‘You agreed to try to agree, but you quarrelled yesterday morning,’
‘And tried to make it up in the afternoon. That’s why we went out riding. We planned to go out alone, but George wanted to join us——’
‘And what was the quarrel about? The police may want to know that.’
‘They won’t believe me when I tell them. You will, but then—you understand how people’s minds work. We quarrelled about Palestrina. That was in the morning.’
‘About Palestrina?’
‘Yes. It began with Palestrina and then went on to Brahms.’
‘You astonish me.’
‘Yes, but you believe it. I’m afraid the inspector won’t. Still, as the dead man isn’t Harry, that doesn’t matter at all.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I wonder whether you would object to outlining the quarrel to me?’
Claudia Denbies sighed.
‘It shouldn’t have been Palestrina. He is not a subject for quarrel,’ she observed. ‘But, you see, it began when I happened to remark that Byrd’s songs were intended to be accompanied by four viols.’
‘I think Mr Eric Blom mentions it in his Music in England,’ Mrs Bradley remarked. ‘What has it to do with——’
‘Palestrina? Well, Harry said that Byrd was a mere song-thrush compared with Palestrina, and that if Palestrina had had a language as fit as English for setting to the music of the time, Byrd would never have been heard of. And then he said that the Protestants made Byrd famous. Ridiculous, because, of course, Byrd composed as much for the Roman church as for the reformed church, and, in any case, it is quite absurd to compare Byrd’s secular songs with Palestrina’s plainsong——’
‘I can see how the argument went,’ said Mrs Bradley, realizing, from Claudia’s flushed cheek and curling mouth that, if she did not interrupt it, it would be re-stated all over again. ‘But how did Brahms come into it?’
‘Because he was poor, and disliked England and refused a degree at Cambridge.’
‘Poor?’
‘Not a poor musician. A poor man.’
‘But I can’t see——’
‘Neither could I. All I said was that Brahms performed his own music, and at that—the remark developed quite naturally from what had been said about viols and which had followed on from some talk (quite amicable) about lutes—Harry began to quarrel, saying that I was ignorant and unread, and that musicians had regularly played their own compositions up to and including the seventeenth century—a thing I had never denied—and that to say that a man was a beggar simply because he played what he composed—Oh, it’s no use going over it again. He did—does—know quite a bit about music, but there’s no doubt he was determined to quarrel. There was no other way of looking at it. Then he went on to polyphonic melody, and he became rather horrid. He was obviously determined to upset me.’
‘But why?’ Mrs Bradley enquired.
‘I don’t know. It was all completely unnecessary and utterly silly, and it made me very unhappy. After all, I don’t care whether Brahms accepted a musical degree at Cambridge or not, and as for Palestrina’s polyphony——’
‘Interesting,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Then he proposed this afternoon ride. I didn’t want to go, but when George came and said that Harry had told him we were going and that he should like to go with us—well, one likes to please George——’
Mrs Bradley agreed.
‘But the reconciliation did not take place?’ she asked.
‘Of course it didn’t. We had to send George away home. Harry kept referring, in an oblique sort of way, to the quarrel, so I told George he’d better ride home or he might be late for the party. He didn’t know we were on the verge of another quarrel—at least, I don’t think he knew—but he rode away at once. When he’d gone I let Harry have it.’
‘Oh, you did?’
‘Oh, yes. It was obvious that Harry had no intention whatsoever of making it up. He wanted to feel ill-used, and, when a person wants that, there is nothing for it but to let him have a thundering row or else go away and let him think he has won.’
‘And you weren’t prepared to let him win?’
‘I did go away in the end. He meant I should. But it wouldn’t have been much good to tell the police I did if the body had happened to be Harry’s. I know they wouldn’t believe it. They always think quarrels lead to murder.
‘It won’t be much good telling it them now,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘I’m afraid we shall have to make up our minds to that, unless somebody saw him alive after you had returned to the house.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose anybody did,’ said Claudia carelessly. ‘The moor is lonely. It would be the merest accident if anybody had seen him.’
Mrs Bradley went away thoughtfully, and almost bumped into Roger on the threshold of Claudia’s room.
‘She will require some notice before you go in,’ she said. He looked apprehensive and worried.
‘Is she worse?’
‘Worse than what?’
‘Worse than she was this morning at the mortuary.’
‘Why, was she ill at the mortuary?’
‘She fainted. Those brutes! I think the police ought to be——’
‘Hush! Let me tell you something. She probably fainted from relief. The body, she declares, was not that of Harry Lingfield.’
‘You mean——?’ He grew pale—a lover’s pallor. ‘You mean she’s still in love with Lingfield?’
Mrs Bradley wagged her head.
‘Take courage, child,’ she said. But Roger would not be comforted.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ he demanded angrily.
‘That life begins at forty,’ said the reptile, grinning into his flushed face and furious eyes. She passed on and descended the stairs. Roger tapped at Claudia’s door, and waited. He tapped again. The door did not open, and next moment he had joined Mrs Bradley in the hall.
‘She won’t let me in,’ he said, like a sulky child. ‘I had things to say, but she doesn’t want to listen to a word. She told me not to be a nuisance!’
‘I warned you,’ said Mrs Bradley with a cackle. ‘She’s been lying down. Middle-aged women don’t arise from bed looking like Venus Anadyomene, you know. If you wish to see the dawn in your lady’s face you must look at young Dorothy Woodcote.
‘Of pansy, pink and primrose leaves,
Most curiously laid on in threaves:
And, all embroidery to supply,
Powdered with flowers of rosemary,’
she continued, regarding him kindly.
Roger snorted in passionate remonstrance.
‘At least,’ he said, ‘Claudia can’t give evidence at that hellish inquest. Will you get her out of it? Surely you could if you tried?’
‘But I myself am most anxious to hear what she has to say at the inquest,’ protested Mrs Bradley.
Roger bestowed on her a look of loathing. She cackled, prodded him in the ribs, to his great and evident annoyance, and remarked that, in any case, the inquest would have to be postponed at the end of the merely formal proceedings, she suspected.
‘To give the police time to frame a case against someone, I suppose,’ said Roger unjustifiably.
‘It’s as well for you that you have an alibi for the time of death,’ said Mrs Bradley. Roger flushed with bitter fury at this gibe, and left her. In a minute, however, he was back.
‘The only thing is, what was the time of death?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, after midnight,’ said Mrs Bradley. Roger’s long jaw dropped.
‘But—but——’ he stammered. Then he pulled himself together. ‘All right, don’t tell me,’ he said with dignity.
‘But I am telling you,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You are going to mention the engine driver, who saw the headless body well before midnight, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. He couldn’t have seen it if it wasn’t there!’
‘His name is MacI
ver, I think,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Have you never heard talk of the gift?’
‘Of course, but I don’t believe in it.’
‘Very likely not, Horatio, but, all the same, the possession of second sight is not a matter of faith but one of fact. Hector MacIver will be called at the inquest. You should make a point of being there.’
‘I’m being called in any case,’ said Roger. ‘Well, I suppose our party might as well start for Bob’s place. We’d better get back before dark.’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to hurry,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Mrs Denbies will probably admit you in a few minutes. I’ll go and see how she feels. You had better wait here until I come.’
It was Lady Catherine who next appeared upon the scene.
‘Sh!’ she said, approaching Roger, her finger to her lips. ‘Whoever it is is still practising, I shouldn’t let them know that you have seen them.’
‘Now, Aunt Catherine,’ said Captain Ranmore, entering just behind her in company with Mary Leith, the chauffeur Sim, young George Merrow, Bugle the butler and Eunice Pigdon, ‘what about tea? I think everyone would be better for it.’
‘It dawns on me,’ said Mrs Bradley, returning with a transformed and radiant Claudia, and looking with great commiseration at Roger, ‘that that poor child hasn’t had his lunch. No wonder he wants to go home!’
‘It’s getting dark, too,’ said Captain Ranmore. ‘Do you think you will find your way?’ be asked, turning to Roger.
‘Oh, I shall go with them,’ said Mrs Bradley, at once. ‘Bugle, what have you done with Mr Bob?’
‘He and his sister are in the small drawing-room, madam,’ said Bugle, ‘and that is where her ladyship ordered tea.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Captain Ranmore, leading the way.
‘You sent for me, sir,’ said Sim.
‘Oh, yes, to go into Dorking.’ Ranmore left the others and went out with the chauffeur to give him his instructions.
‘And that wretched policeman,’ said Lady Catherine suddenly. ‘Find him, Bugle. I knew I wanted you for something, and as I can’t think of anything else, I expect that’s what it is. Go and fetch him at once.’
‘He is looking at the archery butts, madam.’
‘Of course he is. That’s how Harry Lingfield was killed, but there’s no need for policemen to know that. Send him into the small drawing-room at once.’
Chapter Eight
‘The streams still glide and constant are:
Only thy mind
Untrue I find,
Which carelessly
Neglects to be
Like stream or shadow, hand or star.’
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, Falsehood
‘SO YOU WERE not satisfied with Mrs Denbies’ identification of our corpse?’ said Mrs Bradley, meeting the inspector on the Common two days later.
‘Her non-identification, mam, it was,’ replied the inspector, straightening up from peering into a gorse-bush. ‘We were not at all satisfied, mam. I suppose you knew that Mrs Denbies was out in her little car on the night before you found the body thrown in here?’
He indicated the small copse whose environs he was surveying.
‘Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?’ said Mrs Bradley, regarding him thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you were bound to, I suppose.’
‘So you knew it, mam?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You didn’t tell us.’
‘I assumed that if you had considered it important you would have questioned Mrs Denbies herself.’
‘May I ask how you came to be aware, mam, that Mrs Denbies had been out of the house that night?’
‘Mrs Denbies told me.’
‘How did that come about, mam?’
‘She had asked my advice about a private affair of her own, disregarded it, and came to tell me that she proposed to run contrary to it that very night.’
‘And was going to be out of the house, mam?’
‘And was going to be out of the house.’
‘You didn’t actually see her go, I take it?’
‘No, but I had no doubt that she went. Her bed, you see, was not slept in. Lady Catherine was rather annoyed about that. She called it “goings on,” and I dare say she was right.’
‘I’d better see Lady Catherine, mam. You ladies,’ said the inspector, wagging an admonitory head, ‘are not altogether co-operative, mam, if you don’t object to my saying so.’
‘It depends upon what you mean when you say so,’ Mrs Bradley replied with a startling little cackle. ‘I should say that over Mrs Denbies you and I have been quite remarkably co-operative. If you are asking me to tell you about Mrs Denbies’ private affairs, however, I must decline to do so without her permission.’
‘Ethically, mam, your attitude may have much to recommend it,’ said the inspector, motioning to the sergeant, who had just crawled out from a bush, to come and join the party, ‘but as for socially, well, there I am inclined to think it subversive and isolationist.’
Mrs Bradley bowed gravely at this rebuke. The sergeant scratched a piece of mud off the thigh of his left trouser, and then looked in an embarrassed manner at his officer.
‘And when is the adjourned inquest?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. The inspector sighed deeply.
‘Trouble is, you see, mam,’ he observed, ‘that the adjourned inquest is fixed for tomorrow fortnight, and we don’t feel we’ve got satisfactory evidence yet of the identity of the corpse. Mrs Denbies has only confused the issue. We, and, between ourselves, mam, the coroner, too, all think the lady is mistaken, and that the corpse is Mr Lingfield, whatever she may choose to say. To take the most obvious point of identification, now. No lady is going to own in court she knew that a man had scratches on his—um—er, now is she?’
‘I see your point,’ Mrs Bradley gravely admitted. ‘Can’t you find somebody who valeted him? That should dispose of that point if Mrs Denbies is inclined to be squeamish. The court would accept the views of a valet, I presume?’
‘But where, mam, can I lay hands on such an individual?’
‘I should ask Bugle,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘Meanwhile, how go your researches in other directions?’
‘They don’t, mam. There is nothing to show how the body came to be placed in this copse. There’s not a single footprint that’s of any use to us.’
‘Curious. One would have thought that, at this time of year, the ground might be soft enough to take impressions. The corpse would have been a heavy one, I imagine?’
‘Pretty heavy, yes, mam. About twelve stone ten, with the head and the full suit of clothes. Whoever carried it——’
‘Was not a woman,’ said Mrs Bradley firmly, ‘and that disposes of Mrs Denbies, I think.’
The inspector put on a wooden expression and answered:
‘There is that, mam, of course. But you can’t rule out an accomplice. A good many people have been in.’
‘I wonder where the clothes are?’ Mrs Bradley remarked.
‘We haven’t found them, mam, and that’s another mystery.’
‘But you’ve looked all over the moor?’
‘Combed it from end to end, mam, right over from the other side of the railway and all along the line and the embankments and cuttings, in the tunnels—everywhere. There’s nothing to be found within a radius of ten miles of the house. Of that we’re certain. We’ve had over fifty men on the job from the various police stations in this part of the country. Those clothes are either further off than we’ve searched, or else (as I’m more inclined to think), they’re in somebody’s house.’
‘I see.’
‘But this identification—we’ll need to get that done with certainty. Can’t have the corpse queried. That wouldn’t suit our book at all. Does it strike you as rather peculiar, mam, that Mrs Denbies should be so unwilling to identify the body as that of Mr Lingfield?’
‘No, it does not strike me as peculiar in the least, Inspector. As a matter of fact, the alternative theor
y is that somebody took care that the corpse should have some marks of identification similar to those of Mr Lingfield.’
‘What makes you say that, mam? I know you wouldn’t lead us up the garden, and you’ve got the medical knowledge, and you found the body. I’d be glad to have your views in full, if I might. I don’t want to make a mistake over this, as you can well imagine.’
‘Well, Inspector, I cannot help you much, except to tell you that the little boy, George Merrow, has seen scars, similar to those of the corpse, on Mr Lingfield’s body, but, it seems, on the other buttock.’
‘How and when, mam? This is news to me!’
‘It seems that George Merrow occasionally went swimming with Mr Lingfield. He saw the scars then.’
She produced George Merrow’s drawing and showed it to the inspector.
‘Not much doubt about that, mam. ‘We can take it, then, that Mrs Denbies’ negative evidence washes out, and that the body is that of Mr Lingfield. I don’t think there’s any need to take any notice which side of his bottom the boy drew the marks. Of course, in spite of Mrs Denbies, we’d concluded the corpse was Mr Lingfield, but it’s helpful to have it confirmed. I’m much obliged, mam. Mind you, our Doctor Shoesmith also believed it was Mr Lingfield he examined. Size, height, weight, length of arm—all corresponded to what he knew of Mr Lingfield, although——’
‘He had never attended Mr Lingfield professionally, I imagine?’
‘That’s just what I was going to remark, mam. Dr Shoesmith is our police surgeon, and doctor to a couple of football clubs—more that sort of thing. And as good a vet. as he is a doctor, I believe. He’s often told me—joking, mam, of course—that he could have made his fortune if he’d gone in for horse-coping, and—serious, this was—that old Lord Amplewood had once offered him about five times what he makes in his profession if he would act as vet. to his racing stables.’
‘And you think that, being such a very fine judge of horseflesh and such an able minister to its ills, he would have——’
‘Known that the body was Mr Lingfield’s, mam? Well, it seems crude, put like that, but I think perhaps it’s true. He didn’t know, of course, about the scars.’
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