“Oh, is that it? Goodness me! And was it really covered in blood? I never saw it, you know. I was only told about it, and Mr. Spencer, joking, like, asked me to look out for any boys with sore heads, but that was all.”
“Oh, you weren’t actually shown the mallet?”
“No. But I remember the day, because Jones put a bradawl into Carter’s leg, and I thought it ought to be a hospital job, so I rang up. I always keep a note of hospital cases because we always send the hospital our harvest thanksgiving and Mr. Bond likes to remind the boys beforehand of what the hospital’s done for them during the year. We tried eggs one Easter, but it wasn’t as successful as marrows and things. Eggs do seem to get broken with boys, don’t they?”
The superintendent did not attempt to express an opinion. He said:
“If you have the date, I should be glad.”
Miss Cowley turned up her records and soon found it. In spite of a tendency to giggle and squeal at times, she was fundamentally a sensible, reliable girl.
“Here you are,” she said. The superintendent made a note of the date and realised, as he was doing so, that it was two days after John Mapsted’s death that the mallet had been returned. He could not feel that this was a coincidence. He thanked Miss Cowley and returned to the police station. He proposed to obtain Mr. Simkin’s signed statement before making any further move. No report, he was told, had come in to explain the disappearance of Turnbull.
Mr. Simkin turned up at five minutes to five and made his statement. It was read to him and he signed it.
“And now, sir,” said the superintendent kindly, “on the understanding that nothing of what is said here today goes back to Mr. Bond, I shall be obliged if you’ll answer a few questions.”
“I am really not afraid of the headmaster,” protested Mr. Simkin.
“Of course not, sir. I was not suggesting such a thing,” said the superintendent mendaciously. “But we usually find that ladies and gentlemen speak more freely when they know there will be no repercussions. Excuse me just one moment, sir.” He reached for the telephone. “I think the doctor gets back from his afternoon visits about now.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his long, thick legs, and talked casually but clearly. “Doctor Rollins? Superintendent Humblederry here. Look, Doctor, that Elkstonehunt case. Mapsted. Yes. You remember it? Good. Well, we’ve some evidence here that a crime may have been committed by striking someone on the head with a mallet. Ha, ha! A great big wooden mallet, yes! Seriously, Doctor, could such a thing have caused Mapsted’s death, and not a kick from a horse, as was suggested? It could? No, I know. We weren’t happy about the horse theory, either. Right. Thank you very much. Good-bye.”
“Murder?” asked Mr. Simkin.
“Quite likely, sir.” The superintendent connected himself with another number. “Dame Beatrice? Good afternoon. Could you get her for me, please? Police station at Seahampton speaking. Yes, personally. A medical opinion wanted. Ah, good of you, Dame Beatrice. You remember the John Mapsted business? No, I know you weren’t satisfied. Neither were we. Well, now, how do you react to the theory that he was knocked on the head with a mallet? Yes, it turned up at the Grammar School. Most odd, I know. Thank you, Dame Beatrice. By the way, it seems that one of the masters at the school failed to report for duty today. Chap named Turnbull. Oh! Oh, really? Right. I’ll come over at once—well, not quite at once, because I’ve got another of the masters here who may be able to tell me something useful. The science master who happened, by all that’s lucky, to test the stains on the mallet. Yes, a first-class man, I should say.”
Mr. Simkin looked pleased.
“Oh, I—er—” he said, as the superintendent put down the receiver.
“Now, sir,” said the superintendent, brushing aside this modest disclaimer, “to the point at issue. This mallet. No doubt you have gathered from my telephone conversations that it may have been used to batter a man to death.”
“Yes, yes, but from the purely scientific point of view…”
The superintendent began to sympathise with Mr. Bond.
“Quite, sir,” he said patiently, “and I do appreciate that your knowledge may be the means of bringing a murderer to justice, but for the moment all I want to know is this: when you found no fingerprints except those of Mr. Turnbull on the handle of the mallet, what conclusion did you come to?”
“That he had handled the mallet. But, of course, he would have done, you see, because it was in his hand when he showed it to me.”
“Now, just a moment, sir. I understood that it was Mr. Spencer who showed it to you.”
“Not at all, Spencer suggested I should examine it, but I did not see him handle it.”
“That’s perfectly clear, then, sir. Wouldn’t you have expected Mr. Spencer to take it from Mr. Turnbull to show it you?”
“I never expect anything of Spencer. A mean-spirited, disgruntled, sometimes foolishly facetious man,” said Mr. Simkin mildly. “Not that one likes to speak unprofessionally, of course.”
“So, as far as you know, nobody handled the mallet except Mr. Turnbull until you took it into your own hands to test it for human blood. What made you think of human blood, sir?”
“But I didn’t. It looked like blood. I merely thought that one of the boys might have struck an animal with it. Some boys do cruel things. It just turned out to be human blood. That is to say, it answered all the tests.”
“I am greatly obliged to you, sir. Were you present when the body of the man Jenkinson was discovered at your school?”
“No, I think I’d gone home. I heard about it the next day, though. Most extraordinary.”
“Yes, sir. Now, the hairs on the mallet. Can you be certain they were human hairs?”
“Oh, yes, quite certain. I had them under the microscope.”
“You could not form any opinion as to the colour, of course?”
“I should not care to be positive. I washed them, of course, before I put them under the microscope, but they were few in number and had been soaked in blood. At a venture, they might have been dark brown. Yes, I think I may say you could term them a darkish brown, exactly like Spencer’s hair.”
“And there is nothing you can add, sir, to your information?”
“I cannot think of anything more. If anything else about the mallet should occur to me I will let you know.”
“And you are positive you identify this, sir, as the mallet you examined and tested?”
“Quite, quite positive,” said Mr. Simkin. “But send it to your forensic laboratory if you are not convinced. There’s plenty of blood on it for them. Their tests would naturally be more stringent than my own.”
The superintendent, who fully intended getting his experts to test the mallet for bloodstains, smiled gravely. An hour later he had had his tea and was pulling up in front of the Stone House, Wandles Parva, where Dame Beatrice and Laura were awaiting him. The chief constable was with them, but was present unofficially, paying a friendly call only, he explained to the superintendent.
“But I’m very glad to see you, sir,” declared the superintendent. “This business is likely to be as much a matter for the County Police as for us in Seahampton, for it seems certain now that it began here in this village with the murder of John Mapsted.”
“Are you certain it was murder, then? I know we’ve entertained suspicions.”
“Doesn’t seem any doubt of it now, sir. I think I’ve found the weapon. Another thing: the woodwork master at the Grammar School is missing under what I’m quite certain are suspicious circumstances. It seems reasonable to think that a mallet from the school workshop killed John Mapsted, and not a kick from a horse as we were led to believe.”
“A mallet, eh? You don’t suspect this woodwork man of killing Mapsted, I suppose?”
“No, sir, I do not.” He gave an account of what had passed that afternoon at Seahampton. “So I’ve put Detective-Inspector Jackson and Detective-Sergeant Toms on to the job of finding Turnbull,” he con
cluded, “and I only hope he’ll be alive when they do find him.”
CHAPTER 16
OLD LADIES AT COFFEE
…but I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you’ll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
In addition to looking for Turnbull, the police interviewed Jed Nottingham, Farmer Grinsted, and, on Laura’s recommendation (so to speak), the gipsy, whose whereabouts were betrayed by Nottingham after an abrupt intimation from the police that it would be healthier for him to help rather than hinder.
Zozo was uncommunicative. He did not remember drinking with Turnbull, knew nothing of any quarrels, knew nothing of any horse except his own that pulled his caravan, and had no recollection of ever having seen Laura before, either at Old Seahampton or anywhere else.
“Talk about the Wise Monkeys!” said Laura disgustedly to Dame Beatrice afterwards. “Do you think he does know anything about Mr. Turnbull?”
“No, I don’t. He knows all about substituting horses, though, and he does not intend his tongue to get him into trouble. What I do not understand is that he and Mr. Nottingham and Grinsted—for I take it they are all in it together—dared to change the horse’s appearance so openly.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Laura. “It was because the stables at the Blue Finn are fifteen miles from here, I expect. And Old Seahampton isn’t anywhere near a racecourse, either. It was only my happening to recognise the horses which made it interesting. I suppose Cissie was in the know, and I take it that John Mapsted had been a party to the goings-on.”
“The police are going to question Miss Gauberon. In fact, I imagine that they have already done so.”
“Old Mrs. Mapsted, too, I expect,” said Laura. “I bet they get about as much change out of her as they did out of that gipsy chap.”
“I think I must have another chat with her myself,” said Dame Beatrice. “With Miss Gauberon also, very probably.”
“Do you want my company?”
“Not this time, thank you. I wish, though, that you would contrive to have a long conversation with Mrs. Cofts’s sister-in-law, preferably about horses.”
“She doesn’t ride.”
“Therefore she probably has strong opinions on the subject.”
“Envious of Mrs. Cofts? Likely to give me the low-down about Viatka getting that over-reach she was so cagey about—that sort of thing?”
“Excellent. And I should like your visit there to coincide with mine to Mrs. Mapsted.”
“Suppose you run into Mrs. Cofts there?”
“She is unlikely to call on Mrs. Mapsted. She might go to Miss Gauberon, but, if so, it will be to a hire a horse and the visit therefore will be a short one.”
“Right. I’ll push off and see what I can do about Miss Cofts. She hates Mrs. C. enough to remember anything to her discredit, I’ve no doubt!”
Dame Beatrice followed her out of the house some ten minutes later. Old Mrs. Mapsted was planting potatoes. She had a dibber made from the haft of a spade and with it she jabbed angrily at the soil.
“Earlies!” she said scornfully, as Dame Beatrice came up. “What do they want with Earlies? The only other idea they have is Main Crop. Now I say that the late potatoes are the crop that bring in the money.”
“Wireworm,” retorted Dame Beatrice.
“Wireworm?” Old Mrs. Mapsted flourished her sharpened tool. “What do you know about wireworm?”
“Little rings,” replied Dame Beatrice, waving a yellow claw. “Nibble, nibble, nibble, Mr. Gibbon.”
“You don’t find wireworm on my land. I believe in lime.”
“Like a god, both preserver and destroyer. A word with you.”
“No time to spare. Here, you plant while I dib.”
The two elderly ladies completed three rows of early potatoes. Then Mrs. Mapsted straightened her back.
“A nice cup of coffee,” she said, “with a modicum of sugarcane ferment.”
“Molasses,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Rum!”
“That is exactly what I said.”
“Ignorance is not always bliss, as the mule said when it kicked the robot instead of the professor.”
“I shall be very glad of a cup of coffee with a teaspoonful of rum in it. Thank you.”
“Unappreciative of lavish hospitality. Teaspoonful of rum, indeed!”
Restored to good humour, as Dame Beatrice had known she would be by these exchanges, old Mrs. Mapsted led the way into the house and heated the coffee.
“Always prepare it beforehand,” she said. “Tastes better. Some people say it must be fresh-made. Lot of nonsense. It redeems itself, left to stand.”
Unable, since she seldom made coffee, and, in any case, unwilling, to challenge this last statement, Dame Beatrice accepted her cup and a glass of rum, and said:
“What about Gipsy Zozo?”
“Guesthood under false pretences! You’ve come to pump me!”
“Why else did I help you to plant potatoes? Of course I’ve come to pump you. The time is ripe for confidences.”
“Right.” Old Mrs. Mapsted took a gulp of scalding coffee. “Jack was murdered.”
“So much appears to be established. The police think they know the weapon that was used.”
“Wasn’t Percheron’s hoof. Tested him myself. Don’t care much about horses. Went into his stable and shouted at him. Stamped his feet and nearly blew the hair off my head, but not a kick out of him. I decided I wanted to know, you know. Know now.”
“So what about Gipsy Zozo?”
“Wouldn’t stick to the point if you drank as much as I do. Still, for what it’s worth, he’s a clever rascal. Cissie Gauberon didn’t know, of course. Thought only of gymkhanas, silly girl—or do I mean point-to-point?”
Dame Beatrice could not believe that Cissie Gauberon, whether she thought of gymkhanas or point-to-point, did not know all that went on at the Elkstonehunt riding stables.
“How well did your son get on with that Mr. Nottingham who has the stables at Linghurst Parva?” she inquired.
“Dog shouldn’t eat dog,” said Mrs. Mapsted, “and to make sure, it’s sometimes best to keep ’em apart.”
“And the farmer, Mr. Grinsted?”
“A villain, if ever there was one!”
“What sort of villain?”
“A thieving, lying, double-twisting monster!”
“Thieving?”
“He stole my Large White boar and changed his colour and sold him back to me. Vegetable dye. Turned him into a Berkshire. I threatened Grinsted with the law. Got my money back.”
“Lying?”
“Swore the animal was a Berkshire. I knew better.”
“Double-twisting?”
“Practised on the pig to make sure of the horses. Wicked sinner!”
“Ah!”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me! I know what I’m talking about. None better. What did you say they killed Jack with?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you. In any case, there is no proof yet.”
“Please yourself. Could have been done with a mallet. Wasn’t Percheron, anyway.”
If Dame Beatrice was a little startled by the reference to a mallet, she did not betray the fact.
“Not Percheron, no,” she agreed. “Tell me more about Zozo. How did your son come to meet him?”
“I don’t know that Jack ever met him. He was the man Grinsted paid to fake my pig.”
“Yes, I suppose so. And then he faked your son’s horses, and I think Miss Gauberon did know.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Mrs. Gavin saw two of the horses, Criollo and Appaloosa, at Old Seahampton, and reported the fact. Miss Gauberon was not surprised.”
“Criollo and Appaloosa? Rubbishy brutes. Couldn’t win a race against a pony pulling a coal-cart.”
“They were substituted, we think, for better horses, to deceive the backers. This would lengthen the odds when
the better horses ran at other meetings.”
Old Mrs. Mapsted chuckled. She was obviously untroubled by scruples.
“Couldn’t risk it very often, I suppose,” she said. “One would need to use common sense. Doubt whether Jack ever did.”
With this remark she gathered up the coffee cups and carried them into the scullery. It appeared that the conversation had terminated. Dame Beatrice did not repeat her offer to help finish planting the potatoes, and was walking briskly homewards when she met Colonel May, the grandfather and guardian of Ursula, Dick, and Sarah. He saluted by raising his walking-stick and stopped for a chat.
“Mud on your shoes, Beatrice. Been for a cross-country ramble?”
“No. I’ve been helping Mrs. Mapsted to plant potatoes.”
“Too early for potatoes. Good Friday is the day for that.”
“I understood her to say that these were early potatoes.”
“Queer business about her son. Got to the bottom of it yet?”
“Not to the bottom of it, but we are still digging.”
“I don’t understand the woman. Don’t understand her at all. Is she all there, do you suppose?”
“Oh, yes, there is nothing wrong with her brain.”
“Seems to lack feelings, though. Doesn’t seem at all cut up about John.”
“I had noticed it.”
“No mother-love. Can’t understand it. You’d think she’d be shockingly upset, but, so far as I can tell, she hasn’t turned a hair. And look at all those lies she told at the inquest.”
“The one lie, if any.”
“Well, why tell even one? She was on oath.”
“It was a little doubtful, at the time, whether it was Mrs. Mapsted who lied, but there is good reason now for being pretty certain that John Mapsted was not at home that night. Do you know anything about a man named Zozo, a gipsy?”
“Had him up in front of the bench for poaching.”
“What about horse-racing? There is reason to believe that he was a member of a very shady syndicate who substituted racehorses.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him. Most of those chaps know how to make up vegetable dyes and are pretty handy with a pair of clippers. File the gees’ teeth, too, they do, you know, to avoid the appearance of age. Paint out stars and stockings—anything.”
Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley) Page 17