Littlejohn rose and extended his hand to Brown, who took it gratefully.
“Don’t worry, sir. I don’t blame you looking after your boys. And I appreciate your candour. Now I must be getting along.”
Harold Brown showed the detective to the door. He seemed too full for words and shook Littlejohn’s hand again.
Ware seems to have left a bad smell behind him wherever he’s been, thought Littlejohn, as he descended the stairs. If anyone deserved polishing-off, the late Mayor of Westcombe did!
The branch of Cotts’ Bank in Westcombe occupies an imposing corner site and looks a veritable palace of wealth, for it is the largest of its kind in the town and the main accounts of the place are kept there, including those of the Mayor and Corporation.
Mr. G. B. Oxendale, the manager, received Littlejohn in his office, a light and airy room, well-appointed and with expensive etchings on the walls. The manager himself was a medium-built, bald-headed man, with a small, brownish-grey moustache, thick lips, and a prominent nose and chin. His complexion was sunbaked, even to the back of his neck, and his blue eyes peered through his gold-framed spectacles as though he might be looking for things on a distant horizon, which can be well understood when it is told that he spent his spare time in summer aboard his small yacht. He also had a little harmless weakness of posing as a scholar. He lectured to mutual improvement classes on literary subjects in the winter, and gave profuse advice to his junior clerks on every subject under the sun. He was regularly to be seen knocking around with two or three large volumes under his arm. During a break in the interview, caused by his Accountant entering and bearing-off Mr. Oxendale for a minute or two on a technical matter, Littlejohn took a glance at the three current tomes. He found them to be consecutive library volumes of Romains’s Men of Good Will, as though Oxendale might be trying to read them concurrently, like those mathematical prodigies who can, by glancing up a column of figures, add up the lot, £ s. and d., in one mental gulp.
Beneath his calm and dignified exterior, Mr. Oxendale was considerably scared by the Inspector’s visit. Fundamentally nervous and imaginative, he had spent sleepless nights seeing himself under fire from the police, and whilst the appearance of his visitor was reassuring, Oxendale feared that certain spluttered remarks he’d made in public concerning Sir Gideon’s character and what ought to be his fate, might be taken-down and used in evidence against him.
“Although I was sitting right opposite the Mayor, I didn’t see a thing unusual, Inspector,” was his answer to Littlejohn’s oft-repeated opening question.
“Everybody says the same, Mr. Oxendale. Everyone seems to have fallen foul of Sir Gideon in some way or another, too. I really wonder if the crime might be a joint affair, concocted by all his enemies feasting with him on the day!”
“Surely not, Inspector. Nobody hated him so much as to go to the extent of killing him in such a horrible fashion.”
“Had you any bone to pick with Ware, Mr. Oxendale?” The bank manager braced himself for a clean breast of the affair.
“I disliked him intensely, Inspector. Intensely! But I couldn’t have killed him. Not that way, anyhow. If I’d wanted to kill him, I’d have invited him for a sail in my yacht and pushed him off in the bay.”
He was intensely serious about the whole business and looked owlishly at his visitor through his shining glasses.
“So, you did think about getting him out of the way, sir?” said Littlejohn, with a most disarming and whimsical smile.
“Well, no, not exactly. I thought of that method after the murder … He’s caused me some loss of sleep and heart-burnings lately, though. Last half-year end, he accused me of charging him too much commission, on his business account and wouldn’t listen to explanations. He’s a director of our bank and told me that I was incompetent and he’d recommend my transfer to a smaller inland branch …”
Oxendale shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture.
“I’m fifty-seven, Inspector. In three years, I’m due to retire and I’m getting ready for it. Panting for it, in fact, for I’ve planned with my wife to do so many things. We’ve bought a yacht and propose sailing all round the coast of Great Britain to start with …”
The manager grew quite excited and glowing at the prospect.
“We’ve bought a house here, too. We’ve always had our eye on it, … You must call and see it one day before you return. Last year, it came up for sale and we got it at a reasonable figure. I was just beginning to look forward to a happy old age, as soon as the war’s over. Then, this affair with Ware occurred …”
All Oxendale’s enthusiasm died, as when a bucket of water is thrown over a fire of dry sticks.
“… He was quite capable of getting me moved. The house and yacht would be no use to us then, and settling down at a new branch at my time of life, with a stigma attached to the move, would have broken me. Can you wonder at my relief when Ware died?”
Yet another! thought Littlejohn.
“Of course, Inspector, I’ll admit I’m a possible suspect with a burning resentment like that I was nursing. But, I wouldn’t have killed him. Life’s still good. I’ve got my wife and a son in North Africa to live for. Better to cut my losses, than kill and be hanged for it.”
He looked searchingly at his visitor, questioning whether or not his sincerity was in doubt.
Littlejohn played his next card with considerable finesse.
“I didn’t call to accuse you, Mr. Oxendale. Nor yet to try to trick you into incriminating yourself. I don’t for a minute suspect you. I even appreciate your relief at the turn of events …”
Oxendale beamed and relaxed like one who had shed a heavy load.
“… but I’d like your confidential help, sir,” continued Littlejohn, somewhat apprehensive lest the banker’s professional caution should intervene before his sense of relief was exhausted.
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me anything about the financial position of Mr. Kingsley-Smith, the Town Clerk?”
“It’s all a case of this,” answered Oxendale rather dubiously. “If asked by another bank whether or not he were good for his engagements, I’d say ‘A highly respectable man, but fully committed financially, and should not undertake further liabilities.’ That’s as far as I can go, without breaking faith, Inspector. It’s all a case of banker and customer and secrecy. You understand?”
“Yes, I do, sir. I’ll keep it confidential. Does he borrow from you?”
Mr. Oxendale began to wrestle with his feelings. Ingrained caution and duty against gratitude and genuine liking for his questioner. He decided to compromise.
“Well, yes. Again, in the strictest confidence. Please don’t ask me to say more, Inspector. I don’t want to appear fussy or punctilious, especially to you, but duty is duty.”
“Certainly, sir. Just one small point, though, which I will keep strictly to myself. Does the Town Clerk deposit security and if so, is it his private dwelling-house?”
“As you seem to know, Inspector, yes. It’s all a case of living beyond one’s means, I think.”
“He doesn’t own any other houses in the town?”
“Not to my knowledge, and if he did, I’m sure I’d be aware of it.”
“I’m very much obliged, sir, and I’ll take up no more of your valuable time.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Only too glad to help. And I must confess that I feel greatly relieved at the confession I’ve made. You will keep the banking information dark, won’t you?”
“I promise you that. Well, good-day and thanks again, Mr. Oxendale.”
“Good day, Inspector, and don’t forget, call to see my place if ever you’re that way. It’s right on the Hinster’s Ferry Road. Anyone will direct you.”
Outside the bank, Littlejohn paused deep in thought. Streams of visitors were winding from the beach and promenade to their lodgings for lunch, many of the children howling dismally at having to abandon a full morning’s architectural activities on th
e sands. The Salvationist Band passed on its way home.
The hill of Zion yields
A thousand sacred sweets,
Before we reach the heavenly fields,
Or walk the golden streets.
“Penny for ’em,” said a voice at Littlejohn’s elbow.
It was Hazard.
“What about a spot of lunch, Inspector?”
“Gladly, Hazard.”
“I’ve just finished a very edifying morning’s work, Littlejohn. Somebody’s complained that The Human Spider on the Pleasure Beach is indecent. A young lady with limbs like a jellyfish in a side-show, you know. I had to insinuate myself in the audience and then make a written report for the Watch Committee. I even interviewed the human octopus, and found her to be a hard-working, decent young lady, and very much annoyed that there should be any investigations or aspersions. The performance was a bit revolting. Contortions in a green light, like an aquarium. But nothing obscene, as the lady complainant said. And the girl was dressed in a costume which, compared with some we see displayed on the beach, was positively Victorian … What you been doing with yourself?”
“Discovering things. A lying, philandering Town Clerk. A shifty and impecunious Borough Treasurer, scared to death of any light being thrown on his affairs. A browbeaten Magistrate’s Clerk, fighting for justice and his two kids against Ware. And a pathetically terrified bank manager, afraid of his scheme for a happy retirement being utterly confounded by his late Worship the Mayor, and ready to drown, if not poison him as a result. So far, I’ve not picked up the trail of the murderer. But, I will do … I hope.”
“And what’s the next step?”
“I’ve still to see the three clergymen who were present at the banquet. And the guest of honour. Wilmott Saxby, was he called?”
“Yes. You’ll have to cross the ferry for that. Quite a pleasant little excursion. See the parsons first, whilst I get my report done. Then, perhaps we could meet and go to Hinster’s Ferry together.”
“Right. But I’ll not have to be long about it. I’m due to see McAndrew about the autopsy before he leaves his office to-day.”
“We’ll manage to get it in. And now, what about that lunch? The hungry wolves are pouring into The Grand, and there’ll be nothing left if we don’t get at it.”
Through the windows of the great building, they could see crowds of hungry diners falling-to with gusto, and with genuine apprehension in their hearts, the detectives hastened to the revolving doors, which, like the feeding apparatus of some great machine, gathered them up and passed them into the interior for digestion.
CHAPTER EIGHT - CLERGY AT THE FEAST
The vicarage of St. Michael and All Angels was a huge, rambling building, with a dozen or more bedrooms, built in the days when badly-paid clergymen were expected, as a matter of course, to multiply and replenish into double figures, trusting in Providence to provide. The last incumbent had done his best at eight. Canon Wallopp, however, had remained blessedly single. Perhaps the thought of all those spare rooms terrified that clerical sybarite.
Hanging over the whole neighbourhood was the great square tower of the church, from the belfry of which numbers of jackdaws incessantly flew with wild cries, as if shaken from the stones by an unseen hand, and then allowed to settle again momentarily, only to be agitated once more and launched into air from their high perching-places.
Littlejohn was ushered into a small, dingy room by a soft-footed manservant and asked to wait. The situation reminded him vaguely of Whistler’s portrait of Carlyle, not that the detective fancied himself as either physically or mentally resembling the sage of Chelsea, but the chair he was offered was only comfortable on its extreme edge and he sat there, his raincoat over his arm and his hat balanced on his knees, like a suppliant in the antechamber of a Pope.
After a brief spell, the Inspector was asked to follow the flunkey again, this time to a larger room, also unoccupied. A pleasant, book-lined study, with a large desk, comfortable chairs and a huge window which overlooked a well-kept, walled garden. A screen obscured the main door, which was at the far end and soon a shuffling noise emanating from that direction, announced the Canon’s approach. Then his reverence’s face itself appeared over the top of the screen. It brought to Littlejohn’s mind the man in the moon, peering over the dial of a grandfather clock to denote the current lunar phase.
Wallopp was walking stiffly with the help of a stick, for the after-effects of the toss he had taken at the banquet had manifest themselves only after the feasting had ended.
The Canon had a face almost identical with that of the deadly sin of gluttony materialised, along with his six companions, on a plaster plaque which Mrs. Littlejohn had bought in St. Malo years before
“Good day to you, Inspector Littlejohn,” said the clergyman, refreshing his memory by a glance at the detective’s card and moistening his heavy lips by drawing first the upper, then the lower one into his mouth. “To what do I owe this unexpected call?”
“As a guest at the Mayor’s luncheon the other day, I thought you could perhaps give me some information which might help me and my colleagues in investigating his murder, sir.”
“A shocking affair! Shocking! … But be seated, Inspector, be seated,” said Wallopp and himself dropped heavily and with a groan into a large chair. “Drrreadful! But I’m afraid I know very little that will help you. Very little. Who could have wanted to do such a thing?”
“Many of those present that day were no friends of Sir Gideon, sir. I’m sure you know that as well as I do. The late Mayor seemed to have a faculty for antagonising everyone with whom he came in contact.”
“How right you are, Inspector. How right,” sighed the Canon folding his large, well-kept hands beneath his pectoral cross. “I must confess that I myself have nourished the most uncharitable feelings towards Sir Gideon. You’ll have heard of our little difference, won’t you?”
And Wallopp looked anxiously at his visitor, as though anticipating his snapping the gyves on his wrists and hauling him off as a suspect.
“Yes. I’ve heard something of it, sir. About the office of Mayor’s Chaplain, which I hear was filled this year with considerable lack of tact and not a little rudeness by Ware.”
“Very true, Inspector. Very true. I grant that Ware was a member of the Roman Catholic community and had he politely intimated to me that in such circumstances, he preferred the services of Father Manfred during his term, no one … no one, I say, would have been more pleased than I to give place. But the thing was announced coarsely at a cocktail party—at which I wasn’t present, of course—given to celebrate Ware’s election. He announced that Gaukroger, of the Beach Mission, an undenominational fellow, and formerly a commercial clerk, whom I question has ever been ordained … However, I mustn’t waste your time with my little grievances …”
“I’m surprised you attended the banquet after such treatment, sir.”
The Canon raised benedictive fingers.
“I’m not one to bear ill-will, Inspector. I regarded the invitation as one to bury the hatchet as well as to … ahem … feast and I acted as I felt right in accepting it. But as for throwing any light on how or why the crime was committed, I must confess I saw nothing unusual, and like many others, am baffled by the whole business.”
“May I ask you, in confidence, sir, if in your opinion, there is much corruption in municipal affairs here?”
The Canon’s eyes grew wide, and the whole of the front of his bald head seemed to slide forward, creating heavy, puzzled wrinkles on his brow.
“Corruption …? Certainly not! Or, at least, not that I’m aware of.”
Littlejohn might have guessed that the mountain of flesh before him had no finger for the spiritual pulse of Westcombe. He rose to depart.
“Excuse my not rising to see you out, Inspector Littlejohn,” said Wallopp. “I had a fall the other day which shook me badly and left my limbs so stiff.”
He rang a small handbell on his desk,
like a medieval bishop indicating that the audience was over, and the meek manservant entered.
“So sorry to have been of little help, but I’ll give the matter more thought. I’ll concentrate on what happened at the unhappy gathering, and if I recollect anything, I’ll telephone you, Inspector.”
He looked ready to add his blessing to the interview, but changed his mind and offered his hand to the detective.
Gaukroger had just finished a late lunch when Littlejohn rang his doorbell. He lived in a small, detached villa near the large mission church which he had built from the proceeds of his own vigorous labours in the Westcombe vineyard. He was known to holidaymakers from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. Everybody who spent a holiday in Westcombe knew Gaukroger and talked about him as a good chap on reaching home. He was, in fact, part of the entertainment of the place. He knew how to draw and keep crowds interested. His preaching was a form of religious delirium and nobody seeing him in repose out of the pulpit or off the rostrum or soap-box, could believe him to be such a spell-binder.
Titus Gaukroger had once been a missionary in the Hopeful Islands, among the most savage heathen. He treated his beach congregations just as he had treated his islanders in the old days, and his technique was a success.
Mrs. Gaukroger, a cheery, chubby woman answered Littlejohn’s ring.
“You’ll have to be quick,” she replied. “Mr. Gaukroger’s just going down to the beach.”
As if to confirm this statement, the pastor himself emerged from the gloom of the interior, clad in black and white, wearing a black straw boater (which came and went with the swallows), and holding an umbrella clutched in the middle and waist-high like a bishop’s crosier. He was like a frostbitten replica of the French comedian Fernandel, and he had three children who looked just like him and another on the way which Mrs. Gaukroger prayed might be different.
“Oh, come in, Inspector. I can spare you a minute or two,” said the parson, and he led the way into a large room, furnished in the old-fashioned style with odd chairs, tables, pictures and floor-mats jumbled together.
He'd Rather Be Dead Page 8
