“Illegitimate,” said Mrs. Princep, tightening her lips more than ever. “I had a daughter by each of my previous marriages. The younger girl went wrong, and the other would have done, too, given half a chance. Of course I couldn’t have them in the house. My husband doesn’t even know I’ve got two daughters. I never told him. I’d been widowed for nearly ten years when he married me, and the girls had left home long before.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure he doesn’t know you have two daughters,” thought Mrs. Bradley. Aloud she asked: “Wasn’t the mother fond of the child? Was she willing for you to take it?”
“It would have ruined her career. I had to have it. I told my husband it was an orphan I’d adopted. It was only five when we married. Of course, he may have found out about it later. The elder girl may have let him know. They couldn’t stand one another. Yet they took posts together to be able to see the child, and watched one another like cats. The father of the child was by way of being engaged to the elder one, Blanche, you see, and then, when Doris bore the child—!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. “An old story, isn’t it? But now, if you’ll forgive me for asking, can you tell me whether your husband had had any of his attacks previous to the inquest?”
“Oh, yes. He had spent two years in a mental home before I married him. I knew that. I liked him none the worse for it.”
With this oddly-worded statement she seemed to have finished all that she had to say on the subject.
“One more question, and then I’ll go,” said Mrs. Bradley gently. “Did the child’s mother believe that the child had been murdered?”
“She had the best reason of anybody to believe it, as I told you,” Mrs. Princep replied. Mrs. Bradley, digesting all the implications of Mrs. Princep’s illuminating remarks, and also this one, which seemed a trifle obscure, she felt, went off on her third errand.
“Mental hospital?” said the local reporter. “Yes, he did. But if you want my candid opinion, he was as sane as I am. Eyewash, to get public sympathy. Been some scandal about him at some time, I should imagine. The wife hushed it up, but, hang it, there was the kid. What were people to think? She said she had adopted it, and, of course, they’ve only lived in the town about four years. But you know how people gossip, and some of it followed them here. It’s certain the child was illegitimate.”
“That wouldn’t necessarily prove that it was his,” Mrs. Bradley retorted.
“No. But why did he throw that fit at the inquest, then? Gave things away, people thought. Of course, people love a bit of scandal, but, after all, no smoke without fire. Anyway, into the bin he went, and was discharged last June. I interviewed him on the subject of his experiences. No good. Merely got a flea in my ear. Couldn’t stand the fellow, anyway. Unwholesome old devil, I thought him.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Oh, yes, but not to speak to. He’s always about.”
“When did you see him last? Can you remember?
“Not to swear to it. Mayor’s Banquet, last November—let’s see—November 3rd, I think. But what are you getting at—murder? I thought so at the time.”
“Oh, the police have nothing to go on in the case of the child’s death,” said Mrs. Bradley. “They are looking for the missing schoolmistress, Miss Murchan. As she lived here, and testified at the inquest on the child, they felt bound to begin their work from this end. That’s all. By the way, the fact that she is missing is not to be emphasized. There may be no connexion between the two cases.”
“More in that woman than met the eye,” said the reporter, solemnly accepting the decree. “Definitely a queer stick. Odd, worried sort of creature. Ought to have seen a nerve specialist, I would have said. Even school concerts used to upset her for days beforehand. Had nightmares, too, I believe. Thought the doctor could cure her of it, she told me once, at one of the school do’s. Useless to tell her he couldn’t, so he made her up some harmless dope—an iron tonic, I expect—and she took it and said it improved things. Couldn’t do any harm, at all events.”
“Did she come to you after the child was killed and offer you information?”
“No. She left the town soon after. Seemed to think people felt it was her responsibility. Got some crack-brained idea that the child must have pinched her keys to get into the gym, and that therefore she had some moral share in the accident, or some such guff as that. All boloney, of course. The kid hadn’t touched her keys. Climbed in through a window, I expect, or else somebody else forgot to lock up that night. Miss Murchan wasn’t the only person who had a key to the gym. That came out at the inquest, but nobody else seemed worried, except the mistress who took the gym, of course. But, then, it was right up her street. Anyone could sympathize with her deciding to leave. But t’other—well, it was just her nature to brood, and magnify every little trifle, I expect. Suicide type, I shouldn’t wonder. If she’s disappeared, you’ll find her in the river or somewhere.”
For her own amusement, and by way of a minor psychological experiment, Mrs. Bradley spent the night at the Grand Hotel, which was built almost on the edge of the cliff and commanded, therefore, extensive views seawards.
Next morning she walked on the promenade for an hour, so that anybody who happened to be interested in her movements had ample opportunity of discovering that she had not returned to the college. She lunched at the hotel, promenaded again in the afternoon, and at a quarter to four had tea at the hotel before sending for the car, and going back to Cartaret.
She found Miss du Mugne enjoying her after-dinner coffee. She accepted an invitation from the Principal to join her.
“You have enjoyed your jaunt?” Miss du Mugne inquired, as a graceful way of approaching the topic she hoped and expected that they were going to discuss.
“Very much,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “But I doubt whether I have acquired any valuable information from Miss Paldred except the address of the dead child’s grandparents.”
“No?” The Principal looked disappointed. “But you hoped great things of your second visit to the Secondary School.”
“Well, I had some hope, I think, of being able to trace the other person who left just about when Miss Murchan did—the Physical Training mistress, you know. It was odd, if both were innocent of negligence, to go off like that, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, I am sure. You see, except for what you have told me from time to time, I know very little of the circumstances under which Miss Murchan left the Secondary School.”
“Well, there I did make progress. It appears that Miss Murchan was the holder of a guilty secret.”
“Miss Murchan with a guilty secret?” The Principal laughed. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, from what I can deduce, it seems possible that she was there when the child was killed.”
“Then why didn’t she say so at the inquest?”
“I don’t know. She seems to have been of a nervous, retiring, vacillating disposition. She probably decided to say nothing, discovered that these were wrong tactics, and then was afraid of becoming entangled with the law. She does seem to have made some attempt to communicate her knowledge to others, but she was not successful. She was here two years, was she not?”
“Exactly two years. She came at the beginning of the Christmas Term, and her disappearance, as you know, dates from last summer’s End of Term dance.”
“Of course, yes. Now, how was it that Miss Murchan became Warden of Athelstan as soon as she arrived? Is it usual to make new lecturers Wardens in their first term? I except myself, of course!”
“Oh, but Miss Murchan had a year here before she was given Athelstan, you know.”
“What was the reason for promoting her?”
“It was not so much a promotion, in her case, as the fact that she was really not such a very good lecturer, I am afraid. She was altogether too timid and deprecating. I cannot think how she was able to stand the life at a Secondary School. I should have thought it much too boisterous for her
. She seemed to go in fear and trembling of everything and everybody.”
“It seems that she had good reason,” said Mrs. Bradley dryly, “if what I suspect is true.” The Principal started, and spilled a little coffee.
“I beg your pardon? Oh, yes, I see. But I understand that it was her general manner.”
“I understand so, too. That emerged clearly during my interview today with Miss Paldred. Interesting. So when she was a Warden, Miss Murchan gave fewer lectures?”
“And no Demonstration lessons. These seemed to be her particular terror, and so I arranged that the junior lecturer should do them.”
“There was never any question of dismissing Miss Murchan for incompetence, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, nothing of the kind. I don’t choose lecturers who have to be dismissed for incompetence the next moment. Miss Murchan was learned and talented. She had an Arts degree as well as her Science qualifications, you know. She lectured here in English.”
“Having taught Biology at the school. Very interesting. Thank you,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“There is that very close affinity of dates between the release of that child’s grandfather from a mental hospital and Miss Murchan’s disappearance. It seems to me that a fruitful field of investigation lies there, but that is a task for the police, I suppose,” went on the Principal. “And, of course, she did change her occupation, there is no doubt, because of the death of the child. I think we are justified in making the connexion. But, dear me! It is rather a terrifying discovery that the college has been visited by a madman!”
Mrs. Bradley ignored this remark, and asked casually:
“How much do you know about the students before they come up for interview?”
Miss du Mugne seemed surprised at this abrupt change of subject, but answered briskly: “A good deal. We need to be careful in our choice. Most of the students come up with a school record, of course, and that simplifies matters considerably. Then we have to consider the financial circumstances of the parents a little, although we keep that side of our inquiries from the students as far as we can. But some of these girls’ families are very poor, and even if the girls borrow the money for their fees from their County Authority, they can’t manage at all comfortably up here. Were you thinking of anybody in particular?”
“Yes. I was thinking of the One-Year students.”
“Ah, well, there, of course, the financial difficulty is different. Sometimes it does not exist. The One-Year students, for the most part, are self-supporting, and pay their fees out of their savings. Some are given grants by the local education authority, and some…”
“I was not thinking about their finances, but of their characters,” Mrs. Bradley observed. “The young students who come straight from school bring records with them, you said. How do you select the One-Years?”
“Quite frankly, we don’t. We accept the first forty who apply.”
“Oh? You make no choice at all?”
“Often we don’t have the full forty apply.”
“I see. So that if I wanted to know something of the antecedents of any particular One-Year student, you could not help me?”
“Well, actually, yes, a good deal. We correspond with such students before they present themselves for interview.”
“Well, I want to know everything you can tell me about Miss Cornflake of Columba.”
The Principal smiled and rang the bell for the secretary. But Miss Cornflake’s dossier was of the briefest.
“Except that she came here from a Church of England Senior Girls’ School in Betchdale, and proposes to return there when she has obtained her Certificate, there seems to be nothing about her in our records,” said Miss Rosewell, tidying the file, “except for her home address, which is Two, Elm Villas, Betchdale.”
“I am sorry it is so unsatisfactory for you,” said Miss du Mugne, looking, however, rather pleased, Mrs. Bradley thought.
“On the contrary, it is just what I wanted,” she replied. She looked at her watch. “Very many thanks for your patience, and a happy Christmas if I do not see you again before next term.”
Betchdale was only thirty miles by car from the college, and George made the distance in an hour over a bumpy moorland road and through the long, tram-lined streets of the outer town.
Arrived at the market-place, Mrs. Bradley went into a small café, ordered coffee (whilst George had some beer at the public house next door but three), and, upon leaving, inquired for Elm Villas. She was interested but not surprised to learn that they had been pulled down some eight years previous to her visit, and the space used for a garage.
“I expect you knew old Mrs. Banham,” went on the proprietress of the café. “A dear soul, she was. Gone to live on the Madderdale Road now, with her nephew’s family. I don’t know the number, but it’s about ten houses past Roote’s, the little general shop on the Turlfield Corner. Anybody would show you, and everybody knows Mrs. Banham.”
Resolved to pursue the mirage of Miss Cornflake’s private address, Mrs. Bradley was driven out to the Madderdale Road, and by inquiring at the little general shop on the Turlfield Corner, she soon found the house that she sought.
All inquiry for anyone named Cornflake, Paynter-Tree, Tree, or even Flack, proved useless, however, as she had guessed it would. The slender chance remained that the people who kept the garage might be able to supply some information.
The garage seemed at first to be in sole possession of a youth of about seventeen who was cleaning a car. George made the inquiries this time.
“Don’t know. Boss in the office,” said the youth. The boss was searching a ledger. George waited patiently for nearly ten minutes.
“Name of Cornflake?” he said, when George was able to state his business. “Sure!” He began to laugh. “Fellow as worked for me for a week or two about five or six months ago. I still get his sister’s letters sent here sometimes, although not so many lately.”
“And I suppose you have to re-direct them,” said George.
“Re-direct ’em? Ah. But what’s it to do with you?”
“Cousin of mine,” George replied. “Family trying to find him. Come in for a bit of money when his grandpa died, but he cut his stick along with quarrelling with ’em back home, and they don’t know where to catch up with him, that’s all. We heard he’d worked in this town, so I thought I’d ask, on the off-chance, and it seems as if I’ve struck oil. Mind if I have that address, mate? The sister’s address, I mean.”
“Well, I can’t see it can hurt to give it to you, like,” said the proprietor of the garage.
He tore a piece of paper from the bottom of an invoice slip, looked up in a small, shiny notebook the reference he required, and wrote out the address in a neat and business-like hand.
“Shouldn’t like the young fellow to miss what’s coming to him,” he observed as he handed George the paper, “although he served me not so good. Told me he’d got a job near Bradford, and hopped it, all in a morning.”
“’T’ain’t a lot, between you and me,” said George. “Matter of sixty-five quid. Still, it means a lot to a young fellow starting out in life, I reckon, and he’d ought to have it. It’s his. There’s five of ’em, and they all share alike—three girls and the two young chaps. Well, thanks for the help. So long, mate.”
“You’re welcome,” replied the garage proprietor, opening the ledger again. George walked round the corner and into the street where he had left the car and Mrs. Bradley in it.
“I fancy the address may interest you, madam,” he said. “I haven’t looked at the paper since he gave it to me, but I couldn’t help seeing what he was writing down.”
The address was that of the local post office of the college.
“Webbed like a fish, and his fins like arms,” said Mrs. Bradley, with a grimace and a satisfied chuckle. “This grows interesting, George. What was one of Cartaret’s young ladies doing as a garage hand, I wonder?”
“The old chap certainly hadn’t rumbled h
e was employing a young woman, madam, anyhow.”
“No. That’s interesting, too. Probably confused the unusual with the impossible, a practice against which we are continually being warned by classic writers. Well, George, there is nothing more now, once I have been to the school. We shall have to ask the way again, I’m afraid.”
Saint Faith’s Senior Girls’ School lay in a little clearing amid some riverside slums. It was not on the telephone, and Mrs. Bradley took it by surprise.
The headmistress was taking a class, and had to be brought out of it to answer Mrs. Bradley’s questions. Fortunately Mrs. Bradley did not need to keep her very long.
“A Miss Cornflake?” she said, looking puzzled. “No, we have never had an assistant of that name, I’m sure.”
“This girl I am trying to trace went to Cartaret Training College last September,” said Mrs. Bradley. “She may have called herself Flack, or even Paynter-Tree or Tree.”
But this suggestion met with no response from the headmistress.
“I have only three assistants,” she said. “Their names are Smith, Wakefield, and Cotts. They have been with me a number of years now. They are all certificated teachers.”
Mrs. Bradley thanked her, apologized for taking up her time, and departed, well satisfied. The darker the horse, she concluded, thinking of Miss Cornflake and her apparently mysterious antecedents, the better. The problem now seemed to be to choose the best time at which to show her hand, confront Miss Cornflake with the evidence, such as it was, and ask her to explain herself.
The holiday, at any rate, was not the right time. She drove back to Athelstan. The motives for the death of the child and of Miss Murchan’s disappearance seemed to be coming to light. The means used to accomplish the child’s death had never been in question. The means used to kill Miss Murchan, if she had been killed, were still obscure, and were likely to remain so until, for one thing, the time, place, and fact of the death had been established. Opportunity in both cases was also difficult to show. The child had been killed at the (in the circumstances) extraordinary hour of seven in the evening, or later. Miss Murchan had disappeared during or after the college dance. Had both been decoyed? And by what agency?
Laurels are Poison (Mrs. Bradley) Page 18
