Groaning Spinney

by Gladys Mitchell

  Will and Ed talked for ten minutes by Mrs. Bradley’s watch. She had crept forward again. Then Will went off on his own errand, whatever that was, and Ed sat down again.

  To the left there was a flurry of birds; then, (at the same instant, it seemed to Mrs. Bradley), there were the sounds of two rifle shots, and Ed tumbled into the trench that he had been digging. Will North came running, and so did Mrs. Bradley. Both knelt by the trench. Ed turned over very slowly and favoured Will with a wink.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind acting like so be you thought I was done for, Will,’ he murmured, ‘you’d be doin’ me a favour like them there old birds over yonder.’

  ‘You aren’t hurt, then?’ enquired Will.

  ‘Not a hair singed, but that ain’t somebody’s fault,’ muttered Ed. ‘I knowed summat was up. Felt it all day, like. Felt it ever since that there old gun went off by Parson’s Gate.’

  Mrs. Bradley got up and gazed as though with compassion and grief into the trench. Save to a bird or from an aeroplane, Ed, she knew, was invisible except from very close range. She spoke to Will North.

  ‘Be off, Will, as though you’d gone for help. If you see anybody don’t speak to him unless you can trust him absolutely. Come back, if you can, with the Woottons. They’re staunch enough and can keep their tongues still. By the way, where’s Worry?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Will replied. ‘Not like him to go off on his own this long. Sent him out for his walk, same as I always do, but he hasn’t come back. I was looking for him when I saw Ed first.’

  He strode away. Mrs. Bradley sat down on her waterproof and waited. Will was gone almost an hour. He came back with the two gardeners and with George, Mrs. Bradley’s chauffeur, who had been giving the brothers a hand with a motor mowing machine which had gone wrong. The three men had a hurdle with them, a bit of local colour which Mrs. Bradley welcomed.

  Solemnly the grinning Ed was raised from the trench and laid on the hurdle. Mrs. Bradley spread her waterproof over him and the four men bore his light weight off towards Will North’s cottage.

  Mrs. Bradley had seen where the bullet had snicked up the earth on the edge of the barrow. She picked up Ed’s fork and excavated carefully, sprinkling earth by handfuls into the trench as though she might be covering up bloodstains. There was little hope, she felt, of finding the pellet. It would have gone too deeply into the soil.

  She was still engaged in her deception when the three men who had gone off to lunch returned.

  ‘Hullo! Ed Brown gone home?’ asked Emming. Mrs. Bradley pointed to the trench which was now almost half-full of soil.

  ‘You’ll have to leave your digging for to-day, I’m afraid,’ she said gravely. ‘The police, you know. Ed Brown was shot at, just after half-past twelve.’

  The comma indicated in her voice prevented the statement from being a lie, but this fine shade of meaning was lost upon her hearers.

  ‘Ed Brown?’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Who did it?—Some damned carelessness somewhere!’

  Mrs. Bradley replied to the last speaker, who happened to be Obury.

  ‘There is no proof of who did it. As to carelessness, it seems to me that criminal negligence is the mildest description to apply to the occurrence.’

  ‘Negligence?—Well, yes. There seems no reason to be shooting over this hill. I suppose some idiot saw a rabbit and took a pot shot. Sort of person who ought not to be allowed to handle a gun.’

  ‘I thought I saw Will North,’ said Emming.

  ‘Well, I want to get back,’ said Mrs. Bradley; but back where she did not say. ‘As for Will North, I fancy he can be trusted with a gun!’ Mansell looked in a gloomy way at his dig, and then began to gather his impedimenta together. Obury and Emming helped him. The last Mrs. Bradley saw of them was three rather dejected-looking figures making for the village by the route they had followed to go off to lunch.

  She turned her back on them, and was soon at the lonely cottage. There was no sign of anybody about the place. The little garden was springing to life, but it was overgrown and untidy with plants that should have been cut down or dug up during the previous autumn. The windows were closed; the door—for Mrs. Bradley tried it very cautiously—was locked.

  Nevertheless she knocked. She even went so far as to peer in through the curtained panes. It certainly seemed as though the occupant was out, but to make certain she knocked a second and then a third time, but still there was no response.

  Mrs. Bradley was about to give up when she saw the woman she wanted coming down the hill from the direction of the village.

  ‘Good day,’ said the woman. ‘I am sorry, but I’m not a churchgoer.’

  ‘And I,’ responded Mrs. Bradley, ‘am not a district visitor. I am wondering whether I can interest you——’

  ‘And I don’t want to buy anything,’ said the woman. ‘Just because I’ve come into a bit of money——’

  ‘Oh, you have come in for it, then? There has been a great deal of talk, naturally, but none of us really knew.’

  ‘People should mind their own business and let me mind mine. But villages are all alike!’

  ‘Are you thinking of settling in the village, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. There’s a lot of things to see to.’

  ‘There must be. Oh, well, I suppose I might have saved myself a journey. I wasn’t going to try to sell you anything, you know. I just wondered whether I could interest you——’

  ‘Well, in what?’

  ‘In the death of Mr. Clarence Fullalove,’ said Mrs. Bradley, pronouncing this name with great distinctness. The woman eyed her for a moment. Then she said:

  ‘You’d better come in and sit down. I was just going to make a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you, I never drink tea quite so soon before lunch, but I would very much like to come in.’

  The cottage was almost unfurnished. There was nothing in the room except a small deal table and a couple of chairs. The floor had one rug and was otherwise bare. There were curtains at the window but they were faded and shrunk.

  ‘It’s not much of a place,’ said the woman, ‘but it will do until I get my rights, which I shall do, believe you me!’

  She was a spiteful-looking creature, Mrs. Bradley thought. Men had been egged on and nagged on to commit murder by such women. Referring to the question of the ‘rights’ she asked:

  ‘Are they likely to be contested?’

  ‘They’d better not be! That fine brother-in-law of mine would like to see me slip up, but he won’t have the pleasure, thank you! However, I wouldn’t put much past him! I’ve had the place broken into twice already since I’ve been here. I’ve got proofs, you know, of who I am, besides my marriage lines, and you might as well be a witness just in case of accidents. If I show you, will you stand by me if anything gets stolen? You seem respectable, even if you can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business.’

  ‘I am here on my own business,’ said Mrs. Bradley mildly. ‘To-day a man was deliberately shot at, not so far from here. I want to know whether you saw anybody carrying a gun.’

  ‘Shot at? What goes on in this place, for goodness’ sake? My poor old hubby found dead in the snow, a poor old girl poisoned, and now a shooting match! Thank God I’ve never had to live in the country! I like a bit of peace and quiet, not these sort of wild goings-on!’

  She laughed nervously. Then she pulled open the table drawer, jerking angrily at it when it stuck half-way. Her hands were trembling.

  ‘See here,’ she said. ‘Here’s my lines and here’s my proofs. What have you got to say to that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mrs. Bradley replied, picking up the marriage certificate, ‘except how interested I am.’

  The husband had been Mr. Clarence Fullalove, she noticed. The date was 1922. She handed back the documents.

  ‘Strange you married so young,’ she said.

  ‘As for anybody with a gun,’ said the woman, ‘I met a tall,
black-haired fellow who passed the time of day, and was potting at every bird and rabbit he saw.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘That scarcely sounds an accurate description to me.’ She raised her voice. ‘Worry! Worry!’ she called. A yelp, not very far distant, answered her.

  The woman ran over and shut the window, and then turned to face Mrs. Bradley. But Mrs. Bradley put her aside and wrenched open the kitchen door. She called the dog’s name again. There was no doubt about the answer.

  ‘Where is the key? I am going to let him out,’ said Mrs. Bradley composedly. The woman swore at her.

  16. The History of Worry

  *

  ‘Follow on pitie, flee trouble and debate.’

  William Dunbar

  * * *

  ‘BUT WHATEVER MADE you think of her?’ asked Jonathan, when the ecstatic Worry had been restored to Will North.

  ‘I felt that Worry had either been injured or decoyed. I realized that the woman wanted to keep me at her bungalow. There seemed no reason why she should. I guessed she had seen me with Will. I met him out on the hill. I knew she must have heard the shot which was meant for Ed Brown. She did not mention it. The shots from that gun which was tied to the gate at the top of Groaning Spinney were meant either for Ed or for Will. It seems likely, from what was attempted to-day, that Ed was the intended victim, but, now I know that his dog was stolen, I believe that Will may equally be among the hunted. Worry hates that gate. In other words, the dog did not see a ghost that day: he smelt somebody who didn’t or doesn’t like him.’

  Jonathan began to laugh.

  ‘If you don’t know what made you suspect that she had the dog, why don’t you say so straight out?’ he demanded. ‘Now, look—and don’t hedge over this!—what about this shooting business to-day? Whatever the truth about the shotgun that was tied to the gate, was to-day’s bullet really meant for Ed?’

  ‘Well, Ed seemed to think it was. If so, it’s a good thing he is second cousin to the birds! He thinks they saved his life for him to-day. By the way, one of Will’s guns is missing. It will be discovered that the shot was fired from it, I think. Worry might have been decoyed so that the gun could be stolen.’

  ‘But Worry might not have been at the cottage. Will usually takes him out with him.’

  ‘Yes, that is true. You know, there is one small point that rather bothers me in this case. We heard that Ed Brown did not like what he saw of Tiny Fullalove in India. He did not like his treatment of Army mules. Yet when I first saw Tiny he had the company of those two affectionate cats and of those two obviously adoring dogs. I wonder what Worry thinks of him? And we still haven’t traced those animals, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, well, a man may be fond enough of his own animals and not kind to other people’s, don’t you think?’ said Jonathan, playing to the opening gambit as usual.

  ‘It could be so, but I should think it is unusual. A dog-lover usually gets on with all dogs. A cat-addict likes everybody’s cats.’

  ‘Mules might come in a different category, though, from domestic pets. They can be the most obstinate brutes. I think maybe I will talk to Ed upon the subject. Not that he’s an easy chap to get anything out of. I might be able to find out, too, what ideas he has about that shot. If it really was intended for him it’s time the police made an arrest. I suppose you suspect Tiny Fullalove?’

  ‘He is the one person I do not suspect. I took the trouble to ring up the police, and my friend Inspector Gavin was able to supply me with the name of the hospital to which he was taken following his fall from my Kensington balcony. He is still there and unable to walk. It was very clever of him to fall so clumsily.’

  ‘Yes, I see. That gives us something to think about. You know, if young Emming had been murdered instead of his mother, we might have known by this time where we were.’

  ‘You mean she kept him? Supplied him with money? Yes, there isn’t much doubt about that.’

  ‘I imagine not. And she may have become very tired of it. But there seems no earthly reason why he should have murdered her. Besides, he’s got nothing against Ed Brown, so far as we know.’

  ‘If Ed Brown is in possession of some important information,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘Mr. Emming might well have something against him! And then, as I say, there’s Will North, who noticed the piled-up snow on that badger-watchers’ platform. As for Tiny, I’m afraid we can’t prove that he came to my house with the intention of handing me my quietus. He may have come merely to have a quiet chat, or had mistaken the house, as he said.’

  Jonathan looked unconvinced.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Anyway, let’s tackle Ed and see what he’s got to tell us.’

  Will North was not at home when Mrs. Bradley arrived, so, to keep up the fiction that the house was supposed to be empty, Mrs. Bradley left it and Ed was commanded by Jonathan to nip across to the cottage belonging to the Wootton brothers. These were both at home and had been let into the secret because they lived far too near Will to be kept in ignorance of the fact that he had a permanent guest.

  ‘Now, then, Ed,’ said Mrs. Bradley, when she had joined him, ‘I’m going to ask you some questions. You need not answer them, but if you choose to answer you must be exact.’

  ‘Questions?’ said Ed. ‘I’ve had questions enough from Mr. Tiny! “I beant a liar,” I says, “without good cause.” I never told him nawthen. But, oh, mam, I know ee mean it for the best, but I be fair sick of being cooped up here like a broody old hen.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Mrs. Bradley agreed. ‘And I don’t think that what I have to ask you will have any bearing on what Mr. Tiny wanted you to tell him. Here goes, then: First, how did the dog Worry get to Mrs. (well, we’ll call her for the moment) Bill Fullalove?’

  ‘He followed Mr. Tiny,’ replied Ed, who seemed relieved at the form of the question. ‘Any dog—and that dog in partic’lar—would follow Mr. Tiny anywheres.’

  ‘But mules wouldn’t?’

  ‘Mules, mam?’

  ‘I understood that Mr. Tiny did not get on with mules.’

  Ed scowled.

  ‘That’s right enough. But dogs he did.’

  ‘And Worry followed Mr. Tiny to Mrs. Bill’s. I see. All right, Ed. I think that’s all.’

  ‘Thought ee was goin’ to ask some questions,’ said Ed, looking puzzled.

  ‘I have asked them, Ed. All except one, that is. Can you guess that one, I wonder?’

  Ed shook his head. A blackbird which had come to perch on the doorstep found the door open, recognized Ed, sang a satisfied, short aria, and flew on to the carter’s head.

  ‘So there you are, you old you, you,’ said Ed. Mrs. Bradley nodded slowly, and went quietly out of the house.

  ‘Tell Ed to pop back as soon as he can,’ she said to Abel Wootton, who accompanied her to the door.

  Fortunately Ed was a bachelor, so that there was no Mrs. Brown to be soothed, informed, and persuaded to keep her mouth shut, and not to let it be known that Ed was still in hiding in Will North’s cottage. To keep up the deception that he was dead, Doctor Fielding had called at Ed’s own empty cottage, and a rumour that the police doctor had also seen the corpse was allowed to circulate in the village. A blanketed figure (made up of a couple of bolsters) had been carried solemnly from Will North’s cottage to Ed’s home, and the village policeman had mounted guard to shoo away inquisitive youngsters.

  The deception, as everybody concerned completely realized, could not be kept up for long; there was the question of an inquest, for example; but Mrs. Bradley hoped to delay rumour until she was ready with her proofs. These she proposed to test and then to impart in serial form, as it were. She tried them first on the Chief Constable, who was a good deal more shrewd than his conversation sometimes indicated. She went over to see him.

  ‘I don’t see what you’ve got to go on, you know,’ said the Chief Constable, who was not too sure that he ought to lend himself to Mrs. Bradley’s theories. Mrs. Bradley slow
ly shook her head.

  ‘Let us recapitulate,’ she said. The Chief Constable settled himself in his own most comfortable armchair, filled his pipe, and settled himself to listen.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said.

  ‘Well, first, there is the question of Worry,’ said Mrs. Bradley.

  ‘Question of what?’

  ‘You mean Who. Worry, the gamekeeper’s dog. The story of Worry is brief but significant.’

  ‘Let’s have it, then.’

  ‘Very well. I came here first two days before Christmas Eve; in other words, on December the twenty-second. On the following day I went for a walk with Deborah and Jonathan and we saw the ghost-gate at the top of Groaning Spinney. We went on to the Fullaloves’ bungalow where I met Tiny. I took an instant dislike to him. I learned later that he was disliked by several other people. My own dislike you may dismiss as mere prejudice, but these others all had some grounds for their distaste.’

  ‘Who are they?—And what were their reasons?’

  ‘My nephew Jonathan did not dislike him at that time, so I will mention him first. He grew to dislike him when he learned that Tiny had annoyed Deborah.’

  ‘Yes. Bit of a heel,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Forget when I first learned things about him. Wants kicking, but I always thought that.’

  ‘Possibly. His own cousin may have disliked him. I mention Bill next because there is no certain information except that he is said to have given Tiny a black eye. Tiny is not the kind of man to get over a thing like that very easily.’

  ‘You don’t suggest he murdered Bill on the strength of it?’

  ‘No. But, all the same, somebody in the village (or somebody who has visited the village recently) wants us to believe that Bill died in the snow as the result of an overdose of aspirin—not an overdose large enough to kill him or large enough to leave distinct traces in the body, but large enough to make him very sleepy. The person who wants us to think that Bill’s death was brought about in this way took the trouble to “plant” an empty packet of aspirin tablets where I should find it, and, I have little doubt, watched me pick it up and saw me throw it away.’