Speedy Death

by Gladys Mitchell

Alastair Bing called himself an archaeologist, thought of himself as a scholar and a gentleman, and was, as a matter of fact, a hot-tempered, muddle-headed, self-opinionated, domineering man, quite likeable if you did not see too much of him, extraordinarily insufferable if you did.

Garde always got his own way, usually by holding stolidly to the course he had set himself, and declining to be drawn into argument. His proposal of marriage to the beautiful and popular Dorothy Clark had been characteristic.

But supposing these people object to being questioned? After all, I am not a police officer.’ ‘They will love it,’ pronounced Mrs Bradley, with finality. ‘People love to tell all they know, especially when it is about themselves. That accounts for the popularity of the confessional.

I have to ask you as a matter of form, you know.’ Alastair Bing pursed his lips and frowned. ‘I suppose I was in my room, dressing for dinner,’ he said. ‘Do you know anybody who will bear witness to that?’ ‘Why, no. Of course not,’ replied Alastair testily. ‘I don’t have the whole household in my bedroom to watch me dress for dinner.’

‘I say, I feel all of a dither,’ said Bertie, joining them. ‘These little diversions may be all right for those of strong moral fibre, but my delicate constitution won’t stand much more of it.’ ‘Of what?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘You don’t mean that a young healthy male animal is upset because he’s had to tell a policeman at what time during the evening of August the thirteenth he put his clean shirt on, and who saw him do it?’

‘Do you really mean that?’ asked Carstairs, interested. ‘I don’t think I could ever sincerely pity a murderer.’ ‘We are all murderers, my friend,’ said Mrs Bradley lugubriously. ‘Some in deed and some in thought. That’s the only difference, though.’

On Wednesday night, yes, last night, Eleanor came into my bedroom at about half-past twelve and—and wanted to stay there! I thought it was a ghost at first. I had terrible difficulty in getting rid of her. In fact, I had to get out of bed and shove her outside and lock the door. Choice, isn’t it?’ After a long time, during which they resumed their measured pacing round the lawn, Mrs Bradley spoke: ‘Of course you will lock your door tonight,’ she said. ‘You bet I shall,’ said Bertie fervently, ‘and nothing short of the house catching fire is going to persuade me to open it.’

‘Easiest thing in the world,’ said the inspector, with serious interest, ‘to drown a person in the bath. I wonder more murderers don’t do it. No incriminating weapon, no marks of violence, nothing but the body, which you don’t even have the trouble of getting rid of, because there’s always a big chance of the coroner’s jury bringing in a verdict of Accidental Death. For that’s usually the bother in a murder, sir,’ he went on, warming to the subject in whole-hearted fashion, ‘what the ’ell to do with the corpse.

The leading counsel for the Crown was fat. She disliked fat men. Fat women were normal, healthy, good-tempered, well-balanced people, but fat men were an offence against nature. She hoped he would lose his case.