“Could of been,” he said.
“Interesting,” said Dame Beatrice. “Which day of the week was this, did you say?”
“It was the Wednesday, because I missed Science with Mr. Graves. I likes Science.”
“Good for you. Now, then, Henry, I must check this. It may be important and it may not.”
“She was carrying an ‘andbag,” said Henry, on the defensive.
“Most women do. Describe her appearance.”
“She was dressed posh.”
“Yes?”
“She ‘ad on a sort of a mixed-up skirt, mostly grey and green and brown, and tidy sort of shoes—they was brown—and a sort of a yellow jersey with a woolly little coat what matched each other and she didn’t ‘ave no ‘aat, but she did ‘ave great big sun-glasses—very black they looked—with real sparklers on the rims.”
“And you received the impression that the man and the other woman were surprised to see her?”
“Ah, they was an’ all. Knocked cold, they was. The gentleman, ‘e calls ‘er ‘Ilary, so I knows ‘e knows ‘er. You don’t call strange women by their first names.”
“Hilary? Are you sure?”
“Ah, I be sure, all right.”
“Well,” said Gavin, when the boy, having received the half-crown he had come in search of, had been dismissed, “there’s no doubt that the whole thing begins to tie up. We have independent witnesses, none of whom can be ignored, that there was a strong connection between the Carmichaels and Hilary Beads.”
“I do not like putting children into the witness box,” said Dame Beatrice, “but I suspect that it will not come to that. We have established, as you say, that the Carmichaels and Hilary Beads were much more than chance-met acquaintances. And then there is the handbag, of course. Phlox appears, in the end, to have acted very foolishly. He took the fearful risk of moving that skeleton from the top of the tower (to whose door he must, of course, have made himself a duplicate key), he allowed himself to be seen and overheard when he risked using Hilary Beads’ first name—the one thing of all others which convinced me that Henry was speaking the truth—and he allowed himself to be seen in company with the boatman Plinlimmon at a time when nobody would have expected them to be together.”
“What I can’t understand,” said Gavin, “is how Plinlimmon knew where to contact him after Laura and I had been to Chelsea that day.”
“They must have kept in touch with one another, although for what reason we don’t know.”
“You don’t think Phlox followed us that day?”
“Not Phlox, but—I think you’ve hit it—the almost unnoticeable Marigold. Yes, that ties up! Marigold followed you, tipped off Phlox that you’d been talking to Plinlimmon and then got cold feet when she found out that Phlox had killed the old man to shut his mouth. Phlox then tipped her into the river and . . .” said Laura.
“And rescued her. Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, I know. He’d done enough to frighten her into silence, though, I suppose.”
“I am not at all sure that it wasn’t an accident. Consanguinity,” said Dame Beatrice, “is a strange thing. Blood is much thicker than water. It is established that new blood is a good thing to introduce into families, but the old ties remain. I don’t think I should have liked Hilary Beads,” she added, with apparent inconsequence, “but, that, of course, does not excuse Phlox for having murdered her.”
“Quite. Well, with this last bit of evidence, I have enough to pull him in and ask him some very (I trust) awkward questions.”
The arrest of Phlox Carmichael brought an immediate reaction from Marigold. She appeared at the Stone House brandishing a kukri. Célestine opened the door to her and gave a screech of Gallic horror.
“What make you with that?” she then demanded.
“I want vengeance!” shouted Marigold. “Vengeance upon the serpent who is taking away my brother’s life!”
The serpent in question, hearing the shouting, appeared in the doorway and put Célestine gently aside. Célestine slipped into the kitchen and whispered urgently to her husband.
“So it wasn’t a slasher,” said Dame Beatrice. “I was wrong. I had never thought of a Gurkha knife, but, of course, it was the very thing.”
“I will show you that it is,” said Marigold, quietly and simply. “I have come here to kill you.”
“Then I had better come outside. It will save a mess on the carpet. I wonder whether I shall bleed as much as your sister-in-law did? Lead the way to the Stone of Sacrifice.”
Marigold stared at her. Then she nodded and turned towards the gate. Dame Beatrice grabbed her wrist, and twisted the weapon away, as Henri and George came running out of the side door. Marigold screamed.
“And now,” said Dame Beatrice, “you had better come indoors and tell me all about it.”
Marigold went with her into the house. She sat down and began to cry. Dame Beatrice handed the kukri to George, who had followed them into the room to ask whether she had any orders for the car.
“Yes,” she said. “Take this thing and give it to the Superintendent at Culminster police station. He will be glad of it as an exhibit in his case against Mr. and Miss Carmichael. They may have cause to regret their passionate collecting of souvenirs. This,” she added, speaking to Marigold, “you presented to the vicar after you had killed your sister-in-law with it.”
“What are you going to do with me?” asked Marigold, without attempting to answer the accusation.
“I wish I could save your brother,” said Dame Beatrice. “I should still like to know, though, why he took the fearful risk of moving his wife’s body from the tower and immuring it in the smallholding.”
Marigold’s eyes widened.
“You don’t understand Phlox,” she said. “His is a sensitive nature. How could he leave the two sisters up there together? They’d have seen one another’s ghosts. Enough to make anybody believe in eternity!”
“It would be rational so to believe,” said Dame Beatrice, with a slight sigh for the endlessness of things.
About the Author
Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.
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