed at it delicately. An aroma, very faint but undoubtedly characteristic, of clove pinks, came from it. The crone chuckled and mumbled. Mrs Bradley took another sniff at the onion, and there was no doubt about the scent. She closed her eyes, concentrated mentally on the smell of onion, and achieved the result she intended. The onion, unlike Ben Jonson's rosy wreath, again smelt only of itself. She put it back gently into the old woman's hand. The witch grimaced and then nodded.

  'We be of one blood, thou and I,' said Mrs Bradley. She went out to the country road, very thoughtful, and joined Mrs Poundbury, who was now seated in the car.

  'Well?' demanded Mrs Poundbury.

  'No, it wasn't you,' said Mrs Bradley. 'At least, I hardly think so. You knew the cottage but I don't think you've ever been inside it before. And if it wasn't you ...' She did not finish the sentence. There was no need.

  'Ah!' said Mrs Poundbury, enlightened. 'She's an uncanny old thing,' she went on. 'I was born in the dark, you know. The electric light failed as I decided to embark upon a separate existence. But how could she possibly have known?'

  Mrs Bradley did not attempt to answer this rhetorical question.

  13. The Prince of Darkness

  *

  'Twas to her I was oblig'd for my Education.

  IBID. (Act 1, Scene 2)

  'IT would be interesting to know,' said Mrs Bradley to the local inspector of police, 'whether Mr Loveday's keys have ever been missing.'

  'He says they haven't, but he seems a vague sort of gentleman to me,' the inspector replied.

  'What does Miss Loveday say?'

  'She says she wouldn't put anything past the boys. But, of course, it's not boys we're after, whatever the Superintendent may say.'

  'What does the Superintendent say?' asked Mrs Bradley, who had not heard the conversation between the Superintendent and Mr Wyck on the subject of boys and their possible misdoings.

  'He says we've got to remember that Home Office affair, but that's all poppycock, if you'll pardon the expression, being one not often used by ladies. Young gentlemen like these at Spey don't go about murdering their schoolmasters. But what does seem to me the point about this business is that more than one person was concerned in it. A gang of boys and a pretty clever leader is the Super's idea, and he makes a proper sort of case for it. Of course, I suppose it could have been that, but only theoretical, like, if you under-stand me. What do you think about it being some of these boys, ma'am?'

  Mrs Bradley ran her mind with agile ease over Scrupe and Micklethwaite, and then over Prince Takhobali. She also considered the temperamental and knowledgeable Issacher. She shook her head.

  'Unlikely,' she said briefly. 'Most unlikely. But, of course, not quite impossible.'

  'You've said it, ma'am. Unlikely, but, of course, not quite impossible. Began as a lark, most likely, and then it went a bit too far. Very high-spirited and a bit revengeful and determined, some of these young gentlemen, ma'am. You'd be surprised.'

  Mrs Bradley did not contradict this last statement, although she knew it to be untrue. She would not have been surprised by anything which either boys or their seniors would do. She left the inspector and wandered off to watch a practice game of Rugby football on the upper field. She arrived in time to see a couple of ebony knees and two thin, almost delicate hands and a shining black face set round a wide, appreciative smile, collect a loosely-slung pass and streak for the line like a water-snake.

  'A promising player,' she observed to a large, slouching, slightly scowling youth who was also watching the game.

  The youth raised his tasselled cap and smiled politely.

  'Yes, he's not bad,' he replied. 'He's a bit light and small for Big Game at present, but I should certainly consider playing him in the First Fifteen next season if I were here, which I shan't be. Only trouble is, he bites.'

  'Literally?' Mrs Bradley enquired. The youth nodded, and answered gloomily:

  'Doesn't mean to, I suppose. Gets excited, and the next thing you know is that he's literally chewing pieces out of anybody he has to tackle in the game. He's being thrashed out of it, of course, but it makes things awkward at present.'

  'I believe he is Prince Takhobali?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

  'Yes. Nice enough kid, too. Just goes getting carried away by his emotions.'

  'I wonder whether you would care for me to take him over and treat him?' Mrs Bradley
enquired. Cranleigh – for it was that great man in person – stared, smiled, straightened up, scratched his jaw (looking suddenly younger) and said:

  'Do you mean you could stop him biting?'

  'Oh, yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. Cranleigh studied her, and made up his mind.

  'If you could do that,' he said, 'I'm not sure I wouldn't play him against Fieldbury.'

  Mrs Bradley had heard of Fieldbury. It was a very famous school, a great deal larger than Spey.

  'Are they strong this year?' she enquired.

  'Very strong,' Cranleigh responded, 'and we've never beaten them yet. Our only chance would be to play a scrum-half they didn't know. They're banking on our playing Tickner. If I played young Tar-Baby instead, and put Tickner out for this one match . . .' He stopped. 'I'm boring you,' he concluded. But Mrs Bradley was very far from being bored.

  'Do I know Mr Tickner?' she enquired.

  'I don't see why you should. He's a bit of a wart,' said the captain of football candidly. 'He's not a bad half-back, but the trouble is that he only left Fieldbury at the beginning of this half. He played regularly for their Second Fifteen all last winter, and, of course, their First know all there is to know about his game. So, if I could depend upon Tar-Baby's goings-on. . .'

  'You can,' said Mrs Bradley with a superb self-confidence which Cranleigh, himself not utterly lacking in amour propre, was swift to appreciate. 'Send him to the School sanatorium immediately this game is over.'

  'The san?' said Cranleigh. 'Right. He won't want to come, but I'll jolly well see that he's there. Pass, you silly owl!' he suddenly yelled, resuming his study of the game. Mrs Bradley walked back to Mr Loveday's House to inform Miss Loveday that Takhobali would be late for his tea, and then she walked over to the sanatorium to borrow a room from the sanatorium matron. The matron, who was the terror of every Housemaster and by whom even Mr Wyck was secretly overawed, gave way at once to Mrs Bradley, for Mrs Bradley held the sacred status of a Doctor o Medicine besides that of being a grandmother in her own right. The matron, in short, gave Mrs Bradley a choice of four excellent rooms, and placed her staff at Mrs Bradley's orders.