“Well, I had the news from the rector, Mr. Weekes. She’s being married by special license to-morrow to young Elliman.”
Weekes took a grip on himself. It was evident that Littlejohn’s information had at last sunk into his comprehension. “Then, I didn’t mean anything to her after all…she just wanted me for the pretty things I’d buy her…well, well. I may as well tell you, then. It was on account of her that I killed Ethel Tither…”
“You?…” exclaimed Littlejohn. Here was a bombshell, indeed. In his ponderings over the case, Littlejohn had suspected one after another, including the vicar himself, but never the whisky-soaked specimen now standing before him, looking more a man than he had previously done.
“Yes. I killed Ethel Tither. You might as well hear it all now. While Polly was mine, or while I thought ’er mine, there was somethin’ to live for. Now I’d better be dead…get meself hung and be done with it.”
Every Scotland Yard man has had experience of perfectly innocent people who morbidly confess to crime, either from despair or some other mental kink. Littlejohn regarded Weekes’s statement with reserve and was not prepared to believe it in its bald form.
“You’d better tell me what this is all about, Mr. Weekes, and I must warn you that anything you may say may be used in evidence later. Perhaps you’d prefer to come with me to the police station and sign a statement.”
“Later. First let me get it off my conscience, then I’ll sign. God forgive me. I been a sinner, I knows. But I did pray and wrestle agen the powers o’ darkness. But never a light or an answer to my prayers came. Only Mrs. Weekes, ’ating and condemning me. I’m a lost man. The Lord ’a mercy on my soul. Come to think of it, I’ve got little to say. Tither called to see me here. I must leave Polly Druce alone, or take the consequences. Which meant, she said, she’d not only tell my wife, but the squire and his lady and get Polly disgraced. I tell’d Tither to go to ’ell, in the white heat of rage. She left me some tracts, which I didn’t read, but put in my pocket. Well, she told my wife and told the squire, too. Polly told me on Monday as she’d got her notice from milady. I told Polly I’d see her all right. Told ’er I’d see Tither, too, and give her a piece o’ my mind. It must be getting the sack as made Polly marry young Elliman. He was always hangin’ round ’er afore he joined-up. But she’d rather ’ave me in those days. On account of my money, I guess. Well…”
Weekes swallowed hard, turned to the corner cupboard, tried the door, and, finding it locked, was seized with sudden rage and tore it open, smashing the lock. He extracted a bottle and glass, filled the latter half-full of whisky, and drank it off.
“That’s better. Have a drink, Inspector?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I’d bin on the look-out for Miss Tither, just to give her a piece of my mind. I’d also got one of her tracts, with the worst word I knew written on it, just to show her I didn’t care. On Wednesday morning, I see her—just about eleven it would be,—I see her crossing the Evingdon road to the short cut across the vicarage field. I wuz on the Evingdon road, too, so I hurried along an’ caught her up, just half-way across the field. I asks her what she bin up to and says, ‘as fer your tracts, take that.’ And I hands her the one I’d wrote on. She didn’t even look at it. Clutched it in her palm and let fly at me, abusing me, like. I could take that all right and I give her as much as she gave me. I tell’d her a thing or two, I’ll tell ’ee. But when she started about Polly, I jest seemed to see red. ‘Yew say another word about her and I’ll smack ye across the mouth and stop yer lies,’ I sez. This made her worse. I forgot myself. I’d a hoe in my hand—I’d been spudding out thistles in my meadow—and afore I knew what I was at, I up and strikes her with the heavy handle of it. In my rage, I hit harder than I intended. She jest fell over and lay still.”
“Was there anybody about at the time?”
“Not a soul, as I see. I couldn’t leave ’er there in the middle of the field. I looked at ’er. She didn’t move. I felt her and she was like a corpse. I’d killed ’er. I lost me head. I picked her up and carried her to the hedge and lay her under it.”
“What part of the hedge?”
“By the gap in the trees, just through by the vicarage. I left her there because I didn’t know what else to do. All I could hope for was that I’d not been seen. Perhaps, I thought, they’ll think she was kicked by a horse, or some’at. Then, I sneaked off as fast as I could and started spudding thistles in my field to give myself as good an alibi as I could. But it doesn’t do, Inspector. Murder will out. Blood cries from the ground. I’m beat. God forgive me.”
“Do you mean to tell me you left the body there and didn’t put it in the vicarage cesspool?”
“Cesspool? What’s that to do with it?”
“Don’t you read the papers? Haven’t you heard the gossip or about the inquest, man?”
“No. I stopped my ears to all talk or anything else about the murder from outside. I knew she’d been found, but I wanted to hear no more. I heard enough about it night and day from my own conscience.”
“You didn’t know, then, that Miss Tither was found in Mr. Claplady’s cesspit? The traces of your blow were discovered on her head, but she didn’t die from it. She was drowned in the water of the pit after being thrown in by someone who found her after you left her.”
Weekes’ eyes almost popped from his head. “Then, I’m not a murderer? I didn’t kill her?”
“No. But you’d better come with me to the station. We must take this down and you must give us a statement before witnesses. Come along now, please. Get your things.”
Weekes rose, looking as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He made for the door through which his wife had departed, leaving it open. Littlejohn could hear him clattering about in the scullery, apparently putting on his boots. The detective buttoned his coat. He would be glad to be on his way and out of the terrible atmosphere of hate which seemed to pervade the whole of Upper Hilary Farm. Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting explosion. Littlejohn hurled himself in the direction whence it came. He was too late. Weekes was lying on the red-tiled floor of the little room; by his side a shot gun. He was not a pleasant sight, for he had apparently put the barrels to his temple. The Inspector raised his head at the sound of a noise above. A staircase rose from a dim corner of the scullery and at the top stood Mrs. Weekes, holding a candle aloft. She had on a long nightgown with a heavy coat thrown hastily over it. She was still prim and forbidding, even in her deshabille and the light of the candle distorted her features grotesquely.
“Whatever is it?” she asked, peering down into the gloom, illuminated only by a small kitchen lamp.
“Your husband has shot himself, Mrs. Weekes. Better get dressed and come down at once.” Afterwards, Littlejohn realized that he had expressed no sympathy. It did not seem called for in that house of hate.
Mrs. Weekes stood stiffly at the stairhead for a second or two. Then, suddenly, her body seemed to sag and grow limp. With a wild cry, she reeled forward and fell from top to bottom of the stairs and lay still.
Chapter XII
Ropewalker Street
Detective-Sergeant Cromwell watched the City streets sailing past him from his seat on the top of a No. 11 bus and then, satisfied that he was near his destination, ran nimbly downstairs, seized the rail, launched himself into space, landed sedately on both feet and walked on calmly, unperturbed by the conductor’s flow of strong remonstrance. Ropewalker Street is one of a maze of rather wide thoroughfares running parallel to Liverpool Street and consists largely of blocks of offices inhabited by every description of trade and profession, ranging from coathanger makers and furriers to accountants, actuaries and even dentists. Halting before a nondescript building half-way along the street, the detective began to read the names on the tablet at the door and then turned in. To his disgust, there was no lift and he was compelled to walk up three
flights of depressing stairs before reaching the office he was seeking. He halted before a glass door at the end of a small corridor at the back of the block. A cheap tenement—probably one of the cheapest in the building. On the panel, the words “Home Gospel Alliance”. Cromwell straightened his face into its most solemn expression and knocked on the door. He was a very suitable officer for paying such a visit, for, swollen with innocent pride at the name he bore, he had a puritanical outlook and tried to behave under all circumstances as he thought his great namesake, The Protector, would have done.
There was a scuffling in the room as though someone were either hastily concealing something, or else assembling a mass of papers and books on a desk to make himself look very busy.
“Come in,” called a voice.
Cromwell found himself in a small, dusty office. Ragged carpet on the floor, battered blinds at the windows, stacks of sunburned Bibles and hymn-books on the window-sills. A battered typewriter on a table under the window. A desk, which had seen better days, in the middle of the room, littered with printed papers and ledgers, a bottle of yellow-looking water and a dusty glass, a cash-box, an attache-case, a bowler hat and an apple. The mantelpiece was a mass of tracts and over it was a framed document which looked like a list of rules and regulations for bringing sinners to repentance. Seated at the desk was a heavy man, with sagging features, a large hooked nose, small dark eyes and a thick, tousled head of grey hair. He rose to greet his visitor, who was impressed by his huge bulk and air of unctuous shiftiness.
“Good morning, sir, and what can I do for you?” said the man whom Cromwell, who had a strange weakness for christening people he met with names he imagined were suitable, had mentally labelled Mr. Wuthering Heights.
“Mr. Mortimore, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Cromwell, Robert Cromwell,” said the detective, refusing to change his surname under any circumstances. “I’m interested in your Society, sir. I give a tenth of my income every year to deserving causes and wouldn’t like to overlook any worthy aim. Perhaps you’ll give me some particulars to guide me.”
Wuthering Heights began to bustle around with remarkable agility for one so heavy. He bowed Cromwell into the only other chair in the room, he rummaged in drawers and cabinets, he walked up and down the room enlarging on the labours and objects of his Society, and finally, handed his visitor a sheaf of papers containing details of the number of fallen women, drunkards, thieves and rogues rescued from perdition over a period of years, a dozen or more slips of paper to be filled up by subscribers, and a large form for use by those desirous of leaving legacies to the Alliance.
“Of course,” said Mr. Mortimore, after describing the work done by his staff of missioners and the haunts in which it was carried out, “of course, this little office is only the centre, the ahem—control-room—of a vast organization. Here the work is reported, organized, checked and financed. This is the heart, let us say, the heart whence is pumped the life-blood of the whole body. Our limbs embrace every part of the country. In fact, at this moment, our chief, Dr. Scarisdale, is carrying on an urgent work in the slums of Scotland. I myself, was once in the front line of battle, and believe me, my friend, it’s exhilarating, a fine work! Failing health, however, ties me to my desk and I do what I can, I do what I can.”
“If I include your Society in my list of donations, however,” interposed Cromwell, looking as sanctimonious as Wuthering Heights himself, “I shall require evidence that the funds are usefully and correctly applied.”
“I appreciate your scrupulousness, Mr. Cromwell. One has to be careful these days. I can let you have, annually, our audited balance-sheet, drawn up by a firm of reputable accountants and showing a list of the various fields of labour. I take it that such a warranty would be satisfactory?”
“Yes, I think it would. But tell me, how is it your Society is not more widely known? I’d never heard of it until, the other day, a friend, who desired to remain an anonymous well-wisher to you, told me about your splendid work.”
“We are, Mr. Cromwell, we are what I might call, a private society. Work of this kind must be conducted with discretion. It’s not like a public hospital, or a child or animal welfare organization. It deals with lives which, though broken, still retain elements of pride and spirit, and to make a lot of publicity about our labours might seriously detract from their usefulness. We are, therefore, mainly supported by a limited circle of well-doers and although we could do more with larger funds, we prefer to pursue our present policy. You follow?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. I quite follow you. And now this firm of accountants. Forgive me, but if I’m to contribute—and I may say, substantially,—I want the fullest information. This firm of accountants, Chitty, Mulliner and Passey, I’ve never heard of ’em before…”
“Oh, tut, tut, tut, sir. One of the best firms in the City. Warranted Accountants, all of them. Absolutely undoubted. They’re in this building—bottom floor—and are of the highest repute.”
“Well, I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Mortimore, and I’ll very favourably consider supporting your cause. I hope it will continue to prosper and find rich harvests for the reaping.” And with that, Cromwell rose and allowed himself to be purred over and bowed out by Wuthering Heights, who was beginning to get on his nerves. When he reached the second floor, Cromwell underwent a slight metamorphosis. He rolled up his umbrella smartly, slewed his hat to a more jaunty angle, unfastened his coat button, and slid his hand nonchalantly into his trousers pocket. With the other hand, he took from another pocket a card inscribed “Cromwell’s Directories…represented by R. Cromwell, director.” Armed with this, he entered the swing doors of Chitty, Mulliner and Passey on the ground floor and rang the bell for attention.
The place seemed deserted, but from somewhere behind a closed glass shutter Cromwell could hear pattering feet and soon the head of a lady, forty years or thereabouts and annoyed at being disturbed, was thrust forth.
“Good morning,” said Cromwell and presented his card.
“We don’t want any directories,” answered the sour-faced lady and closed the shutter.
“Wait a minute, madam,” said the detective, “I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m here seeking information.”
The shutter opened again and the long-toothed attendant once more thrust out her face. “Why didn’t you say so at first, then?”
“I’m making an annual revision of our directory, madam, and naturally you wouldn’t like your firm to be missed, or wrongly described, now would you?”
“I’ve never heard of Cromwell’s Directories before,” said the lady suspiciously and still sour-faced.
“What! Never heard of Cromwell’s? I am surprised. We’ve a very large circulation in the best circles.”
“Well, please state your business. It’s getting near my lunch-time.”
“May I see Mr. Chitty, Mr. Mulliner or Mr. Passey, please?”
“A lot you know about this firm! They’ve all been dead this ten years or more. Mr. Theodore Jenkinson is now sole partner of the business.”
“Is he in?”
“No. He’s out of town on an audit. You see, since he took over this concern about eight years ago, he’s gradually retired from it. Why, I don’t know. Why bother to buy it and then let the audits drift away one by one, I can’t think. When Mr. Chitty was alive, we’d enough work to keep a staff of fifteen occupied. Now there’s only Mr. Jenkinson and me. He’s never troubled to replace the clients we’ve lost and now there aren’t enough to keep one man busy. Mr. Jenkinson does all the work that comes and that doesn’t keep him fully going. All the same, my job’s comfortable and I get good pay, so it suits me.”
“Quite, quite. I’m obliged to you. I think you’ve given me enough information to be going on with. By the way, Mr. Jenkinson is a member of the Society of Warranted Accountants, isn’t he?”
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
“I’m grateful to you for your help. Let me see, what’s your name? I must send you one of our diaries at Christmas.”
“Miss Livermore,” came the answer, rather more graciously than before.
Cromwell made a note of it and bidding the lady good-bye, hastened to the street. Thence, he made his way to Gresham Street and turned into the ornamental portals of the Society of Warranted Accountants. He was civilly received by the Assistant Secretary, Mr. Peover, to whom he explained his true business.
“Oh, deary me,” said Mr. Peover, thumbing his chin apprehensively. “Not another financial scandal brewing, I hope. I’ve only just recovered from one.”
“No, I think not. I’m just enquiring concerning the present proprietor of Chitty, Mulliner and Passey, a Mr. Jenkinson. Can you tell me anything about him?”
Mr. Peover took down a book of reference and pored over it through the heavy, pebbled spectacles he wore. To look straight at his eyes was like gazing into a pool into which a stone had been thrown, such an optical commotion did his cataract lenses seem to create. He ran a careful finger down columns of names.
“Ah, h’m. Here we are. Theodore Jenkinson, Certified Member, 1908. That’s a long time ago. First employed with Jeremiah Titmuss, F.W.A., Trentbridge. That was 1908 to 1914. Then he vanished for a time. Perhaps in the army. Here he is, back again on the Roll in 1932, as sole partner in Chitty, Mulliner and Passey. That was a good firm in the old days, but the principals died one by one and, finally, their trustees sold what was left of the goodwill to Mr. Jenkinson. He doesn’t do much, from what I hear. Mainly charity audits, I think.”
Death of a Busybody Page 13
