Death in the Night Watches

by George Bellairs

“So bad, eh?”

  “Look how his father left him. Nothing, but what he earned at the works and his shareholding and director’s fees.”

  “And what do you think they were quarrelling about on that score?”

  “Gerald was desperate to get away. As I said, he never took to the job, but his father and Mr. Henry kept him at it. As you know, works like these have done well in the war. The value of our shares—they’re all held by the family—have gone up considerably. Mr. Gerald calculated that his holding would realise enough to give him a steady income. All he wanted was to sell them. Mr. Henry wouldn’t buy. Mrs. William Worth said she’d enough in the works without wanting any more. And Miss Alice hasn’t the money. Gerald wanted to dispose of them outside, then. But Henry wouldn’t agree to it and it needed his consent, because without it, we couldn’t register the transfer in our books.… They quarrelled for days about it. But a day or two before Henry died, they seemed red-hot at it and got to not speaking to each other.…”

  “You never heard them actually quarrelling? I mean, to know what they were saying, sir?”

  “No, Inspector. This office is too far away from their suite. I can’t help there.”

  “Mr. Gerald was hard up?”

  “His income depended on his staying here. He had extravagant habits, too. Spent a lot. Used to anticipate his fees whenever he could, and overdraw at the bank on the strength of them. You see, I’m telling you what I know, Inspector. You’ll respect my confidence, won’t you?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Waghorn. What exactly does Mr. Gerald do in the administration of this place?”

  “Deals with staff. Interviews travellers and representatives from the Ministry.…”

  “Nothing on the practical side? In the foundry or among the accountancy?”

  “No. He never did that. Mr. Henry controlled those, although what’s going to happen now, I don’t know. Several combines have wanted to take over the works. I guess they’ll sell out to them now. And Mr. Gerald will be free at last.…”

  “He didn’t deal with the books, the bank, and the like?”

  “No, Inspector. He saw the figures, progress reports, balance sheet and profit statements, but had no access to the routine. There again, he was only interested in getting his share and his salary.”

  “So the quarrelling between the brothers couldn’t have been because Mr. Gerald had, in any way, been taking the firm’s cash … falsifying the books.…”

  Mr. Waghorn looked pityingly at his visitor.

  “It might seem easy, Inspector, in fiction, but falsifying books isn’t as simple as all that. It needs somebody who not only knows the principles of accounting, but is also smart enough to pull the wool over the eyes of others who know as much as he does. Mr. Gerald doesn’t even know the elements of book keeping, to say nothing about cooking the books. You can take it from me, there’s been nothing of that sort going on. If there had, I’d have been the first to know.”

  Littlejohn picked up his hat.

  “Well, I’m much obliged for your help, Mr. Waghorn. The opinion and point of view of a man on the spot … on the inside … is always helpful.”

  “Don’t mention it, Inspector. Glad to be of help.”

  He rose from his desk and wearily showed Littlejohn to the door. Then he returned and sat down, wondering if he had said too much. In his mild enthusiasm he had perhaps talked too fast.…

  Poor Waghorn never saw the murderer of his boss brought to justice, for that very night his pain grew worse and he went to see Firebrace, instead of the usual Watterson. His own diagnosis was right. It was carcinoma.…

  “I want a bit of information on Gerald Worth’s finances,” said Littlejohn when he got back to the “Rod and Line”, “but I’m hanged if I can think how to get it.…”

  Cairns closed one eye and rubbed his chin.

  “If I was you, sir, I’d try Cruickshank. He’s the ex-manager of the local branch of the Home Counties Bank, where the Worths do business. He’s the one I told you about.… Didn’t see eye to eye with his head office, so threw up his job and started as a commission agent. He’ll be in for his usual whisky or two very shortly. If you catch him and stand him one, he’ll talk your head off.”

  It was not long before Cruickshank arrived.

  A tall, heavily built man of about fifty. He wore a natty tweed suit, blue shirt and collar, and his club colours flew like a banner from his neck. A good looking chap, with heavy lidded hazel eyes, curly grey hair and florid cheeks. He posed as a man of the world—a small town smart-Alec. It was a wonder he had stayed in the bank long enough to become a manager, for he was obviously of a type whose ideas and mode of life ran far ahead of his income.

  “Afternoon, Cairns. The usual, please.”

  “Very good, Mr. Cruickshank.… Can I get you anything, Inspector?”

  Very cunning of Cairns. Littlejohn had been sitting by the fire in the small room labelled “Snug”, when the newcomer put in an appearance. Cruickshank eyed him with eager curiosity.

  “You the Scotland Yard man on the Worth case, sir?” he said playing with his flashy moustache.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My name’s Cruickshank. Everybody knows me here. Not often we get Scotland Yard swooping down on us.… But then, the local police hardly know how to cope with murder, eh?”

  Normally, Littlejohn would have avoided the fellow. He was obviously a gasbag, ready to open up on anyone willing to listen.

  Drinks arrived. Cruickshank paid for them both. Littlejohn stood the next round. By that time, the ex-banker was well under weigh.

  “Worths are damn’ funny family. Useter manage the bank here before I started up on my own. Now, you’d have thought men would have opened up to their bank manager, wouldn’t you? Not Messrs. Henry and Gerald. Close as oysters. Not that I didn’t sum ’em up pretty thoroughly from readin’ between the lines in their accounts. Have another drink?”

  Littlejohn declined. He hadn’t got half way through his second. He didn’t propose to try to keep up with the obvious soak who, with his back to the fire and his legs apart like an inverted V, was now holding the floor. There was no one else present for which the Inspector was thankful.

  “Wealthy people I should think, Mr. Cruickshank.”

  “There’s money in the family, right enough. But William Worth, the old devil, tied it up. Left it in trust for a wife younger than the family who were to inherit when she died.… I suppose you’ve heard all that. Talk of the town. Henry was quite well off, you know. Smart chap, Henry. Engineer and inventor. Sold quite a lot of patents and gadgets. Did well out of ’em. Gerald, however, hardly has a bean. Dependent on his earnings at the works.…”

  “Extravagant?”

  “You’re telling me. Trouble with Gerald … brought up all wrong. If the old man wanted him at the works, ought never to have sent him to Oxford. Gave him ideas that were all wrong. Made him loathe industry … dark satanic mills and all that. Always champing at the bit wantin’ to get away and play at being the arty man of leisure.”

  “I see. Spends a lot of money trying to forget the time he thinks he’s wasting at the mills.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head. Now … I could tell you things. No breach of confidence against former employers. But do you know …”

  Cruickshank downed his third double whisky and approached Littlejohn with a confidential air, exaggerated almost into a caricature by his half drunken owlishness. He breathed alcohol over the Inspector and took him by the lapel of his coat.

  “… Now believe me or not.… He’s got a nice little flat in a mews off Eaton Square in London. And a nice little girl with it. Goes off there for week ends and entertains his arty friends. That’s what he’d like to be doin’ for good. Patron of the arts. But the goose that lays the golden eggs is Worth’s Foundry and he’d got to do as brother Henry told him. Or else, no money. Not that he’s not tried to make plenty elsewhere.…”

  “Elsewhere?”

 
The bookie prodded Littlejohn with a rigid forefinger.

  “Customer of mine, for one thing. Backs the gegees like mad. Awfully unlucky. Lucky for me … harharhar.…”

  Cruickshank almost coughed himself into a fit and ordered another double for himself and Littlejohn to brace him.

  “… And when I was at the bank … no breach of confidence to say it … when I was at the bank, he was always overdrawn against next month’s screw or next quarter’s director’s fees. I’ve heard he tries his hand on the Stock Exchange, too. He’s desperate to make money and, somehow, can’t do it any way but at the works.… But Henry’s death won’t do him much good.… Now, if somebody’d killed Vera.… That is the one who would have brought him the cash. Not that I want Vera killin’. Damn’ fine woman, Vera. Bit standoffish, but damn’ fine woman.…”

  Two of Cruickshank’s cronies thereupon made a noisy entrance and invaded the Snug with loud shouts of joy at finding him there.

  Littlejohn said it had been a pleasure to have a chat with him and made for the door.

  “Don’t go, Inspector. Want yer to meet a coupla friends o’ mine.…”

  “Sorry, sir. Another time, if you don’t mind. I see Cairns is beckoning me. I’m expecting a telephone call and this will probably be it.…”

  “Righto … glad to’ve metcher.…”

  The three topers got into a huddle about their next orders and Cruickshank’s voice could be heard telling them that that was the chap from Scotland Yard on the Worth case.

  “Jolly decent fellah … one of the best.…”

  “Thanks, Cairns,” said Littlejohn as they met out of earshot of the three boon companions. “Your suggestion got me the very information I wanted and you rescued me just in time.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE CASE OF VERA WORTH

  IT needed the frank testimony of Vera Worth to complete the new theory Littlejohn had in mind. If what she said tallied with what he had deduced from the mass of information he had lately collected, his work was almost finished.

  The butler was not on duty and Clara opened the door to the Inspector. Mrs. Worth was at home and received him at once. She was wearing a grey tweed costume and her hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of the coat. She did not offer to shake hands.

  “I hope in time, Inspector, that you’ll have obtained enough information here, above and below stairs, to enable you to solve the so-called crimes. You’re a frequent visitor and no mistake.”

  A fine welcome! But Vera Worth looked dead tired. Her nerves must have been at full stretch. Littlejohn wondered what was worrying her and keeping her awake at night.

  “I think this will be the last time, Mrs. Worth, if you’ll give me your fullest help.”

  “Sit down, Inspector. You still think both deaths were murders then?”

  “Without a doubt. Don’t you?”

  “Candidly, no. Both might easily have been accidents.”

  “I’ll be candid, too, madam. I think for you to describe them as accidents is sheer wishful thinking.…”

  “And why, pray?”

  Mrs. Worth had been writing letters. She closed the lid of the inkstand, put the pen in its place and swept a half-written sheet of notepaper into a drawer. Then she turned her chair in the direction of Littlejohn and settled herself with a semblance of interest.

  “There’s no doubt whatever that Mr. Henry was killed by someone shutting him in the gas filled engine house. He couldn’t have fastened himself in the way we found things. There were signs of a frantic struggle to open the door and he had smashed a window in a vain attempt to get out.…”

  “Still, he might have been overcome and done all that in a sort of half-conscious daze.…”

  “Not in the opinion of medical experts and the police, madam.”

  Mrs. Worth thrust her hands deep into her pockets again and stretched out her legs to the fire. She made a show of listening patiently.

  “As regards Miss Rickson, I think she was killed because she knew who murdered Mr. Henry and accused him or her of it. She was going to see me again on the following morning and told the murderer so. So she was poisoned.…”

  “In my own opinion, Inspector, she either took the overdose by mistake or was so worried and harried by recent events, that she grew tired and deliberately took the easy way out.”

  “You don’t seem to know Miss Rickson as well as some of the people I’ve interviewed. Nobody else thinks her capable either of a mistake of that kind—she was too careful—or of thinking of taking her own life—she was too religious.”

  “Rubbish.… You can’t lay down hard and fast rules like that. The best and most careful of us suffer from depression or make mistakes. I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Mrs. Worth took a cigarette from a box at her elbow and passed it over to Littlejohn. He gave her a light from his lighter.

  “You sometimes called at the chemist’s in town and brought glucose home for Miss Rickson, didn’t you, madam?”

  “Yes. She used it instead of sugar.”

  “There was glucose in her sugar basin on the morning of her death. Into that glucose, I believe, the murderer put crushed veronal. Then, the job having been done, the basin was cleared of the tainted glucose and refilled. But the murderer thought it was sugar he or she had doctored! So sugar was put back in it.…”

  The cigarette slipped from Vera’s fingers and fell on the carpet. She picked it up and flung it in the fire absent-mindedly.

  “I see. You’re sure that isn’t a theory, Inspector.… I mean, a kind of unsupported explanation of how it might have occurred?”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Worth.”

  There was a silence. A piece of coal fell with a tinkle on the hearth. Outside, in the gardens, some geese set up a loud honking.

  Littlejohn guessed from the dilation of her finely chiselled nostrils, that he had got a shot home to Mrs. Worth. She took a fresh cigarette from the box and turned it over and over, tapping each end alternately on the table, until Littlejohn offered his lighter again.

  “What do you want to know from me, Inspector?” she said at length.

  Now or never, thought Littlejohn.

  “Has it ever struck you, Mrs. Worth, that up to quite recently, you too might have been the victim of a poisoner … a slow poisoner?”

  Her fine eyes opened wide.

  “What!!!”

  And then she laughed. Nervously and without humour.

  “How many more cases do you want on your hands, Inspector? You seem to have a bee in your bonnet.…”

  “You have recently been under Dr. Watterson for gastritis?”

  “Yes. What of that?”

  “Gastritis and arsenic poisoning have many symptoms in common.”

  Another shot reached home! Littlejohn followed it quickly with a third.

  “You know your dog was poisoned, Mrs. Worth.… The one which was taken seriously ill and didn’t recover after drinking your breakfast tea.”

  “What do you know about the dog?”

  She was considerably easier to get on with now. Either she had seen some hitherto unsuspected menace threatening her, or else she was anxious to confirm her own theories.

  “I know more than you think, Mrs. Worth. Suppose you tell me what you know yourself about it.”

  “You know, Inspector, I’m changing my mind about you. Hitherto, I’ve thought you were a bright lad from Scotland Yard out to get a conviction willy-nilly and setting out to badger everyone to death until somebody confessed. And I could see that sort of thing going on for months and months …”

  “Those aren’t our usual methods you know, Mrs. Worth.…”

  “To return to the dog. Or shall I begin at the beginning? I think I’ll make a confidant of you. Maybe, you already know all I have to tell you. At any rate, I’m heartily sick of the whole of this family business. It’ll do me good to get it off my chest. I daren’t tell my father; it would kill him right out. And my br
other would just go berserk and murder somebody else.…”

  This lonely woman was not quite so proud and invulnerable as she appeared at first sight. She had some fear in her mind and had now, in the big Scotland Yard man, found what might be a protector. She shivered as an idea struck her.

  “I’d better tell you, Inspector. Who knows? I may be the next victim.…”

  Littlejohn rubbed it in.

  “That has also crossed my mind, Mrs. Worth.”

  “William Worth married me to show that he was as good as the gentry. He told me that on our wedding night. He lent my father money until he had him absolutely in his power. Then, he suggested marrying me. Father wouldn’t hear of it; but I didn’t mind. I was tired of living as we had done at home. Cheeseparing, dodging the tradesmen, selling things and raising mortgages. I said I didn’t mind marrying him. He couldn’t last for ever, and he said he’d leave me well off when he died.…”

  She didn’t say anything about the man she had wanted marrying her sister. Her pride protected her there.

  “… William Worth was a beast. So were his sons.… I may as well say it.… They couldn’t take their eyes off me from the start. The old man knew it, too. He taunted me with it. Revelled in the situation he’d created. Gerald was the quiet, crafty one. He hadn’t the guts to cross his father and try to start trouble. But Henry … well … he and I became quite good friends and went about together a bit. After all, I was his stepmother.…”

  She laughed again. A hard, dry, half-hysterical laugh. Littlejohn began to realize how near to breaking point she was.

  “… William Worth got to know. There wasn’t anything he didn’t hear of. He struck me that night. I’d had enough. I was ready to pack up and clear out.… Then, he took pneumonia and, as is often the case with those who boast of their strength, he went out like the snuff of a candle.”

  Vera had now got going properly and needed no persuading to unburden herself. The flood gates were down.…

  “William had planned a thorough revenge. He paid me out properly for daring to smile on Henry. He left me all he’d got in trust and the family couldn’t touch his fortune until my death. One by one they began to hate me. Henry left me high and dry at once and was barely civil. Life became a hell. I once thought of renouncing the trust and letting them have it; then I thought of clearing off altogether. But I thought again. Why should I? If they’d be decent to me, I’d share out.…”