Death of a Delft Blue (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Do you really think we can get anything else there?”

  “I certainly think we should leave Derbyshire to Robert.”

  “Are you going to tackle old Mr. van Zestien again?”

  “No, but I think I might question young Mr. Colwyn-Welch again.”

  “About the poisoned chocolate-cream?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “What other things?”

  “Barrel-organs, I suppose,” said Dame Beatrice vaguely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  North Norfolk Again

  “He that shall resolutely excite his faculties . . . may set at defiance the morning mist and the evening damp, the blasts of the east and the clouds of the south.”

  Doctor Johnson

  Time being no longer of the essence, Dame Beatrice and Laura spent the better part of a week in Holland before returning home. They toured the country between Apeldoorn and Arnhem and visited the national park and game reserve, the Airborne Cemetery at Oosterbeek (where Dutch children tend the flowers on the graves of the English dead), the Open Air Museum at Arnhem, and the Belvedere of Nijmegen.

  “Well,” said Laura, when they had boarded the boat bound for Harwich, “we’ve done ourselves proud. And now—to the work!”

  George met them at Harwich with the car and drove them to the tall house in Kensington. There was a pile of correspondence about Dame Beatrice’s London clinic for Laura to tackle, and a formidable list of appointments for Dame Beatrice herself, so that, for the next day or two, both were kept extremely busy.

  There was no word from Gavin, so they assumed that no further progress had been made at the Derbyshire end. Laura took down Dame Beatrice’s brief notes on the latest visit to Amsterdam and expanded them into a letter. At her employer’s request, she added a postscript to the effect that they proposed to visit Leyden Hall again with the object, chiefly, of bullying Binnie and of interviewing Florian. A brief acknowledgment of the letter was the only reply.

  “Poor Gavin!” said Laura, handing his scrappy little typescript to Dame Beatrice. “I bet he’s sweating himself footsore and still got nothing to show for it. He’ll be hopping mad, I expect. He does loathe failure and it’s a great pity if ever he does fail—and, of course, it has to happen sometimes—because he’s so very thorough and he does work so terribly hard. I only hope he’s having his proper meals.”

  “Well, we seem to have cleared up most things here,” said Dame Beatrice, amused and somewhat touched by this unusual evidence of wifely concern, “and now that dear Robert knows what we intend, we may as well get to work before the more unpleasant of the autumn weather sets in. It can be extremely cold near the North Norfolk coast. I noted that in your letter you spoke of ‘bullying’ Binnie. Is that the best line to take with her, I wonder? It works wonderfully well with some people, but leads to stubbornness in others.”

  “I wonder how cagey that wee bird is?” said Laura.

  “How strangely, and yet (one can’t help feeling), how aptly you choose your words, child. Ah, well, get George to have the car ready by nine tomorrow morning. We will lunch in Norwich and descend on the household at the witching hour of three in the afternoon.”

  “You won’t let them know we’re coming?”

  “This time I think not. Avenging angels do not need to advertise their function in advance.”

  “ ‘The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,’ in fact?”

  “Perhaps, but I hope to be more successful than were the troops of—I don’t think it was Midian, was it?”

  “I’m not versed in the classics,” said Laura, with a derisive grin. “Oh, well, here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen—not that they are nowadays—in other words, let’s go and bully Binnie.”

  Laura had always liked East Anglia for its wide expanse of sky, its rare and brilliant light, its infinite variety of scenery, the enormous length of its coastline, its agriculture (with the exception of the fields of sugar-beet—quite the ugliest crop known to man, in Laura’s opinion), and the extraordinary number and splendour of its churches.

  She loved the Broads, the slow Suffolk rivers, the windmills (what remained of them), the Essex creeks, the Roman forts, the city of Norwich with its Cathedral and its castle, the wild birds and beasts, and, in contrast, the unashamed Bank Holiday atmosphere of Great Yarmouth.

  Dame Beatrice knew all this, and as, in any case, they were obliged to spend a night in Norfolk, she decided to extend their stay to two nights, and told Laura to book rooms at the hotel on the salt-marshes where she had once given tea to Opal, Ruby, and Petra.

  Laura took binoculars with her, intent upon bird-watching. In the early morning she was out on the quay when a pleasant-faced youth in a dinghy called out to her:

  “Want to go as far as the Point? Tide’s just right and there’s quite a decent breeze. Do you sail?”

  Laura did sail. She removed heavy shoes and her socks, turned up the ends of her trousers and stepped aboard. The tide was just on the ebb and there was a good depth of water in the narrow creek.

  The Point proved to be a steep bank of shingle facing the open sea, but it was possible to beach the boat on a small spit of sand which the ebb tide was uncovering. They got out and pulled the dinghy well up. They sat on the shingle and the boy produced chocolate.

  “You seem to know this place well,” Laura remarked.

  “I ought to,” the lad replied. “I’ve lived here all my life. My father’s the rector.”

  “We’re only here for a couple of days.”

  “On a visit?”

  “Well, in a way,” said Laura, who hated lying. “We’ve got to see some people who live at a place called Leyden Hall.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “No, not really. I met the girl in Holland this summer.”

  “Oh, Binnie! Nice girl, but over-enthusiastic for my liking. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but she does gush a bit, doesn’t she?”

  “Brother, you said a mouthful,” said Laura, grinning. “She’s engaged to be married, I hear.”

  “Yes. I shall have to dig into my jeans for a wedding present. One thing, nowadays one can always give a record, which solves the problem nicely. I play tennis sometimes in the summer with her and her brother and my sister. Oh, look! There’s a skua chasing a tern! Quick, or you’ll miss them!”

  Laura focused her binoculars.

  “Fine!” she said.

  “Did you get them all right?”

  “Yes, thanks. You must be old Hawk-Eye in person.”

  “Well, living here, I suppose I’ve had an advantage. There’s a bird-sanctuary, you see, and my father has always been keen, and has been teaching me ever since I was a small kid.”

  “Does he play tennis too?” asked Laura, anxious to get the conversation back on to the rails.

  “Oh, yes. He’s quite good. Binnie, of whom we spoke just now—Binnie Colwyn-Welch, you know—oh, yes, of course, you do know her—drives over to our church sometimes and my father likes to find out who’s who in the congregation. He thinks it makes people feel more at home, I suppose. Personally, I think most people, unless they’re particularly involved in church affairs, prefer to remain anonymous. However, Binnie, being the bright thing she is, liked letting her hair down and getting to know us, so that’s how the tennis came about. They’ve a couple of very decent courts, one grass, one hard, at that place of theirs. Have you ever played on them?”

  “No,” said Laura. “We’re not on those sort of terms at least, not at present. You say you met her brother?”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Goodness, no!”

  “Oh, then I can say what I think; and what I think is that Brother Florian is a wart. He cheats in the scoring, too—always saying a ball is out when it isn’t, and calling forty-fifteen in his own favour instead of an obvious thirty all. And he tries to get people to lend him money, I was told. But I can’t swear to that, because he’s
never tried me for a touch. Knows I haven’t got any money, I suppose. He can find out that sort of thing, I think.”

  “Yes, I expect he can,” said Laura. “Did you meet Mr. van Zestien?”

  “Yes, Binnie invited my sister and me to tea one afternoon after tennis. Nice old chap I thought him—very starchy, in a way, but nice. It’s a fabulous place they’ve got there, isn’t it? Not Blickling or Holkham, of course, but very impressive, all the same.”

  Laura looked at her watch.

  “I’m ready for breakfast,” she said.

  “Yes,” the boy agreed. “Tell you what I usually do. I leave the boat here—it’s an awful business beating up against an ebb tide because you can’t do much about tacking in the creek, it’s so narrow. Then I walk back across the marshes—you have to paddle here and there because there are streams, but it’s all perfectly safe—and come back the same way when the tide’s on the make again and I can pick up the boat and come up the creek.”

  “Did you enjoy your bird-watching?” Dame Beatrice enquired, over a rather late breakfast. Laura described her outing and added that an independent witness had confirmed her own impressions of Florian, Binnie and old Mr. van Zestien. Dame Beatrice listened attentively and nodded solemnly several times.

  “It was while strolling along the causeway over these marshes that I had my interesting and illuminating talk with Miss Opal Colwyn-Welch, of course,” she said.

  They inspected the church and explored what there was of the village, had coffee at eleven on the first-floor balcony of the hotel, lunched at half-past one and then had the car brought round to be driven to Leyden Hall.

  Old Bernard van Zestien was taking his afternoon nap when they arrived. The servant who opened the door recognised Dame Beatrice as one of the people who had visited the house before and made no difficulty about showing them into the library.

  There was no difficulty, either, in estimating the warmth of Binnie’s welcome. She was delighted to see them. She gushed (to Laura’s irritation) but, to Dame Beatrice’s more experienced and less prejudiced view, with genuine relief when they were shown in.

  “Oh, gosh!” she exclaimed. “Never were callers more welcome! You’ll stay the night, of course! We’re got lots of spare bedrooms. What about tea? Or you could have some sherry or something. Just say what you’d like. Of course, ever since I met darling Laura in Holland, I’ve adored every minute I’ve been with her, so you really must stay a good long time. Granduncle will adore to have you!”

  “I am not at all sure . . .” Dame Beatrice began. Binnie burst in, as Dame Beatrice had known she would.

  “Oh, but I am!” she exclaimed. “I am quite sure he will, and I know I’m thankful to see you! I don’t know what to make of Florian, or (for the matter of that), granduncle. They both know something I don’t know, and, between them, they’re worrying me silly.”

  “What sort of thing?” Dame Beatrice enquired.

  “Florian killed those two women,” said Binnie, in restrained and reasonable tones. “I know he did, although he hasn’t exactly told me so. I don’t suppose he meant to, but, even if he did, I’m not going to give evidence against him.”

  “Of course not. Nobody would expect it. For one thing, you do not know anything definite about what happened, and therefore your evidence would be valueless.”

  “Aunt Ruby put that lump of polish on the stairs, you know,” said Binnie, changing the subject with some suddenness.

  “Yes, that was fairly obvious,” Dame Beatrice agreed. “However, nothing much came of it, except a nasty bump on your brother’s head.”

  “She wanted to get rid of him before Aunt Opal could have the bust made and the hand painted! They’re supposed to be fond of one another, but they’re not!”

  “We understand that. These situations are not uncommon between thwarted sisters. Tell us more about the fact that your grandmother, Mrs. Colwyn-Welch, agreed to pay for the portrait-bust and the painting of the hand holding the hyacinth.”

  “It’s easy enough,” said Binnie. “She’s got a guilty conscience about those aunts of mine. You see, old Grandpa Colwyn-Welch left a fair amount of money (so I’m told), and it was all left to her, but in trust, or something, for the aunts. Well, she’s just simply kept her hooks on it, and that means she’s kept Opal and Ruby in her power. Of course, you can’t blame her, in a way. She doesn’t want to lose them, so the only thing is to keep them so short of cash that they can’t leave home. If they’d been a bit younger they might have got jobs, but, from what I know of them, Opal would have been too lazy and Ruby too feeble to hold a job down, and Binnen knew that. All the same, what between her guilty conscience and her fear of Opal . . .”

  “Her fear of Opal?” asked Dame Beatrice, as the narrator paused.

  “Well, wouldn’t you be scared of Opal? I am,” said Binnie earnestly.

  “What about the barrel-organ?” asked Dame Beatrice, who had her own methods of changing—or appearing to change—the subject.

  “Oh, Aunt Ruby knew enough about you to realise that she’d better buy and destroy that cylinder which included The Flowers of the Forest. She and Aunt Opal are very queer characters, you know. I think there was some idea about Florian’s being one of the flowers of the forest, or something. Oh, I shall be glad when I’m married to Bernie! He’s so safe and so sensible. Yes, and I don’t believe what some of them say about him!”

  “What do they say?” Dame Beatrice gently enquired.

  “That he sent Florian the poisoned chocolate-cream. I know he didn’t!”

  “So do I. We have guessed where that came from.”

  “You mean Aunt Opal or Aunt Ruby. But how are you going to prove it?”

  “I doubt whether it is capable of proof,” admitted Dame Beatrice, in the same gentle tone.

  “Then what about Bernie?”

  “He has a formidable grandmother on his side.”

  Binne giggled.

  “She is awful, isn’t she?” she said. Dame Beatrice did not dispute this verdict, although she disagreed with it.

  “I wonder whether I could have a word with your brother?” she asked.

  “He’s a bit under the weather these days,” said Binnie, “but I expect he’ll see you if you want him to. I’ll go and rake him out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Pursuit of a Delft Blue

  “I winna spare for his tender age,

  Nor yet for his hie hie kin;

  But soon as e’er he born is,

  He sall mount the gallows pin.”

  Old Ballad

  Florian was perfectly willing to talk to Dame Beatrice.

  (“Thinks he got the better of my cautious but not foolish husband,” said Laura later.)

  Florian, his wolfish smile even more pronounced than before, received Dame Beatrice graciously.

  “Oh, hullo again,” he said. “Very nice of you to come.”

  “I am not so sure about that,” said Dame Beatrice. “What made you say that Bernardo Rose sent you the poisoned chocolate-cream?”

  Florian’s smile faded. He stared at her.

  “Why, who else could have sent it?” he demanded. “It must have been Bernie. He’s the only person who dislikes me.”

  Dame Beatrice did not dispute this. She asked: “What made you guess it was poisoned?”

  “Guess it was poisoned? But I didn’t! Of course I didn’t!”

  “Why did you present it to the barmaid?”

  “An act of kindness and goodwill, that’s all.”

  “It must have been, since you yourself are said to be fond of all kinds of sweetmeats.”

  “I’m fond of girls, too. I thought Effie would like the stuff, and that’s the reason I gave it to her.”

  “Yet you suspected that it contained poison.”

  “No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t suspect it contained poison. I would never have thought of such a thing. But when the girls died and the chocolate
-cream was suspected, I guessed Bernie had sent it.”

  “Why should he want to kill you?”

  “I don’t know, except—well, there might be two reasons, I suppose. He knows I’m opposed to the marriage and then—well, there is the question of the van Zestien money. Being a Jew, he’s very fond of money.”

  “Aren’t we all?—and Mr. Rose is half-Jewish and half-Dutch, I believe. Incidentally, since you say you suspect him, have you any theory as to where he procured the poison?”

  Florian stared at her again, then shook his head.

  “No idea,” he said decisively. “I dare say he’s in with all sorts of shady people, both here and abroad, who could get him anything he wanted, and no questions asked. All those trips to the Continent are not only in connection with the diamond business, I’ll bet. I wouldn’t put it past him to smuggle dope.”

  “That is a very serious charge!”

  “Oh, it’s not a charge. I couldn’t care less about what he gets up to on those trips of his. But I don’t want Binnie mixing herself up with him. I can’t stand the fellow! I think he’s a cad and a rotter, and if I can do anything to spike his guns I’m going to do it.”

  “Dear me! You certainly do dislike him. The more serious charge, of course, which you have brought against him is that he poisoned the chocolate-cream.”

  “I wish I could have him arrested! Those poor girls!”

  “Yes, those poor girls,” Dame Beatrice sadly agreed.

  “The police ought to arrest him!” said Florian, on a note almost of hysteria. “I should have thought they’d got enough to go on.”

  “Not nearly enough, I’m afraid. The police have to be very careful in these cases of suspected attempts to murder. You, for instance, may possibly think yourself fortunate (as the chocolate-cream seems to have been your gift to Effie), not to be charged yourself, you know.”

  “Me? Charged with murder? Oh, but I couldn’t be! I had nothing whatever against the girl!” He looked extremely alarmed, Dame Beatrice noted.

  “Motive does not need to be proved,” she said coolly. “You could be shown to have had both the means and the opportunity, and those are the deciding factors when it comes to a trial for murder.”