Littlejohn had made no fixed plan concerning what he would do once he reached the farm. His main idea was to find out what the Emmotts had been doing when Lee was killed and if Nancy really was in bed, as George had said, when Prank met his death. Further, were the letters which had caused the deaths of Prank, Lee and Boake still in existence and hidden about the place, or had they been destroyed?
Who was going to help him in his researches he did not know. Quite impossible to question Old Emmott again. It depended on one of the farm hands—two of them slept over the stables—or on Mercy, the maid of all work.
Mercy, it appeared was a faithful old retainer of the family and had been with them for forty years or more, ever since old Mrs. Emmott had taken her from some orphanage or other. Littlejohn had no stomach for quizzing old servants who didn’t know properly the significance of what they were saying. He had vividly in mind the famous case in which one of his predecessors at Scotland Yard had obtained information from an old maid which nearly hanged the young master she adored.
Still, it had to be done.… It was a question of murder and Lord knew where it would stop if the criminal wasn’t found.
Luckily, Mercy was crossing the farmyard with a bucket of pig-swill again. She seemed to have a soft spot in her heart for the pigs. Littlejohn joined her as she teemed the mess into the troughs. She turned and jumped with surprise when she found him at her elbow.
“What do you want again? There’s nobody at home but the master.…”
“A pity. I’ve had a journey in vain again. That’s a nice lot of pigs you’ve got there.”
Mercy’s solemn little wedge-shaped face relaxed. She even smiled in her fashion by tightening her lips until they vanished into her mouth.
“Very fine, they are. I looks after ’em myself.”
“That chap there with the black markings is a beauty.…”
“He’s mine, he is. Master gave ’im to me when he was born. Fine pork he’ll make come Christmas. I’ll sell ’im and the money’ll be mine, ’though I’ll cry my eyes out when it comes his time for the butcher. You see the other one by him?”
“Yes. Almost as big?”
“Not by a pound or two. That’s the vicar’s pig. Leastways, it’s in his name. Really belongs to the pig club at the church. Proper fond of Thomas—that’s what he called the pig—is the vicar. Comes regular to see ’im, just as if he might be a member of the church. What’ll happen when it comes Thomas’s turn for the butcher, I don’t know. What you laughing at?”
“It struck me funny. My name’s Thomas, too.”
“Is it now. Well, nothing to be ashamed havin’ a pig called the same. I like pigs, I do. Always good tempered and a smile for you when you brings them their meat.… Better than ’umans is pigs, to my way of thinkin’.”
“I thought you were very fond of the family.… The Emmotts, I mean.”
Mercy began to draw in her horns. She gave Littlejohn a suspicious glance, and nervously chewed her cheeks.
“I am fond o’ the fambly. Nobody can say I’m not. I been with them more than forty years. Forty-four years, come Martinmas, Mrs. Emmott took me out o’ St. Bride’s orphanage.…”
“You’ve been faithful then, Mercy.”
“I have that. Saw all four children in the world. Was here when Mr. Leonard died and Mr. Henry went to sea in a temper. And Mrs. Emmott died in my arms and me picking the master up, too, when he had his seizure.…”
“You’ve been one of the family, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Though sometimes now you wouldn’t think so. Since they’ve grown-up, the children’ve no time for their old Mercy. Too busy with their own devices, they are.… Except Miss Nancy. She’s always good to me.”
“You were nurse to them as well, then?”
“Yes. Nursed ’em all. A fine handful they was, too. And the tempers they had. All. high-spirited. Specially Miss Nancy. As pretty as a picture, but as unbiddable as could be if she didn’t get what she wanted. The things she’d do. I could go on tellin’ you things all mornin’. But I must be off. The master’ll give me the length of his tongue if he finds I’ve been gossiping here.…”
She picked up her bucket and prepared to go.
“You’ve had happy days, too, I guess,” went on Littlejohn, as if he hadn’t heard.
“Oh yes. I lie in bed at nights before I go to sleep and remember ’em. They’ve all gone, now, but I remember ’em. I was the special friend of the children. Let me into all their secrets, they did. I usedter know their hiding-places when they wanted not to be found, and where each of ’em hid their special toys and sweets so’s the rest couldn’t get them.… They don’t tell me secrets any more.…”
“I’ll bet Nancy had a good place, Mercy. She strikes me’as clever as she’s pretty. Not all good looks and no brains.…”
“Oh yes, she was a deep ’un. I’d rather have the boys myself, in those days. Nancy’s good looks hid a cunnin’ brain, I always said. Nobody but me ever knew her hidey-hole. More crafty than the boys, who put things in woodpecker holes in trees, or on top of the bookcase, or under the loose boards in the floor. You’d never guess her’s.”
“She told you, it seems.…”
“No. I just ’appened to catch her at it one day. But she never knew I seen ’er. That was long ago and she don’t need hidey-holes now. They go to the bank with their valuables.”
“Where was this hide-out? I’m interested in such things. You know … inquisitive.…”
“I’ll tell you. Do nobody any harm, now. All them days are gone. It usedter be in the old oven in the bakehouse. That building there. Used as a wood-shed, now. But in the old days when farm-folk made their own bread, there usedter be baking days twice a week in there. Before my time, it was. The old oven’s still there and there was a loose brick in the side of it. She’d found it and hollowed it out more and kept sweets and such like things she wanted for herself in it.…”
“Very cunning.… Surprising how children think out these things.…”
“You’d be surprised if I told you all the things those four did when they was little. I must go.… I’ll get in trouble. I’ve not started the dinner, yet.…”
“Well, I’ll have to call again, Mercy. By the way, I wanted to ask Miss Emmott if she was out last Saturday night about half-past ten. Do you happen to know?”
Mercy gave him another sidelong suspicious glance.
“I don’t know anythin’. I go to bed at nine and I sleep when I get there. I don’t bother my brains with what goes on downstairs after that. I’m going. I spent too much time talking with you as it is.”
She floundered off across the yard and vanished into the kitchen. Littlejohn lit his pipe and surveyed the place. There was another gate beyond the farmhouse which would give access to the old bakery, he thought, and thus avoid his passing the windows of the kitchen occupied by Saul Emmott and the maid. He left the farmyard and made his way along the road. It was as he had thought. He slipped through the gate and entered the woodshed. The oven, its door rusty but solid still and ajar, was large enough to admit a considerable batch of bread. Littlejohn eased it open.
The aperture contained a motley assortment of things. Beansticks, a long, rusty poker and even an old muzzleloading gun. The Inspector shone his torch along the dark interior. Two flashing eyes gleamed from the depths. A little she-cat with kittens! Instinctively scenting a friendly intruder, the cat settled again and began to purr.
Hastily Littlejohn felt for the loose tile. He was not long in finding and removing it. He groped in the cavity and grunted with satisfaction. A packet and a bulky object were there. The light of day confirmed what Littlejohn had already guessed from touch. Boake’s letters and an ugly length of rubber piping!
The Inspector had scarcely pocketed his finds, when old Mercy appeared at the door. She was after wood for her cooking.
She squealed with surprise and dismay.
“I thought I’d see the place you described for mys
elf,” he said.
“You shouldn’t ’ave. You shouldn’t ’ave,” was all the poor woman could say.”
“Well, I must be off, Mercy.… Goodbye. Most interesting.”
Littlejohn didn’t like it at all. He couldn’t for the life of him say to the old servant that she was not to tell the family. That would be silly and futile to one so wrapped-up in her old charges and faithful to them. She’d tell them in any case. Unless … unless she was afraid of getting into trouble for gossiping. It was bad enough to have to obtain incriminating information from the old girl at all. But it was the only way apparently.
Littlejohn hurried downhill to the town. He was anxious to get his find examined and a warrant issued before Mercy had time to warn the family. As soon as Nancy and George returned from town, the fat would be in the fire.
He would arrange for Hoggatt to put a watch on the farm until the police called to play the final round.
XXI
AT THE VILLA CARLOTTA
P.C. PILKINGTON, assigned to the task of watching Emmotts’ Farm, was highly nervous about the job. He had been chosen because he was an officer of a little more than the average intelligence and because he’d been the only policeman in plain clothes at the time one was wanted.
He had his bicycle with him in case there was any attempted getaway by road. The hill from Headlands to the old bridge was steep enough to ensure his getting up sufficient velocity to keep up with any car. He took a roundabout route and hid himself in some bushes with a full view of both the gates of the farm.
Pilkington kept asking himself what he must do if any of the parties concerned tried to run away. Littlejohn had told him to watch for the arrival of the Emmotts from town and then see that they didn’t get out of his sight until the Inspector had had time to interview them.
At shortly after one o’clock, George and Nancy returned in the van and went indoors for lunch. Had Pilkington only known, he could have stood at ease for an hour, for Mercy was so busy dishing up the brussels sprouts and potatoes that she hadn’t time for a private word with her mistress. It was after lunch, at about two o’clock, that the maid told Nancy of Littlejohn’s visit and that she had seen him exploring in the woodshed.
Poor Mercy daren’t look her mistress in the eyes as she confessed the time she had wasted during her absence. It is perhaps as well she did not, for the awful look in those blue depths, which assumed an almost glacial green, a fixed, malevolent stare, would have kept her awake with terror for many a night afterwards. George coming suddenly upon them in conversation spoke earnestly to his sister, for he seemed puzzled by her attitude and then, finding Nancy fixed in thought, shrugged his shoulders and went to talk to his father.
Nancy Emmott remained frozen for a mere minute. Then she sidled out and inspected the oven in the woodshed. The cat emerged, as was her custom, to rub against her mistress’s hand and was, instead, seized by the scruff of the neck and madly hurled on a pile of faggots. The little thing picked herself up and sprang into the oven to defend her kittens.… But Nancy was already in her bedroom.
Alternately panting from her exertions and laughing softly and without humour to herself, she packed a blouse-case and stuffed money in her handbag. Father and son below were discussing market affairs from the morning and the coast was clear.
Pilkington saw the girl emerge stealthily from the front door, enter the cart-shed and start the van. Then she climbed in and made off for town. The constable mounted his bike and followed.
“What the …? Where’s Nancy off to …?”
George Emmott had spotted the van emerging from the shed.
“She’s got luggage with ’er,” called Mercy, from the swill-tub by the door.…
So, as Littlejohn and Hoggatt drove uphill in the police car, they met a frantic procession coming down.
Nancy driving the van hell-for-leather. Then Pilkington, who flashed anguishedly past them without even seeing them. Finally came George on his motor-cycle following the others.
Hoggatt turned in the next gateway and joined the parade.
“She must be making for the station. There’s a train to London at two-forty. She’ll manage to get it, if we don’t stop her.”
P.C. Pilkington lost ground on the level just before the old bridge and had to pedal furiously. George Emmott overtook him and followed the van to the parking ground in front of the hospital. There Nancy drew up, for she had sighted her brother through the mirror and had an idea of evading him in the maze of side-streets between the car park and the station. As George flung himself from his machine and approached the van, Nancy sprang out, met him and dealt him a savage blow with a spanner. He reeled and losing his balance, fell headlong just as Littlejohn and Hoggatt drove into view.
Between the station and the hospital at Werrymouth lies a warren of narrow, mean streets and into these plunged Nancy. Hoggatt, Littlejohn and Pilkington, dividing forces, entered after her and it was Littlejohn who suddenly found himself on her heels. She was emerging from a narrow alley leading to the promenade, in the middle of which lies Werrymouth Central Station.
It needed a minute or two to the time for the London train and there was only the Villa Carlotta between Nancy and the station.
By this time, the girl was completely demented. All she thought of was the train and freedom. Anyone who tried to stop her would suffer for it. It never entered her head that she hadn’t the remotest chance of escape. The machinery of the law was now ranged full stretch against her and her position was hopeless. She turned the corner to pass the front of the Villa Carlotta and saw approaching, from the opposite corner, her brother George who, in spite of the blow, had pulled himself together and was still stumbling protectively after her.… Littlejohn’s feet hurried relentlessly behind. The crowds on the promenade turned to get a good view of the scene. They didn’t know the parties, so hesitated to take sides, until Hoggatt appeared running from another side-street. Then they suddenly realised there was a hue-and-cry and started to shout and mill around. Mr. Penrose, the baker who had confessed at the revival meeting to giving short weight, had been left in the lurch by his customers since, and stood before a shopful of unsold bread, biliously watching the hullaballoo.
The Villa Carlotta is the municipal concert hall of Werrymouth. In the year it was built the Mayor of Werrymouth had been on a ten days’ Hankey’s Tour to the Italian Lakes and there had met the lady who became his second wife. Nothing would do but that the new hall should be named after the meeting place. He had wanted to change the name to The Winter Gardens a few months afterwards but the Council wouldn’t have it. In front of this building Nancy Emmott was cornered. She turned in through the front entrance in the hope of dodging her pursuers.
That afternoon, there was a classical concert in the Villa Carlotta. The orchestra, conducted by Sir Wenceslaus Trimble, were going at it hammer-and-tongs in the third movement of Brahms First Piano Concerto and Henry Weinberg was in full spate at the piano. In the hall were gathered Lady Bromiloe and her retinue of social rabbits, including Sir Sebastian Bromiloe who was already asleep. Her ladyship was trying to appear to be in a trance of ecstacy, so the rest of her following were not whispering under cover of the music as they usually did when she was absent from such gatherings, but endeavouring to look wrapt and intelligent.
“Can’t h’enter till the piece is finished,” said a man in a red uniform to Nancy as she tried the baize-covered door of the stalls. She sped up the next flight of stairs to the circle. Littlejohn just saw her disappearing round the curve of the staircase and followed.
Muffled music punctuated the pursuit. Littlejohn, bounding upwards, found it difficult to believe the business was real. It was like a fantastic dream, a silly symphony with full musical effects.
Uniformed flunkeys with the same officious zeal, like angels at the gates of heaven, forbade entrance to the upper circle until Sir Wenceslaus had ceased his frantic thrashing of the air. So Nancy ascended yet another staircase. This time na
rrow, uncarpeted, resounding, leading to the passage round the great dome of the hall. She did not know why she continued to climb. Flight was in her brain and heels and so long as she fled, she was free. She never thought to turn at bay, until, passing through a small door at the top of the steps, she found herself looking down into the thronged hall, like a goddess in heaven surveying a human anthill.
Littlejohn appeared in the doorway a few seconds later. Nancy Emmott turned wildly and saw him. Then she laughed and gestured like a child in high glee. There was nothing for Littlejohn to do but to approach her.…
Gosling, the horn-player, first saw what was going on. During a few bars rest, he opened the valve, ejected a stream of moisture from his instrument and cast his eyes idly to the dome. He turned pale and prodded his twin horn-blower in the ribs. Snape followed his eyes and recoiled. Just then, the fist of Sir Wenceslaus was flung in their direction for an entrance, but no horns sounded. Instead, there was a scream, high above the throbbing orchestra, a rush as of wings, and the awful thud of a falling body in the aisle near where Lady Bromiloe was sitting. Her Ladyship turned a disdainful eye in the direction of the disturbance, and immediately slid unconscious to the ground.…
Littlejohn stood for a moment dazed on his high perch. Below, it looked like an anthill which someone has vigorously poked with a stick. He tottered through the door to safety and was surprised to find that he was still holding his pipe between his teeth. By the time he reached ground level, they had cleared up the scene of the tragedy and removed the body. The audience was dispersing in awestricken silence and Lady Bromiloe was being supported to her car.
“Disgusting disturbance,” the musical critic of the Werrymouth Trumpet was saying, and picking up his straw hat, he put it on his head with such force and venom that it seemed that the crown would give way and the brim slide over his ears to his neck. He had a reputation for being a bit crazy, though.
The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge Page 18
