“Not a soul, Inspector, except the little girl carrying the beer to the harvesters. By the way, will you have a drink? I’m just going to have one myself.”
Without waiting for an answer, Haxley rang the bell and told his manservant to bring in a couple of bottles of lager beer. Having drunk each other’s health, the two men resumed their conversation.
“Can you give me any information concerning what was particularly agitating Miss Tither on the fatal morning? Mr. Claplady says he saw her in earnest discussion with you for quite a time. Could you tell me the topic? Perhaps something said, however trifling, might throw light on the case.”
“The main topic was me!” said Haxley, removing his cigar and emitting, with a volume of smoke, a burst of loud, resonant laughter. He looked over the top of his glasses at Littlejohn.
“You see, I’m an agnostic and Miss Tither would persist in trying to make me otherwise, by bombarding me with tracts and arguments. I couldn’t stand the woman, myself. Too sure of her own place in the Kingdom and always touting for new members. As you know, I met her on her way to the Evingdon Road as I was out shooting in the glebe meadow. She stopped me with a tale about Voltaire; one I’d heard a hundred times before about his death-bed horrors and repentance. All bunkum and historically incorrect, and I told her so. She gave me a tract about the way of the ungodly perishing as she left me.”
“Did she say anything about finding one of her tracts with a rude word written across it?”
“No. What was the word?”
Littlejohn told him. “Pah, not a bit funny, Inspector, is it? A poor sort of argument, mud-slinging. She wasn’t quite as ardent as usual that morning, however. She’d other things on her mind.”
“In what way?”
“She was bothering her head about certain charitable institutions. Why ask me, I don’t know. Probably thought that having been in business in London, I knew everything about everybody there.”
“What charities did she refer to?”
“The Home Gospel Society, or something, was one. The other was the Jabez Colquitt Mission. I’d never heard of the first; the second I knew a bit about. She talked of instituting enquiries about the Home Gospel. Going to leave some money to it, she said. And she was a bit mysterious about the Colquitt Mission. I told her what I knew about it.”
“And what was that, Mr. Haxley, if you don’t mind?”
Haxley laid aside his gum brush and books and drew up a chair. “It’s rather a long tale and probably quite irrelevant to your case, but I’ll be as brief as I can.”
He crossed his legs, took a drink of his beer.
“I know quite a lot about the Colquitt Mission. You see, I was at school in Selchester with a fellow who runs a rival show. Percy Prettypenny he was called. I remember most of the congregation of the chapel we both attended kowtowing to Percy’s father and mother, who had great possessions made in penny-bazaars. I can almost hear Old Prettypenny publicly praying to the Chairman of the Kingdom of Heaven, in which he and his wife were large shareholders, for blessings on ‘our brethren of Inja, China, Sahmoa, and the ahlands of the sea’. I can see in my mind’s eye, too, Mr. Prettypenny and Percy, one a twenty-five-years-younger replica of the other and both with bowler hats a size too small for them.”
Littlejohn wondered where all this rigmarole was leading. The old chap seemed lonely and wanted a long talk apparently. The detective settled down to bear it a little longer in the hope of gleaning a few scraps of useful information.
“…Well, Percy fell in love with Miss Bose, a native missionary on leave from India. A coloured lady, if you please! Never! screamed Mrs. Prettypenny in a fiery interview between Miss Bose and the three Prettypennies—or Pretty-pence, whichever you like. Haw! Haw! Percy pointed out his belief in the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God over coloured ladies and white gentlemen. Envisaging half-caste heirs to a penny-bazaar fortune, Mrs. P. remained firm and her husband remained silent. Miss Bose, I understand, politely informed Mrs. Prettypenny that her Indian ancestors were civilized and distinguished in arts and science whilst those of Mrs. P. were chasing each other with stone clubs round the Weald of Kent, and then eloped with Percy to the Islands of the Seas, where they converted many heathen and were full of good works. Percy must have taken a fancy to me, for he kept up a correspondence with me and I still hear from him about twice a year.”
“But does this affect the Colquitt Mission, in any way?” interposed Littlejohn. “That’s what I’m anxious to know.”
“Oh, yes. But the whole tale’s damn funny. Have another cigar and put one or two in your pocket. They’re good ones.
“I’ll try to be brief, then. Pandalu is an island, the largest of the group of about twenty, in the South Seas. These are served by two missions, the Jabez Colquitt and the Samuel Corkish-Aspinwall Crusaders. Both Colquitt and Sam Corkish (took on the Aspinwall for swank!) were traders there in the early days and, after making fortunes in persuading natives to dive for pearls for pittances, they founded rival societies to propitiate the gods and convert their former workmen from happy, free-and-easy heathenism to sin-tormented worship of a jealous and terrible god. They’d have been better amalgamated, but the Samuelites differed from the Jabezites by contending that sprinkling by water as the key to the kingdom of heaven was a lazy, effete and insufficient way of opening the door of grace. Baptizo, means I dip and not I sprinkle, in the holy writ, was an evergreen argument of the Crusaders and nothing short of total immersion would do for them. As bathing in the limpid pools of the islands was a speciality of the natives there, the Crusaders had and have the greater following.”
Littlejohn shuffled in his chair. This theological splitting of hairs was all right for someone with plenty of time, but to a busy man it was torture.
“That chair uncomfortable? Try the armchair, Inspector. Well, this is what I’m getting at. Young Percy Prettypenny is the head of the Corkishers; Wynyard is Reverend Shipping Superintendent of the Colquittites. Athelstan is Percy’s pet aversion and never a letter comes without something about him. Wynyard orders supplies from England and Australia, sees they arrive on the monthly boat, engages labour to unload them and ship them up country or to the other posts, attends to the mails and greets newcomers, as well as paying ’em and bidding ’em god-speed when they go on leave. In his case, according to Percy, the white-man’s burden is not heavy, for he has an efficient native clerk, who deputizes for him on all except ceremonial occasions, at a wage worth about two and eightpence a week. This allows him to spend his ample leisure dozing beneath the shade of his gourd or on his veranda, assisted by long drinks of lime-juice—or something else when nobody’s looking—and an electric fan. In other words Wynyard is just a clerical bag of bluff, unctuous, urbane and self-seeking. But the funny part of it is, he gets away with it. So much so, that there’s some talk of making him suffragan bishop of the Islands of the Seas. Over here in England, one hears of his lecturing to crowded audiences on the wonderful works he’s performing in the far-flung field of service and the hardships he undergoes parading among his scattered flock.”
“Did you tell that to Miss Tither when she met you?”
“Yes. Perhaps not in so many words, but I told her that I had it on the highest authority, from a reliable source, that he was just a humbug and if she cared to see some of Prettypenny’s letters, I’d show ’em to her. I’m not religious myself, and I don’t meddle with other folks’ honest beliefs, but I do draw the line at bunkum and bluff. But, mind you, I wasn’t the first to arouse her suspicions and disillusion her. Somebody else, she didn’t say who, had been at her.”
“That’s very useful and I’m much obliged to you. Well, I think I’ll be getting on with the job. Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Haxley. I’ll let you get on with your bookbinding, sir.”
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the tale, then?”
“Eh?”
Littlejohn slipped away whilst Mr. Haxley was still lost in convulsions of mirth at the tale.
He almost felt sorry for Miss Tither and her fruitless efforts to make this jovial old sinner forsake his ways.
In turning in the direction of the house of Mr. Lorrimer, the next name on his agenda, Littlejohn hoped that he was not jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire and finding another garrulous eccentric. As he strolled through the centre of the village on his way to Holly Bank, the detective had to run the gauntlet of knots of idlers and gossiping women at cottage doors. Judging from the odour hanging round “The Bell”, Littlejohn’s dinner was in the oven. Hens scratched in the ditches, cats sunned themselves, dogs snuffed about the roadside. Somewhere, someone was rattling milk churns and in the distance the clatter of a reaping-machine could be heard. The clank of the anvil and the softer blows of the hammers on hot metal sounded from the smithy. A dog-cart of ancient design jogged along to Hilary Parva and on the main Evingdon road, by way of contrast, the snarling exhaust of a sports-car roared and died away. Two clipped bushes of holly marked Littlejohn’s destination. He knocked his pipe on the gate post until the dottle fell out, and turned in.
Chapter IX
The Bag of Bluff
Concealed behind a thick hedge of privet, mounted atop a roughcast wall, Holly Bank reveals little of itself to passers-by, but once past the gate, Littlejohn was surprised at the primness of the place. The garden was a model of neatness and order. Although the countryside was showing signs of autumn, there was not a stray leaf on the paths, all the dead flowers had been removed and the bedding plants still seemed in their prime. Late roses flourished, large clumps of Michaelmas daisies made masses of colour, and in beds set in the lawns, geraniums sprouted pink and scarlet. The grass was well rolled and finely cut and resembled a costly, even carpet.
The house itself was as orderly as the grounds. Its paintwork was prim and clean, its stuccoed walls freshly creamwashed and its green shutters trim and business-like. The place resembled the villa of a well-to-do Frenchman of the Midi. A neat, good-looking young maid took Littlejohn’s card and asked him to wait in the drawing-room. The place was light and airy and furnished in good taste. A thick green carpet yielded luxuriously beneath the feet. The furniture was well made, costly and comfortable. On the walls a few pleasing etchings and over the fireplace a picture which Littlejohn greatly admired. It was a genuine Corot, although the detective could not be sure about it.
Mr. Lorrimer joined his visitor almost at once. A middle-sized, dapper man in a well-made suit of dark tweed, with a fresh, clean-shaven face, tight, thin lips, prominent, pointed nose and a large, bald, dome-shaped head surrounded by a fringe of thin brown hair. Deep-set grey eyes, slightly bulging, behind rimless spectacles, with thin, straw-coloured eyebrows. Fastidiousness, neatness, cleanliness, seemed the prominent features of his make-up. Littlejohn particularly noticed the man’s hands, which were rather large, but scrupulously well kept. The handshake Mr. Lorrimer gave the detective was strong and firm and reminded Littlejohn that the vicar had mentioned that the tenant of Holly Bank was a well-known local pianist, who practised several hours a day for his own amusement and never gave any public exhibition of his talent.
Lorrimer waved his visitor to a chair.
“Now, Inspector. I suppose you have called to see me about something or other in connection with this horrible murder business. I don’t know how I can assist, but I am willing to co-operate, of course. Fire away.”
“It’s just one point I wanted your help about, Mr. Lorrimer. Miss Tither’s maid tells me that, after church last Sunday, you gave Miss Tither some information which greatly distressed her and as her almost immediate reaction when she reached home, was to write to her cousin, Mr. Wynyard, and arrange a rendezvous to discuss his work in the missionary field, I wonder if it concerned him.”
“Yes, it did, Inspector. I simply told Miss Tither something I’d heard concerning her relative and his goings-on. You see, he’s been lecturing about the place lately—gave a well-attended address at Evingdon, for example—and leading people to believe he’s a perfect Apostle Paul of the South Seas, whereas, I believe, he’s nothing more or less than a commercial agent, or something.”
“How did you come across this news?”
“Unfortunately for Mr. Wynyard, a friend of mine, once the cashier of a London bank, now the manager of the agency of the English and Australian South Sea Bank in Pandalu, happened to be in Evingdon at the time of the lectures and attended one. Judge his surprise when Mr. Wynyard, whom he knows well, got on his hind legs and told what amounted to a rattling yarn, but with no basis in fact. Mossley, that’s my friend, had to choose between leaving the place at once or denouncing old Wynyard as a fake. He chose the former alternative, being a rather shy man. He was glad he’d done so later, for he’s one with a sense of humour and enjoyed a good laugh about it when he’d cooled down. I happened to fall across him in Evingdon one day and he told me about it, in passing.”
“Did you make a special point of telling Miss Tither about it?”
“Oh no. We were just passing the time of day as we walked to the road after church and she mentioned Wynyard having gone on another lecture tour in another district. Before I knew what I was saying almost, I’d blurted out Mossley’s tale. She was on it in a minute and showed signs of great distress. She insisted on walking home with me and hearing a full account of it. I tried to cry it down when I saw how hard she was taking it. It seems, that on the strength of Wynyard’s work, she’d left him quite a lot of money in her Will, for the express purpose, she said, of encouraging what he’s told her was his life-work. When I left her, she was very agitated, I’ll tell you.”
Littlejohn looked Lorrimer in the eyes, but an ingenuous gaze met his own. Somehow, however guilty Wynyard might have been, it seemed a wretched trick to make a point of sneaking on him.
“There’s nothing more you can tell me which might help us in the case, Mr. Lorrimer?”
“I’m afraid not. You see, I knew very little of Miss Tither or her activities. To be quite candid, I gave her a very wide berth. I’d heard something of her goings-on in the way of scandalmongering and, shall we say, social work in the village and the less I had to do with her, the better I felt it would be for me.”
Lorrimer bared a mouthful of even, white false teeth in a grin and gave Littlejohn a knowing nod.
“Just as a matter of routine, sir, could you tell me what you were doing on the morning of the crime?”
Lorrimer raised his thin eyebrows.
“Am I among the list of suspects, then? I’m sure I can’t see why, knowing little of the lady and caring less about her. However, I can’t give you a cast-iron alibi. All I can say is, I was playing the piano from ten-thirty until about noon. I usually do. A friend of mine happened to have sent me a
new sonata he’d written and it reached me by first post on Wednesday. I set about it and played it through twice. Not much of an alibi, I’ll grant you, but the maids would hear me playing. There’s the piano.”
Lorrimer indicated a grand piano, standing near the window, with manuscript music lying carelessly on the top of it. Before Littlejohn could speak, he had rung the bell.
“You’d better check that with the servants, for what it’s worth. They were both in at the time. You ask ’em; I’ll not spoil it by putting a leading question.”
The Inspector felt nettled at Lorrimer’s fussiness. He preferred to work in his own way. The maid who had opened the door to him earlier appeared. Lorrimer languidly waved his hand as if passing on the girl to the detective.
“The Inspector has a question or two to ask you and Alice. Send her in when he’s finished with you.”
“I’m just wanting to confirm that you heard your master playing the piano on Wednesday last, from about ten-thirty until noon. Can you remember?”
“Well, he plays most mornings, sir. Now let me see, Wednesday.” The girl struck a pose suggestive of deep thought. “Oh yes, it was Wednesday you said you’d have your morning coffee half an hour earlier, wasn’t it, sir? And when I brought it, you said you didn’t want disturbing, as you’d something special you’d be working on.”
Lorrimer beamed at the girl, baring his teeth again.
“That’s it, Grace.”
“And you played without stopping for nearly an hour, then went on again till twelve.”
“How do you know the times, Grace?” asked Littlejohn.
“Well, I knew when the master started, because of his havin’ his coffee at hal’-past ten instead of eleven. And I remember him stopping just after I’d looked at the kitchen clock on account of layin’ for lunch.”
The girl seemed settled for a thoroughgoing palaver, but Littlejohn was satisfied and dismissed her with thanks, asking her to send Alice in and not tell her what it was about.
Death of a Busybody Page 10
