‘Sometimes he used to draw up his ladder and fasten himself up when the mood took him…’
Yes; Littlejohn was beginning to understand that, too. When Dodd got bored or fed-up with the women, he severed communications and sat in isolation, reading travel tales or else rummaging in his tin box.
‘Have we got Mr. Dodd’s keys, Superintendent? I’m just wondering about this tin box.’
Littlejohn called down through the hole in the floor.
‘We haven’t got so far yet, although I’ve got the keys here. I suggest, though, in the circumstances, that we get his lawyer before we open the box. He’s a Helstonbury solicitor…’
‘We’ll do as you suggest. I’m coming down now.’
Mrs. Nicholls was fascinated by the box.
‘He never opened it when we were about. I’d like to know what’s in it.’ And she kicked it spitefully.
‘We’ll be dealing with it later, Mrs. Nicholls. We’ll be back this evening…’
They got ready to go. Outside, Uncle Fred and Peter Dodd were still arguing. They seemed to be killing time, haggling about a lump sum for the Nicholls women. The constable at the door wouldn’t let them in the house until Judkin said the word.
‘I’ve got the keys here. We emptied Dodd’s pockets before they took the body away. There wasn’t much.’
Judkin indicated a pile of odds and ends on the sideboard, and began to put them, one by one, in his brief-case. Keys, two handkerchiefs, pipe and tobacco, matches, cigarettes, some small change, a wallet containing ten pounds in notes, some papers and a driving licence, a pen, a pencil, and a penknife. Finally, a silly little oddment. It was the top of a beer bottle. A serrated cap of tin, forced from the bottle by an opener.
Why Dodd had pocketed it, nobody knew. It was shining and metallic on one side, and on the other, red, with the name of the brewery in black. Hoods’ Unicorn…
Judkin spun the metal disk in the air, caught it, and slipped it in his pocket.
‘The Bear isn’t one of Hoods’ houses. The Unicorn Brewery is in Leicester, over thirty miles away, and their nearest house is in Coltby, eleven miles from here. So it looks as if Dodd did a bit of travelling now and then…’
3—What Happened to Harry Dodd?
‘It’s nice to get back in the fresh air,’ said Cromwell as he, Littlejohn and Judkin left Mon Abri. ‘And why do people always call shanties like this by French names? Mon Abri! What’s it mean, anyway…?’
‘My Shelter,’ replied Littlejohn.
‘H’m. A bit ironical, isn’t it? Especially with those two sheltering as well…’
They climbed in the police car. Mrs. Nicholls watched them off, and then you could see her call in Uncle Fred and Peter Dodd for more arguing and negotiating.
‘We’d better drop you at The Bear in the village, Cromwell. See if you can find out all Dodd’s movements last night until he left to go home, and if there were strangers about. I’ll get along with Judkin to Helstonbury to talk things over…’
‘I’ll send a car out for you in an hour, sergeant. That do?’ said Judkin.
‘Fine, sir…’
The village inn was a cool old place, with low, beamed ceilings and a sanded stone floor. The door was open but there was nobody visible. In a room behind, somebody was talking angrily, and then the door opened to emit the landlord, a stocky, bald-headed man of middle age, with a grey moustache. He eyed Cromwell up and down, as if trying to assess something about him.
‘How do you pronounce bosom, sir?’ he asked.
Cromwell was taken aback but replied on the rebound.
‘Buzzum,’ he answered.
‘I said so. That’s what I said…’
The landlord looked very pleased with Cromwell for his concurrence, and then shouted through the door of the back room. ‘Buzzum…There’s an educated gentleman ‘ere who agrees with me. Buzzum. Perhaps you’ll not contradict me agen, Mister Clever…’
The landlord, ‘John Richard Mallard, licensed to sell intoxicating liquors’, according to the sign over the door, turned to Cromwell and explained the mystery.
‘It’s my grandson doin’ his shorthand homework. Of course, he knows it all. Says it’s pronounced Boozum. What does he know about it at thirteen? But then there ain’t much you can teach ‘em at that age nowadays. It makes me wonder what the world’s comin’ to. What can I do for you, sir?’
‘My name’s Cromwell. Are you the landlord?’
‘That’s me. Mallard’s the name. And you’re one of the two police gentlemen who’s aimin’ at staying here. We’ll do our best, sir. ‘Omely, that’s what we aim at bein’. Nothin’ posh. Jest ‘omely. What’ll you take to drink, sir?’
‘Pint of mild, please. Perhaps you’ll join me, Mr. Mallard. I was wanting a little chat with you. It’s about Mr. Dodd’s movements last night.’
Mr. Mallard drew two pints and took them in a small room labelled ‘Snug’, and invited Cromwell to follow.
‘It’s a bit cosier here, sir, and there’s a fire. Although the sun’s nice outside, it’s coolish for autumn, and this place is always cool…The stone floors, I reckon. Now about pore Mr. Dodd. What can I do? Nice gentleman; big pity. Jest excuse me a second…’
You could hear Mr. Mallard dealing with his shorthand-learning grandson in the room behind, and threatening him with various penalties if he didn’t get on with his work.
‘It’s his half-day from school, an’ as he wants to take wot they call “Commercial Course”, he’s got to do shorthand. I’m fond o’ that lad, but he thinks he knows it all before he starts…Where were we, sir?’
‘I believe Mr. Dodd was a man of regular habits in the evening. He called here for a nightcap every night, didn’t he?’
‘As often as not, sir, yes.’
‘What time did he usually arrive, Mr. Mallard?’
‘Round half-past seven. And he usually left as the clock struck ten.’
As if to inform Cromwell of its existence, the clock there-upon struck three quarters.
‘Had he always plenty of money?’
‘He always stood his corner, paid his dues, and never tried to dodge his round when it came.’
‘Had he plenty of friends here?’
‘Yes. ‘E was a nice, sociable, genial sort, was Mr. Dodd. Didn’t talk a lot, but jest enjoyed himself and sort of glowed with sociability after a drink or two.’
‘Any particular pals?’
‘Well…There was a little crowd of ‘em drank in this here Snug. Mr. Gambles, the joiner; Mr. Shadwell, the garage man; Mr. Henry Hooper and Mr. Charles Hooper, twin brothers, who run a nursery; and Cresswell, the clerk at the sub-office of the bank in the village. They always come in this room…’
‘They formed a little exclusive party?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they all together last night, Mr. Mallard?’
Mr. Mallard drank his beer solemnly, drew his moustache between his lips to dry it, and thought.
‘Yes…They was all here. Mr. Dodd went first and the rest drank up and followed.’
‘They went out as he did?’
‘No…They bade him good night and stopped behind to finish their drinks. They hadn’t the hill to climb like Mr. Dodd, and he was usually the first man to leave. A man of very fixed ‘abits, was Mr. Dodd. On the first stroke of ten by the clock…up he gets…’
‘Did anything unusual happen last night, before or after Mr. Dodd left?’
‘No. I can definitely say no, sir. It was just as usual…’
‘Yet no sooner has Dodd put his nose out of the door of your inn, landlord, than somebody stabs him in the back…’
‘That’s the funny part about it. Who would have wanted to do it? I feel I could kill whoever did it to Mr. Dodd with my own hands. You won’t find any decent body in this village who’ll say a wrong word about him, in spite of the rumours that go round. Those two women are a different cup o’ tea…Nobody likes them. Them, with their airs and graces…Anyb
ody can see what they are. I can’t think how Mr. Dodd came to be mixed up with them, or how he put up with ‘em…’
‘Has anything unusual happened of late in connection with Dodd…?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Any strangers about the village, or anybody asking about him?’
‘Now you mention it, there was. About ten days ago…yes, ten days… a little chap like a bookie walks in here and asks for a drink. I didn’t like the looks of ‘im. The sort who asks for a drink and then tries to sell you somethin’, or beg or borrow a fiver.’
‘He asked about Dodd?’
‘Yes, he did. “Is there a chap called Harry Dodd lives in the village?” asked the feller. “Yes,” I says, and nothing else. But that wasn’t enough. He tries to pump me about him. “Retired wealthy man?” “I don’t know anythin’ about his means,” I sez, intendin’ to dry the chap up. But he asks where Dodd lives. I told him, seem’ anybody else could ‘ave done the same. With that, he drinks up his beer and offs. I see him later goin’ in the post office. I guess he was nosin’ there as well. I never saw any more of him.’
‘So all his friends thought well of Dodd?’
‘Of course they did. He was one of the best…’
‘Did he ever get drunk?’
‘Not really. He knew when he’d had enough. Sometimes they’d get a bit merry, but never over the line. Mr. Dodd and his friends was a very nice lot.’
Mr. Mallard said it defiantly, like a challenge.
‘I gathered from the Nicholls women that Mr. Dodd came home tight now and then, and that he did his drinking with vulgar pals.’
Mr. Mallard grew red with indignation.
‘That’s a ruddy lie. Because he didn’t spend his evenin’s in their company and wouldn’t bring them here—which, by the way, wasn’t respectable enough for them—they made out he was a bit beneath them. If that was the case, why didn’t they pack up an’ go? I’ll tell you why they didn’t. They was on a good mark. They’d battened themselves on an easy-goin’ chap with money to spare, and wasn’t givin’ up a good livin’. That’s what their ladyships was at! A pair of no-good tramps, that’s what I’d call ‘em.’
Mr. Mallard tiptoed to investigate the ominous silence of the room behind the bar parlour. He returned looking very put out.
‘He’s gone off by the back way. Played Truant, he has, the young varmint. Not that I didn’t do the same myself when I was a lad. All the same, that’s different…Where were we…?’
‘Did Dodd call here every night?’
‘Now and then he’d go off fishin’ for a bit. He said he met an old friend somewhere up north, and they’d spend a day or two in his pal’s fishing hut. He didn’t take any of his friends from the village. It was a sort of little trip on his own.’
‘You’re sure it was fishing he went for?’
That’s what he used to say. Whether he meant it serious or called it his fishin’ trip as a joke, I can’t say. He might have just been takin’ off a bit of time from his two women…’
‘Have Hoods’ Brewery any houses round here?’
‘Hoods? No. I used to keep one myself farther up north, at Kirby Muxloe. They’re a Leicester company. Their nearest pub’s miles from here. Why?’
‘We found one of the caps from a Hoods’ beer bottle in Mr. Dodd’s pocket, as if he might have been drinking Hoods’ Ale and accidentally slipped it in…’
‘Funny that…Hoods’ is quite a small company. They own about twenty-five houses in and around Leicester. What can Mr. Dodd have been doin’ there?’
‘That’s what we want to find out. They haven’t any, by chance, in or near Cambridge?’
‘Hardly so far. My old place at Kirby was in the southwest direction. Most of their houses are on the south side. I’ve a pal as keeps one of Hoods’ places at Husband’s Bosworth. Anythin’ I can do to help?’
‘Not just yet, thanks, Mr. Mallard, but there may be later. You’ve given me an idea…’
‘By the way, do you happen to have seen the feller who says he’s related to the Nicholls women? He was in here for a few drinks this mornin’. Boastin’, he was, that he’d see right done by them.’
‘Yes. Fred, he’s called. Fred Binns, I believe. He’s Miss Nicholls’ uncle…’
‘That’s the one. Well…I can see him makin’ a bee-line for my front door now. Want his company? Because if you do, see he stands his corner. He’s a one for free drinks, if you ask me. If you want to talk to him, I’ll show him in here. Otherwise, I’ll keep him at the bar.’
‘I’ll just have a word with him, I think. Yes; show him in here when he comes.’
Uncle Fred’s eyes lit up when he saw Cromwell. He crossed the floor on eager feet.
‘Hullo! You here? You’re the police officer on the Dodd case, aren’t you? I’m uncle to Mrs…ahem… Mrs. Dodd.’
‘You mean Miss Nicholls, don’t you?’
‘Yes, to be precise. Dodd didn’t do the right thing by Dorothy. She gave up everything for him, and he ought to have married her. Didn’t even settle anythin’ on her. I’ve spent nearly all day tryin’ to get Dodd’s family to realise their responsibilities for their father’s misdoin’s, but no use. I used to be a lawyer’s clerk. A good job they’ve got me to look after their affairs…’
‘I thought you said you hadn’t been able to…’ Mr. Binns turned purple.
‘You tryin’ to be offensive? No need to think the police impress or intimidate me. I’ve done plenty of court work in my time…’
Cromwell fixed Mr. Binns with a steely eye.
‘Are you wanting to pick a quarrel, Mr. Binns? Here I was, peacefully enjoying a drink, until you came. Either let me stand you one, or leave me in peace…’
Mr. Binns buried the hatchet at once.
‘No offence. Mine’s a double whisky, thanks.’
Cromwell thought, with comfort, of his expenses-sheet.
When the drinks came, they settled down.
‘How long has Mr. Dodd been living with the Nicholls ladies?’
Uncle Fred scratched his chin.
‘‘Bout six years, I reckon. Ought to ‘ave married Dorothy. Not fair, the way he did.’
‘Cambridge they came from, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. His office was there, and he was a lot older than Dorothy. Led her properly astray and then didn’t do the right thing by her.’
‘What line was Dodd in?’
‘Engineering, I believe. They did say he’d a good brain for inventin’ things. I’ve heard Dorothy say how clever he was with his brain, but he was a poor business man. Proper lackadaisical…Sort o’ chap who’d disappear for days at a time when they’d important work to do at the shops, and then he’d come back and say he’d been off for a few days’ fishin’ with a pal…Dorothy was a little trump-card to him in those days, lookin’ after him and seem’ he kept his appointments and so on…He took advantage of her, and now he’s left ‘er in the lurch.’
‘How do you know he’s left her in the lurch? He might have remembered her in his Will. Most likely has. It’s not been read yet, has it?’
‘No, but I don’t expect he’s done the right and proper thing by her. He shied off marryin’ her, he’ll likely as not…’
‘You’re a cheerful bloke and no mistake.’
Uncle’s Fred’s nose glowed as he upended his glass.
‘Seen too much of life to be any other.’
He eyed his empty glass.
‘Same again?’ said Cromwell.
Uncle Fred agreed quickly before Cromwell changed his mind.
‘Did you know Dodd apart from his relations with your niece and sister?’
‘Yes. He was prominent in Cambridge neighbourhood when I was a solicitor’s clerk there. I knew him well. Funny, I thought it, when he went off the rails with Dorothy. Mind you, though I say it of my own flesh and blood, she was a smasher when she was his secretary. Yes, I remember Dodd. His family hounded him out of the city, good and
proper, after his little affair with Dot…That’s my pet name for Dorothy. I must confess that in my long experience I never knew children so vindictive against their parent. You see, they fancied themselves. Two of them married well and the other boy was in the legal profession, like me.’
‘How many children had Dodd?’
‘Three. Two boys an’ a girl. One boy was in the business and fancied himself no end. You see, it was Mrs. Dodd’s family business, left to her by her father, and Dodd himself was one of the officials, sort of managing engineer, who married his boss’s daughter. When old Sedgwick died, his only daughter inherited the lot. When the children grew up, they got a bit fed up with their father’s ways. He just wouldn’t behave like the big boss. He’d rather take a drink with his workmen, or play in a bowling match with them, than put on his white tie an’ tails and go out with the family among the toffs.’
Cromwell wished Littlejohn was there. This was right up his chief’s street. Dodd a disgrace to his family, and pushed off at the first opportunity!
‘Dodd’s daughter married a brewer’s son who inherited a baronetcy when his father died. She became Lady Hosea…Funny name. Ever hear of Hosea’s Ales…?’
Mr. Binns’ nose glowed at the very mention of them!
‘The eldest son went in the works with his father. He’d been to college and thought he knew it all. They’d some good technical men there, of course, and all it wanted was a bit of drive. Winfield Dodd provided that. Not ‘arf. He used it on his dad, too, when the scandal broke. It’s said that Lady Hosea and Winfield, between them, bullied their mother into a divorce. Of course I was glad at the time, because, after all, I expected he’d marry Dot…’
‘Who was the man you were haggling with at Mon Abri?’
‘Peter Dodd, that was. His mother seems to have sent him along to try and see things was done decent by his dad. Peter’s a solicitor, but I wouldn’t say much of one. Winfield seems to have got all the guts and drive. Peter’s more like Harry Dodd, a bit slow. All the same, he says he can’t commit himself about looking after Dot till he’s consulted the family. Which is all to the good. I can’t see her Ladyship and Winfield lettin’ this scandal break. It’s rumoured that Winfield’s due for a knighthood on the next list. And there’s another, too, who’ll not relish publicity. That’s Willie Dodd, Harry’s brother. You know Willie, I suppose. Read his speech last Saturday night? He’s heading for Prime Minister one day, or I’m a Dutchman. Look well, wouldn’t it? “Minister’s Brother Dies in Love Nest.” Can’t you see it? No; if she plays her cards right, Dot should come out of this O.K.’
A Knife For Harry Dodd Page 3
