7
Swept from Her Feet
The best hotel in Basilden was the Swan with Two Necks and the local police had booked a room for Littlejohn there. The dinner was indifferent, but the Superintendent hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the one in Ely and he enjoyed it.
‘Everythin’ to your likin’, sir?’
The landlord came and stood by his elbow as he drank his coffee; a little bloated man with a toothbrush of a moustache, who was proud of his guest and had been airing the fact in the bar. His name was Hector Evans and he was locally known as Heck.
‘It isn’t often we get a Scotland Yard man here,’ he told everybody, as he watched his wife serving the drinks. She did most of the work whilst her husband wandered about being sociable.
‘Sit down, Mr. Evans, and take a cup of coffee with me.’
‘Very nice of you, sir. Don’t mind if I do.’
Heck then called for two liqueur brandies.
‘On the house, sir. Proud to have you with us.’
He handed Littlejohn a cigar in an aluminium tube. They sat there smoking like a couple of successful business men. Littlejohn’s cigar was a dry one and crackled like a lot of old faggots as he smoked it.
‘Did you know James Teasdale, Mr. Evans?’
Mr. Evans rolled his cigar to the corner of his mouth and spoke round it.
‘Knew him well. He never came here, of course. His wife would have played merry ’ell with him if he’d been seen in a pub. Very different from Little Jimmie. Fancies herself. Big mistake him ever marrying her. He was a nice little chap. I’m sorry about him being murdered. We was by way of being pals. During the war when we had to find work of national importance, Jimmie and me worked in the same shop, testing aeroplane parts.’
‘You got to know him well, then?’
‘None better. We were in the same shop for nearly three years. Poor Jimmie. He’d have liked to stay on working there, but, of course, when the war ended we became redundant. He’d to go back to his shop and under Mrs. T.’s thumb again. Working at a factory quite brought him out in those days.’
A long cylinder of ash fell from Heck’s cigar and he flailed about dusting it from his clothes.
‘Whoever would want to murder an innocent chap like Jimmie…?’
He paused and chuckled.
‘Good job his wife can’t hear me callin’ him Jimmie. She thinks it’s common. It’s always James this and James that with ’er.’
‘Have you been in Basilden long, Mr. Evans?’
‘Nearly thirty years. My missus’s father…you’ll have seen her in the bar… her father was landlord of this place before us. I was a traveller for the brewery, and well…when the old man died, I married Sandra and we settled down in this place.’
Littlejohn could well imagine Heck hanging up his hat.
‘You’ll know the Teasdales and the Scott-Harris family then.’
‘Rather. The major used to be a regular customer here, till he started drinkin’ at home. It’s bad, that is; drinking alone at home. Old Theo. Scott-Harris always fancied himself off nothing. He’d been an auctioneer in a small way till he married money. Then, he launched out, they tell me. Became a major in the Territorials and started to behave like a real army man. I believe his health’s not good now. It’s whisky, no doubt, and the wild life he led in his young days.’
‘Do you know the Teasdale family well?’
‘You mean Jimmie’s father and mother. No. They’re both dead. As for Jimmie’s wife and kids, you should hear my brother-in-law talk about them. Fred Tinker, he’s called, and runs the Royal Oak next door to Teasdale’s shop.’
‘How long has he lived there?’
‘Ten years. It’s a good house. He could tell you a thing or two about Jimmie’s family.’
‘I suppose he’s told you all there is to tell?’
‘Well… We meet regularly after hours. He brings his wife here. Marlene’s Sandra’s younger sister. Another brandy?’
He didn’t wait for an answer but hurried off and returned with two more drinks.
‘I thought I’d put ’em in proper balloon glasses. It tastes better, doesn’t it? This is good stuff, I can tell you. Some the old man had in for years. Special occasion, wot?’
They smoked in silence for a minute and then Evans spoke.
‘Talk about poor Jimmie being murdered. From what my brother-in-law says, it’s a wonder he didn’t murder her!’
‘You mean Teasdale?’
‘Yes. She never left him alone before he took the job of traveller. I say traveller because it’s what we were all used to calling him. Now, it’s come out in the papers that he was some sort of a showman on a fairground. Fairground! That’s a good one. The family’ll never get over it.’
Heck then started to laugh until he coughed convulsively. The odd diners at other tables began to turn round to see whatever was the matter with him. He drank from a water jug and composed himself. He pushed his face close to Littlejohn’s.
‘She never stopped nagging him. You see, they do say she chased Jimmie all over the town till she hooked and married him. Then, she’d big ideas about opening an arts-and-crafts shop. Arts and Crafts! It was a failure from the start.’
Mr. Evans hadn’t much to do and he wished to give everybody the impression that he was persona grata with the London detective. He spoke slowly and carefully, choosing his words.
‘The rows my brother-in-law’s heard going on. Not only in the day, but half-way through the night. Not that Jimmie said much. He couldn’t get a word in edgeways. When they were first married, she just sat around playing the lady while Jimmie did the housework as well as minding the shop and other things. Then, when the kids began to come, she played the invalid and Jimmie and her sisters looked after her. When the girls grew up, they helped. But from what I hear, Mrs. T. never raised a hand. Sat rocking and reading all day long. She must have driven Jimmie up the wall. No wonder he was happy when he went out to work during the war. And then, after he started travellin’, he began to look better again; a new man. As I said, it’s a wonder he didn’t murder her for the way she treated him.’
The room was small and low-ceilinged, with a few tables with little lamps on them. In one corner, a courting couple were dining, holding hands under the table, and near the fire, a pair of commercial travellers were swopping yarns. The heavy atmosphere and Heck’s droning voice made Littlejohn feel sleepy. Come to think of it, he hadn’t slept at all last night.
‘Once or twice she actually got violent. Threw things at Jimmie…’
‘She did?’
‘Yes. The walls of the property aren’t very thick and my brother-in-law and his wife could often hear the rows that went on.’
‘Didn’t their daughters interfere?’
‘They spend a lot of time out. They mix with what you might call the high society of Basilden, such as it is. Their mother’s seen to that. She wants to get ’em off with somebody with money. Make a good match for them. That’s why this affair’s going to hit her hard. She deserves all that’s comin’ to her.’
‘What were these rows about?’
‘From what my brother-in-law overheard, it was always about money. She used to accuse him of asking her to marry him when he knew he couldn’t keep her. It seems she had other suitors who’d have let her live like a lady. Who they were, I don’t know. She was always at him about what was going to happen to her and the children when Jimmie died, too.’
Littlejohn nodded understandingly. Abuse falling on James Teasdale’s head like hailstones. So, he’d gone off and supplemented his income on a game of chance on a fairground whilst his wife was saying he’d got a good job travelling for a big firm in Manchester. And then, he’d met Martha Gomm…
At the inquest in Ely, Martha had appeared to answer a few questions about Teasdale’s movements
before his death. She had replied quietly and sensibly and had not been harried by the coroner. The police would have quite a lot more to ask her… And all the time, Mrs. Teasdale had behaved as though Martha Gomm didn’t exist. She hadn’t spoken to her, had refused to meet her, had talked of her as ‘my husband’s employee’.
‘She used to say that she’d been let down.’
Heck’s glaucous eyes were fixed on Littlejohn’s face. He was enjoying himself.
‘What about the daughters?’
‘Three fancy pieces! One’s engaged to a young doctor in the local hospital. One works for a dentist and the pair of them are out a lot together after hours. The chap’s married, too, so how that’ll end, I don’t know. The other’s knocking round with a bookie. Her ma doesn’t much fancy that, but as he’s in the money, she’s probably disposed to overlook his other shortcomings…’
Littlejohn rose and stretched himself.
‘I’d better be getting along. I’ve some matters to attend to before I go to bed. I’ll see you later.’
The landlord was reluctant to let him go, but agreed.
‘A day and night job, the police, isn’t it?’
He gave Littlejohn another cigar like a small torpedo and saw him to the door.
Only half the face of the church clock was illuminated, but Littlejohn could make out that it was half-past nine. Perhaps the sharp edge of the family reunion in High Street would have worn off. He made his way down the rows of shops to the Teasdale home.
It was raining. A thin mist of rain which clung to the clothes and formed a halo round the shabby electric lights of the road. The town square was almost deserted. There were lights on in the church and the choir were practising. The music of their anthem mingled with that of a pub across the way where the patrons were singing to the accompaniment of an old piano.
Littlejohn rang the bell at the side of the shop door. Footsteps across the floor and someone fumbled with the lock. The door opened slightly on the end of a chain.
‘Who is it?’
‘Littlejohn.’
It was Chloe, Mrs. Teasdale’s sister, the olde-tyme dancer.
‘The rest have gone to make some arrangements for the funeral, the day after tomorrow. I’m just sitting with my sister till the girls come home. They’re at the dressmaker’s about the mourning. Come inside.’
The lamp from the back quarters made a tunnel of light through the darkness of the shop. The living-room was hot and stuffy and the smell of cigar smoke hung about from the efforts of the corn-chandler, now gone to his club to discuss the family news and, probably, to contradict some of the unsavoury items spread abroad by the evening papers.
Mrs. Teasdale was sitting in the usual rocking-chair idling the time away and her sister must have been clearing up the remnants of family refreshment when Littlejohn rang. There were soiled cups and saucers on the dining-table, plates bearing crumbs of bread and cake, biscuits on another plate and, in the middle of the lot, a large heavy-looking plum-cake ornamented with marzipan and icing.
The murder had evidently not destroyed anybody’s appetite.
Mrs. Teasdale didn’t rise. She didn’t even stop rocking; but by a slight stiffening of the body, changed gear and modified the pace of her to-ing and fro-ing.
‘Excuse my late call, but I came to ask if there was anything more I could do to help, Mrs. Teasdale.’
The face of the newly made widow lengthened as her expression changed from lazy almost voluptuous comfort to one of simulated grief.
‘How kind of you. No. I don’t think there is anything more just now, Superintendent. My family have gathered round to support me and have been a great help.’
Chloe scuttered in and out, gathering the wreckage of the feast and removing it to the kitchen behind. Now and then she cast an almost coy look on Littlejohn.
‘Please sit down. A cup of tea or a little refreshment…?’
Chloe paused in her labours, apologetic, almost distressed at having carried off the feast under what might be the nose of a hungry man.
‘I’m so sorry. I hadn’t thought. The upset, you know…’
‘I’ve just dined, thank you. I don’t wish to disturb you.’
Mrs. Teasdale smiled sadly.
‘Those who have nothing to hide are not easily disturbed.’
Was there some hint, some suspicion concerning her husband and his recent behaviour in the words?
‘Will you take a little of something, Mr. Littlejohn?’
There was a plated tray on the sideboard with two used glasses and another clean one surrounding a bottle of whisky. It had obviously recently been used by the brothers-in-law. Mrs. Teasdale indicated that Littlejohn might help himself, but he declined. There was only a tablespoonful remaining in the bottle.
What struck Littlejohn most was the absence of the usual atmosphere of mourning around the place. They couldn’t, of course, on account of the shop, have the body there, but there is usually about the home of the dead an ante-funeral atmosphere, a restraint caused by grief, a sense of depression. There was none here. Instead, Mrs. Teasdale looked very placid and comfortable and her sister was almost gay. It was only when Chloe leaned near him to remove the heavyweight cake and panted a little from her efforts that the truth dawned upon him. He received a light blast of gin from her breath.
The pair of them had been taking a little something on the sly to keep up their spirits.
Littlejohn looked across at the woman in the rocking-chair.
The thin lips, the two deep lines between the corners of the mouth and the nose, the narrow nostrils, the shallow forehead and untidy grey hair. Discontent and pride written all over the face. And disappointment in the nondescript washed-out blue eyes in their pouched sockets and faded lids.
She had accused Teasdale of asking her to marry him when he knew he couldn’t keep her.
Tomorrow, when callers came with condolences, and the day after when, dressed in black from head to foot, she followed the coffin, she’d assume an injured but dignified pose, the way a lady would behave. The lady she thought Teasdale had prevented her from becoming.
‘If you are still here the day after tomorrow, Superintendent, I would like you to be present at the funeral…’
She said it à propos of nothing at all, and Littlejohn said he would do his best to be there.
‘It will be a large gathering, I expect. Our family is greatly respected in the town.’
She slurred her words slightly. Littlejohn could imagine the sympathetic Chloe urging her to take a drink or two for the sake of her nerves, and she’d probably overdone it.
‘You were born here?’
‘Yes. My mother was the daughter of a large millowner, a very respected family…’
‘And your father, the major, he also was a native of these parts?’
‘Yes. A J.P., too, until his retirement. He has many friends here. The funeral will be a great tribute and a great comfort.’
She sighed. Never a word about the late James Teasdale. He’d blotted his family copybook with a vengeance. He didn’t enter into the matter at all. The failure, the no-account, who’d made a mess of everything he’d ever tried to do, and fetched up running a hoop-la stall on fairgrounds.
‘You were married young, Mrs. Teasdale?’
She raised herself from the lounging posture and suddenly took the offensive.
‘I was too young. Swept from my feet. I was inexperienced. One ought not to marry on impulse, but be sure that the partner one takes is able to keep one in the way one has been accustomed to…’
She seemed to know what she wished to say. In fact she’d learned it by heart, but was finding it difficult to put the words in order.
In the kitchen, sounds of washing-up. Chloe was dealing with the supper dishes and couldn’t hear the diatribe. Otherwise she might have
intervened.
‘My father advised me against the marriage, but I was headstrong. One is headstrong when one’s young and inexperienced. I have paid for it.’
She shed a few tears.
‘Excuse me. I’m very upset by recent events. I don’t quite know what I’m going to do, Superintendent. You are very kind and I feel I can confide in you. In short, I shall be dependent on my children for my very bread and butter.’
Instead of weeping, this time, she looked annoyed.
‘He probably hasn’t left me a penny. I cannot tell you what I’ve put up with in married life. First of all, the shop, trying to sell things which nobody wanted. After we married, he confessed that he had only saved one hundred pounds. We had to borrow money to buy the stock. He started painting pictures. That didn’t last long. There is a limit to pictures in a town like this. I’m sure many of our friends and relations bought James’s pictures out of pity. Their houses must have been filled with pictures they didn’t want. It was humiliating! Degrading…!’
She was going full steam ahead now. Littlejohn wondered whether or not the washing-up would end before the confessions.
‘Then, as the pictures fell off, he took to repairing bicycles. He said he’d once been a cyclist. Imagine it! Bicycles! The cellars were littered with wheels, chains, tyres, and three-speed gears! It meant I had to look after the shop. A thing I’d never been used to. And then, the children began to arrive… The strain broke me down. I was an invalid for a long time. Three children in four years. It wasn’t good enough!’
‘What wasn’t good enough, dear?’
Chloe, smiling after a job well done, appeared and heard the tail-end of the lamentations.
‘It wasn’t good enough, James giving me three daughters in four years. I was just telling the Superintendent that…’
She dried up. She’d lost the train of her thoughts.
‘It doesn’t matter. But I’m glad Mr. Littlejohn called. I want to ask you something, Superintendent. Now, please answer me frankly. I can bear it. I’m used to the indignities he had heaped upon me since our marriage…’
The Body in the Dumb River Page 8
