Death and the Maiden

method of approach.

‘We never,’ said the owner of the eye. ‘And we don’t want no more bothering. We got the funeral to see to.’ The door slammed. Mrs Bradley took Miss Carmody by the hand and hurried her up the street, and they came back to Winchester by way of Water Lane into Bridge Street. All the way Miss Carmody asked only one question, but it was one which Mrs Bradley found herself unable to answer satisfactorily.

‘Don’t you think the little boy was murdered?’

‘Only by the pricking of my thumbs, and that will hardly impress the police,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘It is the bump on top of his head that interests me most. I felt for it, as, no doubt, you noticed. It was a bad enough blow to have stunned him, and I have no doubt it did, but it certainly did not kill him. The question, of course, is how he came by it.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Carmody, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘he might have knocked his head accidentally and then felt faint or confused and fallen forward into the water. But there was that sandal which Edris put on the dust-cart. Crete mentioned it to me last night, and then, I think, wished she had not, and, certainly, I would never have dreamed of reminding her about it. Of course, she might be very glad to get rid of Edris, and if he were proved to be a murderer . . . You know, I’m afraid of Edris. He is really a very strange man . . .’

Mrs Bradley said nothing. She was too much astonished to speak. There were various ways in which a wife could have reminded Miss Carmody about the sandal, and Mrs Bradley could not help wondering whether Miss Carmody’s remark was not uncomfortably disingenuous. After all, it was rather more likely, considering all the circumstances, that Miss Carmody, rather than Crete, should be anxious to be rid of Mr Tidson.

Another picture rose unbidden before Mrs Bradley’s inward eye – the picture of a tall, mild-mannered spinster visiting the Cathedral by moonlight. By moonlight, Mrs Bradley reflected, glancing sidelong at her companion, almost everyone takes on a personality not entirely righteous or his own. ‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,’ . . . She suddenly cackled, startling a baby and a dog.

‘Why do you laugh?’ Miss Carmody nervously enquired.

‘I laugh at my thoughts,’ Mrs Bradley replied,’ although they are not really much of a laughing matter. How steeply the High Street mounts to the West Gate, does it not?’

‘Well, and what do you think of my naiad now?’ enquired Mr Tidson, when the party met for cocktails before dinner. ‘I have a theory that the boy was drowned in pursuit of her, you know. She may even have beckoned him in.’

‘Yes, you said so before,’ said Crete. ‘But we do not see what you have to go on.’

‘He was a fine little boy. I’ve seen him,’ said Miss Carmody. She described the afternoon visits which she and Mrs Bradley had paid, but did not reconstruct their conversation.

‘These parents who go off in the evening and leave their children to fend for themselves are incurring a very serious responsibility,’ said Mr Tidson, beaming upon Thomas as he beckoned him to come to where they sat. ‘Champagne cocktails, I think, this evening, Thomas.’

‘Verra guid,’ said Thomas, indicating by his tone that it was very far from that. ‘And for the young leddy?’

‘Gin and Italian,’ said Connie, ‘and get an evening paper, Thomas, will you?’

‘There’ll be nae mair peppers the night, but ye may borrow mine if ye’ll promise no to do the crossword,’ said Thomas. ‘Ye filled in victors for lictors on Wednesday, and put me out terrible.’

‘But “victors” was right! I looked at the answers next day!’ said Connie indignantly.

‘I dinna work out the crossword to get it right,’ said Thomas withering her. ‘Ony fule can dae that! But if ye pit lictor where it should hae been victor, ye get mallet in place of velvet and that gives ye antimony instead of enticing. Enticing! Well, well!’ He laughed shortly. ‘Enticing, where he could hae pit antimony!’

‘That’s a very odd sort of man,’ said Mr Tidson, gazing with nervous interest at Thomas’ retreating form and at the two dragon’s eyes of silver buttons on the back of the old man’s livery; for Thomas acted both as porter and cocktail waiter in the same greenish uniform. It had silver-braided cuffs and silver buttons, and he had worn it for years past. It was almost threadbare, but nothing would induce him to take to the new and smart blue-and-gold suit which the manageress had been anxious to provide. He had confided to Connie when she had come down early one morning and had discovered him, with the coat off, going over the buttons with plate powder, that he liked fine to gie his wee lozenges a bit of a shine, for, between themselves, (meaning himself and Connie), they minded him on a kiltie suit he had had as a wee laddie in Kilmarnock.

‘He is not only an odd sort of man; he is a very intelligent fellow,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘And he serves very good sherry,’ she added, ‘although perhaps that is more to the credit of the hotel than to his own personal credit.’

‘We are not having sherry to-day, though,’ said Crete, ‘and Thomas does not approve of champagne cocktails.’

She smiled at Thomas when he returned with the glasses. Thomas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the smile, but did not move a muscle of his Covenanting face as he set the cocktails down on the polished table.

‘I think,’ said Mrs Bradley suddenly, ‘that Connie ought to take me up all the hills to-morrow. Will you?’ she added, turning to the girl. ‘I believe you walk fast and far, and I feel the need of exercise.’

‘I’d love to go with you,’ replied Connie. ‘But what about you, Aunt Prissie?’ she added, turning towards Miss Carmody.

‘You and Mrs Bradley would walk my legs off,’ Miss Carmody comfortably replied. ‘I shall write up my Mothers. It is a task much overdue. I will sit with Crete whilst she does her embroidery. What do you say, Crete, to that?’

‘She says nothing,’ said Mr Tidson, raising his glass. ‘What can she say, my dear Prissie? Convention does not permit her to say that she prefers her own company, and if she does pretend to welcome your presence you are not to be blamed if you think her protestations sincere.’

He sipped his cocktail thoughtfully after this rather rude speech, then suddenly started, and called excitedly for Thomas. The factotum appeared, and gazed with disapproval at the party.

‘What will ye?’ he enquired, looming like a minor prophet with a major message, uncompromisingly beside the tiny table.

‘This cocktail! Where’s the brandy?’ Mr Tidson demanded. Thomas picked up the glass, bent bristling brows upon the complainant, walked to the window, held the innocent drink to the light, and then replied in justly withering tones:

‘I will be speiring.’

‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Carmody, taking up her drink. ‘You’ve annoyed him! Next time we shall get no brandy in them at all! You are rather provoking, Edris!’

‘I am a connoisseur,’ Mr Tidson replied. ‘And when a connoisseur finds that what should be a masterpiece is nothing of the kind, honour compels him to say so. I suggest, my dear Crete, that you put your cocktail down.’

‘Just what she is doing,’ said Connie vulgarly, watching Crete’s tasting of the mixture. Thomas returned at this juncture with the glass on a silver salver.

‘Your drink, sir – laced,’ he observed.

‘Splendid!’ said Mr Tidson, sipping his drink. He waited until Thomas had gone, and then remarked, ‘It is amazing, my dear Connie, what a display of firmness will do.’

‘You must try it some time, Uncle Edris,’ said Connie angrily. Mr Tidson looked at her with an expression of concern, gulped his drink hastily, and choked.

‘It’s a verra great peety ye wouldn’t be content with the proper mixture,’ said Thomas, coming back with a table napkin and mopping up the cocktail that was spilt on Mr Tidson’s light-grey suit. ‘Maybe anither time ye’ll admit that this hoose kens whit’s guid for ye.’

This classic setting down of Mr Tidson struck everybody dumb except Connie, who, to the consternation of the guests at another table, suddenly put down her glass and went into hysterical laughter.