Come Away, Death

by Gladys Mitchell

  Mrs Bradley lay awake for half an hour, but nothing further disturbed the peace of the night. Next morning at breakfast (a curious meal at which there was nothing to drink but beer and goats’ milk, liquids combined in one mug with some success by Kenneth, who pronounced the mixture palatable and betted that it was beneficial to health, ‘beer being best and a food’ as he happily expressed it), Dick was encouraged to recount the dream which had so much upset the whole party.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said nervously. ‘I believe I was dreaming about poor Io at Mycenae. At least, I think I was dreaming that my entrails were spread all over Piccadilly Circus, only I was Io and the Circus was, somehow, in Athens. You know the kind of thing.’

  They all said they did.

  ‘I don’t call that much to yell the whole place down for,’ said Ivor, disparagingly. He had watched Mrs Bradley furtively all the time since the party had gathered for breakfast. Mrs Bradley now caught his eye and made a little, friendly grimace at him to indicate that she understood that no reference was to be made to his atavistic lapse of the night before. Comforted, Ivor grinned, and took a long gulp of the extraordinary liquor which Kenneth had poured into his mug before he began on the biscuits, cheese, and tinned tongue, the principal items of the meal.

  Breakfast over, Mrs Bradley strolled off by herself without conscious aim, and found herself back at the entrance to the excavations. She took the road back to Selçuk, intending to spend the morning visiting the remains of the cathedral of St John and the ruined mosque of Isa Bey II. When she came opposite the site of the temple, however, she could not forbear taking the turning, walking twenty yards or so off the road, and crossing the field of spiky, lacerating vegetation to gaze at the flooded foundations. Two women, one of them holding a tiny baby, stood there like gipsies, and watched her, curiosity struggling with apprehension. The one with the baby took care to keep the child’s face turned away.

  Mrs Bradley walked on towards the water. It was of considerable extent, for the estimated base of the temple occupied eighty thousand square feet, and she stood there for some time, considering the pond and mentally placing on the site an imposing reconstruction she had seen of the sixth-century Ionic temple. Suddenly her attention was caught by a sight at once familiar and extraordinary. This was the bloated, dark-marked, floating, headless body of a snake. Vastly intrigued, she descried another, and yet another, whilst a fourth was harboured in a weed-grown little inlet farther along the bank. There had been six of the vipers originally – for she had no doubt whatever that these were not snakes indigenous to Asia Minor, but must have formed Sir Rudri’s still mysterious collection of English adders – and she spent an interesting twenty minutes, while the sun grew hotter and flies began to hum, in locating the bodies of the other two. She found them – one tossed in a small, low-growing shrub; the other in the weeds that bordered the eastern end of the pond. She retrieved the bodies with the help of her parasol, and examined them. Where the heads were she did not know, and she felt that this did not particularly matter.

  She looked around. The woman and the baby had disappeared. Nothing living was near her, so far as she could tell, except the flies. She arranged the dead serpents on the ground and gazed at them in tranquil contemplation. Then she poked them among some bushes, walked briskly back to camp, and, without a word to anybody, began an unobtrusive search for the tin box in which they had travelled.

  It interested her to discover that she could not immediately find it.

  ‘Somebody wanted the tin so badly that he was prepared to kill the adders to get it,’ she said to herself. ‘Now, what did he want it for, I wonder?’

  Possibly (she privately considered) because of Cathleen’s vague fears that one of the party would die before the expedition was concluded, the tin box had always reminded her of a coffin. It was fantastic to think that one of the party should require a coffin, and yet – her musings were interrupted by the little boys, who had trailed her very skilfully and silently whilst she had made her search for the missing box. They now showed themselves, popping up suddenly on the steps of the library of Celsus and hailing her as she emerged from the subterranean chamber in which his marble sarcophagus still lay.

  ‘I say, what are you snooping round for?’ asked Kenneth. ‘You’re not exploring the ruins, or anything, are you? We’ve trailed you from the Sacred Way fountain and all round the back of the theatre.’

  ‘No, child,’ replied Mrs Bradley. She looked at them earnestly, and then made up her mind. ‘You are not to breathe a word to anybody else, but I’m very anxious to find Sir Rudri’s snake-box. It was brought here – I don’t know why’ – this, she realized, was a small mystery in itself which the elucidation of the slightly greater mystery of the disappearance of the box might possibly help to solve – ‘but it has disappeared. Nobody has told me it has gone. But it has. If anybody mentions it to you, do not tell them that I am looking for it.’

  ‘You want us to help you look?’ said Kenneth. ‘Good. That’ll be something pretty decent to do. We’ll comb the place for it. Thanks awfully for the tip.’

  ‘And mum’s the word,’ said Stewart.

  ‘You bet mum’s the word,’ said Ivor. Bending low, they sneaked away.

  Mrs Bradley quietly and methodically continued her own search. She also looked out for any indications which might show that the box had been buried. She and the boys spent an interesting, grubby kind of morning, but by lunch-time the box had not been found.

  Early in the afternoon, while siesta was being taken under the shade of the arches in the theatre where the sleeping-sacks were still laid, Stewart crawled up to Mrs Bradley, put his lips to her ear and whispered:

  ‘Did you know there’s blood on one of the sacks?’

  ‘Whose, dear child?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody has gone all round and cut off the name-tabs for a joke. It’s the one in my place, but I don’t really think it’s mine. I suppose it was meant for a joke.’

  ‘No, not for a joke,’ thought Mrs Bradley intrigued. Aloud she said:

  ‘Show me, when the others have gone.’

  There was no doubt about the blood. She gave Stewart her own sack and retained the blood-stained one. She had no means of telling whether the stains were human blood or not, but in the light of what had happened to the vipers, she thought the child’s discovery was interesting.

  During the afternoon the search for the box was abandoned by Mrs Bradley but prosecuted by the little boys, who appeared to find the quest compensation for the heat. By night, however, there was still no trace of the box. Mrs Bradley, having waylaid the leader of the expedition, encouraged him to sit beside her on the steps of the library of Celsus, and then questioned him concerning the vipers.

  ‘What made you bring them, dear child?’

  ‘I didn’t bring them. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Who might have thought they were needed?’

  ‘I really can’t imagine. Not Dick or Gelert. They would have known that I shouldn’t require them at Ephesus.’

  ‘What do you require at Ephesus?’

  ‘Nothing. I am merely experimenting. I thought perhaps we could try the Attis blood-bath.’

  ‘As part of the worship of Artemis?’

  ‘Well, she was worshipped after the same manner here, at times, because of the influence of Asiatic religions upon the colonists.’

  ‘I see. And where do we get the blood, dear child?’

  ‘Well, of course, there must be a victim – or the priests – we could gash ourselves with knives – do you like that idea?’

  ‘It is admirable,’ said Mrs Bradley. She looked at him sharply.

  ‘Then we might try the mere offerings of nature and so forth,’ Sir Rudri continued, indicating a very small fig-tree which grew near to where they were sitting.

  ‘But you’d rather be thoroughly wicked. I think I understand.’ She cackled, an eerie sound in the sunny, silent ruins. Sir Rudri shuddered.r />
  ‘What is your opinion of the story of Iphigenia?’ he inquired.

  ‘I have no opinion about it,’ she replied.

  ‘You do not recollect the story, perhaps?’

  ‘I recollect it, child.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Listen, Rudri. There is no need to sacrifice Megan. I am sure we can buy the photographs. Besides, I expect Armstrong’s married already. Has he asked you to let him marry Megan?’

  ‘You mean Iphigenia, Beatrice. No, he has not. I expect, though, that he will.’

  ‘Then you will be able to refuse.’

  ‘I can’t face the publication of those photographs.’

  ‘Nobody wants you to do so. Take heart. We shall buy them all back.’

  ‘You mean you would lend me the money? It’s very good of you, Beatrice.’ He became slightly maudlin. His eyes filled with tears. ‘If it all comes out I shall kill myself, you know. And then it will be good to know that Molly has a kind friend.’

  Mrs Bradley cackled, and poked him very painfully in the ribs.

  ‘I wish I knew why you have brought the vipers,’ she said.

  ‘But I haven’t brought the beastly things, I tell you!’ Sir Rudri yelled loudly and crossly. All trace of any emotion except exasperation, she was relieved to notice, had disappeared from his voice and countenance.

  ‘That box you keep them in has always reminded me of a coffin,’ she continued pleasantly. ‘It is like a coffin, child, isn’t it? Had you ever thought of that before? Yes, I can see you have.’ She peered at him with interest.

  ‘Oh, bother the beastly box,’ said Sir Rudri flatly. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about corpses and coffins.’

  Mrs Bradley thought of Cathleen’s prophecy. Coffins and corpses suggested that the prophecy must have come true. Without another word she got up. She no longer wanted the little boys to discover the box which once had housed the adders. If it now housed what she supposed it did, it would not be a thing for children to see.

  ‘I wish,’ said Sir Rudri peevishly, as though she were still beside him, ‘the man with the dogs would come.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘You know, whenever I go to the theatre and see any of those clever turns I go away feeling more than a year older.’

  1

  LATE THAT NIGHT, as though the granting of the wish had been delayed by the agency of an unseen, unsympathetic power, the baying of hounds could be heard.

  Mrs Bradley sat up and listened. The sounds approached the theatre, apparently along the Sacred Way. She heard Sir Rudri get up. She heard the voice of Alexander Currie. Then she heard Gelert call out:

  ‘That chap with the dogs is here, father. What shall we do?’

  The whole party groped its way out to see the dogs. Black as the hounds of hell in the light of the moon, the dogs were held in leash by a short squat man whose whip cracked, flicking a thin lash up against the moonlight. It was apparent that everyone but Mrs. Bradley and the little boys had been notified of the coming of the dogs. There was haggling, the clinking of coins, mutterings, grunts, and then the man went away towards the harbour, and the party gathered round the animals, which the man had tied to a tree.

  ‘What are they for?’ asked Kenneth, holding on to Mrs Bradley’s sleeve.

  ‘They have to be crowned, dear child.’

  ‘Why do they?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s part of the worship of one of the goddesses Artemis.’

  ‘I thought there was only one.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Mrs Bradley absently. She was watching whilst Sir Rudri lighted a torch of the kind he had used at Eleusis and held it above his head to look at the dogs.

  They were shaggy, snarling creatures, half-wild and wholly savage. Mrs Bradley, accustomed to the sheepdogs of Greece, kept her distance and retained firm hold of Kenneth who showed signs of wishing to pat the animals. Sir Rudri, still holding the torch up, appeared undecided as to the next move. The dogs strained and leapt. Their howls of anguish and fury – anguish because their only friend (as far as they knew) had deserted them, and fury because they did not care for the smell of their new owners – rent the night and echoed round the ancient city. It was obvious that those present would be risking their lives if they made any attempt to free the dogs, and the circle gradually moved away from the frenzied animals, and discussed in low tones the inadvisability of attempting to hold a religious ceremony in which the dogs took part.

  ‘We ought to feed them, though. We must be humane,’ said Dick. He disappeared into the darkness and came back later with meat.

  ‘I went into Selçuk for it this afternoon,’ he explained. ‘I think it might be mule. It’s rather “off”, but I don’t suppose it will harm the dogs. They are probably bred and born scavengers.’

  He fed the dogs with the meat, and for a short while all other sounds were subordinated to the unpleasing evidence that the faithful creatures were gulping the chunks of mule and almost choking themselves to death in the attempt to secure it all before it was taken away.

  Whilst they ate, Dick advanced and, taking advantage, riskily, of their preoccupation with the nauseous food, he patted them gently on the shoulders. The dogs growled, choked and swallowed, gulped, wolfed, growled, and dribbled. It was an interesting but not a pleasant scene.

  ‘I believe,’ said Dick, when the animals had eaten all that they could, ‘that we might venture to crown them now.’ Again he advanced. This time the quietened creatures showed evidence of pleasure at his approach. They fawned on him, licking his hand. The rest of the party made friends with them.

  ‘No, no,’ said Sir Rudri violently. ‘I am not in favour of crowning them. I am not convinced that the Greeks of Ephesus ever crowned their dogs at the feast of Artemis. The time of year is wrong, too. I think we had much better leave the animals tied up. The man will come and fetch them in the morning. It was just an idea of mine, but I regret the impulse now. Leave them be. Much better. Let us go to bed.’

  The dogs, slobbering and moaning, lay down and composed themselves for slumber.

  ‘Besides,’ Sir Rudri added, ‘we haven’t any crowns.’

  ‘We ought to crown them with serpents,’ Mrs Bradley suggested. ‘Would they belong to Hecate if they were crowned with serpents?’

  ‘None of that nonsense about the hanging woman! I don’t want her brought into it,’ said Sir Rudri peevishly.

  ‘The hanging woman?’ said Ivor. His voice held a note of fear. Now that the night had returned and brought back its terrors, he was nervous again, and afraid of the dark. Mrs Bradley looked on him compassionately. She was greatly in sympathy with children who feared the dark, knowing the years of torment through which such children go.

  ‘A rather interesting story. Don’t you know it?’ she said. ‘The woman hanged herself, and then was dressed by the goddess in her own clothes and called Hecate. Since then Artemis has often been identified with Hecate, and the one was worshipped as the other.’

  This straightforward version of the story comforted Ivor. Soon after they had returned to the shelter of the passage of the theatre, he was asleep. It was Stewart who lay and fidgeted. Suddenly he whispered.

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I know where it is.’

  ‘Where, child?’

  ‘On the hillside above the theatre. We’ve only looked among the ruins so far.’

  ‘It couldn’t be taken up high. It must be on level ground somewhere.’

  ‘It isn’t very heavy, you know.’

  ‘We’ll explore in the morning, dear child.’

  In the morning the boys led the way. They climbed to the top of the theatre so that from where they stood the excavated city and the marshes by the old harbour formed a clear picture almost like the view from an aeroplane.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Stewart, shading his eyes as he looked about him, ‘let’s use our brains.’ His face lighted suddenly. ‘And the dogs!’

  ‘One point,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘The box would
be so heavy that it couldn’t be carried far away. Let us go back to where all the baggage was first set down. I don’t think we had better untie the dogs. I fear they might eat us, dear child.’

  They went back towards the stadium.

  ‘There ought to be clues and things,’ suggested Kenneth. He looked at the area of cultivated land. ‘Footprints and motor-car tyres, and all that sort of thing. But there’s nothing except the places where that chap picking beans is treading.’

  The Turkish husbandman, seeing them, waved a greeting.

  ‘We ought to have the dogs – well, one dog, anyway,’ said Stewart, looking appealingly at Mrs Bradley. She followed him back to where the dogs were tied up. The animals leapt the full length of their chains and fell back, choking.

  ‘Poor dogs. They ought to have a run. Stand by! I’m going to unchain them,’ said Ivor, anxious to prove that, although he was afraid of the dark, he was not afraid of anything else, not even of Turkish dogs. The dogs stood still to be loosed. Then they bounded away towards the harbour.

  ‘Oh, dash!’ said Ivor, gazing after them. ‘They might have waited and let us go with them, I think.’

  ‘Want any help?’ inquired Gelert, suddenly coming up.

  ‘Yes, child, please,’ Mrs Bradley replied, as though she had not detected the ill-humoured irony in his tone. ‘Go with the little boys after those dogs, if you will. Take a walking-stick with you. You may need it.’

  Gelert lounged off along the Arcadiane, carefully picking a track. As soon as he and the boys were out of sight, Mrs Bradley made for the stadium again and persuaded the Turkish peasant to scratch over the surface of the ground. He did as she asked him, and then pointed to a group of his plants, spoke eloquently but unintelligibly, and suddenly pulled them up.

  Mrs Bradley walked on to his land and, bending down, helped him to dig. She knew now what he had meant. The wilted plants proved it. They had been pulled up and then replanted on top of the box.