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

by Gladys Mitchell

  There was nobody about, so we made for the gap in the fence and squeezed through. Unless somebody looked over the side wall which had glass on top to keep children from climbing in, we knew we could not be spotted, for the people who lived next door had put up a very high fence between them and the hermit's untidy garden. We tip-toed up what was left of the garden path, listened at the back doorway and then went in through the kitchen to the front room.

  There was the filled-in hole and near it lay Mr Ward's pickaxe. It was then that Kenneth said, 'Well, that's no use to us. We ought to have brought a spade.'

  'That wouldn't be much use, either,' I said. 'We tried Uncle Arthur's once, don't you remember? We couldn't do much with it, even in his garden. I vote we chuck this and find something else to do.'

  'And leave the treasure, or maybe the clue to the murder?'

  'Well, what's the use? We can't get it on our own. Besides...'

  'Besides what?'

  'We might find there wasn't any treasure or any clue and then we, or whoever helped us, would have had all the sweat for nothing.' (I did not express my real fear of what we might find.)

  'Oh, rot! If Mr Ward filled in the hole, he must have buried something. Stands to reason.'

  'Not if he's mad it doesn't,' I said again.

  'You said "whoever helped us". I've thought of somebody who would.'

  'They're all in school, and, anyway, it wouldn't be our secret any longer.'

  'Poachy Ling isn't in school.'

  'But he's barmy.'

  'All the better. He won't know what it's all about, and he's as strong as a horse. He's always hanging about and trying to join in things. He'd come like a shot if we asked him.'

  'He gibbers and dribbles. I'm scared of him.'

  'He's all right. Just a bit simple, Uncle Arthur says. That's why he doesn't go to proper work. Does odd jobs here and there and helps his mother with her washing. Let's go and see if he's hanging about anywhere.'

  Poachy Ling was usually to be found hanging about. He was called Poachy not because he had a talent for snaring rabbits or taking pheasants, but because it was the nearest he ever got to pronouncing his own name, which was Percy. He was known to be harmless, but his moppings and mowings always made me uneasy and anxious to get away from him. In other words he was the village idiot, but an older brother protected him and Our Sarah would not permit any of her gang to tease him when his brother was at work. Neither, however, would she have him as a member of her group, although he was always, in a hopeful spirit, trying to become a camp-follower. I suppose he must have had the mentality of a retarded child of four. I believe his age in years was twenty-three.

  'Even if we had Poachy we still haven't got a spade,' I said.

  'There's Uncle Arthur's in the shed. You go and get that, and I'll go and find Poachy.'

  'Uncle Arthur might be waxy.'

  'Not he. He let us dig in the garden with it.'

  Digging in Uncle Arthur's garden and digging up the floor of the hermit's filthy hovel seemed to my mind two very different things, but I did not say so. I sneaked back to Aunt Kirstie's while Kenneth went out by the front door of the cottage. Luckily the shed was at the bottom of the garden next to the earth closet, so I did not need to go near the house. I secured the heavier of Uncle Arthur's two spades, added the iron crowbar we had borrowed when we forced the palings apart, and returned to the garden of the cottage.

  I waited there for what seemed a very long time before Kenneth re-appeared. He came back through the cottage and found me poking about among the bushes with the crowbar.

  'What are you doing?' he asked.

  'Nothing. I've found something, though. Show you later. Where's Poachy?'

  'In the road. Come and help me make him come in.' He picked up the spade, I followed with the crowbar and we dumped them on top of the filled-in hole. Poachy was writhing about and talking to himself. I took one arm and Kenneth took the other and we persuaded him into the cottage. Kenneth showed him the spade, handed it to him and indicated the place where we wanted him to dig. I picked up the crowbar and retreated towards the kitchen. I think I had some vague idea of protecting Kenneth in case Poachy turned nasty-not that he ever did.

  Apparently the suggestion conveyed by the spade and the newly tramped-down earth appealed to something in the idiot's memory. He fell into a series of weird contortions, grinned and slobbered, picked up the spade and fell to work. Soon earth and stones were flying in all directions, so Kenneth and I took cover in the kitchen doorway, peeping out every now and again to see how he was getting on.

  'What were you poking in the bushes for?' Kenneth asked, while Poachy delved and heaved. 'You said you found something. What?'

  'A boot,' I said, 'elastic-sided. I believe it's one of Mr Ward's.'

  Chapter 11

  Our Special Correspondent

  With no desire or intention of being facetious, for, in the circumstances we are about to describe, such an attitude on the part of this newspaper would be in the worst possible taste, we have to admit that, if the horror films want it, Hill village has it. Figure to yourself, as the French are supposed to say, two murders, each as bizarre as the other, in a village of under three hundred inhabitants and within a space of less than three weeks! Does your mind boggle? Not half as much as the mind of the local inspector of police, we dare swear!

  Our readers will remember-indeed, who, knowing the facts, could ever forget?-the death of Miss Merle Patterson, a stranger from London who was found brutally done to death at the end of a grassy thoroughfare known locally as Lovers' Lane.

  Miss Patterson, it will be recalled, had strayed away from a party held at Hill Manor House, just outside the now notorious and fateful village of Hill, and was found battered and bathed in blood at round about three o'clock in the morning.

  Her cruel death was and remains a mystery. It is clear that Hill village must house an undetected homicidal maniac. He has now claimed another victim in the person of a quiet, inoffensive, elderly man said to have been related to the chatelaine of Hill Manor, Mrs Emilia Kempson, the Great Lady of the village and the hostess at what has become known as the fateful birthday party. The facts relating to this second apparently motiveless murder are obscure. For two nights Mr Ward had not slept in his bed or returned to his lodgings for his supper. Interviewed by us, his landlady, Mrs Christine (Kirstie) Landgrave, told us:

  'Mr Ward was not the sort to make enemies. Whoever killed him must be a madman. I do not know any more about Mr Ward than what Mrs Kempson told me, which was that he had lived many years in Canada and the States and had come back to England to find work, but was too old, she thought, to fend for himself and as he was a distant relative-that is how she described him-she was prepared to pay me to look after him and would provide him with his bit of spending money.

  'That is all I know about Mr Ward. He was not one to talk about himself. If you got as much as a good morning from him it was quite a surprise. I had a terrible shock when I heard he was dead, especially when I heard where he was buried. I did not want to go to the mortuary, but my husband lost half a day's work to come with me and Mrs Kempson made that up to us, seeing that, if we had not gone, it would have had to be her, I suppose.

  'Yes, I have my sister's children staying with me. No, I won't let you talk to them. They can't tell you anything you don't know, and the police have questioned them already and more than once. It is true they were at the cottage where the body was found. No, I don't suppose you can get much sense out of poor Poachy, but I won't allow Maggie and Ken to be questioned again and I shall tell the police if you try. No, I don't want your money. The children knew there had been a hole dug in the floor of that cottage, though why they wanted to go and play in such a dirty, tumbledown old place, when they'd got so many other places to play in, I don't know, but that's children, isn't it?

  'No, I have never seen the young lady that was murdered down at the sheepwash, but it must have been the same man as killed Mr Ward,
mustn't it? It stands to reason. You couldn't have two murderers in a village this size.

  'Oh, yes, the children are going home as soon as their father can come down here to fetch them. No, they haven't had a shock. They never stayed to see Poachy actually dig up the body, you see. They come running back as soon as they saw a bit of Mr Ward's suit and one of his hands. He had a signet ring with a big stone in it and you couldn't mistake his clothes. The coat was a sort of a dirty mustard colour. Nobody else in the village has one like it, and the children recognised that and they found one of his boots in the garden.'

  So much for Mrs Landgrave. We respected her wishes concerning the children, but we have made other enquiries among the inhabitants of Hill, although the veil of mystery surrounding the two apparently motiveless murders seems to be impenetrable.

  We may add that although they do not admit outright to holding a council of despair-we put it like that because we hear that Scotland Yard will have to be involved sooner or later and we would suggest that preferably it ought to be sooner-there is no doubt that at present the local police are completely baffled.

  This appears to be a classic case of a murderer whose lust for killing may be disguised under an exterior as bland and innocent as yours or mine, dear reader. He may be a Neill Cream or a Jack the Ripper, planning already where he will strike again. That possibility cannot be ruled out. This maniac must be apprehended and that right speedily.

  The police are attempting to find some connexion between the two deaths, but there appear to be very few points of resemblance. Consider the known facts. Here we tabulate them side by side for purposes of comparison.

  * * *

  1. A girl aged twenty.

  1. A man of middle age.

  2. Gently nurtured.

  2. Possibly a rough diamond.

  3. A loving family and plenty of friends.

  3. One known relative sends him to lodge with strangers and never sees him again, not even after his death. (We do not intend any criticism. There must have been good reasons.

  4. Murdered after leaving a birthday party, ostensibly to go out for a breath of air.

  4. Murdered after having been absent from his lodgings for no known reason.

  5. Wearing fancy dress which could have acted as a disguise.

  5. Wearing clothes which were readily identifiable by anyone in the village.

  6. Came from London and knew nobody in the village except the persons present at the party.

  6. Came from America, but known by sight to everybody in the village.

  7. Sociable and lively.

  7. Unsociable and non-communicative.

  8. Body left by sheepwash although probably killed nearer Hill House.

  8. Body buried in hole he had dug, probably from boredom with his uneventful existence.

  9. Head smashed in. Fancy dress torn off.

  9. Head smashed in. Boots taken off.

  10. Found by search-party sent to look for her.

  10. Found by accident.

  11. Gypsies suspected but cleared.

  11. No obvious suspects, certainly not gypsies who never passed cottage en route to sell or beg in town.

  12. Children accustomed to play down by sheepwash.

  12. Children knownto have played in ruined cottage.

  13. Killed at approx. eleven p.m. on the Saturday. Body found at three a.m. on following morning.

  13. Killed possibly on the Friday. Body found some days later.

  14. Connected with Hill Hill House (festivities).

  14. Connected with Hill House (relationship).

  * * *

  And so, for the time being, the matter rests. It has to be borne in mind that whereas Mr Ward's death could have been premeditated-there is a theory that he may have been slaughtered somewhere else and taken to the cottage for burial-it hardly seems likely that Miss Patterson's murder was previously planned. Readers will remember that she had not been invited to Hill House, but was taking her brother's place. Did the murderer-since she was wearing a bulky and not very attractive fancy dress-mistake her for her brother?

  We think the police might give this point more serious consideration than, so far, they appear to have done. To our mind this matter needs far more probing into than it has yet received.

  Hill Manor House

  * * *

  The manor itself is mentioned in Domesday Book and seems to have been of moderate wealth. The entry, part of which, by courtesy of Professor Donald Cuttie who translated the abbreviations for us, we reproduce, states that 'William de Gyffe holds Hill. It was always assessed for forty hides. The land is twenty-five carucates. In the demesne there are three hides and a half. There are two ploughs there. Among the free men and the villeins there are fifteen ploughs and five more could be made.'

  And so on and so forth. The entry goes on to list the tenants' various holdings, mentions the fact that the manor had a mill-some distance from the present village if it was a water-mill, we would think!-and notes that the value of the property had dropped since it was valued in the reign of Edward the Confessor, although how that value was arrived at seems to be speculative.

  The historians tell us no more of Hill until the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, when the property came into the hands of a wealthy clothier from Somerset, who built the present Hill Manor House. It is a moderate-sized mansion erected in pleasant, mellow, Cotswold stone. It came into the hands of Mrs Kempson's grandfather by purchase towards the end of last century. The original gatehouse fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1906 to make way for a lodge which, owing to the shortage of domestic staff, is now untenanted, and past which it seems probable that Miss Patterson strayed on the night of her death.

  The main feature of the mansion is a magnificent oak staircase leading up to the principal rooms. These rooms themselves, with their decorated plaster ceilings and Tudor fireplaces, are, we understand, show pieces. It was in the largest and grandest of these rooms, known as the grand salon, that the ill-fated young and attractive Merle Patterson was disporting herself shortly before her tragic and horrible death.

  There is no legend of the customary 'grey lady' who haunts so many sixteenth- and seventeenth-century manor houses, but if we were inclined to superstition (and who is not?) we might be forgiven if we fancied we met a 'glimmering girl', as W. B. Yeats expresses it, flitting about the grounds of Hill Manor House. The police have not yet decided exactly where Merle Patterson and Mr Ward were actually done to death (it now seems unlikely that these spots were Lovers' Lane and the cottage), or what sudden panic caused the murderer to throw what seems to have been his bloody (we use the word in its Shakespearian sense-i.e. 'What bloody man is that?' Macbeth, Act I Sc. 2) his bloody weapon into the sheepwash.

  Did someone who has not come forward, but who could be, perhaps, the only person on earth who could help the police with their enquiries, did someone actually surprise the murderer just as he had concluded one or other of his devilish machinations? If so, we would remind this person of his civic duties and beg him to be manly and courageous enough to come forward and tell what he knows.

  If there is such a man (or woman, for the matter of that) he is assured of complete police protection from the instant he decides to open his mouth. The murderer has struck twice. It should be a matter of conscience to someone, somewhere, to come forward and help to make sure that he does not strike again.

  Post Scriptum

  * * *

  Your correspondent has just heard that after diligent and patient search for clues, the police have come to the conclusion that Miss Patterson was enticed or forced into the disused lodge at Hill Manor House and done to death there. The public, needless to say, are rigidly excluded from the grounds.

  Part Two

  Verdict

  Chapter 12

  Mrs Lestrange Bradley Takes A Hand

  Well might I say with the Apostle, 'The former treatise have I made, O Theophilus,' for I have kept you informed to some extent, my d
ear Sir Walter, of what has been happening during the past weeks at the Oxfordshire village of Hill. However, it now seems possible and desirable to furnish you with a fuller and more connected narrative of events, if only to clarify my own mind by airing my theories concerning their import.

  As you know, I was called to Hill Manor House in my professional capacity by Mrs Kempson, in order to examine and report upon the mental state of a man who claimed to be her brother. As you also know, she then cancelled the appointment on the score of his disappearance.

  Well, he has turned up again, not quick but dead. His body has been dug up from the floor of a derelict cottage by the village idiot. As though the murder of Merle Patterson, whose body, you will remember, was found near the sheepwash at the end of the village, were not sufficiently mysterious, we now have this bizarre occurrence to add to the tally.

  The inquest on Miss Patterson resulted in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, although the police, acting somewhat precipitately, had arrested a gypsy named Bellamy Smith for the crime. They were obliged to release him, however, as, thanks to two intelligent young children and their uncle, Bellamy was able to prove a complete alibi. The contention of the police that he had suffered a torn ear in his struggle with the girl was shown to be mistaken. His earring had been dragged out during a scuffle with some drunken louts in a wrestling booth at the annual fair.

  There has been considerable speculation as to what the girl was doing down at the sheepwash at all so late at night, and still in her fancy dress, but, since the release of the gypsy, the police believe that she was not killed where she was found. They think she was murdered very much nearer the manor house, probably inside a deserted lodge in the grounds, and are busily searching for any clues which will prove this. It is a tenable hypothesis and seems to fit in with the facts so far as we know them, but they are merely skeletal and inconclusive.