The Dancing Druids

feel. And when Michael and Gerald talk of mistakes, I am inclined to suggest to them that the greedy and unnecessary letting of Cottam’s was the greatest mistake this man made.’

‘And now where does Firman come in?’ demanded Gascoigne.

‘That is for you and Michael to discover. I rely on you to find out where Mr. Firman was, and what he did, on the Saturday you had your now famous run. We know that he is David Battle’s cousin, and that fact alone throws suspicion on him, of course. One other thing: remember that the older Battle is still at large, and that it is most unlikely that a gambler like Cassius will turn King’s Evidence. Battle is a very dangerous and quite unscrupulous man, and has nothing further to lose if once he suspects that we know he murdered Allwright.’

‘Keep your weather eye lifting,’ said Laura to O’Hara. ‘I hope you’ve taken it in.’

‘You, too,’ said her employer seriously. ‘You are in just as much danger as the young men.’

‘Ditto, ditto, Brother Schmitt,’ said the irrepressible Laura.

Pleased with their commission, O’Hara and Gascoigne decided to take the war to the enemy’s camp, and visit the house of Firman’s uncle. Here they learned that Firman had returned to his lodgings in London, but was expected to take part in the Club run on the following Saturday. They did not see the uncle, who, it seemed, was a permanent invalid, but obtained their information from the housekeeper.

‘Lets us out until Saturday,’ said Gascoigne. ‘What about a day or two on the river?’

Both young men were enthusiastic although rather inexperienced anglers, and Gascoigne’s aunt had married a man who owned a reasonably delectable stretch of water. The fishing project was doomed, however, by the announcement of an inquest upon the contents of the iron box from the Druids’ Circle.

‘We’d better look in on that,’ said O’Hara. ‘Can’t leave Laura and the old lady to cope.’

So Thursday in that week, which was to have been dedicated to trout, found them in the coroner’s court at Cuchester ‘to keep an eye on the ball,’ as Laura expressed it later. The proceedings, however, were purely formal. That the iron box contained human remains was undisputed. Whose remains they were was a matter which seemed likely to remain undecided.

Mrs. Bradley and Laura told their story, which was newspaper headlines next day, and the matter was adjourned for the police to make further enquiries.

‘David Battle’s the man to identify that body,’ said Laura positively. Mrs. Bradley did not contradict her. ‘What’s more,’ added Laura, on a vigorous note, ‘I’ve just had a marvellous idea!’

Mrs. Bradley, like her chauffeur George on a similar but previous occasion, flinched slightly and began to protest.

‘No, but really I have!’ said Laura. ‘An idea in a million! The only thing is—do you think David Battle is a suicide type?’

‘It is more than possible, child, but, without attending him professionally, and putting him under the “free association” treatment, I could not commit myself to a definite opinion, you know.’

‘Well, is it worth the risk?’

‘For you to put your idea into practice? It may be. Until I know the idea, I cannot say.’

‘I don’t want to put the responsibility on you,’ said Laura generously. ‘So I think I’ll just charge ahead, unless you forbid me. I’m sure it will get us what we want. Sort of Nemesis, you know.’

‘If he did commit suicide, it would perhaps be the best way out for the unfortunate boy,’ said Mrs. Bradley, pronouncing these sentimental words dispassionately.

‘Good enough!’ said Laura. ‘Then I’m going to get busy right away!’

She went to the art-dealer’s shop in Cuchester from which Mrs. Bradley had purchased the Toro, and at which she had seen the imitation by the older Battle of an Old Crome, and purchased a cheap copy of a very well- known picture. Then she said to the art-dealer:

‘My friend bought a picture here, a week or so ago, by Toro. Who was Toro, please?’

‘A local artist. He used to live at a place called Easey,’ the man replied.

‘What was he like?’

‘Like? Oh, like a good many painters, I suppose—moody, irritable, noisy, quarrelsome when he was drunk, certain of his own genius— ’

‘And what did he look like? Did he ever do any self-portraits? Most artists seem to,’ said Laura, playing the garrulous innocent but almost holding her breath for the reply. ‘I mean, did you ever see him? Did he bring his paintings here himself?’

‘Oh, yes, at one time. He was very badly off, I believe, and used to peddle his pictures round the countryside to all the big houses. He brought one or two canvases to me, but I think he made most of his money by pitching a hard-luck story and selling his stuff on the instalment system when he couldn’t get a ready-money settlement. He was a very fat man. Even when he was still in his twenties he must have weighed sixteen stone. I used to tell him to give up painting and go in for professional boxing. But he used to hold up his clenched fists, and say, “But my hands, man! My God-given hands!” I don’t think they were, mind you,’ the dealer continued. ‘Not in the sense that he meant. He was a talented fellow, in a way, but he was not one of those artists whose pictures are hoarded by my trade against future fame. Not much of a draughtsman, either. Personally, I like to see a picture well drawn, and in perspective, and that sort of thing. I’ve not much use for the Impressionists. Lazy dev—people, I call them.’

Laura was too good a detective, she flattered herself, to leave the subject at Toro. She wandered round the shop, asking various questions, and then, at the entrance of another customer, took her leave and said that she had had a very interesting morning.

She packed her picture carefully when she got back to the hotel, acquiring paper and string from her friend the porter. Then she wrote a short note to David Battle, and despatched both parcel and letter from the Welsea post office. The note read : Come clean. The game’s up. Laura Menzies. The picture was that entitled: When Did You Last See Your Father?

Chapter Twenty-Three

—«¦»—

“ ‘Unlucky wretch that I am!” cried he.—“Not wretch enough yet!”said the sparrow.’

Ibid. (The Dog and the Sparrow)

« ^ »

So far, so good,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘And I confess, child, that your seemingly artless enquiries have produced better results than I myself could have hoped for, had I gone to the art-dealer again.’

Laura glanced suspiciously at her employer, but Mrs. Bradley’s remarks appeared to be made sincerely.

‘Oh, well, I don’t know,’ she said modestly. ‘Only, it seems to be Toro all right. The remains in that iron box, I mean. Is it true that there isn’t enough left to identify?’

‘The body could be identified,’ said Mrs. Bradley judicially. ‘The question is to find someone able to recognize certain features, notably a fracture near the elbow of the right arm. Such a fracture may have caused permanent stiffness of the arm, and, in this case, I should say, had almost certainly done so, because adhesions had formed.’

‘But that means a motive for the murder!’ cried Laura. ‘Don’t you see? He wasn’t any good to them any more, and so they killed him.’

‘I know that, but I am hoping to find an even more convincing motive, child, and I think I am on the track of it.’

‘Such as?’ asked Laura, eagerly.

‘Such as blackmail,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘The fracture is an old one—possibly several years old. This is only theory, I know, but it seems to me that once Allwright became unemployable as a painter (as you suggest) then the probability is that he blackmailed Cassius and Battle in order to make a living.’

‘Could he do that without the risk of giving himself away?’

‘It is possible. He seems to have been an enterprising man in a dishonest way, and I should say that there is nothing to prove that he realized that he was working with a gang of criminals. He would have argued, I imagine (if the police had been brought in), that he had worked on commission as a copyist, or something of that sort, and was in ignorance of the real nature of the trade in which he was employed. I think a good lawyer would be able to