Groaning Spinney

by Gladys Mitchell

  The Huntsman called them off, and, the pack suddenly finding again, the hunt streamed off through the woods.

  ‘On a different scent, I’ll lay,’ said Jonathan, ducking his head to avoid a whip-like branch. He glanced round to find that his aunt had dismounted and, with her cyclist guide, was poking with a dead branch at the badger’s sett.

  ‘Blood’ she said, holding out the branch as her nephew came up.

  ‘Rabbit’ said Jonathan. ‘A stoat has killed one and dragged it in there, I expect. Come along, or we shall miss the fun.’

  ‘I thought you had made up your mind to go home,’ retorted Mrs. Bradley. ‘But just as you like. Ah, there we go again!’

  They bent low on their horses’ necks to avoid the whip-like twigs and were soon again on a broad ride through the woods. Mrs. Bradley’s crop dangled from her wrist, and in her hand she held the blood-stained branch which she had poked into the badgers’ den. Jonathan, accustomed to apparent idiosyncrasies which would afterwards, he knew, prove to be useful behaviour, made no comment. His horse began to canter, and soon he and his aunt were scudding up-wind behind a pack in full cry, a yodelling Huntsman and an enthusiastic field.

  The woods ended with a wooden gate easily negotiable. The take-off, a little spongy, was good enough, and Jonathan loosed his mare at it and was up and over. Mrs. Bradley gathered her tall hunter, and up he flew, made a perfect landing, and galloped steadily onwards, on a slightly downhill track.

  They were in open country once more and the fox was in view. There were screeches, hounds yelling, and all the climax of the chase, but there were oaths, too, for with the fox was a man on horseback, and he had the fox on a long lead.

  ‘Good God! It’s that scoundrel Ed Brown!’ said Jonathan, breaking into wild laughter. ‘It’s his tame fox he’s got there! We always suspected he had one or two, although he’d never own to it. What on earth is his game? And where the devil did he get a horse like—Damn it all! It’s my Moonlighter!’

  Observing that the game, whatever it was, was up, Ed leaned from the saddle like a cowboy, and released the fox. It immediately disappeared, and Ed himself dismounted, while the Huntsman and the Master, calling upon all disembodied spirits, rode up to him to know the how and why.

  Ed seemed confused. His sly eyes caught Mrs. Bradley’s alert and interested ones, and, apparently discerning sympathy in her yellow countenance, he addressed himself to her.

  ‘Please, mam, you be the best judge of what I bin doin’. You do know who’s arter me and for why.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Bradley, whom the Master was eyeing askance while the Huntsman was persuading hounds to come away from the mouth of the artificially constructed ‘earth’ where Ed’s tame vixen had gone to ground. ‘I think, Ed, that we must forgive you. Where is Robert Emming now?’

  ‘I dunno, mam,’ said Ed. ‘He daren’t touch me while the hunt was going on, in case ’e should shoot an ’ound—or maybe the fox.’ He smiled shyly at the fermenting Master and then at Jonathan, who, pointing to the horse, asked wrathfully:

  ‘Who gave you leave to borrow Moonlighter, confound you?’

  ‘I don’t understand your tale,’ said the Master, before Ed could reply. ‘What’s all this about shooting hounds and foxes?’

  ‘Perhaps I had better explain,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘Ed, the evidence of your crime is not very securely hidden. Look!’ And she showed him the blood-stained stick. ‘But I do not advise you to return that way at present.’

  ‘He were after me, and I knowed it,’ said Ed, almost sullenly. ‘I rate meself higher than one old fox, I reckon.’

  ‘So you did kill our fox, you villain!’ said the Master.

  ‘I had to lead him a dance,’ protested Ed. ‘He were arter me, I tell ee.’

  ‘Nonsense, Ed,’ said Mrs. Bradley firmly. ‘You’ve got a bee in your bonnet. Mr. Emming and Mr. Tiny Fullalove are still in London. What put such a notion into your silly noddle?’

  ‘It was a dream I ’ad,’ said Ed unwillingly. (‘It’s all right, Mr. Bradley, sir. Me and your Moonlighter’s old friends). I don’t ’old with takin’ no notice of dreams. Dreams is in the Bible, and allus took notice of there, being interpreted.’

  The Master caught Jonathan’s eye, tapped his own forehead significantly, and the Hunt began to move off. Ed seemed not to notice their going. His expression became craftier than ever.

  ‘You’ve got something on your conscience, Ed,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘Something you haven’t told me.’

  ‘It come to me, like, when I told ee about the deadly nightshade,’ agreed Ed. He fondled the horse, which was gently nibbling at his shoulder to attract his attention. (‘All right, then, you old you, you). Yes, mam, that’s when it come to me. They poor old dogs, mam.’

  ‘Good heavens, Ed! You saw them being buried!’

  ‘I did, mam, too an’ all. Mr. Tiny and Mr. Emming … and Mr. Tiny cryin’ all the time like an ’eart-broken gal … they buried them two poor dogs and them two little cats when Will North was over to Camphill on the Christmas shoot.’

  ‘Will North?’ asked Jonathan, puzzled. ‘How does he come into it?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Mrs. Bradley, looking affectionately at Ed. ‘Will North’s dog cemetery! How completely obvious!’

  ‘But what an awful risk to take!’ exclaimed Jonathan.

  ‘Mr. Emming, he were again it,’ said Ed, ‘but Mr. Tiny, he says as ’ow ’is little dogs and cats be going to lie proper, like ’umans, you see, mam.’

  ‘Yes, I do see. I do indeed,’ said Mrs. Bradley, gazing raptly into Ed’s face. ‘And I can see that you agreed, Ed. How did you come to be there?’

  ‘Well, tell you the truth, mam, Will North, he don’t go round there very often, but me, I go round and tidy up a bit and say a prayer for the poor old dogs and that, though I doesn’t tell parson what I do. So when they come … Mr. Tiny and Mr. Emming … I just creep into the bushes, that be all.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Nothing else, Ed?’

  ‘Ah, there were one other thing,’ confessed Ed. ‘Mr. Emming, he intend to kill Will North with that gun, not me.’

  ‘I thought so at the time. As you fell into the trench, Will was directly behind you, and therefore in the line of fire. We must be thankful for Mr. Emming’s poor marksmanship.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. It was only turning it all over in my mind afterwards, mam, I knowed what to think. I wouldn’t ’ave done it, not for a bet nor nothing …’

  ‘Exactly. I acquit you of complicity, Ed. I suppose the bet was that you could tell by the actions of the birds what was going on. Then, if Will got the shot in him, you’d have had to swear it was an accident.’

  ‘That were it. Now I got my mind cleared …’

  ‘But still not your conscience, Ed. You’ve been a nuisance. I want you to do something to atone for that.’

  ‘I don’t intend for to be mixed up in nawthen else no more.’

  ‘You’ve got to do this, Ed.’ She came close to the carter and muttered at him in witch-like tones. Ed started back. He looked horrified.

  ‘Not me! Not me!’ he protested.

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Ed. And it must be to-night. We’ll let Will know what we intend. Get up on Moonlighter again, and off we go!’

  There was a telephone message at the manor. Deborah had taken it. It came from the Chief Constable. Emming and Tiny were expected to return that afternoon.

  ‘I hoped so,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘This is our last chance. First we must disinter the dogs and get a post-mortem for traces of the belladonna. Secondly, we must make certain of Mrs. Emming’s safety, particularly as she will be needed at the trial. Thirdly, we must carefully coach Ed Brown in the part he has to play to-night.’

  ‘I can’t see what those two went to London for. They could have conferred here,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘They’ve been making arrangements to leave the country and go to South America,’ said Deborah. ‘The police have knowledge of that.’

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, I see; and they’re coming back here to pack up, I suppose? Well, that suits us all very nicely.’

  Disinterring the dogs was a grim task. Will North and the staunch Woottons performed it under Mrs. Bradley’s eye and under Ed’s directions. Tiny’s unfortunate pets were barely identifiable, but the vet. from Cheltenham, called into consultation, swore to the horrid remains as being those of a setter and a bull-terrier, and the equally disagreeable relics of two cats proved that these had indubitably been Manx.

  ‘And there won’t be any doubt about the poison,’ said Mrs. Bradley, when Will had tidied up his cemetery and nothing remained to mark the empty graves except the freshly dug, loamy soil. ‘And now for Mrs. Emming.’

  It was getting towards dusk when she and her nephew, accompanied by the Inspector and a policeman, reached the lonely cottage. The woman had lighted the lamp and drawn the blinds. Her head was silhouetted against the light. She started nervously when the Inspector tapped on the window.

  ‘Go round to the front!’ she called. ‘I didn’t expect you back yet. I thought you said the seven o’clock train, and back to your lodgings.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re quite the visitors you thought,’ said the Inspector, when she opened the door. ‘I am a police officer and I’ve called to ask you a few questions.’

  He pushed gently past her into the cottage. The others remained outside, but the door remained open and the conversation could be heard clearly. Mrs. Bradley knew the Inspector to be an efficient, hardworking officer, but she had not suspected him of guile.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Emming,’ he said, ‘but we’ve had an enquiry through from Scotland Yard about two gentlemen who seem in rather a hurry to get out of the country. As their objective seems to be South America, which is quite a long way from here …’

  She did not question the title he had given her, and she did not allow him to finish.

  ‘The dirty, double-crossing little …!’ she screamed. ‘He deserted me before and then found he’d got a use for me in his murdering monkey tricks! Get out of the country and do me down, would he! Not while I’ve got a tongue in my head to tell what I know, he damn well won’t! Him and his rascal of a father! Come-by-night and fly-by-night, will he? I’ll soon cure him of that, the …!’

  Mrs. Bradley touched her nephew’s arm. They walked back towards the village under the thin light of the pale, remote and early evening stars.

  ‘I think we can safely leave that to the Inspector and the constable,’ she said. ‘We have other fish to fry. Now, you understand your part, don’t you?’

  ‘Perfectly. I’m to get Tiny up to Groaning Spinney by ten to-night.’

  ‘Exactly. And Will North will be with you. I myself will tackle Mr. Emming.’

  ‘My job will be easy. Tiny’s still my agent, and Will and I have only to report signs of fire-raisers and poachers.’

  ‘And Mr. Emming will come with me whether willingly or not,’ said Mrs. Bradley, with relish. ‘You to the bungalow, then, and I to the lodgings!’

  ‘You’ll look out for yourself, won’t you?’ said Jonathan, anxiously. ‘He’s a treacherous devil!’

  ‘I am not proposing to be particularly above-board myself,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I hope Will North has placed the lantern in the right spot.’

  Arrived at Emming’s lodgings she asked when he was expected home.

  ‘He’s to be at Cheltenham at seven o’clock. I had a telegram.’ His landlady showed it proudly. ‘If he catches the bus all right at half-past seven I reckon he’ll be in to his supper before nine.’

  ‘Oh, well, will you please tell him that Mr. Tiny Fullalove will meet him at the old place at ten o’clock to-night?’

  ‘Mr. Tiny? At the old place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Be that all as I’m to tell ’im?’

  ‘Yes, please. You won’t forget, will you?’

  ‘Oh, no. I won’t forget. But I thought Mr. Tiny were from ’ome?’

  ‘Is he? Anyway, that is the message for Mr. Emming.’

  She went straight from the village street to the College. It had taken some time to reach the village from Mrs. Emming’s lonely cottage, and the evening was wearing on.

  ‘I want to borrow your typewriter for a few moments,’ she said to a surprised but welcoming Miss Hughes. ‘And if you’ve an odd crust that you can spare, I shall be glad of it.’

  Fortified with sandwiches and coffee, Mrs. Bradley took leave of Miss Hughes at half-past nine, and, having inspected and loaded her little revolver, set out to walk to Tiny Fullalove’s bungalow. She went by way of the village, and got there in less than twenty minutes by walking fast. Arrived there, she found it, as she had expected, still tenanted, but at the end of five minutes Tiny came out and set off in the direction of the Spinney.

  Mrs. Bradley went up to the front door and pinned her typed slip just beneath the knocker. To her satisfaction the white paper could be seen quite easily against the dark paint. It bore the legend, in capitals:

  GROANING SPINNEY

  She retired to the shadows and waited. By half-past ten she decided to give up her vigil. It was evident that Emming was not coming. She supposed that after all he had gone to see his wife before he returned to his lodgings, and she wondered what kind of reception he would get after the Inspector’s visit. She went quickly back to the village. ‘I want you to come with me,’ she said, when she had knocked at the policeman’s door. ‘And be quick. I think we may be too late already.’

  Police-constable Mayhew had finished his supper and had, in point of fact, taken off his boots and his tunic preparatory to going to bed. He resumed them, told his wife, who was already upstairs, that he was going out on a job for the squire, and accompanied Mrs. Bradley to the lonely cottage beyond the long barrow.

  The cottage lamp was still alight and the front door was wide open. In the room immediately within were the bodies of Emming and his wife.

  ‘She must have shot him as he opened the door,’ said the constable, looking with bovine interest at the corpses. ‘And then put the gun under ’er ’eart.’ He examined the gun. It was the one belonging to Will North which had been stolen. The constable recognized it directly. ‘You better go for Doctor Fielding, mam, while I stays ’ere and keeps guard.’

  ‘I wonder she knew how to load it,’ said Mrs. Bradley.

  ‘It’s easy enough, once you’re showed. I wonder what in ’eaven’s name made ’er do it?’

  Mrs. Bradley could have enlightened him, but did not. She made all haste back through the starry night to the village, and, having notified Doctor Fielding and, from his house, rung up the Inspector, she set off for Groaning Spinney. Of pity for the murderers of Bill Fullalove and Mrs. Whittier she felt not the slightest pang. She was anxious only to know the result of her ghost-gate experiment and to assure herself of her nephew’s safety.

  She met him at the edge of the wood.

  ‘Who’s that?’ called his voice as she approached. ‘Oh, it’s you, Aunt Adela. I say, Tiny’s conked out. Could you come and see to him? It’s his heart, I expect. The ghost upset it. He gave a sort of moan as we came in sight of Ed hanging over the gate with the lantern light on his face, and fell flat. I’m afraid he’s in a rather bad way.’

  ‘Yes, he’s saved the hangman a job,’ said Mrs. Bradley grimly, bending over the dead man whilst Will North held up the lantern. ‘Can you two get him back to the bungalow between you?’

  ‘I won’t ask by what means you’ve taken the place of the Furies,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘I’ll only say this: I’m most relieved that you did. Those two were as black murderers as ever came out of hell, and, of course, even with Mrs. Emming’s evidence, we might not have got a conviction.’

  ‘I did not foresee the Emming deaths,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I thought that Emming might break down at the sight of Ed Brown’s ghost. Tiny Fullalove’s reactions do not surprise me. That fall from my balcony did his weak heart no good. It is better
so. I confess I dislike the thought of hangings.’

  ‘And I dislike the thought of reporters,’ said Jonathan. ‘We shall be swarming with them during the next few days as soon as they get to know of the Emming affair. Tiny’s luck has held. It’s Emming who will come in for all the mud.’

  Mrs. Bradley nodded slowly. Then she quoted solemnly in Greek:

  ‘Fear not for him that departs from life; for after death there is no other accident.’

  They were standing by Will North’s cottage. In Farmer Daventry’s field a lamb cried out for its mother. A blackcap flew out of the lilacs and pecked at the cardboard top on a bottle of milk. The lush land rose to a hawthorn hedge, the stable tower, and the trees. Behind the house, on the woodland bank, the wild strawberry ambled in faint flower.

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  Copyright © The Executors of the Estate of Gladys Mitchell 1950

  Gladys Mitchell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain by

  Michael Joseph Ltd in 1950

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