Tom Brown's Body mb-22

by Gladys Mitchell

  'Oh?' said Mrs Bradley. 'Won't that . . .?'

  'Oh, Gilbert asked Mr Wyck, and Mr Wyck saw a couple of rehearsals. He doesn't object at all. He thinks it will help to rationalize the situation here. The boys show no signs of it, but they must be pretty well strung up, like the rest of us.'

  'Are the rest of you strung up?' asked Mrs Bradley; but she did not say whether she agreed with Mr Wyck's application of psychiatric principles to the minds of his boys. 'Well, I shall look forward to it all very much,' she added, with sincerity and no mental reservations. 'Now, tell me – are you prepared to meet the young man from Scotland Yard?'

  Mrs Poundbury looked surprised, and then she laughed and exclaimed, 'Who on earth am I, to take up the time of Scotland Yard?'

  'You are a woman with a secret,' Mrs Bradley calmly replied, 'which secret may cost you very dear if you insist upon keeping it. Speak, Mrs Poundbury, speak; for, if you do not, I wash my hands of the consequences.'

  'But I haven't any secret!' cried Mrs Poundbury. 'Not, at any rate, the kind of secret that could interest Scotland Yard.'

  'Think again!' Mrs Bradley advised her. 'What did you do on the night of Mr Conway's death?'

  'I?'

  'You.'

  'But I've told you – I've told the police – I've told everybody – I was asleep in my room, the room I share with Gilbert! And he was asleep there, too! At least, I don't know whether he was asleep, of course, but he was most certainly there. We've both got the same what-do-you-call it? – alibi. We can give it to one another. No one can contest that!'

  'One might if a certain note of assignation were found,' said Mrs Bradley drily.

  'Oh, but I – Oh, but!' said Mrs Poundbury, taken by a stratagem and struggling in the net of the fowler. 'Oh, damn and blast! How did you know?'

  'I suppose you did have the common sense to burn it?' Mrs Bradley brutally enquired.

  'No, I – no, I didn't,' said Mrs Poundbury, shedding all her artifices and insincerities, and looking, all at once, a terrified girl. 'I was so furious with poor Gerald for not turning up – of course, I realize now why he didn't – that I forgot all about the note until I heard – well, until I heard of his death. And then I couldn't find it! I've looked simply everywhere, but it's gone!'

  'Your husband wasn't in the bedroom,' said Mrs Bradley, even more drily than before. 'Do you believe that he killed Mr Conway?'

  'No, no! Of course I don't! Gilbert couldn't kill anybody. He wouldn't hurt a fly. I know he wouldn't! I – I –' She broke off, and gazed in agony at Mrs Bradley's sharp black eyes and alarmingly snake-like smile. 'Oh, do help me! Do help me! You must!' she cried suddenly and wildly. 'It must be somewhere! Where did I put it? Where could I have put it? Oh dear!'

  'You tell Scotland Yard all about it. That's the only help I can give. And find the note. It must be somewhere,' said Mrs Bradley, declining to help her at all. 'And your husband can be violent. You yourself told me that.'

  *

  Mrs Kay received Mrs Bradley without any semblance of cordiality whatsoever.

  'I don't know what you expect me to tell you,' she said. 'I don't know where my husband went or what he did on the night when Gerald was murdered, and as for boys – well, if you knew as much about them as I do you would realize that nine times out of ten their statements are all lies. I wouldn't hang a dog on evidence supplied by boys!'

  'I wouldn't hang a dog at all,' remarked Mrs Bradley, turning thoughtfully towards the iron fence which separated the Kays' cottage from the School drive. It had been overlooked (probably for some good reason) by the Government collectors of scrap metal during the war.

  'The point is,' said Mrs Kay, following her in some haste, 'whether you want to hang my husband. I've been fairly nasty to Benny, but he didn't do it, you know.'

  'You were not at home at the time, Mrs Kay,' Mrs Bradley pointed out, gently enough.

  'No, but I know Benny. He's a coward, and that means he isn't a murderer. If he were . . .'

  'If he were?'

  'Well, he'd have murdered me, and long enough ago, at that,' said Mrs Kay, with a snort of wifely amusement.

  'It is interesting that you should say that,' Mrs Bradley remarked. 'You don't think perhaps – but no! Murders are sometimes committed for love, but far more often for money.'

  'Money!' said Mrs Kay, with another sardonic snort. 'There isn't much money in this job! If Benny had taken my advice, he would have thrown it up and gone into business long ago. He has plenty of brains, and could have held down a decent job, if only he'd given his mind to it, instead of sitting down and waiting for poor old Loveday's pair of shoes!'

  'This holding down of jobs is extraordinary. It sounds as though sometimes the job can be stronger than the man. Is that so?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

  Mrs Kay looked at her suspiciously.

  'It's just an expression,' she said.

  'But how strange an expression! "The labourer is worthy of his hire" is another expression, and, to my mind, a preferable one. What kind of job is it which must be held down? Why does it squirm to get away? And, in the name of vocations, if your husband prefers schoolmastering, why shouldn't he follow his bent?'

  Mrs Kay did not answer. After a pause, in which distaste of and annoyance with her visitor were both plainly indicated, she said:

  'All this chapel-going, too!'

  'By the boys?'

  'By the boys and the masters. That is what I meant. And by stupid old spinsters like Miss Loveday. I call it morbid. She attends all the services, and they are really only meant for the boys!'

  'You call it morbid,' said Mrs Bradley, under her breath. 'I wonder why?' Mrs Kay regarded her with suspicion and deep dislike.

  'Don't you call it morbid?' she demanded. 'These boys and men are brought up like monks. I don't believe in it. There's bound to be trouble, and trouble, you see, has come.'

  'And you think that with no chapel-going there would have been no murder?' asked Mrs Bradley, deeply interested, but not altogether in the subject under discussion.

  'Oh, I don't say that! I simply meant . . . oh, I don't really know what I'm talking about! Look here, I'll be frank. I don't usually whine to people about my affairs, but I wouldn't, mind having some advice. What would you do if...'

  'If I'd received a note which took me out on a wild-goose chase ... or a fool's errand?' said Mrs Bradley, saying the last two words so deliberately that Mrs Kay flushed with annoyance.

  'Well, yes,' she said, swallowing her anger. 'That's just it. It came – or was supposed to come, from –'

  'Of all people, Gilbert Poundbury,' said Mrs Bradley gleefully. 'Beautiful! Beautiful! Do you like jig-saw puzzles, I wonder, Mrs Kay?'

  'No, I've no patience with the things!' said Mrs Kay, betraying by her tone, no less than by her words, first, that this was the literal truth, and, secondly, that her lack of patience applied equally to her visitor. 'They're only fit for children! I wouldn't waste time on them myself.'

  'Yes, children do have patience,' said Mrs Bradley thoughtfully. 'They must have, mustn't they? – or they could never suffer grown-up people. Why do we call ourselves grownup? We can only be so in the body, most of us. Has it ever struck you, Mrs Kay, that the majority of these so-called and self-styled grown-ups behave very, very much worse, more stupidly, more selfishly, than they would ever expect children to behave?'

  'I've never thought about it,' said Mrs Kay, now very angry indeed, 'And if you're trying to be insulting . . .'

  'I'm not only trying, I'm succeeding,' said Mrs Bradley smoothly. 'Never mind that, for the moment. What excuse did Gilbert Poundbury make for wanting to see you that night?'

  'Since you're so well versed in my bad behaviour, you can probably guess!' said Mrs Kay, beginning to look thoroughly sulky as a protection against being asked any more questions.

  'But there is just one thing I think you ought to make clear to Scotland Yard,' said Mrs Bradley, ignoring the façade and speaking to the terrified woman behind it.
'That is, if you want my advice.'

  'Thank you! I don't think I do!' said Mrs Kay flatly. 'I suppose you mean I ought to explain that I wasn't away from this neighbourhood on the night of Gerald Conway's death? Thank you again! I'm not exactly going to stick my neck into a noose for Scotland Yard's benefit!'

  'That is a serious decision to make. I advise you very strongly indeed to reconsider it,' said Mrs Bradley with finality.

  Mrs Kay said suddenly, 'You can tell your monkey from Scotland Yard that I've been leading you up the garden.'

  'You haven't, you know,' said Mrs Bradley, solemnly shaking her head. 'You think things over, and behave like a sensible woman. And just you give the police that note. It may be of first-rate importance.'

  Mrs Kay turned and came back.

  'Look here,' she said unwillingly. 'I don't want to get into trouble, but I haven't got any note. I learnt to burn the things long ago. Still, if you haven't done anything wrong, you can't be found guilty, can you?'

  'Well, it is not a wise move to withhold evidence,' said Mrs Bradley.

  'Well, look here, then,' said Mrs Kay, 'I trust you, although I don't like you. I'll tell you what happened, and you can tell your Scotland Yard nark what you like.'

  'Nancy the Nark,' said Mrs Bradley amiably. Mrs Kay looked startled.

  'You don't suspect her?' she demanded.

  'Why? Do you?' Mrs Bradley retorted.

  'Oh, I see. I said "nark" and you – and you just repeated it.' Mrs Kay looked relieved, and laughed, and, the tension thus eased, as Mrs Bradley had intended that it should be, she continued, 'You see, Gerald and I – well, Benny isn't all that fun, and Gerald was an exciting sort of person in his way, and I hated being stuck down here with nothing but boys, boys, boys, and a few narky – I mean, bitter sort of women, all schoolmasters' wives and sisters and things – so, well – you can see how it was.'

  'No, no,' said Mrs Bradley. 'You must explain clearly, if you are going to explain at all. This film dialogue is misleading.'

  'Beast!' said Mrs Kay, bursting into tears. Mrs Bradley looked pleased. 'You're as bad as Gerald! That's the kind of beastly thing he would say! I hated him, and I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!'

  'Very interesting,' said Mrs Bradley. 'In other words, you did not receive a note making an appointment that evening, but you think that Mrs Poundbury did. Further to that, you really were away from home. You were net in this neighbourhood at the time of Mr Conway's death.'

  Mrs Kay pulled herself together.

  'I'm sorry,' she said apologetically, 'if I was a bit rude, but I was never educated like you and all these schoolmasters, and, to tell you the truth, the whole set-up gets me down. All I want is money and a good time. That's not much to ask for, at my age, is it?'

  'According to present-day standards it is the minimum that any self-respecting person could desire,' said Mrs Bradley deliberately. 'What makes you so certain that your husband committed the murder, Mrs Kay?'

  'I don't think Benny did do it,' replied Mrs Kay lugubriously. 'He's a poor sort of fish, but he wouldn't dirty his hands with murder. The trouble is, I know he was up to something that night, and he won't tell me what it was, and I feel almost worried to death. He tells nothing but lies, and until he comes out with the truth, I don't see how I can help him. I'd stick to him all right if he'd trust me, but Benny doesn't trust anybody. Sometimes it makes me so mad I feel I could kill him; and that's a nice thing to be saying, with Gerald Conway lying dead and cold!'

  This conversation left Mrs Bradley thoughtful. It would have been so fatally easy for Kay and Poundbury to have pooled their grievances that night, inflamed themselves and one another to the point of murder, and then to have set upon the unsuspecting Conway . . . supposing (and this was the snag) that they knew where to find him.

  There was another flaw in the theory that they were the murderers, however. It was that these two would not have used the Roman Bath; they would most certainly have used the river; and the absence of any trace of river weed, or mud, or sand in the clothing of the corpse would dispose of the theory completely.

  Mrs Bradley found herself longing for the resumed inquest, so that the point could be cleared up finally. Meanwhile there was not much doubt what the two wives thought about matters.

  Mrs Bradley was almost certain that Mr Poundbury had been out of the House that night, or for part of it. She was almost certain, too, that the note of assignation had been sent to him and not to his wife. The absent-minded Poundbury must have left it lying about for Mrs Poundbury to find. She had read it, and drawn her own terrible conclusions.

  But Mrs Bradley found herself modifying her own conclusions as she considered the information she had obtained from the two wives. She found herself wishing for some concrete evidence which would at least show which persons had had access to Mr Kay's garden on the night of the murder.

  It was a bit of bad luck, she reflected, that so many people had trampled on Mr Kay's flower-beds before the police arrived. Mr Semple and Kay himself had both gone up to the body, so had Mr Wyck, and so had the doctor, and what might have been the most valuable of clues had been lost for ever.

  12. The Case is Clearer

  *

  Come, Filch, you shall go with me into my own Room, and tell me the whole Story.

  IBID. (Act 1, Scene 6)

  If you can forgive me, Sir, I will make a fair Confession, for to be sure he hath been a most barbarous Villain to me.

  IBID. (Act 3, Scene 1)

  ISSACHER, whose parents were orthodox Jews, did not attend Chapel. Mrs Bradley arranged, therefore, with his Housemaster, to interview him whilst the rest of the School was out of the way.

  Issacher had been apprised of this arrangement and approved of it. He shared a study with two other boys, and invited Mrs Bradley in as he would have invited her into his home. He removed a pair of football boots, a sawn-off shotgun, two books, and a box-file from the seat of the most comfortable chair in the room and asked her to sit down. Then he faced her, smiling hospitably.

  'It is about your connexion with the two boys who broke out of the House during the week before Mr Conway's death,' she said.

  'Ah, that,' said Issacher. 'We must talk fast. The others will soon be out of chapel. I had no connexion with those boys whatsoever, and therefore, as a matter of fact, my knowledge is second-hand; but it is reliable. All my information is reliable.'

  Mrs Bradley pursed her beaky little mouth and nodded slowly. So reliable did she know Issacher's information to be ('Issy knows everything' was an article of faith in his House) that she was prepared to believe that what he said required the minimum of corroborative evidence.

  'So?' she prompted him.

  'So when Merrys and Skene broke out and then told Eaves and Meyrick (in their dorm, you know) that a murder might be committed, and then the next thing was that a mur – that Mr Conway was found like that, I investigated and found that their story was funny. Peculiar, I mean. It jumped to the eye that they could get Spiv – Mr Kay – arrested or not, as they liked, but it would mean landing themselves with the sack if they were not pretty careful.'

  'How did Mr Kay come to be known by his soubriquet?' asked Mrs Bradley, flying off at a tangent.

  'Oh, that!' said Issacher, his dark eyes just a little wary. 'I lampooned him.'

  'And the name caught on?'

  'Louis the Spiv? Yes. I got it from Conway, of course.'

  'Did you dislike Mr Kay?'

  'Oh, no. But the fellows had begun to call me Spivvy, so I thought it time to pass the buck.'

  'Then you know nothing about the time of the murder?'

  'Nothing at all, and I can't guess. I suppose the police know?'

  'Oh, yes, the medical evidence ...'

  'Within the usual limits, I expect? My father's a doctor. But, you know,' he went on, waving his pianist's hands, 'if you'll pardon me, and if I were you –' He lowered his voice and dropped his eyes. 'If I were you,' he repeated quietly,
'I'd give up the whole thing. It will only make a stink, and, honestly, it isn't worth it for a beast like Mr Conway.'

  'You disliked him?'

  'Can't you imagine? – "our not altogether unimaginative opponent, Herr Hitler" – and then a lot of filthy stuff about the Jews. And then he'd pretend to forget my name and call me "Friend Barabbas – I beg his pardon, Issacher." And then he'd talk a lot of tripe about the Wandering Jew when he caught me not attending to his lesson. Oh, I don't know who killed the swine, but I pray they get away with it!' His voice rose high. Mrs Bradley went away, very thoughtful. Her next interview was with the intellectual Micklethwaite, whom she sent for out of a Divinity lesson.

  Micklethwaite attempted to impress her.

  'I still say that St Paul had no conception of the Athenian mentality,' said he. 'Judging from the account given in the Acts, he underrated the intelligence of the Greeks of the first century, over-estimated the appeal of the Gospels, and obviously had never heard of the Mysteries.'

  'Have you been to Eleusis?' Mrs Bradley politely enquired.

  'No, and I don't want to go. I intend to keep the places I revere safely within my Garden of the Hesperides,' replied the annoying and unorthodox child, adroitly blocking the question.

  'It is interesting that you should have come straight out of a Divinity lesson,' said Mrs Bradley, restraining herself from hitting him over the head and, instead, leading the way to the School library, where, at that hour of the day, no one was likely to disturb them. 'It was about the Divinity Prize that I wanted to speak to you.'

  'Oh, that!' said Micklethwaite. He was a well-made, sandy-haired, very tidy youth, with a fine brow and a short, plump, sensual mouth. 'That was to do with Mr Conway. What can you expect of a man who prefers Canaletto to Turner?'

  'Less, obviously, than you can expect of a youth who knows one from the other,' replied Mrs Bradley. 'But recount to me, Mr Micklethwaite, the full history of the award of the Divinity Prize of last year.'