[Mrs Bradley 50] - Late, Late in the Evening

by Gladys Mitchell

  At this point, of course, the thing would have been to get rid of the costumes, settle for supper and a bit of relaxation and then go on with the dancing. Well, Maisy, this is where I blame myself. I wanted a special memento of my birthday, so I'd arranged for a professional photographer (at my grandmother's expense, I'm afraid) to come at about eleven and photograph the lot of us in our fancy dress and then, later on, with us in our party frocks. He was also to take family groups, groups of friends, me with my presents, and so on. That's why I put the dancing first. I couldn't have the photographer come earlier because he had an engagement to take photographs at a banquet in the town.

  So at the end of the charades people were still hanging about in those wretched costumes waiting for the photographer and going out on to the terrace to cool off and that's when Merle did her disappearing act. She announced that she was going to stroll a little way down the drive. I said, 'Not at this time of night?' She said, 'Why not? I shan't meet anybody, and if I did I should only scare them into a decline, dressed like this. You're a nuisance to make us keep the things on.'

  She was always a bit of an ass, as you know from our schooldays, and I believe she half-hoped she would meet somebody, but whether by accident (which was what she indicated) or by design (which is what I suspect) I suppose we shall never know unless something comes out at the inquest. Anyway, she was in a peculiar mood all along and never turned up for the photographs at all, but, actually, neither did the photographer!

  Well, I don't want to run her down, but, in spite of what the papers will say, she was a bitch and a schemer, as well as being an ass. Still, absit invidia and all that.

  You know what I'm trying to tell you, don't you, Maisy? She did meet someone and whoever it was must have given her a fearful bashing. When daddy and Nigel and my angel doctor-boy went out to look for her, she was dead. The iguanadon head she'd been wearing was no thicker on top than a cotton skull-cap and the police think she was bashed on the head first and then the costume was dragged off her, because they found it ripped to bits and scattered around the body.

  Lionel's Letter

  * * *

  These hols, have been pretty dim up to now, Monkey, but they have taken a turn for the better and that's why I'm writting except to say arent you glad we are haveing Mr Peters next term instead of old Scruffy although Mr Peters keeps a slipper hooked on to a nail at the side of the blackbord by the duster Tim Banks calls it Mr Peters secret weppon but I don't think Peters is vishous do you and coaches Rugger jolly well I hope I get into the third XV bet I do so nerts to Goldberg who fancys himself at scrum half because he is Cohens cozzen and the Jews always stick together wish my family did grandma is beastly strict although really quite all right but my parents are mostly abroad and I don't see all that much of them although regular pocket-money which is the main thing I serpose.

  New para as old Scruffy would say what a mean old ass still never mind him I must tell you about our murder they think I don't know but you can get to know everything if you sneek along to the kitchen door and lissen to the cook and the others in there.

  New para well, my cocky sister had a party on her birthday with some jolly good costumes she wangled her friend he's a doctor and not bad has played for the Babas though only once he got her the costumes and I collared one it was an iguanadon I know how you spell it because it is labled.

  New para well there was this party and this girl was the other iguanadon only Dr Tassel what a name I bet they ragged him at school calls it something else which I cant spell but it's still an iguanadon like an eider or a widgen or a mallard is still a duck if you see what I mean anyway this girl went out late at night to get cooled off I bet they had all been drinking a lot of shampane and sherry and stuff like that and she got murdered they will not let me go to the inquest so I have disided to become a detective and help the police find the murderer I bet they can do with some help don't you wish you were here there are two village kids I play with one is a girl but quite sensible so I may let them come in on the murder they very desently let me come in on their secret cottage its filthy but very interesting so I may let them be my asisternts in the murder as three would be better than one if the murderer turns nasty and they can both box.

  New para Ive got to give back the costume but I don't care much because it would be too awkward to pack to take home and Amabel says it makes her feel sick to think its the same as the girl had on when she was murdered they won't let me see the body its in the mortchery which I think is like an ice-box to keep bodys fresh till the coroner has seen them I wouldnt mind being a coroner and seeing all the bodys but I'd rather be a detective because thats where the action is and you look for cloos and measure footprints and pick up cigarette ends not to smoke but to notiss the brand and deduce things like whether a man is left-handed or limps and all that see you on the 23rd bring another of those jam sponges I think I can sneek too tins of sardeens Tim Banks can come in with us if he brings anything desent baked beans would do but a tin of cooked ham would be better.

  P.S. They have just told me we're all going home the police have got our address so will let us go how rotten I would much rather stay here.

  A Godfather's Letter

  * * *

  I would be shocked and horrified by the flippant tone of your recent communication, my dear boy, if I did not realise that you have been through a trying and a traumatic experience which must have left you disturbed and perhaps conscience-stricken over the death of that poor young girl whom (let us not mince matters) you jilted.

  However, some parts of your letter appear to require an answer, so I will state at once that I have no intention of intruding on Mrs Kempson. There is nothing I can do to help her through this very difficult and harassing time. Neither shall I attend the inquest on poor little Merle Patterson to hear you give your contribution to the evidence.

  As for Amabel Kempson-Conyers, I regard her as a spoilt brat and I doubt very much whether you have the strength of character to cope with her. I send you my regards, although I doubt whether you deserve them. Come and see me at Christmas, as usual.

  Chapter 10

  The Hermit's Cottage

  Kenneth and I decided, I remember, that our real adventures began when Aunt Kirstie told us that we need not go to the village school on Monday, as it was uncertain how long our mother would remain in hospital and so we might be sent for at any moment to return home. We endorsed this point of view.

  'There wouldn't be much sense in our signing on just for a week, perhaps,' said Kenneth. 'Only muck up the teacher's register.'

  'What happens if the attendance officer comes round?' I remember asking. In our London school the attendance officer was a familiar figure, a short, thick-set, po-faced young man in a blue serge suit and a burberry who looked at the registers and took down the names and addresses of absentees. Then he went to their homes to find out whether they were ill or whether they were playing the wag or whether, if girls, they were being kept away from school to help with the housework, or whether, if boys, they had no boots or were running errands for tradesmen. In our day the attendance officer was a feared and detested figure in all the poorer parts of the town.

  'Attendance officer? Who's he?' Uncle Arthur enquired. 'Only body likely to enquire about you is the governess, because they're paid according to numbers on roll.'

  Monday passed pleasantly. The weather was fine, we were free, we found three golf-balls on that part of The Marsh which was the University golf-course, we paddled, fished for tiddlers, picked and ate grandfather's fruit and paid a visit to the hermit's stinking cottage to look at Mr Ward's filled-in hole.

  The one place we felt we must not visit was the sheepwash. We had been put on our honour not to go near it, so when Our Ern and a bigger boy suggested a visit to it, we said we were compelled to refuse.

  'Aw, come on, then!' they said.

  'Can't. We've promised not to.'

  'Aw, come on!'

  'No, not this time.'
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  'Dare ee!'

  'No good. No dare taken.'

  'Checken-'earted, then!'

  'If you say that again,' said Kenneth, 'the next time we go bathing down by Long Bridges I shall drown you.'

  Long Bridges was about two miles from the village. It was a back-water of the river around part of which the town council had put corrugated iron fencing and had built dressing-sheds. There were stone steps slippery with weed leading down to the water. As a treat we were allowed to go there in charge of a village girl who came in once a week to help Aunt Kirstie turn out Mr Ward's rooms and who received an extra sixpence for taking us to the bathing-place.

  Unlike Lionel at his private school, we were compelled in so public a place to wear bathing costumes. These had been fabricated for us by Aunt Kirstie out of one of her voluminous red flannel petticoats.

  'Ought to be blue stockinette,' said Uncle Arthur, and how heartily we agreed with him!

  'Flannel will keep them warm in the water,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'I don't want them catching their deaths.'

  Kenneth's threat to drown Our Ern was met by a far more formidable counter-threat.

  'Ef ee don't come down the sheepwash Oi'll tell Gov'ness you ent attenden school. Your auntie and uncle'll go to preson ef you ent attenden school.'

  So we forfeited our honour and went along to the sheepwash, deeming it better to feel besmirched than to risk putting Uncle Arthur and Aunt Kirstie in gaol.

  ''Tes 'ereabouts as her bled,' said Our Ern ghoulishly. We searched diligently for bloodstains, but did not find any.

  'Anyways, they've got 'em as done et,' Our Ern went on.

  'Garn!' said the big boy. They never!'

  'Tell ee they 'ave, then. They've tooken that geppo what go weth Old Sukie. Our Sarah said so. Strong as a loyon he be, and took four p'licemen to get hem ento the Black Maria.'

  'Oi warnts moi tea,' said the boy, abandoning the argument. On the way back we saw Uncle Arthur coming home from work across The Marsh. He had whitewash on his clothes and carried his bag of tools. We waited for him. Kenneth took the bag and I held on to Uncle Arthur's arm.

  'No good you canoodling round me,' he said, not attempting, however, to disengage himself. 'You been down the sheepwash, I'll lay.'

  'We couldn't help it,' I said, 'and we're going to tell Aunt Kirstie. Is it true the police have arrested one of the gypsies? Is it Old Sukie's man?'

  'So I heard tell.'

  'But they can't do that,' said Kenneth. The murder happened at night, didn't it?'

  'What do you know about it?'

  'It's all over the village. Everybody knows. The thing is, you see, the gypsy couldn't have done it.'

  'Oh?' We crossed the plank bridge. I had been the one to open the iron gate. I stayed to close it. Kenneth, who had been tagging along behind with the bag of tools, caught up with Uncle Arthur.

  'Of course he couldn't,' he said. 'Don't you remember? He was at the fair. Why should they think he did it? Didn't he tell them where he was? And didn't Sukie back him up? She was there, too, you know. She tried to fight those beasts who set on him.'

  'Oh, nobody don't pay no attention to what them gyppos says,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Liars and thieves, every man jack of 'em.'

  'But if the police think he's a murderer they might hang him,' I said. (Hanging was then the punishment for murder.)

  'Good riddance to bad rubbish,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Ten to one, if it wasn't him it was another of 'em. They're all alike.' But we could not leave it at that. We talked matters over and then decided to go next day to see Mrs Kempson. This time we went to the front door. When the butler opened it and saw us, he said,

  'Master Lionel has gone home.'

  'We know,' said Kenneth. 'Miss Margaret and Mr Kenneth Clifton, to see Mrs Kempson on business.' He handed the butler his cap. 'It's to do with the murder,' he said. The butler stood aside and let us in.

  'Very good, sir,' he said ironically. 'But may I point out that it is customary for gentlemen to 'and me their 'ats after they have crossed the threshold? This way, if you please.'

  He did not take us up the splendid staircase, but led the way to a small, pretty little room on the ground floor.

  'Miss Margaret Clifton, Mr Kenneth Clifton,' he announced. It ought to have sounded all right and, in a way, it did sound all right, but we knew he was laughing at us.

  'Oh, I'm afraid Lionel has gone home,' said Mrs Kempson. Seated in the room with her was a small, thin lady, not so old as Mrs Kempson. She had black hair and black eyes and her hands and face looked rather yellow. She was so much like a witch that I ought to have been alarmed, but (as Kenneth said later) somehow you knew she was all right.

  I thought it was about time that I said something. So far, I had left all the talking to Kenneth.

  'We know Lionel has gone home. He told us,' I said. 'We've come about the murder.'

  'Good gracious me! What do you children know about that?'

  'We know the gypsy didn't do it.'

  'How can you know anything of the sort?' But, as she asked the question, she turned to the black-haired lady. 'I think perhaps I had better leave this to you, Mrs Bradley. I don't know what these children are talking about,' she said.

  'Interesting,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Oh, are you leaving us?'

  'Yes, I have letters to write.' Somewhat to our relief, Mrs Kempson got up to go. She told us to sit down and then she left us with the black-haired witch. She walked out very slowly, as though she was weak and ill.

  'The inquest is tomorrow,' said Mrs Bradley, fixing her sharp eyes on us. 'This will be the preliminary enquiry, you know, when the body is formally identified and the medical evidence taken, so you have come at a very good time. Forgive me if it is an impertinent question, but are not the school holidays over?'

  'We don't really belong here,' said Kenneth. 'We expect to go back to London any day now.'

  'I see. And what did you want to tell Mrs Kempson?'

  'It wasn't so much Mrs Kempson,' I explained. 'It's just that we had to tell somebody important, and she's the only important person we know except our grandfather, and I don't think he'd be interested.'

  'Oh, and why is that?'

  'He doesn't like gypsies. He says they raid his chicken-run and I think perhaps they do.'

  'I see. Suppose you begin at the beginning. I feel that your story will be fraught with interest.'

  I wondered whether she also was laughing at us. In what turned out to be a long acquaintance with her, for we were among the first to congratulate her when, many years later, she was made a D.B.E. and had to be addressed (rather to our embarrassment) as Dame Beatrice, we never really did know when she was laughing at us, but she was so good to us-helping us to get good jobs and rooting for Kenneth to get him into Parliament later on-that we did not mind even if she was indulging her unpredictable sense of humour at our expense, for it was puzzling but never hurtful.

  Anyway, before we left Mrs Kempson's house that day we had laid all before her and she had promised to see that Sukie's man got justice. I do not know, even to this day, what gave us such complete confidence in her, but she came to see Uncle Arthur and he agreed to give Bellamy Smith a complete alibi, as was only just and right.

  'Well,' said Kenneth, when we were on our way back to Aunt Kirstie's. 'I think we can depend on her, don't you? She seems a very reliable sort of person. She talked to us as if we were grown-up and she didn't ask any silly questions.'

  'There's an awful lot of the day left. What shall we do after dinner?' I asked.

  'I know what I want to do, but I don't know whether you'll agree, and it's not a job I want to tackle on my own.'

  'You mean the hermit's cottage, don't you? I don't want to go there again.'

  'I thought you wouldn't, but remember that filled-in hole!'

  'What about it?'

  'I rather think,' said Kenneth, kicking a stone in front of him as we walked down the hill, 'I rather think Mr Ward may have buried something there, you
know.'

  'Why? What makes you think so?' I no longer thought of buried treasure. I had murder in mind and I was frightened.

  'Well, why should he dig a hole like that and then fill it in again if he wasn't burying something?' said Kenneth. 'He'd never do all that work for nothing. Nobody would.'

  'He might if he was a madman.'

  'They think a madman murdered that girl, and we think Mr Ward is a bit mad. Tell you what! Suppose there's some important clue to him being the murderer and he's buried it in that cottage so the police won't find it? Wouldn't it be a score if we dug it up and it turned out to be just the thing the police were looking for? It could be, you know, because I don't suppose they realise Mr Ward used to go to the cottage and dig up the floor.'

  Aunt Kirstie hardly ever asked what we had been doing with ourselves during the morning or what we were going to do after dinner and she did not do so on this occasion. We slipped out while she was doing the washing-up and went down to the duckpond. Grandfather, we knew, would be settling down for his afternoon nap and Aunt Lally would be doing her own washing-up, so the coast was clear. All the same, we went a long way round to get to the gap we had made in the hermit's iron railings. We took cover among raspberry canes and currant bushes after we had skirted the duckpond, then we went behind the pigsties and, having reached old Polly's stable, we took cover behind that and waited and listened. I still did not want to go to the cottage, but I was afraid of Kenneth's going alone.