The Dancing Druids, page 10
part #21 of Mrs Bradley Series
The conversation continued along these lines until Laura went back to the hotel. Brooding upon the conversation, it seemed to Laura that the first use to which the information it had produced could be put was to find out the name of the lawyers who had sold the bungalow and discover from them whether the dead poet or the drowned couple had been named Bulstrode. She discovered the name of the lawyers by asking at the hotel.
‘The lawyers were Thorn, Thorn and Butterthorn, of Burehampton,’ she told Mrs. Bradley next day. ‘I got it from the landlord here this morning. We talked about lawyers in general, and it came out almost at once. The trouble is,’ she added, ‘that the police will have explored that particular avenue long ago, and it can’t lead anywhere, or they would have found out more than they did. Is it worth our while to follow up those deaths by drowning?’
‘Oh, yes, child, of course it’s worth while. Anything which adds to our knowledge will be valuable, because we shall soon be following a different line from that so far taken by the police.’
Following, Laura gathered, this different line, she returned to Cuchester on the next afternoon and went again to see David Battle.
‘Did a man named Bulstrode have anything to do with your father?’ she demanded.
‘Bulstrode?’ said David, who seemed very much on the defensive and whose smile was not once in evidence. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard the name before. Why? What about him?’
‘He disappeared,’ said Mrs. Bradley, waving a yellow claw. ‘Nine years before your father. A poet, I understand. I thought you might know something about his work.’
‘Not a thing. Sorry. I say, I wish you’d sit for me some time.’
‘Not if you are going to give me an odd number of eyes and noses. I sat for a Cubist once, in my younger days, and the result was not at all gratifying.’
‘You wouldn’t have to buy it if you didn’t like it, you know, although, if you’re rich, I wish you would.’
‘Are you as badly-off as that?’
‘I’m pretty well down to bedrock. But I didn’t mean that. At least, well, yes, I suppose I did. But I think you would like it, you know.’ His manner changed. In a persuasive voice he added, ‘You’ve got lovely bones. It wouldn’t be difficult to flatter you.’
‘You had better paint my secretary,’ said Mrs. Bradley decisively. ‘She has time to spare, and I haven’t. Besides, her young man would like to have a flattering portrait of her, no doubt. Oh, you needn’t look distressed. Laura is well worth painting. I’ll send her round. Mind you’re polite. She is quite capable of felling you to the ground if she finds you irritating. I thought, by the way, that your mother left you some money?’
‘She did, but that brute got through most of it. There was only the house when he went, blast his ugly soul!’
Mrs. Bradley looked searchingly at him.
‘Did you, by any chance, murder your father?’ she asked. To her great interest, Battle looked amused.
‘When I was a little tiny boy?’ he asked mockingly. ‘What do you take me for?’
‘More of a villain than you look!’ said Mrs. Bradley decisively. ‘And more of a liar than you think I do,’ she added in her sardonic, secret thoughts. She did not like the young man.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
—«♦»—
‘Who they are that have come to live there I cannot tell, but I am sure it looks more dark and gloomy than ever, and some queer-looking beings are to be seen lurking about it every night, as I am told.’
Ibid. (The Elfin-Grove)
« ^ »
Laura went for her first sitting accompanied by her employer. She went unwillingly and under orders, but regained her good temper when she discovered that Battle was prepared to chat to her whilst he made his preliminary sketch.
‘The thing that stands out a mile,’ she remarked to Mrs. Bradley when they had returned to Slepe Rock, ‘is that this Battle loathed his father with the deep and intense sort of loathing which would very likely lead to murder. And you know what he said when you asked him whether he had murdered him!’
‘Yes. He said he had often thought of it, but that he was no more than a child when his father left him and disappeared. We must admit that he would have been rather young, at the time of his father’s disappearance, to make an effective murderer, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve read of kids murdering people. Morbid kids, and those sort of half-baked ones that nowadays you’d get a psychiatrist to look over.’
‘Even supposing that he did kill his father, do you think that, at the age of eleven or twelve, he could have contrived to hide the body so that the police could never find it?’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Well, anyway…’
‘And if he had murdered him and hoodwinked everybody so successfully, would he still hate him quite so fiercely? Would not his attitude be different from what it is? And wouldn’t he have some plausible story to account for his father’s disappearance? He merely states that he hated him and doesn’t want him back.’
‘All right, all right. I withdraw. But he seems quite a murderer to me, but then, of course, I dislike him.’
Mrs. Bradley forbore to contest these unreasonable and unscientific views, chiefly because she agreed with them. She was interested to learn that Laura held them, however, and enquired:
‘What else do you think of him, I wonder?’
‘I don’t think anything. By the way, he wanted to charge me so much an hour for the sittings, but I wasn’t going to agree. I might have to go a dozen times. I believe in piecework from painters.’
‘I heard the conversation, and am also aware that you lent him two pounds,’ said Mrs. Bradley, with a slight but appreciative cackle.
‘Oh, that’s all right, because, if he doesn’t sub up, I shall simply knock it off his bill,’ said Laura hastily.
‘You are prudence and foresight personified. But let us, before we go further, make an inventory of what we know. First, we have two painters and a poet. Three painters, if we count this young Battle. There ought to be something significant about that, as you would say.’
‘All creative artists?’
‘Very well. We have four creative artists, three of whom disappeared without trace. Secondly, we have the odd and possibly significant fact that these disappearances seem to be on a cycle of nine years.’
‘Thirdly,’ said Laura, ‘the disappearances seem to take place nine miles from the place where O’Hara’s fat man was last seen. Fourthly, there seems to be no sort of motive for the disappearances so far as we know at present. Fifthly—is there a fifthly?’
‘There is. You should keep your eyes open and apply your knowledge, child. Fifthly, there are two seventeenth-century carved picture frames in David Battle’s rooms, and there is a wonderful pseudo-Old Crome on the walls of the Cuchester picture dealer.’
‘Painted by David Battle. What about it? And, of course, we shall discover that David’s father disappeared in September because, although I never realized it until now, September is the ninth month of the year! So that would settle it.’
‘And the month is still September, said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I wonder…’
Laura waited a minute, but Mrs. Bradley left the sentence unfinished. Laura decided to prompt her.
‘You wonder what? she said. Mrs. Bradley shook her head.
‘A passing thought, that’s all, child, and quite a foolish one, no doubt.’
‘Don’t be aggravating,’ said Laura. ‘You’re not the only person who dislikes harvest festivals, but I don’t mind mentioning my dislikes.’
At this startling piece of thought-reading Mrs. Bradley cackled loudly. Her secretary grinned.
‘You know, what we ought to do, as I see it at present, is to go to the stone circle every night and hide ourselves, and wait and watch in case the Druids dance. And do you know what I think about that?—I’ve been thinking it over, and I perceive a secret society behind all this, you know.’
‘A what?’ said Mrs. Bradley sharply.
‘Oh,’ said Laura, waving a shapely palm, ‘I’ve been doing a good deal of solid considering since Mike O’Hara and Gerry Gascoigne came to us with that story, and, as I see it, there’s a kidnapping gang at work. The gang is nine strong, operates at nine-yearly intervals, holds some sort of horrid festival in the ninth month of each ninth year, and captures people who live on a nine-mile radius from their centre of operations, which is the nine-stone circle to which O’Hara helped them take that fat man. How else can you work it all out?’
Mrs. Bradley was lost in amazement, and gazed rather anxiously at her secretary.
‘Are you feeling quite well, child?’ she enquired. Laura strode to the hotel window and looked out on to the sea.
‘It’s going to blow,’ she said. She watched the rollers come combing across the bay, and then turned to face her employer. ‘You may laugh,’ she went on, ‘but there’s something behind all this—I know there is!—and we’ve got to work very much quicker. And if those Druids dance I’m jolly well going to see them do it, and then we shall know where we are!’
‘I do beg of you,’ said Mrs. Bradley, looking, this time, genuinely alarmed, ‘not to get into mischief. As I have already pointed out, if your deductions and surmises are correct, we have nearly another nine years in which to solve the problem of these disappearances, and if you are not correct, then idiotic antics among the Druids will not assist the enquiry and may be dangerous. When do you go for your next sitting?’
‘To-morrow,’ said Laura gloomily. ‘I thought you heard me arrange it over the ’phone. Oh, Lord, how I hate being painted!’
‘I know, child, and you have my utmost sympathy. And I did hear you arrange it. I was, however, desirous of changing the subject. You alarm me very much when you get ideas into your head. Now, whilst you are occupying the attention of David Battle, I am going to London. I may be away for a day or two, and I do not want anybody to know that I have left you here alone. In fact, I do not intend that you shall be alone. You will take Mr. Gascoigne to Cuchester with you to-morrow, and you will not go anywhere without him. We have made enemies, I suspect, over this business, and it would be most embarrassing for me to have to explain to your mother that you had met with an accident.’
‘Nothing would surprise her less than to hear I’d broken my neck,’ said Laura cheerfully. ‘All right. I’ll watch my step. But I’m not prepared to promise not to go out and about, and not to poke my nose here and there if it seems to be needed. You can’t ask that sort of thing. I’m turned twenty-one, and…’
‘I ask you to exercise reasonable discretion and to take reasonable precautions,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘Not that I think you understand the meaning of the words, but to quiet my conscience, that’s all.’
‘If you’re so bally anxious and old-hen, why on earth don’t you take me with you? Oh, I know! I’ve got to keep Battle in play. Never fear. I’ll watch him like a hawk. How long do you want me to keep a line on him?’
‘Until four o’clock to-morrow afternoon, child.’
‘Easy!’
Escorted by Gascoigne, she went again to Battle’s studio on the following day. They took Mrs. Bradley’s car, for its owner’s mysterious errand could best be accomplished, it appeared, by taking the train.
‘But where will you get the train?’ Laura had demanded. ‘It’s miles to a station from here.’
‘I shall manage,’ Mrs. Bradley had replied.
‘She told me not to get into mischief,’ said Laura gloomily, when she and Gascoigne had garaged the car at the Bournemouth end of the town and were going towards David Battle’s studio, ‘but she’s far more likely to get landed in the soup than I am! I don’t like this business of going off cagily by herself. It must be something dangerous, or I’m sure she’d have taken me with her. It’s all poppycock pushing me off like this for this beastly portrait.’
‘Never mind. Play up, and for heaven’s sake look pleasant,’ said Gascoigne. ‘You don’t want that horrible expression bequeathed to posterity. Think what your grandchildren would say. And, another thing. Mike is coming down this evening. Says he’s got news and must see me. What do you say to that? Look here, if we can get hold of another female, let’s go to Welsea for dinner. I’m becoming rather tired of Slepe Rock. What do you say?’
Laura accepted the invitation immediately, and they mounted to Battle’s studio. The artist was already in front of the portrait.
‘Come on, come on!’ he said irritably, ‘I’m in form to-day. How long can you give me, Miss Menzies?’
‘Oh, an hour,’ said Laura, picking up a piece of newspaper and dusting the model throne before she sat down. ‘This is Mr. Gascoigne.’
The two men nodded to one another. Then Gascoigne said, ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Battle, messing with oil paint which he squeezed from fat and filthy-looking tubes. ‘I have never seen you, anyway. I’d remember if I had. I always remember faces.’
Laura thought that this was not an idle boast. A painter most likely would always remember faces. No more was said, and Battle was soon at work, concentrating with a frown, and never stepping away to look at his work. Gascoigne had brought a book, and, after glancing a little doubtfully at the only chair in the studio, he surreptitiously placed the jacket of the book on the seat of the chair before he sat down to read.
An hour passed, and Battle continued to paint. Laura, catching Gascoigne’s eye, shrugged helplessly. Mrs. Bradley’s witching hour was past. It was five o’clock by Laura’s wrist-watch.
‘I say, aren’t we nearly through for to-day? I can come again to-morrow, if you like,’ she said at last.
‘Keep still,’ said Battle, squeezing out more paint and daubing it rapidly and in chunks and lumps on to his canvas. ‘I’ve got it! And you can’t have the portrait until after I’ve shown it. It’s good.’
‘But, look…’ said Laura. The artist took no notice. He put down his brushes, and, going at the picture with great energy, proceeded to work at the oil colour with his fingers, a dirty piece of thick linen, and what looked like an empty paint-tube.
‘There,’ he said at last, stepping back. ‘You can go home when you like now.’
Laura got down stiffly.
‘Thank heaven for that,’ she observed. She walked over and looked at the painting. ‘Hm! Not bad.’
‘It’s good,’ said Battle, shortly. ‘And I’m tired.’
Gascoigne looked at his watch.
‘Let’s all go and have some tea,’ he suggested. ‘Plenty of places in the town.’
‘Not for me,’ said Battle. ‘I’ll clean this muck off my hands and then I’m going out to get drunk. I’ll never do better work than I’ve done this afternoon, and I’m going to celebrate. So long.’
‘I suppose,’ said Gascoigne, detaining him, ‘you don’t know a fellow named Firman?’
‘Firman? I’ve some cousins named Firman, I believe. I’ve never met them. My father’s sister’s kids. Gosh awful, at that. Why do you want to know? I hate the thought of them.’
‘It isn’t you I’ve met before, then; it’s your cousin, that’s all,’ said Gascoigne. He enlarged on the resemblance between Battle and Firman to Laura on the way back to Slepe Rock. ‘And the queer thing is, of course,’ he added, ‘that Firman was one of the hounds that day when Mike helped to carry that fat fellow to the car. It seems to me that we might do worse than get Firman to answer a few questions. It wouldn’t do any harm. And I’ll put Mike on to this chap Battle. He may get more out of him than I can.’
‘I should hardly think so,’ said Laura. ‘If your fatal charm doesn’t do the trick I shouldn’t think Mike would get anywhere. Still, anything you say. And although I’ve more or less promised Mrs. Croc. that I won’t step high, wide and handsome while she’s out of the way, I don’t see why we shouldn’t explore an avenue or two now she’s gone. You go ahead and get Mike down here, and let’s see what we can ferret out amongst us. I should like to surprise the Old Lizard. She’s been putting on dog a bit lately.’
O’Hara arrived by motor cycle at ten o’clock that night, too late for dinner. He was in high spirits and announced that he was ready and willing to take part in carrying out any plans that might be proposed by the others.
‘And what I wanted to tell you is this,’ he added. ‘You know that queer house—the big one with the four dead trees in its grounds? I’ve discovered, from looking up old records, that it used to be called Nine Acres. The recurrence of the number noted by Miss Menzies and sent along by you, Gçrry, seems a bit of a pointer, and so I propose that, instead of keeping out of that house as ordered by the notice on the gate, we jolly well go in. I’ve been thinking over the details of that day we had our run and I think I’ve stumbled on a clue.’
‘Say on!’ said Laura, with enthusiasm. Gascoigne looked interested but said nothing. O’Hara continued quietly:
‘It’s this: you know I thought I spotted you, Gerry, from the path round Grimston Banks? Well, the fellow I saw was Firman. We’re pretty certain of that. He was making for a gap in the hills, and he wasn’t so very far ahead of me. I ought to have caught him, but I didn’t, because of my gammy ankle. After that, I was misdirected by that fellow in the car. Now, if Firman had turned into that house, that would account for my having seen no more of him. It’s a long shot, I know, but the house is on the way to that farm, and we’ve had a hunch, all along, that there’s something fishy about Firman.’
‘It’s odd you should revive that,’ said Gascoigne. ‘A fellow down here, whose father disappeared and has never been traced, is cousin to Firman. It’s a coincidence, certainly, but there it is. I still don’t see, though, what the house has to do with it, or quite why Firman should turn in there.’
‘It’s only this,’ said O’Hara. ‘If Firman had done what he said he did, and gone to his uncle’s, I shouldn’t have spotted him at all. You remember we worked that out from the map. Also, if you did what you said you did—and I’m absolutely certain you did, allow me to say!—I couldn’t have seen you either. Therefore we inferred that it was Firman I saw. Now, Firman has a gammy leg, and I know I had a gammy ankle, but, even so, I ought to have caught him. Instead of that, I never saw him again. Ergo, he went to ground and for that there’s still no explanation, nor is there any explanation of why he said he went to his uncle’s.’
