Brazen Tongue (Mrs. Bradley) Page 8

  Beyond giving it a passing glance, Mrs. Bradley evinced no interest in the telephone exchange, and they wound on up the hill between the pines.

  • CHAPTER 8 •

  Midday: Ruins of a Temple.

  Title of a painting by Francis Oliver Finch.

  Mrs. Commy-Platt was of medium height and, like Oliver Surface, of a damned disinheriting countenance. She was spare, severe, and formal, and at first she received Mrs. Bradley not personally, but through the agency of her lady’s-maid-companion, who rejoiced (but not obviously, since she was a sour-faced, sniffing creature with eyes which looked like marbles) in the romantic name of Isabella.

  “Mrs. Platt cannot see anybody until after she has had her afternoon lay-down,” pronounced this apparition, regarding Mrs. Bradley with acute dislike.

  “In that case,” said Mrs. Bradley, “she will receive a communication from my solicitors.”

  “Your…I beg your pardon, but did you say…?”

  “I did. Good afternoon. You may inform Mrs. Platt, if you like, that I have been advised I have a cast-iron case.”

  She turned and began to walk away. A few moments later—before she and Pat had reached the gate of the long garden, in fact—Isabella came hastening after them.

  “Mrs. Commy-Platt will forgo her afternoon lay-down for once, if you will kindly return and explain yourself and message.”

  So Mrs. Bradley retraced her steps, leaving Pat to please herself whether she accompanied her or not. Pat, reporter-like, decided to stay, and together they reached the front door.

  “This way, please.”

  “Mind you don’t trip over the tiger’s head,” muttered Pat, as they were led down a long hall, linoleum-covered to represent brick tiles and decorated with various trophies of fishing and the chase. Mrs. Bradley, who had already seen the tiger’s head which was attached to a large skin rug, avoided it and followed Isabella up some stairs. On the first-floor landing was a door with a brass knocker representing the head of a Pekinese dog. Isabella tapped the chin of the dog on to its neck, and a querulous voice, imperiously pitched, dared rather than invited them to enter.

  “Mrs. Bradley, my lady,” said Isabella.

  Mrs. Bradley raised her eyebrows at Pat, who grinned and slightly shook her head. Apparently the nominative of address was the result of the same process of instinctive snobbery as the custom in the United States of America of giving a boy the first name of Earl.

  Mrs. Platt did not rise to greet her visitors, but motioned them to take seats.

  “You I know,” she observed, looking at Pat.

  “Yes, Mrs. Platt.”

  “Commy-Platt.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Commy-Platt.”

  The owner of Willington smiled sourly, and then turned on Mrs. Bradley a questioning and forbidding glare.

  “And to what am I indebted?” she asked, apparently under the impression that she had completed her sentence.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “This visit. Do you wish to see me about anything of importance?”

  “Yes. I think perhaps you may be able to help me in tracing some clothing which you were kind enough to give away in the town some time ago.”

  “Clothing? But my maid said you were threatening me with a law-suit.”

  “Did she?”

  “Perhaps you will explain!”

  “No, no. It is you who must explain, Mrs. Platt. I am advised that some clothing found on a murdered person came originally from this house and from your wardrobe, and I must ask you to account for that fact.”

  Regardless of Mrs. Platt’s expression of horrified amazement, she drew from a capacious skirt-pocket a notebook and a fountain-pen, and looked expectantly at her victim.

  “But…but…but I never heard anything so preposterous in my life!” said Mrs. Platt.

  “You deny, then, that the clothing originally came from here?”

  “No, of course I don’t! But that has nothing whatever to do with…”

  Mrs. Bradley put up a thin hand.

  “Please,” she said, “We shall achieve nothing by a show of violence and ill-humour. Lentement poliment, et en francais—although we may perhaps excuse you the last. Mrs. Platt, I am investigating a case of murder—three cases of murder—and I warn you not to attempt to obstruct me in the execution of my duty.”

  “But…your credentials,” wailed Mrs. Commy-Platt, deflated by these gangster tactics. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “You know Miss Mort.”

  “Oh…yes.”

  “You know the inspector in charge of the case?”

  “He…yes.”

  “You know Lady Selina Lestrange?”

  “Lady Selina? Oh!”

  “And Sir Ferdinand Lestrange, her nephew?”

  “I…I haven’t the pleasure…”

  “It is a pleasure in store—I hope! It depends, of course, whether you are called for the defence or for the prosecution. Ferdinand in court is ruthless; utterly ruthless.”

  “Ferdinand?”

  “He is my son. Now, Mrs. Platt, come along. There is nothing to be afraid of, so long as you tell me the truth.”

  This last master-stroke of impudence caused the collapse of Mrs. Platt’s already severely undermined morale. She was a spent force from then onward, so far as Mrs. Bradley was concerned.

  “Go outside, Isabella,” she said, “and don’t listen. Go and play the piano so that I can just hear you. Not loudly, mind. My nerves won’t stand loud playing.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Platt,” observed Isabella, who had not dared, for years, to address her employer other than as ‘my lady,’ or to refer to her, in or out of her presence, except by her full name of Commy-Platt. She would pay for her temerity later, Mrs. Bradley concluded, watching her departure with a bright, basilisk eye.

  “Now, Pat, take shorthand notes,” she said, “We must have this part of the evidence complete and correct. Mrs. Platt, no doubt, will sign a statement later, should that become necessary. That will not be to-day, Mrs. Platt,” she added, beaming with horrid tolerance upon her fish-mouthed victim. “Now, then, where shall we begin?”

  Mrs. Platt seemed unwilling to make any suggestion by way of reply to this question, and Mrs. Bradley, in any case, gave her very little opportunity to do so, for she continued, almost immediately:

  “Tell me, Mrs. Platt, about your arrangements for giving away cast-off clothing. Did somebody call here to make a collection? Did your maid parcel up the clothing and direct it to some central agency? Did you work on a large scale (with a committee, for example), or was it a private and personal charity of your own?”

  “I used to investigate the necessitous cases myself,” Mrs. Platt replied, recovering a little of her poise and self-command. “Naturally I used to rely upon various organisations to report to me cases of special hardship among the poor of the town, but I always undertook the distribution of the clothing and other necessaries personally.”

  “I see. You liked the poor of the town to know and love their benefactor, no doubt.”

  Mrs. Platt glanced sharply at her, unable to ignore the implication of the words. She was, however, equally unable to discern any trace of sarcasm or irony in Mrs. Bradley’s benign gaze. She assented, shortly, therefore, and added:

  “As for the clothing you seem to refer to, I cannot account for the fact that it was found on any unknown woman except by saying that the woman to whom I gave the clothes must have sold them.”

  “Very ungrateful of her. You cannot, of course, Mrs. Platt, recollect to whom you gave them?”

  “I could not say. Of course, I have lists of the people—my people, as I like to call them, but—no, I couldn’t say. Besides, I don’t even admit that it was my cast-off clothing. I am not at all sure that I have ever given away night-attire, either! It would be different if the…the poor creature had been wearing one of my dresses. But underclothing—and of such a nature—no. Even as to t
he rest of the clothes, I see no way of tracing them. Besides, for all we know, they may have been sold and resold. You know how these people live.”

  “I wonder whether you would be good enough to let me have a copy of your list of grateful pensioners, Mrs. Platt?”

  Mrs. Platt again looked up suspiciously, and again was foiled by Mrs. Bradley’s serene, unfocused gaze.

  “Isabella can make one out, I suppose,” she said ungraciously. “Although how the police think it’s going to help, I’m sure I can’t see. If the woman were known, of course, it would be easy enough for me to say whether she was on my list or not, but as it is…”

  “Quite. Quite. Quite. Quite,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well, Mrs. Platt, I must thank you for your information, and apologise for taking up your time. I hope you will enjoy a pleasant afternoon nap.”

  She got up, to the relief of Mrs. Platt who wailed for Isabella to return, and took her leave.

  “And now,” she said, as they were passing the telephone exchange on their return journey, “is there any record of any clothing, not on a body, having been found in the town or near it?”

  The young reporter looked startled.

  “You mean the other night-gown?” she observed. “Oh, but that was identified, you know. It blew off the line at the Infirmary, and ended up in a heap outside Dewey’s, the fishmonger’s in Parrybit Lane.”

  Mrs. Bradley, who had not heard of this second night-gown before, grimaced in an oddly satisfied manner, and did not pursue the subject. She parted from Pat at the editorial office, walked across to a stationer’s shop, and purchased an Ordnance Survey map of the district and a street-plan of the town. Thus armed, she directed her steps towards Parrybit Lane. A long and gently sloping road, tree-bordered and lined by houses which belonged to a genteel period when motor-cars were fewer and families a good deal larger, led her to the lane.

  It might have been once a pleasant thoroughfare, but, if so, its character had entirely altered. It was narrow enough, that was certain, and it was now a poor-class shopping district of the kind where the fried-fish shop props up the off-licence, and the dominating buildings are the pubs.

  Mrs. Bradley soon found the fishmonger’s shop she was in search of. The day was Wednesday, and the shop was shut.

  • CHAPTER 9 •

  The Feast of the River-Gods.

  Title of a painting of the school of Rubens or Jordaens.

  Although the shop was closed, Mr. Dewey, Christian names Edmond Clarence, and his two sons, Mr. Eldred Wenceslas Dewey and Mr. Conrad Voight Dewey, were busy in the outhouse inspecting, filleting, rejecting, gutting, washing, decapitating, blessing, cursing, and pricing fish, ready for the next day’s sale…or so it seemed to Mrs. Bradley when, her first ring at the bell failing to obtain an answer, she pressed again, and, with apologies for disturbing the peace, was admitted by the proprietor, who appeared to be pleased to see her.

  “Night-gown?” he said, with an appreciative chuckle. Ah, not ’arf. Come from Mrs. Platt? Sez you!”

  Mrs. Bradley assured him that she had come from Mrs. Platt. The fishmonger, still grinning, wiped his fish-scaled hands on his apron, invited his sons to carry on and to leave plenty of skate for frying, and invited her to go into the parlour. Here he produced beer, without the aid of which, he informed her, he was unable to do his tale full justice, poured some out very carefully, closing one eye as he did so, into a large mug ornamented by a fancifully-executed, highly-coloured crab and further embellished by lettering (some of which had disappeared in the washing-up of the utensil), and then, opening the closed eye, he cocked it at Mrs. Bradley.

  “Thank you,” she replied. Mr. Dewey, in the most hospitable fashion, brought out a second mug, similar to the first except that its device was a couple of bright red lobsters (and its lettering, not having suffered so much washing, was complete, and read, ‘A Present from Southend’) and poured out some more of the beer.

  “Goes with fish, some’ow,” said the host, taking a deep draught. “Say what you like about tea, it don’t honestly go with fish. I’m partial to fish, although I sell it, and you wouldn’t believe the things we find in them.”

  “Jewellery?” Mrs. Bradley hazarded.

  “Ah. Rings mostly. Once it was money they told us have come out of the old Armada. What do you make of that?”

  Mrs. Bradley, who could scarcely credit it, replied vaguely but on a congratulatory note, and once again mentioned night-gowns.

  “Ah, that!” said Mr. Dewey, with deep satisfaction. “Regular Casanovas, them police! So interested in that night-gown that they never even asked me to tell ’em my opinion where it came from.”

  “I thought they knew where it had come from.”

  “Thought they did. Thought they did. But I got my own reasons for thinking ’em wrong. Come outside, and I’ll show you.”

  They finished their beer, and then Mr. Dewey led the way to the backyard. This was piled with empty fish-boxes and contained, besides, two dustbins, a heap of old iron, two derelict perambulators, and the charred remains of a bonfire. It was surrounded by a black wooden fence, patched, here and there, with odd pieces of untarred wood. On the west side, over the fence, was the drying ground of a small laundry. The combined smell of fish, from her host’s premises, and petrol (used for cleaning) from his neighbour’s, was trying, but Mrs. Bradley, fortunately, found it bearable.

  “The night-gown came from next door, I suppose?” she said.

  “Oh, it came from next door all right. No manner of doubt about that. Just blowed off the line, like anything else might do. But was the police content with that? Neether ought ’em to be, says you, and you’d be right. But, you see, the police, they went by the laundry mark, and the laundry backed ’em up in that, to save trouble, not wanting it broadcast.”

  Mrs. Bradley had to confess herself baffled by this lucidly-delivered but unsatisfactory and unfinished explanation. She looked at Mr. Dewey for enlightenment.

  “Come inside again,” said he, with a vast chuckle. He appeared to be a man with a keen but individual sense of humour. Mrs. Bradley followed him in, past the two young men who were still faithfully busy upon their mysterious explorations and dissections, to the parlour upon whose table still reposed the empty mugs.

  “My old woman’s gone to the pictures,” volunteered Mr. Dewey, pushing the mugs to one side and settling his elbows comfortably upon the table. He ate and spat prawns, a handful of which he had picked up as he passed through his shop. “The boys’ll have to glycerine these,” he remarked. “Just got to the ripe, they have, but I dunno about to-morrow. Are you partial to a nice dressed crab?”

  “Has it got to the ripe?” Mrs. Bradley delicately enquired. As though this were the best joke he had heard for some time, Mr. Dewey chuckled delightedly for several minutes. Then he assured her that he was talking as between friends. Mrs. Bradley, who had not the faintest idea how she had come to achieve the status of friend in such a very short time, thereupon agreed readily to take the crab, paid over the shilling which Mr. Dewey thought was a fair price, and had the felicity of watching her host himself prepare the crab for the table.

  After this she again returned to the (apparently) twin subjects of the police and the night-gown.

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Dewey. “Well, you know how they run these here laundries?”

  Mrs. Bradley tactfully said she did not suppose that she did know anything of the kind, and Mr. Dewey, pleased with this answer, proceeded to explain.

  “Well, now, take yourself, as it might be, or my old woman, if you like. You make up the bundle to send to the laundry. The laundry puts its mark on each article. Gives you a number—thirty, say, or something—anything you like. Well, after that, everything marked thirty comes back to you, like, don’t it?

  “Now, you, perhaps you’re careful. We’ll say that before the sheets, or whatever it might be, ever leaves your house, you’ve got your own mark on them, your name, might be, or a ’nitial in special em
broidery. Therefore, when your stuff comes back, you knows pretty much where you are, because you’ve got, as it were, a double check—your mark and the laundry mark. Correct?”

  “Quite correct; and very aptly expressed.”

  “Thank you. Well, now, take another person—take my old woman, for instance. She don’t send much to the laundry—sheets, as I say, and handkerchiefs—us cleaning more than our noses on ’em, as you can guess. Then perhaps she’ll send pillow-cases, big table cloths, anything as wants a particular boil or is heavy to lift, or anything like the boys’ flannel trousies, as wants to be cleaned instead of washed—see what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Perfectly. And none of it marked at home, and only identifiable because of the laundry mark.”

  “Legally speaking, that’s right,” said Mr. Dewey vigorously. “Of course, my old woman swears she’d know our stuff in the dark from other people’s, and personally, I’d bet my bottom dollar as she would. But, so far as the laundry’s concerned, there isn’t any proof, except their mark. See what I mean? Unless we was to mark our stuff ourselves.”

  Mrs. Bradley said that she saw, and that she supposed that the night-gown in question had a laundry mark.

  “Of course it had a laundry mark,” said Mr. Dewey. “Of course it had.”

  Mrs. Bradley waited patiently, but as no more information seemed to be forthcoming, she enquired:

  “Had it, by any chance, Mrs. Platt’s laundry mark on it?”

  As a result of this question, she thought that her host would have apoplexy. She had never before seen a man so completely overcome with laughter. He answered the question as soon as he could, however, and replied, while he wiped away tears.

  “No, it didn’t have Mrs. Platt’s mark on it, or any other mark except the laundry number of a woman that lives up Dale End. But she took and declared it didn’t belong of her when the laundry sent it home, and back it came, and then they had to set to and look for hers, all the time declaring it must be a mistake, and she didn’t know her own night-gown when she saw it.”