Laurels are Poison
Gladys Mitchell
Bradley 14
1942
A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
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Contents
Chapter 1: OPEN, SESAME
Chapter 2: THE THREE MUSKETEERS
Chapter 3: CLINICAL THERMOMETER
Chapter 4: A MULTIPLICITY OF PROMISCUOUS VESSELS
Chapter 5: INTRUSION OF SERPENTS
Chapter 6: HIGH JINKS WITH A TIN-OPENER
Chapter 7: REVENGE UPON GOLDILOCKS
Chapter 8: SKIRLING AND GROANS
Chapter 9: EVIDENCE OF THE SUBMERGED TENTH
Chapter 10: THE FLYING FLACORIS
Chapter 11: THE EVE OF WATERLOO
Chapter 12: IN AND OUT THE WINDOWS
Chapter 13: HARLEQUINADE AND YULE LOG
Chapter 14: FIELD-WORK
Chapter 15: RAG
Chapter l6: BONE
Chapter 17: NYMPHS AND SATYRS
Chapter l8: IDDY UMPTY IDDY UMPTY IDDY
Chapter 19: ITYLUS
laurels are poison
Mrs Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, psychologist and detective, has become the warden of a house in a college so that she can investigate the disappearance of a previous warden. As soon as the term starts, strange things begin to happen: a bath is left to overflow, girls’ clothes are torn to shreds, snakes appear, and a girl’s hair is cut off as she sleeps.
Can Mrs Bradley solve the mysteries of the college?
First published 1942
by Michael Joseph
This edition 2001 by Olivers Press published by arrangement with the author’s estate
ISBN 0 7540 8584 8
Copyright © 1942 by Gladys Mitchell British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Redwood Books, Trowbridge, Wiltshire
LAURELS ARE POISON
Chapter 1
OPEN, SESAME
^ »
Deborah, who had that true sense of humour — if connoisseurs of it are to be believed — the ability to laugh at herself, felt that she must look rather like Will Hay in The Ghost of St Michael’s. Up the hill and over the moor she was toiling, suitcase in hand, and although she had been informed at the station that the distance to College was approximately two miles, she already felt as though she had walked at least ten.
The suitcase, which had seemed light enough at starting, now weighed, she thought, not less than three-quarters of a hundredweight, and she was further handicapped against rough country walking by her handbag and a large bunch of chrysanthemums which her landlady had thrust upon her at parting and which she had not liked to leave in the train. In addition to these other discomforts she was wearing a tiresome hat.
Fortunately the College buildings, once she was clear of the town, formed the dominating feature of an almost treeless landscape, and made at once a landmark there was no escaping and a goal towards which, without fear of error, her steps could be directed.
The moorland road was narrow and stony, and it bore out the description given by people apt at simile that it was ribbon-like. Deborah walked along in the middle of it, and was so much occupied by her physical discomforts and mental fears that she did not hear the car until a respectful sounding of the horn caused her to move aside and glance round.
The car stopped purposefully, Deborah politely, although she knew that it would be of little use for anyone to demand of her any knowledge of the country-side. The chauffeur got out and saluted. He was a stocky, grave-faced, irresistibly respectable man, and he spoke quietly, with firmness.
‘Madam would be honoured if you would accept a lift, miss, if perhaps you were bound for the College.’
‘A lift? To the College? Oh, thank you so much. It’s awfully kind. I’d be very glad indeed,’ she responded truthfully and with alacrity.
Still grave, the chauffeur relieved her of her suitcase, and led her to the car. He opened the door at the back and observed:
‘The young lady, madam, is bound for the College.’ He then assisted her in, closed the door, deposited her suitcase in front, took his seat and drove on.
‘So we meet slightly before Philippi,’ said a rich, remarkable voice, completing the statement with an unnerving cackle of laughter.
‘Oh? Are you going to the College, too? It was awfully silly of me, but I missed the bus,’ said Deborah. Could this be the Principal, she asked herself, terrified at the idea of making her first entry in such dreadful and distinguished company.
‘I am going to the College,’ replied the singular old lady, who, at Deborah’s second glance, proved to be black-eyed, small and incredibly costumed in sage-green, purple and yellow, ‘but whether I shall stay there is another matter entirely. And to which branch of knowledge do you propose that your particular students shall be taught to cling?’ she concluded, grinning at Deborah’s startled and guilty expression.
‘I’m supposed to do a bit of lecturing in English, I believe,’ answered the girl. ‘But I’m really going to help run one of the College Halls.’
‘My talents also appear to show a tendency towards the domestic,’ said the little old woman, with a ferocious leer which gave the impression of assessing these talents at their true worth and then of discarding them. ‘My name is Bradley.’
‘Mine is Cloud — Deborah Cloud.’
So astonishingly different was the speed of the car compared with the progress that she had been able to make on foot that she had time to say no more, for she perceived that they were on the point of arrival at the College. This first intimation that they had reached journey’s end took the form of wide-open double gates giving on to a gravel drive. The legend, in large letters, Cartaret Training College, on a white board, served the double purpose of introduction and reassurance.
‘I think we’re here,’ she observed unnecessarily. Another disquieting cackle was the only reply.
The chauffeur drove in carefully, and drew up in front of a large, modern building flanked, fronted and generally compassed about by lawns, flower-beds, shrubs and green-turfed banks.
‘Delightful,’ said the owner of the car. The chauffeur came round and opened the door.
‘The main College building, madam.’
He handed his employer out, and Deborah followed.
‘George will see to your baggage and find out where to put it,’ said the old lady.
‘Oh, thank you very much, but perhaps I’d better take it,’ said Deborah nervously. ‘And thank you very much for the lift, Miss Bradley. It was awfully kind.’
‘Mrs,’ said the philanthropist; adding, with another hoot of laughter : ‘strange to say.’
‘Mrs Bradley?’ thought Deborah, racking her brain and, at the same time, walking up the first flight of steps she came to in anguished haste to be rid of her uncomfortable benefactor. ‘Where have I…? Goodness gracious me!’
For enlightenment came as she passed in through the open doorway of a dim, wide corridor. She stood still, upon the realization that she had been accepting a lift in the car of one of the most famous of modern women. She breathed deeply, thought — for she was only twenty-six, in spite of a formidable degree and three years’ teaching experience — ‘Something to write home about at last!’ — and then glanced uncertainly at the various doors which flanked and confronted her, whichever way she turned.
Making up her mind, she selected the first door on her left, set down her suitcase, and knocked.