Lovers, Make Moan (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  “‘I have the means, you know,’ he told me,” said Barbara. “‘You mean your father is a wealthy man? But it will be a long time, I hope, before you inherit anything from him and, when you do, you will think twice before giving any of it away,’ I said, laughing. ‘Oh, but,’ he said, ‘I’m not talking about my father’s money. I have no expectations there. Everything will go to Emma. That’s the usual arrangement between husbands and wives, isn’t it? It’s not as though I’m his son, you see.’ Well, this meant nothing to me at the time, Dame Beatrice. All I said was that I believed the wife was entitled to claim something when the husband died, and that, in my case, I knew that I was well provided for. ‘Anyway, I am more than likely to die before Donald does,’ I remember saying. He asked me what I would do if I had a lot of money. ‘Oh, I should form my own company and pick the parts I wanted for myself instead of having to wait for offers and then perhaps get saddled with something unsuitable,’ I told him, ‘and have to do the best I could with it.’”

  “And now you are in a position to realise all your ambitions,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Well, yes, but if I had ever dreamed of how it would come about . . .”

  “Quite; however, one cannot foresee some things.”

  “Nobody could have foreseen that Rinkley would be taken ill at the last performance.”

  “Oh, I am sure young Jasper had made sure of that. I suspect there had been something added to the drinks Mr. Rinkley took back-stage.”

  “Some of the men overdid it and not only Rinkley. Sometimes I think that if only Donald hadn’t been so drunk he might have realised, the minute he took it out of his belt, that he’d been given the wrong dagger. We all thought it must have been meant for Rinkley, though, if it wasn’t just somebody’s carelessness. Rinkley wasn’t popular, you know, and he would have known, as Donald should have, that he had the wrong dagger and no harm would have been done.”

  “That point was made long ago and disposed of. The substitution of the lethal dagger for the harmless one can only have been made by one of the three persons who carried the properties from the house to the stage. Of these, Brian Yorke would have had no reason to harm any of his actors; the same applies to Marcus Lynn, who had subsidised the production and certainly would not want it disrupted. That leaves young Jasper, who, like a dutiful son, helped to carry down the properties each evening after the costumes had been distributed to the performers. Well, I think we may approach the end of this very unhappy story, don’t you?”

  “Before we do, there is something I have to ask you. I see you know it all, and no doubt you have all the evidence you need. What will happen to Tom and Peter and me? The police are still looking for a murderer.”

  “I am afraid you will have to tell them your story, but the verdict, now that the identity of the young boy’s body is not in doubt, will be suicide while the mind was disturbed. Where that suicide actually took place is beside the point, in a way, but it was a mistake, perhaps, on the part of one of you, to add the suicide weapon to Mr. Lynn’s collection. However, he seems convinced that Jasper himself placed it there and that he killed himself with some other form of cold steel.”

  “Yes the police have thought all along that it was murder. I’ve been living in a state of terror. I would have gone to them except for implicating Tom and Peter. Why have you decided it was suicide?”

  “The pathologist found three small puncture marks on the front of the body and suggested that suicide was at least as likely as murder. Suicides are on record as being hesitant and experimental before they pluck up the courage to deal themselves le coup de grâce. Mr. Lynn’s reference to his son’s written intention to become a Buddhist monk has been taken as evidence of unsound mind. That seems to have clinched the matter.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Nothing, except that you are going to tell me the rest of the story. The suicide, I suppose, took place here in your house.”

  The rest of the story was soon told. After his parents had gone to Italy and he himself was supposed to have joined his friends for the touring holiday in France, Jasper had turned up at the Bourtons’ house to find Barbara still clearing up in preparation for putting the property up for sale and moving to London.

  “I didn’t recognise him until he spoke,” she said. “There was this completely bald object dressed in T-shirt and jeans and carrying what looked like a cricket bag and I was alone in the house because it was past half-past eight in the evening and my maid had given me my dinner at seven, washed up, and gone home. She was the only one of Donald’s household that I had kept on. Well, I thought at first that the boy might have found out that the house was empty, except for me, and was up to no good, and I was about to slam the door on him when he spoke.

  “‘It’s Jasper,’ he said. ‘I say, the hot water at our place has conked. Could you let me have a bath?’

  “He sounded perfectly normal and sensible, so, of course, I let him in and asked what he had done with his hair. He said he had decided to turn Buddhist and go to a monastery in Tibet.

  “‘I thought you were going to France,’ I said. ‘Oh, you can have a bath, of course. First floor, at the top of the stairs. What about towels?’

  “He pointed to the bag and said he had brought towels. Then he said, ‘Barbara, will you kiss me goodbye? I promise not to take any advantage’.

  “I said, ‘You’re not really thinking of going to Tibet, are you?’

  “He said he had considered it, but he did not think the Buddhists would accept him. ‘They don’t believe in killing things,’ he said. Even then, Dame Beatrice, it didn’t dawn on me what he meant.”

  “That he had changed over the daggers so that your husband killed himself? Did you never think of Jasper in that connection? Did his hints of making you rich and independent convey nothing to you?”

  “I solemnly swear to you that nothing of the sort ever crossed my mind. Oh, I knew the poor boy was going through a bad time about me. It had happened before. I recognised all the symptoms.”

  “‘Thou, thou (young Jasper) thou has given her rhymes. And interchang’d love-tokens with my child. Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, With feigning voice, verses of feigning love,’” said Dame Beatrice. “That kind of thing, I suppose.”

  “There wasn’t much feigning about it, but I thought it would soon die a natural death.”

  “Instead of which, the poor youth died a most unnatural one. Well, he said he had towels. I suppose he had the dagger in his bag, not towels. What then?”

  “Upstairs he went and I went on sorting out Donald’s papers, which is what I’d been doing when Jasper came, and I forgot all about him until I got tired of the job and decided it was time for my bedtime drink and my bed. It was then I remembered Jasper and realised that he had not looked in to say goodnight. I thought he had decided not to disturb me again and had slipped off home.

  “‘And a fine old mess I expect the bathroom is in,’ I thought, knowing what men, and particularly young ones, are like. I went upstairs, found the bathroom door shut and, under the crack of the door, I saw that the light was still on.

  “I called out, ‘Jasper, are you all right?’ There was no answer, so I called out again and then I tried the door. It was not locked, so I opened it a little way and took a look.

  “Well, Dame Beatrice, I didn’t faint, although everything swam round me for a minute. Then I ran downstairs to the telephone and rang up Tom. ‘I’ve got Jasper Lynn here and he’s killed himself, and the bath is full of blood,’ I said.

  “Well, Tom was wonderful. He brought Peter with him and when he had been upstairs, leaving Peter downstairs with me, he said, ‘We can’t have you implicated in this. Don’t worry. I know what to do. This has got to look like a skinhead gang business. Lucky he had shaved his head. We’ll have to give it an hour or two until the coast is clear. I’ve let the water out and I’ll clean the bath and get rid of the dagger. He will have a key in his jeans pocket, so Peter
will slip along to Lynn’s place and put the dagger among Lynn’s swords and things, and then we’ll all have a good strong snifter before we take the poor kid down to the harbour.’”

  Rosamund, proud of her achievements in reading, had picked up her father’s discarded newspaper and was perusing it slowly and with diligence.

  “What’s un-bal-anced mind?” she asked. Simon answered,

  “It’s a state of mental instability brought about by emotional stress which has upset the anti-depressant factors in mens sana, thus over-weighting the normal equilibrium of the cerebellum and culminating in felo de se.”

  Rosamund looked reproachfully at him and said: “When I ask Mrs. Gavin to tell me things, she tells me things properly. Why don’t you tell me things properly, Daddy, when I ask you?”

  “Because I’m a horrible man, I suppose.”

  Edmund turned to his mother.

  “Daddy’s a horrible man. He drinks all the beer,” he said.

  About the Author

  Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.