“Take your time, Constable,” said Mrs. Bradley genially.
“It’s a longish story, mam, and right glad I’d be, being on the side of the law, as you might say, to have it all cleared up.”
“Well, take a seat, Constable. I am all agog.”
“You will be,” responded the constable with lugubrious enjoyment, “When you’ve took in what I have to say.”
Mrs. Bradley sighed ecstatically.
“Pray begin,” she said.
“Well, it was like this ’ere. You’ve seen Mrs. Platt. You’ve even, we’ll say, took her in.”
“Yes, do let’s say that,” Mrs. Bradley agreed with a nod.
“Well, time was—so I’ve heered my father say, when Mrs. P.—Miss Pandora Commy as was then—was left all alone in the world by both her parents. Her nearest relation was my father, and he was only a cousin. Well, Pandora, she had a friend—a younger young woman than herself…”
“How much younger?”
“Say six or seven years, near enough, from what I’m told. Well, these two, they lived on I dunno quite what, except they took in sewing.”
Mrs. Bradley made a valiant mental effort to imagine Mrs. Commy-Platt taking in sewing, but failed.
“And it come to pass, as these things do, that Mrs. Platt—Pandora Commy in them days, as I said—took the eye of her younger friend’s brother, as had been in Australia or somewhere, him being a good bit older than his sister, and they were married after a bit, owing to him coming so often to see his sister and him wanting his sister to keep house for him, but she wouldn’t leave Pandora. Of course, it didn’t happen here in Willington. No, by no means, no. Their home weren’t hereabouts at all. They all lived in a smallish town called Pynn, in the south of England, and my father, he lived there, too, in the very same town, for the Commy family had always lived there for generations, it seems. Then all of them, including my own father, come here after the husband died and left Pandora and his sister all the money.”
“Oh, I see. He…yes, very interesting. Most.”
“Ah, you ain’t yet heard the best of it. Now all the rest’s mostly gossip, and I can’t tell you how it got spread, but Pandora insisted on having the sister to go on living with her, you see, after this Mr. Platt died, and then, when he had been dead a matter of seven years, Mrs. Commy-Platt, as she called herself then—plain Mrs. Platt all the while her husband was alive—she had a bit of misfortune—or fortune, if you think fit to call it such—look at it how you like.”
“Indeed? And what was that?”
“Well, it appears that in his will Mr. Platt must have left his money between his wife and his sister. But the sister, it seems, was always just a little bit weak in the head, and Pandora, she handled all the money, and wrote the cheques for both of ’em and all that, and the way it seemed to work out was that Pandora took the lot really, and just kept the sister to live with her.
“Well, it seems the sister wasn’t satisfied, and what with being a bit weak, and being given to dwelling on things, the idea that she wasn’t handling the money as her brother intended it, kind of preyed on her.
“She didn’t dare stand up to Pandora, as well you can imagine, and she didn’t have the gump to take a lawyer into her confidence. She just pined and brooded until she went clean off her onion, and Pandora, she had her put away. Some say the unfortunate creature tried to murder her. Others haves it that she tried to hang herself, and jumped off Pandora’s dressing-table to do it. Anyway, Pandora, she washed her hands of her, and after the poor woman was took away, Pandora, she moved out here, and father, he followed her up, because there’ll be money there one day, and, although it put wind up her properly, so he keeps out of her way, he don’t intend to lose track of it.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Bradley, thinking hard, but not about the future ease and comfort of Councillor Commy.
“Some says,” pursued Constable Commy, flattered by the gravity with which his tale was received, “as the place she sent her to was the private house up the hill kept by that there Doctor Lecky. Some says as the poor creature might have recovered in a public asylum and that Pandora never intended she should recover, but I don’t talk no scandal, being it is all in the family, as you might say, and not often do I repeat it. But the inspector having made it his special request, I have told you what I’ve heard. Hearsay, most of it is. But you know what they say, ma’am—never no smoke without fire.”
He saluted smartly and walked off. Mrs. Bradley scribbled hieroglyphics in her notebook and went to find the inspector.
“Ask her what you like,” said the young man genially, “as long as you don’t drag me into it. I confess to being afraid of her. But what made you diagnose a family scandal in the Platt family?”
“In the Commy-Platt family,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Two things, child. The first is that Mrs. Platt was obviously very much alarmed when I called upon her on the first occasion. As she could not have known my errand at that time, I can only assume that there was something about which she was extremely ill at ease. Of course, if she really is administering that poor sister’s share of the Platt money, she might well be ill at ease.
“Second she has confessed to me that she believes her life to be threatened. Now, I had no such fear on her behalf until a coincidence struck me.”
“Wish one or two would strike me. Something might come of a coincidence or two.”
“So I thought, child. Well, here goes. It is odd that two comparatively inoffensive people should be murdered.”
“So odd that I’ve been working, so far, as I seem to have indicated before, on the lines that there must be some connection between the murders. I have failed to establish it, I might add. You know, I tried to get hold of some scandal—an illegitimate baby, or something of that sort, perhaps—Smith had something of a reputation—nothing special, of course—but it all washed out on me. I’ll tell you one thing I have noticed, though. Correct me if I’m wrong. Doesn’t it seem to you that the deaths were such as would give the maximum, not only of local, but of general, public interest. The murderer has had to compete with the war news, don’t forget, and has succeeded. Look at the reports in the paper!”
“Yes, I admit the reports,” said Mrs. Bradley. She waved a skinny claw at a file of newspapers which, among them, contained every single published fact about the murders.
“Well, this interests me strangely,” said the inspector, “and, before we go any further, I’ll tell you why. Take the two murders we’ve mentioned. I defy you, or anyone else, to tell me of any one person who was present on both occasions when Smith and the telephonist were drugged and afterwards murdered; unless, of course, your theory is that the murderer had an accomplice.”
“There was no voluntary accomplice,” said Mrs. Bradley, “in the way that you mean. But I have a theory that Councillor Smith forestalled his murderer, in a sense. The amount of arsenic he took was not enough to have killed a healthy person. That reminds me—may I use your telephone?”
“Yes, of course. Can I get you the number you want?”
“I expect so. Please ring up Councillor Woods at the ‘Rat and Cow-catcher’ and ask him what drink Councillor Smith finished up with on the night he was murdered.”
The inspector dialled swiftly, having a head for telephone numbers—it was his boast that he never had to look up a local call—and soon had the information which Mrs. Bradley required.
“Stout,” he said laconically. “So apparently it doesn’t matter much whether the drug was dropped into the first glass or the last, which is quite a comfort. He drank nothing but stout that evening.”
“But he was not in the same company all evening,” Mrs. Bradley reminded him.
“But, darling Aunt Adela,” said the inspector, reverting to what he felt was the principal subject of conversation, “do please explain how you make out…”
“Certainly not, to a child of your intelligence,” said Mrs. Bradley severely.
“But I’
ve been making lists of people in my head until I’ve got a headache. They don’t coincide in the slightest.”
“Make them on paper, and have another look.”
“Well, with Smith there were those Councillors’ wives, and Mrs. Platt. You don’t suggest one of them did it? On the other occasion it was all those telephonists, recorders, plotting officers, supervisor, and so on—some of them in the men’s room. Not one of the Councillors’ wives anywhere near the place. None of them do those telephone duties, nor, so far as I can remember, have anything at all to do with that Report Centre. I doubt whether the majority even know where it is.”
“You will remember that I don’t altogether agree that the three murders were all committed by the same person,” said Mrs. Bradley. She did not alter her slight but saurian smile. “How is your fiancee?” she asked suddenly.
The question seemed irrelevant to the inspector, and he answered it briefly with a grin. Mrs. Bradley nodded slowly and rhythmically.
“You will please ring up Mrs. Platt,” she said, “and ask her when it will be convenient for me to call on her again.”
The inspector dialled, but after a brief pause, during which Mrs. Bradley could hear the ’phone bell ringing in Mrs. Commy-Platt’s hall, he looked at her and said:
“I don’t think you’re going to be lucky. Here you are.”
Mrs. Commy-Platt, said the maid, had left the house for the country. She feared there might be air raids. She had left no address. The servants had orders to go home, and were to be put on board-wages.
• CHAPTER 17 •
Brent geese flighting under a mackerel sky.
Title of a painting by Peter Scott.
• 1 •
Failing an audience of Mrs. Platt, Mrs. Bradley decided that next in order of interesting persons was the relatives of the late Councillor Smith. She was as enthralled as Pat Mort had been by the celluloid tongue which leapt at her with its legend when she pressed what she thought was the bell. A joke on the part of Councillor Smith, she decided. It accorded with what she already knew of his sense of humour.
The neat door, when she knocked, was opened by Melchior Blackburn, who stood there, grimly suspicious, holding on to the door as though it lent him moral support, and gazed at her with so much hostility that Mrs. Bradley felt impelled to declare that she was not soliciting alms, either on her own behalf or that of other people.
This declaration did nothing to soften him.
“Well, what do you want?” he said. He had opened the door so narrowly that it was nothing more than a frame for his small, pale visage. He was wearing an expensive dark suit and a black tie.
“If you are Mr. Smith’s nephew, I have something to tell you,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“As Mr. Smith’s nephew, I’ve not the slightest desire to hear what you have to say,” retorted Melchior. He was about to shut the door when his sister called out from behind him:
“Let her in, Mel. I know who it is.”
“Come in, please,” said the young man.
Mrs. Bradley, seated on a large settee, in a slightly over-furnished, but comfortable, warm, bright room, looked at the pair with interest. Melchior’s pale face was intelligent; his sister, who was not like him in appearance—it was a case where each child, Mrs. Bradley surmised, had inherited to a striking degree the more obvious physical characteristics of one parent only—and who sat on the arm of her brother’s chair with her hand on his shoulder, as though to hold him in check, looked, however, the more resolute of the pair.
“I am investigating the deaths of three persons, not only the death of your uncle,” Mrs. Bradley commenced.
“I thought that was a job for the police,” said Melchior, eyeing her distastefully.
“Don’t Mel,” said his sister. “Mrs. Bradley is in with the inspector. Don’t queer the pitch until we’ve heard what she’s come for.”
“This,” said Mrs. Bradley. “While it is possible—even likely—that one or other or both of you killed your uncle, there is no reason whatever to imagine that you killed an unknown lunatic or Miss Fletcher, the Report Centre telephonist.
“As the police theory is that all three murders were committed by the same person or persons, I have come here on the assumption that neither of you is guilty.”
“Thanks for nothing,” said Melchior. “As we happen to labour under the same idea ourselves, we are, naturally, grateful for your kindly assurances.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Mel!” said his sister. “There’s nothing to be gained by being rude.”
“It’s like this,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It seems pretty clear that your uncle was poisoned at the inn called the ‘Rat and Cow-catcher,’ where he met five of the leading women of this town—Councillors’ wives and one a Councillor herself. If we can establish that this poisoning did take place at that inn on that night, we can, I assume, prove that neither of you could have had anything to do with your uncle’s death.”
“We were only suspected on the question of motive,” said Melchior, relaxing his sullen frown. “It could not be shown at the inquest or afterwards that either of us had been anywhere near the ‘Rat and Cow-catcher’ that night. The trouble was that we couldn’t prove how we had spent the evening. As a matter of fact, obeying uncle’s orders, as usual, we had merely stayed at home in case any of his cronies should call.”
“Was he expecting anybody to call?”
“Not that I know of. It wouldn’t have been anyone important, anyhow. But it was one of his fads that the house must never be left empty. It was as much as Elvira’s life was worth to go up to London on a morning train, for example, wasn’t it, El?”
“Oh, yes. He was funny like that.”
“Glad you call it funny,” said her brother.
“Now, Mr. Blackburn, I’m going to ask you a question which I expect you’ve been asked before, but please don’t refuse to answer on that account. Would you mind telling me whether you were surprised to hear that your uncle was dead, and had been murdered?”
“This isn’t a law court, and so I may take liberties with the question. I’ve been asked it before, and to you I shall give the answer I’ve already given to the police, because it’s the true answer; but I’ll elaborate a little, if you like.”
“Good. Go ahead, Mr. Blackburn.”
“Well, crudely, then, I was absolutely amazed to hear that my uncle was dead. Now please don’t misunderstand me. I knew all about my uncle’s gastric juices. I also knew, however, that they were likely to function for a good many more years than, from my point of view, was desirable. Of course, I never allowed for the effect of poison on them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blackburn.”
“Yes, but I haven’t finished. It was like this: I had been trying for some time to get my uncle to take me into his business. He was a coal merchant, you know, and I could easily have done a spot of clerking or some accountancy or something. Well, he wouldn’t. I was lucky, he said, to have him to live on and depend on, when I couldn’t hold a job down for myself.
“Perhaps you wonder why this was? I’ll tell you. What’s more, I’ll tell you the truth. The fact is, Mrs. Bradley…”
“No, Mel! You’ll only be sorry!” said his sister.
“No, El, I shan’t. Mrs. Bradley has introduced herself to us as a psychologist, and now, of course, I know why her name seemed familiar. She’ll understand in a way that an ordinary person couldn’t. That fact is, Mrs. Bradley, I’m a kleptomaniac. That’s why I can’t hold a job. I’ve had treatment—almost more of it than I could stand—it gave me brain fever—I went completely insane for a time after I’d been in the hands of one of the quacks who masquerade as members of your profession.
“I’m not cured, of course. The only thing is that El, here, understands that I can’t be accountable for…picking and stealing…and she keeps an eye on me, and…keeps me straight. A nice life for her, and, of course, it puts us both pretty completely into my uncle’s power, as you can imagine.
“So, to hear that he was dead, and that everything he had had belonged to us, overwhelmed me with amazement. I can do what I like now—go where I like. El has trained herself to have eyes in the back of her head where I’m concerned, so that, as we shall always go out together, I need feel no alarm about my rather embarrassing affliction.”
“I can cure you,” said Mrs. Bradley calmly.
“Yes, I know,” the young man answered at once. “That’s why I’ve told you all about it.”
• 2 •
“I told you they had the whale of a motive,” said the inspector, when Mrs. Bradley described her visit to the Blackburns. “Where are you off to now?”
“To visit my friend Doctor Lecky, and, more particularly, my friend his red-haired patient,” Mrs. Bradley replied.
“Good luck. I’d like to jug that old buster. I’m sure he’s up to no good. Are you still on the track of the night-gown?”
“Yes. That night-gown has a long and curious tale.”
“I thought only shirts had tails. No! Pax! I didn’t mean it! You’ve got horribly bony fingers for delicate ribs like mine!”
Mrs. Bradley took herself off, and all the way up the hill to Doctor Lecky’s private mental hospital, or, as he preferred to call it, convalescent home, she was thinking about the Blackburn brother and sister, and wondering whether there was anything else they might have been persuaded to tell her. The inspector was still deeply impressed by the fact that the Blackburns had gained so much by Councillor Smith’s death, but was willing to admit that unless that death had had some connection with the other two deaths—he was still convinced that there had been only one murderer—their motive must in itself be deemed an insufficient one.
“I must hold on to him tightly,” Mrs. Bradley thought, when she had taken light leave of him at his headquarters, “or he’ll make an arrest before I’m ready for it, even now.”
She passed the reedy lake, the long brick wall, and the sorry-looking football pitches on the common, and came very soon to the frontage of Doctor Lecky’s house.
Brazen Tongue (Mrs. Bradley) Page 17