“But you didn’t think of young Stephen Camber?”
“No, that I most certainly did not, and I hope you’ll take my word for it, mam.”
“I don’t see why you didn’t think of it!”
Beresford looked troubled and took a gulp which emptied his glass. He retained his hold of it when Hugh got up to fill it, shook his head, and said:
“No more tonight, sir, thank you kindly. Good night, all.”
Dame Beatrice allowed him a good five minutes to get away before she rose to leave the inn. Hugh followed her to the door.
“Quite an interesting day, one way and another,” he said. “Won’t you drive me back to Camber and have dinner? I suppose you won’t consider putting up there for tonight so that we can have a really good long talk? I gather—something seems to tell me—that you are on the verge of getting things sorted out. And what about the boy? Is he still in any danger?”
“Not while he remains indoors at Camber, but one can’t imprison him. He must go down to Hampshire tomorrow as we arranged.” George opened the door of the car. Dame Beatrice got in and Hugh followed. “Camber Abbey, George, and the car at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to take little Peter Camber to the Stone House, where Mrs. Gavin will be expecting him.”
When they reached Camber Abbey they learned that Peter, suitably impressed by Cook’s forthright tactics, had supped and was in bed. Hugh went up and found him beautifully clean and fast asleep.
“Poor little devil,” he said when he came into the dining-room. “Sherry?”
“Not on top of cider.”
“Nor I. Let’s dine, then, and, over dinner and afterwards, you shall tell me all your facts, theories, and discoveries.”
“I am not going to spoil either your dinner or my own by propounding facts, theories, and discoveries at the table. Let us, rather, talk of cabbages and kings.”
So the meal-time was passed in airy pleasantness, but, as soon as it was over, and the two were seated in the smaller drawing-room, Hugh, leaning forward towards the crackling little early-summer fire, said eagerly:
“Now then: fire away. At what point did you decide that there was no reason to think that there was a plot to kidnap Peter?”
“Oh, but I still think there was a plot to kidnap Peter. It failed because Titmuss is a simple fellow in spite of his technical knowledge of cars and because Beresford does not make war on children. I have told Titmuss to come up to the house tomorrow morning, when I hope to get him to confirm my suspicions.”
“Of whom? What has occurred to you now?”
“Nothing that had not occurred to me before. Let us take the facts. Now, the fact which brought me down here in the first place was the fact of the anonymous letters. Well, we dealt with those without a great deal of trouble.”
“We now know they had no significance, except as a rather brainless attempt on the part of Héloïse to prevent me from marrying Catherine.”
“Well, we’ll leave it at that for the moment, if you like. Then there was your strange experience of being left almost without servants. The current excuse was that they feared lest Mrs. Hal Camber should constitute herself the mistress here.”
“I soon disposed of that idea, I fancy!”
“Yes, but the majority of the servants never came back and, you know, we have wondered whether there was some other reason why they took their departure.”
“When the anonymous letters first came, we entertained some doubts about the verdicts on Paul and Stephen Camber, and it seems we were right. There was nothing to go on, though, except this peculiar rumour that young Stephen was drunk when he died.”
“Then Crick gave notice, although the two gardeners did not. What did you think about that?”
“With Crick it was a case of loss of face. He didn’t like it that I wouldn’t let him use the car at his own convenience. Apparently he’d been allowed carte blanche, near enough, by Paul.”
“We were aware of a rumour—perhaps a suggestion so vague that it could scarcely be called a rumour—to the effect that Crick had some hold over Paul Camber.”
“I don’t see that we can attach much importance to it, do you?”
“Vague rumours and nebulous suggestions are always interesting, I find. And do not forget that this particular rumour was emphasised by Beresford this evening. One of his remarks, taken in conjunction with the rumour, was singularly enlightening, I thought. Do you remember his saying that his daughter was not the first, nor, necessarily the second, girl that Paul Camber had attempted to seduce? I felt that he had somebody definitely in mind. The next point—if we may go back to the question of the anonymous letters for a moment—is that the letters, instead of containing the usual sexual and pornographical allusions, were concerned almost solely with hints of murder.”
“Damned unpleasant they were, too!”
“Don’t you see where this is leading us?”
“No, I can’t say that I do, except that Héloïse had it hotted up for me because I had cut Peter out of what she seems to have thought was his inheritance.”
“But she might have thought of other things besides murder. There were all sorts of ways in which she could have attempted to blacken your character and with far more chance of success. Why did she harp upon murder?”
“You tell me.”
“She harped upon murder because she was certain in her own mind that murder had been committed. She certainly wanted to make things very uncomfortable for you, and she hoped, I dare say, that you would be put to the trouble of trying to clear your name. However, as the authorship of the letters was never in any real doubt, that disposed of the wishful thinking. What it had not disposed of was the theory that Stephen had been murdered.”
“Why Stephen alone? She thought Paul had been murdered, too.”
“If she had fixed on the right person, she must have realised that he was unlikely to have murdered both Stephen and Paul. In fact, it was against his interests that Paul should die.”
“Good heavens! You don’t mean…?”
“Oh, but I do. For once I find myself in complete agreement with Mrs. Hal Camber. Stephen was murdered by the chauffeur Crick, Paul’s illegitimate son. Good gracious! Why did you think that Paul put up with Crick’s insolent use of the car if Crick had not the best of all reasons for demanding preferential treatment?”
“But surely Paul could have given him the lie? Crick wouldn’t have stood a chance of proving his case.”
“It has been pointed out tonight that Camber is a very small village. That is tantamount to saying that most of the inhabitants know what goes on in it.”
“Yes, but…”
“Do not forget that Crick had a mother.”
“But who?”
“I cannot say with certainty, but I would plump for the ex-housekeeper, Mrs. Brunton. I doubt very much whether the Mrs. Crick with whom he lives is his mother, but that is beside the point. The point is that, with Stephen out of the way, Crick, if he chose to come into the open and claim what he thinks are his rights, could most probably find supporters among the older people in the village.”
“But she told me herself that she had only worked at Camber here for eleven years.”
“As housekeeper. She is a local woman, though.”
“Yes, and in her youth, I should say, a very handsome one.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Family Tree
“And hark ye—he is presently to die—let him have a ghostly father.”
Sir Walter Scott
“So, Tom,” said Dame Beatrice, “you told me a lie. You said that nobody except Mr. Tolley knew that you had grown the poisonous tomatoes.”
Tom twisted his cap in his hands.
“Well?” said Hugh.
“That was good for a laugh,” said Tom.
“It was good for a death, too.”
“No need for you to harp on that old idea.”
“Don’t be insolent,” said Hugh.
“A
man hev a right to speak his mind.”
“So he has, Tom,” said Dame Beatrice, “but why did you lie? There was not the slightest need.”
“So Crick pushed poor Master Stephen into the river,” said Tom, “and that couldn’t save himself because of the weed holding him.”
“So that was it!” said Hugh, when the young man had gone. “The weed! It explains a lot. We heard that Verith taught Stephen to swim and even the effect of the atropine might not have prevented him from attempting to save himself. Of course, the brothers were cutting weed when they found him and pulled him out. But how do we get Crick and how do we account for the death of Paul? I would have plumped for Beresford there without a doubt, except that you said Beresford went off by train before Paul was drowned. Why the rather obvious alias of Mr. Smith of Girvan, I wonder?”
“I came to the conclusion a long time ago that Beresford was innocent. The alias business was just ordinary secretiveness. He did not want to appear under his own name when he was conducting negotiations with his daughter’s seducer.”
“Verith killed Paul, then?”
“Would he have committed a crime of that magnitude merely out of revenge for having been dismissed, do you think?”
“Oh, I imagine he killed Paul, thinking to avenge Stephen’s death.”
“Do you mean he thought Paul had pushed Stephen into the weed?”
“That is all I can think. I mean to say, if we look at the matter without prejudice, we must allow that Verith was extremely fond of Stephen. He may not have felt the same amount of bitterness and despair at their separation as the boy seems to have done, but no doubt there was a considerable feeling of frustration. Then, he knew, I feel certain, that Paul was the father of the Beresford girl’s baby, and from this knowledge he may have deduced that Paul was tired of the sickly youngster Stephen and jealous of Verith’s own influence over him. The thing is, what are we going to do about it all? It’s rather late in the day to call in the police.”
“The police will not think so, as long as we can provide them with something to go on.”
“Can you keep me out of it? It’ll make a first-class family stink, you know, if the police do decide to take it up.”
“If the police find any evidence, I don’t think we can keep the thing out of the papers, but I fancy we might be able to suppress the fact that Crick is the illegitimate son of Paul Camber.”
“But what, exactly are you going to tell the police?”
“I am not going to tell the County police anything. I shall lay my suspicions before Chief Detective-Inspector Robert Gavin of the C.I.D. and ask his advice.”
“I see. When?”
“Immediately. We cannot rely upon Tom Adams to remain silent. I do not imagine that he will go out of his way to warn Crick that we suspect him, but it will be better to take no chances.”
“It will be better to take no chances with Crick, either. He strikes me as a nasty bit of work. I wouldn’t trust him.”
At ten o’clock on the following morning, Dame Beatrice drove to the garage and addressed the untrustworthy Crick in uncompromising tones.
“Crick, I want you to show me the place where Stephen Camber fell into the water.”
“Me?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“And what if I don’t please?”
“I shall know what to think.”
“Look,” said Crick, “what are you up to?”
“I want you to show me the spot at which Stephen Camber, your half-brother, went into the water.”
“Who told you I had a half-brother?”
Crick tried to stare her out, but his face went white. Dame Beatrice showed no pity.
“Do you know two men named Huckle?” she demanded.
“No, I don’t.”
“Or an old man named Tom Teek?”
“Course not! I don’t mix with people round these parts.”
“I think those three men will know you when they see you again.”
Crick’s colour came back as his eyes hardened.
“What’s all this in aid of?”
“You know as well as I do. They were all somewhere close at hand on the bank of that little river when the boy was pushed in…in and down, Crick, down to the cruel weeds.”
“I don’t know anything about it, and if anybody says that it was me, he’s a liar!”
“You were jealous of that boy, Crick. You dogged his footsteps, awaiting your opportunity. As soon as you heard that Verith, his mentor and protector, had been dismissed, you realised that it was only a question of time before the opportunity presented itself for you to do Stephen Camber a mischief.”
“Me and who else?” said Crick, looking extremely dangerous. “What a tale! I ought to have the law on you for saying such a thing! You can’t prove a word of it!”
“There are no witnesses to this conversation, Crick.”
“There’s that fat-faced shovver of yours sitting there like an image. I s’pose he’d bear witness if I dotted you one like I ought to.”
“Be that as it may,” said Dame Beatrice, “you’ve been warned.”
“You can’t prove it, though, can you?” asked Hugh, when she got back to Camber Abbey. “He was right enough there.”
“I am not so sure about that. The brothers Huckle will recognise the fisherman when we produce him in court.”
“The fisherman? Oh, yes. But was that Crick?”
“That can be sworn to, I think, by the brothers. However, I have a stronger card to play.”
“It will need to be an ace if the police are to agree to reopen the case. In fact, there really isn’t a case. The verdict of Accidental Death was perfectly straightforward. There were no ifs and buts, so far as I am aware.”
“True. Are you familiar with the story of the purloined letter, by Edgar Allan Poe? Or with that one by Gilbert Keith Chesterton about the invisible man?”
“Oh, the postman, you mean? And the letter which was placed in such an obvious position that it was overlooked? It’s a long time since I read them and I can’t say that I remember any details.”
“The details do not matter. Do you know the thing which held me up longest in my attempt to solve the mystery of these deaths? It was that your cousin and Farmer Beresford went to Strathpeffer in a hired car.”
“A hired car…?”
“Yes. You see, I assumed, to begin with, that Paul Camber could not have taken his car with him to Scotland and so had been compelled to hire. But a man who employs a chauffeur does not go on holiday by train, therefore it was reasonable to suppose that Crick was with Paul.”
“But no mention was ever made of Crick by the hotel management, was it?”
“No, it was not. I inferred, therefore, that Crick, who obviously occupied a privileged position in the Camber household, had stayed in a different hotel so that he could act as a free agent.”
“As the gentleman born, you mean?”
“I think so.”
“So that’s where he learned to fish for salmon? I suppose he’d been to Scotland with Paul before.”
“Undoubtedly. I cannot prove all this, but I still think that the apparent friendship between Paul Camber and Beresford can be explained if we agree that Beresford had made certain that Paul’s intention was to marry the Beresford girl and legitimise the baby. That being settled, the set-up, for a time, at least, was fairly amicable.”
“And the hired car? Where did that come from?”
“I did a little research there this last time that I was in Scotland. The car was hired by ‘the gentleman who caught the train.’ It was hired from the station taxi rank, picked the two men up at the Osseuch Hydropathic Hotel, and remained on the rank, ready for the next fare.”
“And Paul walked back to the hotel?”
“I do not think so. I think the arrangement was that Crick should pick him up and take him to the Osseuch Water to fish. I think they both fished, but from opposite banks, and that Crick hooked his natu
ral father into the river and drowned him.”
“Desperately dangerous, surely? Some people might have come along and seen him do it.”
“Perhaps they would only have seen an unfortunate accident. The water is very narrow at the place where Paul went in.”
“And the evidence?”
“Paul’s jacket, with the tear at the back of the collar where the heavy hook caught him.”
“It won’t be enough to secure a conviction, even if the police are able to find it.”
“I do not think it will be necessary to secure a conviction. Crick has all his father’s cowardice. Look there.”
Through the wide-open gates of the park came a powerful motor-cycle, roaring along at full speed.
“Good God!” shouted Hugh. “He’ll be into my lake in a minute! What’s the fool think he’s doing?”
“He is joining his father and half-brother,” said Dame Beatrice. “I could never have proved anything against him, but he did not know that. I dislike the murderers of children. He might have spared young Stephen Camber.”
Hugh tore off his coat and jumped out by way of the open window. He kicked off his shoes as he reached the lake. Dame Beatrice followed more slowly. Hugh dived in and dived deep. As he did so he remembered with thankfulness that Tom Adams had cut the weed. As he came up he shook his head and pushed back his hair. Then he took a deep breath and duck-dived, just as Catherine came in at the gate. When he came up again with Crick’s dead body, she was there.
About the Author
Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.
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