‘Yes,’ Mrs Bradley replied in placid tones, as she gazed benignly round the small drawing-room to which the party had repaired. ‘We sat down thirteen at table.’
‘Didn’t anybody notice? I’ve only just thought of it myself!’ said Roger. ‘Was there method in the madness?’
‘If anybody did notice, that person did not mention it to me. There was no particular method in the madness,’ Mrs Bradley replied.
‘I noticed,’ said Clare Dunley and Eunice Pigdon, speaking in unison.
‘I noticed, too,’ said Dorothy. ‘But I thought you had done it on purpose. Who got up first?’
‘It was the nurse. That was arranged,’ Mrs Bradley replied.
She spoke reminiscently, as though she were watching the scene again, but there was something in her tone which made the sensitive Dorothy Woodcote glance at her sharply. Mrs Bradley caught her eye and cackled. Nothing more was said about thirteen.
‘I think we start with Miss Pigdon,’ said Mrs Bradley, when the general conversation had died down. As she said this, the inspector inserted himself half-apologetically into the room as though fearful of disturbing the conference.
‘How do you mean—start with me?’ asked Eunice. ‘What do you want me to do? Is it a new kind of game?—because I’m no good at games, you know.’
‘I want to get a picture of the household just before George’s birthday party,’ Mrs Bradley replied.
‘But you know as much about it as I do! You were staying in the house at the time.’
‘Yes, but I had only been there for one day, and I am only one person, with one set of ears and eyes and one point of view. It would be valuable to have the reactions of other people, starting off, please, with your own.’
‘I see. Well, where do I begin?’
‘Begin, if you please, with the invitations. I imagine that you and Mr Bookham realized, sooner than anybody else (except for Lady Catherine, who was responsible for making up the table), that the party would number thirteen.’
‘Lady Catherine didn’t make up the table,’ said Eunice Pigdon, almost unwillingly. ‘She told me to invite the people who would fit in.’
‘Then why did you make the number thirteen?’
‘Well, I was not going to count Humphrey and myself. It is true that we usually dined with the family, but on such a special occasion—George came of age, you see, that day, and, by the way, he ought to be in bed!—you know you ought, George, you rascal!—I did not know quite what Lady Catherine intended, especially as you, Mrs Bradley, and Mrs Dunley, who, after all, was not Lady Catherine’s but Mr Lingfield’s friend, would be at table.’
‘That all seems to account very nicely for the number thirteen,’ Mrs Bradley agreed with a slow, discomforting smile. ‘By the way, what about Mr Bookham? Perhaps we ought to have had him here with us tonight.’
‘He was only a holiday tutor,’ Eunice Pigdon replied. ‘We have him—have had him, perhaps I should say—for all the major holidays. Neither Harry Lingfield nor Granny really cared about boys.’
‘But Mr Lingfield went swimming with George.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I told Mrs Bradley he did,’ said George, speaking up from his corner. ‘I helped her to identify Mr Lingfield’s body, didn’t I, Great-Aunt Bradley?’
‘How could he? He didn’t——’ exclaimed Eunice.
‘He didn’t attend the inquest? Perfectly true. But he had seen the scars. Moreover, he had seen them on the left side.’
‘I thought——’ interpolated Roger.
‘So did many people, child,’ said Mrs Bradley in hasty interruption. ‘That is why I have staged this party. Speak freely, therefore, all of you. I am more than prepared for any surprises you may spring.’
There was silence. Her hearers exchanged some uncomfortable glances. Mrs Bradley broke the silence, speaking with her usual cheerfulness.
‘I know everything now,’ she said. ‘I want proof for a jury, that’s all.’
There was another pause, which Clare Dunley broke by stating that she did not understand how proof for a jury was to be obtained if Mrs Bradley, knowing everything, still could not point to the murderer.
‘I did not say I could not point to the murderer. Miss Pigdon has partly explained why thirteen people were to sit down to dinner that night. I do not wholly accept the explanation, if Miss Pigdon does not mind my saying so. I think that the first confusion about the numbers arose because Lady Catherine ‘forgot’ one of her guests. I would even hazard the statement that I know which one it was. At least, I know that it must have been one of two.’
‘Which two?’ asked Dorothy Woodcote, thinking of herself and Roger Hoskyn.
‘Either myself or Mr Lingfield. I’ll explain that when Miss Pigdon has told us what happened up to the time that Mr Lingfield and Mrs Denbies went out for their ride with George.’
‘Describe my day, do you mean?’ demanded Eunice.
‘Yes, please, and don’t leave out anything.’
‘Well, I don’t know that I should be able to leave out anything, because, so far as I can remember, I did so very little that I’m sure I’ll remember it all.’
‘Why, you did everything, Piggie!’ exclaimed George. Eunice Pigdon laughed.
‘Everything didn’t amount to much, then,’ she retorted. ‘I got up at eight, had breakfast at nine, went through the plans for the day with Lady Catherine, mended a photograph album for George, took the dogs for a run, had lunch, read a book, first to myself while Lady Catherine had her afternoon nap, then aloud to her——’
‘What was the book?’ asked Mrs Bradley.
‘Oh, a detective story. I remember being rather provoked because I had got on much farther in it than she had, and it was rather boring to re-read aloud the part I’d already read to myself. I wanted to get on to the solution. What has the book got to do with it?’
‘Every detail helps,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘and so far you have not given us many details.’
‘I see. It was all so ordinary, except that lunch was a rather slight meal as we were having the big dinner in the evening.’
‘Ah, now perhaps we come to something, Miss Pigdon. Can you tell us which people were at lunch?’
‘But you know as well as I do. You were at lunch.’
‘No. If you remember, I lunched with George in Guildford. We went so that he might select a birthday gift.’
‘Which he jolly well did,’ said George, in reminiscent triumph. ‘I thought it was frightfully good of you when you’d only just come to the house. It was then that I decided to make you my great-aunt, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, George.’
‘Oh, no, you weren’t at lunch,’ said Eunice. ‘I’d forgotten. Well, let me see, then: Lady Catherine, Granny, Harry, Claudia, Mary, Humphrey and myself. The Clandons did not get here until four, John Hackhurst arrived at four-thirty and wanted tea—China tea, and Cook hadn’t a lemon and had to send into Dorking to get one——’
‘So that’s who they were,’ said Roger.
‘Who were?’
‘I mean we met them.’ He grinned and looked across at Dorothy. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Yes. But I shouldn’t have thought they could get there and back in the time.’
‘Say on,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘This fills an all-important gap.’
‘But you came across the hills and the Common,’ interrupted Eunice Pigdon. ‘And it wasn’t they, surely? We only sent Sim in the car!’
‘Sim? Oh, these two were women. We made sure they’d come from here. It was they who directed us to the station, and we came upon this house after we’d lost our way.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘This certainly begins to look like proof.’
‘Proof? Proof of what?’
‘Of Sim’s complicity in the murder.’
‘But that doesn’t matter now Sim is dead.’
‘Does it not? Ah, well! There is one more thing. When Mr Hackhurst made this inconvenie
nt demand for lemons, Mr Lingfield and Mrs Denbies had already gone out for their ride.’
‘But Sim did go out for the lemons,’ said George. ‘I know, because I saw him go.’
‘Tell your story, child,’ said Mrs Bradley, perceiving that he wanted to speak. ‘And then you must go up to bed. There will be no dénouement tonight, so you won’t miss any of the fun.’
‘Well, when you and I came back from Guildford, I heard Mr Lingfield and Mrs Denbies arrange to go out for a ride. Then I asked whether I could go with them, and I don’t really think they wanted me, but Piggie said, “Take him, for goodness’ sake! It will be plague enough getting through the rest of the afternoon without having him bothering round!” You did say so, didn’t you, Piggy?’
‘I suppose so, George. Go on.’
‘Well, we went out on the Common and galloped, and then the others said it was getting late and I’d better get back in case I missed the beginning of the party. That’s all.’
‘Bed, then, George, and thank you for a lucid exposition. Now, Mr Hoskyn, it’s your turn.’
‘Oh, but I’ve told all I can,’ said Roger, very much surprised at being challenged. ‘We saw Lingfield (I presume), Mrs Denbies and George. Then we saw George. Then we saw Mrs Denbies when we got to the house. We did not see more of Mr Lingfield. That’s all I know, except that after we had knocked at the door here to ask our way, we were asked in (we thought by mistake) and were given a jolly good dinner.’
‘That wasn’t quite all, though, Mr Hoskyn,’ suggested Mrs Bradley.
‘Well, no. As a matter of fact’—he looked across at Dorothy— ‘we had another rather queer experience on our way home. I—we—well, what happened was this: You all know the story of Benjamin’s sack?’
The company, not unnaturally, looked wooden and non-committal—the usual reaction on the part of English people to any reference to the Bible, their national book—and Roger glanced, for encouragement, at his questioner. She nodded, and he continued.
‘I found my tips—they weren’t large ones—returned to me. It seemed to me rather queer.’
Encouraged by Mrs Bradley, he told the story of the money he had found in his haversack. The company was suitably interested.
‘Then, of course, there was the body on the line,’ he added, ‘and, further to that, the decidedly rummy business—as I see it now—of Sim’s turning up with the car.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Sim and the car. Sim might almost have been the murderer himself instead of the murderer’s accomplice. No doubt you can all guess now who the murderer was.’
‘I’m sure I can’t,’ said Clare Dunley.
‘I am not so sure. When dinner was over, what happened to Granny?’ asked Eunice Pigdon suddenly.
‘He drank port with the other men. I do not know anything else that he did.’
‘He listened to Claudia’s recital, did he not?’
‘Oh, I suppose so, yes. But so did the rest of us, didn’t we?’
‘True. We did. Meanwhile Sim had been sent to the station.’
‘Yes. He came back, though,’ said Eunice Pigdon. ‘Then he went out again later. Bugle came and asked me about it.’
‘Yes, I know he did. Why did he?’
‘Granny was cross. He said that Sim should have taken these young people home, and told me to send him after them.’
‘He was cross. Meanwhile Mr Lingfield was dead, his head was cut off and his body was then transported to the copse where it was discovered. The head——’
‘Has never been found,’ said Eunice Pigdon.
‘Oh, yes, it has.’
‘Where?’ enquired everyone at once, except for Dorothy Woodcote. She spectacularly fainted.
‘Too intelligent,’ said Mrs Bradley sympathetically. ‘Lift her on to the settee. Yes, just a little brandy, I think. All this is rather a shock to a sensitive child.’
It was Bob who picked Dorothy up, snarling evilly at Roger as he did so. Dorothy recovered almost before he had laid her on the settee. She sat up immediately, apologized, and then told the story of the fire alarm and the bust. At the end of this recital Mrs Bradley nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that is what happened. I myself raised that alarm of fire on purpose. It had interesting repercussions.’
‘And where are the bones now?’ enquired Eunice Pigdon, who appeared unaffected by the narrative.
‘In the keeping of the police,’ Mrs Bradley responded. ‘This is where the inspector takes up the story.’
‘There’s little to tell,’ said the inspector. ‘We had our suspicions. Well, it seems as if we were wrong. As for the bones, Mrs Bradley was right about them. She said it was an old trick, in that she’d met it before, but I’m free to admit that it would not have occurred to the police.’
‘It wouldn’t have occurred to me,’ said Roger. ‘What bones exactly are we discussing?’
‘The bones of the dead man’s head. They were in the bust which I dropped on the fender in Dorothy’s room.’
‘In the bust? Then—but——’
‘I know. We cannot prove who put them there, however great our suspicions may be. Still, we do know one thing. A second bust, which I had placed in the gap left when I broke the first one, was claimed and carried off during the alarm of fire.’
‘Who claimed it?’ demanded Eunice Pigdon. ‘Not——’
‘Yes, Captain Ranmore burst in and took it away. That doesn’t prove anything, of course.’
‘I should have thought it did!’ said Roger. ‘Isn’t it a maxim that a person picks up the most precious things he possesses? If Ranmore is the murderer, and had hidden the head in this rather peculiar, cold-blooded sort of way, wouldn’t he naturally make a bee-line for it.’
‘I think it could be shown with some success that it was not the bust he desired to save from the fire,’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning horribly.
‘What?’ said Roger, going very pale and then becoming flushed. He looked at Dorothy.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I told you at the beginning of these revelations that I wanted proof to lay before a jury. Well, I regret to say that the majority of persons on a jury would prefer to believe that a handsome, courteous, fatherly, middle-aged man such as Captain Ranmore, would naturally rush to the rescue of a young, pretty, charming, delightful child such as Dorothy here. You even prefer to believe it yourself, my dear Roger,’ she added, favouring the so-far luckless suitor with a ferocious leer.
‘I’ll break his bloody neck,’ said Roger, in low and savage tones.
‘Mind your own damned business,’ said Bob, glaring at Roger across the room.
‘Bob, too,’ said Mrs Bradley, clicking her tongue. ‘Will no one spare a fancy for the bones?’
‘Mary Leith,’ said Eunice softly. Mrs Bradley glanced at her.
‘What do you mean?’ enquired Clare Dunley. ‘I shouldn’t have thought poor Mary knew about the bones.’
‘She saw poor Granny shot in the leg,’ said Eunice Pigdon, betraying her own state of mind. ‘I understand everything now.’
‘More than I do,’ muttered Roger. Mrs Bradley transferred her gaze to him.
‘What would you like to understand, child?’ she enquired.
‘First,’ said Roger belligerently, ‘I’d like to know why Mrs Denbies was arrested. If you didn’t really suspect her, why should she have been put to all that loathsome inconvenience?’
‘She was very strongly suspected,’ said Mrs Bradley, replying to the question although it had not been addressed to her but to the inspector.
‘And with reason!’ said Clare Dunley very dryly. All the company looked at her. She smoothed her silk skirt over her knees and looked down at her strong hands as she performed the action. She did not attempt to meet their eyes. ‘If ever any woman had cause to murder any man, I should say it was Claudia Denbies.’
‘Did he treat her very badly?’ asked Bob. ‘I daresay she deserved it. Women usually do.’
‘Speak for those you know better than you know me!’ said Dorothy; but Roger, looking curiously at Clare Dunley, said:
‘Go on.’
‘Oh, I needn’t enlarge,’ said Clare, but still with her eyes cast down. ‘You all know the sort of thing I mean. Time for her one day, and no time the next. Broke engagements, left her flat—oh, not once or even twice, but time after time. I don’t know why she stood it.’
‘Oh, they weren’t married, you know,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Did you think they were? You should have been present at the inquest.’ The effect of these words was alarming. Clare Dunley sprang up, and so did Eunice Pigdon. They stood, with clenched hands, glaring at one another as though only lack of practice in such matters prevented them from springing on one another.
‘You—you——!’ began Eunice Pigdon.
‘How—I—I——’ said Clare Dunley. Then both flushed hotly, looked foolish, and while Clare resumed her seat and prodded the edge of the fender with her shoe, Eunice got up and went towards the door.
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Pigdon,’ said the inspector, ‘but if you wouldn’t mind, just for ten minutes——’ He motioned towards the chair she had left, and Eunice Pigdon obediently returned and sat down.
‘I suppose I’ve given myself away nicely,’ she remarked. She spoke quietly, as though she were making a not uncharitable remark about someone else, someone whom, perhaps, she did not know particularly well.
‘Yes. We’ve both been fools,’ said Clare Dunley. ‘I’m sorry, Eunice. We’re both in the same boat, I suppose.’
‘I never thought it was Claudia,’ said Eunice Pigdon. ‘I knew her pretty well, and, although I was glad to see her taken up, I never thought the cap fitted.’
‘Interesting,’ remarked Mrs Bradley. ‘And you, Mrs Dunley?’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. He was dead. That was all I cared about.’
‘Do you still?’ asked Eunice Pigdon. The two women suddenly seemed to have become reconciled, as though to have exchanged murderous rivalry for friendship were the obvious and normal thing for them to have done.
‘I suppose so. I don’t know,’ Clare Dunley answered. There was a long silence. The inspector looked at his watch. As he did so, there was the sound of a car outside. He got up.
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