‘What about hoopla?’ she enquired richly.
‘Not hoopla,’ said Mrs Bradley succinctly. ‘Have you no respect for the laws governing gambling, gaming, and all pastimes having as their avowed object monetary gain or profit in kind? We will fling darts; we will shoot at coloured eggshells dancing on jets of water; we will even enter the maze of mirrors and make fools of ourselves to amuse the many-headed—but hoopla! No. It is against my principles to attempt to put a square peg into a round hole.’
The party laughed and capitulated. Arrived at the booth, Mrs Bradley demanded darts, and, flinging them one after another as quickly as she could, decorated her chosen target with a capital letter B —a tour de force which was applauded wildly by the onlookers, several of whom offered to lay her bets that she could not reproduce the initial letters of their own names with equal celerity. Upon Mrs Bradley’s intimation, however, that she was liable to fits of extreme absentmindedness owing to having been dropped on her head at the age of two months and three days, and was never quite certain where she would begin hurling the darts next, the proprietress kindly but firmly urged the would-be promoters of the affair to desist from their well-meant efforts, and turned her attention to Richard Cowes. Richard, having modestly but effectually scored the minimum number for the purpose, was in process of deciding whether a green or a canary-coloured Fluffy Hussy should be his boon companion for the rest of the day. Amaris settled the question for him by seizing the canary-coloured doll and thrusting it into his unwilling arms. She then led him away. At this, Mrs Bradley called for more darts, and, having scored the required number, secured the green doll, and, tucking it under her arm, where its pristine hue shrieked incoherently at her violet and orange woollen jumper suit, she turned to Malpas and Hilary Yeomond, who, with Clive Brown-Jenkins, were debating the important question of lunch, and said:
‘I wager that none of you can do as well as Richard Cowes and I. Now, children.’
Malpas screwed a monocle into his left eye and regarded the black-eyed old lady with enquiring interest.
‘No?’ he drawled.
In Mrs Bradley’s small looseleaf notebook that night the following memorandum appeared under the heading: ‘Darts. In order of throwing.’
Richard Cowes. 200. A prize.
Malpas Yeomond. 139.
Clive Brown-Jenkins. 415. A prize. If he had scored another 35, he could have had two prizes.
Priscilla Yeomond. 25.
Celia Brown-Jenkins. 65.
Hilary Yeomond. 110.
N.B.– What about Francis Yeomond and Joseph Herring?
Still, nothing could be more deliciously obvious.
The sun rose at five twenty-nine (Summer Time) next morning, and Mrs Bradley rose with him. She stole downstairs and into the library. Over the mantelpiece was a heterogeneous collection of weapons belonging to all periods and many different countries. The weapons were arranged to form a large circle whose diameter was determined by half a dozen long spears. Mrs Bradley carried a stout mahogany chair over to the fireplace, stood on it, and inspected the weapons closely. Inside the large circle was a smaller concentric one formed of shorter spears, javelins, harpoons, throwing sticks and a single, broad-bladed assegai. Mrs Bradley fingered two or three of them, and finally shook her birdlike black head.
‘“Not there, not there, my child.” Felicia Dorothea Hemans,’ she observed sorrowfully. ‘Ah, well.’
She got down and restored the mahogany chair to its former position. She thoughtfully gazed out of the window for a moment, and then left the library and ascended the stairs. She knocked at one of the bedroom doors, and, obtaining no answer, turned the handle and walked in. It was Rex’s room. The lad lay on his left side so that his face was turned towards her. In spite of the fact that his mouth was wide open he was an attractive spectacle, flushed with sleep, his hair tousled and his slightly curling lashes long and dark. Mrs Bradley sighed with the instinctive wistfulness of a mother, and stepped softly to the bedside. She stroked his hair with a yellow claw gentle as the touch of roses, and said in her deep, delightful voice, ‘Wake up, my dear.’
Rex grunted, hoglike, and sat up.
‘Go over to Longer, Rex, and steal for me a javelin,’ said Mrs Bradley crisply, when she judged that he was sufficiently wide awake to take in what she said.
Rex nodded economically.
Satisfied, Mrs Bradley smiled in her reptilian way and went out into the garden. Rex grinned, leapt out of bed, fell into the bath, and in less than fifteen minutes was cycling at a Clive Brown-Jenkins pace towards Longer.
Breakfast was at nine. Rex sat opposite his sister, and his wolfish enjoyment of the kidneys and bacon did not disguise from her the patent fact that he was very much excited. As soon as the meal was over, Margaret trailed him to the library. Following the direction of his eyes, she noticed that a new shaft had been added to the collection of spears over the mantelpiece.
Rex glanced over his shoulder.
‘Shut the door, kid,’ he said.
‘Don’t leave me outside,’ said Mrs Bradley, entering. She closed the door behind her, and looked enquiringly at Rex, who jerked his head towards the bunch of spears on the wall.
‘There’s the javelin, then,’ said Mrs Bradley, with satisfaction. ‘Get it down, child.’
Rex obediently detached the implement and handed it down to her. Mrs Bradley laid it on the hearthrug.
‘And what else?’ she enquired.
Rex glanced at the door and then at the open window. He tiptoed to the latter and closed it. Margaret giggled nervously. Rex glowered at her and tiptoed over to Mrs Bradley.
‘I’ve found the gym rope,’ he whispered.
Mrs Bradley’s black eyes snapped with purely aesthetic pleasure.
‘My dearest child!’ she observed, with a hideous leer of delight. ‘Where?’
‘At the bottom of the water-butt that stands by the woodshed door. And it’s in two pieces which seem to be about equal in length.’
‘The water-butt?’ enquired Margaret stolidly.
‘The gym rope, cuckoo,’ replied her brother succinctly.
Mrs Bradley gazed at the young man with reverence.
‘The water-butt!’ she whispered ecstatically. ‘Of course! But I should never have thought of it. How did you find out, child?’
Rex grinned.
‘A reporter fell in,’ he replied, with quiet relish, ‘and the water-butt tipped over. Herring rescued him and resurrected the two lengths of rope. They didn’t see me.’
‘You fill me with amazement and rapture, child,’ said Mrs Bradley fondly. ‘I did not know the rope was in two parts, of course, and I could not imagine where they’d hidden it. And the javelin—’ She stooped and picked it up, staring attentively at the metal point.
Chapter Fourteen
The Little Mermaid
I
INSPECTOR BLOXHAM WAVED the Crusader’s club irritably at the superintendent.
‘Na-poo!’ said he, with the concentrated and sardonic spleen to which that idiom so readily and amply lends itself. ‘Na-bally-well-poo, dammit!’
‘Oh?’ said the superintendent, licking an envelope busily, and covertly regarding the clock. ‘Chief Constable will be here in a minute or two. Hold on to him till I get back. Going out for a bit of grub,’ continued the superintendent, putting on his coat and sliding a large, hairy hand over his black hair, ‘would do you a lot of good, too, Bloxham, boy. Still, you keep the old chap busy till I get back, and then I’ll take him over. The damned old fool,’ he added, in an indulgent tone, ‘is still talking about calling Scotland Yard in, so get to it, boy, because I shan’t be able to hold him down much longer.’
He went out, and Bloxham could hear him humming as he went towards the outer door. The inspector sat down on the edge of the big desk, tossed the heavy club on to the only easy chair in the room, and tapped his left heel restlessly against the bottom drawer. He stared moodily into the street, and hoped that the Ch
ief Constable’s car had broken down. There was nothing to be seen from the window save the figure of a little old lady. The only remarkable thing about her was the almost indecent hue of the mustard-coloured sports coat which she was wearing, with terrible effect, on top of a tomato-red dress. The costume was set off in a manner which would have been at once the mingled rapture and despair of Wilkie Bard, Malcolm Scott, and Nellie Wallace, by a small cloche hat which boasted a single, straight, aggressive feather. This feather shot insolently into the air for a matter of twenty inches or so, and, according to the godless Hilary Yeomond, who swore that he had been privileged to witness it in action at the crossroads in Market Longer, was used for directing and controlling traffic, and was worked from the eyebrows and the tips of the ears.
To the inspector’s amusement, the apparition crossed the road and began to mount the steps of the police station.
‘Lost her parrot,’ said the inspector aloud, but with no idea that he could be overheard.
Mrs Bradley, whose hearing was abnormally acute, stopped on the second step and grinned up at him.
‘Not now,’ she said, with the street urchin’s gift of ready repartee.
Five seconds later she was shown in.
‘The fact is, inspector,’ said she, removing the curiously startling headgear and dropping it negligently upon the floor, ‘I’ve come to tell you something about the Longer cases.’
‘Thank heaven,’ murmured the inspector, piously crossing his fingers and surreptitiously touching wood with the other hand. ‘What about them, madam?’
‘My name is Bradley, Lestrange, Beatrice, one, feminine gender, objective case, answering to the name Dodo if accompanied by lumps of sugar,’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning at him like a man-eating tiger, and stepping across to the only armchair. She picked up the club, looked it over appraisingly, tested its weight and balance, and then swung it round her head.
‘Some wrist,’ said the inspector to himself. Mrs Bradley nodded agreeably.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They become exceedingly violent at times, you see.’
‘Who do?’
‘The mentally afflicted.’
‘Oh, ah, yes! I place you now,’ said Bloxham. ‘You’re the lady psychoanalyst. I’ve read your books. Jolly good.’
‘You overwhelm me, child,’ murmured Mrs Bradley, rolling her humorous black eyes. She glanced at the club again before placing it carefully on the bookcase beside her.
‘There’s a word golfers are supposed to use,’ she said regretfully. ‘You know the one I mean?’
‘Tut, tut?’ suggested Bloxham, helpfully. He sat down in the superintendent’s swivel chair and swung round to face her.
‘Thank you. Yes. Well, apply it to yourself, my poor lad.’
Bloxham grinned.
‘Exactly why?’ he enquired.
Her eyes directed his towards the weapon on the bookcase, and he blushed.
‘Well,’ he said defensively, ‘hang it all, it might have been that! Remember, I hadn’t the model of Hobson’s skull by me when I spotted that thing hanging up in the kitchen at Longer. And, at any rate, the beastly thing is rounded, and I knew it was a rounded implement that did in that wretched bloke.’
‘Round, not rounded,’ amended Mrs Bradley tersely. ‘Spherical, child, spherical.’
‘But you didn’t see the dead man!’ cried the inspector. ‘So what do you know about it?’
‘I read the medical evidence that was given at the inquest,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Of course, the medical profession is always a little—reserved, shall we say? —on certain points, but I’ve since interviewed the two doctors who examined the corpse of Hobson, and I’m fairly well satisfied that I now know how Hobson was killed, and when, and why.’
‘But you don’t know who killed him?’ said the inspector, grinning incredulously.
‘Yes, I even know who killed him, and I know how the body came to be placed in the middle of a rather wide lake, inspector. Will you come back to Longer with me now?’
A car drew up outside the police station, and Bloxham stood up and glanced out of the window.
‘I’d like to, as soon as I’ve shunted the Chief Constable,’ he said.
‘Not Sir Bertram?’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning with Machiavellian joy.
‘Yes; Sir Bertram Pallery,’ replied the inspector. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to meet him,’ said Mrs Bradley. She seized her headgear and thrust it on, tiptoed across the room, and, before the astonished inspector could say another word, she had thrown up the lower window-sash and crawled out over the sill. The distance to the ground was less than ten feet. Hanging by her claws, Mrs Bradley grinned once more, in the disquieting manner of the Cheshire Cat, and then dropped out of sight. At the same instant the Chief Constable entered by way of the door.
The interview was fairly short. The Chief Constable drove off without waiting to see the superintendent, and a harassed, irritated, decidedly worried inspector was left to make the best of his way to Longer.
He caught up with Mrs Bradley at the very gates of the house, and they sauntered in together. Mrs Bradley led the way to the kitchen garden, and they passed through it and so round to the woodshed door. There stood the water-butt, almost empty, and at the bottom of it, for all and sundry to view, lay the two soaked portions of the gymnasium rope.
The inspector drew them out, and, coiling them, carried them to the sports field. It was deserted. He stretched the two pieces of rope side by side on the grass. Save for a matter of inches they were equal in length. Bloxham grunted, and made an entry in his notebook. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, and looked despairingly at Mrs Bradley.
‘I don’t know whether I’m thick-headed or silly with chewing over these cases,’ he said, ‘but I confess here and now, that the sight of this damn thing conveys simply nothing to my mind except the somewhat trite observation that it’s been hacked into halves by a rather blunt knife.’
Mrs Bradley solemnly patted his broad shoulder.
‘That’s quite good for a start,’ she said kindly. ‘Bring it along to the mere.’
Obediently the large young man gathered up the bisected clue, and followed the little old woman to the water’s edge.
‘The second pollard willow will be about right,’ said Mrs Bradley, pointing to an ancient, gnarled, and twisted tree whose branches stood out like crazy hair on a wizard’s head.
‘Just about opposite the spot where the body of Hobson was located,’ said the inspector.
‘How wide do you think it is across the mere at this point?’ asked Mrs Bradley, shading her eyes with her arm.
The inspector drew out his notebook and consulted it.
‘Roughly speaking, about twenty-six yards,’ he answered.
‘And the total length of the gymnasium rope?’
The inspector laid the two lengths of rope on the ground and measured them with a folding pocket ruler.
‘Eighteen feet, all told,’ he said.
‘Well, go into the village and find out which person or persons bought a coil of rope or a new clothesline or lines, of not less than thirty-two yards in length, all told, since April eighteenth,’ said Mrs Bradley briskly.
‘You don’t think the murder of Hobson was planned beforehand?’ cried the inspector.
‘I know it was not,’ replied Mrs Bradley serenely, ‘but the disposal of the corpse was very carefully planned beforehand—although how much beforehand it is difficult to say. And I don’t think it was the murderer who did the planning,’ she added. ‘Think that over, child.’
‘I shall arrest somebody,’ said Bloxham suddenly, ‘and see what happens then.’
Mrs Bradley nodded with great approval. ‘A very sound move,’ she said. ‘Do it, and let the world wonder at you!’
The inspector regarded her with deep suspicion, not untinged with downright distrust.
‘And when I’ve found out who’s bought a clothesline—’ he said disag
reeably.
‘You’ll know—perhaps!—who decanted the body into the lake and who sent the statue of the little mermaid sliding after it.’
Mrs Bradley cackled ironically. Then she added abruptly:
‘Do you like the statue of the little mermaid, inspector? What is your opinion of it, judged as a work of art?’
‘I don’t know that I’ve looked at it from that point of view,’ confessed Bloxham, knitting his brows in an effort to recall to mind the fashion of the piece of sculpture.
‘Lose no time in making good the deficiency,’ said Mrs Bradley earnestly. ‘Oh, child, it was when I set eyes on the statue of the little mermaid that half the truth dawned on me.’
‘And the other half?’ said Bloxham, grinning in boyish derision at her serious face.
‘Have you ever read The Canary Murder Case, by a man called Van Dine?’ demanded Mrs Bradley.
‘Yes, rather.’
‘You remember the game of poker?’
‘I do. Clever idea.’
‘One thing leads to another,’ said Mrs Bradley modestly. ‘I also had a clever idea. Pinched, as the vulgar would observe, but, still—clever. Darts.’
‘Darts?’ said the inspector, looking round for assistance.
Mrs Bradley’s fiendish grin, the product of perhaps an evil, but undoubtedly a sound, mind, reassured him.
‘I mean it,’ she said solemnly. ‘Darts. As played for prizes at the Hilly Longer fair. Look at this, child.’
She showed him a page in her looseleaf notebook. The inspector took it, and read the names and scores of those who had played at darts with Mrs Bradley at the fair. Then he shook his head and handed the book back.
‘Very interesting,’ said he heavily.
Mrs Bradley cackled, and secreted the book once more.
A quarter of an hour later, Great-aunt Puddequet, craning her ancient head, was permitted to view a great sight. Inspector Bloxham, magnifying-glass in hand, was busily engaged upon a serious critical study of the statue of the little mermaid from every possible angle and at varying distances.
The Longer Bodies Page 16
