The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop

by Gladys Mitchell

  The vicar looked up at her, and she subsided. Then he felt the skull all over gingerly with his fine strong hands, and gave it back to the bishop, after taking a final glance at the deep cleft.

  ‘Where did you say you got it?’ he asked.

  ‘A young fellow camping near Rams Cove found it and gave it me. Very fine, don’t you think?’

  The vicar stroked his chin.

  ‘I should say that skull is less than a hundred years old,’ he said.

  ‘Rubbish, man!’ retorted the bishop spiritedly. ‘Use your eyes!’

  ‘I am doing so,’ returned the vicar mildly. ‘Probably the skull of somebody who tumbled down the cliffs there in our grandfathers’ time, I should say. It’s a nasty place just there, you know. And landslips are fairly frequent. I dare say if you searched about you’d find something more of the skeleton.’

  The bishop looked annoyed. Mrs Bryce Harringay was slightly but, to her brother-in-law’s way of thinking, exasperatingly amused.

  The pause which followed was broken by the irrepressible Mary Kate, who had no intention of allowing the Reverend Stephen to interfere with her enjoyment of ‘the company’.

  ‘I declare to God entirely,’ she remarked conversationally, ‘if the look of that same there is not calling into me mind the bones of the pig’s face me mother would be boiling the meat off for a dish of collared head. Just so do them lads of butchers chop the head down, the way the meat will boil nice and tender off the bones of it!’

  The vicar turned his head and-glared at her. Mary Kate started precipitately, and saved the jam only by a dexterous flick of her free hand underneath the dish as the glutinous sticky compound came surging over the edge. Surreptitiously licking a somewhat grimy palm, she departed hastily in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Well, there is nothing to be gained by argument in this case,’ said the bishop. ‘But I shall certainly present it to Brown as a museum specimen of a brachycephalic skull of the late Celtic period.’

  ‘I hope he will accept it in the same spirit,’ said the Reverend Stephen with delicate irony. ‘I say, though,’ he broke off, ‘I know what would be rather a joke! Let’s send for young Wright and see if he can reconstruct the thing. He’s very clever at modelling. May I send over and get him to do it?’

  ‘With pleasure, so far as I am concerned,’ said the bishop stiffly.

  ‘Felicity,’ said her father, ‘send Mary Kate over to the Cottage and ask her to get Mr Wright to come over here for a few minutes.’

  ‘I’ll go myself. I promised to take Mrs Bradley’s dog for a run this evening, so I can call there and go on to the Cottage.’

  Her father chuckled.

  ‘I was under the impression that you didn’t like Mrs Bradley,’ he said.

  Felicity flushed and tossed her head.

  ‘Oh, well, when you’ve been there to lunch and been there to dinner, as we have, you can’t go on feeling unkindly disposed,’ she said.

  Mrs Bradley was in.

  ‘But Boller doesn’t like strangers,’ she said. ‘You don’t think he’ll bite them, do you, child?’

  Felicity giggled.

  ‘I hope not. But I’m not going up there if you won’t allow me to take the dog,’ she said. ‘I don’t like those people. There’s something funny about them. They are Londoners. What did they want to come and bury themselves alive down here for?’

  ‘Take the dog if you like,’ remarked Mrs Bradley. ‘May I come with you and see the fun?’

  ‘Then I needn’t take the dog,’ said Felicity, laughing.

  ‘Impudence,’ said Mrs Bradley severely, ‘is the weapon of the very young. Chastisement’ – she seized Felicity in a grip of iron and smacked her hard – ‘is the reply of the extremely old.’

  She released her victim, and together they went out at the side gate into the lane which led to the Cottage on the Hill.

  ‘You’re horribly strong,’ said Felicity, ‘aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Mrs Bradley with enormous complacence.

  It was Lulu who opened the door. After a little delay, while he washed his hands and struggled into a collar, Wright joined them.

  He was a short, thick-set, cheerful young man of twenty-eight, and looked more like a ploughboy than an artist. His hair was thick and dark and his eyes were bright blue with long lashes. He slid his arm familiarly through Felicity’s and grinned at Mrs Bradley like an impudent faun. Felicity, hating him because he stirred her blood in some queer, exciting, vaguely improper way – or so she felt – released her arm and talked to Mrs Bradley all the way down the hill.

  ‘It’s a pity she doesn’t like me,’ said Wright, when he could manage to interpolate a word. ‘I’m such a nice lad really.’

  As they passed Mrs Bradley’s house, her dog came to the gate and greeted them. Maliciously, Felicity opened the gate and let him out. The Airedale sniffed suspiciously round Wright’s grey-flannelled legs, and Felicity chuckled.

  ‘Mind! He doesn’t like strangers!’ she said mockingly.

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Wright bent down, took the dog’s muzzle between his hands, and stared into the clear brown eyes. ‘He’s afraid of them, though.’

  The dog’s stump of a tail drooped. Unable to meet the quizzically smiling gaze, he turned his head piteously aside.

  Wright released him, wiped his hands on the seams of his trousers, and laughed.

  When he saw the skull at the Vicarage he laughed again more joyously.

  ‘Can I take it away with me?’ he said. ‘I’ll let you have it back to-morrow afternoon with any luck.’

  ‘Oh, can’t you slap a bit of clay over it now?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘’Fraid not. All my stuff’s up at the Cottage, you see. I’ll bring it over to-morrow, sure as sure.’

  Mrs Bryce Harringay interposed.

  ‘I feel that it would be the best thing to do, Reginald,’ she announced. ‘I shall have time to drive you home to Culminster if we start now. Otherwise I shall not be in time to do so. Will you come?’

  The bishop, looking back longingly at the skull, which was lying in the crook of Wright’s arm, followed her out to the waiting car. Wright chucked the skull affectionately under the chin, and walked home with it pressed between his elbow and his side. He carolled blithely as he went along.

  True to his promise, he brought a complete head back next day. He had reconstructed in clay the features and lineaments of a man.

  ‘Rather a curious resemblance, don’t you think?’ he said casually to the Reverend Stephen Broome, holding out the reconstructed head.

  The vicar gasped. Low forehead, fleshy jowl, straight Norman nose, and sensual lips! – it was the head of Rupert Sethleigh.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Second Instalment of the Same Tale

  ‘THAT wretched policeman,’ complained Mrs Bryce Harringay petulantly, ‘is here again, and wants to see the car. I suppose he means the Bentley, but I don’t know, and why he should want to see it I don’t know, and why he should require to see it on Sunday of all days, I don’t know, but I suppose he must be humoured. Take him round to the garage, Aubrey, will you?’

  ‘Where is he, mater?’ asked Aubrey, grinning.

  ‘In the shrubbery, looking for footprints and cigarette ash,’ growled Jim Redsey, without glancing up from an old newspaper which he was pretending to read.

  ‘Do not be foolish, James,’ said his aunt. ‘He is in the hall. And whatever happens, Aubrey, do not allow him to annoy Cooper. The only really reliable chauffeur,’ she observed as Aubrey went out, ‘that poor Rupert ever had.’

  Cooper, however, was breakfasting, so Aubrey returned for the keys and unlocked the garage door.

  ‘Want her jacked up?’ he enquired professionally of the inspector.

  ‘No, Mr Harringay, I thank you.’

  Detective Inspector Grindy was large, like all policemen, good-natured, like most, and very fond of boys, but duty was duty. Very deliberately he turned his back u
pon Aubrey and made an entry in his note-book. Then he walked all round the car and wrote in his note-book again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harringay. That’s all,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘But you haven’t looked at the tyres to see what sort of a track they’d leave. And you – and you haven’t found out how much petrol there is in the tank and whether she’s been filled up since the mater went out yesterday.’

  The inspector roared with laughter, and drew out a folding map.

  ‘Never mind, Mr Harringay,’ he said. ‘Come here and point me out the route they took to get to Rams Cove yesterday.’

  ‘I say,’ remarked Aubrey, when the inspector had made a note of the route, ‘I wish I’d seen that skull that chap found. What was it like?’

  ‘When we had duly admired the work of art with which Mr Wright had surrounded it, we packed same in the safe ready to peel off the clay which has dried rather hard. But I’ve no doubt that when we do peel it off we shall find that the skull underneath is exactly like any other skull, Mr Harringay.’ And the inspector winked solemnly. ‘We laughed quite a good bit, Superintendent Bidwell and me, over that skull.’

  ‘Oh, did you? Why?’

  ‘Well, Mr Harringay’ – the inspector coughed judiciously – ‘we know Mr Wright, you see. A very pleasant gentleman. Humorous, too! Must have his little joke, whatever happens, as you know. That’s why we aren’t in any hurry to peel off the clay. Won’t help us much when we do.’

  ‘I don’t know the fellow from Adam, except by sight,’ remarked Aubrey.

  ‘No? Well, people round here know him well for his joking ways. It was him that dressed up as the ghost of Dicky Tell, who was hanged at the crossroads in chains for highway robbery way back a hundred years or more, and nearly frightened the folks into fits as they came home from Bossbury Fair one night. Oh, he’s a rare funny chap, is Mr Wright.’

  ‘Yes, but what about the skull?’

  ‘Well, Mr Harringay, a skull’s a skull, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  The inspector grinned.

  ‘Just what I say. I can’t say any more. Even the police have to keep one or two things to themselves sometimes, you see. Now, before I go, I want a word with Mrs – with your mother, and then I suppose I must go over to Rams Cove and interview the young chap who actually found the damn thing.’

  The last words were addressed to himself rather than to Aubrey, for in concluding them he walked out of the garage and stepped briskly towards the house. Aubrey looked up and raced along to rejoin him.

  ‘I say,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ve got a bike. Couldn’t I come with you to Rams Cove and – and sort of have a snoop round, you know?’

  The inspector settled his cap.

  ‘I don’t think you’d better come with me, Mr Harringay,’ he said. ‘I shall be there kind of official, you see.’ Then, at sight of the boy’s disappointed face, he added good-naturedly, ‘But, of course, if you should happen to be there quite accidental’ – he paused and winked solemnly – ‘well, I couldn’t hardly object, could I?’

  Aubrey left him with Mrs Bryce Harringay and raced off to get his bicycle.

  ‘I understand you were with his lordship the bishop when he found the skull, madam,’ said the inspector to a very frigid lady.

  ‘You have been misinformed on two points, inspector. I was not with the bishop, and he did not find the skull.’

  ‘That’s illuminating, madam.’ The inspector licked the point of his pencil and reflected comfortably that the more of a fool this type of woman thought him to be, the more information he could get out of her. ‘Will you kindly give me the facts? Begin at the beginning, if you please.’

  ‘Well, since you ask me, I suppose I must. Sit down, inspector, sit down. But you know it is all most upsetting and annoying, most! If I had had any idea that that wretched object would turn out to be Rupert’s skull, I would never have allowed the bishop to bring it home, never! What is it you wish to know?’

  ‘First,’ said the inspector, glancing down at his note-book, ‘I want to know whether it is true that you accompanied the Bishop of Culminster to a spot called Rams Cove on the morning of Friday, June 27th?’

  ‘It is correct to say that the bishop accompanied me. I ordered the car at nine-thirty, and Cooper, the chauffeur – my late nephew’s chauffeur, I should say – drove me into Culminster, where I picked up the bishop at ten-fifteen. He kept the car waiting twenty minutes, I remember.’

  ‘Then you actually drove out of Culminster at ten-thirty-five, madam?’

  ‘No, no! At ten-fifteen! I was waiting for him from five minutes to ten until a quarter past!’ Her brow clouded at the recollection of that wasted twenty minutes. The inspector clicked his tongue sympathetically.

  ‘Had you any special reason for choosing Rams Cove as the – er –’

  ‘Object of our journey? None at all. The bishop insisted upon bringing his bathing things, and so, knowing from sad experience what babies men can be when they have set their minds upon some triviality of the kind, I instructed Cooper to take us to a seaside locality which was sufficiently safe and quiet for the purpose, because the bishop is a most mediocre swimmer, most! – and the spectacle of an Older Man in his bathing-costume is never, I feel, a particularly edifying spectacle. Well, very sensibly and suitably, Cooper drove to Rams Cove, as I think you said the spot is called, and – much too soon after lunch, in my opinion! – the bishop bathed.’

  The inspector stared thoughtfully at the fireplace. Apparently the vision of the bishop bathing was too entrancing to be lightly dismissed from the mind.

  ‘Then, it appears –’ continued Mrs Bryce Harringay.

  ‘Ah!’ said the inspector, rousing himself. ‘The next bit of the story I shall have to get from his lordship, I think. Thank you, madam. Perhaps we could come now to the return journey.’

  ‘Very well. Although I can probably tell you the bishop’s part of the story far more lucidly than he will. However –! The bishop wrapped the Loathsome Object up in his towel and suggested leaving it at what he is pleased to call the Culminster Museum – you know it, I expect? The large room over Brown’s antique shop at the corner of the High Street opposite the confectioner’s? But on the way he changed his mind and determined to return by way of this village and show the skull to Mr Broome at the Vicarage.’

  ‘Why was that, madam?’

  ‘I understand that Mr Broome is something of an authority upon Gruesome Relics of this type. The bishop wanted his opinion.’

  ‘I see. Whose suggestion was it that Mr Wright should build the rest of the head on to the skull?’

  ‘Mr Broome suggested it. He disagreed with the bishop as to the probable antiquity of the Wretched Bone.’

  ‘Yes. Well, our own experts will tell us all about that. And Mr Wright brought the head back –?’

  ‘Early yesterday morning, I understand.’

  ‘And the vicar has seen it, and yourself, and the bishop? Who else? We have it up at the station now, of course.’

  ‘The vicar’s daughter may have seen it. I am not sure. The vicar’s servant certainly saw it. I would not permit Aubrey to view it. I do not believe in Harrowing the Feelings of the young.’

  The inspector remembered Aubrey’s disappointment, and hid a smile.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he enquired.

  ‘To my knowledge, no. Oh,’ she added, after a second’s thought, ‘a ridiculous woman called Bradley saw it. The vicar sent over to her house. And I imagine Mr Savile and his – er – and his companion must have seen it, as Wright shares their house. He would certainly have shown them the finished model, I should think.’

  ‘His companion?’ said the inspector, puzzled.

  ‘A Creature,’ observed Mrs Bryce Harringay, ‘who cohabits with Savile and Wright, but whose exact relationship to either or both of them will always, I imagine, remain veiled in mystery. Perhaps it is better so.’

  The inspector made rapid notes of the
names, enquired the addresses, and took his leave. In accordance with previous arrangements, he met Superintendent Bidwell at the crossroads, and together they drove in the police car to Rams Cove. From the top of the cliffs the red-striped tent on the shore was easily visible. The inspector left the superintendent in the car and himself descended to the beach.

  The big young man, still in shorts and a shirt, but this time barefooted, was having his dinner.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said hospitably, ‘you’re just in time. Bread and cheese and pickles and beer. Help yourself.’

  The inspector grinned.

  ‘Food will have to wait,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like to deceive you. I’m a police inspector.’

  ‘By Jove! I’ve got permission to be here, you know. You can’t bung me off.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ The inspector drew out his note-book. ‘On the afternoon of Friday, June 27th,’ he announced, ‘you gave a skull – a human skull – into the possession of the Bishop of Culminster.’

  ‘Good old gaiters!’ remarked the young man, with a glance at his own bare legs. ‘What about it?’

  ‘How did you come to get hold of it?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘If you’ll let me finish my grub, I’ll come and show you the exact spot where I dug it out of the face of the cliff.’

  ‘What’s your name? I might as well get the formalities over while I’m waiting.’

  ‘Look here, though!’ cried the young man. ‘What’s the game?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you. I don’t suppose that for a minute. So don’t make a fuss about all the little things I shall have to ask as a matter of routine. Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Haven’t seen one for ten days, thank heaven.’

  ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, Mr –?’

  ‘Markham, John Ecclestone Markham, of Canby House, Slough, Bucks.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Markham. Finished? Good. Now then, sir.’