Lovers Make Moan mb-60 Read online

  Lovers Make Moan

  ( Mrs Bradley - 60 )

  Gladys Mitchell

  Lovers, Make Moan

  Gladys Mitchell

  Bradley 60

  A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Windfall

  Chapter 2: Read-Through

  Chapter 3: Mouths of Babes

  Chapter 4: Retractable Blade

  Chapter 5: All Right on the Night

  Chapter 6: Last Performance

  Chapter 7: Bare Bodkin

  Chapter 8: Speculations

  Chapter 9: Coroner’s Court

  Chapter 10: Further Suggestions

  Chapter 11: Mytilus Edulis Has Orange Gills

  Chapter 12: Six Characters in Search of a Psychiatrist

  Chapter 13: Cut Down to Size

  Chapter 14: Body on the Foreshore

  Chapter 15: Identification of a Dead Boy

  Chapter 16: Parade of Suspects

  Chapter 17: Mute and Other Witnesses

  Chapter 18: Threnody

  Also by Gladys Mitchell

  speedy death

  mystery of a butcher’s shop

  the longer bodies

  the saltmarsh murders

  death at the opera

  the devil at saxon wall

  dead man ‘s morris

  come away death

  st. peter’s finger

  printer’s error

  brazen tongue

  hangman’s curfew

  when last i died

  laurels are poison

  the worsted viper

  sunset over soho

  my father sleeps

  the rising of the moon

  here comes a chopper

  death and the maiden

  the dancing druids

  tom brown’s body

  groaning spinney

  the devil ‘s elbow

  the echoing strangers

  merlin’s furlong

  faintley speaking

  watson’s choice

  twelve horses and the hangman’s noose

  the twenty-third man

  spotted hemlock

  the man who grew tomatoes

  say it with flowers

  the nodding canaries

  my bones will keep

  adders on the heath

  death of a delft blue

  pageant of murder

  the croaking raven

  skeleton island

  three quick and five dead

  dance to your daddy

  gory dew

  lament for leto

  a hearse on may day

  the murder of busy lizzie

  a javelin for jonah

  winking at the brim

  convent on styx

  late, late in the evening

  noonday and night

  fault in the structure

  wraiths and changelings

  mingled with venom

  nest of vipers

  mudflats of the dead

  uncoffin’d clay

  the whispering knights

  the death-cap dancers

  First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd

  44 Bedford Square, London WC1 — 1981

  © 1981 by Gladys Mitchell

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner

  ISBN 0 7181 2031 0

  Printed and bound by Redwood Burn Ltd, Trowbridge and Esher.

  This book is an unashamed, unrepentant, middle-of-the-road whodunnit which keeps the rules of that classic literary form by providing all the clues to the murderer for those readers who can be bothered to pick them up, as Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley is compelled to do in order to solve the mystery.

  One or two red herrings are thrown in to add piquancy to the narrative but the author, as in honour bound, eschews mysterious Chinamen, secret passages and poisons unknown to science. However, she has broken her oath by stealing part of the plot from another writer, for the story revolves around an amateur dramatic society’s performances of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Might’s Dream in which Pyramus kills himself.

  Some readers may think they recognise the setting of the book as the port of Poole in Dorset. In that case, the grounds in which the open-air production is staged must be in or near the famous gardens of Compton Acres. Castle Island, however, is entirely fictitious, and so are any references to the tides in Poole Harbour.

  To JULIAN with love

  Time was, when we, beside a Highland burn,

  Gathered bell heather and the fronds of fern,

  Or squelched in mud and wet-through to the skin,

  To watch for salmon leaping up the linn,

  Or saw the summer snow on high Ben More,

  And gathered pebbles by Loch Broom’s grey shore.

  G. M. September 1977

  Chapter 1

  Windfall

  “I’ll put a girdle round about the earth.”

  ^ »

  The town was tripartite. Behind the quay with its Customs House, its ancient, partially restored inn, its eighteenth-century town hall, the old warehouses and the low-ceilinged shops which sold chandlers’ wares, yachting gear and marine stores of all kinds, lay the original guildhall, dating from the fourteenth century.

  In the old town, a house, long due for preservation, incorporated some twelfth-century features in what had been a Tudor mansion and, behind and around all this, there was a strange, heterogeneous jumble of narrow alleys, public houses, shops old and new, and what had been the delightful dwellings of the eighteenth-century merchants, now either let out in flats or with their ground-floors converted into modern shop-fronts.

  The ancient high street which led, with a dog’s-leg turn, down to the quay, had been made a traffic-free shopping precinct, but north of it were the supermarkets, the gas and electricity showrooms, the new public baths, the multi-storey car park, the new library and art gallery and a complex of even more recent buildings which included a theatre, a concert hall, a restaurant and rooms which could be hired for various public functions. Behind a beautifully maintained public park flanked by a shallow lake cut off from the vast harbour (almost an inland sea) by the railway embankment, lay the third part of the town. This was largely residential, but only to those who could afford to live there. Part of it faced the open bay, shallow and islanded, which disclosed large, shining sandbanks at low tide. To the east, west and north of it rose low hills on which the most desirable houses were built. They all faced the bay, a beautiful, natural harbour for small yachts. On the further shore, as the land curved round, there was a long ridge of higher hills and beyond these again were chalk cliffs and the open waters of the English Channel.

  The setting, in fact, was picturesque, interesting and reasonably secluded, and Simon and Penelope congratulated themselves upon having acquired their property (on the strength of a legacy) before house prices soared beyond the reach of anybody who was not in the millionaire bracket, although maintenance was always a problem regarding both house and garden.

  However, one fine morning of a biting January day, the unexpected cheque from CABO (Come and Buy One) fell like a ripe plum through the letter-box and was brought to the breakfast table by Carrie, the only indoor servant except for the cook, whom the Bradleys could afford to keep.

  Simon opened the envelope and gave what the romantic novelists used to call ‘a choking cry’.

  “Has the bank gone bust?” his wife
Penelope anxiously enquired.

  “Not so, but far otherwise.” He handed her the contents of the envelope, whereupon she exclaimed, almost in disbelief, “Good Lord! Pennies from heaven!”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Simon. “Noice little cheque, Liza. Wot shall us do wiv it?”

  “I thought that was a joke about the fitted bath in a council house,” said Penelope, who, although beautiful and in her own sphere intelligent, had a painfully pedestrian mind. “Didn’t they keep the coal in it, or something?”

  “Probably. I meant what shall we do with all this lovely lolly?”

  “Couldn’t you take the Sabbatical that’s due to you?”

  “And do what with it?”

  “Go for a world cruise, of course.”

  “What about Rosamund and Edmund? A world cruise would be murder with two kids aged six and three and a half.”

  “Oh, there will be playrooms and provision for being sea-sick and a doctor on board and a ship’s hospital.”

  “What visions you conjure up!”

  “Well, what about parking the children on to relatives? People would be glad to have them, I’m sure.”

  “For three or four months?”

  “The aunts and uncles adore them.”

  “They would need to.”

  “Well, at least we could put out a feeler or two. I’ve always wanted to go round the world on an ocean liner. It would be a kind of holiday for the relatives as well. We could offer them this house while we are away, and then the children wouldn’t miss going to the beach. The relatives surely would jump at free lodgings at the seaside in the summer. Anybody would.”

  “Are we talking about your relatives or mine?”

  “Well,” said Penelope, helping herself to butter and avoiding her husband’s eye, “I was rather thinking of yours. You’re so much cleverer at talking people into things than I am.”

  Simon walked to the window and looked out at the still landscape. Between the house and the stone parapet which bordered a long slope to the shore, a huddle of small boats laid up for the winter in the shelter of the shallow harbour looked like children’s toys. At low tide the sandbanks would be uncovered and even at the quay, several miles away, no ship of more than about three thousand tons could moor, and, at that, the water in the small port had to be dredged continuously to maintain a sufficient depth.

  Penelope studied the back view of her husband and then picked up the unexpected largesse of the gods, the promise of a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. It was almost impossible to credit the good fortune which had come through the letter-box that morning. It was Saturday, which accounted for Simon’s being at home and in his dressing-gown, and it also accounted for the absence of her three-year-old. With his sister aged six, she had taken him in the car to the dancing class which gave her a free couple of hours every Saturday morning and the undivided society of Simon, with whom, even after eight years of marriage, she was still sublimely in love.

  She put the letter down as Simon came back to the breakfast-table.

  “How keen are you on this world cruise?” he asked.

  “Darling, it’s the dream of a life-time so far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well, I’ve certainly got a Sabbatical coming up at the end of March, so perhaps we can find somebody mug enough to take on the kids.”

  “It wouldn’t need to be just one person, you know. I agree it would be rather much to expect that. Couldn’t the aunts and uncles all take a share? And there’s that nice Mrs Gavin who is secretary to your great-aunt Dame Beatrice. Laura Gavin has always said her brother and sister-in-law would love us to go up to Scotland.”

  “Yes—us as a family, not the children on their own.”

  “Perhaps Mrs Gavin herself would take them up there.”

  “We couldn’t suggest such a thing. What would great-aunt do for a secretary while Mrs Gavin was away? Besides, Mrs Gavin has brought up two children of her own. She won’t want to be saddled with two more.”

  “Well, let’s think of somebody else. So long as we spread the load, I’m sure people will help out.”

  “Well, there’s Carey in Oxfordshire…”

  “With all those pigs? The children would love to go there again. Then there’s Jonathan in the Cotswolds.”

  “He and Deb had the kids for three weeks last summer, if you remember.”

  “There weren’t any complaints and the children had a lovely time. I’m sure Jon would have them again, and great-aunt would have them in Hampshire and Laura would take them for picnics in the New Forest. On, darling, I’m sure it will all work out. Do write to the shipping companies or see a travel agent or something and then, as soon as we know definite dates, we can write to the relatives and get everything fixed up.”

  “What about Rosamund’s schooling? This pillar-to-post business you’re suggesting isn’t going to do her education any good.”

  “Darling, she’s only six!”

  “The law of the land has laid down—”

  “Oh, I know that, but listen! Deb used to be a college lecturer, Laura Gavin was trained as a teacher and surely nobody is going to bother about two small children on Carey’s farm in Oxfordshire? If they go to Scotland they can attend the local school—or not, as the case may be. They wouldn’t be up there for more than a fortnight, anyway, and if they spend the whole of May and June here at home with somebody to look after them, Rosamund can attend school as usual. I’ll go and see Mrs Trigg and explain the situation. She’s very understanding.”

  “Considering the fees we pay, that hardly surprises me.”

  “What’s in the other letter?”

  “This?” Simon slit it open. “Oh, Lord! The local dramatic society want to stage A Midsummer Night’s Dream out of doors and would like the loan of our garden. It’s from Brian Yorke, and of course he’s been here and knows the set-up. The previous owner used to stage his own plays here and had the lawn terraced for the purpose.”

  “Shall you agree?”

  “Oh, yes. I owe Yorke a favour. The fairies and the lovers can prance in and out of our wilderness in the wild woods left-centre of the lawn, while we, with any luck, shall be out on the ocean blue and a thousand miles away from it all.”

  “We are going, then?”

  “If we can fix up the kids, but you mustn’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come off.”

  “Our own midsummer night’s dream! Oh, it’s got to come off! What can anybody have against the children?”

  “Their youth, their boundless energy, the necessity for keeping an eye on them, their capacity for being wide awake and up and doing at six in the morning, their bath-times and Rosamund’s non-stop questions and general precocity.”

  “She’s intelligent, not precocious. You ought to be glad she wants to know about things.”

  “Other people may be less glad of it than I. But you’ve got your priorities wrong.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We must see our way clear about the kids before I see about a travel agent. I believe I said that before.”

  When his nephew’s letter arrived at Jonathan Bradley’s breakfast table he scanned the first page and uttered an anguished moan.

  “Oh, darling, not bad news?” asked his wife Deborah.

  “Bad news? You can say that again! It’s only that Simon and Penelope want us to take a share in looking after Rosamund and Edmund this summer.”

  “Don’t tell me they’re getting a divorce!”

  “No. They want to go on a world cruise. They’ve won a lot of money in a lottery—that new government thing—and apparently can’t wait to blue some of it.”

  “I suppose it means Simon will take that Sabbatical which is due to him. I’m very glad. He works so hard, poor boy. Of course we’ll have the children.”

  “That’s all very well! My God! A three-month babysit if the rest of the relatives opt out! We should never survive it.”

  “Oh, nonsense, darling! The children are perfectly swee
t and I’d love to have them. May I see the letter?”

  Jonathan handed it over and, as his young relative had done, walked over to the window. Outside his Cotswold home lay the January snow, deep, limitless and shining, and the world was stilled in the hush that only snow can bring. At the foot of the long slope of the hill ran a little river and beyond the river rose the dark and bare-branched wood which hid the village from view.

  “Didn’t you get as far as the third page?” asked Deborah, as Jonathan turned round. “Simon suggests that we use their house for any part of the time we choose. There’s the sea and the use of his boat, and he’ll put you up for guest membership of the golf-club and he reminds us that Aunt Adela doesn’t live all that far away. He is certain she and Laura will take the children off our hands for a fortnight when we feel we must have a break.”

  “He’s more certain about that than I am. Besides, with Laura in charge of them, the children would probably break their necks.”

  “Her own children didn’t.”

  “Look, Deb, it’s an absolute imposition and it’s definitely not on. I’ll write straight back and say so.”

  “We are going to the Cotswolds,” said Rosamund to her brother.

  “What’s Cotswolds?”

  “Where Uncle Jon and Aunt Deb live. You went there for three weeks last summer. Don’t you remember? You ran down the hill and fell over.”

  “Jack an’ Jill went up the hill to fetcher pailer water. Jack fell down an’ broke his crown an’ Jill came tumberling after. Did they really?”

  “They did, if it says so. It’s printed in your book, so it must be true. They wouldn’t print anything that wasn’t true.”

  “Was Jack a king?”

  “He must have been if he had a crown. I expect he cried when he broke it. I cried when I broke my best dolly.”

  “If I was a king I wouldn’t break my crown. I would wear it every day and every night.”