Death in Desolation (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  Chasing about among the hillside roads and quiet country places reminded Littlejohn of those treasure hunts indulged in by members of motor clubs, who ransack the neighbourhood for clues and hints as to where the ultimate triumph is to be found. According to Taylor’s map, their next port of call was the Toll Bar on the old road between Longton and Marcroft. This involved a return to town and a trip to the hamlet of Bibworth, a small scattered group of cottages with a pub and a stone quarry adjacent.

  The Toll Bar turned out to be a melancholy sort of place. The landlord was a little fat florid man with a worried look who recognised the police at once. His face fell and he immediately gave himself up.

  ‘Mr. Bell?’ said Littlejohn, fortified by the sign over the front door and the fact that he was licensed to sell not only beer and tobacco, but wines and spirits as well and thus satisfy Bilbow’s thirst if he came that way.

  ‘Police?’ said Mr. Bell.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. I’ve been expecting you for the last three years and we might as well get it over.’

  He looked a bit defiant, but the way his body sagged and beads of sweat sprang all over his forehead and bald head disclosed that he was afraid as well.

  ‘I hope you’ll be able to keep my wife out if it. It was my suggestion and all my fault.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Mr. Bell?’

  ‘Bigamy. I ran away with my wife’s sister when I found out that my brother-in-law, her husband, was carrying on with my wife. We got married to make it decent, but as we were already married, we knew we were breaking the law. We took this pub because it was out of the way, but, as they used to teach us in Sunday school, be sure your sins will find you out. We’ve been happy while it lasted …’

  Having thus explained his confused position, he looked round the empty taproom to make sure there were no spectators and, satisfied on that point, he burst into tears.

  The two detectives were flabbergasted. They’d hardly got in at the door before the whole fantastic confession was off Mr. Bell’s chest.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Bell, don’t tell us any more. If you murdered your brother-in-law before you ran away, don’t disclose it! We’re too busy to handle another crime at present …’

  ‘You’re not here to arrest me for bigamy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well what am I going to do and what are you going to do? I’ve confessed.’

  ‘Forget it. Except that I’d like to give you a piece of advice. Don’t go on living in sin and fear like this. See a lawyer, settle it up, and enjoy your happy existence together. Have you got a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes. He made my will. Mr. Nunn, of Marcroft. He’s a good solicitor. I’ll think about what you say and likely as not, I’ll see him. Do you think he’ll be able to settle it all without a court case?’

  ‘I don’t know. That will depend on the circumstances.’

  Mr. Bell seemed very relieved.

  ‘Have a drink on the house.’

  They had a pint of beer each.

  ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’

  Mr. Bell looked ready for anything.

  ‘Do you know Mr. Bilbow, Mr. Nunn’s clerk?’

  ‘Yes. It was him really that looked after my will. You see, I had to make sure that my bit of money went to Florrie and not to Prudence. Prudence was my first wife … Bilbow handled it all very well, though I didn’t, of course, tell him the full story.’

  ‘Has Bilbow called here lately?’

  ‘He was here last Tuesday night. It was late on, too. Nine o’clock or thereabouts.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘As usual. He’s a very even tempered, calm sort of chap, although he seems to take a good deal of whisky. He drank two doubles here and had a flask filled up with whisky. Why?’

  ‘Just a routine enquiry. He’s involved in a case we’re on.’

  ‘He’ll do the job well, then. He’s a good lawyer. They say he’s fully qualified, but has had bad luck.’

  Mr. Bell’s mind was mainly employed on his own minor misdemeanour and luckily he didn’t ask any more questions.

  ‘What was he doing here at that hour?’

  ‘He said he’d been out for a long walk and had got a bit out of his direction. He was going to take the shortest road back to town after his drink. He drank a couple and went off without any delay. It was dark, you see, and these roads are a bit tricky at night.’

  ‘He wasn’t in a car, then?’

  ‘No. He said he was walking. I didn’t go out with him. We’d a few customers at the bar and we was involved in a discussion about football. I didn’t hear a car driving off. In any case …’

  Another blank! Littlejohn excused himself, saying he wished to get back to town for lunch. Mr. Bell thanked them profusely, said he’d accept Littlejohn’s advice and take whatever medicine was coming to him, and saw them off.

  Once out of Mr. Bell’s way, they looked at the map again and by devious small roads arrived at Hanging Newstead. The Dick Turpin was there. You couldn’t miss it. There was a hanging sign depicting a fading version of Dick, very badly set on Black Bess, jumping over what was supposed to be a fence.

  The place had recently been done up, re-whitewashed and an annexe added in which they could see tables set out for anybody who cared to dine there. Coach Parties Welcome. Free Car Park. And the usual notice over the door announcing that John James Wilbraham was licensed to sell all that was expected of him.

  It seemed quite a popular place, there were three cars and two charabancs standing in the park and in the annexe members of a Women’s Institute were just sitting down to lunch after singing Jerusalem with great enthusiasm.

  Mr. Wilbraham met Littlejohn and Cromwell at the door. He, too, recognised the police. He was a pasty-faced, youngish man with a small moustache, like two commas, ornamenting his upper lip.

  ‘You might have chosen a better time to call. We’re pulled out of the place today.’

  There was a small dining-room in the main hotel, too, occupied by two or three men who looked like commercial travellers. A good-looking blonde, Mrs. Wilbraham, was rolling her eyes and generally having a good time with two of them, much to the discomfiture of her husband, who was extremely jealous of her and resented, too, her preference for entertaining male company instead of working hard at the catering.

  ‘It’s always the same,’ he told Littlejohn, who didn’t quite know what he was talking about, but who guessed, judging from the landlord’s constant scrutiny of his wife to make sure she didn’t go too far.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ll not take up much of your time. Do you know Nunn’s, the lawyers of Marcroft?’

  The penny seemed to drop with Mr. Wilbraham, who had been puzzling about the purpose of their visit.

  ‘So that’s it! Mottershead has seen the lawyers about it, has he?’

  Littlejohn had never heard of Mottershead or how he had suddenly become involved in the case, but he let it go.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should just think so.’

  ‘You know Bilbow?’

  ‘I didn’t till this turned up. The silly little devil. He thought he’d get away with it, but Mottershead saw him in the bar and twigged who’d done it. He said he’d make him pay for it.’

  ‘I haven’t heard full details.’

  ‘I have. More than full. Benbow, or whatever his name is, called here last Tuesday night after dark … Nearly closing time, it was, getting on for ten. He was half seas over when he came in and he drank two double whiskies. Then he went out. Do you know what he was travelling in? I didn’t see it myself, but it was a farm tractor. Now what was he doing with that? Had he pinched it? Is that what you’re after? However, to cut a long story short, he’d put it in a dark corner of the park, and on his way out he ran into Mottershead’s Jaguar. Only been new a week. Crumpled up the wing like a piece of paper. And then rushed off without stopping. A customer who was sitting in his ow
n car with a girl saw it all and said he’d recognised Benbow.’

  Here it was. All without asking.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised that Mottershead’s got onto it already. He was going for a fortnight to the South of France the day after. Luckily, he said, he was off by plane and the friend he was staying with was lending him his own car. He was going to put the matter in the hands of his lawyer before he went away and then take it up again when he came back from his holiday. I didn’t know he was back yet.’

  ‘Will you kindly give us the address of Mr. Mottershead and also that of the young fellow who saw Mr. Bilbow manoeuvring his tractor so unsuccessfully?’

  ‘Mr. Mottershead is the owner of a carpet factory in Marcroft. Anybody’ll tell you where it is. I don’t know his private address. It’ll be in the telephone directory.’

  ‘And the young man in the car?’

  Wilbraham rubbed his chin hesitantly.

  ‘I don’t know about him. He wouldn’t thank me for getting him involved in a court case where he’d have to say he saw Bilbow damaging the car while he was canoodling with a girl in the car park, would he?’

  ‘He won’t be able to avoid it. If you don’t give me his address, I think Mr. Mottershead’s lawyer will find it.’

  ‘I don’t know it. It’ll be in the directory, too. He’s plenty of money. His father runs a betting-shop. Name’s Smollett. Bert Smollett. Don’t say I put you onto him. He’s married and the girl wasn’t his wife.’

  Cromwell made a note of the information and, as Mr. Wilbraham was showing signs of distress, owing either to Mr. Smollett’s coming predicament or else to his wife’s wayward behaviour with the commercial travellers, they let him go.

  ‘This has been a lucky part of the investigation, Bob,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Sheer luck. Due to the fact that Bilbow just had to have a drink to keep him going, he’s scattered his tracks all over the countryside. I wonder how he got home after he’d left the body and the tractor at Great Lands …’

  They called at all the garages on the main road back to Marcroft, but nobody seemed to have seen Bilbow. He’d evidently not risked hiring a taxi. In any case, most of them were closed after he’d finished his gruesome job.

  ‘He must have walked all the way back. A good ten miles. He’d be in a shocking condition when he arrived home.’

  It was half past two when they got back to Marcroft and there they ate a late lunch over which they discussed their plan of action.

  Cromwell was to call at Nunn’s and interview Mr. Nunn himself and then Bilbow, and Littlejohn to make a trip to see Aunt Clara at Longton Curlieu.

  ‘I promised I’d call and have a talk with her. I guess Harry Quill went there, after he’d seen Rosie, to collect his two thousand. Aunt Clara told me she’d arranged a mortgage over Great Lands and Harry had collected two thousand in cash. Now, it turns out, he hadn’t got his cash. Aunt Clara will have some explaining to do.’

  They both felt they were on the verge of important developments. It was one of those times, which occur in every case, when the end seems very near.

  11

  Prosecution and Defence

  MR. NUNN was in court when Cromwell arrived at his office, but was expected at any time. When he returned, he wore the same bored, relaxed manner as though, win or lose in a case, it was all the same to him. He invited Cromwell in his room and gave him a cup of tea.

  ‘How’s the case going, Inspector? Any nearer the winning post?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re still pursuing our investigations.’

  ‘The usual modest comment. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about Mr. Bilbow …’

  ‘Ah! What’s Bilbow been up to?’

  He slowly took a cigarette from a gold case and offered Cromwell one.

  ‘He seems to be the Quill family factotum and we’ve realised that we don’t know a thing about him. I understand he’s a solicitor in his own right.’

  ‘Correct. He was once a partner in a prosperous London firm. They parted company.’

  ‘I think I can guess why.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. When prominent counsel takes on a brief in a murder trial he doesn’t expect the solicitor for the defence to be drunk and incapable when the case is called.’

  There was a pause. Outside the sun was shining and the square was occupied by the vegetable market. It was like a scene somewhere in the South of France. The torpid, colourful atmosphere seemed to affect Mr. Nunn. He appeared more languid than ever. He stretched his long legs and put his feet on his desk.

  ‘What exactly is this all about?’

  Cromwell had to be very cautious. If Bilbow were later arrested, it was quite in the cards that Mr. Nunn would have to spring to his defence.

  ‘Just that he’s mixed up in this case through being involved with the family. When I leave you, sir, I want to have a talk with Mr. Bilbow. He dealt with, for example, a loan which Mrs. Clara Quill made to Harry Quill just before his death. He does quite a lot of work for Mrs. Quill, I hear. We don’t wish him to discuss with her and any other members of the family the matters we care to question him about. I want to know what kind of man we’re dealing with.’

  Cromwell did not mention that Aunt Clara’s story about Harry Quill having already accepted the cash for the loan from her, differed from that of Rose Coggins who said he hadn’t. Littlejohn wished to challenge Aunt Clara about her version face to face.

  Nunn giggled and smoothed his hair.

  ‘So you’ve come to me for a testimonial?’

  ‘I’ve come to make quite sure that you, as principal of this firm, approve of our questioning Mr. Bilbow about the affairs of the Quills.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. But, I must warn you, if any of them feel they need a solicitor when or whilst you question them, they will run to Bilbow or me, and we will have to take their side. As for Bilbow … All right, question away, subject to what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Is he married, by the way?’

  ‘Yes. His wife left him years ago. It was his fault, but being Catholic she refused to divorce him. That, I understand, is what started his immoderate drinking. He’s to be pitied, in a sense. He’s a confirmed alcoholic who doesn’t wish to be otherwise. He comes of a very good family, is a brilliant lawyer, especially in court cases, when he applies his mind to it, and he has a brother, who, under a nom-deguerre is regarded as one of our top-ranking English novelists. So there you are. That’s Bilbow. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Has he got himself involved or incriminated in this Harry Quill affair? But, don’t answer that. Go and see him and deal with him as you think fit. I don’t want to be living in two camps. If Bilbow gets in trouble, I shall have to do my best to get him out of it. Bilbow’s in his office. Go now.’

  Nunn had suddenly assumed a very businesslike attitude. He sat straight at his desk, his languid eyes and face lively and alert and, for a brief minute, Cromwell saw the Nunn who was regarded as the best lawyer in the county. Then it was over. The hand Nunn gave him as Cromwell thanked him and said good-bye, was extended casually and slowly. The faint smile was back and the feet gently returned to the desk.

  Cromwell found Bilbow in his small room at the back of the block. He looked to have been flung there along with the rest of the rubbish. He occupied a chair at a large table which might have been thrown out of the principal’s room in the middle of the last century. There were deed boxes and bundles of papers along three of the walls and a new filing cabinet in which he presumably locked the more confidential documents which he handled. There were three SPY drawings of judges, long dead and gone, hanging askew on nails in the wall in company with a large vulgar calendar issued by a firm of local grocers.

  In spite of his regular consumption of whisky, Bilbow didn’t look in any way decrepit physically. He seemed of the changeless type; perhaps his beard hid the slow deterioration of all that went on beneath it. He was half-buried in a mass of documents, he was examining a tricky title and when he raised
his eyes, he didn’t seem a bit surprised to see Cromwell there.

  ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’

  With this massive understatement, Cromwell entered and sat down on a hard wooden arm-chair at the other side of the desk.

  ‘Of course. Glad to see you. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about the Quill affair.’

  ‘Still bothering you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like a drink and then we’ll talk?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve a lot to do before I relax.’

  ‘Mind if I do?’

  He rose, removed a bottle and glass from one of the drawers of the steel cabinet, took a good drink, and then sat down again.

  ‘Now. What’s worrying you?’

  He wasn’t drunk, but Cromwell was sure as he looked in Bilbow’s misty-blue eyes, that the man was living in a half-world where sensation was dulled and most problems swept into a kind of moral rubbish dump. He must have known that sooner or later the police would come upon his own involvement in the case and face him with it. Yet, he didn’t seem in the least anxious or perturbed.

  ‘What’s worrying you?’

  A different kind of set-up from Mr. Nunn’s sumptuous room with its tasteful expensive contents. Here it was cold and damp. The window faced north and overlooked a yard full of packing cases and the entrance to a boiler house with a heap of coke at the door. Bilbow didn’t seem to mind. He was a bygone and a failure, tucked away with the odds and ends of the partnership in which he didn’t share, in spite of his reputed forensic skill. Here, in his workshop he did what he had to do to earn his pay, and then went out when he felt like it to enjoy himself at the bars of the town.

  ‘We’ve been trying to compile a schedule of what Harry Quill did on his last day …’

  Cromwell recited it. Leaving home, arrival at Rosie’s place, departure to collect his money and then … Quill’s ultimate arrival, dead, on his own doorstep.