Tom Brown's Body

by Gladys Mitchell

  'Well, sir,' said Salisbury, 'I did have a letter, but I don't know who sent it. All it said was . . .'

  'Have you the letter in your possession?'

  'No, sir. I tore it up.'

  'Why?'

  'Well, Mr Poundbury saw me reading it, sir, and made me, sir.'

  'Aha!' said Gavin, with a smile at Mrs Bradley.

  'You were reading it at the wrong time, I suppose. Well, what did the note have to say?' asked Mr Wyck.

  'It said, "You're not the only pebble on the beach, and, if you see me, don't be surprised. I can make a better job of your part any day than you will, silly twerp." That's all, sir.'

  'Were those the exact words, boy?'

  'Sir, yes, sir.'

  'And you saw nothing of this practical joker?'

  'No, sir, really I didn't. As a matter of fact, sir, I had forgotten about the note, and I was looking on to the stage all the time.'

  'Very well, Salisbury. You may go.'

  'Please, sir . . .'

  'Yes, boy?'

  'Please, sir, I heard about the head of the other idol. I think it may have been something out of the Lucastra Museum, sir. They have several Tibetan devil masks there, and, from what I've heard from Issacher, it sounds a bit like one of them, sir.'

  'I am obliged to you, boy,' said Mr Wyck, but in such sepulchral tones that the lad was glad to escape.

  'The head of the second idol did not come from the Lucastra Museum,' said Gavin. 'We have already made enquiries there.'

  'Quite so,' said Mr Wyck, who had made independent inquiries himself. 'I am quite convinced it did not. I wonder, though, what made Issacher mention the museum? I thought that he was in a state of unreasoning terror when he saw the second idol.'

  'Not unreasoning, apparently,' said Mrs Bradley. 'What is the Lucastra Museum?'

  'It is a semi-private collection of Eastern and prehistoric treasures. It is housed in a mansion about eight miles away, and is open to the public on Thursdays. It takes its name from the wife of the owner of the collection, Lady Lucastra Sunningdale. We take the Third Form boys to see the collection every year. Everybody in the School above the Third Form will have seen it, therefore.'

  'I should like to see it myself,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Is it open on Thursdays all the year round?'

  'Yes, all the year round.'

  'Then I shall go this next Thursday, when the School has broken up for the holidays. And I want to see Issacher again.'

  Issacher was sent for and admitted to the Headmaster's drawing-room. He, like Salisbury, was sworn to secrecy concerning the questions he was about to be asked, and was informed by Gavin that he would be guilty of obstructing the police in the performance of their duty if he so much as dropped a hint to anybody of anything which was said at the interview. Issacher smiled in a superior way, but promised readily enough.

  'And now,' said Mrs Bradley, 'I would like to ask you one question, Mr Issacher. You thought that perhaps the mask used by the second idol might have come from the Lucastra Museum. Now, if you could think of something so – if I may state my point in this way without offence – so rational at such a time, why were you also so much alarmed by what you saw?'

  'I've been thinking things over,' replied Issacher calmly. 'I was scared at the time, but since then I find that I have a mental picture of what I saw, and I have examined it at my leisure.'

  'Don't pose, boy,' said Mr Wyck kindly. 'And you had better remember that this is not what you told us before.'

  'The point is,' continued Issacher, taking the first part of this advice and adopting a natural tone, 'the figure I saw was so frightfully tall.'

  'Ah!' said Mrs Bradley. 'You mentioned this tallness before. Was the figure more than six feet high, do you mean?'

  'Oh Lord, yes,' Issacher replied. 'I should think it was ten feet high at least. It was definitely more than normal height, and I don't think, sir,' he added, turning confidently to Mr Wyck, 'that ten feet would be an exaggeration.'

  'Now, Issacher,' said Gavin, 'we want you to tell us who it was. You say you've thought the matter over, and that means that you've come to some conclusions.'

  'Yes, but I'm not going to tell you what they are,' said Issacher flatly. 'I can't prove anything, and it's not right to ask me to guess.'

  'Very well, my boy,' said Mr Wyck.

  'Is that all, sir?'

  'Yes, that's all,' said Mrs Bradley. 'I see that it was the height of the figure even more than its ugliness which impressed you.'

  'It looked a devilish thing,' said Issacher. 'Good night, sir.'

  'That boy doesn't like me,' said Mrs Bradley placidly, 'but we have found out one thing of great importance. Now to find out another.'

  'What is that?' Mr Wyck enquired.

  'Where that mask is hidden, and what were the means used to make up those added feet of height. If it was stilts, I would say that the case is completed.'

  18. Hoodoo, Voodoo, and Just Plain Nastiness

  *

  We are treated too by them with Contempt, as if our Profession were not reputable.

  IBID. (Act 2, Scene 10)

  'PLEASE, sir,' said Scrupe, 'could I speak to you for a minute?'

  'Of course, boy,' said Mr Wyck; for Scrupe had been announced and admitted by the butler to the Headmaster's private lodging. 'You had better come into the library.'

  He emerged, towing Scrupe, at the end of a quarter of an hour, turned the boy over to Mrs Bradley for a repetition of his story, rang up Gavin, who was quartered at the village inn, and sent his butler to summon Ingpen.

  'Now, Mr Scrupe,' said Mrs Bradley, favouring the boy with a leer.

  '"And welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws,"' muttered Scrupe defensively.

  'Quite so,' the saurian replied. 'So now, Mr Scrupe, to your evidence.'

  'It isn't my evidence; that's the trouble,' said Scrupe, without a trace of his usual bravado. 'It's something young Ingpen told me behind the stage. He said he'd seen a murder. Well, he hadn't, of course, because Mrs Poundbury isn't dead, but I've been thinking things over, and I wondered whether perhaps I ought to mention what he said.'

  'Quite right, boy,' said Mr Wyck, who had returned from issuing his summons to the Detective-Inspector. 'Ingpen will be here in a moment. I trust that he will have recovered from his fright and will be able to tell us something helpful. There can be no doubt that there is a highly dangerous lunatic abroad. Mr Conway may have given offence to a personal enemy, but who in his senses would wish to attack Mrs Poundbury?'

  Mrs Bradley could think of more than one person, but she said nothing. Ingpen arrived in a fluster which was not relieved when Mr Wyck, who was determined to extort any information which the child might possess, stood him in front of the large writing-table in the library, seated himself in his swivel chair, opened a large note-book, and said:

  'Now, then.'

  'Please, sir,' bleated Ingpen, 'I didn't mean to do it.'

  'Do what, little boy?'

  'Please, sir, call Miss Loveday Nancy.'

  'Ah,' said Mr Wyck; and there followed a dreadful silence. 'Ah, we must never speak disrespectfully of women, little boy, never, never, never. Do we understand that now?'

  'Oh, please, sir, yes, sir!' gulped Ingpen, while two tears of fright rolled down his babyish face.

  'Then we will say no more,' said Mr Wyck. 'You may sit down.' The child sat down beside Mrs Bradley, who reminded him of a grandmother who spoilt him whenever he went to stay with her. 'Tell me,' continued Mr Wyck casually, 'what happened to frighten you so much at the School Concert.'

  'It was – it was the tall idol,' said Ingpen, glancing at Scrupe for support.

  'No, the other thing,' pursued Mr Wyck. 'The other thing that frightened you. Something else you saw.'

  'I saw the idol knock Mrs Poundbury down the steps, sir, please, sir.'

  'Are you quite sure of what you saw?'

  'Sir, yes, sir.'

  'I thought you had been allowed to sta
nd in the wings to watch the play? Wasn't that what you told us last time?'

  'Yes, sir. Please, sir, I had to be by the steps.'

  'Why?'

  'I hadn't got a handkerchief, sir, and I thought that if I took a short cut down the steps and out past the furnace-room I could get across to the House and back, sir, before I was wanted.'

  'But you knew quite well that those steps and the furnace-room are out of bounds!'

  'Yes, sir, please, sir. I thought it was better not to be late for when I was wanted, sir.'

  'You are a naughty little boy,' said Mr Wyck. 'Tell me exactly what you did and what you saw.'

  'I saw the idol. I wasn't scared much because I knew there was going to be an idol in the second play, and I thought it would look – very nasty. Then I saw Mrs Poundbury in front of me, and I thought I mustn't hurry because she would send me back to the wings, and I had to have a handkerchief. So I just kept behind her –'

  'Remained behind her.'

  'Yes, sir. I just remained behind her and then € saw the idol and I thought it was Salisbury up on stilts, and then I knew it couldn't be, because it hit Mrs Poundbury on the head, and she fell down the steps and the idol went after her and I rushed back to the wings, and saw Salisbury and then I saw Mr Poundbury and I told him where Mrs Poundbury was, and then it was all a muddle, and I told Fran – Scrupe there had been a murder.'

  'I suppose,' said Mr Wyck slowly, 'that you've no idea who this tall idol could be?'

  The child looked troubled and then his mouth set. He shook his head.

  'Very well,' said Mr Wyck. 'And, remember, we do not take a lady's name lightly!'

  'Oh, no, sir!' said Ingpen, on a gasp of thankfulness at being dismissed. Mr Wyck, still seated at his writing-table, tapped thoughtfully on it with his pencil, and suddenly called him back. 'Have you a good memory?' he demanded.

  'Yes, sir. I think so, sir.'

  'Tell me what was going on on the stage when you decided to go and get a handkerchief.'

  'It was where they start drinking, sir, after they've knifed the three priests. I waited until I'd seen what I thought would be the most thrilling part, and then I – please, sir, I had to have a handkerchief by then –'

  'I understand, and will overlook your naughtiness this time. Now you may go. Scrupe,' he added, as soon as the child had disappeared, 'what can you add to this story?'

  'Nothing, sir, really, sir. He told me about it after he got back to the dressing-room.'

  'Go and ring up Issacher and Salisbury and ask them to come here. Give them no hints. I can hear what you say from the hall,' said Mr Wyck. At this moment Gavin arrived, and was given a report of Ingpen's story. 'And I have a fancy that the little lad has an idea, if no more, of the identity of Mrs Poundbury's assailant,' Mr Wyck observed.

  The stories told by Issacher and Salisbury did not vary from their previous evidence.

  'I don't understand it,' said Gavin, when the two boys and Scrupe had gone. 'The idea seems to have been to attack Mrs Poundbury. Why return to the wings to frighten the boys?'

  'To create a certain amount of uproar and confusion,' said Mrs Bradley. 'For some reason, this was necessary to his purpose. I think perhaps it was to enable him to establish some sort of alibi, although exactly how it helped him we don't yet know. It may have been sufficient for his purpose just to get the curtain rung down a few minutes before the appointed time.'

  *

  Before the School was cleared of boys and masters the discovery was made of the second idol's head, and that in what one would call the most accidental manner. The discovery was made by Mr Loveday. He had gone, accompanied by his knife-and-boot-boy, to make certain that the latter had effectively damped down the hypocaust furnace before School broke up, and there was the idol's head, or so he told Mr Wyck, leering at him from the top of a heap of coke.

  'It serves me right,' said Mr Loveday, whose mind frequently took an unforeseen track, 'for using a modern fuel. The Romans knew nothing of coke.'

  He had taken the head in his own hands and so presented it to Mr Wyck. Mrs Bradley was not on view. She spent most of the day and took all her meals in the little upstairs study which Mrs Wyck allotted to her. She would have liked to be present when Mr Loveday brought along the idol's head, but she was dependent upon what Mr Wyck could tell her of the interview. According to Mr Wyck the meeting had produced a conversation which he reconstructed (verbatim, he thought) for Mrs Bradley's benefit.

  'Ah, good afternoon, Headmaster.'

  'Good afternoon, Loveday. Good heavens! You haven't found it?'

  'Well,' said Mr Loveday, pleased at the Headmaster's tone. 'It does begin to look a little like it. We shall need to display it to the boys who saw it, I imagine.'

  'But where did you find it?'

  'Of all places,' Mr Loveday replied gaily, 'in my furnace-hole – the Roman Bath, you know.'

  'Really! But the – but that had already been searched.'

  'Anyhow, there it was, and I have my knife-and-boot-boy for witness.'

  'Oh, really!' said Mr Wyck, laughing. 'I see no need of a witness for your statement, my dear fellow. Of course, had it not been for the dastardly attack on Mrs Poundbury, an assault which appears to have been committed by this person who wore the mask, the affair could be dealt with differently. As it is, I must at once get in touch with the police, and hand your fact over to them.'

  This he did, and Gavin came immediately. His first response was to ask for Issacher and little Ingpen again. Both were reassured and were informed that they were helping the police. Then the conditions under which they had seen the horror were reproduced. The School Hall was reduced to darkness, the stage lighting went on, and the idol's head, on top of the bamboo safety hook borrowed from the School bath, was placed in the wings where Issacher said he had seen it. Then Ingpen was shown the head. Both boys declared, independently, that it was the one they had seen at the School Concert.

  Mrs Bradley carried out her plan of affecting to leave Spey a few days before the end of term, and she went so far as to go to London after she had made her farewells. She came back immediately, however, and smuggled herself into the Headmaster's House under cover of a particularly black December night.

  Mr Wyck, she thought, seemed distrait, and Mrs Wyck's almost over-warm welcome was a sign of overwrought nerves. It soon came out that a governor's meeting had been fixed for the first day of the Christmas vacation, and that some searching questions would be asked to which Mr Wyck would be unable to make any reply which would be even remotely satisfactory either to himself or to the governing body.

  'I shall attend that meeting,' said Mrs Bradley, 'and you had better refer the questioners to me. What line do you expect the governors to take?'

  Mr Wyck looked astounded, but Mrs Wyck said quickly:

  'General school discipline, of course. It's a sitter for Christopher's opponents. Some of the governors, Beatrice, as you already know, are very jealous and reactionary. They don't like Christopher's reforms and they think he is much too gentle and moderate. They would be glad to give him a setting down about the discipline. They couldn't do much about Gerald Conway's death, as it is not possible to prove that it even occurred on School premises, but this business of Carola Poundbury will be so much meat and drink to the brutes! They'll be bound to point out that all the evidence we've been able to accumulate points to an attack on her by one of the boys. And, also, of course,' she added, with the naïve candour which Mrs Bradley found so helpful, 'if any of the other nonsense comes out, we're sunk, and Christopher will resign.'

  'But Christopher can scarcely be held responsible for the fact that Mr Conway was the cat among the pigeons,' Mrs Bradley observed, correctly interpreting 'the nonsense' and regarding the gloomy Mr Wyck with compassion, 'particularly since he was not pleased at Mr Conway's appointment.'

  'Pleased!' snorted Mr Wyck. 'I was against it from the first, and I told the governors so. An 18B man has no place, in my opinion, in a school of a
ny type, but particularly he has no place in a school where boys are resident and are largely divorced from outside interests and preoccupations. Nevertheless, as Grace says, if the scandal he seems to have caused should really come out, I should have no option but to resign. I thought it was coming out at the last meeting. It would all sound much worse now.'

  'By the way,' said Mrs Bradley, without contesting this, 'there is a small, a very small, feature of the case which preys on my mind to a rather uncomfortable extent. Did you ever hear of the lampoon which was launched, some little time ago, at Mr Kay?'

  'Oh, you mean Louis the Spiv,' said Mrs Wyck. 'Yes, we did hear it. Carola Poundbury told it me. Why?'

  'Well,' said Mrs Bradley, 'Issacher claims authorship.'

  'He would!' exclaimed Mrs Wyck. 'I detest that boy! He's a rat!'

  'Your views interest me. Am I to understand, then, that the author is neither anonymous nor Issacher?'

  'The doggerel in question,' said Mr Wyck, with a faint smile, 'was composed and disseminated by Micklethwaite, of the Fourth Classical.'

  'All his own work, do you suppose?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

  'You mean the sophisticated wit would indicate a mature mentality?' asked Mr Wyck, laughing outright. 'The boy, as a matter of fact,' he added at once, 'is not without gifts. Some of his more sober and reputable efforts have appeared in the School magazine.' He went out of the room and returned with a portfolio. 'I've kept a copy of each number,' he continued. He sorted through the magazines and soon came upon the one he wanted. 'This is his best effort, up to date. I think it, really, rather good.'

  'A sonnet?' Mrs Bradley exclaimed. 'He flies high!' She read the poem slowly through. 'If one of us should die and that one me – addressed to his mother, I see.'

  'She is a widow,' said Mr Wyck, 'and he is the only child. His father was killed at El Alamein.'

  'Hm!' said Mrs Bradley. 'She breaks our beauty-bond who grieves; More than a prince's pall have I, Who lie beneath the lovely leaves' She handed back the magazine and repeated softly: 'Louis the Spiv, Had not the right to live; Like every other skunk, He stunk. Rather a morbid preoccupation with death, wouldn't you say?'