Death on the Last Train

by George Bellairs

  Mr. Beaglehole emitted a mouthful of burnt lavender, hyssop and valerian and pondered heavily.

  “I don’t know that I can be of any use, Inspector. I’d been speaking at the church of my colleague, Rope-walker, of Mereton. He saw me to the train. We stood talking at the carriage door until it departed …”

  “Yes, I saw you, sir …”

  “You saw me?”

  “Yes, I was leaning from a compartment two doors away.”

  Mr. Beaglehole looked sly, removed his pipe, bared his even false teeth and screwed up his eyes. He wondered whether or not Littlejohn had noticed the condition he was in. Would three bottles of beer make one look drunk? A pipeful of herbs and a peroxide gargle had kept the traces from Mrs. Beaglehole’s suspicious nose. Surely …

  “You would see Bellis taking leave of his companion?”

  “Yes. I didn’t take any interest, though. I’m afraid my friend and I were too deep in our own conversation …”

  “I see. Did you know Bellis well?”

  “I wouldn’t say I knew him well. I knew his reputation. It was not a good one, I’m afraid. He has been very unfortunate … money losses, the death of his wife, a dear parishioner of mine, and a number of other setbacks. He seemed to go under … Still one ought not to judge. We never know …”

  He was thinking of the mild eulogy in the obituary sermon. One had to be tactful, because Mr. Mark Bellis would be at the funeral of his brother and Mark was solicitor to the diocesan council …

  “Could you think of anyone who would hate the deceased enough to murder him?”

  “Well … He was somewhat of a philanderer, you know. Not that I ought to speak ill of the dead. But we owe him a duty to find out his assassin, don’t we? Perhaps some angry father or lover avenged a wronged daughter or sweetheart …”

  “Have you anyone in particular to suggest, sir?”

  “Well, no. I wouldn’t be prepared to do that. You see, I can’t repeat hearsay … Not had any personal experience of Bellis’s affairs. Mean to say, never met or received the confidence of any wronged party.”

  “I see … Then, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Beaglehole …”

  Suddenly the street door was violently slammed and heavy feet could be heard treading the hall.

  “Is your master in, Mary?” boomed a domineering voice, and in strode the parson’s wife.

  “Good morning,” she said to Littlejohn. Then, “Bernard, you’ve been smoking that horrible stuff again. The place smells like a burning garden-rubbish heap …”

  With gnashing sounds Mrs. Beaglehole flung open the window, a breeze entered and blew the Bellis funeral oration all over the shop.

  “This is Inspector Littlejohn, my dear … Investigating the death of Mr. Bellis,” panted Beaglehole, pattering here and there swooping on the scattered pieces of sermon.

  Mrs. Beaglehole turned on Littlejohn two huge brown eyes, protruding so much that they looked ready at any moment to leave their sockets and run down her cheeks like great tears. Her complexion was livid with health and power, her great nose leapt from her face like a scythe, and she smacked her large thin lips with relish and determination. She wore hairy brown tweeds, flat heeled brogues and a green jumper like a small tent covered her enormous bosom. At once, the J.P., fresh from sending-down drunks and indecent assaulters from the docks, converted her husband’s study into a court of petty sessions.

  “Ha!! Sit down, Inspector,” boomed Mrs. Beaglehole. “The very man I want … Bernard, stop fussing about and sit down …”

  “I’ve just finished my business with your husband, Mrs. Beaglehole, and I must be getting off. There’s the inquest immediately after lunch …”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Inspector. It will be adjourned,” said the J.P. with finality. She stood before the fire, warming and rubbing her huge haunches and pointed masterfully to a chair, fixing her protruding eyes on Littlejohn.

  “I daresay, madam. But, unless you’ve any useful information to give me about the deceased or the crime, it’s no use my wasting your time and mine …”

  “Wasting time? I never waste time. I want the full details of the case up to date, Inspector. I shall be on the bench which will eventually commit your quarry to the assizes when you catch him …”

  “Until then, madam, I must beg to be excused.”

  Mr. Beaglehole’s eyes opened wide in admiration. What wouldn’t he give to be able to talk like that! He boldly saw Littlejohn to the door, wrung him cordially by the hand and returned to face his dumbfounded partner …

  Meanwhile, Cromwell had fared little better at the munition works. He received, a mixed reception. Clad in his cloth cap, for none of the shops in Salton had a bowler to fit him, he was mistaken for a trade union leader, a Ministry of Supply inspector, a communist agitator and a visiting delegate from Russia, respectively. Most of the workpeople were disappointed when they heard he was from Scotland Yard. They asked him why he’d needed to arrive there disguised. No, nobody had bothered about Tim Bellis and his woman. The rougher element made remarks about the pair of them which brought blushes to Cromwell’s modest cheeks. They took a liking to him, personally, however, gave him a lunch in the canteen and entertained him with workers’ playtime.

  Before the inquest, Littlejohn had the chance of a word or two with some of the witnesses.

  Ted Drake and his mate, both dressed in their best, with the fireman looking as though he had left the coat-hanger in his jacket, stated they had been too occupied with the signal and worried about the cause of the halt to notice what was happening in the train behind. Drake was sweating with fear at the thought of giving evidence and somehow his memory refused to function. The guard, however, who was more used to coroner’s courts, his mother-in-law having committed suicide and his brother having been killed in a street accident, was more self-possessed.

  “Whoever climbed in the train while it were stopped must a’ climbed in on the oppersight side to the signal,” he said oracularly, slowly throwing back his head and closing his eyes portentuously as he did so. He had a face like a rabbit, buck teeth and all. His eyebrows were singed off, for he smoked a lot in his van.

  “I agree there, guard,” replied the the Inspector, refraining with difficulty from being sarcastic. “You’d have seen anybody moving about on your own side of the train.”

  “Yus. No openin’ or closin’ doors on that side. But on the other …well … Oo knows what went on?”

  He thrust his face close to that of the detective and breathed stale thick twist over him.

  “But one thing I can say that’ll p’raps be of use,” he whispered, drawing back and raising a long rhetorical finger with a dirty nail. “When Ted Drake blew at the signal … when Ted Drake blew at the signal, a fellow in one of the ’ouses on the side of the line threw up ’is bedroom window and started to curse ’orrible …”

  “You’re thinking he may have seen something as he overlooked the opposite side from the signal?”

  “That’s it. You got me. ’E may ’ave seen the woal ’orrible deed. The woal ’orrible murder.”

  “Which house would that be?”

  “Weeeell …”

  The guard rubbed his meagre bit of chin. He sounded to be using sandpaper.

  “Well … That was jest as the train pulled up. I ’ad the winder on that side open so pops out me head when I ’ears the chap ’ollering. It was the house with the henpen behind. There’s only one in the row. I pass there every day and I should know it. Easy to find. Yew ask that chap wot he see. It was a dark night, I know. But there was a lamp or two on in the goods yard and the carriages was showin’ jest a bit o’ light. He might ’ave seen somethin’. Yew ask the chap …”

  Littlejohn made a note of it.

  “Was Claypott in your van all the time this was going on?”

  “Yes. Asleep. Tight as a drum and snorin’ like a pig, ’e was.”

  “He couldn’t have left the van whilst your back was
turned?”

  “He could, but in ’is state he’d never ’ave got back, let alone climbing up to Bellis’s carriage. No. I’d say you could cut ’im out altogether …”

  Thereupon the matter closed for the coroner’s officer began to gather his flock and shepherd them in to the inquest.

  The coroner was a smart young solicitor in army uniform. He had been granted a month’s leave, for the old gentleman who had emerged from retirement to deputise for him during his absence in the forces had had a stroke.

  The evidence of the parties at the finding of the body was taken and this was supplemented by a guarded story from the police. Dr. Cooper gave expert testimony and Mr. Mark Bellis, who resembled a jockey dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, identified the remains as those of his brother, Timothy. Thereupon, greatly to the indignatoin of the guard and the relief of the enginemen, the inquest was adjourned without anyone else being called. Bessie Emmott, dressed-up to kill and determined to face all comers, was kept in the background. She protested strongly to Littlejohn afterwards.

  “It’s not good enough, bringin’ me all this way and causing me all this upset and then not lettin’ me speak. Looks as if they was trying to hide somethin’ …”

  “No, Miss Emmott. You’ve got it wrong. The adjournment is for police enquiries and should the murderer be found, then will be the time for your testimony.”

  “Well, if they intended doin’ that, why trouble me?”

  “It all depended on the coroner, you see … Now there was a question I didn’t ask the other night. Perhaps you can help me. It’s about Alice, you’re niece who lives with you.”

  “Well, what about her? Can’t see how she’s affected by the affair.”

  Bessie looked ready to go off half-cock.

  “You said she’d been invalided out of the W.A.A.F.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Where was she stationed?”

  “Brewerton Camp was the last place before she was discharged. She was there six months. Why?”

  “Has she a young man?”

  “She had, but they must ’ave had a row. It’s been off about three months. What’s all this about? How does she come in?”

  “I’m interested in all parties however remotely connected with the case. Who was he?”

  “Harry Luxmore … He’s still in the R.A.F. at Brewerton as far as I know. He’s on the ground staff.”

  “Were they much in love?”

  “He’d got it bad … She didn’t seem too smitten, but he pestered her that much that she went out with ’im for peace’s sake, I should think. A nice boy. She might have gone farther and fared worse. But she ’as big ideas, has Alice. Not that she’s any the worse for that.”

  “Was Luxmore of the jealous sort?”

  “I’d say so. He came over to see ’er two or three times after the row, but she wouldn’t have any more of ’im …”

  Suddenly the trend of the enquiries seemed to dawn on Bessie. She flopped her hands on her hips, glared at Littlejohn and thrust her face close to his.

  “What are you gettin’ at? If you’re hintin’ that Harry Luxmore was jealous of Tim Bellis and might have done him in, you’re damn well wrong. As if Tim would ’a’ looked at Alice. You’ve a wicked mind to suggest ’im castin’ eyes on a slip of a young girl like ’er. You police’ll do anythin’ to get a case. I’m tellin’ you once and for all, after Tim and me got together he never looked at another woman. True to me, was Tim and I don’t care who knows it. If there’d been anythin’ goin’ on there—which God forgive me for sayin’ such a thing—if there’d been anythin’ going on there, I’d have known it, wouldn’t I? There was nothin’ … see? … Nothin’ … Shame on you for suggestin’ such a thing.”

  Bessie raised her voice to a shrill scream and passers-by in the corridor of the court began to glare at Littlejohn for bullying a woman. Some recognising Bessie, shrugged their shoulders and smirked.

  Miss Emmott fortunately terminated the interview by turning on her heel, stalking out and banging the door so ferociously that it shook down dust and cobwebs from the old beams of the hall.

  “Like to look at this?” said Forrester approaching. He handed Littlejohn the medical report which had been read at the inquiry. Littlejohn thrust it into his pocket whilst they discussed the case and the way things had been going so far.

  Littlejohn returned to the hotel with Cromwell and they had a cup of tea together, planned their campaign and then returned to their rooms for a wash. Littlejohn removed the surgeon’s report from his pocket and unlocked his suit-case in which he intended to deposit it until he could study it more closely. He opened and scanned the three page document before he dropped it in the bag. The bulk of it was typewritten, but at the end, just before Cooper’s signature, was an addendum in the surgeon’s own handwriting. Just a few brief lines, probably an afterthought.

  Littlejohn studied Cooper’s plain, stiff handwriting. Different from the traditional medical scrawl. It looked familiar. He paused and rubbed his chin. Then it came to him. Hastily he rummaged in his case and brought out the volume of poetry he had taken from Bellis’s bookcase yesterday morning.

  Helen, thy beauty is to me …

  The handwriting was the same!

  Doctor Cooper had given the book to Helen Bellis, years ago.

  And he had been in love with her then.

  Chapter VI

  Four Men and a Girl

  If Mr. Mark Bellis hoped quietly to bury his brother and get home almost unobserved, he made a great mistake. The road to the windy exposed Salton cemetery was lined with sightseers stimulated and curious to see the last of the only person ever murdered in the town. Dockers momentarily downed tools, women left their housework and children halted in their play to see the hearse bearing Tim Bellis’s remains pass by; and they followed it out of sight with their eyes protruding and necks stretched to their full extent.

  At the burial place Mr. Mark Bellis received another shock. He had disappointed Mr. Beaglehole by barring a church ceremony in which the obituary eulogy could be preached. The hearse was followed by one official mourning taxi containing Mr. Mark himself, his wife, a huge billowy woman who wept on the way but insisted on accompanying her husband to support him, and the Rev. Beaglehole, who was to attend to the committal. To the surprise of the family contingent, however, four other cars joined in the procession on the way. And at the cemetery there disembogued three cabfuls of initiates of a secret society of which Timothy had been a member in his heyday and as he had neither been blackballed nor drummed out, according to their rules they were responsible for his burial in accordance with the ritual of their cult.

  From the fourth cab emerged Miss Bessie Emmott clad in black from head to foot.

  “What are this lot barging in for?” asked Mrs. Mark of her husband, indicating the secret society, the eight members of which were all dressed alike, top hats, frock coats and their badges of office in the lapels of their garments. They were like the chorus of some weird musical comedy and looked to have hired their attire from a theatrical costumier. “And who is that woman?”

  The brethren bore an enormous wreath between them and Bessie, not to be outdone, carried a harp made of chrysanthemums.

  There was a large crowd of onlookers beside the open grave. They made way for Mr. Mark, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and top hat, and Mrs. Mark, sniffing into a handkerchief as though lamenting, instead of rejoicing in the departure of this black sheep of the family. The secret society followed, bearing the bier which they had taken from the municipal gravediggers. Mr. Beaglehole had to struggle to maintain his dignity and position as official chaplain against the lay minister of the brotherhood.

  To the horror of the mourners and spectators alike, Bessie Emmott boldly, some said brazenly, took up her place with the open grave dividing her from Mr. and Mrs. Mark. There looked like being a scene, but somehow, the fortunate presence of the secret society prevented it. Everything
went well. The autumn sun broke through. Mr. Beaglehole and the secret society performed their respective parts amicably together, Mr. and Mrs. Mark rattled handfuls of sand and stones on the coffin and many others there, including Bessie, followed suit. So, Timothy Bellis went to his earth in an almost jovial burst of good feeling. Then the crowds melted, the relatives hurried off to the cab and their train, the brethren removed their regalia and drove off to their licensed headquarters for refreshment. There was no funeral tea, no bakemeats. Bessie Emmott strolled alone among the surrounding graves, reading their inscriptions and watching the spectators until not one remained. Then she returned to the new grave which the gravediggers had already filled in, wept bitterly over it, and unsteadily tottered on her high heels back to the taxi which was waiting for her.

  Littlejohn who had been watching everything from a seat on a convenient mound just above, rose, looked at his watch and set off to catch Dr. Cooper before surgery hours.

  The Inspector rang the bell of the door on which were screwed two plates; one of brass, old, with the name half polished away:

  DR. HENRY COOPER,

  Surgeon.

  The other, in oxydised copper with white lettering:

  P. C. VAVASOUR, M.D., B.S.,

  Physician and Surgeon.

  A plain stocky girl with a mop of black hair and a fringe cut over her forehead, answered. She wore horn-rimmed glasses two sizes too large for her and a white dispenser’s coat.

  “Is Dr. Cooper in?”

  “Can’t you see that it says Come In?” replied the attendant, indicating another plaque on the door.

  “This isn’t a professional call …”

  Littlejohn produced his card. The young woman did not flinch but her tone softened.

  “Dr. Cooper’s having lunch. He’s been kept on a case. I’ll tell him. Come in and sit down.”

  She put him in the waiting-room with the patients.