Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Well, we’d better see how the time goes,” said Timothy cautiously. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t pay another visit to the Hall, if that’s what you’d like, but I don’t think we’ll spend another night there until I’ve had it vetted for damp and dry-rot and a few such mundane matters, and until I’ve found out where all those icy blasts come from. I can’t think how any house manages to be so chilly at this time of year.”

  “Ghosts are said to make a place seem cold, and Mrs. Gee told us it was haunted. Of course, I don’t believe in anything of the sort, but I retain an uneasy impression that somebody or something came into our room that night. Do you think we need the psychical research people?”

  “Bless you, my child!” said Timothy. “Oh, I know what I wanted to ask you.” He was anxious to change the subject. “Who’s acting as prompter tomorrow, just in case I fluff?”

  “You dare to fluff! Anyway, the prompting is all arranged for, so there’s nothing to worry about, thank goodness. We take it in turns when we’re off-stage. P.-B. has worked out a rota.”

  “She’s not the stage-manager. I thought that was Hildegarde Salter, her second-in-command.”

  “Ah, but if P.-B. does it everybody automatically sticks to her ruling because they’re too scared of her to do anything else. Besides, Hildegarde has plenty to do without worrying about whether people are suddenly going to dry up in mid-speech.”

  Macbeth passed off without incident except for two interesting items in a conversation which Timothy heard during the first interval. It was between Banquo and Ross, who were restoring their energies with the beer which Miss Pomfret-Brown had thoughtfully provided (and strictly rationed) for the refreshment of her gentlemen players.

  “Funny about that chap Colquhoun.”

  “That’s not his name, you know.”

  “Didn’t think it was. Kilbride Colquhoun is a bit difficult to swallow, even north of the Border, and I should very much doubt whether he’s a Scotsman, anyway. Funny thing about him, all the same.”

  “How do you mean? Because he opted out of the play? I daresay these amateur things aren’t much in his line, as he’s a pro., and he was quite enough of a heel to let the rest of us down if it suited him.”

  “Oh, granted, but this performance happened to be something pretty special for him.”

  “You mean because he’s got a kid at the school?”

  “Oh, no, not that. At least, that would only be a secondary consideration to that sort of fellow. No, it seems that the great Pomfret-Brown is in cahoots with Wallingford, the TV producer, and Colquhoun told me that he was bribed into taking on Macbeth with the promise from her that Wallingford would be in front to size him up for the lead in a series they’re doing next spring.”

  “I thought he was going over to the States. Anyway, is Wallingford in front?”

  “I’ve no idea. It wouldn’t matter to us either way, would it? My only concern is not to make a fool of myself in front of my daughter.”

  “I’m taking a chance and am sending my boy here next term. You heard what was said about a prep. school.”

  “Really? Bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. The school will get him through Common Entrance all right. The old lady will see to that. Besides, I heard a rumour that Lady Macbeth . . .” At this point the speaker caught sight of Timothy and broke off. Following the direction of his friend’s eyes, Ross, after a tactful parenthesis, returned to the former subject of conversation.

  “Yes, she’s marvellously good, isn’t she? Got that extraordinary flair, like all real actresses, for making herself appear supremely beautiful just at the right moments. But I was telling you about Colquhoun. There must be a reason why he opted out, you know, and I’d like to know what it is. Of course, he’s a fishy sort of fellow, by what one hears about him here and there, especially in London, but, with the chance of a lead in a TV series, you’d think he’d put up with anything—and, after all, Lady Macbeth was perfectly polite . . .”

  “And perfectly devastating, and that in the most beautiful voice—Oh, hallo, Herring! How do you think it’s going?”

  “All right, so far,” said Timothy. “If one may butt in on a private conversation . . .”

  “I was saying what a marvellous performance your wife is putting up, old man.”

  “And how she got shut of Colquhoun,” said Timothy, “according to the bit of your talk I overheard.”

  “I don’t believe—I was just saying so—that she did get shut of him. She shrivelled him up all right, but he deserved it. A most obnoxious fellow. Tried to take liberties, you know, for which there was no justification in the text, and I’m glad Mrs. Herring didn’t let him get away with them. All the same, I thought it all ended amicably.”

  “Why, then,” asked Timothy, “do you think he threw up his part?”

  “Trouble with the police, old man. That’s my view,” said Ross.

  “That’s not what I heard,” said Banquo. “He’s too careful to get mixed up with the police, although I did hear that, having been pretty much in the red for a number of years—living mostly on his wits with only the occasional offer of decent parts—he’s begun to pay off his creditors with a suspiciously sudden access of wealth for which there’s no accounting . . .”

  “Well, that could be what I said. He’s in trouble as the result of shady doings. I’ll bet you anything you like that he’s having to hide from the rozzers,” declared Ross.

  “It could be so,” said Timothy, “but have you ever given thought to the psychological make-up of the ham actor?”

  “He can’t really be such a ham, or the TV people wouldn’t be interested,” said Banquo.

  “That’s open to question, of course—that they are interested, I mean. To return to what I was saying: if he were in trouble with the police we’d have heard of it through the grape-vine. There’s only one thing which keeps a ham actor off the stage, and that is that he simply isn’t fit enough to go on.”

  “There was no mention of Colquhoun’s having had an accident. We should have heard about that even sooner than that he was in the other sort of trouble,” said Ross.

  “I did hear about it. He’s smashed his face up. Got into some brawl or other, and took a bashing. I had it from a chap in Town who uses the same pub,” said Banquo.

  “Oh, a pub brawl? Doesn’t sound much like Colquhoun.”

  “No. My informant seemed to think it must have been a private fight. In other words, some indignant husband took him to bits and reassembled the pieces. Anyway, there was Colquhoun, all sticking-plaster and head-bandages, according to this chap I met . . .”

  “Then he shouldn’t have been drinking,” said Ross.

  “Oh, the head-bandage was probably camouflage to make himself look more interesting. The most likely thing is that somebody who didn’t like his little ways busted him on the nose and cut his lip for him and a few things like that. He’d certainly got the ripest of ripe black eyes, this fellow said.”

  The girl who was acting as call-boy summoned the actors for the next scene, and the play proceeded to a triumphant conclusion. Alison was too tired that night to be told of the conversation which seemed to account for the non-appearance in the play of Kilbride Colquhoun, so, after the lavish party which Miss Pomfret-Brown gave for all the adult actors, Timothy put his wife to bed, then placed in water her bouquets—one from the staff, one from the girls, one from the rest of the cast, and a particularly staggering offering from young Davidson who had played Macbeth. Then he turned in beside her.

  “How do you think it went?” she asked.

  “Marvellously, darling. Pity, in a way, that there’s only the one performance.”

  “One is quite enough for me.”

  “Well, actually, I’m rather glad you feel like that. Now go to sleep.”

  “What were you telling me about this home for old ladies?”

  “Nothing more tonight.”

  “When are we going to look
at it?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Well, the sooner the better, then. It will be something to fill the void. I’m going to miss the rehearsals and the rest of the cast and P.-B. and, apart from the agony of wondering whether the play is going to be all right on the night, life seems flat and uninteresting, especially without a summer holiday in prospect.”

  “We can go away later on in the year. It shouldn’t take all that long to settle Lady Matilda’s hash.”

  “Perhaps not, but—well, I’ve got a hash of my own to settle before September.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’m too tired to argue with you, and, besides, I have to pluck up my courage.”

  “Here, you haven’t gone and fallen for young Davidson, have you?”

  “Good heavens, no! Don’t grip me like that. It hurts.”

  “I’m sorry. All the same, do you want me to have a sleepless night, wondering what devilment you’re up to now?”

  “I don’t mind, so long as I don’t have one, too. It was you who said we ought to go to sleep, so why don’t we?”

  “You’re not going to put me out of my misery?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing very bad, but you may be annoyed about it for a little while, and I don’t want you to be annoyed with me tonight. It will keep. Tell me a bedtime story and send me to sleep.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Almshouses

  “Lord, thou hast given me a cell

  Wherin to dwell.

  A little house, whose humble Roof

  Is weatherproof.”

  A Thanksgiving to God for His House

  Realising that in her own good time, and not until then, Alison would tell him what was on her mind, Timothy took her home on the following morning and they spent the next couple of days quietly. On the Tuesday, when he had read his letters and had settled down with the morning paper, she said,

  “What about Lady Matilda’s Rest?”

  “Ah, yes. Coningsby was going to ring up the place and let me know. I wondered how he had got hold of the story, but it seems that the warden is his aunt.”

  The telephone call came through about an hour later. Any day and time would be convenient for the warden, it seemed. Timothy suggested that the following afternoon would suit him, and immediately after breakfast on the Wednesday he and Alison set out in the car and took much the same route as he and Parsons had used to get to Warlock Hall.

  At the moorings where Timothy kept his boat they branched off for the small town of Horsebridge and then the road followed the river north-westward.

  “Tim,” said Alison, “what are we trying to do?”

  “I’m dashed if I know. Let’s leave it until we get there, shall we? Now, then, after these crossroads it looks as though we take this next fork. To me, that looks like the tower we were told about, so let’s make for that.

  Coming to a few thatched cottages a mile or so beyond the end of the town, they stopped to ask the way, although Timothy was pretty sure that the buildings he had seen from the river were what he now sought.

  Lady Matilda’s Rest was about another mile further on and at the end of a short lane. Wide-open wrought-iron gates brought the car on to a broad gravel path bordered by flower-beds backed by high walls. It led to an archway which formed a porch the size of a large room. This supported the square tower of what had been the prior’s lodging. There was a window-aperture at one side of the porch and, as Timothy drew up and handed Alison out, a man’s face appeared at the aperture and its owner said,

  “Mr. Herring, sir? The warden got your telephone message and is expecting you. Just half a mo, sir, and I’ll come and show you up. I’m the porter here.”

  A door opposite the window-aperture led to a flight of stairs. At the top of these there was another door. It was opened, when the porter knocked, by a grey-haired, thin-faced woman who appeared to be in her fifties. The porter announced the visitors and retreated. The grey-haired woman said,

  “Do come in. It was so good of you to telephone my nephew. He said that he hoped you would call to see us.” She took them into a large, square room whose stone walls were hung here and there with some brass-rubbings mounted on linen. There were no other decorations except a vase of flowers on top of a bookcase. A massive table stood in the middle of the room and the only other furnishings were four chairs and an ugly, old-fashioned éscritoire littered with papers.

  “Your nephew?” Timothy repeated. “Yes, he brought up the subject of Lady Matilda’s Rest at our last meeting.”

  “He said he was sure you would help us if you could. They want to pull us down. It’s the wretched town council, you know,” said the warden.

  “You realise, I am sure, that no decisions rest with me,” said Timothy. “I can only make a report, and my report rests largely upon what our architect has to say. Then the property has to be surveyed, of course, and as a result of all these findings my committee comes to its decision.”

  “Yes, I understand all that. Perhaps you would care to take a look round. This room, and the two above it, are my lodgings.”

  “I’m told there is no plan to do away with this tower.”

  “That is true, and the same is true of the great hall and the mediæval kitchen. But the really serious aspect is that the whole character of the place will be changed when the dwelling-houses and the hospital have been demolished and our beautiful little church turned into a place of entertainment. Apart from that, my old ladies will be rendered homeless.”

  “Surely not? I was told that they would be re-housed elsewhere.”

  “That is true, but, if you have the time to spare, I will tell you where some of them are to go.”

  The great hall could be reached by a short stairway which led directly down to it from the tower. It was well-lighted, having windows on both long sides and was furnished with three heavy, primitive tables. There was no dais, but the top table, which was placed across the width of the hall, had two great chairs for seating, whereas the other tables, which were placed lengthwise down the room, provided only backless benches for the diners. The floor was bare and there was a central hearth stacked with logs. Altogether, it was a cheerless place, in spite of the sunshine which picked up bright colours in the unevenly tiled floor, and (again in spite of the sunshine) the room struck cold.

  The kitchen next door was vast, and was saved from grimness by its array of pewter dishes and flagons, its burnished copper pans, its cooking range complete with roasting-jack, and its enormous dresser on whose open shelves were some brightly patterned mugs and plates. There was a stone sink beneath one window and a modern tea-trolley underneath the other, but, like the dining-hall, the kitchen was stone-flagged and chilly.

  “There is a rota of cooks,” explained the warden, Miss Coningsby-Layton. “They pair off and take turns. Unfortunately they are not all equally good at cooking. Now I’ll show you their houses, of which they are very proud.”

  The houses made a picturesque, dilapidated row. They were half-timbered, consisted each of one ground floor and one first-floor room, and their tall chimneys made a pleasing although somewhat drunken pattern against the blue sky. Outside each front door there was a wooden seat wide enough to accommodate two people, and on one of these benches sat an elderly woman, knitting.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Baines,” said the warden. “I wonder whether you would like to show Mr. and Mrs. Herring your little house? They’ve come to help us.”

  “Ay, they can go inside, if they want,” said the crone, without looking up from her knitting. “Ent much to see.”

  “Shouldn’t you prefer to show your visitors round?” asked the warden, gently.

  “Why?” demanded the old woman suspiciously.

  “Oh, well!” Miss Coningsby-Layton laughed off the brusque question. The front door was wide open. Timothy stood aside. Alison followed the warden i
nto a tiny room. It contained an armchair, an upright chair, a cupboard, a table, a sink, and a gas-ring.

  “I’m not too much enamoured of gas-rings for old people,” said Miss Coningsby-Layton. “Carelessness, you know, and some of them don’t see very well. We don’t want to start a fire. However, it means they can make themselves a cup of tea if they feel like it, and that means a great deal to old people.”

  They went upstairs. The tiny bedroom, spotlessly kept, as the living-room had been, contained a bed, a chair, a Dutch wardrobe, and a washing-stand.

  “There isn’t room for anything more, as you can see,” said the warden, interpreting Alison’s silence, “but one comfort is that it doesn’t give them very much housework to do. They have to go to the pump for water, but they can heat it on the gas-ring if they want to wash in hot water, and for baths they go across to the hospital, where the council have installed two bathrooms. Those are unsatisfactory, though, from my point of view, because the water is heated by gas and I’m so afraid they’ll blow themselves up. I’ve had to make it the porter’s job to light the geysers, and the porter isn’t pleased about that. Of course, the old ladies hate having a bath, so I have to hound them over there, poor old things. They’re on a rota, so that there is no chance of their being able to avoid their hygienic obligations, but it means that I have to be a bit of a dragon. Mind you, I don’t let them go straight back across the quad after they’ve bathed. They go into the ward and get a cup of cocoa from matron. It acts as a palliative, I think, and it also means that they don’t come straight from steamy heat into the cold air.”

  They re-joined Timothy, who had seated himself on the bench beside the occupant and, when they appeared, was picking up a stitch which the old woman had dropped. He concluded this employment and then stood up.

  “Are all the houses alike inside?” asked Alison, as the warden led the way back to her lodging.

  “Basically they are, but each inmate is allowed to bring one piece of furniture, if she wants to, provided it can be given enough room. Most of them bring their favourite armchair, although one or two have brought a bed. Then, of course, they can put up a picture or two, and family photographs. We don’t get as many texts from the Bible as I believe they did in the old days, and, needless to say, I don’t supply any, unless they ask for them.”