The Case of the Headless Jesuit

by George Bellairs

  “Like the pattern? Pablo Besso did it and gave it to me. Ever heard of him?”

  “I can’t say I have, Miss Fothergill.…”

  “Pity. Great artist.… Symbolist, you know. The design on that cushion is called ‘Conscience’. Turn your back on it or sit on it, it’s still there. Follow? Well … that’s not getting on with our business. I’ve been through my brother’s diaries. Sat up till dawn on two nights. Can’t say I feel good after it. All the same, revived myself by a couple of hours’ scale-playing. The records show startling things. Quite helpful to you, I should think.”

  “I’m very grateful for your trouble, Miss Fothergill.”

  “Not at all. It gave me great pleasure. As I sat there, I could hear his voice speaking to me over the years. It was that which kept me up so late; not your sordid inquiry, for sordid it is.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes. You’ll appreciate that all this is confidential. I could never be a party to making my brother’s professional notes and diary public. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Of course, madam.”

  “Don’t call me madam. So, whatever I tell you must also be separately discovered by your own investigations. In other words, I shall give you hints; you will follow them up in the proper quarters, say by questioning Mrs. Alveston, the vicar, and Mrs. Lacey, formerly Miss Margaret Salter. Understand?”

  “I see your idea, Miss Fothergill. The public part of the information must be given by someone else, although you, too, will tell it to me beforehand?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I hope the others will be a bit more helpful than the vicar. I’ve just tried to enlist his help. He invoked the seal of the church … the confessional almost.”

  “Worsnip’s an old fool! But it’s up to you. I shan’t let you have my brother’s diaries or his day-books. They’re back in the bank. You can, as I say, confirm in your own way what I’m going to tell you. You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in the first place, Phyllis Alveston was Granville Salter’s cousin, not his sister. That’s all the same to Mrs. Alveston. She’s so religious and orthodox that the idea of cousins marrying would be abhorrent to her. Granville mistook her there.”

  “Will you please give me a few more details, Miss Fothergill?”

  “Yes. Smoke if you wish. I like the smell of tobacco smoke from a pipe. It reminds me of … but there, I’m wasting time. This, briefly, is what happened. Margaret Salter, now Mrs. Lacey, was Granville Salter’s aunt. Thirty years ago, she was a very beautiful woman and was much sought after. She was much younger than her brother, Gregory, young Granville’s father. She fell in love with a married man and had an affair with him. He returned to France and was killed just before the war ended. He left Margaret expecting his child. A first-class scandal!”

  “Yes.”

  “But it was all hushed up and fate helped in the hushing. Mrs. Alveston, then Mary Ann Trumper, was also enceinte by Alveston, the bailiff to the Salters, and they saw that he married her. Her child and Margaret’s were born about the same time. My brother attended at both lyings-in. The Alvestons’ child died at birth; Margaret’s lived. The Salters arranged an exchange, with the consent of the Alvestons, of course, and for a consideration in cash. The poor dead mite was baptized by the vicar and buried in a grave dug by Sly.…”

  “Sly mentioned the burial in a panic which I induced.…”

  “Getting him drunk might have been as effective, although, as tar as I know, he’s kept his counsel very well.”

  “He said the vicar would sack him if he said a word.”

  “So that was it. Yes.… My brother had all this down in his day-book. The two confinements and attendance later on Miss Margaret and the Alvestons. A nurse from Thorncastle, a very discreet woman, assisted. Now that’s that. I’ve given you enough names to be going on with, and if you can’t drag sufficient from one or the other of them to complete your case, you’re a poor detective.”

  “But that, of course, doesn’t solve the murders, Miss Fothergill. It explains what Granville Salter was after, but little else.”

  “Pursue the lines I’ve indicated. See those people and something about your murders is sure to come out.”

  “Was the Headless Jesuit mentioned in the diaries?”

  “Nothing to speak of. My brother hadn’t time to bother his head about such old wives’ tales. But there’s something else I’ve got to tell you. You recollect my telling you about poor Polly, Mrs. Knapp’s daughter, who keeps a little shop and whom the rationing of sweets and chocolates bothered so much that she went half off her head?”

  “Yes.…”

  “Well, after your visit, I called to see Polly. She was still sitting in the room behind her shop, with the door locked, and when I tried to get in, peeped round the blind like a poor hunted animal. I shouted that I wanted to see her. She’s always been a bit fond of me. Used to clean here for me when my brother was alive and we were both as kind as we could be to her. She didn’t want to let even me in, but I called out that I’d get in even if I had to sit on the doorstep all day and all night as well.”

  “And she let you in?”

  “Yes. She was terrified. And now, you’d better accept what I tell you as true, and don’t go round pestering poor Polly. I won’t have that. If you go trying to get at her, she’ll go clean mad. She’s almost that already … with terror! Do you know what’s happened?”

  “No.”

  “Alveston had been in the village, called at her shop, took all her chocolate and tinned goods and told her he’d come back and slit her throat if she told a soul.”

  “So.… He did land back on his old ground. I thought that was it. He came either after the Salter Treasure or else to terrorize his wife and get money from her. He’s had some bad luck and talked of going off and getting money to emigrate. He came here.”

  “I’d the devil’s own work to get it out of Polly. She cried and begged me not to ask her. But I insisted and the poor thing in her effort to keep the secret got all muzzed-up and blabbed the whole thing before she knew what she was doing. Then she had a fit. Yes, a real fit with terror. I promised I wouldn’t betray her and if you dare say a thing that will lead to her or to a hair of her head being damaged, you’ll answer to me, Mister Inspector.”

  “I’ll be discreet, Miss Fothergill, I promise you. And I’ll see to it that Polly comes to no harm.”

  “You’d better. And what do you deduce from what I’ve told you?”

  “Alveston came here for money and somehow got involved in an affair which drove him into hiding.”

  “Exactly. Murder? Was it Plucock or young Salter himself or that terrible little man they’ve just found at the Hall with his neck broken?”

  “We’ll have to find that out. He’s gone into hiding with Polly’s chocolates and tinned stuffs to keep him alive. And he’s probably somewhere at the Hall. The place is, I hear, riddled with secret hideouts.”

  “That’s just what I thought, Inspector. And now, it’s up to you. Smoke the vermin out and see that he hangs. He deserves that for what he’s done to poor Polly, let alone anybody else. And now, I must hustle you away. I’ve a bag to pack and get the train from Thorncastle to London, so I’ve not much time. By my return, I hope you’ve cleansed this village of its plague. It’s like living in a place of the dead just at present. Three murders! People are afraid to stir out of doors. Even the hardened topers at the ‘Royal Oak’ spent half the night seeing each other home, and the last to be left grew suddenly sober and ran for his life all the way to his wife! I keep thinking of poor Polly, cowering indoors afraid to move, too.”

  “I’ll see to it, Miss Fothergill. Thanks very much for all you’ve done and told me. I hope you have a good trip.”

  “Trust me for that. And I trust you to respect my confidences. Somehow, I think you will. I’ve taken a liking to you, Inspector.”

  “You may depend on me, Miss Fothergill.…”


  Greatly to the disappointment of the landlady of the “Royal Oak”, Littlejohn did not, to use her husband’s words, “return to stable for his provender”. Instead, after much telephoning, he ate an evening meal with P.C. Pennyquick and his wife. From somewhere or other, best known to himself, the constable had secured some ham, and they ate it with eggs and followed it by Mrs. Pennyquick’s mince tarts. Meanwhile, as the result of Littlejohn’s talk with Percival at police headquarters in Thorncastle, six policemen were on their way in a police-van to patrol the house and grounds of Salter Hall. If Alveston was still hiding there, they’d best be ready for him.

  Over supper, Littlejohn told the bobby and his wife what Miss Fothergill had hinted about Alveston’s hanging around the village and raiding poor Polly’s stocks of chocolate and tins.

  Mrs. Pennyquick, now recovered from her embarrassment at dining with the stranger from London, although she had told her neighbours that he was like one of the family already, grew talkative about the affairs of the village. The Inspector let her talk away, for thereby he might learn again some past history already given by the doctor’s records, which, however, he dare not disclose.

  “How many were there of the family living at the Hall when you were in service there, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  “I remember old Mr. Martin, Mr. Granville’s grandfather, sir. Regular terror ’e was. He’d been in the army and used to give orders like a general in the field. They pretended to do as ’e wanted, just to humour him. He was in a wheel-chair for years. Huntin’ accident.…”

  P.C. Pennyquick chewed his ham vigorously and, his mouth still full, raised his cup. Then, catching his wife’s eye, he coughed, lowered it again and vigorously massaged his moustache.

  “The Inspector doesn’t want to know the ’istory of all the hancestors of the fambly, love. Tell him about Mr. Gregory and the rest.…”

  “I was comin’ to that.…”

  The corners of Mrs. Pennyquick’s mouth drooped a bit and she looked tearful. Three of the girls who lodged away from home in distant parts had gone off after holidays and the fourth was out courting. The silent house had filled Mrs. Pennyquick’s heart with melancholy, and both she and the constable were glad to have “company”, as they called the guest at their table. In her present tearful mood, the bobby’s wife was cut to the heart by the least suggestion of criticism.

  “’Ow lovely you’ve cooked this ’am, mother,” said the constable by way of comfort.

  “It’s delicious, Mrs. Pennyquick,” confirmed Littlejohn.

  The woman’s face brightened.

  “Where was I when father interrupted …? Oh, yes. Well, when I was maid there, Mr. Gregory, that’s Mr. Granville’s father, was the master. A widower for many years he’d been. My lady had died when Miss Millicent was born. Miss Margaret was looking after things.…”

  “Mr. Granville’s aunt, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  “Yes. Much younger than Mr. Gregory.…”

  The constable chewed to empty his mouth, took a swig of tea and slowly winked one eye.

  “Very good-lookin’, she was. Bit o’ scandal about her, too.”

  “Dad! You no right to talk about such things. You’ll ’ave the Inspector thinkin’ we’re a right bad lot round here.…”

  “All the same, Mrs. Pennyquick, it might be useful to know.”

  The good woman was dying to tell it all and seized the chance.

  “She had a baby while I was there.…”

  “Wrong side o’ the blanket, as you might say,” said Pennyquick through a mouthful of ham, tea and eggs.

  “Dad! Don’t be vulgar.…”

  “Well, it was.…”

  “No need to put it that way. They hushed it up very well, sir. Most people don’t know to this day. And them as do, keeps their mouths shut, Miss Margaret was such a nice lady. Married twice after that and very happy, though never had any more children. Mrs. Lacey she is now, and lives in London. Mr. Lacey used to live at Carstonwood and always wanted her. But she married somebody else, a Mr. Sheldon from Thorncastle. Then Mr. Sheldon died, and Mr. Lacey, now past middle-age and never married because of her, comes back and marries her. Quite romantic.…”

  “You and your rowmances, ma. It’s the pictures does it.…”

  “Now, saucy, not in front of the Inspector.”

  “What happened to the child, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  The good woman hesitated.

  “Well … it don’t do to talk, but I’ll tell you what was said at the time. You remember first time you came we said as how Alveston had to marry his missus because there was a child comin’? Well, they was married and it was said the child died and they secretly adopted Miss Margaret’s.…”

  The bobby stopped eating and gazed dumbstruck at his wife.

  “You never told me that!”

  “I never told a soul before. But this is the police and a murder …”

  “But I’m the police!!”

  “Oh, dad, don’t be so awkward. I tell you, I promised not to tell a soul about it and I kept my promise. What good would it have done to tell you? But now … well …”

  And that was all the explanation the bobby got. Crestfallen, he resumed his ham and, disregarding his wife’s wishes, by way of retaliation drank copiously with his mouth full.

  “There was a lot of comin’ and goin’ at the Hall in those days. Doctor, midwife, and Mr. Gregory runnin’ here and there, and Miss Margaret in bed. It was bound to get round and talked about among the servants. Mr. Devereaux, that was the butler, got us all together. ‘Now,’ he sez, ‘now, I don’t know what you’re all thinkin’ or sayin’ about matters here these days, but never one of you dare say a word outside. You might land yourselves in jail for slander if you do, and if you don’t, well … you’ll be dismissed without references and I’ll see that nobody in the county employs you again.’ That was terrible in those days. Enough to make you starve or go to the poor-house. We all promised and as far as I know, we all kept us promises, though we never quite knew the truth.”

  “So, as likely as not, Mrs. Pennyquick, Phyllis Alveston was cousin to poor Granville.”

  “Yes. That would be enough for Mrs. Alveston to forbid the marriage. Terribly religious and follows the prayer-book word by word. So, she forbid it, like as not. Some set it about that Phyllis was Mr. Gregory’s daughter.…”

  “Wrong side o’ the blanket, too,” mumbled the bobby.

  “Oh, do stop bein’ common, dad. It isn’t right in front of the Inspector, and you a married man. I think Mr. Granville was tryin’ to make sure so he could marry Phyllis when he died.… Poor Mr. Granville.…”

  And with that the pent-up tears of a day’s griefs and partings flowed freely and Littlejohn and the bobby, the latter greatly distressed, for he knew he was partly to blame by drinking with his mouth full, comforted her as best they could.

  “You must excuse me, sir. It’s all the girls goin’ and the ’ouse so quiet.…”

  “What about a glass o’ port wine, luv … the one Miss Fothergill give me for Christmas …?”

  “All right. P’raps it’ll do me good. Give the Inspector one as well.… It’ll cheer him up, too.”

  “Did you have happy times at the Hall in those days, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  “Oh, yes. They was very good to us. Jobs like that didn’t come every day. And then Pennyquick come ridin’ round on his bike and saw me and, after that, well … it seemed part of his beat every day.… Three times a day sometimes.”

  “Now, mother, don’t yew be tellin’ tales out of school.”

  “Yes, them was good times. The family was so nice to us, too. When me and Pennyquick was married, they gave us that table.”

  Mrs. Pennyquick indicated a fine little mahogany wine-table standing in one corner, shining brightly from much elbow-grease and beeswax.

  “They always gave for a weddin’ present somethin’ from the Hall. Like a piece of furniture or an orniment or somethin’. You could choose within reason.
They said it would remind us more of the days we spent at the Hall if we took away one of the things we’d cleaned. Rather funny, but very nice. They had some lovely things there. Now they’ve all gone. Funny how things change. I got that table, there, an’ I recollect they even gave Flather, the midwife, somethin’ when she got married. It was the rockin’-chair she used to sit in and was very fond of while waitin’ for the pains to come on in the childbirths.…”

  “Right or wrong side o’ the blankets, as you might say.…”

  “Dad! Pleese! But the funniest present of all was the Knight of St. John they gave Mrs. Knapp. When I started there, she was housekeeper. Then she married Knapp, as then kept the ‘Royal Oak’. ’E died in less than two years from typhoid, the drains there bein’ terrible in those days. So, she came back to her old place at the Hall. They gave her, as I was sayin’, the little silver figure of the Knight of St. John. It used to stand on the nursery mantelpiece and many’s the teeth that I’ve seen cut on it. Cool to the gums, if you see what I mean. They was quite taken aback when she asked for it, but havin’ promised, they let her have it.”

  “What was funny about that, Mrs. Pennyquick? I guess it took her fancy.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I mean. When she left the Hall, she went to live with ’er daughter, Polly, who married Duckett, the water-bailiff. He got killed in the war. Well, Mrs. Knapp took her things to Polly’s and with them the little silver Knight. Then she died and Polly sold off some of her things. There was an auction at The Grange, an old house where Major Jamieson lived, and so the auctioneer put Polly’s things in with them. They do that sometimes, you know.…”

  “Oh, I remember that, ma. Yes, nine days’ wonder that Knight, wasn’t it?”

  “I was just goin’ to tell Mr. Littlejohn that, when you interrupted. Now yew can tell ’im yourself.…”

  “Aw, come on, ma, you know yo’re better at that than me.…”

  “Very well, then. The things was set out for view, like, before the sale, and the Knight was there, polished up on a table and Polly was hopin’ to get a pound or two for it, because it was silver, you see.”