[Mrs Bradley 50] - Late, Late in the Evening

by Gladys Mitchell

  'Are you playing hookey?' asked Kenneth, always bolder at putting direct questions than I was.

  'How jer mean?'

  'I thought your mother made you work on Saturdays.'

  'Us be letten the bedrooms go for thes once. Me dad's en the band.'

  'Oh, isn't it the Salvation Army band?'

  'No, t'ent, then. 'Tes the town band. They always leads the percession on 'Orspital Sat'day. They haves people dressed up and en masks and they haves boxes what they comes up and rattles at ee, and you puts en an a'penny ef you got one. You got an a'penny, you young Oi say?'

  'Yes, but I want it for the fair,' said Kenneth. 'Besides, collections are for grown-ups. They won't expect children to pay.'

  So we perched ourselves on the coping of the little bridge which carried the culvert and prepared to watch the procession go by.

  'Where ded you get to Wednesday?' asked Our Ern.

  'Tea at the manor house.'

  'Garn! You never!'

  'All right, then. Ask Lionel.'

  'What you have for tea?'

  'Ordinary bread and butter, currant bread and butter, bloater paste, jam, chocolate biscuits, little jammy buns, plum cake and cups of tea.'

  'Garn! Bet ee daren't walk under the bredge,' said Ern, changing the subject. (The culvert under the bridge was no higher than a big drain.)

  'I will, if you will,' said Kenneth.

  'Garn! Oi done et before. Oi done et a dozen toimes.'

  'Oh, yes? You and who else?'

  At this moment we heard the sound of the approaching band and I hoped this would deter Kenneth, but it did not. He slid down the bank and waded into the brook. I went to the end of the bridge where he would emerge and waited anxiously. It did not take him long, but I thought he looked very pale when he climbed out and his shorts were soaked to the top of his thighs.

  'There you are, then,' he said, walking up to Ern. 'And now you can have this.' With this remark he uppercut Ern and knocked him backwards into the brook. I prepared to take Kenneth's side if Our Sarah decided to intervene, but when Ern crawled out and began to blubber, all she said was:

  'Serve ee glad for tellen loies. You never walked under there in your loife. He be twoice the man what you be. Hold yer howlen. Here 'em comes.'

  We did not know Sarah's father, so could not pick him out from among the other bandsmen, but we yelled and clapped and Sarah and Ern (who was wet and muddy, but had taken his sister's advice and stopped howling) fell in behind the band, which already had a following of children.

  'Come on,' said Kenneth; but I hung back and even retreated on to The Marsh. Not many things frightened me, but people wearing masks always did and still do. There was not much in the way of a procession except for a set of Morris dancers whose caperings did not fit in with the tune the band was playing. There were, however, a dozen or more creatures in the most terrifying get-up I had ever seen except in pictures. They were prehistoric animals, dinosaurs, I suppose, and they looked like demented crocodiles or the sort of giant lizards you might see in a nightmare.

  Attached to their claws were collecting-boxes made of tin which they rattled as they pranced along behind the Morris dancers and the band. Although they were nightmarish, they were horribly realistic, too; nothing like the things which can be made nowadays for such films as the Argonauts and Sinbad the Sailor, of course, but dreadfully frightening, all the same. When they came up close and shook their collecting boxes, some people, I am sure, hastily dropped coppers into the rattling tins just to get rid of them.

  Personally, I let them go by before I followed on and then I walked very slowly, so that by the time I reached Aunt Kirstie's gate the band, the dancers and the masked importunists were away up the hill and the music was almost inaudible.

  They're going up to the manor house,' said Kenneth, 'but Aunt Kirstie says they may be coming back this way. The collectors are medical students. Aren't they grand? They're prehistoric animals, you know. I wish I had a costume like that. Why didn't you come along? One of them picked me up and pretended to bite my head off. It was grand. Some of the women screamed. It was terrific'

  'I want my dinner,' I said, 'so I shan't bother to go to the front gate if they do come back this way.' Nothing, I felt, would induce me to encounter those fearsome beings again, and that was before we heard about the murder.

  Chapter 5

  Mrs Kempson Puts Pen To Paper

  I am sure of my facts, dear Mrs Bradley. I can assure you of that. I have kept a journal ever since the death of my husband and it is to that which I have referred in beginning this statement to you. The particulars are as concise but, I hope, as complete as it is possible for me to make them. I realise that you have many commitments, but I shall be immensely relieved when you are free to take my brother as your patient. His conduct has become most disquieting and I am in urgent need of professional assistance in determining what is best to be done, both in his interests and my own.

  The death of my husband did not, in itself, sadden me. His last illness was prolonged and very distressing, and the termination of his life some ten years ago was a blessed relief to both of us. It was then, as I say, that I took to keeping a journal. It filled a gap and helped to pass a somewhat lonely existence. My only child, a girl, is married and lives mostly abroad, as her husband is attached to one of our embassies. She has two children, Amabel (now at finishing school in Paris) and a young son Lionel, still at his preparatory school.

  Sometimes the children come to me for a week or two during the summer, but otherwise my life is lonely and not very interesting, as my only other close relation is my brother Ward, the subject of this analysis. I should add that I have an adopted son, Nigel, but the adoption is not a legal one and there is no question of Nigel's having any claim on me or on the estate. He is supposed to be the son (illegitimate, I fancy) of an actor-manager for whom my late husband, a very wealthy man (fortunately for me!), once acted as an angel-for so, I believe, they call the backers of theatrical enterprises. Nigel's mother, I feel sure, was the leading lady in the production financed by my husband. It sometimes crosses my mind that Nigel may even be the illegitimate son of my husband himself and this actress, as so much was done in putting him to public school and university and then finding him a well-paid sinecure of a job in London with a firm in which my husband had a controlling interest. My husband, in fact, sometimes urged that we should take out adoption papers, but this was a course I steadfastly opposed, as I felt that it was against my daughter's interests.

  However, Nigel has always treated Hill House as his home and has proved himself the dearest and most considerate of boys. Nevertheless, I cannot sufficiently stress that there is no consanguinity between us and that he has no claim on anything but my sincere affection. Unfortunately, since he left College and took a flat in London to be near his work, I have seen all too little of him. We meet almost as strangers until the ice is broken by our very real affection for one another, but, even so, his visits come all too seldom.

  In view of what I have to tell you, it is necessary to stress the fact that not only has Nigel no claim upon me, but that he has known, ever since he left College, that he has few expectations from me. He has accepted this. He knows that the estate must go to little Lionel and that a great deal of money is needed to keep it up.

  Apart from my husband's last illness, I have had only one major anxiety in my life and that, as you will have guessed, is the conduct of my brother Ward. He was always an ill-behaved, malicious child and his way of life did not improve as he grew older. After he had been expelled from two schools the only institution which would accept him as a pupil was a seminary run by the Jesuits. From this he absconded and the next we heard of him was from Canada.

  Years passed and my father died. This meant that, as this estate is entailed in the male line, Ward was entitled to inherit. The lawyers made efforts to trace him, but without success. More time went by and then a letter came from New York State to say that Ward had
spent fifteen years in an American prison, was released, but destitute, and wanted his fare paid so that he could come home. He promised to behave himself if my parents would have him back. Of course, by that time both were dead and my husband, too. I was living here in my old home and the very last thing I wanted was to have Ward on my hands, so I did not answer the letter. This was several years ago.

  The next thing was another letter, this from an unknown woman in New York, to say that she had heard from a reliable source that my wretched brother was dead. She said that she had been living with him and keeping him before he quarrelled with her and left her, but she had found my address among some effects he had left behind him when they parted. In view of this, I saw no reason for not staying on in this house, which, after all, was my girlhood home, looking after the place and acting (since his parents were abroad) as caretaker for little Lionel who, so far as I knew, would inherit as soon as he came of age. The woman made no mention in her letter of marriage or of children, so, naturally, I assumed that, with Ward dead, Lionel would be the heir.

  Imagine my horror, therefore, dear Mrs Bradley, when, a year later, I received a visit from an individual who claimed to be my brother. I was writing a letter to my daughter at the time, I remember, when Barker announced that a person named Ward had called and was asking to see me.

  'Ward?' I said. 'Surely not!'

  That, madam, is the name the individual gave.'

  'What kind of person is he?'

  'I could not take it upon myself to say, madam.'

  I knew, by this answer, that, in Barker's opinion, the caller was not what he would have described as a gentleman and yet was someone of indeterminate status who might, after all, warrant being shown into my presence.

  'Very well,' I said. 'I will see him.'

  'In here, madam?'

  'No. Show him into the library.' I finished my letter before I went down and then I made as impressive an entrance as I could. A middle-aged man in a suit which was obviously readymade came towards me with the intention, it seemed, of embracing me. I noticed that he was wearing gloves, I suppose to hide his prison-calloused hands, and was also wearing pince-nez.

  'Good afternoon,' I said, in my most formal tones. 'You wish to speak to me? Are you one of the tenants?' (I knew, of course, that he was not.)

  'I'm the one and only tenant, my dear sister,' he replied. 'I'm your brother. The black sheep returns to the fold.'

  'I have no brother,' I said. 'My only brother died in New York more than a year ago.'

  'I can produce proofs of my identity, you know,' he said, 'proofs which I think a lawyer would accept, even if you will not.' He smirked and brushed his untidy moustache.

  'Produce them, then,' I said. 'Meanwhile, perhaps you will be good enough to leave my house.'

  'Your house?' he said. I rang for Barker to show him out. He went without any fuss and the next thing was a letter from our family lawyers. A man had been to see them claiming that he was my brother and heir to the estate.

  'As you will know,' the letter said, 'the estate was entailed several generations ago and the entail has never been revoked. The man we interviewed has produced certain proofs of identity which could form the basis of long and expensive litigation should you decide to contest his claim in favour of your grandson, the apparent heir to the estate. We are of the opinion that in all likelihood the man is an impudent impostor, but proving this might be a matter of extreme difficulty in view of the papers in his possession and what appears to be his extensive knowledge of the family history. We await your further instructions.'

  I was in a quandary, so I wrote back to the lawyers and asked their advice, but they merely reiterated that, in their opinion, I might find litigation both lengthy and expensive, with no certainty at the end that I should win my case. Then Ward came to see me again. I told him that he could not prove he was my brother. He replied that I would have infinite trouble proving that he was not.

  'Look,' he said, 'I have reformed, I can assure you of that. I shan't be any trouble to you. All I want is an allowance and a home. I need not live here. You would not want that. If you will find me somewhere respectable and quiet and give the ten pounds a week, I'll trouble you no further and I won't even visit you any more. Come, Emilia, what do you say?'

  'If you really are my brother, go ahead and claim your inheritance,' I said.

  'Oh, the estate brings in little or nothing. I know that,' he said. 'Even if I had it, I could not afford to keep up the house and pay the servants. Why not make the best of a bad job and do as I suggest? It will save both of us trouble and you a great deal of money. You don't really want to go to law, you know.'

  'What makes you think I can afford to pay you ten pounds a week?' I asked.

  'Oh, I know our parents left very little, but you must be very well off since your husband died,' he answered.

  'Be that as it may,' I said, 'it can hardly concern anybody but my heirs, and you can hardly expect to be one of those.'

  'Oh, I don't, I don't, my dear sister,' he declared. 'I know that you have an adopted son. I suppose he will be the chief beneficiary.'

  'You seem to have interested yourself vastly in my affairs,' I said angrily. 'However, since it seems just as well to clear the matter up between us once and for all, I may as well tell you that my adopted son, as you call him, has no claim on me whatever and he knows it. I do not say I shall leave him nothing. I am very fond of him. However, it will not and cannot be anything at all substantial because I have a duty to others bound to me by ties of blood; others whom my dear husband made me promise, before he died, that I would benefit.' (This, I confess, Mrs Bradley, was not quite true!) I went on:

  'You rightly point out that most of what I have was left to me by him and my conscience would not permit me to dispose of it against his wishes. He was particularly anxious that not more than five thousand should go to Nigel. The boy is not of our kin and we have done much to further his interests, first my husband and now myself. The bulk of the money will go to my grandson.'

  'And I am to get nothing? Oh, well, I did not expect very much. You could spare me fifty a month and not miss it, though, couldn't you, dear sister, if only for old times' sake?' he suggested.

  'I have no pleasant memories of old times, so far as you are concerned,' I said.

  'Will you do nothing for me? After all, I am prepared to give up all claim to the estate. That ought to be worth a modest thirty thousand pounds at your death. I should not expect to claim it before that.'

  'Thirty thousand pounds?'

  'Left to me in your will.' He paused and then said, astonishingly, 'You can add a clause specifying that I get it provided you die a natural death, of course.'

  'I will talk it over with Nigel,' I said feebly. 'Meanwhile I will pay you five pounds a week and will make myself responsible for your board and lodging, but only on condition that you sign an undertaking not to molest me and not to make any further demands upon my purse.'

  'Except for the thirty thousand, dear sister. That is my condition and the only one on which I shall accept your terms. Otherwise I'm out to make trouble,' he said. 'The estate is mine, and you know it. I could turn you out of this house tomorrow if I chose, and as for your dependents, whoever they are-you have children and grandchildren, I dare say-well, they can go hang, so far as I'm concerned. If you won't meet my terms, I'll damn well get a son of my own-I'm not past doing that, you know-so I advise you to think it over.'

  Well, dear Mrs Bradley, I agreed to his terms, whether wisely or not I hardly know. The thirty thousand will still leave plenty for little Lionel and I am leaving only five thousand to Nigel, as he knows. My lawyers are not very happy about the arrangements, but since Ward is prepared to give up all claim to the estate I feel that he is entitled to some benefit. He now lodges with a most respectable couple in the village here. The wife's father is a substantial man and the couple have a very good house for such people. They let Ward have two upstairs rooms and his food,
for all of which I pay, and until recently I had had no complaints from them about his behaviour.

  To make certain that the Landgraves received their money I should much have preferred that Nigel should ride down the hill and deliver it to them personally in a sealed envelope containing coin of the realm, but Nigel lives in London, so now one of the servants takes it. The rest of the allowance, the five pounds a week remittance, I send Ward monthly in the form of money orders which he cashes at the village post-office and spends mostly, I believe, at the public house.

  The first inkling I had that matters are no longer quite what they ought to be came in the form of a letter from Mrs Landgrave. It was very well put together, but I believe her education was superior to that of her husband, although I believe him to be a good sort of man in his way, sober and respectable, I mean. Well, in the letter Mrs Landgrave informed me that, while she had no wish to complain, they had become worried about certain changes in the conduct of 'Mr' Ward.

  'He has always liked digging,' she wrote. 'At first he dug in the bit of our garden we let him have, but now he has dug up and destroyed all my husband's gladdies.' (Gladioli I suppose she meant.) Then he got into my father's chicken run,' she went on, 'and began to dig there. He said he was digging for buried treasure, which did not seem to us very likely. His latest has been to go digging on The Marsh and I think he must have been in the sheepwash, for he came back wet through, right to his hair, and plastered in mud, so we would be much obliged if you would see into things, as it does not seem very sensible behaviour, but more like a child or somebody not quite right in the head. I should tell you that he has also bought himself a pickaxe, which I don't see he can find any proper use for, as well as a new and heavy spade to dig with.'

  When the groom took the next week's rent for Ward's rooms and food, I enclosed a note to ask the woman and her husband to come up and see me, for Mrs Landgrave's letter convinced me that they had reason for complaint. Nobody wants to give house-room to a madman.