The Croaking Raven

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Discouraging.”

  “I suppose one just has to go on long enough. All the same, I was glad when Edward was given Ravens Dysey. It’s a change to have a bit of peace, especially now the baby’s coming. It was that which decided Edward to take the living, the fact that we wanted children later on.”

  “You knew both the late Mr. Dyseys, I take it?”

  “Well, they never came to church, and neither did Mrs. Dysey. In fact, we had never met them (except, as I say, for their courtesy call when Edward first became the incumbent) until we were invited to that awful dinner-party, after which Thomas Dysey was killed.”

  “It seemed—Mr. Thomas Dysey’s death, I mean—not only tragic but mysterious.”

  “There was a great deal of talk, of course, some of it malicious, and most of it, I daresay, ill-informed.”

  “Malicious? Weren’t the Dysey family popular?”

  “Well, the husband and wife were not—quite the reverse, I would think. Eustace got by because he had been in the Air Force and had been a prisoner of war. Then somebody found out that he had psychiatric treatment—how that came out I have no idea, but I put it down to Mrs. Dysey. It was well known that she didn’t like him and thought him an encumbrance. I don’t suppose there was anything in the story, anyway.”

  “Oh, the story was true,” said Dame Beatrice. “I was the psychiatrist. Mr. Eustace Dysey had had a bad time as a prisoner, and was referred to me for treatment.”

  “Oh—how interesting. Did you—was it—I mean, is that why you came here? And did you know that Thomas Dysey was dead?”

  “No, I certainly did not know, before I came, that he was dead.”

  “There were two rumours which went the rounds. One side thought he had committed suicide, but the other people were convinced that one of his brothers had killed him.”

  “Why did that come into their minds?”

  “Well, it’s all rather involved and, as the wife of the vicar, I couldn’t very well join in the gossip (although I’d have loved to) so I don’t suppose I’ve heard more than half the story, but I gather that some people thought that Eustace, not Tom, should have had the place, and that somebody had tried to see that he got it.”

  “Do you mean that Eustace himself was suspected of killing his brother?”

  “Oh, nobody, so far as I know, went as far as that, but all sorts of hints were put out, and it does seem as though there was a family secret—a skeleton in the cupboard, you know. For myself, I should never have given the matter another thought, once the rumours stopped and the village settled down again, but I’m afraid the gardener talks, you know—not to me or to Edward, of course—and he seems to have spread some well-founded rumours.”

  “Yes, I see. What rumours, I wonder?”

  “Oh, that Tom Dysey had no right to have inherited the Dysey estate. He was illegitimate.”

  “Interesting. Did the gardener go any further?”

  “He seems to have said that the heir should have been Eustace, but, as I said before, he doesn’t seem to have been the only person in the village who thought so.”

  “What about the twin brother, Cyril?”

  “I don’t know. Still, now that both Tom and Eustace are dead, I suppose Cyril is the obvious claimant.”

  “He does not like Dysey Castle, and, from what I have gathered, the estate is worth little or nothing. But tell me what happened at that dinner party, after which Thomas Dysey died.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, so far as Edward and I knew at the time. We were rather surprised at being invited to dinner, but there was no reason why we should refuse. We are here under Dysey patronage, of course.”

  “Really? What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

  “The arrangement is that the Dyseys are allowed to sell the living once, and give it once. The man who had it before Edward, he bought it, but Edward was given it. We couldn’t possibly have afforded to buy it, anyway.”

  “I had no idea that benefices were still bought and sold. But tell me more about the house party.”

  “Well, it was called that in the papers, but only after Tom Dysey’s death, and it’s really too grand a description. The people actually staying in the castle at the time were Tom and Etta Dysey, Eustace (who lived with them), Cyril Dysey, and two nieces, or second cousins or something, on Etta’s side of the family. The rest of us, Edward, myself, Doctor Binns, and his wife, were merely invited to dinner and went home before ten o’clock, the doctor giving us a lift in his car, which was very helpful. Being unaccustomed to it, I’d had rather too much to drink and didn’t feel at all myself.”

  “Did anything come up in conversation which, on thinking it over afterwards, made you suspicious about Tom Dysey’s death?”

  “Nothing at all. In any case, I’m not a bit gifted about putting two and two together. There was only one tiny puzzle…”

  “Yes?”

  “I did just mention it to Edward. We wondered why Henry Dysey had not been invited. After all, he lives with Cyril, doesn’t he?”

  “Do you know for a fact that he was not invited? Could it be that he elected not to come?”

  “I hardly think so. Our invitation was in the form of a letter from Mrs. Dysey, and in it she said that she would like us to meet her nieces and her brothers-in-law Eustace and Cyril, and that she hoped Doctor and Mrs. Binns would be there.”

  “No mention of Henry? I see. It does seem curious. Of course, he and Cyril may have received their invitation by word of mouth before your written invitation had been sent out.”

  “And Henry turned it down straight away, you mean? Oh, yes, that’s a possible explanation. Perhaps he didn’t want to meet those giggling girls. They were rather trying. They even tried to flirt with Edward.”

  “Most inappropriate. What was Thomas Dysey’s mood? Did he appear to have anything on his mind? I know that is a leading question.”

  “I studied history at college and am proof against leading questions and special pleading, I think. If he did seem a trifle distrait, I should have thought (if I’d noticed it, which I didn’t) that he was anxious to have the evening turn out well. The Dyseys did very little entertaining, so I heard.”

  “It is usually left to the hostess, I thought, to be anxious that a dinner-party should be a success.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. Anyhow, I can’t say I noticed anything out of the way, but then, as I told you, the drinks upset me a bit, and my recollections may be a trifle blurred.”

  “Was there any particular reason for a dinner-party?”

  “There must have been, but I didn’t discover what it was.”

  “What made you think that there might have been a particular reason?”

  “I didn’t, until Mrs. Binns remarked to me that, when they received their invitation, she thought it must mean that there was some good news about Bonamy.”

  “Bonamy?”

  “Oh, he’s the son, only he got himself into some kind of trouble about five years ago—or it might have been more—and had to be shipped off to South America, or somewhere, in a great hurry. There, it was supposed, he died. At any rate, there’s a rather peculiar memorial to him in the church. Oh, Mrs. Binns must have been wrong! She told me about him on the way home in the car, but, as I say, I wasn’t in a state to take much notice. I was summoning all my resolution not to be sick.”

  “How was Thomas Dysey dressed?”

  “Oh, you’re thinking about the flannels he was wearing when the body was found. At dinner he was wearing the ordinary black tie outfit. It was anything but new—not that I should talk!—but it was quite de rigeur.”

  “How long had Mrs. Dysey’s nieces been in the castle?”

  “They’d come the day before, and were to stay until the end of the week, but, of course, Tom Dysey’s death rather put paid to that. The police soon realised that they couldn’t help solve the mystery, so I suppose Mrs. Dysey sent them straight home.”

  “Did the police question you and
your husband?”

  “Very apologetically, yes, but, of course, we didn’t know a thing.”

  “And Doctor Binns?”

  “Well, he was a bit more useful, because he was sent for as soon as the gardener reported finding the body, so he was able to take a look at it before the police arrived.”

  “Has Doctor Binns been in practice here long?”

  “Oh, yes, he inherited the practice from his father. He’s known the Dysey family for years.”

  “I should like to meet him. I saw him when he gave evidence at the inquest on Eustace Dysey, but I did not get a chance to speak to him afterwards.”

  “I suppose…” The vicar’s wife hesitated.

  “Yes,” said Dame Beatrice briskly, “you are quite right. It was madness to hide the body in the priest’s hole, but to leave well alone appears to be beyond the scope of most human beings.”

  “I suppose it was the murderer who hid it? I had taken for granted that it was, but, on second thoughts—”

  “I salute the trained mind of the historian, but whether whoever moved the body was the murderer, or someone who thought that he was assisting the murderer, or whether he thought he was helping to bring him to justice, I cannot at this point determine.”

  “I should have thought that whoever moved the body intended that it should never be found.”

  “That may be so. On the other hand, I have not very much doubt that somewhere in the archives of the house mention is made of the priest’s hole.”

  “That means that a member of the family must have moved the body.”

  “Unless we can find someone outside the family who may have had access to the Dysey library.”

  “That’s not very likely, is it? I mean, Dysey Castle isn’t one of the talked-about show places.”

  “It is listed in print as a possible place to visit, and, from my own knowledge, a surprising number of people do tend to visit it.”

  “Only because of the mystery of Tom’s death. You’ll get more than ever, now that Eustace has been found in the priest’s hole.”

  “Not unless they are prepared to defy the police. No public opening of the house and castle is to be permitted at present. We are in purdah, or chancery, or quarantine—what you will. At any rate, the general public is to be excluded until further notice.”

  “Oh, dear! If it doesn’t involve spiral staircases, I’d love to have you show me over the castle and let me see the priest’s hole?”

  “You shall see all that you wish to see. Come with me, and please comment freely. I shall value your views.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “Certainly. About how the person who stole food from the house gained entry. It seems that he must have visited us by way of the passage which leads past the priest’s hole to the dining-room.”

  “That sounds simple enough. He must have known of the existence of the passage. That’s all there is to it, surely?”

  “Very true. My difficulty is that there seems to be no way of entering the passage from below except from the undercroft of the keep, and there seems to be no way of entering the undercroft of the keep except from the passage.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Come, then, and I will show you what I mean, as soon as Laura and your husband have finished their tour of the castle. We shall need one of them to stand on the trap-door and operate the mechanism.”

  “I think perhaps I’d rather not go, after all.”

  “Very well. I can easily explain what I mean.”

  “I see,” said the vicar’s wife, when the explanation was over, and she and Dame Beatrice had joined Laura and the vicar in the library. “Of course, castles were often undermined, you know. If you could find that that had happened, there might be a passage you haven’t yet found. That would clear the matter up, wouldn’t it?”

  “But undermining, Hilda,” said her husband, “was done with the object, surely, of bringing down the tower, or, at any rate, of breaching a hole in one of its angles. It was not used as a direct means of gaining entrance, so far as I am aware, except that, of course, once there was a breach in the walls…”

  “That’s true,” his wife agreed. “Suggestion dismissed contemptuously.”

  “Not at all, my dear, not all. It merely seemed to me…”

  “Vicar,” said Dame Beatrice, interrupting him with some suddenness, “I understand that when you vacate the living it will be sold to the highest bidder.”

  “Well, well! I should hardly like to put it in that way, you know, Dame Beatrice,” said the puzzled man, somewhat shocked by the crude supposition, “but, yes, the living will be sold, not given, when I vacate it.”

  “There is method in my question,” said Dame Beatrice. “Is Mrs. Dysey as poorly endowed with this world’s goods as her appearance, and the fact that she lets out the castle on lease for three months every year, would seem to suggest?”

  “I’ve really no idea. The estate itself, of course, is almost worthless. I don’t know whether it would be commercially sound to pasture sheep on these hills, but, apart from that, I see no other source of possible profit, unless a speculator in land would buy it up for building purposes.”

  “We will take it, then, that Mrs. Dysey is poor. Upon that assumption, let us return to this question of the living here at Ravens Dysey.”

  “If you mean to ask me whether it is a good one, well, from my limited experience of livings, yes, it is. The stipend derives from the interest on a vast fortune amassed by a member of the Cowleigh family in India during the halcyon days of the East India Company.”

  “Indeed? Then how do the Dyseys come into it?”

  “Well, they owned the land, I believe, on which the church is built. Then a later Dysey lent money to the Cowleighs and, to discharge the debt, asked that his family should be allowed to sell the benefice every second time it fell vacant. It is all very involved, I’m afraid, and I have never found time to go fully into it. I take it that at some time in the distant past—probably in the time of the Third Crusade—the Dyseys bought the castle from the Cowleighs and re-named it, but the Cowleighs may have retained some of the rights.”

  “I trust that you have insured your life,” said Dame Beatrice. The vicar stared at her.

  “Insured my life? Such a thought has never occurred to me. All the same…” he glanced at his wife, heavy with their first child…“it is a good idea, I think. Thank you, Dame Beatrice. I will certainly see about it. Not but what…”

  “Oh, I promise not to murder you if you insure your life in my favour,” said his wife. Then her face changed as she caught Dame Beatrice’s eye. She laughed uncertainly, and added, “Oh, dear! I’m talking about rope in the house of the hanged, I suppose!”

  In obedience to a sign from her employer, Laura said,

  “Come and see my son’s awful bedroom, and keep your fingers crossed that your baby will be a girl.”

  “I wonder when is the best time to call upon the doctor?” said Dame Beatrice, when they had gone from the room. “I am anxious to consult him.”

  “Not on your own account, I trust?” said the vicar. “His surgery hours are from half-past nine until eleven, and from six-thirty to eight o’clock, I believe.”

  “My health is excellent, I thank you. I wish to obtain a firsthand account of his inspection of the body of Mr. Thomas Dysey, that is all. I saw the body of Eustace, and should be glad to make a comparison of my findings with those of Doctor Binns.”

  “You yourself are a doctor of medicine, then, Dame Beatrice?”

  “Of medicine, and so forth,” said Dame Beatrice, waving a yellow claw. “Moreover,” she added, “I was not joking when I suggested that you insure your life. To take a fortnight’s holiday would be even more to the point. I have a distant relative in Holy Orders who would be delighted to exchange pulpits with you. He lives in Norfolk. Could you get away within, we will say, the next two or three weeks?”

  “Indeed not
, dear lady. I have already taken my annual vacation. I could not dream of quitting the parish again so soon. But you fill me with the most intense curiosity. Will you not explain?”

  “I think your life may be in danger, and, although you may care to take the risk on your own account, you must not involve your wife, or violate my tender conscience. I warn you that it might be to the great advantage of one of the Dyseys to have the living vacant again.”

  “I cannot take you seriously.”

  “You would be better advised if you did. Tell me, if you will, all that took place here on the evening preceding Thomas Dysey’s death.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Cleric’s Evidence

  “ ‘What matter is this?’ said the Bishop;

  ‘Or for whom do you make this ado?

  Or why do you kill the King’s ven’son,

  When your company is so few?’ ”

  Robin Hood and the Bishop of Hereford

  “I am at a loss where to begin,” said Charlock.

  “In such case, the advice of the King of Hearts to the White Rabbit might be followed with advantage. ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop,’ ” suggested Dame Beatrice.

  “The beginning would be my acceptance of the surprising invitation from the Dyseys to dine here at the castle.”

  “Surprising invitation?”

  “Most surprising. It was the first time anything of the sort had come my way. The Thomas Dyseys paid me a courtesy visit after my induction as incumbent of the parish, but, until this invitation came along, I had seen nothing more of him or his wife. The only time I called here I was told that they were not at home. As I knew that they were both in residence, I took this to mean that they did not wish to entertain my presence, so I troubled them no further.”

  “But you were not inclined to refuse their invitation to dinner?”

  “It would not have been becoming in me to nourish ill-feeling, although I am afraid I agreed with my wife’s reading of the summons.”