The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  “We’re in a bit of a mess here, Inspector,” apologised the schoolmaster, clearing two chairs of encumbrances. “Please be seated. Mr. Boake’s sudden illness has thrown us into confusion.”

  Littlejohn sat down like a new entrant being put through his preliminary paces.

  “My reason for calling, sir,” Littlejohn began, “is to enquire if anyone has recently been pestering Mr. Boake or visiting him under unusual circumstances. Can you help me in any way?”

  “What do you mean?” snapped Podmore. “Boake is a dear fellow and I cannot see why, when he is unfit to attend to his own affairs, the police should be investigating them.…”

  “Now, now, Mr. Podmore. You’re not talking to a schoolboy now. I’m a police officer pursuing a perfectly legitimate enquiry. We have reason to believe that during his illness a certain person has been worrying Mr. Boake. I’m here to find out how long this has been going on.…”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I get so used to biting-off pupils’ heads when they get me rattled that I forgot my manners. Go on.…”

  “Can you answer my question then, sir?”

  Mr. Podmore twirled his pomaded moustache and then flung out his small, well-kept hands in a hopeless gesture.

  “I can’t,” he said simply. “My classroom is remote from this office and I don’t see people come and go as they visit the Head. I’ll tell you what, however. The monitor on duty at the class near the main door is instructed to keep an eye on callers and see that they receive proper attention. Just excuse me a moment …”

  The schoolmaster made a bounding exit on small, brisk feet to return a minute or two later followed by three older boys who filed deferentially after him and lined-up, fidgeting, for interrogation.

  “Now, boys … Oh, stand at ease … stand at ease! You’re not on parade. Be natural … be natural!”

  The students eased up and relaxed to the best of their ability, but it was a poor effort, for they seemed to expect at any time that Poddy would pounce on them and crack their pates.

  “This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, and he’s here for our help in connection with a scoundrel who’s been worrying.…”

  Littlejohn though it was time to intervene before Podmore in his excitement invented some cock-and-bull story which would fly round the town like wildfire.

  “.… I believe a certain person has been going round the town pestering people and I wonder if he’s ever tried Mr. Boake. Can any of you tell me whether or not he has had any unusual callers during the past weeks?”

  The eyes of the trio sparkled when the first shock of the meeting had worn off. At last they had been blest by being granted the desire of every reader of juvenile blood-and-thunder. They had been asked to collaborate with Scotland Yard! They assumed the intent, strained attitudes of runners awaiting the starting-pistol.

  Mr. Podmore was evidently opt for quick results.

  “Come, come!” he chattered. “You, and you, and you … you were on monitorial duty during the past three weeks. Did anyone strange arrive here over that period? Cudgel your brains and memories to remember all who came whilst you were on duty. The Inspector wants to know all about it, boys. Nothing is too trivial. Don’t be reticent or shy. Well, Schofield? You were on duty, weren’t you? What have you to say? Speak up, lad.… Don’t shuffle and mumble.…”

  Young Schofield was tall, lanky and anaemic and his arms and legs had left his coat-cuffs and trouser-bottoms far behind. His front teeth were bound together by a brace of silver wire.

  “I cccccan’t remember who ccccalled egggsackly, sir,” he stammered through his dental obstruction.

  “Try again! Try again! Cudgel what brains you’ve got, Schofield. They aren’t many, I grant you, but cudgel ’em,” roared Poddy and his neck began to swell with annoyance like a motor tyre being inflated.

  The poor lad screwed-up his face in a dreadful contortion intended to depict intense concentration.

  “I ccccan only remember the st-st-stationery travellers and ttttwo A.R.P. wardens coming … yes … and Hazlitt’s mother callin’ bbbbbecause her Johnny ’ad got a job and wanted a test-testim-testim …”

  “TESTIMONIAL!!!” hollared Poddy at the end of his tether. “How did you know she wanted a testimonial, Schofield? Answer me! You were eavesdropping, Schofield …”

  Littlejohn thought it high time to call-off the third-degree.

  “Look here, Schofield,” he said. “You know where the borough police station is. Now I want you to think, when you’re quiet and have a minute to spare, exactly who called on Mr. Boake during the week before he stayed away from school. Put a list on paper and when you’ve got them all down, come to the police station and ask for me. If I’m not in, leave the paper for me. That clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the over-awed youngster, straightening his back with pride and in anticipation of the great events to come. His two companions, hitherto speechless, opened their mouths in wonder at the boon which had been bestowed on Schöey, as they called him.

  One boy had no top teeth at all in front and wore owlish spectacles to correct an obvious squint, which manifest itself to a painful degree whenever he grew excited. The other was a bright, apple-cheeked lad, who looked to have polished his face with furniture cream and plastered down his fair hair with margarine.

  Instinctively the last named lad raised his hand to Mr. Podmore as though still in class. Then, remembering where he was, he turned to Schofield.

  “Tell ’im abaht the feller in the sailor’s jersey,” he said brightly.

  Mr. Podmore winced at the language of this youth, an evacuated Cockney, but a monitor none the less!

  Schofield’s troubled face grew suddenly bright.

  “I got it. Yes, a bloke.… I mean, a man … called to see Mr. Boake the week before he was took ill. He’s the only stranger I remember. Walked in at the door and asked for Mr. Boake. Said he was an old pupil of ’is. So I tuck ’im to ’im.”

  Never a stutter or a splutter in his excitement!

  “Well … WELL! yelled Podmore. “What else? Who was he? What was he?”

  Schofield made movements of his mouth as though trying to uproot and eject the dental brace, but seemed again devoid of words.

  “What kind of man was he, do you say?” asked Littlejohn, very excited himself, but showing no trace of it. He put his arm through that of the agitated Schofield to calm him down a bit.

  “Wore a sailor jersey and cloth cap. Tall chap … bit on the thin side.…”

  “Anything more?”

  “No, sir. ’e didn’t give no name.…”

  “Any name … any name, Schofield,” angrily corrected the spinning-top.

  “You don’t by any chance know what he wanted, Schofield?”

  “No, sir. But I remember after I’d tuck ’im to Mr. Boake, I passed Bentley going to Mr. Boake’s room as I was going back to class.…”

  “Spivey! Go and get Bentley quickly, my lad, and don’t be all day about it,” barked Podmore, and Spivey of the polished cheeks tore off like the shot from a gun. He returned accompanied by a hulking good-humoured youth, self-possessed, grinning and ready for anything.

  Poddy set about him right away.

  “Take that grin from your face, Bentley. This is serious business, not a pantomime. Now we have with us Inspector Littlejohn of Scotland Yard, and he’s a question to ask you. See you answer him promptly and clearly.…”

  “Schofield tells me, Bentley, that you came to Mr. Boake’s room the other day and found a visitor here … a sailor, is that true?”

  “Yessir Smokin’ a pipe and talkin’ about some letters he wanted Mr. Boake to buy off him.…”

  “How do you know that, Bentley?” asked Littlejohn, surprised.

  “I overheard what they were sayin’, sir, because I stood outside the door waiting for the chap to go.”

  “What were you waiting for?” quacked Podmore.

  “The cane, sir. Mr. Holloway sent me to report myself
for impudence.”

  Littlejohn hid a grin.

  “And what did you overhear, Bentley?” continued the Inspector.

  “They were talkin’ about letters or somethin’, and the sailor … it was Sam Prank, I know ’im well, he courted my sister for a bit till she found somebody better. Sam Prank was saying that it would pay Mr. Boake to give ’im what he wanted for the letters. Said it wouldn’t do at all for Mrs. Boake to get ’em.…”

  “Dear me!” muttered Podmore twirling his moustache. “Very distressing. What did Mr. Boake say, my boy?”

  “He says he’s astonished that an old pupil of ’is should come with such a disgraceful proposal.… If he was in money trouble Mr. Boake ’ud help ’im, if he could. But to come at him like that … like …”

  “I understand, Bentley.… Go on,” said Littlejohn. “How did it end?”

  “Sam Prank mentioned a sum of money. I forgot what it was, if ever I knew it.… Any way, Mr. Boake said it was ridiculous and tells ’im he can’t answer right away. He’ll think it over.…”

  “Did it end there?”

  “Nearly. Sam Prank said it wouldn’t pay ’im to tell the police, because Mrs. Boake ’ud know of it even if he went to jail. Said he was off on a short trip and due back shortly. He’d call agen for the money and if it wasn’t ready for ’im, he’d post off the stuff to Mrs. Boake by registered letter before he sailed.…”

  Podmore and Littlejohn exchanged glances. Young Bentley had overheard the unsavoury details of what appeared to be a first-class scandal, but he seemed to have no idea that he was washing dirty linen.

  “Was that all?”

  “Mr. Boake flew into a temper and said ‘good mornin’,’ and Sam Prank went at that. As he went he turned and told Mr. Boake he’d better think it over and be sensible, like, if he knew what was good for ’im. Then, Mr. Boake sees me and he’s so bothered at what Sam Prank said that he doesn’t cane me at all. Sends me back and tells me not to be childish.…”

  There was a pause.

  “Anything more, Bentley?” said Littlejohn finally. “What you’ve told me is very useful.…”

  “Yes,” interjected Podmore. “Very interesting but the narrative was not much credit to the training you’ve had here, Bentley. Grammar, style and diction disgraceful …”

  And then with a flashing eye and brow of thunder, Mr. Podmore seemed suddenly to boil up in rage.

  “And let me hear of any one of you repeating anything that has been said in this room and he’ll regret the day he was born!”

  The boys shivered in their shoes, shuffled and tried to look quite incapable of such perfidy.

  “I’m very grateful, boys, for your help and please remember what Mr. Podmore’s told you.”

  The boys nodded and made noises indicating their thorough understanding of what had been said to them.

  “And now you may go … And remember … no chattering to the other boys.”

  They departed headed by the lad with no top teeth, who hadn’t spoken a word from start to finish.

  “You must forgive my abruptness with the boys, Inspector,” chuckled Podmore, when they were out of earshot. “One has to be firm. Best thing for all of ’em. Discipline … and they like a schoolmaster all the better for being strict. Well, I hope the visit’s done you a lot of good. Personally, I feel very distressed. I wonder what that scoundrel Sam Prank has been at with his letters. Young Bentley’s tale sounds to be straight from a penny dreadful. Yet, he seemed so convincing and it all came out pat, didn’t it? I really don’t know what to think of it all.”

  They made for the outer door.

  “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, sir,” said Littlejohn as they shook hands near the little man’s classroom, which was hushed owing to scouts having warned the rest of Podmore’s imminence.

  A paper aeroplane slowly floated through the open door and landed almost at Peg-top’s feet. He bent and examined it.

  “Constructed by Williams, I think. I recognise his handiwork as you Scotland Yard men would that of a burglar. Well, goodbye Inspector.”

  The schoolmaster smiled benignly at his visitor and then, as Littlejohn turned to go, Poddy changed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. His face assumed a most hideous and ferocious expression, all the smiles and good cheer departed from it and with the light of fixed purpose in his eyes, he spun into the classroom.

  “WILLIAMS!” he yelled, and through the glass partition a huge form could be seen uncurling itself from a desk and emerging with great reluctance to the front of the class.

  The last Littlejohn heard was a terrific bastinado, like the sound of a number of wooden balls fired rapidly at a coconut, which the Podmorian code seemed to lay down for every offence.

  XIV

  EMMOTTS’ FARM

  “WHAT do you want?”

  A tiny, shrivelled, plain looking farm servant with a large hairy mole on her chin addressed the Inspector aggressively. She had apparently been feeding the pigs, for she carried in her hands an empty bucket which emitted a strong smell of swill. Flies were buzzing round and she beat them off irritably from time to time.

  Littlejohn had decided that he had best visit Headlands Farm, where lived the pair, brother and sister, who had called on Boake in hospital recently. Probably it had only been a courtesy call, but the evidence on Lee’s boots that he had been at a farm just before his death, had stimulated Littlejohn’s curiosity.

  The farm was about ten minutes walk from the Halfpenny Bridge. By paying toll instead of going round by the old stone free-bridge, you saved half-an-hour.

  The Emmotts had farmed Headlands for over four hundred years. Yeomen, owning two hundred acres and a very proud and careful lot they were reputed to be, too. All except Nancy. She was said by some people to be not quite “all there.” Others would have it she was as clever as the rest of the family, but inherited her mother’s sweetness of disposition. At any rate, she had not married at nearly thirty, in spite of the fact that she was a beauty. They said her brother drove all the men away. Nobody was good enough for Nancy and the Emmott inheritance, according to George. George wasn’t married either, although he was thirty-four. He was hard to please on that count. He was taking his time choosing the girl who would, when the old man died, be mistress of Headlands. A well-knit, stand-offish family, the Emmotts.

  There was nobody about the farmyard when Littlejohn arrived. The low-set stone house, like a small manor, stood back from the road, with a well-kept flower garden between the front door and the passing traffic. At the side of the house, a large gate let in a high wall gave into the farmyard. This was a rectangle of stables, barns and cowsheds. Electric cables criss-crossed overhead, connecting various buildings. The place seemed very modern and trim. Red-tiled roofs, well-tended outbuildings, absence of rubbish and litter. The whole outfit showed no lack of working capital. No scratching for a living here; the stamp of prosperity and efficiency was upon it.

  A bobtail sheep-dog, chained near the gate, rushed from his kennel and barked frantically. The determined-looking maid emerged from some pig-styes.

  “What do you want?”

  “Is Miss Emmott at home?”

  “She’s somewhere about.… In the dairy, I think. Who shall I say?”

  “Inspector Littlejohn.…”

  “Police, eh? Been exceeding their milk quotas again. I told ’em what it would be.…”

  “Will you tell Miss Emmott I’d like a word with her, please?”

  The woman waddled off, but was soon back.

  “Will you come in?”

  She led him through a long passage from the back door to the front of the house and ushered him into what seemed to be a formal drawing-room reserved for special occasions.

  “Give me your hat and coat. I’ll hang ’em just here. Miss Nancy’ll only be a minute.”

  The maidservant put the Inspector’s hat and raincoat on one of a series of hooks in the passage and he laid his stick on a chair nearby. He might h
ave been coming for a long stay the fuss that was made.

  The room smelt musty, as though short of sunshine or a good fire now and then, and the small leaded windows added to the sombre gloom. The furniture was old-fashioned, but elegant. Mahogany sideboard, corner cupboard, Chippendale chairs and table.… The sort to get a collector or antique dealer excited. A harmonium with a book of hymn tunes and a number of beginners’ pieces littering the top of it. On the wall, a case of books. Family Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Saints’ Everlasting Rest and a lot more like it. Culpepper’s Herbal and a battery of handbooks on stock-rearing and veterinary medicine. Hanging round, a number of family portraits and framed reproductions of masterpieces from Christmas almanacs, surrounded by fussy little frames containing coloured diplomas commemorating special, first or second prizes for fat cattle, pigs and horses at agricultural shows.

  The door opened and a woman entered. Her appearance was quite up to the description Littlejohn had received of her locally. In fact, more so. She was between twenty and thirty, he had been told. Unmarried, yet the sort to choose just whom she wanted and turn a lot of other men’s heads in the process.

  A refined-looking oval face, with an almost exotic milk-and-roses complexion. A faint smile, and no artifice or subtlety about her. She was tall and slim-hipped with a round sensuousness about her figure.

  What caught the attention first, however, was the innocent, expressionless china-blue eyes with slightly reddened rims and the flaxen hair, brushed back from a good forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of the neck. She had an air of childish immaturity about her. Perhaps those who said she was a bit simple were right.… Or, on the other hand, a gentle spirit dominated by the masterful males of the family and protected like a precious thing might produce the same effects. It was a new experience to encounter such a type in modern times.