St. Peter's Finger (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  Titles by Gladys Mitchell

  Speedy Death (1929)

  The Mystery of a Butcher’s Shop (1930)

  The Longer Bodies (1930)

  The Saltmarsh Murders (1932)

  Death at the Opera (1934)

  The Devil at Saxon Wall (1935)

  Dead Men’s Morris (1936)

  Come Away, Death (1937)

  St Peter’s Finger (1938)

  Printer’s Error (1939)

  Brazen Tongue (1940)

  Hangman’s Curfew (1941)

  When Last I Died (1941)

  Laurels are Poison (1942)

  Sunset over Soho (1943)

  The Worsted Viper (1943)

  My Father Sleeps (1944)

  The Rising of the Moon (1945)

  Here Comes a Chopper (1946)

  Death and the Maiden (1947)

  The Dancing Druids (1948)

  Tom Brown’s Body (1949)

  Groaning Spinney (1950)

  The Devil’s Elbow (1951)

  The Echoing Strangers (1952)

  Merlin’s Furlong (1953)

  Faintley Speaking (1954)

  On Your Marks (1954)

  Watson’s Choice (1955)

  Twelve Horses and the Hangman’s Noose (1956)

  The Twenty-Third Man (1957)

  Spotted Hemlock (1958)

  The Man Who Grew Tomatoes (1959)

  Say it With Flowers (1960)

  The Nodding Canaries (1961)

  My Bones Will Keep (1962)

  Adders on the Heath (1963)

  Death of a Delft Blue (1964)

  Pageant of Murder (1965)

  The Croaking Raven(1966)

  Skeleton Island (1967)

  Three Quick and Five Dead (1968)

  Dance to your Daddy (1969)

  Gory Dew (1970)

  Lament For Leto (1971)

  A Hearse on May-Day (1972)

  The Murder of Busy Lizzie (1973)

  A Javelin for Jonah (1974)

  Winking at the Brim (1974)

  Convent on Styx (1975)

  Late, Late in the Evening (1976)

  Noonday and Night (1977)

  Fault in the Structure (1977)

  Wraiths and Changelings (1978)

  Mingled With Venom (1978)

  Nest of Vipers (1979)

  The Mudflats of the Dead (1979)

  Uncoffin’d Clay (1980)

  The Whispering Knights (1980)

  The Death-Cap Dancers (1981)

  Lovers Make Moan (1981)

  Here Lies Gloria Mundy (1982)

  Death of a Burrowing Mole (1982)

  The Greenstone Griffins (1983)

  Cold, Lone and Still (1983)

  No Winding Sheet (1984)

  The Crozier Pharaohs (1984)

  Gladys Mitchell writing as Malcolm Torrie

  Heavy as Lead (1966)

  Late and Cold (1967)

  Your Secret Friend (1968)

  Shades of Darkness (1970)

  Bismarck Herrings (1971)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © The Executors of the Estate of Gladys Mitchell 1938

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer Seattle 2013

  www.apub.com

  First published Great Britain in 1948 by Michael Joseph.

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  E-ISBN: 9781477868799

  “A Note about this E-Book”

  The text of this book has been preserved from the original British edition and includes British vocabulary, grammar, style, and punctuation, some of which may differ from modern publishing practices. Every care has been taken to preserve the author’s tone and meaning, with only minimal changes to punctuation and wording to ensure a fluent experience for modern readers.

  TO MY BROTHER

  REGINALD JAMES MITCHELL

  IN MEMORY OF OUR CHILDHOOD

  “And how beguile you? Death has no repose

  Warmer and deeper than that Orient sand

  Which hides the beauty and bright faith of those

  Who made the Golden Journey to Samarkhand.”

  JAMES ELROY FLECKER

  Contents

  Start Reading

  CHAPTER 1 CYCLIST

  CHAPTER 2 INMATES

  CHAPTER 3 RELATIVES

  CHAPTER 4 ATHLETE

  CHAPTER 5 ORPHANS

  CHAPTER 6 NUNS

  CHAPTER 7 HEADMISTRESS

  CHAPTER 8 RETROSPECT

  CHAPTER 9 DOCUMENTS

  CHAPTER 10 QUESTIONS

  CHAPTER 11 SUSPECTS

  CHAPTER 12 GUESTS

  CHAPTER 13 PICADOR

  CHAPTER 14 HOBBIES

  CHAPTER 15 ATTACK

  CHAPTER 16 CHESSBOARD

  CHAPTER 17 DISAPPEARANCE

  CHAPTER 18 SEARCH

  CHAPTER 19 CULPRIT

  CHAPTER 20 GEORGE

  CHAPTER 21 GIRLS

  CHAPTER 22 RECONNAISSANCE

  CHAPTER 23 PREPARATION

  CHAPTER 24 CONFLAGRATION

  CHAPTER 25 CONCLUSION

  About the Author

  “And can a man his own quietus make

  with a bare bodkin?

  “With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make

  a bruise or break of exit for his life;

  but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

  “Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder

  Ever a quietus make?”

  D. H. LAWRENCE: The Ship of Death.

  CHAPTER 1

  CYCLIST

  Then did of th’ elements’ dust Man’s body frame

  A perfect microcosm, the same

  He quickened with a sparkle of pneumatic flame.”

  EDWARD BENLOWES: Theophila.

  George sat on a bit of board laid across the top of an upturned bucket, and read the Sunday paper. He was in his shirt-sleeves and was without his leggings. A slight breeze rustled the pages of the paper and stirred his hair, for his peaked cap hung on a bush. Two dogs lay near him in the sun; a faint smell of horse-manure mingled (despite their appeal to different senses) with the pleasant sound of a far-off mowing machine; and a lilac tree by the wall was bold with buds. The stable cat was watching birds near by, and the newly washed car stood gleaming at the doors of the garage.

  At the end of the lane which connected Mrs. Bradley’s house with the main road through the village, three elm trees were in thick, dark-clustered flower. The elders already had their leaves, and an almond tree at the gate was in bright pink blossom. Emulating it, but not happily, since the colour made her yellow skin look dirty, was Mrs. Bradley in a pink spring suit. Her black eyes were brilliant as she listened, with a faint and sceptical grin, to the half-bullying persuasions of her son.

  Ferdinand was earnest, and Mrs. Bradley, apparently contemplating not his face but the yellow-starred jasmine behind his black-clad shoulder, had given him close attention for more than twenty minutes, while they stood together at the gate, for, characteristically, he had given no hint of the object of his visit until he was ready to depart.

  “So, you see, mother, it really is exceptionally interesting,
and it would be a good thing for the convent if you would go and look into the matter. It may be nothing, but the Superior is a pretty shrewd old lady, and if she smells a rat there must be something that wants nailing to the mast. In any case, you need a rest after that long American tour, and the country is lovely there now.”

  “So it is here, dear child.”

  “Yes, but you need a change, and the air on the moors is like wine. (Yes, I know, but juries like clichés, so I practise when I get the opportunity.) Now, mother, please, do go. I half-promised Father Thomas that you would. Look here, let me drive you down.”

  “I would rather be driven by George. Where is Father Thomas now?”

  “He has gone back to Bermondsey. He was living in the convent guest-house to recuperate after a breakdown. That is how he came to know what had happened. I could arrange for you to meet him, but I’m sure I’ve told you everything he said.”

  “I have no doubt of it, child. Well, I will think it all over. Give my love to Juliet, and I hope you get the better of Mrs. O’Dowd.”

  “Not a hope, mother. If I do, I’ll pay your consultation fee. It’s quite certain that the convent won’t be able to afford it. The guest-house and the boarding-school keep the orphanage going, and what other income the sisters have is microscopic, I believe, and in any case they’ve a mortgage round their necks like a millstone. Well, good-bye. I’ll come down in Easter week-end and see how you’re getting on. Hilary ends on the thirteenth, so, if you’re still there, I’ll come and compare impressions with you. Good-bye, good-bye.”

  Mrs. Bradley watched his car swirl out of sight, and then walked alongside the house, through the kitchen garden, past the rainwater butt, and into the yard. George stamped on his cigarette and rose when he saw his employer.

  “What do you know about convents, George?” she asked.

  “I had a sister who changed to Catholic, madam. There’s nothing in it, really, I believe. It seems as sensible, in essence, as—pardon me, madam—your religion or mine.”

  “Yours being—what, George?”

  “In the army I was a Seventh Day Adventist for the reason that they had no Church Parade. Nowadays I should think perhaps you might call me a sympathetic agnostic. Religion has altered, madam, since I was a boy. It’s a far cry, now, from the time when the Creed and the Catechism carried one through. But the Catholics really do appear to have a point of view, madam, and support it very ably in argument.”

  “Excellent. Get your things, George, and have the car ready for half-past three. We are going away for a day or two, unless I change my mind by the end of lunch.”

  She turned to walk back to the house, but it occurred to her that here was an excellent opportunity of passing on the story as her son had told it her to a reasonably unprejudiced listener, so she went back to the chauffeur and said:

  “There was once a child of ten who sneaked into the guest-house of a convent and had a bath. The hot water was supplied by a geyser, which must have given off fumes. The child became unconscious, fell back into the water, was submerged, and consequently drowned. I can’t smell the rat, George. Can you?”

  “I remember my sister’s little girl of ten, madam. The only water she would ever go into, without being actually ordered, was the water of the municipal swimming bath, and there she took impetigo. Not at all nice, madam, children at certain stages of development.”

  “Good heavens, George! But the incident I have just related to you happened several years ago. The other day—you may have seen an account of it in the paper—a girl of thirteen did exactly the same thing, only it seems that there was nothing wrong with the gas apparatus and that the child was not drowned, but actually succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning, although her head was under water when they found her. The coroner gave a verdict of suicide, and the convent, naturally, doesn’t like it much, and neither do the relatives, nor, on the face of it, does it appear to be a reasonable inference.”

  “I saw the account, madam. The paper I’ve been reading gives the details. It all happened actually last Monday, so this is the first cut the Sunday papers have had at it. This paper states that the young lady was in trouble with the convent authorities, and was expecting terrible punishment, the nature of which is hinted at, not described. It indicates that this fact was instrumental in assisting the coroner to arrive at his conclusions.”

  “Lend me the paper, George, if you’ve finished with it. Oh—that paper?”

  “Yes, madam. I should say, myself, they’re skating on the edge of libel in this particular instance, but I daresay they know the type of reader they cater for, and that the nuns won’t take any action. Still, it’s a bit thick in parts, and, I should say, highly coloured and untruthful.”

  “Convents are always news, George.”

  She walked away briskly, taking the paper with her, and settled down in her sunny sitting-room to read. A double page had been devoted to the story.

  “Suicide or—?” it was headed; and underneath, in slightly smaller type, “Four Nuns in Court. Strong Local Feeling Over Child Found Dead at Convent School. We Want The Truth, say villagers.”

  Mrs. Bradley read the two pages very carefully. It was not an ordinary report of the proceedings at the inquest, but claimed to be an eye-witness’ account. Mrs. Bradley disentangled what the coroner actually had said from what the Sunday Flag would like its readers to believe that he had said, and then gave her particular attention to a paragraph in heavy type which emphasised the fact that the gas apparatus, a water-heater of the ordinary domestic kind familiarly known as a geyser, had been found by the Gas Company’s experts to be in perfect order.

  “Untampered with by guilty hands,” the paragraph ambiguously and actionably stated, “the water-heater could have poisoned nobody. What happened,” it went on to demand in italics and in the name of its readers, “in that fatal bathroom, to that young and innocent girl?”

  Mrs. Bradley, almost with reverence, put the paper aside, and went to the telephone.

  “Is Philip at home?” she enquired of an unseen listener.

  “Yes, Beatrice. How are you? Do you want to speak to him?”

  “Doesn’t his department handle all the statistics about gas suicides?”

  “Don’t do it, dear. You go a horrible pink. It wouldn’t suit you.”

  “It does suit me. I am completely clad in it. Ask Philip to come to the telephone, dear child.”

  “Good morning, Aunt Beatrice! Gas? Oh, Lord! Are you on to that convent case already? It’s not in your line. You leave it alone. It’s going to cause a fair amount of stink. We’re still quite Gunpowder Plottish in England, you know.”

  “Was it really suicide, Philip?”

  “According to the coroner and the Sunday papers there’s no possible shadow of doubt. Plus the fact that the convent system of education is out of date nowadays. Did your paper give due prominence to the coroner’s rider warning all those who have charge of the young not to be too ’arsh with the innocent children?”

  “Never mind the coroner. What did the gas people say?”

  “Geyser all present and correct. No escape of gas. No evidence that apparatus had been tampered with. Correctly fitted flue to carry off all dangerous waste products. In fact, exit the geyser without stain!”

  “Does that mean that if the verdict is correct, the child turned off the gas before she lost consciousness? It doesn’t make sense to me. And how do they know that the geyser was perfectly safe?”

  “Look here, if you’re really interested, you ought to go upstairs and test your own geyser, if you’ve got one. The only thing you can actually turn on is the pilot light.”

  “I’ll go and see in a minute. But, Philip, tell me your opinion of the verdict.”

  “Punk.”

  “Yet the child did inhale gas, apparently enough to kill her.”

  “Must have done, I take it. No argument about it, and the medical evidence quite clear.”

  “So what, child?”


  “Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Of course, she may have turned on the pilot light and sucked in the escaping gas, but, if she did, your point holds good. She couldn’t have turned it off again before she became unconscious. Seems to me it must have been an accident. Rather tough on the family, and also the convent, if that’s a fact, although, I suppose, from their point of view, it would be a little better than having it brought in suicide. Either way the convent will be blamed.”

  Mrs. Bradley rang off, and went to inspect her geyser. It looked, she thought, a fairly harmless contraption. She lit it, watched the water falling into the bath, twisted the pilot light round, and blew it out. Then she shut the window and door, stood outside on the landing, and waited for five or six minutes. Then she opened the door, walked over, and turned off the gas. The smell was detectable, but there did not seem to be any dangerous quantity in the air. She shut the door again, quickly, locked it, and went downstairs. She picked up a book, settled herself to read, and was still reading when her maid Celestine came in to report that a relative was on the telephone, “and invites you, madame, to a holiday in the south of France until Easter, while the young nephew and niece are still away at school.”

  “That settles it,” said Mrs. Bradley firmly. She went to the telephone, refused her sister-in-law’s invitation with the maximum amount of charm, and urged, in her own defence, when her sister-in-law became reproachful, that she expected to be working very hard until after Easter. Then she wished her a pleasant holiday, hung up, and ascended the stairs to the bathroom.

  The smell of gas hung faintly upon the air. The twelve per cent of carbon monoxide present with the gas seemed negligible, judging by her own reactions. She opened the window wide to clear it away, put the key back on the inside of the door and went downstairs again.

  “I’ll go down to-day and have a look at this convent and its startling geyser,” she thought.

  It was Celestine who expressed horror at the summary nature of the proceedings. She then packed a suitcase in record time, and offered her husband, Mrs. Bradley’s cook, as escort on the journey.

  “He has a veritable gun, and is also as good as a gangster. He is a ruffian, that one,” she observed, in hearty recommendation of her spouse. “He knows not fear, and, if madame proposes to cross the moors—oh, the stories one hears!”