Death in the Night Watches

by George Bellairs

  Mr. Llewellyn Evans thereupon broke into his native tongue again, turned on his heel, and vanished among the machines.

  CHAPTER X

  MOULDING SAND

  THEY had to seek out Tenpenny, the only other firewatcher awake at the time of the crime. He was a moulder and they found him engaged in the moulding shop, impressing patterns in wet moulder’s sand.

  Tenpenny looked like a nigger minstrel, for his hands and face were covered in the grime of his craft. The whites of his eyes gleamed and his lips glowed bright red in contrast. He was engrossed in what he was doing and was reluctant to stop and talk. Very different from his mates in the dressing shop next door, who downed tools in great curiosity and crowded round the entrance.

  The conversation was punctuated by the shrill whine of the machines and the grunting of the nearby polishing wheels.

  Tenpenny had nothing to add to what the police had already recorded in his signed testimony.

  Littlejohn, however, began intently to examine the sand in which the moulder was working.

  “Interesting stuff.…”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Inspector. I’ve worked in it a lifetime. Although there’s good and bad sand, of course. A tradesman can tell by looking at it if it’s tip-top stuff.”

  “Could Mr. Henry tell?”

  “You bet your life he could. Only a few days since, he stopped here on his way through to the dressing shop and picked up a handful. ‘This isn’t usual quality,’ he says. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t noticed it any different,’ I says. ‘I tell you it’s poorer,’ says the boss, ‘and I won’t stand for it. I’ll write to the suppliers.’ And he carried off a sample. Nothing come of it, of course. I was right and you can’t dictate to suppliers like you once did. There’s a war on.”

  With a gesture of dismissal, Tenpenny again set to making his figures in the sand.

  The Inspectors found Mr. Gerald in his office. His desk was littered with files in neat and tidy piles, looking as if they were just there for ornament or to deceive the visitor. Worth himself was rummaging among a lot of papers in a very preoccupied manner, but face upwards was the cross-word puzzle, half completed, of the daily paper, which told its own tale.

  Gerald was either accustomed to idling away his time, or else, on account of Henry’s forthcoming funeral, he couldn’t settle down to work that day.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, trying to look very busy. “And what brings you here? Still on the track of Henry’s killer?”

  They told him that they were seeking information which owing to Miss Rickson’s untimely death, they hadn’t pursued last night.

  Apparently he knew nothing about anything which interested the police. He had no knowledge about the engine house key, the dead dog, Henry’s private affairs, his stepmother’s business and he wasn’t interested in Henry’s Will, in the Count of Châteaulœuf, in Henry’s enemies, or in theories concerning his brother’s death.

  In fact, Gerald Worth played delaying tactics, like the last man in at a game of cricket, who refuses to be tempted out of his ground or to do anything but stonewall the bowling.

  Eventually, and as a signal that the interview was drawing to a close, Littlejohn asked Gerald the usual question.

  “Where were you at the time of the crime, sir?”

  Worth smiled with satisfaction.

  “Oh, you can’t pin it on me, Inspector. I was playing snooker at the club until well after twelve-thirty and a dozen or more chaps will confirm it. In fact, the police came to the club to tell me of the accident.… Eh, Kane?”

  “That’s right, Inspector Littlejohn. Quite a number of members confirmed that Mr. Gerald was playing from eleven until the news arrived,” volunteered Kane. “But, it wasn’t an accident, you know, Mr. Worth. It was murder.”

  “I still can’t bring myself to believe it. Murder, here in Trentbridge! And my brother the victim.…”

  There was a knock on the door and a crowd of workmen appeared apparently either to air a grievance or ask for orders.

  Gerald looked at the assembled company like a snobbish railway traveller entering his usual first class compartment and finding it full of rabble on a day trip.

  The detectives made their exit.

  “Mr. Gerald’s a snob, is he?”

  “He is, sir and, unless things alter, he’s going to have trouble with the men. Mr. Henry had nothing of that in him, I will say.”

  “I think Gerald knows more about this affair than he pretends, Kane. He’s probably shielding someone and I’ve a good idea who it is, too. Well, I’ll leave you here. I want to call on Dr. Watterson, just to check Mrs. William Worth’s alibi.”

  “You’ve not far to go, Inspector. The house is just round the corner. Not a place I’d like to live in myself, all among the factories and slums of the town, but as most of the patients come from there, the doctor must live on their doorsteps, I guess. See you later.”

  The doctor had just arrived in from a round of visits and his wife informed Littlejohn that he was washing before lunch.

  “He won’t be long. Are you a patient?”

  “Hardly,” answered the Inspector and he told the woman why he had called. She turned pale and seemed to set herself for an ordeal.

  “Yes, Mrs. Worth called here about nine o’clock. I know it was that time, because evening surgery was just over and we were listening in to the beginning of the news. Miss Baker, the doctor’s lady assistant, was free, too, so we all made up a hand at bridge. She was here with us until one o’clock.”

  Mrs. Watterson looked helplessly at the detective. She was, in social circles of the town, somewhat of a high ranker, used to being toadied to by the lower orders and to having her own way. A little, fair, fat woman of middle age, with bleached and waved hair, and lipstick making a violent red gash of her mouth. A shallow vessel, unable to cope with the serious things of life which she could not control by social standing or cash, and hence quite out of her depth in interviewing a police officer whom she could not intimidate.

  “Did Mrs. Worth leave the house, even temporarily, during the time she was here?”

  “She, she … oh no, Inspector.”

  “Quite sure, madam?”

  Mrs. Watterson’s shifty eyes flickered.

  “I’m sure. Do you doubt my word?”

  The door of the room opened and a worried looking man with a pomaded moustache entered. At the sight of Littlejohn he braced himself and assumed a professional manner with the dexterity of a theatrical quick-change artist.

  “This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, Leonard. He’s called to check where Vera was when Henry was … was killed.”

  “And why, pray?” said the doctor, up in arms at once. “Surely Mrs. Worth isn’t suspect, officer.”

  “No, doctor, but we have to make routine checks on all parties.”

  “Well, she was here all the time. Never left us between nine and one that night. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I may require that testimony in writing later, sir.”

  “Very well. Is that all? I’m a busy man.”

  “I won’t detain you, doctor. Is Mrs. Worth a patient of yours, sir?”

  “What has that to do with you?”

  “I assure you I merely ask the question in the interest of Mrs. Worth. She’s not been well of late, has she?”

  Littlejohn didn’t know a thing about the past or present state of Mrs. William’s health, but, for his own purposes, sought to draw the doctor if he could.

  “I see you’ve been quizzing around, Inspector, and know all about it. She has been under me of late. That is all I will say. There’s such a thing as professional secrecy. Even Scotland Yard knows that.”

  Mrs. Watterson was anxious to put in her motto to show that she had recovered her poise.

  “The doctor specialises in gastric ailments, Inspector,” she said, “and has many cures to his credit.”

  “Be quiet, Emily,” said the doctor. “Pl
ease understand this, Inspector. I’m not bound to tell you anything.…”

  “That is all I want to know, thank you, doctor. But let me also warn you. Developments in this case might easily involve Mrs. Worth and her complaint. I’d advise you to think over her case and, if it causes you any uneasiness, let me know. You’ll get me at the local police station.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “The police, too, have their secrets, doctor.”

  “In that case, I’ll wish you good day,” said Watterson, now bristling and stamping his feet with rage. He rang the bell and told the maid to show the Inspector out.

  The maid was young and good looking and more pleasant than her employers. On the doorstep, Littlejohn asked her a question which she immediately answered with a smile.

  “Where does Mrs. Worth stable her horse when she calls here after riding, Lucy? Your name is Lucy, isn’t it?”

  The girl simpered.

  “No. Get away with you. It’s Bessie. She stables in the garage opposite. Used to be a horse cab place and still has a loose box or two for the gentry. It’s open all night for taxis, so that’s convenient for Mrs. Worth. Good morning, sir. I’ll be getting in a row if I’m seen gossiping with you.”

  Littlejohn crossed to the garage and asked for the man on duty at the time of the crime. He was told that he wasn’t about, as he slept by day and was on the premises by night. But he spent a lot of the time when he should be in his bed in the taproom of the “Rose and Crown.” Sure enough, Littlejohn found the man he wanted gazing dejectedly into an empty pint pot at the pothouse recommended. A little runt of a fellow, with the face of a polecat and a withered, dissipated look. His legs were thin and bowed, as though he spent his life astride a horse. He was an ostler turned taxi driver. For the price of another pint, Diggs—that was his name—gave Littlejohn not only the information he sought, but his own lurid views concerning the town, everyone in it and, in particular, those who without rhyme or reason, managed to get petrol to waste in riotous living. In his opinion, the progress of the war demanded the abolition of private automobiles and the sole use of taxis, the drivers of which ought to be given supreme powers of refusing to be hired by all who were not helping in the national effort. Diggs kept thrusting his stubbly yellow face close to that of Littlejohn and breathing his foul breath upon him.

  “Yah! I’d put some of ’em in quod, I would.… Wot was you sayin’?”

  “I was asking you if Mrs. Worth called at your place between stabling her horse and taking him away the other night.…”

  The ostler leered.

  “Course she did. Brought it in about nine o’clock; called to take ’im away about one. But she was in again seein’ if ’e was O.K. around midnight. O.K. me foot! As if I didn’t know why she called!”

  “You know a thing or two, eh, Diggs?”

  “Not ’arf. I knows a thing or two about Lady Worth. Stuck up snob who thinks blokes like me’s dirt.… Hot stuff, is Mrs. Almighty Worth. Didn’t know as I knew she was spendin’ the evenin’ with Dr. Watterson and dodged out abaht midnight pretendin’ to be anxious abaht ’er horse. A fine excuse. In and aht of the loose box she was, like a shot. ‘Jest to awsk if Roddy’s all right,’ she says and afore I can open me mouth, off she goes.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, and thinks I don’t see what she’s at. She doesn’t go back to the doctor’s. Not ’er. She offs in the direction of St. Chad’s church. Oho, me fine one! I sez to meself. On the tiles, are yer? So I ’angs around the doorway keepin’ me eyes skinned. Sure enough, half an hour later, back she comes. And not alone. With ’er is a bloke in uniform … an officer by the look of ’im. Couldn’t make ’im aht proper in the dark.”

  “A pity that, but understandable.”

  “They parts quite lovin’ like at the doctor’s door, and in ’er high and mightiness goes. Expect she tells the doctor and ’is lady she’s been givin’ me the round of the stables for not lookin’ after ’er ruddy horse proper.…”

  “That was about midnight?”

  “Jest before St. Chad’s struck twelve, that ’ud be, and she stayed away till well arter it struck a quarter-past. I kep’ me mouth shut abaht it, like. Nothin’ to do with me who she meets and wot she does with ’er spare time.…”

  It evidently hadn’t dawned on the half soaked Diggs that Vera’s rendezvous with the man in uniform coincided with the time of Henry’s murder. Lucky for Littlejohn. Otherwise, Diggs might have been less expansive.

  “How many veterinary surgeons are there in the town, Diggs?”

  The ostler’s bleary eyes opened in astonishment at the question.

  “You do ask some funny questions, guv’nor. We only ’ave one. Philips’s in the Market Square. Useter be two, but Mr. Light joined up when war broke out.”

  Littlejohn had a job to shake off the little stableman, but eventually broke free and started on a fresh errand.

  “Come on, Diggs, you’ve had enough for one sitting,” the landlord of the “Rose and Crown” was saying as the Inspector left.

  The sound of their quarrelling could be heard all down the street.

  CHAPTER XI

  A CORPSE VANISHES

  THE surgery, kennels, loose boxes and other appendages to the art of Mr. Murphy Philips, veterinary surgeon, surround a courtyard like that of a coaching inn and are reached from the street by a tunnel-like passage from which at any moment one might expect to come forth, with horns blowing, a four-in-hand or crowded mail coach.

  After causing a number of dogs penned in kennels to bark savagely in concert or else to howl dismally, Littlejohn was informed by the kennel maid, a buxom wench in a smock which looked as though a turn at the laundry would do it a lot of good, that Mr. Philips was out on his rounds in the country and would not be back until after lunch. The Inspector thereupon left the maid to quieten the dogs and went back to the police station.

  There he met Kane again and disclosed to that surprised officer his plans for the afternoon. Under cover of Mr. Henry’s funeral and anticipating that the Hall would be completely deserted, he proposed to visit the spot indicated by Matthews, the gardener, as the site of the dog’s grave and exhume the body.

  “I called at the vet’s on the way here, Kane,” he said. “I was hoping to arrange for him to examine the body and make sure of the cause of death. Is Philips any good in that line?”

  “Excellent, Inspector. He’s the reputation of being a bit rough as a horse doctor, but he’s got his head screwed on the right way. You can rely on him and his intelligence. But what’s all the fuss about?”

  “You’ve heard me talk about the death of this dog before, haven’t you, Kane?”

  “Yes. And I must confess that I thought you’d got a bee in your bonnet.…”

  “Just whilst I’m waiting for lunch time, let me tell you what I think of the case at present. My theory is that Henry Worth was killed by his stepmother, Mrs. William …”

  “What!… That’s a bit of a shock.… And yet, why should it be? She was the woman scorned, wasn’t she? But I didn’t think she’d go so far.… Sorry I interrupted. Go on, please.”

  “I reckon she wasn’t so scorned as to murder Henry on that count.… No. She did it in self defence, in a manner of speaking. Let’s look at the facts in hand.”

  “Self defence? You don’t mean they came to blows in the engine house.”

  Kane’s expression was laughable. His eyes protruded in intense curiosity and his moustache thrust itself forth incredulously.

  “No, no. Firstly, the method of murder suggested a woman. Very effective, yet calling for little physical effort. The trap is baited. In walks Henry. The trap closes … and it’s all over bar the shouting.”

  “Now I’ll tell you what I’ve found out since I arrived, Kane. Henry went out for his breather and a smoke as regular as clockwork at midnight every time he did fireguard duty. So, his murderer knew when and where to set the trap. Evans told us that Mrs. William kne
w how to manipulate the engine. The mechanical side of the business is therefore covered.”

  “Vera Worth gave us an alibi. She was at the Wattersons’ from nine until one playing bridge. That’s not quite correct. The ostler at the garage opposite, where she stables her horse, says that just before midnight, she came from the doctor’s across to the stables on the pretence of seeing that her animal was all right. She didn’t stay a minute, but didn’t return at once to the Wattersons’ either. Instead, she made off in the direction of St. Chad’s church and returned with a man in uniform about quarter-past twelve. They parted at the doctor’s, and Vera went inside again. So much for the alibi. It looks very black for her.…”

  “We’ve enough for a warrant, I think, Littlejohn.”

  “Wait a bit. Now, motive. Henry was trying to kill Vera. She got wise to it and killed him. From the maid who served morning tea on a certain day, I learned that the pet dog was poisoned by a drink of tea from a pot served up to Vera. Matthews, the gardener, had seen Henry pinching arsenic weed killer from his stock. Vera was lucky. The incident opened her eyes to a number of things. One was the gun accident. The barrel of that gun wasn’t stopped up with clay or earth, but with moulder’s sand from the foundry. As a matter of fact, the soil round here contains very little surface clay; so Henry used the next best thing. This sand, although it sets fairly hard when it dries after moulding, didn’t resist the charge of the gun sufficiently and merely split the barrel. When Vera fired it, it gave her a good shaking, instead of bursting properly and blowing her head off. You heard what Tenpenny said this morning. Henry took a sample away with him.…”

  “Well, I’ll be damned! It all falls into place just like a puzzle, doesn’t it? You’ve done a grand job, if I may say so.”

  “Not yet, Kane, thanks. That’s mere theory as yet. We’re quite a way from the end.… A good lawyer would make mincemeat of it all. We want tangible evidence.”

  “Of what kind?”

  “We’d better make quite sure the dog was poisoned for a start. Then, I’ll give Watterson a good shaking-up by facing him with the ostler’s tale. There’s another point about that doctor. He’s been treating Vera Worth for gastritis, or I’m a Dutchman. His wife hinted as much in a slip of the tongue she made when I was there. It’s not a long step between the symptoms of gastritis and arsenic poisoning. It looks as though Henry had been giving her arsenic for some time.…”