The Militant Mrs Meade
‘Good heavens, what was that?’
It was Meggie who spoke. The noise had awakened her and she sat up,
her hair a little wilder than usual and her eyes wide with
astonishment.
Abbershaw started to his feet.
‘We’ll darned soon find out,’ he said, and went over to the second
door and knocked upon it softly.
‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.
‘The wicked shall perish,’ said a loud, shrill, feminine voice, in
which the broad Suffolk accent was very apparent. ‘The earth shall
open and they shall be swallowed up. And you won’t come into this
room,’ it continued brightly. ‘No, not if you spend a hundred years
a-tapping. And why won’t you come in? ’Cause I’ve bolted the door.’
There was demoniacal satisfaction in the last words, and Abbershaw and
Meggie exchanged glances.
‘It’s a lunatic,’ whispered Abbershaw.
Meggie shuddered.
‘What a horrible house this is,’ she said. ‘But talk to her, George.
She may know how to get us out.’
‘Her chief concern seems to be not to let us in,’ said Abbershaw, but
he returned to the door and spoke again.
‘Who’s there?’ he said, and waited, hardly hoping for an answer, but
the voice replied with unexpected directness:
‘That’s a thing I won’t hide from anybody,’ it said vigorously. ‘Daisy
May Meade’s my name. A married woman and respectable. A church-going
woman too, and there’s some that’s going to suffer for what’s been
going on in this house. Both here, _and_ in the next world. The pit
shall open and swallow them up. Fire and brimstone shall be their
portion. The Lord shall smite them.’
‘Very likely,’ said Abbershaw dryly. ‘But who are you? How did you get
here? Is it possible for you to get us out?’
Apparently his calm, matter-of-fact voice had a soothing effect upon
the vengeful lady in the next room, for there was silence for some
moments, followed by an inquisitive murmur in a less oracular tone.
‘What be you doing of?’
‘We’re prisoners,’ said Abbershaw feelingly. ‘We’ve been shut up here
by Mr Dawlish, and are most anxious to get out. Can you help us?’
Again there was silence for some moments after he had spoken, then the
voice said considerately, ‘I’ve a good mind to have the door open and
have a look at ye.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Abbershaw, startled out of his calm. ‘Do you mean
to say that you can open this door?’
‘That I can,’ said the voice complacently. ‘Didn’t I bolt it myself?
I’m not having a lot of foreigners running round me. I told the German
gentleman so. Oh, they shall be punished. “To the devil you’ll go,” I
told them. “Fire and brimstone and hot irons,” I said.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Abbershaw soothingly, ‘but have you any idea how
we can get out?’
A grunt of consideration was clearly audible through the door. ‘I will
have a look at ye,’ said the voice with sudden decision, and thereupon
there began a fearsome noise of chains, bolts, and the scraping of
heavy furniture, which suggested that Mrs Meade had barricaded herself
in with a vengeance. Soon after there was a creaking and the door
swung open an inch or two, a bright black eye appearing in the crack.
After a moment or so, apparently satisfied, Mrs Meade pushed the door
open wide and stood upon the threshold looking in on them.
She was a striking old woman, tall and incredibly gaunt, with a great
bony frame on which her clothes hung skimpily. She had a brown
puckered face in which her small eyes, black and quick as a bird’s,
glowed out at the world with a religious satisfaction at the coming
punishment of the wicked. She was clothed in a black dress, green with
age, and a stiff white apron starched like a board, which gave her a
rotundity of appearance wholly false. She stood there for some
seconds, her bright eyes taking in every nook and corner of the room.
Apparently satisfied, she came forward.
‘That’ll be your sister, I suppose,’ she said, indicating Meggie with
a bony hand, ‘seeing you’ve both red hair.’
Neither of the two answered, and taking their silence for assent, she
went on.
‘You’re visitors, I suppose?’ she demanded. ‘It’s my belief the
devil’s own work is going on in this house. Haven’t I seen it with me
own eyes? Wasn’t I permitted – praise be the Lord! – to witness some
of it? It’s four shall swing from the gallows, their lives in the
paper, before there’s an end of this business.’
The satisfaction in her voice was apparent, and she beamed upon them,
the maliciousness in her old face truly terrible to see. She was
evidently bursting with her story, and they found it was not difficult
to get her to talk.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Abbershaw. ‘I know your name, of course, but
that doesn’t make me much wiser. Where do you live?’
‘Down in the village, three mile away,’ said the redoubtable Mrs
Meade, beaming at him. ‘I’m not a regular servant here, and I wouldn’t
be, for I’ve no need, but when they has company up here I sometimes
come in for the week to help. My time’s up next Wednesday, and when I
don’t come home my son’ll come down for me. That’s the time I’m
waiting for. Then there’ll be trouble!’
There was grim pleasure in her tone, and she wagged her head solemnly.
‘He’ll have someone to reckon with then, the German gentleman will. My
son don’t hold with foreigners nohow. What with this on top of it, and
him being a murderer too, there’ll be a fight, I can tell you. My
son’s a rare fighter.’
‘I shouldn’t think the Hun would be bad at a scrap,’ murmured
Abbershaw, but at the same time he marvelled at the complacency of the
old woman who could time her rescue for four days ahead and settle
down peacefully to wait for it.
There was one phrase, however, that stuck in his mind.
‘Murderer?’ he said.
The old woman eyed him suspiciously and came farther into the room.
‘What do you know about it?’ she demanded.
‘We’ve told you who we are,’ said Meggie, suddenly sitting up, her
clever pale face flushing a little and her narrow eyes fixed upon her
face.
‘We’re visitors. And we’ve been shut up here by Mr Dawlish, who seems
to have taken over charge of the house ever since Colonel Coombe had
his seizure.’
The old woman pricked up her ears.
‘Seizure?’ she said. ‘That’s what they said it was, did they? The
fiery furnace is made ready for them, and they shall be consumed
utterly. I know it wasn’t no seizure. That was murder, that was. A
life for a life, and an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s
the law, _and_ they shall come to it.’
‘Murder? How do you know it was murder?’ said Abbershaw hastily. The
fanatical forebodings were getting on his nerves.
Once again the crafty look came into the little black eyes and she
considered him dubiously, but she was much too eager to tell her story
to be dissuaded by any suspicions.
‘It was on the Friday night,’ she said, dropping her voice to a
confidential monotone. ‘After dinner had been brought out, Mrs
Browning, that’s the housekeeper, sent me upstairs to see to the
fires. I hadn’t been up there more than ten minutes when I come over
faint.’ She paused and eyed the two defiantly.
‘I never touch liquor,’ she said, and hesitated again. Abbershaw was
completely in the dark, but Meggie had a flash of intuition, born of
long experience of Mrs Meade’s prototypes.
‘But as you weren’t well you looked about for something to revive
you?’ she said. ‘Of course. Why not?’
Mrs Meade’s dubious expression faded.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What else was I to do?’
‘What else indeed?’ said Meggie encouragingly.
‘What did I do?’ said the old woman, lapsing once more into the
rhetorical form she favoured. ‘I remembered that in the Colonel’s
study – that’s through his bedroom, you know – there was a little
cupboard behind the screen by the window, where he kept a drop of
Scotch whisky. That’s soothing and settling to the stomach as much as
anything is. So, coming over faint, and being in the Colonel’s
bedroom, I went into the study, and had just poured myself out a
little drop when I heard voices, and the German gentleman with his
friend Mr Gideon and Dr Whitby come in.’ She stopped again and looked
at Meggie.
‘I didn’t holler out,’ she said, ‘because it would have looked so bad
– me being there in the dark.’
Meggie nodded understandingly, and Mrs Meade continued.
‘So I just stayed where I was behind the screen,’ she said. ‘Mr Gideon
was carrying a lamp and he set it down on the desk. They was all very
excited, and as soon as Dr Whitby spoke I knew something was up. “What
an opportunity,” he said, “while they’re playing around with that
dagger he’ll just sit where he is. We’re safe for fifteen minutes at
least.” Then the German gentleman spoke. Very brusque he is. “Get on
with it,” says he. “Where does he keep the stuff?”’
Mrs Meade paused, and her little black eyes were eloquent. ‘Imagine
the state I was in, me standing there with the bottle in me ’and,’ she
said. ‘But the next moment Dr Whitby set me at peace again. “In the
secret drawer at the back of the desk,” he said. I peeked round the
edge of the screen and saw ’im fiddling about with the master’s desk.’
She fixed Meggie with a bright black eye. ‘I _was_ upset,’ she said.
‘If it hadn’t been for the whisky and the way it would have looked I’d
’ave gone out, but as it was I couldn’t very well, and so I stayed
where I was, but I listened. For I said to myself, “The humblest of us
are sometimes the ministers of the Lord,” and I realized someone would
have to be brought to justice.’
Her self-righteousness was so sublime that it all but carried her
hearers away with it, and she went on, whilst they listened to her,
fascinated.
‘I saw them open the drawer and then there was such a swearing set-out
that I was ashamed. “It’s gone,” said Mr Gideon, and Dr Whitby he
started moaning like an idiot. “He always kept them here,” he kept
saying over and over again. Then the German, him that’s for Hell Fire
as sure as I’ll be with the Lambs, he got very angry. “You’ve played
the fool enough,” he said, in such a loud voice that I nearly cried
out and gave myself away. “Go and fetch him,” he said. “Bring him up
here. I’ve had enough of this playing.”’
Mrs Meade paused for breath.
‘Dr Whitby’s rather a sullen gentleman,’ she continued, ‘but he went
off like a child. I stood there, my knees knocking together, wishing
me breathing wasn’t so heavy, and praying to the Lord to smite them
for their wickedness, while the German gentleman and Mr Gideon were
talking together in a foreign language. I couldn’t understand it, of
course,’ she added regretfully, ‘but I’m not an old fool, like you
might imagine. Though I’m sixty-two I’m pretty spry, and I could tell
by the way they was waving their hands about and the look on their
faces and the sound of their voices that the German gentleman was
angry about something or other, and that Mr Gideon was trying to
soothe ’im. “Wait,” he said at last, in a Christian tongue, “he’ll
have it on him, I tell you.” Well! . . .’ She paused and looked from
one to the other of her listeners, her voice becoming more dramatic
and her little black eyes sparkling. Clearly she was coming to the
cream of her narrative.
‘Well,’ she repeated, when she was satisfied that they were both
properly on edge, ‘at that moment the door was flung open and Dr
Whitby came back, white as a sheet, and trembling. “Chief! Gideon!” he
said. “He’s been murdered! Stabbed in the back!”’
Mrs Meade stopped to enjoy the full effect of her announcement.
‘Were they surprised?’
Abbershaw spoke involuntarily.
‘You be quiet and I’ll tell ’ee,’ said Mrs Meade, with sudden
sternness. ‘They was struck silly, I can tell you. The German
gentleman was the first to come to his senses. “Who?” he said. Mr
Gideon turned on him then. “Sinisters?” he says, as if asking a
question.’
Meggie and Abbershaw exchanged significant glances, while Mrs Meade
hurried on with her narrative, speaking with great gusto, acting the
parts of the different speakers, and investing the whole gruesome
story with an air of self-righteous satisfaction that made it even
more terrible.
‘The German gentleman wasn’t pleased at that,’ she continued, ‘but it
was he who kept his head, as they say. “And the papers,” said he.
“Were they on him?” “No,” says the doctor. “Then,” said the German
gentleman, “get him upstairs. No one must leave the house till we get
back the papers.” “Don’t let anyone know he’s dead, then,” said Mr
Gideon. “Say it’s heart attack – anything you like.” “There’s blood
about,” said Dr Whitby – “bound to be.” “Then clear it up,” says Mr
Gideon. “I’ll help you. We must hurry before the lights go up.”’
On the last word her voice sank to a whisper, but the stagey horror
with which she was trying to invest the story did not detract from the
real gruesomeness of the tale. Rather it added to it, making the scene
down in the lamplit panelled room seem suddenly clear and very near to
them.
Meggie shuddered and her voice was subdued and oddly breathless when
she spoke.
‘What happened then?’
Mrs Meade drew herself up, and her little black eyes burned with the
fire of righteousness.
‘Then I could hold my tongue no longer,’ she said, ‘and I spoke out.
“Whoso killeth any person, the murderer shall be put to death by the
mouth of witnesses,” I said, and stepped out from behind the screen.’
Abbershaw’s eyes widened as the scene rose up in his mind – the
fanatical old woman, her harsh voice breaking in upon the three crooks
in that first moment of their bewilderment.
‘They were terrified, I suppose,’ he said.
Mrs Meade nodded, and an expression of grim satisfaction spread over
her wrinkled old face.
‘They _was_,’ she said. ‘Mr Gideon went pale as a sheet, and shrank
away from me like an actor on the stage – Dr Whitby stood there stupid
like, his eyes gone all fishy and his mouth hanging open . . .’ She
shook her head. ‘You could see there was guilt there,’ she said, ‘if
not in deed, in the _heart_ – the German gentleman was the only one to
stay his natural colour.’
‘And then?’ Meggie hardly recognized her own voice, so toneless was
it.
‘Then he come up to me,’ the old woman continued, with a return of
indignation in her voice. ‘Slowly he come and put his great heavy face
close to mine. “You be off,” said I, but that didn’t stop him. “How
much have you heard?” said he. “All of it,” says I, “and what’s more
I’m going to bear witness.”’
Mrs Meade took a deep breath.
‘That did it,’ she said. ‘He put his hand over my mouth and the next
moment Dr Whitby had jumped forward and opened the cupboard by the
fire-place. “Put her in here,” said he; “we can see to her after we’ve
got _him_ upstairs.”’
‘You struggled, of course,’ said Abbershaw. ‘It’s extraordinary
someone in the house didn’t hear you.’
Mrs Meade regarded him with concentrated scorn.
‘Me struggle, young man?’ she said. ‘Not me. If there’s going to be
any scrabbling about, I said to myself, better leave it to my son who
knows something about fighting, so as soon as I knew where I was I
hurried up the stairs and shut myself in here. “You can do what you
like,” I said to the German gentleman through the door, “but I’m
staying here until Wednesday if needs be, when my son’ll come for me –
then there’ll be summat to pay, I can tell you!”’
She paused, her pale cheeks flushing with the fire of battle, as she
remembered the incident. ‘He soon went away after that,’ she went on,
wagging her head. ‘He turned the key on me, but that didn’t worry me –
I had the bolts on my side.’
‘But you couldn’t get out?’ interrupted Meggie, whose brain failed
before this somewhat peculiar reasoning.
‘O’ course I couldn’t get out,’ said Mrs Meade vigorously. ‘No more’n
could he come in. As long as my tongue’s in my head someone’ll swing
for murder, and I’m quite willing to wait for my son on Wednesday.
They won’t get in to me to kill me, I reckon,’ she continued, with a
flicker of pleasure in her eyes, ‘and so when my son comes along
there’ll be someone to help cast out the wicked. I ain’t a-holding my
tongue, not for nobody.’
‘And that’s all you know, then?’ said Meggie.
‘All?’ Mrs Meade’s tone was eloquent. ‘Some people’ll find it’s quite
enough. Those three didn’t actually do the murder, but there’s someone
in the house who did, and –’ She broke off sharply and glanced from
one to the other. ‘Why’re you two lookin’ at one ’nother so?’ she
demanded.
But she got no reply to her question. Meggie and Abbershaw were
regarding each other fixedly, the same phrase in the old woman’s
remark had struck both of them, and to each it bore the same terrible
significance. ‘Those three didn’t actually do the murder, but there’s
someone in the house who did.’ Dawlish, Gideon, Whitby were cleared of
the actual crime in one word; the servants were all confined in their
own quarters – Albert Campion insisted that he locked the door upon
them. Who then could be responsible? Albert Campion himself – or one
of their own party? Neither spoke – the question was too terrifying to
put into words.