Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “It doesn’t look as though some of the visiting grandchildren would have been all that safe from falling into the river, does it?” said Tom Parsons, standing still and casting his eye over the neglected timbering.

  “It’s funny, you know,” said Timothy, “but when I first heard what had happened I took it for granted that the old lady had been killed at the front of her cottage. I think I had visualised her seated on one of those wooden benches they had, and the thing suddenly falling on her before she had a chance to move out of the way. Odd how one gets these ideas.”

  “It seems so unlikely,” said Parsons, as they turned back on to the path and retraced their steps round the building to where they had left Timothy’s car, “that a chimney should have crashed into that garden from such a long way off. Coningsby must be right. Somebody moved the body.”

  “I think the medical evidence is against the chimney-pot theory. It couldn’t really have happened, you know. That’s what’s bothering the police—the complete incredibility of the thing. I don’t wonder they’ve adjourned the inquest.”

  “But who would kill a poor old almswoman intentionally? That doesn’t make sense, either. And didn’t the others know anything about it? I suppose they’ve all been questioned, and Miss Coningsby-Layton, too. Oh, well, we shall know all the answers later on, I hope. Anyway, council or no council, it’s certainly put an end to Lady Matilda’s Rest.”

  Timothy accompanied Miss Coningsby-Layton to the inquest and she was also escorted by her nephew, who had taken another day’s leave from the Phisbe headquarters in order to be present. Alison had gone down to Dorset to put in a few days of acclimatisation before term began, but Parsons had returned from the north of England where he had been to look at the proposed site for a new town hall and, after the inquest, was to spend the night at Timothy’s Cotswold home.

  The town council was represented by a solicitor and Timothy called in another (who always acted for Phisbe) in order to safeguard Miss Coningsby-Layton’s interests. The question of negligence, however, did not arise, or, rather, when it did arise, was very easily disposed of. In fact, Timothy thought, except that hearsay evidence was admitted, the inquest might almost have been the case which the magistrates would have presented to them later.

  “Evidence of identification was taken at the previous hearing and is not in doubt,” said the coroner, “but the police have pursued their enquiries since that time and I think a recapitulation of the medical evidence might be useful. Call Dr. Ransome.”

  Dr. Ransome was the medical man who had been called in by Miss Coningsby-Layton when the body of Mrs. Dasti had been discovered. He was asked to give a full account of his findings.

  “I received a telephone message at just after two o’clock in the afternoon of August 23, asking me to go at once to the Lady Matilda almshouses as a fatality had occurred there.”

  “That would have been a Sunday, of course.”

  “On a Sunday, yes. I had just finished my lunch and had no other emergency calls, so I went at once, and was taken to the back garden of number six of the cottages to examine the body of an elderly woman whom I now know to have been Mrs. Martha Dasti, an inmate of the almshouses.”

  “You examined the body?”

  “I did.”

  “And to what conclusion did you come?”

  “I concluded that the woman had been dead for between twelve and fifteen hours.”

  “What did you find was the cause of death?”

  “The deceased had been struck on the head with extreme force. Do you wish me to repeat the clinical details? I gave them in full at the preliminary enquiry.”

  “They will mean very little to the jury. You mean that the force employed was sufficient to have caused death?”

  “Such was my opinion at the time, and I remain of that opinion.

  “Did you come to any conclusion as to the means by which the blow had been struck?”

  “Yes, at the time the means seemed obvious. The deceased was lying among the fragments of what appeared to be a chimney-pot. I deduced that this had fallen and—to use a colloquialism—brained her.”

  “Do you now have any cause to alter your opinion as to the cause of death?”

  “Yes, I altered my opinion that a falling chimney was the cause. This was after consultation with Dr. Modder, who is the police surgeon for this district.”

  “Perhaps we will hear what Dr. Modder has to say. You are in agreement, I take it?”

  “We are in full agreement, including the factor which puzzles us.”

  “What would that be?”

  “We are in agreement that the cause of death could not have been the chimney-pot, owing to the nature of the wound, but we have come to no conclusion as to what else could have been responsible, except that it was flat and very heavy.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Call Dr. Modder.”

  “I was sent for by Detective-Superintendent Dunne after my colleague, Dr. Ransome, had informed Miss Coningsby-Layton, the warden of Lady Matilda’s Rest, that it was necessary to send for the police, as an inquest would be called for before a death certificate could be issued,” said the police surgeon. “Having examined the body, I looked to see how the chimney could have fallen, and I concluded from my observations (which, I must add, were directed by Detective-Superintendent Dunne) that the broken shards which were scattered on and around the body could not have come from the chimney of the deceased’s own dwelling, since that was still intact. The pot of a stack three cottages away was missing, but, in my opinion, nothing short of an earthquake or a bombing raid could have carried it the distance it appeared to have travelled. The superintendent was of the same opinion, so I met Dr. Ransome and we made a further examination of the body. In consequence we are agreed that some other cause of death must be found.”

  “But about that you have come to no conclusion?”

  “None. Except that the deceased was killed either by some heavy object, other than the chimney pot, falling upon her head, or by a blow accidentally or deliberately inflicted, we have come to no conclusion.”

  Miss Coningsby-Layton came next. Her contribution was less officially-worded but was full of interest.

  “As it was Sunday,” she said, “our arrangements were a little different from those in operation on other days of the week. It used to be the case, before my appointment as warden, for the inmates to attend compulsory church services at eight o’clock and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings and also at half-past six on Sunday evenings.

  “I thought this a little arbitrary. I decided that my old ladies—some of whom were in their eighties and nineties—should be allowed an undisturbed Sunday morning, particularly since our own little church was served only once a month owing to pressure on the local clergy. I found that for three out of four Sundays my pensioners were obliged to walk a mile to attend the village church or chapel three times a day, a total of six miles. The incidence of feigned illness on such Sundays was a factor which influenced my decision, but, apart from that, I felt that my old ladies were not physically capable of so much exertion on what has been called the day of rest.

  “Fortunately I met with no overt official disapproval of what I considered to be my programme of reform, for I had instituted a new rule to the effect that the eight o’clock service was optional, even when our own church was in use, that the eleven o’clock service was also optional except on every fourth Sunday, when all they had to do was to cross the quadrangle, and that the six-thirty service was not to be attended by anybody without written permission from me. In its place I instituted a hymn-singing session in the dining-hall after a seven o’clock supper.”

  “Had you any reason for banning the evening church-going, Miss Coningsby-Layton?” asked the coroner.

  “I believed I had an excellent reason, but it has nothing to do with the scope of this enquiry.”

  “The old girls sloped off to the boozer,” said an uncouth voice.

  “Very well, if you are
sure it has no bearing on it,” said the coroner, ignoring the unseemly interruption and continuing with the witness. “You mention that your arrangements for Sundays were different from those in operation on the other days of the week. Did they apply to anything other than the church services?”

  “Yes, they did. The meal-times were differently arranged. I mention this because, otherwise, it might seem strange that Mrs. Dasti could have been dead for so many hours before her body was discovered.”

  “Ah, yes, the court would like to have that point elucidated. Please go on.”

  “Breakfast was at nine on Sundays. This was to allow any who wished to attend Communion to be able to do so and still get back to Lady Matilda’s Rest in time for their meal. The others—most of the inmates, as it happened—took what I believe is called a long lie-in. As breakfast was so late, the midday dinner was not until two o’clock instead of the week-day half-past twelve. I made a point of presiding at this, the main meal of the day, and I noticed, after I had said grace and the serving-up had begun, that Mrs. Dasti’s place was empty. I made enquiries, contacted the porter, and ordered him to go over to the matron of the infirmary to find out whether Mrs. Dasti had been taken ill and, if so, why I had received no report, but, receiving no satisfaction, I myself visited Mrs. Dasti’s cottage—I have a master-key, needless to say, to all the dwellings—and discovered the body. It was not in the cottage, but was lying in the back garden. I immediately telephoned Dr. Ransome and he notified the police as soon as he had examined the body. At this point I would like to pay tribute to Dr. Ransome’s help and support in what, to me, was an extremely horrifying and difficult situation.”

  “Quite, quite. A very dreadful experience for you, I’m sure. Had you any reason to think that the chimneys might be unsafe?” asked the coroner.

  “On the contrary. At my instigation the council sent workmen, only about six months ago, to inspect and repair them. They were very old, of course, and presented a somewhat curious appearance, but, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they were in a perfectly safe condition.”

  This opinion was confirmed by the town surveyor, who stated that the work had been done under his personal supervision and that he had tested the results.

  “Nothing short of a force-ten gale could have shifted one of those pots,” he informed the coroner, “and, as it happens, this has been a remarkably mild spring and summer. And even a gale couldn’t have taken that pot as far as it was carried,” he added. “Somebody must have monkeyed with it and taken it off and smashed it where it was found.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t deal in theories of that kind,” said the coroner. “Call Detective-Superintendent Dunne.”

  The police report followed the lines of the medical report.

  “Unable to account for the débris of the chimney-pot being in that particular spot, and in the light of the medical evidence presented to us when a full examination of the body had been made, we had no option but to seek for another means of the deceased having been killed by a blow on the head,” said Detective-Superintendent Dunne. “Furthermore, we have had the roofs and chimneys tested and inspected, and they are in a safe condition. We have looked in vain for the aforesaid other lethal object, but without success. Furthermore, we should wish to ascertain what, so far, has not been ascertained, and that is for what reason the deceased was out of her bed and in her back garden at some time between the hours of eleven p.m. on the Saturday and two a.m. on the following Sunday morning, as we understand that lights out at Lady Matilda’s Rest was always observed at ten p.m., the porter being under orders to turn the electricity off at the main at that hour. With the total absence of bloodstains where the body was found, we have also come to the conclusion that the deceased died elsewhere than in her own back garden, but we are not able to state, so far as our investigations have gone, where she might have met her death, or who moved the body to where it was found.”

  The porter, who appeared clad in the black clothes, boots, and tie which he had worn at Mrs. Dasti’s funeral, agreed that Lights Out was at ten o’clock and asserted positively that he had always carried out his orders in this respect, as the warden, he ventured to believe, would testify, “her own lights going out the same as everybody else’s and she being reduced to depending on an oil lamp if she wanted to sit up later than ten, although her radio was run off a battery, not that that was much trouble, being a transistor set,” added the porter.

  Further questions elicited a fact which indicated that Miss Coningsby-Layton’s rule, although liberal and sympathetic, took the form of a benevolent despotism. One of his duties was to book the old ladies out and in when they left the almshouses to go for a walk into the village or the town, “it being, at their age,” said the porter, “just as well to keep tabs on them, as it were, for their own safety.”

  It further transpired that most of them went in couples, and that Miss Coningsby-Layton preferred it that way, as she had often told him. The dead woman, however, usually went out alone on Saturdays, although at other times she took a companion with her.

  “And did you ever remark upon these solitary Saturday jaunts of hers?” asked the coroner.

  “Not to her, sir. It was no business of mine. I clocked her out and I clocked her in—or my wife did—and that was all there was to it, but I reckon I know what the answer was. They used to be issued with their week’s pocket-money on Friday evenings, and I reckon she liked to spend hers on a Saturday on her own, like, without anybody else knowing what she bought, or having to treat any of them to any of it. Some of our old ladies were secretive like that, especially with sweets, and you can’t hardly blame them, seeing how little they had to spend.”

  “Had she been out on the Saturday under review?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Well, not so far as I know. That’s to say, she never passed out by my lodge, sir, and that I’ll swear to, come what may.”

  He was followed by the old woman whose chimney-pot had been found in ruins in Mrs. Dasti’s back garden. Timothy, who was feeling sentimental about the dead woman and her clandestine spending of her bit of pocket-money, could not understand at first why the lessee of the chimney had been called. It turned out, however, that she had an important contribution to make. Timothy recognised her as an old friend. She was the woman whose wooden bench he had shared on his first visit to Lady Matilda’s Rest, and he waited with interest to hear what she would have to say.

  “Now, Mrs. Baines,” said the coroner encouragingly, “I believe you have something to tell us which has a bearing, albeit a negative one, on what the porter has just said.”

  “Eh?”

  “The porter tells us that he kept a little black book in which he noted down the times when you ladies left your houses and came back to them.”

  “So he thinks.”

  “Well, suppose you tell us, just in your own words, what really did happen.”

  “He’s a busybody, that’s what he is. Yes, and a right nosey parker, too and all. They’re all busybodies. Take our pensions, they do, and what do we get for it? Bread and scrape and never joint and two veg. except on a Sunday, and then we has to wait ’til two o’clock for it, so’s we won’t eat so much tea and supper. Supper! Cheese or cold meat and not even so much as a pickled onion to go with it. A rotten lot they are, if you asks me. There’s only one out of the whole boilin’ of ’em as I ever had any use for, and, of course, they only let him talk to me once. Afraid of what I’d tell ’im, I daresay, and no wonder! Picked up me stitches, he did . . .” she pointed dramatically at Timothy . . . “and him a gentleman born, as anybody could bear witness to.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said the coroner, “but we were talking about you ladies leaving your cottages and making your little excursions into the town.”

  “Him with his pencil and his book!” She glared at the porter. “I wonder he don’t call hisself the recordin’ angel and have done with it. ‘Oh yes! Mrs. Baines, ain’t it? And where are we off to today, Mrs. Baines?
Two penn’orth of sherbet dabs, is it, or are we ’aving a couple put on the slate at the Pig and Whistle?’ Fair makes you sick, he do, with his nasty indoo-end-you. End us? I reckon he’d of liked to! Well, somebody have ended poor old Mattie Dasti, ain’t they? And I wouldn’t put that past ’im, neether, the buggerin’ umbug!”

  “Please, please, Mrs. Baines! You must not use that kind of language in my court!”

  “Sorry, I’m sure, sir. But thinking of that . . .”

  “Yes, yes, but . . .”

  “I kind of get carried away. Well, as I was sayin’ before you interrupted me, there’s more ways of gettin’ out of chokey nor by climbin’ a wall.” She looked triumphantly round the courtroom. “Yes, more ways nor one, too an’ all,” she asserted, nodding her head.

  “Ah, yes, now we are coming to it,” said the coroner. “I believe you told the police . . .”

  “I did that. Not as they seem to ’ave made much use of it. Where’s the odds, I said, in us ladies takin’ a bit of a walk—only occasional-like, of course—where’s the odds, I said, in us nippin’ out the back way for a change, without ’aving to check out and check in like a lot of bloody schoolkids? What’s the good of a bit of broken fence that isn’t overlooked from nowhere, I said, if a lady can’t slip out and back when her fancy takes ’er, I said.”

  “I believe you are referring to the fact that part of the back fence has been broken down. Do you remember when that first happened?”

  “No, I don’t. Nor do I know whether it fell or whether it was pushed, although I might make a guess if anybody paid me for it.”

  “I think you are telling us that Mrs. Dasti used to get in and out of Lady Matilda’s Rest that way. Is that what you wish us to understand?”

  “Well, what if she did? And what if her friends came to see her that way, too? Is it any odds to anybody?”