Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  ERNEST R. SUFFLING

  Riding beside Cissie with the two children ambling along in front where an eye, presumably, could be kept on them, Laura was silent. Cissie, accustomed to the society of monosyllabic men and to that of old Mrs. Mapsted, who spoke only when she saw the necessity, seemed unperturbed by Laura’s unsociability and jogged contentedly along beside her.

  Laura, who loved talking, was in a quandary. Already, and most uncomfortably for her, the subject of Jenkinson’s absence from the Elkstonehunt stables had come up, and although it was only natural that it should, Laura, who knew only too well the reason for the groom’s absence, felt that unless she kept a careful guard over her tongue she would be bound to let out that reason to Cissie. As the secret of Jenkinson’s strange appearance at the Opening of Seahampton Grammar School had so far been strictly kept, she felt that it behoved her to maintain this secrecy. She could only hope that Cissie would not refer again to the subject.

  The riders soon left the road for a wide track across the heather and through sparsely-wooded glades of that part of the Forest. Laura, finding that Cissie was apparently engrossed in her own thoughts, took heart, and enjoyed the ride. Although it was early in the year, there were tangible signs of spring. Already the perennial starry wood anemone was filling the copses, and where the riders’ way at one point skirted the Forest proper and ran beside hedges, the banks were golden with the lesser celandine. Back in the woods Laura had noticed that the arrow-shaped, dark-speckled leaves of the cuckoo-pint were showing, and there was ground-ivy in the copses. In the open woods, the barren strawberry raised false hopes with its white, wide-open flowers.

  The Forest paths were a short cut to the airport and an hour brought the children within sight of it. They reined in and called back to know how much nearer they could ride.

  “I think we’ll go as far as Furze Turn,” said Cissie. “Then you three can push off and leave me with the horses.”

  “What do I have to do, Laura?” asked Ursula, when the three were on foot.

  “Nothing, until I’ve found out where we’re allowed to stand and watch the planes,” Laura replied. “Come on. I’ll leave you two by that wired gate. It’s only a small airport, so I don’t suppose there’ll be any fuss.”

  She left the children at the spot she had indicated, and walked to another gate which stood open. There was the bleating sound of a horn behind her, and she stepped aside to let through a dark blue, powerful police car. From where she had left the children came shrill yelps of excitement, and, in a moment, they had come tearing up, Ursula leading.

  “Laura!” she shouted. “It’s him!”

  “Now, then,” remonstrated Laura. “The dope, and keep it short. What’s who?”

  “The policeman in that car! He wasn’t in uniform when he told Mr. Mapsted off, but I know it’s him.”

  Laura scanned the child narrowly, but she seemed in earnest.

  “Heaven help you if you’re leading me up the garden,” she said. “All right. Go back to where I left you. I’ll investigate.” She marched on to the small airfield and was at once challenged.

  “I’m the wife of a Scotland Yard officer, Special Branch,” she said briskly, “and I particularly want to speak to the police constable who just drove in.” By great good luck she could produce one of Detective Chief-Inspector Robert Gavin’s cards. He always insisted that she carried one or two of them about with her so that she could get out of trouble if she got herself involved, he explained.

  “So there it is,” said Laura to Dame Beatrice when she got back as dusk was falling. “The chap was a policeman; he admits going to John Mapsted’s place; he says that the gist of the conversation as reported by young Ursula is true in substance, but his explanation (for which I’d no right whatever to ask, but he’s a police constable with ambitions and Gavin’s card was an Open Sesame to his heart) is that it wasn’t threats but a tip-off that the police were watching for smugglers at the airport, that they were acting on information received (Jenkinson, I expect), and that John had better watch his step. So that’s one promising clue gone west! The only comfort is that young Ursula wasn’t lying, for once in her black-hearted little existence.”

  “Did this police constable indicate that John Mapsted had had any hand in the smuggling?” Dame Beatrice inquired.

  “He said the police didn’t know, but that he’d always liked John and thought him a decent sort, so he decided to tip him the wink. John, it appears, was very shirty about it, but the constable didn’t know whether that was a sign of guilt, of annoyance that the police had wind of the game, or the just indignation of an honest citizen wrongly suspected.”

  “And which do you think it was?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Well, I still think John was bumped off, and now there’s this peculiar business of Jenkinson. By the way, the fact of his disappearance cropped up in conversation with Cissie Gauberon. I didn’t let on that he was dead.”

  “If there is any good reason why she should not be told, I will give it you in the morning. I cannot, at the moment, see why she should not know. She will be bound to know sooner or later, because of the funeral. I telephoned Seahampton—the doctor who examined Jenkinson, you know—and he will let me know the result of the post-mortem as soon as he knows it himself.”

  “According to Cissie, Jenkinson was an old sponge.”

  “That would indicate that one of my conclusions might very well be correct.”

  “Which one?”

  “That somebody gave Jenkinson an overdose of tetraethyl-thiuram-disulphide, child.”

  “That impressive compound doesn’t seem to ring a bell.”

  “It is intended to help alcoholics to lose their taste for beers, wines, and spirits.”

  “Oh, the stuff your nearest and dearest slip into your morning cup of tea to get you to sign the pledge! But that’s innocent enough, surely! Dozens of people must be taking it in every town in England! It simply makes your next drink taste like the brew of Macbeth’s witches. Surely it’s harmless?”

  “Under certain circumstances it can be fatal. A friend of mine, a psychoanalyst, has researched into the subject.”

  “But you couldn’t prove that those circumstances, whatever they are, necessarily proved fatal to Jenkinson, could you?”

  “It would be very difficult. Probably, as you point out, quite impossible.”

  “In other words, if Jenkinson hadn’t been found dead in such a peculiar place, you wouldn’t have thought of this tetraethyl stuff?”

  “No, I don’t suppose for one moment that I should.”

  “Then, if we could find out who put him there, we might get on the track of something very important. What’s the next move?”

  “I think we will go and ask Mrs. Mapsted what the next move ought to be.”

  “Why? What can she tell us?”

  “A good deal, I imagine, if she can be persuaded to cooperate. But to obtain her cooperation may be very difficult.”

  “Yes, she’s all of a queer old body.”

  “Does nothing strike you as being almost as extraordinary as the circumstances we are investigating?”

  “I don’t think so. What?”

  “The attitude of Mrs. Mapsted to the loss of her son.”

  “Oh, that! Come to think of it, she hasn’t shown signs of being exactly grief-stricken, has she? But, then, as I say, she’s very peculiar. She’s probably being stoical over it. I should think she’s got plenty of guts.”

  “Yes. That may be the answer, of course. Our housemaid reports that village gossip has it that she was quite unmoved at the funeral, and that she chose for the deceased’s favourite hymn the first two verses only of Milton’s version of Psalm eighty-two.”

  “Sorry, but the reference eludes me.”

  “The Lord will come and not be slow.

  His footsteps cannot err;

  Before him righteousness shall go,

  His royal harbinger.

  Truth from the ea
rth, like to a flower,

  Shall bud and blossom then;

  And justice, from her heavenly bower,

  Look down on mortal men.”

  “It sounds vengeful,” said Laura. “I suppose that’s how she meant it—calling down judgement on whoever, or whatever, was responsible for John’s death.”

  “The village takes a different view.”

  “Good heavens! Not a song of triumph on old Mrs. M.’s part?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Nasty-minded old stick-in-the-muds! Who leads that school of thought?”

  “The idea is said to have been based upon an indiscreet remark let fall by Mrs. Cofts.”

  “But the village loathes Mrs. Cofts!”

  “That would not prevent the villagers, the women particularly, from taking note of what she says, and of repeating and even embroidering it if it was of a harmful or scandalous nature. No, a talk with Mrs. Mapsted is of the first importance. We will go over there tomorrow morning. What a comfort it is that, thanks to many improving conversations with my dear nephew Carey Lestrange, I am well primed on the subject of pig-breeding.”

  “You know what I can’t help thinking,” said Laura, “is that two men must have visited John Mapsted about that smuggling racket. One was the policeman whose remarks were overheard by that little viper Ursula, and the other must have been the smuggler himself, overheard by old Mrs. M. It remains to establish dates.”

  It was arranged that, although both were to visit the Elkstonehunt stables that morning, Laura would engage Cissie Gauberon in conversation, and, in the course of it, inform her of Jenkinson’s death, while Dame Beatrice interviewed the old lady.

  As it was eleven in the morning, Laura found Cissie, helped by a boy of eleven who was absent from school because he had a mild attack of chicken-pox, in process of giving the horses their second feed of the day. Laura stood by and watched while they measured out the feed in wooden bowls, put it in a sieve, and carried it to the mangers. Cissie glanced over her shoulder, noted that Laura was not in riding clothes, and said:

  “Shan’t be long. Take a seat.”

  Laura leaned against the fence of the paddock. Out of the corner of her eye she could see old Mrs. Mapsted at her wheeled pig-bin. Dame Beatrice appeared to be doing the talking, but the wind carried her voice away and Laura could not distinguish a single word. Old Mrs. Mapsted was occupied in ladling potatoes from an outside copper into the pig-bin and seemed to be taking no notice at all of her visitor. In fact, as Laura turned to obtain a full view, she picked up the wooden handles of the pig-bin and trundled it away towards the sties. Dame Beatrice remained where she was.

  Cissie and her helper finished feeding the horses and Cissie, rewarding the boy, sent him off and indicated to Laura that she was ready for conversation.

  “Let’s go indoors,” she said. “It’s parky out here.”

  As she was dressed in khaki slacks and a sweater with holes in it, Laura could sympathise with this opinion.

  “It is parky,” she agreed. “Wonder when we’ll get any rain?”

  “A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom,” quoted Cissie. “If it isn’t a rude answer, what’s your Dame Beatrice doing over here? It’s not often she honours us.”

  “Pumping old Mrs. M., of course,” Laura replied. “Look here, Cissie, I’ve some news for you about Jenkinson.”

  They went into the large stone-flagged kitchen. There was a good fire there and the flags had been well scrubbed and were brightly decorated with rugs made out of pieces.

  “The old girl’s flannel petticoats, I believe,” commented Cissie, hitching a rug into place. “Take a pew. There’s nothing to drink except cocoa. I usually have a cup, and a bit of toast and dripping, when I’ve fed the nags.”

  Laura accepted this refreshment, sprinkled large quantities of salt on the dripping-toast, and liberally sweetened the cocoa.

  “Ages since I had grub like this,” she said.

  “I suppose you have sherry and sweet biscuits, living with a D.B.E.,” said Cissie. Laura laughed and bit off an enormous piece of toast.

  “No. Port wine and Parmesan cheese,” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

  “What about Jenkinson?” Cissie lowered her eyes to her plate as she asked the question. There was a pause. “Copped his?” Cissie continued. “I somehow thought as much. He’s an old So-and-So, and has left us flat before, but he’s always come back after a couple of days, broke to the wide and crawling for an advance on his wages to go to a Seahampton pub for hair of the dog, so when he failed to show up I began to think things.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Laura. “I suppose you don’t know of anybody who might have wished it, so to speak?”

  “Nobody in particular. I mean, I could name you several people who’d had rows with him. But why should it matter?”

  “We don’t know whether it does, but the circumstances were a bit out of the ordinary, so we’re taking an all-round view. There’s been a post-mortem, of course, but we don’t know the result yet.”

  “Spill,” said Cissie; and as though some mischievous entity had overheard the word, about a fifth of her breakfast-cup of cocoa slopped jerkily into her lap. “Blast!” she said. “Damned hot!” She got up to get a swab and dabbed viciously at her thighs. “Good thing I had these old pants on! Sorry; what were you saying?”

  “There’s been a post-mortem to see what can be established as to the cause of death. It looked natural enough, but his body was found among the flowers and shrubs at the Official Opening of Seahampton Grammar School.”

  “The old rip!”

  “No, no. It’s a boys’ school.”

  “There to see what he could pick up, then. Nobs about? Jewelled women and men with gold watch-chains?”

  Laura shook her head.

  “Headmasters, clergymen, County Councillors—more of that type.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Cissie, draining such of the cocoa as had slopped into her saucer back again into her cup. “Mrs. Cofts is a parson’s wife, but she’s got as much jewellery as a Begum, I should imagine. And, goodness knows, she hated Jenkinson quite enough to do him in. What do they think it was—poison?”

  “They don’t know, but I think we can dismiss Mrs. Cofts,” said Laura quickly. “Who else knew him well enough to wish him further off?”

  “John naturally. He lost a valuable mare once through Jenkinson lifting the elbow. She was in foal. The foal died, too.”

  “And it really was Jenkinson’s fault?”

  “Beyond a doubt.”

  “Still it’s no good mentioning John in connexion with Jenkinson’s death.”

  “Of course not. I was only giving you information.”

  “Right. Any more?”

  “I suppose you could count old Ma over there. I see the Dame’s got her nailed down at last, and that takes a bit of doing, believe you me!”

  Cissie was facing the window. Laura had her back to it. She turned round in time to see Dame Beatrice, with a pig-bucket of swill in each hand, following a similarly-equipped Mrs. Mapsted down the miry path to the sties.

  “Tell me more,” said Laura. “These toots of Jenkinson’s. Did everybody know about them?”

  “Oh, yes, I expect so. The old swill-tub was no gentleman in his cups. Still, I will admit that he used to do most of his boozing in Seahampton.”

  “You don’t think he would have killed John in a drunken temper, do you?”

  “I shouldn’t like to say. Could be, I suppose, but it used to make him sick and then he’d sleep it off. And, you know, there’s been nothing to show that it wasn’t a kick from a horse, even though I don’t believe, any more than you do, that the horse was Percheron. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you! There are rumours—I don’t know who began them—that Viatka got that over-reach when Mrs. Cofts, curse her, let somebody put the mare over a five-barred gate.”

  “Can’t imagine it. Surely she would never have demeane
d herself by using a saddle some lesser fry had sat on?”

  Cissie laughed loudly.

  “There’s another thing,” she said. “When you’re looking for people who had it in for John, don’t forget Farmer Grinsted.”

  “Grinsted? Oh, yes. I went to inquire about a rogue stallion, and he told me he’d got Iceland Blue at stud on the other side of the Forest and took the trouble to add that the horse was as gentle as a lamb.”

  “So he is. That’s true enough. So is Palomino, and he knocked down Palomino to John for a song.”

  “What do you call a song?”

  “Ten pounds, and a florin for luck.”

  “Good heavens! Tell me more.”

  “After the sale, Grinsted came round and raised hell, and so John offered him back Palomino at the price he’d paid for him. You see”—she lowered her voice—“I happen to know he was stolen property. A real bit of gipsy horse-dealing was Palomino. Grinsted got him fairly cheap, but not anything like as cheap as he sold him to John. Thing is, John got wind of the thing and threatened Grinsted with the law if he took the horse back. Grinsted was in a cleft stick. If he told the police that Palomino had been pinched he’d have the story come from John that John was an innocent party who had bought the horse in good faith. Then Grinsted would have had to explain away his own knowledge, with the gipsy miles away by that time and probably not to be traced.”

  “Oh dear! Oh dear!” said Laura. “What with both John and Jenkinson on the premises, I should think you must have had an exciting life. I suppose”—she eyed Cissie keenly—“I suppose you yourself didn’t, by any chance, bump either of them off?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Cissie calmly.

  Dame Beatrice and old Mrs. Mapsted, after what Laura would have termed a sticky start, had conferred together.