Your Secret Friend (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You’d like a second opinion. Very well. Stay here, Hildegarde. No need for you to come to a harrowing scene.”

  The doctor returned before the ambulance arrived and Timothy, having told him the news, joined Tom Parsons.

  “This is a nice business,” he said. “What on earth am I going to say to Alison when she recovers?”

  “How do you think it all happened?”

  “Goodness knows. There’s food on the table in the solar, and the remains of some drinks. Something wrong with one or the other, obviously. I didn’t touch anything. I suppose it means the police, as Bennison has died.”

  “Accident, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know. I should imagine it must have been, but he was a weak sort of character, I’m afraid, so it may be suicide.”

  “Then what about Alison?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see her attempting suicide, somehow. She’s sensitive and nervous, of course, but she isn’t a weakling, even though I think she may be the type that thinks the world well lost for love.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Yes, worse luck!”

  “Here comes Miss Pomfret-Brown.”

  “And here’s the ambulance, I think.”

  Marchmont was taken away.

  “The police will be here soon,” said the doctor, when he had supervised her removal. “I hope, Mr. Herring, you did not touch anything when you found Mr. Bennison dead? In these sort of accidents the police have their definite routine and dislike any kind of interference with their investigations.”

  Miss Pomfret-Brown and Miss Salter joined the conference.

  “We were invited to a house-warming party. I did not realise that the Borgias had been invited, too,” observed the headmistress. “I suppose the gal will recover?” She addressed this question to the doctor as though he were at fault.

  “Oh, yes, no doubt about that. Lucky for her the stuff, whatever it was, made her so sick. Oh, yes, I’m pretty sure she’ll be all right. Has she any relatives? Might be as well to let them know what’s happened, just in case.”

  “There’s a half-sister. I’ll let her know at once.” Miss Pomfret-Brown again stared fixedly at the doctor. “Don’t like the sound of you,” she said. “You ain’t trying to pull the wool over our eyes, I hope? The gal ain’t in any danger? After all, poor Bennison’s dead. Any idea why? I mean, he’s been poisoned—that’s obvious—but who did it?”

  “The police will be here soon,” replied the doctor. “It is some form of poisoning, no doubt about that.”

  “You mean poison was introduced into the food deliberately? I always thought that man might choose his own quietus, you know. Typical. But he had no right—no right whatever—to try to take Alison with him. Anyway, I suppose she will be all right? Men were deceivers ever, and I’ve never trusted you doctors to tell the truth. Is she going to have a relapse? Be quite straightforward.”

  “No, no, she’ll pull through, but get the half-sister to come along, all the same. She’ll want to visit her in hospital.”

  Vere Pallis was not at a boarding school, so there was no answer to the call which Miss Pomfret-Brown deputed the school secretary to put through. An attempt on the following morning was successful and Vere arrived at Purfleet Hall two afternoons later, having stayed one night in London, as was reasonable.

  “I called at the hospital on my way here from the station,” she said, “but, of course, there was nothing to be learnt. You know what hospitals are.”

  “I expect you made too much fuss,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “Hospitals are all right if you treat them right. Did you see Alison?”

  “No, they wouldn’t let me. So much red tape! Said she was not on the danger list and that it was not in visiting hours.”

  “Well, if she’s not on the danger list, surely that’s something to be thankful for,” said Miss Salter, who was present.

  “Timothy Herring is staying on at the George,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “I expect he’d like to see Alison, too, as he’s mixed up in this business. I’ll get him to go along with you. He’s got a car.”

  Summoned to the presence, Timothy found himself thanked by Vere for saving her half-sister’s life. He was subjected to a flat, lifeless, monotonous voice. There was no resemblance here to Alison, nor in the pinched mouth and cold yet avid eyes.

  “Good heavens, I didn’t save anybody’s life,” he said, astonished. “All I did was to send for a doctor.”

  “In time! In time! That is the point. If Alison had been left there helpless and unconscious . . .”

  “That will do, Vere,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “No need for histrionics. If Timothy Herring had not been there, some of us were to turn up and would have done the same as he did, and only very little later. No point in being melodramatic about it.”

  “If you could have got in,” said Constance.

  “Herring got in,” rapped out the redoubtable headmistress.

  “Yes, I suppose he had a key.” The tone had an unpleasant significance. Timothy grinned. He did not trouble to explain that the door had been on the latch.

  “You argue in circles. Why shouldn’t he have a key? He has been in charge of the work there. Don’t make molehills. You might trip over one of them yourself,” snapped the headmistress.

  “I am not likely to be hoist by my own petard, if that is what you mean, Miss Pomfret-Brown,” said Vere Pallis sourly.

  “Now, Timothy Herring,” said the headmistress, ignoring this observation, “we want to know exactly what happened when you got to Little Monkshood. Don’t be squeamish or beat about the bush. Nothing is gained by delicacy. What had Alison been up to, eh?”

  “Eating and drinking with Simon Bennison, I suppose.”

  “What did they have?”

  “There were some bottles of gin, some vermouth, some sherry—these were unopened and, I suppose, were for the party. There was also a bottle of advocaat which was three parts empty, and about three-quarters of a bottle of madeira. I also noticed some cocktail snacks and sandwiches, but I’m not sure whether they had been touched—probably left until the rest of us turned up.”

  “You seem to have noticed quite a lot,” said Constance Vere Pallis, in the same spiteful tone.”

  “You left my half-sister lying there on the floor while you made an inventory of food and drink, did you?”

  “No. Mrs. Parsons and I got her on to her bed and then I went for the doctor. Then something was said, so I went to the solar. I found Bennison’s body. When I did so, I knew it would be a case for the police.”

  “That sounds as though you had thoughts of foul play.”

  “No,” said Timothy, giving her a very level stare. “Foul play was not in my thoughts at all, and I can’t see why it has occurred to you. But when one person has been violently sick and then sunk into a coma, and another has died, it’s just as well to let the proper people take over. There will have to be an inquest, in any case. No doctor, under the circumstances, could possibly give a certificate.”

  Vere turned to Miss Pomfret-Brown.

  “I have to get back to Newcastle. They will expect me. It’s not as though my sister is dead. I must see her at some time today. Do you think it’s of any use to try the hospital again?”

  “I’ll ring them myself, my dear. You realise the poor gal may still be unconscious. She may not be able to speak to you or recognise you.”

  “I just want to see her.”

  “Of course. I’ll go and call them now at once, and they’ll tell me when you can go. There’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t take a peep. Timothy will go with you.”

  While she was out of the room, the two left in it avoided one another’s eyes, so, without looking at him, Vere said, “Does Alison mean anything to you?”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! In what way does a woman mean anything to a man?”

  “I hardly know your half-sister—certainly not as intimately as you appear t
o suppose.”

  “A likely story, when you’ve been down here for months doing up that house for her!”

  “Look,” said Timothy gently, “you’ve had a beastly long journey and a bad shock. Let’s not quarrel. There’s no point in it, and you’ll only find it exhausting.”

  “She said you were impudent and lively. I can guess what that means!”

  “She misjudged me, as you perceive. Miss Pomfret-Brown, in her inimitable way, has laid down the law, but do you want me to accompany you to the hospital?”

  “I’m not sure that I’ll be going to the hospital. If Alison is doped out, there doesn’t seem much point.”

  Miss Pomfret-Brown reappeared.

  “It is all arranged,” she said. “They’ll let you have a peep, Vere, but you’ve got to control yourself. Now, be off, both of you, and I shall expect you back to supper, then Vere can catch the 8.23 from Poole tomorrow morning and go to London. There she can get a train to Newcastle and return to her duties. I shall let you know of any developments, my dear, but I’m sure it’s going to be all right. Off you go. Now, Timothy Herring, take good care of her.”

  “My car is outside,” said Timothy. “We can be at the hospital in half-an-hour.” It was a silent drive. Timothy was glad of a chance to look in at the hospital. Vere was glad of the transport his car afforded and of the reassurance of his presence, much as she disliked him. Timothy gathered that she had made a scene at the hospital on her previous visit, and was dubious of his ability to stand surety for her good behaviour on this occasion. However, all was well. They were shown immediately into the private ward for which he had stipulated, and, with the Sister hovering, he and Vere gazed at the motionless head on the pillow. Alison, white-faced and with black-circled eyes, was breathing normally. There was one moment of complete silence. Then Vere Pallis suddenly shouted, “My God!” The next instant she had fled from the room.

  The news of Simon’s death could not be kept from the school, for the reporters could not be kept away from it, either. Sandra called a meeting of the coven.

  “I’m going to Miss Pomfret-Brown,” she said. Her small face was so pale that the freckles on it looked almost black. Her eyes were red and swollen. The others were silent. It was the day of Simon’s funeral. The only mourners had been Miss Pomfret-Brown accompanied by the other man on the staff of the school (a Mr. van Goos who taught fencing and turned up once a week for this purpose) and one or two mothers of Simon’s private pupils. Of flowers there were sufficient not to cause comment. Miss Pomfret-Brown had sent a personal wreath in addition to that sent by the staff, the school servants had contributed, as had the school governors, the school itself, and the mothers aforesaid. Timothy, having no standing, did not attend the funeral service, but, after some doubts, had weighed in with a modest spray which bore the card: From Alison, with love. As the churchyard was no longer used for buryings and the cemetery was nearly six miles away from the school and so out-of-bounds, he did not anticipate that school-girl tongues would wag over this inscription.

  The school, which, with youthful callousness, had hoped for a half-holiday, was unpleasantly surprised to find that lessons would continue as usual except for a two-minute silence at twelve, the approximate time of the lowering of the coffin. Sandra’s call to the coven had come, therefore, during the dinner-hour which followed this ceremony.

  “I don’t wonder some of the Lower Fourth cried,” said Gillian, breaking the awkward silence which had followed Sandra’s announcement. “They ragged him much worse than we did.”

  “What do you mean—you’re going to Miss Pomfret-Brown?” asked Mavis, although they all knew well enough what was in Sandra’s mind.

  “They’ll put us in prison,” said Stephanie.

  “It wasn’t our fault Mr. Bennison died,” said Caroline, uneasily. “It wasn’t meant for him.”

  “No, it wasn’t meant for him,” reiterated Veronica. Sandra turned on her in a fury.

  “It’s all your fault!” she said. “If you hadn’t backed out and let us all down, the spell would have been all right! You’ve gone and killed Mr. Bennison, and perhaps Miss Pallis too! You’re the black sheep and the scapegoat and—and everything, and you ought to go out into the wilderness and get lost!”

  “Let’s put a spell on her!” said Gillian, whose aim at the moment was not vindictive. She was merely anxious to remove from her leader’s mind the fatal urge to confess their sins to Miss Pomfret-Brown, that substitute in their tiny world for God. “Yes,” went on Gillian, eyeing the flinching novice. “That’s it, then! Let’s put a spell on Veronica, and serve her right for being a sissy coward and a brain-washed sow-lizard.”

  Veronica went white.

  “But you’d be murderers!” she said, her lips dry and her eyes terrified.

  “We’re murderers now—at least, you are,” said Caroline. Not always Gillian’s adherent, she was at one with her now in being prepared to do anything to divert Sandra’s thoughts from the suicidal idea of confessing to Miss Pomfret-Brown the awful nature of their rites. Veronica gave a despairing glance from face to face, but met with no response except a glare of condemnation. She put her hand to her mouth, gave a wailing cry, and fled from those accusing eyes.

  Returning at a quarter to one from other, more respectable rites, those of the funeral service, Miss Pomfret-Brown was astonished to find a small girl waiting at the door of her private wing.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she demanded, peeling off black kid gloves. “This ain’t your part of the house. Can’t have you children here!”

  “I—I want to tell you something!” blurted out Veronica.

  “Go and tell it to Miss Salter. Don’t come to me with your troubles.”

  “But they’re going to kill me, like—like we killed Mr. Bennison! You’ve got to listen! You’ve got to!”

  Hearing the voices, Miss Pomfret-Brown’s personal maid opened the door.

  “Ah, there you are, Mason,” said her employer. “Child’s beside herself. Take her to the sanatorium and have some food taken to her. See her when I’ve had my lunch. Exhausting affairs, these funerals. The vicar gave us half-an-hour of poor Simon’s virtues. Can’t think what he knew about them. Poor fellow was an atheist, so far as I know. Most of these boneless types are. Takes tremendous willpower to swallow the Apostles’ Creed, don’t you think?” The maid bestowed an appraising rather than a compassionate look upon the sobbing Veronica.

  “Having been brought up chapel, madam, I could hardly say,” she replied.

  “No, I s’pose not. Well, take this little sniveller out of my way. Brace up, child. Nothing’s as black as it’s painted. Been using your imagination, that’s all. Now eat a big lunch, there’s a good gal, and then this afternoon you can tell me all about it.”

  “What shall I say to matron, madam?” asked the maid.

  “Say to matron? I don’t care what you say to matron. Take the child away and tell them to give her plenty to eat and a glass of wine and water with her dinner.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Confessional

  “You’ll have to deal with this yourself,” said Miss Salter, after her headmistress had passed on the details of Veronica’s confession. “It’s extremely serious.”

  “No, no, my dear. You tackle it. Treat it simply as a matter of breaking bounds. Ignore all the rest of it. When you’ve reduced the naughty little fatheads to pulp, I’ll have them to tea in my quarters and get them to tell me all about it. We’ve had outbreaks of Ban the Bomb and the Flower People, but witchcraft, so far as I know, is new as a school activity.”

  “You’ll only make the little sillies feel important, and that’s the last thing we want.”

  “But I’d like to hear all about it.”

  “Very well, you shall, but not, Miss Pomfret-Brown, by word of mouth from the girls concerned. You may be a financial genius—I believe you are—but you don’t know the first thing about child-psychology.”

 
; “Disagree with you there, but you carry on in your own way. I’ve always left the discipline of staff and girls to you, my own behaviour equally with theirs, so I give you a free hand in dealing with these intelligent little mugs. I exempt from the category the pathetic blubbering half-wit who came to me and blew the gaff. She certainly is not intelligent. I suppose that’s why the others found it easy to use her as a stooge.”

  “They lacked the wit to realise that, under pressure, she would break,” said Miss Salter grimly.

  “They’ll live and learn.”

  “If you took my advice, you would ask Sandra Davidson’s parents to remove her. She has a bad influence.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. What has she done? Lived dangerously. Wouldn’t we all, if only we dared?”

  “She has led other girls into wrong-doing.”

  “No, into fairy-tale doing. These babes are still at the fee-fi-fo-fum stage.”

  “James Sprenger and Henry Kramer would not agree with you, I’m afraid,” said Miss Salter, with a slight softening of her attitude which she signified by smiling.

  “Oh, those painstaking Fathers who formulated the great fifteenth-century attack on sorcery! The Malleus Malefi-carum, wasn’t it? Yes, but the Malleus pre-supposes a belief in the Devil.”

  “And not a bad belief, either,” said Hildegarde, grimly.

  “Oh, come, now! You wouldn’t go back to the days of burnings and tortures, would you?”

  “Of course not. But it wouldn’t hurt for us to be drastic in our treatment of these wretched children, if only to show them that it doesn’t pay to behave as Devil’s disciples.”

  “But they haven’t done so. If you refer to the work in question, my dear gal, you will observe that it lays down four points which indicate a pact to serve the Devil. First, a witch must renounce the Faith. Is there any evidence that our young friends have done so? Then, one must pay homage to the Prince of Darkness. Eh? Thirdly, unbaptised children must be offered to him. I can’t really think . . .”

  “All this is beside the point, Miss Pomfret-Brown.”

  “Fourthly, there is the indelicate association with incubi and succabi. I think maybe Sandra is a little young for that. Incubi it would be in her case, of course. Still, I suppose she has attained the age of puberty.”