A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  ‘Bring in the two women, Saxilby. And for heaven’s sake get those shoes oiled. They get on my nerves…’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  P.C. Saxilby, very red about the ears, made a silent exit, walking on his heels.

  ‘I won’t say a thing without my lawyer. I want my brother Fred…’

  You could hear the old woman protesting as they led her in. They were both got up in their best black clothes. Dorothy had been careful about her make-up, too, and brought the scent of cheap perfume along with her. She was quite self-possessed, and looked ashamed of her mother. Mrs. Nicholls was wearing a sealskin cape and carried a large black plastic hand-bag. Both hands were clasped over the handle of the bag, and she was upright with indignation. She made a beeline for Littlejohn.

  ‘I won’t say a word without my lawyer, Fred. This is an h’outrage…’

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs. Nicholls.’

  Littlejohn and Cromwell rose to give the women their seats. There was a lot of scuffling and creaking as Saxilby scoured the building for more chairs. At length all was quiet again.

  ‘There’s no need to get excited, Mrs. Nicholls. You’re not being arrested.’

  ‘Well, what did Mr. Judkin want hauling us all the way from Brande to here at this time of night? He could have asked what he wanted to h’ask at the ‘ouse.’

  Funny, Mrs. Nicholls always started to talk affectedly when addressing Littlejohn, as though assuming he was a cut above the local police and she could rise to it.

  ‘I understand the police have found the weapon which killed Mr. Dodd, Mrs. Nicholls.’

  Dorothy made a noise between a gasp and a sob, but the old lady was unmoved.

  ‘I saw them diggin’ in the garden. Then there was considerable h’excitement. They didn’t say what they’d found. I think we might ‘ave been told.’

  She sniffed and threw back her head like one whose dignity has been affronted.

  ‘Here it is, Mrs. Nicholls,’ interposed Judkin, and with a dramatic gesture he placed the knife carefully on the table. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But I haven’t used it for years. I use a knife from a carvin’ set for bread. That knife was in the garage. Mr. Dodd took it there and put it with his tools. If you’re thinking I used it, or Dorothy, or my brother Fred… you’re mistaken. I’d forgot it even existed.’

  ‘So, somebody took it from the garage and later killed Mr. Dodd with it?’ Judkin had a note of sarcasm in his voice for some reason. It was not lost on the old woman.

  ‘I want my lawyer.’

  Judkin was getting mad.

  ‘How are we going to get your brother Fred here at this hour. He lives in Cambridge, doesn’t he? For the Lord’s sake be a bit more helpful…’

  ‘No need to blaspheme. We was just getting along well enough, till you interrupted…’

  She indicated Littlejohn to show whom she meant. She was wearing knitted black string gloves.

  Judkin passed his hand through his thin hair and shrugged his shoulders at Littlejohn.

  ‘They could easily have killed Dodd at home with that knife and made up all the tale about going up and down the hill in the car…’

  ‘But we didn’t, and what you say’s libel…’

  ‘Slander,’ corrected Judkin, hardly knowing what he was doing.

  ‘I don’t care what you call it, but you’re making up a pack of lies. I’ll…’

  Littlejohn leaned forward.

  ‘Mrs. Nicholls, please try to get to the point. We want your help, that’s all.’

  ‘Funny way of asking for help. What did you want to know?

  Her tone changed towards Littlejohn, as though she might have been speaking to an equal after dealing with inferiors. After all, her father had ridden around in a carriage and pair! Dorothy sat by, not saying a word. There was a faint coquettish smile on her lips, and she finally rolled her eyes at Cromwell, who blushed and looked through the window at the red neon sign along the street…

  ‘Was the garage always kept locked when the car was in or out?’

  ‘Not always. If Dodd was going out in it on his own, he’d leave the doors open, the two of us bein’ at home.’

  ‘You could see all that went on there, then?’

  ‘Well, hardly. The garage is at the side of the house, and there’s a little window overlooks it, but we weren’t always lookin’ out of it.’

  ‘So, someone might have slipped in and taken the knife when you weren’t looking?’

  ‘Quite right. They could.’

  ‘When did you last see the old bread-knife, Mrs. Nicholls?’

  ‘About a fortnight since.’

  ‘What were you doing with it?’

  It was Judkin intervening again. The old woman turned on him.

  ‘Was you speakin’ to me?’

  ‘Of course I was. Who else?’

  ‘Well, I went for the pliers in Dodd’s tool-box about a fortnight since. A parcel came wired up, and I wanted to cut the wire. The knife was in the box with the pliers then. Are you satisfied?’

  Judkin grunted. He indicated by a gesture of his hands that the floor was all Littlejohn’s again.

  ‘Have you noticed anybody hanging about the house of late. Say, during the last fortnight, Mrs. Nicholls?’

  ‘There’s always callers. Tradesmen, ‘awkers, and such-like. I can’t remember anybody in particular.’

  ‘Think hard…’

  Mrs. Nicholls started to think, screwing up her face and gazing into space through the window.

  ‘Yes…A man called askin’ if we’d any old gold. They do come round, you know. I sent him off.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘Do you remember anythin’, Dorothy?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Dorothy was waking from her daydreams. The presence of a lot of presentable men had stimulated her to thoughts of her new freedom. She patted her hair under her chic little black hat.

  ‘I said, do you remember any strange callers over the last two weeks, besides the man with the old gold…’

  ‘The one that asked if Mr. Henry Dodd lived there?’

  Littlejohn swung round.

  ‘Did he ask that? Was he after Mr. Dodd?’

  Dorothy smiled seductively.

  ‘Yes. He seemed to have a list of likely places to call at for his gold. He ticked it off after we’d told him he was right.’

  ‘And he went off right away?’

  Mrs. Nicholls now took over.

  ‘No, he didn’t exac’ly. He asked if we could tell him where he could get a cup o’ tea. He seemed respectable enough and as the pot was on the table, we gave him a drink and some biscuits, didn’t we, Dorothy?’

  ‘Yes, we did, didn’t we?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Judkin made a gesture of resignation and himself stared out of the window dejectedly, watching the red sign. EMP RE. One of the letters wasn’t illuminated…Why couldn’t they get it put right!

  Littlejohn persevered.

  ‘Did he drink his tea with you both?’

  ‘Yes. We gave him some chocolate biscuits, too. He seemed tired. Who wouldn’t be with a job like that?’

  ‘He was a nice man…’ added Dorothy, the expert in erotic matters.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  It was evident that the stranger had been a bright spot in Dorothy’s bored imprisonment. She’d taken him in to the full and could remember every detail.

  ‘About forty or thereabouts…Nice manners. A proper gentleman. What he was doin’ on a sort of pedlar’s job like that, I don’t know…’

  ‘Had he any gold with him, or scales, or anything else to show his trade?’

  ‘No. Of course he didn’t turn out his pockets…’ Dorothy giggled, her mother glared at her, and Judkin raised his prominent eyes to heaven praying for endurance.

  ‘Go on with your description, then, Miss Nicholls.’

  ‘He wore sporty tweeds… sort of grey check…’

>   ‘Grey check!’

  Cromwell said it as if to himself.

  ‘Yes. Very dark; almost Spanish, as you might say. And beeeootiful manners…’

  Mrs. Nicholls eyed her daughter suspiciously, as though during her absence for cups of tea, the pair of them had been making passes at each other.

  ‘You mentioned ‘is manners before, Dorothy,’ she snapped, in tones of rebuke.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘How tall would he be?’

  ‘I’d say… I’d say, perhaps two inches less than you. Well set-up, he was.’

  ‘Did he wear a ring?’

  Dorothy’s eyes glowed with admiration. So did those of Cromwell, if it came to that.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What kind was it?’

  ‘I remember it was a funny ring…The kind a gentleman like him wouldn’t hardly wear…Silver it was…’

  Littlejohn nodded.

  ‘What shape?’

  ‘It was like a serpent…Sort of snake, coiled round and eating its tail…’

  ‘You wot?’

  Mrs. Nicholls was getting a bit ashamed of her daughter’s frivolity.

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs. Nicholls. What Miss Nicholls says is true. Would you both recognise this man again?’

  ‘Oh, yes…

  It came eagerly from Dorothy. The flashy, and probably bogus, gold-hunter must have made a great impression. A rare bird in the way of callers and a challenge to Dorothy’s charms.

  ‘Did he talk much…or ask questions?’

  ‘He said about his job. There was less and less gold about. Yes… And he asked about Harry. Did we all three live there? He said he once knew a Harry Dodd. Perhaps it was the same man…’

  Mrs. Nicholls interposed heavily.

  ‘When it came to a stranger probin’ into private affairs, we didn’t h’encourage it. We didn’t answer his questions, did we, Dorothy?’

  ‘No…‘

  Dorothy hesitated.

  ‘Was he alone with you for a bit?’

  Littlejohn asked it blandly of Dorothy, and Mrs. Nicholls sat like a cat watching a mouse.

  ‘Just while mother was getting a cup and some biscuits.’

  ‘Did he ask you anything then?’

  ‘If I spent all my time there…and what I did with my spare time.’

  ‘Well! ! You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘What was there to tell…?’

  The old woman’s jaws champed together; there was a further inquest in store for her daughter when they got back home!

  ‘Did he ask any other questions, Miss Nicholls? This is very important.’

  Dorothy began to agitate such brains as she’d got and, in the end, looked quite pleased with herself.

  ‘Yes, he did. He said he thought Harry was the one he knew. And then he said a funny thing. “How’s the old man?” he says. “How’s the old man. Seen him lately?”’

  Mrs. Nicholls couldn’t control herself.

  ‘And ‘oo might the old man have been? You never told me all this.’

  ‘It was only casual talk. It wasn’t important. The old man was Harry’s father. I said I didn’t know Harry had a father, and he must have got the wrong Dodd. In any case, I told him I’d never seen his father. He’d never been here. And he must be mistaken.’

  She looked very happy to get all this rigmarole out of her system.

  ‘And with that, he left?’

  ‘No. He had his tea and biscuits and then he went.’

  ‘Was the garage open?’

  ‘Yes…Harry was out in the car and hadn’t closed the doors. He never did when he was coming back the same day.’

  ‘Did the man in the check suit go in the garage?’

  ‘He could have. It was there and open. Why should he do that?’

  Mrs. Nicholls was hot and dishevelled with anger. Her hat had gone awry and her nose had started to glow. She looked like Widow Twankey.

  ‘Because he might ‘ave stolen the knife. Can’t you see?’

  She said it slowly, loudly, and with simulated patience, as though addressing a small, backward child, or like a music-hall Smart Alec educating his stooge.

  ‘Why, yes…’ Dorothy looked pleased about something. ‘You mean the knife they found under the azaleas. I put it there. I’d been using it to thin the roots. I forgot to bring it in…’

  Judkin could stand no more. ‘Why the hell…?’ he said, and bit off the rest of the question. ‘Weren’t you aware that that knife was the reason we brought you here? We thought Dodd was killed with it…’

  ‘No…’

  Judkin looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He rang the bell. ‘Take ‘em home, Saxilby,’ he said without suggesting the form of conveyance, and the two women were led off.

  ‘I hope he murders them on the way. Of all the dumb fools, that Nicholls girl beats the band!’

  Next day they were to learn more about old man Dodd.

  Early the following morning the Leicester police came on in reply to enquiries. They’d got a list of Hoods’ Brewery houses which sold Red Cap Ale, but the brewers, it seemed, also supplied clubs and private customers locally.

  ‘They only deliver within five miles, privately, however,’ went on Leicester. ‘Not that they restrict the radius particularly, but Red Cap’s only well-known and popular in and near Leicester. Farther afield it mainly goes to Hoods’ public houses.’

  ‘Have you got the list of the public houses you mention? We might try them on the off-chance. Even then, it’s almost certain they won’t remember a casual caller. We’ll have to risk it. Will you read them out, please?’

  Littlejohn took pencil and paper and jotted them down.

  The Barley Mow, Kilby.

  The Bleeding Wolf, Kegworth.

  The Ring of Bells, Shipton Magna.

  The Laughing Cat, Galby.

  The Herald Angels, Husband’s Bosworth.

  The Lollards’ Arms, Lutterworth…

  and so on. Twenty-six public houses with the usual picturesque names. Cromwell read them over as he finished his breakfast. He smacked his lips over the names and the marmalade.

  ‘It ‘ud be interestin’ to write a book on how pubs get their names, sir. Take this, fr’ instance. What’s a Lollard…?’

  ‘A Lollard, my dear chap, was one of the followers of John Wyclif, who was once vicar of Lutterworth…’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you, sir?! Now that’s terribly interesting. I do believe…’

  Cromwell’s eyes began to glow as he pondered another hobby. Bird-watching, Yoga, photography, window-box gardening, singing in the police choir, they’d all had their day. Now it was the history of pubs…

  ‘I’ll save this paper for you when we’ve solved the case, Cromwell. A very useful index for your thesis. There’s one other name on it which will no doubt interest you…’

  ‘Yes?’ said Cromwell in tones which implied he could hardly wait.

  ‘The County Asylum, Gayford. There is also a pub called The Marquis of Granby which they supply in the same village.’

  ‘But why the asylum?’

  ‘The Inspector at Leicester says Hoods’ don’t serve private people far afield, but Gayford is a special case. It seems the inmates tasted Red Cap at The Marquis of Granby in their village. Since then they’ll drink no other! Well, hardly that. You see, one of the Hoods is on the Board of Management at the asylum and they support, you might say, home industries.’

  ‘Well, well. With pubs and loony-bins we’re going to have quite a day.’

  ‘You are, Cromwell. I shan’t be with you. I’m off to Cambridge to see Mrs. Harry Dodd. She’s been out of the picture far too long. I’m sure she can help us, if only she’s that way inclined.’

  ‘So I’ve more than a score of pubs to call at. Do I buy a drink at each one, sir? Because, if I do…’

  ‘No. I suggest you start at the ones nearest here. We’ll get a road map and plan your itinerary, and you can gradually
close in on Leicester. Mind you, I don’t promise you success. This might be a wild-goose chase. It most likely will be. But it’ll keep you out of mischief while I’m away.’

  ‘Do I walk it?’

  ‘Our friend Judkin, who, by the way, told me last night he’d been rather rude to you over the telephone and regretted it, has promised to lend you one of his natty little police cars. Which means you can’t even try a Red Cap on your travels.’

  Cromwell had been poring over a map on the wall.

  ‘Here’s Gayford…It’s ten miles from here, on the main road from Leicester to Cambridge.’

  ‘Then I suggest you get rid of the asylum first. You can enquire if Harry Dodd was interested in any of the inmates and if they drank Hoods’ Red Cap together.’

  Gayford Asylum had been a large private residence until the owner died in 1936. Unfortunately, his uncle, from whom he had inherited it with just enough to keep it up, had only died two months before, and the Treasury had been adamant about not letting off the estate with single death duties. So to pay double, the place was sold to the County. Gayford Hall stood in many acres of ground. Cromwell zigzagged his car along the mile-long drive, through a belt of trees, past a large lovely sweep of lawn, and then to the front of a spacious Georgian house which, in its day, had boasted fifty bedrooms, now converted into over two hundred cubicles.

  It was a pleasant day and many of the inmates were enjoying the open air. They might have been holidaymakers taking pleasure in one another’s company, talking quietly in knots, strolling, gardening, playing croquet. On a cricket pitch a match was in progress between rival teams of inmates. Here only it was that Cromwell saw any signs of abnormality. The fast bowling was of a type he wouldn’t have cared to stand up to himself, and the mightiness of the batting showed more zest than caution.

  He asked a man working in a rock garden near the main door where he could find the medical superintendent. The man asked Cromwell if he had called to join the party, warned him not to touch him, as he was made of glass, and then lucidly directed the sergeant to the proper place.

  Dr. Fenniscowles, the superintendent, was seated in a large room which had once been the morning-room of the mansion. The place was full to capacity with filing cabinets, as though there he kept the records of all the unfortunate mental cases of the British Isles. He was a tall, stooping man, with cadaverous jaws, large cruel teeth and a huge dome of a head fringed in grey hair. He wore a flannel suit and an open-necked green shirt with a black tie fastened round his bare neck and tucked down the shirt.