The Worsted Viper (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “If we could put Copley and this Amos Bleriot together over that business I should say the case is in the bag,” observed Os, who had heard the last remark. “I don’t care for the look of all this blood.”

  “What, then, do you suppose, is the motive for the murders, beyond the fact that Copley must sometimes have longed to be rid of his sister?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  “I’d say he intended, with Bleriot’s help, to make a screen for himself. Much easier to get rid of his sister safely if he could make us believe that a maniac was at work in the district.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded solemnly, but not in agreement with this argument.

  “He would have chosen local people in that case, surely,” said Pirberry. “That’s the snag, it seems to me; this business of transporting the women from London.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He was an experienced yachtsman, I imagine. Didn’t he tell us that he wanted to bring a yacht round the coast to Yarmouth from the Thames?” said Mr. Os. “And being a Londoner, you see—”

  “A bad slip, if he really did murder those three women,” said Mrs. Bradley. “To me, the whole thing is too elaborate a framework within which to plan the murder of one poor mental defective. I still think there is something more behind all we have learned. I still think we should keep a check on all wherries. One other point occurs to me. Do you not think, Mr. Os, that the motive of the murderers was not only to clear these waters at night, but also that it may have been to distract attention from another part of the county?”

  She seated herself on the sand about seven yards from the hole, and spread out the map.

  “Another part of the county?” said Pirberry. He seated himself beside her. “You don’t mean—Sandringham?”

  “No, I don’t mean Sandringham. If I had to make an inspired guess, I should suggest Little Walsingham.”

  “Little Walsingham? But there’s nothing at Little Walsingham!”

  “Except a few ruins,” said Mr. Os, grinning. “There used to be an abbey there. Not much left standing now, and what there is is mostly on private property.”

  “It used to be a place of pilgrimage,” said Mrs. Bradley. “The legend is that the home of the Virgin was transported there; that the shrine was erected by angels; that it was covered with jewels…”

  “Jewels?” said Pirberry, as though the word itself was a jewel picked out of a large dump of rubbish.

  “Yes. The buildings were wrecked, of course, at the Dissolution, but, among other remains, the east wall, with its window, still stands, and the ruins can be seen by visitors on certain weekdays, I believe.”

  “What happened to the jewels? Went with all the rest of the loot, I suppose?” said Pirberry, pursuing what was to him the whole point of the discourse.

  “I don’t know what happened to the jewels, but I’ve no doubt they were not overlooked by the Commissioners,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “I think, when we have finished here, we might do worse than go to Little Walsingham, Inspector.”

  “Just as you please, ma’am. But I can’t see why…”

  “Can’t you? Do you remember the case of a man named Bone, who was arrested for the murder of a prostitute, one Minnie Baum, about three years ago, in London?”

  “I—yes, of course, I do,” said the inspector, staring.

  “There’s not,” said Pirberry, intervening, “there’s not necessarily any connection, mam, you know. I mean, granted the three bodies found by the local police”—he made a graceful gesture towards the inspector—“were actually those of three women of the profession you mention, there is nothing to show…”

  “No,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but I suggest that you look up details of the murder of Minnie Baum before you go further into this case. You may find startling parallels. Has Mr. Os not told you that two, at any rate, of these women were connected with what may be a Satanist club?”

  “But what’s all this about Little Walsingham, ma’am?” demanded Inspector Os. “You’re not suggesting they’re going to pinch the ruins?”

  “Yes, I am, Inspector. I am suggesting exactly that. And it seems to me that it will be attempted soon. If the east end of Walsingham Priory is to remain where it is, I should say we have no time to lose. If Detective Inspector Pirberry will look up the Bone case…”

  “All right, I will,” said Pirberry. “Not that I can see how it will help us, but I have enough experience of your methods, mam, to know that you mean what you say, and that you’re likely to be right. But what’s the idea? Are there still any jewels among the ruins?”

  “No,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “The only jewel is the fact that, apart from Glastonbury, the ruins at Little Walsingham are the most sacred in England. If you will look up the Bone case, I think you’ll soon see what may be happening. Could you get at the records right away? I should be interested to look at them myself.”

  “I’ll get them sent up from London. Meanwhile…”

  “I still don’t see how this affects Edgar Copley,” said Os, frowning, “but no doubt it will all work out.”

  “Oh, yes, it will all work out,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And I want to see Edgar Copley. And I want to know all about his life in London. And I want to know whether he knew Bone.”

  “But Bone is dead,” said Os, again staring at her. “He died a year ago at Broadmoor. It’s his case Mr. Pirberry is going to look up, isn’t it?”

  “One Bone is dead,” Mrs. Bradley answered. “In fact, two Bones are dead. But it seems that their mantle fell upon a third, who is very much alive. At any rate, it does no harm to think so.”

  Both men stared at her this time. She grinned, and told them about the anonymous letters.

  “From Norwich, ma’am?” said Os. “I wonder if the superintendent knows?”

  • CHAPTER 21 •

  “…she tried the little golden key in her desk, and to her great delight it fitted!”

  —From Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

  Pirberry telegraphed to London for the records of the murder of Minnie Baum, and they were sent by special messenger. He waited in Norwich for them, whilst Inspector Os and Mrs. Bradley journeyed by car to Little Walsingham. Jonathan and Deborah accompanied them.

  The self-conscious but pretty little town was still a place of pilgrimage, chiefly for holiday-makers who came to visit the locality of the once-famous and sacred abbey, rather than for the devout, although there were a good many of these, too, Catholics mostly, who visited the Catholic church which held a copy of the shrine.

  The abbey ruins were on private ground amid beautiful surroundings of green turf and pleasant groups of trees. The east end engaged Mrs. Bradley’s attention. At the top could still be seen the slope taken by the roof. Two small round turrets, one on either side of the angle formed by the roof, were above the early English angle-buttresses. Below the turrets, and still in the angle of the roof, was a small round window, its tracery still to be seen; and below this again was the magnificent, long arch of the east window itself, with niches for statues on either side of the buttresses. The effect of the grey stone against the summer green of the turf and the grove of spreading trees was very striking, and it was a feeling far removed from the interest of the chase that Mrs. Bradley stood and regarded the scene.

  Beyond the ruins stretched a fine and open park. The sky was faintly blue and very clear. A slight wind stirred in the leaves, and the shadows cast on the ground served only to enhance the quiet loveliness of the day.

  The inspector sighed deeply as he turned to her.

  “How many centuries, ma’am, has that stood here?”

  “Six, at least, inspector. The first chapel was built in the twelfth century. This building came later, of course.”

  “And held the shrine with all those jewels, ma’am?”

  “Yes, with all those jewels. Also a joint of Saint Peter’s finger and a crystal flask containing the Virgin’s milk.”

  The inspector wagged his head with agnostic doubt.


  “Funny, the old things they believed, ma’am, isn’t it? Yet happier in their beliefs than you and me, we might say. One thing I discovered in the town—the people that own the big house here, and consequently these ruins, went on their holidays this morning. It appears that if you’re right, and these ruins are to be pinched—although why anybody but a crazy lunatic—still, that’s neither here nor there for the moment—if you’re right, I say, the attempt will be made pretty soon.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Bradley. “The stars, it would seem, are in conjunction. With the waterways clear and the owners away from their property, the way would appear to be open. I wonder how long they’ve allowed themselves for the task, and how many workmen they’ve got? It’s a highly skilled business to demolish a structure in such a way that it can be set up again elsewhere. I suppose their idea is to sell it in America, although—”

  She stepped back a dozen yards, and looked at the east end again.

  “I should have thought it was the spot that was sacred, not so much the stones, ma’am,” the inspector suggested, walking back with her and following her gaze.

  “Still, a consecrated building, you know,” Mrs. Bradley observed. “Satanists do not necessarily require such a building for their practices, but—you have heard, perhaps, of the Hell-Fire Club?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, ma’am. But that flourished long enough ago.”

  “So it did. But it has plenty of descendants. People sick in mind and soul—if you believe in soul—still carry on those same demoniac practices, believing firmly in them. The rites are childish, and to some minds disgusting, but the sincere among the practitioners—and there are more of them than you might think—are as convinced of the rightness of their performances as are the pious faithful convinced of the rightness of Christian worship. People are very odd,” she added tolerantly.

  “Murder isn’t exactly odd, ma’am,” remarked the inspector. “It’s against the law, that’s what it is.”

  “And rightly so,” agreed Mrs. Bradley. “Think of the social consequences if it were not.” She cackled harshly, and, to the inspector’s mind, unnecessarily. “And now,” she said, “for Detective Inspector Pirberry’s revelations.”

  “I doubt whether much will come of those, ma’am,” the inspector observed. “I remember the case pretty well. I can’t say there seemed much in it. It didn’t compare with Ronald True.”

  “Why should it?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  “Well—the criminal lunacy, ma’am.”

  “Oh, that, of course. I thought you meant the details. My son was Counsel for the Prosecution. He didn’t think Bone was insane. But, of course, he isn’t qualified to judge.”

  “So you know all about the case, ma’am?”

  “Very far from it, Inspector. I was extremely busy at the time, and my only connection with the case was to give my son, and incidentally the police, some small pieces of information. As I told you, I received two interesting anonymous letters—how interesting I have only lately begun to realise—but otherwise my mind is guiltless of any real knowledge of Bone the murderer, and certainly of the details of the trial. I hope and expect to be shocked and thrilled by Mr. Pirberry’s recital.”

  The inspector regarded her doubtfully, reflecting, probably, that it is not the mission in life of Detective Inspectors of the Criminal Investigation Department to shock or thrill. She turned her back on the ruins and began to walk away, but suddenly changed her mind and walked towards them. To her amusement, about a dozen sightseers followed her example.

  She gazed, however, no longer up at the walls, but down at the turf. She even went down on her knees (with what the inspector thought was a gracious but not wholly necessary gesture of respect for consecrated ground). Her object, however, was not to behave in a manner calculated to indicate piety; she wished merely to ascertain that the ground had been put to no unholy uses by celebrants of the Black Mass.

  It was innocent, so far as she could determine, of magic circles and vile pentagrams, of runes and stars and all the paraphernalia of the devil-worshippers. She rose from her knees, waited upon respectfully by the inspector and eyed curiously by other spectators, and this time she really did walk away from the ruins and under an arched gateway back to the high street of the town. Jonathan and Deborah, whose interest in the ruins had waned more rapidly, followed thankfully.

  “I wonder?” she said aloud.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “That house in Worstead, or that farmhouse on the marshes, or both?”

  “Both what, ma’am?”

  “Headquarters and tabernacle, as it were, of the Satanists. And who, I wonder, is their priest? And where, oh, where, do they procure—no, that has a technical connotation in the circumstances—”

  She broke off. The inspector, looking befogged, waited for her to continue. She did continue, but along what seemed to him entirely different lines.

  “Apart from these murders,” she said, “do many people round here disappear from their usual haunts, Inspector?”

  “Disappear, ma’am? Well, we get the usual crop. Bored and fed-up husbands running from home it is mostly. Small blame to them, say I, although I’m not a married man myself.”

  “Young girls are what I want to hear about,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I want a list of all those who have disappeared during this year.”

  “Not more murders, ma’am?”

  “I hope not, no. But nothing very good, all the same.”

  “You mean these Satanists you talk about? They may have decoyed young girls?”

  “Exactly. Virgins, you see.”

  The inspector looked profoundly shocked by this innocent and beautiful word.

  “Obscene practices, ma’am?” he suggested.

  “Not exactly; in fact, not necessarily at all. Just part of the ritual, you know. Nothing really horrid, I assure you.”

  The inspector appeared to place small faith in this assurance. He sucked his teeth, and seemed to be glad when the car glided up to the pavement with the chauffeur George at the wheel.

  “Norwich,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Come along, children.”

  The report, and Pirberry, awaited Mrs. Bradley at her hotel, and when Mr. Os had gone, she got to work in her private sitting-room whilst Pirberry went through his case-notes and planned the further combing out of hotels and boarding-houses in Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, and Cromer, in search of the still-elusive and badly-wanted Amos Bleriot.

  “You know,” said Pirberry, seeing her look up for a moment, “we can’t hold Copley, and yet I’ve got the feeling now that he’s our man. We’re keeping tabs on him, of course, but what can we prove?”

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Bradley, “at present. How did the London end turn out?”

  “Well, he seems to be what he represents. And he certainly did have an idiot sister living with him.”

  “Thereby hangs a curious fact,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and one which, at present, I don’t want passed on to anybody. I examined the body of Romance Copley, as you know.”

  “Yes?”

  “My conviction is that she was perfectly normal.”

  “My gosh!” said Pirberry, staring. “You don’t mean it wasn’t his sister? We ought to get her identified. We’ve only got Copley’s word, after all, that she was his sister.”

  “Yes, you ought to see to it,” Mrs. Bradley observed. “It would make a considerable difference to the faith we can put in Copley’s truthfulness if it proved not to be his sister after all.”

  “You betcher,” agreed Pirberry, crudely, but with considerable emphasis. “I’ll get on to it right away. Needn’t say anything to Os, and then, if it turns out it is his sister all the time, we’re no worse off.”

  “It is odd how generally unpopular Ms. Os seems to be,” remarked Mrs. Bradley placidly.

  At six o’clock next morning Mrs. Bradley got up to go for a stroll. She left the city, went out on to Mousehold Heath and stood beneath a pine tree on the slope of
a gorse-covered hill. Clear against the faint, greyish sky of the morning rose the cathedral tower, topped by its spire and backed by the bulk of the castle. The ancient house of God looked sane and beautiful in contrast with the stupidities and childish gutter-nonsense of the Satanist literature she had read and considered so carefully the previous night.

  Walking briskly over the hard, rough ground of the common, she returned to the city and to her breakfast. Deborah, fresh and lovely, was already seated at the breakfast table reading a morning paper. She smiled at Mrs. Bradley, and laid the paper aside.

  “Jonathan won’t be long. I left him shaving,” she said. “Have you had a nice walk?”

  “A very nice walk, thank you. And now, child, I want you to be very good and go home. Jonathan can go along with you. I’d rather he did.”

  “He wouldn’t come,” said Deborah. “I am under no illusion at all as to which of us he really prefers. So I’m staying to join in the fun.”

  “There is no fun,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I do nothing but confer with the police.”

  “I like the police,” retorted Deborah, “and I’m going to stay, so you can just make up your mind to it.”

  She gave an order to the waiter and proceeded to make a good breakfast, which made Mrs. Bradley’s meal of dry toast and China tea look more than usually Spartan.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bradley resignedly, “we’ll see what Jonathan says. And you will please allow me to do the talking.”

  “You may, but it won’t make any difference. Aren’t I behaving nicely?”

  “Yes, you are. But I shall be happier—very much happier, when you are safely with your parents.”

  “Safely!” said Deborah, making an impertinent grimace. “Besides, I can’t be with them. They’ve gone to Galway. Father is fishing.”

  “But, Deb, it’s so frightfully dull here,” protested Jonathan, joining in the argument directly he came down.