Laurels are Poison (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  She tried to smile, and felt that her face had twisted itself into some horrible grimace.

  “Can—can you think of something beautiful?” she said nervously, addressing a child at the end of the front row, whilst she racked her brain to remember the beginning of the lesson as she had prepared it. What was the poem she was supposed to be taking? On what page of the book could she find it? She looked helplessly at the book as it lay on the table, and began to turn over the pages. Surely, surely she had put a marker to show the page? Surely she hadn’t been such a fool—What was the damn silly poem, anyway? To her horror she discovered that she had not the faintest idea.

  She looked in hunted fashion at the class. One or two hands had come up. What had she asked them? She had not the slightest recollection. Or did they want to go outside already, goaded by the suggestions of the students? Or was one the dreadful child with adenoids? She pointed to a child in the centre of the class.

  “Biscuits,” said the child.

  “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite…” said Deborah, glancing helplessly at the students, who were beginning to look thoroughly uncomfortable. Hastily she pounced on another child. This one, to her horror, proved to be the one with adenoids. She got up and made a long and possibly important contribution of which Deborah followed not one single word. A mist gathered in front of her. Her eardrums pounded.

  “What the hell shall I do?” she wondered; and, wondering, was suddenly conscious of the heartening voice of Laura Menzies, speaking loudly, clearly, and sanely.

  “I don’t see why they want to think about beauty, Miss Cloud, when they are really thinking about cats running home and night is come, and a lot of bally owls and things,” she was saying.

  “Oh, dry up, Dog,” said Kitty. “You can talk all that rot afterwards. You’re not supposed to butt in on the lesson.”

  Deborah’s brain cleared. She smiled at the children who were all staring at Laura, and said, in her ordinary tones:

  “I wonder whether you can find the poem for yourselves in the books? Come on. You heard it’s about cats and the night coming and the owl, and I believe…”

  But by that time every child was searching feverishly, and an outbreak of calling out, argument, and self-justification set the lesson triumphantly on its feet, where to Deborah’s dizzy relief, it remained.

  She sent for Laura after lunch.

  “I think you ought to know, Miss Menzies, that you saved my bacon,” she said, with her shy, very charming smile. Laura nodded, and grinned.

  “It was Group B.2. who had the fun,” she said. “Did you hear about the snakes?”

  “What snakes?”

  “Well, you know, when your lesson was over, we all squeezed out so that Group B.2. could have Miss Harbottle’s lesson—Mathematics for the Million and all that. Well, how long would you say the room was empty?”

  “I don’t know. But it wasn’t really empty at all, because the children were in it all the time.”

  “No, they weren’t. Miss Fishlock turfed them all out for a run whilst Miss Harbottle got the rulers given out. I wonder what my headmistress will say when I do same on School Prac? Remind me to try it some time. Well, anyway, some time during that five minutes some sportsman must have nipped in and shoved a couple of assorted vipers inside the gramophone cabinet, and, apparently, about half-way through Miss Harbottle’s exposition of When is a Square not a Square, out these serpents came, creating quite a sensation.”

  “Good heavens!” said Deborah. “How beastly! What did Miss Harbottle do?”

  “Stood back and asked if anyone was willing to remove them, as she thought they were frightening the children. Kept her head pretty well, I hear from my spies.”

  “And—?”

  “Yes. A selfless knight-errant named Cowley—know her?—doing Advanced Biology, so it was all very suitable—nipped out, collected all manner of creeping things, and took them off to the lab. Then Fishy and Miss Harbottle between them blew out the flames, and Miss Harbottle concluded the most popular Dem. since Pharaoh kicked Moses in the pants for producing the plague of frogs.”

  Nothing else, Deborah discovered, was talked of by Staff and students during the afternoon, for Miss Harbottle had formally reported the matter to the Principal, and Group B.2. had been “put through it”—to quote Miss Harbottle herself—“in no uncertain manner,” but without the slightest result.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t put it past Cartwright,” said Miss Topas, when asked for her opinion.

  Deborah herself went to the Principal when she learned how much stir the affair had caused, and said abruptly that she was not at all sure that the little attention had not been intended for her.

  “I was supposed to give my Demonstration lesson at the time Miss Harbottle gave hers. We changed over, as a matter of—er—of mutual convenience, at the very last moment. I only mention it because I do think it is more likely that somebody new, like myself, would be ragged rather than Miss Harbottle, who is well established here.”

  “I see. Thank you, Miss Cloud. It was a horrid thing to do, whoever it was intended to annoy. I shall interview Group A.1., then, and see where that will lead us. I am determined to track the culprit down. I had half suspected Miss Cartwright, of Group B.2., but what you say lends a different aspect. I am obliged to you. How are you getting on at Athelstan? Not finding yourself over-burdened?”

  The Principal got no further in her search for the person responsible for the snakes, and the excitement which the incident had occasioned would probably have been short-lived but for a more serious outbreak which, even in the widest sense of a very elastic word, could scarcely be looked upon as ragging.

  In Athelstan Hall there were twin sisters called Carroway. Needless to say, they were always known as the Seeds, and were in their second year. Apart from their name and their twinship, they were in no way outstanding and certainly had not, so far as was known, any enemies.

  But one afternoon, when Annet Carroway went to the boxroom to get a dress out of her trunk, she discovered that all the clothes she had left there had been slashed and torn. These clothes included her new winter overcoat, which had had both pockets ripped right out and a great piece chopped out of the back. Further, the trunk itself had had the lock burst open, and the top looked as though someone had jumped on it.

  Her immediate reaction was to sit down on the boxroom floor and cry; her second to find her sister. Margaret Carroway gave one look at the damage and then threw open the lid of her own trunk. Here the damage was even worse. Her dance frock had been torn to shreds, and not only her winter coat but two pairs of heavyweight winter pyjamas had been cut and torn until they were quite beyond repair.

  Margaret kicked the lid of her trunk to close it, took her sister by the hand, and went off to lay the facts before the Warden.

  Fortunately, although it was Saturday, the Warden was in. She accompanied the tearful Annet and the white-faced Margaret downstairs, and inspected the damage. She said very little. These were poor girls whose family, at some sacrifice, had allowed them to come to college. Infuriating and inconvenient as the loss of the clothes must have been to anyone, to these two girls it was something not far short of tragedy.

  “The college,” said Mrs. Bradley, when they had returned to her room, “will, of course, make good the damage. In fact, unless you have any very definite plans for this afternoon, I should suggest that you take a ‘late leave’ from me, your fare, and some money, and go into York—or Leeds, if you can get a train—and see what you can do in the way of a little shopping. And—may I ask this of you, my dear students?—please don’t tell anybody else about this until I have spoken to the Principal. She is away for the week-end, so I shall not see her until Monday.”

  They promised, murmured against taking the money but had it forced on them, and were hustled out of the house with time to catch the train which Mrs. Bradley had looked up for them. When they had gone she went very thoughtfully down the stairs again to the basem
ent, and stood for a long time looking at the door which led into the boxroom. Then she went along the passage towards the bakehouse, then walked back, through the basement of Athelstan, towards the next Hall. There was a door to separate Athelstan from the bakehouse, another to separate Athelstan from the connecting piece of corridor, and still another, she knew, to separate this connecting corridor from the next Hall. All these doors were locked, as usual.

  She took out her keys—a formidable bunch—unlocked the door to the bakehouse and the door to the passage, went down on hands and knees, and carefully inspected the floor. It had been so carefully swept, however, that nothing was to be gained by even the closest scrutiny. She went along to the kitchen to question the servants. The floor had been swept that morning at nine o’clock or thereabouts. It was swept every day. There were always students in and out of the boxroom to get things out of their trunks or put things in. The wardrobe space in the study-bedrooms was so extremely limited that the trunks were continually requisitioned. The floor was often muddy. It was washed over twice a week. Students came down into the basement straight from muddy walks or from the games fields.

  Mrs. Bradley locked the boxroom door, returned to her room, and rang up Columba. To her delight, Miss Topas was in.

  “Yes,” she said, in answer to Mrs. Bradley’s inquiry, Til come over at once. “I wanted to go to York this afternoon, but I’ve only got thirty bob and couldn’t be bothered to go to the bank to cash a cheque. How’s Deborah?”

  “Out,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “That’s the only reason I want to see you. Oh, and I want to try your keys, so bring them with you.”

  She hung up, and had not long to wait, for Miss Topas appeared in less than five minutes, having run, she explained, falling into a chair and puffing loudly, all the way. What, she inquired, had Mrs. Bradley discovered?

  Mrs. Bradley informed her.

  “And I’m sending a round robin to all Wardens and Sub-Wardens to check up on their students at night, as far as is possible,” she added.

  “Clothes-slashing?” said the Principal. “Have you any theories?”

  “None,” said Mrs. Bradley, “that you would wish to hear. “For instance,” she continued before the Principal could deny this, “I might say that I have a theory that it was not done by any student in my Hall, but you would reply, most justifiably, that it is a dirty bird that fouls its own nest.” She watched, with bright black eyes, the Principal’s mental struggle, and then continued: “Or I might say that I have a theory that none of the students anywhere, in any Hall, is responsible.”

  “That brings us to the servants,” said the Principal, in a tone of relief.

  “Or to the Staff,” said Mrs. Bradley, with a loud chuckle. “Or even to someone outside the college altogether,” she concluded kindly.

  “Yes, but—” said the Principal.

  “I know. We have no proof, and we can do no good by formulating theories which at present are incapable of proof.”

  “At any rate we can change the locks at Athelstan,” said the Principal. “That should prevent any unauthorized person from breaking in. I am rather inclined to your idea that it must be someone from outside. All our students come with such very good records.”

  Mrs. Bradley sighed inwardly. There was nothing, naturally, the Principal would have liked better than to believe that the culprit would be found outside the college, but she felt compelled to point out that she had presented other theories.

  “The Staff? Oh, nonsense, Mrs. Bradley,” said the Principal. The servants, if you like!”

  Mrs. Bradley pointed out that the servants came with even better records than the majority of the students. She added, to the mystification of the Principal, that she did not want the locks on the doors at Athelstan to be changed.

  “I don’t quite see your point, but I must agree, I suppose,” said the Principal. “It is a very unfortunate occurrence, but if you don’t suspect your own students I can’t see why you are determined to appear to lay the blame on them. At least, that is the interpretation which will be put on it by the college. Why are you?”

  “Because the hunt is up,” Mrs. Bradley replied, “and although it is not yet well-nigh day, I do begin to see my way a little more clearly in the matter of Miss Murchan’s disappearance.”

  “I don’t really see that destructive ragging can have much to do with poor Miss Murchan, and I am seriously concerned about this clothes’ slashing. But, still, we cannot expect you to take breaches of the college peace as seriously as we do ourselves, I suppose,” said the Principal. “But if you have already come to some conclusions about poor Miss Murchan, that is most satisfactory.”

  “Conclusions is not perhaps the best term,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But I am at the point of having thought out one or two questions which I ought to ask you. It appears that Miss Murchan can hardly have been spirited away from the end of term dance without her knowledge and consent. It also appears that if she had a companion when she left the college, that companion must have been a woman, at any rate in the immediate environs of the building.”

  “It is very easy to get into and out of the grounds on such a night,” remarked Miss du Mugne. “A great many of the visitors come by car and motor-cycle, owing to the distance from the station, and so the gates are left open until half-past eleven, half an hour after the official ending of the dance.”

  “Do you know that they were closed at half-past eleven that night?”

  “Oh, yes. In view of the unusual nature of the proceedings, Charles, the garage-and-groundsman, has orders to make sure that all except the Staff cars are off the premises by that time, and then he brings me the keys. It is the only occasion, I may say, on which we lock the main gate. Charles made his report as usual. Further, he declares that no car left before eleven, and Miss Murchan, of course, was not seen, so far as can be discovered, after half-past ten, when she went off to tidy her hair.”

  “Thank you. I suppose there were some women visitors?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a number. We can scarcely restrict the students in their choice, and some who have no men friends invite sisters or old school-fellows. Each student is allowed one guest, for whom a fee of two shillings is payable to cover the cost of supper, printing of programmes, decoration of the hall, a little extra remuneration to the servants, and so forth.”

  “Do the Staff invite visitors?”

  “Yes, sometimes. Miss Topas invited a famous novelist who was very charming, but who contrived—by what means I do not know—to become somewhat inebriated during the course of the evening, and Miss Harbottle invited her cousin, a Mr. Tallboy, who is a professor of chemistry at Wattsdown. A great many of the students’ visitors came from Wattsdown, too. It is the large training college for men which you see from the train as you come through from Moors Cross.”

  “Did any of the Staff invite women friends?”

  “No one. Miss Fishlock invited her old father. He is nearly eighty, and does so love to come. We give him a seat on the platform, out of harm’s way, and the students take him in to supper. He is the most delightful old man, and always looks forward to ‘the party’ as he calls it.”

  “Miss Murchan, then, had no visitors?”

  “No. Neither year she was here did she invite anyone. In fact, she seemed rather a friendless woman. I can’t think why. She got on very nicely with everybody here.”

  “Was she a timid woman?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

  “Timid?” The adjective appeared to puzzle the Principal. “In what way timid?”

  “Not in any particular way. Generally speaking.”

  “Well, she was, perhaps, somewhat deprecating in her attitude.”

  “How often did she receive letters?”

  “Really, I have no idea. Her letters would have been sent direct to Athelstan Hall. I should have no means of knowing anything about them.”

  “Thank you. Who else is new to the college besides myself and Miss Cloud this term?”

  “N
obody. Miss Topas came at the beginning of the summer term, but everybody else has been here for at least four years. We had a good many changes between 1924 and 1931, but everybody has settled down nicely now, except for one or two marriages or appointments to Principalities.”

  Mrs. Bradley liked the last word immensely, and thought it over for a minute.

  “Miss Topas won’t fit the bill,” she said at last, as though she were talking to herself. “But if ever I am obliged to absent myself from college for a day or two, I wish you would send Miss Topas along to take my place in Athelstan.”

  “It would be more in order to send Miss Harbottle or Miss Murdoch,” replied the Principal. “They are our usual deputies.”

  “Never mind that. I must have Miss Topas. She is intelligent. Besides, she and Deborah get on.”

  “They get on much too well!” said the Principal, with sudden irritation. “I don’t approve of these violent friendships on the Staff.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded slowly and rhythmically for a long time; but not, the Principal suspected, in agreement with what had been said.

  CHAPTER 6

  HIGH JINKS WITH A TIN-OPENER

  “GO on, Alice; shove your name down,” said Laura. “I’m not going to sweat alone, and Kitty’s much too lazy to play games. Besides, Fat Finnigan in your Group told me you were wizard at gym.”

  It was true. The pale and diffident Alice, denuded of her shabby coat and skirt, and clad in the half-sleeved shirt and the brown shorts which were regulation wear in the gymnasium, became a different being. She was seen to have muscle and wiry strength, and to have overcome the handicap of being very light by her agility, balance, and poise. Whatever was the work, with or without the use of the gymnasium apparatus, she was among the foremost, and at the end of three weeks had been singled out by the lecturers in physical training as being, in the words of Miss Wootton, the junior of the two, “one of Cartaret’s Young Ladies.”