Merlin's Furlong (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You don’t really think that?” he demanded. Mrs. Bradley shook her head in solemn acquiescence with the view thus naively expressed. Harrison looked gloomy. “I know what you mean,” he agreed.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Bradley cheerfully. “Then, at last, we know where we are.”

  “Do we?” asked Harrison doubtfully.

  “Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Bradley urgently, “remember that you were the person I chose to help me to get at the truth.”

  “I can’t let down Polly and Peter,” said Harrison, more doubtfully still.

  “No, of course not. Well, would you or wouldn’t you like to come and inspect the dolls’ hospital with me?”

  “I suppose so…but why, exactly?”

  “You might act as a material witness.”

  “I don’t want to be a material witness. It’s a horrible thing to be.”

  “It’s the sort of thing one can’t help being at times, unless one has no respect for the truth.”

  “Forward then, to the dolls’ hospital.”

  “Good. I think it will interest you, you know.”

  Harrison was not certain of this.

  “Where is Witchborough?” he demanded.

  “Not so very far from Moundbury, I believe, but George will know.”

  George did know, and he drove them to it next morning. It was a small, rather drab town not far from the coast, and the dolls’ hospital was one of a dozen or so small shops in a street at right-angles to the main one. It bore a large, hideous sign with the caption, Bring Poor Dolly to Doctor Ned and He Will Make Her Well. It had the startlingly blasphemous effect of a large-type Bible text displayed as an advertisement in a tram.

  George pulled up and his passengers got out.

  “By the way,” said Harrison, whom the sign had made thoroughly nervous, “oughtn’t we to have provided ourselves with a broken doll?”

  “The doll, madam,” said George, handing it out from the boot of the car.

  “I say,” said Harrison, eyeing it apprehensively, “couldn’t you have wrapped it up, or something? It’s pretty conspicuous like that.”

  The doll was not, in point of fact, a beautiful object. To begin with, it was naked, and this, together with its staring eyes and long, incredibly flaxen hair, gave it the appearance of a tipsy Lady Godiva. The fingers of one hand were broken off and part of its haunches was missing. It looked as though some cannibalistic child had bitten it.

  “Conspicuous and revolting,” said Mrs. Bradley, leering at it. “Here, you carry it. I’m much too old for dolls.”

  “You carry it, George,” suggested Harrison, backing away from the treasure. George affected not to hear and returned to the driver’s seat. Mrs. Bradley cackled, put the doll under her arm, and led the way into the shop. A man of about sixty, wearing a fez, came out from a room at the back.

  “My credentials,” said Mrs. Bradley, handing over the doll. The man took it and looked it over.

  “You want this doll repaired?”

  “What else do you do with broken dolls?”

  “Sometimes,” said the man, “I throw them away. This doll is not worth my time and trouble. Buy the little girl a new one. Or, if you like, I’ve several second-hand ones you could inspect.”

  “Unthinkable! What about the sentimental value of this doll? The child thinks the very world of it.”

  “Very well. I will do what I can. It will cost fifteen shillings. But if the child is fond of it, how did it come to be in this condition?”

  “This doll,” observed Mrs. Bradley, twining a strand of Godiva’s flaxen wig round a yellow forefinger, “once had human hair and”—she lowered her voice to a blood-curdling note after glancing round to see whether anyone else was in the shop (Harrison, in cowardly fashion, had retreated to just inside the doorway)—“and human finger-nails!”

  The man’s eyes bulged. He leaned over the counter.

  “What are you after?” he murmured.

  “Do you know of a doll called Lamia? It means bloodsucker.”

  The man licked his lips.

  “We’ve done nothing about that. The nearest was one we did for…”

  “Professor Havers? But that wasn’t a doll; it was a stuffed cat—unless you mean the parrot.”

  “It was…he only intended it for a joke.”

  “Did he? Yet the man died.”

  “It was nothing to do with the cat. That was just a joke, I tell you! The man was murdered. Mr. Aumbry it was. I read about it in the papers.” He seemed to be recovering his poise, Mrs. Bradley noted. “And Professor Havers, he’s dead, too,” he added with satisfaction. “So there’s nothing to be done about him.”

  “Ah, but what about Mr. Aumbry’s nephews?” Mrs. Bradley demanded. “They are not to be dealt with so easily.”

  “His nephews? I know nothing about any nephews.”

  “When did the black man come here for all those heads? And who painted the marks on their necks?”

  “I know nothing about it! No black man ever came here!”

  Mrs. Bradley did not query these statements, but she saw that the man had begun to sweat.

  “If I were you I’d confide in the police. I’m going to. Almost everything is known, and it’s the people on the fringe who’ll get caught!” she said. “And don’t forget the doll you made for Mr. Waite!”

  “Did you get what you wanted?” asked Harrison when they were in the car.

  “Enough to confirm what I’d guessed. I’ve advised our rascally master surgeon to go to the police.”

  “And will he squeal, do you suppose?”

  “That I did not ask, but I think I know. And now, dear child, it is time that you squealed, too. How long have you known Mr. Waite?”

  “Oh, no, look here, why must you always pick on Polly? We only began all this for a rag, you know!”

  “It didn’t end as a rag, though, did it? Besides, I got Mr. Waite’s name from old Mr. Catfield. Your friend appears also to have been a close friend of the late young Mr. Catfield.”

  “But old Catfield couldn’t have given you Polly’s name! Catfield never spoke of him as Waite.”

  “No, he spoke of him as Polly, just as you do, but Mr. Catfield senior is old-fashioned. He deduced that as Polly was a nickname it would be undignified to use it, so he referred to Mr. Waite as Mr. Parrot. Now, Mr. Harrison, come clean!”

  Meanwhile the lively Laura Menzies, Mrs. Bradley’s intelligent and original-minded secretary, was turning over in her thoughts as she drove towards Wallchester the various methods by which it might be possible to persuade Bluna to accompany her back to Hampshire. Much would depend, she thought, on whether she could see Bluna alone. As it happened, she had more luck than she bargained for. At the bus stop near to Richmond’s house she saw a young black woman carrying a shopping basket.

  Laura pulled up and said, speaking out of the driver’s open window, and chancing her luck that this was the girl she wanted, “Hullo, Bluna. Would you like a lift? Where do you want to go? The market?”

  Bluna beamed.

  “You’re very kind,” she replied. “I just miss d’bus, and not another for twenty minutes.”

  “Righto. Hop in,” said Laura, reaching back and twisting open the door. Bluna and shopping basket were soon in the car and, after threading its way through one of the less beautiful parts of the city, the car was soon in the High Street and drawn up outside the market. Bluna got out, and Laura drove off to park the car in a less congested region, but promised to pick her up again with her burdens.

  Whilst Laura was enjoying a quiet cigarette in a side street she thought out a scheme whereby Bluna’s kidnapping could be safely managed. Then she strolled back towards the market to wait for Bluna and take her to where the car was parked, and stood looking at the shop window by which they had arranged to meet. When Bluna came laden with shopping, Laura took one of the baskets, and when Bluna and the goods were packed into the car, and Laura was threading her way towards Richmond Aumb
ry’s house, she said, with apparent casualness:

  “If you want any help and advice, I can take you to someone who’ll give it. It’s become known what goes on at Merlin’s Fort.”

  Having made this remark, she pulled up at the side of the unlovely but comparatively quiet road along which she had been driving, and turned to look Bluna in the face. What she saw satisfied her. Bluna’s lower lip was shaking.

  “You mean, d’police?” she managed to ask.

  “Among others,” replied Laura, carelessly. “Well, what do you say?”

  “I never had no hand in nothing, not in nothing at all. I swear it, ma’am!”

  “Perhaps not, if you mean the murders, but you were seen there, and your young man, too.”

  “He’s just as innocent as me!”

  “Very likely, but you know what it is. If people consort with devils they mustn’t be surprised if other people can smell the brimstone on them, must they?”

  With this picturesque and pertinent query, she drove on again. When they arrived outside Richmond Aumbry’s decrepit and unpainted front gate, she opened the car door for Bluna and helped her out with her parcels. The black girl was a piteous sight and Laura was not in the least hard-hearted. She merely intended to carry out her orders.

  “You mean you’ll get me kept out of jail?” asked Bluna tearfully.

  “We’ll have a jolly good try. But you’ll have to come along with me and tell us what you know.”

  “They’ll eat my heart if I do!”

  “No. We shall see that they don’t. Besides, they only eat children’s hearts. They wouldn’t want to eat yours. Besides, Professor Havers is dead, so you’ve nothing to fear.”

  Bluna made up her simple mind.

  “Change my afternoon off,” she announced, “and come with you after I give Mr. Aumbry his lunch.”

  “Three o’clock at the bottom of the road,” said Laura. “That will give you time to wash up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Merlin’s Apostates

  “It is also not to be omitted that some wicked women, perverted by the Devil, seduced by illusions and phantasms of demons, believe and profess themselves, in the hours of night, to ride upon certain beasts with Diana, the goddess of pagans…and to be summoned to her service on certain nights.”

  —The Canon Episcopi, translated by H. C. Lea and quoted by Charles Williams in his Witchcraft

  Bluna was downright terrified at the sight of Mrs. Bradley. “That five-pound note was a bad one?” she demanded.

  “No, no, quite all right,” said the witchlike ancient as Bluna obviously recoiled. “Have no fear of that, or of anything else, Bluna. Tell me everything. I am your friend.”

  Bluna seemed loath to believe this; so loath, indeed, that Mrs. Bradley got up and said to Laura, “You tackle her, dear child. You know what we want. I will see that our three young friends do not disturb you.”

  Laura, a psychologist in her way, produced a large quantity of sweets.

  “Eat up, Bluna,” she said, “and if you’ve no objection to talking with your mouth full, just take down the back hair and let yourself go.”

  Bluna began to giggle, almost choked on an acid drop, became sober, and said, in the manner of Jim of the household of Tom Sawyer:

  “Ole missus, her make me plenty afraid.”

  “She?” said Laura in the same idiom. “Just cracks you over the head with her thimble, and who cares for that, I’d like to know?”

  Bluna began to giggle again, but sobered down once more when Laura remarked that it was a good day for the wind on the heath. In fact, she looked extremely apprehensive and said defiantly, “Always a wind on Merlin’s Fort.”

  “So I believe. What on earth did you all get up to?…You know, the dancing, singing and torches?”

  “Dancing? Singing? What for?” asked Bluna vaguely.

  “What for? Come clean. I want to know what it’s all about. Is it a secret society or something?”

  “I don’t know. Just for fun.”

  “It wasn’t just for fun,” said Laura severely, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Tell me about Professor Havers.”

  “No. I’ll not tell about him.”

  “Well, tell Mrs. Bradley, then. Come on. Let me ask her to come in. She’ll soon make you talk. She’s in with the police, you know, and they’re rather interested in the death and burial of a certain young Mr. Catfield. You’d be surprised.” But Laura herself was surprised when Bluna agreed to have Mrs. Bradley listen to her story. She had not expected the young maid to capitulate so easily, and she found herself wondering whether Bluna proposed to speak the truth. Then she reassured herself. Mrs. Bradley would soon have the truth out of Bluna. It might not be the whole truth at first, but even that would come in time. She opened the door and said quietly, “She’s willing to talk.” Then she left the rest to her formidable employer, and settled herself to take notes. Mrs. Bradley wasted no time. To Laura’s surprise her first question was:

  “How many dolls did Professor Havers make?”

  “Dolls, ma’am? Only the one the young gentlemen took away.”

  “But he didn’t make that himself.”

  “Who made it, then?” asked Bluna. “I thought Professor Havers made it his own self.”

  “No, you didn’t. You know as well as I do where it came from, and you know it came by post.”

  “I think,” said Bluna, rolling her eyes, “I think another gentleman sent it to the professor.”

  “That would not surprise me. You don’t care to name him, I suppose?”

  “Very wicked man. He’d know how I done told you.”

  “Cut out the Uncle Tom dialect,” said Laura, sternly. Bluna giggled once more. “Tell Mrs. Bradley properly, either in English or French.”

  “I don’t speak French. New Orleans, they speak French. I only speak English.”

  “Speak English, then, and don’t stall, or else we shall think you are lying.”

  “I don’t lie,” said Bluna sullenly, “and I don’t know anything about the dolls.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Bradley. “There was only one doll, and you think a gentleman sent it. Whom did it represent?—Mr. Catfield?”

  “I don’t know. I never only saw Mr. Havers himself in a suit like that, and only once.”

  “Very well, Bluna. You may go home now. Miss Menzies will take you in the car.”

  “You don’t want me to tell you about the dancing and the torches?”

  “I know all about the dancing and the torches.” And Mrs. Bradley, with a glance at Laura, went out.

  “Why did they move Mr. Catfield’s body from his garden up to Merlin’s Fort?” demanded Laura as soon as the door closed.

  “I don’t know. Ain’t nebber moved no bodies.”

  “Spect I growed,” said Laura, in menacing tones. “This is no earthly good. I’d better drive you back.”

  Bluna got up, looked uncertainly from the closed door to Laura’s grim young face, and then sat down again.

  “I’d like to tell some things,” she said. “Other things I’ve sworn not to tell.”

  “Unship the cargo, such as it is, then, but, remember, enough is as good as a feast. Be succinct but not vulgar, brief but not crude.”

  Bluna giggled again, and then began to hiccup.

  “Incipient hysteria,” remarked Laura. “Hold your breath, Bluna, and think of your absent friends…Now, speak. Tell me everything you feel you can. Where does the story begin?”

  “It begins with Mr. Magee,” said Bluna. “Very funny man who makes dolls.”

  “Mr. Magee? First name Billy?” asked Laura. Bluna giggled again, sensing a joke but without understanding what it was.

  “Initial of Z,” she replied, “and lives at the top of Professor Havers’ house in an attic all dolls.”

  “And sometimes at Merlin’s Castle, in a cupboard also all dolls,” put in Laura, “and sometimes he lives somewhere else, and I know where.” Bluna
looked at her in horror, and suddenly out came a flood of information. Professor Havers had been a bad man. Even Bluna did not know how very bad he had been until after his death, when Mr. Z. Magee had called her in to help him clear up the professor’s belongings. These had included all the paraphernalia, it seemed, of the Macbeth witches, plus some extra ingredients of which Laura had never heard but over which Mrs. Bradley, a little later on, shook a deprecating head. Babies had been procured and murdered and the bones of their heads reduced to encalcined flour to be used in unspeakable orgies; zombies had been raised; the witchcraft of darkest Africa had been matched against the rituals of secret cozens of Scandinavian witches; the Black Mass had been discarded as being too childish for serious experiment. Werewolves had fawned upon the professor like family watchdogs, and vampires had toasted him in one another’s blood. Ghosts at his command had risen from graves and performed the horrid tasks which he had delegated to them, but he was such a bad man that the deeds he forced upon the ghosts were merely those which were insufficiently evil to merit his own attention. Even the dolls had come to life.

  Bluna paused for breath at last. Laura had called Mrs. Bradley in to hear the main part of the monologue. Mrs. Bradley laughed, a blood-curdling sound, and turned to Laura.

  “What do you think of it?” she asked. Bluna stared from one of them to the other.

  “You don’t believe me?” she asked.

  “No,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “If all this, or even part of it, were true, you would be too much afraid of Professor Havers, alive or dead, to have told us any of these stories. Why did Mr. Catfield have to die? Who killed him? Where are the dolls which Mr. Magee has fabricated?”

  “The dolls are nothing,” protested the deflated Bluna. “Those dolls are nothing at all.”

  “Then you will take us to see them.”

  “I cannot. Mr. Magee, he has them in his shop. I do not know where the shop is.”

  “Ah, but we do,” said Laura ghoulishly. “Let’s get into the car and go and see them. I’ll protect you from Mr. Magee. I suppose that name’s short for Magician! Or shall I get into the car alone and go and get the police? You know too little and you tell too much…too much of the wrong things!”