Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  “How in the world did you discover all that in a week, Miss Freyle?”

  “My job, Inspector. I must notice little things, you know. Little habits. Ways of speech. Mannerisms.”

  “Well, can you give me some details of how you found out this little budget of facts?”

  “Mostly eavesdropping, Inspector, of which I’m not a bit ashamed. I overheard the Peacockes reading a letter in the garden. They thought they were alone and he was nearly off his head with rage. I can’t tell you word for word what it was all about, but he was saying it was a damned shame the way they were torturing his boy. In gaol like a felon and being treated like a dog.… And he gave a sort of blood-curdling chuckle, then, just like a madman, as if he had something awful up his sleeve. At that, Stone appeared on the scene so I sheered off.

  “As for the Hartwrights. If they are American citizens, then they’ve been Hungarian or something before that. There’s an undertone of continental accent in his speech that’s almost hidden by his drawl, but it’s there. One of our fiddlers in the orchestra, a naturalised Hungarian, has just the same tone.… Same with Braun. I went to school at Lausanne. I was taught Swiss-German. Then there’s Viennese German, Bavarian German, Prussian German. You know, like Cockney or Lancashire English. I might be wrong, but I think I place Braun in the Bavarian class.

  “I overheard the younger Miss Pott pleading with Williatt not to be so difficult and he was saying you couldn’t be too careful with all that lot about. After all, he said, he’d got a wife.… The wretched little swine!”

  Each account was illustrated by a realistic little vignette of the character discussed.

  “Now, Miss Freyle, what about the haunting business?”

  Elaine Freyle seemed to wrestle with her feelings for a moment and then laughed outright.

  “Can you keep a secret, Inspector? A very strict secret?”

  “Within reason, Miss Freyle.”

  “Very well. I’d better tell you. After a week of the company at Harwood, I’d had enough. It was getting like a private asylum and I wanted to be packing my traps and getting out of it. But I’d a three years’ lease!”

  “Yes?”

  “There wasn’t any haunting as far as I was concerned, except by the tenants, whose looks and manners haunted me in broad daylight as well as at night.”

  “Ah!”

  “But you can’t break a contract—especially one of Solly Burt’s—because you don’t like the look of the faces of your neighbours. So, as they were all chattering about spooks, I thought I’d have a few private ones of my own. You see, I thought their tales were efforts to get out for the same reason as mine. I thought they didn’t like my face. I made up the yarn about the hot and cold temperatures.… What do you think of me, Inspector?”

  “Highly irregular, I ought to say. But no more ridiculous than the rest and concocted with far more justification.”

  “Thanks, Inspector. You’re a dear.”

  Littlejohn blushed. Wait until he told Letty that he’d been called a dear by a pretty girl from the Whirligig!

  “.… But I did act as though my spooks existed. I moved out. The rest just whined and put up with it. I told Burt my tale and pretended to have hysterics. I said I’d move out whether he sued me or not. In fact, I’d thoughts of suing him. I wouldn’t stay another night in his beastly flat. He was almost paying me damages before I’d finished with him. At length, he agreed to tear up the contract if I’d keep mum about the ghosts. Bad for business and the reputation of his lovely property and all that.”

  “Well, that clears that up, Miss Freyle. You’ve been a great help and I’m grateful for the time you’ve spared for it.”

  “Don’t mention it. I want to help. Although Solly Burt was a pain in the neck and I didn’t enjoy his wretched old flat a bit, he wasn’t the sort I’d have wished a sticky end for.…”

  Here the interview was abruptly broken by the intrusion round the door of a horse-faced, large-toothed, inane-looking head.

  “What about a spot of food, old girl?” it said.… “Oh, sorry. Hadn’t seen the jolly old visitor … make myself scarce.”

  “Come in, Rex. This is Inspector Littlejohn from Scotland Yard. He’s enquiring into the death of Solly Burt.”

  Horse-face seemed delighted and wrung Littlejohn cordially by the hand.

  “Howling shame about old Solly,” he said. “Not playin’ the game, chuckin’ the poor old devil over the jolly old staircase, eh, what? What about a li’l drink, eh? Elaine, my dear gel, you haven’t been the hospitable hostess. Trot out the home-brew, that’s a good gel.”

  Purleigh began to busy himself at a cabinet in one corner until Littlejohn told him that he didn’t drink on duty. Whereas he suspended his activities in pained surprise for a moment. Then he revived and after asking to be forgiven for taking a li’l drink himself, poured about half a pint of whisky down his throat.

  Littlejohn had had enough of Purleigh already. The fellow talked as if he had a plum in his mouth.

  Blah, blub, blah, blub.

  With a sort of muffled obbligato of half-intelligible words running beneath the plum.

  What some women can see in some men …!

  The Inspector thanked the pair of them again and was bidden a very cordial good-bye. As he sought his way to the open air, Littlejohn heard the thick voice of Mr. Purleigh giving him a public testimonial.

  “Jolly good fellah, eh, what?” came down the corridor with loud goodwill and there followed the noise of more corks being drawn.

  PRIVATE LIVES

  ON his way back to Victoria from the Whirligig, Littlejohn decided to call at the Dunstanby Hotel to investigate a matter which had been intriguing him for some time. Who was Brownrigg? As far as he could gather, nobody had ever set eyes on the fellow. He had taken the flat at Harwood Park, paid his rent in advance and now the place was closed and no tenant had yet shown up.

  The Dunstanby is like many others of its type in the Hyde Park neighbourhood. It caters partly for a regular set of provincial and country clients and also has a fair proportion of permanent residents. Members of both categories were pottering about in the thickly carpeted hall when the Inspector entered through the revolving door. The hall-porter, clad in immaculate uniform, was busy answering the telephone on behalf of an irritable-looking elderly man, turning-up trains in a time-table for two fussy old ladies, sending a page-boy about his business, and keeping a watchful eye on two slow-moving workmen who were making alterations to the elaborate chandelier. He gave Littlejohn a challenging glance as the Inspector stepped on the mat and seemed about to take him in his stride along with his other responsibilities.

  “Damme, the fellah must be at home … give me the telephone!” blustered the elderly man, turning purple.

  “You’re sure it’s from Paddington and not Marylebone?” asked the ladies in deferential chorus.

  The attitude of the page-boy was far too cheeky and the electrician missed his footing on the tall ladder, clutched the chandelier to his bosom and swung on it in wild abandon.

  Littlejohn by-passed the turmoil by accosting a pretty but subdued young lady standing behind a counter, gave her his card, and asked to see the manager.

  The hall-porter looked very put-out.

  The manager resembled Kaiser Wilhelm II in his prime. He emerged from a small pen of opaque glass through which glowed the green shade of a desk lamp and swept Littlejohn out of public view as if he were a dark secret likely to drive away all his clients if allowed to prowl around unchecked.

  “Not trouble, I hope.… Not after one of our clients? Most respectable and would hate any fuss,” said the manager.

  He had a suave manner, but Littlejohn guessed that he was a devil behind the scenes. He looked as if he had been up all night.

  “No, sir. Just a routine enquiry about a one-time client of yours whom we can’t seem to trace. A Mr. Brownrigg. He wrote from here on your notepaper on May 8th last.…”

  The manager
heaved a great sigh of relief. Intelligence Officers were always in and out of the place seeking traces of undesirable aliens. He was proud of the promptness with which he was able to answer such questions. He had an impeccable filing-system embracing all clients who had come and gone during his reign. Some of the cards were marked with a large red cross. Such an ornament ensured that whenever the person to whom it was awarded wrote for a room, the hotel was full-up.

  Mr. Reamer, the manager, proudly turned to his files, pulled out a drawer and mincingly ran his podgy fingers along the top edge of a series of neat cards. Littlejohn watched him with an amused grin. “This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home!”

  Kaiser Bill was getting warmer.

  “Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown,” he intoned. “Brownacres, Brownaway.…” Just like a parlour game. Smiling and then frowning according to the history of the clan and its unheard-of ramifications.

  Brownleaves and even a Robert Browning, but no Brownrigg at all. Mr. Reamer shrugged his shoulders in despair.

  “Can non-residents take meals here, sir?”

  “Oh, yes.…”

  “And use your writing-rooms and stationery?”

  “Yes. We don’t like it, but what can one do?”

  “That’s it, then. Mr. Brownrigg must have been a casual.”

  A thought struck the detective.

  “May I use your ’phone, Mr. Reamer?”

  “Certainly.… Directory?”

  Littlejohn found and dialled the number of Mr. Burt’s offices. The languid voice of Mr. Stagg was heard speaking at the other end.

  “Inspector Littlejohn here, Mr. Stagg.…”

  You could almost feel the estate agent bracing himself for an ordeal.

  “Oh, Mr. Stagg … how did Brownrigg pay his rent? Cheque, banknotes …?”

  “Just a minute, Inspector.”

  Mr. Stagg could be heard ordering his women about.

  “Hello! In cash, Inspector. A registered parcel containing soiled one-pound notes. Funny, eh? But they spend like anything else, so we didn’t mind. Anything wrong?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Stagg. Much obliged.”

  Littlejohn thanked the hotel manager and went on his way, past the hall-porter again, this time tying a bandage on the finger of a small boy whose sister had stabbed him with a pen-nib.

  “Brownrigg,” said the Inspector to himself as he descended the hotel steps in search of his bus to Victoria. “I don’t believe there’s no sech a person!”

  Light was beginning to dawn on the matter of the ghost of Harwood Hall and the fictitious Mr. Brownrigg!

  Cromwell arrived back at Harwood in time for a late tea and was proud of his day’s labours. They sat down to corned-beef and tinned beans.

  “What! More beans!” said Cromwell.

  Mrs. Stone had been subdued of late, but this challenge cut her to the quick.

  “If some people had to travel nine miles to shop on account of evacuees buyin’-up the village store and then queue-up for ’ours at once with varicose veins p’r’aps they’d be less fine-mouthed and hoity-toity.…”

  The rest was cut-off by the ringing of the telephone.

  Littlejohn answered it.

  “Yes … Littlejohn here. Who? Oh, yes. To-morrow morning at eleven. Right, I’ll expect you.”

  He hung up the instrument.

  “Well, well.”

  Cromwell’s mouth was full of food, but his eyebrows and his Adam’s-apple were eloquent.

  “That’s Pilot-Officer Roger Harwood. Wants to see me and have a chat to-morrow morning. Things are beginning to move, eh?”

  After tea, Cromwell produced the written results of his day’s efforts.

  “By the way, sir,” began Cromwell, “as I was coming in, I met one of the men from Dumkin and Watts, the contractors who altered this place for Burt. He was the foreman on the job and had called to see that everything was O.K., being in the district. I asked him right out if they’d come across any secret passages or hidden rooms while they were at it. He used some choice language about the accidents that happened, but said they’d been all over the place and that he’d stake his professional reputation that there wasn’t a one.”

  “That only confirms what old Harwood implied to-day when I saw him. Very useful.”

  They set about reading each other’s notes. Cromwell had collected a lot of matter from Scotland Yard, who, in turn, had been quizzing the local police of areas where the present Harwood Hall tenants had formerly lived.

  As was his custom, Littlejohn began what he called the boiling-down process whereby he cut out surplus matter and reduced the whole of the collection to a size reasonable enough to cover a few pages of his notebook. The detectives exchanged sheets of remarks, minutes, news from files and local stations, some neatly typewritten, some in Littlejohn’s tidy hand and a lot more in Cromwell’s rather flowery writing.

  In the end they had a respectable summary of their day’s researches.

  Whilst Cromwell read his chief’s accounts of the visits to Squire Harwood, the Whirligig, the Dunstanby Hotel, with a comic interlude at Pipkin’s office, Littlejohn copied his subordinate’s summary in his book:

  BRITISH MUSEUM: Harwood history turned up from book, Harwoods of Harwood, by Margaret Harwood (1907), showed no trace of ghosts or such. Being one of the family, the writer gilds the gingerbread a bit, but it seems that certain lively Harwoods in the Regency period painted the town red. Brighton very handy and riotous living indulged in, with the Regent often at the Hall. No other criminal record in family. Present owner, Theodore, apparently a harmless member of family.

  BRAUN: Reference books give: Born Vienna 1875. Ph.D., Vienna, Tubingen, Marburg. Prof. of Anthropology Univ. of Linz. Member Anthrop. Societies Paris, Munich, Berlin, Milan. Publications: Kulturphilosophie. Papers in Internationale Zeitschrift für Anthropologie translated into English by M. Bickers, Ph.D.

  Researches into tombs of early settlers in Pustertal and Thuringia.…

  (Here Littlejohn gave it up. Cromwell’s meticulous transcription stunned him.)

  He continued:

  BRAUN certified by Home Office as friendly alien (Austrian Social Democrat). Good conduct and character and other testimonies given by Master and Fellows of Benfield College, Cambridge.

  CARBERRY-PEACOCKES: Details obtained from Burt’s letting-agent confirmed. Purley police have no record against him, but his son is in Brixton Gaol for association with Fascist Union. Parents not known to have such sympathies, but left neighbourhood when son interned. Neighbours questioned by police said that C.-P. was a tea-merchant when in Purley, and worked in City. Enthusiastic wireless amateur and onetime ran a transmitting station.

  HARTWRIGHTS: Nothing known about them. U.S. Embassy merely confirm passports in order. Regular reports with police. Bankers simply know that they are well-to-do. Yard cabling American police.

  THE MISSES POTT: Nothing whatever against them. Seem to have led very quiet and respectable lives. Left house in St. John’s Wood to live at private hotel, Cedars, Epsom, but only stayed there ten days, evidently having found flat more suitable. Manageress of Cedars can tell us nothing useful about them. Agnes deaf and stayed indoors when sister not with her. Sister frequently went to town, apparently on business.

  BROWNRIGG: Blank.

  “Well,” said Littlejohn as he pocketed his pencil. “There’s not much fresh in that lot, Cromwell. But don’t be disappointed. It represents a good day’s work and brings to light something interesting about the Carberry-Peacockes. Mr. C.-P. specialised in receiving and transmitting sets, did he? We must look into that. And his son’s a Fascist. Still more intriguing. This is becoming a job for Special Branch, but before bringing them in, we’d better check-up a thing or two. We’ll look at Mr. Carberry-Peacocke’s flat next time he’s out, I think. Highly irregular, but expedient. We’ve not seen Mr. Williatt, either. I gather he’s a cad. And however rude he may be, old Braun’s giving us an interview to-morrow
, too. On second thoughts, I think I’ll pursue the Braun angle a bit further. Yes. I’ll take a trip to Cambridge myself and see the johnnies at Benfield College. I’d like to know more about Braun than records contain or the Home Office are inclined to give.”

  Cromwell fumbled among the papers he had been laboriously reading.

  “We can tick off Miss Freyle. We suspect that Brownrigg doesn’t exist. We know that Williatt’s a wrong-’un and is carrying on with the younger Miss Pott although a married man. And Hartwright and the Carberry-Peacockes are fishy, according to Miss Freyle. Not so bad. Things are taking shape. Oh, and incidentally, this place isn’t officially on the haunted-house list.”

  He mused a bit.

  “But why, sir, why doesn’t Brownrigg exist?”

  “Well,” replied Littlejohn, “I’d say one of two things. Somebody doesn’t want any more neighbours in the flats so, to secure the last vacant one, created a fictitious tenant and paid the rent. Or else, maybe, somebody’s going to change his identity and have a place to turn to when he becomes Brownrigg. That is, of course, assuming that the man doesn’t exist and hasn’t got himself tied-up in Europe and can’t get away. There’s a trace of similarity between Braun and Brownrigg, too, eh? Brownrigg’s the English equivalent of the German Braun, I’d say, with a bit on the end for variety.”

  Cromwell yawned.

  “I’m sleepy,” he said.

  “No use doing any more to-night,” answered Littlejohn, knowing that his subordinate had much personal routine to get through before eventually reaching his bed. “I’ll see young Harwood in the morning; then I’ll trek to Cambridge. Bit of a fag, but we must be sure about Braun. Williatt’s in London, expected back any train; arranging a new show I hear. We’re keeping an eye on him. If he’s not back to-morrow, we’ll rout him out for a talk. Time we saw the blighter. But matters are moving, although I can’t see the connection between the various bits and pieces yet. It’ll come, though. Patience, mon brave.”

  “Eh?”

  “Patience.”

  “Yes. Patience.”

  “Let’s turn in, then. I’ll ring up Benfield in the morning and see if the old boys are at home.”