The Longer Bodies

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘I don’t say anything,’ replied the superintendent. ‘Carry on. What would be the motive for the murder of Hobson? I should fancy, if things are as you say, they would avoid publicity, not court it. I mean, you can’t keep a murder quiet, can you?’

  ‘He found out about their going-on and threatened to tell the old lady, I should imagine,’ said Bloxham. ‘They couldn’t put up with that, you see, because Caddick had considerable expectations of coming in for a nice sum when the old lady died. Used to boast of the fact. I found Caddick’s diary the other day when I was snooping about. Plenty down about the money. Twenty-five thousand pounds put down in black and white. Well crossed out, but quite easy to see, for all that. Kost knew he was on a good thing, I imagine, and it got his goat properly to think of a drunken lout like Hobson coming up to the house and giving them away to the old lady. Caddick herself told me that old Mrs Puddequet would dismiss her without a second thought if she found out that Kost had slept in the house that night.’

  The superintendent nodded.

  ‘Then take Kost,’ continued the inspector eagerly. ‘The murder was committed by a heavy shot being dropped on Hobson’s head. What would have been easier than for Kost, an expert at these games, to lean over the stone balustrade and just let the shot fall from his hand on to the head of the man below? Again, take the way the body was tied to the statue of the little mermaid. A good, powerful swimmer was wanted there. Well, don’t you remember how Kost and Malpas Yeomond went in on the Saturday morning and fished up body and statue too? You weren’t there, but I told you about it afterwards. Then there was the business of getting in and out of the sunk garden after it had been locked at night. Caddick, familiar as she was with the house, could have obtained possession of the key of the sunk garden very easily, and Kost would then lose no time in getting another one cut from it. Incidentally, I think that job must have been done in Southampton or even London. I’ve combed out all the shops in Market Longer, and even as far afield as Himbridge and Chaffont Emblem, but none of them seem to know anything about it.’

  ‘Hum! Well, it all hangs together very well,’ said the superintendent. ‘How about Anthony, though?’

  ‘Well, as far as Kost is concerned in that, I can’t say more at present than that he’s got no alibi later than five minutes past nine that night. He stayed in the public house less than ten minutes. Anthony was a lazy walker, and it is within the bounds of possibility that Kost followed him up—Kost is terrifically fast over a short distance—he told me so himself—boasted of it, in fact—and killed him in the sunk garden. That would account for the fact that I can find no one who saw Anthony alive after he left the lecture hall that night in Kost’s company. In any case, I think I’d be justified in holding on to Kost as the last person known to have seen Anthony alive.’

  The superintendent nodded.

  ‘And Caddick?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know,’ the inspector admitted. ‘I don’t know about her at all in connection with the murder of Anthony, unless it was at her instigation that Kost did the deed.’

  ‘Oh, the money business again?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We have to remember, superintendent, that Caddick knows the old lady better than anybody. She is her constant companion. It may be that a hint had been dropped to the effect that, after all, Anthony would inherit the fortune and the property instead of one of the others, and Caddick may have thought—knowing the young fellow pretty well, you see—that he would try to do her out of her share. She couldn’t afford to go to law, or was afraid of the law—one or other—and Kost settled the point for her by killing Anthony before the old lady died. How’s that, sir?’

  The superintendent nodded for the third time.

  ‘Well, at least it’s better than anything you’ve dished up yet, sonny,’ he observed. ‘I should get them—“safely gathered in ere the winter storms begin”—or, in other and plainer words, before some damned interfering, efficient, forty-round-the-chest London detective gets busy down here.’

  ‘I’ll see to it at once, sir.’

  ‘You’re not worrying about the other two, then?’ said the superintendent, looking at Bloxham’s notebook again.

  ‘The other two?’ Bloxham glanced over his superior’s shoulder at the page. ‘Oh, Herring and Miss Yeomond? Well, it’s the accomplice, you see. I can’t imagine those two helping each other to commit murder, nor Herring and Caddick, nor Kost and Herring, nor Kost and Miss Yeomond. You see what I mean? They—well, they just wouldn’t pair up in any way at all. It would be all wrong if they did.’

  ‘Yes. I know what you mean. Certainly the fact of the friendship between Kost and Caddick makes a lot of difference. What about there being no connection between the two murders, though? You say yourself that there was no need of an accomplice for the murder of Anthony.’

  ‘Well, there again, Kost and Caddick seem the only two that hang together, sir. Take the suspects for that first murder. Take them one by one:

  ‘Mrs Hobson.—I’d rule her out altogether if it weren’t for the fact that she had the best motive of anybody for wishing Hobson out of the way, and that she doesn’t happen to possess an alibi before twelve o’clock that night. But then, which of the others in that list would have been her accomplice?’

  ‘What about someone outside?’ suggested the superintendent.

  ‘Might be feasible if she had either relations or a lover in the district, but she has nobody. The nearest person to a friend, even, of the type required to put that body and statue in the lake and tie ’em together, is Constable Copple, and he can’t swim. Besides—!’

  Here both men laughed, and Bloxham took up the next name on the list.

  ‘Anthony.—Can’t see any motive. Besides, the question of an accomplice comes in again. Who would have helped him? And had Anthony the brains and the pluck to carry through a murder that has kept the police guessing all this time? He was a proper waster, that young fellow. And that’s the devil of it,’ concluded Bloxham unhappily. ‘I bet the murderer—Kost or whoever it is—is a fifty times better specimen than that weak-kneed young reprobate. Still, dooty’s dooty, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve almost convinced me of Kost and Caddick,’ said the superintendent. ‘Next, I see, you’ve put down the man Herring. Also, his name appears in both your columns. That is to say, he could have killed Anthony, according to the evidence in your possession.’

  ‘Herring,’ said the inspector, ‘is a bit of a puzzle to me. But, as I say, I’m inclined to rule him out because I can’t fit him up with an accomplice. There is just one explanation of the coincidence of the rabbit-stealing taking place each time on the night when murder was committed; I don’t know whether you will consider it farfetched, sir, I’m sure. Just supposing that the rabbit-killing stunt, which seems to have been carried out without Herring’s connivance, happened to be a real coincidence the first time, but that the second time it was used as a decoy for Herring.’

  The superintendent frowned, and tapped on the table with his pencil.

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you,’ he said. ‘Whom do you think killed the first rabbit?’

  ‘I think Anthony did. It seems fairly clear that Anthony started a silly scheme of practical jokes on his relations, perhaps with the intention of scaring them away.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The inheritance business again,’ the superintendent agreed.

  ‘Well, the murderer found out that Herring dared not let the old lady know one of her rabbits was missing, so when he wanted Herring out of the way he simply lifted another bunny, knowing that Herring would replace it.’

  ‘Why should he want Herring out of the way?’ asked the superintendent. ‘Any ideas about that?’

  ‘Man,’ said Bloxham, excitedly, ‘I see now! He wanted Herring out of the way for the same reason that Anthony had wanted Herring out of the way! In Herring’s absence it was easier to obtain possession of the key of the gate into the sunk garden! That must be it! It was Anthony whom Clive
Brown-Jenkins saw playing the fool round the house at just after one in the morning. Oh, damn it all! I wonder at what time it rained that night? Or didn’t it rain?’

  The superintendent picked up the telephone. A few seconds later he said:

  ‘It didn’t rain that night. But it rained the night before.’ He spoke into the telephone again. ‘Oh, and the night before that too,’ he said, as he hung up the receiver.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bloxham. ‘As a matter of fact, it doesn’t matter much. I’m only going to see whether I can catch old Mrs Puddequet out. You see, sir, Brown-Jenkins and Priscilla Yeomond both swear that at one o’clock that morning after Hobson’s death the one of them heard and the other actually saw a bathchair careering round the sports field. There are two bathchairs in a shed at the back of the house. One was used for some joking purpose on the night of the murder, and the other was used to carry the corpse of Hobson to the lake. That much seems certain. Old Mrs Puddequet sticks to the very absurd statement she made to me at the beginning of the enquiry—’

  ‘Absurd statement? Have I heard that one?’ enquired the superintendent, interested.

  ‘I fancy so, sir. She swears she was out in her bathchair at one o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Wait a minute. How much of a humanitarian is the old lady, in your opinion, boy?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ And Bloxham grinned broadly.

  ‘Would she be a party to saving a man’s life?’ enquired the superintendent.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t care to answer that question one way or the other,’ said Bloxham. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Never mind. I suppose I should be treading on your toes if I went up to Longer myself and questioned the old lady on your behalf? Never mind. Wait here. There’s tobacco in the cupboard, and, if you howl loud enough out of the backyard window, the sergeant’s good lady will bring you a cup of tea. Ta-ta.’

  With mixed feeling Bloxham stood at the window and watched the superintendent’s broad form bending over the starting handle of his car. He was not in uniform, and looked like a bookie who habitually did himself exceptionally well.

  The superintendent found old Mrs Puddequet in the sunk garden. The bathchair was standing empty near by, but the old lady herself was seated on one of the stone benches and was poking idly at the goldfish in the finished pond. She grasped her umbrella like a club when the superintendent appeared, and squealed at him.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said the superintendent, with great affability. ‘A fine day.’

  ‘Young man,’ squealed Great-aunt Puddequet, lowering the ferrule of the umbrella to the ground and blinking her yellow eyes in the strong sunlight, ‘it is a very fine day. What do you mean by coming philandering here?’

  ‘But I’m—my name isn’t Kost,’ said the superintendent, who was quick-witted enough to take immediate advantage of this promising opening.

  Old Mrs Puddequet laughed, and poked him reprovingly in the ribs with her umbrella.

  ‘Who told you about Kost?’ squealed she. ‘Would you believe it? Do you know Companion Caddick? Have you seen Kost? I never thought to admire that woman. When I engaged her I said to myself, “At any rate, Matilda Puddequet, this poor creature will never cause you a moment’s anxiety.” But really! When she came creeping into my room that night with that handsome, manly creature in tow, and gave him the bed in my dressing room, I thought I should have died laughing. I’ve a weak heart, you know. Old women are exceptionally wicked. I am an old woman. I am exceptionally wicked. That is a syllogism. And when, at my age, I ought to be meditating upon my sins—so I do, of course! All old people meditate upon their sins. I needn’t finish that syllogism, because you are an intelligent young man and you see already how it will go—I feel nothing but sadness to think how very much more wicked I might have been, if only I had had the pluck. And oh! the pleasant memories of sins I might have committed and actually did commit! Rejoice with me! I have been so much more sinful than most of my contemporaries.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the superintendent, somewhat hazily, for her harsh, strident, parrot-voice confused him, ‘it’s really wonderful what one can get away with. I suppose she spent the night in your dressing room too?’

  ‘That was the curious part of it,’ said old Mrs Puddequet, with glee. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t?’

  ‘No. She came out almost immediately and locked the door on the outside and took the key away with her. At six o’clock next morning she crept into my room again and went up to the dressing-room door and let him out. What can you make of that?’

  The superintendent concealed his true feelings in a most creditable manner, and replied:

  ‘Nothing at all.’ And then, falling in with the old lady’s obviously Rabelaisian frame of mind, he added, ‘Seems to have been rather a waste of time, doesn’t it?’

  Old Mrs Puddequet smote him playfully with the umbrella and squealed with joy.

  ‘But I suppose,’ the superintendent continued, cleverly following up his investigation along the line of least resistance, ‘you fell asleep or something, and perhaps lost the—er—the second act of the play?’ His voice ended on a mark of interrogation.

  ‘Oh, did I?’ snorted old Mrs Puddequet. ‘People of my age don’t get so much amusement, young man, that they can afford to go to sleep and miss things like that! I never would have believed it of Companion Caddick, never! To have sufficient enterprise to smuggle a young and handsome man into the house past my very bed—!’

  The recollection of it overcame her. She lay back in the bathchair and squealed and choked until she was exhausted with laughter.

  ‘You managed to pull the inspector’s leg pretty well, then,’ remarked the superintendent, grinning. ‘You told him you’d been out in this bathchair at one o’clock in the morning, if you remember.’

  ‘I don’t remember telling him anything of the kind!’ retorted old Mrs Puddequet, with spirit. ‘And what is he going to do about the stone balustrade up there, now that he’s smashed up my two stone balls, I wonder?’

  ‘I’ve brought you these to put in place of them,’ said Mrs Bradley’s voice from behind the statue of a Roman gladiator. She came forward. Under each arm she carried a stone ornament.

  ‘Please take them from me, superintendent,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Superintendent?’ squealed old Mrs Puddequet furiously. ‘Have I been talking all this time to an eavesdropping policeman?’

  ‘No, to an eavesdropping psychologist,’ said Mrs Bradley under her breath, for, by taking advantage of the cover afforded by the statue, she had managed to hear the whole conversation.

  ‘No bon, sonny,’ said the superintendent upon his return to Market Longer. Bloxham looked at him anxiously.

  ‘What isn’t?’ he asked.

  ‘Kost.’

  ‘No bon?’

  ‘No earthly bon. Fellow was locked in that dressing room all night. So, even if he killed Hobson, he couldn’t possibly have put the body in the water and tied it to that statue. Get out the book of words and let’s have another go, because, if Kost wasn’t the murderer, we’ve nothing on Caddick as the accomplice. You’ve certainly splashed the gravy up the wallpaper this time, boy.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Questionable Behaviour of a Champion Cyclist

  I

  ‘AT ANY RATE, we haven’t proved that Kost didn’t commit the second murder. He was the last person to see Anthony alive—’ began Bloxham despairingly.

  ‘You said that before,’ remarked the superintendent mildly. ‘I think I should go back to Longer if I were you and find out from Miss Caddick whether she really locked that door.’

  Bloxham, who had scarcely liked to suggest this obvious proceeding, was gone before the superintendent could say any more.

  Miss Caddick received him in the morning room, where she was having her tea.

  ‘You will have a cup of tea, inspector, won’t you?’ she fluttered.

  Bloxham said that
he would.

  ‘Did you wish to see me about—anything in particular?’ enquired Miss Caddick, after he had confessed to a preference for two lumps of sugar.

  ‘Er—yes.’ Bloxham helped himself to bread and butter. ‘Why did you lock the door on the outside when you’d shown Kost into Mrs Puddequet’s dressing room on the night of Hobson’s murder?’

  ‘Oh, that? Well you see’—she giggled coyly—‘I thought it would hardly do for anybody to open that door and find him there at night. So embarrassing for dear Mrs Puddequet, you see. I thought it would be so much simpler just to lock the door and take away the key.’

  Bloxham nodded gloomily.

  ‘I see,’ he said despondently. ‘Much simpler, of course.’

  ‘But in the middle of the night,’ Miss Caddick continued, ‘not long before Mr Clive woke us all up by falling downstairs, it occurred to me what great danger poor Mr Kost would be in supposing the house were to catch on fire. So I tiptoed into dear Mrs Puddequet’s room and unlocked the dressing-room door. Of course Mr Kost left the house quite early in the morning.’

  They talked on other matters for the next quarter of an hour, and then Bloxham took his leave. If Kost had been locked in the dressing room until midnight—

  At the gate of the sunk garden he encountered Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Are you going in or coming out?’ said he.

  ‘Well, I was going in to return a book I borrowed,’ replied Mrs Bradley, regarding him shrewdly with her humorous black eyes. ‘How goes the arithmetic?’

  ‘Arithmetic?’ Bloxham laughed shortly. ‘It comes out a lemon every time.’

  Mrs Bradley blinked over the idiom, and then grinned sympathetically.

  ‘Come into the library, where I have sufficient reason to go without asking for anybody belonging to the house,’ she said, ‘and then, whilst I put back this volume and borrow another, you shall tell me about the criminals and when they are to be arrested.’