Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  The kitchen-garden and greenhouses were deserted, with the exception of one small, wiry man. The rest had evidently gone off for the night. The remaining workman seemed to be pottering around killing time. He was dressed in a shabby blue serge suit, wore a cloth cap, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his thin lips. His face was sharp and wedge-shaped, with a large nose and bright eyes. His complexion and gait, however, denied that he belonged to the country. He removed his cigarette, sprayed out the smoke and touched his cap to Littlejohn.

  “Evenin’, guv’nor,” he said with a Cockney perkiness which could not be mistaken.

  “Evening. What are you doing so far from Town?”

  “Gorblimey, guv’nor. I asks myself the same question every minute o’ the bloomin’ day. Why did I leave good old London? ’Cos of the bloomin’ war, of course. Missus and two kids was evacuated dahn ’ere, so, ’avin’ joined-up in the Pioneers myself and waitin’ for me pipers, I thinks I’ll come wiv ’em. Cor! Look at it, guv’nor. Look at it.…”

  With a flip of the back of his hand in the direction of the lovely rural scene Littlejohn had just been admiring, the little Cockney dismissed it all in disgust.

  “Gimme the good old Elephant any day! Lights of town, smell o’ petrol, friendly boots on the pavements, pint of old and mild wiv a pal, pictures or a sing-song wiv the missus on Saturdays.… You can keep yer country, guv’nor. I makes you a present of the whole bloomin’ lot of it.”

  “You sound fed-up … what’s your name?”

  “Agg, sir. Charlie Agg, wivout the haitch. Porter in the Borough Market till I joined-up. Now, I’m just doin’ oddsand-ends for the price of a pint in the garden ’ere till I gets me pipers, see? An’ please Gawd they comes soon, else the Jew-boy won’t be the only one who’s croaked in his swimmin’-pool. Sometimes I gets so down in the mouth, I could make an ’ole in it myself. Always granting, of course, that it’s deep enough, which it ain’t. Women and kids wiv nothin’ to do, no school, no housework, all the day and half the bloomin’ night fallin’ out wiv one another. Nah, when we was back in good old London, we’d park the kids wiv me mother, see, an’ off for a spree on our own-io. But now … pah. If you want a spree, the missus has the kids to mind or else she’s takin’ tea wiv lady lahdidah. And as for a pal … tryin’ to get drunk at the pub in this blighted ’ole’s like attendin’ yer own funeral. S’welp me if it ain’t.”

  “Well, you’ve had the entertainment of a ghost and a murder while you’ve been here, Agg.”

  “Ghost did yer say, guv’nor? Come off it. Ghost, me foot! All a put-up job, I says. Clannish, unfriendly lot, these country coves. They didn’t want the Jew-boy among ’em, see? So they put on a little show for ’im, see? Jest to frighten ’im off.…”

  “You’re a sceptic, eh?”

  “If yer mean I don’t bloody-well believe in them and their ’auntings, you’re right there, guv’nor. Them an’ their superior ways. You should see an’ ’ear ’em in the taproom at the pub. ‘We got all sorts of ’orrible things in the country fer them that intrudes on us,’ an’ they wags their heads an’ looks wise an’ tries to insinerate that becos you comes from town, you’re not in it. Why, back in dear old London, I could show ’em a thing or two.…”

  Evidently Agg had not settled down in Harwood. Littlejohn could guess why. He was homesick and his hosts couldn’t understand the reason.

  “… not that they ain’t been good to the missus and kids and lots more like ’em. Dumped on them, they was, at a minute’s notice, just like kiss yer hand. But they done ’em proud and don’t let it be thought I ain’t grateful, see? I am. But ghosts.…”

  And Mr. Agg spat copiously on the gravel path. Littlejohn let him prattle on.

  “Nah, that detective bloke’s bin in the taproom tryin’ to pump the locals. ‘Any legends, past ’istory, about ghosts and ’auntings?’ he sez one night, civil-like. And they all dries-up like oysters. ‘’Orrible things ’as ’appened there in the past,’ sez an old bloke wiv whiskers a yard long and a capacity of about a pint and an ’alf a night. ‘Wot sort o’ things?’ asks the busy. ‘O, ’orrible,’ sez the old cove and the other natives looks at one another all suspicious-like. They all know what ’appened to the Jew-boy, but they’re not tellin’, see? A put-up job, I calls it.…”

  “What’s the name of the old fellow you mentioned, Agg?”

  “Mouldon … lives on his pension in a cottage oppersite the pub. Like the ole man of the sea, ’e is.”

  “So you think it was a put-up job?”

  “Yes … an’ ’cos why? Stone at the lodge is a native ’ere, too. Why did ’e stop indoors and not lift a finger to ’elp when he see his boss being ducked? ’Cos ’e’s in it, too. An’ when the busies tries to get out of ’em what all the tales o’ ’auntin’ is about, they can only shake their ’eads and look wise, see? And for why? ’Cos until this bloomin’ howdedo, there ’asn’t been any ’auntin’, see? They made it up to cover themselves and what they done. They planned it all to be rid of the chap from London.”

  Littlejohn understood at last Mr. Agg’s feelings and heat about the hauntings. Mr. Burt of London claimed the little Cockney’s loyalty and he resented his being victimised by countryfolk.

  “Well, Agg, here’s the price of a pint if you’re going to the village to-night. You can tell them that there’s a chap from Scotland Yard on the job and it’s murder this time. So they’d better talk and talk the truth if they’re asked.”

  Poor little Agg didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Gorblimey, guv’nor. You a busy? Thanks for the price o’ the beer. I appreciates it, guv’nor. I’ll do as you say, an’ no fooling. But I didn’t think you was a busy. S’welp me, I didn’t. Thought you was a retired gentleman down from London, I did.”

  “Oh, come, come, Agg.…”

  Agg grinned.

  “Awright, guv’nor.”

  “Just let ’em know that it’s murder, Agg. Rub it in. Make their hair stand on end.… See you again, I hope.”

  “Not fer long … sooner I gets back to dear old London, the ’appier I’ll be. Nice to know the missus and kids is safe from ruddy old ’itler and his nasties, but ’ome sweet ’ome fer me, even if there is a war on.”

  Littlejohn left him still gazing disparagingly around, homesick for his native streets and weighing the whole countryside in the balance and finding it wanting.

  FORTITUDE OF SIX TENANTS

  MRS. STONE, a dumpy, bustling, middle-aged woman, appeared with Littlejohn’s tea and established him comfortably at the dining-table of the man whose death he was investigating. She looked the type who might prove talkative on the slightest provocation. There was the look of a gossip about her, although she had a healthy, open countrywoman’s countenance. The latter suffered a change, however, when the Inspector mentioned’ the death of Burt and the reputation of the old house. Her eyes grew shifty and suspicious and she seemed anxious to be getting off to her own quarters.

  “You’ve been having harassing times here of late, Mrs. Stone,” began the detective, facing boldly up to a substantial dish of home-cured ham and eggs.

  “Yes, sir. Things have bin a bit upsettin’, what with the poor gentleman dying and the war and evacuees and sich like.”

  She kept her eyes on the tablecloth and fussed with the condiments, passing Littlejohn salt, mustard, sauces, sugar and milk in rapid succession.

  “Did you see the goings-on in the garden, like your husband, on the night of the crime?”

  “No, sir. I slep’ through ’em all, me not gettin’ off to sleep so good, and once off, Stone not wishin’ to disturb me.”

  “You didn’t hear him go out then when he discovered the crime?”

  “If crime it was, sir. There’s many as says it was pure accidental. Who of the ladies and gentlemen here would want to throw a poor man to his death over the staircase? When Stone had found out the death, then he come back and woke me. Sich a hullabaloo there was goin’ on,
too.”

  “How long have you been in Harwood, Mrs. Stone?”

  “I was born ’ere, sir, and stayed till I was twenty. Then I went in service to East Grinstead for five years, where I married Stone, who came from the village, too, and was gardener there. We came home then, Stone having got the lodge-keeping here and under-gardener. Five years since, Mr. Harwood said we’d have to go, him not being able to keep us longer. So we moved into the village, my father havin’ died and his cottage coming empty. Stone got a job at Meadford, gardenin’. When Mr. Harwood left and Mr. Burt tuck over, then Stone applied agen and him ’aving been here before and knowin’ the place and being a general ’andyman, which was what Mr. Burt seemed to want, he got the job and we come back to the lodge, which was in shockin’ condition and needed a lot of doing-up, as did the garden.…”

  She was in full spate. Littlejohn laid his hand on her arm.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Stone, during the time you’ve known Harwood Hall, has it been haunted? Now, I don’t mean did people say it was haunted, but did anything happen here?”

  Mrs. Stone dried-up, took up her tray and looked ready to bolt. She glanced over her shoulder towards the door and pleated her apron with her free hand.

  “Come now. Are you scared of something? Because you needn’t be. Nothing’s going to harm you.”

  The woman’s lips tightened.

  “Yes, I am scared. Funny things ’ave gone on here, sir. I’m sayin’ nothin’.”

  “In what way, funny?”

  “Just funny. Ghosts and things.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Long as I remember, sir.”

  “But have you ever seen or heard anything yourself?”

  “No, sir. I kep’ away after dark.…”

  “You did not attend at the house, then, in the evenings?”

  “No, sir. Wasn’t part of our duties. Sometimes Stone came across to take his orders.…”

  “Did Stone ever see or hear any haunting?”

  “We never talked about it. Will there be anything more, sir?”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Stone. But you might ask your husband to come over and see me in about an hour’s time. I want a word or two with him. And one thing more. You haven’t been very frank with me about this haunting business, have you?”

  “I … I …”

  “Maybe you are only going by hearsay. If so, I expect you and everyone else concerned to say so. This is a murder case, Mrs. Stone. Make no mistake about it, Mr. Burt was murdered. And I’m here to find out who did it. If people won’t answer questions straight to me, then they’ll have to answer them under oath in court, which will be very awkward for all of us. That’s all, Mrs. Stone. And, by the way, the ham and eggs were beautiful and I compliment you on your cooking.”

  Mrs. Stone made a hot and bothered exit and Littlejohn, for the life of him, couldn’t imagine what sort of meals would be served-up in the future. He hoped he hadn’t roused the good woman’s ire, for his own comfort’s sake.

  Stone was dressed in his best when he turned up. He had also washed his round boyish face until it shone like the mahogany furniture. He was a tall, loose-limbed fellow, slightly bent in the shoulders from his trade, with a thick shock of iron-grey hair, cloudy blue eyes and a large mouth, which seemed to cut his head clean in two whenever he laughed. He was not in a frivolous mood when he appeared before Littlejohn, however. He and his wife had evidently had their heads together and Stone was playing for safety.

  “Well, Stone. Thanks for coming over so promptly. I’ll be staying here until this case is finished and I’ll be looking to you for as much help as you can give.”

  Stone touched his forelock, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and looked down at the outmoded bowler which he held in his large hand.

  “Thankee, sir, I’m sure,” he said.

  “Sit down, Stone.”

  Stone selected the nearest chair, an antique which looked ready to fall in pieces under his weight, placed his hat under it and gazed self-consciously at his large, bright boots.

  “Smoke if you like.”

  Littlejohn passed his cigarette-case and the lodge-keeper fumbled among its contents until he finally secured one. Then he meticulously searched his person for matches, until Littlejohn offered him his lighter. Stone was a pipe-smoker, but never refused a free gift. He puffed at the cigarette awkwardly, holding it between his horny thumb and forefinger and sucking furiously at it.

  “You were the only person to see the fancy-dress parade which threw Mr. Burt in the pond, I hear, Stone.”

  “I was, sir.”

  “How did you come to be awake at three in the morning, was it?”

  “I’m bothered wi’ indigestion sometimes in the night. It allus takes me about two or three. I gets up then and sucks a soder-mint. That night it was the same, only I heard somebody stirrin’ in the grounds. I got up to the winder. I see the three ghosts in their funny dress, pushin’ Mr. Burt into the pond. Then they left ’im and vanished into the bushes and Mr. Burt went off to the Hall.”

  “Why didn’t you go to help him right away, Stone?”

  “I was dumbfounded, like. Couldn’t believe my eyes. I couldn’t go out in my vest and pants, sir; ’ad to get some clothes on and that quiet like, becos the missus was asleep and she not gettin’ off so easy once woke.”

  “You used the word ‘ghosts.’ You know, of course, that the ghosts left footprints.”

  “That’s as may be, sir. The ’all is haunted. Anybody round ’ere ’ll tell you that.”

  “Yes. But has anybody seen anything. For example, has anyone ever seen the motley crew you saw the other night, Stone?”

  “I never seen ’em afore. But then, I kep’ out o’ the way after dark, unless compelled to go there. Legend has it that some o’ the evil-livin’ Harwoods still ’aunt the place.”

  “It all seems a cock-and-bull story to me, Stone. But leave the practical-joking element aside for a bit. What about this mischievous china-smasher, that some would like to saddle with killing Mr. Burt? Ever heard of him before?”

  “Not here, sir. There are sich things, though. I know men who seen what they done, sir. There’s an old rectory out East Grinstead way … all the big noises in spiritual research been down there investigatin’, like. Throwin’ pots and furniture about, it was. Nobody’d live there in the end.…”

  “Yes, yes. But what about the one here?”

  “I knows nothin’ about him, never comin’ in here after dark, except at times like this. Mr. Harwood, the old gentleman what left, might know. But most-like the place was peaceable when he was here. Those ghosties know their own, sir. They won’t do no harm to their own flesh and blood.”

  Here Stone extracted a pin from the bottom of his waistcoat and used it to prolong his noisy enjoyment of his smoke. Littlejohn gave him another cigarette to put him out of his misery.

  “Well, Stone. Let me tell you quite candidly, I don’t believe this place is haunted at all. Furthermore, I don’t know whether the fancy-dress affair in which Burt was ducked in the lake and the behaviour of the mischievous sprite, shall we call him—or poltergeist—are the efforts of the small parties, but I’m going to find out. There’s a certain amount of reluctance to give information on the part of yourself and certain other villagers, I gather, about these tales of haunting.…”

  Stone’s cigarette fell from his limp fingers, his face grew clammy with sweat and he looked anywhere but at Littlejohn. He picked up his hat and rose trembling.

  “.… But I warn anyone who witholds information, either through fear or in efforts to shield some other party, I intend to get to the bottom of this business by hook or by crook and those who won’t co-operate will find themselves on the wrong side of the law. This is murder, not an old wife’s tale.”

  “I don’t know nothin’, I swear it, sir.”

  “Well, put on your thinking-cap, Stone, and try to be a little more informative next time we talk about it. Search your mem
ory thoroughly. I want facts, not tales. Sit down again. I’ve something more.”

  Stone reluctantly sought the same chair and went through the ritual of depositing his hat under it again.

  “I’ll be seeing the tenants to-morrow myself. Meanwhile, can you tell me why they’ve stuck staunchly to this place after all that’s gone on? Quite apart from the murder, which has, more or less, detained them pending enquiries, why did they stick it out after the so-called poltergeist and others had so frequently disturbed their sleep and peace?”

  “How would I be knowin’, sir? Except that Professor Braun said it was all rubbish and he wasn’t bein’ druv out by childish tales, him bein’ so near the place of his researchings, like.”

  “Yes, and what about the others? The two maiden ladies. Pott, are they called?”

  “Well, Miss Agnes is as deaf as a post, sir, and never heard a thing. Miss Edith is one of them masterful sort, masculine, she is, and says she won’t be scared-off when she’s just got comfortable. Talked about gettin’ a priest in and layin’ the ghosties. Miss Agnes only knows what Miss Edith tells her. Writes it down on a pad, she does. She even thought Mr. Burt’s was an accident and I don’t suppose anybody’s told her different. Her bein’ an ’armless sort of old girl and one you wouldn’t like to upset.”

  “And the Carberry-Peacockes? They’re interested in psychic research?”

  “Yes, sir. Just wallers in it. Almost too excited to eat and sleep they was, when the mischievous feller got goin’. Talked of havin’ a meetin’ of experts here, they did, and broadcasting it on the wireless. But Mr. Burt soon put a stop to that. Forbid ’em to do it, as contrary to rules and regulations of the flats. There’s one or two o’ them researchers in the village now, sir. Just beggin’ to get in and try their ’ands at it, sir.”