The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Gerald Verner

  There had been an awkward moment on the previous evening. Angela had announced her intention of going for a walk after dinner, and Sir Basil had immediately offered to accompany her. Without being rude, she couldn’t very well refuse, but she hadn’t liked it and neither had Lady Conyers. She had gone off to her room and Roger had been left to entertain the rest of the house-party, Mrs. Mortlock, Sir Basil’s step-sister, Tony Harper, a cheerful young man who combined the duties of secretary and estate agent. Harper’s favourite amusement was dancing attendance on Lady Conyers, who regarded him much in the same way as she might have done a rather trying but well-meaning dog.

  The sound of the breakfast gong recalled Roger from his thoughts, and as he turned to go in he encountered Tony Harper as that young man, looking rather tired and dishevelled came running up the steps from the lower lawns.

  “Hello,” greeted Roger. “You’re up early.”

  “Yes,” replied Harper, with Roger thought a rather overdone casualness, “I thought I’d like a walk before breakfast.”

  They went into the breakfast room where Mrs. Mortlock and Sir Basil were already breakfasting.

  “’Mornin’,” grunted the latter, looking up from his plate. “Goin’ to be a fine day.”

  Roger agreed with him and went over and inspected the sideboard. He helped himself to bacon and eggs generously and carried the plate back to the table. Harper seemed to have very little appetite, contenting himself with toast and marmalade. Mrs. Mortlock poured them out coffee.

  “Where’s Sybil?” asked Roger since there was no sign of his sister.

  “Not up yet, I suppose,” grunted her husband, burying his nose in the morning paper. “One of her headaches, I expect.”

  “She ought to do something about those headaches,” remarked Mrs. Mortlock, crumbling her bread. “You should make her see a doctor, Basil. They’re not right for a young woman of her age.”

  “Takes too much care of herself as it is,” he retorted. “If she took a bit more exercise and didn’t stay indoors so much, she wouldn’t suffer from headaches.” He put down the paper and looked up as the door opened and Angela Trevor came in. “Here’s a girl who’s never had a headache in her life, I’ll be bound. You don’t suffer from headaches, do you, my dear?”

  “Sometimes,” said Angela. “When I do, I go for a long walk. That usually gets rid of it.”

  “Exactly what I’ve just said,” remarked Sir Basil with great satisfaction.

  “Did you get very wet last night, dear?” asked Mrs. Mortlock, as she gave the girl coffee. “It started to rain again after you and Basil went out.”

  “No, I didn’t get wet at all,” answered Angela. “I took shelter.”

  Mrs. Mortlock raised her eyebrows and looked at her step-brother.

  “Did you take shelter too, Basil?” she asked sweetly.

  “No,” he answered. “I left Angela, or rather she left me, at the bottom of the hill. I turned into the Bull for a drink.”

  It all sounded perfectly reasonable but for some reason, Roger didn’t believe it. Sir Basil was lying. He might have left Angela at the bottom of the hill, but he hadn’t gone to the Bull. Probably he was in the middle of some village intrigue as well as chasing his wife’s companion.

  His speculations concerning the doubtful morals of his brother-in-law were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Lupton, the butler.

  “Excuse me, Sir Basil,” he said anxiously, with a worried expression on his usually placid face, “but there’s a police officer to see you, sir. . . .”

  “A police officer—to see me?” echoed Sir Basil in astonishment.

  “What have you been up to, Basil?” asked Mrs. Mortlock.

  “Nothing—nothing, of course,” snapped Sir Basil, but he looked a little uneasy. “What does he want, Lupton?”

  “He said something about a body, sir,” answered the butler. “In Jackson’s Folly, I think he said. . . .”

  “A body—in Jackson’s Folly?” repeated Sir Basil. “What the devil’s that to do with me?”

  The butler shook his grey head.

  “I don’t know, sir. But the officer wants to see you. . . .”

  “Show him in here,” he said. “Good heavens—a body in Jackson’s Folly. Some tramp I suppose.”

  Tony Harper looked interested.

  “Maybe it’s a murder,” he said. “I’ve always thought that old place would be wonderful for a murder.”

  “Oh, don’t—don’t, please,” broke in Angela, and her face was white.

  Lupton returned followed by two men. They were both in plain clothes and obviously nothing to do with the village which boasted only one constable who lived in a small cottage off the High Street. These men, thought Roger, must have come from the neighbouring town of Greystock. Lupton announced them in his best and most majestic manner.

  “Inspector Crutchley and Sergeant Trim,” he said and went out closing the door behind him.

  The inspector coughed apologetically.

  “Sorry to disturb you like this, sir,” he said, “but there’s been a bit of trouble down at the place they call Jackson’s Folly. I was wondering if you could help us. . . .”

  “My butler said something about a body . . .?” began Sir Basil, and the inspector interrupted him.

  “That’s right, sir. A man was found dead there this morning. He was killed by a heavy blow on the head.”

  “Murder?” exclaimed Tony Harper.

  “Well, that’s what it appears to be, sir,” answered Inspector Crutchley cautiously. “We were wondering if, perhaps, someone ’ere may have heard or noticed something during the night?”

  There was a general shaking of heads.

  “Hardly likely we should see or hear anything,” said Sir Basil. “Most of the bedrooms are on the other side of the house, you see. With the exception, of course, of my wife’s and my own. I always sleep very heavily. Who was the man? Somebody local?”

  “He’s not been identified yet, sir,” answered the inspector.

  “It really is dreadful,” said Mrs. Mortlock. “So near, too. It’s quite frightening.”

  “Nothing to be frightened about,” snapped Sir Basil a trifle irritably. “What was the feller like, eh?”

  “Quite an ordinary looking man, sir,” replied the inspector. “Not very well dressed but not a tramp, if you understand my meaning. He had two or three pounds in notes and some silver in his pocket. It’s all rather a queer thing. You don’t happen to know whether Lady Conyers was over at Jackson’s Folly yesterday at all, do you, sir?”

  “My wife?” Sir Basil’s tone was astonished. “Over at Jackson’s Folly? Good heavens! Why should she go there?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Inspector Crutchley quietly. “Perhaps one of these other ladies went there?” He looked at Mrs. Mortlock and Angela.

  “It certainly wasn’t me!” declared Mrs. Mortlock. “I went to the village in the morning, but I didn’t go anywhere near Jackson’s Folly. Miss Trevor went out after dinner last night but I couldn’t say where she went!”

  “I didn’t go anywhere near Jackson’s Folly,” said the girl.

  “Of course, you didn’t,” said Sir Basil. “What’s the idea of these questions, Inspector? You don’t imagine that it was one of my household who killed this man, do you?”

  “Well, no, sir,” said the inspector awkwardly. “But you see, we found a scarf—a lady’s scarf near the body. It had Lady Conyers’ initials on it. Mr. Hornbeam said he’d seen her Ladyship wearing it.”

  “A scarf of my wife’s,” ejaculated Sir Basil in surprise. “What the deuce was it doing near the body of this man?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know, sir,” said the inspector. His tone was respectful but firm. “I’ve got the scarf here, sir.”

  He turned to the sergeant who had been standing almost at attention throughout the proceedings. Without moving a muscle of his face, Sergeant Trim dived into a cardboard attache-case and, rather in the
manner of a conjurer about to produce his best white rabbit, extracted a pink and grey silk square.

  Mrs. Mortlock gave an exclamation as soon as she saw it.

  “That’s Sybil’s,” she cried. “That’s her new Jaquemar. She was wearing it yesterday. . . .”

  “But she never went out,” put in Roger quietly. “At least only into the garden.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Sir Basil. “She didn’t.”

  “Are you sure this is Lady Conyers’ scarf, sir?” asked the inspector. “Perhaps she has more than one of the same kind.”

  “Best thing is to ask her,” said Sir Basil. He got up, went over and rang the bell.

  “I’m quite sure she hasn’t more than one of that particular pattern,” said Mrs. Mortlock.

  “Sybil will know better than anyone else,” remarked Sybil’s husband composedly. “Perhaps she’ll be able to account for how it got in Jackson’s Folly. She may have lent it to someone.”

  “It certainly wasn’t me!” declared Mrs. Mortlock quickly. “I have plenty of scarves of my own.”

  Lupton came in with his usual deferential quietness.

  “You rang, sir?” he said.

  “Will you tell your mistress that I should like to see her as soon as possible,” said Sir Basil.

  “Hadn’t I better go and explain?” put in Angela, but Sir Basil shook his head.

  “No, my dear,” he said. “You stay where you are. Lupton will see to it.”

  The butler withdrew and there was a short silence. Angela fingered her napkin nervously, Tony drummed gently on the table with his finger-tips, Roger stirred his coffee irritably. Only Sir Basil and his step-sister seemed to be quite at ease. Inspector Crutchley was writing something in a notebook, and Sergeant Trim continued to stand at attention and stare fixedly at a portrait of the first Lady Conyers that hung over the mantelpiece as though he were not quite certain that he ought not to arrest her for indecent exposure.

  It was Mrs. Mortlock who broke the silence.

  “Where did you go last night, dear?” she asked looking across at Angela. “After you left my step-brother in the village?”

  Angela hesitated for a moment before she replied.

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” she said. “I just waited for the rain to stop—under the church porch. Then I came home.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been you I heard coming in late?” said Mrs. Mortlock. “It must have been you, Basil.”

  “Wasn’t me,” answered her brother. “I came straight home from the Bull.”

  Roger saw that Inspector Crutchley had pricked up his ears at Mr. Mortlock’s remarks. Was that why the woman had made them, he wondered? There was a distinctly catty element in Mrs. Mortlock’s character.

  Lupton came back at that moment. His usual manner of quiet deference had been replaced by a certain amount of agitation.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I think her Ladyship is still asleep.” he said. “I can’t make her hear.”

  “Did you knock?” asked Sir Basil.

  “Yes, sir, several times,” answered Lupton. “Her ladyship didn’t reply. I’d sooner it was washed off before her ladyship sees it. I’m afraid she’ll be angry, sir.”

  “Washed off—angry?” echoed Sir Basil. “What on earth are you talking about, Lupton?”

  “It’s the writing on the door, sir,” said the old man with a troubled expression. “I told one of the maids to wash it off, sir. I can’t imagine who could have done it . . .”

  “Done what?” demanded his master in exasperation. “Don’t talk in riddles. What’s the matter with the door?”

  “If there was a child in the house, sir, I could understand it,” said Lupton shaking his head. “None of the staff could have done it. Nursery rhymes—it’s like a child, sir. . . .”

  “Nursery rhymes?” interposed Inspector Crutchley sharply.

  “Part of one, sir,” answered the butler. “It’s only one line. In blue pencil or chalk. ‘This is the cat that killed the rat’. I’m sure it can’t be meant to apply to her ladyship, sir,” he added hastily, turning to Sir Basil. “No one would think of writing such a thing about her.”

  Chapter Three

  Miss Titmarsh had a headache. The morning was hot and sultry, and, in spite of the rain on the night before, the air was heavy with the promise of a coming storm.

  The children, too, were being more difficult than usual this morning. The news that a body had been discovered in Jackson’s Folly, a favourite haunt of theirs, seemed to have completely demoralised them, especially Freddie Suggins who couldn’t get over the fact that he had arrived at the spot five minutes after the Reverend Oswald Hornbeam, and been sent post haste down to the village to summon assistance. Five times, Miss Titmarsh had to recall his wandering attention to the tributaries of the Ouse, and even now she could hear his hoarse whisper as he told Myrtle Carp the exact appearance of the dead man.

  “Welterin’ in ’is gore, ’e was,” he was saying with extreme relish. “I never see so much blood. Pourin’ all over the place, it was, an’ drippin’ up the stairs. . . .”

  “Freddie!” said Miss Titmarsh sharply. “If I hear you talking once more you’ll stay in after school and write a hundred lines. You should be ashamed of yourself—trying to frighten Myrtle like that. You know you never saw anything of the kind. And, anyway, blood does not drip upwards,” she added turning back to the blackboard.

  “’Ow do you know, Miss?” said Freddie cheekily. “You wasn’t there. I seen it, an’ my mum says I’ll ’ave to give evidence at the inquest.”

  “Be quiet and get on with your work,” said Miss Titmarsh. She was feeling rather sick now and the room was going round. It would be silly to faint in front of all the children. She pulled herself together and went over to the window. Perhaps a little air would make her feel better and ease the throbbing in her head.

  As she stood listlessly gazing out while the class struggled to draw a map of the Ouse from memory, she suddenly saw the Reverend Oswald Hornbeam hurrying toward the school-house. He was without a hat and his white hair stood out around his head like a halo. Miss Titmarsh watched him with interest. A fine figure of a man, she thought, so noble and saintly. It must have been a terribly experience for him finding a body at Jackson’s Folly.

  Mr. Hornbeam certainly looked paler than usual and his face wore a worried expression. Just as he reached the school-house gate, Major Panting appeared coming from the opposite direction. Miss Titmarsh’s face hardened. She disliked Major Panting. But the rector was obviously glad to see him. He almost ran towards him.

  Miss Titmarsh gently lowered the window a little more. They were together now, and the rector was talking voluably. Major Panting appeared to be shocked and horrified by what he was saying.

  Miss Titmarsh leaned out over the window. Unfortunately she could hear very little, the wind was in the wrong direction and she could only catch an occasional word or two. She leaned further out to hear better and suddenly became conscious of heavy breathing at her side. Turning her head she saw the shiny, excited face of Freddie Suggins grinning up at her.

  “Little pitchers ’as big ears,” he remarked conversationally.

  Miss Titmarsh felt herself going crimson. She opened her mouth to retort sharply, when the church clock began to strike twelve. With a sound like a tidal wave the entire class rose as one. Their boots thudded and clattered as they fought their way to the door with frenzied cries of delight at the prospect of freedom from the tributaries of the Ouse. For a few seconds pandemonium reigned and then there was a complete stillness as their shrill voices faded away in the distance.

  Miss Titmarsh knew she should have stopped them. She should have called them back and made them leave the class-room properly and quietly. She should have read them a lecture on behaviour and kept them for an extra five minutes. She knew she should have done all these things but she wasn’t feeling well and she was curious. She saw the children streaming up the hill towards Jackson�
�s Folly led by the irrepressible Freddie Suggins, and turning away from the window, pinned on her hat with trembling fingers. If she hurried she might be in time to catch the rector.

  Perhaps Major Panting would have gone by then. There was something about Major Panting that had always repelled her—something cold and calculating. He would watch her while he was talking, his little pale blue eyes never leaving her face and never blinking, a curious mocking little smile on his fat, red face. Like a snake, she thought, a snake watching a rabbit. . . .

  She shuddered slightly as she drew on her gloves. It felt cold in the school-room now. Really, there must be something seriously the matter with her to feel cold on a day like this. Perhaps she was in for a touch of flu. She hoped not. It would be very inconvenient at a time like this—with all the examination papers to correct. Just a little quinine, perhaps, when she got home. Luckily it was Wednesday and a half-holiday. She would lie down on the sitting-room sofa with the blinds drawn. . . .

  She picked up a bundle of exercise books and walked to the door. Outside, the rector and Major Panting were still talking to one another. For a moment they did not appear to notice Miss Titmarsh, then the major saw her and raised his hat politely.

  “Ah, Miss Titmarsh,” he said. “Have you heard this very sad news?”

  “You mean—about the man?” she began but the major shook his head.

  “No, indeed,” interpolated Mr. Hornbeam gravely. “Poor Lady Conyers. . . .”

  “Lady Conyers?” echoed Miss Titmarsh. “What’s the matter with Lady Conyers?”

  “She’s dead,” answered the major. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  His small eyes stared at her as usual, boring into her mind, or so it seemed to Miss Titmarsh.