The Body in the Dumb River

by George Bellairs

  ‘It was a quiet affair. Mrs. Teasdale fainted and had to be helped away.’

  ‘I bet she did! Trust Elvira. Ever since she was a nipper she’s made a drama out of every event in life. Hysterics when her mother died; had a fit at the graveside when they buried her. I often wondered what happened on her honeymoon. I’ll bet Lady Macbeth wasn’t in it!’

  He paused, gasping for breath, but he looked a bit better. Excitement had brought back some of his colour.

  ‘I’d better attend to the fire, sir.’

  Littlejohn went through the previous ritual again. He carried in a shovelful of coal from the tumbledown coal-shed, filled up the scuttle with cobs, threw some pieces of wood on the embers in the grate to coax them into flames.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink…’

  ‘Not just now, sir.’

  ‘That’s serious. Help me to one, then.’

  Littlejohn gave him a whisky and soda.

  ‘Well, what do you want? I don’t flatter meself you’ve called to ask about my health or to fill up the fire. What is it this time?’

  ‘I want to know what happened to Ryder, sir.’

  ‘How the hell should I know? He’s just done a bunk. I haven’t checked the silver or the ready cash. Don’t feel up to it, but I’ll bet something’s missin’.”

  ‘I don’t believe he left Basilden, sir. I’d be surprised if he even got far from this house.’

  Scott-Harris scuffled with his shawls and sat up. He groaned like somebody hurt as he levered himself half upright.

  ‘You’re not hintin’ that I might have something to do with his vanishin’!’

  ‘First of all, sir, don’t you think you ought to call in the doctor? You look in very poor shape. I’d think all the happenings of the past few days have been too much for you…’

  ‘Blast it, man, get on with what you’ve got to say! I don’t need a doctor. I can look after myself. A day or so’s rest and I’ll be as fit as a fiddle. Must have caught a cold or somethin’.’

  ‘Well, I think you ought to have the doctor, just the same. However…I’ve called to ask you what happened last Sunday night after Mr. Teasdale and his wife called.’

  Scott-Harris grunted, took a swig of his whisky, and sank down on the couch again.

  ‘I’ll bet any money, you know already. Somebody among all that lot, not exceptin’ my family, would be only too glad to tell you. So why bother me?’

  ‘I want your description of what went on. Why did you send for Harry Wood?’

  ‘That’s an easy one. I sent for him because Elvira wouldn’t believe that Jimmie was running a show on the fair and keepin’ another woman.’

  ‘You told her before Sunday?’

  ‘Of course I did. I wouldn’t put it past her to tell you I didn’t. You’ve been questioning her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’ll wager she gave you a dramatic recital about it, too, didn’t she? Yes, I told her and she said it was a lie. You see, she couldn’t believe that such a thing could happen to her. An adulterous husband runnin’ a hoop-la stall on a fairground. She refused to believe it. Her pride wouldn’t let her. When it comes to pride, Elvira’s an ostrich. Head in the sand.’

  ‘So you confronted her with Harry Wood. Ryder, I assume, told you, in the first place.’

  ‘Yes. And I told Elvira. So, as she wouldn’t believe it second-hand, I made up my mind she should have it straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘Did Ryder try blackmail in connection with this information he’d come by?’

  ‘He hinted. But he’d got hold of the wrong chap when he mentioned it to me. Tell it, and be damned, I told him.’

  ‘Had he tried it on Teasdale, too?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because, just before his death, Ryder was flush with money. He’d a pocketbook full of notes.’

  ‘For some reason…and mind you, it wasn’t his family he was thinkin’ of… For some reason Jimmie didn’t want it to get out…’

  ‘He promised the other woman in the case he wouldn’t ask for a divorce until later. You see she happened to be a decent sort and didn’t want him to bring disgrace on his family. He’d made up his mind to ask for a divorce sooner or later, but he also was intent on keeping his promise to the woman.’

  ‘So he paid Ryder to shut up. However, after it all came out last Sunday, Teasdale pitched into Ryder and threatened to tell the police.’

  ‘What evidence of blackmail could Teasdale have given to the police?’

  ‘I think he’d paid up to Ryder the previous time he was back here. A week last Sunday. In the course of a row he had here with Ryder on Sunday night, he said he’d still got the note Ryder sent him giving instructions where they’d meet for the handover. He said the police would soon recognise the writing. That shook Ryder. I don’t suppose the evidence was conclusive, but if it had been, it might have seen Ryder off for quite a stretch. You see, he’d previous convictions, and a charge of blackmail, well…? Would you say five years?’

  There was a large steel engraving on the wall opposite the fire and, beneath it, a cavalry sabre in its sheath, hanging from a hook. Littlejohn went across the room and took it from the wall.

  ‘Leave that alone. I like your damn’ cheek. Put it back.’

  Littlejohn withdrew the sabre from the sheath. It was clean and bright.

  ‘I hear you chased Teasdale round the room with this last Sunday, sir.’

  He snapped the blade back and hung the weapon in its place again.

  ‘Elvira told you that, too, eh? I can imagine her. Real melodrama, eh? Outraged father pursuing betrayer of his daughter with drawn sword. Right up Elvira’s street that. Did you believe her?’

  ‘Yes, until you can prove otherwise. But first of all, let’s begin where you faced Teasdale and his wife with Harry Wood. You accused Teasdale to his face about his double life and then trotted in Harry to confirm it.’

  ‘That’s right. As I said, Elvira wouldn’t take my bare word. So…’

  ‘What did Teasdale say to that?’

  ‘Lost his silly little temper. Hit Wood across the face. Just like him. Slapped him, instead of punchin’ him on the jaw like a man. Me and Ryder had to interfere and stop him. I think he’d have strangled Harry Wood. Wood was twice as big, and heavy, but he’s yellow-livered and was scared. Instead of hittin’ him back, he backed away. Ryder told him he’d better go before Jimmie killed him, and the cowardly blighter went hot-foot.’

  Littlejohn was watching Scott-Harris closely. He spoke to him casually. ‘And then when Wood had gone, Teasdale turned on you, sir.’

  Scott-Harris said nothing at first. He stared at him with a frown on his forehead, his eyes popping. His thoughts were wandering and he seemed to be making a tremendous effort to follow what was being said.

  ‘How much do you really know, Littlejohn? I’d almost say you were here when it happened. Did Elvira tell you, or was it that swine Ryder?’

  ‘Never mind that. Teasdale turned on you, then. He called you all the names he could lay his tongue to.’

  The old man hardly moved a muscle. He was too taken aback even to speak.

  ‘He said he wanted a divorce and abused you some more. Finally, you said you’d kill him for all he’d said and done. You then took down the sabre from the wall, and he laughed at you for your pains. Then Teasdale set about Ryder and his blackmail.’

  ‘That’s it! That’s right! I only took the sword to frighten him and make him eat humble pie. The silly little pipsqueak. To threaten and abuse me. Me! When he found out he couldn’t upset me, he tried it on Ryder. Shook Ryder, too, by gad!’

  ‘He was then going to make an exit after leaving Ryder to stew, but you called him back.’

  Scott-Harris sat up. He panted and wheezed and groped for his glass again. />
  ‘Pour me another.’

  He guzzled down half the whisky in a gulp.

  ‘You’re right. I sent Elvira out of the room. I was goin’ to make Teasdale sit up for his cheek. He’d cursed me and tried to make me look small. I’d no intention of doin’ the same in the presence of a woman. So I sent her out. I was goin’ to show Jimmie that when it came to cursing, he was just an amateur. I was going to make him crawl.’

  ‘So, in the absence of your daughter, you and Ryder set about Teasdale and beat him up. Is that right?’

  Scott-Harris hadn’t foreseen that. He pawed the air and although half lying on the couch, he seemed to lose his balance, clutched at the table beside him, and sent the bottles and glasses crashing to the floor.

  ‘Major Scott-Harris! Pull yourself together.’

  It didn’t calm the old man. He thrashed about, livid now.

  ‘So, Elvira told you that, did she? She’s a damned liar. I just told him off and showed him the door, and he went. Now, let’s get this straight, once and for all, Littlejohn. She’s told you a tale so that you’ll come here and enrage me. Or, you might even arrest me. She knows my blood pressure’s in a dangerous state and my heart’s dicky. She hopes you’ll upset me so much that it’ll kill me. Or maybe she wishes you’d arrest me as murderer of Jimmie, and hang me. It’s diabolical… It’s… It’s…’

  His eyes were jutting from his head. He looked almost raving mad. Then, suddenly, he quietened off. He lay back on the couch gasping.

  ‘Let me tell you somethin’, Littlejohn. Elvira hates me. Shall I tell you why? Money. She’s always wanted me out of the way. Her mother’s money comes to her then. The other two sisters are the same, but they’re not highly strung and unbalanced like Elvira and they act more discreetly and keep quiet about it. But they think the same. They want to see the last of me. The income on my late wife’s estate comes to me for life and when I die, the capital’s divided among the three of ’em. Thirty thousand pounds or thereabouts, nominal. No wonder they want me to die. A stroke, a heart attack, or even hangin’. It’s all the same to them. They expect ten thousand apiece! Quite a windfall after the life the three of ’em have led, mere existences with a trio of husbands who’re nonentities…penniless nincompoops. But they’re in for a shock. I said thirty thousand nominal. Most of the money is in War Loan bought at 104. Now it’s at 57, making the cash capital about £16,000. A little over five thousand apiece!’

  Littlejohn sat quietly in the chair beside the couch. Then he slowly bent down, picked up the bottles and set the table right. He spoke casually again.

  ‘What happened to Teasdale?’

  ‘He left like a whipped dog after I’d finished with him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’

  ‘What was all the commotion that occurred after your daughter left you and Ryder with him and went in the next room?’

  ‘So, you’re still harpin’ on that. I told you she’s a liar. She wants me to be accused of murder. Well, I didn’t kill Teasdale. I tell you, I didn’t.’

  ‘I’m not saying you did. But what happened? Why did Ryder go in the street and drive Teasdale’s car to the back of the house?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do, sir. Why should Ryder move the car if Teasdale went away through the front door on his own two feet?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I didn’t know the car had been moved.’

  He sank back again, limp, a dead weight. There wasn’t a sound, except the ticking of the clock and the hiss of the coals in the grate.

  ‘What happened to Ryder?’

  The old man groaned as though in pain again.

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know. Why keep on askin’ the same silly questions? Go and ask those who’ve told you all the other rubbish. As far as I know, things must have got too hot for him, and he bolted into hiding. I don’t know where he’s gone.’

  ‘Ryder isn’t hiding. He’s dead.’

  More scuffling among the shawls and Scott-Harris sat up on the couch again.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘If he hadn’t been, we’d have laid him by the heels by now. Half the police in the country are after him. He’d have shown up somewhere if he’d been alive.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help you. I don’t know a thing about it. He went to bed one night; in the morning he’d gone.’

  ‘The night I was here and saw him coming home?’

  ‘It might have been. I’m too tired to remember…’

  He waved his hand about limply. His eyes were bloodshot and his thin remaining hair was dishevelled and sticking out from the back of his head.

  ‘Look here. I’ve had enough. I’m not well. You’d better leave me. As you say, I’d do with a doctor. I’ve told you all I know and if I send for Dr. Macallister, he’ll stop you from this pesterin’. You’d better ring him up.’

  ‘Very well, sir. What’s his number?’

  ‘It’s in the book on the table by the ’phone there.’

  Littlejohn rang up the doctor. A woman answered. He had been called out to Cassons’ Mill. Two firemen had been injured and a number of operatives, caught in an upper room, had been burned. The doctor would call at Rangoon as soon as possible.

  ‘The doctor’s been called out to a fire at Cassons’ Mill, sir. He’ll come round as soon as he gets in. Meanwhile you’d better take a rest and don’t excite yourself any more…’

  Littlejohn straightened the rugs and the shawl and made the old man comfortable. Scott-Harris was looking washed out again now, the same pallor and swelled purple veins which Littlejohn had seen when first he called.

  ‘Before I go, sir, I’d just like to take a look over the house to make sure that there’s no trace of Ryder or that he’s not taken anything away with him. Besides, we may get a clue as to his whereabouts.’

  Scott-Harris reared up again, too exhausted to sit straight, resting with his face on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

  ‘Damn’ cheek! Search the place, did you say? I won’t allow it.’

  Littlejohn sighed. Nothing but trouble and frustration where the major was concerned.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought you mightn’t object. My colleague will soon be here with a search warrant and…’

  Scott-Harris sat upright, dangling his swollen feet in their red leather slippers, clutching the couch to hold himself erect.

  ‘Search warrant? It’s a scandal. Why search my place? I didn’t kill Teasdale. As for Ryder, go and search the town and where he’s known, instead of upsettin’ me and my home.’

  ‘We applied for the warrant because you won’t co-operate, sir. From the very beginning, you’ve made it difficult for us. We must find Ryder. You understand. We’ve got to find Ryder.’

  Scott-Harris cooled off. He even gave Littlejohn a look of reproach. There was something crafty in the look, too, but Littlejohn couldn’t guess what it was about.

  ‘Don’t get excited, then, Littlejohn. Nothin’ to get excited about. I’ve nothin’ to hide. Search the damned house, if you want. Ground floor to attics. All the same to me. You won’t find Ryder. I tell you, he bolted from here. It must have got too hot for him.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Lie down again, then, and don’t be upset. I won’t disturb anything.’

  The major settled down and Littlejohn left him, the door open in case he called for anything.

  There were attics. He climbed to them first. Dusty and forlorn places, once occupied by servants. There were still iron bedsteads in two of them, with soiled straw mattresses. The rest, mere junk. Old furniture, hip-baths, boxes, trunks, piles of books and magazines. The third attic must have been a playroom when the girls were young. There was an ancient rocking-horse, which still moved rhythmically to and fro as L
ittlejohn instinctively pushed it. And a soiled doll’s house, some old skittles, a couple of cracked rubber balls with their colour worn away. Finally, a row of dolls, three of them, staring into space, dressed in moth-eaten little frocks. It all looked as if, suddenly, when the nursery was alive and the girls at play, someone had entered and carried them away, never to return.

  The floor below had four bedrooms, a boxroom, and an old-fashioned bathroom. Littlejohn entered them all, one by one. Ryder’s quarters he had visited before. Then, two bedrooms containing old wooden beds and bedroom suites. The mattresses, soiled like the others on the floor above, were there, dusty, moth-eaten. The smell of damp, decay, and that stony, dry-rotten odour of old houses and neglected rooms hung about. Finally, Scott-Harris’s bedroom, larger and packed with old furniture, on the front of the house. It was tidy, the bed was made, but there was dust on the chairs, dressing-table, and desk. Dust which had not been disturbed for days by human intrusion. It looked as if, since Sunday last, at least, Scott-Harris had not been upstairs, never slept in the great double bed, which he had once occupied with his sad-looking wife, never even opened the flat half-bottle of brandy lying on its side on the table by the bed.

  Littlejohn looked around. No point in opening drawers, in searching here and there for evidence. He wanted Ryder, at present, and nothing else. And Ryder and all his possessions had vanished as though he had never lived in the house at all.

  His eye caught a drawer open a mere half-inch, clumsily closed by whoever had handled it last, held open by a small wedge of cotton-wool escaping from the inside. He pulled it and looked in.

  It was used for first-aid equipment. Lint, cotton-wool, surgical gauze, bottles of iodine, aspirin, bromide. Surgical scissors, tweezers… He didn’t touch any of them. He noticed that the cotton-wool and the lint packets had been hastily torn open and part of the contents plucked from their places by rough hands, too busy, too eager even to straighten the paper again, but merely to thrust the remainder back and not even close it properly in the drawer.