When Last I Died

by Gladys Mitchell

  "Something up your sleeve," he announced.

  Mrs. Bradley by this time had the enlargements of the snapshots.

  "Ask your friend Pratt to dinner," she observed. "You see this woman?"

  "Who is she?"

  "That," said Mrs. Bradley, "is for Mr. Pratt to say."

  Mr. Pratt, confronted with both snapshot and enlargement, did not hesitate.

  "If it was ten years younger—well, say, five ..."

  "Say six, and you'll be about right," interposed Mrs. Bradley. Pratt looked at her out of heavily lidded eyes.

  "I should say it was Bella Foxley," he concluded. Mrs. Bradley produced the snapshot which the vicar had signed and dated.

  "And this?" she said, presenting it so that the ex-journalist saw the photograph.

  "The same, isn't it? Looks like the same snap to me."

  "It is," said Mrs. Bradley. "And the man who developed the negative can swear to the date. That is arranged. Now read what is here." She turned the snapshot over.

  "But the fellow can't be right, unless the two of them were identical twins," said Mr. Pratt.

  "They were not in the least alike," said Mrs. Bradley gently, "and neither were they twins."

  She then explained the circumstances under which the photographs had been taken, and then produced George's profile view of Miss Foxley.

  "Oh, well, that one I'd swear to. It's the view I mostly saw of her in court," declared Mr. Pratt.

  "You've got something there, Mother," said Ferdinand.

  "Of course she has," said Caroline, now Mrs. Bradley's firm adherent. A diversion was caused at this point by Derek, who appeared to say good night, this little formality being observed on all family and what may be referred to as "semi-guest" occasions.

  "My mascot," said Mrs. Bradley, presenting him, to his great delight, with ten shillings. "This is the person who found the diary and put us all on the track, Mr. Pratt."

  "Oh, Gran!" said Derek, wriggling in a pleased manner. His face became even more radiant. "What's more, I got the prize. Did you know?" he said.

  There was another source of confirmatory evidence of identity in Eliza Hodge, Mrs. Bradley reflected. Then, the real work would begin.

  On the Thursday following her departure from Bournemouth and Pond for Wandles Parva she received a letter, signed Tessa Foxley, refusing her offer for the house. She could not bear, Miss Foxley said, the thought of having so interesting a place pulled down. She agreed that it might be dangerous, but added that 'the psychic people would know what to do about that.'

  There was nothing for it but to find her another purchaser, thought Mrs. Bradley. Nothing could be done in that house unless she had complete possession of it. She wrote back, undertaking not to pull down the house, but demanding permission to have it exorcised if it became her property. She added, and underlined the words, that she did not see that there could be any objection to that."

  Miss Foxley wrote back, refusing to sell. The interesting thing was that neither of her letters bore the very slightest resemblance, either in style or handwriting, to the diary.

  "Very pretty," said Mrs. Bradley, and sought another interview with Eliza Hodge. The good old woman was pleased to see her.

  "I wondered what you were at, madam, spending your money renting my house like this, and never coming back to live in it," she said.

  "I've had a good deal of business to attend to," Mrs. Bradley replied, "and doubt very much whether I shall be able to settle down here for any length of time, after all. Did any of the boys turn up?"

  "Ah, they did, with one of the masters, a very pleasant young fellow. Got them well in hand, too. I told him they could have the run of the garden, if they liked, but he only has 'em gather the flowers and the raspberries like under his eye. Tried their hand at jam-making, I declare, they did, with me to tell 'em what to do. Made a fair hand at it, too, and pleased as Punch with it, time they got it into pots. Laugh! I thought I should have died, to see boys so solemn-like over picking the fruit and then picking it over, and stirring the pans and all that. Oh, dear! It lasted me for days!"

  "I suppose it reminded you of the days when Miss Foxley was housekeeper at the Institution," said Mrs. Bradley.

  "No, it didn't, as a matter of fact, madam. And, of course, they did wring the neck of one of Mr. Smart's fowls and had a picnic with it over on the common. Still, they paid up, because the master stopped it out of their pocket-money he said you said they was to have, and Smart charged ten shillings although that old hen she certainly wasn't worth a penny more than three and sixpence. The boys told Smart so, too, when they went to pay him, but he only winked at the master and said honesty was the best policy, and they could have bought the chicken for three and six if they'd a-wanted, but being they thought fit to steal it, why then, they must pay for their fun. There was some talk of them waylaying him and setting on him, I believe, but he goes about now with a dog-whip, and I don't think even the boldest fancies the look of him much. 'Young 'ounds,' he says, looking 'em in the eye the first time he met 'em, 'has to be learned their manners.' I think he's got the measure of them, madam, but I don't think he ought to have took all of ten shillings for the fowl."

  Mrs. Bradley listened to this artless tale with deep attention, and then resumed her own theme along the lines laid down by Miss Hodge.

  "In Miss Bella's time I doubt whether they would have had a chance to help with the cooking," she observed. "After all, you are a good enough cook, I suppose, to be able to give the right sort of help to amateurs, but a poor cook like Miss Bella ..."

  "Miss Bella? She could cook something lovely, madam!"

  "I thought that was Miss Tessa," said Mrs. Bradley.

  "Oh, no, madam. Miss Bella had got all her diplomas and certificates. There wasn't anything she couldn't cook. Miss Tessa stopped short at toffee, and, it might be, boiling a potato, although even then you might get either potato soup or potato marbles, just according to how they happened to turn out. You'd have thought she was the cook, she was that nice, fair, clear colouring and complexion, but Miss Bella, for all her spotty face, was the one. She used to say she'd have got on better in service as a private cook than at anything, only it seemed a waste of her other education."

  "But, surely," said Mrs. Bradley, "the vicar in the village where she was living after her trial couldn't have been mistaken? This is the one he declared was the cook, and this he also declared was Miss Tessa."

  She produced the snapshot and also the enlargement of it. Eliza Hodge wiped her fingers upon her apron and took the photographs. Then she turned them over, but Mrs. Bradley had not given her the one which carried the vicar's signature.

  "He must have got it quite wrong, madam," she said. "This is Miss Bella to the life, except she looks that much older. Did she age all that much at the trial, madam?"

  "No, not at the trial," said Mrs. Bradley. "Would you be prepared to declare on oath that that is a photograph of Miss Bella?"

  "On oath, madam? In court, do you mean? I should think we've had enough of courts, what with two of those dreadful inquests, and then Miss Bella's trial."

  "Well, I mean, are you perfectly certain it is a photograph of Miss Bella? Are you so certain that you could not be persuaded otherwise, even by someone really very clever at persuading people? A lawyer, let us say."

  "Why, of course I am," said the old servant stoutly.

  "And no one could get you to declare that it was Miss Tessa?"

  "It's nothing in the world like Miss Tessa. Have you forgot them photos in the album up at the house?"

  "No. That's why I thought the vicar must be mistaken," said Mrs. Bradley. "Did Miss Bella and Miss Tessa have nicknames for one another, do you know?"

  "Not that I know of. Short names, Bell and Tess, when they were younger, before Miss Tessa fell out with the mistress, like, and cut herself out of the money."

  "They didn't call one another Flossie and Dossie?"

  "Good gracious, no, madam! Sounds more li
ke a couple of barmaids, or something not even respectable!"

  Mrs. Bradley agreed, and, to her horror, dreamed about rainwater butts.

  Chapter Seven

  THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  "Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide...."

  SHAKESPEARE.

  THREE days later Mrs. Bradley, to her surprise, received a letter from Miss Foxley advising her that she might rent the house for a week, if she so desired, but not for longer as 'it kept other visitors away.'

  Mrs. Bradley wrote off a brief acceptance, and as the amount of the rent was mentioned she enclosed it, received a formal receipt by return of post, telephoned a number of interested people including her son Ferdinand and Mr. Pratt, and took up her week's tenancy of the haunted house on the following Saturday afternoon.

  Altogether she had ten people in the house, but three of them were not at first seen except by Mrs. Bradley herself and by one another.

  The other seven consisted of Ferdinand and Caroline, a Roman Catholic priest named Conlan, the Warden of the Institution, Mr. Pratt, a fellow-journalist named Carris (a man particularly interested in poltergeist phenomena) and Mrs. Bradley. The unknown three were two boys from the Institution who had come to the haunted house direct from Mrs. Bradley's own care, for they had just concluded their week's summer holiday at the house rented from Eliza Hodge, and the young instructor who had come down in charge of the party. These three were already at the haunted house when the party arrived, and had 'gone to ground' as Mrs. Bradley expressed it with some accuracy. Father Conlan did not put in an appearance until the Monday morning, and he left on the Tuesday evening with Ferdinand and Caroline. The journalists left on the Thursday morning. On the Thursday evening the two boys and their instructor returned to Miss Hodge's house, and by the Friday morning no one was left except Mrs. Bradley herself, but she had in her possession ten interesting documents, duly signed and dated which she was able, later on, to hand over to the police. Ferdinand and Mr. Pratt returned to the haunted house, in mystified response to Mrs. Bradley's further invitation, on the Friday afternoon.

  The first séance was held on the Monday evening, and before the guests settled down in the library, which opened on the left of the hall as one entered the house, Mrs. Bradley earnestly requested them to make a thorough exploration to convince themselves that no unauthorised person and no 'trick' apparatus was to be found.

  The guests, who had assembled much in the spirit of children attending a party, gleefully explored the whole house and then, except for the tiny pantry window, which they forgot, secured with adhesive tape all the entrances. Then they assembled with their hostess in the library and it was suggested by Caroline that they might have the windows open. A vote was taken upon this proposal and it was agreed to in view of the fact that seven people in the fair-sized but not particularly large room would soon produce a stuffy atmosphere, and that they were all witnesses of one another's actions.

  The séance was almost ludicrously successful. Scarcely had the circle settled down—in the most informal manner, incidentally, grouped as the sitters pleased about the room, everyone talking, reading, smoking or, in the case of Mr. Pratt's friend Mr. Carris, playing Patience—when everyone was electrified by the sudden ringing of bells.

  Mrs. Bradley had had the bell wires repaired, and every separate member of the party had either tested the bells or watched and listened whilst other people tested them.

  The reaction, after the first shock, was disciplined and intelligent. Those who had agreed to do so—Ferdinand, Mrs. Bradley, Mr. Carris, and Father Conlan—went out of the room and made a concerted tour of the house. They went first to the servants' quarters, where the indicator was still vibrating. Each investigator had been provided with a small notebook in which he or she was to record the phenomena, if any, and his or her own reactions to them.

  A written entry was duly made by everyone, and by the side of it everyone unhesitatingly wrote Faked. Two of the company, Caroline and the priest, also wrote, "But I don't see how," and "Inexplicable, however," respectively. Ferdinand added to his verdict the rider: "I would have said Genuine if all the bells had been rung, but the poltergeist seems to have avoided coming too near to where we were, in case we heard him moving about. The bells in the hall and in the room where we had been sitting and in the bedroom over this séance room did not ring."

  The party returned to the room, and nothing more happened for about an hour. Then came a crash, followed by smaller tumbling noises, and the party, all this time, running out into the hall, beheld parts of a bedstead, three chairs, a candlestick and five metal trays lying on the floor at the foot of the staircase.

  The company, not as well-controlled this time, went bounding upstairs. Nothing could be seen, heard, or in any way discovered, although every bedroom and every attic was searched. Two earnest seekers after truth even discovered the attic cupboard which had the airholes, but, so far as they could tell, it was empty and, as Caroline expressed it, innocent.

  Opinions in the various notebooks varied on the subject of this second phenomenon. The majority wrote to the effect that they supposed the furniture had been thrown downstairs by human and not by super-human agency, but two of these confessed that they could not see how it had been done. Ferdinand wrote that he thought he had the glimmering of an idea of the method, and Mr. Pratt wrote: "I think I know where they hid, but I cannot see why we did not get them on the back stairs." The priest wrote: "This is trickery, but it is cleverly done and I cannot determine the method. There must be a cellar."

  Caroline and Mr. Carris wrote that, failing any feasible explanation, they considered the phenomenon genuine, and Caroline added with her usual naïveté: "I don't think I should like to sleep here alone."

  None of the party slept there except the young instructor and his charges, but where they slept remained as secret as did the fact of their existence. The rest of the party spent the night at the inn, in accordance with a previous arrangement, although Mr. Carris demurred.

  All day Tuesday the phenomena continued at irregular intervals, and in the evening, when it was dusk, and Ferdinand, Caroline, and Father Conlan were about to take their departure, Mrs. Bradley summoned everyone else to the dining-room and requested them to accompany the three to the gate.

  "I will wave to you all from the window of the spare bedroom, the one from which Cousin Tom is supposed to have fallen," she said. Ferdinand, suspecting that some more trickery was toward, glanced at her and raised his eyebrows.

  "It's all right," said his mother. "I shall not fall out of the window."

  When the party was out on the gravel drive they turned to look up at the first floor. There was Mrs. Bradley waving from one of the windows, and behind her could be seen distinctly the outline of a shadowy man.

  The priest began to run back, but Ferdinand caught his arm and reassured him. When the other three returned to the house, Mrs. Bradley was in the hall to meet them.

  The two journalists made for the stairs, but, carefully though they searched, there was no one to be found in the house except the people for whom they could account.

  "Illusion?" asked Mr. Pratt.

  "Oh, no, there was someone with me," said Mrs. Bradley. "What's more, he and his confederates are still in the house."

  At these words the journalists, assisted by the Warden, who had been an interested but uncommunicative observer of the phenomena so far witnessed in the house, made a still more thorough search. The journalists came to the conclusion, after some trouble and a considerable expenditure of electricity, that the ventilated cupboard at the top of the attic stairs had nothing to conceal, and the Warden found that there was a communicating door between the chief bedroom and the room adjoining. Mrs. Bradley sat downstairs in the dining-room placidly knitting a sh
apeless length of mauve wool, adding (apparently as the fancy took her, for she seemed to be following no particular pattern) touches of grey and shrimp-pink, and blandly received reports as they came in. Occasionally she went to the window and stared out. There was never anything to be seen except the weedy drive and the gloomy trees. It was a disconcerting house, in more senses than one.