The Case of the Headless Jesuit

by George Bellairs

  Rev. P. Worsnip

  B. Hosegood

  Plucock

  Pennyquick

  Madeline Fothergill

  Aunt Margaret

  Flather

  Tom Sly

  Devereaux

  Mrs. Knapp

  Stowell, Trotter and Meek

  Mr. Fernihough

  Mr. Qualtrough

  A formidable list and some of them already wellknown to the Scotland Yard men. Other names were a mystery. Plucock was dead—murdered. And by the side of the mysterious Stowell, Trotter and Meek was a pencil note: “Gone away.” Devereaux and Knapp, too, were dismissed briefly: “Dead.” The obvious man with a key to the puzzle would be Pennyquick. Littlejohn folded the papers, tucked them safely in his pocket, paid his bill and sauntered, or rather, in view of the still uneven track and the swaying of the train, lunged his way back to his compartment. Almost there, from the corner of his eye he detected something vaguely familiar in the far corner of a third-class compartment. It was a check suit. He peeped through the glass.

  Asleep, with his atrocious hat over his eyes, lounged James Cooney, Private Investigator, alias Barney Faircluff!

  NINE

  RHUBARB WINE

  LITTLEJOHN and Cromwell called early at the Cobbold police station on the morning after their day of wandering about the country. In answer to their telephoned request from “The Mitre” hotel in Thorncastle, P.C. Pennyquick had made a quick sally to the local inn and there secured them fresh rooms. This having been eagerly done on an empty stomach, the constable was now enjoying a late breakfast. Confusion reigned in the other parts of the house, for it was washing-day. The constabulary laundry hung on lines in the back garden, clouds of steam billowed from the kitchen and vanished on the wind, and Mrs. Pennyquick could be heard handling wet linen and putting it through the wringing machine. She was singing.

  But my false lover stole the rose,

  And, Oh, he left the thorn with me …

  The bobby shovelled cereal beneath his moustache and hoped she wasn’t referring to him. Then the doorbell rang and he had to answer it, because his missus couldn’t hear it on account of her domestic and musical activities.

  “Oh, bother and blimey! Ma! MA!! DOOR!!!”

  But, as we’ve said, she didn’t hear him.

  Pennyquick was a bit put out at this inopportune visit of his eminent collaborators. He kept saying that to himself by way of encouragement. Eminent collaborators.

  “Good morning, gentlemen both,” said the constable. He chewed furiously to get rid of his corn flakes and cleared his throat. “Excuse the mess we’re in. Washin’ day. Hu, hu. And I’m just havin’ a late breakfast, having got up early to get your rooms, hu, hu. Come in please. Hu, hu, hu, hu.”

  There was no mirth, only terrible embarrassment in his laughter, and to add to it …

  “Ready for the sossidges, love? Oh …”

  Mrs. Pennyquick, carrying a plate of sausages and looking red from much wringing and boiling, ran in and then, seeing the visitors, ran out again with confused cries. Littlejohn followed her to the kitchen.

  “Come along, Mrs. Pennyquick. It’s only the pair of us. No need to worry.”

  “To think of it, sir. You callin’ and all this mess.”

  “Work’s to be done, Mrs. Pennyquick. Wish we could wash our linen as comfortably as you do. We’re in a flat, you know, and all the washing goes out. Better done at home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.…”

  But her heart wasn’t in it. She was holding the plate of sausages and wondering how to get them in her husband’s inside.

  “Give him his breakfast, Mrs. Pennyquick,” said Cromwell with his best smile. “A big chap like your husband can’t last out on cereals.…”

  It all came out right and soon the bobby was listening to the adventures of the previous day. He wasn’t enjoying his food too well, however. He had one secret sin. He loved, when alone, to drink with his mouth full. He liked to mix hot, sugared tea with his food. Now he had to behave.… He punctuated the stories with monosyllabic outcries to show he was interested, nay, enthusiastic about it all.

  “Football team! Hu, hu, hu.”

  “Mayor’s banquet.… A little bit tight.… Oughter be ashamed of yerself, if I may say so, hu, hu, hu.”

  “Alveston called ’imself Grigg did he? The dirty dog.”

  And so on. That was for Cromwell, who was, more or less, his equal in rank. For Littlejohn, he remained dutifully quiet, chewing busily and, as he forgot himself, washing down the sausages with his tea. From the room beyond, more mangling sounds.…

  Littlejohn showed the bobby the list compiled by Salter. Pennyquick propped it against the sugar basin and slowly and ruminantly read it, pausing in his chewing as the words framed themselves on his lips.

  “That’s a corker, sir,” he said at length. “Looks to me as if Mr. Granville was after somethin’. I mean, either off to quiz these people about the treasure or …”

  “Or find out from them how far he was related to Miss Alveston,” added Littlejohn.

  “Ecksactly, sir.”

  Pennyquick stabbed the paper with a broad index.

  “There’s the parson, sir, and Tom Sly, the sexton, with ’Osegood, the warden. And all the old servants at the Hall. Flather’s the district nurse. Devereaux was the butler, and Knapp was ’ousekeeper. Both dead. Stowell, Trotter and Meek; they was maids and Miss Fothergill’s the old doctor’s sister, who still lives here, though he’s been dead for years and years. Aunt Margaret: that’ll be Miss Margaret, livin’ in London, married. And I see I’m in it, too. What did ’e want with me, I wonder …?”

  “Did he ask you anything?”

  “No. Except ’ow me and the family was gettin’ on. Maybe he hadn’t got as far as me when he died. He’s got pore old Plucock here, too. Now I wonder …”

  “Yes. So do I. I think I’d like to call on Plucock’s widow, just to find out if Salter talked much with him. That might give us a lead on both deaths.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready when you are. Thank you for waitin’.”

  “All right, Pennyquick. Let’s be off.”

  The bobby put on his helmet and woollen gloves. Then he opened the kitchen door and was enveloped in steam.

  “I’m off, ma.”

  There was a suitable response from somewhere in the mist, and they went about their business. A borrowed police-car stood at the gate of the police-house and they all bundled themselves in. A tight squeeze for three big men. Cromwell let in the clutch. On their way they unloaded their bags at the “Royal Oak”, where a number of habituals were already wetting their whistles. They all seemed suitably impressed, greeting the constable familiarly, just to show the newcomers they were well in.

  Carstonwood lies where the marsh runs down to the river and consists of a number of old scattered cottages around the estuary, a church, a pub called “The Black Man”, and a pumping-station which controls the complicated system of dykes draining the land.

  “The sea!” said Cromwell, like a boy on holiday. And there it was, a long, leaden, dim line a mile or so downstream. Far away you could even see the smoke of coasters and a lighthouse built on piles.

  “That’s Carstonwood light. There’s a lot of sandbanks out there, sir. The channel’s called the Carston Deep.…”

  Pennyquick was displaying his local knowledge with the pride of a native.

  “They get good cockles there. You should try ’em while yore here. I’ll get the missus.… Turn left, sir. Then right. Police station’s oppersite the church.”

  It was there. A bright, new brick cottage in a tidy railed garden, very different from the rest of the dwellings, which were whitewashed wattle-and-daub places, one-time thatched, by the look of it, now a little self-conscious in grey slate roofs.

  A forlorn-looking woman was hanging out more washing on a line. Children’s little underclothes and socks, for the most part. She turned as the car approached. A pale, buxom wom
an, who, in happy days might have had apple-red cheeks. Now she seemed torn with grief and still wore a dazed unbelieving look.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Pennyquick.”

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Plucock. How are you?”

  “Middlin’.”

  She bravely tilted her chin to face him.

  “Children at school?”

  “No. It’s holidays.…”

  “I forgot.”

  “They’ve just gone to their grandma’s down the village. They get so mischievous and a bit in the way on washdays. They’ll be back soon and bring my mother with them. She comes a lot now.”

  “Must be a comfort to you.…”

  A man from Thorncastle cycled out on temporary duty until the Plucock family could find a house to move into. It was very awkward for them all.

  “These are two officers from Scotland Yard, Mrs. Plucock. Down about the death of Mr. Granville.…”

  “What about my man? Don’t he matter?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Plucock. Don’t take on so. We’re doing our best.…”

  “I know you are.… But since my man went, I get so out of temper. You must excuse me.…”

  She invited them indoors and they entered the small parlour, stiff and formal with its suite of modern furniture and photographs of the family and innumerable relatives on the walls and sideboard. Over the fireplace, an enlarged snapshot in a frame showing a constable standing beside his bicycle. A tall, thin man, with a long face and aquiline nose. Pennyquick caught the eyes of his colleagues and jerked his head in the direction of the picture. They understood. Littlejohn didn’t take a liking to Plucock somehow. He looked a bit too crafty.…

  Mrs. Plucock passed her apron over some chairs and they sat down, whilst she remained standing, her hands, reddened and furrowed with washing, hanging limp by her sides.

  “Was there something …?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Plucock,” began Littlejohn. “I’m so sorry to bother you and reap up the past, but I’d like to ask you a question or two which may help us in investigating the death of your husband.”

  “You’re workin’ for him as well?”

  “Of course.”

  She sat on the edge of a chair near the door. Outside the washing flapped mournfully in the chill wind.

  “What did you …?”

  “Did Mr. Granville Salter come here to see your husband while he was in Cobbold recently, Mrs. Plucock?”

  “Not that I’d know, sir. I didn’t see him.”

  She replied in a monotone, as though totally dried of any emotion, even the power to weep.

  It didn’t look as if they were going to get far. Pennyquick coughed awkwardly and Cromwell looked blankly through the window at the neglected garden. Somewhere out at sea a ship hooted dismally.

  “Before he met his death, Mrs. Plucock, did your husband say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

  The woman hesitated and then, suddenly, something seemed to break within her. Her cheeks flushed and she found rapid words.

  “I’ve been waitin’ for that! Nobody asked me. You’re the first to be interested in Fred. All the others came and looked busy and clever and said how sorry they was, but never a helpful thing did they ask. Not that I was fit to say anything. I don’t know what I’m going to do.… And there’s the children.…”

  She started to weep, passionately and harshly. Pennyquick crossed to her and put a fatherly arm round her. She looked very young for such a blow.

  “There, there, Liz. Don’t take on so. We only came to ’elp.”

  “I know you did, Mr. Pennyquick. I’m sorry. But I’ve turned things over and over in the night when I couldn’t sleep for thinkin’ of ’im and the children. I’m glad the gentleman asked, because I want to tell somebody about it and there wasn’t anybody.…”

  “What did you want to tell, Liz?”

  “He changed so.…”

  “Who did, Liz?”

  “Fred. He was settled and happy in his job, though he did want to get on on account of the children. He got upset now and then when some of the men got promotion. Said it wasn’t fair. But he soon got over it. But after it happened, he changed. Couldn’t talk of anything but the better times soon comin’ when we’d have all the money we wanted and leave the police for good. He seemed to get queer about money that was coming to him, and him as always told me everything, kept it all to himself.”

  “What happened, Liz? What do you mean?”

  Pennyquick had taken over the case and it was best so. He’d known Liz since she was a girl cycling every day to school at Cobbold. He’d mended punctures for her.…

  “It was the vicar, Mr. Pennyquick.”

  “The vicar?”

  “Yes, Mr. Worsnip. He called one night something about a little girl from Carstonwood village they was takin’ in at Cobbold vicarage as maid. Wanted to know if she was good charactered. It all started as a joke and …”

  “A joke?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pennyquick. Fred used to be a one for jokes, as you know. Sometimes, he carried them a bit too far. But there was no badness in ’im. He just didn’t seem able to stop at the right time.…”

  “Did he play a joke on the vicar, Mrs. Plucock?”

  Littlejohn looked up from filling his pipe and asked the question.

  “Yes, sir. He gave ’im too much of my rhubarb wine.”

  “Rhubarb wine, Liz?”

  “Yes. I make a lot of it, and with keepin’ it gets very heady, Mr. Pennyquick. Well, the night the Rev. Worsnip came, late autumn it was, was very chill and damp, so I asked ’im would ’e like a cup of tea. No, thanks, he says, not to trouble, he wasn’t stopping. Then, Fred ups and says will he have a glass of rhubarb wine? And he looks at me, winks and puts his finger on his lips. Well, a wineglassful is enough at a time, but Fred, full of ’is joke, fills a tumbler.”

  “Good ’eavens, and Mr. Worsnip a strict abstainer!”

  “Yes. The funny thing about that wine is, you can drink quite a lot of it sittin’ down indoors, but come to get on your feet and the air at you outdoors, it takes your legs proper. Mr. Worsnip drunk the lot and smacked ’is lips and said it was good. ’ome made, says Fred, and wouldn’t hurt a baby. Mr. Worsnip says he’ll ’ave another glass. I said it wouldn’t do, but Fred was at it good and proper and shushes me, givin’ the reverend what he asked for,”

  “And ’e got drunk?”

  “It was all right till he tried to get up. He stood there, such a silly look on his face, and staggered to the door, talkin’ to himself and laughing soft like. And when he opened the door and the fresh air tuck ’im, his legs just went. Fred said he’d see Mr. Worsnip safe ’ome. As he was, he’d never get there ’imself. And there was the reverend, sayin’ he was quite fine and me wanting ’im to stay a bit and sober up and have a cup o’ tea to clear ’is head and the reverend insistin’ he could manage himself. It ended by Fred goin’ off with him. Three-mile walk it was, too, and how they did it, I don’t know. But that started Fred with his ideas. Whether the vicar told ’im somethin’, or whether he come across somethin’ on the way home, I don’t know. But that night brought trouble to us all. It changed Fred from a ’appy man to a secretive one with queer ways and ideas.”

  “And have you no idea what it was all about, Mrs. Plucock?”

  “No, sir. I thought to go and see the vicar and ask, but I’ve no time now. And I’m that worried about the children. What’s going to ’appen to us all, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you worry and take on, Liz. You got friends, my dear, we’ll look after you if nobody else does.”

  “How did your husband behave, for example, Mrs. Plucock? Did he go anywhere or do anything unusual?”

  “He spent little time at home after that. He did used to do a bit in the garden now and then, or take out his gun and shoot us somethin’ on the marsh at times, or take out the dog for a stroll. But that all stopped. He said ’e was busy with his duties.…”

  “Did he do anything indoors? I
mean, writing or anything?”

  “Yes, sir. He wrote things down in a little penny exercise book. I ’ave it here, but it doesn’t make sense.”

  She opened the top drawer of the sideboard and produced the note-book, a dog-eared, grubby object, and passed it to Littlejohn.

  On the first page was a jingle, written out in Plucock’s childish, round hand. Littlejohn read it aloud.

  Salter Treasure

  Coward, let be.

  Brave man,

  Symbols three.

  Hosegood’s secret;

  He’ll never speak,

  But you, avenger,

  Further seek.

  Take up eleven,

  Eleven to three,

  Headless Jesuit,

  Aid thee.

  The rest was sheer madness. Poor Plucock had evidently thought the doggerel held a cryptic message and had over many pages broken it up, tested it with keys of various kinds, writing out every two, three, four and five words, juggling the letters in endless combinations and permutations and then, angry, heavily scoring out his efforts and beginning again.

  “Where did he get all this, Mrs. Plucock? Do you know?”

  “I don’t, sir. I think it’s a curse that brought him to his death. He used to sit up long after we’d gone to bed and then I’d be awake when he come up, but he took no heed of me, talking to himself and pondering, awake far in the night.”

  “Poor Fred.…”

  “May I take this, please? I must see the vicar about it. Maybe, he gave this rhyme to your husband.…”

  Littlejohn flicked over the rest of the pages. Several were blank, then a list of names. The same, though not as many as Mr. Granville’s. The servants, Hosegood, the vicar, Alveston and, at the end of it, a family tree.