Hangman's Curfew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 15

  Mrs. Bradley was so entranced by the stream that she could have drunk from it, she said afterwards. From the stream to the house ran a meandering, pleasantly informal little path, and beyond the stream the moors sloped up to form the shoulder of a great, warm, heather-covered hill. Above the pointed porch was a long window. Above that there was a rose-window. Above that again came a dormer window set in an ogee-arch, which terminated in a weather vane. But what caught Mrs. Bradley’s fancy was, first, that the rose-window bore a coat of arms, and, second, that the weather vane had a peculiar and individual shape. It was in the shape of a unicorn’s head, and the coat of arms in the rose window was a shield on which appeared, on a chevron, three unicorns’ heads in the position known in heraldry as being erased.

  Mrs. Bradley went up to the door and knocked very loudly. A tall, rangy, elderly woman, with the long legs, light, alert, easy stance, and steady gaze of the Border, opened wide the door and stared at her unfavourably.

  “What would it be?” she enquired.

  “I want to see Mr. Ker,” said Mrs. Bradley. Mr. Ker, it appeared, was in bed, and likely to remain there, since he had eaten something which did not altogether agree with him.

  “Has he a nephew named Graeme?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

  “Have you come speiring about him?” the woman demanded.

  “He’s dead. I know. I want to tell Mr. Ker some more about it,” Mrs. Bradley said calmly.

  “Deid? He’s no deid?” The tidings was evidently a shock, although not an unwelcome one, to the woman. “Do ye tell me he’s deid?”

  “I do. Let me in. I have more to say than that.”

  “Until I ken who ye are, ye’ll bide outside,” said the woman very decidedly.

  “Very well. But I ought to tell you that it may mean life or death to your master, whether you let me in to speak to him, or whether you keep me outside.”

  The woman looked at her, and seemed to make up her mind.

  “Come ben,” she said. “I ken ye, who ye are. He keeps a picture of ye on his bedroom wall. Ye’re gey auld now, but I’d speir at ye whether ye were na sonsie aince.”

  Mrs. Bradley entered. Cases of stuffed fish lined the walls. There was a pair of old pistols in another case, and in yet another a piece of some sort of woven material so old that it was difficult to tell what its original colour had been.

  “Bide here,” said the woman. “I’ll no be long.”

  She took the stairs at a dignified gallop, lifting her long, heavy skirt above elastic-sided boots to do so. Mrs. Bradley, who had not seen a pair of elastic-sided boots in wear for more than thirty years, stared interestedly at those displayed by the housekeeper.

  In less than five minutes she descended.

  “Ye’ll no fash him, mind,” she said. “The man’s no well.”

  “I’ll be careful. I am a doctor,” said Mrs. Bradley. “You might, whilst you are waiting, make me a cup of tea. I’ve spent the night in my car, having lost my way on the moor.”

  The housekeeper, at this, looked upon her with a miraculously softened eye.

  “A’ nicht! Ye puir body! Bide ye! I’ll see ye get breakfast.”

  “No. I must see Mr. Ker at once. Lead the way, please.”

  The Scots are a sensible people. The housekeeper, having accepted Mrs. Bradley, her errand, her hunger and thirst, her status and qualifications, led the way to her master’s bedroom without another word, except to say, as she tapped on the door and then quietly opened it, and looked in upon the occupant:

  “I said I dinna believe her, but I do, and here she is. And dinna get talking ower lang. Ye’re sick, and she’s needing her breakast.”

  Mrs. Bradley walked in, and sat down at the side of the bed. The owner of the house was a personable old gentleman, high-coloured and energetic at all normal times, but, when she saw him, sadly reduced to speaking at first in a hoarse croak which only his willpower prevented from sinking, through weakness, to a whisper. His face was drawn and pale.

  “Well, David,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I suppose I ought to have guessed it would be you. I’ve had you in mind ever since I saw a bonnet-piece like the one you used to wear on your watch-chain. I knew you lived hereabouts, but scarcely thought to stumble upon you so easily. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “You have the advantage of me,” said the old man. “David—aye, that’s my name—or was, when anyone called me by it, and that hasn’t happened these twenty-five years or more.”

  “Very well; David Ker, then. I expect I’ve changed more than you have, David, but I do think you ought to keep a record of the women to whom you have proposed.”

  “The women—Lord! Lord! So it’s you! Beatrice Adela—damned if I don’t forget your maiden name! You married Lestrange. Too young! It never gave you a chance to know your own mind, my lass.”

  “Oh yes, it did, my dear David. But never mind about that. Tell me what’s the matter with you.”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I ate some caviar yesterday, and I daresay it didn’t quite suit me. My nephew Joshua sent it, I daresay. He’s been making himself very pleasant a year or more now, though the deil kens I’ve nothing to leave him.”

  “Opinions might differ about that,” thought Mrs. Bradley. Aloud she said, referring to the caviar:

  “I should think not! You’d better stick to fish from your own loch! Is any of the caviar left?”

  “Oh, aye. More than half. Elspat and the groom won’t touch it, and, although, there’s no manner of doubt I ate more than I should, there’s plenty put by for today.”

  “I want you to ring, or shout, or whatever it is you do, for your housekeeper, and ask her to bring us the rest of the caviar, David.”

  The old gentleman accordingly lifted up his voice in a howl, which would have done justice to Mic-Mac-Methuselah, and the housekeeper came running.

  “Elspat,” he said. “Beatrice wants the rest of the caviar.”

  “Then she may want on,” retorted the housekeeper. “Naebody here is getting any mair o’ the stuff. Michael was awa’ to the loch with the wee pot, and them that wants it will need gar dive, I’m thinking.”

  “Michael?” said Mrs. Bradley, when the housekeeper had gone. “Not, by any chance, your groom, David?”

  “Aye. An Irishman. Why?”

  “Send for him.”

  The old man looked at her, but her black eyes expressed nothing but amused satisfaction. “Mr. Geoffrey seems to have proved a most unreliable decoy duck,” she observed. “Go on, David. Send for him. I have my own reasons for preferring not to wander about your land alone just at present.”

  “Elspat!” bellowed her harassed employer. “Get Michael.”

  “He’ll be washing the trap.”

  “Tell him to stop washing it. He’s wanted here immediately.”

  Michael, a short, squat, broad-faced man, with an expression of blended humour and pugnacity, and some characteristic less attractive than either, stood before his master, and bestowed, upon him and upon Mrs. Bradley equally, a singularly sweet smile, demonstrating suddenly that his eyes were deep blue with black lashes, and that his teeth were stumpy and yellow.

  “Ah. Michael,” said Mrs. Bradley. “How often does your employer kick you, would you say?”

  The groom gave the question serious, almost ambassadorial attention. Then he replied, with sweet richness of voice and intonation:

  “Why, then, your honour, ma’am, ’tis a very hard thing to say.”

  “Why, you villain!” said his employer loudly. The groom paid him no attention, but kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Bradley, to whom he replied with great calmness:

  “And, indeed, now I come to recollect it, ma’am, it was by way of being a small matter, itself, between, myself and the master here, and that would have been when Mr. Graham was with us, you remember, your honour, sir—’twas the pleasant morning, so it was!—and he wishful to drive over and see the river where it runs below Bonnington Woods.”

  “
Above, he meant,” Mrs. Bradley remarked inaudibly. “And now, Michael,” she continued, “if you were going to commit a murder, how would you set about it?”

  “Sure, I would belt him over the head,” said the groom, with obliging readiness.

  Mrs. Bradley was silent for about three minutes after they had let the groom go. The old gentleman said nothing; this, to Mrs. Bradley’s great admiration. She herself reopened the conversation.

  “I’m sorry about the caviar, David,” she said. “Tell me about Mr. Graeme. Is he related to you in any way?”

  “Related? Aye, we’re related. His name would be Graham, not Graeme, although doubtless it’s the same name really, ye ken. But, Beatrice, you wouldn’t know him. The lad comes and stays here every now and then. He’s the son of my oldest brother.”

  “Unless I am much mistaken, he will come no more,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Were you fond of the boy, David?”

  “Me? No. He was a kind of a daft-like laddie—a dominie—so he said.”

  “It was true, that bit of it. Did he show any particular interest in your library?”

  “Aye, he did, that.” He raised his voice again, and it took an indignant tone very pleasing to his hearer, whose simple creed about invalids was that they seldom became very angry because they were much too weak. David Ker, she thought, was on the high road. “He was a regular ferret of a boy; without permission, too. I gave him the run of the library, but he was not content with that. I found him in my bedroom—in here—one day, rummaging. He went out with a flea in his ear, but, for all that, I’ve an idea he found what he’d come for.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. My copy of Sir Walter Scott’s poems.”

  “Annotated?”

  “Aye. And an old map I had.”

  “Not, by any chance, a copy of De Witt’s Edinburgh?”

  “Lassie, you’re fey!”

  “No, I’m not. But two and two make four, which is a very remarkable fact, as Mr. Chesterton pointed out and not at all, as he has said, the kind of thing to be trumpeted from hill­top before ten thousand people,” said Mrs. Bradley, remarkably.

  “The devil,” said David Ker, with a deep chuckle, “can cite Scripture for his purpose—especially,” he added, “if a fairly free translation be allowed.”

  “I know. But, listen, David. Did you ever have the Scott returned to you?”

  “I did not. I was grieved about that.”

  “Then they’ll be here any minute, and we must act. How many of your people can you trust to put up a fight?”

  “What sort of fight?”

  “What sort of fight! And you a Borderer!” She produced her little gun and waved it at him. “This kind of a fight, or with boots and fists, or any other kind of fight. What on earth does it matter? There has been an attempt to poison you already, and your nephew has certainly been murdered. Wake up, David! How many people have you got?”

  “Michael—although I believe he’ll fight only for Ireland—Elspat (as good as any man, and more obstinate and courageous than most)—”

  “Your gamekeeper, housemaid, kitchen-maid, knife and boot boy, gardener—any more?”

  “Any more? You’re daft, woman? Elspat and Michael are all the servants I have and Michael I wouldn’t depend on, without there was politics concerned.”

  “Well, you’d better tell him there are. Summon Elspat again. I want her to take me round the house. Have you a dog or two, preferably very savage?”

  “I have not. I dinna keep dogs. The nearest dogs would be the shepherds’ dogs, and they’ll not be lending us those!”

  “Well, for an intended victim, you’re the most unprepared and helpless person I ever met in my life. Will the horse bite?”

  “’Tis a mare.”

  “Oh, lie down and go to sleep! And tomorrow, when I’ve doctored you a bit, you’re going to tell me a lot about buried treasure, so kindly prepare a speech upon the subject. Have you heard of people being murdered for their money, may I ask?”

  “I have no money,” said her host. “And what’s all this about murder?”

  Succinctly, sparing the detail, but giving all the main facts, Mrs. Bradley told him.

  • CHAPTER 10 •

  “John Steward had a little brown sword

  That hung low down by his knee;

  He has cut the head off Childe Maurice

  And the body put on a tree.”

  Elspat had cut for Mrs. Bradley three kinds of bread and butter and put out marmalade and also apple jelly after the porridge and bacon and eggs. Mrs. Bradley spoke about the poisoned caviar.

  “So canny a stomach he’s got, the Loard be thankit, it flang oot the poison as though it were warstling wi’ it,” was her observation. “And I helpit it as I might with salt and water, washed down by very hot whiskey.”

  Mrs. Bradley grinned, and then begged her to go out to the patient George, order him to drive the car behind the stables, and see that he got some breakfast. Then she herself went back to David Ker.

  “Time is short,” she said. “Do you feel well enough to answer a few more questions?”

  He chuckled.

  “Any number, lassie. Out with them.”

  “Tell me about the map young Graham was interested in.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. It was a copy of De Witt’s map, as you guessed, only it happened to be marked with a few wee arrows.”

  “Did you draw a gallows on the map?”

  “Not I, but there was one drawn when I had the map from my father.”

  “And did the arrows show the route taken by Mary Hamilton to her death?”

  “But how do you come to ken all about it, and all off so pat? Have you seen my copy of the map?”

  “Not your copy. I haven’t seen that. But I have seen a copy made from yours before the book was returned. Did you underline anything in the copy of Scott’s poems?”

  “No, not that I remember.”

  “Are you given to marking your books?—making marginal comments, and so on?”

  “I might just jot down a thought or two, if I had them. Annotated—that was your word.”

  “You didn’t make any notes about buried treasure, did you?”

  “I dinna ken anything about buried treasure. What are you talking about? And where would it be buried?”

  “Let me ask you this: do you know a man called Devizes?”

  “No; only a town.”

  “Do you know a short, thin, pale, sandy-haired, foxy-looking man of between thirty and thirty-five?”

  “No. I know short men, but they’re not thin and pale. I know sandy-haired, foxy-looking men, but they’re not short. And I don’t know anybody who would be as young as thirty-five, unless it would be—ah, now, but bide a wee! It sounds like my nephew, Joshua Ker.”

  “Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Do you think you’re strong enough to listen to a very long story?”

  “Aye. Take the easier chair. We lunch at one, but Elspat, no doubt, could put it off.”

  “I’d like her to hear the tale. She may know some things that you do not.”

  Elspat, summoned, as seemed usual, by a bellow from her employer, agreed that the lunch could be “arranged.” Agog, as her ancestors, generations ago, had been for a long and intimate story, she sat bolt upright upon a hard chair, folded her hands, and nodded to Mrs. Bradley to begin.

  “Aha,” she remarked quietly, when the whole of the tale had been told. “That’ll be the Cap of Maintenance.”

  “The what?” asked both her hearers.

  “’Tis naething but an auld wife’s tale,” she explained, in her calm and slightly sing-song voice, “but have ye no heard tell that in times gone the king would have a cap of State made of crimson velvet and lined wi’ ermine to be carried before him at his coronation? There’s an auld story says that a cap was made by the orders of Henry, Lord Darnley, him that married on Mary, Queen o’ Scots. ’Twas but a toom thing, for she never would ca’ the man king, and the story gaes
that he filled the Cap of Maintenance wi’ bonnet-pieces and jewels, and gied it to one of the Queen’s ladies to remember him by, though, by all that ye hear, she might hae had other reasons!”

  “Mary Hamilton, would that have been?” Mrs. Bradley enquired, at this point. The housekeeper shook her head.

  “There’s nae names named, and there’s them that think it was a servant lassie in the Castle, and not a Queen’s lady at a’. But for a’ that, the Hamiltons dree their weird. About it a’ I couldna say. But the Cap of Maintenance fu’ o’ gowd and jewels—that’s the tale as I ken it, and as it was told to me by my grandminnie. Mind, there’s them that say it was houkit up and spent on Prince Charlie’s wars—and very likely that’ll be true, I’m thinking.”

  “But suppose it were not true,” Mrs. Bradley persisted, “where would be the most likely place to find this treasure, do you think?”

  The housekeeper almost smiled.

  “I dinna ken. If I kenned, so would others, and the treasure wouldna stay very long where it was laid.”

  “Not even if it had been buried in the bed of a river?” said Mrs. Bradley. “I have a theory about the hiding-place of this fortune, David,” she added, “and I’d like to put it to the test. If we took your groom out with us this morning, now, could he guide us? Does he know the country well, about here?”

  “I dinna ken, but Elspat will go and speir at him.”

  The housekeeper went out, returned with a cup of broth for her master and a glass of sherry for Mrs. Bradley, and announced that Michael “kenned a’ the roads for thirty miles the other side Glesea and so round.”

  “George,” said Mrs. Bradley, standing, five minutes later, with one foot on the step of the car, “we have to be back here by two-thirty at the latest. Lunch has been put back on my account.”

  “Very good, madam,” said George. In daylight it was less difficult to find the road by the map. They soon gained Abington, and ran north, beside the young River Clyde through Roberton, backed by Roberton Law, past the higher Dungavel Hill and so, in a long bend, rounded the Tinto Hills with their twenty-five hundred foot peak, and at last reached Bonnington.