The Stately Home Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

front of a low grating cut in the side of the wall. He cleared his throat impressively. The echo didn’t quite know what to make of this and there was an appreciable pause before he began on what was obviously his pièce de résistance .
    â€œIf you was bad,” he said, “you were thrown into the dungeons, but if you was really bad …”
    Mrs. Fisher was sure Michael must be about somewhere.
    â€œIf you was really bad, they put you in here.” He bent his powerful arms down and pulled at the two iron bars of the grating. A great stone pivoted outwards, revealing a hole beyond. Three men might have stood in it.
    â€œIt’s a n’oobliette,” announced Hackle. “Where you put your prisoners and forgot them.”
    â€œFrom the French,” translated the earnest woman.
    Mrs. Fisher craned her neck to make sure that Michael wasn’t in it.
    â€œThey had it just here,” Hackle said in a macabre voice, “so that the prisoners could see the water being brought up from the well. Then they didn’t give them none.”
    It took everyone except Mrs. Fisher a little time to sort out this double negative.
    â€œThey died of thirst,” she said at once, “while they was watching the water.”
    Bert Hackle sucked his lips. “That’s right. Now, if you’ll all come along here with me I’ll show you the way to the armory. It’s been reconstitooted from part of the old curtain wall …”
    But the oubliette —or perhaps the stone staircase—had been enough for some, and the party that eventually entered the armory was a very thin one. The earnest woman came—of course—and some three or four others.
    â€œMichael Fisher!” Michael Fisher’s mother gave a shriek of mingled anger and recognition. “You naughty boy! You wait until I get you home …”
    â€œIt’s lovely down here, Mum.”
    â€œWhat ever do you mean by running away like that?”
    â€œIt’s much more fun down here.” Michael remained undismayed by her anger.
    Mrs. Fisher took a quick look round. There was one thing about this part of the house that reassured her. The old things, having stood the test of so very much time, were more likely to stand the test of Michael Fisher. His mother did not think he could have got up to much in the armory.
    Wherein she was sadly wrong.
    It was a truly fearsome collection. Weapons sprouted from the walls, antique swords lay about in glass cases, chain-mail hung from hooks, and—as if this weren’t enough—several suits of armor stood about on the floor.
    â€œWhoopee,” shouted Michael. “Look, Mum, this is what I’ve been doing.”
    He darted off down the center of the armory, shadowboxing with the coat of war of some long-forgotten knight of a bygone age.
    â€œGot you,” he said to one of them, landing a blow on the breastplate. It resounded across the hall.
    â€œMum …” This was Maureen, who had been studying the contents of one of the glass cases without real interest.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMum, what’s a belt of chastity?”
    Mrs. Fisher’s answer to this was what the psychologists call a displacement activity. She shouted at her son.
    â€œMichael, leave that suit of armor alone.”
    â€œI just want to look inside.”
    â€œLeave it alone, I tell you.”
    The earnest woman looked up at the raised voice and politely looked away again.
    Michael was struggling with the visor.
    â€œCan’t you hear what I say?”
    There was at least no doubt about that. Mrs. Fisher in full voice could be heard clearly from one end of Paradise Row to the other, so the armory presented no problem in audibility.
    â€œYes, I just want to …” Michael heaved at the visor with both hands.
    â€œMum …” It was a whine from Maureen. “Mum, what’s a belt of chastity?”
    â€œMichael Fisher,