Come Away, Death

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘I thought soon after we began the tour that he wasn’t quite right in the head, maybe. We should never have come here,’ said Ian. ‘There’s no doubt he inflicted the wounds on himself, I am thinking.’

  ‘You are thinking correctly, child. Be off with you both. You have to get a train for Izmir to catch the boat that goes back to Athens to-night. Manage as best you can. Goodbye. Good luck.’

  Ian shook his head when she had left them.

  ‘That’s a strange chiel,’ he said. ‘What would you suppose her to be meaning?’

  ‘She wants us out of the way. Lady Hopkinson knows that Sir Rudri’s almost crazy. She told me so, long enough ago. Ian, where is Armstrong? Why didn’t he come to Ephesus with the rest? Surely he was wanted to take the photographs?’

  Ian looked uncomfortable. He stared miserably away across the desolate, hilly countryside and said:

  ‘Do you not ken that Armstrong’s dead, my lass?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Yes. And nobody in the world shall dissuade me from going an finding him.

  ‘What? From going down to the depths of Hades?

  ‘Good Lord, yes, and further down still if there is anything further down.’

  1

  ATHENS LOOKED MUCH as usual, Mrs Bradley decided. The invalids had so far recovered as to be able to travel by the morning of the third day, and Marie Hopkinson, forewarned by Ian and Cathleen, was ready to receive the whole party. Dick excused himself on the plea of extreme fatigue, and went to bed immediately after dinner. He and Alexander Currie, Ian and Cathleen, Stewart and Kenneth were to remain under the roof of the Hopkinsons. When Dick, still suffering from the effects of the hanging – about which he had not been questioned – had gone to his room, Sir Rudri, a trifle stiff still, but with all the gashes healing very nicely, took Alexander off to his study for the remainder of the evening, whilst Gelert, Megan, Ian, and Cathleen went to the cinema and took the three little boys.

  Mrs Bradley, left alone with her hostess, sat knitting an orange jumper. Marie Hopkinson pretended to be busy with letters to catch the morning mail. Actually she sat and fidgeted, and watched her visitor. After ten minutes or so, she said:

  ‘Beatrice, tell me what’s happened. Of course I know about poor little Dick and his attempted suicide, and of course I know all about Rudri. But why should Dick think of suicide? He’s nothing to blame himself for! And how on earth did he manage to hang himself up like that?’

  ‘Those are the questions. How do you know he has attempted suicide, Marie?’

  ‘You don’t mean – it couldn’t be an accident?’

  Instead of answering the question, Mrs Bradley inquired, ‘Is there any news about Armstrong? Did he say why he didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Of course, you don’t know that. My dear, his poor mother came here. She seemed in the most dreadful way. She felt, she said, that something must have happened to him. She asked me whether I would advise her to go to the police. Of course the police here, Beatrice, are really very good. I think you would be surprised. Quite on English lines, and no lethal weapons of any kind – so unlike the decidedly over-decorated men one sees in most foreign capitals. I told her to do as she pleased. I suggested trying all his usual haunts. She told me she did not know them. He seems to have been a dreadful boy – quite dreadful. It all came out in the end. She wanted to be allowed to assume his death. He was insured. She herself had insured his life with an American company, and they are perfectly anxious to give her the money. They want to advertise their scheme, you see, and all these Greeks seem to live for ever, so there isn’t much rush to take out policies, apparently, and the company thought if only they could pay up over Armstrong that this woman could be – oh, I don’t know – photographed, and perhaps filmed for the local newsreels, and all that kind of thing. You know what Americans are – they’re so terribly keen and unprincipled.’

  ‘Unprincipled?’

  ‘Well, of course, they don’t want to find out that Armstrong is still alive. They want to presume him dead, the same as she does. I know it sounds quite wrong, but she wants to get away from him and go to America on the money.’

  ‘But he is dead,’ said Mrs Bradley calmly. ‘I just wondered what you knew about it, Marie.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. Why should I? What makes you think that he’s dead?’

  ‘I’ve seen his head in Ephesus,’ Mrs Bradley replied concisely.

  ‘You’ve seen —What did you say?’

  Mrs Bradley repeated what she had said, and Marie Hopkinson stared at her with dilated eyes, white-faced and horror-stricken.

  ‘Beatrice, you can’t mean that! My poor Rudri! We – I can’t understand it. He went away feeling so much better about those awful photographs. We’d quite agreed to sell my diamonds. It would have brought in enough, yes, more than enough to buy the things from that wretched, blackmailing boy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Bradley. She meditated. ‘What makes you think that Rudri committed the murder?’

  ‘Beatrice, don’t call it that.’

  ‘Even if Rudri didn’t do it?’

  ‘But Rudri – you know, he’s terribly violent when once he takes to action. He’s so enthusiastic, that’s the trouble.’

  In spite of the serious occasion, Mrs Bradley cackled.

  ‘Rudri isn’t the person who committed this murder, Marie, my dear, so don’t suggest it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Marie Hopkinson. ‘I like to look facts in the face. And, after all, it isn’t as though it were England.’

  ‘How do you mean, dear child?’

  ‘The publicity – so horrid over there. And then, over here, they are certain not to be too unpleasant about it. The English School would be sorry to lose Rudri’s services, in spite of his mad ideas. And the Greeks – the officials here and even the Government – he gets on very well with all of them.’

  The naïveté of this point of view intrigued Mrs Bradley, not as much as it would have done in a stranger, for she had known Marie Hopkinson since their schooldays, but sufficiently to afford her entertainment. She replied very gravely, however:

  ‘Now, Marie, listen to me. You must not try to make me believe that Rudri killed this young man. I don’t think it likely. And don’t, for goodness’ sake, broadcast such an opinion, even if you hold it. I am perfectly certain that Rudri is not the guilty person. What’s more, I expect I can prove it.’

  ‘Poor Rudri!’ said his wife inconsequently. ‘I wish, all the same, you’d speak to him when he comes down.’

  ‘I intend to,’ said Mrs Bradley. She spoke to him at the first opportunity. Sir Rudri, as brown as an Indian and now looking extremely well, drew forward a chair and offered her a cigar. Mrs Bradley waved the cigar away, but seated herself in the chair.

  ‘A pity we cannot get a view of the Acropolis from here,’ she remarked. ‘Well, child, what conclusion have you come to? Was the expedition all that you expected it to be?’

  Sir Rudri picked up a pen, tried the nib on his thumbnail, put the pen down, and turned round to look at her.

  ‘Am I really mad, Beatrice?’ he asked.

  ‘No, child. Not in the least.’

  ‘You’re going on with the treatment, though, aren’t you?’

  ‘As you like, child. Just as you like.’

  ‘There’s one thing I want to ask you. For God’s sake tell me the truth. Marie’s been hinting at fearful things in connexion with that young Armstrong. Is it likely, Beatrice, that I could kill a man and not remember anything about it?’

  ‘Not only is it unlikely, it is impossible,’ said Mrs Bradley firmly.

  ‘Oh? Well, what about Armstrong? You remember he didn’t turn up to go aboard ship?’

  ‘What about Armstrong? How do you mean, child?’

  ‘Armstrong is dead. Did I kill him?’

  ‘Did anybody kill him?’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘And how do you know he is dead?’

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nbsp; ‘Well, Marie seems terribly upset – she blurted out various things – and there are rumours – an insurance company – apparently he’s missing from his home. Isn’t that the expression?’

  ‘Look here, Rudri,’ said Mrs Bradley, fixing her bright black eyes on his dreamy ones, ‘what are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing. I merely thought that the boy might be dead. Why should he disappear if he weren’t dead? Tell me that. He had everything to gain by sticking closely to all that blackmail stuff. Why, woman alive, my poor Molly had arranged to sell her diamonds!’

  ‘To buy the set of photographs?’

  ‘To buy the set of photographs, and to make him hold his tongue about the Iacchus, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Bradley, lowering her eyes and looking pensive. ‘Rudri, just what was in those photographs to make them so terribly incriminating?’

  ‘Nothing. But I couldn’t look a fool.’

  ‘No. But you didn’t tell me at Ephesus that Marie was going to sell her diamonds.’

  ‘I hadn’t agreed that she should.’

  ‘Were there any photographs that I didn’t know about?’

  ‘I – I don’t know what you knew.’

  ‘Where are the photographs now?’

  ‘Armstrong had them at his home. I presume they’re still there.’

  ‘What?’ Haven’t you applied for them there? Haven’t you offered his mother money for them since you’ve been home?’

  ‘Well, no, of course not. Molly’s diamonds we’d thought of, as I said. But that was before I realized Armstrong was dead. I haven’t had another chance since. I thought I would go there to-morrow.’

  ‘I see. Who was supposed to take the photographs at Ephesus?’

  ‘Dick was supposed to. He didn’t take any, though.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  ‘We forgot the flashlight apparatus.’

  ‘What about daylight photographs?’

  ‘We didn’t want any. I only wanted to photograph any phenomena.’

  ‘And there weren’t any? What about Artemis?’

  ‘There weren’t any during the hours of daylight.’

  ‘And yet you had the hall at Eleusis photographed, and the sanctuary and other parts at Epidaurus, and all kinds of photographs were taken at Mycenae. Why was not Ephesus photographed?’

  ‘I thought we might get more than we bargained for at Ephesus.’

  ‘Well, child, as a matter of fact, we did.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Armstrong’s head turned up in the baggage at Ephesus. I believe it had been wrapped in one of the sleeping-bags.’

  ‘What? Why on earth —?’ Why wasn’t I notified of that?’ His surprise and horror were genuine, Mrs Bradley decided, and his last question certainly was characteristic.

  ‘Because it was removed to the snake-box so that the sacks could be used. The person in charge of the head made the mistake of not keeping the blood-stained sack for himself, however. Rather careless, I thought. Obviously the error of inexperience. The head is now in a hole behind some bushes near the site of the flooded temple.’

  ‘But, Beatrice, that’s blasphemous, surely?’

  ‘What is?’ asked Mrs Bradley, watching him very keenly.

  ‘Why – why —’ He rose, and walked up and down. ‘Don’t you realize – that head, the head of that – no, I won’t call him what I could – Beatrice, we must go back to Ephesus and take it away at once. It’s horrible to think of it there, in that sacred place.’

  ‘The jackals are certain to have removed it. Be calm, dear child. You do yourself no good by these frenzies. That’s better. Sit down and rest.’

  ‘Sit down and rest,’ said Sir Rudri. Like the majority of nervous people, he found the last word hypnotic. He repeated it, slowly and sadly. Tears came into his eyes. In less than five minutes he was in a self-induced sleep. Mrs Bradley looked longingly at him. In that condition he would answer truthfully any questions she might put to him. True to her principles – since the questions she would have to put to him would have nothing whatever to do with his cure – she tip-toed out of the room, and closed the door so quietly behind her that the tranced man did not stir.

  2

  The first move, obviously, was to interview Armstrong’s mother. The second, Mrs Bradley decided, would be to arrange another talk with Sir Rudri and one with Ronald Dick. She wanted to hear what account each could give of the injuries he had received at Ephesus. Her own theory, like that of Marie Hopkinson, was that in both cases the injuries must have been self-inflicted. She connected Dick’s queer adventure with the appearance of Megan in Artemis. Sir Rudri, she thought, had been experimenting with a form of Attis-worship. The cult of Attis, in some form of its manifestations, was not unlike the orgies connected with the worship of the Asiatic Artemis, she believed.

  Mrs Armstrong was at home. She was cooking. She gave Mrs Bradley some of the food. Although it consisted of lamb, vine-leaves, a clove of garlic, and had been prepared with olive-oil, Mrs Bradley enjoyed the meal. When it was over the woman said:

  ‘You came to ask about my son?’

  ‘Yes. Where is he?’

  ‘I think that he is dead.’

  ‘That is for the insurance company. I do not come from them.’

  ‘Still I think that he is dead.’

  ‘That is your true opinion?’

  ‘I think – I think so.’

  ‘Who killed him, Mrs Armstrong?’

  ‘I cannot tell.’

  ‘Had he enemies?’

  The woman shrugged and half-smiled.

  ‘He had plenty of enemies. He was a very bad man. Even I, his mother, was his enemy.’

  ‘Are you his mother?’

  ‘No. But he said I was to say so.’

  ‘Are you his wife?’

  ‘We were married ten years ago. I was then beautiful. Now – he has made me old.’

  ‘I thought you were not his mother.’

  ‘I am old enough to be so. I am fifty-two years old. He married me in payment of a debt. I mean that the debt was owed by him to my brother. I was a widow since I was twenty-nine. My brother was tired of keeping me. He gave me in marriage to Armstrong to clear the debt which Armstrong owed to him. It is I that have paid the debt.’

  ‘And now you have killed your husband. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘No, no,’ said the woman with another pitiful smile. ‘It would be against my religion, and my religion is all the comfort I have had since I have been a wife for the second time. They that killed Armstrong had good reasons; many reasons.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Do not ask me. You are good, but I shall lie, for the sake of those to whom I am beholden.’

  She rose and began to clear away the dishes.

  ‘Tell me one thing. Did you see him die?’

  The table was clear and the woman was going out of the room as Mrs Bradley asked the question, but, half-turning, she raised her fine brows, and hesitated, and then nodded:

  ‘I saw him die. I am glad.’

  ‘Which day would that have been?’

  The woman looked at her, and again gave a little smile before she spread out her large-palmed hands to soften the refusal.

  ‘I do not tell you that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You are clever. You would know too much if you knew that. You might find out who had killed him. I am to keep their secret. I lied just now. I did not see him die.’

  ‘Very well. I thank you for your hospitality,’ said Mrs Bradley, not attempting to argue with the woman. She went to Dick’s room as soon as she got back to Marie Hopkinson’s house. Dick was reclining on the bed, but he was dressed in shirt and shorts. His eyes were dark-circled, and his neck still showed signs of the rope, but he put down his book and smiled politely when, in answer to his invitation, she opened the door, and went in.

  ‘Doctor?’ he asked. She cackled.

  ‘Mother-c
onfessor, dear child.’

  ‘I was so upset about Megan. That business —’ he spoke jerkily – ‘that Artemis get-up – it seemed a kind of sacrilege. I couldn’t bear it. And then she said she wouldn’t marry me after all. That was when I caught her up at Selçuk. Of course, I knew it was Megan. I never stop thinking about her, and so, of course, I recognized her at once. Her father had asked her to do it. Cranky fellow. I shan’t work with him any more. Nothing but lies, deception, and play-acting all the time. Megan’s known all about it from the beginning. It was she who suggested Armstrong for the Iacchus.’

  ‘So you came back to Ephesus and hanged yourself. Was that it?’

  ‘Yes, it was. But it didn’t come off. The tree was too young. It bent, and my feet were all the time on the ground and taking my weight. I had all the discomfort without the triumph of dying. I always manage to make a fool of myself.’

  He grimaced. Mrs Bradley wagged her head and cackled.

  ‘And now Megan has changed her mind again, and will marry you after all.’

  ‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’

  ‘No. I went by your general demeanour. By the way, what happened to the gold you found at Mycenae?’

  Dick flushed.

  ‘Armstrong took it away from me. That’s what he was after – you know – that night at Mycenae when we struggled, and he pushed me into the excavations and hurt me. He couldn’t get it from me then, because I’d hidden it in the beehive tomb, you remember. He knew it was valuable stuff, and not just one of the fakes.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘And the ibex horns you purchased? Were they a fake, or real?’

  Dick looked startled and nonplussed. Then he said hastily:

  ‘Oh, real enough. Why should they be a fake? They had nothing to do with Sir Rudri.’

  ‘Nothing at all, dear child?’

  ‘Nothing. Some time or another,’ said Dick, ‘I wish you’d let me talk to you about the events of the tour. There are heaps of things that want explaining, you know.’

  ‘I know. Child, who was the white figure seen in the Tholos?’