Faintley Speaking
Gladys Mitchell
Bradley 27
1954
A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
click for scan notes and proofing history
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: MANDSELL
CHAPTER TWO: MARK
CHAPTER THREE: LAURA
CHAPTER FOUR: DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR VARDON
CHAPTER FIVE: DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DARLING
CHAPTER SIX: MYSTERY MEN
CHAPTER SEVEN: MISS GOLIGHTLY
CHAPTER EIGHT: KINDLEFORD SCHOOL
CHAPTER NINE: MR BANNISTER
CHAPTER TEN: MRS CROCODILE
CHAPTER ELEVEN: MR TRENCH
CHAPTER TWELVE: CROMLECH DOWN BAY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: OPERATION DREDGER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: DAMP HOUSE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: UNCLE TOM COBLEIGH AND ALL
FAINTLEY SPEAKING
If an impecunious author had not accidentally intercepted a telephone call, the mysterious Miss Faintley might have defied even Mrs Bradley’s efforts at solution, The telephone message began, ‘Faintley speaking…’ and proceeded with instructions to collect a parcel from the local railway station and deliver it to a somewhat shady shopkeeper. The author not only delivered the parcel but also unwisely demanded payment for doing so…
Not long after, Miss Faintley was murdered. It seemed at first unlikely that she, a prim, quiet schoolmistress, could have anthing to do with crime. Yet Mrs Bradley’s investigations led to some exciting developments…
First published 1954 by Michael Joseph
This edition 2001 by Chivers Press published by arrangement with the author’s estate
ISBN 0 7540 8596 1
Copyright © The executors of the estate of Gladys Mitchell 1954
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookcraft, Midsomer Norton, Somerset
To
Ella Vinall & Barbara Blattler,
their cat, their caravan
and all
FAINTLY SPEAKING
Chapter One
MANDSELL
‘I prythee, gentle mortal, speak again.’
shakespeare - A Midsummer Night’s Dream
^ »
‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, Mr Mandsell,’ said his landlady, ‘ but I’ve come to the finish. I been kept waiting six weeks for my money, and I’d have you to realize, sir, as I can’t be kept waiting for ever. I’ve got to live, sir, and so has Deaks, same like as what you have, sir.’
‘Why should any of us worry about living, Mrs Deaks? Life’s not so hot. On the other hand, think how it enriches your character, if not exactly your pocket, to provide the indigent like me with two meals a day and a bed! Just think, too, of the good you’re doing yourself with the Recording Angel.’
‘It’s no use, sir. Sorry as I am to lose you… for I’m sure you’ve been no trouble and have always spoke gentlemanly and took your hat off to me in the street as there’s them that wouldn’t… this is my last word. Twice have I let you stop on as you have talked me into it, but never no more. Supper and bed and breakfast you’ve had these six weeks gone, and what have I got to show for it? No, sir, sorry as I am, as I can’t say more, and much as I’ve liked your company, it has got to be O.U.T. unless you can pay me by Saturday.’
‘But, look here, Mrs Deaks, you know you’ll be paid as soon as I get my advance! I’ve told you I must wait for publication. You know my novel’s been accepted. I showed you the letter. The money’s there all right!’
‘Be that as it may, sir, even if I was willing to wait, well, Deaks, he isn’t, and that’s the flat of it, if you take my meaning plain. Pay up or go… them’s his words and I can’t go again ’em and don’t intend to.’
‘All right, Mrs Deaks, that’s fair enough. I don’t intend to land you in trouble with your husband. But Deaks needn’t worry, you know. I shall pay you as soon as I’m able to, and when my ship comes home you’ll look pretty silly at the thought that you chucked me out, especially on a filthy night like this.’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed the landlady, turning her head as a torrent of summer rain hurtled spitefully at the window, ‘ I never meant you’d got to get out to-night, sir! I wouldn’t be hard like that, and nor would Deaks.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m going. I suppose I’d better get myself pinched in order to have somewhere to sleep.’ His light tone was gone. He was extremely sensitive, and spoke bitterly.
‘You wouldn’t do that, sir? Not really?’ She was distressed – a middle-aged, decent, kindly soul.
‘Wouldn’t I? Of course I shall go. You’ll have to let me leave my books and things here for a day or two until I get fixed up somewhere else.’ He wondered where the somewhere else could be. He had no one from whom to borrow.
Receiving her tearful consent, he went upstairs, put on his raincoat and hat, refilled his fountain-pen and walked out of the house. In his pockets he had a small notebook, a sixpence, fivepence-halfpenny, his pen, a pencil, a penknife, his mother’s wedding-ring, and his publisher’s contract calling for two more novels. He supposed he would have to get a job. It was a pity when he had the plot of the next novel so clearly in his head, but it could not be helped.
He walked rapidly in the direction of the Public Library with the intention of consulting the advertisement columns of the newspapers while the library doors were still open. At least he would be under cover. But he had overlooked the fact that it was Thursday. All departments of the library were shut. He stood in the rain and cursed himself. He could have stayed in his lodgings until the morning, or even until Saturday. There had been no suggestion of turning him out at a moment’s notice, and it was teeming down cats and dogs. Well, he was not going back to beg for shelter when it was his own tom-fool pride that had brought him out on such an evening.
Thoroughly angry, and already extremely wet, he put his hands in his raincoat pocket, lowered his head and walked towards the High Street. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. (The arrangement was that he always got his lunch out.) In the High Street there would be presented to him the alternatives of punching a policeman or spending one or two pence on bread. Then he remembered that it was Thursday. None of the shops would be open. It would have to be the policeman, he concluded. There was always one on point duty. No, of course there was not!… never on Thursdays or Sundays, because the shops were shut and then traffic was almost non-existent in the little provincial town and no point duty was needed.
The rain still poured down. The shop blinds, usually let down all day in summer to protect the goods from the sun, had been taken in, so that their shelter was lost. Mandsell became wet through, and was thoroughly wretched. Already he was beginning to change his mind. After all, there was nothing for it, he felt, but to go back to his lodgings for the night. Mrs Deaks would feel relieved, he knew, and even the unwelcoming Deaks could scarcely refuse to take him in. He must pocket his pride and go and ask, anyhow. It was hopeless to think of staying out all night in weather like this! His chest had always been troublesome.
He turned and began to walk back. As there was now no point in returning by way of the Public Library he took a road which ran alongside the park. Half-way up there was a public telephone box. At the sight of it he had an inspiration. His publisher’s office was on the telephone. There would be no harm in making a note of the number, if only to get out of the pelting rain for a minute or two. On the morrow he would telephone to ask whether there was any prospect of obtaining a small percentage of his advance royalties. It was not exactly asking for charity. The book was up there; it had been accepted for publication. If he could get the publisher to advance him the six weeks’ rent he owed, Mrs Deaks would look after him for another few weeks on tick again while he looked for a job. He could not imagine why this excellent idea had not occurred to him before.