Death and the Maiden

Chapter Four

‘All this while, therefore, we are but upon a defensive warre, and that is but a doubtful state.’

JOHN DONNE (Devotions XIX)

MRS BRADLEY was both pleasantly and unpleasantly preoccupied during the drive back to London. Her thoughts were engaged by Mr Tidson, Crete and Connie, and, to an even greater degree, perhaps, by the somewhat unfortunate Miss Carmody. Life, she reflected, is rich in situations which even the talking-picture world would regard with superstitious mistrust, and the Carmody household, comprising, as it did, the fantastic Mr Tidson, the astoundingly beautiful Crete, the discontented Connie and her troubled, respectable aunt, appeared to have something more in common with the surreal than with the real.

Connie at first filled her mind, because of her youth and the vague and anomalous position which she filled in Miss Carmody’s apparently ill-assorted household. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark so far as Connie was concerned. For one thing – the most obvious, perhaps – Miss Carmody, a mild maiden lady of more than middle age, was probably a trying companion for a girl of nineteen, and Mrs Bradley felt sure that Connie had immortal longings in her, if only for a young man or a job.

Thus speculating, idly enough, as the car travelled rapidly towards London, Mrs Bradley came to the conclusion that as Miss Carmody was not rich enough, possessive enough and invalid enough to require the constant companionship of a young girl, the most probable explanation of Connie’s dependent position was that the girl might be Miss Carmody’s own illegitimate daughter, difficult though it was to envisage that respectable spinster in the rôle of unmarried mother.

Miss Carmody, in fact, Mrs Bradley thought, seemed (at any rate at first sight) an object of sympathetic pity. Her limited income, her apparently unwanted and parasitic guests, and her doubts about Mr Tidson’s mental health, all marked her out as a member of the Bessie Mundy, Miss Barrow, Camille Holland class. She seemed a natural victim, one born to be the prey of the unscrupulous. In common with her historic counterparts, however, was she not also rather foolish, Mrs Bradley wondered? The expensive hotel, the wine-bills, the diurnal cocktails all seemed to indicate this. Besides, if she really suspected that Mr Tidson was mad, why had she brought him to Winchester?

Then there was Mr Tidson himself. Mrs Bradley wondered how serious Mr Tidson’s banana losses had been, and how long he proposed to support himself and his wife by living in Miss Carmody’s flat and on her money. Before the war, land on Tenerife had been worth a thousand pounds an acre, and yielded (so Mrs Bradley had always understood) a reasonable if not a substantial profit. Nevertheless, bananas, she supposed, although a fairly hardy, were still a perishable product. If Mr Tidson had been unlucky in bananas he might have lost a good deal of money, and he might not be altogether nice in the means he would choose to replace it.

There was something pathetic about Mr Tidson, however, no less than about Miss Carmody. If she were the unprotected spinster, he, surely, was the ‘little man’ of the advertisements, the comic strips, and the music-hall stage. It was tempting, and, somehow, easy to think of Mr Tidson as the victim of unfortunate circumstances. It was tempting to think of him as the dupe of trade rivals; as the victim of siroccos, monsoons and tornados; as the plaything of gods and half-gods; as the man on whom camels and asses died, and around whom bananas blackened and perished; a rather less picturesque and, of course, a childless Job.

Mrs Bradley cackled at this mental image, but she realized, too, that, whatever one thought of Mr Tidson, no picture of him could now be either satisfactory or complete without reference to his new toy, the naiad. Mr Tidson and the naiad were indissolubly wed; not less so than he and the green-haired, inscrutable Crete: and the latter marriage might be a good deal less pleasing to Mr Tidson than the former: there was that to consider, too.

The more Mrs Bradley thought about the naiad the less she liked her. A middle-aged gentleman of slightly eccentric mentality could cause a naiad to cover a progressive multiplicity of actions, including quite a number of sins. It was a fascinating field of surmise, in fact, to work out what sins in particular the naiad could help to screen.

On the subject of Mr Tidson’s mental condition Mrs Bradley was not depressed. He was sane. Even his frantic interest in the naiad was not necessarily evidence of mental collapse, although it might indicate some abnormal pre-occupations. Wishful thinking, as Mrs Bradley’s patients had often made abundantly clear to her, could take a variety of forms. Escapism was not a vice; it was often the only means the mind could formulate of retaining a hold on sanity. The naiad, however, although a charming conception, was one sufficiently bizarre to arouse suspicion. She was probably an unconsciously-formed image – a kind of mirror-picture – of Crete, Mrs Bradley thought.

Was Mr Tidson a jealous husband, then? – a cuckolded one? – a disillusioned, disappointed, cruelly-treated one? The possibilities were endless and all were interesting. One thing, however, was certain. If Mr Tidson had decided to create the nymph for his own amusement or to fill an emotional hiatus, he was not to be blamed because he intended to believe in her and wanted to see her. That he would certainly see her in the end (whether subjectively or objectively was a matter of little moment) Mrs Bradley most confidently anticipated.

She dismissed the naiad and turned her thoughts on Crete. Crete’s dresses and jewels had certainly not been bought with Miss Carmody’s money. It was an open question, Mrs Bradley decided, whether Mr Tidson’s banana losses had not, perhaps, been debts. She wondered whether the Tidsons might not have fled from Tenerife in a welter of unpaid bills!

It was good to get back to the clinic. She put in four hours’ work before she drove back to her house in Kensington to have dinner with Laura Menzies, her young, large, lively secretary, and to hear the news of the town.

‘How’s Herbert?’ Laura enquired, referring to the sailor, Mrs Bradley’s new patient. Laura was, in her own expression, ‘no mere hireling,’ but took a deep and (she was pleased to think) a constructive interest in all Mrs Bradley’s work.

‘Better than I expected,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘In fact, he is going to his service clinic almost at once. He’s making an amazing recovery. He certainly hasn’t been difficult. There is something else on my mind, child. I want to know all about a Mr Tidson, until recently of Tenerife in the Canary Islands. Liverpool might be a happy hunting ground. Will you see what you can find out about him? I don’t know whether it’s really important, I’m sure, but he seems a rather odd little man.’

‘Shall I go to Liverpool, then?’ enquired Laura promptly. ‘And what sort of things do you mean? All about him seems a slightly tall order, but, of course, if you mean it, that goes!’

‘I do mean it. You must find out all you can. His Christian name is Edris; he has a semi-Greek wife, cold and beautiful, named Crete, and, so far as I can tell, no children. They lived in Santa Cruz, on the Canary island of Tenerife, where he had a banana plantation. He’s come home to England to live. He seems to have no money of his own, and he and his wife are living on a not-too-prosperous elderly spinster named Carmody. I want to know why. I want a picture of his financial position, his tastes, hobbies, extravagances, sins; whether he was popular or unpopular; whether he left any debts; and everything else you can think of.’

‘Sounds a George Joseph Smith to me,’ said Laura. ‘May I team up with Kitty? I had a letter from her this morning to say she’s on three months’ leave to think up some new ideas for post-victory coiffures or something. It would be rather good if we pigged it together for a bit. How soon do you want me back?’

‘Not until you’ve found out all about Mr Tidson. It is an excellent idea to have Kitty with you, I think. Make a holiday of it if you can. Why shouldn’t you?’

‘Because I’m having another one in September,’ said Laura promptly. ‘By the way, may I stay at the Algo?’

‘Of course, if you want to, dear child. Why, have you stayed there before?’

‘No. But it’s got a Turkish bath, so my spies inform me, and old Kitty in a Turkish bath will be a sight for sore eyes, I fancy. She’s got fattish, you know, since College.’

She went out, neighing loudly, to find out from the Encyclopædia Britannica all that she could about bananas, as the first approach to Mr Tidson and the Canaries. Mrs Bradley wrote up her case notes and then put through a call to the editor of the Vanguard, whom she knew. The Vanguard was the paper (this she had learned from Miss Carmody) which had published the ‘naiad’ letter that had sent Mr Tidson down to Winchester.

‘Who handles the newspaper correspondence?’ she enquired. ‘I want to know all about a letter sent to you a few days ago about a naiad in the River Itchen near St Cross, Winchester.’

‘You do? Then you shall,’ said the Vanguard. ‘A naiad, eh? Girls will bathe anywhere nowadays. There’s no glamour left for us boys. Hang on. I’ll put through young Hyland.’

Young Hyland in due course came through, and Mrs Bradley held with him a brief but valuable conversation whose real importance did not emerge until later. The letter about the naiad had been signed by a certain John Brown who had given an address in the Great West Road, it appeared. The address was forthcoming and Mrs Bradley noted it down, and handed it over to Laura.

‘Strange. More than strange,’ said Mrs Bradley, putting down the receiver. Laura, who was seated at the table, deep in the statistics and the cult of the banana, asked why. Mrs Bradley cackled, but did not answer. ‘As to the Great West Road, there are several miles of it,’ she said, ‘between Chiswick and Hounslow, aren’t there? – so perhaps we had better tackle it in the morning. Would you care to come for the drive?’

‘You bet,’ said Laura. ‘Anything rather than work!’ The drive was not a long one. Once past Hammersmith and through Chiswick, the car gathered itself together and was very soon speeding down the Great West Road, past factories and various side-turnings, until it had crossed the canal. Beyond this, George drove slowly, in search of the flats.

These, not at all to Mrs Bradley’s surprise, did not produce the writer of the letter, nor had anyone of the name of John Brown ever lived there, so far as was known by the porter. One of the tenants, however, a lady, had not yet moved in.

‘Now, what?’ asked Laura, returning from making these enquiries. But Mrs Bradley seemed strangely satisfied, and nodded like a mandarin as she listened to Laura’s recital.

‘Why should the writer have decided to remain anonymous?’ she enquired, as they drove soberly back to Kensington.

‘I can’t imagine,’ answered Laura, ‘except that there ain’t goin’ to be no water-nymph. But that was a foregone conclusion.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley absently. ‘But I wish I were certain about that. I wonder who the missing tenant is, and whether she sent the letter? Anyhow, child, I am very glad that you’re going to Liverpool on Saturday.’

‘I’d far rather come and chase naiads in Winchester with you.’

‘I daresay you would, and perhaps you shall do that, too.’

‘When are you going back to Winchester?’

‘I’m not sure, child. Probably some time next week. It depends upon the news you get in Liverpool. Mr Tidson is certainly sane, and that is what Miss Carmody wanted to know. My mission to Winchester is concluded. It is only curiosity – probably idle – that takes me back there at all.’

‘In other words, you’ve smelt a second rat,’ said Laura.

At this point the telephone rang. The message was from the Vanguard, which had a correspondent, it stated, in Santa Cruz de Tenerife. According to this correspondent there had been no gossip about the Tidsons, so far as he could find out, except on the score of Crete’s beauty and Mr Tidson’s extravagance on her behalf. He had heard of no debts, however. Trade had dropped during the war, and it was known that the Tidsons wanted to get back to England. Mrs Bradley wondered whether to cancel Laura’s trip to Liverpool. There seemed little more to find out. However, on the evening following the visit to the flats in the Great West Road, Laura came in with the evening paper. She looked solemn.

‘What has happened, child?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. ‘You’ve been reading the paper? What is in it?’

‘The water-nymph has sprung into fame,’ said Laura. ‘Or sprung a leak. Which you like. Look, here it is. What do you make of her now? Is this what you were expecting?’

The paragraph was a short one, less than a quarter column. A boy of twelve had been found drowned in a little stream near Paneworth Level. This was a broad stretch of water-meadow to the north of the city and on its eastern boundary. The reference to the naiad came at the end of the paragraph.

‘There is a local rumour,’ said the paper, ‘of a water-nymph which brings ill-luck to anyone who sees her. It is not suggested, however, that any such fantastic interpretation can be placed upon the accident to Bobby Grier, who was said to have been warned by his parents to be careful.’

‘You don’t think the boy was chasing the water-nymph, do you?’ asked Laura, when Mrs Bradley had taken in the main statements made by the newspaper.

‘Time will disentangle what I think, child, but I am going back to Winchester for the inquest.’

‘And that’s your last word,’ said Laura, recognizing this to be the case and not in the least attempting to argue the point. ‘All right. I still wish I could come with you.’

‘You shall come to Winchester the moment it is possible,’ said Mrs Bradley, to comfort her. ‘But I do want to know a little more about the Tidsons and, of course, Miss Carmody and Connie. It is none of my business, in one sense, I suppose, but Miss Carmody did call me in, and she does seem to be victimized by that rather terrible little man and his cold and beautiful wife. And I’m worried about the girl. And now this incongruous reference to the naiad . . .’

‘I do hope I get back from Liverpool pretty soon,’ said Laura. ‘I think that end of the stick will be a wash-out.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Coldness and beauty ought not to go together, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t think they ought, child.’

‘They don’t, in Deb’s case,’ said Laura, referring to a very lovely girl who had married one of Mrs Bradley’s picturesque and fortunate nephews.

Mrs Bradley paused to consider Deborah, of whom she was fond and proud. Then Laura said:

‘Don’t mind biting my head off if I’m wildly beside the mark, but do you think this Mr Tidson had anything to do with the murder? Is that what this Miss Carmody expected when she lugged you into her affairs?’

‘The murder?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Nobody mentioned murder! The newspaper certainly does not; and, so far as I can see, there is no reason in the world why Mr Tidson should have had anything to do with the boy’s death, if that’s what you mean, or that we should in any way suspect him, even if murder were proved.’

‘Ticked off soundly! Yet this Mr Tidson came into your mind as the deus ex machina, didn’t he?’ said Laura shrewdly. ‘Is that because the paper mentions the naiad? And why should they call it a local rumour? I thought that was just what it wasn’t!’

‘True, child, it was not a local rumour, and I see no reason why the naiad should have been mentioned, but I’m not going further than that until after the inquest, so please don’t leap to conclusions or put ideas into my head!’

‘Do you think,’ asked Laura, not at all abashed, ‘that Mr Tidson himself wrote that first letter to the Vanguard?’

‘It is strangely probable, child, although there is at least one other equal probability, especially as we are told that the tenant of the flat is a woman.’

‘Why should anyone write it, anyway?’

‘I have the glimmerings of a notion about that.’

‘You mean Mr Tidson wanted an excuse to go to Winchester?’

‘You are too intelligent, child,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘That is one theory, certainly.’

‘But why invent something as impossible as a water-nymph?’ argued Laura. ‘If I wanted to go to Winchester – or anywhere else, come to that! – I could invent a dozen better excuses! Let’s not talk rot about this!’ She eyed her employer with a good deal of solemn reproachfulness. ‘See here, we know perfectly well that water-nymphs are all moonshine, and can be dismissed as such, so why a water-nymph? Why not invent a monster trout? A monster trout in the Itchen would be sheer Isaak Walton, but a naiad—! This Mr Tidson must be bats, and you could write him off as such, I should have said. Of course, a murderer – that’s another matter.’

‘Well and bravely spoken,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But Mr Tidson, if I have summed him up at all successfully, is perfectly capable not only of inventing but of producing a water-nymph, and of wishing her on to sceptics like yourself. So, if you do come to Winchester, don’t you press him too far, or I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’

‘As though you haven’t foreseen the consequences, weighed them up, and decided how to deal with them!’ said Laura, hooting rudely to rob this speech of its otherwise complimentary aspect. ‘I’m not getting anywhere with all this banana stuff, dash it! We must go and get ready for dinner. Grub omnia vincit, don’t you think?’