Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  “About seven. You’ll just have time to call for a word with the Tither’s maid, if you like. Then, I must be off. The inquest is to-morrow and I’ve a lot to do yet, although there’ll be an adjournment.”

  The man was a perfect slave-driver, thought Littlejohn pleasantly. They bade the vicar good-night.

  “I’ll call again to-morrow,” added Littlejohn as they parted. “Meanwhile, will you try to remember some of the severe cases of interference by Miss Tither in the private lives of people, and let me know, sir? It may prove useful.”

  “I certainly will, Inspector. And do please call on me whenever you like. Nothing is too much trouble to bring an end to this ghastly business. Good-night to you both.”

  On their way to Briar Cottage, the officers halted at the village police station and disturbed P.C. Harriwinckle at his evening meal of chitterlings. Whenever any of the local farmers killed a pig, a parcel of such delicacies arrived at the local police-house, for The Law was extremely partial to them. The constable had been tackling this epicurean treat in his shirt sleeves and hastily assumed his tunic to greet his superiors. Oldfield introduced the man from Scotland Yard. Harriwinckle’s face glowed with pride. The thought of collaboration with the great flattered him. He could hardly wait for an opportunity of dropping-in at “The Bell” to let the village know that he and Scotland Yard were on the case. He could not, of course, be seen drinking ale with the local topers, but would call about the black-out or the like and pass an apparently casual remark.

  “We’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other, Harriwinckle,” said Littlejohn. “We’ll get together and discuss the case to-morrow and you must tell me your own views. Inspector Oldfield has already given me the official report, but I’d like to hear it again from you, verbally. Meanwhile, get on with your meal. I’m sorry we disturbed you so late. Good-night.”

  P.C. Harriwinckle’s tunic buttons were subjected to a great strain, for his chest swelled with pride. As he disposed of his chitterlings, he rehearsed his part for the landlord of “The Bell”. Casually, of course, he’d say, “And the Scotland Yard man, he sez to me, Sam, he sez, Sam, I wants your report werbal, see. Werbal, becoss I walues your report.” The Law of Hilary had never had a murder on his hands before, to say nothing of a Scotland Yard colleague. Such events called for something more than tea with his pork entrails. “Mar,” he yelled to his wife, “Mar, jest bring me in one o’ them bottles of ale from the cell. Here’s a charnct to shine come my way at last. May mean stripes fer me, ’oo knows? Now be quick about it, duck, I’ve work to do yet.” The admiring duck forthwith waddled to the cool, barred cubby-hole, which, in the absence of malefactors in the district, was used for storing beer, rhubarb wine, pickles and next week’s washing.

  Meanwhile, the detectives had reached Briar Cottage. Oldfield paused at the gate. “It’s getting on in the day and I’ve a lot to do,” he said. “Mind if I leave you to this job alone and see you again in the morning?”

  “Not at all. I’ll just have a word or two with Sarah Russell and then I’ll be after some dinner myself. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  The officers parted and Littlejohn rang the door-bell of the house. After a pause, the door opened and in the darkness beyond, for black-out regulations were here being strictly adhered to, he made out the shape of a dumpy, rotund woman, like a robust sack, tied up in the middle.

  “What might you be wantin’, sir?” said a pleasant country voice.

  “Are you Miss Russell?”

  “That’s me, sir.”

  “May I come in? I want a word or two with you.”

  “What name, please?”

  “Littlejohn. Inspector Littlejohn.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t be wantin’ to see the Rev. Wynyard, who’s just arrived? He’s in the dining-room ’avin’ his meal.”

  “No, Sarah, it’s you I want to see.”

  “Come in then, sir, although I’ll have to ask you to come in the kitchen. That’s the only other room blacked-out except the dinin’-room.”

  Littlejohn followed the woman through a dark passage and she opened a door, emitting a glow of warm, comfortable lamplight. The remnants of a meal of beef, cheese, pickles and seed-cake littered the table and sitting in a rocking-chair beside the bright fire was a visitor. He was a small, wiry man, with a heavy, sallow face, folded in the cheeks. Sparse brown hair, brushed from the side across a thinning pate. Slightly bulging, green eyes, with bilious whites. Pale, bulbous nose with narrow, twitching nostrils and below it, a thin, scattered, sandy moustache covering a wide, narrow-lipped mouth. He was perching possessively and in a most self-satisfied posture, with his large, knotted hands folded over his stomach. He glanced at the entering detective with a self-righteous superiority often found in those who fancy themselves the chosen of God.

  “This is Mr. Thornbush, my ’usband-to-be; Inspector Littlejohn, this is, Walter.”

  Ah! The shepherd and faithful swain, thought Littlejohn to himself. Rising, Mr. Thornbush extended a limp hand and pumped that of the detective enthusiastically.

  “Pleestermeetcher, friend,” he said with unction.

  “You can speak before Mr. Thornbush, sir. We’ve no secrets from each other,” said Sarah, blushing.

  Mr. Thornbush gravely nodded his assent, and composed himself to listen. The servant brought out a chair for Littlejohn and seated herself. She had a pleasant, round, red face, with a ready smile and her style of parting her black hair in the middle gave her a dignity of countenance quite unlike that of her chosen partner. A middle-aged, homely, worthy woman, thought the detective and worth somebody better than the self-satisfied wheelwright rocking contentedly beside him, and now and then, noisily intaking his breath as though drinking some invisible liquid.

  “Well, Sarah,” began Littlejohn, “I’m down here to investigate the death and bring to justice, if I can, the murderer of your late mistress…”

  “Let the ungodly fall into their own nets…” interjected Mr. Thornbush to himself, as though commencing a running commentary on Littlejohn’s narrative. The Inspector remembered Mr. Claplady’s remarks on the shepherd’s knowledge of the Psalms and resigned himself to an accompaniment of sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

  “Living with her, I’m sure you were familiar with her movements and interests,” continued Littlejohn, preparing himself for the interjections from Mr. Thornbush’s repertory and determined to concentrate on Sarah. “Perhaps you can tell me something about her and her activities during the last few days, up to the time of her unhappy death?”

  “O, how suddenly do they consume; perish and come to a fearful end!”

  Sarah shuddered at the startling intrusion. “Well, sir,” she said, “I’m sure I want to help all I can. Perhaps I can tell you something that will throw light on matters. I didn’t, o’ course, know what was a-goin’ on in Miss Tither’s mind and only by what she let drop now and then, when talkin’ to herself or when excited, can I say where she went. She was a deep one and kept her own counsel most times…”

  “Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts!”

  “…Of late, she’s bin very disturbed about somethin’. She came ’ome from church last Sunday mornin’ and didn’t want any dinner, though I’d prepared a nice cold joint, me having objections to cookin’ on the Lord’s Day, like.”

  “Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy!”

  “What was the cause, do you think, Sarah?”

  “Well, she did say somethin’ about Mr. Lorrimer at Holly Bank—that’s a biggish ’ouse just between the two Hilarys—havin’ told her some startling news after church. It was something about the missionaries and Mr. Wynyard, I’m sure, because she was rummaging about finding the reverend’s present address on account of wantin’ to write to him, which she did. I posted the lette
r later in the afternoon.”

  “That’s interesting, Sarah. I must look into that. I’ll talk to Mr. Wynyard before I leave. Perhaps he can explain it. Anything else?”

  “Well, she did get excited about somethin’ else last Friday, too. As I was passin’ her room upstairs, she was puttin’ on her gloves to go out and a-sayin’ to herself, ‘Polly Druce, indeed. The little Jezebel. I’ll settle Miss Druce!’ Polly’s a kitchen maid at the ’all and a bit of a flighty one. I should think Miss Tither was off to the ’all to see her, though she said nothing to me about it. For some time, she’s been quiet like, as though not worried by other people’s sins…”

  “Thou puttest away all the ungodly of the earth like dross…”

  “…Other people’s sins, I say,” went on Sarah with an admiring glance at the interjector, who by this time with his irrelevancies, was getting on Littlejohn’s nerves. “Then suddenly somethin’ like this happens. Two or three at a time, as you might say. Saturday, too, she had somethin’ on her mind about Upper Hilary Farm. That’s Mister Weekes’s place. Mrs. Weekes gives her crab-apples for jelly every autumn. Powerful fine crabs they grows there. Well, Miss Tither was off with her big basket for them apples and as she goes out she sez to me, ‘I’m going for my crabs,’ just like that, and then, ‘Would that it were only crab-apples that are bitter at Upper Hilary Farm.’ Now what could she mean? Somethin’ funny, I’ll be bound.”

  “Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.”

  Littlejohn controlled himself with difficulty. He longed to silence the sounding brass with caustic relish, but deemed it prudent not to upset the worthy Sarah.

  Just then, the front door banged,

  “Oh dear,” said the servant. “That’ll be Mr. Wynyard finished his supper and gone out, and you wantin’ to be seeing him, sir. I’m very sorry. I ought to a’ told him.”

  “Don’t worry, Sarah. That will do to-morrow. I think I’ll be going myself. What you’ve told me is most helpful. I will follow up one or two lines on the strength of what you say, and perhaps I’ll call again when you’re less occupied with your own affairs.” He glanced at Thornbush, who did not quail, however, lost as he was in his own meditations.

  The Inspector rose and took up his hat.

  “I hope you’ll benefit under Miss Tither’s Will, Sarah, and be very happy in the future. You have, from all accounts, been a very faithful servant.”

  “That’s good of you, sir. Yes, Miss Tither did say she’d not forget me, and Miss Martha who died some year or two gone, left me a somethin’, too, though Miss Ethel had control of it, which did much to keep me with her. Life wasn’t too easy now and agen of late. I’d everythin’ to do myself, cleanin’, cookin’ and washin’ in this big house…”

  “Moab is my washpot…” came from the rocking-chair.

  “But from what Miss Ethel said, they’d been very generous. I do know Miss Martha was. She was the kindest lady in the world. Left me very comfortable, provided I stayed with Miss Ethel for life.”

  “Blessed be the Lord, who hath pleasure in the prosperity of his servant,” came the first relevant word from the Psalmody.

  Littlejohn extended his hand to the maid. She shook it timidly.

  “Many thanks, and good-night, Sarah.”

  “Good-night, Inspector, and come again if I can help you.”

  “I will. Good-night, Mr. Thornbush. I’ll leave you to your Rose of Sharon.”

  Littlejohn was unable to resist this final effort. Mr. Thornbush did not smile. He took it seriously, as a compliment to himself. His face showed earnest intelligence for the first time. He accompanied Littlejohn to the door as though anxious to impart a final word of wisdom to him.

  “Have you seen the Light, friend?” he asked gravely. His breath was hot, like a dog’s, and smelled of caraway seeds imposed on a background of pickled onions.

  “No!” said Littlejohn, and hastened away to see how much dinner was left for him at “The Bell”.

  Chapter V

  Eavesdropping over Dinner

  It was quite dark when Littlejohn left Miss Tither’s residence, but the Bell Inn was not far and he found his way there without any difficulty. Along the road, he encountered a dark shape moving in the opposite direction and a cheery voice called out to him.

  “Good-night, sir. Hope you’ll be comfortable in your quarters. I jest ’ad a word with the landlord o’ ‘The Bell’ in that respec’. Jack Noakes, his name be. He’ll see you’re all right, sir.”

  “Thanks, Harriwinckle. That’s thoughtful of you. I hope he’s got something good in the oven for my supper.”

  “Roast pork, I believe sir,” called the constable, for it was from this source that he had come by his already digesting chitterlings. “You’ll not be a-wantin’ anythin’ more from me to-night?”

  “No thanks, Harriwinckle. I’ll see you to-morrow. Good-night to you.”

  “Good-night, sir.”

  “The Bell” is a modest, old-fashioned place, with little accommodation for lodgers, but as a favour to the police, Noakes, the inn-keeper, had turned his private sitting-room into a sanctum for the Inspector. Littlejohn entered the dark vestibule, passed the bar-parlour, where business for the night was just warming-up, and was greeted at the foot of the stairs by Mrs. Noakes, who led him at once to the cosy little room next door to the bar-parlour. A table was already laid for dinner there. As he waited for his meal, Littlejohn cast his eyes round the place. In the wall between his quarters and the public room, was a small hatch with a sliding door. On special occasions, such as weddings or small private functions, it was the custom of Noakes to let off his own sitting-room, and refreshment from the bar was passed through the hatch. From his place at the table, Littlejohn could hear the buzz of conversation in the parlour, but it was incoherent and confused. Miss Tither’s murder had shaken the whole district and probably would be the topic of most of the chatter which accompanies evening pints of ale. The Inspector rose, softly crossed to the panel of the hatch and gently eased it open, a mere inch or so, not enough to be noticed, but sufficient to let in more sound. He found his experiment successful and his guess that Miss Tither’s name would be bandied about over pots and glasses was confirmed.

  Littlejohn, as he ate his supper, heard the clatter of glasses, the opening and closing of the door, the greetings as one after another joined the party, the knocking for refills, the tramp of feet. Conversation ebbed and flowed, but as soon as the murder was mentioned, there was a hush as the rest listened eagerly for news. The detective’s imagination rather ran riot as voice after voice joined in. Gruff voices, thin voices, squeaky, rumbling, oily, wary, diffident, self-important, bashful voices, took up the tale. It was strange to hear the witnesses and try to judge by tone and expression whether they were reliable or not.

  A loud tenor voice, it was that of Luke Pearson, an irrepressible singer in the church choir, was much in evidence as Littlejohn ate his pork and apple sauce.

  “As fur as I can gather,—an’ I bin rown the village to-day—nobody see Miss Tither h’after she left ole Haxley. Now, where wuz she, meanwhile? Nubbudy seems to know thaat,” said the tenor.

  There was a chorus of noise, which reminded Littlejohn of sounds reported by House of Commons pressmen as “Cheers”.

  From the chorus emerged a shriller tenor, like one taking up an aria.

  “No, Luke, I got one up on yew there. My Mary saw owld Tither after her left Haxley. My gel wuz takin’ up some drinks to Half-Acre, where they wuz a-reapin’ and she see Miss Tither leave Haxley and go along the ’edge-bottom as though she might be makin’ for the highroad to Evingdon. Our Mary says she wouldn’t a’ noticed it, but jest as Miss Tither leaves Old Haxley, ’er must a’ put up a rabbit a-settin’ there in the ’edge, and owld Haxley up with his gun and bowls ’im over, roight under Old Tither’s
nose. ’Er did jump, my Mary sez, and din’t owld Haxley laugh.”

  “Well, where did ’er go to after that? That be the mystery and the puzzle,” chimed in a baritone voice. The chorus took up the theme again.

  The loud tenor, no doubt fortified by another half-pint, grew jocular.

  “Like as not, it wuz bible-punchin’ Walter, owld Thornbush, as dun it. Got sick o’ waitin’ for Sarah Russell’s little fortune, so speeded up the course o’ nature…”

  Loud laughter greeted this sally.

  A deep bass voice could be heard saying that Walter couldn’t murder a rice pudding. The laughter was renewed.

  “Naw, you’m wrong there, Jude,” squeaked the voice of some ancient or other, almost a treble with age. “Thornbush be cunnin’ and well able to moind ’is own interests, psalm-singin’ or no psalm-singin’. There be crewelty in Walter’s face, and scanctimonyussness ’ides a nasty naycher. I well remembers Walter as a boy. Proper torment ’e wuz to the gells, pulling their pigtails and the loike. A narsty little bit o’ work. Then ‘The Light’ dawned on ’im. Or so he sez. H’ambition it wuz wot brought ’im to The Light, not an ’umble and contrite heart.”

  The deep bass, evidently well in liquor by this, airily dismissed the discussion.

  “Come to that, well nigh everybody in the Hilarys ’ad some reason or other fer wantin’ Tither out of the way. Too many secrets she knew, too dangerous loike. Proper game o’ sortin’-out the police is goin’ to ’ave. Same again, Jack.”

  There was a noise of pumping and flowing beer.

  Another tenor, hitherto unheard, took up the solo part.

  “Yew spoke the trewth there, ’enery. Well do oi remember the to-do we did ’ave about moi Nancy and Reuben Beallot. Reuben did say at the toime as he’d do fer Old Tither, but o’ course, that wuz in the ’eat of the moment. He wuz taken up about ’aving the law on ’er, however, but Sam Harriwinckle telled ’im not to waste his money. Tither spreads it round that my Nancy and Rube wuz carryin’-on, loike, and she’d seen ’em in Pochin’s spinney compromizin’, loike. Well, as I sez at the toime, if a feller can’t be compromizin’ with the gel he’s tokened to, who can he be compromizin’ with? Jest loike that, I sez it. Nancy and Rube wuz wed not long after that. No doubt, Miss Tither speeded ’em up a bit. I’m not a grandaddy yet, though they bin wedded these two year and that’s not fer owld Tither’s lack of imaginin’, oi’ll be bound.”