The Longer Bodies

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Herring,’ replied Miss Caddick, ‘you know how Mrs Puddequet dislikes the sight of the bathchair when it is not in use. I am only repeating her orders.’

  She turned and walked away. Joe scooped up a shovelful of sawdust and scattered it liberally about the hutch he had been cleaning. Then he took a handful of straw and proceeded to wipe his hands on it.

  Miss Caddick, at the gate of the kitchen garden, looked back at him. Joe caught her eye, and, avoiding it again, bent and picked up the rabbits, which he gently replaced in the hutches.

  Then he looked up again, but Miss Caddick had disappeared.

  ‘Ho! So you’ve spotted the noo one, have you?’ he remarked savagely to himself. He glared defiantly at the currant bushes, and then spat with great accuracy into the half-coconut which his enemy had hung for a bird bowl on the low branch of a neighbouring apple tree.

  III

  ‘The only thing is,’ said old Mrs Puddequet shrilly, ‘that you must keep them off the flower-beds. Oh, and don’t give them any assistance whatsoever. I do not wish this murderer to be caught.’

  ‘But I believe, Aunt, that you will find it is a punishable offence to refuse information to the police.’

  Richard Cowes, concealing the spring onions and the young carrots which he had coaxed from the kitchen garden and clandestinely imported into his great-aunt’s drawing room, spoke seriously.

  ‘Rubbish, Grandnephew,’ screamed old Mrs Puddequet. ‘You misunderstand me! We have no information to give. If we have no information to give, we are refusing nothing. Get on with your training, Grandnephew. How far do you put the weight?’

  Richard looked nonplussed.

  ‘To be accurate,’ he replied gloomily, ‘I put it on my own toe the last time I tried. Painful, Aunt.’

  Francis Yeomond joined in the conversation.

  ‘Without wishing to appear at variance with your opinions, Aunt,’ he observed in his best classroom manner, ‘I think it right to point out that a crime against society has been committed in these grounds, and that it is our duty as citizens to bring the perpetrator of the outrage to justice.’

  ‘To justice, yes,’ said old Mrs Puddequet decidedly. ‘To the maw of the law, no. I tell you all, Grandnephews, Grandnieces, you, Timon Anthony, and you, Companion Caddick, that, did I know the identity of the person who laid low the man Hobson, I would send all the rest of you home to your mothers and fathers, and I would make the murderer my heir. A person of sound religious views and good bodily fitness, Grandnephews.’

  ‘Go on! Own up, you hellhound,’ said Timon Anthony in the ear of Hilary Yeomond. ‘I’d own up myself, only she’d never believe me.’

  Suddenly the face of the sergeant appeared at the window. Malpas opened the casement wide, and the sergeant, removing his uniform cap, stepped over the low sill into the room.

  ‘I beg pardon, mam, if I intrude,’ he said deferentially to old Mrs Puddequet, ‘but we’ve got a man on duty in the sunk garden, and the inspector’s compliments and he’d be glad if any person passing out of the house that way would keep strictly to the main path not to disturb clues.’

  ‘Clues,’ said Celia Brown-Jenkins ecstatically. ‘How thrilling! Is there any blood, sergeant?’

  ‘And the inspector would be glad, mam, if a room could be placed at his disposal for ’im to question—er—interrogate certain members of the household and some of the servants about the ’appenings of Friday night,’ continued the sergeant, stolidly disregarding what he considered an unnecessarily flippant question.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said old Mrs Puddequet, ‘the inspector shall have whichever room he pleases.’

  ‘Then, if convenient, he’d like this one we’re in now, mam. That is, if quite convenient,’ said the sergeant. ‘It overlooks the scene of the crime, you see.’

  The inspector’s first victim was Clive Brown-Jenkins. His second was Priscilla Yeomond. The two cousins repeated their respective stories, and answered clearly, intelligently, and without hesitation all the questions asked by Bloxham.

  Satisfied that their tales were unshakable, he heard what Celia Brown-Jenkins had to tell, and then sent for Hilary Yeomond.

  ‘Now, Mr Yeomond,’ said Bloxham encouragingly, ‘I want an account of your movements on the night of the crime. Just a simple statement, please. Must find out where everybody was and what everybody did, and then we can get to work.’

  Hilary considered.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we had dinner at the usual time, and then I remained here, and we put the gramophone on and danced. That’s all, I think. I left the house at twenty past eleven with my brothers.’

  ‘Why are you definite about the time you left, Mr Yeomond?’

  ‘Well, we were intending to carry on a bit longer, but Frank pointed out that the gate leading from the sunk garden to the sports ground would be locked at half-past eleven, and that is the only way out now, unless one chases through the kitchen regions, you see. I checked my watch against his, and we decided we had better be off.’

  ‘I see. That’s all for the present, then, Mr Yeomond. I should like to see Mr Francis Yeomond next, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind asking Mr Malpas if he’ll hold himself in readiness to follow Mr Francis.’

  The stories told by Francis and Malpas were similar to that told by Hilary. All three brothers had left the house by way of the terrace and the sunk garden, and none had seen or heard anything of a suspicious nature as he proceeded to his hut. Malpas had found Richard Cowes peacefully reading—his book open upon his knees. Francis had been somewhat surprised at the nonappearance of Clive Brown-Jenkins all night, but concluded that he had probably gone to the greyhound racing with Timon Anthony, and that the two of them were spending the night at a hotel. He himself had gone to bed almost immediately upon his return to the hut, and had closed but not locked or bolted the door. In reply to a question he answered that they did not lock or bolt the door at night: for one thing there was nothing valuable in the hut; and, for another, as the only method of lighting up the place was by means of an oil-lamp, they had decided there was some danger of the wooden structure catching fire, and wished to preserve an easy means of egress in case of danger.

  Clive Brown-Jenkins was requested to return to the scene of inquisition. The inspector looked at him suspiciously, and demanded brusquely why he had chosen to conceal the fact that he had accompanied Anthony to the greyhound racing.

  ‘I haven’t concealed anything,’ protested Clive angrily. ‘I didn’t go to the greyhound racing with Anthony. I never had any intention of going. He wanted to slip off sharp after dinner without attracting Mrs Puddequet’s attention, because she’s down on the dogs, so he asked me whether I would just run him up to the station at Market Longer on the step of my bike. Of course I agreed, and at twenty to nine we made some excuse to slip off.’

  ‘Dinner over, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Just about. People messing about with nuts and things, that’s all. It was easy enough to get away.’

  ‘And you two went to Market Longer station on your bicycle? How long did it take you?’

  ‘Oh, he wanted to catch the nine-ten. We managed it easily. Got there with six minutes to spare. Then I tooled home on the bike and went back to the house. I’ve told you everything that happened after that.’

  ‘Yes, but why didn’t you tell me about the bicycle business? It may be important. Don’t you see that it means we can’t put our finger on Anthony at the time the crime was committed? I’d like to see him next.’

  Anthony entered with a narcissus in his buttonhole. He was humming a gay little tune.

  ‘Well, inspector,’ said he. ‘Got the handcuffs ready?’

  ‘Not just yet, Mr Anthony,’ replied Bloxham, sizing up his man. ‘But we shan’t be long now, I hope.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ said Anthony, seating himself and then half-rising to hitch his chair a little nearer that of the inspector. He lowered his voice to a confidential undertone. ‘I believe
the old lady did it herself.’

  The inspector blinked twice, but said nothing.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Anthony defensively, seeing that the jest had missed fire, ‘she’s jolly keen not to have the murderer discovered. She’s going to leave her money to him.’

  ‘Mr Anthony’ said Bloxham, looking him straight in the eye, ‘how was it that White Lady beat Star Stay? A funny thing, that.’

  Anthony’s eyes left the inspector’s face for the fraction of a second. He laughed in a slightly unnatural tone.

  ‘You don’t catch me out like that,’ he said uneasily. ‘You know jolly well no dogs of those names ran on Friday night.’

  ‘Didn’t they, Mr Anthony?’ said the inspector softly. ‘Are you sure? Which ground did you go to on Friday night?’

  ‘White City,’ said Anthony thickly.

  ‘Really and truly?’ said the inspector, with simple wonder. ‘Well, I never! I should think you got there just as they shut the gates for the night, didn’t you?’

  ‘I only got there right at the end of the show, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ replied Anthony. He pulled the narcissus out of his coat and tossed it through the open window. ‘At the very end. I didn’t really see anything of what went on. So really I don’t know the name of one dog from another.’

  ‘And what train did you come home by?’ enquired the inspector.

  ‘Got into Market Longer at two-sixteen,’ said Anthony glibly. ‘Of course I had to walk from the station to the house, so I suppose I actually arrived home at about three in the morning.’

  ‘How did you get back into the house?’

  ‘I didn’t. I slept in the gym.’

  ‘Oh, did you? Who pinched the second long rope, Mr Anthony?’

  ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘Did you have a light in the gymnasium, Mr Anthony?’

  ‘A light? No. No, I didn’t have a light. Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh? All right. Thank you, Mr Anthony. You won’t leave the house yet, will you? I think I’ll have to talk to you again later. And then perhaps you’ll tell me what you really did do between the hours of nine-four, when Mr Jenkins left you at the station, and three a.m., when you say you arrived home. Do you think’—he stood up and glared into the wretched Anthony’s eyes—‘do you really think I’m a fool? At any rate, I’m not such a fool as all that. I know you didn’t go to London on the nine-ten on Friday night. I know you reached the house long before three in the morning. And I know that some time between the hours you’ve mentioned a murder was committed in the sunk garden out there.’

  ‘In the sunk garden?’ said Anthony dully. His brave air and his lilting tune were gone as irrevocably as his buttonhole, the discarded narcissus. The inspector stepped to his side, placed a compelling hand on his shoulder, and urged him to the window.

  ‘A blow such as that which killed Jacob Hobson,’ he said, ‘produces a certain amount of bleeding. Come and look.’

  He drew the reluctant young man on to the terrace and down the stone steps. At the foot of them he turned aside, Anthony following, until they stood on the crazy paving which surrounded the unfinished goldfish pond. Involuntarily Anthony glanced across the geometrically planned garden at the other pond. Once more in the centre of it stood the little mermaid. She was wearing a smile comparable to that of the Mona Lisa. Anthony shuddered. She had seen a human creature done to death. He averted his eyes, and realized that the inspector was addressing him, and that the stalwart constable who had been placed on duty in the sunk garden was standing at his shoulder. The man’s attitude was the reverse of aggressive, and yet, for some indefinable reason, Anthony felt as much affronted by his proximity as though the man had laid the hand of the law on his shoulder.

  ‘Now, Mr Anthony,’ the inspector was saying, ‘what do you make of this?’

  He bent and lifted a corner of the heavy tarpaulin which covered the unfinished pond. The white cement bottom of the dry basin was patched and stained with great dark blotches.

  ‘Blood, Mr Anthony, from the head of the corpse,’ said the inspector solemnly. With great care and precision he replaced the heavy cover.

  ‘Now, what should you make of that?’ he asked. ‘I’m serious, Mr Anthony. In my place, for instance’ —they walked side by side to the stone steps and mounted them slowly— ‘what would you say that pretty picture indicated?’

  Anthony frowned.

  ‘I should say it was the work of somebody who knew the house pretty well, and knew that the pond was there and was unfinished and was covered over and—’

  ‘Might have been the work of one of the gardeners Mrs Puddequet employs—the Bucks firm’s people, I mean,’ said the inspector thoughtfully. ‘Is that your idea?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anthony, fastening on to the suggestion immediately. ‘And they know more about the sunk garden than anybody, I suppose, don’t they, when one thinks it out?’

  ‘All the less reason for them choosing it as the place to commit the murder, Mr Anthony,’ said the inspector, stepping over the drawing-room windowsill into the room. ‘A man who is always tinkering about with tarpaulins and cement basins and who knows this sunk garden as well as he knows his own room at home, we’ll say, wouldn’t imagine for a moment that I shouldn’t look under that heavy cover for traces of crime. He’d know I would, because he’d know he would. See? The human mind is a very funny thing, Mr Anthony. And now’—he waited until Anthony rejoined him inside the room—‘you’ll be sensible and polite and tell me where you were and what you were doing between nine-four on Friday night and one-thirty a.m. on Saturday, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Anthony, nervously clearing his throat. ‘I’ll admit I didn’t go to the greyhound racing. I’ll admit I didn’t go further afield than Market Longer station. And I’ll admit that I intended to deceive Brown-Jenkins, and that I intended to deceive you. But what I actually did after Brown-Jenkins left me at the station is my own business if I choose to make it so.’

  The inspector looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘Very well, Mr Anthony,’ he said at last. ‘Ver-rey well. It’s a free country—to a certain limited extent.’

  Chapter Seven

  But Inspector Bloxham is Not

  I

  ‘I DON’T LIKE it,’ repeated Bloxham to the sergeant.

  ‘No, sir.’ The sergeant eyed the ground sympathetically and then the treetops intelligently. He cleared his throat, and then observed with great and discerning candour:

  ‘The Chief Constable always gets shouting for the Yard before we’ve ’ardly ’ad time to get a smell at a murder, sir. What about Kost, Mr Bloxham?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the inspector thoughtfully, while the little crease of annoyance which a mention of Scotland Yard always called to his otherwise unfurrowed brow gradually faded out—‘yes, there is certainly Kost to be considered.’

  They made their way to his hut in order to consider him.

  ‘And then,’ said the sergeant helpfully, as they crossed the southwestern corner of the sports ground and negotiated the long-jump pit to save going farther round, ‘there’s that there Miss Cowes.’

  ‘Miss Cowes?’ The inspector walked through the gate on to the lower field, and then looked with astonishment at his companion. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, sir, what was she up to, arriving on a milk train at that hour in the morning?’

  ‘Well, that’s the time milk trains run, I suppose,’ said the inspector mildly. ‘Besides, the young woman’s a freak. Chelsea art student and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Immoral,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head. ‘A bad lot, them art students, sir. You mark my words. I’m a Battersea man myself, and know a thing or two about them. No idea of what’s right and what’s wrong. That’s my experience.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the inspector, ignoring these remarks, ‘there’s the chance she may have seen or heard something as she came across the grounds. But, if the
murder was committed round about ten o’clock, you see, well, I mean, between three and four o’clock next morning you can’t say there’s much doing, can you? Still, as you say, we might as well see what she’s got to say.’

  Kost was sitting in front of his hut with his legs stretched in front of him and his arms behind his head; he was staring up at the sky, which was coloured with the mild blue of April. At his feet a small cat was playing with the laces of his boots, which were unfastened. He took no notice of the police when they approached, but continued to stare heavenwards. The inspector addressed him.

  ‘Finished work for the day, Mr Kost?’ he enquired politely.

  Kost grinned good-naturedly.

  ‘I’ve never finished work in this place,’ he said. ‘Can I do something for you, perhaps?’

  ‘You can tell us what you were doing up at the house at about one o’clock in the morning last Saturday,’ said the inspector, grimly regarding him.

  Kost leapt to his feet and sent the chair reeling back against the wooden side of the hut.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he shouted. ‘You are not believing I had any connection with this murder, perhaps?’

  ‘Steady, Mr Kost,’ said the inspector coolly. ‘I haven’t mentioned the murder, so far as I know. Will you answer my question?’

  ‘I am not inclined to answer any questions,’ grumbled the fair-haired trainer, restraining his excitement and lowering his voice to its normal tone. ‘I know nothing. I have seen nothing. As for being up at the house on Friday night or Saturday morning either—no, I was not there. Do you wish me to swear it, perhaps?’

  ‘You were not there? But supposing someone actually saw you?’ The inspector’s tone was gentle, but he watched the man’s face closely. It did not change, except for a slight tightening of the skin over the jaw.

  ‘Saw nothing.’ Kost’s tone was at once resentful and contemptuous. ‘You should send them to buy some spectacles, perhaps. I was not there.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘At nine o’clock?’