Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Far be it from me to display any ornery curiosity,” said Timothy in a guarded voice, when he and Alison were in their bunks in the saloon that night, “but how come you dug up Grete?”

  “Oh, Tim, I think she’s our ghost.”

  “A substantial one, if so.”

  “She smuggled herself out of East Germany.”

  “With no passport and no papers, one presumes.”

  “I didn’t ask. Diana and I found her in the attics. I don’t know the whole story, but it seems that she managed to get into West Germany and from there a Dutch sea-captain got her on to his boat and she came over disguised as one of the deck-hands.”

  “Just like that! Well, what do you know? And what are we supposed to do about her when this week-end is over?”

  “Take her on as an au pair, of course. What else?”

  “God bless you, darling, because I shan’t!”

  “She’s had a pretty rotten time, I expect. Anyway, when she comes back home with us you can question her and find what it’s all about. You’re not annoyed about her, are you?”

  “It seems to me that she’s an illegal immigrant. Do you want to get me quodded?”

  “Darling, who’s to know anything about it? Tom and Diana won’t talk, and the Gees have gone. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Sez you! Oh, well, it’s all settled for this week-end, I suppose. How did you come to light on this female Bismarck?”

  “Oh, quite by accident, of course. We wanted to explore the attics and had quite a lot of fun looking for the way up, but we found it at last. Apparently Grete has been spending her time dodging Mrs. Gee during cleaning times, and sleeping rough in the attics.”

  “Sleeping rough? Not if she parked herself on an almost new divan up there. How has she managed for food?”

  “I have no idea. That’s one of the things you can ask her when we get back. She certainly made a hearty supper tonight, didn’t she?”

  “Just like a starving wolf. Of course, she has a very big frame. Oh, well, I’ll sleep on it. I’m not going to let her spoil the week-end, especially as she did all the washing up. Night-night. Don’t stay awake brooding upon your sins. It’ll take too long, and I want you fresh and lively in the morning.”

  The morning and, indeed, the whole of Saturday and Sunday, did much to mollify Timothy. Grete was willing, it seemed, to undertake all the chores, including cooking the breakfasts and producing snacks at bedtime. She had nothing to say unless she was addressed, but when she did speak it was in careful and grammatical English, although still with a marked German accent. By the time the parties separated nobody knew any more about her than had been known at the beginning, but Timothy thought he had found a solution of his chief difficulty, which was what to do with the girl when the week-end was over.

  “Look here,” he said to Alison on the Monday morning, when he was due to drive her to the school, “I’m hanged if I want Grete as a member of the household. We don’t need an au pair, and Mrs. Nealons won’t want her hanging about in the kitchen. Do you think we can wish her on Sabrina? There must be some job she could do in a boarding school. Hang it all, Sabrina owes me something after pinching my wife for three months. What do you think?”

  “How do we explain Grete’s apparent statelessness though?”

  “We don’t. We put on a face of brass and don’t explain anything. Never explain, never accept responsibility, never complain, and, above all, never apologise. These are the basic rules of the Good Life.”

  “I’m glad you told me. Well, you seem to get away with most things where P.-B. is concerned, so you may very well get away with fobbing off Grete on to her. You can but try.”

  “Well, look you now, who discovered this Bismarck wench and took it on herself to befriend her? I suppose hers were the cries which caused me to conclude that Warlock Hall was haunted. I can’t wait to hear the whole story. Have you told me all you know?”

  “These doubts do not become you. I have told you all I know. It’s simple enough, isn’t it?”

  “Not how she’s managed to exist all this time without visible means of subsistence.”

  “I think that is fairly obvious. She’s stolen food from Mrs. Gee’s larder and swiped biscuits and things which I’m sure Mrs. Gee must have kept up at the Hall for her own elevenses.”

  “No wonder Mrs. Gee thought the house was haunted!”

  “I expect she thought it was Jabez who made inroads on her food stocks. You know what men are, when there’s anything to eat around the house.”

  “Well, really! That cap certainly doesn’t fit me!”

  “And another thing. The house is now officially named Herrings. Diana and I christened it this afternoon.”

  “Bismarck Grete and Warlock Herrings! Charming! All right, you win. Herrings it is, but Bismarck Herrings is how I shall always think of it in future.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Plumb Line

  “Fresh strowings allow

  To my Sepulcher now,

  To make my lodgings the sweeter;

  A staffe or a wand

  Put then in my hand,

  With a pennie to pay S. Peter.”

  The Peter-Penny

  Not only was the ghost of Herrings exorcised, but its gift of the match-box was explained. Believing that the appearance of the vestas on Timothy’s bedside table would cause the box to be carefully examined, Grete explained that she had written on the inside flap (which, in a box of the kind, was to protect the matches from spilling out when the box was opened) the message: Please help me. This Timothy had never noticed, and the box was where he had left it under his pillow, since they had not used the bed again. Miss Pomfret-Brown received the addition to her household in characteristic fashion.

  “So you fling me your discards,” she said to Timothy.

  “I lay upon you the burden which is too heavy for me, ma’am,” he replied, with a bow.

  “To perdition with your damned quotations! What am I expected to do with the gal?”

  “Perhaps,” said Timothy meekly, “she could groom, feed, and exercise her compatriot.” He indicated Miss Pomfret-Brown’s miniature dachshund which had selected, as usual, the most comfortable of the armchairs in his owner’s sanctum and was curled up in it like a cross between a seal-pup and a baby fox, his silken black coat indicative of the one, and his long muzzle, with its beautiful light tan markings, the other.

  “Oh, there’s always a Junior School waitin’-list to groom and feed Bismarck and take ’im out,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “Tell Alison to find out whether the gal’s German is grammatical.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Teachin’, of course. If we’re goin’ into Europe, as I suppose we shall, sooner or later, fools that we are, the more French and German we all know the less we shall be taken for a ride. Oh, and the gal will be known simply as Fraulein. Can’t have two blisterin’ Bismarcks on the strength.”

  “Sabrina, you are a life-line and a darling. I foresee that you will be a great woman in history.”

  “That’s two quotes you’ve bowdlerised in less than five minutes. Go and fetch the gal and let me terrify ’er into submission. D’yer recognise that one?”

  “Peachum, John Gay. You’ll never catch me out on The Beggar’s Opera. I ought to impress upon you that she hasn’t any papers. To all intents and purposes she’s an illegal immigrant.”

  “It’ll sort itself out. Things always do, if you don’t fuss and bother. Time ain’t only the great healer; it’s also the great simplifier. Never do anything you don’t want to, because Time will do it for you. Lived on that basis ever since I was about eleven. Saves wear and tear on the system. Think I could have run a boarding-school for all these hussies all these years if I’d ever fretted? Should have been in me grave long ago if I had. Now say good-bye to Alison and be orf with you, but first send me this poltergeist. I have a fair smatterin’ of the Teutonic and will soon sort the
wench out. How did she get to that outlandish house of yours in the first place?”

  “I understand that a Dutch captain took pity on her and pushed her aboard his boat, probably, I think, with a lot of Pakistanis he was bringing over. He didn’t charge her anything, either. She’s very grateful to him.”

  “So she’s no better than she should be! Oh well, in that case, she’ll feel quite at home with me upper fifth.”

  Grete having been disposed of in this convenient if unconventional way, Timothy drove back to his home and on the following morning went off to interview Mrs. Plumb. In coming to a decision to talk to her about the death of Mrs. Dasti he was actuated chiefly by curiosity. The coroner had refused to allow her to continue with what she seemed to regard as evidence which might be valuable, and Timothy, bored and somewhat at a loose end without Alison, felt a lively curiosity about what the old woman had been prevented from saying at the inquest. He still hoped, too, that she could supplement what he had already learnt from Mrs. Baines.

  He had the address which Mrs. Plumb had given in court, and had very little trouble in finding the house. It was on a council estate, an exact replica of dozens of its neighbouring dwellings, and was indistinguishable from them except for the number on the door and the curtains at the front windows.

  The door-knocker attached to the letterbox was polished, the door-sill freshly cleaned, and when the door was opened by a girl of about nineteen the only smell which Timothy could detect was that of floor-polish.

  “Yes?” enquired the girl. She was wearing an open housecoat over Bermuda shorts, was beautifully made up in the discreet modern manner and her waist-long hair was shining and was parted in the middle to flow freely down on either side of a broad and good-humoured face.

  “I am enquiring for a Mrs. Plumb,” said Timothy.

  “Are you from the insurance?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve come in connection with Lady Matilda’s Rest.”

  “Oh, I see. What about it?”

  “If I might have a word with Mrs. Plumb?”

  “You can’t ’ave that there ’ere,” said the girl pertly.

  “Gone out, has she? That’s a blow,” said Timothy. “Could I call back later?”

  “Suit yourself, but it won’t do you no good, and if it’s anything to do with them almshouses, nobody wants to know.”

  “Not even if it’s something to her advantage?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” said Timothy, improvising hastily, “there is a small bonus payable to those who were in residence when Lady Matilda’s Rest was condemned.”

  “She’s gorn for a cheap afternoon at the pictures, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Oh, really? Well, suppose I call back in a couple of hours? She’ll be back by then, I take it?”

  “Couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll chance it. I’m particularly anxious to see her.”

  “I reckon she’ll be glad to see you, too, if there’s money in it.”

  “Well, only a very little, I’m afraid.”

  “Anyway, come on in, if you like. Me ’usband and dad are at work, and me mum’s round me auntie’s, so I can do with a bit of company.”

  “I don’t think so. Look, I expect I’m old enough to be your father . . .”

  “Go on with you! I’m seventeen!”

  “Even so, I could just about have managed it, I think, so a word of advice from me should not be taken amiss. You are alone in this house, you say?”

  “What of it? My neighbour’s in. She’d soon come if I screamed.” She looked invitingly at him.

  “I’m relieved to hear it. Well, good-bye for the present,” said Timothy.

  “You could save yourself the trouble of coming back if you just left the bonus, whatever it is, couldn’t you? I mean, I’d see Auntie got it,” said the girl.

  “Of course you would, but I’m afraid I have to get her signature when I hand over the money. I have to account for it, you see.”

  “Wouldn’t me signing the paper do all right? Come on in and witness me write me name.”

  “I fear not.” He raised his hat. The girl held the door open until he had shut the small front gate behind him, and then she suddenly called out,

  “Hi, mister! Just a minute!”

  Timothy opened the gate and went back to her.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “What advice was you going to give me?”

  “Not to invite strange men into the house when you’re alone, that’s all. Screaming might come a bit late in the day, you know, especially if your neighbour didn’t have a key to your front door.”

  The girl grinned.

  “Thanks for nothing!” she said. “I learns judo. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I don’t propose to suggest a demonstration here and now,” said Timothy, “but I wouldn’t mind betting that there are forms of thuggery against which judo would be of little use.”

  This time she allowed him to go, and he left his car outside the house and walked aimlessly at first until he found himself in the oldest part of the town. Here he was in his element, so much so that for the next couple of hours he completely forgot his errand. He went into St. Margaret’s Church to admire the hammerbeam roof, and into St. Peter’s to look at the black marble Tournai font made in the twelfth century. He saw Wolsey’s gate, the outside of Sparrowe’s House, and spent over an hour in the beautiful mid-sixteenth-century Christchurch Mansion, used as a museum and built on the site of an Augustinian Priory. It was not until he looked at his watch and saw that the time was a quarter to six that he remembered his reason for coming to Ipswich and picked up a taxi.

  His arrival corresponded with that of a police car. He paid off his taxi and waited until the policeman had gone before he knocked at the door. As he walked up the path he had noticed the curtains drawn aside at neighbouring houses to watch his arrival, and felt little doubt that the people across the way had been equally curious about the arrival of a police car.

  The same girl opened the door, but this time her face was pale and her eyes were wide with shock and fright. Timothy raised his hat and enquired whether Mrs. Plumb had arrived home from the cinema.

  “No, nor ever likely to,” said the girl. “Didn’t you see that policeman? Auntie got stabbed in the cinema. He come to tell us.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. Is she badly hurt?”

  “She’s dead. So, if you’ve got her bonus on you, it’ll come in handy for the funeral.” She made this remark on a repressed sob which gave the lie to the callous words.

  “In that case . . .”

  “Oh, yes, you can come on in. My mother and dad are at home.” She held the door wide open and followed him into the passage, closing the front door with a bang when they were both inside. “In here,” she said, opening the door to the sitting-room. “I’ll fetch my dad.” She was gone for nearly five minutes and then returned with a middle-aged man wearing workman’s overalls, for which he apologised.

  “Only just got home, sir. My daughter tells me you come to ask about poor Auntie. Well, I’m afraid it’s no go, sir. We just had word . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” said Timothy. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I came to see her in connection with her residence at the almshouses.”

  “I wouldn’t know nothing about that, sir. The wife used to visit her now and then, but I never went, her being no relation of mine, as you might say, and a sharp-spoken old body into the bargain, not as I wish to say nothing again her now. Of course, she wasn’t livin’ here with us. My married daughter and ’er ’usband is our lodgers. All the same, we’re terrible shocked, of course. These dead-beats and ’ooligans will do anything nowadays for kicks. I don’t suppose they meant to kill ’er, but there you are, and, between you and me, sir, barrin’ the womenfolk (what are bound to take on a bit, if only for the look of the thing), nobody ain’t going to mourn for the poor old girl. We ’ad ’er ’ere for a bit, but ’er nasty
ungrateful old tongue and all ’er grumbling fair got me down, I’m tellin’ you. Anyway, apart from needin’ the room for my daughter, who’s just got married, ’ave the wife’s auntie ’ere for good and all I couldn’t and shouldn’t, and so I’m telling you.”

  “Yes, I remember her as a rather forthright old lady. I didn’t realise she had changed her address. This was the one she gave at the inquest. My business with your aunt was rather important, so I wonder, if she isn’t too much upset, whether I might have a word with your wife?”

  The woman appeared to be no more distressed than her husband, although she admitted that the news of her aunt’s death and the appearance of the police had been a shock. Timothy sympathised.

  “I wondered,” he said, “whether your aunt might have told you anything about the circumstances of her being compelled to leave Lady Matilda’s Rest?”

  “They all had to leave. It wasn’t only the wife’s auntie,” said the man.

  “Yes, I know. The almshouses were condemned as being unsafe after a Mrs. Dasti was killed there.”

  “You surely don’t think Auntie was killed because she knew something about that, do you, sir?” It was the wife who spoke. Interested that she should have jumped to this conclusion, Timothy said:

  “I’ve no idea. Did she know something?”

  “Nothing important, I’m sure, sir. She threw out some hints as how Mrs. Dasti used to have some funny visitors over the back fence at nights, and as how Auntie reckoned they left her with something to sell in the town, because Auntie spotted ’er talkin’ to some woman in the market and things changin’ hands, but there wasn’t anything definite.”

  “She used to grumble to us as how the coroner wouldn’t let ’er tell nothin’ about it, but, to my mind, she ’adn’t got nothing to tell. As I see it, and as I knew ’er, she was just a nosey-parkerin’ old busybody,” said the man, “not as I would demean myself to speak ill of the dead. Poor Auntie’s gone where she’ll never vent ’er spite on nobody no more. All the same, between you and me and the gate-post, it were only for Mother’s sake—my missus, you know—as I ever give my consent to ’avin’ ’er ’ere at all, and soon’s we got the excuse of our Ethel and ’er Bert wantin’ the room, well, I couldn’t get the old termagant out quick enough, and that’s the truth of it. And ’ow ’er other niece ’as put up with ’er, even these few weeks, I ’ardly likes to arst, and we ain’t bin round there since we got rid of ’er on to ’em, not wantin’ no family upsets. Do you know, sir, until we got rid of ’er I nearly slung me ’ook back to ’Oxton, where I belongs. Either that, or crahn the old such-and-such, I thinks to meself. Still, I wouldn’t want ’er dead, not in such a way as this, no’ow.”