The Worsted Viper (Mrs. Bradley) Page 9

  She was justified by the third body. When that came to light there seemed no longer any doubt as to what was the intention of the murderers.

  • CHAPTER 10 •

  “…and half believed herself in Wonderland.”

  —From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll.

  With the determination to carry out her plan of getting the students out of the “sordid atmosphere of crime,” as Laura put it later, Mrs. Bradley drove to the spot where she had arranged to meet them, and put it to them squarely that she thought her nephew Jonathan might be of more use to her in the near future than they could be. She thanked them heartily for their help, begged them to keep out of mischief, and bade them, if they valued her peace of mind, to keep together if they were determined to finish their holiday on the Broads.

  They grinned and produced the coshes supplied by Laura’s affectionate brother Colin, and the sight of these comforted Mrs. Bradley more than they could know.

  “We’re going to use them, too, if we get a chance,” said Laura. She stretched out an arm which a youthful blacksmith might have envied, and added, with a chuckle, “After all, the weaker sex can always claim to have fought in self-defence.”

  By the end of the day Jonathan Bradley had joined his aunt on the Broads, and, before dark, was at the wheel of a new, fast motor-cruiser called O’Reilly. After considerable argument, he said, he thought he had managed to get his wife Deborah off to her people in Scotland, but she had refused, at the last, to leave him, saying that before anything happened she was going to follow him to the Broads.

  “I know she’ll be in the way,” he concluded sadly. “Not very nice, this particular case of yours, is it?”

  “I’m afraid not. I wish you’d been able to persuade Deborah to keep out. I wish I could send Laura and her friends away from here, but I can scarcely dictate to them where they shall spend their holiday.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Jonathan. “You can’t do any more tonight, can you? We’ve taken a room at your hotel. I thought we might leave this outfit somewhere handy, all stay the night at the hotel, and come aboard again first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Mrs. Bradley fell in with these reasonable suggestions, and they ran the cruiser from Potter Heigham, where she had been hired, to Wroxham, and moored her there.

  She lay opposite a white-painted, red-roofed boathouse with her stern to the dark trees, which looked almost black in the fast-fading light.

  It was a very short drive into Norwich, and Deborah looked, thought Mrs. Bradley, with a motherly pride which she scarcely recognised in herself (for she had never had a daughter), all the better for being married.

  “Here you are at last,” said Deborah. “Dinner has been on for nearly half an hour, and I’m frightfully hungry.”

  She was much less nervous since her marriage, Mrs. Bradley had noticed. She was also lovelier than ever, and had lost that little concentrated frown of anxiety which constant supervision of the young is apt to write on even the most philosophical of brows. Deborah was anything but philosophical, as both Mrs. Bradley and her nephew had cause to know.

  Mrs. Bradley had wondered often, since she had engineered the match, exactly how the marriage would turn out. Her nephew, she was relieved and amused to note, appeared to have asserted himself with the simple, beautiful, selfish, and comforting decisiveness for which his mother, Mrs. Bradley’s sister-in-law, was celebrated throughout the family, and which it had been evident for some time her son had inherited in full measure.

  Dinner over, they sat in the lounge talking of everything but the business in which Mrs. Bradley was engaged.

  At ten, Jonathan glanced at the clock as though to reproach it for going so slowly, and then at his watch as though surprised to find it in collusion with the clock. Then he glanced hopefully at his wife.

  “You can’t want to go to bed yet,” she said defensively.

  “Can’t I?” he said. “Come on.”

  Their room overlooked a quiet alley. Deborah, instead of getting into bed when she was ready, stood by the window, from which she had drawn back the curtains, and looked out into the night.

  Jonathan came and stood behind her. He put his hands beneath her breasts and drew her back against him until he could fold his arms over and around her, and her whole body was supported against his. She sighed, abandoning her mood and giving way to his.

  “Well,” he said, “what’s the matter?”

  Deborah put her hands over his forearms and rested her head against his shoulder.

  “Is Aunt Adela in any danger?”

  “Yes. That’s why I didn’t want you to stay.”

  “Don’t bother about me. I shall keep out of your way.”

  “But I do bother about you. I can’t help it. Won’t you go home again tomorrow? We’re only going about on a boat.”

  “Shall I cramp her style? Would she be better off without me?”

  “Well, that’s for her to say.”

  “And, although she’s said lots of things, she hasn’t said that,” said Deborah.

  “No, she hasn’t. Come on to bed. You’ll get cold.” He picked her up in his arms. “It’s a horrible case. All witchcraft and subterranean sort of stuff. Two women have been killed already, and I happen to know she thinks there will be at least a third. She says there’s no end to this sort of thing, once it breaks out in a district. Witchcraft can be as bad in England as in West Africa, and it’s just as hard to track down. She says it’s crazy and frightening.”

  “It doesn’t frighten me,” said Deborah, putting her arms round his neck. She woke in the night and said, “What is witchcraft, anyway? I thought it died out two hundred years ago.”

  “It will never die out,” said Jonathan, “and it’s as universal as Satan. Our revered but fat-headed ancestors did nothing but drive it underground. Most of the poor crones they burnt and drowned weren’t witches at all in the true sense of the word.”

  “But they used to confess they were,” said Deborah. “Not that I agree with killing them.”

  “Real witchcraft isn’t love-potions and village spells. It’s the ruin of minds, the ascendancy of one mentality over another, the establishment of a sort of hypnotic control to make a person evil instead of good. It’s naked Satanism, and she says this whole case stinks of it. And she isn’t exactly afraid, because I don’t believe you could frighten her, but she’s worried. So if she tells you you must go home, you’re to go, and you’re not to argue.”

  “I’ve never argued.”

  “Well, I’m damned!”

  “Well, only before we were married.”

  “Anyhow, don’t argue now. Go to sleep.”

  Deborah relaxed in his arms with that wonderful, almost light-headed sense of having no worries, which she had learned since their first night together. Very soon she was asleep.

  By ten next morning they were all on board O’Reilly. Mrs. Bradley, who had already rung up the police station only to be informed that no further clues had come to light, suggested that, as George could remain in touch with the police in Norwich, they might as well have a quiet day cruising.

  She herself had a very quiet day indeed, for she spent the whole afternoon and the early evening on one of the berths in the saloon. The lovers spent most of the day lounging. Occasionally they went overboard for a lazy swim. By nightfall no message had come, and the party went to bed, languid from the heat and drowsy with the effects of the sun.

  At five in the morning Jonathan woke, leaned up on his elbow, listened to the regular breathing of his wife from the opposite berth, and quietly got out of bed. He pulled on trousers and a sweater over his pyjamas and went up on deck.

  It was already light, and he saw his aunt seated on the cabin-top contemplating the faint dawn colours of the water and a clear and tender sky.

  “I thought so,” he said. “Have you been up all night?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “For I am
in the unenviable position of the prophet Elijah; you remember they sought his life to take it away.” She gave a sudden harsh cackle, and some wild geese, nesting near, rose, with an almost similar sound, and took breathlessly beautiful flight across the water.

  “I hope I didn’t wake Deborah,” said Mrs. Bradley contritely. “I shouldn’t have laughed aloud.”

  The hope was vain. Deborah, rubbing sleep from her eyes, came up on deck in her pyjamas, and shivered in the cold morning air. Jonathan took off his sweater and put it round her, tying the sleeves round her neck. She huddled into the warmth of it, but he laughed and said:

  “You go and turn in, Aunt Adela. We’re going to have a swim.”

  “I’m not,” said Deborah. “It’s much too cold.”

  Mrs. Bradley went below. As soon as she had disappeared, Jonathan threw off the rest of his clothes, took his wife in an iron grip and untied the sleeves of the sweater.

  “Beast! I hate you!” cried Deborah. “I won’t be undressed!”

  “Yes, you will, and like it,” replied the implacable young man. “There you are. Now get in quick, or you really will get cold. Over the side and no funking. It isn’t deep enough to dive.”

  In another moment they were both in the water, swimming, gasping, splashing, laughing, and blowing.

  “My hair!” cried Deborah. “I haven’t got a cap on.”

  They came out at the end of about ten minutes, and Jonathan picked up two bath-towels from the locker where he had laid them. He gave his wife one, and commenced to dry her with the other.

  “Don’t hug the towel up to your neck like that,” he said. “Get on and dry your face and hair.”

  “You scrub too hard,” protested Deborah, trying to wriggle away.

  “Rot. It’ll keep you warm. Work harder yourself, you lazy little devil, or I’ll warm you in a different way.”

  “My arms ache,” said Deborah, twisting her towel round her head and leaning against him. “How wet you are, darling. Dry yourself for a change.”

  Jonathan laughed.

  “Come on down to the cabin,” he said. “We are both dry enough to finish down there.”

  When they came up again the sun was up, too, and the flush of golden morning was over the water.

  “Going to be hot again,” said Jonathan. Deborah drew in her breath.

  “Isn’t it lovely!” she said. “Oh, I am glad I stayed.”

  Jonathan sat down on the cabin-top, his long legs wide part, and drew her down to sit between his knees. He pulled her against him, oblivious of her damp hair against his jacket.

  “I suppose,” said Deborah, rather wistfully, “we shall never be quite as happy as this when we get older.”

  “Why look into the future?” demanded her husband. “Time for that when it comes.” He loosened his hold, pushed her away, and then put his feet close and pulled her onto his knees. “What a baby you are,” he said contentedly.

  “Time we got breakfast,” said Deborah; but she lay in his arms with one hand pressed against his side and the other thrust down between his neck and the collar of his shirt.

  In the end it was Mrs. Bradley who got breakfast, and called them down to it. As soon as it was over, she got out the map, and, whilst Jonathan took the powerful cruiser slowly up-river, across Broads, down-stream, along staithe and cut, all the morning she worked with ruler, dividers, and pencil, charting distances and working out speeds and times.

  It was just before lunch, when they had put in at Potter Heigham for cigarettes and petrol, that she had word of the third murder. Leaving Jonathan and Deborah to do the shopping, such as it was, she had gone to a public call-box and had rung up the inspector according to a previous arrangement. He was excited, in a gloomy sort of way, she gathered. Two boys, on a camping and boating holiday near Marsham Broad, had given information to the police, which had led to the discovery of a third body.

  “I’ve been over there all morning, ma’am,” he concluded. “The doctor’s seen her—it’s another her, and seemingly the same type as the other two—and she’s been drowned. Ring the changes, don’t they? If you’d care to come over to my office this afternoon, you can talk to the lads for yourself. Aged fifteen they are, and camping out on an island on private property. You won’t find the island on the map. It’s a tiny place. Having the time of their lives, they were, until this business turned up. Doesn’t matter telling you all this on the ’phone, as the story will be in the papers tomorrow morning. We’re not keeping anything back except what kind these women are, and the little matter of the trademark, which was on this third woman just the same. It’s no secret we’re calling in the Yard. Had to. Besides, the Chief Constable’s getting nervous. Wants to park responsibility, I reckon. Shall I see you this afternoon, ma’am?”

  “You certainly will,” Mrs. Bradley replied with zest. She rang off, and returned to the cruiser for lunch. Over tinned salmon, lettuces, bread and butter, bananas, chocolate, and beer, she recounted the news to the others, arranged with them to pick her up at Potter Heigham that evening, and they cruised to Acle, where George had the car in readiness to take Mrs. Bradley to Norwich.

  During the short cruise from Potter Heigham to Acle she had her map out again, made a special note of Marsham Broad, which was not far from Potter Heigham, and charted more distances and times.

  The map now made an interesting little picture. The three bodies had been disposed as to make a triangle of deaths, and this triangle enclosed almost the whole of the courses of the River Thurne and Ant.

  “May be nothing in it, of course,” said Jonathan, when she pointed out to him this fact.

  “There would be something in it,” Mrs. Bradley retorted, “if, for their own purposes, the murderers are trying to shut off tourists from these rivers.”

  “Tell me all when you return,” suggested Jonathan, shutting off the engine, and bringing O’Reilly gently in. “Hullo, there’s the car, and here’s George.”

  Mrs. Bradley, taking her map, was soon in Norwich, and two lads, one tall, fair, and slight, the other dark and sturdy, rose from hard wooden chairs in the office, which the superintendent had placed at the disposal of Mr. Os, and responded shyly to the inspector’s introductions.

  • CHAPTER 11 •

  “Write that down,” the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up and reduced the answer to shillings and pence.

  —From Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

  The island was a place of magic, and the risks run by reason of its being in possession of head-hunters in the form of ownership rights (for the small Broad was private property) added considerably to its charm. The boys had been there for a week. Every evening they planned next day’s meals (next day’s devilment resting on the knee of Fate) and every morning one or other of them kept watch in the sanctuary whilst the other sailed or rowed the dinghy to Heigham Bridge, moored near the bridge, and walked into Potter Heigham to do the necessary shopping, for they were healthy boys and ate well. Their names were Edward Benland and Ian Smith.

  Theirs was a simple life, and, owing to the fact that neither Edward nor Ian had seen a newspaper, it remained for some days uncomplicated by the fact that two corpses had been discovered in suspicious circumstances not many miles from the island.

  On the Saturday morning, which represented the end of a week’s holiday, it was Edward’s turn to do the shopping.

  “And don’t forget,” said Ian, “that tomorrow’s Sunday, so mind you bring enough bread.”

  Edward nodded. They made the usual careful reconnaissance, and then they quanted out the dinghy from a tiny backwater where she lay hidden. When she was out on the Broad and Edward had recounted his money, Ian waded ashore through muddy waters, and Edward set out for civilisation in the dinghy.

  The Broad, which contained the island, was not marked on the map the boys had in their possession, but it lay to the south-west of Marsham Broad, and was connect
ed with the River Thurne by a short staithe, weedy, but with sufficient channel for the dinghy. Once the staithe reached the river it was easy going in the flat-bottomed little boat, for the way lay with the current. The boy left behind on the island expected to see his friend at about a quarter to nine, when he arrived with the “elevenses”—buns, chocolate, cardboard-packed ice-cream, ginger-beer, meat patties, and doughnuts.

  The “elevenses” did not vary. Having decided, by a process of trial and error, which were the most desirable things to eat and drink in the middle of a summer morning, the boys sternly vindicated their choice by clinging to it with the fanaticism of lovers.

  Ian, bereft of companionship, got his breakfast in a leisurely enjoyable manner, and settled down to bread, cold ham (purchased sliced and by the pound in Potter Heigham), more bread, marmalade, fig jam, and two cups of cocoa made from water boiled in the kettle over a spirit lamp and sweetened with condensed milk. The “elevenses” were a welcome supplement to this meagre pipe-opener, in the opinion of both the boys.

  He washed up his plate and mug when he had done, by rinsing them in the Broad and rubbing the grease off the plate with grass. Then he emptied the kettle into a couple of clean jam-jars and set out for the farm. This business of getting the water was one of the most complicated manoeuvres of the day. First he put on his bathing trunks and a pair of rope-soled canvas shoes. Then, wading in, he swam across the Broad, pushing the kettle before him as one manipulates a water-polo ball, which is being dribbled towards the goal. When he emerged onto the bank, kettle in hand, he first of all took cover among the trees and squeezed all the water he could from his bathing trunks and his shoes. Then he picked up the kettle and trotted through the woods towards open country. There was a path, overgrown by trailing brambles, but usable, through the woods, but the boys always examined it carefully for marks of progress other than their own, for a person using it was on private property until he came out from among the trees, at the edge of the wood.