Here Comes a Chopper

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘We’re locked in,’ said Dorothy. ‘What do we do about that?’

  ‘Nothing, at present,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You might as well go back to bed.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Stay here for a bit. Then, when people have realized that the alarm of fire was a hoax and have gone back to bed, I shall find means of projecting myself——’ She paused and cackled harshly, ‘into the garden and of picking up the quilt and its contents. Altogether a most satisfactory night’s work. I think we should be congratulated. It is odd how well Sherlock Holmes’ tricks nearly always work.’

  ‘I say,’ said Dorothy, struck by a thought. ‘Did you raise the alarm of fire?’

  ‘Yes, child. Didn’t you guess?’

  ‘Did you know that Captain Ranmore would come in here?’

  ‘And rescue the bust of himself? I hoped someone might.’

  ‘The bust? Oh, the new one! The one you put there? It’s gone, and you knew it would go!’

  ‘I hoped it might. Of course——’ She paused.

  ‘What will happen when he finds it isn’t the right bust?’ enquired Dorothy.

  ‘We must wait and see, child.’

  ‘Meanwhile, here we are.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Into bed you get. I don’t suppose it is the least use to suggest that you should go to sleep whilst all this excitement is in the air, but you will be warmer and more comfortable in bed.’

  As soon as the girl was settled and seemed relaxed, Mrs Bradley seated herself in an armchair near the bed, and faced the door. She took out a small revolver, and, sitting upright, cocked it and prepared to spend the rest of the night on watch.

  She was not kept waiting very long. The door-handle twisted at about two in the morning, and the door began to open. Mrs Bradley knew this only because of the draught which fanned her ankles through the aperture.

  She waited without breathing; then she uncocked her gun and cocked it again. She heard a gasp which she interpreted as dismay; then the door shut. She switched on her torch. The intruder had disappeared without trace or clue. Dorothy stirred, murmured, sighed, and was still again. Mrs Bradley went over, keeping the torch from shining on her face, but the child was fast asleep.

  At half-past four Mrs Bradley went to bed. She came down to breakfast at ten to find nearly everybody as late as she was herself. The topic of discussion was the night alarm. She ate her frugal breakfast and listened to the conversation, joining in, but merely to make humorous references to the affair. After breakfast she went into the garden. To her satisfaction, but not to her surprise, there was now no trace of the quilt.

  She went round to the front of the house. The archery targets had been taken in. She stood for a minute in the pillared portico, looking away over the garden towards the common. The morning air was fresh and pleasant, but not particularly warm, and she was about to go in when Captain Ranmore joined her.

  ‘Very odd,’ he said, ‘that business last night, you know. I can’t understand it at all. Who raised the alarm, I wonder? I’ve questioned the servants and all our people, and no one knows anything about it. Did you hear the alarm, or did somebody come and wake you? I didn’t see you on the lawn with the others.’

  ‘I heard the alarm, but there seems to have been no fire.’

  ‘Of course there wasn’t any fire. Somebody had a bad dream, I should rather think, and woke up suddenly and raised the alarm. Of course, Mary may be responsible. She seems to be in one of her moods.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll soon clear that up,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘It certainly was not Mary’s voice I heard.’

  Captain Ranmore regarded her in what seemed to be a perplexed way. He then said:

  ‘Are you sure of that? That it was not Mary’s voice?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Mrs Bradley replied.

  ‘I suppose you feel, as you have been in such close contact with Mary, that you would know her voice in any circumstances?’

  ‘I would not say that,’ Mrs Bradley responded, pursing her mouth judicially. ‘But I think I could say that I would know if it were not her voice.’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand what you mean. But, surely, if there were no fire, and it was not Mary (whose mentality, we know, is curious) who raised the alarm, does that mean that we have a practical joker in the house? Of course, a boy’s voice could sound like a woman’s.’

  ‘It could, perhaps.’

  ‘But I should not have thought George would have raised an alarm of fire. If I thought he had——’

  ‘I am sure it wasn’t George,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Besides, George is away at school.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. I forgot. That will spoil your dinner party, won’t it? Didn’t you intend to reproduce the conditions of the last one—the one—well, you know the one I mean.’

  ‘I know the one. It will make no difference at all.’

  ‘You do not then suspect George of having murdered Harry?’ He laughed. Mrs Bradley favoured him with a long stare, and then with her reptilian grin. ‘But who else could there be?’ he continued. ‘I mean, to rouse the household like that, last night. We haven’t a practical joker in the place.’

  ‘Except present company.’

  ‘Of course I except present company!’ He laughed again, but she knew that he knew he had put a false interpretation on her words. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I don’t remember seeing Miss Woodcote either. Was she out on the lawn?’

  ‘No, she was not. The young, of course, sleep soundly, particularly if they have not guilty consciences.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ranmore. ‘You know, I’m very glad you mentioned that. These two people—I can’t say I was attracted by that rather weedy-looking young Hoskyn—can’t stand minor poets—never could—but, my point is, those two admitted to having seen poor Harry Lingfield out riding.’

  ‘Yes? They did? What of that?’

  ‘Well, I suppose—I mean, accidents will happen, we know—I suppose they couldn’t, by any chance, know anything of his death?’

  ‘Why should they, if they haven’t admitted that they did?’

  ‘I only advance it as a theory. Poor Claudia! By the way, perhaps you could arrange for me to go and see her. I understand she is keeping quite well. Would that be so?’

  ‘She does keep well, I believe, but I cannot give you any hope of seeing her at present.’

  ‘Cannot? Or—will not?’ He looked at her fixedly.

  ‘Cannot, naturally. I do not know her wishes, either, with regard to visitors.’

  ‘Oh, but I thought—— Oh, well!’ He stepped out into the garden. ‘Let’s relax. What about a little archery practice? I’ll shoot you for love. What about it?’

  Both laughed, and he went off to the little summer-house where the bows, the arrows and the targets were usually housed. He disappeared up the steps and behind some trellis work, and was gone for about five minutes. Mrs Bradley, admiring the fine tall columns of the portico, had one of them between her and the steps up which Captain Ranmore had disappeared when there came the sound of a very loud yell in a masculine voice, followed by a slight scream in a feminine one.

  There followed a dramatic pause of perhaps five or six seconds; then a heavy body came crashing against the trellis and brought part of it down. At the same moment Mary Leith appeared at the top of the steps as though she had come from the summerhouse. It almost seemed as though she must have come from there, for in her hand was a bow and on her back was a quiver.

  She saw Mrs Bradley, and ran towards her, crying out in an excited but not a panic-stricken voice:

  ‘You’re a doctor! Come quickly! He’s shot poor Granny! He’s shot poor Granny through the thigh! I thought it was Harry come back!’

  Mrs Bradley ran with unexpected swiftness (unexpected, at any rate, by Mary Leith) up the steps and towards the summerhouse.

  The arrow still stood out from Ranmore’s thigh. A bow was on the ground beside him, and near it lay an arrow, the cock-feather broken off sho
rt and the point gleaming silver in the sun.

  ‘I am going to hurt you,’ said Mrs Bradley firmly. She knelt beside him. ‘Mary, sit on his shin and hold his foot.’ Mary Leith, her mouth quivering like that of a child who is going to cry, obeyed at once, and turned her back on the proceedings.

  Mrs Bradley took the victim’s handkerchief out of his pocket, and, spreading it over her hand, picked up the silver-tipped arrow. Before she proceeded with her work she blew three shrill blasts on her whistle. As though they had expected the signal, out from the bushes darted the inspector and the sergeant.

  ‘The summer-house! Quick!’ said Mrs Bradley. The inspector returned in two minutes.

  ‘Nobody there, mam,’ he said disgustedly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Illustrious idol! could the Egyptian seek

  Help from the garlic, onion, and the leek

  And pay no vows to thee, who wast their best

  God, and far more transcendent than the rest?’

  ROBERT HERRICK, The Welcome to Sack

  MRS BRADLEY’S RECONSTRUCTED dinner party lacked, so thought most of the guests, three out of its four principal figures. In place of Captain Ranmore, laid low in the local hospital but in no danger, was Bob Woodcote, present by special request of Mrs Bradley; in place of Mary Leith, suffering from shock, was the inspector. In place of the vivid Claudia Denbies was a nurse who was there to keep an eye on Lady Catherine, whose state of mind was no longer in doubt.

  Roger had arrived at four in the afternoon and had been welcomed by almost everyone except Dorothy. She avoided him. He was not as much put out by this as he might have been, however, because Bob’s presence did something to keep him in countenance.

  The two young men went out for a walk after tea, and did not return until it was time to dress for dinner. While they were gone, George Merrow arrived from school.

  ‘So you got here?’ said Eunice Pigdon, helping him put away his things.

  ‘Oh, yes. Week-end and Whit Monday,’ George replied. ‘Jolly good, I think, Piggie, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s nice for us to have you,’ said Eunice, with sincerity and irony so nicely mixed that the boy did not even look up. ‘Pity Mr Bookham can’t be here.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said George. ‘I’ve rather outgrown him, don’t you think? I shouldn’t think I’d have him again.’

  Eunice laughed as though he had said something with which she could agree.

  ‘Here’s Miss Woodcote,’ she said. ‘Have you outgrown her, too?’

  George greeted Dorothy, invited her to sit on the bed and then said suddenly:

  ‘Do women unbend the mind?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she answered, studying the handsome child intently but without appearing to do so. ‘Come and find out. You can put your other collar on in my room.’

  George, accepting this handsome offer to extend his social education, went along the passage with her and stared round her room with the liveliest interest.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, in tones of disappointment, ‘they’ve taken away my piece.’

  ‘Piece of what?’ Dorothy enquired.

  ‘Piece of sculpture. The one I had for my birthday.’

  This speech raised doubts and surmises in Dorothy’s mind.

  ‘What was it like?’ she enquired.

  ‘Like me, of course. Harry Lingfield made it. I suppose you don’t know where it went?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Dorothy. ‘The only one in here when I came this time was a bust of Captain Ranmore. Did Mr Lingfield make that, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but it wasn’t finished.’

  ‘Oh, wasn’t it? How much was done?’

  ‘I don’t know. He took it to the summer-house to finish it. I am hardly ever allowed in there. He often uses—used—it as a studio. And, of course, there are the bows and arrows as well. He looked after those.’

  Mrs Bradley was left to welcome John Hackhurst, who had come (he admitted peevishly) at great inconvenience and at short notice to make this visit to Whiteledge. He had scarcely been soothed, and provided with the whisky and soda which alone, he reported, would restore him after his journey, when Clare Dunley, the archaeologist, arrived.

  Unlike the painter, she was thoroughly delighted to have received the invitation.

  ‘This will see me through nicely,’ she confided to Mrs Bradley. ‘I am off to Africa next week, and am all packed up and my flat let for sixteen months. I should have gone to a hotel, but I loathe them. Whose bright idea was this week-end? Don’t tell me Lady Catherine’s. She never entertains from Easter until the autumn.’

  ‘We’ve met to discuss the last hours that Mr Lingfield spent here,’ said Mrs Bradley. Clare Dunley looked at her and then sniffed.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ she said. ‘Poor Harry! Not a bad sort in his way. I was a friend of his, you know. We met in Syria, as a matter of fact. I did not know him previously in England. That was quite ten years ago. He was able to get some concessions for me out there. To dig, you know. Of course, I don’t know how he affected younger women, but I liked him. I liked him very much.’

  ‘You say that with meaning,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘About younger women? Oh, yes. That’s why I’m surprised he wanted to marry Claudia Denbies. Perhaps there was fellow-feeling! One never knows. Both their pasts were—rather eventful, I think.’

  ‘Was he really a sculptor?’

  ‘I suppose so, although Claudia thought him a very good pianist, too. He accompanied her violin solos quite adequately, I believe. Of course, I myself don’t know the first thing about music, and I can’t say that the violin would be my favourite instrument if I did. I think it a very strange instrument. There is something quite eerie about it. Do you not think so?’

  ‘I should call the double bass more eerie, and perhaps the saxophone,’ Mrs Bradley civilly replied. ‘But, tell me, Mrs Dunley, did you ever see anything of Mr Lingfield’s work?’

  ‘His sculpture? Oh, yes. He used to work in the summer-house, you know, and occasionally one used to penetrate. Not that he liked to have visitors, especially towards the end of a piece of work. He did a nice thing of young George, though, and was getting on with a bust of Granny—that is, Captain Ranmore. I suppose that will never be finished.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It is finished. I finished it,’ responded Mrs Bradley, with what her hearer thought a peculiarly uncalled-for hoot of laughter.

  The two young Clandons, George’s innocuous twin cousins, arrived at six, went straight up to dress and came down early for sherry. The party was completed by the arrival of the inspector, who entered sheepishly, as though he doubted the warmth of his reception, and placed himself, with devout and obvious thankfulness, under Mrs Bradley’s wing, shelter to which he had never previously flown.

  When the meal was served, Mrs Bradley took the head of the table and little George Merrow the foot. The last person to appear was the nurse who had been engaged to look after Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine did not appear, however, but Mary Leith did, although she still seemed shocked and dazed by the accident to Captain Ranmore.

  TABLE II

  MRS BRADLEY

  —— JOHN HACKHURST

  MARJORIE CLANDON CLARE DUNLEY

  GARETH CLANDON BOB WOODCOTE

  MARY LEITH EUNICE PIGDON

  NURSE HOPKINS INSPECTOR LUCAS

  ROGER HOSKYN DOROTHY WOODCOTE

  GEORGE MERROW

  The Dinner Party given by Mrs Bradley for her Own Purposes at Whiteledge on Whitsun Saturday, May 19th.

  Thirteen persons at table.

  The dinner party, curiously enough (for the company seemed at first to be at odds and ill-assembled) turned out a great success. Mrs Bradley put the nervous guests at their ease and distributed the opportunities for conversation, so that Roger, who had come with very ill grace to the table, found himself recounting in lively vein (so that even Dorothy laughed) the story of the expedition to London with Parkinson and t
he little boys. Clare Dunley told anecdotes of her archaeological experiences which proved to be both lively and amusing. Dorothy referred to an undergraduate rag of the more subtle and brilliant sort, and Mrs Bradley capped everybody’s stories without appearing to do so, a rare social gift which Roger, who was not so equipped, wholeheartedly but enviously admired.

  The inspector was soon drawn into the general conversation, and related with gusto (and a very belated sense that he was talking of rope in the house of the hangman) the story of how a colleague of his had traced a murderer by means of a pair of braces. The only mute at the feast was Mary Leith, who, pallid, puffy-faced and apparently half-starving, wolfed food with intense concentration and spoke only to the nurse and once to Roger.

  Immediately the meal was over the nurse went away. In less than ten minutes Mary Leith followed her. If anybody present watched with a sigh of relief their disappearance from the scene, it was with an inaudible sigh, and the conversation which, in any case, had suffered only the mildest check, recovered as soon as they had closed the door behind them.

  Hackhurst had to catch a train at half-past ten, and departed soon after dinner. Bob had to return to the office, and the Clandons to town in their two-seater. Roger and Dorothy were to stay for one night, and so was Clare Dunley. The inspector’s plans were unknown except to himself and Mrs Bradley, but he got up almost as soon as John Hackhurst had gone, and was heard to drive away from the house.

  Those left were therefore few, and, from their own point of view—except for Mrs Bradley, whom they now watched nervously, and Roger, who never decried his own intelligence and charm—comparatively insignificant. Dorothy, after the events of the previous night, thought that she might have some glimmering of an idea of what Mrs Bradley had planned, and Eunice Pigdon, who sat with her intelligent little eyes fixed on the girl, seemed to be awaiting a cue, and so did Clare Dunley, reclining in a large armchair but really much more watchful than she seemed.

  The magic word came from Roger.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he cried. ‘It’s just dawned on me! We sat down thirteen at table!’