The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  “Vicar!!! I’ve been handicapping these past forty years …”

  That was enough. The vicar caved-in. He scythed apologetically with his hands. He’d made his stand and satisfied his conscience.

  Dare to be a Daniel,

  Dare to stand alone,

  Dare to have a purpose firm,

  And dare to make it known.

  He’d made it known …

  It was no use. He couldn’t stand up to Mr. Blanket. He blinked his charred eyelids over tired eyes, and his snouty little nose twitched. Blanket ruled the roast … In the name of Blanket, Amen …!

  Littlejohn approached the trio.

  “Councillor Blanket?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  John Bull looked ready to defend himself to the last drop of blood.

  Uncle Alfred led the vicar off.

  “Now, if we could have two detonators instead of one to-morrow. First and second at the tape … You see …”

  Their voices died away, the vicar oboeing agreement.

  Buns and coffee were being served. There was a scramble for food before supplies gave out. Sam Biles, the porter, had called for a free feed between trains. A widow with designs on him had given him a hard-boiled egg to eat with his buns and the yolk festooned his beard like decorations on a Christmas tree.

  Littlejohn’s card knocked the stuffing out of Councillor Blanket at first. He looked to have shrunk in the wash. He thought they were on his track for corrupt practices at the election. After all, surely the promise of two days’ buns and coffee at the sports couldn’t be regarded …

  He perked up, however, when he heard the purpose of the Inspector’s visit.

  “Very willin’ to help, I’m sure. But I haven’t much time. You see, there’s dancing after tea and I’m in charge of events …”

  Councillor Blanket wasn’t going to miss the dancing. Oh, no. He was going to hop and skip over the sward with the rest of them to the strains of the Fetling Town Band. With the help of his glasses at the heats, he’d already made a mental list of partners.

  “… Perhaps it’d be as well if we went over to Miss Adlestrop’s cottage. She could tell her story as well and I could show you just how things happened.”

  “That would be fine. Shall we go?”

  “Yes … Just a minute …”

  Mr. Blanket dived into the crowd milling for food round the tea tent.

  He handed a large bottle of pillules to the woman in charge. Hundreds of doses of a ten-thousandth of a grain of Arnica! Similia similibus curantur …

  “If any of you feel stiff with runnin’, or have overdone it a bit, take three pills from the bottle.”

  “And now let’s be off.”

  Taking Littlejohn by the elbow he propelled him at great speed in the direction of Miss Adlestrop’s house, like Virgil hustling Dante along and giving him no time to pause and question the damned.

  Behind them, two violent explosions shook the air as Uncle Alfred showed the vicar what he meant. Young children started to howl and the rooks in the vicarage trees all rose in dismay with wild cawing.

  6

  THE RIVALS

  MR. BLANKET peeped impudently through the window of Miss Adlestrop’s cottage as he and Littlejohn made their way to the front door.

  “What the hell’s he doing here?” asked the Councillor, and recoiled in distaste. His face flushed and the back of his neck grew almost black with temper.

  Inside, they found Miss Adlestrop in earnest conversation with a small, portly man who looked like a pug dog with George Robey eyebrows.

  “This is Mr. Troyte, Inspector,” explained the lady after Mr. Blanket had introduced the pair of them and huffily explained the purpose of their visit. The Councillor ignored Mr. Troyte, except that he gave him a perforating glare.

  “Deelighted to meet you … Deelighted,” said Mr. Troyte. He had a pug dog’s teeth, as well, and his voice came from straight behind them, a sort of wuffing noise, thick and unctuous. Like one of Walt Disney’s large, benevolent animals. It gave you a queer sort of feeling when he gave tongue. As though a pet dog suddenly started to articulate.

  Miss Adlestrop looked a bit sheepish. Littlejohn wondered if these two pompous friends of the little old maid were rivals for her hand, but soon found he was wrong. They were antagonists in a higher cause. They carried on a perpetual battle for Miss Adlestrop’s very good health.

  Littlejohn and his murder again faded temporarily into the background.

  “How are you, Selina?” asked Blanket in challenging tones.

  “I am very well, thank you,” replied the little lady with a trace of uneasiness.

  Mr. Troyte washed his hands in thin air and looked very pleased. He was a Christian Scientist and had been giving Miss Adlestrop half-an-hour’s work-out just before the Inspector and his companion broke in upon them.

  “There is no illness … Only error, shpirichool error …” he wuffed. “Breath is Life …”

  He had tacked a theory of correct breathing to the established doctrine and looked as if he practiced what he preached. His pug’s nostrils were wide as though from continual deep inhaling and he looked to have blown his teeth half-way out of his gums by vigorously exhaling through his lips.

  “Breath is Life …”

  Mr. Blanket ignored him.

  “Did you take the medicine?” asked Mr. Blanket stiffly, suspiciously eyeing an empty tumbler on the table. He had been giving her Ignatia for the nerve shock of the murder.

  “Some of it,” replied Miss Adlestrop.

  “Some of it …?” thundered Mr. Blanket.

  “I poured the remainder on the geranium,” barked Mr. Troyte, and set himself for the impact of an attack. “There is no illness … Only shpirichool error …”

  Councillor Blanket looked at the geranium on the window sill as though expecting it to turn from red to blue at any moment.

  “Spirichool Rubbish!!” he thundered. “I’ll ask you to stop callin’ here with your Error and your Breath and stuffing your nonsense into my friend …”

  Mr. Troyte continued to grin. He was breathing deeply and muttering words of control inwardly. Inhale … Exhale … There is no Anger … Shpirichool Error …

  This business had been going on in desultory fashion for months and Miss Adlestrop wouldn’t make up her mind between Like Cures Like … similia similibus curantur … and Shpirichool Error.

  It looked as though battle to the death were to be joined between Hahnemann and Mrs. Eddy.

  Littlejohn intervened. He was fed up with it all.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to talk to Miss Adlestrop for a minute or two. Would you two gentlemen mind finishing your argument in the garden?”

  Miss Adlestrop looked greatly relieved.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, and, hurrying over to Littlejohn, stood by his side as though seeking protection from a neutral.

  “I’ve really nothing more to say,” wuffed Mr. Troyte. It was like the noise a dog makes in his dreams; a muffled barking.

  “GOOD!” thundered Blanket. “Good job! For when you say it, it’s all tommy rot …”

  “One can lead a man to the waters of life, but one cannot make him drink … I hope one day, sir, you’ll see your shpirichool error … Your eyes will be opened … Good day, Miss Adlestrop … Good-bye, Inspector … Remember, dear lady, Breath is Life …” Disneyed Mr. Troyte as Miss Adlestrop showed him out. He bounced down the garden path, turning to bare his fangs in what was supposed to be a benedictive grin.

  “And now I’ll mix you some more and see you take it all this time. No more of Troyte and his poppycock.”

  Mr. Blanket beat a retreat into the kitchen to mix his potions and Littlejohn got on with the job in hand. The atmosphere of the place was very restful, especially after the medical battle which had just fizzled out. It was a pity to talk murder there.

  “It’s about the death of Mr. Grossman, Miss Adlestrop. I’m sorry to bring up a subject
which I’m sure has distressed you, but I must do so.”

  “Quite right, Inspector Littlejohn. I wish to help all I can. Such a nice man, and so gentle and polite. It was horrible.”

  She scuttered to a drawer in the sideboard, produced a bottle of smelling salts, took a good sniff, recoiled from their potency and seemed better for it.

  “You knew Mr. Grossman very well?”

  “Yes. From dealing with him, you know. I spend quite a lot of time at Fetling on holiday. I always call at The Seven Whistlers. I’ve bought a lot of very nice stuff there.”

  She indicated a cabinet full of cut-glass, and Dresden, Chelsea and Staffordshire ornaments scattered about the room.

  “You knew Mr. Small and Mrs. Doakes, too, I take it?”

  “Yes … I didn’t much care for them, though. I always dealt with Mr. Grossman. He was a gentleman.”

  “Why didn’t you like the other two?”

  “Mr. Small was common, and he drinks. So unaccommodating, too. It seemed too much trouble for him to bother with you.”

  “And Mrs. Doakes?”

  “I thought her common, too. Didn’t seem interested in selling anything to women. She was always occupied with men—selling souvenirs and such like, and talking familiarly to them, if you understand what I mean?”

  “I do, Miss Adlestrop. And do you think the three of them got on well together?”

  “Oh, yes. They always seemed to. Sometimes I thought Mr. Small and Mrs. Doakes made a jest of Mr. Grossman. I have caught them making gestures and smiling behind his back at times, as though enjoying a private joke. I suppose they were more intimate with each other than with Mr. Grossman. They live together on the premises and are relatives. Mr. Grossman lived elsewhere.”

  “Yes, so I hear. Now, as regards the box. Did anything about the purchase strike you as funny at the time?”

  “Nothing whatever, Inspector Littlejohn.”

  “You had the key, I understand, and gave it up to Superintendent Gillespie. Was there only one key?”

  “That is all. It was in the lock when I bought it in the shop, and, thinking it might be lost in transit, I took it as I paid for the box, put it in my handbag and there it remained until the box was delivered here on that dreadful day. I used it to open the box and …”

  Here she took another mighty sniff at the smelling-salts and opened her mouth, closed her eyes and raised her eyebrows in a struggle to recover from the fumes.

  “You had it in your handbag all the time between putting it there in the shop and taking it out when the box arrived from the station?”

  “Certainly, Inspector. And as Mr. Grossman assured me they hadn’t another key, I’ve been terribly worried to know how his body got in the box. How was it opened when I had the only key? I’m sure I locked it before I left the shop. I shook the lid to make sure.”

  “Yes, it’s quite a mystery. But there must be a simple solution somewhere. We must find it.”

  Councillor Blanket entered, carrying a glass of his precious medicine.

  “Here you are, Selina. And see you take it proper this time. Tablespoonful every two hours, and no more Troyte.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blanket.”

  “I wonder if you’d mind taking a turn in the garden, sir,” suggested Littlejohn. “We’re just in the middle of an important discussion.”

  “Oh, if I’m not wanted I’ll take myself off. Plenty to do on the sports-ground. Dancin’ begins soon.”

  “Please don’t be annoyed, Mr. Blanket,” pleaded Miss Adlestrop, anxious not to be cruel. “I will take your medicine, and thank you so much for your kindly thought.”

  Councillor Blanket perked up and smiled.

  “And when you’ve finished with your murder, Selina, come across to the field, if you like. There’s a band there. Come and trip the light fantastic a bit. Take you out of yourself and help you to forget your spirichool errors …”

  And, with this heavy sally, Councillor Blanket bade his friend au revoir, gave Littlejohn a curt nod and went off to trip and trot on the village green. Miss Adlestrop blushed and lowered her eyes.

  “Now, madam, can you tell me exactly what happened when the box arrived?”

  Miss Adlestrop fixed her eyes on a distant point through the window, like a sibyl about to prophecy.

  “It’s quite simple, really. The men from the station arrived with the chest. I had a number of friends present and wanted them all to see my bargain. So I told Biles, the porter, to bring the box in here. He put it down just there …”

  Miss Adlestrop indicated the exact spot on the carpet where he put it.

  “… I took the scissors and unfastened the wrapping …”

  “It was hessian, I believe. A sort of large bag stitched at the top …”

  “That is right, Inspector. I see you know all about it.”

  “You cut the stitching at the top. What was it like?”

  “I remember remarking how poorly it was done. In black cotton instead of proper twine or such. It might easily have broken away.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Doakes says she fastened it with carpet thread and a packing needle.”

  “So …”

  The horrible truth dawned on Miss Adlestrop and she brought the smelling-salts to her assistance again.

  “Please go on with your account, Miss Adlestrop.”

  “Well, we removed the covering and I took a duster and lightly wiped off the dust outside.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry. Inspector Gillespie made a similar noise when I told him. But I didn’t know there was a—a—Mr. Grossman was inside and that fingerprints would be important, you see. Mr. Gillespie was most annoyed, I remember. It took him all his time to speak civilly … And he was more annoyed than ever with Mrs. Hollis and poor Puddiphatt.”

  “What about?”

  “Well, you see, when we opened the box and found—and found—Mr. Grossman, it was such a shock that I went completely over. I didn’t remember anything else for some time after—after—Mr. Grossman—after …”

  “I understand.”

  “They sent straight away for Puddiphatt, who came with Mr. Hale. Poor Mr. Hale fainted, too, and has been in bed ever since. Puddiphatt took the body out of the box. I don’t quite know why he did it, but Mr. Gillespie was furious. They say he raised his hand to strike poor Puddiphatt, who is now so distressed that he’s told one or two of the villagers that he’s contemplating taking his own life.”

  “Dear me!”

  “Yes. And whilst the constable was dealing with Mr. Grossman—poor Puddiphatt was only trying to revive him, although I believe the body was quite cold—whilst he was ministering to the body on the rug, Mrs. Hollis, my charlady, came in and polished the inside of the box with furniture cream. To take away the smell of death, she said. Poor Mr. Gillespie was really ill when he heard. He beat himself on the top of the head with his clenched fist and swore horribly. Mrs. Hollis said her only regret was that she didn’t work for him, then she could give notice at once and leave him in the lurch …”

  “I can understand Superintendent Gillespie’s feelings, Miss Adlestrop. You see, Mrs. Hollis rubbed out any fingerprints that may have been in the box. Not that they’d have made much difference. I don’t lay much store by that sort of thing myself. But please don’t mention my tastes outside …”

  “Of course not.”

  “Was there anything inside the box besides the body?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. And I’m sure Mrs. Hollis would have told me if she found anything when she cleaned it.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s rather late. She said she was going to Fetling to see her married daughter this afternoon, so I don’t think you’ll find her in if you call at her house. She lives at the row of little cottages opposite the village stores. You know where that is? Well … the second house from this end.”

  “Thank you very much. I’d like just a word with her some time. Could I get
her to-morrow?”

  “Yes. She should be here in the afternoon until five o’clock.”

  “Thank you. And now I must be going.”

  “Florence is making you a cup of tea …”

  Outside, the weather had suddenly changed. The sky was overcast and what looked like a thunderstorm was blowing up. The sky over Fetling, however, looked clear, and shafts of sunshine poured down like something almost solid.

  There was a flash of lightning, and Uncle Alfred, wearing his breakfast-cereal hat, appeared with his arms full of detonators and other contraptions. He was so eager to get them under cover in his hut that he hadn’t time to stop at the house, but scuttered down to his lair at the bottom of the garden and vanished through the door.

  The band could be heard playing for The Lancers on the village green. Councillor Blanket always insisted on The Lancers.

  There was a peal of thunder like the emptying of a cartload of mighty paving stones. Then the rain came.

  It kept Littlejohn immobilised at Miss Adlestrop’s for nearly an hour. The sun continued to shine over Fetling. Peal followed peal of thunder, and from the bottom of the garden could be heard explosions in between those of the elements as Uncle Alfred experimented with his whizz-bangs for the morrow. He had promised to give a firework display after the races.

  The falling rain, the eerie sky dappled with heavy cloud and distant sunshine, and the streams of sodden, dishevelled villagers rushing home, made Littlejohn think of the Cities of the Plain receiving their dues …

  Miss Adlestrop showed Littlejohn all the bargains in cut-glass and ornaments she had bought at The Seven Whistlers. The display cabinet was a choice piece, supplied, she said, by Mr. Grossman. And then she gave a little scream.

  Sacrilegiously and defiantly plunged into the shelf above the glass doors and in front of a pretty Dresden figure was a pin surmounted by a small flag.

  FETLING CHILDREN’S HOME

  FLAG DAY

  “Who could have put that there?” said Miss Adlestrop, angrily removing the offending object.

  “Is that the first you’ve seen of it, Miss Adlestrop?”

  “Yes—I can’t think—It wasn’t there—Let me see—The last time it was dusted was before the meeting when the box came. We’ve been so upset since. I don’t know …”