Littlejohn’s equanimity was in no way affected, however. He was a large, well built officer, spruce, clean and kindly. He was usually assigned to cases needing a lot of good will and tact. The Worth Case certainly required both.
“At first, we thought it might have been an accident,” said Kane, putting down an empty cup, pocketing a bottle of saccharine tablets and drying his moustache by using his lower lip across it like a squeegee.
“But there were two or three funny things we couldn’t get over. First, Worth’s nails and finger tips were torn and contained splinters of wood. When we examined the engine house door, we discovered the reason. He’d been locked in and had been clawing at the back of it. The marks of his nails were plain to be seen. The door was open, however, when the firewatcher found him.
“Somebody must have locked him in, Inspector Littlejohn. Because the lock wasn’t a spring one and we’ve tried again and again to see if the door could have stuck. But it worked quite easily.
“Then, there’s the broken window. It wasn’t smashed when the engine man went home earlier that night. It had been broken from within, too, and with a spanner. Mr. Henry’s fingerprints were on the spanner. He must have done it struggling for air and collapsed under it.
“Again, somebody had opened the main gas valve, which is only used for testing the engine and fills the place with gas in no time if it isn’t connected to the testing gauges. The result of it all was that the coroner adjourned the inquest for further investigation, although it was as plain as the nose on your face that he was sure it was wilful murder. How could he think otherwise?”
Littlejohn removed his pipe and emitted a cloud of smoke.
“And what about motives?” he said. “Have you made any progress there?”
“Well, there are heaps of them,” answered Kane. “First of all, Mr. Henry, the murdered man, is the eldest of a family of three. They’re all like cat and dog. Scrapping and quarrelling among themselves. Can’t be together for half an hour without a right royal row developing. Henry was managing director of the firm and Gerald and Alice, his brother and sister, were on the board as well. Henry and Gerald were always rowing about the administration of the works. Alice married a sponger, a French count, if you please, called Châteaulcœf. Count Chateaulœuf. The Count and his wife want more out of the company than Henry approves and they’re always squabbling about dividends. Also, there’s a stepmother, younger than Henry himself. Old William Worth, founder of the firm, married again in his old age and put the cat properly among the pigeons. There was an awful family shemozzle, I’ll tell you. Which resulted in old William making a funny Will and making his children look like a pack of naughty kids.”
“H’m. We must hear about that Will, Kane.…”
“It was just this: he left all he had to his wife in trust. She got the income for life and then it passed to his children. The stepmother draws quite a big income; the children just depend on their dividends from the works and what they can pick up on future prospects, which isn’t much, considering their stepmother is of their own generation. Now, if one of them had killed her.…”
“A most malicious sort of a Will and well calculated to cause bad blood. Had the old man a grudge against them?”
“Yes. The two sons didn’t take kindly to their new ma. Naturally, she was doing them out of their birthright. If they’d had the sense not to show it, they might have fared better. But they had rows with the old chap and he just took the cruellest revenge he could think of. It wasn’t fair to his wife, either.”
“No, it wasn’t. How did she take it?”
“Oh, not so badly. She’s a hard boiled one. Had to be to marry a foul tempered chap like old William and forty years his junior, too. It was obvious why she married him. She’s not a bad looker—if you like them on the heavy side and horsey. Came from quite a good family.”
“And what about the daughter … what’s her name?”
“Her husband’s a French count, or so he says. Count Armand de Châteaulœuf.… I’ve heard it said he was a penniless aristocrat engaged in touting for trips round Paris by night when she met him. Always a bit of a wild ’un was Miss Alice. She expected her father’d cut her off with a shilling. Instead, he just accepted the situation, because he was figuring on getting married to a young ’un himself. So Alice and the Count came to live here in one of the lodges at the big house—Trentvale Hall. She doesn’t call herself Countess. Just plain Mrs. Châteaulœuf … fine mouthful!… It’s my belief that her husband’s a phoney aristocrat. An adventurer.…”
Kane gave a knowing nod with his glossy, bald head. As if to make up for lack of hair on top, he had a large red moustache. His nose, a formidable promontory jutting over this copious covering of his upper lip, combined with it to remind one of the sea breaking against the foot of a granite rock.
“And what about your suspicions, Kane?”
“Well, it might have been any of the family. Mr. Henry was the wealthiest of the children. You see, he was of an inventive turn of mind and made quite a packet out of his patents. He was a bachelor and doubtless the family would benefit under his Will. Châteaulœf and his wife are broke. Owe money all over the place. They might have done it. Especially the Count. I wouldn’t put it past him. Never have liked him.”
“Then again, there’s Mr. Gerald, who besides being a bit of a duffer, couldn’t agree with Mr. Henry. Thought he ought to have more say in the affairs of the works. Maybe he was right. Mr. Henry treated him like a bit of a lad. Never hesitated to make him look small before the workpeople, either. Perhaps Gerry got fed up with it and did his brother in.”
“And the stepmother?”
“What should she want to murder him for? He managed the works very well and kept the dividends up. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”
“H’m. Did they get on well after the first shock had died down?”
“Rumour says too well. She wasn’t a bad looker when first she came here. And a few years younger than Henry and him a bachelor, and addicted to philandering. You thinking about the woman scorned?”
“Not exactly, Kane. However, what other views have you?”
“One of the workmen might have done it. Mr. Henry was a hard man to work for and dead against trade unions, although he had to put up with them. And until the Ministry of Labour regulations put a spoke in his wheel, he never hesitated to sack a man, whether he had a wife and family or not. Hard as iron was Henry when he set that way.”
“How many workmen do Worth’s employ?”
“About three hundred and fifty hands, men and women.”
“We’re going to have a job hunting for a murderer among that lot, aren’t we?”
Kane blew through his moustache which shook like a tree tortured by the wind.
“I’ll say we are. I was thinking, too, it might have been a bit of fifth column work perhaps. I did hear on the Q.T. that Mr. Henry had just finished an invention which would revolutionise a certain type of fighter ’plane. Perhaps the enemy got wise and put paid to him before he could get it into commission.”
“Perhaps they did,” said Littlejohn without enthusiasm. He wasn’t fond of melodramatic cases or of breaking the ground and then having to hand it over to Special Branch or Military Intelligence. Once he’d set his hand to the plough, he liked to keep straight on until he reaped the harvest.
“Well, sir. What about a look round? We’ll call at the town mortuary first and you can view the body if you like. You’ll see from the medical report and records of the coroner’s proceedings, which are in this here envelope and which you can take with you for perusal when you like, that death was due to coal gas poisoning. After we’ve seen the corpse, perhaps you’d like to have a look over the works, too, and specially the engine shed.”
“Right-oh, Kane. Lead the way.”
They visited the morgue and there Littlejohn found the body of a man of fifty or there about; the most impressive characteristics of which were the tight l
ips and a long inquisitive nose. Owing to the cause of death, the skin retained a pink flush, so much so, that it was difficult to believe that the man was dead at all. But, for the most part, death had robbed Henry Worth of his personality. As far as summing up the man went, Littlejohn might just as well have stood before a waxwork model of him. Kane pointed out the broken finger nails and the finger tips to which splinters of wood still adhered from the poor fellow’s last wild struggle to free himself.
The engine house yielded little of any help. Littlejohn examined the large gas engine, which stood silent at the time, for they were not using the winches, and was shown whence the gas which killed Henry Worth had escaped. A nozzle at the end of the cylinder of the engine and fitted with a brass tap had done the trick. Had the victim had time to think clearly, he might have realized what had been done and turned off the fumes in time.
The place had been combed for fingerprints or other helpful signs, but was so dirty and greasy and the litter and handmarks of so many workmen were all over in great profusion, as to render any such researches hopeless.
Kane looked hard at Littlejohn as they left the engine house.
“You see. Hopeless, isn’t it? One doesn’t know where to start, does one?”
He fixed his blue eyes pathetically on his companion, as though apologising for bringing him there on a fool’s errand.
Littlejohn smiled and puffed his pipe stolidly.
“Patience, Kane,” he said. “We’d better get some background first. To-night after dinner, I’ll have a stroll up to the Hall and just get an idea of the family environment. A pleasant and easy dose of work to begin with. Then, to-morrow, we’ll go to the works and ask a few questions from those concerned. No use beginning among the workmen, now. It’s almost time for the finishing hooter.”
As if accepting a challenge, a steam whistle gave three sharp blasts. Before its noise had died away, workmen and girls began to pour out of the factory gates. Like a beehive.… The death of the boss did not seem to have affected the spirits of the workers.
Mr. Henry’s capable underlings were continuing the administration and the whole was still functioning like a machine which has been wound up and continues to rundown with relentless precision. The men and girls laughed, chattered and made merry as they dispersed to their various homes. Some of them discussed the crime and its possible solutions dispassionately and with good humour. None seemed unduly afflicted by the tragedy. They had their own affairs to think of; keeping up the standard of work, wondering how their lovers, husbands, sons and friends were faring in the forces, trying to size up the war situation.… Provided work and wages continued and their own little share in the war went well, the elimination of a Mr. Henry or two was of minor importance.
The person who seemed the most perturbed among the throng was the engineer, a Welshman, who was airing his grievances with Celtic abandon.
“Why, with the whole works and town to choose from,” he was saying to his buddies, and indicating those two localities by comprehensive sweeps of his arms at the earth and the firmament. “Why, with the whole works and town to choose from, should somebody select my engine house for the crime …? Tell me that … indeed.…”
CHAPTER III
TRENTVALE HALL
AFTER a good evening meal at the local hotel where he was staying, Littlejohn lit his pipe and took the pleasant walk to Trentvale Hall. This large old house, dating from the days of Queen Anne, had been bought by the Worths, upstarts of the early nineteenth century, from impoverished gentry who could no longer afford to live there.
Deep woods surrounded the Hall. An ominous silence prevailed in their damp, dark depths, a kind of expectant hush, as if yet another family tragedy were in the offing and ready to burst on the world at any minute.
Littlejohn followed a narrow path through the undergrowth, for the landlord of the hotel had told him that by taking this way instead of circling round to the main gates, he would save himself an hour’s walking. Soon, the Inspector came upon a high wall surrounding the gardens of the house and, finding an unlocked door, passed through it into a sudden change of atmosphere, for here were well kept lawns, flower beds and ornamental shrubs.
Although it was long past working hours, an old gardener was still pottering about among the roses, as though afraid that if he left them someone might uproot and carry off the lot. This ancient of days greeted Littlejohn, thinking him to be a curious sightseer, for he had already pocketed quite a considerable sum in tips and downed a few quarts of ale in exchange for information given to the morbidly curious or to newspaper reporters hot on the track of anything connected with the Worths.
“You goin’ up to the ’All?” quavered the old one. “Becos’ if you are, you won’t find nobody there ’cept the servants. All the family be out.…”
And he despatched a drop of sweat which had gathered on the end of his noble nose, by flicking it sharply with the back of his forefinger. This patriarch was of such classic features that for the price of a pint or two of beer he had once acted as model to an artist of no account, who had perpetuated him as Moses in one of a series of stained glass windows depicting all the disciples and prophets. These embellished a distant church and a reproduction of Moses had been used by a firm of grocers on their Christmas almanac.
Littlejohn made a direct attack on the gardener. If he knew anything, he would probably talk.
“I’m investigating the death of Mr. Henry Worth,” he said bluntly.
“Ah, you be the very one I wants to talk to. Kane ain’t any use. He just listens and says nothin’. That sort b’aint in my line. Give and take’s my motto.”
“And a very good one, too. What have you to tell me, grandpa?”
“Aye, grandpa I be, and proper, too. Thirteen grandchilder, I got. And two great-grandchilder, and more on the way.…”
Littlejohn was not interested in the gaffer’s family tree and hopes, so to silence him, passed him his tobacco pouch and, sitting on a bench under a tree, persuaded the old man to follow suit. After he had thoroughly cleaned out his pipe and stuffed it so full that it took all the breath he could inhale to make it draw, old Matthews, for that was his name, began to gossip. He had a confidential and persistent manner, constantly seizing Littlejohn by the arm as he progressed, as though fearing his audience would flee. He behaved for all the world like a salesman, varying his style according to the nature of his story, from that of a tout for indecent post cards to that of an importunate pedlar of insurance.
“Lots o’ things I could tell you about goings-on in this place. You’ve been decent to me, ’stead o’ tryin’ to catch me out, like some o’ those newspaper men.…”
And Matthews proceeded to revile at length all those who had ignored him as a factor in the case, or who had tried to get free copy from him. Littlejohn smoked on patiently, waiting for useful information, if any. It was pleasant sitting there and if the family weren’t at home, it was as comfortable and quiet under the trees as anywhere else.
“Been funny carryings-on here since old Mr. William brought ’ome a wife young enough to be his daughter. Young Mr. Henry had his eye on her right away. And she knowed it, too. So did the old man. But the old master never knew what I did. Lots o’ things I sees when I’m out and about and people don’t know I’m there. Saw quite a bit o’ sweetheartin’ between Mr. Henry and his stepmother, I did.…”
“You did?”
“Said so, didn’t I? Yes. I seen ’em in these woods when they thought nobody was lookin’. Kissin’ and cuddlin’ somethin’ awful. But it was all over when the old man died and left her all the money. Mr. Henry would hardly speak civil to ’er after that, though she’d have carried on as before. I heard ’er one time, asking Mr. Henry what had come over ’im.…”
“That’s interesting, Matthews. Did anyone else know this?”
“No. Not they. Didn’t I say I seen ’em in the woods as I was about my business.…”
Littlejohn could imagine the scene,
with the old gaffer eavesdropping and his business waiting for another day!
“But as for killing Mr. Henry … he was more likely to kill her, seein’ that Mr. William left all his money to her … income for life … and the family not to get it until she was dead.”
“How did you know that? I thought it wasn’t public property.”
“Nor was it. But I overheard it one day in the garden. Miss Alice’s husband, Count Châteaulœuf he calls himself (Chattyluff, was old Matthews’s way of saying it), went mad after the Will was read. Came fumin’ out into the rose garden to cool off and had to ’ave it all explained to him by his wife before it’d sink in properly. Then, he said he could kill Mrs. William.…”
“Did he, indeed?”
“Aye, he did that.… I bet he done in Mr. Henry to get his money, for Mr. Henry was pretty well off from his own efforts. A clever man with his brain was Mr. Henry.”
“I’ve heard so.”
“Aye. But a spiteful one, too. Bet when his Will’s read he’s left his money to the dogs’ home or something, just to spite ’em. Not that he liked dogs. That was just my bit o’ fun. Why, he poisoned Mrs. William’s pinkinese with his own hands, he did. She never knew it, but I did. I saw ’im take the poison. My weed killer it was and stole from my pottin’ shed.”
“Indeed! Tell me more about this, Matthews.”
“Not much to tell, really. One day I see Mr. Henry among the weed and insec’ killers in my shed; next day Clara, the maid, tells me Billy, the peke, is ill and the veterinary says he’s picked up poison or something. Dog died. I buried him under the copper beech tree yonder. I didn’t say anythin’ about Mr. Henry. Much as my job was worth and I couldn’t prove nothin’, though well I knowed it was him that done it.”
Death in the Night Watches Page 2
