The Croaking Raven

by Gladys Mitchell

  “The police, Madame,” said Celestine, announcing the inspector distastefully.

  “It’s this way, mam,” said the inspector. “We’re up a gum tree, so to speak. We’ve narrowed it down, but not far enough to risk making an arrest. Now, Mrs. Gavin’s husband”—he sketched a nod, which might be interpreted as a bow, towards Laura—“gave us a hint that if we found ourselves with what he called a psychological problem…”

  “Of course,” said Dame Beatrice, taking a small notebook from her skirt pocket.

  “Well, mam, it’s this way. I’ve divided up the suspects according to what you might call possible culpability, but…”

  “None of it makes sense,” said Laura. The inspector looked at her sadly.

  “It all makes sense,” he stated. “The thing is that it don’t add up right.”

  “The same is often true of life in general,” said Dame Beatrice. “You have divided up the suspects? And what follows?”

  “That’s what I’d be glad if you’d tell me, mam.”

  “Who are your suspects?”

  “Getting on for the whole lot of them,” said the inspector, taking out his notebook. “I don’t really see how to eliminate any of ’em, on their present showing. Who did you make out as the likeliest?”

  “It depends largely on motive, don’t you think?”

  “That’s where, for the moment, I’m beat. If we knew the motive, we’d be able to put a finger on the man.”

  “Or woman, of course.”

  The inspector looked at her.

  “So that’s the way your cat jumps,” he said. “Bit of a heavy job for a woman, though, I should have thought.”

  “The person who did the killing is not necessarily the person who helped to move the bodies, Inspector.”

  “Oh, you think there was an accomplice?”

  “I should think it is almost certain.”

  “Well, we wondered that ourselves, but, if so, that would point definitely in one direction, wouldn’t it?”

  “You mean it would point towards Mr. Henry and Mr. Cyril Dysey? It would certainly appear, on the face of it, as though they were the most likely to be in collusion over the matter. But let us see where we stand. My suspects, from the time of the discovery of Mr. Eustace’s body have, of course, included them, but there are other possibilities. There seem to be wheels within wheels, not to mention what Mrs. Gavin would term…”

  “Niggers in woodpiles,” said Laura.

  “As how, ladies? It seems to me that Mr. Cyril and Mr. Henry had the most to gain by these deaths. Barring Mr. Thomas and Mr. Eustace, there’s no doubt Mr. Cyril stands to inherit the property, and, him and Mr. Henry being like father and son, Mr. Henry would likely expect to be next on the list, I should say.”

  “Neither would have any great expectations while Mr. Bonamy was alive.”

  “Mr. Bonamy? But he’s been dead these many years, mam. There’s a memorial to him in the church.”

  “It does not claim to commemorate his death, Inspector. I did not realise this, I must admit, until it was pointed out to me.”

  “But if Mr. Bonamy is alive, then the will still stands!”

  “Ah, you have seen Mr. Thomas’s will?”

  “Why, yes, we checked on that at Somerset House, as a matter of routine, but, in view of the memorial tablet, we wrote it off as a dead letter.”

  “The bequests, I take it, do not stop short at Mr. Bonamy.”

  “His lawful issue is mentioned.”

  “Ah! So, whether he is alive or dead, he may have lawful issue. Is it known whether he was married before he left his home?”

  “He was not, mam. We checked that, too. Although, if he’d married later, his issue wouldn’t hardly be old enough to murder a couple of grown men.”

  “One would take that for granted, I think.”

  “But what makes you suppose Mr. Bonamy may be alive, mam?”

  “As I suggested, the wording of the memorial tablet is ambiguous. Besides that, there might be some point in finding out where Mrs. Dysey went and whom she visited while I was renting the castle during this August and part of September.”

  “You think she went to see Mr. Bonamy?”

  “I do not know, but I have received a hint, and I think the matter might repay investigation. Then, of course, it might be worth your while to probe into the recent activities of the woman who calls herself Henrietta Dysey and who is rumoured to be Mr. Henry’s mother.”

  “First I’ve heard of this, but, of course, I’ve only been here five years. Does that mean Mr. Henry is Mr. Cyril’s son, and not his nephew?—or is he the son of one of the other two Dyseys? With a fly-by-night, revenge could be the motive, and not the inheritance at all.”

  “It could be both, could it not?”

  “That’s right enough. It could, at that.”

  “There are other factors to be taken into account. Not every one of the possible suspects could have known of the existence of the priest’s hole. Even if its existence was known, its situation and the means of access to it need not have been.”

  “Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain that, mam.”

  “Well, let us take the people concerned.”

  “Unless there is a nigger in the woodpile,” said Laura, “it’s always possible, in a complicated business of this kind, that there’s X, an unknown factor.”

  “I know. We must certainly bear that in mind,” said her employer. “Well, now, Inspector, let us agree—as I can see we do—that there is a strong case against Cyril and Henry Dysey. Cyril, who was born and brought up here in the castle, must have known of the priest’s hole. Whether he knew how to get into it is another matter, but we will assume that he did. Henry seems to have left the castle when he was three years old, but…”

  “There was nothing to stop Mr. Cyril telling him all about it, mam?”

  “Something to talk about during the long winter evenings,” said Laura. “I’ll tell you what, though,” she added. “There’s one person who must know all about the priest’s hole and how to get into it, and that’s Mrs. Dysey.”

  “How do you make that out, Mrs. Gavin?” asked the inspector.

  “Because it—that window embrasure—was always roped off, so that the Wednesday and Saturday visitors couldn’t stray into it and open the panelling by accident.”

  “On the other hand,” said the inspector, “if she knew of this, surely she would have said something to you about it—warned you that it was roped off because that part of the flooring was dangerous, or given some reason of that kind, would she not?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s true,” admitted Laura. “On the other hand, the castle was never let during Tom Dysey’s life-time, so…”

  “Ah, but the Wednesday and Saturday visitors were admitted during his life-time, mam. I think there is some reason to doubt whether Mrs. Dysey did know how to open the panelling. On the other hand, of course, she may have known the secret.”

  “I see. A verdict of Not-Proven, which, in my own land, always seems to me to amount to a suggestion, if no more, that the accused is guilty all right, but has got away with it. But, of course, I may be wrong about that.”

  “Suppose Mrs. Dysey had known how to open up the priest’s hole, how about her weight?” asked the inspector.

  “She is a spare woman, but has large bones,” said Dame Beatrice. “I should suppose her to be quite as heavy as Laura here.”

  “That could be proved, I suppose, if she’d agree to make the trial, mam. If she refused, well, maybe we’d know what to think.”

  “And if she agreed, and the trap-door worked, it wouldn’t prove anything,” argued Laura. “For one thing—as I’ve found out for myself—you can’t go it alone. You can be the person who stands on the trap-door to open it, or you can be the one to nip inside when it’s open, but you can’t be both. And the reason for that is that, once inside, you’re immured. There doesn’t seem to be any way of opening up again, and, if you go out the other w
ay, you’re also stymied, because you can’t get out of the castle undercroft. In any case, if you showed her weight could open the trap, it wouldn’t prove she’d ever stood on the spot before. All the same, I think Tom Dysey is certain to have told her about it. You couldn’t spend all your married life making a kind of Bluebeard’s Chamber of that part of the dining-room. If you pleaded that the floor was unsafe, it seems to me that the party of the second part would soon be asking why on earth, if that was so, you didn’t have something done about it.”

  “I think Mrs. Gavin has a point there, mam,” said the inspector.

  “Yes, I think she has,” agreed Dame Beatrice, “and she may well be right, but I still think that had Mrs. Dysey known of the whereabouts of the trap-door she would have given us some reason for not crossing the rope barrier.”

  “She may have thought that only Hamish would do that,” suggested Laura, “and she’d know he isn’t nearly heavy enough to work the doings. It’s amazing how English people such as ourselves, to name but one well-behaved section of the populace, do respect roped-off spaces and Keep off the Grass notices, and No Admission Except on Business, and No Parking, and so on and so forth.’

  The inspector nodded. Dame Beatrice proceeded with her suggestions.

  “Then,” she said, “if we agree that Mr. Thomas knew the secret, we are entitled to assume that Mr. Eustace knew it, too, as well as Mr. Cyril.”

  “Yes, there’s not much doubt it was Eustace’s hidey-hole,” said Laura.

  “Exactly.”

  “And one person who knew that Eustace was around and about the castle was Henry,” Laura continued.

  “And another was Mrs. Dysey,” said Dame Beatrice. “There cannot be much doubt about that. At the bottom of our list of suspects come Henrietta Dysey (so-called), the Carter family and, of course, Bonamy, if he is still alive.”

  “There’s a big objection to Bonamy, mam, if he is, as you say, still alive. He might have killed his father, but, if he did, it’s odd he’s never turned up to claim his inheritance.”

  “There seems to be a theory that his mother has persuaded him to put off his return until such time as you have arrested the murderer. She may be afraid that Mr. Bonamy’s own life is in danger so long as the killer is at large.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that looks as though she suspects Mr. Cyril or Mr. Henry—more likely both of them.”

  “Yes, indeed. If one thing seems more probable than another about these deaths, it is that at least two persons were concerned in them.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Laura, “is why, supposing Bonamy has turned up incognito—which I suppose he could have done after all this time—he found it necessary to kill his Uncle Eustace. I suppose he didn’t know the terms of his father’s will, and took it for granted that, because he’d blotted his copybook, he’d get nothing unless he blotted out all other possible claimants. In that case, hadn’t Cyril better look out for himself? After all, he is Eustace’s twin.”

  “If his mother was his collaborator, she would have told him, surely, that he had not been disinherited,” said Dame Beatrice. “Therefore it would follow, either that Mrs. Dysey is not implicated and that there is another partner for Bonamy, or else that neither mother nor son is guilty.”

  “Well, all right, then,” Laura conceded, “but what about this idea that Henrietta Slepe is a suspect? I can see she might have made up her mind to decimate the Dyseys in the hope that, in the end, Henry (if he is her son) might inherit, but I can’t see how she could possibly have known about the priest’s hole.”

  “Unless, with a lover’s rashness, Thomas told her at some time or another,” said Dame Beatrice. “A young man has an urge to make himself and his circumstances romantic and interesting at such a time. You must bear in mind, however, that there are other possibilities. Henry may have other parents, not these.”

  “I’ll get on the track of this Henrietta,” said the inspector, making a note. “A wronged woman is always apt to do funny things, mam. I’d like to find out where this mis-alliance took place and where Mr. Henry was born, and all the rest of it.”

  “In addition, of course,” said Dame Beatrice, “there is always a suspicion that Henrietta was the person whom Mr. Thomas was asked to meet on the night of his death.”

  “Unlikely they’d have kept in touch all that time,” objected Laura.

  “I don’t know so much about that, Mrs. Gavin,” said the inspector. “Discarded ladies do tend to interest themselves in the progress of the men who’ve let ’em down. You’d be surprised. There’s always the possibility of blackmail, you see, if the gentleman seems to have made a happy marriage. If Dame Beatrice is right, and this Henrietta was the one Mr. Thomas met on the night of his death, then you can be pretty certain that something of the sort was in her mind.”

  “That may very well be so,” said Laura spiritedly, “but, in that case, surely the boot would be on the other foot?”

  “I don’t think I take your meaning, Mrs. Gavin,” said the inspector cautiously.

  “I should have thought it was pretty plain. In circumstances such as the above, it’s the blackmailer who gets bumped off, not the victim.”

  “There might have been some sort of toss-up, ending in a fight,” argued the inspector; but he spoke doubtfully. “Anyway, we’ll certainly get after the good lady and find out what she can tell us. But you mentioned the Carters, mam,” he went on, turning to Dame Beatrice. “I can’t see what they have to do with it. They only keep the farm. They’re a most quiet, respectable family.”

  “Yes, but Jerry Carter, who now has a baby son, is descended from one of the Dyseys,” said Laura. “I don’t believe for a single instant that they’re mixed up in anything wrong, but they might be able to throw a little light, don’t you think?”

  The inspector agreed, still doubtfully, that it might be so, and added that at least there seemed plenty to go on.

  “And, of course,” he added, “if there was an accomplice—which brings us right back to Mr. Cyril and Mr. Henry—it doesn’t matter about figuring out which person, besides having the know-how of the priest’s hole, also had the strength to get Mr. Eustace’s body into it. If there wasn’t an accomplice, then the point remains.”

  “There is just one other person who should be mentioned,” said Laura, “in my opinion, that is.”

  “And who might that be, Mrs. Gavin?”

  “Why, Cyril’s wife, this mysterious housekeeper person he seems to have married.”

  “We checked Mr. Cyril’s marriage. It was all fair, square, and above board. She’s a distant relation of the Carters and she did used to be Mr. Cyril’s housekeeper until, seemingly, he decided it would be cheaper to have her as his wife.”

  “But if she’s related to the Carters, she’s a Dysey,” said Laura triumphantly. The inspector smiled kindly upon her.

  “I’ll have a go at the poor woman,” he said. “I suppose”—his tone altered—“I suppose this Henrietta is Mr. Henry’s mother? It couldn’t be that this Mrs. Cyril is the one?”

  “That could mean that Cyril is his father, and not his uncle. I told you there was a nigger in the woodpile,” said Laura, smiling kindly in her turn.

  “One more thing before you go, Inspector,” said Dame Beatrice. “I think your people should make certain that the vicarage at Ravens Dysey is kept under surveillance.”

  “You don’t suspect the vicar, mam, surely?”

  “No, no. I do suspect, however, that an attempt may be made on his life. The next time the living becomes vacant, it will be sold by the Dysey family and, I am told, for an enviable sum. The Dysey family (unless or until the fabulous Ravens’ Hoard comes to light) is an extremely poor one. I am sure you would wish the vicar to come to no harm.”

  “It sounds a bit far-fetched to me, mam, but we’ll keep a weather-eye lifting.”

  “There are others who are unlikely to be murderers, but who may know of the existence of the priest’s hole, Inspector
. Laura has mentioned the Carters, to whom the secret may have been handed down. Another possibility is that the gardener here, Bellairs, may have heard of it.”

  “Bellairs,” said the inspector, thoughtfully.

  “Bellairs! Good Lord, that seems to ring a bell!” exclaimed Laura. “Although what bell,” she added soberly, “doesn’t seem to identify itself at the moment.”

  * * *

  *thraw = writhe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  News of the Heir Apparent

  “ ‘From whence cam’ ye, young man?’ she said;

  ‘That does surprise me sair;

  My door was bolted right secure,

  What way hae ye come here?—’

  ‘O haud your tongue, ye lady fair,

  Lat a’ your folly be;

  Mind ye not o’ your turtle-doo

  Ye wiled from aff the tree?’ ”

  Earl Mar’s Daughter

  “You want to speak to my housekeeper? Help yourself, madam. She’s in the kitchen. Don’t forget, though, while you’re at it, that a wife’s not obliged to incriminate her husband,” said Cyril Dysey.

  “I will bear it in mind,” said Dame Beatrice. “It will be almost my last chance to talk to her. My lease of Castle Dysey is nearly up.”

  “You won’t be sorry, I take it, and neither shall I. Nothing but trouble since that water-nymph of yours came striding over my property demanding where she could swim. Something told me we should get no peace after that!”

  “Laura is not usually regarded as a bird of ill-omen. Furthermore, I would remind you, Mr. Dysey, that the peace of your house was destroyed many years before Laura entered your life. Tell me—a good deal depends on your answer—who is Mr. Henry?”

  “If I said he was my son, you’d not believe me.”

  “Then there is no point in your saying so, is there?”

  “Look,” said Cyril Dysey, “I won’t make a secret of it. The police have been here again, and there’s not much doubt about what they think.”

  “I know. They have yet to collect some concrete evidence, of course.”