Here Lies Gloria Mundy
( Mrs Bradley - 61 )
Gladys Mitchell
Here Lies Gloria Mundy
Gladys Mitchell
Bradley 61
A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
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Contents
chapter 1: a case in the papers
chapter 2: chance encounter
chapter 3: beeches lawn
chapter 4: unbidden guest
chapter 5: chapter of accidents
chapter 6: arson
chapter 7: ichabod
chapter 8: hounds in cry
chapter 9: chaucer’s prioress
chapter 10: colloquies
chapter 11: a conference with the accused
chapter 12: recapitulation with surprise ending
chapter 13: the revenant
chapter 14: unexpected developments
chapter 15: little progress
chapter 16: attempt at a volte-face
chapter 17: a letter from dame beatrice
chapter 18: exit gloria
chapter 19: a kind of pilgrimage
Also by Gladys Mitchell
SPEEDY DEATH
MYSTERY OF A BUTCHER’S SHOP
THE LONGER BODIES
THE SALTMARSH MURDERS
DEATH AT THE OPERA
THE DEVIL AT SAXON WALL
DEAD MAN’S MORRIS
COME AWAY DEATH
ST. PETER ‘S FINGER
PRINTER’S ERROR
BRAZEN TONGUE
HANGMAN’S CURFEW
WHEN LAST I DIED
LAURELS ARE POISON
THE WORSTED VIPER
MY FATHER SLEEPS
THE RISING OF THE MOON
HERE COMES A CHOPPER
DEATH AND THE MAIDEN
THE DANCING DRUIDS
TOM BROWN’S BODY
GROANING SPINNEY
THE DEVIL ‘S ELBOW
THE ECHOING STRANGERS
MERLIN’S FURLONG
FAINTLEY SPEAKING
WATSON’S CHOICE
TWELVE HORSES AND THE HANGMAN’S NOOSE
THE TWENTY-THIRD MAN
SPOTTED HEMLOCK
THE MAN WHO GREW TOMATOES
SAY IT WITH FLOWERS
THE NODDING CANARIES
MY BONES WILL KEEP
ADDERS ON THE HEATH
DEATH OF A DELFT BLUE
PAGEANT OF MURDER
THE CROAKING RAVEN
SKELETON ISLAND
THREE QUICK AND FIVE DEAD
DANCE TO YOUR DADDY
GORY DEW
LAMENT FOR LETO
A HEARSE ON MAY DAY
THE MURDER OF BUSY LIZZIE
A JAVELIN FOR JONAH
WINKING AT THE BRIM
CONVENT ON STYX
LATE, LATE IN THE EVENING
NOONDAY AND NIGHT
FAULT IN THE STRUCTURE
WRAITHS AND CHANGELINGS
MINGLED WITH VENOM
NEST OF VIPERS
MUDFLATS OF THE DEAD
UNCOFFIN’D CLAY
THE WHISPERING KNIGHTS
THE DEATH-CAP DANCERS
LOVERS, MAKE MOAN
here lies gloria mundy. Copyright © 1982 by Gladys Mitchell.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Mitchell, Gladys, 1901-
Here lies Gloria Mundy.
I. Title.
PR6025.I832H4 1983 823'.912 83-2924
ISBN 0-312-36986-7
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd.
First U.S. Edition
To
QUENTIN
who, like St Joan, has accepted
the burdens which are too heavy
for the rest of us
1
A Case in the Papers
^ »
At school I always insisted that my first name was Colin. This is an acceptable name among boys. My baptismal name of Corin is not, although why this should be I don’t know. Can one consonant make such a difference?
The trouble is that I have a twin sister whom my father was determined should be christened Corinna. My mother wanted her called Oenone, so, to settle the matter, they agreed upon Corin and Corinna, much to my youthful discomfiture. Talk about ‘Hello, twins!’
When I got to university, however, I realised that it was no bad thing to have a name which, so far as I know, has nothing but literary connections, so I reverted to Corin and have become, in a modest way, part of the contemporary scribal scene. That is to say, I earn my living as a writer under the name of Corin Stratford. Stratford is not my patronymic, but nowadays most people use it, as I have made it clear that it is in my professional interests that my name should be publicised as much as possible.
I was determined not to tie myself down to a nine-to-five job, but neither was I prepared to do a Mr Micawber and wait for something to turn up. My father was willing to continue my small allowance — as much as he could possibly afford — for a couple of years after I left college, but after that I had to fend for myself. Fair enough, I thought. I had faith in myself and decided to make my name the appendage to a modicum of fame even if I starved while this was happening.
‘Does the road wind uphill all the way?’ asked Christina Rossetti. Well, it certainly did for me, but, after a hard slog, the way up has eased to a gentle gradient and at the beginning of this year I found myself, if not affluent, at least able to afford a small flat in Baker Street instead of being in digs, and to take a holiday when and where I chose.
I had been in the flat for only a fortnight when I read about the murder of a young woman who had been living in one room in the neighbourhood of Earls Court.
I had done some freelance work for Dawn Chorus, the paper which carried the fullest coverage of the murder, so I telephoned and was told (as I had expected) that the story was being covered by the paper’s own reporters. However, I was also told when and where the inquest was to be held, and I decided to attend it, since it seemed to me, judging by the account given in the papers, that, after a lapse of time and some artful manipulation of the facts, a lucrative bit of fiction might evolve. It was a long-term proposition, but I am a patient man and so much inured to delays, frustrations and disappointments that I have become something of a philosopher and content to bide my time.
The coroner’s court was full, for any chance of obtaining free entertainment is not to be missed. I managed to get a seat next to one of the Dawn Chorus reporters just before the coroner got to work. Compared with the luridly written-up account of the murder in the newspaper, however, the proceedings were colourless and dull. Evidence of identity and the medical evidence were dealt with and the police then asked for an adjournment.
Assisted far more by the account in Dawn Chorus than by the court proceedings, I roughed out a story as soon as I got back to my flat after a pub lunch in the Earls Court Road, and then I put my notes aside to ferment and then mature.
The story was commonplace enough. The murdered woman had spent some time in America, according to the sleazy old party who gave evidence of identity, and had been lodging in London for a matter of six years. During that time she had had visitors of both sexes, some of whom claimed to be relatives, although the landlady did not believe this.
T
he landlady had no rules against visitors. (This I got from the newspaper. It was not mentioned at the inquest.) They were, according to her, all of them respectable people, quiet, well-behaved, never stopping more than a couple of hours and certainly never staying the night. The reporter who recorded this had managed, with cunning skill, to query most of it without actually appearing to cast doubt on the landlady’s assertions. I am sure he was worth his pay. I knew his work, and admired it, although I could not have emulated it. Suffice to say that, however close to the wind his paper sailed, so far it had never been involved in an action for libel, although there were rumours of sums having exchanged hands out of court.
When I learned that the murdered girl had had a baby with her when she arrived and that the child had been taken into care only after the death of the mother, I discounted the Dawn Chorus innuendoes. Ladies of doubtful virtue do not discourage their clients by having to get up in the night to soothe or feed an infant, nor do they want a six-year-old sharing the bedroom. Also, as the reporter, to his credit, did not fail to point out, the child had never been neglected or ill-treated.
One item which the newspaper had got hold of was that the girl was on her way to find out more about a situation as chambermaid in a hotel near Brighton when she met death. How she had come to hear of the post remained a mystery. The landlady thought she had heard of it through a friend, not by reading an advertisement, but there was no proof of this, or of who the friend might be.
From that journey she never came back. When she did not return, the landlady took it for granted that she had been given the job and had begun work, but after a day or two, during which the girl had not come for the child, the landlady began to wonder, especially as one or two people came to enquire after the girl and she could tell them nothing. Then a young reporter somehow got hold of the landlady’s story and asked for the address of the hotel, but all that she could supply was its name. He went to the police. He knew the London to Brighton roads very well, he told them, but had never seen a hotel, pub or roadhouse with the name the landlady had given him.
A few days later the body was found washed up near Hastings. It had not drowned; there were no signs of sexual assault; death had resulted from stab wounds, one of which had penetrated the heart.
The police began their usual painstaking work and the papers soon dropped the case. Shorn of any salacious details, it made dull reading after its first impact. I myself was somewhat disappointed in it as it stood, but I set aside my notes again, with the reflection gained from Rabindranath Tagore that ‘Truth in her dress finds facts too tight. In fiction she moves with ease.’
I never wrote the story because, merely through a chance meeting with a friend I had not seen for years, I was caught up in a far better one. All the same, I did go to see the landlady.
‘You’ll have to pay me for my time and trouble,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of giving you lot something for nothing. Show me a couple of quid and I’ll show you her room, what I have not yet let, and I’ll answer your questions up to a quarter of an hour, my time being money.’
‘I’ll skip the bedroom,’ I said. ‘That ought to be worth at least another five minutes of your time.’ I gave her one pound and showed her the other, to be handed to her when our conversation was finished.
‘You might as well be one of them mean-fisted coppers,’ she grumbled; but she answered my questions and received her money well within the agreed time.
‘You say she was after a job in a hotel. Did she have a job before that?’
‘Bits of charring. I reckon, though, as she got bits of money from America, where she come from.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘She got letters regular with postal orders in ’em.’
‘How do you know that they came from America?’
‘I don’t know it. She always got to the front door before I did, to pick up the post.’
‘If you know the letters contained postal orders, I still wonder what makes you think they came from the United States. Dollar bills or something in the nature of a cheque would be more likely.’
‘That ’ud mean a bank. She never went to no bank, only to the post office.’
‘You followed her, then?’
‘No. I wanted to buy a stamp for me own letter to my boy what’s serving the Queen in Germany, didn’t I?’
‘Did she ever stay out at nights?’
‘She’d have been out of here P D Q if she had. This is a respectable house I’d have you to know.’
So that was that, and my notes remained unused.
2
Chance Encounter
« ^ »
When I ran into Hardie Keir McMaster after a lapse of seven years it was at one of the more unlikely places, for it was outside the south door of a church. There had not been a wedding or a funeral; neither was it a Sunday, so I could only conclude that he was there for the same purpose as I was. This was to take a look at the church itself, a most surprising thing for him to do. At college he had been one of our ‘hearties’ with, so far as anybody knew, no interest in either art or architecture.
As well as being a freelance journalist, I am a novelist and biographer. With regard to the first, I look hopefully for commissioned articles and can supply these on any subject covered by the Encyclopaedia Britannica, but for the other two I please myself. At the time I had just published my third novel. My biography of Horace Walpole was still selling, and the royalties had just come to hand, so I was taking a little holiday, ‘resting’ as actors call it, and that morning I had driven in my car to Herefordshire to look at Kilpeck church.
Kilpeck church is unique. I had heard of it from friends and had seen photographs of its south door. I was prepared for the south door, but not to see McMaster standing in front of it. I was more than surprised, but I could not mistake that massive six feet three, those mighty shoulders, the firmly planted feet and, still less, that Viking thatch of yellow hair. I went up and thumped him on the back.
It was an ill-judged act. He swung round and nearly knocked me flying. However, he collected me, planted me in front of him, held me at arms’ length and said, ‘Well, I’m damned. Just the very man!’
‘How are you, Hara-kiri?’ I asked. He had been given the title at college. He had played prop forward for us and some wit had christened him with a joke on his first names of Hardie Keir because it was alleged to be tantamount to committing suicide if you tackled him on the field. Off it, a sucking dove might have envied him and even striven to emulate him, for he was normally the gentlest and most amiable of creatures.
‘Corin Stratford, by heaven!’ he shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing here, you old son of a mermaid?’
‘Taking a photograph of the south door of this church, when you move your great carcase out of the way,’ I said. Unmistakeably of its period, the south doorway of Kilpeck church nevertheless bears some striking and unusual features. Like many late Norman doorways, it is extensively decorated, and among the decorations are two warriors wearing trousers, Phrygian caps, and tunics of chain mail. I had read that the whole doorway is a representation of this sinful world of lust and strife, but it also holds a promise of better things to come, for in the concentric double tympanum arch is the Tree of Life, and on the jamb a writhing serpent is shown, head downwards in defeat.
There is a suggestion of the Saxon origin of the church in the style of some of the carvings, but even more obvious is the Celtic influence. Moreover, on the west wall of the church I had seen gargoyles in stone which could only have derived from the carved wooden prows of Viking ships, so the church is an epitome of local history.
‘Let’s walk round,’ I said. ‘There’s a corbel-table underneath the eaves. There are birds and beasts and human heads. There is even a sheila-ma-gig.’
‘You mean a thingummy-jig,’ said McMaster.
‘No, I don’t. I mean a sheila-ma-gig. She’s a rather rude lady who appears on some Irish churches. My guess is that she r
epresents something fairly unspeakable from the Book of Revelations. Anyway, compare her with the crude Australian term “sheila”, meaning a woman and used, I always think, in a derogatory sense. After I’ve identified her, if I can, I’m going inside the church. There’s a notable chancel arch. After one has looked at these warriors and the serpent, and has seen the lion and the dragon fighting each other as depicted on this doorway, the chancel arch promises the peace of heaven, so that the church preaches a sermon in stone.’
‘See you later, then,’ he said. ‘I’m going to look at the gravestones. I collect curious epitaphs.’
I laughed. ‘I know one or two,’ I said.
‘ “Mary Ann has gone to rest,
Safe at last on Abram’s breast,
Which may be fine for Mary Ann,
But sure is tough on Abraham.” ’
He laughed, too.
‘That’s apocryphal,’ he said, ‘and, anyway, I know it.’
‘All right, then. What about this one?
‘Here lies that old liar Ned,
But he can’t lie because he’s dead,
For now he lies on heaven’s shore,
Where he don’t need to lie no more.” ’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘From a chap in a pub in Bristol.’
‘It’s difficult to get them authenticated,’ said McMaster, ‘when they’re only given you by word of mouth. I got a beauty in East Anglia once, but the chap couldn’t name the church. It was:
‘Poor Dimity Ann,
Her tooken one can
Too many, so her vomit,
And that done it.” ’
‘Well,’ McMaster concluded, ‘see you when you’ve gloated over your Sheila.’ He pointed to one of the figures carved on the uprights of the doorway. ‘Talking of sheilas,’ he said, ‘I wish that fellow didn’t remind me of Gloria Mundy.’