The Man Who Grew Tomatoes (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  At Maitland’s farm she was fortunate in finding the owner disengaged. This was not by his own wish. He was recovering from influenza. Dame Beatrice sent up her card and the housekeeper returned to say that Mr. Maitland would be delighted if Dame Beatrice would go up.

  “He isn’t infectious,” she added. “That’s just weak and funny-tempered. Do him good to have a visitor to be polite to.”

  She led the way up a steep staircase, tapped at a bedroom door, opened it, and showed Dame Beatrice in. The farmer was reclining in a long chair by the window. He was a tall, fair-haired, good-looking man of about forty and when the visitor was announced he began to struggle to his feet.

  “Keep still, please, Mr. Maitland, while I explain my errand.” Dame Beatrice walked to the window and looked over the fields. “You will be glad to be out and about again. Do you have many visitors?”

  “Nobody’s got much time to spare at this time of year. I did have a visitor yesterday, though—a Miss Tolley, sister of the vicar of Camber.”

  “Really, Mr. Maitland? That would appear to simplify matters considerably. I note that you are restraining your very natural curiosity as to the object of my visit, so I will now do my best to explain myself. I am here partly on Miss Tolley’s behalf.”

  “She can’t have changed her mind in a day, surely!”

  “If you mean what I think you mean, I am afraid she has not. May I ask whether she made any mention of anonymous letters?”

  “She did. Both she and this Camber fellow she’s engaged to seem to have had them. But if you’ve come to pump me, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I didn’t write them and I can’t think of anybody around these parts who would.”

  “I am not surprised. I have my own theory as to their authorship.”

  “It must be a woman. Men don’t write anonymous dirt.”

  “The oddest thing about the letters is that they contain almost nothing of that sort. Beyond one reference to Miss Tolley as a harlot, they are not in the least improper. Their one aim and object appears to be to effect a breach between Miss Tolley and Mr. Camber. There are definite accusations of murder against the latter.”

  “I say! That seems a bit steep! Does the writer provide chapter and verse, by any chance? Of course, from what I read in the local paper, it does seem to have been a bit of a fluke that this particular Camber inherited the property. Weren’t there two very unexpected deaths?”

  “Yes, there were. The previous owner and his young son were both drowned.”

  “Well, a coincidence like that is quite enough to start malicious tongues wagging.”

  “Quite so. And if the letters contained nothing but accusations of murder against Mr. Hugh Camber, I should advise him to turn them over to the police; but the vicar has also received letters and the whole point, as I said before, seems to be that the marriage of Mr. Camber and Miss Tolley shall never take place.”

  “So you do think that I might have had a hand in the letters, do you?” He wagged his broad, fair, Scandinavian head and grinned. “I suppose you know Catherine turned me down, and you think this is a case of Hamlet, revenge!”

  Dame Beatrice cackled.

  “Miss Tolley was vehement in her assertions that neither you nor Mr. Tunstall could possibly have brought himself to utter those letters, and I agree with her. I agreed with her, I may tell you, before I came here.”

  “Then may I ask—not that I’m not delighted to have a visitor and one of such distinction, of course, but…”

  “Are you a typical Norfolk farmer, Mr. Maitland?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “There is a touch of the Old School Tie about you.”

  “Dear, dear! Is it so obvious that I went to Marlborough?”

  “That would explain it, of course.”

  “To go back a bit, if we may: if you were sure, before you came, that I wasn’t mixed up with this anonymous piffle, why did you come?”

  “I hoped you might be able to help me. The letters are a fact, and facts are capable of explanation. Incidentally, the really interesting and worrying thing is that the letters are not piffle.”

  “Meaning?—Good heavens, you don’t take these accusations of murder seriously?”

  “So seriously that there may be nothing for it but to get the bodies exhumed.”

  “Good Lord! You are going places! I know your reputation as a private sleuth, of course, but—exhumations!”

  “Before we go to those lengths, however, it is necessary for me to go to Scotland and endeavour to obtain first-hand information about the manner of Paul Camber’s death.”

  “Oh, yes. Salmon-fishing, wasn’t he?”

  “It seems a likely inference.”

  “What makes you think it was murder?—just the coincidence of the father and son both being drowned?”

  “There was another factor. The boy was said to be drunk. It was the reason given for his falling into the water.”

  Maitland studied her, but Dame Beatrice’s black, brilliant, ironic eyes gave nothing away.

  “You mean you want to find out whether the father was in the same state when he was drowned?”

  “Well, one needs to be cautious about that. You see, whether that state was a state of drunkenness is open to very wide doubt.”

  “You make a mystery of it.”

  “It is better so, at present. I must have proof. Do you care to tell me any more about your conversation of yesterday with Miss Tolley?”

  “Well, it was mostly about the letters. She warned me to be on my guard against you, as you would try to pump me about our past relationship—hers and mine, I mean.”

  “Why should you not be pumped about your relationship with her? Was it scandalous?”

  Maitland laughed.

  “Heavens, no! I proposed at a ball in the Assembly Rooms in Norwich during the celebration of the Festival of Britain in 1951.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Dame Beatrice, who had learnt this protest of incredulity from her secretary.

  “Why not?” Maitland was obviously surprised.

  “Well, it seems to have been the fashion to propose to Miss Tolley at the Assembly Rooms in Norwich during the Festival of Britain in 1951.”

  “Do you mean to tell me…?”

  “Yes, I do. It was in that place, and at a ball during that year, that Mr. Tunstall, a boat-builder on the River Bure, also proposed to Miss Tolley and was refused.”

  “Another coincidence, then! But it couldn’t possibly tie up with the deaths of Camber and his son. Of course, I’ve seen her since then—before yesterday I mean.”

  “How long had you known Miss Tolley when you proposed to her?”

  “Not very long. We were both on one of the many committees which arranged the Norwich Festival items, that’s all. It was all a bit hectic, as you can imagine, and people got thrown together quite a bit if they were in the same swim.”

  “Then it is likely that Mr. Tunstall was also on one of these committees and that Miss Tolley was his fellow-member, too?”

  “Yes. As a boat-builder, he may have been in on the arrangements for the Pavilion d’Or. It visited Norwich during the Festival and the boats were moored at the bridge near Thorpe Station. I remember the Snow Goose particularly—a dream of a boat. The Pavilion d’Or boats arrived on the Thursday—June 28th it was—and moved off between eight and half-past nine on the Friday morning. I motored over to watch them leave. Some were quite fabulous. I was filled with admiration and green with envy.”

  “Which committee were you on?”

  “Well, there was the pageant, of course. I was one of the people proposed for Parson Woodforde. Hoped I’d have clicked, but I didn’t. A better man got it. Then, being a farmer, I helped a bit with the arrangements for the Norfolk Show. That was not specially Festival stuff, of course. We always have it. I showed sheep—Suffolks—and cattle—Redpolls, English White, and some Shorthorns. I had a couple of Shire horses in, too, and three dogs.”

  “Yo
ur farm must be a very large one.”

  “No, just average, but I experiment with mixed farming and with various breeds of cattle, all pedigree stuff.”

  “The Festival must have been a particularly stimulating one in Norwich.”

  “It was. Personally, from what I heard and read, it seemed to me that we outdid everywhere else for sheer interest and variety. We had the Three Choirs Festival, too—Ely, Peterborough, and Norwich. The Cathedral was packed, of course—people standing, and what not. Interesting Magnificat and a really beautiful Nunc Dimittis, but the Bairstow, I thought, was dull, and the Wesley rather heavy. Of course, the organ is in a silly place and the stone screen muffles sound. You could hear the boys’ voices all right from where I was, but the men were difficult to hear except in unaccompanied Gibbon. There they were fine.”

  “I cannot imagine,” said Dame Beatrice, gazing with mild benevolence at Maitland, “why Miss Tolley did not wish to marry you. How, exactly, did you get to know her?—as a member of which committee?”

  “Well, she was on the Town Hall staff, a supernumerary taken on just for the Festival. She helped arrange the outings, you know.”

  “The outings?”

  “Yes, to some of the famous houses and castles, and the ruined priories and so forth. I was supposed to be an authority on Binham and, as Catherine had some idea that she might have to conduct one of the coach parties round the ruins and then on to Holkam Hall, she roped me in to supply some information.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  “I fell in love with her, of course. Nothing like a common interest in architecture to make one see roses, roses all the way.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. I tried to sweep her off her feet, as the saying is. She gave me the air. My second attempt—at the ball—was equally unsuccessful. But for Binham, I think I might have been lucky. As she’s a parson’s sister, I suppose she thought the time, the place, and the loved one didn’t quite fit together.”

  “Where did you propose to her?”

  “In the abbot’s kitchen. It seemed fairly secular, I thought. I mean, I wouldn’t have chosen the cloister or the Chapter House.”

  “I think that shows very nice feeling on your part. And when Miss Tolley refused your offer?”

  “I was a trifle dashed, of course. Apart from anything else, one feels a bit of a fool and rather wishes one hadn’t rushed in. Still, she was very charming about it and I’m not at all sure she’d have made a farmer’s wife, anyway. In fact, I’ve persuaded myself that she most certainly wouldn’t.”

  “What do you know of Mr. Hugh Camber?”

  “Just exactly nothing. Never met him. Didn’t know he existed until there was all this stuff in the local papers about two drownings and the unmarried heir coming from London. I’d be interested to meet him, as a matter of fact. Like to know what made Catherine accept him, don’t you know.”

  “He is a man, I should judge, of about forty. He is quiet, humorous, considerate, and kind. Beyond that, which might be said of many men of his age and type, there is nothing to show why he should have been accepted where Mr. Tunstall and yourself were refused. There is no accounting for these things.”

  “There’s Camber Abbey.”

  “I should hardly think that would weigh with Miss Tolley, but, again, one can never tell.”

  “There’s a substantial difference, I should have thought, between being a farmer’s wife, or marrying into the boatbuilding business, and becoming the mistress of Camber. Still, I’m inclined to agree with you that it probably would not have tipped the scale with a girl like Catherine.”

  “Who, Mr. Maitland, would be so much against the marriage as to write these letters?”

  “Catherine thinks—I suppose it’s fair to tell you?”

  “That depends upon whether you want the letters to stop.”

  “I most certainly do. I hate the idea of anonymous mud-slinging. Right, then: Catherine thinks the most likely person is the mother of Camber’s heir presumptive. I forget the woman’s name.”

  “You are not alone in advancing the theory that Mrs. Hal Camber is our quarry. I think as you do, so now we shall see.”

  “There was something very opportune and peculiar about those two deaths,” said Maitland. “Wasn’t there some scandal about Paul Camber and a farmer’s daughter?”

  “If it had not been about a farmer’s daughter, would you have been likely to hear of it?”

  “Probably not. Talk goes round Norwich cattle market, I suppose. Beresford, wasn’t it?”

  Dame Beatrice nodded. She had found out what she wanted to know. There had been talk about Paul Camber and the Beresford girl and the gossip had been fairly wide-spread.

  “Tell me, Mr. Maitland,” she said, “whether anything was said about a man named Verith.”

  “Verith? Verith? I seem to have heard the name…Oh, yes, I know! Wasn’t he the fellow that Camber tried to put the blame on?”

  “There seems to have been some foundation for that. According to what Mr. Hugh Camber has told me, Verith took the girl to London for a week-end.”

  “I heard nothing except that Paul Camber had managed to implicate him in some way and had given him the sack because he refused to marry Miss Beresford.”

  “Yes, he certainly dismissed him from his post.”

  “Verith seems to have been a bit of a fool, I imagine.”

  Dame Beatrice reverted to the subject of the letters.

  “Suppose it is Mrs. Hal Camber who writes them, what would her object be?” She looked expectantly at him, but Maitland shook his head.

  “I know nothing about her,” he replied, “except what Catherine told me when she warned me you would probably come and accuse me of writing the things myself to try to prevent her marriage. She thought Mrs. Camber had the same idea—to throw a spanner into the works, keep Hugh Camber a bachelor and have the small nephew succeed to the property later on.”

  “The obstacle in the way of that particular plan is that the estate is not entailed and can be willed away from the family at the owner’s whim, so that particular fish won’t bite, I’m afraid.”

  “Then it must just be common or garden spite, I suppose.”

  “There might be another explanation, don’t you think?” Again she looked to him for an opinion, but Maitland merely shrugged his shoulders and said:

  “Unless she thinks Camber killed his two relatives in order to get hold of the property for himself—? You say the estate was not entailed but could be disposed of by will? How did Paul Camber word his will, I wonder? The boy died before he did, if I remember what I read in the papers. That means that Paul would have re-made his will, so he must have made it in Hugh’s favour, I suppose. It might make things look pretty fishy for Hugh if anybody took some of those anonymous letters seriously.”

  “You seem to know a good deal about the contents of those letters, Mr. Maitland.”

  Maitland met her sharp black eyes with his level glance.

  “I know what Catherine told me. She was rather angry at the thought that you were coming here to accuse me of writing them,” he said.

  “You know better than to think that about me now. You have, in fact, helped me considerably. You have clarified two thoughts which have been at the back of my mind for some little time.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Dame Beatrice grinned in a conciliatory manner, but she did not answer the unspoken question.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gently-Smiling Jaws

  “Dim is the rumour of a common fight,

  Where host meets host, and many names are sunk;

  But of a single combat fame speaks clear.”

  Matthew Arnold

  “We now know of the existence of X,” said Dame Beatrice, after dinner that evening. Hugh very carefully lit a cigar and tossed the match into a blazing fire of logs. He then leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at his guest.

  “I understand that you
believed Mrs. Hal wrote the letters,” he said. Dame Beatrice solemnly nodded.

  “I have no doubt about that,” she said. “But that is only the beginning of our difficulties.”

  “How to bring it home to her, you mean?”

  “No, I did not mean that. It is more than likely that, after I have seen her, the letters will stop. Then what we have to find is the mind behind those tomatoes. I may be able to find out more about that when I confront Mrs. Camber with the evidence I have against her, but I hardly think so.”

  “You really intend to face her with this charge of uttering the letters?”

  “I do indeed; but I shall be surprised if she proves to be connected with the deaths of your cousin and his son. From whom can I obtain the address at which Paul Camber stayed when he was in Scotland?”

  “Mrs. Brunton, who used to be the housekeeper here, will know. I’ve got her present address. She left it in case any letters should come for her after she’d gone.”

  “Splendid. Would you mind contacting her, then, and making the necessary enquiry?”

  “She’ll be bound to wonder why I want to know.”

  “To give a slightly fictional reason might be justified there, I think. Could you not say that you wish to make a pious pilgrimage to the place, or that you—? No, a pious pilgrimage is the best. Not only is it, in a sense, true (of me, if not of yourself, since you will not be going), but she will approve of the proper feeling you will be showing. If you say you want to go salmon-fishing she may think you cold-blooded.”

  “Right. I’ll send to her at once.”

  “And I will descend like an avenging angel upon Mrs. Hal Camber. Where does she live?”

  Hugh wrote down the address of Mrs. Hal’s flat.

  “Will you come back here when you’ve talked to her?” he asked.

  “Not immediately, unless it seems absolutely necessary to do so. I must look in at my London clinic and see my secretary. If I am coming back straight away, I will telephone you, but my present plan is to go to Scotland as soon as I get that address from Mrs. Brunton.”