The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley)

by Mitchell, Gladys

  ‘Come in and have some shandy,’ said Mrs. Bradley. Henri, her cook and butler, who knew better than to produce shandy when there was whisky and soda in the house, demonstrated with the decanter, a siphon and some sandwiches, and brought Mrs. Bradley sherry and biscuits.

  ‘This business at Mede,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Not too good, you know. There has been trouble and bad feeling for donkey’s years … long before my time … between Mede and Bruke, and one merely concludes that at last it has come to a head. As it happens, and really most fortunately, Witt wasn’t really a local man at all, for otherwise things would be very much worse than they are. He came from Southampton way a year or two ago, and, as far as we can find out, the only person in Mede who knew him previously was the inn-keeper there, the man Cornish.’

  ‘How did you discover that?’

  ‘Cornish came across with it quite openly at the inquest.’

  ‘He was called to the inquest, then?’

  ‘He asked to be. Said that he was the best person to swear to the dead man’s identity just because he had known him longer than anybody else at Mede.’

  ‘Curious; because there was no doubt about Witt’s identity, was there?’

  ‘None at all. I think myself that the fellow just wanted to be important. He’s an inn-keeper, after all, and has to consider his public.’

  ‘Like any other artist. Yes, I suppose that would be it.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said the Chief Constable slowly, ‘there’s this to be said. Preliminary enquiries on the part of Detective-Superintendent Cowley … you know Cowley, I believe? … have established that Witt and Cornish did not get on at all well. Against that there’s the cast-iron fact that of all the people who couldn’t possibly have murdered Witt, Cornish is the man. He didn’t even go into the pavilion when the teams changed over, but remained on the field inspecting the pitch with the other umpire, the man that the Bruke eleven brought over.’

  ‘What about the medical evidence? Did anything new come up?’

  ‘Not a thing. It was fair and clearly stated and amounted to what we knew already. Witt must have been killed almost directly he’d finished his innings. He had been cracked over the head with his own bat and could not have recovered consciousness.’

  ‘So it must have been one of his own side who did it?’

  ‘It looks like that … or, rather, it would if they hadn’t all got such fool-proof alibis. Besides, there’s another thing, as Sir Adrian Caux quite fairly pointed out to Detective-Superintendent Cowley. The feeling between the two villages ran so high that it was most unlikely … impossible is Sir Adrian’s word … that one of the Bruke team would have done in his skipper before the end of the match.’

  ‘Still, given an opportunity to avenge a real grievance …’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to have been so much as the shadow of a grievance anywhere, except for this ill-feeling between him and the landlord of the Frenchman’s Inn. Witt was well-thought-of as a cricketer, was open-handed at the local, no complaints of him as an employer …’

  ‘Whom did he employ, and in what capacity?’

  ‘He’s a retired military man turned farmer, and he employs most of Bruke. It’s only a small place, you know … smaller even than Mede. I say, Beatrice, I wish you could go along and look into things. If it weren’t that it was a physical impossibility for Cornish to have done it, I’d make him my one and only suspect. It’s the only bit of bad blood we know about, so far, and why should Cornish, after all, have almost demanded to be the one to offer evidence of identification?’

  ‘We agreed that it was for purposes of personal publicity.’

  ‘Yes, I know. All right. You’ll go along there, then, and psycho-analyse the inhabitants?’

  ‘I haven’t said so. But I should like to renew my acquaintance with Detective-Superintendent Cowley, and, besides, I am anxious to know what Sir Adrian Caux is going to do about his grandson Francis. I feel responsible for the youth until Miss Higgs comes out of hospital. I am inclined to visit her soon and she is certain to want first-hand tidings of her charge.’

  ‘Francis Caux? Oh, that’s the other twin, isn’t it? Derek’s younger brother.’

  ‘I don’t know which was born first. There is no doubt at present which will inherit the property, however. Poor Francis apparently lost the powers of speech and hearing as the result of a severe shock when he was six years old—or rather—it seems more likely—seven.’

  ‘So he ceased to be Sir Adrian’s cup of tea, whether he is the older twin or not? Yes, I see. Well, you know where to find me if anything crops up, and I do hope it will. We don’t get much of this sort of thing in Hampshire, and I want it cleared up quickly.’

  ‘What are the chances, in your opinion, of a stranger, someone outside either village, having done it?’

  ‘Slight. It would have been possible, of course, if he could have got to the pavilion from the house. But what about the time? How could a stranger have arranged to be on the spot just at the crucial moment?’

  ‘I don’t know. I see your point, of course. Obviously he could not have foreseen the minute when Witt would be given out.’

  ‘And there’s another thing about that. It appears that Witt almost put himself out. He was anxious to be out. That was clear.’

  ‘Why? Is the reason known?’

  ‘The Bruke eleven, supported (for a change) by the Mede men, say that it was because of the weather. Witt was very anxious to put Mede in on a difficult wicket. I know what you’re suggesting, though. You’re wondering whether Witt had an appointment with someone at a certain time and put himself out so that he could keep it.’

  ‘It seems possible.’

  ‘Bear it in mind, then; although, if you knew the amount of bad feeling behind this match, you wouldn’t be surprised if what we’ve been told is the literal, absolute truth. Neither team would hesitate to pull a fast one to make the game go their way.’

  Mrs. Bradley believed that the literal truth had been told. She doubted, simply, whether it was the whole truth. She went back to Mede, therefore, with an unbiassed mind. It seemed to her that the twin brothers were the crux of the affair, although how and why she did not at the moment understand.

  Mede was a lovely little village. Standing, next day, at the crossroads between Mede and Bruke, she saw bramble hedges already hard with small green fruit, tall untrimmed hawthorns pointing straight leaf-rods to the sky, broad fields under pasture and crops, harebells along the roadside, and oak trees bordering lush ditches.

  ‘Not much hedging and ditching been done here yet,’ said a voice which came apparently from a tremendous mass of wild clematis on the hedge. Mrs. Bradley turned and saw Tom Donagh step on to the road.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I was under the impression that you had left the neighbourhood.’

  ‘No. Sir Adrian wants me to stay on. Says he can’t cope with both those infernal twins—his words, incidentally, not mine—so I’m to continue as bear-leader. You haven’t walked all the way from Brockenhurst, have you?’

  ‘No. From Bruke, where I left my car.’

  ‘Ah. Coming to see Francis? I’m sorry I’m not in a position to offer you lunch … unless … I say! Do have it with me at the pub!’

  ‘But won’t Sir Adrian expect you to lunch with the twins?’

  ‘He can’t have everything. I’m staying on as a favour, and, I’m glad to say, with better pay. I can ring him up from the Frenchman and let him know I shan’t be back. He can entertain the policemen who seem to be permanently on and about the estate.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Do they make any progress?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice. They’ve got their eye on Derek, of course, but I don’t really think they suspect him, although it was very awkward that he should have been off the field when the murder seems to have happened. Oh, Lord! I didn’t mean to let that out! I shouldn’t have told you. Please forget it!’

  ‘I ought to warn you,’ said Mrs.
Bradley, ‘before I accept your hospitality, that I am commissioned (unofficially at present) to have a general look-round on behalf of the Chief Constable of the county; so that anything you may choose to tell me will inevitably figure in my report.’ She leered hideously and Tom Donagh grinned and shrugged.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t care all that much about Sir Adrian, but he’ll go nuts if the police aren’t cleared out pretty soon. Would it be pertinent to enquire why you are a buddy of the Chief Constable?’

  ‘Certainly, child. I live in Wandles Parva.’

  ‘Lovely little place, but … er …’

  ‘I’ve worked with him before. We are old friends.’

  ‘Good heavens! You’re not Mrs. Lestrange Bradley? By Jove, of course, you must be! I say! We are going places! I suppose you wouldn’t come along next term and give my Detection Fan Club (schoolboys of about thirteen) a talk on some of your cases, would you?’

  Mrs. Bradley grimaced and said that she would be delighted. Tom fell into step beside her and soon they passed a farm gate (set on a slant where a farm track joined the road) and came to a couple of cottages. It was not far from these to the village and the Frenchman’s Inn.

  It was not yet noon, so, except for a couple of old men and the landlord, the bar was empty.

  ‘Morning, Cornish,’ said Tom. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  ‘If I’d knowed you was coming, sir, it would have been peacock pie,’ replied the landlord disagreeably. ‘As it is, it’ll be the usual roast pork, tetties and greens, followed by apple pie and cheese.’

  ‘Expect two, then, and mind the tablecloth’s clean.’

  The landlord laughed without mirth and eyed Mrs. Bradley, trying to sum her up.

  ‘Or the lady could have cold ’am and an ’ard-boiled egg, followed by ’ot treacle tart, if she’s a mind.’

  Mrs. Bradley grinned with a mirthlessness which matched that of the landlord precisely, and opted for roast pork and greens.

  ‘Is it possible to get a room here?’ she added. The landlord scratched his head, and then yelled hoarsely for someone called Norah. From the room behind the bar emerged a wispy woman with grey hair and an apologetic smile.

  ‘Yes, Samson?’ she said. ‘Good morning, I’m sure, Mr. Donagh.’

  ‘Meet Mrs. Bradley,’ said Tom. ‘Look here, Mrs. Cornish, can you fix her up with a room?’

  ‘A room?’ The woman glanced at her husband.

  ‘Well, can you?’ he roughly enquired.

  ‘Yes, if you think so, Samson. There’s the top front, if that ’ud do. I’ll see it’s properly aired, Ma’am, and you’d find the ’ouse very clean.’

  ‘Good. And the charge?’ said Tom. The woman hesitated, and looked at her husband again.

  ‘What do you think, Samson?’

  ‘Three guineas and all found,’ replied the landlord. ‘Think you could do it on that?’

  ‘If the lady thinks fit.’

  ‘She does,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘And I shall also need comfortable quarters for my man and a garage for the car. Can you do all that as well?’ The woman assured her eagerly that she could. She did not so much as glance at her husband this time.

  ‘What time is lunch?’ asked Tom.

  ‘One o’clock, sir. Pork won’t roast afore then,’ replied Mrs. Cornish timidly, returning to her earlier manner.

  ‘Fine. Let’s sit in here and have some sherry, shall we?’ said Tom. ‘And mind now, Cornish, none of your nasty grocer’s stuff. I have a hunch that Mrs. Bradley is a connoisseur, so let’s have up a bottle of that Black Market stuff of yours.’

  Mrs. Bradley, with a strength which amazed the young man, scooped Tom away from the counter as the landlord’s great fist shot forward. Mrs. Cornish cried out, and her husband, recovering himself, turned furiously on her.

  ‘Easy on, Cornish,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know what I’ve said to upset you, but it’s nothing to do with your wife. Good Lord, man! Can’t you take a joke.’

  ‘Not that one he can’t, sir,’ said Mrs. Cornish pathetically. She laid a hand on her husband’s forearm but he shook it away immediately. ‘It was cruel hard, during the war, sir, to get decent stuff, as you know.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, you silly bitch!’ shouted Cornish.

  ‘And you hold yours,’ said Mrs. Bradley pleasantly. Her black eyes held so much menace, however, that the landlord confusedly apologized, and not so very much later he, his wife, Tom and Mrs. Bradley were gathered around a bottle which might have been placed before kings.

  The lunch was a great success. Mrs. Cornish was a very sound cook and Tom and Mrs. Bradley had conceived a mutual love for one another. When the meal was over, Tom said tentatively:

  ‘Now what, if anything?’

  ‘I shall walk back to Bruke and bring George and the car here,’ Mrs. Bradley replied.

  ‘Oh, that, of course. What then?’

  ‘Then I shall try to discover what the chances were of some stranger’s having been able to get through the house and into the pavilion from the rear. It seems clear, from the proceedings at the inquest, that none of the spectators could have got through. To what extent would it distress you if your pupil, Derek Caux, proved to be an accessory before the fact?’

  ‘Meaning that he opened the front door of the house to the murderer?’

  ‘Meaning exactly that, child.’

  ‘But that would involve Sir Adrian. It was his idea that Derek should take a short rest.’

  ‘Helpful.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Neither do I, at present, child. But, unless some further evidence turns up, it seems likely that whoever murdered Mr. Witt must have come through the house to the pavilion. Were all Sir Adrian’s servants in the eleven?’

  ‘Yes, they were.’

  ‘So that clears them out of the way unless one was suborned and left the front and back doors open.’

  ‘Widens the field a bit, doesn’t it?’

  ‘A fair field and no favour,’ said Mrs. Bradley inappositely. ‘I shall now walk back to Bruke.’

  ‘May I come with you?’

  ‘Surely, if your duties permit.’

  ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ said Tom. ‘Let’s take the short cut across the fields.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bruke

  *

  ‘Five justices’ hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack will hold.’

  Shakespeare: A Winter’s Tale

  *

  THE TINY VILLAGE of Bruke was distant some three miles from the Frenchman at Mede, and was distinguished for its late-Norman church and the remains of a twelfth-century castle. These were situated half a mile and a quarter of a mile respectively from the village itself, for the church, according to custom, had been built on demesne land.

  Mrs. Bradley and Tom Donagh reached the church in an hour after leaving the inn, for the weather was too pleasant and the signs of summer in woods and fields too delightful for haste. They walked round the exterior walls of the church, being careful to observe the superstition of widdershins and then entered its dim and chilly silence.

  The castle they by-passed, for their inspection of the church had taken some time. They reached the village at a quarter to three and found George, the chauffeur, patiently sitting on the step of Mrs. Bradley’s car. He was smoking a cigarette and reading Poems of To-day.

  ‘Please don’t throw it away, George,’ said his employer, referring to the cigarette. ‘Have you had any lunch?’

  ‘Ample, madam. There is that about the countryside, in most cases.’

  ‘Splendid.’ And Mrs. Bradley, who had made her plans, ordered a return to the village proper, for they were, roughly-speaking, on its outskirts.

  She had a list of the Bruke eleven with their addresses, together with the name and address of the umpire they had taken with them to the match against Mede, and it was her intention to spend the rest of the afternoon, and, if necessary, the early part of the
evening, in interviewing as many of the men as she could find. As feeling between the two villages was so strong, she did not anticipate having much trouble in getting the Bruke players to talk about their captain’s sudden and unnatural death, although with what enthusiasm they would greet the questions of a stranger she did not know.

  She went first to the local blacksmith because she felt sure of finding him at home. The publican she knew she could visit after the evening opening time, and there was a good chance that several of the team—supposing that she had not been able to interview them during working hours—would be in the hostelry with him.

  The blacksmith was putting back the iron rim on a cartwheel. Mrs. Bradley and Tom got out of the car and watched the sparks fly. The blacksmith lowered his hammer.

  ‘Direct ee somewhere, like?’ he kindly enquired.

  ‘No. Don’t stop for us. Do you mind us watching?’

  ‘Not a bit. Won’t see the likes of any of us much longer, I don’t suppose.’ He set to again and soon finished his task.

  ‘And now,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘I should be very much obliged if you would answer a few questions.’

  The blacksmith altered his benevolent expression.

  ‘I don’t know what you be going to ask me,’ he said, ‘but I’ve said all I be going to say about poor Mr. Witt.’

  ‘I shouldn’t dream of asking you about poor Mr. Witt,’ Mrs. Bradley promptly replied. ‘A dreadful occurrence, and you are quite right not to want to talk about it. It must have been a most terrible shock to everybody who knew him.’

  ‘Ah, so it were,’ the blacksmith agreed. ‘Mind you, he were a good batsman and us’ll miss him sorely, but he were a stranger hereabouts. Hadn’t lived in the village only a couple of year. ’Twas the rector found him for us, like, else us shouldn’t have knowed aught about him.’

  ‘Not pubbable or clubbable?’ suggested Tom. The blacksmith eyed him for a minute or two, and then said slowly:

  ‘Oh, you be one of they Mede chaps. I didn’t recognize ee at first in different clo’es and no cap.’