Dead Men's Morris (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I didn’t think it important. Besides, I knew you’d tell that inspector. He would have arrested me at once as Fossder’s murderer.”

  Mrs. Bradley chuckled.

  “The inspector doesn’t really believe that Fossder had a murderer,” she said.

  The car drew up outside the Star public house.

  “Not here, George. Drive to Roman Ending,” said Mrs. Bradley hastily.

  “What for?” said Tombley. “I’ve got the pigs to feed.”

  “Yes, child, I know. But when we get to your house I want you to put on the ghost clothes and let me see how you look in them.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “But why?”

  “For purposes of comparison. I want to know how tall you are in comparison with Mr. Fossder’s murderer.”

  “But probably the nightgown thing didn’t come down to his feet.”

  “I know, child.”

  “You’re not going to get me all togged up in it and then pull that inspector out of some hole or corner, and tell him to arrest me, or anything, are you? No rotten games like that!”

  “Not a single rotten game, child. Don’t be so nervous and suspicious.”

  “I feel suspicious. I don’t really trust you at all.”

  “That’s very ungrateful of you, then. I’ve told you I don’t suspect you.”

  “There’s no one but Fay to give me an alibi, and I won’t take it from her.”

  “Yes, but there will be many more people than Fay to give you an alibi for the next murder, child.”

  “The next murder? When’s that going to be?”

  “I don’t know. At Whitsun, I should think. However, the murderer may not wait as long as that. I don’t know how hardly pressed he thinks he is at present.”

  “Yes, but who is he going to murder? You don’t mean he’ll murder me?”

  “I don’t know, child, I’m sure. I’m pretty certain that one of the people he is after is your pigman, Priest. Whether it will occur to him to murder anyone else, I really don’t know at present. It will be interesting to see. There’s always the chance of Carey, except that the murderer doesn’t know something that I know.”

  “Yes, but it won’t be very interesting to feel! I think you might have given the fellow the tip.”

  “What fellow?”

  “The murderer, of course.”

  “Oh, the murderer? Well, he knows that I suspect him, but he doesn’t know what I can prove.”

  “Then doesn’t that put you in danger?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But not in terrible danger.” She cackled harshly. “He knows that I haven’t persuaded the inspector to arrest him.”

  “Have you tried, then?”

  “No, not yet.”

  The car drew up in the lane that led to Roman Ending. Mrs. Bradley and Tombley got out and climbed the stile.

  “There’s a little point about which I confess to feeling a certain amount of curiosity,” she said. “I was over here with Carey one evening whilst you were away in Denmark, and somebody shut the trapdoor to that hole in the woodshed floor. Carey was down under the floor exploring the circular passage, and I was in the house. Fay and Jenny came over, but it was not either of them.”

  “One of them pinched a government book on pigs,” said Tombley.

  “I took that. I think it was what the girls had come there for.”

  “Who put them up to that, I wonder? That’s a bit odd, you know.”

  “I am going to ask you a direct question,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Don’t answer it unless you mean to tell me the truth. Do you know who killed your uncle, child?”

  “No, I don’t. What’s more—though I’m hanged if I’d care to have the inspector hear me say it—I don’t particularly want to know. Old Uncle Simith had begun putting the screw on someone—that’s all I know—and I shouldn’t care to have been whoever it was. He was more than a bit of an old devil when he liked, you know. His idea of a joke, more than anything else, I think. He wouldn’t go in for blackmail.”

  “But who could have shut the trapdoor?” said Mrs. Bradley, looking keenly at him.

  “Priest,” suggested Tombley.

  “Priest was over at Garsington helping with a farrowing sow.”

  “Lot of rot,” said Tombley. “Sows shouldn’t want any help. They ain’t like cows and horses.”

  Mrs. Bradley looked at him.

  “Curious,” she said. She remembered that Carey, the other pig breeder of her acquaintance, had said very much the same thing. “You mean he may have followed Carey back from Garsington? I certainly did not see him, but that proves nothing.”

  “It couldn’t have been Linda Ditch—Linda Priest, I mean, I suppose?”

  “Hardly. Apart from the fact that I couldn’t prove she was anywhere near the premises at that time, I don’t think a woman could have lifted that lid by herself.”

  “At any rate, it couldn’t have been me.”

  “No, child, it couldn’t have been you, if you were in Denmark, could it?” Her black eyes were ironic.

  “Was Pratt anywhere on the scene?”

  “I didn’t see him. He may have come in the car with Fay and Jenny, but somehow I don’t think he did. In fact, I think he might be avoiding their society at present.”

  “Another thing,” said Tombley. “If Linda couldn’t lift that lid to shove it back on the hole, I shouldn’t think Pratt could, either. Chap looks an awful weed.”

  “I know he does. But you can’t always go by looks, especially in younger men.”

  “I suppose it wasn’t Hugh What’s-his-name—Carey’s friend—having a game with him?”

  “I’m afraid not. Hugh was in London. He’s got a job in a library, you know. They don’t give him many holidays, poor boy.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I remember. I should say it must have been Priest. Looks rather suspicious to me. Priest ain’t cleared by a long way of being suspected of murdering Uncle Simith. Bad feeling over Linda Ditch, you know.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “This lid business—had it any connection with the murder, do you suppose?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. If it had, it failed in its object.”

  “Done from annoyance? Somebody got a grudge against Carey? Done to distract your attention while the person got busy somewhere else?”

  “The last might prove a valuable suggestion. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.” She still eyed him closely.

  “The whole thing’s queer though,” said Tombley, knitting his brows. “After all, if the person who did it knew that Carey was underneath, he’d also have known that you were on the spot and could release him.”

  “Just what I couldn’t do,” remarked Mrs. Bradley, grinning at the remembrance of her frantic dash across country in her knickers to get assistance. “It must have been Priest,” she said aloud. “Mustn’t it, child?” she added, still looking narrowly at him.

  “I should think so, yes,” agreed Tombley. They had reached the outermost of the new pig-houses, five in number, which Tombley had had erected. He nodded his head towards them. “Look better than the old stuff, don’t they?” he said proudly. “I shall have the whole place looking quite ship-shape come next August, and then I shall get married. I shall be awfully glad to get Fay away from Mrs. Fossder. She’ll be better and happier away.”

  “Jenny, too, perhaps,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Has it ever struck you, child, that, if Hugh were out of the running, Jenny and Carey might make a match of it?”

  “Good Lord, no! Carey was born to be a bachelor,” said Tombley, looking amused. They passed the other four pig-houses, came to the farmyard gate, and crossed to the house. Here, after some demur on the plea that the pigs were past their feeding time already, Tombley put on his thickest overcoat and then got into the night-dress of the ghost. It came down past his knees and—they had fixed the “head-under-arm” part of the costume firmly into place before he began
to dress up—soon he stood before her, a grim and horrible spectacle. The whole performance, exclusive of the fixing, had taken less than two minutes.

  “And it was certainly all in one when Uncle Simith brought it home,” said Tombley, when Mrs. Bradley had given him permission to take it off again. “I myself took it to bits and hid the pieces separately.”

  “Put it on again, child, and walk about. I want to see the effect.”

  Obediently Tombley, in the semblance of a very tall, headless man with his horribly grinning head beneath his arm, paraded up and down. It was a sight Mrs. Bradley had seen before at fancy dress parties aboard ship. She said, when at last she allowed him to take the costume off again, “You’d make a very good ghost, child. Where did your uncle get a grey horse to ride on?”

  “Oh, he’d have ridden old Neddy, the plough horse, I expect. You’ve seen the creature I mean. Why do you want to know?”

  “Somebody rode over Folly Bridge on the night of Mr. Fossder’s death on a grey horse, child. Somebody rode one through Garsington on the same day, too.”

  “You don’t mean Uncle Simith was the ghost?”

  “The person I mean certainly rode along the towing path towards Iffley. I cannot say how far along the towing path he went. At least—” She hesitated.

  “Go on,” said Tombley. “You can’t think how much you interest me!”

  “Tell me about your uncle and the horse.”

  “How can I? I can safely say that if uncle had the choice between riding a horse and driving a car he’d plump for the horse every time. I can also say that if he didn’t want to meet the people he knew about here, he would possibly go to Oxford by way of Garsington. But how is it you’re so sure of him?”

  “They grey horse cast a shoe.”

  “Oh? Well, do you mind if I go and feed my pigs?”

  “I thought you wanted to hear more about your uncle.”

  Tombley hesitated. “Well, yes, but the pigs come first.”

  “Very well, child. But I want you to give me the ghost.”

  “But what about the inspector?”

  “Leave him to me. Goodbye for the present. Give Priest a message, will you?”

  “Yes, if you want me to.”

  “Tell him,” said Mrs. Bradley very earnestly, “to make himself scarce. Tell him I won’t be held answerable if he remains in this neighbourhood any longer.”

  “You want me to tell him this?”

  “Why, yes, child, if you don’t mind.”

  “You really want me to tell the best pigman in Europe—perhaps in the world—to make himself scarce? To take himself off my land and out of my sight because you won’t be answerable for the consequences if he stays? Is Priest the murderer? Don’t you want him arrested?”

  She did not give him an answer to his question.

  “I want you to tell him what I say,” she said.

  “But suppose the murderer is never arrested? What then?” demanded Tombley. Mrs. Bradley looked at him and then looked away. He heard her sigh.

  “Tell me, child,” she said casually, “why did you shut the trapdoor on top of Carey?” She began to fold up the fancy dress of the ghost. Tombley groaned.

  “So you knew it was me! What don’t you know, I wonder?”

  When she had been given a piece of brown paper and string, she walked out with the parcel to her car. She handed the parcel to George.

  “What hateful things leading questions are,” she said. “But does that parcel remind you of anything, George?”

  George took the parcel out again, and weighed it in his hands. His eyes met his employer’s.

  “Yes, madam, I’m afraid it does,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But we couldn’t prove it, George. Stow it away again, child, and drive me back to Old Farm.”

  Tombley followed her out.

  “But how did you know it was me? Of course, I need hardly tell you that I didn’t know Carey was down there until later.”

  “I know that, child. I also knew that Fay did not go to Denmark with the money she borrowed from Jenny.”

  “No, I went there for a fortnight and then I came back and we lived in a furnished flat not far from Hove.”

  Mrs. Bradley shuddered.

  “But it was fine. I enjoyed it,” remonstrated Tombley. “As a matter of fact, it seemed a palace to me after being used to the way this hole is furnished. Anyway, it struck me I ought to sneak over here just now and again to keep an eye on the pigs and so on. I’ve never been able to account for that pig we lost over Christmas. I can’t really think Priest had it.”

  “When I saw Fay that evening I had a suspicion that you were not far away.”

  “You must have second sight. Well, when I saw that trapdoor open in the woodshed, I didn’t stop to think. It occurred to me that if anybody found the fancy dress of the ghost down there I should soon get into trouble.”

  “That, too, I deduced,” said Mrs. Bradley. “In fact, that was how I knew for certain that the ghost outfit was here at Roman Ending. As I knew the identity of the ghost, and that he was neither your uncle nor you, I could be pretty certain that I knew the reason for some at least of the curious deeds which have taken place in the neighbourhood since Christmas Eve.”

  “Now off us goes,” said Ditch. He was in his proper place, top left, in the Morris side, and opposite him was Young Walt. Our Bob stood next to his father, and Pratt was next to Walt. The last pair were Carey and Tombley. Priest stood by and watched.

  The dance was Blue-eyed Stranger. As the handkerchiefs were lowered to the dancers’ sides, and Pratt wiped his face with his shirt-sleeve, Ditch fell out, and, laying aside his handkerchiefs, picked up his concertina.

  “Now, Mester Priest,” he said. “You take my place, will ee, and I’ll gev ee all the toon with this ’ere.” So far, they had been humming as they danced. Priest took the top place, and Ditch, looking up at the north-east corner of the ceiling, began to play the air.

  “It’s like training a boat race crew,” said Carey to Tombley as they seated themselves on the table. “What wouldn’t I give for a drink!”

  “Now peck up your stecks, and us’ll do Regs o’ Marlow,” Ditch commanded, picking up his own stick from the table. He took his place again at the top of the side and Priest took from a poacher’s pocket in his coat a long reed instrument whose mouthpiece he wiped on his sleeve.

  “Ull I gev ee the toon on this ’ere?”

  “Ah, go on, Mester Priest, play er through again to see as ee’ve got er right, and never ee mind that there fancy fingeren. Just see as ee keps us moven.”

  “Oh, ah. But I’ll back I can manage the fingeren, too an’ all. Like sweet’earts us be, this lettle whestle and me. Played er en Kirtlenton at the lamb-ale I ded, ah, long enough ago, afore Young Walt was born.”

  “Oh, ah! Tell us another!” grinned Young Walt. Priest smiled, and, setting the oboe to his lips, he raised his eyes like a man who drinks good ale, and began to play the tune. It was lively, blood stirring music that set the feet moving involuntarily and brought all the dancers tapping their sticks very sofdy to the chorus.

  “Now then, all,” said Ditch, and the dancers formed into line. Ditch crossed his stick on Young Walt’s, and, standing straight legged and on the balls of his feet like the well made fellow he was, he held his well knit body easily and well, ready to begin the dance. As he looked in front of him with mild and level gaze, he seemed no unworthy keeper of a Mystery centuries old, a tradition venerated and honourable. Several times he stopped the dance to remonstrate with the dancers.

  “Ee be coveren too much ground. Come up to et more sprightly, like, and not so grass-’opper flighty, Mester Pratt. And our Bob, do ee mind that there back-to-back. Ee knocked Mester Pratt on his shoulder when ee passed him a menute ago.”

  “OK, our dad,” said Walt. He was really a very fine dancer, as became his father’s son, but it was understood that Pratt must not be blamed for every mistake that wa
s made.

  “Tes too discouragen, poor chap,” said Mrs. Ditch, in the bosom of the family, after the third or fourth practice, and Mrs. Ditch’s word was law.

  “Now all of ee can rest off a bit,” said the trainer, sinking into a chair, “and then us’ll do the hey. Now ee recollects that the second man follers the first man round. No fancy trecks. Just foller, Mester Pratt, do ee see, and ee can’t go wrong. Ah, and just you mind them there elbows o’ yourn, Young Walt. You tweddles them hankerchers too bold, at times, for my liken.”

  “Oh, ah,” said Young Walt pacifically, laying aside the ritual handerchiefs in order to find a secular one with which to mop his brow and wipe behind his ears.

  “Now another rest for five menutes, and then I warnts ee all to put on the bells,” said Ditch. “The dances don’t seem like nothen without the bells.”

  Out came the leather pads with their latten bells and the men took a pair each from the cloth in which they were wrapped, wiped the grease off the bells, gave the pads a shake and tied them on to their shins between knee and ankle, pulling the knees of their trousers up a little to give the knee joint full play.

  “Now then, up, lads,” said Ditch, when the side were rested. “Mester Priest, go ee en dancen this time and I’ll strike up the toon. Start with the back-to-back, and on from there. Us needn’t do the first two figures again, so long as Mester Pratt remembers right shoulders.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” said Pratt.

  “Ef ee don’t remember, ee’ll have to stand down,” said Ditch, with unwonted sternness. “Can’t have ee messen all up. Tesn’t en reason, that ben’t, and let our mam say what her well. Ee’ll ’ave to stand down en favour of Mester Carey’s friend from London. He dances not too bad, and remembers what I tells him, too an’ all. He’ll be over again to these parts, come Whetsun, I reckon.”

  Carey grinned, and confirmed this supposition. Pratt meekly bowed his head beneath the threat, and got through the dance very creditably.

  “That’ll do for tonight,” Ditch observed. “Us’ll do Trunkles, and Bean-Setten, and maybe Country Gardens, next time we meets, and all knows when that es. Now ee onderstands, Mester Priest, that ef lettle Mester Denis turns up with his lettle feddle, ee’ll be the Morris Fool. But ef he don’t show up come Whet-Sunday, like, ee dances where ee be now, and I plays the concertina, excepten for Bean-Setten and Regs o’ Marlow, where we got the stecks to help out that there whestle ee be so fond of.”