Speedy Death

by Gladys Mitchell

  Carstairs shrugged his shoulders. ‘She knows something about Mountjoy’s death,’ he said significantly.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ demanded Alastair fiercely.

  Mrs Bradley interposed.

  ‘Let me talk to Dorothy. I won’t upset her nerves,’ she said in dulcet tones.

  ‘Well, if you think it necessary,’ Alastair began.

  ‘I do think so,’ interrupted Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Very well. You are a psycho-analyst and ought to understand what you are about,’ said Alastair grudgingly. ‘Do you want her at once?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Carstairs and Mrs Bradley answered, both speaking at the same moment. ‘Oh, half a minute,’ Carstairs went on immediately. ‘Bing, what do you know about Mountjoy’s people?’

  Alastair frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Carstairs,’ he said, ‘what is at the bottom of all this? What is the conclusion you have come to about Mountjoy’s death? Do you still think it was murder?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Bing,’ Carstairs answered truthfully. ‘I am certain it was no accident which caused her death. That is all. I wondered whether we could find anything in her past life which might throw light on the mystery.’

  ‘What evidence have you in support of your conclusions, apart from what we discussed yesterday morning?’ asked Alastair.

  ‘Plenty of evidence,’ answered Carstairs. ‘Enough, at any rate, to satisfy myself that matters cannot be left as they are.’

  ‘Then,’ said Alastair Bing determinedly, ‘the best thing you can do is to lay your suspicions before the police. It is your duty as a citizen to invoke the aid of the law if you think that suspicious circumstances surround the death of my guest.’

  ‘I am not at all anxious to call in the police,’ Carstairs replied mildly. ‘And I’ll tell you why.’

  He held up a protesting hand to stay the flood of words which the choleric Bing seemed about to pour upon his ears, and continued gravely:

  ‘I believe that Mountjoy was murdered. I believe someone in this house killed her. And, what is more, I believe I know now who the murderer is!’

  While Alastair Bing, bereft of speech for once, gazed helplessly at him, Mrs Lestrange Bradley slipped quietly from the room.

  Chapter Six

  The Key to the Mystery

  ‘INFORM THE POLICE, of course, if you think it well to do so,’ Carstairs went on. ‘I must say that to shift the responsibility of my knowledge on to the shoulders best trained to bear it would relieve me not a little. But be warned by me, and do not call in the police hastily.’

  ‘What do you know?’ cried Alastair Bing hoarsely. Carstairs shook his head.

  ‘I prefer not to say. You know as much about this affair as I do, and all that I have deduced, you also may deduce, if you care to do so.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that you don’t really know anything,’ observed Alastair Bing, looking relieved.

  ‘Bing,’ said Carstairs, ‘I don’t know anything more about this case than you knew about the Roman villa where you found that piece of broken tessellated pavement last summer. Do you remember? And yet, I recollect that you reconstructed that villa very creditably, and wrote a learned and lengthy treatise on the subject, with, I repeat, no more data than those few tiles you found. Am I right?’

  Alastair’s face brightened.

  ‘I was personally complimented by Bethermeyr himself,’ said he triumphantly. ‘He was most enthusiastic.’

  ‘And rightly so, I feel sure,’ said Carstairs warmly. ‘Well, but you see my point, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Bing, in his courteous way.

  ‘It is this. I have found my few tiles also. They are, in this case, the open window; the unlocked door; the disappearing stool; the stool which re-appeared, but in the wrong bathroom; the rightful stool, which had been soiled and was afterwards cleaned with turpentine that its evidence might be rendered void, and last, but not least, the little pot of dark green paint which someone kicked over on the balcony. Didn’t you notice the stain when we were up there this morning? Then, of course, there is——’

  ‘The missing watch,’ said Mrs Bradley, re-appearing with the suddenness of the Cheshire cat and with much the same sort of grin on her face.

  ‘What?’ cried Carstairs, surprised into forgetting the rest of the sentence.

  ‘Missing watch? What missing watch? I didn’t know anybody had lost a watch. Why wasn’t I told?’ said Alastair Bing.

  Mrs Bradley’s evil grin changed to an expression of innocent gravity.

  ‘Only my little joke,’ she informed them calmly. ‘Well, Mr Bing, have you said anything exciting or amusing whilst I have been absent?’

  ‘I am going to call in the police,’ snapped Alastair. ‘That’s what I said, and that’s what I intend to do. I’ll send for them at once. I refuse to have my house turned into a Sherlock Holmes’ paradise.’

  So saying, he went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Immediately he had gone, Mrs Bradley delved into a capacious skirt-pocket, the flap of which was usually concealed by her jumper, and produced a gentleman’s silver watch.

  ‘Poor Alastair,’ she remarked, laying the watch on the mantelpiece, ‘I thought he would go when I came in. I cannot help sympathizing with him over the private detective business. But it was so necessary that he should go, wasn’t it? Do you recognize this watch, Mr Carstairs?’

  Carstairs opened the back of the watch, and then, after the most cursory glance inside, shut it with a snap and laid it down.

  ‘It’s Mountjoy’s, of course,’ he said. ‘What about it?’

  Mrs Bradley sat down and composed her skirt before replying. Then she said: ‘That watch was not in Mountjoy’s bedroom after her death. It could not be found, I know, because I looked for it.’

  ‘I am afraid I don’t follow,’ said Carstairs apologetically.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Mrs Bradley conclusively. ‘Why should you?’

  Carstairs gazed at her until she laughed.

  ‘Oh, I’m not mad. Not the least little bit in the world,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘But I don’t think I had better explain about the watch.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you explain to me,’ Carstairs countered swiftly, but without a smile. ‘You see, I think I know.’

  Mrs Bradley, who seemed about to commence another remark, checked herself, and avoided his eyes.

  ‘So you know what I know,’ said Carstairs gloomily. ‘Well, I’m glad, in a way, because perhaps you’ll tell me what on earth we are going to do about it now that we do know.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Bradley quietly.

  ‘Nothing! But, my dear lady——’

  She nodded rapidly two or three times, looking more like some cruel but sagacious bird than ever. ‘Don’t trouble to say it,’ she observed, in the same tone of almost hypnotic calmness. ‘I know all about it. It was murder, and if we did our duty as good citizens we should take steps immediately to ensure that the murderer was apprehended. If we don’t perform this perfectly plain and straightforward duty, we are accessories after the fact—that is to say, persons who have given tacit consent to a crime by helping to shield the murderer.’

  Carstairs grinned, but the troubled expression did not leave his face.

  ‘Go on, please,’ he said.

  ‘I am going to tell you where I found the watch,’ said Mrs Bradley confidentially. She glanced to right and left, and then behind her, emitted a hoarse gurgle which might have signified amusement, relief, or indigestion, and finally murmuring, with a kind of solemn rapture in her voice:

  ‘It was at the bottom of the toilet-jug on Mountjoy’s washing-stand. I can’t understand why Eleanor doesn’t introduce some newer fashions in furniture,’ she added, as an abrupt and inconsequential afterthought. ‘These antiquated toilet sets—abominable!’

  She paused, as though she expected Carstairs to make some remark, but he remained silent.

&n
bsp; ‘The jug was three-quarters full of water,’ she added.

  Carstairs shook himself, as though he and not the silver watch had emerged from the jug, and turned upon his informant a very puzzled gaze.

  ‘Why ever did he—I mean she—keep a watch in the toilet-jug?’ he asked solemnly. ‘Or didn’t you say that? Am I imagining you said it? It seems so utterly idiotic.’

  ‘You’re getting warm,’ said Mrs Bradley, with her horrid cackling laugh. ‘Put another word in place of idiotic, and I think you’ve hit it.’

  ‘Idiotic?’ Carstairs pursed his lips. ‘Idiotic—another word for idiotic?’

  He smote the table.

  ‘Mad!’ he cried. ‘Mountjoy was mad, and it wasn’t a murder, after all, thank goodness, but a suicide. Oh, I’m so glad you found that watch.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Mrs Bradley, in a peculiar tone. She paused. ‘I hate to undeceive you,’ she added, at length, ‘but it was not a suicide. It was most certainly a murder, and not Mountjoy, but the murderer, was the mad person.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Carstairs. ‘Well——’ He, too, paused.

  ‘Please go on,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Or shall I finish your sentence for you?’

  ‘I don’t think even you could manage to do that,’ he laughed. ‘But go on, if you think you know the rest.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Bradley, promptly accepting the challenge, ‘you were going to say that, if I am right, then your conclusion as to the murderer’s identity must be wrong.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Carstairs. ‘Is it clairvoyance?’

  ‘Merely applied psychology,’ replied Mrs Bradley, grinning. ‘So now do tell me who you thought it was, and when you made up your mind about it.’

  ‘I thought it was you,’ said Carstairs, without a smile. ‘And I came to that conclusion while I was talking to Bing just before you had slipped out of the room. It came upon me like a flash, and hit me clean between the eyes.’

  Mrs Bradley cackled with joy. ‘Oh, how too gorgeous!’ she cried, with unaffected delight. ‘And when, pray, did you conclude that you were mistaken?’

  ‘Well, about two seconds ago.’ He sighed. ‘And I’m glad.’

  ‘But why me? Although I am awfully flattered. It really was rather a neat method of putting out of the way a person one disliked. Only—I should not have forgotten that I’d left the bathroom window wide open. Besides’—she measured herself beside Carstairs—‘I am not quite long enough in the leg for that climb. I tried it this morning before anyone was up, and found I couldn’t quite manage it. I’ll show you, if you have any lingering doubts.’

  Carstairs shook his head.

  ‘A very obvious point which would certainly have occurred to me later, when I had had time to think over my conclusions,’ he said gravely. ‘But I assure you I am absolutely convinced now that you did not take Mountjoy’s life. You see, you are not mad, and you assure me that the murderer was.’

  ‘My assurance ought to carry no weight,’ said Mrs Bradley, laughing. ‘What you really mean is that another aspect of the matter has struck you, and this new aspect leads to a conclusion which could not involve me—at least, not to the extent of my being implicated in the crime.’

  ‘How the deuce do you do it?’ asked Carstairs, half in awe, half in amusement.

  Mrs Bradley waved her hand non-committally.

  ‘You see,’ Carstairs went on, ‘whichever way you turn, you come up against this snag: who had a motive for killing Mountjoy? I can’t see that anybody had—anybody in this house, I mean. And I’m positive it was somebody in this house who drowned that poor woman. Nothing will convince me to the contrary.’

  ‘Poor—woman,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Poor—woman.’

  She looked at Carstairs expectantly, but he returned her gaze with a blank, inquiring stare.

  She grimaced, and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘A nod or a wink——’ she said significantly.

  Carstairs laughed.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I’m a blind horse indeed, this time,’ he said.

  There was a sudden sharp knocking.

  ‘Come in,’ called Carstairs, and Dorothy put a laughing face round the edge of the door.

  ‘We’re all patiently waiting for our turns,’ she said. ‘And you’ve made poor Mr Bing quite cross. Oh, and the Chief Constable of the county is coming to dinner, and will probably stay a day or two. Do have us in and question us. I’m dying to have my turn.’

  ‘Come along in, then,’ said Mrs Bradley briskly. ‘Sit there, facing the light. Take this paper and pencil, and write the exact opposite of every word I say.’

  When the little farce had been played out, and Dorothy dismissed, Carstairs raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  ‘Some clever creature will give the show away at dinner, either accidentally or on purpose,’ said Mrs Bradley, in answer to his unspoken question. ‘And once the Chief Constable gets wind of our suspicions there will be no peace for anybody, so you and I, my friend, may as well go out of business. I am rather glad.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Carstairs decidedly. ‘I had set my heart on unravelling the mystery, and, if you are right, and the police decide to conduct an inquiry, I shall not get much more opportunity for finding out things.’

  Mrs Bradley held up one finger. ‘Listen! There goes the gong for lunch,’ she said. ‘I would just like to say this: In your opinion, which is the most remarkable feature of the whole case?’

  ‘Well, apart from the murder itself,’ replied Carstairs slowly, and appearing to ruminate as he spoke, ‘I suppose the fact that Mountjoy turned out to be a woman is the queerest thing about it.’

  ‘Yes, that was queer,’ said Mrs Bradley, in a curiously inconclusive tone.

  ‘You don’t help me very much,’ said Carstairs, whimsically smiling.

  ‘I don’t intend to, my friend,’ she answered; ‘but if the same idea as has occurred to me does not occur to you before tomorrow morning, I shall be very much surprised.’

  Carstairs opened the door for her, and stood gazing after her retreating form as she walked to the staircase.

  ‘Hum! And if I weren’t convinced that you are not the murderer, I should be equally convinced that you are, you extraordinary woman,’ he said under his breath. ‘I wonder whether you are trying to lead me up the garden with your hints and insinuations, or whether you are trying to make me see something which, left to myself, I should overlook. Mountjoy was a man, and the man changed into a woman, and nobody—yes! By jove! Somebody did! Oho! So that’s what you meant, Mrs Bradley, did you. Oh my hat! That puts a new construction on the crime with a vengeance!’

  Chapter Seven

  Investigation

  LUNCH WAS A cheerful meal. Light and even frivolous conversation seemed to be expected from everyone. Carstairs and Mrs Bradley incurred a good deal of chaff from the two young men on the lengthy and boring game they had invented. Dorothy was cross-questioned as to her share in the proceedings, but no one seemed to care about interrogating Alastair Bing, who alone appeared unable to throw off his heavy mood and join in the pleasant badinage.

  ‘Did they put you through it, Dorothy?’ inquired Garde solicitously.

  ‘Rather,’ replied Dorothy, smiling demurely at Mrs Bradley. ‘It was awful. I shouldn’t take your turn if I were you. All one’s purple past is dragged out into the light of day.’

  ‘We’ll send Eleanor in next,’ chuckled Eleanor’s brother. ‘What about it, old bean?’

  ‘I do wish, Garde,’ said Eleanor primly, ‘that you would not address me in that ridiculous way. As to playing this rather childish game, I have no objection at all, but I do think that so soon after Mr Mountjoy’s death, I should not be expected to seem too light-hearted, although I have no wish to deprive others of their simple pleasures.’

  Garde, turning his eyes heavenwards and then winking wickedly at Dorothy, attacked his food with a healthily boyish appetite.

  The meal over, Alastair Bing drew Carstairs
aside and said: ‘I have invited the Chief Constable to stay here for a day or two, and during his visit I shall request him to make a quite informal preliminary investigation. The police doctor will also be present, although not in his official capacity, of course, and I shall get him to examine the body. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘I suppose I must leave you to proceed as you think best, Bing,’ Carstairs replied moodily. ‘But I wish you had been advised by me, and had allowed me to conclude my own investigation of the matter before you called in outside assistance.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t help your vanity being hurt,’ Alastair replied, with unnecessary rudeness. ‘If there is a mystery about the woman’s death, it must be cleared up by the authorities. There is no sense in your muddling about at it, you know. Besides, the whole thing will be quite informal. I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing in your theories, but the Chief Constable will clear the whole matter up.’

  Carstairs laughed good-humouredly.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ he said. ‘I hope you won’t be sorry; that is all. But I don’t imagine that the Chief Constable will be able to make an informal investigation. There is such a thing as his duty to be considered.’

  Alastair Bing snorted.

  In due course, but not until after lunch next day, the Chief Constable and the police doctor, a friend of the family, inspected the body and looked round the bathroom. Then, the doctor having concluded his examination, the men, superintended by Alastair, all descended the stairs, and passed into the library.

  ‘Well, doctor?’ said the Chief Constable, ‘what’s your opinion?’

  ‘Oh, death due to drowning, the same as my colleague pronounced. Incidentally, I should say there was no weakness of the heart.’

  ‘Is that absolutely certain?’

  ‘Well, there is no doubt at all in my mind.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, then, Mr Bing, where is the gentleman with the theories?’

  ‘Mr Carstairs? You’d like to see him?’

  ‘If you please.’

  Alastair rang the bell.

  ‘Ask Mr Carstairs please to step this way.’