Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Oh, come, now! Don’t judge so harshly. She’s probably good-heartedness itself when you get to know her.”

  “I find I’m very glad she’s gone, anyway, now that I know we’re rid of her. If we have anybody in her place, I think we’ll make sure it’s a native of those parts.”

  “What prejudice do you have against Londoners?”

  “None at all. I like, admire, and respect them. But that’s in general. It doesn’t always apply in particular cases, and Mrs. Gee is a particular case. I suppose we ought to have asked her whether she knows of any local people who might be glad to act as caretakers when we’re not at Herrings, though, oughtn’t we?”

  “If you feel as you do about her, I shouldn’t think you’d care about her recommendations.”

  “No, perhaps not.”

  “Still, you’re probably right about Herrings (note that I haven’t called it Warlock Hall this time) needing a caretaker when we’re not there. Mrs. Gee did at least keep it clean and aired.”

  “You got rid of her more easily than you expected, though, didn’t you?” asked Alison, as they continued their drive towards the Cambridge hotel where they were to spend a second night.

  “Yes, thank goodness. She gave me notice, and I suggested she might like to leave at once. She was going to, anyway, even if we hadn’t come along today. Her luggage was dumped under the gatehouse archway and I think she was wearing her best bib and tucker for the journey.”

  “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it, that she wanted to be off at such short notice?”

  “Apparently she can’t abide strange men about the place. She was ‘once took advantage of’ as a young girl, she informed me. As we’re bringing in a small army of workmen and gardeners, I should have thought there was safety in numbers, but that theory doesn’t seem to have occurred to her. However, thank goodness she and Jabez have left the place. I’m as glad to see the back of them as you are.”

  “But why? She kept the house clean, as we agreed, and you thought she seemed a harmless sort of person enough, and Jabez could have helped in the garden.”

  “Yes, well, it’s really Jabez I’m talking about. I have an idea he’s a wrong ’un, or else he’s in with some wrong ’uns.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Timothy gave her a carefully edited account of his adventures, including those when last he had visited Warlock Hall, and concluded,

  “So either he’s a villain or a dupe, or maybe a bit of both. Anyway, there’s been something fishy going on at the Hall and down-river of a night.”

  “Why haven’t you told me all this before?”

  “There was no occasion until today and, once we get our workmen in, there won’t be any more trouble of that sort, I’m sure.”

  “What do you think it was all about?”

  “Smuggling, but what the three of them were planning to smuggle I couldn’t say. Of course, it asks for it out here. The house is solitary and the creek is handy. I’ve no doubt there could be hiding-places in the marshes, but I expect that, after my great-uncle died, the house was more convenient.”

  “For what? Have you any idea?”

  “Well, there were those palliasses in the undercroft. They’d gone, the last time I was there, but when we go back to the house I’d like to find out whether they’ve been replaced. I’m glad Mrs. Gee is out of the way because it somehow gives me a free hand to do the necessary snooping.”

  “But the house belongs to you. Why shouldn’t you snoop?”

  “Belongs to us. I know, but it’s better to have it and the gatehouse to ourselves, I think. You see, there’s something else I ought to tell you. Do you remember saying, after we’d slept at the Hall, that you felt sure somebody had come into our bedroom during the night?”

  “But nobody had, had they?”

  “I’m afraid somebody did manage to sneak in. He left a box of matches on the bedside table.”

  “But why should . . . ? I mean, it seems such a pointless thing to do.”

  “Not if, after Mrs. Gee’s insistence that the Hall is haunted, she or Jabez or somebody else wanted to scare us away.”

  “But a box of matches wouldn’t do that!”

  “I’m not so sure. It gave me a bit of a turn to find it there. I was afraid you’d feel the same, so I sneaked it under my pillow before you saw it.”

  “You must have picked up the gas stove matches and put them on the bedside table and forgotten you’d brought them upstairs.”

  “All right, then, perhaps I did.”

  “Don’t try to pacify the child! You mean you know you didn’t?”

  “That’s right. I mean I know I didn’t. If you remember, I had to use my lighter for the candles. There weren’t any matches in the house and I never carry them, so what?”

  “Oh, Tim! And we’d locked the bedroom door! It does seem rather frightening. And indeed there weren’t any other matches. I remember now. I used the last two out of the tiny packet in my handbag to light the calor gas stove.”

  “It means there must be another staircase, and one which leads directly into that room. I must make sure I find it and block it up, that’s all.”

  “But weren’t the front and back doors locked and bolted? How could anything human get into the house through those?”

  “Through my great-uncle’s air-raid shelter. I’ll show you sometime. Besides, the windows in those downstair rooms where my great-uncle dined and slept could be opened easily enough from outside. You’d only need a good strong kitchen knife to force the catches. But that’s not my worry. I can easily get them burglar-proofed and I can get the air-raid shelter blocked off.”

  “Have you thought any more about pulling down and re-building?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t like the place. I don’t like the setting and I don’t like those plug-uglies—not that I think they’ll come back, once the house begins to be set to rights. There’ll be too many people around. All the same, I’d love to know the whole of that story. My theory, for what it’s worth, is that somebody, with the help of Jabez and his friends, is smuggling in illegal immigrants and, while I’m desperately sorry for the poor blighters, I’m certainly not prepared to have them parked on my premises until they can get a forged work-permit or whatever it is they need.”

  “Meanwhile, what are our immediate plans?—apart from Herrings, I mean.”

  “Well, I want to take Tom Parsons along to have a look at Lady Matilda’s Rest. If he thinks well of the almshouses and the hospital, I’ll get in touch with the local council and see what they have to say about preserving the buildings intact. Of course, even if they agree, it may still mean they have to re-house the old ladies.”

  “All this is going to take time. Must you put it in hand at once?”

  “You’re thinking about the Dalmatian coast and Madeira. Well, look, I don’t suppose there’s any desperate hurry about the almshouses. Tom can look them over and then, if he wants them to be a Phisbe job, although I don’t think they are, the committee will need to get an objection lodged against the demolition, and then I’ll get the work begun on Warlock Hall, and then we’ll have our holiday. We shall only be away a month or so—maybe two months, if we feel like it . . .”

  “No, not longer than a month.”

  “Eh?”

  “Tim, I’ve got something to tell you. Well, no, not really to tell you—that’s too sweeping—something I need your advice about.”

  “Darling, don’t try to pull that one! What you mean is that you’ve committed yourself to some damn thing in some way you’re not too sure about, and you want me either to say that I approve or else to suggest some means by which you can extricate yourself without loss of face or your self-respect. Come clean, now!”

  “Oh, Tim, I didn’t mean to do anything behind your back, and I can honestly say that I haven’t absolutely committed myself, but I do need your advice. Well, not so much your advice as your consent.”

  “What! My consent? In these days of woma
n’s ascendancy over mere man?”

  “Yes, even in these days of equal partnership because, if I do what I’m going to tell you about, it will affect you for about ten weeks, so it’s only fair to give you a casting vote.”

  “Ten weeks? Sounds like a school term.”

  “Well, actually, darling, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “Sabrina has suborned you! I knew she would. This rotten Macbeth thing was the writing on the wall! I should have known better than to relinquish you to her clutches!”

  “Darling, she is in a bit of a spot, and it will only be for one term. She wants somebody to take over the English department while Hildegarde has a sabbatical. She could manage all right if it weren’t for this prep. school thing she’s planning, because she could do a bit of the English herself, although she hates classroom work, I know. But to start this prep. school off on the right foot, she can’t tie herself up with giving lessons, so would you mind very much if I helped out?”

  “It would involve your living at the school, I suppose?” said Timothy gloomily.

  “Well, yes. I could hardly commute every day from Stroud, could I? I could spend every week-end with you at home, of course. She would arrange for me to be free from noon on Fridays until prep. on Monday evenings, and then there would be the long week-end at half-term—Thursday afternoon until Tuesday evening . . .”

  “Give me time to think it over,” said Timothy, who was busy making his own plans. “When do you have to let her know?”

  “Well, I’ve accepted the job provisionally. I’ve only to let her know if you object so strongly that I feel I must turn it down.” She glanced at his profile, but it told her nothing. She lapsed into the silence she usually preserved on long journeys and nothing more was said until they stopped for dinner. Then she said, “Do you have any strong feeling against it? Do say, if you have.”

  “How do you feel about it yourself? Have you strong feelings either way?”

  “I’d like to help her out. She was good to me, you know, while I was on the staff. Besides, you could have a lot of fun without me, couldn’t you?”

  “Perish the thought!” said Timothy, with what he hoped was conviction.

  “Oh, Tim, don’t be such a liar! For one thing, you and Tom are going to sort out Lady Matilda’s Rest, and then you know you’ll be in your element over at Herrings, bossing the workmen and the gardeners and chasing the ghost and outwitting the smugglers, if any. I should only have been in your way and cramped your style, so that settles that. You’ll have the time of your life without me, and it will be lovely for you to be able to tell me all about it at the week-ends. I shall look forward tremendously to them.”

  Whether Alison was being ironic, bitter, or (as appeared on the surface) co-operative and cheerful, Timothy did not know and did not enquire. He busied himself with ringing up his travel agent and, finding that it would be easier, at such short notice, to arrange for a holiday in Madeira rather than a cruise down the coast of Yugoslavia, booked the former. He and Alison were to go and come back by sea, spending three weeks at Funchal and returning home three days before the school term began.

  This being settled, he rang up Tom Parsons and arranged to meet him in Horsebridge and take him to see Lady Matilda’s Rest before he and Alison were due to sail. They lunched together in the town, Tom having set out very early from his home in Shrewsbury, and decided to leave their cars in Horsebridge and walk alongside the river to the almshouses.

  “Who owns all this land?” asked Tom. There was a path beside the river, or, rather, between the river and a broad, shallow stream which skirted the long gardens of houses on the outskirts of the town. It then formed the boundary of small-holdings until, having meandered on in loops beside gravelled shallows, it met the main river beyond Lady Matilda’s Rest and, having joined with it, contributed its waters to the creek not far from Warlock Hall.

  “I’ve no idea. I suppose it’s council property, as they intend to turn it into a public park,” replied Timothy. “I’ve had some correspondence with the town clerk, and apparently they propose to begin the demolition of the almshouses in October and then carry out what he calls ‘the work on the amenities’ in the spring.”

  “So, if the place is worth saving, we’ve got to work fast. Do you know whether the county council approves? After all, Horsebridge isn’t a county borough, so the county council will be the local planning authority. They’re bound to notify various bodies, of whom Phisbe is one, before they can pull down anything likely to be of architectural or historic interest.”

  “So far as I know, Phisbe has received no application or notification, as I pointed out to the town clerk. He replied that we have been notified and that, as he’d received no reply, he’d taken it that silence indicated consent. To my next query, which was whether the other bodies concerned had consented, I have received no answer, so I’ve told him to hold his horses until I’ve made the necessary enquiries, pointing out that, while an investigation is still pending, it is illegal for his council to make a move in the matter.”

  “Oh, well, that should hold him for a bit. Mind you, as a lawyer he’ll be aware of all this, and I expect you’ll find he has notified all the proper people, and that, for some reason, the application to Phisbe has gone astray. Still, we’ll take a look at the place and see what we think.”

  “The trouble, in a way, you know, is young Coningsby.”

  “Oh? How do you mean?”

  “Well, this bird—the town clerk—sent me a copy of the letter he says he sent to our headquarters, and correspondence at headquarters is all dealt with first and foremost by Coningsby before anything is sent on to me.”

  “You don’t suspect the incorruptible Coningsby of jiggery-pokery with the correspondence, I hope?”

  “No, of course not, only—well, the warden of Lady Matilda’s Rest happens to be his aunt, or, at any rate, some relation of his and, if the almshouses go down the drain, so, in a manner of speaking, does the warden. Alison and I have both realised that.”

  “Oh, dear! Yes, I see what you mean, but—Coningsby?”

  “I know it seems an unworthy suspicion and I hope to heaven I’m wrong. Oh, well, if you condemn the place, that will be the end of it so far as Phisbe is concerned, but I shall find out, all the same, what the other conservation and preservation bodies think of it.”

  “You can take it for granted they’ve agreed to the demolition. The council wouldn’t dare to go ahead if they haven’t.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, if they’ve got official planning permission from the county, you know. It’s not as though it’s just a case of destruction. They really are proposing to provide some amenities. Sports grounds, a running-track, an open-air swimming bath, and boating facilities are definitely desirable public works, so who’s going to worry about a dozen old women and an out-of-work warden? I’ve pointed that out to Miss Coningsby-Layton, of course. I had to.”

  “By the way, Tim, who holds the fishing rights over these waters?”

  “Oh, they rest with the council, too, I suppose. It’s only coarse fishing, anyway. It’s not as though it’s a trout stream. I expect for about ten pence a day anybody can fish here.”

  “Is that the warden’s tower?” asked Parsons, pointing, and breaking away from the subject immediately under discussion. “Quite an impressive landmark, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s only about a mile from the town to Lady Matilda’s Rest, if you come this way.” They took a path which led to a plank bridge over the lesser stream, surmounted a stile a little farther on, and found themselves approaching the great gates of the almshouses. Between the flower-beds which bordered the broad drive up to the gatehouse they met an old woman. She raised her walking-stick and pointed it, witch-like, at Timothy.

  “So you be here again,” she said.

  “Yes, turned up again like a bad penny,” said Timothy. “Good afternoon, Mrs. . . .”

  “Simkins. I see you a-talkin’ to Mrs. Bain
es. A-settin’ on her outside bench were you, and a-talkin’ to her.”

  “Yes, I believe I was.”

  “They’re a-goin’ to pull our houses about our ears. Is that any of your doing?”

  “Certainly not, Mrs. Simkins. In fact, I’ve brought my friend Mr. Parsons to have a look round and see whether anything can be done about it. Mr. Parsons is an architect.”

  “We had the surveyor. He said as how we got to come down.”

  “Did he, indeed? When was this?”

  “A-pokin’ and a-pryin’! Why for can’t they leave us alone? Why do we have to come down?” She lowered the walking-stick and hobbled on, muttering to herself.

  “Poor old creature,” said Parsons. “Makes you wish you could do something. It’s a rotten business to uproot them at their time of life, but I suppose bureaucracy doesn’t worry too much about that.”

  “I understand they’re to be re-housed,” said Timothy, “but what that means I haven’t the least idea. One thing, the other old dears I’ve spoken to don’t much like it here, so they won’t be too much upset when they have to leave.”

  “All the same, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. The council may even think some of these old women would be better off in the geriatric ward of the local hospital, you know.”

  “The warden certainly didn’t seem keen on some of the accommodation they’ve been offered.”

  When they reached the gatehouse with its enormous porch, Timothy banged on the porter’s shuttered window. Obtaining no response, he turned towards the door of the warden’s tower, but before he could knock she had opened it.

  “I believe you were expecting us,” said Timothy. “This is Mr. Parsons, our architect. I promised you I’d bring him to take a look at the buildings.”

  “Oh, of course. I expect Mr. Parsons would prefer to wander around on his own. Without me, I mean.”

  “Well, if you really don’t mind,” said Parsons, “I’ll just let Herring take me along. He’s seen the buildings already, and I’d like to talk to him about them.