The answer arrived in the shape of the landlord from the pub next door. A little fat man with a large waxed moustache, called Tinker. He entered the shop and stood there with the bell ringing until Barbara went to attend to him.
‘Turn the lights on in the shop. It’s getting dark…’
‘We ought to close and put a ticket on the door, Closed on Account of Death, Mother.’
‘Not Death, Barbara, Bereavement. It’s more polite.’
And James Teasdale, alias Jim Lane, had found freedom from it all in running a show at the fair and living with a woman who looked like a gipsy! Littlejohn wondered what was going to happen when it all came out.
Barbara was dealing with the landlord in the shop. They could hear him whispering his message respectfully in the darkness beyond.
‘Mr. Tinker says Grandfather’s rung up. He wants to know why the Superintendent hasn’t called. He says he wants to see him right away.’
‘Does he live far away?’
‘Five minutes on the ’bus. In the suburbs.’
‘I’ll get a police car to take me. What is the address?’
‘The house is called Rangoon. It’s on the Birkbeck Road.’ Rangoon! That sounded ominous. Ex-Indian army?
‘The police will know it?’
‘Everybody knows Grandfather. Major Scott-Harris.’
‘Very good. I’ll go right away.’
Littlejohn thought of all the shocks and surprises Mrs. Teasdale was to suffer in the next few days. He’d better prepare her for some of them, whilst she was at home with her family to comfort her.
‘You will have to be brave, Mrs. Teasdale, when the details of your husband’s death are explained to you. Things are not quite what you would have expected.’
She stopped rocking and looked hard at him in the fading light.
Barbara switched on the light, which shone down from a shade made of beads and revealed the stark details of the room. The picture over the hearth with its sooty still-life, the bridal group, the untidy set-up with magazines, articles of clothing, even pairs of shoes and some corsets littered about on the floor and furniture.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He had evidently given up his post as representative of Oppenheimers. He had another job. Perhaps he hadn’t told you?’
‘No. Whatever was he doing? Surely nothing criminal.’
‘Oh, no. He was running a hoop-la stall on fairgrounds.’
Mrs. Teasdale was on her feet, stabbing the air in Littlejohn’s direction.
‘What! What did I tell you? You’ve got the wrong man. It’s absurd. Mistaken identity. James would never lower himself to such a thing. Fairground, indeed! Hoop-la! The police must be mad to think of it!’
‘All the same, madam, it’s true. You will find when you reach Ely and are able to see the body, that it is your husband.’
She didn’t argue any more. It was evident that she preferred crime as her husband’s new profession. Mrs. Teasdale just fainted away and gently sank back in the rocking-chair.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
Barbara began to flutter about. The shop bell rang again. A voice shouted, ‘All Right,’ presumably the family password, and Irene entered. She was more like her father than Barbara. Small-boned, fair, almost tiny in build, with the same strong glasses. She was vigorous in manner, too.
‘Whatever’s happening here?’
‘He’s just told Mother that Father keeps a hoop-la stall on a fairground…’
Littlejohn excused himself and went off to see the old man from Rangoon.
4
Father
Nobody answered Littlejohn’s ring on the doorbell. Instead, a small sign on the doorpost lit up. Littlejohn could make out the words Out, Engaged, and Enter, in little frames on a contraption sometimes found on the office doors of business executives. It was Enter which was illuminated now. He turned the door-knob and found himself in the hall.
A large, old-fashioned house, with the smells of dust, kitchens, and dry rot fighting for supremacy. It stood in a vast garden surrounded by old untended trees, with a short gravel drive, and three stone steps leading to the front door. Squat in shape, it loomed out of the darkness from a background of tumbledown outhouses.
The Basilden police had provided a car for Littlejohn and it had pulled up at a gaslamp which shed a circle of light round the front gate of rusty wrought iron.
The local Superintendent had been very obliging and after discussing the formalities of the case had offered to accompany Littlejohn to see Major Scott-Harris, the dead man’s father-in-law.
‘Not that I relish the idea. He’s a most unpleasant man. Always pestering us about trespassers and writing to the local paper about our inefficiency. We’ve never studied his army record, but I’d imagine he was a major in the Volunteers about the time of the Boer War…’
Littlejohn had decided to go alone. He liked it that way, especially as the old man hated the local police.
There was nobody in the hall, which was lighted by a small electric bulb in a charred parchment shade. It was large and barren-looking. At one side, a wide staircase. A bamboo hallstand; a chair like a bishop’s which might have been rifled from a church; a long row of pegs on which were hung a strange variety of hats and coats, including a heavy cape; a threadbare Persian mat on the floor. Eastern weapons, daggers, spears, clubs hanging on the walls.
On the right, a glass-panelled door through the opaqueness of which Littlejohn could make out a red face and a bald head turned towards him. Nobody opened the door to meet him. Instead a man’s voice, coarse, rusty, and loud called out:
‘What do you want?’
Littlejohn opened the door and in a circle of light from a table lamp saw a man sitting in an armchair before the fire.
‘Have you closed the front door?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come in then and close that one, too.’
The man did not move. He was sprawling in the chair, his slippered feet on a footstool. At his elbow a glass and a bottle, and a syphon on the floor beside him. His filmy poached eyes looked his visitor over insolently, taking in every detail. Finally he pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the fire with a podgy hand.
‘Sit down. You the police? I thought you’d come. It’s taken you long enough.’
He spoke in short, brusque sentences, as though his breath were only sufficient for a few words at a time.
Was he seventy, or eighty? It was hard to guess. A monstrous fat man, with legs like the trunks of trees, and swollen hands. A square, livid face, with a bulbous nose lined with small red veins, and a short, thick neck.
The old man didn’t move. He emptied his glass of whisky with a guzzling noise and passed his hand over the bottle and syphon.
‘Help yourself and pour me another.’
He took a good drink when it was ready.
‘I hear you’re from Scotland Yard. Local chaps are quite incompetent. Good thing you’re here.’
‘As the crime was committed in the east of England and as the place is flooded, I’m giving them a hand.’
‘So, it’s true, then. Jim’s got himself murdered. I told Elvira when she married him, he’d come to a bad end. No good for anything. How did it happen? I telephoned the local police, but they said they’d no details. It’s like ’em to know nothing about it.’
Littlejohn told him how James Teasdale had met his death.
‘That’s all, so far, sir.’
‘No clues?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I suppose you’ve called to ask me some questions. Fire away.’
Scott-Harris turned his congested face the better to see Littlejohn. His large sensual mouth opened every time he drew in a breath, as though his nose were inadequate to cater for his huge frame.
&
nbsp; ‘Was Teasdale a native of these parts?’
‘Yes. His father was a cashier in a mill. Fancied themselves off nothing. Jim never had a proper job. First it was an arts and crafts shop. What a set-up! Then photography… No good at either. Then, he started as a commercial traveller. Seemed to do a bit better at that. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some jiggery-pokery about that job. It surprised me that he made money in it. It needs personality to be a good salesman, which was precisely what Jim hadn’t got.’
He changed his position in the chair, panting and grunting as he did so. Major Scott-Harris was a sensualist to his finger tips. He believed in an easy life. He’d married a wife with money of her own, unfortunately for him, locked up in a trust. But she’d left her income and three daughters to him. The girls had cossetted him until they married. He hardly raised a hand to help himself.
‘What was Jim doing when he was killed? Not commercial travelling, I’ll bet.’
‘He ran a profitable sideshow at fairs.’
Old Scott-Harris couldn’t believe it. He clawed the air and seemed to hoist himself upright by it. Then he laughed. A hoarse, bubbling noise from deep in his chest.
‘I’ll be damned! I thought as much. Didn’t I say jiggery-pokery? And I’ll bet he kept another establishment, too. Didn’t he?’
‘He had a woman assisting him.’
‘I’ll bet he did! I told Elvira. But she wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t know he had it in him.’
‘I take it you objected to their marriage, sir.’
‘Like hell, I did. Elvira met him at an arts and crafts class. You’d have thought the feller was an R.A. Big bowtie, arty clothes, full of swank. And depending on his parents for a living. Elvira was the prim, plain Jane of the family. Hadn’t had a man about her before. The little pipsqueak seemed to rush her off her feet. When they said they were engaged, I refused to agree. He hadn’t even got a job. Only a scholarship to take him to some London art school. He said he’d give up the idea of taking up the scholarship and settle down in an arts and crafts shop. I showed him the door.’
‘But you eventually agreed.’
‘I never agreed…’
His colour rose. Littlejohn thought he was going to have a fit. The major took a good gulp of whisky to restore him.
‘…He put Elvira in the family way. They had to get married…’
So, it had been a shotgun wedding, after all!
‘A big splash of a weddin’, too. His family must have spent all their savings on it. They didn’t get a penny from me. I gave ’em a copper kettle for a weddin’ present and told ’em they’d made their bed and could lie in it.’
‘But, according to your daughter, they became reconciled to you.’
‘They visited me here, if that’s what you mean. But I couldn’t bear the sight of the feller.’
‘I see.’
‘You see, do you? Well, that’s nothing to do with Jim getting himself killed, has it? What exactly do you want to know?’
‘You asked to see me, sir. What do you want to know?’
‘Pour me another glass. Take one yourself, too. You seem a decent sort. Here’s good health to you, anyway. I hope you solve the case. Don’t like mysteries. I want to know who killed Jim, that’s all. Asked you to come here to tell you what I thought about Jim and that I won’t have a lot of dirty linen washed in public. Our family stands high around here. Don’t want any scandals.’
Littlejohn was sure it stood high. Or, at least Scott-Harris thought it did. Bullying and browbeating everyone, as though he were feudal lord of the place. And James Teasdale hadn’t been good enough for a Scott-Harris daughter. No doubt the major had told him so many times. Especially when things were bad for him financially. So, James has sought other ways of success—on fair—grounds.
‘Had Teasdale any enemies locally?’
‘Enemies? No. Not the type. To have enemies you need to promote hatred. You need to have some personality which makes ’em object to you. Jim had no personality. People didn’t hate him. They just brushed him aside.’
‘Indeed! From what I gather elsewhere, he seemed a decent kind of fellow. He was well thought of in the places he visited.’
‘Decent, did you say? Decent? And him running a show on a fairground and living with another woman. Do you call that decent? Had he any other children on the wrong side of the blanket?’
‘No. We don’t even know that the woman was his mistress. Her name was Martha Gomm and she seems a very kindly, hard-working sort.’
‘Martha Gomm! Good God! What a name.’
It certainly wasn’t hyphenated and it was short enough. Littlejohn was beginning to understand why James Teasdale had fled to the fairgrounds of the south. His father-in-law was enough to make any man take to his heels, to say nothing of his own family.
‘You’d no idea what he was doing to keep his family in decent circumstances then, Major Scott-Harris?’
‘I had not. But I guessed there was something queer about it. Told Elvira as much. Runnin’ off every week on what he called his rounds. Then, back at week-end, and off again. It wasn’t normal. Why did he keep the shop goin’? Why didn’t he take his family nearer his work, instead of scuttering here and there like a rabbit? Now, I know why. Well, I’m not surprised.’
He tossed his fat hand about in the air and coughed asthmatically as though the effort were too much for him.
‘It didn’t worry me, though. As I said, I told ’em they’d made their bed. I take things as they come. Man of the world. Can’t say I’m surprised. Elvira isn’t what you’d call a feminine woman. No charm. I’d say she ran after Teasdale and more or less forced him into marriage. She’s my own daughter and I suppose it’s wrong to say it, but she’s not cut out for keeping a man… The rest are the same. Two other daughters, Phoebe and Chloe…’
He cleared his throat. The whisky was making him talk a lot. In fact, he was getting sorry for himself—pitying himself for having three daughters without charm.
‘…Phoebe’s married to a corn merchant. He poses as a miller, but he’s not. Sells corn by the stone to hen-keepers and seeds by the packet for owners of budgerigars. Chloe, the youngest, married the local registrar of births, marriages, and deaths. What a trio of sons-in-law! It’s enough to make a man damn well shoot himself.’
‘You were in the regular army, sir?’
Littlejohn said it for lack of anything else to talk about.
‘No. Territorial. Joined up in the first war. Retired when I returned in ’19. Now I’m all on me own.’
He passed his glass over to Littlejohn and inclined his head in the direction of the bottle. If there was anyone else around, he presumably did nothing for himself.
‘My family’s a very old one. Sometimes feel ashamed how the present generations have lowered the standards. It’s because there are so many damn women in the family now. I’d a son, but he was killed in Burma in the last war…’
He paused and breathed hard.
‘The rest were girls. Three girls. And they’ve not produced a son among them. What the hell’s the matter with the family? Nobody but girls. Elvira has three and Phoebe and Chloe, one girl apiece. I was surprised about Elvira, I must say. After the third girl in four years, I gave the pair of ’em a talkin’-to. Stop it! I told ’em. That’s quite enough. Looks as if they did as I advised ’em…’
‘They’ll be a comfort to Mrs. Teasdale now, I suppose.’
‘Comfort! Hah! That’s what’s caused the family to deteriorate. Women who’d take anybody for a husband. Elvira, a penniless painter. Phoebe, a corn seller. Chloe, a registrar of births and such like. And now, Elvira’s girl, Irene’s knocking about with a bookie. Can you wonder the family standard’s declined?’
To hear him talk, you’d have thought he came from a family of ancient dukes. Instead, here he was, an old
soak, full of his own importance, trying to give the impression he’d seen better days.
‘You live alone, sir?’
‘Got a batman, who lives in. He takes every evenin’ out. Can’t keep servants these days unless you pander to ’em. That’s why I put the indicator thing on the front door. Saw ’em advertised somewhere. It’s a damn’ good idea. Saves me having to answer the door myself.’
‘Was this man your batman in the war?’
‘No. He’s been in the army though, and we understand one another. The girls call to see me regularly, although none of them will do a hand’s turn in the house. I have a daily woman to help Ryder. He should be in any time…’
A pause. There was hardly a sound from the street outside. They might have been right in the country instead of almost in the town itself. In one corner, a grandfather clock ticked away the time. It was almost seven o’clock. Littlejohn realised he hadn’t eaten since his meal in the train between Ely and Sheffield.
‘I’m glad you’ve called, Superintendent. We’ve had a heart to heart talk and you know how I’m placed myself and what I think of my family. All the girls are plain Janes, who’ve taken a motley lot of husbands for the sake of being married…’
No wonder! If this was the best the Major could do, it wasn’t surprising his daughters had taken the first chance of going to the altar!
‘As for Jim… He didn’t like being called Jim. He was always known as James at home. I liked calling him Jim just to rile him. Well, as for Jim, I can’t believe it’s happened. To get murdered after years of earning money on a fairground and living tally with another woman. It beats me.’
‘He was perhaps driven to it. After all, with a bankrupt business and a growing family, he must have been desperate.’
Scott-Harris moved brusquely for the first time, just to enable him to slap his hand down hard on the table.
‘Desperate! He’s let down the family, sir. Made a laughing stock of me. He deserved all he got.’
And with that he slumped down in his chair again.
The Body in the Dumb River Page 5
