Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  Cromwell rose.

  “Oh, I’d forgotten,” he said, and he went to his overcoat and fished in its capacious pockets.

  Returning, he placed two revolvers on the table.

  “Ready for the shooting-match,” he added, and went off to fill his hot-water bottle at the bathroom tap.

  CONFESSION

  PILOT-OFFICER HARWOOD was in time for his appointment.

  As, from his window, Littlejohn watched the young airman come striding up the drive, a fine figure of a youngster, head erect, arms swinging, he wondered what sort of an interview he was in for.

  Stone was pottering about on the front lawn at the time and rose from trying to look busy when he heard the approaching footsteps. Roger Harwood greeted him with a smile and a buoyant flick of his gloves and then paused for a word or two with him. Stone seemed transfigured with pride at thus being recognised and turned apprehensively to watch his young gentleman enter the Hall.

  The greeting between the Inspector and the airman was friendly. Handshakes were exchanged. Harwood looked Littlejohn straight in the face.

  They made themselves comfortable in the late Mr. Burt’s expensive club-chairs.

  “And now, sir, what can I do for you?” asked Littlejohn formally by way of an opening move.

  Harwood removed his pipe and gazed steadily at the glowing contents of the bowl as though wondering how to begin.

  “Well … I hear from Stone that you are hot on my track in connection with the haunting of this place and I thought I’d better come and see you personally and have it out with you.”

  “You … haunting the place?” exclaimed Littlejohn, apparently alarmed. He suspected as much, but didn’t rush to cramp the young airman’s style by an anti-climax at the outset.

  “Yes. I’d better begin at the beginning. It’s not a long tale. And perhaps it’s a damned silly one, but I’ve got to get it off my chest. I didn’t intend interfering unless innocent parties became involved. Now, as half the villagers seem to be under a cloud of suspicion, I’d better begin and clear them at once … Stone and the rest of ’em. Out of sheer loyalty to the old family, I learn, they’ve refused to co-operate with the police and got themselves in very bad odour with you.”

  “Ah!”

  “You sound as if you agree.”

  “Yes.”

  “It began with the arrival of Burt on the scene. The first we knew was that he’d bought out the mortgages, called in the debts and, because uncle couldn’t pay-up, foreclosed and took over. Just like the old melodramas. The old chap was booted out. I was furious; like the rest of the village. Not only at the way the old man had been treated, but at the vandalism on the Hall itself. I loved this place. Look at it now! Almost like the cosmopolitan pavilion at a universal exhibition.

  “I more or less controlled my fury, Inspector, until Burt started strutting about the village boasting how he was going to make it into a sort of bungalow town. That did it! I was staying at the local pub at the time and whenever I moved, I had the sight of contractors’ lorries churning up the drive of the Hall, carting stuff there, with a whole army of workmen, joinering, plumbing, wiring and generally ruining the grace of the place.

  “I was just down from Cambridge and I’d still plenty of student wildness in my blood. I made up my mind to give old Burt something for his money. The grandest rag ever concocted! I sent for some pals and we started the haunting. We had to tell some of the villagers of our plan; otherwise they might have loosed-off shotguns at us.”

  “We set about the plumbing and wiring first and as fast as the contractors plumbed and wired, we undid it. One night, in our enthusiasm, we nearly broke our necks. We were hunting for the electric wires between the floorboards and put our feet through the ceiling. Brought down the whole shooting-match. You’ve probably heard of all we did.”

  “I have.”

  “Seems a bit silly now, I admit. We couldn’t expect to keep it up against a chap like Burt.”

  Harwood looked sheepish.

  “When one thinks what we’re up against now.… But to us at the time it was a hell of a lark.”

  “What about the ducking?”

  Littlejohn’s eyes twinkled.

  “Oh, yes. That ended the whole carnival on a top note. We dressed ourselves in some of the togs we’d worn at the last Arts Ball. We climbed into Burt’s room up a ladder we found, scared him stiff and then made him take a header into his damned silly bathing-pool.”

  “And then …?”

  “We toddled-off to the potting-shed and changed back into our normal gear.…”

  “I found a part of your whiskers there!”

  “So Stone told me over the ’phone.”

  “Did he, by gad?”

  “Yes. The day after we’d ducked Burt, we heard that he’d taken a toss over the staircase and broken his neck.”

  “It was murder, you know.”

  “So I learned later.”

  “You’re sure your part of the escapade ended with the ducking?”

  “Quite. The others will confirm that … but I’d rather not mention names. They’re both officers in the Army now and being brought into this affair might cause a hell of a stink for them.”

  Littlejohn knew instinctively that Harwood told the truth.

  “We might be able to keep this prank off the records. At least we can do our best.…”

  “Awfully decent of you, Inspector. Anything I can do, of course.…”

  “Did you haunt any of the other tenants?”

  “We did a bit of button-tapping on one of the windows and a rum-looking bloke chased out and broke the blackout regulations. A bit childish.…”

  “Anything in the way of poltergeists?”

  “Eh?”

  “A poltergeist’s a mischievous and violent ghost. Throws things about. Smashes crockery and furniture. Heaves about gas stoves and refrigerators.…”

  “Hell’s bells! We didn’t rise to that. I’ve told you all our repertoire, I think.”

  “Well, that’s a big help. We know that your pranks were taken as cover for more dangerous work. I’m glad you came forward of your own accord. It’s cleared the air.”

  “I wanted the whole business settled. Those fellows in the village are quite innocent of anything in the matter. And Stone can face you again with an easy conscience. Besides, when it comes to killing in cold blood, I draw the line. I ought to have seen you sooner, but I was too busy with other things. You know how it is these times?”

  “Sure. Well, good-luck, sir, and thanks again.”

  “So long, Inspector. Good hunting.”

  “And the same to you, sir.”

  They shook hands again.

  Young Harwood strode jauntily on his way down the drive, stopping to reassure Stone who was still hanging about like a faithful dog. Then he halted for a kindly word with Mrs. Stone, who emerged from the lodge carrying a bucket of hen food. Littlejohn watched him from the window until he disappeared from sight and wished he had such a son.

  That finished the ghosts for good and all.

  Now for the tangible killer!

  THE APPREHENSIVE DON

  LITTLEJOHN had a good half-hour to spare before meeting the Master of Benfield and decided to pass the time by calling at the Cambridge branch of the Home Counties Bank with a view to wringing from them as much information concerning the finances of Dr. Braun as possible. He anticipated a difficult passage in this respect, for he knew the reluctance with which banks disclose their customers’ affairs. But he received a pleasant surprise.

  The Home Counties Bank branch in Cambridge was formerly the private bank of Dalrymple, Hussey and Co., which was taken over, lock, stock and barrel by the joint-stock concern in 1919. With a view to preserving the good-will of the place, one of the old private banking family had always been in charge there, even under the new regime. Littlejohn, therefore, found himself ushered into the presence of Mr. Hussey-Dalrymple, a tall, thin young man of seven and twenty wi
th the almost impudent self-confidence of a true aristocrat. He had a determined face like that of a disdainful pug dog, but a carefree way of banking. He wore a shirt of startling design and a soft collar with long roving points held together by a tie which looked as if it had been torn from an old tweed suit. As he crossed his legs he displayed a large hole in the heel of his stocking.

  Mr. Hussey-Dalrymple did not care a damn for Head Office. He made this quite plain to Littlejohn when the Inspector mentioned the purpose of his visit. He was, he said, awaiting his call-up to the Fleet Air Arm and might as well begin at that moment in rooting-out the bloody Huns.

  On the finances of Dr. Braun the young banker was quite frank.

  “Old Braun arrived here before the war and parked himself on Chalmers, Master of Benfield—a dear old feller, but a bit goofy—and opened an account with me on Chalmers’ introduction. The Home Office said he was O.K., so I took him. He’s given us no trouble.”

  “Where does he get his money from, sir?” asked Littlejohn. “He’s living in an expensive flat in Sussex and keeping two assistants and doesn’t seem short.”

  “Money. The feller’s rolling in it. Confidentially, I’ll tell you, Inspector, he brought with him about twenty thousand pounds in bearer bonds—good English stuff—and deposited ’em here for safe-keeping. How in blazes he got all that out of Germany, I don’t know. When I went there the year before the war on a bit of a holiday, it took the blighters all their time to let me out with twenty quid. Mind you, Braun’s securities are in small bulk … high denominations, and he travelled by air through Switzerland. But he must have been a conjuror to get ’em past the Nazi frontier chaps … the swine!”

  Littlejohn had learned all he wanted. All withdrawals from Braun’s account were to self in cash and in reasonable sums. There were no payments to credit, except proceeds of realised securities on which the doctor was living.

  After taking a cup of coffee with Mr. Dalrymple, the Inspector thanked him, wished him well and made for Benfield College.

  Mr. Chalmers, the Master, had been rather correctly described as goofy by the young banker, for he was a superannuated mathematician who lived in an abstruse world of his own and only occasionally descended from it. He met Littlejohn in a cosy, book-lined study where he was taking his morning cup of tea with the bursar and another little Fellow named Scrope, who seemed inordinately timid and apprehensive, as though himself expecting to be arrested on the spot.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Inspector,” twittered Scrope as the Master introduced him to Littlejohn. “I have never been in the company of a real detective before—to say nothing of holding converse with one.”

  The Master himself was a small, tubby man, with snow-white hair spreading like silk over his coat collar. Pink complexion, long pointed nose and easy-going mouth, which seemed made of india rubber as he applied it to pieces of very yellow slab-cake.

  “There’s not much I can say, Inspector Meiklejohn,” he said, dusting the crumbs from his waistcoat. “Braun’s a good chap. I’d vouch for him anywhere. I’ve guaranteed him to the Home Office, because I’ve known him all my life. He’s one of those poor scholars whom the National Socialists can’t leave alone because in his youth he was a Social Democrat. All he wants now is peace in which to pursue his studies. I shall do my best to see that he gets it.”

  “I appreciate that, sir,” answered Littlejohn. “The universities have done great work in that respect. But we want to be quite sure that he’s a genuine case. We can’t be too careful now that we’re at war with Germany.”

  Chalmers raised his hands despairingly.

  “My dear Inspector Applejohn, I can assure you that Braun’s as innocent as a child.…”

  So are you, in your otherworldly atmosphere, thought Littlejohn. The Inspector gazed through the window at the old lawns and trim flower-beds of Benfield. Might be a million miles away from the war, just like old Chalmers.

  “.…I was with him at Marburg more than forty years ago. We have met frequently since. I’ve never found Braun to be anything but a scholar and a philosopher of the best type, craving only quiet and seclusion in which to study and write.”

  “Is he Austrian?”

  “I … ahem … I think he was born in Vienna. I think so.”

  “H’m.”

  “Yes, Vienna,” interposed the bursar, who was more businesslike. “I remember our filling-in the forms for the Home Office. Born Vienna, educated from early days in Munich, Tübingen and Marburg. Held his last post in Austria, at the University of Linz.”

  “Well, thank you, gentlemen, for your confirmation of Dr. Braun’s good name. That relieves us somewhat.”

  “Very pleased indeed to be of service, both to you and my old friend,” replied the Master and, levering himself from his armchair and showering the carpet with more crumbs of yellow cake, he lead Littlejohn from the room, affectionately placing his arm round the Inspector’s broad shoulders.

  Littlejohn, making his way somewhat despondently back to the main entrance, was surprised to find little Mr. Scrope at his elbow.

  “My dear Inspector … let me see now, your name’s Littlejohn, isn’t it …? My dear Inspector Littlejohn, pray do me the honour of taking a glass of sherry with me in my quarters. As I said, this is the first opportunity I’ve had of talking with a detective from Scotland Yard.…”

  Mr. Scrope resembled a robin, with bright eyes, chubby face and a nose like a little beak. His face crinkled expectantly as he looked up at Littlejohn.

  In his dotage, thought Littlejohn, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse. Besides, he’d an hour for his train.

  Scrope opened a door and ushered the Inspector into his cosy study. Hullo! What’s this? thought Littlejohn as the old Fellow turned the key in the lock.

  Scrope looked delightedly conspiratorial. First, he brought out a bottle of sherry and filled two glasses.

  “Your very good health, Inspector,” he said, and they both sipped the excellent wine.

  Littlejohn looked around him. Shelves crammed to overflowing with books. Ancient histories mostly, by the look of them, but one bookcase contained something more modern. The Inspector’s eyes opened wide at the sight.

  Maigret, Lord Peter, Fortune and Clunk, Bobbie Owen, Nero Wolfe, Ellery Queen and all the rest of them along with Holmes, Lecoq, Dupin and Rouletabille … Voltaire’s Zadig, too, as a classical touch.

  “Yes, Inspector, I’m fond of detectives. But this is the first time I’ve ever shared in a case.”

  “Well, sir, I must say I’m a bit surprised. I thought you dons had no time for the likes of us.…”

  “Come, come, Inspector. I like a good murder. And I like a clever solution better. I don’t want you to think me melodramatic, but I have something to tell you in strictest confidence and one can’t be too careful. I’m nearly seventy, but I’ve still my wits about me and although its disloyal, I must say that Chalmers has been so long in the clouds of higher mathematics that he’s lost touch with earthly realities. Do you read German, Inspector?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say, sir … French, a little, but no German.”

  “Never mind, I’ll translate for you.”

  Scrope was no longer the timid little don. He was very alert, excited and voluble. As he chattered, he searched in a drawer of his desk. Papers fell out higgledy-piggledy about the floor. At length he swooped on a bundle of papers clipped together and brought it to his guest.

  “Here we are, Inspector. Verbatim report of a lecture delivered by Dr. Braun at Jena in the summer of 1936.…”

  Scrope turned over the pages nervously, seeking his place, prattling the while.

  “My nephew took down this lecture as delivered. He was over there on a course.… A young fellow, brilliant surgeon, now with the R.A.F. One day, with time on his hands, he heard of a lecture on the Herrenvolk … yes, Herrenvolk, being given to German students by a visiting professor from Austria. It was Braun. Now there’s nothing wrong
with the Herrenvolk idea, provided you don’t try to keep it exclusively to one nation, especially Germany.… But listen yourself. Here’s the passage I want you to mark. I can’t give you the manuscript. It isn’t mine to give. But here’s a sheet of paper. You can copy the passage as I read it. It’s only quite short.”

  Scrope drank off his sherry, found a sheet of foolscap which he passed to Littlejohn, and began to read. His translation might have been ready written for him, so well and briskly did he do it, pausing now and then to enable Littlejohn to write it down.

  “.… ‘it is my firm conviction that in those days before history, and concerning which my poor scraps of evidence dug from the German earth throw a little light, a branch broke from the main trunk of human progress which far exceeded the rest in vigorous growth and manifestation. The best that was in the tree, the sap giving life, intelligence, energy, poured into it; the rest of the branches were far behind. The master-branch spread and flourished.

  “‘To change the metaphor, ladies and gentlemen. The master race, the Herrenvolk, had issued from the stream. Other races were left behind. They could serve the master race, assist it in its ultimate purpose of perfection, but never outstrip it again. This law was ordained far back in man’s beginning. Weaker races were subdued. Mightier and mightier grew the Herrenvolk. History tells it; research such as mine proves it. The master race—the Herrenvolk—are the Germans!’”

  “Well, Inspector? What do you think of it? Does that bear out poor old deluded Chalmers’ opinion? Of course it doesn’t. But Chalmers and a lot like him never saw that lecture in print. It was never printed, in fact. It was suppressed. Not because the Nazis didn’t want it blasting by trumpets all over the world, but because it didn’t suit them at the time to show their hand.”

  “But why did nobody hear of it, sir, until now?”

  “My nephew happened to be there by sheer chance. He sneaked into the lecture-room among a lot of young Nazis and left before the end. Otherwise, I’m afraid his notes would have been confiscated.”