Death in Desolation (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  The rest of the rooms had not been used for years; some might not even have been entered. Several were bare; others contained odds and ends of furniture, all dirty, the good and the junk all indiscriminately thrown together. Now and then, they came across something unusual, something which had been beautiful, perhaps treasured once and had its period of delight.

  Littlejohn felt stupefied by the mess around him and began to wonder vaguely what they were doing there at all. Crampitt was leaning against the door-frame of the kitchen, his cheroot still in the corner of his mouth, looking slightly pleased with himself, as though he were giving the other two a new type of experience, the kind they didn’t encounter in their investigations in London.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’

  Littlejohn wanted a breath of fresh air after it all.

  ‘Let’s go outside and you can tell us the facts of the case.’

  Crampitt nodded and looked pleased.

  ‘Our men have been all over the lot with a fine-tooth comb. The robbers didn’t leave any traces. Nor was there anything to help with the enquiry. As I said, very little money was left. You haven’t seen the dairy at the back of the kitchen. It’s got a lot of old corroded equipment in it, but it hasn’t been used for years. Same with the outbuildings. A lot of accumulated rubbish …’

  After all, the local police were concerned with the ruins and the rubbish. Littlejohn made for the front door without more ado and stepped into the open air again. There was a fine view of the flat countryside below with the trunk roads full of traffic passing along the bottom of the slope. And Quill and his wife had retreated to their tumbledown house, shut themselves away from civilisation and allowed the rest of their world to rot and tumble about their ears.

  ‘This is briefly how it happened …’

  Crampitt was at it again.

  ‘… Yesterday morning, a man passing on the main road from Rugby to Marcroft stopped a police car and said a farm on the hillside was on fire and he showed them the smoke billowing in the distance. It was this place, Great Lands. The alarm was given and the fire brigade and local police were soon on the spot …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Littlejohn, watching a hawk hovering over the hillside below.

  ‘When they arrived here, they found someone had set fire to an old haystack in the farmyard …’

  Cromwell looked up suddenly.

  ‘A haystack in a farmyard!’

  ‘Yes. If you don’t believe me, take a look. It’s still there, burnt out. You have to remember, this wasn’t an ordinary farm. It was run by a madman. That’s what I think. Quill was a madman.’

  ‘Go on …’

  Crampitt looked as if he expected an apology from Cromwell for interrupting. None came. He continued.

  ‘It was thought that Mrs. Quill had fired it to attract attention. What else could she do? No phone, unable to walk any distance, nobody about. They found her on the doorstep, collapsed. She’d had a stroke. It took her speech and one side of her body. She’s in Marcroft Hospital and she hasn’t spoken a word since they found her. Until she speaks, or at least, shows any interest in what’s going on, nobody will quite know what happened.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. They found him in the kitchen doorway, dead, with his wife beside him. He’d been killed by a blow on the back of his head. You’ll see the pathologist’s report at headquarters. The crime had probably been committed the night before between eight and ten o’clock. Mrs. Quill must have been left with the body for the whole night and until ten the next morning, when the fire at the farm was spotted. I suppose she was wondering how to get help. How she made her way from the house to the far side of the farmyard to fire the stack, God alone knows. She could hardly walk a yard.’

  ‘Any traces of whoever committed the crime?’

  ‘None whatever. Of course, that’s the way the Black Lot work, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re sure it was the Black Lot.’

  ‘Well, in view of what’s been going on lately, we naturally assumed it was another of their crimes. It follows the pattern of the rest, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. I suppose the results of the investigation so far will be on file at headquarters?’

  ‘Yes. There’s quite a big file, but, so far, it hasn’t been of much help. Unless Mrs. Quill recovers consciousness and has something spectacular to tell us, it looks as if the Quill crime will join the rest of the Black Lot ones …’

  Cromwell interrupted him.

  ‘How long did you say you’ve been in the police, Sergeant Crampitt?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘H’m.’

  Crampitt didn’t seem in any way affected by the hint. He led the way back to the police car.

  ‘That be all for now?’

  ‘For the present, yes, Crampitt,’ said Littlejohn. ‘We’d better report at headquarters and see what they have to say …’

  When they arrived at headquarters in Marcroft, they were told that Mrs. Quill had died an hour ago without recovering consciousness.

  2

  A Round of Town

  ALTHOUGH HIS colleagues at Marcroft were working on the assumption that the Great Lands affair was yet another of the Black Lot operations, Littlejohn had a feeling that there was more behind the death of Harry Quill than that. Furthermore, this was the first robbery they had committed at a tumbledown farm, and their first murder. In the past, they had chosen prosperous-looking but remote properties where the risk of the venture would be worth while and the trouble and care in preparing the raid would pay off.

  Great Lands, in spite of its name, had no obvious attraction at all for anyone in search of easy money. Littlejohn was in Marcroft on the Farmhouse Crimes case, but this part of it seemed decidedly off-beat. Without airing his views too much to the local police, he determined to treat Quill’s death as a separate case.

  Superintendent Taylor, of Marcroft, seemed surprised when Littlejohn asked if there were any surviving members of the Quill family.

  ‘Yes, sir. Quite a number. Most of them live locally. Why? Do you think they might be involved?’

  ‘No. But I simply can’t regard Quill and his wife as completely isolated, even if they were a pair of recluses. There must be others. I’d have thought several of their relatives, if they had any, would have turned up already for what they could get out of the estate or to enquire hopefully about their aunt’s state of health.’

  ‘They have. What you might call the new reigning head of the Quill lot has been here already asking for permission to go through the house and its contents in view of his aunt’s infirmity and inability to help herself. We sent him packing. After all, Harry Quill’s only been dead a bit more than a day. I told his nephew that we’d let him know when our investigations on the premises were finished and the house available. He went off in a huff, to see a lawyer, he said.’

  ‘Who is this nephew?’

  ‘Jerry Quill? He’s the dead man’s eldest nephew. There are several others. I don’t quite know how many, but we’ll find out if you like. Jerry’s the county rat-catcher here in Marcroft. He describes himself as the rodent and pest officer. As far as I know, he’s the only relative of Harry Quill who was welcome in or near the farm and then it wasn’t for a social or family call. Sprawle hamlet, in the state it’s in, is rat-ridden and Jerry used to go to his uncle’s place rodent operating.’

  ‘He lives in Marcroft?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry we haven’t a file on the Quill family as yet. But we’ll soon attend to it, if you wish. We hadn’t looked on this case from what you might call the private and personal angle. We were sure the Black Lot were involved in it, you see.’

  Superintendent Taylor was a smallish man for a police officer, but what he lacked in height he made up in keenness. His pleasant round ruddy face often deceived those who didn’t know him. He rarely missed a trick.

  ‘Don’t worry about a file, Superintendent. Carry on
as you planned. I’ll take Cromwell with me to get a picture of the Quill family background. It may prove useful.’

  Taylor looked puzzled. It wasn’t his business to question the methods of his superiors, but this seemed a queer red-herring. However, his staff were busy enough and if Littlejohn cared to undertake the duties usually carried out by junior officers, he was welcome to do so.

  Crampitt had, much to Littlejohn’s relief, been sent off on another mission. Taylor had rebuked him for taking it upon himself to show the newcomers the scene of the crime before reporting to headquarters with them. Crampitt, who had taken a university degree in economics before joining the police, thought he’d merely shown initiative which wasn’t appreciated and went off confidently to exercise his talents on yet another robbery with violence, this time in the local supermarket.

  A young constable called Cryer was assigned to show Littlejohn and Cromwell their hotel. It was in the Market Place. None of the surrounding hotels was of any size. This one seemed the best and had obviously been recently renovated. The entrance hall was bright with new varnish and ornamented with palms in pots. The manager seemed to know Cryer, who hadn’t much to say for himself. He seemed overawed by his visitors. The manager wasn’t. He ran all over the place and offered to show them the hotel from top to bottom if they wished.

  ‘We’ve reserved each of you a room with a bath. We’ve just had new bathrooms put in. The rooms overlook the square. If there’s anything you want, just say the word …’

  The porter who carried up their bags didn’t seem impressed with his boss.

  ‘He’s new. Turned the place upside down. He’ll learn in time,’ he said with relish.

  Cryer left them with a stiff salute and the manager salaamed as they followed the porter. On the way up, they passed the dining-room with a lot of little tables with white cloths where a waitress was folding napkins fan-shaped and shoving them in glasses.

  ‘We’ll have a wash and then take a stroll round the place …’

  The porter was waiting for his tip. Littlejohn gave him a shilling.

  ‘Do you hold a cattle market in Marcroft?’

  ‘They do. Every Monday and Wednesday. Just across the square at the back of the railway station.’

  ‘Does it make you busy here?’

  ‘At this hotel, do you mean? Just a bit. The better class farmers and what’s left of the local gentry take lunch here, but it’s not what it was. The money’s in different hands these days. Most of those who go to the mart is satisfied with pies, sausage rolls and pints of beer at the pubs round the cattle pens. They wouldn’t feel at home in this place, which isn’t what it used to be, either. Not by a long chalk. Is there anything more?’

  Littlejohn and Cromwell met in the hall ten minutes later.

  ‘Let’s take a look round the pubs near the cattle market …’

  Cromwell gave Littlejohn a queer look.

  ‘Making a good start, aren’t we?’

  Marcroft was a typical Midlands market town. A market square, bounded on one side by the parish church of St. Jude; on another the town hall and its offices; and the rest filled in by an assortment of banks, lawyers’ offices, hotels and a good class shop or two. Every Friday and Saturday morning the square was filled to overflowing by the stalls of a vast outdoor produce market. A huge flock of pigeons seemed to dominate the place, descending to pick among the cobblestones, which the council had not yet been able to afford to replace by asphalt, and then launching themselves in a cloud and wheeling round and back again. The jackdaws of the church steeple had grown accustomed to the chimes of St. Jude’s clock, but when the great bell tolled the hours, they still cast themselves into the air as though the steeple were shaking them off.

  The town centre was built on a small hill and the main road through and a lot of minor side streets climbed up to it. Littlejohn and Cromwell descended one of these, a narrow traffic-free alleyway which led by a series of long steps to the lower part of the town, with the station, cattle market and a confused mass of small houses at the bottom of it.

  It was not market day and the cattle pens, constructed of steel tubing, were all empty. There were a few auctioneers’ sheds here and there, a weigh-house, all dominated by vast hoardings advertising on a grand scale most of the national products, food, beer and cigarettes. On one side, three public houses, almost one after another, spread themselves. The Black Bull. The Millstone. The Drovers Inn.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell parted company and started to visit the pubs to ask the same question. Did Harry Quill ever call here when he came to the cattle market?

  The landlord of the Black Bull gave Littlejohn a surly No right away. He recognised the police as soon as Littlejohn crossed the threshold. He was almost bankrupt and when in the trough of despond, drank his own whisky and then gave his wife a good hiding. He was only a small slip of a man, with a ferret face, but he caused the police a lot of trouble from time to time. He knew that he would probably lose his licence at the next Brewster Sessions. He showed Littlejohn the door.

  ‘Never saw the chap in my life. If I had, I wouldn’t help the police. Close the door after you.’

  The Millstone had a landlady. Her husband had fallen down the stairs years ago whilst carrying the empties from a party of the Ancient Order of Drovers and Cowmen and broken his neck. She was buxom, too buxom altogether, but received Littlejohn with much more hospitality than the fellow next door. She asked him what he’d take, served him with his whisky and soda, heaved her bosom on the counter and leant on her elbows.

  ‘Police?’

  The cattle-market victuallers seemed up to all the tricks!

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Harry Quill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. They don’t have your type of detective on licensing offences. You’re from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? Chief Superintendent Littlejohn? Saw it in the morning paper.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Glad to meet you. I can’t tell you much. I knew him by name, that’s all. He wasn’t a customer here. He frequented The Drovers. I heard he was T.T. on religious grounds. He drank non-alcoholic cider. But he was a ladies’ man. Ask Rose, the barmaid at The Drovers.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Mrs. Beecham, licensed to sell beer, wines, and spirits, according to the sign over the threshold, shook with laughter.

  ‘You thinkin’ what the ladies could see in a big fat lump like Quill. You’d be surprised. Ask Rosie. She’ll tell you.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough to be going on with? Rosie has a room over the tobacconist’s shop at the back of here. They used to meet there in the afternoon when The Drovers was closed. How a man of Quill’s size managed to get up the stairs, I can’t imagine. But he did …’

  Mrs. Beecham didn’t seem to have any more useful information and the important piece of news she had given was volunteered with spiteful relish and a smack of obscenity. Littlejohn thanked her and was glad to get away and back again in the spicy air which surrounded the cattle markets. Cromwell was nowhere to be seen. He must still be in The Drovers. Littlejohn found him there.

  The small low-ceilinged inn was empty, except for Cromwell, when Littlejohn entered. It was the oldest licensed house in Marcroft and was due at any time to suffer extensive alterations on the orders of the licensing authorities. There was one large taproom overflowing with small marble-topped tables and a smaller alcove at one end with a heavy plain-wood table in the middle and long wooden settles all round it. The bar was in one corner, ornamented by the usual pumps and a background of bottles set on shelves with mirror backs. On the counter, a pile of meat pies on a glass stand with a large plastic cover over them. They looked like yesterday’s vintage – or even the day before that.

  Rosie Coggins and Cromwell were seated at one of the small tables. Cromwell had a glass of beer in front of him and Rosie a goblet with what looked like the remnants of brandy in it. Rosie’s eyes were red and swo
llen as though she’d been having a good cry. As Littlejohn entered, Cromwell gave him a penitent sort of look, perhaps conveying that he wasn’t responsible for the tears.

  Cromwell introduced Rosie and Littlejohn, and Rosie burst into tears again, as though Littlejohn’s compassionate look had moved her deeply. Then she wiped her eyes on the sodden handkerchief which she clutched in the palm of her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed.

  She was buxom, too, but not of the proportions of her peevish rival next door. Her figure was a bit too ample, but comfortable-looking and her hair had been bleached. By her customers she was probably known as a good sort.

  ‘I’d better get behind the bar and look as if I’m working,’ she said. ‘If anybody comes in and finds me in this state, they’ll wonder what I’ve been up to.’

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost one o’clock.

  ‘We close at two today. Market days, the licence is extended, but on days like this we close between two and six. I’ve told the gentleman most of what I could remember about Harry Quill, though. He used to come here whenever he was in the market. He’s been coming for years. We were good friends. It wasn’t what you think. He only took soft drinks in public, but he got to coming to my room, where he liked a bottle of stout and a talk … You must think it funny but that’s all it was. He seemed a lonely sort who wanted to unburden himself of his troubles, and that’s all there was to it. If you want to know any more, come back after two o’clock. We can talk here, but I can’t serve you with any drinks.’

  ‘I’d like Chief Superintendent Littlejohn to hear what you’ve been telling me …’

  Cromwell gave Littlejohn an enquiring look. Neither of them seemed inclined to tackle the pies for lunch, so they arranged to return and went off to eat elsewhere. Rosie’s company would probably have been more entertaining than that of the bustling manager of their hotel or his apparently rebellious head waiter, but there it was.