‘I don’t see that it will, necessarily affect him at all. He won’t be of much use if he didn’t see the sick man’s face—that is, if we find a dead body… By the way, how did O’Hara come to lose his way?’

  ‘He was misdirected by a man in a car.’ Mrs. Bradley described the circumstances, and then added, ‘And of this incident there are, it seems to me, three possible explanations: the man may have been mistaken in the direction he had seen Mr. Gascoigne take; he may have seen a Mr. Firman, who gave up the run and went off to his uncle’s; and he may have been posted to waylay and mislead either Mr. Gascoigne or Mr. O’Hara, or, of course, this Mr. Firman. My own view is that he mistook Mr. O’Hara for Mr. Firman, but I have no real evidence for this.’

  ‘On what do you base this idea, then?’

  ‘It seems that if it was Mr. Firman whom Mr. O’Hara saw, he was not on his way to his uncle’s.’

  ‘I’d better just interview all three of these young fellows, perhaps,’ said the Chief Constable, thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm. I shan’t give anything away. I’ll say a bull got loose because somebody left a gate open on that Saturday afternoon, or something of that kind, and just find out where ’ they went and check their stories.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t give anything away,’ said Mrs. Bradley seriously, ‘particularly to this Mr. Firman, who turned up at the farm on the Sunday morning,’

  ‘Taking a solemn view, aren’t you? Do you suspect this young Firman of being concerned in the affair?’

  ‘Perhaps. Look before you leap has always been a motto of mine.’

  ‘Not when you used to go ski-ing in the old days,’ said the Chief Constable with a reminiscent chuckle. ‘I’ve heard from my father… Oh, well, I hope you’re not right about this business. We don’t want a case of murder around these parts. We’re not accustomed to murders here.’

  ‘But perhaps you specialize in disappearances?’ suggested Mrs. Bradley.

  ‘I’ll look up our records and see. You’ve spoilt my morning,’ replied the Chief Constable.

  The records, which came to Mrs. Bradley two days later, were interesting and remarkable. Two other disappearances had been brought to the notice of the County Police, and neither person had ever been found. A man named Battle had disappeared from the village of Newcombe Soulbury during the September of 1930, and another called Bulstrode had been reported missing, believed drowned, in the autumn of 1921, from a lonely little place on the coast called Slepe Rock.

  ‘Hm! Arithmetical progression,’ said Laura Menzies, to whom Mrs. Bradley had handed the Chief Constable’s letter. ‘And at intervals of nine years. A bit instructive, that.’

  ‘How so?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Carefully spaced intervals and the number nine ought to have some significance, don’t you think? I wish there were a record for 1912, don’t you?’

  ‘In an arithmetical progression…’ began Mrs. Bradley, knitting her black brows. She paused.

  ‘And I wish we could see into the future—say into 1957,’ continued Laura, taking advantage of the pause.

  ‘Do you? I do not. We have enough here to help us, I think. I expect the police will check the disappearances, under dates, of people in the adjoining counties, and— ’

  ‘And we could buy all the Ordnance Maps of England and Wales and mark them off,’ said Laura, with enthusiasm. ‘Isn’t it a tallish order, though?’ she added, as the magnitude of the otherwise delightful task came home to her.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘Jot down the details of these four disappearances we have already…’

  ‘That means counting this last one, and, somehow, I feel, it’s different from the rest. Still… oh, I don’t know…’

  Mrs. Bradley left her at work and sent for George, the chauffeur.

  ‘George,’ she said, giving him a slip of paper, ‘I want you to drive to these three places and report to me upon the lie of the land.’

  ‘Very good, madam,’ replied the sober, stocky, smart and respectable man. ‘What particular aspect of the lie of the land would you be requiring?’

  ‘I don’t know, George. And I don’t want to put ideas into your head. Just the general lie of the land, let us say, and please don’t question the inhabitants. I want you to let me have your views in a completely unbiassed form.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’ He glanced at the list he was holding. ‘It will take me all of half a day, madam, to get round these three places. They’re all inside the County boundary, but some of the roads are narrow and all are winding.’

  ‘Time is of no particular object, George, at present.’

  ‘Very good, madam. I shall do my very best.’

  He returned that evening to present his findings and a written report.

  ‘The 1939 address, madam, is a small Tudor cottage about two miles beyond the village of Easey. It is situated behind a small copse, is occupied but is up for sale. It is in a remote spot, in spite of being only two miles out of the village. There is one road leading to it. The subsoil seems to be gravel, and there is a small river—a branch of the Frome—nearby. The village boasts an ancient church of Norman origin with fourteenth-century additions, some good Queen Anne and early Georgian houses, another Elizabethan (or earlier) Tudor cottage now used as a blacksmith’s forge which is reputed to be haunted, a small general shop-cum-post-office, and two public houses, a small one called the Kicking Wether and a larger and more modern one called the Storbright Arms. Beyond the cottage, which is on a by-road, is the main road to Salisbury.’

  ‘Splendid, George.’

  ‘I have a more detailed report, madam.’ He handed it over. ‘Of the other two addresses, the 1930 one is about a mile and a half to two miles out of the village of Newcombe Soulbury on the road to Yeovil, and the 1921 address is just on this side of Slepe Rock, eight miles south-west (roughly speaking, madam) of Hopham. At Newcombe Soulbury the house consists of two adjoining cottages converted into one and embodying what looks to me like an artist’s studio. I didn’t attempt to examine the building closely, madam, as it appeared to be occupied, but one noticed the conversion of the upper floor with a very large north window. The garden was untended and the curtains were drawn across the downstair windows. The subsoil, as one would expect to find in that locality, is mostly chalk. The house is half-way up a very steep hill, and is situated at least a mile and a half from the railway station at Newcombe Soulbury.’

  ‘This is marvellous, George! Exactly what I wanted.’

  ‘The 1921 address, madam, I was unable to locate with exact certainty, failing enquiry of the local inhabitants. My guess is that it has been pulled down and a refreshment shack put up on or near the site. It is very near the sea. At Slepe Rock itself a mushroom sort of hotel has been built with a pull-in for motor coaches and a small car park on the opposite side of the road. The refreshment shack would be incorporated in this enterprise. Slepe Rock, I believe, madam, has only been exploited to any extent since about the year 1935. It was just getting into its stride, as it were, when the war broke out. Before 1935 I should say that the house stood in one of the loneliest places in England, madam. It is in a dip among four or five very large turf-covered hills of the Downs type, and the road which leads down past it to the cove is still not much more than a track. It looks a real old smugglers’ hole to me, madam.’

  ‘You’ve done wonders, George. Thank you very much. The common factor stands out in almost militant fashion, does it not?’

  ‘The lonely situations of the respective addresses, madam?’

  ‘Exactly, George. It is what I hoped for and partly expected. The plot thickens. And now I wonder whether you would like the day off to-morrow? I am going to London and shan’t need you.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, but, if quite convenient, I should be obliged if you would permit me to drive you to London, for the reason that I would then be able to take my mother to a music hall.’

  ‘I didn’t know music halls were your cup of tea, George, but I’m delighted to hear that they are!’

  ‘They are not, as a matter of fact, in the ordinary way, madam, although I enjoy them occasionally. The fact is, madam, that my mother, I have recently discovered, is nourishing a passion for Mr. Max Miller, and chooses to believe that he picks her out as the special recipient of his shafts of wit. Mr. Miller, although you may not be aware of the fact, madam, has a good-natured way of appearing to address himself to the more hysterical female portion of his audience in order to rally and admonish them. This my mother greatly appreciates.’

  ‘Why does she want you with her?’

  ‘Well, madam, she does not follow all the more modern references, but she keeps them in mind and I am in request to explain them to her as soon as the performance is over.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather difficult?’

  ‘I should select the adjective “embarrassing,” madam. It is not always an enviable task to explain Mr. Miller’s more Athenian epigrams in a crowded Underground train.’

  In London Mrs. Bradley made a lightning round of visits and an important telephone call. Her visits, in chronological order, were to her son in his chambers, to the British Museum, to the London Library, to the geological section of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and to a famous archaeologist of her acquaintance. She then rang up O’Hara.

  ‘I am exceedingly grateful to you for introducing me to a most fascinating affair,’ she said. ‘I have interviewed my son, and also the Chief Constable, and you need have no fear of being arrested as an accessory after the fact of murder. It is not certain yet, in fact, that a murder has been committed. However, the affair is now in the hands of the Chief Constable and the County Police. From time to time I will let you know what progress, if any at all, is made in the enquiry… You would like to help if help is required?… and your cousin, too? Excellent!’

  ‘Are they still interested?’ asked Laura, who was in the room during the conversation over the telephone.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so. And now I must set to work, child.’

  ‘Golly! What on earth have you been doing all day, then?’

  Mrs. Bradley grinned.

  ‘I think I must study George’s reports with relation to the Ordnance Survey, child. Then, to-morrow I think I shall visit the scenes of these disappearances. It will be very interesting to compare them.’

  ‘May I come with you?’

  ‘1 should not think of going without you.’

  ‘You do think these people have been murdered, don’t you? We ought to try to trace what connection they have with one another, oughtn’t we?’

  ‘Your acumen is only matched by your innocent assumption that a theory is as good as a fact,’ said Mrs. Bradley, poking her secretary in the ribs.

  ‘Well, one must begin somewhere,’ argued Laura, ‘and lots of theories are preferable to facts—notably that the human race has progressed since Neolithic times and that England is a Christian country. Besides, theories, as it were, should be based upon facts in much the same way as a desirable residence rests upon its foundations.’ She squinted complacently down her nose as she put forward these striking premises.

  ‘Nevertheless, as you rightly point out, the foundations have to come first and must be of solid construction,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘So far, we have no reason for assuming that there is anything to connect the disappearances of three widely-separated persons except for the interesting (but not necessarily significant) fact that an interval of, roughly, nine years elapsed between disappearances one and two, two and three, and, now, between three and four.’

  ‘Well, anyway, let’s get hold of a map, and see if we can deduce where this fat blighter came from,’ said Laura. ‘Once we know that, we know all.’

  ‘How so?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  ‘Well, we’ve only to question the local inhabitants to arrive at a complete history. You know what villages are. And once we know why we know who. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Mrs. Bradley cautiously replied. ‘But, even if the villagers tell us all they know… which it is not very likely that they will, as we are strangers… I am not at all sure that we shall be so very much further forward. You see, the lonely situation of these houses from which the men seem to have disappeared, makes it unlikely that any of the villagers knew anything of the disappearances until some time after these had occurred. And the time factor in such cases is often of great importance.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Laura, somewhat dashed by this elementary reasoning, ‘I see what you mean. Still, it won’t do any harm to pore over the map for a bit. Will you do the poring, or shall I?’

  ‘Oh, you do it, child.’

  ‘Right. Thanks. I like mucking about with maps. Now I shall want… let’s see… yes, I’d better have a transparent ruler, a protractor, compasses, a piece of thread marked in inches to wriggle along the winding roads and rivers, dividers, a set-square, some little flags stuck on pins…’ She went happily to work to collect these, pausing only to add, ‘And we ought to include Little Dorsett, I suppose, as we’ve had two references to it. Isn’t that where that woman at the farm said she came from? And if the Allwrights are living there as well…’

  ‘We must certainly include Little Dorsett,’ Mrs. Bradley agreed.

  Chapter Seven

  —«♦»—

  ‘Thus the spell was broken, and all who had been turned into stones awoke, and took their proper forms.’

  Ibid. (The Queen Bee)

  « ^ »

  Once she had assembled her tools, Laura went to work, and some simple measurements and a complicated table of statistics produced satisfactory results. Laura, at any rate, was pleased with them, and at ten-thirty made known her findings.

  ‘What do you think?’ she demanded, looking up from her self-imposed task of twiddling a pair of compasses on the middle of the one-inch map. ‘Significant, I should call it, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘I hardly know,’ replied Mrs. Bradley. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Rather! You wait until I tell you!… Oh, there’s one thing I want to do, by the way, before we third-degree any villagers, and that is to go to that circle of standing stones above the farmyard. When can we go?’

  ‘To-morrow morning, if you wish, child.’

  ‘Oh, good! It had better be as early as possible, then, I think. We must leave plenty of time to do the villages properly after breakfast. What about leaving here at five for the circle of stones?’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mrs. Bradley, grinning. ‘I will call you myself.’

  She did this at four, and by five they were in the car with Laura driving. It was a clear grey morning with no hint of autumn in the air and not a great deal in the trees. Study of the map had taught Laura, in addition to other matters, that it was possible to drive to within three-quarters of a mile of the circle of standing stones without going past O’Hara’s mysterious farm.

  The woods around the house where they were staying gave place very soon to the main road to Cuchester. Laura turned off from this about a mile to the south of the first village through which it ran, and the car mounted a long hill before it entered a narrow belt of trees on the further side.

  After this the road became open, treeless and straight, and then, to avoid a high hill which was crowned by a Neolithic fort known locally as Mabb’s Mound, it took itself off southeast, but still in a line as straight as a ruler could have made, past a farm, a long barrow, and a road which petered out up a hill and ended in moorland at the top.

  Soon the car found another high-road, and, by keeping to this for some miles, Laura passed through a long and beautiful village, skirted the park of a large house surrounded by trees, dropped cautiously down the steepest gradient in the county, and by-passed the town of Cuchester.

  Three or four miles beyond Cuchester she made the detour which would bring her round to the west of O’Hara’s farm, and, beyond the discovery that the road had a very loose surface and in places was only fit for a sheep walk, she learned nothing that she had not known before.

  She parked the car in a gateway on to a field, and then she and Mrs. Bradley set out for the circle of stones. A footpath which was crossed by two stiles led up and over the hill, for the stones were not quite at the summit.

  Laura and Mrs. Bradley were walking round to inspect each stone when over the hill came two men. Mrs. Bradley called good morning as they came near, and one of them left the path and walked over towards the stone circle.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mrs. Bradley, indicating the stones as though they had sprung up like mushrooms during the night.

  ‘Ah, they be very interesting,’ said the man. ‘Calls ’em the Druids, we do, though I dunno for why. The Dancin‘ Druids some calls ’em, and one gentleman from London, he comes up along over ’ere once every year and he watches for to see if they dances.’

  ‘And has he ever been fortunate enough to see them dance?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.

  ‘Well,’ said the man. ‘I dunno as to that, I’m sure. Last year ’e swore as ’e did see summat, and this year e’s talked of bringin’ a film company over to see if they can’t make a picture. But I dunno! They never danced during the war, I do know that, for I used to be on Observer Corps duty up ’ere, with nothing much to look at except them stones. Stood firm enough when I looked at ’em, that I’ll swear.’

  ‘The Dancing Druids,’ said Mrs. Bradley, when the two men had gone on. ‘Not an uncommon superstition.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Laura enquired. ‘A most uncommon one, I should have thought.’

  ‘It is certainly an odd one,’ Mrs. Bradley went on, ‘but, in Cornwall, legend connects such circles as this one with girls turned into stone for impious behaviour—notably for dancing on a Sunday. The “Whispering Knights” of Little Rollright on the border of Oxfordshire are likewise believed to dance.1 It is a striking survival, I believe, of the importance attached in early times to dancing as a religious exercise. There is also, of course, the fascinating paradox that dancing, although voiceless, is a language.2 The ballet proves that.’

 

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