Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Well, I dunno,” he said. “Ef et weren’t for what I’ve had said to me down en Headenton—” He replaced the warrant. “Who would kell a pig on Chrestmas Day? That’s what I want to know.” His thick back stiffened. “And et’s what I’ll find out, too an’ all,” he said.

  “Linda,” said Mrs. Bradley, who was visiting the private mental home ostensibly in her professional capacity. She had gone the rounds and had been given tea by the matron. Linda, who had been sent to talk to Mrs. Bradley alone, stood stiff and looked defiant. “Who taught you the Bampton words of Constant Billy? Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  “Mester Semeth,” Linda replied with a sniff. But her pose was somewhat relaxed, Mrs. Bradley noticed.

  “Not a young man called Maurice Pratt, by any chance?” she suggested.

  “Don’t know un,” said Linda shortly, avoiding Mrs. Bradley’s eye.

  “He’s engaged to the young woman whom Mr. Tombley would like to marry,” said Mrs. Bradley, watching her.

  “Oh, ah?” said Linda, with elaborate lack of interest. “Nothen to do wi’ me. Respectable I be, these days.”

  “Linda, how did you get into the priest’s hole at Old Farm on Boxing Night?”

  “From the upstairs WC.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “See the lettle trap-door once when I was a cleanen, and opened er up, to see where er led, that’s all.”

  “But what made you do it on Boxing Night? What had you to hide?”

  “I went wi’ Jem Priest en the woodshed at Roman Enden.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “I dunno. Et came to us. I couldn’t ’ave un to Old Farm cos of our mam. Skenned me, she would, ef er’d took a sneff o’ Jem there.”

  “But you had a bed of your own at Roman Ending. Why didn’t you use that, child? Why go and sleep in the wood shed?”

  “I deddun ’ave no bed. Allus slept en the woodshed cos ee can bolt the door. Couldn’t lock nor bolt any doors en Roman Enden. Petty ee didn’t find that out, like, while ee was about et.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded, unruffled.

  “You came back across the snow, I presume?” she said.

  “Ah. Left me best dress and me shoes en the secret lettle room, and came back to ’em later on when I run away.”

  “You ran away because you heard quarrelling, didn’t you?”

  “Ah. Jem made for a peg shelter, and me, I run ’ome, like, for fear.”

  “Fear of what?”

  “I don’t know. Meddle o’ the night, and whatall, makes ee narvous.”

  “I see. But, Linda, what made you put your best dress on again when you came back to Old Farm?”

  “Never ’ad me dress on to go to Roman Enden. Never ’ad no shoes. What else do ee warnt to know? I got to get back to my work.”

  “I suppose your husband didn’t by any chance kill Mr. Simith, Linda?”

  “What, Jem!” Linda shrieked with laughter. “That beg cart ’orse! Should a liked un to; felt fine, I should, to be ’aven old Semeth kelled for the sake of I!” Her amusement was clearly hysterical.

  “Yes, but, even supposing you were scared and ran home, I can’t imagine that Priest was frightened by the sound of people quarrell­ing,” Mrs. Bradley said.

  “’Twas on account of the peg he kelled,” said Linda.

  “What pig, child?”

  “Kelled a peg a Christmas Day, ded Jem, and run the blood ento buckets. And buckets of blood they talked about. That’s what. And he says ‘I’m done ef I’m found!’ And with that he made off, and I very soon up and follered. All en a lather he’ve ben ever sence, poor fool, on account of the peg’s blood drenched over Mester Semeth when they found him. As soon as he read en the papers about that old there dirt ee had anerised up en London, he’ve ben en a sweat and a twetch. Took this ’ere jarb, I ded, cos I couldn’t a bear to be weth him.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Linda,” said Mrs. Bradley, with a sudden, startling smile. Linda stared at her.

  “No more ee ent, mam. Don’t need as ee shud be, neether. Too many for me, ee be.” She nodded, acknowledging defeat. “But kellen anythen begger nor a peg—that udn’t be Jem Priest!”

  “And now, my man,” said Mrs. Bradley to Priest, “no more of your nonsense! What did you overhear, whilst the quarrel was going on in this kitchen on Boxing Night?”

  Priest slopped a bucket of potatoes irritably into the copper in the outhouse.

  “What’s Lender told ee, mam, I’d like to know?”

  “The truth, I believe.”

  “Well, happen I well, then, too an’ all. Be et known to ee as I kelled a peg for a chap on Chrestmas Day?”

  “The question is—what man?”

  “Ah, there ee goes too far, because I can’t tell ee. A chap brengs a peg over here and asks me to kell et.”

  “A curious proceeding, surely?”

  “Ah, ’twas. But I dedn’t thenk much about that. He offers to pay me my price, and I says two barb. The peg was a rare lettle young ’un, and so I tells him, but he says he can’t help that. Et’s got to be done. So I kells the peg, and runs off the blood, like he told me, ento a bucket, and he leaves that there bucket en the old sty us don’t use—that un all tumblen down—and takes the carcase away with him en ’is car.”

  “Did he give any reason for all this? It seems extremely odd,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Ah, said they’d done him down about his duck. He paid me the two barb, and slipped a ten-barb note en me hand as well, and weshed me a Merry Chrestmas, and off he druv. Don’t know ’im. Never sen ’im. But when that there yellen about buckets of blood come en at the woodshed door, I took a fright, I don’t really know for why, and off I went, and Lender, she went home.”

  “You deserted her rather suddenly, Priest, did you not?”

  “I ded, I be sorry to say. Took by surprise be them and their ‘Buckets o’ blood’ and sprung off over the snow to that there old shelter, and laid meself down en the straw, and sweated, too an’ all.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Where were Mr. Tombley and Mr. Simith whilst you were killing the pig for this kindly stranger?” Priest looked at her suspiciously, but her gaze, although reminis­cent of a serpent’s unwinking watchfulness, was urbane.

  “They went to church,” he announced unwillingly.

  “Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, trying in vain to envisage such a proceeding on the part of Tombley and Simith. “Ah, yes, of course. On Christmas morning. Naturally. They would. How many times did you feed the pigs, by the way, on Christmas Day?”

  “Three times, mam, as usual.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Three times. I should hardly have thought,” she added reflectively, “that one of these times would have come within the hour of Divine Worship, but, of course, I don’t know. I am not an expert on pigs.”

  “No. No, ee ent, be ee?” said Priest. He did not seem very happy.

  “When is Linda coming back to live with you?” asked Mrs. Bradley suddenly.

  “Arst me another,” said Priest. He spat into an old zinc bowl half filled with foul looking rain water.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Bradley, taking her leave by stepping over two small heaps of pig muck and a couple of empty tins. Priest looked after her with a puzzled frown. He could not understand why she was sorry.

  “I’ve found the pig killer, child,” she said to the inspector. “I doubt, though, whether you’ll manage to get him to say very much about it. And if I assured you that he must be the accessory after the fact, I suppose you’d still decide to arrest Geraint Tombley?”

  “Mam,” said the inspector, regarding her squarely, “what would you do en my place?”

  “The same as you are doing. But I want you to have a successful case to your credit, child, you know,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Ah, I know.” He went away, looking worried.

  “And now,” said Mrs. Bradley to Carey, “it’s time I got back to work. Keep your ears open, c
hild, for rumours and such-like, won’t you? And let me know immediately Geraint Tombley comes home. He’s probably keen to get back, and I imagine that he’ll marry Fay as soon as they can get the banns business over. Good­bye, dear child, and thank you so much for putting up with me.”

  “Come back for Easter,” said Carey. “Hugh and Denis are coming again for a long weekend. I’d love to have you as well. We’ll have Jenny, too, for Hugh. Perhaps we’ll have better luck than we did at Christmas!”

  The weeks went by. Easter time arrived. Primroses and violets in the shade, cowslips in the fields, and the snakeshead fritillery on the water meadows at Iffley might have persuaded Mrs. Bradley to go to Oxfordshire for a second visit to Stanton St. John, even without the excitement of the case. Tombley was back at Roman Ending, but Priest had taken a job on a farm not far from Marsh Baldon, and Tombley had taken on, not only another pigman, but half-a-dozen workmen to construct long pig rearing sheds on the Scandinavian plan. He had brought back plenty of ideas, but they did not appear to include his marriage to Fay. He had received a letter from Mrs. Bradley the day after his return.

  “Let Fay remain nominally engaged to Pratt. Lives may depend on this. Be good, child. It won’t hurt you to wait a month or two.” Tombley, snorting with annoyance, took the unpalatable advice. “And keep me in touch with developments, especially if any more armorial bearings appear,” the letter had gone on commandingly.

  Mrs. Bradley returned to Old Farm on Maundy Thursday. That day and Good Friday passed quietly. On the Saturday Mrs. Bradley, accompanied by Denis, walked over to Roman Ending. There were dandelions everywhere. The villagers gathered them for wine. Elms were in their small leaf, and even the oaks showed signs of the sun and the spring. A couple of pear trees on Roman Ending were white, and a gnarled apple was in bud.

  Tombley was leaning against a finished pig-house. Another four were in course of construction, but a friendly rush of young porkers, still being reared on the open air system, nearly carried Denis off his feet. Mrs. Bradley advanced.

  “Have you checked the stock, child, since you’ve been back from Denmark?”

  “Had a rotten crossing,” said Tombley, who did not look pleased to see her. “Yes. I’m the same Middle White short that I was on Boxing Day. Priest, I’ll bet.”

  “Right and wrong,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Priest killed it, but at somebody else’s instigation, child. You remember the pigs’ blood that someone poured over and round your uncle’s body?”

  Tombley continued to scowl. Mrs. Bradley walked round and admired the finished pig-house and watched the men at work.

  “All day yesterday, and all day Sunday and Monday,” groused Tombley, following her, “these lazy blackguards are going to sneak for a holiday.” He was wearing a pair of dilapidated riding breeches, hedge torn in the seat and plastered with pig muck almost up to the waist. His gaiters were thick with mud and his shirt was abnormally dirty.

  “It’s certainly time that Linda Ditch came back to do for you,” said Mrs. Bradley, eyeing him offensively. Tombley laughed loudly and harshly.

  “That slut of Priest’s! I wouldn’t have her in the place! I’m all right as I am, until I get married, and when that’ll be, apparently no one knows but you, you interfering old busybody! Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  Mrs. Bradley shook her head at him.

  “I shall leave you to be hanged. You’re a nasty, ungrateful child,” she said admonishingly.

  “I want Fay,” said Tombley thickly.

  “Child, you must wait. You must. I’m not talking idly. You don’t want anyone else to be murdered, do you?”

  “It’s all a lot of rot,” said Tombley gloomily.

  “So was your uncle’s death, and Mr. Fossder’s. Don’t be fool­ish, child,” said Mrs. Bradley. “What were you doing on Christmas morning, at the time other people were at church?”

  “I was at church myself. I told you when you came over. Special message from the vicar.”

  “Did your uncle go, too?”

  “No. He was fast asleep. Hadn’t had much sleep the night before. Don’t know why I went. Turned out to be a mistake. Somebody playing a silly joke, or something. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Used to go regularly at one time, when I was younger. Not here, though. That was at Cowley.”

  “Temple Cowley? There’s some connection with Sandford, isn’t there?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Maurice Pratt would know.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Yes, of course he would.” Tomb­ley looked at her. His sullenness had gone.

  “You think that handful of chickweed did in Uncle Simith?”

  “And Mr. Fossder? And you, if you be not very careful?” said Mrs. Bradley. Tombley laughed.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that I do, either, now I’ve seen Mr. Pratt again,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but don’t forget that you’ve stolen Fay from him! By this time he probably knows it! At any rate, the police have not arrested you, thanks to me.”

  When she got back to Old Farm she took from her notebook the little heraldic badges, and placed them side by side upon the table. She drew up a chair, sat down, rested her elbows on the table and stared at them as though she were playing Patience. Carey, coming in, stood behind her chair and looked at them over her shoulder.

  “I wish you’d copy these, making them larger,” she said, without looking up at her nephew. “I think they’d look pretty in red.”

  “So that you can compare my efforts with those of the original artist?” said Carey, grinning. “Very well, love. Give ’em ’ere.” He bent over them more closely for a moment.

  “They must mean something, mustn’t they?” he said.

  “I know what they mean,” said Mrs. Bradley mildly. “I’ve got them arranged in order. The top pair represent (a) the heraldic symbol known as the Fret, and (b) the Cross Patée or Formée. The middle pair, reading from left to right, represent the Chief Embattled and the English version of the Boar’s Head Erased. The third pair are, first, the Chief Dancetté, and, second, the Batôn Sinister. Last comes a ‘signature’ symbol, the Hand Sinister.”

  Carey frowned.

  “I can see that the Boar’s Head might have some connection with the murder of Simith,” he said, “but why should there be a second paper with that battlements sign on it? The other symbols don’t seem to connect at all.”

  “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Bradley, “the third set ought to help us to prevent a murder. The obvious connection is dancing (given by the warning word). The batôn strongly suggests a Morris stick, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly,” said Carey. “But what do you mean—the warning word—exactly?”

  “The first warning word, the Fret, indicates that the murderer of Fossder has lost his temper. The Cross Patée puzzled me for a bit, until I went cruising about in the car on Christmas Day, and had a good look at Sandford, where Tombley, you remember, was to have met Fossder to keep the terms of the bet. The gabled building with the large east window, blocked up now, is at present used as a barn, but I find it was once a chapel. Over a gateway dated MsoNormal1614, some pieces of ornamentation in stone are still to be seen, and among them is a shield bearing the badge of the Cross Patée. That fact connected pleasingly with the rest of the story, as I knew it. Whilst I was in London I obtained a little information on the subject of Armorial Bearings, and discovered that the badge was that of the Knights Templars, whose headquarters, after they had been driven from Temple Cowley, were on the site of the present Temple Farm in Sandford.”

  “Go on,” said Carey. “What’s the meaning of the Chief Embattled? The murderer’s blood was up, or something of that kind?”

  “That is the way I read it, child. The Boar’s Head, as you pointed out, has a very obvious connection with the murder.”

  “And the Sinister Hand, you think, is the fellow’s trademark? Something a bit undeveloped about that, somehow.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, child, I know.” She cackled.

  “But you won’t agree with me that it’s just the sort of thing a half-baked savage like Tombley would think of, and like?”

  Mrs. Bradley pursed her lips, gathered up the papers carefully, and put them into his hands.

  “A nice bright red, child, if you please,” she said.

  “If you’re so sure of Pratt,” said Carey, after a pause, “why don’t you get the inspector to arrest him?”

  “For a weighty reason. I am convinced that the two deaths, Fossder’s and Simith’s, are part of the same plan, child. And yet, if you remember, it had been arranged that Hugh should call for Pratt, Fay, and Jenny, on Christmas Eve and bring them over here. If Pratt had thought that he was going to be called for, he would not have arranged to murder Fossder on that particular night. You see, he must have heard, later on, that Hugh was coming, and I suppose he would have decided, on that, to aban­don the attempt, but my point is that he wouldn’t have planned the murder—”

  “Yes, he would,” said Carey. “I didn’t go over until Sunday, the MsoNormal20th. Fossder had the warning on Saturday, the 19th. So, if Pratt is the murderer, the thing was all planned out before I went to see them.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded.

  “In that case, he would have refused the invitation, or aban­doned the plan,” she said.

  “I’ll bet,” said Carey, thoughtfully, “that that little ass Jenny never said a word about it until too late!”

  “Jenny?”

  “It was Jenny I saw on the Sunday. She, as you can imagine, was the only one who hadn’t gone to church.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Bradley. “So you think Pratt had made all his plans before he knew that Hugh was coming over on Christ­mas Eve. By the time he did know, he realised that it was too late to alter anything. He must just give in to Fate and wait for Hugh.

  There wasn’t much harm done. Mr. Fossder would keep the engagement he had at Sandford, and come safe home again.”

  “Then, when Hugh didn’t turn up at the proper time—”