The Worsted Viper (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “No. I’ve thought about it a good deal. We all have. As a matter of fact, we wondered whether Kitty and I were alone on board whilst Alice was snooping about for footprints and things before we found the way to the bungalow. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think about that, child. Did the police search the cruiser?”

  “Had a look over her, that’s all, and shook out the cushions and looked among the stores. I asked the inspector what they were looking for, and he laughed and said that would be telling. My personal private view, which, out of respect for the law, I took care not to disclose, was that they didn’t know themselves what they were looking for. Oh, and we’ve all had our fingerprints taken. He asked whether we objected, but, of course, we were thrilled to bits, except young Alice. She thought it was rather low.”

  Mrs. Bradley chuckled.

  “How often do you examine your propeller?” she asked.

  “Haven’t bothered. Shan’t, unless we get a lot of weed. Even then, going astern will usually take it off. I know there’s weed here, but it’s only a nuisance if you dive too deep. It’s too far down below the surface to affect the boat. She only draws about a couple of feet. Why?”

  “Just an idea,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Would you mind taking the cruiser out to the spot where you found her when you climbed on board, knife between teeth?”

  Laura took the cruiser slowly out on to the Broad. She stopped the engine, fiddled with the wheel whilst the cruiser, still underway, was drifting, and then said:

  “Just about here, as near as I can get it.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Now, would you mind testing the depth of the water?”

  Laura went below for her homemade lead line, dropped it over and drew it up.

  “Six feet,” she said. “All right?”

  “It is all right for me if it is all right for you,” said Mrs. Bradley. “One moment.”

  She produced a small revolver.

  “Just to avoid what some have called rannygazoo,” she observed, examining it with care. “Now, whilst I sit on deck and keep an eye on the neighbourhood, my dear Laura, I shall be very much obliged if you will enter the water and take a look at the propeller.”

  “O.K.,” observed Laura, beginning to pull off her sweater. She was not long in the water.

  “Fastened to the shaft of the propeller? And a sheath-knife, ma’am?” said the inspector, when Mrs. Bradley had returned on board the Dithyramb to South Walsham, and then had got in touch with him again. “Many thanks, ma’am. I only hope that will be Exhibit A at the trial, if we can land our fish. He’s going to be a big one, by the sound of it. I’ve had some people here since you left this afternoon…yes, another murder. On board a houseboat, this time, and a very funny story attached.…Our Mr. Bleriot is doing himself proud, if it is him. Another woman, too, and much the same type as the first one. Homicidal maniac, all right. Wonder what effect it will have on the holiday-makers? Scare ’em off, I should think.”

  • CHAPTER 7 •

  This did not seem to encourage the witness at all; he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his tea-cup instead of the bread and butter.

  —From Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

  The Whitstables and the Ferriers always took their summer holidays together. Mrs. Whitstable and Mrs. Ferrier were sisters, their husbands were friends, and Joan Whitstable and Gavin Ferrier, the children, were much of an age. Apart from these pleasant and convenient facts, there was another which, if less pleasant (looked at from one point of view) was no less convenient. It was that holidays, of the kind which these families preferred, came a good deal cheaper for six than they would have done for three plus three.

  George Whitstable was a painter; William Ferrier was, vaguely, in the City. The two children were the determining factor when holiday dates were arranged, for both were still at school. Before the end of May, William Ferrier had always “fixed up” at the office to take a fortnight at the end of July, during August, or at the beginning of September. This year he had been allotted the fortnight beginning on Saturday, July 25th, and ending on the following Sunday three weeks, thus including an extra weekend upon which (for he was a simple-minded man whom a very little served to please) to congratulate himself.

  Asked by his fellow workers what he proposed to do for his holiday, he replied that he had “taken a house, as usual, only this time it was a houseboat.”

  This startling departure from custom had been received with loud applause by the children, and had been the subject of anxious debate by the wives. Mrs. Ferrier, in fact, had gone so far as to consult her doctor, to discover whether, in his opinion, houseboats were healthy. Mrs. Whitstable, larger, lazier, and more philosophic in some ways than her sister, did not “give a hoot for health,” but thought the shopping might be “a sweat.”

  Neither family had the money, and the Ferriers no time to hunt around for a suitable houseboat in a suitable situation, but William Ferrier (who, being in commerce, was, of course, a romantic, whereas George Whitstable, the painter, was a realist) had collected literature on the subject, and it was widely read, discussed, and pondered on, and at last a houseboat was selected.

  Then came a difficulty. No offer for less than a month would be entertained by the owner. The difficulty seemed insurmountable, for the best offer which the owner would make was that if by the end of June, he had a six weeks’ let to follow immediately upon the tenancy of the Whitstables and Ferriers, he would rent them the houseboat for their fortnight.

  The families were in despair. By this time they had set their hearts on a houseboat holiday, but, as Mrs. Ferrier pointed out, if they waited until the end of June and then the houseboat was denied them, it would be too late to book a reasonably priced house at the seaside.

  “Then the children can have a tent in the garden and go to the swimming baths every day, and we can all go out for motor-coach trips,” said Mrs. Whitstable, who was not going to allow herself to be worried.

  This reasonable attitude apparently inspired Fortune, for at the end of the following week the owner wrote again to say that he had reconsidered the matter, and that, as their references were good, he would let them have the houseboat for their fortnight without reference to any other “lets.”

  She was named Calpurnia and lay at Stalham in the entrance to Sutton Broad. The two families took a train for North Walsham, changed there on to the single track of the Midland and Great Northern branch line, and were on board Calpurnia and in holiday clothes by three o’clock in the afternoon.

  The houseboat had her own dinghy, and whilst George Whitstable, his wife, and her sister went off to purchase stores for the weekend, William Ferrier took the children boating and all three bathed.

  The weather was fine, and for three or four days enough was found to keep the party interested and on or near the houseboat all the time. By Wednesday, however, the party had decided that a little change would be welcome, and (the holiday, so far, having proved a pound or two less expensive than had been allowed for), William proposed to hire a small motorboat for the day and cruise upon Barton Broad and down the River Ant and along the Bure as far as Thurne Mouth, where two rivers joined.

  By five in the morning of the Thursday in that week when Mrs. Bradley began her investigation of the bungalow murder, young Joan Whitstable, aged eleven, had roused young Gavin Ferrier, aged ten, and they had begun to prepare the breakfast.

  Calpurnia was a well-constructed, conveniently arranged houseboat, and had two cabins, each about eight feet square with six feet of headroom. Both were furnished with spring-berths. One cabin, used also as the saloon, had two single berths, one along each side, and a table separating them. The other cabin, having no table, contained one double berth and one single. The Whitstables had this cabin, and little Gavin Ferrier had a mattress on the floor in the other, the table being moved out towards the galley to make
room for him.

  He and Joan moved the table quietly back as far as they could, went on to the narrow deck, lay on their stomachs, dabbled their hands and splashed their faces, and dried themselves on a roller towel. Then, while Joan cut bread and butter, Gavin sheared the rind off bacon and put the frying pan ready.

  When they had done all they could, they roused their protesting parents, and by seven the whole family was at breakfast. At a quarter past eight, goaded by the children, to whom the idea of a day in a motorboat was the wildest excitement imaginable, William and George, smoking pipes, walked ashore from the rear of the Calpurnia and set out for the boat-builder’s yard at which they hoped to hire their small craft.

  Their wives washed up the breakfast things, and the two children, provided with rods cut out of the hedge and furnished with twine and bent pins, sat with their legs dangling over the side of the houseboat and solemnly fished.

  A stranger, who passed and then came back and enquired of Mrs. Whitstable, who had finished washing the dishes and was seated in the well knitting whilst her sister put away the plates and cups, whether the houseboat was let at the end of the month, seemed unremarkable enough and proved difficult to identify later.

  At half-past nine William and George returned, George at the wheel of a twenty-two foot motor-cruiser of an old pattern but with a good engine, William seated near him in the stern.

  The children were enchanted, and insisted upon going aboard at once. Their fathers were no less anxious to be off, as the launch was to be returned to the yard by six o’clock. The women tied scarves round their heads, coats and bathing costumes were stowed in the small cabin, food, ready packed in baskets, was put on board, the camera, three thermos flasks of tea, towels, cigarettes, and sweets were also brought from the houseboat, and off went the little cruiser across Sutton Broad.

  The trip was not exciting, nor even particularly interesting at first, except to those who experienced it. The party had lunched at Thurne Mouth. People camping, three or four yachts Bermuda-rigged, the windmill (with enough wind blowing to spin its sails), a houseboat drawn up in a small cut near some willows, proved sufficient to keep the children interested and excited after lunch until, by parental decree, it was permissible to bathe.

  The two men, who had already bathed once that day, and were disinclined to pull on damp costumes (for the afternoon, although bright, was fresh and cool), elected to move northward up the river past Thurne village, to moor the cruiser in some convenient spot, and to leave the children in charge of the women whilst they themselves went off to the inn for beer.

  It was not quite two o’clock when they went ashore, and they had promised not to be away for more than about an hour.

  The children had their swim, were dried and dressed and given chocolate; Mrs. Ferrier poured out for herself and her sister all the tea that remained in the flasks; the children then paddled, dug in the mud with sticks, explored the bank of the river for about a quarter of a mile up-stream and then down, demanded and obtained sweets, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The wives knitted and gossiped. The clock in the cruiser’s galley crept round to a quarter to four.

  “What on earth are they doing all this time?” asked Mrs. Ferrier, for the fourth time. Her sister, at ease with sweets and the knitting she had brought with her, looked at her wristwatch, seemed surprised at the time, and then said:

  “Having a gossip, you bet. Talk about women being gasbags!” Then she went on knitting. Mrs. Ferrier said:

  “They promised we’d have tea in the village, and I could do with mine. Let’s leave them a note, and go on with the children and have it. Ten to one they won’t want any. Got a pencil? I haven’t.”

  Mrs. Whitstable hadn’t one either, but the small boy Gavin had three, and one of them had a point on it. His mother scribbled in her large, untidy writing on the inside of a torn paper bag, Gone to have tea.—Ethel. Then she put it in the middle of the table in the cabin with twopence on it to keep it from blowing away, and the two women and the two children walked into Thurne.

  They returned to the cruiser at a quarter to five. The five to seven horsepower engine was capable of developing a speed of about seven miles an hour. The distance from Thurne Mouth along the Bure and up the Ant to Stalham was about nine miles.

  “We’ve cut it fine. I expect George will grouse,” said Mrs. Whitstable, as they came in sight of the cruiser. But no impatient and reproachful husbands awaited them, and the scribbled note held down by its copper coins was still in the middle of the table.

  “Don’t like it much. Something must have happened,” said Mrs. Whitstable. Mrs. Ferrier went white, but said that it couldn’t have happened to both of them. Mrs. Whitstable agreed, but added that if her sister did not mind being left with the children she would go to the inn, which showed clearly through the trees and was in the opposite direction to the village, and bring George and William back with her.

  She reappeared alone some twenty minutes later, just as her sister was becoming really alarmed. She was looking worried and puzzled.

  “They’re asleep,” she said. “It must be the sun, or something in the beer, or something. They are quite all right, the landlord says, but as soon as he wakes them up they just mutter at him and go to sleep again. He doesn’t know what to do. I shook George until he rolled out of his chair, but although he woke up and spoke to me, he’s dropped right off again, lying there sprawled on the ground. Some men are going to bring them along and put them on board, and, if we have to sleep on this little boat, we do, I suppose. I did feel a fool, I can tell you!”

  “That’s all very well,” said Mrs. Ferrier, “but suppose it’s sleepy sickness or something catching?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’re not ill. They both look perfectly healthy. The landlord said they had a half-pint each, and then another half-pint, and sat talking, quite pleasantly, with one or two of the men, and then they just dropped off to sleep. He let them sleep until closing time, and then just locked the doors and left them. They’re outside, in deck-chairs, that’s one thing.”

  The kindness of the Norfolk host brought George and William at length—that is to say, just after opening time, when willing hands could be depended upon for transport—to the cruiser, but it was another hour and three-quarters before they were fit to take her back to Stalham. It was dark by the time they arrived at the boat-builder’s yard, and their thin-sounding story of having been doped off to sleep at a perfectly respectable and very well-known inn was dismissed with sour smiles by the owner. An extra ten shillings was handed over by William, and he and George, discussing, with annoyance and for the twentieth time, their adventure, went back with the women and children to the houseboat, for it had been felt, in the circumstances, that all speed must be made to return the cruiser, which for the last mile and a half of her journey, had been contravening all laws by being moved after dark, so the Calpurnia had been by-passed, and all walked back to her.

  It was not far to walk back to the Calpurnia, but it was such a dark night that the little party went cautiously along the bank, and then almost missed their craft in the blackness.

  George went aboard first, to light the lamps so that the others could see their way. The first thing he did was to fall over a deck-chair, which somebody had left at the foot of the three steps, which led from the after-deck into the cabin. He got up, swearing, and struck a match. A draught blew it out. He struck another, shielding it with his hand, and found his way to the cabin lamp, which was neatly fixed to the wall. He lighted it, shouted cheerily to the rest to come aboard, and passed on into the saloon.

  Here the lamp, he knew, was on a shelf at the head of the land-side berth. He pushed his way past the table, struck another match, and lifted down the lamp. The match went out as he turned with the lamp in his hand. He went to place the lamp on the table, where they were accustomed to have it in the evening, but, to his astonishment, the lamp, instead of resting firmly upon the hard and level surface of the table, struck down
on to something humped, uneven, and yielding, and crashed down onto the floor.

  “Hang it!” said George. “That’s very careless of the girls.” For the only thought which came into his head at the moment was that the two women must have left some of their gear on the table instead of clearing it away.

  The saloon was stinking of paraffin, and, hearing the others come aboard, he yelled out to them to stay where they were, as he had upset the lamp.

  “Oh, George! Haven’t you recovered yet?” cried his wife, reproachfully.

  “It isn’t my fault!” yelled George. “Some of you have been leaving your muck all over the table, and I went to put the lamp down, and—”

  He struck another match to find out the extent of the damage, but again the match went out. There was a store of candles, imported in case of emergency by Mrs. Ferrier, and he called for one to be brought. It was brought by William, who lighted it in the cabin and carried it into the saloon.

  “Good God!” said William, holding it up and disclosing the heap upon the table.

  “Who the devil is it?” asked George, equally disagreeably surprised.

  “Job for the police, whoever it is. Look at it,” said William, pointing in a horrified way at the body, which was lying on the table with its legs and arms dangling. There was no need to ask whether it was alive or dead. The throat had been so horridly cut that the head was almost hanging off, and twined into the fearful gash was a rounded snake made of wool, with a wicked little head of leather and two shining beads for its eyes.

  “I’ll keep the others out. You go and find a policeman,” said William, backing out with his candle, and beginning to retch.