Laurels are Poison (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  Mrs. Bradley sat at her desk and unlocked the top long drawer. She drew out her notebook and shook her head at it. There was much to do, much to discover, before this curiously baffling task she had undertaken could come to an end.

  She opened the notebook. There was also Cook’s death to be investigated. The police had been persuaded that it was murder. She glanced out over the Cartaret grounds, now becoming misty in the dusk. The college was a pleasant place, on the whole. She wished she could have come there on some more savoury errand. She sighed, affected to make another entry in the notebook, and closed the drawer. A curious sixth sense, which she trusted, was informing her that all was not as it should be.

  “Reach for it,” said a voice.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Bradley, blessing the sixth sense, not for the first time in her life.

  “You heard! Stick ’em up,” said the voice. Mrs. Bradley turned her head as she put up her hands. There was still that bulge behind one of the long dark curtains.

  “Now pick up that notebook with your right hand and chuck it this way,” the voice went on. “I know you can aim accurately if you want to. Flip it across, and no funny business. You’re covered, and I shan’t miss, mind.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” said Mrs. Bradley courteously. She was not unaccustomed to homicidal maniacs. “But may I suggest, first, that you are mixing up two entirely different American accents, to wit, that of the Bronx with that of Chicago; secondly, that you are superimposing upon the mixture a kind of stage Cockney which—forgive me—you don’t do terribly well, and, thirdly, that even if…”

  “Stow the gab and shoot the loot!” said the voice. The curtains quivered slightly.

  “Even if, I was about to remark,” Mrs. Bradley continued, in her deep, agreeable voice, “I do toss you my notebook, I can’t see that it will benefit you at all, since I am prepared to declare that you will not be able to read a word of my writing.”

  “That’s my funeral,” said the voice, “and I’m getting impatient. Don’t you know who it is that you’re keeping waiting?”

  “Can you really see me through that curtain?” asked Mrs. Bradley. “I should scarcely have thought…”

  “Near enough to plug you if you don’t stow the gab and up with the…”

  Mrs. Bradley suddenly moved faster than could possibly have been expected of an elderly lady. She seized, not her notebook, but a beautiful little bronze which she used as a paper-weight. It represented the shepherd boy David.

  “Down with Goliath,” she said with an unearthly cackle, as the heavy missile found its mark and she, like a tigress, leapt after it towards the bulge. The bulge fell forward with a crash which shook the room.

  “My own revolver, too. I knew there was something wrong with the look of that drawer,” she said to the police when they arrived. Her victim, who was seated in an easy chair with bandaged head and an expression of extreme misery due to the most oppressive headache he had ever had in his life, looked dully at her.

  “You will be Mr. Princep, no doubt,” said Mrs. Bradley. “How did your wife know where you would find me?”

  Mr. Princep refused to answer this question. His head fell back, and he began to moan. Foam appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Looks like a loony,” said the sergeant.

  “His looks, poor man, do not belie him,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  CHAPTER 13

  HARLEQUINADE AND YULE LOG

  “YOU’RE going to charge him, ma’am, I suppose?” said the inspector. They were out of earshot of the patient, who was, at the moment, lying on the settee, with a sergeant and a constable in close attendance, whilst Mrs. Bradley had carried off the inspector to Deborah’s sitting-room whilst they had their little chat. “Of course, he’s loco, as you know, especially if it turns out he’s the man you think he is.”

  “Well, his wife will be here tomorrow,” said Mrs. Bradley. “She will identify him fast enough, I should think.”

  “But if she gave him the dope where he would find you, she may be in league with him, and refuse to say she recognizes him. It wouldn’t hold us up for long, but it’s a possibility.”

  “I don’t think it is,” said Mrs. Bradley, “for the very simple reason that his wife could not possibly have told him that I was here. She has no reason to connect me with Cartaret College, and I doubt, as a matter of fact, whether she knows of such a place. I certainly did not mention it in my conversation with her.”

  That’s funny, then,” said the inspector. “What could have brought him along?”

  “Not what, but who,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Now think carefully, ma’am. Who could have known you were going to stay here tonight?”

  “The whole college, if they were interested. My own students all know, because some of them asked me, and I answered them.”

  “Risking rather a lot, ma’am, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m glad I did risk it, too. What I anticipated would happen has happened much sooner than I expected it would, that’s all. Tomorrow, therefore, I send my nephew a telegram informing him that I am able to spend Christmas in Oxfordshire, after all, instead of by myself, up here.”

  “Do you mean to say you were going to hang on here alone, and wait for that fellow to turn up?” demanded the inspector.

  “Well, I wanted to see what he was like, and I wanted to know whether he was mad.”

  “Oh, he’s mad all right. Went right off the handle in the coroner’s court, and spent two years in the bin,” replied the inspector.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, “so I seem to have heard, but I’d rather make my own tests. He can’t be moved tonight. You’ll have to leave somebody with him. In the morning he may feel a little better. I shan’t worry him or hurt him, but his mental condition interests me very much indeed.”

  “It’ll interest the judge,” said the inspector.

  “And now,” said Mrs. Bradley, “to the affair of your grand-mother’s aunt, and your own relationship to the duck-billed platy-pus.” The inspector cocked a wary eye.

  “You’ve got your opinion ready, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I have. The man is undoubtedly mad.”

  “Then…?”

  “We now have to make certain where he went and what he was doing during the two years which went by between the inquest on the child and the disappearance of Miss Murchan. I’ve no doubt that he went to a mental hospital, as you say. If he was discharged as cured, something has upset him again. He’ll have to be taken care of. He’s dangerous, of course, poor fellow. I should say he’s been an unbalanced person from boyhood.”

  “But, by your own showing, ma’am, there’s something fishy about him coming to the college like this.”

  “Not if he had heard from an interested party that I was going to be here alone. It’s possible, you know, that the party in question had told him I murdered the child.”

  “Miss Cornflake, ma’am, that you mentioned to me this morning?”

  “And thereby hangs a tale, and a rather queer one,” said Mrs. Bradley to herself, when the inspector had gone, taking the unfortunate lunatic with him. She waited until the house was empty and all the servants were gone, then she walked over to the Chief Engineer’s house where she had arranged to leave her keys.

  “Then, if I want to come back early, for any reason, I can get into Athelstan without trouble,” she had announced.

  George drove her to the station, and she remained there for an hour, studying the local time-table and talking to the station-master and the booking clerk. The results of these conversations were negligible, as she had expected that they would be, for it had been in the highest degree unlikely that one student among so many should have been especially remarked at the station. If it became necessary to trace Miss Cornflake’s movements in order to discover her real address, the police would be the people to do it; and as to connecting her movements with those of the insane Mr. Princep, well, that was a task which co
uld wait.

  Mrs. Bradley returned to Athelstan, superintended the locking up of the house, and ordered George to drive to Lincoln, where she proposed to spend the night, and from where she would telephone her nephew.

  Once at Stanton St. John, it seemed permissible and even desirable to relate her adventures, and the family, including Ditch, Mrs. Ditch and Our Walt, her nephew Carey’s servants, were encouragingly enthralled by the recital.

  “And now,” said Carey, on the third morning of her stay, “for news of the other Christmas visitors.”

  He had letters, two of which he passed across to Jenny. “Ferdinand and Caroline are coming, with Derek; Sally says she’s coming on the day after Boxing Day, bringing her dog, and Denis has broken up at school, so he’ll be here today. Good thing we knew beforehand, because this letter wouldn’t have helped much! And—oh, he’s bringing another kid with him.”

  “They’ll have to pig in together,” said Jenny. “Then, let’s see: Ferdinand and Caroline can have the room next to Aunt Adela’s, and Sally and the dog can have that little room next to the bathroom. I don’t know what to do with Derek. Do you think—no, it would spoil it for Denis and his friend. Oh, well, we’ll just poke him in somewhere. He won’t mind. If nothing else offers, he’ll have to have a camp bed in the kitchen. It’ll be warm there, anyhow. Aunt Adela, more coffee?”

  Breakfast over, everybody went through the morning ritual of “seeing the pigs.” After that, George, who was sharing a room with Our Walt, drove Mrs. Bradley into Oxford so that she could purchase Christmas presents. She had been half-expecting to hear that Jonathan was coming for Christmas to his cousin’s house, as had been his custom for the past year or two, but concluded that he was remaining at Deborah’s home.

  To her surprise, she met him in the High Street, and saw him before he saw her.

  “Hullo! What are you doing? I thought you were in Edinburgh,” she said. Jonathan seemed pleased to see her.

  “We were coming on to Carey’s as soon as we’d finished shopping,” he answered. “Matter of fact, we called at the college yesterday, thinking you might still be there chasing your lunatic. Deb was horribly worried about you.”

  “My lunatic chased me,” Mrs. Bradley responded, “so I came on, after all. I’m sorry you bothered.”

  At this point Deborah appeared, bearing several parcels. Mrs. Bradley, rather touched by the warmth of her greeting and her obvious relief at finding her safe and sound, told her to put the parcels into the car and directed George to drive on.

  “Could George drive me to the post office? I want to send a wire home,” said Deborah, when they were settled.

  “And I’ll telephone Jenny,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and let her know you are coming.”

  They lunched at the Mitre, and, after some argument from the engaged couple, who declared that they were staying two nights in Oxford, and then were going to London for three or four days, George drove the whole party to Stanton St. John. Mrs. Bradley had noticed that the burden of the protestations had been borne by Deborah; Jonathan had joined in perfunctorily, but seemed pleased when objections were all overruled and the car was en route for Old Farm.

  “I love this country-side,” said Deborah suddenly. The car, which had come up Headington Hill, had turned left by New Headington, and was following the Roman Road. It was cold on the return drive. They had not hurried over lunch and the sun was low and dusk at hand, even by the time they had covered the short distance from the city.

  They went in and stood before the huge fire which Mrs. Ditch was even then making up as they came in. Jenny kissed Deborah and welcomed Jonathan. “But, really, Jenny, I’m not going to stay here, and put you all about. It’s a real family time,” began Deborah.

  “You’re part of the real family,” said Jenny firmly. “Besides, the babies want you to stay, and they always have their own way. Carey gives it to them, and it’s too much to expect that I can cope with them and him, so I don’t attempt to do it. Jonathan will have to share the kitchen with Derek and the turkey, but it’s easy enough to fix in another female, so don’t do any more arguing, there’s a lamb.”

  “Did you have a nice term, dear?” asked Kitty’s mother anxiously.

  “So, so,” replied Kitty. “I couldn’t bear it if it weren’t for old Dog; but still, so long as she’s around, I can make out.”

  “Any adventures?” inquired Kitty’s eleven-year-old brother.

  “Stacks! Ghosts, murder, old Dog nearly getting pneumonia, somebody slashing up coats and breaking open trunks and tins of disinfectant, School Prac, all sorts of rumours that the last Warden disappeared at the end of last term, although some only say she was ill, and…”

  “What was that about Laura getting pneumonia, dear,” asked her mother, detaching from this welter of rhetoric the one accessible and assimilable fact.

  “I’ll sing seconds,” said Alice.

  “We thought perhaps when you came home from that there college, you’d be too grand to come out carol-singing with the church,” said one of the sopranos.

  “Oh, no, of course not,” said Alice, distressed at the idea. “Of course I shouldn’t be too grand. I’m not grand at all. I’m going to work for my living, like everybody else, when I’ve passed my examinations. Who plays the harmonium now?”

  “Mr. Twillett. Mr. Ross has got his rheumatism bad again. It’s cold work, that harmonium is.”

  “Brother and Sister Tupper have kindly invited the choir to stop at their house for refreshments tonight,” announced the choirmaster, “so we shall do Percy Street, Braddock Street, and Towcester Street going, and Willmott Street, Upper Swan Lane, and Bootin’s Corner coming back. Would those with electric torches light the harmony, please? I think the air can manage.”

  “Laugh,” said Laura, “I thought I should have died! In fact, I believe, I should have died if the other two hadn’t dried me and helped me dress. All the same, it’s great to be in the thick of a murder, and my belief is that Mrs. Croc. has got it all taped out, and is only waiting for the last clue, or something, to make her grab. Oh, the ghost! You really ought to have heard the ghost. It was great. We were all scared out of our lives. I say, if you’re going to cut that slice in halves, bags the top half if nobody else wants it. I need fattening, and almond paste is just the stuff, I should imagine. Oh, and Aunt Alison sent her love when I was up there for half-term. I forgot to put it in my letter. She told me I’d lost my guid Scots tongue. Are we all going up there for the New Year?”

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” said George, “but if convenient, could I take Christmas Day?”

  “Of course, George. Take what you like. Do you want to borrow the car? I shan’t want it down here. Mr. Carey has his, and Mr. Ferdinand will come in his, and we can always hire one in Oxford, if it comes to the point. But it won’t.”

  She waited in some curiosity to learn the explanation of this request. George had not taken Christmas leave for several years. He was not bound to furnish an explanation, but she felt sure he would.

  “The fact is, madam,” he went on, “the Chief Engineer at the college has been kind enough to invite me to spend the Christmas with them. I shouldn’t require a week, madam, but if I could get down on Christmas Eve, say, and be back the day after Boxing Day—his brother’s coming home on leave, and turns out to be my old sergeant-major, madam. It’s only an ordinary name, so I never thought anything of it until we were having a yarn one day, so he asked me over.”

  “By all means, George. And don’t hurry back. I really don’t need the car until, anyway, the New Year.”

  “Have you brought a boar’s head, Aunt Bradley?” was Denis’s greeting as he descended from his motor-cycle and told his friend (riding pillion) to get off. He propped the motor-cycle against the stone wall which marked off the kitchen garden from the surrounding fields and introduced the stranger. “This is Carter. I thought we could get up an eleven to play the village. Carter plays hockey, so he’ll be quite useful, as it’s
only Soccer.”

  “Hullo, Scab,” said Carey, coming out of one of the pig-houses. “Hullo, Carter. Glad it’s you. Scab didn’t say who.”

  “Hullo, Carey,” said Carter, demonstrating that his voice was breaking.

  “I don’t suppose Scab bothered to introduce you,” went on Carey, “but this is my aunt, Mrs. Lestrange-Bradley.”

  “Oh, really?” said Carter, blushing. “I say…awfully glad, you know. Lestrange said you’d tell us about your murderers. I say, I wish you would.”

  “Well, she will,” said Denis reassuringly. “Come on and meet the others. I say, Carey, where shall I park the crate?”

  “Your motor-bike? Oh, there’s plenty of room in the garage. Come on up to the house.”

  “I was thinking,” said Denis, “that we could get up an eleven. There’s me, and you, old Carter, who plays hockey, Ditch, Walt, Ferdinand, Jonathan, Derek—how many’s that?—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, that’s eight. We could play three forwards, two halves, two backs, and a goal, reduce the pitch by, say, a fifth, and…”

  “Oh, dry up,” said Carey. “I don’t know why I asked you to come. We never get any peace. And, by the way, what about luggage?”

  “Oh, coming. We didn’t pack much. It’ll be here some time. Are we going to have Derek in our room? Because that’s all right by us. You don’t mind, Carter, do you? Oh, and bags I play the organ for Christmas morning service. I’ve been practicing, haven’t I, Carter?”

  “He’s rather good,” said Carter. “He generally plays at school now, instead of Doctor Flaskett.”

  As Denis’s musical gifts were known and appreciated, this statement was received calmly. Mrs. Bradley watched the boys go up to the house with Carey, and then decided to walk as far as Stanton Great Wood, call on her acquaintances at the next farm, a place called Roman Ending, and come back across the fields.