Groaning Spinney

by Gladys Mitchell

  Apart from the gruesomeness inseparable from even the most scientific dealings with an exhumed body, there was but one dramatic incident.

  The doctor who was there in the interests of the insurance company exclaimed with great assurance:

  ‘Oh, yes! This is the chap I vetted! But he shouldn’t have pegged out like that! How long was he out in the snow?’ Nobody could answer this question. The police, Mrs. Bradley realized, were satisfied that the exhumation had been, in a sense, unnecessary, for, since there was now no question of fraud, and since it seemed unlikely that the autopsy would show any positive indication of foul play, from the Chief Constable’s point of view he had been right all the time.

  He said as much to Mrs. Bradley as they walked back towards his car.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift?’ he added.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I am going to walk back.’

  ‘It’s after midnight, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I am unlikely to see the fairies, but who knows but what I may encounter the parson’s ghost?’ She spoke clearly, and heard a shuffling sound from the shadows.

  She shone her torch on the gate of the nearest field, opened the gate, closed it carefully behind her, and struck out across the stiff grass.

  It was a moonless night, fine and rather cold. There was no path to follow, but, ahead of her, and looming against the sky, she could just make out the trees of Groaning Spinney. By crossing the field steeply uphill on a north-west slant, she knew that she would come to the ghostly gate. She took her time. That there was somebody ahead of her, she knew.

  When she topped the rise she involuntarily stood still, for there, hanging over the gate, was an eerie, dead-white face most curiously lighted as though by phosphorescence.

  Mrs. Bradley walked nearer. When she was within distance she stopped again, took a small revolver from her skirt pocket, aimed with some care, and was rewarded by the sound of a loud explosion and the disappearance of the face. Then she ran for the shelter of the trees.

  There was a path through the wood, but she did not use it. She waited and listened. Nothing stirred.

  ‘You’ll be tired before I shall,’ she thought, and, with her back against a stout trunk and her revolver re-loaded, she waited patiently for half an hour. Still nothing else stirred. She still waited. At last, after about another half hour, she was rewarded. From the opposite side of the gate came the gleam of a torch. Someone was homeward bound.

  Satisfied that she knew who it was, she did not attempt to follow. She remained still for another hour. Nothing else happened. Then she heard shouts in the distance, this time behind her. She turned and saw the light of another torch. Her nephew, who had waited up for her, had grown anxious, and had telephoned the Chief Constable’s house until the great man, arriving home, was able to tell him that Mrs. Bradley had set off to walk home across the fields. Guessing that she was making for the ghost-gate, Jonathan had come out to find her.

  They walked back together, and during the walk she gave an account of the exhumation, its results so far as these were known, and then mentioned the balloon painted with phosphorescence which some practical joker had placed on the haunted gate.

  She was up very early next morning and went straight through the Spinney. There were the remains of the balloon, harmless enough to see. She did not touch them. She went back to breakfast, spent an hour in writing to friends and in answering some questions sent to her by the psychiatrist she had left in charge of her London clinic, and then went to Tiny Fullalove’s bungalow.

  The woman who cooked and cleaned for him came at eight in the morning, got his breakfast, tidied up, went home for an hour, and then returned to cook his lunch. She was coming back for this second visit when Mrs. Bradley met her and walked with her to the bungalow.

  ‘I doubt he’m out,’ said the woman when Mrs. Bradley told her that she had come to see Mr. Fullalove. ‘He isn’t generally here when I come back. He walks round the estate, like, on his job.

  ‘I’ve come from Mr. Bradley’s house,’ said Mrs. Bradley.

  ‘Well, ee don’t want to go all back there profitless,’ said the woman, producing the key of the door. ‘Will ee come in, then, and wait, mam, or will ee leave me with a message, like, do ee think?’

  Mrs. Bradley elected to wait. She was assisted in arriving at this conclusion when she saw a typewriter on the side table. Although she knew the answer, she asked the woman whether it was a new one.

  ‘Brand new,’ the woman proudly replied. ‘Mr. Fullalove only brought it in from Cheltenham yesterday. ’Tisn’t for him, though, I believe. He brought it in for one of his London friends, who’s writing a book, so they tell on. But there! Mr. Fullalove’s that good, he’d do anything——’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘It looks a very nice one.’ She stepped negligently up to it and raised the cover. Then she tore a leaf out of her notebook, inserted it in the machine, and, watched admiringly by the woman, who betrayed neither surprise nor resentment at this free handling of her employer’s property, tapped out a hundred words with the rapidity of machine-gun fire.

  Then she removed the piece of paper, scanned it, pushed it into her pocket, and waited composedly for Tiny to return. When he came in she remarked on the new machine and said that she had tested it.

  ‘I hope you don’t imagine that the anonymous letters were typed on it,’ said Tiny, helping himself to a cigarette. ‘Oh, sorry! Will you have one of these?’

  ‘No, to both remarks,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I came to ask you a leading question.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked warily at her.

  ‘Who killed Mrs. Dalby Whittier? Do you know?’

  ‘I? Of course not! How should I? If I did I should go to the police. I believe she was set upon and robbed.’

  ‘Robbery with violence?’

  ‘Well, I know she was poisoned, but that would mean poor old Bill or me.’

  ‘It is rather difficult about the poison,’ Mrs. Bradley agreed. ‘Do you think she had found out something which somebody did not want known?’

  ‘Now, look here,’ said Tiny, seating himself astride a chair and resting his arms on the back. ‘What is all this? Are you asking me whether there was anything fishy about poor old Bill’s death, too?’

  ‘Well, was there anything fishy about it, Mr. Fullalove?’

  Tiny drew at his cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at the lighted end, and then tossed the cigarette into the fireplace.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘And you know that female who claims to have been his wife? Well, she came here yesterday to show me her marriage lines. I told her roundly, and not mincing my words, that they were a forgery. She kept calm and said that she could prove differently. I told her to go to hell with her proofs, but I’m pretty certain, somehow, she’s telling the truth. One thing, I’m not in actual need of poor old Bill’s bits and pieces, otherwise I’d be inclined to fight her. As it is, if the lawyers pass her off as Bill’s lawful wedded, I suppose I’ve had it. Oh, well. That’s life, all right. But I think Bill might have told me he was married!’

  He lit another cigarette and puffed at it, frowning thoughtfully.

  ‘If anything more should occur to you,’ suggested Mrs. Bradley, ‘I wish you would tell me what it is.’ Tiny nodded. Talking through the cigarette, he said:

  ‘Sure. If there’s anything to tell, I’ll tell it fast enough. But I shall tell it to the police, you know. I don’t like amateurs muddling about with crime.’

  Mrs. Bradley took this delicate hint as a sign that her host would be glad if she would terminate her visit. She rose as if to go.

  ‘I hope nothing happens to Mrs. Clarence Fullalove,’ she said distinctly; and had the satisfaction of seeing Tiny’s jaw drop, so that the cigarette fell to the floor. She cackled harshly. ‘And one more thing,’ she added. ‘Are you the practical joker who tied a balloon on to the ghost-gate at the top of Groaning Spinney?’

  ‘No, I’m not.
Sounds a kid’s trick.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure whose trick it was, and it seems rather like the “ghost” that your friends Mr. Mansell and Mr. Obury saw on Christmas Eve, after your cousin had been to see my nephew.’

  ‘A balloon?’ said Tiny. ‘I shouldn’t think that would deceive Obury and Mansell. At least, it might deceive Obury—he believes in ghosts!——’

  ‘Don’t you believe in ghosts, Mr. Fullalove?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! Why should I?’

  ‘I thought that perhaps long residence in India——’

  ‘Look here,’ said Tiny uneasily, ‘what are you getting at?’

  ‘At some tales Ed Brown has to tell.’

  ‘Oh, Brown! He’s half-baked!’

  ‘Is he? I hadn’t realized that. Oh, well! By the way, there seems no doubt that your cousin died of cold and exposure, just as was thought at first.’

  ‘Then what did you mean by asking me——?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Just one more question, and then I can go back to London: where, on the estate, were those children from the Church choir?’

  ‘The little devils I clouted? You can find out for yourself. I don’t see what business you have to come here and interrogate me.’

  ‘I have no business whatever to do so, unless it may be to save you from the hangman.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tiny flippantly, his small green eyes intelligent again and all the exasperation gone from his voice, ‘don’t you think the little woman of Bill’s has done that?’

  ‘If your cousin could be proved to have been a murderer’s victim, yes. But there is also the case of Mrs. Dalby Whittier to be considered.’

  ‘Look here, sit down again,’ said Tiny. When Mrs. Bradley had complied with this request, he continued, watching her warily, ‘have you got something up your sleeve about that? I had nothing to do with it, you know. She left here on Christmas Eve afternoon. I don’t know which way she decided to take to get to the bus stop, but the place where she was found wouldn’t be on any possible route, as you probably know. Somebody poisoned her. Because she lived here you think that I must be the guilty person. Is that it?’

  ‘If the police are not to think so, what other explanation can be given?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  ‘There’s only one,’ agreed Tiny. ‘Bill did it, and then he committed suicide either through fear or remorse.’ He laughed. ‘You can forget that one. Old Bill never did either of those things.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘I don’t believe he did. Then won’t you co-operate with me to find the real murderer?’

  ‘Not if it means sticking my own neck into the noose! Dash it all, I don’t want old Bill’s memory to be mud, but he’s dead, when all’s said and done, and it wouldn’t help him for me to get myself hanged.’

  This reasonable point of view won Mrs. Bradley’s approval. ‘When do you expect to recall your dogs and cats from their foster-homes?’ she enquired. Tiny’s face twisted. She thought he was going to cry.

  ‘He’s hard enough to commit a dozen murders,’ said her nephew. ‘The question is one of motive. Why should he have poisoned the woman? That’s the question. And, equally, why should he have let that cottage of his to this supposed wife of Bill’s? Dash it all, if she can prove her case, she’s Tiny’s worst enemy! Why should he go out of his way to help her to stay in the district?’

  ‘What would you say is the simplest mathematical proposition?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  ‘Eh? Oh, two and two make four, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘There is an answer,’ said Mrs. Bradley mildly.

  14. The Beginning of the End

  *

  ‘Alle we shule deye, thath us like ylle’.

  Anonymous, c.1300

  * * *

  MRS. BRADLEY CARRIED OUT her promise to leave the Cotswolds in order to visit her London clinic, but her return was to be sooner than Tiny Fullalove supposed.

  ‘Not that anything more is likely to come out about the deaths,’ said Jonathan, gloomily. ‘It seems to me that the police are entirely lost. I don’t know whether they’ll call in Scotland Yard. I should almost think they would, as Mrs. Dalby Whittier was really a London woman. But apart from the murder, which I suppose will be solved sooner or later, I still wish we could lay this anonymous letter-writer by the heels.’

  ‘I still think it must be somebody in the village,’ said Deborah, ‘but I do wish I knew what you two were talking about the other day. I’ve racked my brains over and over, and I still can’t imagine——’

  ‘That’s because you’re prejudiced,’ said Jonathan. ‘Mind you, with regard to this last letter to Aunt Adela, well, Obury or Mansell would be certain to mention that they had met her. That widens the thing out a good deal, because they’ve heaps of acquaintances, I expect, because of their jobs. They must belong to societies.’

  ‘Yes, that might account for the last anonymous letter,’ agreed Deborah, ‘but it doesn’t account for the others. We know that the first letter came from Mrs. Dalby Whittier, and the others may have come from Tiny Fullalove, but, if they did—and I still can’t see Tiny as an anonymous scribe—would he be likely to use the word? I shouldn’t have thought that even the Authorized Version of the Psalms was in his memory, let alone the older form. What do you say, Aunt Adela?’

  ‘I am on the point of departure,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘You had better work it out for yourself.’

  ‘But I haven’t a clue,’ complained Deborah.

  ‘Oh, yes, you have. It was you who put your finger on the spot. It had nothing to do with the vicar, so you ought to be able to——’

  ‘But I don’t want to!’ said Deborah, turning very pale. ‘It can’t be what I think?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ said Mrs. Bradley, nodding solemnly. ‘Don’t be afraid of the truth.’

  ‘I wish you would tell me what you’re both talking about,’ said Jonathan, glancing from one to the other. ‘Aren’t we still referring to Robert Emming?’

  ‘Yes, of course we are,’ said Mrs. Bradley.

  After one startled stare, Jonathan laughed heartily. Deborah joined in. Mrs. Bradley cackled.

  ‘Well, if that’s the best you can do,’ said her nephew, ‘you can keep your word-associations for your text-books! In any case, if you and Deb and I could work that one out, couldn’t the anonymous letter-writer?’

  ‘Now that is a thought!’ agreed his aunt. Deborah looked dubious.

  ‘It’s rather—subtle,’ she said.

  Mrs. Bradley did not debate the point, for it seemed to her self-evident. She returned to London next day and found herself involved in her own affairs for almost a week. But on the Friday evening it seemed advisable to give her hard-worked young secretary a break.

  ‘Laura,’ she said, ‘take the weekend off and report for duty on Tuesday immediately after lunch.’

  ‘Hot dog!’ said Laura joyously. ‘That means I need not catch a train back until after breakfast. Are you sure you can spare me?’

  Mrs. Bradley reassured her, and, having seen her off on the six o’clock train, she returned to her Kensington house and continued to cope with certain arrears of work which her holiday in the Cotswolds had made inescapable.

  On the Saturday morning she spent four busy hours at her clinic, but on the Saturday afternoon she received by special messenger an invitation to join a friend of hers at the Ideal Home exhibition. Mrs. Bradley telephoned the friend and learned, not altogether to her surprise, that no such invitation had been issued.

  She was greatly intrigued and not at all alarmed to discover that she was to have been the victim of a plot. She believed a genuine mistake to have been out of the question; the invitation had been brought by the special messenger with her friend’s compliments, and the friend was named. However, she decided that a few elementary precautions would scarcely be out of place.

  She had sent the messenger back with a written acceptance, and then went in her own car to the village of Wandles Parva, w
here she had her country house. It was all rather fun. She inspected her treasures, had tea in the housekeeper’s room, dined at the village inn off rabbit pie and stewed rhubarb, and took the London road at just after eight.

  The night was overcast and promised rain. The car burst a tyre just outside Guildford, and after the slight delay whilst George changed the wheel, she and her man went into the Lion for a drink and a snack.

  ‘Have we been followed, George?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired as they sat at a small table. George had been provided with a pint, and his employer (out of deference to the rhubarb, of whose unsweetened effects she was dubious), had chosen a loathsome but efficacious mixture of port and brandy. The chauffeur set down his tankard.

  ‘I am inclined to think so, madam. I could take the stretch into Esher a bit faster if you should wish it.’

  ‘Do so, George. We might as well try their metal. Swallow, George, and let us go out to the car under the cover afforded by this large and animated party which I see is preparing to leave.’

  But there was no question of their being followed for long. George, a sedate and careful driver as a rule, had the itch common to all chauffeurs—he wanted to find out just how fast the car could go. It was almost new. He had run in the engine carefully and with love. The car was spoiling for a test. He passed other vehicles as though they were standing still, and, apart from his passage through towns, did not slow up until he reached Esher hill. From there, steady and unspectacular progress brought the car into Kingston, from thence to Richmond, and so home.

  Mrs. Bradley went to bed at just before midnight. She lay awake for half an hour and then passed into her usual refreshing but hair-trigger slumber. She was awakened by a sound so slight that less keen ears, or a sleeper less accustomed to wake easily, would not have detected it.