The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  The main characteristic of the Horse and Jockey was its sign. It swung with every breeze that blew, solid and weatherworn, on the windiest corner. As Littlejohn stood under it after his four-mile uphill trudge, he longed for the ham and eggs of bygone times about which Haworth had told him. He was just able to discern in the grimy paint of the inn-sign the features of St. George and the Dragon! An itinerant artist during old Wigley’s reign had one time arrived and volunteered to paint the sign for a night’s bed and unlimited beer. Seth had done him so well that he forgot the name of the pub, confused the horses and riders, and made an excellent job of the wrong pair before the mistake was discovered. The landlord saw the joke and the publicity in it, too. The tale spread the name of the inn far and wide and brought crowds of curious sightseers.

  Mrs. Bracegirdle, the landlady, took Littlejohn into the little, stuffy parlour where sat her father before a huge fire. A brass bedstead, a mahogany clothes-chest and a heavy wardrobe crowded-out the place. Seth Wigley was propped-up in an armchair beside the fireplace, his legs and feet swathed in a rug. A fat, dropsical-looking, rosy-faced old man, with snow-white, silky hair. He was full of jollity for all his years and infirmities and eagerly waiting for spring days, when his chair could be moved out-of-doors and he could smell again the fresh moorland air that he loved, feel the clean wind and the sun on his cheeks, and hear the birds crying in the fastnesses. He listened attentively whilst Littlejohn explained the purpose of his visit.

  “Don’t make him laugh, Inspector,” said his daughter, buxom and fifty, as she left them together. “I’m always afraid he’ll bust once he gets laughin’.”

  Seth rumbled with good-humour, bade his visitor be seated, and shouted for a drink to be served.

  A young girl entered with a glass tankard of ale and, with a bright smile for the two men, placed it before Littlejohn. She was stockily built, graceful and muscular, and was dressed in the gymnasium costume of some school or other. She moved with the ease and rhythm of a ballet-dancer, reminding Littlejohn of the figures of Degas.

  “Well, Grandad, I’m off,” she said, and she kissed the old fellow and departed.

  “My grand-daughter,” said Seth with pride. “Goes to a Girls’ High School in Manchester. She’s on holiday and she’s goin’ givin’ exhibitions in dancin’ in Huddersfield at a Red-Cross do. Eddication’s a grand thing…That lass is goin’ out into th’ world, mesther. No moorlan’ pubs for her. Well, Inspector, you’re axin’ a lot, wantin’ an account of what ’appened here on th’ day of th’ murder. It’s a long while since and there were so many of ’em. When them shots sounded, we thought, after thinkin’ it over a bit, that somebody were takin’ a last shot at birds in the dusk. We couldn’t believe that Sykes and Trickett were blazin’ away at one another. Instead of which, it must ’ave bin one chap shootin’ them both.”

  “Yes, and who might that have been, Mr. Wigley? Have you any ideas on the matter?”

  “No, lad. There might have bin several people on th’ road at th’ time with guns, but not one of th’ chaps I knew would kill another in cold blood, and ah knew ’em all pretty well, ah can tell you.”

  “Uhu.”

  “Ever since Sykes were dug-up, ah’ve said to myself over and over agen, ‘Now, who’d want to kill either of ’em?’ and always th’ same answer comes back: ‘Nobody!’ It was dusk at th’ time when it occurred. Buller, the gamekeeper,—he’s dead—was on th’ moor and see the pair of them just afore it ’appened, he said.”

  “Yes. A pity he didn’t stay about a bit and see them off the preserves.”

  “Aye. But this has always struck me as bein’ funny. If Buller saw ’em, why didn’t he see whoever was out after the pair of ’em, too? They thought at that time, o’ course, that Sykes had done-in Trickett. Buller’s evidence seemed to bear that out. But, if both of ’em was killed together, how was it that Buller didn’t see a third party on the prowl? Or if he did see anybody, why didn’t he say so at th’ first inquest?”

  A very shrewd point, thought Littlejohn and then:

  “He was working for Sir Caleb Haythornthwaite at that time, I understand, Mr. Wigley?”

  “Aye. But ah don’t think there were much love lost between master and man. Caleb took over Buller with the shoot, because Buller were th’ best keeper for miles round here. Before that, when the moor belonged to ’er, Buller worked for Mrs. Myles, aye and ’er ’usband before ’er. It was a hard day for Buller when that shoot changed hands. You see, mesther, he’d been with the Myles family ever since he were a lad. But he’d to go where his bread and butter was, ah guess.”

  “Was anybody else likely to have been on the moor about that time?”

  “Well, ah’ve never quite been able to understand why Bill o’ Three-Fingers was so quiet at th’ time of th’ inquest. Him and his wench slept in my stables on th’ night o’ th’ crime. They must a’ been somewhere on th’ moor when the killing was done. Three-Fingers was as close as a clam, however. Of late, he’s bin a bit above himself, too. Two days ago, he called here as drunk as a lord, and Charlie, my son-in-law, wouldn’t serve him. Where he’d got his liquor from, ah couldn’t say, but Charlie said it were rum and smelled th’ place out. Three-Fingers was pleased with himself, ah understand, boastin’ and braggin’ about his luck bein’ in. What he’s up to, ah don’t know. Nowt good, you can take it from me.”

  “I think perhaps I might have a look at Three-Fingers, Mr. Wigley. Does he come here often?”

  “Oh, he’s like the wind—comes and goes, tha’ knows. Sometimes, we’ll see him two or three times a week, then he’ll be missin’ for months. He’s evidently in th’ locality agen and if he calls here, ah’ll see that Charlie rings you up at th’ police-station.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Another thing ah’ll tell you, too. You’ll think ah’m full of ideas, mesther, but ah’ve little else to do these days than sit an’ think. That red-headed lass he used to knock about with, has got wed and settled-down in Waterfold. I’d call and see that girl, if ah were thee. She might tell you summat about what ’appened that night, you know. Ah did hear that Three-Fingers sent her packin’. He never could abide th’ same woman for long at once, although that one were a bonny lass when she were younger. They stuck together like leeches at th’ police enquiry, as well they might. But now she’s been cast-off, or rather, was cast-off ten years or more since,—how time flies, doesn’t it?—perhaps she’ll sing a different tune.”

  “A good idea. You’re in excellent form, Mr. Wigley! What’s her married name, and where does she live now?”

  “Peggy Hepworth, she was; now she’s Mrs. Joe Fairbarn. Perhaps my daughter’ll know where they live. Sarah…Sarah…”

  “Yes, Dad,” said Mrs. Bracegirdle, bustling-in.

  “Red-headed Peg, you know…Three-Fingers’ owd flame. Where’s she livin’ in Waterfold?”

  “King Street. Ah don’t know th’ number, but anybody there’ll tell you. Her husband were a labourer for a long time, but now he’s employed by th’ Waterworks. You’ll be able to find their house because there’ll be a sign, ‘Waterman’, over th’ fanlight, so’s people know where to go when there’s a burst and they want th’ water turnin’-off.”

  Mrs. Bracegirdle showed a disposition to enlarge on the history of Peg after her rejection by Three-Fingers, and Littlejohn let her go on.

  “It’s a funny thing how that girl made good after such a bad start. Most of ’em who go wrong like that, specially with a gipsy-chap like Three-Fingers, come to a bad end, in th’ gutter, as likely as not. Well, it’s lucky she came across Joe Fairbarn when she did. Joe were a drunkard, who got converted by th’ Salvation Army, and from being a right bad lot, he turned over a new leaf and became a regular member of th’ Army. One Saturday night, after Three-Fingers had cast off Peg, she was knocked down in th’ main street in Waterfold by a motor-car. Not badly hurt, you know, but bru
ised and dirtied a bit. Well, th’ Salvation Army was marchin’ past at th’ time, singin’ like, and Joe picked-up the girl. He must a’ seen th’ good in her, shows how, and she must a’ taken a fancy to Joe, too. For he got her a job in one of th’ factories, and then wed her. Nobody but a proper workin’ Christian would a’ done that for a well-known bad character like Peg. Anyhow, ah believe they’re very happy, and have a nice little family, too…”

  A customer, entering the bar, broke-up the harangue and Littlejohn prepared to go, too.

  “I’ll take a trip into Waterfold now, I think, Mr. Wigley,” he said. “I’m half-way there, as it is. Are there any ’buses?”

  “Let me see, what’s time? Nearly eleven. There’ll be one up from Hatterworth in ten minutes.”

  Promising to return and see the old man again, the detective thanked him, wished him well, and took his leave.

  At ten minutes to twelve, Littlejohn found himself walking down the main street of Waterfold. A small town, with its principal thoroughfare built along a ridge, and with about a dozen side-streets branching off it, like ribs from a backbone. Gaunt houses of stone, three-storeyed, and with large windows in the attics, denoting the onetime pursuit of handloom-weaving by their occupants. A profusion of children, dogs and cats playing about, for it was Christmas holiday and the youngsters were running wild. King Street was easy to find, and Littlejohn was soon knocking at the door labelled “Waterman”, as predicted by the landlady of the moorland inn. Neighbours eyed Littlejohn curiously as he stood waiting for an answer. The reputation of the waterman’s wife had probably died hard, and there were some who still took a malicious interest in her. He was raising the knocker to strike it again, when the door opened and the red-haired woman stood before him.

  “What do you want?”

  She had put on weight since the days when she gallivanted round the countryside with her gipsy lover, but she was not too heavy, and carried her forty-odd years well. There was grey in her hair and her cheeks were a bit florid, but she held herself well and was trim and clean.

  She was altogether more of a woman than many of the anæmic-looking neighbours who emerged from the cottages on each side and pretended to be sweeping pavements or cleaning windows, the better to investigate what was going-on.

  Littlejohn stated that he was a police-officer and asked Mrs. Fairbarn for a word in private.

  A look of fear crossed her face. She was safe out of the storm and had no desire to be thrust back into it.

  “You’ve come about…?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Fairbarn. I only want your help in a little matter.”

  “Come-in, then, but you’ll have to be quick. My husband’s due home at half-past twelve and he’ll want his dinner then.”

  “I won’t keep you more than five minutes.”

  With a sign she bade him enter. She was struggling to keep calm. He followed her along the narrow lobby into the living-room. The furniture was cheap, of plain wood, but spotlessly clean and polished. The floor was covered with oilcloth. The table was laid for four on a white, American-leather cloth. Two children’s mugs and two cups and saucers. A small, cold meat-pie on each of two plates; half a pie on each of the other two. A young child toddled-in from the back-yard calling “Mother”. Perceiving the stranger, he hid his face in her apron and began to snivel. She led him to the back door and thrust him out.

  “Go and play with Bessie in your sand, like a good boy,” she said, closed the door and returned.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Inspector. I wasn’t expectin’ you, and I’ve my work to do.”

  She spoke quite well. Evidently she’d seen better days before she met Three-Fingers. Littlejohn wondered where she had come from, originally. Tactfully, he explained the purpose of his visit. The woman flushed scarlet and looked at him in cold fury. She had won peace and respectability for herself and was going to put up a fight to preserve them.

  “I want nothin’ to do with you, or anything connected with you. I’m surprised at you pesterin’ respectable people and I’ll bid you good morning. There’s the door.” And she pointed to the lobby.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fairbarn, but it’s not so easy as that. I’ve my duty to do, and that is the finding of a murderer. Now, I warn you that if you won’t help willingly, the truth will have to be forced from you in public, probably under oath in a court of law. If you tell me, privately in your own home, I’ll promise you that if I can possibly prevent it, the matter won’t go further. All I want to know is, were you and Bill on the moor when the two shots were fired on the night of the murder I’ve mentioned and, if so, did you see anyone about? That’s all. Now come, Mrs. Fairbarn.”

  The woman had cooled-off. She saw that it was best to be pleasant about the ordeal. She reminded Littlejohn of a tigress protecting her young and her home.

  “Very well. But you’ve promised.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we were on the moor when the shots were fired. We were nearing the Horse and Jockey, where Bill said we’d find a dry and cosy bed in the barn after dark. The shots went-off behind us, somewhere in the middle of the moor.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Not then. The day was closing-in fast, and it was hard seeing. ‘Keep movin’, sez Bill. ‘We don’t want to be mixed-up in anythin’, even if it’s only poaching’. So we kept on. But just as we turned to get round the wall of the inn, we saw a figure, set-off like, against the skyline, hurrying to the road. Just out of a dip it came, and then we turned the corner. ‘I know who that is,’ says Bill. ‘Who?’ I says. ‘Never you mind. Less you’re told, less you’ll tell’, says Bill, and there we dropped it. Next morning, when we heard about the murder, Bill makes me swear to say we’d seen nothin’ or nobody. ‘The police’ll pull us in if they know we’re about; so it’s up in the mornin’ early and off out o’ these parts’, he says. But they got us and Bill and me swore we’d never seen anybody.”

  “Yes. Did you know who it was that Bill saw?”

  “No. I swear it. I wouldn’t tell you a lie, mister. I don’t want any trouble with the police, or anybody. I’m happy now and want to stay like it, not being disturbed or reminded of them days.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Fairbarn. Thank you for being so candid and helpful. I’ll see that your confidence isn’t abused. Probably you’ll hear no more about this.”

  “Well, mister, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m late as it is, and I’ve some chips to cook for our dinners…”

  Littlejohn departed and made his way back to the Hatterworth ’bus. He was more anxious than ever to meet Three-Fingers and wring the truth from him. The meeting came before he expected it. As the ’bus passed the Horse and Jockey at the top of the road, Littlejohn spied Mrs. Bracegirdle waving to him. He asked the conductor to stop, and the landlady put her head in at the door.

  “He’s here, Inspector…came not long after you left. Half-drunk he is, already, so you’d better come if you want to see him,” she said.

  Littlejohn descended and followed the woman. He entered the taproom for the beastliest interview he had ever had in his career. Three-Fingers looked to have slept-out all night. The same silly caricature of a face, already described so well by Haworth, covered in several days beard. He was half-drunk and truculent.

  “He wasn’t sober when he arrived,” said Mrs. Bracegirdle. “He’d an empty rum-flask with him and seemed to have drunk its contents on th’ way up. We wouldn’t ’ave let him in, only ah thought that this was a good chance for you to catch ’im.”

  Two or three lorry-drivers, their vehicles standing outside the inn, were in the taproom eating their food and drinking beer. They regarded Three-Fingers as comic entertainment and jested among themselves at his expense. Three-Fingers said nothing. Littlejohn touched him on the shoulder.

  “I want a word with you; come into the bar-parlour.”

>   Three-Fingers, slouching on a bench at the side of the fire, looked up at the detective with watery eyes.

  “Wad yer want wi’ me? You’ll ’ave to wait until I’ve wet me whistle.” He drummed on the table before him and ordered beer. Littlejohn nodded to the landlady, who placed a glass before the tramp. “Watsiss? A pint or a quart’s wot I want. This is no good.” He drank it off in two gulps and knocked for another.

  Littlejohn was waiting no longer. “Either you come and talk in the parlour, or I’ll haul you into Hatterworth lock-up. Coming?”

  Three-Fingers broke silence again. He hiccupped and manœuvred himself upright, then staggered to his feet. He planted himself before Littlejohn and addressed him. His voice was thick and his tongue uncontrolled, and he emitted a stream of gibberish. Then, his drink seemed to take a firmer grip of him. He reeled back, struck the bench with the back of his knees and sagged into sitting posture again. Without a sigh or a word of warning, he vomited.

  The landlord rushed-in and had him by the collar in a trice, slapped his dirty cloth cap on his head, and rushed him out into the yard. Both cursed furiously in the process and their arms and legs seemed to get mixed, like the tentacles of an octopus. The landlady entered with a mop and pail.

  Littlejohn followed the milling procession to the door and the lorry-drivers, now serious and uttering threats concerning the disgusting interlude which had disturbed their meal, went too. Littlejohn called to the landlord.

  “Where have you put him?”

  “Across the yard, by the cowshed wall. He can cool-off, the dirty bloody swine!”

  “Lock him in the stable. Now, see to it. I want to know where to find him. He can sleep a bit there and then, if he won’t talk, I’ll ’phone for the police-van from Hatterworth, and we’ll take him down there and charge him with being drunk and disorderly.”

  Mrs. Bracegirdle, her cleaning operations finished, appeared. “Have you had onny lunch, Inspector?” she said. “Not that you’ll feel like it much after that…”