Lovers, Make Moan (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Ah, yes, that’s him,” said Mrs. Wells. “I’m positive.”

  “Doesn’t get us much further, ma’am,” said the inspector, “except that with the hair he looks rather different class from what he did without it. The bureau of missing persons doesn’t help, either. We’ve had two additions since we looked at it the other day, but one of them is a schoolgirl thought to have run off with her boyfriend and the other is an infant aged two believed to have been kidnapped from his mother by his father, who had already made two attempts to get him out of the country.”

  The next tedious task which confronted the police was to find out, if they could, where the body had been put into the water. They thought it more than likely that the secretary of the yacht club was right and that the youth had been thrown overboard from a boat. On the other hand, as Dame Beatrice insisted, there were the other possibilities. It was true that the road to the ferry was a busy one by day and well-lighted by night, but it was also true that after the places of entertainment closed down and the pubs and hotel bars emptied, there was very little traffic either going or coming. Anybody who was prepared to take a chance could have brought the body in a car, pulled up on the rough grass which separated the road from the strand and carried the corpse far enough out to sea for the high tide to eliminate any footprints.

  Matters were in this unsatisfactory state when a new problem presented itself. Emma Lynn came round to see Deborah. She brought news of two kinds, joyous for her on the one hand, worrying on the other. Deborah listened sympathetically to both stories, expressed delight at the first, and then offered comfort and reassurance respecting the second.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know after I’d told Marcus,” said Emma, at first glowing with pride and joy. “Oh, Deborah, after all this time to know I’m going to have a baby! Yes, it’s been checked and there’s no doubt about it and it’s all due to you.”

  “Perhaps Marcus had something to do with it,” said Deborah, laughing and giving Emma a kiss.

  “Well, we’ve tried hard enough, goodness knows! But, you know, I believe The Dream relaxed both of us and all the tension went out of us and Nature sort of rushed in, if you know what I mean. We hoped this would happen when we adopted Jasper seven years ago—well, nearly eight years ago. I had read true stories about childless couples who adopted and then found they could have one of their own, another case of a relief from tension, I suppose. However, it didn’t work for us, but what our adopting Jasper couldn’t do, I’m sure the play has done. I was never so happy as when I realised I could play Helena, and Marcus, until that dreadful accident to Donald Bourton, was delighted with me and the costumes and your garden for the setting and everything.”

  “It’s lovely news, Emma. Does Jasper know? What is he going to think about having a baby in the house?”

  “He won’t have much to do with it for the next four years because he will be at University. Anyway, Marcus has made up his mind that the baby, even if it’s a boy, will make no difference to Jasper’s prospects. Jasper has been brought up to be self-supporting, anyway. All Marcus’s money will come to me. It’s only proper that it should, he says, because he would never have got his start but for the money my father left me. All the same, Deborah, I’m rather worried about Jasper, although Marcus says it’s very silly of me because boys are very thoughtless and forgetful and never bother to let you know what they’re doing. Still, I can’t help feeling worried and a little hurt.”

  “Why, what has happened?”

  “Nothing, really, I suppose. That’s what Marcus says. Only, you see, Jasper hasn’t been in touch with us since he finished his A-levels and went on holiday with his friends while we flew to Italy for a little break after the play.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Emma. I’ve got two boys and they are exactly the same. I expect Jasper is enjoying himself and letting time pass. If he is anything like our two, you will probably find you get a solitary picture postcard after he arrives home. He is abroad, I suppose?”

  “Yes. There are four of them. They were to cross to France and will be touring, so I can’t get in touch with Jasper even if Marcus would let me, which he wouldn’t. He says I’m just making a fuss about nothing.”

  “I’m sure he is right. Besides, if there is one thing more than another which young men resent, it’s somebody worrying about their safety.”

  “Oh, I know, but I can’t help it.”

  “Well, look, do you know the parents of the other boys?”

  “Not really, but I’ve got the address and telephone number of one who came and stayed with us last year. Quite a nice boy, I thought.”

  “Why don’t you ring his people up and ask if they’ve heard from their son, and whether they know how the boys are getting on?”

  “I can’t do that. Jasper would never forgive me.”

  “If I were worried about one of my boys I would chance that. Besides, ten to one he would never know you had made the enquiry. Wouldn’t it be worth it just to set your mind at rest?”

  Nobody came forward to identify the body and the inquest on the dead youth was adjourned while further enquiries were made. Meanwhile Marcus and Emma Lynn received an unpleasant surprise. In response to his wife’s entreaties Marcus, who at first had dismissed Emma’s anxieties as “hen with one chick stuff, my dear, so for goodness’ sake snap out of it and leave the lad a bit of freedom from petticoat government,” yielded at last and rang up the family of the youth who had been last year’s guest at the Lynns’ house.

  His consternation was immense when in response to his call, the youth’s mother informed him that her son certainly had gone on holiday and with two friends whom she named. Jasper Lynn was not one of them.

  “Richard did invite him,” she said, “and all the arrangements were made, we thought, but at the last minute Jasper ducked out on the excuse that he could not afford the trip.”

  At this Marcus could scarcely contain himself, but he retained sufficient self-control to thank her and apologise for troubling her.

  “I do hope nothing’s wrong,” she said.

  “No, no. Jasper did mention a possible change of plan, but we heard no more about it, so concluded that he had gone with Richard and the others after all,” Marcus assured her.

  To Emma he exploded, while she, poor soul, wrung her hands and wept.

  “You said he ought to have his freedom,” she sobbed, “and now he’s taken it you’re angry with him, but whatever can he be doing?”

  “He’s a deceitful, humbugging, double-crossing young hound!” shouted Marcus. “Lies, lies, lies! What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh! His father was rotten to the core, lord or no lord, and the boy takes after him. Well, he gets nothing more out of me!”

  “He isn’t responsible for his father, dear,” said Emma, lifting her head and blowing hard into her handkerchief.

  “To dare to tell those people he couldn’t afford the trip! He was loaded with money! My only fear was that with so much on him he might be robbed. He could have had a fortnight at the best hotel in Paris on what I gave him. He’s absconded with the lot, that’s what he’s done. I’m going to keep my eyes skinned, I can tell you! He’ll be signing cheques in my name the next thing you know.”

  “Oh, Marcus, of course he won’t! He is just having his little fling after all the hard work he put in for his exams. I expect he has gone off with some girl. I just hope he doesn’t get her into trouble, that’s all. He is far too young to marry.”

  “Oh, it won’t come to that,” said Marcus, beginning to calm down. “If he’s gone off with a girl, she can’t be anybody respectable, or we should have heard by now. If he’s made a fool of himself she can be bought off. I’ll do that much, if it’s necessary. It’s the old Adam coming out, as I say, and this business puts the lid on it, but I’ll see he doesn’t ruin his life by marrying her.”

  “But we don’t know yet that he has gone off with a girl. That was only an idea. You know how romantic he i
s, but I do think we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt until we know a bit more.”

  Meanwhile an upheaval of a different kind was going on not so very far away. Simon and Penelope Bradley came back from their round-the-world cruise, Rosamund and Edmund were reunited with their parents, Jonathan and Deborah returned to their Cotswold home, and Dame Beatrice went back to the Stone House.

  “Sorry you’re leaving us,” said the Chief Constable when she called to say goodbye. “Unfinished business, what!”

  “I have no intention of leaving anything unfinished, but there is nothing I can do here which I cannot do equally well from my own home.”

  “Conway has given up hope of solving the mystery of Bourton’s death. There is talk of re-opening the inquest and allowing the coroner to pronounce the verdict he was prepared to give at the beginning.”

  “Death by misadventure? But it was murder, carefully and deliberately planned. It was committed by one of the cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and fairly recently I have been inclined to add another name to my list of suspected persons.”

  “Oh? May I ask—?”

  “Certainly. Before I leave this neighbourhood I should like to talk to Mr. Tom Woolidge.”

  “Tom? Good Lord! Tom wouldn’t murder anybody. He’s a particularly decent chap and, incidentally, much too thick to have thought up this rather ingenious business of making a man commit suicide, which is the only other verdict the coroner can think up.”

  “Is Mr. Woolidge too decent to make love to another man’s wife?”

  “You mean Barbara Bourton. Oh, I’m sure Bourton knew all about that and didn’t give a damn. They went their own ways, you know, Barbara being on the stage and all that. Tom is a very personable chap and could get any woman he wanted, but with Barbara he’s more like a lolloping old faithful hound than a gay Lothario. I wouldn’t waste any time over him if I were you. He’s been pursuing Barbara for years. That’s why he’s never married. If Tom had been the murderous type he’d have had a go at Donald long ago, but he’d have shot him or something open and above-board like that. He’s incapable of thinking out this hole-and-corner game of making the man murder himself.”

  “But so is everybody else I have interviewed. I was co-opted into this affair as a psychiatrist and I cannot see anybody yet who conforms to the necessary pattern. I need time to mull over my case-notes and find in them some vital clue. From what you tell me, an interview with Mr. Woolidge would be a waste of that time and would not assist that thought. There remains this other death, that of the boy found on the foreshore.”

  “There’s a tie-up somewhere, but we shall never find out what it is. Apparently he purchased a rapier which may have been cut down to make the dagger which killed Bourton. Somebody decided it was best to put him out of the way, and that somebody may well be Bourton’s murderer. And now we’ve got something else on our plate. Lynn reports his adopted son as a missing person and wants us to trace him.”

  “Yes, Deborah told me of Emma Lynn’s anxiety.”

  “It seems that, as soon as he had finished with school and while they themselves—the Lynns—were in Italy, the lad was to go on holiday and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”

  “And he was in the play,” said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully, “and that means he was present when Mr. Bourton stabbed himself, and that could mean—Look, it’s a very long shot, but why don’t you ask the Lynns for a photograph of their son—”

  “Oh, we’ve got one.”

  “—and send somebody round to that antiques dealer with it?”

  “A long shot indeed, my dear Beatrice. I’m quite sure that young Lynn is off on a toot. His father admits that he had given him ample funds for his holiday. He’s cavorting on the Continent with some species of crumpet, you mark my words, and when he has got through the lolly he’ll blow his cover, come back like the Prodigal Son, brave Marcus’s wrath and Emma’s tearful reproaches, and all will be gas and gaiters once more. I’m not in the least concerned about Jasper Lynn.”

  “I hope most sincerely that you are justified, but I still think it would be interesting to see whether Mrs. Wells makes anything of young Lynn’s photograph. She was quick to recognise the police photograph of that dead youth who was found on the Ferry foreshore.”

  “Only after you had added some hair to the head, I’m told. I don’t think I’d take her word for much. The lad was only in her shop once. It was a tall order to expect her to recognise what approximated to a death-mask, hair or no hair, don’t you think?”

  “As you so rightly point out, there are difficulties.”

  “Anyway, thanks for the tip. We can try Mrs. Wells with the photograph and see how she reacts.”

  Mrs. Wells made no difficulty about the photograph. Unprompted, she exclaimed,

  “Oh, that’s the boy who bought the rapier! I couldn’t be mistaken. There was that touch of class about him, if you know what I mean. When he said he wanted the rapier for theatricals, well, that was easy enough to believe. It was only the price he was willing to pay which made me wonder.”

  “Would you be prepared to swear in court that this is a photograph of the lad who bought the rapier?” asked the inspector.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Still—yes, I would swear to him. Certainly I would.”

  “So there it is,” said the Chief Constable to Dame Beatrice later, “and my chaps have now got the job of finding out why Jasper Lynn bought the rapier.”

  “And for whom, if he did not buy it for himself,” said Dame Beatrice.

  16

  Parade of Suspects

  Now, name the rest of the players.

  “I’m glad to have you back,” said Laura. “You are very restful company after Rosamund and Edmund. Did the round-the-worlders enjoy their cruise?”

  “Enormously. I am glad to be here again. The anecdotes and photographs, so precious to the travellers themselves, pall a little on a captive audience.”

  “That is an extraordinary story about young Jasper Lynn. What are the police going to do about him?”

  “Oh, there is to be what you would call ‘another comb-out’ of the yachting fraternity. The knowledgeable among the local boatmen seem to be convinced that the body was thrown into the bay from a yacht and so well-versed are they in the vagaries of their almost landlocked waters, vast in expanse though these are, that there is general agreement that the jettisoning took place off the uninhabited small bank called Castle Island. Experiments with non-human jetsam will prove the correctness of their view. Of that I have no doubt. The waters of the bay are idiosyncratic and their vagaries need to be known and allowed for, even in the calmest weather, I am told.”

  “Yes, you can always go by what the locals have to say about winds and tides. Does it mean that you have taken yourself out of the enquiry into these two deaths? I should have thought it had reached the truly fascinating stage.”

  “So it has, and I am still interested in it. There is nothing more that I can do on the spot. I need time for thought. Get the programmes with which we were supplied—and free of charge, at that!—when we attended the first performance of the play.”

  Laura did this and scanned her own copy. Then she produced her shorthand pad and waited for instructions.

  “I must say I prefer being a secretary to being a cross between a nanny and the Encyclopaedia Britannica,” she said.

  “Nevertheless, much of what we know has been gained from Rosamund’s innocent disclosures. Let us take these people in order to programme and see what we know about them.”

  The programme was arranged after the usual Shakespearian fashion of naming all the male characters first and finishing with the women.

  “Theseus,” dictated Dame Beatrice, “director and producer. No known reason for disliking Rinkley, Bourton, or Jonathan. Egeus, adopted son of Marcus Lynn. A schoolboy later found stabbed to death. Purchased rapier later converted into dagger with which Bourton inadvertently killed himself. May well h
ave been the murderer and later committed suicide.”

  “What!” exclaimed Laura, her pencil poised in disbelief. “That beardless boy?”

  “In the play he was not beardless. Moreover, there appears to be some evidence that he was in love with Barbara Bourton and may have plotted to get her husband out of the way. On the other hand, we cannot be sure at present that the lethal dagger was not intended either for Rinkley or for Jonathan.”

  “I think it could have been intended for Rinkley, you know. He doesn’t seem to be a very popular character and, what with the whisky and the indigestible mussels, he would have been entirely off his guard. Normally he would have spotted that he had been given the wrong dagger, but what with his fuddled state and the fact that he had come through the dress rehearsal and two performances quite unscathed, don’t you think he would have chanced things and so done himself in?”

  “It is a valid argument and has been produced more than once.”

  “On the other hand, Rinkley could have been the murderer. Even if whisky plus mytilus edulis had not made him throw up, it’s easy enough to manage it. I am reminded of another of Rosamund’s disclosures. You know what innocently disgusting beasts little boys can be. She told me that one of the Fitzroy-Delahague kids showed her how he could make himself sick by sticking two fingers down his gullet. I wonder whether Rinkley, having eaten the mussels, found them such uncomfortable customers in his inside that he removed them by the Delahague method. Contrariwise (and more likely) he still thought Jonathan would be the understudy and planned a very nasty revenge on him for that punch in the stomach.”

  “There is much in what you say, and we must keep it in mind.”

  “Well, I know you thought the intended victim was Bourton, but we’ve no evidence that Bourton and Rinkley had ever fallen out.”

  “True, but you are going on the assumption that Rinkley himself changed over the daggers. That has not been proved.”

  “He would have had the best opportunity.”

  “Not so. There were others who had an equal opportunity. Robina Lester and her son, David, Caroline Frome and Susan Hythe, even Marcus Lynn with his scroll as Prologue, had every good reason for approaching the trestle tables and fiddling with the properties. The only thing is that unless all of them were in collusion (and that seems most unlikely, as Marcus Lynn was one of them) nobody could have changed over the daggers without being seen to do so, since all would have picked up their properties at about the same time.”