The Worsted Viper (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  The woods were bounded by a simple wire fence. By the time Ian reached it his bathing trunks were no more than damp. He came cautiously into the open, skirted an arable field by its grassy verge, and then trotted again across a meadow to the farmyard. Here the boys had permission to draw water, so, filling his kettle, he returned by the way he had come, but travelled more slowly, for fear of spilling the water.

  When he reached the shores of the Broad again, he placed the kettle on the ground and reconnoitred carefully. Then he picked up the kettle, waded into the water, and, floating gently upon his back, balanced the kettle on his stomach. He held it in position with both hands, and, kicking gently, propelled himself across the thirty yards of water which separated the mainland from the island. In the afternoon more water would be required, and Edward would go, but would be able to cross in the dinghy, fully dressed, for Ian, when both were together on the island, could bring the dinghy back to her hiding place in the creek, and go to ferry his friend across to the island upon his return from the farm.

  Meanwhile, Edward, with the wind on the back of his neck to begin with, and never shifting further than on to his right cheek, made excellent time to Potter Heigham. It was in the provisions shop that he got his first account of the murders. Early though it was, there were six or seven yachtsmen and motorboat owners in the shop, and conversation was brisk and continuous. As it happened, no one else followed him in, so, when it came to his turn to be served, he said, rather diffidently, to the shopkeeper:

  “Has there really been a murder round here? I haven’t seen the papers for a week.”

  “Two murders,” said the shopkeeper. “Frighten people away from the Broads, that will. Not a doubt.” He proceeded to give some details whilst attending to Edward’s requirements. “I talk to a couple of policemen,” he concluded. “They think it do be wholly a poor lunatic, somebody with a boat. That flit from place to place, they say, and mark down some lonely female and then take the body and dump that in some lonely place. Have nobody on the Broads at all, if that go on much longer.”

  “No, it’s not very nice for ladies and children,” Edward politely agreed. “Haven’t the police any clues?”

  “That don’t seem so. There’s a reward this morning for anybody that give information.”

  “I say! Where do you have to send the information if you get any?”

  “Norwich.”

  “Norwich Police Station.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t meddle with murderers.”

  “Not even for a reward? How much is it, do you know?”

  “That don’t say how much.”

  “Still, it would have to be a quid or two, wouldn’t it? I mean, you couldn’t call a few bob a reward, could you?”

  “If that happen to be a hundred pounds, wholly in gold, that wouldn’t tempt me,” said the shopkeeper.

  But Edward, returning to the dinghy with his load of provisions, was full of thought. This amazing news must be communicated to Ian and they must take a hand in the search for the murderer. The dinghy needed all his attention going back, but when he reached the island his mind was full again of the idea of getting the reward.

  Voraciously the boys consumed their “elevenses,” and then, in the interval before it was time to prepare lunch, Edward repeated all that he had heard.

  “But how do we begin?” enquired Ian, who had a practical but unimaginative mind.

  “I bought a couple of papers in Potter Heigham, but haven’t had time to look at them yet. Perhaps they’ll give us a lead.”

  There was nothing more in the papers, however, in the way of information, than Edward had already gathered from the conversation in the provision shop, and had already retailed to Ian.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” said Ian, when they had exchanged newspapers and felt that there was no more to be gained by their perusal. “I think we ought to work over the map today, plan the thing out, start at dawn tomorrow, and visit both places. I don’t suppose the police are still there. We might hit on a clue.”

  Edward, after some thought, and a preliminary study of the map, agreed to this. They struck the tent that afternoon, packed up the rest of their provisions, the spirit lamp and the kettle, stowed away the mugs and plates (they used no cutlery except the knives which they carried strapped on to their belts), camouflaged a hideout for the gear, and, having scouted and reconnoitred, pushed off in the dinghy and made for Potter Heigham. They shot the bridge, and spent the afternoon, without the need to keep watch for the approach of enemies anxious to chase them away from private property, poring over the map, watching the inn at Thurne and charting a course for the morrow.

  They had tea out that day, and, at just before sunset, were off the island again. They did not put up the tent, but spent the night amid circumstances of the utmost discomfort in the dinghy, for they intended to be off as the night sky began to pale towards the dawn.

  Edward, having slept fitfully during the early hours of darkness, woke at about one in the morning cramped and stiff. He altered his position, but, finding no possible solution to the discomfort, and envying Ian his stolid and still repose, got up and stepped carefully over the thwarts and over the stern to land.

  A thick sweater, his blazer, a woollen scarf, a raincoat, and two pairs of socks had kept him reasonably warm, and his immediate thought was that a swim in the Broad might be worth while. He discarded his clothes, put on his raincoat over his naked body, put his shoes on to bare feet, and groped in his kit for a towel, which he knew was on top with his bathing trunks.

  He found the towel, wrapped it round his neck, and groped his way between the trees to the clear edge of the water from which they were accustomed to bathe. Here he discovered that out in the open the night was so clear that it gave the effect of being luminous, although there was not a moon.

  He put off his coat, placed the towel on top of it, and slid, with a delighted, involuntary shudder, into the still, cold water. The night was very quiet. He swam strongly and boldly towards the opposite shore. The water, of which his naked body seemed part, was delicious, and soon he was warm.

  He reached the shore, turned, swam back and forth, and stayed in the water for about a quarter of an hour, as content, as pagan, as much a part of eternity and as distinct from time, as the night, the water, and the stars.

  It was when he was within a yard or two of the island shore preparatory to landing that he heard the sound of muffled oars. His first thought was to secure himself against discovery. He turned, as quietly as an otter, away from the direction from which the sounds seemed to come, found depth of water in which to submerge, and swam under water to a great clump of reeds near the entrance to the creek where the dinghy lay at its moorings.

  He had to guess the distance, for the water seemed black as ink, and just as he came up to breathe his fingers touched the stiff, outer fringe of the reed-bed. In another second, and with no more sound than a rustling, he was among the reeds, up to his knees in the soft ooze which formed the bed of the creek and with his body submerged to the neck. There he waited and listened.

  There was no doubt that, although the actual direction from which the sounds came was difficult to locate in the darkness, the people were approaching the island. He could hear voices coming distinctly across the water, although he could not distinguish what was said. The voices were those of two men.

  Now that he had leisure for thought, two ideas were in Edward’s mind. The first, and less comfortable, was that these were the murderers with yet another body. The second was that they were poachers. He dismissed the second thought almost immediately, reflecting that there was nothing to poach but fish—and fish were so easily obtained that to take them by night seemed stupid.

  It was the killer at work again, then, decided Edward. But the thought of the reward came second, at that hour of the night, to the thought of their own danger. He waited no longer, but began to work his way round the clump of reeds to the mouth of the creek and to Ian, asleep
aboard the dinghy. He pulled on shirt, sweater, and shorts, and found his tennis shoes. His walking shoes were still beside the water. Dressed, he woke Ian gently, intending him to make no noise. He bent to his ear and whispered:

  “Something up. Come and see, will you?”

  Ian groped for his shoes, put them on, and crawled out of the dinghy. The two boys crept snakily among the trees. The soft mud, still between Edward’s toes, squelched clammily inside his shoes. The boys halted every few yards and listened intently, but nothing could be heard except the slight rustling noises of the night.

  At last they reached the place where Edward had left his things. The boys lay flat on the bank and listened again. From away to their left, by the reed-bed in which Edward had lain hidden, came the sound of the voices again.

  “Come on,” whispered Ian. He glided away towards the sound. Edward, unquestioning, followed him. Their progress became increasingly slow and cautious, for it was difficult to decide how far from them the owners of the voices had been. They were working back, round the shore of the Broad, towards the mouth of the creek, and the voices came ever nearer.

  Edward thought of the unknown persons coming upon the dinghy, and so realising that the boys were on the island. But there came no sound to indicate that the dinghy had been discovered. Instead, they themselves came upon a rowing-boat. Ian saw the dark shape first, and began to creep towards it. Hidden beside its bulk, the boys lay and wondered what to do with their prize. Ian, feeling for the rowlocks, found them padded. He groped for Edward’s hand and so communicated to him this discovery. Then he swarmed over the thwarts and found the shipped oars. The blades were muffled in a substance that felt like velvet. He whispered in Edward’s ear:

  “Let’s get back to camp. I’ll bring the dinghy if you can help me shove her out of the creek. Then you bring this boat. We’ll get them treed here.”

  This lawless plan made to Edward an immediate, irresistible appeal. They were almost on the edge of the creek. They lay and listened. The voices sounded more distant. They snaked in among the trees, listened again, and this time could hear nothing of the intruders. Quietly they pushed the dinghy towards the mouth of the creek. Her mast was stepped, her lug-sail folded away. Ian boarded her, quanted her into deep water, let her float onwards towards the middle of the Broad, then, judging it safe to do so, unshipped her short oars and rowed towards the staithe, which led to the river.

  Edward returned to the rowing boat. Here the task of putting off was an easy one. He picked up his raincoat, towel, and shoes, thrust them thriftily on board, and then shoved off, clambered aboard, fitted the muffled oars to the muffled rowlocks, and rowed quietly into the staithe. Once clear of the Broad, and straining his eyes against the darkness of the reeds and the deceptive glimmer of the water, he managed to get the boat to the river entrance. Here, on the broader stream, it was easier going. In a minute or two he rested on his oars and cautiously hailed his friend.

  From a short distance ahead the voice of Ian answered him.

  “Can’t go through Potter Heigham in the dark,” called Ian. “Have to stay here for a bit. Should be light in another hour.”

  They made no attempt to draw into the bank for fear of damaging their craft, but floated, carried on slowly by the lazy current of the Thurne, keeping head to water by an adroit use of the oars. By the time dawn came they were about half a mile above the railway bridge. The pulled onward, shot both bridges, rail and road, and drew in by Thurne Mouth for breakfast. Here they left the rowing-boat.

  After breakfast they hoisted sail, and a pleasant morning breeze carried them down to the inn by Wey Bridge for Acle. At Acle they went to the police.

  “Be a row about us being on the island,” said Edward, when a call had been put through to Norwich, and they had been told to wait, pending the inspector’s arrival.

  “Not if we’ve treed the murderer and they find another body,” said Ian hopefully. “Besides, we’ve done no damage. We haven’t even lighted a fire.”

  The sight of the boat with the muffled oars and rowlocks was sufficient to interest the inspector. He left it and the boys’ own craft in the care of the Acle police, and took the boys themselves, two constables, a doctor, and a sergeant in a fast motorboat from Acle up the Bure and the Thurne, and then, following the boys’ directions, once they had passed Potter Heigham, to the island.

  The closest search of the island, however, revealed nothing but the body, which the boys were not allowed to see. The inspector, in fact, had been so much impressed by the sight of the captured boat that he had forbidden the boys to join in the search. They remained in the police launch in charge of the sergeant, whilst the inspector and his constables searched the island.

  They did see the body brought on board, however.

  A delicately worded insinuation by Ian that the reward would not be refused if offered caused the inspector to grunt, but he promised that, if anything came of their efforts, he would support their claim to the money. Not a word was said about damage or trespass. In fact, such a point did not cross the inspector’s mind.

  • CHAPTER 12 •

  “My notion was that you had been

  (Before she had this fit)

  An obstacle that came between

  Him, and ourselves, and it.”

  —From Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

  “And do you mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Bradley, when the boys had told their story and had been taken by a kindly police sergeant to his wife to get cakes and cider, “that two boys aged…”

  “Fifteen.”

  “That two boys aged fifteen came way from all that excitement on the island and tamely hung about until morning in order to inform the police of suspicious behaviour on the part of person or persons unknown?”

  The inspector was disconcerted.

  “I checked their story pretty carefully, ma’am.”

  “I expect you did. Where are my students now?”

  The inspector consulted a map.

  “On Hickling Broad, ma’am. I thought you might like to go with these boys to the island.”

  As soon as the boys came back, Mrs. Bradley invited them to come for a run in O’Reilly.

  When lunch was over, she invited them to tell her their tale, putting in the bit she felt sure she had not been told in the inspector’s office.

  “Well,” said Edward, glancing at Ian, “we didn’t tell the inspector quite all because we thought he might be annoyed at what we did. You see, well, I live at Acle, and Ian spends most of the summer holidays at our place because his people are in India and his guardian goes to Harrogate, and we know the Broads pretty well. So, you see, when I let the inspector think that we sort of drifted down-river until it was light, that wasn’t quite true.”

  “At least, it was true in itself, in a way,” put in Ian; “but, of course, we did rather fill in a bit of the time in another way as well. In fact, we went back to the island.”

  “So I supposed,” said Mrs. Bradley. “You were anxious to discover how our gentlemen of the muffled oars were taking the loss of their boat. But why not have told the inspector?”

  “Well,” said Edward, with another glance at his friend. He was a fair-skinned, delicate-looking boy, a strange and complete contrast to the almost swarthy Ian, who, shorter and sturdier, was undoubtedly the leader of the two, but who lacked, Mrs. Bradley supposed, the brains and imagination of Edward. “Well,” said Edward again, “you see, when we got into the staithe, we didn’t make straight way for the River Thurne. Instead, we took the two boats up a small channel—you’d probably never think you could get up it, even in daylight, if you didn’t absolutely know it—and came ashore and worked round to the Broad again and lay on the bank and looked across at the island, and listened in.”

  “It was pretty ghoulish,” said Ian, “and for about a quarter of an hour we didn’t hear anything, and we began to wonder—at least, I did—whether, after all, we’d taken the boat of somebody quite innocen
t—eel fishers, or something of that sort—and just as we were getting fidgety with waiting, we heard the most frightful yell, and I said it must be the murderer getting to work.”

  “We felt pretty bad,” added Edward, “wondering whether we could have done something to stop it, if we’d stuck it out on the island, but…”

  “But I said the murderer would have done it, anyway, at some other time, even if we had been able to interfere…”

  “And, after a bit, while we waited and nothing else happened, Ian suggested that we should oil across the Broad and stalk the chap.”

  “So we shed our clothes just where we were, and took bearings, as well as we could, to mark the place, and slid in and swam across, sort of dog-paddling, without any splash, and came up in the reed-bed, and listened, up to our necks…”

  “Yes, and after about ten minutes, just as I was beginning to feel a bit cold, we heard a bloke singing. That was perfectly beastly…”

  “Yes, because, of course, we were pretty sure we’d heard him do the murder, and he was singing sort of happily…”

  “Not very loud, but it was as though he was fearfully bucked with himself over something…”

  “And then he came along to get his boat, and, of course, it simply wasn’t…”

  “Being safely parked in the cut at the side of the staithe. We’ll show you. And he stopped singing and started hunting for it, and then, when he couldn’t find it, he began swearing…”

  “And that was pretty beastly too; so cold-blooded and sort of filthy—I don’t mean the words so much, because we knew most of those—but the way he got them out.”

  “Yes, and he stamped about, looking for his beastly boat, but, of course, he couldn’t find it, and at last it seemed to dawn on him that he was treed all right, so he began to walk up and down and give kind of little cat-calls, as if he were signalling somebody—the other bloke, we supposed.”