Merlin's Furlong (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I don’t want to go and see the dolls,” said Bluna, beginning to whimper. Mrs. Bradley sighed, and left Laura to it.

  “All right. You’d better have some tea,” said Laura, “and perhaps you will think things over. Nobody can hurt you except the law now, and we don’t want that. We think you’re innocent. Buck up, old thing! Tell the truth and shame the devil, you know! And then we’ll turn you over to Célestine. She’s a Frenchwoman. She won’t frighten you.”

  “It is not much I gain, madame,” said Célestine, two hours later, when Laura had driven away with Bluna to return her to Wallchester and Richmond Aumbry’s house, “but certainly I will recount of it the history.”

  “Sit down and let’s have some claret,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Henri, too. There is nothing in the recital which is unfit for his ears, I suppose?”

  “That one?” said Henri’s spouse. “He is of Montmartre! To him nothing is sacred. He has the mind of an ape.”

  “And is the story suited to the mind of an ape?”

  “In effect, no. It is grotesque, not more. I think also that it is unfinished, but the little black lobster, I feel she has told what she knows.”

  Bluna’s story began when she first took service with the professor at his lodgings. He had advertised for two Negro servants, preferably West Indians. Bluna and her fiancé, at that time unacquainted with one another, had come to Liverpool to find employment in England, and, in addition to some thirty other unemployed West Indians, had answered the advertisement. They had all been interviewed on the same day at a London lodging house of a type where payment in advance was the rule and no questions were asked.

  Bluna had been chosen from among the women applicants because she had said that she could neither read nor write.

  “All the same, madame, she tells me that this was a little fib to get the job, because she is intelligent, that one, and she knows the professor is no good, and may not want anybody who can become too much interested in his affairs. She likes not bad men, but she is in a bad way for money and must get some employment very quick.”

  The Negro man was chosen because he had served a prison sentence…justly, according to Bluna. He had been convicted in England, almost upon arrival, for theft. According to Bluna he was not an habitual criminal but he was desperate and had picked a couple of pockets.

  The two newly appointed servants had then been given third-class tickets while the professor went first-class, and he took them by taxi from Wallchester station to his lodgings. His landlady had been much averse to taking them in but had been overridden by the professor who seemed, thought Bluna, to have some hold over her apart from his payment of rent.

  “Soon after she arrived she began to find out that the professor was a bad man, but different from what she has believed, madame. He gives parties of a bizarre character at which she is to wait upon the guests naked.”

  “Fotis,” murmured Mrs. Bradley, thinking again of the book of the Golden Ass.

  “I do not know.” Célestine dismissed the handmaid of Pamphiles from the matter in hand. “No violence of any kind, she says, was ever offered her, and the parties were of a great seriousness. Large books were consulted and there was much discussion. The guests were all young men except one, and that was the murdered Mr. Aumbry. Then he came no more, and in his place two young men, the Mr. Catfield and Mr. Waite. But Mr. Waite has authority over Mr. Catfield. He is the senior partner in the friendship and dominates Mr. Catfield, but is gay, always, and very amusing.”

  But one day, it appeared, the party was not held at Professor Havers’ lodgings, and Bluna was not asked to attend it. The fiancé, however, was told to go, and upon his return he had described to Bluna what had happened.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, interrupting. “We will get that later from Mr. Majestic himself. It will be more satisfactory.”

  “As madame pleases. That, then, is the end of the little history until came two young men who are staying here.”

  “Not quite the end. What about the doll that was supposed to represent Mr. Aumbry but which really represented the professor?”

  “No doll was mentioned, madame.”

  “Interesting. Well, what did Bluna say about the visit of the two undergraduates?”

  “She did not know Mr. Harrison but thought she might have seen Mr. Piper.”

  “And why did she think they had come if she did not mention the doll?”

  “She thought they had a practical joke to play on Professor Havers.”

  “So they had, in a sense, I suppose. Thank you very much, Célestine. You have managed well.”

  “Madame is served,” said her maid ironically. Mrs. Bradley cackled and signaled to the silent Henri to pour out more wine.

  Harrison’s confessions had been as useful as those of Bluna. Illuminating, the Chief Constable called them, but Mrs. Bradley, who needed the confessions only to confirm her own views, preferred the more prosaic adjective.

  Harrison had begun with the reading party of three…Waite, Piper and himself…at Piper’s home.

  “Of course, I can see now that Peter and I were stooges,” he declared, “but at the time it seemed rather jolly. Polly was older than we were…about ten years older, you know…and had knocked around and done pretty well in the war, and I suppose we were rather pleased to get him down to Peter’s place. It all went merrily…I mean, we didn’t do much reading but we talked a lot and Peter made a jolly good host…his father was in Scotland and the house was all our own…and then came this business of old Havers and the doll.

  “We were lounging about one morning when Polly spotted the advertisement, and before I knew where I was we had pushed off to Wallchester and had got stuck with the job of re-stealing the diptych. The rest I expect you know.”

  “There are one or two points, my dear David, on which I should like some clear evidence. It was understood, I gather, that you would return to Mr. Piper’s home for the night and then go straight to Merlin’s Furlong?”

  “I suppose that was the idea. It was what I thought we should do.”

  “Quite so. Instead of that, what did actually happen?”

  “Eh? Oh, well, we didn’t get there quite as soon as that. If you remember, we spent the first night at Waite’s aunt’s place…”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “Well, Polly suddenly remembered her, you know, and thought we might as well drop in. Of course, we never dreamed of staying the night.”

  “You did not dream of it, you mean. What about the following night?”

  “That was when we’d lost the way and landed up at Merlin’s Fort. I told you we had to spend the time camping out. I bagged the car and the other two slept in the heather.”

  “And from Merlin’s Fort, if one knows the shortcut over the hill, it is only four miles to Merlin’s Castle where Professor Havers was murdered. And his death took place during the night that you three were camping out.”

  “Oh, but look here…!”

  “I am only stating facts, am I not?”

  “Well, yes, but…hang it! Why should Polly want to kill Havers?”

  “That I have still to find out…or, rather, I know why he wanted to, but I have to get my findings confirmed. Have you grasped why Professor Havers was so anxious to get you three to Merlin’s Furlong, by the way?”

  “You mean it wasn’t that he wanted the diptych back?”

  “If I remember the previous evidence, Professor Havers’ one aim and object was to accomplish the death of Mr. Aumbry. This he vowed and declared in front of you.”

  “Oh, Lord! And that’s what you think he did?”

  “I have little doubt of it.”

  “And intended to stick us with the murder?”

  “It begins to look like that, does it not?”

  “The old…I’m sorry, but I was about to remark…”

  “Quite. Mr. Waite, however, outwitted him, I think.”

  “Good for Polly! You mean he intentionally kept us on
the road until it was certain we could not have been accused of murdering Aumbry?”

  “That, among other things. But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.”

  “This man is Pyramus,” added Harrison idiotically. “I say, this throws a new light on old Polly, doesn’t it?”

  “A new light is not necessarily a better light,” said Mrs. Bradley in the Victorian idiom.

  Bluna’s fiancé sighed.

  “I am a marked man,” he stated lugubriously.

  “Quite so,” Mrs. Bradley agreed with her usual incongruous cheerfulness. “Therefore, if you would help the police, you see…”

  “I see.” His earnest brown eyes searched her black ones. “And you will be my friend?”

  “To some extent, yes.”

  “There are no conditions to friendship.”

  “Oh, yes, there are. I must be able to trust you as well as love you. That is the difference between two fundamental emotions.”

  “I see. What do you want me to tell you?”

  “All about young Mr. Catfield.”

  “He was killed. I expect you know.”

  “Yes. What was the order of events?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wasn’t it voodoo ritual?”

  “Voodoo? No. It was quiet and orderly.”

  “No cockerel with its head bitten off?”

  “Nothing like that. Just white man magic, I think.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  “All ritual, like that other Socrates. You know? His throat was cut, then…a sponge.”

  “So they tried that, did they? What did they do with the body?”

  “They took it to the common. An open cut-throat razor was beside it. It had his fingerprints. He could not be buried in a churchyard. He was buried in a grove of trees at his own home, but those of us who knew…”

  “Who were those who were willing to risk taking the body from its grave and transferring it to Merlin’s Fort?”

  “The friends of the ghost of the departed.”

  “Among whom you number yourself?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “And Bluna?”

  “She go because I go. Some women are necessary.”

  “What for?”

  Mr. Majestic waved his arms dramatically.

  “They take the place of the witches and then the black man like them better than the witches, and so the witches have no power.”

  “Blah!” said Mrs. Bradley rudely. “Now, tell me: if Professor Havers had not been dead, would any of you have dared to remove Mr. Catfield’s body?”

  “Mr. Waite was one of the friends of the ghost, I think, but I do not know what to say to you in reply.”

  “And after the body had been removed from Titmouse, I saw you dancing and singing and waving torches around the new grave on Merlin’s Fort.”

  “That, yes.” He seemed relieved. “We celebrate the death of Professor Havers. We were glad to have him demised.”

  “Have him…?”

  “We were all glad,” said Majestic, simply, “to have him dead. We thought Mr. Catfield had killed him and had wafted him there…there, to his own place.”

  “Did you really? You know, Mr. Majestic, I’m not sure that I believe a word you’re saying. Tell me truthfully why Mr. Catfield’s body was moved, and when.”

  “We moved it when we knew the professor was dead.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Mr. Waite told us to move it.”

  “I repeat, Mr. Majestic, why? What did you think was the reason? Or did you know what Mr. Waite had in mind?”

  “We could guess. Mr. Catfield had a good friend.”

  “Ah, yes. By whose orders was the monkey put into a room at Merlin’s Castle?”

  “Professor Havers wished it.”

  “Before he died, or after?”

  Majestic looked terrified and said:

  “The dolls’ heads were also there because Professor Havers wished it, but I do not know what were his plans to do with them. The monkey, I think, was Mr. Piper.”

  “I see. All right, Mr. Majestic. Would you call yourself a sophisticated man?”

  “Oh, yes. I am educated in U.S.A.”

  “Then tell me exactly what happened when Mr. Catfield was killed, and where it happened.”

  But Majestic had had enough. He turned and made for the door.

  “And I do not accuse Mr. Waite,” he stated, “of killing Professor Havers. I say Mr. Waite was a good and sincere friend to Mr. Catfield, and that is all, and he wished us to dance round the grave on Merlin’s Fort. He said Mr. Catfield would have wished it. I think he was right. Mr. Catfield was avenged on Professor Havers. It was well that we should give him the ceremony of the torches.”

  “No,” said Piper very deliberately, “I don’t think Polly could have sneaked off that night we slept at Merlin’s Fort in the heather, and then sneaked back again without waking me up. And I didn’t wake up. And I’m a very light sleeper.”

  “Would you feel any surprise if you knew for certain that Mr. Waite had committed murder?”

  “Not if he had committed it on a mad dog, but old Havers wasn’t mad, and Polly didn’t kill him.”

  “Do you believe in private vengeance?”

  “I’ve never thought much about it.”

  “Did you know of the friendship between Mr. Waite and young Mr. Catfield?”

  “Yes. Remember Attendez et Voyez?—Waite and C. No?”

  “Were you friendly with Mr. Waite at the same time?”

  “Moderately. I went to one of Havers’ parties with him, as I think you’ve already been told.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yes. I was bored. It wasn’t my idea of fun.”

  “I see from reports of the inquest that there was no suggestion of foul play when Mr. Catfield’s body was examined. Why did Mr. Waite suspect that his friend had been murdered?”

  “You’d better ask him. I’ve no evidence at all that he did. And I may as well tell you, here and now, that I’m going to stick to my story that Polly never left Merlin’s Fort that night.”

  “You tacitly admit that he may have done, then?”

  “I don’t admit anything. I’m simply going to say, if I’m asked, that we were so damned uncomfortable that night that we lay awake and talked. You won’t get at Polly through me. If all I think about that old goat Havers is true, the world is well quit of him, whoever put him out.”

  “When the question of getting back the diptych first arose, weren’t you surprised that Mr. Waite agreed to essay the task for Professor Havers?”

  “No. Polly would do most things for a rag.”

  “Did you know he had written the advertisement himself?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t believe it, either. Old Havers would have been bound to smell a rat.”

  “I think he did, but I also think he saw the way to lead you three into a trap. No doubt he knew that Mr. Waite was a friend of yours.”

  “Yes, I can see that, of course.” Piper’s tone had altered. His nervous ill-temper had vanished. He sounded alert and interested. “You mean Havers went to Merlin’s Furlong as soon as we’d left him that morning, killed old Aumbry, and went to earth at Merlin’s Castle. He expected us to charge into Merlin’s Furlong much sooner than we actually did, so that it could be thought we’d been surprised by old Aumbry and had knocked him on the head in a fit of panic. Havers himself would have given evidence that we had intended to go to Aumbry’s house, and, of course, our fingerprints would have confirmed him in what he said. Quite a pretty little idea, take it all round, but how do we know it’s true?”

  “We don’t. It’s a working hypothesis.”

  “Well, it certainly works. It would explain a good deal.”

  “There is only one major point which it would not explain,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It would not tell us why you three saw Mr. Godfrey Aumbry coming away from Merlin’s Castle that day.”

  “G
odfrey Aumbry? But…”

  “That manservant was Godfrey Aumbry, Mr. Piper.”

  “But why on earth did he let us think he was old Havers’ man?”

  “That is what I still have to find out. He is not the type to mislead people simply for the fun of it.”

  “Then he must have murdered Havers!”

  “That is another working hypothesis, of course.”

  “But you still think it was Polly? Of course, old Polly had a marvelous war record, you know, and I think he found civilian life rather tame. That’s why at first he teamed up with Havers’ mob. But when he found out what they were up to—scientific experiments in witchcraft, old Havers called it, and, of course, it stank to high heaven—Polly oiled out. Besides, young Catfield’s suicide opened his eyes pretty wide.”

  “Catfield’s suicide, Mr. Piper?”

  “There was an inquest, you know,” said Piper gloomily. “I knew Polly never thought Catfield cut his own throat, but old Havers was pretty fly, and the verdict was suicide all right.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Merlin’s Answer

  “Fie upon him; he will discredit our mystery.”

  —Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

  “It has often been laid down,” said the Chief Constable, “that it is not only necessary to assemble all the available evidence; it is essential that it should then be read in the right order. Mrs. Bradley thinks (and I agree with her) that in the puzzling cases we have been investigating, the available evidence has at last been arranged logically, and, if we are right, then the cases are no longer puzzling but fall into the simple, and, in England, rather unusual, category of murders for revenge.”

  “Fairy-tale stuff!” said Frederick Aumbry, from the depths of an armchair. “It wouldn’t be worth it. Only reason I’d ever commit murder would be for money, and even then I’d have to be pretty sure I could get away with plenty of it!”

  “There speaks the man of rational mind,” said Mrs. Bradley. “The trouble about these three crimes is that they were not rational except to the diseased brains by which they were prompted.”

  The conference was being held at Merlin’s Furlong, now the property of Richmond Aumbry. He and his cousins and brother, the three undergraduates, Mrs. Bradley, the Chief Constable, Inspector Ekkers (whose patient and conscientious work had helped to establish Mrs. Bradley’s theories as facts) were all present. Godfrey Aumbry, seated a little apart at a small table, had pens and paper before him…four beautifully cut quills and some admirable parchment…and had announced his intention of taking notes.