Death and the Maiden

Chapter Six

‘I put the fly well to my side of him, showing him no gut: he turned out to take it, but before doing so, he swam round it to see if there was gut on the other side. He saw it and sheered off. I can never get anyone to believe this simple and truthful tale.’

J. W. HILLS (A Summer on the Test)

Mrs BRADLEY, who had spent much thought upon the results of her expedition with Miss Carmody, spent some time on the following day discussing the circumstances of the boy’s death with the Tidsons. Mr Tidson clung to his theory that the boy had been enticed into the water by the naiad.

‘I knew it would happen,’ he said. Mrs Bradley watched him with her sharp black eyes; summed him up, pursing her beaky little mouth; assessed him against a background of extravagance, ill-luck, hot sunshine and green bananas; and had to give him up, or, rather, to pigeon-hole him. She had done the same with the conversation between Connie and Miss Carmody in the lounge. There was something hidden in that talk which she meant to bring to light when she could.

Meanwhile Laura had written entertainingly from Liverpool, where she and her friend Kitty were contriving to combine bananas with pleasure. They had managed, wrote Laura dashingly, to contact a man who had known something of the Tidsons in Santa Cruz de Tenerife.

The Tidsons, it appeared, had been well known at the Sporting Club, the English Club and the Yacht Club, chiefly because of Crete’s unusual and striking beauty. There had been some scandal of the domestic kind in which Mr Tidson, having stepped out of his own and into the Lothario class, had been involved, and there was a rumour that it had taken most of his money to hush it up. It was an old story, however; eight years old at least. There was a better-substantiated tale that Crete was an incurably extravagant wife.

This bore out what Mrs Bradley had already learned from the editor of the Vanguard, and she found nothing surprising nor particularly disquieting about it.

She would write direct to Santa Cruz, Laura continued, if Mrs Bradley thought it worth while. Mrs Bradley did think it worth while, but decided that the time had not arrived for this, since she had nothing against Mr Tidson so far except a surmise that his water-nymph was a cloak and an excuse for activities he did not want known. Whether the death of the boy Grier could be included among these activities she did not know, although it was impossible to shake off an uncomfortable impression that it could. However, there was nothing to connect Mr Tidson with the drowned boy beyond the fact that he had spent most of his time near the river since the party had come to Winchester, and that on the one significant occasion he had fallen into the water.

Miss Carmody, pressed for evidence in support of her apparently outrageous theory that the boy had been murdered by her relative, instanced Mr Tidson’s mishap, and emphasized the fact that it coincided, nearly enough, with the time of the boy’s death. She also referred again to the sandal which Mr Tidson had got rid of on to the dust-cart.

‘I know that sandal was worrying him,’ she said.

Mrs Bradley and Connie did not get their walk on the day following the champagne cocktails, for the weather turned wet, and so everybody except Crete went to afternoon service at the Cathedral, to hear Noble in B minor.

‘A very good key for the Nunc Dimittis, but I am not so sure about the Magnificat,’ said Mr Tidson, as they dodged a stream of traffic across the narrow High Street.

Mr Tidson did not revise his opinion of the key of B minor, but talked intelligently upon Stanford in A and Wood in F as he walked beside Mrs Bradley across the Close and out of the gate by Saint Swithun’s Church at the termination of the service.

‘I used to be a choirboy,’ he said.

Mrs Bradley found herself more and more interested in the strange little man. His potentialities, she felt, were infinite. She longed to ask him, point-blank, whether or not he were a murderer, but she felt that this would ruin their friendly relationship and defeat the object of the question, which was, quite simply and unequivocally, to find out the answer.

The evening passed pleasantly and sociably, and gained from the absence of Connie, who went to bed immediately after dinner upon plea of a headache. It was left to Connie, however, to provide the next line of excitement. This she did in the manner beloved of adolescents (whether consciously or unconsciously) by introducing the subject of ghosts. She began by contacting Thomas on the following day, and, to bolster up a weak approach to the matter, adopted a belligerent tone in demanding of the dignified old man whether the hotel was haunted.

‘I have heard it is,’ she asserted, ‘and I certainly think it might be true. What about it, Thomas? “Ghaists nor bogles shall ye fear,” and all that, you know.’

‘Likewise,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘“By the noise of dead men’s bones in charnel houses rattling.”’

‘Oh, don’t!’ said Connie anxiously. ‘Please don’t!’

‘And,’ said Miss Carmody, innocently adding her quota to what she believed to be an intellectual game, ‘“powers above in clouds do sit,” you remember.’

‘“Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,”’said Mr Tidson, giggling at Connie and avoiding Thomas’ eye as he adapted Robert Burns to the trend of the conversation. The others looked at Thomas expectantly.

‘There’s a wee hoose on the ither side o’ the town, so I have haird,’ began Thomas gravely, ‘that is said to contain a footstep.’

‘I shouldn’t care to hear it,’ said Connie. ‘But I’m not talking about a house across the town. I’m talking about this hotel. You ought to know whether the hotel is haunted or not. You’ve lived here long enough, Thomas.’

‘Hotels are not made to be haunted. The guests, maybe, couldna thole it,’ said Thomas, picking up his little round tray. ‘Ghaisties wadna come whaur they werena welcome.’

Connie felt herself snubbed by this original* thought upon the subject, and did not ask any more questions; but Mrs Bradley, who had her own reasons for being interested, said to her after lunch on the following day:

‘Will you come with me to the top of St Catherine’s Hill? It is fine to-day, and we shall not mind if it’s slippery. I think I’d like you to tell me about your ghost.’

‘I suppose you think it sounds ridiculous?’ said Connie, on the defensive.

‘Oh, I don’t see why the hotel shouldn’t be haunted. It has had a long and troubled history. Have you discovered the priest’s hole yet? Perhaps you have seen it on a previous visit? I know you have stayed here before,’ said Mrs Bradley, taking no notice of the protest.

‘Not that long linen-cupboard place down two or three steps at the top of the main staircase?’

‘I understand so. There is a story that a Jesuit was in hiding there when the mistress of the house was taken before the Council to be questioned. He wanted to give himself up, but the servants would not let him. They said that the honour of the house was involved, which, one must admit, was true.’

‘My ghost was a nun,’ said Connie. ‘Nothing happened exactly, but I don’t think I want to sleep in my bedroom any more. Do you think they would change it if I asked them? I don’t want to be laughed at by that sneering Crete Tidson, though. I wish I could make a change without her knowing. Better still, I wish I could start my job a bit sooner, and leave the hotel altogether!’

‘You had better change with me if you feel like that,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘and we will say nothing to any of them. Now come along, and we’ll see how many miles we can walk.’

‘Oh, dear! I suppose I’ve got to come with you,’ said Connie, very ungratefully. Miss Carmody had gone into Alresford, Crete had decided to lie down, and Mr Tidson was off on his own affairs as usual.

The route they followed led them past the Cathedral and across its Close, down College Street and along College Walk, and then, by the river footpath, to the path across the water-meadows. This brought them to the main stream of the Itchen, for this walk was one way – and by far the most delightful – to reach St Catherine’s Hill.

There was a choice of paths, for a bridge spanned the river and led to the towing-path; on the right bank, which Connie chose, was a narrow path alongside the water. They passed forget-me-not and meadow rue, and, on a pool beside the stream, the yellow water-lily. There was water-cress in abundance on all the streams, and the ragged-robin stood two feet high in the water-meadows.

Mrs Bradley and Connie walked for the most part in single file and in silence. At last they crossed the by-pass and began to climb the hill.

They mounted some chalk-cut steps to the first of the pre-Roman earthworks which crowned the top of the hill. From a kind of circular plateau covered with short springy grass a fine view could be had of the river, the city, and the water-meadows. There was an open prospect across the river to the hills around Oliver’s Battery, and away to the south-west were the barrows on Compton Down.

‘Well, now,’ said Mrs Bradley, when she and Connie had seated themselves on the turf and were gazing across to the hills on the opposite side, ‘go ahead, and please don’t leave out anything.’

‘The ghost?’

‘The ghost, child.’

‘And would you really change rooms with me? Really?’

‘Certainly. I confess I should like to see a ghost. One reads so much and experiences so little of these things. This hotel – who knows? – may be a place of first-rate psychic interest and importance.’ She cackled, but Connie remained serious.

‘Well, if you really wouldn’t mind, I’d be terribly glad. It’s a nun, you know. I told you, didn’t I?’

‘Yes? A nun?’

‘In a white habit. She’s fairly small and she – and she squeaks.’

‘Squeaks?’

‘Yes. I don’t know how else to describe it. She frightened me horribly. I hid my face under the bedclothes, and prayed for her to go away, and when I peeped next time she was gone.’

‘Whereabouts in the room did she appear?’

‘Close by the dressing-table, I think. But I couldn’t say for certain. It seemed between there and the fireplace.’

‘Have you any idea of the time when she appeared?’

‘Yes, but it isn’t exact. I heard a clock strike three very soon after she had gone.’

‘You know it was striking the hour?’

‘Oh, yes. It had done all its chimes, and then it struck three clear notes. I expect you’ve heard the clock I mean. I think it’s somewhere near, but in the town, not in the hotel.’

‘Well, child, we shall see what luck I have. If you are ready, let us climb to the grove of trees.’

‘You go,’ said Connie. ‘I’d sooner look at the view.’

Mrs Bradley got up, and climbed, by a broad turf path closely worn to the chalk of the hill, to a grove of trees on the summit. Here she poked inquisitively about among the tree-trunks and discovered what looked like a tramp’s lair in a hole in the ground where, at some time, possibly, a tree had been uprooted. There were the remains of a fire, a couple of rusty tins which had not been opened but were dented all over as though they had been flung against the trees, two great hunks of badly mildewed bread, and a heap of dead leaves which might have been used as a bed.

Although an ancient British track was believed to have run up and over the hill, it was not very likely, Mrs Bradley thought, that a modern tramp would have troubled to take the same route when roads went in every direction around the base of the hill. She was interested in these evidences of human occupation, therefore, particularly as they did not look like the remains of a picnic.

She poked into the hole with her foot, and turned up an old leather sandal. She was sufficiently interested in this to continue poking. She felt that Connie was watching her, so she thoughtfully pushed the heap of leaves over the sandal and strolled towards the bushes as Connie came into view.

‘Thought I’d come up after all!’ said Connie, panting. ‘Anything to see up here?’

There was a miz-maze cut in the turf nearby. Mrs Bradley referred to this fact, and they left the trees and came out into the open. There were legends to account for the miz-maze. Mrs Bradley detailed these, and the time passed pleasantly.

‘You’ll remember not to mention the exchange of rooms,’ said Mrs Bradley, as they descended by a path on the other side of the hill. They came out upon Twyford Down and crossed the golf course.

‘I shan’t say anything! They’d all think I was crazy,’ Connie replied. ‘I suppose we’d better let the chambermaid know, but she isn’t likely to mention it, and, if she did, it would only be to Aunt Prissie, and I don’t much mind her knowing. It’s the other two, especially Uncle Edris. I am really afraid of that man.’

‘I wouldn’t let anyone know, and I’m sure we can square the chambermaid. Let’s keep the whole thing to ourselves,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But why should you fear Mr Tidson?’ She neither expected nor received an answer to this question.

‘I don’t know,’ said Connie, ‘but I do.’

They followed a footpath across the golf course, and came out on to the by-pass road, which they crossed. Then they took the towing-path, beside what was part of the old canal, on the other side of the railway, Connie leading the way. Suddenly, as they came in sight of the weir, she turned and said:

‘You said you wanted exercise! Do let’s run!’ And, on the words, she fled like Atlanta, but what she was running away from Mrs Bradley could not determine.

Mrs Bradley was intrigued by Connie’s story of the ghost. Not altogether to her surprise, the next news of the visitant came from Crete Tidson, who said at tea, when the party were all assembled at a table in the garden:

‘I hear that this house is haunted. I do not think I should come here any more.’

‘Why ever not?’ enquired Miss Carmody abruptly. ‘A ghost never harmed anyone yet. Personally, I should rather like to see one. What do you say, Connie?’

Connie laughed without mirth, and said that she supposed it might be interesting.

‘Very interesting indeed,’ said Mr Tidson, waving a piece of bread and butter. ‘Extremely so. But I don’t know what you mean when you say that a ghost never harmed anyone yet! What about the one in Berkeley Square? And on the Canaries we heard rumours of volcanic entities – enormous, nebulous creatures that come out of the mountains, you know – which are supposed to be capable of driving people insane.’

‘Really?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I have stayed in the Canaries several times, but I never heard such a story.’

‘Possibly not,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘But living there is a different matter entirely from merely staying. I could tell you, out of my own experiences—’

‘Eat your bread and butter, Edris, or, at least, stop waving it about,’ said Crete. ‘Your experiences are in no way unique, and I don’t suppose for one moment that anybody wants to hear about them.’

‘I’ll tell you what somebody does want,’ said Connie, who desired above all things to have the subject changed, ‘and that somebody is myself. I do want to visit the College.’

‘Why, of course,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘We must remember that we have young Arthur Preece-Harvard at school there. And although he is on holiday at present—’

‘By Jove, yes!’ Mr Tidson cried loudly, putting down his cup at a warning exclamation from his wife. ‘Arthur Preece-Harvard! I had forgotten all about him! I must certainly visit the College. But not to-morrow, Connie, my dear. I am hot on the track of my nymph, and all else must wait, for fear lest the scent should grow cold.’

‘I think I must come nymphing with you one day,’ said Mrs Bradley, soberly. ‘One should not miss these excitements.’ To her surprise, Mr Tidson assented with great enthusiasm.

‘Nothing I should like better! Nothing! Nothing!’ he cried. ‘Oh, yes, do come! These sceptics—’ he waved towards his wife, Connie and Miss Carmody – ‘are most discouraging. If I were a sensitive man I should have become depressed.’

‘Well, thank heaven you’re not, then, a sensitive man,’ said Crete. ‘It is very kind of Mrs Bradley, don’t you think, to take interest in your silly old nymph?’

‘I know it is kind of her,’ Mr Tidson retorted. ‘It is also intelligent and enlightened of her. It is good to find someone else among the prophets, and I greatly look forward to her company.’

Mrs Bradley, extremely puzzled by his reactions, since she had deduced that the very last thing Mr Tidson desired was that anyone should accompany him upon his expeditions, looked forward keenly to the outing.

At Mr Tidson’s request, they set out directly after tea, at a time when there were numbers of people everywhere in the city, and a procession of visitors between Winchester and St Cross along the river.

‘Where do you expect to find her to-day?’ Mrs Bradley briskly enquired, as though the expedition were of the most ordinary nature.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘I have not yet discovered where she hides, but I think I ought to take cover to-day and give her a chance to appear.’

‘Is the late afternoon a good time? I should have thought that all these people – the little boys particularly – would most certainly have frightened her away.’

‘Oh, I think she likes little boys,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘These, for instance; dear little chaps. Perhaps they are hardly safe. One never knows.’ He smiled at the boys as they passed.

Once past the Winchester playing fields, the stream ran past the wall of a garden, and, after that, it crossed the end of a road in a wide, deep opening rather like a small pond. Boys were paddling, sailing their boats, poking into the river bed with willow sticks, collecting minnows in jamjars and in other ways enjoying themselves while the sun shone and the long summer daylight lasted.

‘Of course, Crete and I have no children,’ said Mr Tidson.

‘Then you are fond of children?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, as she fell into step beside him, and they walked on past the end of the row of small houses.

‘Everyone is fond of children; I am, perhaps, more attached to them than most are,’ he replied.

‘How do you suppose Bobby Grier came to drown himself like that?’ asked Mrs Bradley, full of Miss Carmody’s dreadful theories and greatly desirous of putting them to the test.

‘I do not suppose he did.’

‘The water-nymph?’ She glanced at him sharply. ‘I don’t believe a word of that, you know.’

‘I do not believe it, either, in this particular case,’ said Mr Tidson. He kicked a stone out of his path. ‘I think some villainy was at work there. Don’t ask me what. I have nothing to go on, of course, but my opinion is (I think) the same as yours, and I have my reasons for holding it. The nymph may be here. I think she is. She may drown little boys. I think she does. But I don’t think she drowned little Grier.’

‘Really? What do you think, then?’

‘It is what I think of,’ said Mr Tidson, somewhat mysteriously. ‘Repressed spinsters, monomaniacs, sex-maniacs, mass murderers . . . lorry-drivers . . . curates . . . kindly persons with nasty little bags of sweets and horrid little pockets full of gooseberries. Goblin market, you know. I think of them all, but mostly, of course, of the spinsters.’

‘Really?’ Mrs Bradley looked astounded.

‘Very, very sad,’ Mr Tidson continued. ‘When one lives side by side with one of them, one gets to see their point of view, you know. Very odd things, repressions. Charlotte Corday, and so on.’ He shook his head, stopped suddenly, looked at the sky, and then said with some abruptness, ‘I am not in the mood for my nymph. I am going home.’

* Doubtful. It is probably a widely-held theory, but does not, of course, apply to Poltergeists.