The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Well?” said Littlejohn.

  “Well, wot?” asked Walker. He seemed to expect a long chain of deductions from Littlejohn, just like those of Sherlock Holmes, who was one of Mr. Walker’s great favourites. Size of wearer, age, height, habits, temper and a club-foot. He at least expected these.…

  “Where did this come from, Mr. Walker?” asked Littlejohn disappointingly.

  “Out o’ th’ mill lodge.…”

  He pointed a flabby finger through a side window to a sheet of water behind the engine-house. It was steaming; a long conduit pipe discharged a stream of boiling water from the mill. The contents of the reservoir were a dirty green, but from the high position of the engine-house, you could see to the bottom.

  “Somebody threw that cap in the lodge. There were a piece of old iron in it to weight it down. From below, you can’t see th’ bottom o’ th’ water and so, anybody wanting to get rid of it would nacherally chuck it in with a sinker. But from up ’ere we can see right to th’ bottom. Seth there spotted that cap th’ Monday after Barrow were done-in. By climbin’ along that pipe as pours th’hot water out, he managed to fish it out. There it is, mister. What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing much, as yet, Mr. Walker. But I’d like to take it with me.”

  Mr. Walker looked disappointed. Sherlock Holmes would have had it in a crack. Probably gone off and arrested the murderer right off. This chap, however.…

  “Well, it’s no good to me. It’s too big, for one thing. Comes right down over me ears. So you may as well take it. I thought it ’ud be a bit of use to you, but it seems I’m wrong.”

  Mr. Walker sounded very bitter.

  “It may prove very useful, Mr. Walker, and I appreciate your letting me have it.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, it’s awreet, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Walker recovered his good humour and bared his pot teeth and vulcanite gums amiably.

  “How are yo gettin’ on wi’ th’ case, Mister?”

  “Not so well, just yet. It’s a case of patience and steady work, isn’t it? We’ll find out sooner or later.”

  Down in the yard the hands were beginning to dribble back. Some youngsters started to kick a football about and groups of workers squatted here and there talking.

  Suddenly a large car entered through the main gates, crossed the yard and pulled up at the offices. A uniformed chauffeur sprang out, two of the hands detached themselves from the group of talkers near the warehouse, and the three together carefully removed from the car a large human bundle hardly visible through the wrappings of a large coat and scarf and a soft hat. You could just see, as the procession carrying the burden passed into the offices, a pale face, irritable and worn, with a small grey moustache and spectacles.

  Walker watched the proceedings from Littlejohn’s side.

  “That’s Mr. Miles Fenning. Father of Mr. Andrew and Mr. James. He’s a caution and no mistake. Had a stroke about five years since, but his brain’s as active as any young man’s. In fact, activer. He’s still managin’ director here; and does he run folks round? I’d by far rather have a crack on the head than a taste o’ Mr. Miles’s tongue when he’s roused. He comes once a week and on board days and always lands here when the sons are out. That’s to see how things is. Catch folk at it, as you might say.”

  Mr. Walker nodded knowingly.

  “Hey, Seth. Go down an’ tell Bill Pearson that Mr. Miles is ’ere, so ’e’d better blow that buzzer on the dot. And see that them engines is off right on the mark of half-past. Else they’ll be merry ’ell to pay. Get going. Don’t be all day about it. It’ll be stoppin’ time afore tha gets started, else.…”

  He turned to Littlejohn apologetically.

  “How I came to be th’ father o’ that lad, I don’t for the life of me know. He doesn’t take after me, and he doesn’t take after his mother. He’s that slow. Must take after my missus’s father, who never worked after forty.…”

  And having delivered himself of this intimate piece of domestic confidence, Mr. Walker turned to other things.

  “Them Fennings is a queer lot. Not one of ’em alike. Father’s best business man in these parts, by far. As tough as hide, he is. Mr. Andrew’s more at home wi’ women, wine, song, art galleries and foreigners than cotton, though ah must say, he knows his business. And Mr. James… well.… There never were a better mechanic anywhere for all his university eddication and smart appearance. There’s nothin’ he likes better than to come up here in overalls when we’ve any mechanicking jobs to do. Just ’is hobby, like. He’s a tip-top Chemist, too. But th’ lads isn’t as good as th’ old man. Not by a long chalk. This business is what it is to-day thanks to Mr. Miles. I’ll bet he’s runnin’ somebody round in th’office. Just like ’im to call and shorten their dinner hours.…”

  “Are there any more in the family?”

  “No. Old Mrs. Fenning an’ two other sons died years ago. They live up-town at the Old Hall. Three men with servants and th’ widow of one of the dead sons to look after ’em. Mr. Andrew’s married, but his wife can’t stick these parts. I guess she doesn’t get on too well with old man Fenning, either. Spends most of her time in London.”

  “How long have the family been here, Mr. Walker?”

  “Oh, generations. It’s a queer history. The Old Hall’s always belonged to the Fenning family. They were country gentry before there was any mills here. They do say that the Old Hall once had miles of open country round it, but as the town grew, it got built up, till now there’s just a bit of a park left. It’s hundreds of years old. People come for miles to see it.…”

  “And what about the family? How did they come to own this mill?”

  “Built it, of course. Mr. Miles’s grandfather. They had their wits about ’em, them Fennings. They saw that the new gentry would be those as made their money in mills and such like, instead of on the land their fathers left ’em. So, they built this mill and kept their fortunes alive when the landed gentry had died out.”

  “Are they a good lot to work for?”

  “Oh, yes. Very good. The old man would skin a flint. Though he’s fair enough, is Mr. Miles. I’ll say that for him. But the sons are easy enough. Mr. Andrew especially. He’s more a man of the world and broad-minded. Mr. James is suffer and prouder than the others. Very proud of his family, is Mr. James. Almost a mania with him. Coats of arms, mottoes, family tree back to the year 1066.… Right up his street. Proud as punch of the family. And yet, he can strip out and take a hand in taking down this engine with anybody. Queer mixture. There’s nowt queerer than folks, is there, mister?”

  “No. Is Mr. James married?”

  “He’s not. Though it’s not for want of th’ lassies trying. He’d be a good catch for anybody as could put up with him. Plenty o’ brass and steady with it. I will say this for the family, they’re steady. Not too much drink, quiet living as far as that sort go, and not so fond of the women as a lot as I could mention in this town. Of course, they’ve had a bit of a fling, now and then. There was talk about Mr. Andrew and Barrow’s wife—a widow she is now—but it all blowed over. Not Flo.’s doing, I should imagine. She was one for a good time and hardly likely to let a catch like Mr. Andrew go of her own free will. I suppose he got fed-up with her. I don’t blame ’im. Perhaps he was like me, preferred blondes after all.”

  At this sally, Mr. Walker’s face became all eyes and teeth again and his body shook inside his overalls like a huge jelly.

  “I could tell you a thing or two about goings-on in this town.…”

  But Mr. Walker’s sudden Rabelaisian mood was cut short by a shrill outbreak from the mill siren. Lunch-time was over.

  Mr. Walker consulted his watch, nodded approval and shouted for Seth.

  “Hey, Seth! Stand to. Th’ buzzer’s gone.…”

  “I heard it, dad.”

  “Don’t back-answer me.…”

  Mr. Walker turned a wheel near the cylinder-head. There was a rush of steam in the cylinders. With the eng
ineer gripping the control lever, the great shaft began gently to move, the flywheel gathered speed, the wire ropes of the driving gear slowly started to travel. The beat of the engine accelerated and soon, the whole beautiful machine was smoothly and efficiently doing its work. Mr. Walker surveyed his engine with pride.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she, mister?”

  Littlejohn agreed she was a beauty. He had a vague feeling of awe as he watched the mighty piston fling itself forward and then return.…

  In the buildings around, the symphony was beginning again. Looms, frames, engines, clacking and rattling and turning, with the firebeaters keeping up steam, stripped to the waist before furnaces like the mouths of hell, and Mr. Walker and Son, upstairs, proudly dancing attendance of their “beauty”. And all of them making money for the Fennings.…

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE OLD HALL

  BROCKFIELD OLD HALL, the family seat of the Fennings for many generations, came upon you quite by surprise as you tried to find it. The tide of green fields and trees having gradually receded before that of industrialism, the old house had been left almost high and dry in its park among mills and working-class dwellings. A split in the family caused the new Hall to be built in half the grounds of the old one. It is a more vulgar and pretentious monument to Victorian taste and self-satisfaction, with balustrades, urns, heavy fittings, and a general air of magnificent bad taste. It need not concern us here, for it has been converted into flats, occupied by four prolific tenants whose total of sixteen children cause the trustees who run the estate to curse the day it was ever built.

  The Old Hall is entirely different. It is said that John of Gaunt, Lambert Simnel, Cardinal Wolsey, Queen Elizabeth and Titus Oates all slept there at one time or another; that there are priest holes in it; that Shakespeare once was there, for Alice Fenning, then Fenninge, was The Dark Lady of the Sonnets; and that Cromwell’s troopers stabled their horses in the private chapel, now a garage. Certainly the place is very old. The keystone of the graceful stone front-door frame bears the date 1587, the small-paned, leaded windows look genuine, and the glass in most of them was made by craftsmen of a past age. The rooms are low and cool and their beams are rough and show the marks of the adze. The Fenning ghost is reputed to walk there on occasion.

  Littlejohn approached the Hall from the main road. There was a short gravel carriage drive leading to the front door and as he strode along it, he heard someone playing the piano and playing it well. Nothing pretty or sentimental, but good, solid, honest-to-goodness Bach for well-tempered Clavier, tackled with the self-confidence and gusto of an experienced player. He stopped to listen.

  “Listening to Mary doing her daily dozen?”

  Littlejohn turned to find Andrew Fenning at his elbow. He looked taller and more striking than on the night they had first met in The Queen Anne, for he was wearing loose tweeds with a blue shirt. He might have known Littlejohn all his life. He shook hands and took the Inspector by the arm.

  “You called about the murder, Inspector? Come along in.”

  The interior of the Hall had been altered from the original. The heavy staircase of past years had been removed to give more light and air and replaced by a lighter structure, with shallow steps and a beautiful slender curving handrail. The furniture consisted of collector’s pieces. Venetian mirrors and old prints livened the walls, and deep carpets softened the tread.

  “Come in here, Inspector.”

  They entered the room where Preludes and Fugues were being played and as soon as they opened the door, the music ceased.

  “Sorry, Mary. Coal shortage, you know. This is the only warm room in the place.…”

  “Don’t worry, Andrew. I’ve finished.…”

  Littlejohn had never seen a more beautiful woman than the one who approached them from the piano.

  She was tall and well-built, with the grace of movement of a panther, but with none of its furtiveness. She had a pale complexion, yet the slight pink of healthy blood under the skin saved her from looking delicate. She was wearing a plain, excellently-tailored blue serge costume, and a cream jumper. She had kept on her costume coat, probably through the chill of the large room, and by the way the collar was cut, her exquisite white neck emerged like a tulip from its sheath of foliage. The mouth was small with finely moulded lips, the nose high-arched and delicate with sensitive fine nostrils, the eyes grey and straight, wide-set, under a clean, intelligent forehead. The face reminded you of a well-cut cameo. As the girl rose, she tossed back a mass of fair hair, shining with the tender tints of amber. There was good breeding and taste in every line of her.

  The Fenning family certainly had an eye for beauty!

  “This is Mary, my late brother’s wife. She’s the chatelaine of this place, except when she’s not wandering round the country playing at concerts.…”

  She offered her hand to Littlejohn. It was rather large, yet not out of proportion with the build of the girl, with long, tapering delicate fingers. Littlejohn noticed at once how gracefully and fastidiously she used her hands. He always noticed people’s hands.

  The room was large and gloomy at the end where there were no windows. The piano stood by the leaded casements, which were set in stone frames of great age. There was a fire of logs and coal in the large open hearth. This spread warmth in the immediate vicinity but the rest was cold and damp. Littlejohn wondered how Mary kept her fingers warm enough for her practising.

  “The Inspector’s dealing with the crime down at the mill, Mary. I suppose you’re here to ask us some questions.…”

  “Just one or two if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “Fire away, then. You won’t need Mary, will you?”

  “No, sir.”

  The girl was evidently anxious to be off.

  “Well, I’ll leave you, then. There’s lunch to see to. I’d like to stay, though, and hear all about it, Inspector. I’m naturally interested in police work.…”

  She shook hands again and left them.

  Yes, Mary Fenning was interested in police work. She was Inspector Faddiman’s daughter! That point had been the subject of an interesting and illuminating conversation just before Littlejohn left the police station to visit the Old Hall.

  Faddiman had seemed uneasy for a long time in Littlejohn’s presence. He’d been a long while making up his mind what to do, but finally decided. After a lot of hemming and hawing he told Littlejohn that he was contemplating resigning.

  “Whatever for, Inspector? Because you haven’t succeeded in laying this murderer by the heels, it doesn’t say you’re incompetent. You’ve done your best and now I’m here to help you. I certainly shan’t resign if I don’t solve the crime.”

  “But I haven’t done my best, Littlejohn. That’s just it. I haven’t done my best. I went so far, and then when the trail led me in a certain direction, I grew afraid and slack.”

  Littlejohn had been filling his pipe. He laid down his pouch on the table and faced Faddiman across it.

  “What is all this about, Faddiman?”

  “I’ve been mixing duty with family sentiment and it doesn’t do. Doctors don’t attend their nearest and dearest professionally. Neither should policemen.…”

  They were sitting in the new police station, of which Faddiman was very proud. A large, sunny room for the inspector, new furniture in light oak, everything spick and span, with a smell of fresh wood and furniture-cream pervading the place. Across the road stood a large school. It was morning recess and you could see the boys running wildly about in the playground.

  “My daughter Mary’s a member by marriage of the Fenning family. In fact, she’s practically mistress of the Old Hall.”

  Littlejohn was flabbergasted. To think of Faddiman having an intimate connection with the Fenning family and saying nothing about it!

  “I understand,” said Littlejohn. “I’m treading the road which you’ve previously travelled. I’ve left the spivs behind and now it looks very much as if one of the Fennings is
involved in this crime in one way or another.”

  “That’s it. Not that I could say how. I do honestly assure you, Littlejohn, I couldn’t say how. But the trail is leading to my daughter being involved and I’ve not done my duty to the best of my ability as a result.”

  “I understand.”

  “As you can see from my appearance, I’ve not much longer to go. In fact, in six months’ time, I’m due to retire. I wish I could have stuck it out and gone honourably. But this is on my conscience. I’m going to resign.”

  “You’re going to do nothing of the kind, Faddiman. I know you didn’t call in Scotland Yard, but now this case is my responsibility. I shall go on with it wherever it leads and I shall do my duty whoever is involved. As for you, it’s a matter of your own conscience, I admit. But you’re a very useful man here and whatever you may have done on this case, you’re now handing over to me. You will tell me everything frankly and worry no more about past history.…”

  “Very well. We’ll leave my resignation for the time being. I’ll tell you about my daughter.”

  “Yes, do.”

  “My wife’s been dead a number of years, and I’ve not married again. Didn’t want to, because I have a sentimental idea she is waiting for me somewhere and that’s as I want it to be.…”

  Littlejohn was lighting his pipe and studied Faddiman’s prim figure and stern bearing through his pipe smoke. Strange, what gentle ideas some people hold behind a stolid exterior.…

  “Mary was always a bright girl, but she took to music most of all and at the age of ten could play the piano very well, we thought. We kept her at it and she loved it. Funnily enough, Ambrose Barrow was her first teacher. She went so far with him and then he couldn’t teach her any more. It looked as though she’d come to the end of her young career. I was only a sergeant at the time and the fees of college or special professors in London or such places were out of the question.…”

  Littlejohn, listening with his eyes fixed on the playground opposite, saw a master emerge from the school and blow a whistle. Whereat, the pandemonium of flying figures stopped like magic. Another blast, and they all formed marching lines and tramped into school.