Death in Desolation (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  There was a brief interruption caused by the arrival of a shabby man in a cloth cap and dungarees, who, without ceremony entered and flung a small bundle held together by a rubber band on Jerry’s desk.

  ‘Two dozen,’ he said. ‘Two pound eight …’

  Cromwell with a squeamish spasm recognised the parcel as rats’ tails.

  ‘Knock when you come in ’ere. I’m busy now.’

  ‘I’m not keepin’ you. Give me the cash and I’ll blow.’

  Jerry handed over the money from a tin box in his drawer and put the grisly parcel away on an old biscuit tin on the floor nearby.

  ‘We pay two bob for every rat’s tail brought in,’ he explained to Cromwell, as though the Inspector himself might have a few to dispose of.

  The rodent officer’s department seemed to be livening up, for two more workmen, again in caps and boiler suits and with their heavy boots clotted with earth, appeared in the doorway. One was old and bent; the other, loaded with cans, sacks and traps, a youth with a smiling vacant expression.

  ‘We’ve finished at Johnson’s warehouse. Fifty-three,’ said the old ’un, giving the tally of his morning’s hunting. ‘We’re goin’ for us tea now.’

  And they both withdrew.

  So did Cromwell after thanking and bidding Mr. Jerry Quill good day. After a surfeit of corpses and rats, he didn’t feel much like lunch. However … All in a day’s work.

  He lit a cigarette and made his way to the main gates, passing a small garden in which presumably were raised the shrubs and young trees for embellishing the streets and squares of the town. Seated beneath a large plane tree which had apparently been left behind to flourish to its heart’s content, were the two rodent assistants of Mr. Jerry Quill.

  They were comfortably spread on two large sacks and were eating their refreshments with great relish. The old man, large slabs of thickly buttered bread and an onion which he bit into like an apple; the young lost-looking assistant, three cornish pasties and a pile of iced buns. The old man greeted Cromwell as though he’d known him all his life.

  ‘Got a chew of tobacco, sir?’

  ‘No, sorry. Will a cigarette do?’

  The old man agreed that it would. He had a fine pair of National Health dentures on the grass beside him. He politely put them in his pocket.

  ‘Can’t eat with ’em in,’ he said apologetically. ‘Jest wear ’em to improve me looks.’

  Cromwell took a cigarette and lit it and then gave the old ’un the rest of the packet.

  ‘You from the police? Been seein’ Jerry about his uncle’s death? I seen you goin’ in the police station earlier in the day. Not much you’ll get out of Jerry Quill. But he didn’t kill his uncle. Couldn’t even kill a rat proper, never mind a man …’

  The old man, who later said his name was Alfred Jacques, Alf for short, seemed to have so much to say to Cromwell that he couldn’t even wait for answers to his questions. Edward Douglas, Ted for short, took not the least interest in the encounter, but joyfully contemplated his pasties and iced buns and demolished them in two bites apiece like a friendly elephant.

  ‘Don’t think we suspect Mr. Quill. I only called to see him in view of his relationship with the dead man.’

  Alf took a bite of his onion and two bites of his hunks of bread with his bare gums and paused to masticate and think. Then he emitted another string of observations.

  ‘Now and then, Jerry Quill used to go to see his uncle on the farm. He pretended it was to see the place was free from rats. If that was his reason, why didn’t he take me? Always went on his own. Jerry wouldn’t know what to do with a rat if he saw one. He’s scared of rats. All he does is enter ’em in a book, pay for rats’ tails, answer the telephone and make his report once a month to the borough council. Me and Ted does all the work. He got the job because he married the daughter of the chairman of the ’ealth committee.’

  Eating onions, smoking a cigarette and telling his tale, Alf had his hands and his mouth full. He paused to sort himself out.

  ‘Why did Jerry go to Sprawle if it wasn’t for rats and if his uncle wouldn’t see him? It’s said that not even his own kith and kin was allowed across the threshold of Great Lands farm. And why did Jerry go off in the van with a pick and spade and …?’

  Alf paused to take a look at Ted, who was now fast asleep. He seemed satisfied that they weren’t overheard and reduced his voice to a whisper.

  ‘And why did he go when he knew his uncle wasn’t there? Why did he? I ask you. Why did he?’

  ‘Why did he?’ repeated Cromwell.

  ‘Don’t ask me to do your work for you. I don’t know. But I do know that three times when Jerry Quill told me he was goin’ to Great Lands to make a rat inspection, I met his uncle in the mart, where I go ever market day to see there’s no vermin around.’

  ‘And you don’t know why Jerry went to Sprawle. Perhaps it was to have a little private rehearsal at rat catching when nobody was about.’

  ‘Not him. He never did no rat catching, nor intended to. But he went there while his uncle was with his fancy lady in the town.’

  ‘What do you know about that, Alf?’

  ‘Quite a lot. All the market men knew and laughed at him behind his back. Creepin’ up to her room when he thought nobody was lookin’. I could tell you a thing or two about those two. I seen them at it and it wasn’t what you think …’

  He paused and lit another cigarette.

  ‘Look here. You’ve been very decent with me. If I tell you somethin’, will you promise not to tell who told you? Will you?’

  ‘Very good. I’ll promise.’

  ‘I said I’d seen Harry Quill and Rosie at it, didn’t I? Well, I did. I was up a ladder and saw it all through the window. Now if you was to tell anybody what I’m tellin’ you, I’d lose me job for spying on people in the course of my duties and talking about ’em. So, you see …’

  ‘I do.’

  Cromwell, feeling at a disadvantage towering above Alf’s reclining figure, arranged a spare sack on the grass and, after making sure there were no rats in it, squatted on it beside the rat-catcher. The three of them, two sitting cross-legged and another fast asleep, looked like members of an opium-smoking party.

  ‘Well … the building that Rosie has her room in belongs to the Marcroft corporation, who rent it to the tobacconist in the shop and he lets off the little flats upstairs. It’s old and the corporation bought it for demolition some day when they’ve the money to do it. It’s very old and it got beetles and woodworm in the rafters. I was sent to inspect it and then clear up the rafters, paint ’em with pest killer and leave all neat and tidy again. I was there three weeks and was inspecting the roof from a ladder outside, when climbing past Rosie’s window, I couldn’t help seeing what went on inside …’

  No doubt the old rascal played Peeping Tom wherever his work gave him a chance and Cromwell, watching his crafty face, was sure he’d timed his ladder climbing to coincide with Harry Quill’s furtive visits there.

  ‘Saw them together three times. They didn’t see me, I’m sure of that, because I didn’t put the ladder going past the window in case I broke some glass. I was just round the side and could peep in …’

  The old man was enjoying himself. He giggled and then exposed his toothless mouth in a wild laugh.

  ‘Where do you think they were? Not where you think. Not in bed. Where?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Sittin’ at a table on two chairs talking pleasantly together as happy as a pair could be. Do you know why Harry Quill was visitin’ Rosie in secret? Eh? I’ll tell you. Harry was a teetotaller. All the market knew that. He’d once knocked a man down for trying to get him to take a drink and then insultin’ him for not doing. Harry daren’t let himself down by drinking at the bar of a pub, or at home, or anywhere where he’d be seen and be mocked for breaking the pledge. It would have been a great joke. When I saw Harry and Rosie they were drinkin’ stout. Harry was a secret drinker, you see, and R
osie was helpin’ him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A bit over a year ago, I was on the job.’

  What an anti-climax! Cromwell felt disgusted at the banality of the affair. He regretted the time he’d wasted in the sordid little world of Jerry Quill.

  Cromwell boiled over. He’d already had enough of Jerry and his staff.

  ‘Talkin’ of drinkin’ stout …’

  Cromwell took the hint, gave the old man half a crown and left him. He stood, undecided for a minute before he left the yard and then turned and walked back.

  The door of Jerry Quill’s office was still ajar and Cromwell pushed it open. Quill was inside, eating cake at his desk and drinking tea from a vacuum flask. He looked annoyed.

  ‘You here again. I’m having my tea break and it’s not fair to intrude on my time off.’

  ‘I’m back because you didn’t tell me a full story about Harry Quill. In the course of our enquiries, we’ve been told that you have been in the habit of calling at Great Lands during Harry Quill’s absence in Marcroft. Is that so?’

  ‘Who told you that? Even if I did find my uncle out, there was nothing wrong in that. I’d gone to enquire about vermin in the place. It was neglected and just inviting rats and other pests. I found him out once and that didn’t interfere with my work. I just let my aunt know I was there and then I got on with the job.’

  ‘But you were alone. Don’t you usually take your workmen with you on an exploration of that kind?’

  Jerry was so put out that he overturned his flask and flooded the top of his desk.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he whimpered.

  He rushed around, seeking cloths to mop it up and then he meticulously dried it, without even a look at Cromwell.

  Cromwell was waiting for him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘You went to Great Lands alone. Your staff generally accompanied you on such trips elsewhere, didn’t they?’

  ‘I’m not answerable to the police for family visits and you’ve no right …’

  ‘Don’t dodge the issue, sir.’

  ‘I’m not doing. I was there on public business.’

  ‘With a pick and spade. Were you going to dig them out yourself?’

  ‘If necessary, yes.’

  All the same, his confidence had evaporated and his eyes were shifty, almost appealing.

  ‘You’re still withholding information, Mr. Quill. You’re obstructing the police and that’s a grave offence, especially coming from a public servant. I’d be very loath to report it, as it may cost you your job. We’re here helping the county police and if they heard of your attitude, it would certainly prejudice your reputation locally.’

  Which was going rather far, but Cromwell was determined to get to the root of Quill’s attitude.

  Quill shuffled about on his chair.

  ‘What do you want to know? You seem to think I’m in possession of some secret information about Uncle Harry. I know nothing that anybody else doesn’t know.’

  ‘I can’t understand your visits to Great Lands during your uncle’s absence. You went alone, without your workmen. Surely, if you were after vermin, you’d have gone when your uncle was there to show you round. Instead, you went, on your own, with a pick and shovel. What were you intending to do in his absence? Give me a straight answer.’

  Quill’s face grew white. He felt he could do with a drink, but he daren’t be seen taking it whilst on duty. He was obviously a heavy drinker. The strain of the interview and the weariness due to steering a cautious course had given him a besotted look.

  Finally, he gave in.

  ‘Well, it was this way. My cousin Evelyn was the only one of the family who ever got in the house. She was my aunt’s favourite and went to see her when Uncle Harry was on business in Marcroft. One day Evelyn met my wife in town and in the course of conversation said her aunt had told her she was sure Uncle had money hidden somewhere. My aunt had searched the house for it, but there wasn’t a trace …’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Mr. Quill. I thought your aunt was incapacitated and almost unable to move about the place at all.’

  ‘That’s what everybody else thought. Evelyn said that when she was alone, my aunt moved about the place, upstairs and down. She must have done it on her hands and knees, or something, and it must have been a ’orrible effort for her, but Evelyn, though she’d never seen her doing it, knew from the things she said, that Aunt was aware of all that went on in the house.’

  ‘I see. Did Harry Quill know that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I never talked with him. But, as I was saying, my aunt talked of Harry having money hidden somewhere and, for her sake, because he was living on her money, I thought I’d try to find out where it was hid.’

  ‘So, you went digging?’

  ‘What! On a five hundred acre farm? I’m not mad. No. I took the tools to make it look as if I was there on business. Then, I took a good look round in all the buildings and other likely places. I never found anything.’

  Cromwell knew it was a lie. Jerry was too glib once he’d got in his stride. As he warmed up in his story, he began to embellish it. He lost his furtive expression as he thought Cromwell was swallowing it all.

  ‘There are two old wells there. It might have been hidden in one of them. I’d no means of findin’ out. And there were all the stables and cowsheds, all tumbling down with the roofs full of holes. They were full of rubbish and rubble. I couldn’t shift that. I had to give it up.’

  Cromwell saw that he’d have to give it up, too. Jerry Quill had been up to something, but he wasn’t going to say what.

  It might have been that he was spying on Evelyn, whom he seemed to dislike very heartily, because she was probably in line for the meagre inheritance her aunt would leave behind.

  Or Jerry might have been hanging round the place trying, some way, to restore himself to his aunt’s favour in the hope of winning a share of her estate.

  ‘One last question. Do you know anybody who might have hated your uncle enough to want to kill him?’

  Jerry looked appalled.

  ‘Certainly not. He was disliked, but you don’t murder a chap because he’s rude to you or you don’t like his way of living. Besides, who’d want to kill him to inherit a tumbledown old farm with all the land in bad heart and some of it swamp and wilderness? It would cost a fortune to restore it.’

  ‘You seem to have sized everything up properly, Mr. Quill.’

  ‘Look here. I think you’ve been here long enough. And now that you’ve started bein’ offensive, it’s time you went.’

  ‘Where were you on the night your uncle died?’

  ‘Are you treatin’ me as a suspect, because, if you are …’

  ‘Purely routine for the record.’

  ‘Well, I was at my lodge meetin’ in Marcroft from seven till eleven. Any of my brother members’ll tell you that. After the meetin’, I went home. Ask the wife if you doubt my word. And now, I’m off for a drink. I need it after all you’ve said to me. I hope when you catch whoever killed my uncle, you’ll have the grace to call on me again and apologise for your unfair insinuations. Come on, I want to lock up the office.’

  ‘By the way, where can I find your brother, Herbert, in case I want to ask him any questions?’

  Jerry snorted.

  ‘In the Marcroft General Hospital. He’s been there three weeks with a coronary thrombosis. So, he wasn’t abroad by night when Uncle Harry was killed. I’m sure you’ll be welcome at the hospital if you want to pester him with questions like you’ve done me. He’ll have another attack.’

  Cromwell left him locking up.

  6

  Stillwaters

  IT WAS dusk, after a long day, when Littlejohn and Cromwell, having dined early, started out for Branscombe to see Timothy Quill. The village lay about ten miles west of Marcroft, through open country and was approached by Branscombe Forest, to which it owed its name.
Lights were beginning to show in farms and houses as they neared the place.

  Tim Quill had chosen a good spot in which to make his home. The two detectives passed through the forest itself as, according to the map at the police station, the farm, known as Stillwaters, stood on the edge of it.

  The last stretch of road ran through a wall of trees, the summits of which met above the twin grass verges and the highway seemed to unfold onwards in mysterious semi-darkness.

  Their knock on the large, nail-studded door of Stillwaters was answered by a woman. She had switched on a light over the porch and it seemed to exaggerate her hollow cheeks and prominent cheek bones. Her pale face was without expression and her raised eyebrows alone questioned the visitors and their purpose.

  ‘Is Mr. Quill at home?’

  She smiled with her lips.

  ‘I am Mrs. Quill. Can I help?’

  Littlejohn introduced himself and Cromwell.

  ‘It is about Mr. Quill’s uncle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll find him. He is somewhere in the stables making plans for the shooting season with a friend, who hopes to try out a new dog …’

  There seemed to be little purpose in the explanation, but it might have arisen from nervousness about the coming interview.

  She invited them in and led the way to a fine room dominated by a huge Welsh dresser with expensive china spread on the shelves. The whole place was elegant in chintz and old oak. A refectory table was set ready for a meal and an old dog lay stretched before the fire in a large open grate. There seemed to be nobody about; not a sound came from anywhere in the house, except when there was a lull in the talk, they could hear a clock ticking in the hall.

  ‘I’ll find him.’

  She wore a tweed skirt and a white blouse with a pale blue cardigan over it. She was dark and her short black hair was touched with grey and left the back of her shapely neck uncovered. In the shaded light which treated her face more mercifully than the stark lamp over the outer door, she was strikingly beautiful. The emaciated look had gone, but under her dark eyes were the careworn shadows of unhappiness.

  ‘Please be seated. Will you take a drink whilst I find him?’