A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  ‘Is he a friend of your son?’

  ‘Yes. A lonely bachelor who lives with an old house-keeper and belongs to the same club as Peter in Cambridge.’

  ‘They are clubmen, then?’

  ‘It’s a professional club. The Trevelyan…Peter lunches there when he’s in town. He has a flat there, you know.’

  ‘I mustn’t take any more of your time, then, madam, but there’s just one thing I must mention. It will be very painful for you, I’ve no doubt, but if we’re to find your husband’s murderer, this point must be raised…’

  Mrs. Dodd laid down her work and folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘It sounds very serious, Inspector. What is it?’

  The house was very still, and outside the room you could hear somebody, presumably the elderly maid, padding about on the thick carpet. The dog was asleep on a cushion and hadn’t stirred since the Inspector arrived. The window overlooked the side of the house with a herbaceous border of withered plants and flowers, a dilapidated greenhouse, and some outbuildings badly in need of painting and repair. Mrs. Dodd’s capital was all locked up and it seemed, on the face of it, that the family didn’t bother much about keeping the old home neat and trim. It was a pity Harry Dodd hadn’t been able to come home and take matters in hand again.

  Littlejohn filled and lit his pipe.

  ‘Do you know much about the public house called The Aching Man, Mrs. Dodd?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Why should I?’

  ‘I merely asked, because I wanted to tell you about the people there and some strange goings on.’

  ‘Where is it exactly?’

  ‘About three or four miles along the Bath Road after you leave the by-road leading to Gale Cottage.’

  ‘I know it. I’ve passed it in the car, but I didn’t know the name of it. How does the place enter into your affairs?’

  ‘On the body of Mr. Walter Dodd was a scrap of paper bearing the address of The Aching Man. We followed it up and there found a man, Sid Boone, running the place with his sister, Peg. Peg was a friend of your late husband.’

  A look of amazement crossed Mrs. Dodd’s face and, for the first time, she grew agitated.

  ‘How did you discover…?’

  ‘I insisted on knowing the connection between Mr. Walter Dodd and the Boones. It came out that Mr. Harry Dodd was their friend and, having taken his father from the asylum, he commended him to their care in case of need. One thing led to another, and we found your late husband was a frequent visitor there. He had known them a long time ago. As far back as when Peg, who is just past thirty, was a little girl.’

  ‘Well?’

  She was wide-eyed now, expecting the worst.

  ‘There is a small child there; aged about four. Peg Boone told me who was the father…’

  ‘No! No!’

  It was as if Littlejohn had mentioned Harry Dodd’s name already.

  ‘Peg Boone said Harry Dodd was the father.’

  ‘Not Harry! Not that! He couldn’t. He wasn’t that sort. That silly sordid little affair with Dorothy Nicholls; yes, in a moment perhaps of despair. A brief piece of stupidity, and then regrets. But not this. He surely would have told me when he wanted to come back home and settle with me again.’

  ‘He talked of telling you, Peg Boone said. But she persuaded him not to do that. She said he would never get back home then, as you would never stand for it. Poor Harry Dodd even wanted to look after the child. He provided handsomely for Nancy; that’s her name.’

  ‘I can’t believe it…This spoils all the happy thoughts I cherished even after Harry’s death.’

  She was too stricken to weep. Her face was set stony and pale.

  ‘Peg Boone, she said, wanted your husband to return to his old life as a gentleman. She was ashamed that her child should live in a public house and be among such company. She wanted Nancy’s father to be a gentleman. And that was her way of doing it. To persuade Harry Dodd to return to you.’

  ‘It’s a lie! She has made all this up. Some effort to get money…blackmail…’

  Her eyes glowed as she found excuses, and then the light died again.

  ‘But even then…even then, Harry must have been having an affair there. How else could she accuse him of being the father?’

  ‘There might be an explanation. One occurs to me, but I’ve yet to test it and don’t care to discuss it until after I’ve tried my theory.’

  ‘Whatever shall I do if it’s true? If the child is Harry’s, someone ought to look after her, if she’s living in such surroundings. Is she a nice child?’

  ‘She is very sweet and has evidently been well brought-up and properly cared for.’

  ‘I could not possibly have anything to do with her, though…’

  She was torn between her inclination and her duty.

  ‘Please leave matters to me for the time being, Mrs. Dodd. It may be more easily solved than we think. And now I must be going; I’ve much to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, for being so candid and kind. Really, I don’t know what I would have done without your understanding and sympathy in this sorry business.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, and let you know.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I will not believe that Harry could do such a thing to me. Never! He was not that kind, and I believe that all will come right. His memory will be cleared.’

  Littlejohn looked at her, and then at the pictures of the family groups on the walls.

  ‘Yes. I believe you when you say Harry didn’t betray you there. But, in clearing his name, we may have to cause you other distress and sorrow.’

  ‘If my dear Harry’s name is cleared and his memory unsullied, I can bear anything,’ she said, and her face lit up with hope again.

  17—Harry Dodd’s Will

  On the way back to Helstonbury, the detectives called on the Cambridge police, who had been checking the alibis in their own locality on behalf of Judkin. A polite Inspector informed them that those of the Dodd family, at least, seemed watertight, as well as those of the Boone pair.

  ‘The county police went over Gale Cottage, too. We have the report here. There wasn’t a single useful clue, except the piece of paper you found on the dead man; the address of The Aching Man. Whoever committed the crime made a nice clean job of it, sir.’

  There was only one other calling place which intrigued Littlejohn. The Trevelyan Club, frequented by Peter Dodd and Dr. Macfarlane, who had given him his alibi.

  ‘Go in and see what you can find, Cromwell,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I’ll sit outside and smoke my pipe, and think the thing over.’

  Cromwell left the car and mounted the steps of the club. It was housed in a large old mansion of the Queen Anne type, a magnificent survival of better times, the existence of which had been preserved by the fact that a number of gentlemen had bought it and started a club there about 1860. It was quiet and select and membership was strictly regulated. When Cromwell entered there was little going on. It was just before lunchtime and the rush hadn’t started.

  A uniformed flunkey was descending the dignified staircase. He cast a supercilious eye on the sergeant, who thereupon thrust his hands deep in his raincoat pockets and tried to look very official.

  At the foot of the stairs a solemn precision timepiece with a large brass cylindrical pendulum, recorded 11.55; an important-looking barometer stood at Fair; and a notice on a baize-covered board announced that the main dining-room was undergoing decoration and that until further notice lunches would be served in the small assembly room. Pinned over the board a pair of chamois leather gloves awaited a claimant.

  ‘Yes?’

  The manservant raised enquiring, superior eyebrows. His breath smelled faintly of beer.

  ‘I’d like to see the head steward, please.’

  The man in uniform stooped, picked up a spent match, and carefully placed it in a large glass ash-tray.

  ‘Sellin’ somethin’?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Police.’

  ‘
Ho!’

  He’d been in the force himself until he left on pension. He was a heavy, flat-footed sixteen-stoner, and had, during his five years of club life, absorbed many of the peculiarities of those he served. He was an insolent snob, but he knew when to climb down.

  ‘Follow me…This way…’

  They went into a small cubby-hole containing a desk and two cane chairs. It was an excuse for a room; you couldn’t have whipped a cat round in it.

  ‘Now, sir. You’re not from the Cambridge force, if I may say so. One of the county lot?’

  Cromwell drew himself up.

  ‘Scotland Yard.’

  The effect was comic. The man seemed to grow two inches less in height and girth. He might have been a criminal himself.

  ‘I used ter be in the Midshire county police myself till I finished my time out,’ he said humbly. ‘I’m now ‘ead steward here. Nice job.’

  A young hall-boy thereupon intruded and thrust a cheeky face round the door, which you couldn’t close properly if there were more than one in the headman’s lair.

  ‘Can you spare me a minute, Mr. Ramsbottle?’

  ‘No; I can’t. I’m busy. Be off.’

  He turned upon the interloper and showed that although he was humble before his betters, his underlings had better look out.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Be h’off!

  ‘Now, sir. What can I do for Scotland Yard? A rare thing seein’ any of you gentlemen here. We’ve got a first-rate C.I.D. in Cambridge.’

  ‘I know. I’m on the Dodd case in Helstonbury.’

  Mr. Ramsbottle whistled.

  ‘Blimey! Are you now. How can I help?’

  ‘If you’re an ex-policeman, you can be discreet. Be discreet now, Mr. Ramsbottle, and I’ll be much obliged. You have a member called Macfarlane. Dr. Macfarlane, I believe. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Quite a lot, sir. He comes here regular. A bachelor, as finds our dinin’-room very convenient for his meals. As you might expect from one of his nationality, he’s a bit careful with his money. The only tip he ever gives is a bob to the staff fund at Christmas. He’s a reg’lar old soak, if you ask me.’

  ‘I am asking you, Mr. Ramsbottle…’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. The name’s Ramsbottom. Wot you heard was an impertinent joke on the name made by the younger element of this club. I’ll make that little twerp…if you’ll excuse the term…sit up when you’ve gone. I’ll give ‘im his cards and be rid of ‘im. You were sayin’?’

  ‘Dr. Macfarlane… Is he a reliable sort?’

  ‘Pardon my curiosity, but is the medical gentleman h’implicated?’

  ‘No. We’re checking alibis.’

  ‘Hu! He’s all right. Undoubted integrity, except when he’s drunk, which is h’offen the case these days. He’s on whisky, and it doesn’t take ‘im long to get blotto… if you’ll h’excuse the term…He’ll come in here to ‘is lunch after his mornin’ visits is over, and then sit an’ drink solid till three. Then he’ll have a little nap and wake up sober as a judge, an’ go and kill off a few more of his pore patients. Hu, hu, hu…’

  He shook like a jelly at his own joke and clung to the desktop for support.

  ‘Does he also get drunk in the evenings?’

  ‘Sometimes, if there’s a little celebration.’

  Cromwell consulted his little black book and firmly intoned the date of Harry Dodd’s murder.

  ‘Would there be a little celebration on that date?’

  Mr. Ramsbottom repeated the date several times to himself in an effort to conjure up events from the past. Then he gave it up and turned to consult a large diary which he dragged from a drawer in the desk after a terrific struggle to open it.

  ‘Why, yes. There was a hell of a binge…if you’ll excuse the expression…’

  ‘Hell of a binge…Don’t mind the language; I can take anything. What sort of a binge?’

  A Scotch gatherin’. ‘Aggis, pipers, some Scotch dancers, the whole ruddy shootin’ match. Whisky was, on the only occasion I h’ever remember, flowin’ like water, if you understand wot I mean…’

  He licked his lips and drew in his breath savagely as he remembered it.

  ‘Yes. The Micishire County Hem Ho, that is, the Medical H’Officer of ‘Ealth, was leavin’ for a better post. The medical faculty gave ‘im a hearty farewell. They gave ‘im a dinner, there was speeches and presentations to the departin’ gent and his missus, and, to honour them, they bein’ from over the border, in a manner o’ speakin’, they gave ‘em a Scotch send-off…’

  ‘Which included Dr. Macfarlane?’

  ‘Like ‘ell it did, if you’ll forgive the h’expression. The doc got a right skinful, if you’ll…’

  ‘I will. He was drunk when he left?’

  ‘In a cab… tight as a drum, if…’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock or thereabouts. You see, it was what you might call the doctors’ off-night. No surgery. That’s why they fixed it that way. So’s they could all come. I suppose they left the sick to die that night, if you see my meanin’…Hu, hu, hu…’

  He jellied again and clung to the chair for support like a drowning man.

  ‘Did you see Peter Dodd here that night?’

  ‘Let me see…He wouldn’t be at the party, mind you. Medical gents and wives only. Exceptin’ the Mayor and Health Chairman…And maybe one or two others…’

  ‘All right, Mr. Ramsbottom. Peter Dodd. Was he about the place?’

  ‘Sure to be. Always calls for a whisky and soda before goin’ home to his maw. About seven-thirty he leaves…’

  ‘Did he see the state Macfarlane was in?’

  ‘Bound to. Mr. Peter goes in the smoke-room which is approached through the lesser h’assembly ‘all, in which the party was goin’ on. Likely as not, he’d see an’ hear it all, if he was so minded. Like as not, there’d be a few comments, like “Ole Macfarlane’s under the table agen”, and so on, etcetera…Catch the doctor missin’ a chance of a free load o’ whisky…’

  ‘Thanks for your help, then, Mr. Ramsbottom. You’re a typical ex-member of the force. Observant and helpful…’

  Mr. Ramsbottom drew himself up and took a deep breath of pleasure.

  ‘Honoured sir. Honoured, I’m sure. And now, if that’s all, I’ll jest have time to give that young whippersnapper the rounds of the kitchen and tell ‘im to collect ‘is cards before lunch is served. Proud to ‘ave been able to assist Scotland Yard. Very proud indeed…’

  He seized Cromwell’s hand, pumped it up and down, drew himself up, saluted, and tried to click his heels, an operation which was a miserable failure and made him lose his balance.

  ‘A bit of useful news,’ said Cromwell, as he re-joined his chief. And he told him what Mr. Ramsbottom had imparted. As he unfolded his story, he could see through the club window, the ex-policeman denouncing his insubordinate underling and handing him his insurance cards…

  ‘I must call on Macfarlane and go over the alibi again later.’

  On the way back to Helstonbury, they passed Mon Abri, now a blackened ruin. The Nicholls women, with the help of Uncle Fred, were raking among the ashes, trying to salvage as much as they could. Mrs. Nicholls was examining the contents of a charred wardrobe, turning out water-sodden garments and scuffling, with them like an old-clothes woman. She had a pair of corsets in her hand. Uncle Fred, apparently driven off his head by the calamity, was trying-on what looked like one of Harry Dodd’s fishing hats, whilst Dorothy roared with laughter at the sight of it, much too large, sagging over his ears. There was a lunatic air hanging over the whole sorry scene.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Judkin when they turned in at the police station. He seemed to think that a stroke of chance rather than hard work would solve the mystery.

  Joan Jump had been to London and back and brought away Harry Dodd’s box from the safe deposit. It contained his Will, leaving all he had to Nancy, daughter of Peg Boone, and there was also in the box
a certificate for £25,000 War Loan. Harry had evidently invested all his gains and had appointed Mr. Pharaoh sole trustee to handle them after his death.

  ‘Which now leaves Peg with a nice income to draw for Nancy,’ said Judkin, who had been instructed to that effect by the efficient Miss Jump.

  ‘We’re getting warmer,’ said Littlejohn.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve had a word with Miss Jump.’

  They rang up the lawyer’s office and soon Mr. Pharaoh’s pretty partner was in the police station.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mr. Harry Dodd was going to make a new Will. I’ve found Mr. Pharaoh’s diary, which was in his desk instead of the safe. He’s jotted down the main heads there. With the exception of a few legacies to friends, all he had was to go to his wife on his return to her.’

  ‘According to what Mr. Pharaoh told me, that Will was already made. It must have been stolen from the safe,’ said Littlejohn.

  ‘What about the kid, then?’ asked Judkin anxiously. ‘I’ve no doubt Harry Dodd had an idea of adopting her himself.’

  ‘What! Ask his missus to adopt his own kid by another woman?’

  ‘When I’ve put one or two more ideas before you, it might be easier to follow…’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve kids of my own and I don’t like to see this little girl banged around in a dirty business like this.’

  ‘After the accident in which Comfort was killed, old Walter Dodd said to his mates in the asylum: ‘ My own flesh and blood,’ and wouldn’t explain what he meant by it. Both he and Harry Dodd were scared by that accident, quite apart from the shock. Harry wouldn’t say anything about it in the Coroner’s Court. Does Walter Dodd’s remark throw any light on Harry’s behaviour?’

  ‘Walter must have been disgusted at his own flesh and blood, that is Harry, involving him in such a calamity.’

  ‘No, no. He couldn’t blame Harry, if Comfort was driving. Besides, Harry was scared as well. He said he’d have to set his affairs in order. Did he mean that he didn’t expect to last long naturally, or did he mean he’d have to change his Will to save his life?’