Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “But you’ve never heard of Zozo in that connexion?”

  “Can’t say I have, and it’s not like you to ask leading questions. Is it very important?”

  “Not unless he killed John Mapsted.”

  “Eh? What? Mapsted? I thought that brute Percheron kicked his head in? Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly serious. Things are beginning to come out.”

  “And this fellow Zozo is mixed up in them?”

  “To what extent we don’t yet know, but the Seahampton police are prepared to question him closely as to his movements on the night of John Mapsted’s death.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “This information, meagre though it is, had better remain unpublished for the present.”

  “Of course, of course! Shan’t breathe a word to a soul!”

  As Dame Beatrice knew the garrulous old gentleman too well to believe this, she passed on, certain that sooner or later the news would reach the proper quarter. Which quarter that was, she had very little doubt. The repercussions, she thought, might be interesting.

  She had not gone far when there came behind her heavy footsteps moving at what seemed to be an unaccustomed pace and accompanied by distressful breathing. Fairly certain that she knew who it was, she turned and, as she had expected, found herself again confronting the colonel.

  “Just thought of something!” he gasped. Dame Beatrice had expected this also, although not quite so soon.

  “That fellow Grinsted. Did you know he once diddled old Mother Mapsted over a pig?”

  “She told me so.”

  “She told me, too. Changed its colouring and sold it back to her. Made me think about it, your talking about gipsy horse-faking. What about Grinsted, eh?”

  “There is something else I should like to know about Farmer Grinsted,” said Dame Beatrice. “He keeps a racehorse, I am told.”

  “Yes. Beautiful thing. Blue roan. Gentle as a lamb.”

  “Have you encountered the animal, or do you describe its looks and character from hearsay?”

  “I’ve seen it. Never known such an affectionate creature.”

  “Extraordinary!”

  “Yes, they’re usually mettlesome and can be a bit difficult.”

  “I didn’t mean that. See here, my dear Colonel, I know you are the soul of discretion. What would you say if I told you that Miss Trowse, over at Hurst St. Johns, once described Farmer Grinsted’s horse as being capable of savaging a man, with the added information that it would eat a rhinoceros if it could get at one? Incidentally, I wonder how much truth there was in the rumour that Miss Trowse was affianced to John Mapsted?”

  “There was talk about it, but what could the chap see in her? A very mannish woman and long in the tooth, too. Besides, she owns nothing but that string of gone-back cart-horses and she hasn’t a penny to bless herself with. They say she eats oats cooked and the gees eat ’em raw—out of the same nosebag, so to speak.”

  “Interesting and pathetic, don’t you think?”

  “She should get a job. Plenty of jobs going in New Seahampton. I suppose she can type a bit—most women seem to—and lick stamps and so on?”

  “I have no idea, but I expect she would rather live with her horses.”

  “Yes, but she isn’t going to, according to what I heard. She’s going to sell up and go as kennel-maid to those Boxer-dog people over on the other side of Ferndown. If she does, I wonder whether there’s any chance of getting a good puppy cheap? People ought to oblige old acquaintances, what?”

  “You had better get Grinsted to arrange with Mr. Zozo to camouflage a stolen puppy, then you might be able to get it for nothing except the gipsy’s fee,” said Dame Beatrice, with a mirthless grin. The colonel stared at her for a moment, and then said:

  “I know nothing about that pig business, don’t you know, except what Mother Mapsted told me herself. Wanted to know whether she could go to law about it. I advised her to threaten Grinsted with a summons. Said I was prepared to back her up by swearing to the pig.”

  “It was good of you to side with the widow and the orphan.”

  “Can’t stick Grinsted, surly brute,” said the colonel. “Well, you think over what I’ve told you. A fellow that will paint a pig will paint horses. If you believe Mapsted was murdered, there’s your man for you.”

  “Motive, Colonel?”

  “What’s motive got to do with it? The fellow would strangle his old mother if he thought it worth his while. Probably did, I shouldn’t wonder. Suppose Mapsted had found out about this horse-faking business? Wouldn’t that be motive enough for Grinsted to want to shut his mouth?”

  “From inductive reasoning, Colonel, I think that Mapsted himself was a party to the horse-faking.”

  “Well, that makes it all the more likely that Grinsted settled his hash. They must have had a row. When thieves fall out, you know…!”

  “There’s a great deal in that. I must think it over.”

  “You’ll find I’m about right. Well, as you already knew about the pig, I’ll be getting back. By the way, if it wasn’t a horse—and I can read between the lines, as well as the next man—what did kill John Mapsted?”

  “Why not a great big wooden mallet?” asked Dame Beatrice lightly. The colonel looked at her reproachfully and sucked in his cheeks.

  “You know, I’m not at all sure that you’re a serious-minded woman,” he said. “Well, I’ll be off. Just wanted to be helpful.”

  He faced about and walked slowly towards his home. Dame Beatrice soon gained hers, and found her chauffeur George awaiting her with the car at the front of the house. He saluted in his formal, respectful fashion.

  “There’s been a telephone call, madam, while you were out, and Mrs. Célestine took it and said you might be needing the car in a hurry.”

  “Thank you, George. I’d better go and see what it is.”

  The message had come from the Seahampton Grammar School. Mr. Turnbull had been found and Mr. Bond preferred to say nothing more over the telephone. Dame Beatrice rang the school to say that she would come over at once. She left a message for Laura and got into the waiting car.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE MYSTERY OF TURNBULL DEEPENS

  It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I will try to tell you.

  CHARLES DICKENS

  “We became aware,” said Mr. Bond when Dame Beatrice arrived, “of a curious banging noise. It began directly we had finished the hymn, and proved extremely disconcerting during the rest of prayers. In fact, before I gave out school notices, with which I usually conclude the morning Assembly, I got Mr. Gadd to investigate. The noise came from underneath the stage.”

  “Yes?” Dame Beatrice was only mildly interested.

  “It was perhaps a mistake on my part. The excitement of what was discovered caused—I refuse to call it disorder—a certain amount of ill-concealed excitement on the part of the boys. When Mr. Gadd, assisted by Mr. Spencer, removed the panel in front of the stage, Mr. Turnbull looking less than himself, crawled out into the middle of the front row of little boys, and, by so doing, aroused considerable and regrettable mirth.”

  “Yes, he must have caused quite a sensation!”

  “Mr. Gadd and Mr. Spencer helped him out through the swing doors into the corridor. I quelled the rising tide of speculation and discussion which followed his dramatic appearance, and gave out the usual notices.”

  “Very creditable,” said Dame Beatrice. “What had Mr. Turnbull to say?”

  “But little. He was armed and well prepared.”

  “Doubtful, surely?”

  “He did indeed seem to be prepared with some sort of explanation. He said he had been set upon and robbed.”

  “We deal in quotations. These do, sometimes, of course, apply to everyday life.”

  “I agree. He said that he had done his best for the school.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “I ga
thered that the school might have suffered in some way if he had not contrived this reappearance.”

  “And what do you make of that?”

  “I thought he was perfectly right,” said Mr. Bond earnestly. “You see, one can’t afford to lose a teacher when the circumstances of his disappearance may lead to unwarrantable conclusions.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Turnbull declared that he had done his best to get back to us. Attempts to find out more from him have failed. What have you to suggest?”

  “Nothing, at present,” said Dame Beatrice. “I presume he is now in hospital?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Bond, with, perhaps, a touch of malice. “He is being looked after by some people in Old Seahampton named Abu. He seems in a highly nervous state. I think, myself, he should see a doctor. The house is that one out on Old Seahampton Point. As for Abu, it is a false name, I should imagine. I don’t mind telling you, Dame Beatrice, that there is a good deal more in this than has possibly met the eye, and I am not at all satisfied. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I dislike it. I connect this Turnbull business with the corpse which was discovered among the flowers.”

  As Dame Beatrice could not see with what else he was likely to connect it, if he was going to connect it at all, she said no more than a civil farewell and took her leave.

  Laura had been back at the Stone House for some time when Dame Beatrice arrived. She was openly delighted to hear the story of Mr. Turnbull and the school Assembly.

  “We should have eaten anything like that, as kids,” she said. She added, as an afterthought, “Was he all right? Had he been starved or knocked about, or anything?”

  “Mr. Bond did not mention anything of the kind and I did not ask. I felt I was dismissed. I do not think Mr. Bond enjoyed the experience of having a member of his staff upset the school Assembly. I do not think his full sympathy is with Mr. Turnbull.”

  Laura grinned, and said:

  “I’m not surprised. Schoolmasters are not expected to be chummy with people like Grinsted and the gipsy chap. Even to know Jed Nottingham is stretching the social circle a bit too wide, I expect, from Mr. Bond’s point of view. When it came to Turnbull’s playing truant, or whatever it was, from school, and then making a spectacle of himself crawling out of that glory-hole in front of five hundred boys, well, I expect the hairs on the nape of a headmaster’s neck did tend to rise a bit.”

  “Now, what about your own news?” asked Dame Beatrice. “Did you gain anything of advantage from Miss Cofts?”

  “Oh, Lord, yes! I was so taken with the story of Turnbull that I’d forgotten about the Cofts. Mrs. Cofts’s lonely rides on Viatka were to meet Jed Nottingham. He was riding the mare when she got that over-reach. No wonder Mrs. Cofts couldn’t explain it!”

  “Did anything else transpire?”

  “No, nothing that you’d bother about.”

  Nothing more was said and bedtime came. At breakfast on the following morning another subject, still connected with Mr. Turnbull, presented itself and was discussed.

  “I’m certain I know the house Mr. Bond meant,” said Laura. “It’s out there, on the Point, almost opposite the church.”

  “Then let us interview the people called Abu,” suggested Dame Beatrice. “I shall be glad to come with you.”

  Laura was not sorry to be accompanied by her employer on this excursion. What reason Dame Beatrice would give for visiting the house on the Point she had no idea, and neither did Dame Beatrice offer any suggestions.

  They arrived, driven by George, at eleven in the morning. Instead of going straight to the house, they went into the Blue Finn for sherry (for Dame Beatrice) and beer (for Laura) and there encountered Jed Nottingham, who was occupying a stool at the counter.

  Laura, who had gone forward to place her orders, greeted him cautiously.

  “Hullo, Jed.”

  “Ah, it’s you, Mrs. Gavin. What will you have?”

  “Nothing, at the moment, thanks. I’m on duty.”

  Jed Nottingham glanced round.

  “Oh, yes, I see,” he said. “Do you want a tip for the Earl Stakes next week?”

  “Not from you,” replied Laura, grinning.

  “Why not, then? I could give you Chinwagga.”

  Laura never knew (although she gave the credit, later on, to a great-grandmother of hers who, in her own day, had been admired for possessing the gift) why she made the reply she did.

  “Because you’re running Tennessee,” she said calmly, “and for once, you’re backing him.” Jed, who was raising his glass to his lips, jerked beer over his chin. He swore quietly, mopped his face and his pullover, and said:

  “Tennessee? What, that brute of Cissie Gauberon’s? Whatever made you think anybody would enter him for a race? It’s all he can do to amble across country!”

  “Oh, ah?” said Laura. She took up her two glasses and returned to Dame Beatrice. Jed finished his drink quickly and went out. Laura strolled over to the small bow window and saw him go down to the harbour. He put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. Laura returned to the small table, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

  “Jed Nottingham has just hired a boat, I think,” she said. “Mind if I toddle out to see where he’s going?”

  But she gained nothing from her short expedition. Jed was being ferried to the Yacht Club which, at high tide, was an island, so to speak, in its own right. She waited until he climbed aboard the moored cruiser and then went back to finish her beer.

  “Don’t know whether we ought to tackle the Abus while Jed’s about,” she said. “What is your idea?”

  “As Mr. Bond has been told that Mr. Turnbull is at their house, I see no reason for secrecy, child. However, as Mr. Nottingham seems to be mixed up, even if only slightly, in Mr. Turnbull’s affairs, it may be as well to possess our souls in patience.”

  “Come to think of it,” said Laura, “I’m a member of the Yacht Club myself. What about getting over to it and having a drink there and keeping an eye on his movements?”

  “That, I think, would arouse more suspicion than if we went to the house on the Point.”

  “Right. What about another sherry?”

  Dame Beatrice thought that another sherry would be welcome. They moved to a table in the window and Laura kept unobtrusive watch. Nottingham did not reappear, so, to Laura’s disappointment, Dame Beatrice suggested that she alone should visit the house, and that Laura should wait in the car when George had driven them both to the gate.

  The short drive from the inn to the house was a bumpy, uncomfortable affair over grass sometimes tufted and sometimes smooth. This was followed by a grinding over sharp gravel. The car pulled up in front of a causeway too narrow to take it, and Dame Beatrice walked along this with shallow water lapping gently on either side. The front door of the house faced the causeway and, before the visitor had a chance to knock or ring, it was opened by a young woman wearing jeans and a sloppy jumper which fell in folds over her hips. She was smoking a cigarette and was escorted by a water-spaniel.

  “Come right in, Mrs. Turnbull,” she said. “We wired you as soon as we could to see whether you couldn’t perhaps persuade Nat to talk. We can’t get a word out of him that makes sense. If you’ll take a sit-down in here…” she ushered Dame Beatrice into a large, untidy room…“I’ll go get him and leave you together. I hardly thought you’d get here until tonight. You must have driven like Hades.”

  “Some people always fall on their feet,” commented Laura, later. “What a bit of luck, her taking you for Turnbull’s mum! And what a good thing you didn’t let me go with you!”

  At the time, Dame Beatrice felt that the proper thing to do was to break it to the young woman that she was not Mrs. Turnbull but someone connected closely with the police. Mrs. Abu, however, scarcely gave her the chance to explain herself, but shut her in with a resounding slam of the door.

  About a quarter of an hour passed and then the door opened and Turnbull, with red-rimm
ed eyes and an unsteady gait, came in. He looked as sheepish and defiant as any adolescent boy called upon to explain an indefensible action to his mother. The sudden collapse of this expression and its immediate replacement by one of extreme horror, caused Dame Beatrice to emit a cackle of such malevolence that Turnbull actually recoiled.

  “I thought…I was told…” he stammered.

  “Ah, yes. A case of mistaken identity. I had little chance to explain to Mrs. Abu who I was, and that little chance I did not take. Do sit down, Mr. Turnbull, won’t you? I came, at some inconvenience, to see you.”

  “But I don’t see why. Is it something about the school Opening? I had nothing to do with that.”

  “The only opening it has to do with, is the opening in the front of the school stage. Now, Mr. Turnbull…” she waved a yellow claw to indicate that he was not to interrupt her…“what made you hide?…from whom were you hiding?…why did you not continue to hide?”

  “I must have got drunk,” said Turnbull. “I don’t remember anything about it. I couldn’t think where I was until I heard the boys singing the hymn. Then it came to me that I was shut in under the stage, and that I’d better get out before I starved or before the air gave out.”

  “That,” said Dame Beatrice, “is not true. You were in hiding. You came to school at the usual time, in the usual way, and went into hiding underneath the stage. Why, Mr. Turnbull, did you do that? Who, or what, do you fear?”

  “It’s no darn business of yours!” said Turnbull, beginning to shout. “I was all right until that fool of a caretaker fastened up the front of the stage. I’d rather be beaten up than suffocated.”

  “Who proposes to beat you up? Mr. Nottingham?”

  Turnbull swore at her, and then demanded:

  “How do you come into it, you nosey-parkering old busybody?”

  “Touché!” said Dame Beatrice, with an eldritch cackle. “I am consulting psychiatrist to the Home Office, dear child, and I am helping to track down a murderer.”