Death of a Burrowing Mole (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Perhaps you’re right. No sense in running ourselves into the ground.”

  “Besides, I expect Fiona has brought her guitar and will sit on the steps of the caravan after dinner and sing plaintive love songs in a throaty contralto which will start all the village dogs howling. We shall be much better off in a pub. Come on! I’ve got the thirst of Tantalus upon me after all that salt-water bathing.”

  “There is one more thing. I don’t see why we need to pitch a tent down there by our cars and the caravan. If we’re planning to start work before breakfast, what’s wrong with carting the folding camp-beds and our sleeping-bags up to the keep and camping out there so long as the weather keeps fine? We shan’t need a roof over our heads unless it rains and there is plenty of shelter from the wind up there. What do you say?”

  “Pub first, plans later.”

  They drove inland and found a hostelry in a small inland village called Stint Magna where the moors ended and a river wound through water meadows. They drank their beer and bought sandwiches at the bar and, fortified, returned to Holdy. Finding themselves first in the field (for service at the Barbican for Veryan and Tynant, and at the Horse and Cart, where the Saltergates were staying, was willing but slow), Tom and Bonamy transferred camp-beds and sleeping-bags from their cars up to the keep and cleared one side of it of rubble.

  “Young Monkswood is the godson of Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, he tells me,” said Lilian Saltergate to her husband, as they walked from the Horse and Cart alongside the little river which curved round the foot of the castle mound. “I hope that it means he is going to take his work here seriously. The other young man, Mr. Hassocks, strikes me as a somewhat frivolous individual.”

  “I am not sure that Dame Beatrice herself has not a frivolous side to her nature,” said Edward. “I remember offering her a cocktail on one occasion and she was guilty of responding with what I imagine is a rather well-worn pun.”

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “She quoted from the Rubaiyat.”

  “A cocktail, you say? Oh, well, there are certainly lines there which would be apposite. Which did she choose?”

  “‘Oh, thou who didst with pitfall and with gin / Beset the road I was to wander in.’”

  “How naughty of her! Poor Edward Fitzgerald never dreamed of such levity. Did she accept your offer of a cocktail after all that?”

  “No. She said she preferred dry sherry.”

  “If we co-opt those two lads to help with the digging,” said Malpas Veryan, “I think we ought to stake them to daily breakfast and dinner with us. Lunch they can get for themselves. The Saltergates and Dr. Lochlure are making similar arrangements for the two women students. The idea emanates, of course, from the motherly Lilian. A kind and thoughtful woman, that, and practical, withal. She spoke to Saltergate and asked him to speak to me.”

  “About giving the lads breakfast and dinner?”

  “She only mentioned that they were providing for the caravanners. She spoke about toilet facilities for the two boys.”

  “Oh, I expect they will dig a trench in some convenient spot. The Scouts do it when they camp, I believe.”

  “There will be quite enough trenches on the hillside when we begin our work, without one which has a purpose of its own. Besides, there is the question of baths. This is going to be dirty work and sweated (literally) labour. I thought that, if we fixed up a regular breakfast and dinner routine for the two lads, the landlord would not be averse to their using the facilities at the hotel.”

  “There is a public convenience in the village square.”

  “But no facilities for washing, let alone baths. The girls will be all right. Their caravan is well equipped, but Lilian Saltergate was concerned for the two youths, so I felt I had to reassure her.”

  “Very well. Mind you, I expect young fellows like Tom and Bonamy eat like horses and will order two of everything.”

  “I would not be surprised if we found you yourself ordering two of everything when you have spent a week or so on that hill.”

  Edward mustered his forces.

  “This afternoon,” he said, “we shall walk round the site and then I shall assign specific tasks for tomorrow. I must stress that it is important we keep clear of the work Professor Veryan will be doing. Nominally, Tom and Bonamy are attached to that party, but theirs is to be a divided allegiance. After all, they came here to survey the castle on their own account, so we must be grateful for any assistance they are willing to give. Well, now, when we have finished our survey, which should take about an hour, the rest of the afternoon is free. We begin work in earnest tomorrow, but it is necessary for us first to relate what we have seen on the plan to what we shall now see on the ground.”

  “Which is most of the castle,” said Fiona, looking disparagingly at a large block of Purbeck stone which was near where she was standing. She turned to Priscilla. “What shall we do when we’ve finished walking round these ruins?” she asked almost in a whisper. They loitered a little as their seniors moved off, and held a short colloquy. Then they tailed in behind the rest of their party.

  Meanwhile Malpas and Nicholas appeared to be doing nothing but converse while they looked at the broad, oddly shaped expanse of the outer bailey. Then, as Edward’s party approached a kind of slag-heap which had once been the castle stables, Veryan went over to Bonamy and drew him out of Edward’s circle. At this, Fiona took the opportunity of taking his place beside Tom, halting him for a moment or two while the others, following Edward, made their way towards the gatehouse.

  “Look here,” she said, “you two don’t need both your cars while you’re here, do you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’d like to hire the rather smaller one.”

  “Hire it? Well, it’s mine, but why?”

  “If our labours end each day at a reasonable hour, Priscilla and I could do with some form of transport. The evenings are long, the caravan is boring, and we’ve got money to burn now that the Saltergates are paying for our meals and Dr. Lochlure is shouldering the cost of the caravan. I’m taking an advanced School of Motoring course and have a clean licence, so how’s about it? We’ll be immensely chuffed if you agree.”

  “Tynant and I,” said Professor Veryan to Bonamy, “would like to make ourselves responsible for you two fellows while you’re working with us.”

  “Thank you very much, sir, but we have reached years of discretion and are entitled to vote and to leave home without our parents’ consent.”

  “Of course. I meant responsible so far as providing you with your breakfasts and dinners at the Barbican. It’s the least we can do in exchange for your help.”

  “It’s very kind indeed of you and Mr. Tynant to bother about us,” said Bonamy.

  “Not at all. As I always say, the labourer is worthy of his hire. Oh, I’ve had a word with Saltergate. At least, it originated with him because of the women. The weather is unusually hot and the work is trying, not only because of the manual labour involved, but because of the dust we shall be stirring up. I don’t know whether you two got my message, but we shall all be knocking off at each midday. No work will be done after lunch, so every afternoon is free.”

  3

  Donkey-Work

  “What do you think of Dr. Lochlure?” asked Priscilla, as they were enjoying the afternoon respite from labour.

  “Think of Susannah? How do you mean?” asked Fiona.

  “Do you call her Susannah to her face?”

  “That, or Su. Only in private, of course.”

  “Do you have a schmaltz thing about her?”

  “Good Lord, no. What do you think of her yourself?”

  “She is very beautiful. I have had to choose between adoring her for her beauty and envying her its effect on other people. I have selected adoration. I believe in sublimating my emotions. Why do you think she invited the two of us to accompany her on this jaunt?”

  “Me for my muscles—from what we have seen today I sho
uld say we are in for heavy work on that castle mound—you for your brains and enthusiasm, and both of us because we are not potential rivals of hers where men are concerned.”

  “Is that why you bother with me? I have often wondered about it.”

  “Bother with you? Wonder about what?”

  “Wonder about our friendship. We must appear an unlikely couple to other people.”

  “Who cares about other people?”

  “I’m afraid I do. They must wonder what you see in me.”

  “I see somebody who helps me with my essays and who stands on the touchline at home matches and roots for our side, that’s all.”

  “Reverting to Dr. Lochlure, have you noticed Tom Hassocks? He has eyes for nobody else.”

  “He doesn’t stand an earthly. Nicholas Tynant is her man for all seasons.”

  “So much so that perhaps it is as well she has not put up at his hotel.”

  “I’ll tell you something else about Tom Hassocks,” said Fiona. “He and young Monkswood—”

  “Are not here in the interests of pure scholarship? I couldn’t agree more. They have some secret ploy in mind, otherwise surely they would have camped out at the foot of the hill near their cars and our caravan, where it’s grassy and pleasant. Instead of that, they have dragged camp-beds and sleeping-bags up to the keep.”

  “Tom has locked the boot of his car, too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I tried it, thinking there might be a couple of cans of beer I could manage to sink without trace. I would have paid him for them, of course.” She was sunbathing. She turned on to her back and pulled a towel over her face.

  “What a blessedly quiet spot this is!” said Priscilla.

  “It won’t remain so, once the school holidays begin.”

  Priscilla agreed. Then she said, “If you like me, I wonder you never came for a holiday with me before this. I’ve often wished you and I could hire a horse-drawn caravan and lead a gypsy life for a week or two.”

  “It would bore me to death. Besides, there would be the horse to look after and feed, and the ever-present problem of finding somewhere to pull in for the night. Oh, no! Give me rock-climbing in the Cuillins!”

  “You must have a good head for heights.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “That’s the whole point, I suppose. Anybody who did not have a good head for heights would have to think about it.”

  “Oh, nonsense. They wouldn’t do it, that’s all. One soon learns one’s limitations.”

  “I climbed the stair in the keep, but my head swam. Fiona, exactly why did you accept Dr. Lochlure’s invitation to come here?”

  “The sixty-thousand-dollar question! I don’t know. I’m already bored with the scenery and bored with the people. Oh, well, at least we’ve got the car now.”

  The reason for Fiona’s having been able to test the lock on the boot of Tom’s car was that she had persuaded him to agree to her proposal. Once the young men had surveyed the young women and had decided that amorous dalliance was what Tom described as a non-starter, the possible advantage of having two cars at their disposal had disappeared, so when, earlier that afternoon, Fiona had approached him with her offer, he had accepted it.

  “I suppose you’ve got a driving licence?” said Priscilla.

  “Of course. I’m a very experienced driver. If there is an accident, it certainly won’t be caused by me.”

  “How I envy you your self-confidence!”

  “You envy me my self-confidence, but you don’t envy Susannah her beauty. I don’t, either. Being large and unbeautiful keeps one out of a lot of trouble.”

  “I also envy you your rude health and your physical fitness. I was always a sickly child.”

  “You have compensations. I wish I could write good essays and make up poetry. Will you get a First, do you think?”

  “Oh, yes. Examinations hold no terrors for me, not even the vivas.”

  “Well, there’s self-confidence for you! And you envy me mine!” Fiona ran seawards, laughing, a Scandinavian giantess from Jotunheim, a veritable Hyrrokin, her hair streaming in the wind. Priscilla sat clasping her knees, her thin shirt flattened against her undeveloped breasts by the same seawind as was tossing Fiona’s hair. She thought of Susannah in the arms of Nicholas Tynant, and the first line of a sonnet came into her mind. “Put out the light and be my body’s balm.” She fumbled in the large basket she used as a handbag, took out notebook and pencil, and unclipped the sunglasses she had fastened on to her powerful spectacles.

  Before her the sun gleamed on the wet, pale sands against which the few scattered pebbles looked black; behind her rose limestone cliffs, and to her left a long, flat rock of the same stone ran out into the sea and would be covered at high tide. A gull, with wings incredibly white against the blue of the sky, hovered for a moment and squawked an insult to the poet before it soared and flew off. Priscilla, completely absorbed, saw and heard nothing. She wrote, frowned, crossed out, rewrote, and only looked up when Fiona put a sea-wet hand on the back of her neck and said it was time to think about tea.

  “Yes, all right,” said Priscilla. “I think I’ve got the octet, so I can let the sestet wait. I’ll just make a fair copy of what I’ve done, if you’ll leave me alone for five minutes.’

  “Something for the college magazine?”

  “No, it’s going to be too good for that. I don’t want it printed until I really publish.”

  “God bless the work,” said Fiona. “You are a genius.”

  “I bet you someone else will find our well before we do. I think we’re on to a mug’s game,” said Tom, straightening his back.

  “It doesn’t matter who finds a well, so long as we know where it is. The only concern of the others will be to locate it and clear it down to five or six feet and then put a grating over it. They won’t attempt to do any more excavating than that. Why should they?”

  “How deep were these castle wells?”

  “Goodness knows!”

  “They could go down a couple of hundred feet, I suppose,” said Tom gloomily. “I’m beginning to wonder whether the story about the treasure is true. I mean, even supposing the stuff was chucked down a well to stop the enemy from getting hold of it, how were the owners—and how are we—going to get it up again?”

  “First find your well and then I’ll lower you down in a bucket. Banish these morbid thoughts. The lark’s on the wing, the hillside’s dew-pearled.”

  “That bird up there isn’t a lark; it’s a kestrel. It probably nests in the keep. They like old buildings if they can’t find a rocky cliff.”

  “Oh, well, so long as it isn’t a magpie, we’re all right. Magpies are the birds which bring bad luck.”

  “One magpie wouldn’t matter. It’s two or four together you have to beware of, according to our cook, who comes from Northumberland. You know, I don’t see why we should have been fobbed off with clearing up this gatehouse. All the outer walling on the east side as far up as the ditch has disappeared. The stone has been carted off by the locals, I suppose. Once Veryan and Tynant begin their digging, we shall be much better off working with them than with Saltergate. Besides, they are paying for our meals; he isn’t.”

  “True enough. There’s another thing: when Veryan begins the actual trenching, he won’t go anywhere near where the old stable block used to be.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “It’s simple. If there really is an Anglo-Saxon cemetery under the outer bailey, the builders of the castle would never have dug a well where there were corpses.”

  “Oh, well, we shall see. One thing: at the rate Veryan and Tynant are taking their measurements and plotting out where to begin the dig, somebody may have found all the wells before they and we and the workmen have to put our backs into the spade-work. Let’s hope it will be easier than humping these blocks of stone.”

  Malpas Veryan joined them. He was accompanied by two burly fellows in jea
ns, shirts, and unzipped, grubby windcheaters.

  “Our fellow labourers,” he said. “They will be helping to clear the outer bailey and we shall begin digging in a day or two, when we’ve got the circle of the cairn mapped out and the site free of stone and rubble. This is Bill Stickle and this is Gideon Stour. Gentlemen, Mr. Monkswood and Mr. Hassocks, who will be helping us to excavate the last resting-place of a prehistoric chieftain.”

  “I do fondly hope as he won’t haunt us,” said Bill Stickle, with a laugh in which Gideon Stour joined.

  “I thought we were going to dig up an Anglo-Saxon burial ground,” said Bonamy in a murmur to Tom. “You can’t call the Anglo-Saxons prehistoric. What exactly shall we be looking for, sir?” he asked in his ordinary voice.

  “Bronze Age burials. Did I hear you murmur something about the Anglo-Saxons? Undoubtedly they had a settlement in these parts, but we are after something which is of the greatest interest to Tynant and myself. We hold somewhat differing theories about Neolithic and Bronze Age burials and this excavation may go some way in proving which of us is right.”

  “So what are we looking for, sir?”

  “Basically, a central grave, but multiple interments are not unknown. Sometimes members of a family were buried in the same mound. The principal grave will no doubt be easy enough to locate, for it will be in the centre of the circle we are measuring out. The other interments may be almost anywhere within the same circle. Our guide is the enormous ditch which is so obvious a feature of Saltergate’s defence system. I am certain it represents a segment of a circle and that is our clue, for it must have been part of a henge.”

  “It sounds splendid fun, sir.”

  “I think so. Now I don’t want you fellows breaking your backs lugging Saltergate’s blocks of stone about. You ease yourselves in gently until you get used to the job. In any case, these two splendid fellows will help both parties, I am sure, if Saltergate needs a little assistance occasionally.”

  “You be our employer, sir, not t’other gentleman,” said the older workman firmly but civilly. His companion was more forthright.