The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  Waterfold station was utterly desolate. A cold wind blew through it, stinging the cheeks and ears, but filled with the fresh scented breath of moorland. A porter shambled past.

  “Where can I get the Hatterworth ’bus, porter?” called the Inspector.

  “It went a quarter of an hour since,” came the reply.

  Littlejohn cursed under his breath. Never again! If his luck continued in this fashion he would probably meet his wife somewhere about New Year!

  A cheery Yorkshire voice broke the gloom, speaking from the darkness somewhere to the left.

  “That you, Inspector Littlejohn?”

  “Yes,” replied the detective, surprised that in this forsaken spot somebody should know him.

  “I’m Haworth, Superintendent Haworth, of Hatter-

  worth…”

  Littlejohn’s spirits sank momentarily. Just his luck to be recalled after his endless treck!…He pictured a call from The Yard to the local police to pick him up and turn him back to duty.

  “…Mrs. Littlejohn and my wife are friends and I promised to run out and meet the train. We’ll get along better in my car than the ’bus. Glad to meet you, Littlejohn, and a Merry Christmas to you.”

  Two cordial hands met in the darkness and Littlejohn was glad he had come after all.

  The little car sped swiftly over the moorland road, now climbing, now coasting easily downhill as the country undulated. The season had made local traffic all the busier and passing cars were frequent. Haworth’s dimmed headlamps illuminated the white stone landmarks, erected by the roadside to indicate the route. There was a heavy, healthy smell of peat on the air and the wind hissed in the heather. Littlejohn could make out none of the details of the country through which he was passing, but had a feeling of being amid vast, open spaces. His companion concentrated on driving and said little. The Inspector did not even know what his friend looked like, except that he was medium-built and broad and he spoke with a crisp Yorkshire accent.

  “We’re crossing Milestone Moor and soon we’ll drop into Hatterworth,” said Haworth. “Sorry I can’t be a bit more sociable at the moment, but this driving in the black-out is the very devil.”

  “Don’t you worry, Haworth. I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to sit beside a companion, even if he’s not saying much, after the lonely journey I’ve had! Since dark fell at about Stafford, I’ve been playing a sort of blindman’s-buff. I’ve just been borne along by vehicles, seeing nothing of the countryside. I’ve not the faintest idea where we are or what the landscape looks like, and that’ll be a surprise for to-morrow morning.”

  “Yes. You’ll not find it too bad here. Our town’s the centre of a moorland area of hundreds, nay thousands, of healthy acres. We’ve about thirty thousand people in our district and in the town itself, farmers, woollen mill operatives, iron workers; and the rest are shopkeepers, policemen and the like, to look after them. Here we are…Hatterworth. Mrs. Littlejohn’s spending the evening at my place, which is only a couple of hundred yards from where she’s staying. It won’t be long before we get indoors, with a warm fire, lights and something to appease our hunger and thirst…”

  “Yes. It’s a night for a fire, and as I’ve not had a bite since Crewe at a little after five, a bit of food and a drink won’t come amiss.”

  The car halted and, with the help of their torches, the two men groped their ways into Haworth’s home, a neat, detached house on the edge of the town. The night was still crisp and frosty, with stars bright like jewels. In spite of the black-out, there were plenty of people astir in the darkness. Sounds of merry voices, shouts of goodwill and here and there groups of boys carol-singing at the doors of dwellings and holding noisy discussions concerning the alms doled out by their patrons in between their wassailing.

  In the bright light of the hall, the detectives cheerfully regarded each other. The darkness had been a barrier between them and now, aware of each other’s physical appearances, they greeted one another again, shaking hands and exchanging Christmas greetings, more from shyness than necessity.

  Haworth was a sturdy, pink-faced, smooth-shaven man, with a bald head and keen blue eyes. His chin was square and determined, but his whimsical smile and twinkling eyes gave relief to an otherwise stern face. Littlejohn realized that when the merriment died from his face, the Superintendent would be a difficult man to deal with, especially if his antagonist were on the wrong side of the law. They entered a cosy room. Mrs. Haworth, a buxom, homely woman came smiling to greet them, with Mrs. Littlejohn hurriedly making up the rear. The spirit of Christmas and homecoming met them at the door. For Littlejohn the long journey was forgotten.

  After the pleasures of re-union, the comfort of warmth and a meal of Christmas fare, the little party settled down for a spell of sociability round the fire. Cigar smoke thickened the air and Littlejohn found his host’s whisky to his taste. They talked of many things, including the Littlejohns’ adventures in the London bombing, but the session was shortly interrupted by the sound of tramping feet in the garden outside. Almost before Littlejohn had realized that an unexpected invasion had occurred, there was a great burst of music. The Hatterworth Methodist Choir was in first-class voice and loudly serenaded the Haworths, who were respected members of the congregation. “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” “Christians Awake,” and “Once in Royal David’s City” were reeled off in rapid succession and then the front door was flung wide and a chattering crowd of carollers surged in and were given the freedom of a larder which, in spite of wartime restrictions, seemed to hold a goodly supply of mince-pies, parkin, plum-cake and ginger wine. Invaders and invaded shouted seasonable greetings at each other, private jokes were bandied about, especially among the bright-cheeked, unmarried choirgirls and then the Reverend Reginald Gotobed, resident minister and master of ceremonies of the troupe, called for silence.

  “And now, Superintendent, for your quid pro quo. A song to pay for a song, eh?” The parson tittered and bared his teeth genially.

  Littlejohn thought that, judging from the amount of food polished-off by the visitors, they had been very well paid indeed, but was curious to know what the parson was getting at. He received a surprise. With a deprecating gesture, Haworth strove to avoid the issue, but the choir would not be gainsaid. A tall, cold-looking man emerged from their body and sat down at the piano in the corner. He massaged the blood back into his blue fingers and waited expectantly. “Little Cattle, Little Care”, demanded the choir. Whereat, Superintendent Haworth of the Hatterworth Police rose from his chair by the fire and sang. His was a robust, well-trained baritone voice and it warmed Littlejohn’s heart to hear it. The song, which was apparently an annual institution, was a north-country one, written by Edwin Waugh, and carried a chorus which the choir sang in harmony after each verse.

  Laddie, good dog, the day-wark’s done,

  The sun’s low in the west;

  The lingering wild birds, one by one,

  Are flitting to the nest:

  Mild evening’s fairy fingers close

  The curtains of the day,

  And the drowsy landscape seeks repose

  In twilight shadows grey.

  The choir chanted the refrain:

  Little cattle, little care;

  Lie thee down, Laddie!

  Soon, Littlejohn and his wife were carried away into joining the chorus.

  “Well,” said Littlejohn to his colleague, when the singers had departed to carol and merrymake and refresh themselves elsewhere, “I’ve heard of policemen being first-class boxers, footballers, long and high jumpers, and even darts champions, but you’re the first real singing policeman I’ve met.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of them in the force, Littlejohn. It was just by chance you heard me to-night. I used to do a lot, but now I’m too busy to make a proper job of it.”

  “If Philip Grisdale doesn’t turn-up to-morrow, you’ll be busy again, too
, my lad,” interjected his wife, and Littlejohn regarding her with a puzzled look, seemed to detect in her voice a hope that Grisdale, whoever he might be, wouldn’t put in an appearance.

  “O, he’ll be here all right, never worry,” said Haworth. And turning to Littlejohn he explained.

  “You’ll no doubt have heard of Philip Grisdale, the big London singer. Well, he’s a local lad, who’s made good and risen to fame, but he never forgets the old place. He used to attend the Hatterworth Methodists when he was a boy and every Christmas Day, he comes back to sing in the Messiah, which is always given there in the evening. This year, he wrote to say that he was laid-up with tonsillitis. That was last Wednesday. He advised them to find a deputy, but he’d come if he possibly could. I’m the deputy. He’ll turn up right enough. Folk’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t.”

  Littlejohn wondered.

  The Littlejohns got to bed about three o’clock on Christmas morning. Somewhere in the distance, a choir was in full spate and the strains of a brass band in full blast, with a euphonium freely improvising in the bass, could be heard. Littlejohn felt full of the spirit of Christmas as he climbed into bed. He was wearing gaily-striped pyjamas, like the colours of some football team. He had once bought them himself and was proud of them.

  “You’ve surely not brought those with you again!” laughed his wife.

  “Why not? They’re jolly nice. I bought these the night before I ran Tossy Marks to earth at Cardiff…”

  “Put out the light, Tom, before anybody sees them.”

  “Do you know, Letty,” ruminated Littlejohn irrelevantly, “I hope that Grisdale chap doesn’t turn up to-morrow.”

  “So do I.”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll go to church, eh? It’s not once in a lifetime you hear a policeman, and a Super at that, singing in the Messiah.”

  “It’s a bargain, then.”

  The brass band, playing “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” with the euphonium rioting all over the shop, drew dangerously near, but before it arrived under his window, Littlejohn was deep in a sleep from which the last trump itself would only have roused him with difficulty.

  Chapter II

  “…And the Dead Shall Be Raised”

  Dreadfully staring

  Thro’ muddy impurity.

  —Thomas Hood

  The Reverend Reginald Gotobed, pastor of Hatterworth Methodist Church, gazed with mixed feelings from his pulpit at the crowded congregation assembled to hear the Messiah. He was delighted because the collections from such a vast concourse would keep the place free from debt for months to come; but he sighed regretfully as he compared the numbers with those, a mere handful, who normally gathered to hear his sermons. To-night, he was not preaching, but merely acting as chairman at the choir effort. He beamed down at the treasurer, sitting at the back of the building with a stack of collection boxes on a shelf beside him, and he smiled at the faces in the body of the church and in the crowded gallery. The young men of the church were even bringing-in wooden benches and chairs from the nearby Sunday School and crushing them in the aisles, for the pews would not hold all those who clamoured for admission. The fact that, at the last moment, Philip Grisdale had telephoned apologies and regrets at not being able to turn-up did not deter them. Frank Haworth was a good substitute and when the change of singer was noised abroad, no-one worried. From five until six o’clock, the starting-time, a steady procession wound up the hill to the chapel and those from the neighbouring moorland who could not get to town by ’bus were enthusiastic enough to walk there, for the night of Christmas was fine, sharp and clear and many of them would not feel that a proper Christmas-Day had been spent if it did not end at the chapel Messiah. Here and there in the crowd could be seen the healthy, honest face of a policeman, off duty and in plain-clothes, who had brought his family to hear his chief sing and, in one pew at the back, sat two local ne’er-do-wells, with several convictions for poaching. They had paid the man who almost made a habit of running them in, the singular compliment of washing their faces and putting-on their best suits and neckcloths to hear if he could sing as well as he could execute the law. The chairman of the local magistrates was sitting uncomfortably beside them. He had arrived late and found a vacant place at the end of their pew; but he had been prevented from keeping a respectable distance between himself and his regular clients by the press of further newcomers.

  A stage, like a huge staircase, covered in red baize, rose all round the pulpit. As Mr. and Mrs. Littlejohn, with their hostess, Miss Stalybridge, and Mrs. Haworth entered, the choir were just taking their places on the red steps. The modest trebles who had to climb to the top struggled to mount with decent strides; the more flighty ones displayed a wealth of limb and lingerie. The chorus had been considerably re-inforced by friends from other church choirs. In the two front pews, the orchestra were tuning-up. Programmes fluttered in the audience and those who would appear more scholarly ostentatiously fingered the copies of the oratorio from which they proposed to follow the work from end to end.

  The four soloists mounted the first step of the red stairs and seated themselves on bentwood chairs; Mr. Gotobed rose, prayed briefly, handed over the meeting to the choirmaster and subsided. The choirmaster, a burly, elderly man with a bald head fringed with curly, grey hair, hoisted himself on to his rostrum. He was wearing an out-of-date tail coat and in his hand was a heavy ebony baton with silver mountings, a presentation from the choir for long service. He opened his copy of music, pored over it and closed it again to show that he knew it all from start to finish. Then he tapped his rickety music-stand. The orchestra was composed of men from near and far. Many of them had for many weeks tramped to rehearsals through all kinds of weather in their enthusiasm. There was a predominance of strings and rather a dearth of woodwind, but the conductor must have known his job, for the amateurs played well together and he kept them rigidly under control.

  As the lovely overture filled the air, Littlejohn was transported from the hall filled with strangers to the little chapel of his childhood. In his mind’s eye, he saw the singing-pew filled with old familiar faces, many now long dead; the amateur organist with his work cut-out in keeping up with the choruses, missing notes, furiously trampling the pedals; the unpretentious but worthy soloists. The ghost of Christmas Past stood by his shoulder. He was roused from his reverie by the tenor solo, which slid easily into its place from the introduction. There was not a vacant seat in the church, the walls streamed with moisture, the place was like an oven. The busy chapelkeeper opened one of the doors leading from the vestibule into the main street and the exquisite aria floated out into the still Christmas night and seemed to ring across the moorland beyond. “Every valley shall be exalted and every hill laid low” echoed challengingly in the quiet hills and valleys of the watching Pennines. Littlejohn remembered his Manchester days when, leaving the police-station at the Town Hall, he had slipped into the Free Trade Hall to hear Frank Mullings sing the same songs, with Norman Allin, too, and Hamilton Harty conducting the Hallé Orchestra and Choir. The news had not yet reached him that in that very Season, the ravening Hun had, by fire and explosion, reduced that place of happy memories to ashes.

  The choir roared its way through “The Glory of the Lord.” Haworth was on his feet vigorously shaking the sea and the dry land. His rich, mellow voice rang round the church to the delight of both the law-abiding and the few malefactors there. Passers-by in the street halted and formed a little group near the open door. “That’ll be Frank Haworth,” said someone. A heavy, homely woman seated behind Littlejohn murmured in a stage-whisper, “Eh, but it’s luvely.” That expressed in simple terms the whole experience.

  The telephone bell rang in Hatterworth police-station and Inspector Ross answered it. He was rather annoyed at being on duty at a time when his chief was singing and was wondering if he might not just pass the chapel in the course of duty with a view to seeing how thin
gs were going.

  “Yes…?” he said peevishly to the instrument.

  A voice began to tell a tale and the Inspector’s face grew gravely interested.

  “Right. Hold everything until I arrive. Enoch Sykes did you say? How do you know? A ring on his finger with his initials? Right. We’ll be along.”

  Hastily, Ross scribbled a note. He rang for a constable and handed it to him.

  “Take that to Superintendent Haworth at the Chapel,” he said. “Now don’t go and upset him in the middle of ‘Why Do the Nations,’ but give it him as soon as you can. I’m off to Milestone Moor and you get back here as quickly as you can, because we’ve a busy night before us. The Home Guard have dug up Enoch Sykes’s body on the moor and we’d better be getting on the job. Be off, and don’t stand gawking…”

  P.C. Joe Shuttleworth made a hasty exit and almost ran along the darkened streets to the Methodist Church. He found George Woodroff, the chapelkeeper, standing at the open door of the dark vestibule. A sweet voice was singing within.

  He was cut off from the land of the living…

  But Thou did’st not leave His soul in hell…

  P.C. Shuttleworth shivered.

  “I’ve got to get a message to th’ Super, George,” he said. “What’s best way of doin’ it?”

  “Best way of doin’ it, owd chap, is to wait until he’s finished and then catch him as he comes out. Why, what’s th’ matter, Joe?”

  P.C. Shuttleworth lowered his voice into an awful, confidential whisper.

  “Th’ Home Guard were diggin’ a trench on th’ top of Milestone Moor just before dusk and they dug-up a skeleton. There was a ring on its finger with th’ initials ‘E.S.’ As like as not, it’s Enoch Sykes. So I’ve bin sent to get Superintendent Haworth right away, Messiah or no Messiah.”

  George Woodroff’s jaw dropped. “No, Joe! You don’t say.” The chapelkeeper made excited gestures with his hands and arms and trod the floor like a soldier marking time. He struggled with his feelings. He was not, if he could help it, going to allow anybody, not even a skeleton, to disturb the annual treat now in progress. He closed the door between the vestibule and the main body of the church, as though protecting the interior from evil.