The Crozier Pharaohs (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  The interior was certainly grand enough and gloomy enough to satisfy her. She spent most of the time seated in one of the pews near the end of the nave and studied the architecture, the transition from Norman to Early English, the fourteenth-century east window, the fan vaulting of the chancel, and the carved stone screen which separated the nave from the choir.

  Laura wandered around identified piscinas and aumbrys, the ornate fifteenth-century tomb surmounted by the effigy of the bishop who had been responsible for the later alterations to the building, found a little locked door which had led to the rood stair, and examined the stone screen in greater detail than Dame Beatrice was able to do from her seat in the nave.

  She came back to her employer and announced that she wanted a postcard or two from the stand by the south door. After this, they went into the cloister and the chapter house and then Dame Beatrice looked at her watch and decided that it was time they returned to Bert Smallwood’s shop. Laura opened the door of it again; this time two men, one of them elderly, were there.

  Laura, already briefed, spent some time in selecting an assortment of screws and a plastic arm for opening and closing a casement window, bought some emery paper and a pair of nail scissors, while Dame Beatrice wandered around inspecting the stock and then bought some metal clips for which she had no use whatever and a set of curtain hooks.

  Having thus prepared the ground for negotiations of a different kind, she produced the photographs. The result was gratifying, particularly when she mentioned that Bert’s brother Fred had sent her. The elderly man hardly did more than glance at the pictures.

  “Why, that looks like young Todhunter,” he said. “Used to work at Parrish’s the chemist ’til he got the sack for putting his hand in the till. Went abroad, so I heard. I used to go regular to Parrish’s before I saw the light and my stomach stopped playing me up.” The old man looked at her with curiosity and asked, “Is he back here, then? Had trouble with him, have you?”

  “Personally, no. I have never even met him.” She took another picture from the briefcase she was carrying. “Could you recognise this as the same man photographed recently by the Axehead police?”

  He went white when he saw the disfigured face of the dead man, but gave the picture far more attention than he had given to the photographs of the head which Tussordiano had modelled and then he shook his own.

  “Could be,” he said, “but I wouldn’t like to swear to it. This one is dead, then?”

  “Yes,” said Dame Beatrice. She produced her Home Office credentials. “The police are interested in him, so I hope that you will be prepared to co-operate if they ask you to substantiate your recognition of the youth you knew as Todhunter. There is more than a suspicion that his death was no accident. That is why the police are so anxious to get him identified.”

  “I’ve never had dealings with the police and I don’t want to begin at my age.”

  “You could sell your story to the papers, Mr. Smallwood,” said his assistant. “They pay big money for stories about murder.”

  Before they left Castercombe, Dame Beatrice and Laura, having asked to be directed to the chemist’s at which Todhunter had been an assistant, obtained no confirmation of Smallwood’s identification of the model in the coloured photographs, for the shop had changed hands. Nevertheless, as Laura said, there was now something to report to the Axehead police. The detective-inspector was interested but cautious. He did not see, he said, that the identification of young Todhunter got him very much further in identifying the body of the man found in the river, since nobody had yet come forward to put a firm name to this man. They could not be certain he and Todhunter were the same.

  “If the young fellow went abroad,” he said, “we should have the devil of a job proving that he ever came back, especially as we don’t know to what part of the world he went. Then, again, if this shopkeeper in Castercombe recognised the youngster in your photograph, but can’t swear to the man in ours, well, there you are. In any case, we haven’t a clue as to why anybody should murder him, any more than we know why Goodfellow was murdered. What’s your theory, ma’am?”

  “I believe the man in the river knew of something in the murderer’s past and that the man found dead in the valley had been a witness of the river murder.”

  “Ingenious, ma’am, but where is the proof?”

  “Still to be sought.”

  “Do you know who the murderer is?”

  “Not, as you point out, without proof. I was told that young Todhunter was dismissed from his job for petty pilfering. Did the shopkeeper give him in charge as well, I wonder? If so, the police at Castercombe might also be able to identify my photograph and (a remote possibility, no doubt) recognise the man in yours.”

  “Well, I’ll get in touch with them, of course, since you suggest it, but, in my opinion, it’s a very long shot, ma’am.”

  It turned out that there had been no charge laid against Todhunter, but the Castercombe police agreed to find out what they could and whether the youth had indeed left the town. If he had, they would do their best to discover where he had gone and whether he had got into any trouble or made any enemies there, but they indicated that it was a forlorn hope.

  “And, if he changed his name as, being in disgrace, he most likely did,” they said, “we shall be left without a clue and and it might seem a waste of time and trouble to start looking into things now that he’s dead.” The detective-inspector transmitted this opinion to Dame Beatrice when he received it and added that, great though he knew her reputation to be, even she would find this particular nut too hard to crack. Meekly she agreed.

  “Are you really giving up?” asked Laura. Dame Beatrice cackled, but made no other reply. Meanwhile the police continued with their enquiries into the antecedents of the so-far mysterious Goodfellow and with some, although limited, success. To Bryony’s annoyance, Susan’s curiosity, and Morpeth’s alarm, they began at Crozier Lodge just as lunch was being cleared away, so that all three women were in the house. Detective-Inspector Harrow began with Susan, but the interview produced nothing. She denied, quietly but firmly, ever having met Goodfellow.

  “I’ve been told about him, of course,” she said, “but the only time he came here I was out with a couple of the hounds and when I got back I was told about his visit and what a screwball he seemed to be. Scared both the girls, I guess, so Bryony wished him on to Dame Beatrice, she being trained to deal with such cases and, so far as my knowledge goes, he never came here again.”

  15

  Watersmeet Again

  “There is something I ought to tell you,” said Bryony. Dame Beatrice looked interested and nodded.

  “A confession of sorts,” she said. “I have been expecting it, although I have no idea at all of what is about to be disclosed.”

  “I did it with the best of intentions.”

  “One so often does.”

  “It’s about that Watersmeet business. I know it was murder. I know what the murder weapon was and where it is.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “No. They will be so angry with me that I am quite alarmed at the thought. I believe they could put me in prison for withholding evidence and concealing a murder weapon.”

  “No doubt you had a reason for what you did. You spoke of good intentions.”

  “Oh, yes, of course I had a reason. I thought Susan had done it. She found Sekhmet and the body. I thought perhaps she had seen the man kicking Sekhmet or something of that sort, and had attacked him with a sharp piece of flint. I found it—or, rather, one of the dogs did.” Bryony proceeded to tell the story of how curiosity had taken her to Watersmeet and of the hole in the bank which had interested the hound.

  Dame Beatrice listened and did not interrupt. At the end of Bryony’s confession she said, “So why do you now think that Susan is innocent?”

  “Oh, because whoever killed that man at Watersmeet must be the valley murderer. That stands to reason. Susan has an alibi for the
whole evening on which Goodfellow was murdered. She was here for supper and we had it later than usual. She spent the rest of the evening at the Crozier Arms. She told us she did and I was mean enough to check. Regrettably, in a way, she got very drunk and the poacher Adams took her home and put her to bed. He seemed to think it was a good joke. I checked again, because it seemed very necessary in view of my previous suspicions, and it seems they made so much noise that they disturbed her neighbours, so there are witnesses.”

  “Susan has now told me where she was at the time of the Watersmeet death, too, and I believe her. I am sure that Susan is not a murderess. I have almost enough evidence to convict the same person of both the crimes.”

  “I suppose I mustn’t ask—”

  “Better not. I should not answer you at this juncture. We had better go and find the Watersmeet weapon, don’t you think? If it was a sharp piece of flint, it should be identifiable among the other stones in the river.”

  “The police will be so angry with me,” repeated Bryony unhappily.

  “Then let me bear the brunt. Laura and I will go to Watersmeet and retrieve this talisman and bear our sheaves rejoicing to the Axehead police station.”

  “You will have to involve me, of course.”

  “Not unless you are a murderess,” said Dame Beatrice, with a grim cackle, “but, if you were, you would hardly have come to me with this somewhat belated confession.”

  “Remorse might have overtaken me.”

  “Well, it has, but only because you now know that your suspicions of Susan were unjustified, although, to my mind, they were reasonable enough. I shall not involve you with the police if I can help it. After all, the piece of flint can hardly of itself identify the guilty party.”

  “Would the running water have washed away fingerprints?”

  “Yours and those of the murderer? As neither of you is likely to have had your fingerprints taken by the police, the question is immaterial at present.”

  “Do you know who the murderer is, then?”

  “I think I do, but actual proof is missing.”

  “Will he or she murder anybody else?”

  “Myself, perhaps, but that has been my occupational hazard for so many years that I have ceased to regard it as important.”

  “If I may be permitted the question,” said Laura, “why did you tell Bryony that we wanted to borrow Sekhmet and take her to Watersmeet with us? You don’t suppose she will dash into the stream and retrieve this piece of flint, do you?”

  “It is merely to check a statement. We have been told that the dog will go along with anybody who speaks kindly to her. I am relying on you to find out whether that is correct. Furthermore, I trust that you will go prepared to wade into the river and attempt to locate this piece of flint.”

  “Don’t you think the murderer may have gone there and located it and removed it?”

  “No. According to Bryony’s story, it had been hidden in a hole in the riverside bank. He or she—I refer to the guilty party—may have gone back with the intention of retrieving the piece of flint, but would have found it had disappeared from where it had been hidden. I doubt whether it would have occurred to him to look for it in the river. In any case, I doubt whether he will have gone back for it yet. He will let time pass and the story die down.”

  “But by that time there won’t be any point in finding it. It could no longer be dangerous to him.”

  Dame Beatrice hummed the air of Among My Souvenirs. Laura looked hopefully at her, but received no satisfaction. She said, harking back to a previous subject, “And supposing Sekhmet won’t be cajoled into coming with me?”

  “Then we were given unproven information, for the dog did know the person who led her away that morning.”

  Laura tried again.

  “Why didn’t the murderer chuck the piece of flint into the river instead of hiding it in a hole? Did he think the police might search the riverbed and find it?”

  “I think not. I think he wanted to be sure that he himself could find it again when, as I said, all the local interest in the death had died down and he could safely retrieve it.”

  “Well, no doubt it all makes sense, but not to me,” said Laura. “If he wanted to keep the thing, why didn’t he take it away with him?”

  “He was afraid to do so, I imagine, in case, by some freak of fate, it should be traced to his possession. It is so true that conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

  “He’s going to get a nasty jolt when he dives into that hole and finds the flint gone.”

  “He is going to get a nasty jolt, as you put it, long before that, I fancy,” said Dame Beatrice. “Those who try to throw dust into other people’s eyes are likely to blind themselves if the wind happens to be blowing the wrong way. Well, to find out whether we have been told the truth about Sekhmet’s friendly way with strangers, I shall leave it to you to open negotiations with her. Make sure that no one from Crozier Lodge is with you when you make advances to the animal.”

  Sekhmet fulfilled the predictions made about her. She received Laura with mindless enthusiasm, tore twice round what once had been the lawn at Crozier Lodge and then crouched adoringly at Laura’s feet while a lead borrowed from Bryony was attached to her collar. Dame Beatrice had waited beside the car which Laura had parked outside the gate. She patted the now quiescent dog and the three of them walked towards the little bridge over the river.

  Laura had picked up two things from the car before they left it. One article was a carrier bag containing a pair of rope-soled canvas shoes, the other was a small, light, canvas-seated garden chair. The shoes were to be worn when she waded in the river, the chair was for Dame Beatrice to occupy while Laura was searching for the piece of flint, a business which she guessed might take some time.

  “Let Sekhmet loose,” said Dame Beatrice, when they had crossed the bridge and were on the rough riverside path. “She knows the spot we want and will lead us to it.”

  “Bryony described it as being only a few yards below the confluence of the two streams,” said Laura. “Wonder what Sekhmet was doing when the murderer hit the other fellow over the head?”

  “She may well have been tethered to a tree and released when the deed had been done, the victim’s trousers removed and the body dumped, alive or dead, in the river.”

  “After the piece of flint had been hidden in the bank where Bryony found it?”

  “Yes. She had then been released, given the pair of trousers and told to guard them, I think. We can test that when you give her your walking shoes to mind.”

  “Thanks very much! And supposing she won’t give them up when I want to change back into them? Still, anything in a good cause, I suppose.”

  She released the dog, which disappeared immediately into the undergrowth. The two women walked on, Laura giving a whistle occasionally to which Sekhmet responded by making a brief, polite manifestation of herself before resuming her quest for rabbits.

  “I wish our errand weren’t quite so grim,” said Laura. “It’s lovely along here and the last setting on earth for a cowardly murder.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Dame Beatrice agreed. “There is a good deal to be said for the discovery of dead bodies in libraries rather, than in beauty spots.”

  They had risen very early and had set out for Abbots Crozier in time, they hoped, to reach Watersmeet before the holidaymakers found it. Fortunately it was more of an afternoon than a morning walk for most people and they encountered nobody of human kind. They were accompanied, however, by a robin, but whether in friendship or because he wanted to see them off his territory they did not know.

  “I think it must be somewhere about here that Bryony meant,” said Laura a little later. She unfolded the garden chair. “If you’d like to sit here while I go paddling—” she added. “I should like to identify that hole in the bank Bryony mentioned. It must be quite close at hand. Ought we to have brought her with us after all?”

  “I think not,” said Dame Beatrice, testing
the small chair for firmness and then seating herself. “Enjoy your search. I do not suppose the hole will tell us anything new, but time is of no object and this is a pleasant spot.”

  Laura whistled up Sekhmet and this time the dog stayed with her. With the Labrador at her heels, she combed the bank. The hedge which crowned it was ragged and untended. Laura identified, in one part, the trailing wild rose with its white, wide-open flowers and, further along, there was the long-styled rose, stout-stemmed, erect, and well foliaged, but of the dog rose, Laura’s favourite, there was no sign, since the soil was not suited to it. However, on her walk along the cliff path she had seen the burnet rose in flower in its chosen habitat near the sea.

  It was Sekhmet who found the hole. Laura was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. She put her hand and then her arm into the hole while the dog, suspecting the presence of rabbits, nuzzled against her trouser-leg quivering with anticipation.

  “No droppings, so no rabbits, you idiot,” said Laura, “in fact, no nothing.” She continued to search the bank, but there was no comparable hole, so, accompanied by the disillusioned dog, she returned to Dame Beatrice and the sunshine, which flecked with light the turbulent little river.

  She took off her walking shoes, substituted for them the pair of rope-soled sand shoes, rolled her trouser legs up to above her knees and waded in at a nearby spot where the edge of the stream shelved gently into the water.

  This was extremely cold, but the rope-soled shoes gave her a reasonable chance of keeping her footing on the wet stones and boulders of the riverbed. Now and again she would pick up a pebble, inspect it and let it fall. Dame Beatrice watched placidly and Sekhmet watched anxiously from the bank. The water splashed joyously over the rocks, and the robin, which had accompanied the seeker all the time that she was exploring the bank, actually perched for a moment on the wooden arm of Dame Beatrice’s garden chair.