Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (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)

  Twelve Horses and the Hangman’s Noose (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)

  Twelve Horses and the Hangman’s Noose (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 1956

  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 1956 by Michael Joseph

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

  E-ISBN: 9781477868997

  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.

  To

  PAULINE LAUBACH

  of Easton, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.

  “…honoured…thou art and dear. No frequent comer art thou hitherto. But come onward with me that I may set guest-cheer before thee.”

  HOMER (Lang, Leaf, and Myers trans.)

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1 OPENING MOVEMENT

  CHAPTER 2 HORSES AT HOME TO VISITORS

  CHAPTER 3 THOUGHTS ON A RURAL RIDE

  CHAPTER 4 INQUEST ON A DEAD HORSEMAN

  CHAPTER 5 STABLE TALK

  CHAPTER 6 TOO MANY CATS

  CHAPTER 7 SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

  CHAPTER 8 IN RETROSPECT

  CHAPTER 9 A STALE SMELL OF RED HERRING

  CHAPTER 10 VAIN SPECULATION

  CHAPTER 11 HORSES GO VISITING

  CHAPTER 12 EXPLORATION OF AVENUES

  CHAPTER 13 THE PENNY BEGINS TO DROP

  CHAPTER 14 THE MUSIC GOES ROUND AND ROUND

  CHAPTER 15 THE MYSTERY OF MR. TURNBULL

  CHAPTER 16 OLD LADIES AT COFFEE

  CHAPTER 17 THE MYSTERY OF TURNBULL DEEPENS

  CHAPTER 18 NO LIGHT ON A DARK HORSE

  CHAPTER 19 THEY ENDED THE RIDE

  CHAPTER 20 WITH THE LADIES INSIDE

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  OPENING MOVEMENT

  O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,

  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet.

  But if you will give me but three weeks’ space

  I’ll do my endeavour to answer your grace.

  KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY

  “Now I wonder whether we’ve allowed for everything?” said Mr. Sebastian Bond M.A., to Mr. David Gadd, his head assistant. “Have you worked out the cloakroom accommodation yet?”

  “Yes, I have. The women can use that little place just behind the secretary’s office. It’s just inside the front door, and if we placard it boldly there should be no hitch.”

  “Oh, good. Now, about the Opener. It seems that Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley is the best, if we can get her. She’s famous, she’s a first-class speaker, and she’s more or less a local celebrity. I don’t really think we could do better.”

  “I agree, sir. But, even if she accepted the invitation, she’s a very busy professional woman, and if she got a sudden call—from her London clinic, for example—it would be very disconcerting for us. I really think we should have a substitute in mind if she accepts.”

  “Awkward, that.”

  “I agree, but I certainly feel—”

  “Yes, quite, but it’s very difficult to find a polite and inoffensive way of saying to a V.I.P., ‘Look here, we shall only want you if So-and-So can’t turn up!’ People don’t like it at all.”

  “What about the Reverend Arthur Stoke? He’s supposed to exist in an odour of holy humility, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, Lord! I’ve put my foot in it there. I’ve asked the Reverend Charles Letts to read the prayers and announce the hymn, whereas I find that we’re actually in Stoke’s parish and he should have been the one asked.”

  “Can’t they share the job, sir?”

  “No, there isn’t even that solution, because I’d asked the Methodist chap to read the Lesson before I’d realised that the rest of it ought to have gone to Stoke. I’ll have to crawl to him, that’s a
ll, but he won’t be highly delighted. And I don’t think he can be asked to Open. The Reverend Letts wouldn’t like it.”

  “Anyhow, sir, about this second string for the speaker—?”

  “I agree it’s a good idea, but, as I pointed out—”

  “Surely, sir, we can find somebody who doesn’t mind playing second fiddle in a good cause!”

  The headmaster gave a slight smile.

  “My dear chap, there’s no such animal,” he said. “Never mind. Now, what about decorations? The Governors insist on flowers, particularly as there will be ladies on the platform. We can get on to the Parks Committee to provide potted plants and things, but we shall have to buy the cut flowers for the vases out of School Fund. It seems rather a waste of money…”

  “Pity it isn’t the summer, sir. Most of the boys have gardens, and—”

  “Some of them take a short cut through the cemetery, too! I remember last year when that owlish, sycophantic boy Briggs brought some very suspect carnations to Miss Dobbins, that young woman we had on Supply when Gibson was away with sciatica. She showed them to me and asked me what I thought.”

  “And what did you say, sir?”

  “I told her not to look a gift horse in the mouth. On thinking it over, however, from what I know of Briggs I decided that I ought to have warned her to beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts. Now, then, what else?”

  “Remind the choir to have their school blazers cleaned and to wash behind their ears.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve a long list of things to tell the boys, but I can do that after Assembly. Mrs. Cann tells me that she and the canteen staff have everything in hand towards the refreshments, so that’s all right and a great weight off my mind. She has done the refreshments for two other official Openings, so she should know pretty well what’s required.”

  “Yes, sir, but the last time Mrs. Cann and her helpers cooked for an official Opening, the teaching staff were somewhat browned off. They lived on veal loaf, boiled potatoes, and tinned beetroot for a week, and there was never any sugar in the stewed plums because she was saving it all to make cakes.”

  “I know, I know. But I don’t see what to do about it. It really isn’t my pigeon. The Education Office have all the dealings with the canteen.”

  “Except when it comes to supervising the boys at table,” said the head assistant rather bitterly. It was his task to make out the rota of duty for this detested chore. “Well, if there’s nothing more, sir, I’ve 3B upstairs doing a chemistry paper. The inky pellets should be going nicely by now.”

  “We’ve got to have the walls washed off and repainted, anyway, before the Opening,” said Mr. Bond, dismissing the inky pellets in a practical way. “There’s one more thing. I’ve already had more applications for seats than I can deal with. It’s the parents, of course, who are the problem. We shall have exactly one hundred and sixty-five seats left when everybody else has been settled. How do you suggest we allot them? And another matter, not unconnected with that: how do we sort out the sheep from the goats when it comes to deciding the people to sit on the platform? Twenty County Councillors and eleven of our own local council have announced their intention of coming.”

  While this conversation was going on in the headmaster’s room, in the school hall the chief caretaker, the senior art master, and a squad of boys were putting up the stage curtains and refurbishing the school coat-of-arms above the proscenium arch, while the senior and junior music-masters, with a much larger and less manageable squad—the school choir—were canvassing the possibility of massing eighty choristers in a space scarcely large enough for thirty. They were assisted by overtones of questions and undertones of running commentary.

  “Please, sir, I’m squashed right up, sir. I can’t breathe.”

  “Sir, I get asthma, sir. Can I be in the front row?”

  “I can’t see over Gregson’s head, sir. I’m singing straight into his beastly dirty neck, sir.”

  “My neck isn’t dirty, you clot! Shut your big head! Sir, it’s Jolly’s foul breath, sir. It’s putting a sort of smog on my collar, sir.”

  “I feel sick, sir. Can I go out?”

  “Sir, are we singing the National Anthem and the School Song, sir?”

  “The School Song’s lousy.”

  “Sir, do we have to sing the School Song, sir?”

  All this noise was punctuated by a certain amount of scientific shin-hacking, blasphemy, pin-sticking, realistic sounds of retching and vomiting, and the unheeded but vociferous upbraidings of the masters in charge. All other noise was drowned suddenly by screams of joy from the so-far bored and disgruntled choir at the sight of four workmen crawling one after the other out of the dark cavern under the stage.

  “Oh, sir! Pre-historic Man, sir!”

  “Have they been buried alive, sir?”

  “Troglodytes.”

  “No, they’ve been hiding from the police, you ass.”

  “Sir, have you ever been underneath the stage, sir?”

  “Be quiet, boy, and get in there next to Smith.”

  “But Smith’s a treble, sir, and I’m alto.”

  “Get in, get in, and don’t argue.”

  “I shall lose my note, sir, if I’m next to Smith.”

  “Old Smithy stinks!”

  And so on. The senior music master was in receipt of a Special Responsibility allowance. His junior had no such solace.

  In the staffroom, which was situated on the first floor of the building, young Mr. Spencer, mathematics, was conversing with Mr. Milstrom, senior English.

  “The old man,” said Mr. Spencer, “expects a damn sight too much. Empire Day half-holiday! I ask you! And here are we expected to attend this blasted Opening. What T.U.C. member would stand for it? I tell you we’re morons, slaves, and defeatists in this profession.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Milstrom. “Must back up the issue, don’t you think? After all, it can only happen once.”

  “Thin edge of the wedge,” said Mr. Spencer. “Once let them think they can pinch our half-holidays and take us back to this damned place in the evenings, and where shall we be? Parent-Teacher Associations will be the next thing. The Secondary Modern has got one already.”

  “Well, you stay night after night with the boys for films,” pointed out Mr. Milstrom, reasonably. “Nobody makes you do that.”

  “That’s just what I mean,” protested Mr. Spencer. “It’s this blasted officialdom that makes my blood boil.”

  As most things connected with Mr. Spencer’s work did this, Mr. Milstrom took no more notice and corrected half an essay in an exercise book labelled “C. Smith, Esquire, Form Bloody 4C Limited. Officers and Gentlemen Only.” Then he sighed, put on the electric fire, opened a couple of windows, and lit a cigarette.

  “Life’s what you make it,” he said. “C. Smith, Esquire, knows that.”

  “Who’s coming to do the Opening, anyway?”

  “Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, D.B.E., if the Head can get her.”

  “Dame How-Much?”

  “You know—vetted the psychology of the Women’s Forces, or something, during the war.”

  “All those women needed their heads looked at, certainly,” said Mr. Spencer morosely. His fiancée had joined the W.R.N.S. and had followed up this enterprising action by falling in love with, and marrying, an up-and-coming submarine lieutenant. Mr. Milstrom, who happened to know this, since the fiancée had been a young friend of a sister of his, let it stand at that, and corrected, in slashing red ink, the remainder of C. Smith’s essay.

  “Smith isn’t too bad at English, really,” he remarked, viciously underlining a singular verb which followed a plural noun. “The boy isn’t such a moron as he looks.”

  “He told me that a parallelogram is a woman parachutist’s weight expressed in French,” said Mr. Spencer bitterly. “Impudent lout!”

  “Very probably, but I call him basically intelligent. How do you spell ‘disappeared’?”

/>   “One s, two p’s.”

  “I thought so, but so many of 4C appear to hold a different opinion that I thought I must be wrong. Wonder whether La Cowley has made the tea?”

  In her office the school secretary was on the telephone.

  “Yes?…No…Oh, well, they broke the window themselves, so they’ll have to make it good. They put the end of their ladder through it.… Yes, I’ll tell him what you say, but I know he won’t agree…Yes, I see. Good-bye.”

  She rang through on the house-telephone and interrupted the conversation between the headmaster and his chief of staff.

  “Oh, Mr. Bond, I’ve just been through to the contractors about that broken window in Mr. Gapp’s room. They want to say the boys broke it.”

  “It makes no difference who broke it,” said the headmaster wearily. “It’s got to be mended, anyway. Anything else, Miss Cowley?”

  “Yes. I’ve typed your letter to Dame Beatrice. Do you want it to go off by this afternoon’s post? If so, you’ll have to sign it at once.”

  “Very well. Bring it along.”

  “Right, Mr. Bond.”

  “And what I say,” the headmaster went on, continuing his previous conversation, “is that the other local heads, Junior and Secondary Moderns, must all be invited, and heaven help us to find room for them if they all accept—and they probably will! Oh, come in.” He touched his buzzer to reinforce this command, and the secretary entered trippingly.

  “Everything seems to be going quite hotsy-totsy,” she remarked, as she handed over the letter.

  “Glad you think so,” said the headmaster. “Now, ought I to put my wife on the platform?” he inquired of his head assistant when the secretary had gone.

  “We need ladies in support of Dame Beatrice,” said Mr. Gadd, who had never met that redoubtable lady. The headmaster nodded, pleased, and added his wife’s name to his list. “What about the Old Boys?” Mr. Gadd went on. “Ought we not to invite a few of them? After all, this building was begun in 1939, just before the war started, and we had three forms in, if you remember, as soon as the gym and the first two rooms were habitable.”

  “But where are we to put them?” demanded the headmaster. “In any case, since that bomb fell and finished off all the old registers at County Hall, I don’t know where any of them live. Of course, Turnbull is an Old Boy himself. Isn’t he sufficiently representative, don’t you think?”