The Case of the Headless Jesuit

by George Bellairs

  Mrs. Pennyquick sat beside the fire, darning a pair of huge, rough, grey constabulary socks. Her husband was sitting at the table making a report and heavy weather. An old ink-pot stood before him and he kept dipping his pen nervously in it and shaking back into the bottle what he’d taken from it. Now and then he missed his mark and shook it on the table. Then he mopped it up surreptitiously with his handkerchief, thinking she hadn’t seen him. He wouldn’t go and do his writing in his office, as he called the front room. He preferred her presence beside him. Just like an old coat, she told herself, having seen something to that effect in a lurid love-story in a woman’s magazine. Now and then, she’d interrupt his labours. “The Millses girl has got engaged to a nice young man from Carstonwood” or “The Kershaw girl’s weddin’ll soon be ’ere, now. Choral, it’s goin’ to be. Wreath and veil.…” All the time with her own girls in mind, of course, and hoping he’d sense the reproach in her tone. Instead, he’d got to pretending not to hear. His lips moved as he wrote.… “I beg to suggest that the Inspector be sent to Willow Bank Farm. Previous to Christmas they had a lot more pigs than they now have. I suspect …”

  “Does that sound right, mother? ‘Than they now ’ave?’ Don’t seem to chime somehow.…”

  “Of course, you wasn’t listenin’ to what I was sayin’. Might as well be a lump o’ wood for all you care.…”

  Pennyquick’s eyes opened wide. Whatever was the matter?

  The constable had removed his tunic and was clad in a blazer, with large, verticle purple and green stripes. A pre-war relic of the Cobbold Bowling Club. Old Major Duff, the President—killed later by a bomb when visiting London—had insisted on blazers. The diffident bobby had withheld from such splendour as long as he dared and then had won one in the annual tournament!

  The door-bell rang. Hastily Pennyquick removed and hid the purple and green panoply, and scuffled into his official jacket.

  When Littlejohn and Cromwell entered, the Pennyquicks looked the perfect candidates for the Dunmow Flitch for marital bliss. In fact, seeing him there with his distinguished colleagues, as he loved to call them, Mrs. Bobby almost shed tears. She was so proud of him and treated him so bad! She smiled at him and, passing into the kitchen to brew more tea and find how many mince tarts were left in the tin, she patted his arm affectionately.

  They had hardly had time to tell the constable how matters were progressing and arrange to check certain people’s alibis on the night of Alveston’s death, before Smythe arrived. He looked pale and cold and a little alarmed.

  “You wanted to see me, Inspector?”

  “Sit down, Mr. Smythe. The wife’s makin’ some tea. You look as if you’d do with a cup, sir.”

  The curate drew a chair up to the fire and glanced uneasily at the official gathering.

  Littlejohn, in particular, looked very grim.

  “I wanted to ask, Mr. Smythe, why you told me the man you saw with Mr. Granville Salter on the night he was killed, was about the same build as Mr. Salter. We’ve reason to believe he was a smaller, stocky man. What do you say?”

  “I … I …”

  Smythe had good features, but a nervous twitch and the downward look of the troubled disturbed and distorted them. He looked as though life were a perpetual ordeal, unrelieved by any happiness or relaxation. He sat there, his body tense, balancing awkwardly on the edge of the chair. The mamby-pamby curate at the tea meeting … except that he’d won the M.C. for bravery in the war and was generally admired and supported by the fellows in his regiment.

  “I wanted to try and explain that. It was dark, you see, and I may have been mistaken. I was in rather a hurry and just gave them a casual glance.

  “Mr. Davy, who was standing across the road and saw you, says the other man was small and stockily built. If he was visible from over the road, surely you could do better than that a mere yard or two away.”

  “I’m afraid …”

  “I suggest, Mr. Smythe, you are trying to cover someone. The man you saw was Alveston and being a friend of Mrs. Alveston and a close admirer of her daughter, you hid the truth to prevent their having any further sorrow or trouble. Now, if that is the case, tell me at once.… We know it was Alveston who was there and killed Salter. I want your evidence straight, please, before the thing has to be sorted out in court.”

  “Very well.… I’m sorry. I did tell you a lie. But I thought it justified at the time. I wanted to protect my friends. They’ve had quite enough trouble as it is.”

  “Very well, sir. We’ll forget it.”

  “I made a point of speaking to you at the hotel in Thorncastle just in case Alveston came into the picture.”

  “You’ve caused us a few wild-goose chases by it, too, Mr. Smythe. You weren’t by any means at your best that night. You not only lied, but behaved very strangely for a priest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dancing on Sunday …?”

  Smythe smiled sheepishly.

  “I was so upset. I forgot what day it was. I was having an evening off. My friends were as surprised as I was when I went on the dance-floor.…”

  Mrs. Pennyquick brought in the tea and tarts and they all fell-to.

  “By the way, Mr. Smythe,” said Littlejohn when the good lady had cleared-up and was washing the dishes in the kitchen. “By the way, have you been to Salter Hall recently?”

  “No. I haven’t been near for weeks. I must go now. My landlady’ll wonder where I am.”

  He rose, put on his coat and gloves, looking self-conscious all the time. His nerves were in shocking condition, but when he looked you full in the face his eyes seemed alight with some hidden purpose. It might have been religious; on the other hand …

  “Is that all? If so, I’ll wish you all good night. And thank you so much for the tea and excellent tarts.…”

  He called to Mrs. Pennyquick through the kitchen doorway and repeated his thanks and praise for the food and drink. Pennyquick went with him to the door and let him out.

  “Somethin’s troubling young Smythe. Don’t know what’s the matter with him these days. Must be love …” he muttered almost to himself as he returned, screwing up his eyes at the light of the room.

  “Smythe knows more than he’ll tell,” said Littlejohn. “I hate to say it, but he’s heading for trouble.”

  SEVENTEEN

  FAKE ALIBI

  LITTLEJOHN and Cromwell stood for a moment at the door of the “Royal Oak” and sniffed the air. The wind had changed and now a mist was blowing in from the sea. In the distance a steamer hooted persistently, and the bell on the marsh, which rang at such times as this to guide those who might be lost on the paths and roads between the dangerous swamps of the estuary, clanged dismally.

  “All the better for a bit of temporary obscurity,” said Cromwell, almost as dismally as the bell. “Stop people gaping at us round curtains and over hedges every time we pass. This place is gettin’ on my nerves.…”

  They parted on their respective errands. Littlejohn to question Mrs. Alveston again; Cromwell to see Smythe, care of Mrs. Pawker.

  “You again.… Oh, dear.…”

  Mrs. Alveston was sitting in the kitchen in an armchair before the fire. Phyllis had gone to work and, thanks to the infidelity of Mrs. Pawker, had had to see her mother up and dressed before she left. Something had changed in Mrs. Alveston. She seemed more settled and serene, as though, knowing at last the fate of her husband, she had given up her fretting and resigned herself to authentic widowhood.

  “What do you want again, sir? Isn’t it settled yet?”

  “I’m afraid not yet, Mrs. Alveston. We haven’t found out who killed your husband, you know. Have you any idea who might have done it?”

  Mrs. Alveston started and looked at him with eyes full of fear.

  “Why should I know? I didn’t do it. How could I? Me in bed and not fit to turn into the street, let alone go to the Hall.”

  “All the same, Mrs. Alveston, you were out on the night yo
ur husband met his death. We know that.…”

  “How do you know? I was locked in and nobody came. I was in bed.…”

  “No. You were out. The door was locked, but you were out. You see, Mrs. Alveston, someone called and found the house empty.”

  She began to weep and moan.

  “I’m a poor, lonely old woman with nobody to take my part. It’s not fair of you to take advantage of me like this. I couldn’t have gone to the Hall.…”

  “Now, Mrs. Alveston, please. We know you were out and can produce witnesses in court to prove it. You don’t want the trouble and disgrace of a public inquiry, do you? Better tell me all about it. It will be for the best.…”

  “Well … I did go out. Phyllis was in town working late on a rush job and I was in alone. I was lonely and troubled and … and … I went over to see Mrs. Pawker.…”

  “Come, Mrs. Alveston. That won’t do. You didn’t go to see Mrs. Pawker because she was out. She called here with the laundry and found the place empty.”

  “So that was who called.… That was when the laundry came.… I wondered …”

  “Better tell me the truth, then, and be done with it. It will be best in the end. You see, we always check alibis, Mrs. Alveston.”

  She moaned again and rocked herself from side to side.

  “Oh, dear. Will it never end …?”

  “Not till the truth comes out and we won’t stop until it does. Look, Mrs. Alveston, you’re a religious woman. You ought to tell the truth, you know. It will save those you love from a lot of pain and trouble and ease your own conscience. You’ll never rest with lies on your mind.”

  “You’re right, sir. I guess that’s best. It’s all simple. My husband was starvin’. He daren’t go for food and he had none with him. When he came here by night at first, I gave him bread and some tins and some chocolate. But it didn’t last long. He came round two days later and, not being able to find a way in, left a note. It just said, ‘No food; starving, you know where.’ Phyllis found it but I wouldn’t tell her what it was. She thought maybe it was a joke. But I knew it wasn’t. After dark, and when she was out, I took the field path and left him food at the Hall. I couldn’t get in the first time, so left it on the back doorstep, hoping.… He must ’ave found it. On the night he died, I went again.… I found ’im dead, sir.… Dead on the stairs with the door of the priest’s hole gapin’ wide. I didn’t know what to do. The good Lord must have upheld me then, for since, in nightmares, I’ve seem ’im there by the light of my torch and woke screamin’.…”

  She was all-in at the thought of it.

  “Have you any brandy in the house, Mrs. Alveston?”

  She told him where to find it, and he gave her a dose.

  “Feel like telling the rest now?”

  “There’s little else to tell.… I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t take ’im and I couldn’t leave him so. So I pushed ’im in the room and shut the door.… How I got ’ome, I don’t know. Somebody guided my steps, must ’ave done. When I got in, I went to bed and there I must ’ave gone all unconscious, for, when I came-to, it was mornin’ … and Phyllis there with a cup o’ tea. You’ve slept well, mother, she sez. Little she knew.”

  “But why didn’t you let us know?”

  “I … I … I don’t know. I was so ill. I’m so ill now. Please don’t ask me any more.…”

  Littlejohn looked hard at her. She was still hiding something.

  “Now, Mrs. Alveston, the truth, please. You didn’t tell us because you saw someone there, someone you wanted to shield, didn’t you …?”

  “I … I … Ahhhhh …”

  And with that she fainted.

  Cromwell found Mr. Smythe writing in his bedroom.

  “Go hup,” Mrs. Pawker had said, for she was now an ally of the police and, after her long gossip with the ‘big man from London’ the night before, she felt she was part of the Law itself.

  Smythe occupied the best bedroom in which the whole Pawker brood had been born and nurtured. The place was jam-full of furniture. A large bed with brass knobs, the connubial one, in which the curate nightly plunged, lost himself and swam desperately in a vast sea of feathers. A washstand with a marble top and enormous jug and basin, a dressing-table with the glass draped in lace curtains tied back with bows like a little window, a voluminous wardrobe which, at one time, maybe, held the clothes of all the tribe of Pawker. And a small, rickety table, at which Mr. Smythe was now precariously sitting, writing an address for the multiple purpose of the Cobbold Youth Club, the Carstonwood Christian Endeavour and the Thorncastle Watchers’ Guild.

  “Oh,” he said, raising his head and looking fearfully at Cromwell, as though the devil himself had suddenly materialized and challenged him to a spiritual throw or two.

  “Oh.…”

  “Mornin’, sir,” said Cromwell cheerfully.

  Mr. Smythe looked as if he’d do with a bit of good cheer and the kindly sergeant determined to do his best.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Won’t take much of your time. Nice morning.…”

  The curate looked through the casement at the two-foot visibility.

  “Yes,” he replied, with enthusiasm.

  “I’ve just called to ask where you were, sir, on the night Alveston met his death.”

  Mr. Smythe staggered to his feet and grasped the air for support. His face grew contorted with terrible twitchings and he looked ready to faint.

  “Here, here, sir. Steady on.… It’s not so bad as that. I’m only seeking your help.…”

  “I was at Mrs. Alveston’s.…”

  The curate cast it up hastily as though in another minute he might be unable to get it out.

  “In that case, sir, I’ll just have to ask you to cross the road to the good lady’s house. Inspector Littlejohn’s there with her now and we can discuss it all together.”

  Smythe looked thunderstruck. This was more than he’d expected. He’d thought his word would be taken and that would be the end of it.

  “But I can’t.… She’s not well.… I’m just in the middle of …”

  “Will you please get your hat, sir?”

  When they arrived at the cottage, Littlejohn was giving more brandy to Mrs. Alveston.

  “What have you done to her? Really … this is the limit. I shall complain.… The poor woman.…”

  Smythe was now beside himself. Timid about his own affairs, he had within himself a great fund of moral indignation at the suffering of others. It seemed to bubble from every pore of his body. He looked ready for violence.

  “Sit down, sir. She’s only fainted. She’s been telling me what happened on the night of her husband’s death and it’s been a bit too much for her.… She’s coming round.…”

  “You’ve wrung it out of her.… It’s a lie. You can’t believe what an overwrought woman says. She wasn’t there.…”

  Littlejohn sat back on his haunches and looked Smythe full in the face.

  “How did you know she told me she was there? Were you there yourself …?”

  Mrs. Alveston, being gently assisted to her chair from the ground where she had slumped, suddenly recovered.

  “I didn’t tell him. Don’t tell, Mr. Smythe.… Don’t tell.…”

  “You were there, too, Mr. Smythe, weren’t you? Come along. The truth.…”

  “I … I … Yes.…”

  The curate hung his head and Mrs. Alveston began to rock to and fro again, moaning.

  “And you took the loaded stick with you from the hall, didn’t you, sir? You found Mrs. Alveston struggling with her husband and you hit him hard with it and then both of you tried to hide the body. Mrs. Alveston’s fond of you.…”

  Both Smythe and Mrs. Alveston looked petrified. Open mouthed, neither could speak at first.

  “But … but … He was dead when we got there.… I swear it.”

  “It’s true, sir. True. I went first and Mr. Smythe come on me as I kneeled beside Alveston. He brought me ’ome … after we’d hid
it in the room … nearly carried me, he did, and put me to bed.… Mr. Smythe wouldn’t do such a thing.… He’s too good … too much of a Christian.…”

  Littlejohn believed them, too.

  “Tell me what happened, then.”

  “It’s as Mrs. Alveston said, Inspector.…”

  Smythe had grown suddenly calm and grim at the idea of getting it all off his mind.

  “I called here that night to see that Mrs. Alveston was all right. To tell the truth, sir, Phyllis … er … Miss Alveston rang the vicarage and asked if I’d mind calling to see things were right here. She was working late. When I got to the gate, I saw Mrs. Alveston disappearing through the back garden. It only leads to one place. I guessed at once what she was after. Going to see her husband. I tried the front door of the house, instinctively to make quite sure it was her. It hadn’t locked properly. I ran upstairs, but the place was empty. I knew the danger and, knowing of the heavy stick, picked it up. I lost it in the confusion on the way back. I followed, but she must have moved fast, for when I got to the Hall she was there already, bending over the dead body of her husband on the stairs.…”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The front door was loose.…”

  “Had Mrs. Alveston any weapon?”

  “No. You’re not suggesting … I … I … It’s monstrous.… A weak woman like her.…”

  “I’m suggesting nothing. Only making sure. Mrs. Alveston, you said your husband was starving. Had he no food there at all but what you supplied?”