Hangman's Curfew (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  Mrs. Bradley supposed that this speech had some bearing upon her request for an armed guard, but its obscurity remained unchallenged, for Henri, in a military manner, removed the dishes, brought the coffee, and, giving vent to the exclamation, “En haut les franc-tireurs!” closed the door and left Mrs. Bradley alone. She occupied herself, when she had had her coffee, in writing up her notes of the case—if case it could be called—as far as it had gone.

  There was no doubt whatever, she felt, that, for some reason, her presence in the neighbourhood of old Mr. Lancaster’s house was desired by some person or persons. Moreover, Gillian’s Mr. Geoffrey must be a party to the plot, if plot it was, or else the most extraordinary coincidence had occurred. Mrs. Bradley disliked coincidences and distrusted the circumstances which led to them. Her view was roughly that of Mr. Shaw’s Bishop of Beauvais upon miracles—that coincidences were part of her profession; that they may seem very wonderful to people who experience them and very simple to people who bring them off. She herself had caused the most extraordinary coincidences to happen. It was part of the “shock” treatment she used for some of her patients.

  The facts that Mr. Geoffrey had told his sad story to the one person in Newcastle who happened to be in direct communication with Mrs. Bradley, and that Mrs. Bradley, in her turn, happened to be both a psychologist and a private investigator of crime, made a coincidence which did not particularly please or excite her, although she found it interesting.

  Then there was the clumsy device to bring the fact of the strychnine poisoning to her notice. This was an extremely odd feature of the case, and, so far, she could not fit it in. It might mean that the housekeeper, loyal, and fond of her master, was giving a hint (which she dared not give in words) that the old man’s death by poison was already planned by those who knew his idiosyncrasies, but this seemed unlikely.

  On the other hand, it could be argued that the housekeeper herself might be in the plot, since she had allowed Mrs. Bradley to see for herself that the old man’s complaints were groundless. But that being so, why had she put the strychnine in the cocoa?

  There was one bright spot in all this puzzling affair: it was that the doctor would be a good friend, she thought. She had made enquiries, along the proper channels, and was assured that he was a young, not very clever man who had recently bought his first practice and had not yet completed the first year of his professional career.

  Other strange features were the gamekeeper who was, obviously, nothing of the sort, and the house itself, which, either deliberately, or (as she was inclined to believe) by accident, had not been quite correctly described by Mr. Geoffrey. There was the assertion about the hill, whereas there were no hills in the vicinity of old Mr. Lancaster’s house, and, an equally noticeable error—there was no rushing stream to tumble through the garden. The house, in fact, had been quiet; as quiet, thought Mrs. Bradley involuntarily, as the outside of a mental hospital.

  Taking the hill and the stream both into consideration, Mrs. Bradley came to the interesting and (as she admitted, at once, to herself) possibly erroneous conclusion that there must be another large house connected with the mystery; a house from which the drive to the station was uphill, and a house which had a rushing stream through the garden. On the other hand, the two houses must have a good many features in common, since roughly the same description would suffice for both.

  She sighed, and began to sketch out the ground-plan and front elevation of the house she had in mind. She took out Gillian’s letter and reread it, sifting it for any further clue to the identity of this mysterious residence whose site the interested parties (whoever they were, and that in itself had not yet been made at all clear) were so anxious to keep secret. But she had scarcely read the first five closely written sheets when the maid announced Joshua Devizes.

  Mrs. Bradley’s godly, righteous, and sober life, as she would sometimes point out to her sister-in-law and other fermenting relatives, was hedged with but few temptations, and to these she rarely succumbed, for she was in agreement with the dictum of Gerald Gould—“for God’s sake, if you sin, take pleasure in it.” Some puritanical streak in an otherwise untainted ancestry caused her to look upon sin as the last resort of the feeble-minded, however. She could perceive no pleasure in it at all.

  Nevertheless, when she first met the pale and sandy-haired Mr. Joshua Devizes she was tempted to sum up his character, and this from his personal appearance. She yielded to the temptation, grimaced hideously, and wrote in her notes the following prejudiced observation:

  Enter Three Murderers.

  She then bestowed on him a grin of welcome, which made him blench, and pushed open the door of her consulting-room.

  “Come in,” she said invitingly. Mr. Devizes, looking nervous, seated himself, dropped his umbrella with a clatter, apologised, dropped his gloves, licked his lips, and observed:

  “I want you to find out who is murdering my uncle.”

  “But I am not interested,” said Mrs. Bradley winningly, “in finding out who is murdering your uncle. Kindly cross your legs.”

  “It is no good your hitting me under the kneecap and all that stuff,” said Mr. Joshua, recovering his nerve and speaking petulantly. “You solve these cases, don’t you? Well, just you listen to this. And then I want to know how I’m to call in Scotland Yard. These local bobbies are nuts.”

  “If,” said Mrs. Bradley, taking up her notebook again, “you are proposing to tell me the story of the wicked housekeeper, the sinister gamekeeper, the victimised old gentleman, the rival nephews, the penniless niece, and the Irish groom, pray spare yourself the trouble. I have already heard the tale. I find it interesting, credible, and second-hand.”

  “Second-hand?”

  “Well, yes, I am afraid so. Did you come to ask my professional advice?”

  “No. Your professional assistance. But, perhaps, under the circumstances…” said Mr. Joshua. “I suppose you mean my cousin Geoffrey has already—”

  “Only by proxy,” said Mrs. Bradley firmly. “Haven’t you heard of the East Bierley murder of 1910?”

  “The East…I beg your pardon?”

  “It doesn’t matter in the least. May I ask, Mr. Devizes, where Miss Phyllis is staying?”

  “Who the deuce is Miss Phyllis?” His high thin voice became peevish. “Who is Miss Phyllis? Has Geoffrey been spinning some yarn?”

  “How should I know? I am asking for information. Your cousin’s story partly invokes a Miss Phyllis, in whom I am interested. If there is no Miss Phyllis, my curiosity is out of place and shall be controlled. But if there is no Miss Phyllis—”

  “I suppose he means Madeleine,” said Mr. Joshua sourly. “And if he does mean Madeleine, why on earth shouldn’t he say so?”

  “I don’t know. He did admit that he had altered some of the names.”

  “We’ve got to be careful,” Mr. Joshua admitted. “It’s terribly worrying. You see, there are the three of us—Geoffrey, Madeleine, and myself—and none of us know how we stand. I believe he likes Madeleine best. She makes a companion for him, and he can have her at his beck and call, and old men with money like that.

  “Geoffrey isn’t so popular. In fact, the old man kicked him out. All the same, he liked Geoffrey’s mother better than he liked my mother. They were sisters—the old man’s daughters. With Madeleine it was her father, the old man’s only son. He cut him off with nothing but an order on his tailor and hatter for two suits and three hats, and I’ve got an idea that he’s sorry, because the chap was killed in the war. Now I think he’d like to make it up to Madeleine.

  “But this business of trying to poison him—I tell you, we’re all at sea. None of us would do that. It must be the servants. I can’t suspect Mrs.—”

  “Norris?” said Mrs. Bradley helpfully.

  “Is that what Geoffrey called her? Her name’s really—that isn’t her real name. Still, it’ll do; it’ll do. Well, now, how about it, do you think?”

  “How about what?”
Mrs. Bradley coldly enquired.

  “You’ll undertake the case, I suppose, at a premium?”

  “What case are we talking about?”

  “Oh, I see. You won’t take it? Well, why not? If you undertake it I will, of course, let you have the names, and full authority to act as you think best. We’ve got to find out who’s doping the poor old boy.”

  “That is a task for the police. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “But the police are not any help, not any help at all!” wailed Mr. Joshua. “They do nothing but tell us that the poor old man has had these suspicions for years. They say it’s old stuff, and they’ve been had like this before, and that the best thing we can do is have him certified.”

  “It isn’t that at all? He’s being murdered?”

  “Come now. Name your own figure. Money’s no object.”

  “So Mr. Geoffrey says,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Well, if you act for Geoffrey, you’re acting for me.”

  “That is not what I was given to understand,” said Mrs. Bradley, abandoning her attitude of slightly scornful calm, and lobbing a spanner adroitly into the works.

  The resulting dislocation was immediately and convincingly apparent.

  “What! The double-crossing tick!” shouted Mr. Joshua, leaping up and down in his armchair. “Don’t tell me what he offered you! I’ll double it! The dirty, treacly little toad! But I’ll get even with him, don’t you worry about that! Now, will you take on the case for me, or won’t you?”

  “I will not. And I ought to add that neither have I accepted Mr. Geoffrey’s offer,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I don’t like your story, Mr. Devizes. I don’t see why the police cannot be convinced that your uncle is being poisoned. If he is,” she added.

  “You’ll know better, one of these days, you obstinate old woman!” shouted Mr. Joshua. “Why did I come to a woman, anyway! Geoffrey’s a fool! No wonder I can’t get satisfaction!”

  Furiously he took himself off. Mrs. Bradley sighed, then went to the window and watched him get into a taxi.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” she observed.

  Gillian walked to the window and waved to the handsome Mr. Geoffrey, and watched him get into his car. She noted, with some satisfaction, that the car shot off along the North Road. She then took out an Ordnance Survey map of the Border, which had street plans of the chief towns, and turned to the plan of Newcastle.

  The North Road led to Morpeth, Alnwick, Coldstream, and Berwick.

  “So what?” said Gillian, in unconscious imitation of, among others, Mrs. Bradley’s great-nephew, an engaging child named Denis. With the problem unsolved, she went to bed, and, as her habit now was, slept lightly but sufficiently, and no longer cried about her lost love before she went to sleep.

  Next day she took a packed lunch out with her and went to visit Hexham. This first bit of the journey she made by car, intending to see the Fridstol sanctuary chair, the monks’ night-staircase, the Saxon crypt (although she was not sure whether it was possible to visit this and to see the Roman stones from which it had been built), and the beautiful north transept. After that she proposed to walk to Fourstones, and thence along the Roman road to Hotbank and, by the footpath past Broomlee Lough, on to the high road by Tepper Moor, and so to Chesters and Humshaugh. Here the car, driven by one of the garage hands and having cut across by way of Wall from Hexham, would pick her up again and take her back to Newcastle.

  It was not a long walk for anybody as energetically fond of walking as Gillian was, but, although she had planned the excursion with considerable care, and had even asked Geoffrey to let her have her walk by herself, she did not really enjoy it. Her mind was preoccupied. She saw, but with only half an eye, the gateways, streets, and barracks, the law-courts, baths, and bridge, the villages and temples, of the Romans. She made no speculations about the wide deep Vallum. She took little heed of the snake-like writhings of the Wall. She mused on a second telegram she had received from Mrs. Bradley. “Do not trust Geoffrey,” Mrs. Bradley instructed her. “With you on Wednesday.” This was Wednesday.

  By Broomlee Lough she paused, not for the view, but for the sake of one moving figure, which she recognised immediately. It startled as well as pleased her, and she was glad that she had received the warning telegram, for it was Mrs. Bradley in the distance. Her grandmother’s friend was walking, at a good rate and swinging a stout ashplant as she walked, towards the river.

  Gillian longed to yodel, but doubted whether she could. A mere shout, she surmised, would not sufficiently carry over the moor. She essayed it, however, but the hurrying little figure in front gave no sign that the shout had been heard. Gillian began to run, but soon gave up, partly because the nature of the country was not conducive to running but also because she did not think she would be likely to overtake Mrs. Bradley, who was moving at a quite remarkable speed.

  She continued her own walk, therefore, but with a lighter heart.

  “Fun,” she thought, “about Geoffrey. Something phoney in that story he told me at the castle. Wonder how Aunt Adela tumbled to it, though?…

  “She must have been interested,” she thought, “all the same for that, to come straight up here like this.”

  The fact that several days had elapsed since Mrs. Bradley had received the letter did not weigh with Gillian. She had been enjoying herself, and the passing of time had seemed swift and relatively unimportant.

  Mrs. Bradley had heard the shout, and knew who it was who had shouted, for she had happened to see Gillian before Gillian spotted her. She did not want to meet her at that moment. She was making for Chollerton, where she intended to meet George with the car. The car would take her back to Newcastle and the hotel at which Gillian was staying, and at which she herself had booked a room. Exactly what she was going to say to the girl she had not decided. It would depend upon whether Gillian could add anything to the information contained in the letter. She had known Mr. Geoffrey for several days now, and might have found out more about him.

  Between Chollerton and Low Brunton her car passed that of Mr. Geoffrey, who was doing some casual cruising before going on to pick up Gillian, whom he had followed over the moor. He had not, on the previous day, gone further north than Morpeth. He smiled slightly, and raised a hand to his cap in ironic salute when Mrs. Bradley had gone by. They, of course, did not recognise one another.

  “That young man wants the road to himself, George,” was her comment. But she had no idea, at the time, that her words were prophetic.

  Gillian reached her hotel to find Mrs. Bradley in possession of the lounge, the current number of The Psychologist, a cup of tea, and the hotel cat.

  “I knew it was!” she said. “But you wouldn’t look at me. Aunt Adela, guess what!”

  “Mr. Geoffrey Devizes has proposed to you!”

  “Oh, somebody told you!”

  “No, child. It was to be expected, and I expected it. Would it shatter love’s young dream if I asked you to refuse him, at least temporarily?”

  “No. You see, I haven’t given him an answer. Do you think he really yearns for Phyllis, whoever she is?”

  “I don’t know, child, and her name may be Madeleine, it appears. And I don’t think I care about this story told you by Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I believe it and more,” said Mrs. Bradley exasperatingly. “Gillian, are you seeing a good deal, then, of this young man?”

  From her mother, Gillian would have resented this question. From Mrs. Bradley’s beaky little mouth it took a different and unexceptionable tone.

  “We go out every day and every evening,” the girl replied. “Except last night, when he motored north towards Alnwick.”

  “You’ve given up the thought of your holiday in Galloway?”

  “Well, no, not altogether. But Geoffrey says it isn’t the best time of year, and that he wants to show it me at its best.”

  “Is it his part of the country?”

  �
�No. The family live on the Sperrey Marshes, he says—wherever that may be. It means nothing to me. Do you know where they are, Aunt Adela?”

  “I have visited them. I have also visited the house in which, by his own account, his Uncle Lancaster lives.”

  “The house in the story?”

  “The house in the story. But not the right house, child, I am inclined to think. Now I want you to help me. Set your brains to work. I am looking for a house like that house, but with a rushing stream and near a hill. This house may be anywhere in England, Scotland, or Wales. It may even be in Ireland, for all I know.”

  “But that isn’t much to go on, is it, Aunt Adela? You could never find such a house.”

  “ ‘What say you, Bottom?”’ quoted Mrs. Bradley under her breath. She paused, raised her eyebrows at Gillian, grinned, and then continued: “ ‘Some man or other must present Wall: and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him…’ ”

  Gillian giggled.

  “You mean that we are to provide a house as a bait?” she suggested. “But whom are we baiting the hook for? For Geoffrey? Am I to be a sort of decoy duck, or something?”

  “For your Mr. Geoffrey first. I want to learn how much that young man knows. He must be in the plot…”

  “What plot?”

  “That is exactly what I have to find out, child. What plot? Not the plot detailed to you with such delightful, racy, and inaccurate detail by Mr. Geoffrey. That seems absolutely certain. Besides, a Dark Gentleman may be involved. What do you think of that?”

  Gillian stared at her hard, unable to make out how much of this was said in jest.

  “So that’s why you think Geoffrey must be mixed up in something. Was the story just an invention, then?” she asked.

  “By no means, child. Every bit of it was the truth, if police-court witnesses can be trusted to tell the truth. And there was more than truth in it, too.”