The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  “I think I might manage a sandwich, Mrs. Bracegirdle.”

  “Right. We’ve a bit of cold ham. That do? Perhaps you’ll wait in th’ parlour. Father’s asleep, else you could ’ave had it in his company.”

  Everything grew quiet again. There were noises from the kitchen, which told of a meal in preparation. Littlejohn sat waiting. He was depressed with the recent scene, and hungry. A cat entered and rubbed against his legs. Absently, he bent to stroke it. A dirty head was thrust in at the open door of the inn. “Any rags or bones?” cried a husky voice. A donkey-cart stood outside, and a servant girl exchanged rubbish for rubbing-stones.

  After a meal of cold ham, pickles and apple-pie, Littlejohn felt better. He filled his pipe and thought on the case. If Three-Fingers had seen someone on the moor at the time of the crime, he must be made to talk. Probably, he would say he had forgotten the incidents of so long ago, not wishing to incur a charge of lying to the police in connection with the long-closed case. His memory would have to be jogged, then.

  Littlejohn rose and called for the landlord. Bracegirdle appeared, and together they went to the stables to release Three-Fingers.

  The tramp was asleep on a pile of hay. By his side was a rum-flask, which he had apparently emptied after being locked-up.

  “He must ’ave ’ad another in his pocket, the drunken sot,” said Bracegirdle and prodded the inert form with his foot. Littlejohn bent and shook the man. Three-Fingers made no move. They carried him to the door. His breath came in wheezy gasps and with difficulty. His face was ashen. Littlejohn raised one of the tramp’s eyelids and rose to his feet with an exclamation.

  “Let’s get him out of this. Bring him into the air and knock him about a bit. We’ve got to get him awake. Ask Mrs. Bracegirdle to ring-up the nearest doctor, and tell him to bring-up a stomach pump. This may be alcohol or apoplexy, but it looks more like narcotic poisoning to me.”

  They dashed water on their patient, paraded him about in the air, and tried the usual expedients of first-aid. The man lolled helplessly in their arms. They were unable to administer coffee or emetics; Three-Fingers just dribbled them away.

  Before the doctor arrived, the pulse of the tramp grew feeble, his breathing quieter, and, in the end, Bracegirdle and Littlejohn discovered that they were dangling a dead man.

  Chapter XI

  At the Horse and Jockey

  See, by the roadside a shelter bids you stay,

  Where a welcome is waiting for you and

  a maiden looks out from the door.

  Quaff your fill, clear and cool.

  Give me, too, maiden, of thy flowing bowl;

  Let me worship thy glowing youth!

  —Goethe

  Mr. Simeon Mills decided to hold his Coroner’s Court at the Horse and Jockey. The scene of the murder was just within the administrative boundary of Thorn, a small, moorland village, consisting of about two dozen houses clustered round a ruined woollen-mill and a Nonconformist chapel. The latter was, as a rule, the centre of such social life as prevailed in Thorn and precedent, in the shape of a tramp who died on its very doorstep in 1847, gave it the right to be used as a courthouse. Mr. Mills, however, was less fervent than the congregation which, at the time of the death of Three-Fingers, had been worshipping for four Sundays at ten degrees below freezing-point, until they could, by jumble-sales, offertories and other forms of self-denial, raise enough money to repair the heating-apparatus. The Coroner ruled that the large public-room of the inn would be a better place for an inquest, in view of the fact that snow was already appearing on the hilltops.

  In the two days between the sudden death and the inquest, Littlejohn worked hard. He not only set-about getting to the bottom of the sudden demise of Three-Fingers, but kept his nose to the grindstone on the Trickett-Sykes murders as well. He paid a visit to old Mrs. Myles, the ex-foundrymistress in her gaunt old house in Hatterworth. He called at Peter’s Pantry, and had a long talk with its proprietor, Peter Buller, son of the late gamekeeper of the preserve on the moor. And he had a highly technical interview with a firm of gunsmiths in Huddersfield.

  Dr. Griffiths opened-up Three-Fingers at the autopsy and before putting him together again, discovered that at the time of his death from a strong dose of sleeping-tablets dissolved in rum, he was also in imminent danger of a more or less sudden end from hob-nailed liver, valvular disease of the heart, and general bodily debility and neglect. The body was in shocking condition and the surgeon was glad to pack it up and be done with it.

  Inspector Ross ably assisted Littlejohn in the police-work of this new case. Ross was a tall, fair, athletic officer, with a fresh, red face and a small, sandy moustache. He was a bachelor, and many of the eligible girls of Hatterworth lived in hopes, but he seemed happy without them, and devoted himself to his duties and to training a choir of policemen, who gave concerts far and wide and carried-off prizes at musical festivals.

  Haworth, Ross and Littlejohn held a conference at the police-station to which the Scotland Yard man had driven the hobbling Superintendent, who had insisted on bestirring himself against medical advice.

  “We’ve something to put our teeth into, at last,” said Littlejohn. “It’s quite evident that Three-Fingers had some knowledge which was dangerous to an unknown party, and had to be silenced. The inference is, that the murderer of Trickett and Sykes is still alive. Three-Fingers knew who it was and had a hold on him and, therefore, had to be polished-off.”

  “That’s it,” added Haworth. “You say he’s been reported as being very cock-a-hoop of late. That’s probably due to the fact that the discovery of the second body had proved that Sykes didn’t kill Trickett, and that somebody seen by Three-Fingers on the night of the first crime, when Peg says he spotted someone on the moor, probably did. Three-Fingers has been doing a bit of blackmailing but, having met a resolute victim, has got more than he bargained for.”

  “Which means,” chimed-in Ross, “that we’ll have to scour the neighbourhood and find-out, if we can, Bill’s movements up to the time he arrived at the Horse and Jockey.”

  Ross and Littlejohn had already done much routine work. They had discovered that Three-Fingers had possessed two rum flasks. This led Ross to a bright deduction that perhaps the tramp was in the habit of carrying liquor about with him in this fashion in flat bottles which would easily fit his pockets. Much better than being burdened with the usual cumbersome wine bottle. Ross, therefore, set three constables to search the roadside for a larger empty rum bottle, and his smartness was rewarded by the discovery of a black, unlabelled one, smelling strongly of the liquor, but empty, in a ditch about half-way between Hatterworth and the Horse and Jockey. Ross gave an account of his researches up-to-date to his senior colleagues.

  “It seems to me that Three-Fingers called somewhere in Hatterworth, or in this neighbourhood, and got money and drink from somebody, probably from the one he was blackmailing. He had ten pounds in dirty notes, which we’ll probably be unable to trace, and some loose change in his pockets, as well as a clasp-knife, some string, his identity-card, ration-books, and a hawker’s licence, with a pipe, tobacco, and matches thrown in. That was all, and doesn’t help us much. He probably carried the large rum bottle in his pocket until he was out of the town, and then filled his two flasks and drank what was left. There are his own fingerprints on all three bottles, and nobody else’s.”

  “Did you have the little that was left in each bottle examined?” asked Haworth.

  “Yes, sir. All of it showed the presence of the drug. The contents of the large bottle were probably doctored when he got it.”

  “If he drank some of it when he filled his flasks, however, wouldn’t he have dropped by the roadside?” asked Haworth.

  “Well, as I see it, sir, there wouldn’t be much left in the big one when he’d filled the others. Not enough to knock him out, anyway. Perhaps he felt the effects coming-on but just th
ought he was tired, so stopped at the inn for a rest. He’d emptied his first flask on the way there, but, as Inspector Littlejohn has said, he drank a glass of beer on top of it, and vomited. That would rid him of most of the first dose, and he’d probably have slept it off and been no worse for it, only when they left him in the stable, he set about his second bottle. That did the trick. On top of what he hadn’t thrown-up on the pub floor, the second dose was fatal.”

  “That’s a reasonable statement, I think. What do you say, Littlejohn?”

  “Agreed. There were about two teaspoonfuls of rum left in the second bottle. I’ve sent half of that off by special messenger to a friend of mine at Scotland Yard. We’ll have a full report on that rum. There’s a lot of difference in various types of liquor, and any peculiarities in this stuff might help us.”

  “Old Seth Wigley,—and what he doesn’t know about drinks, apart, of course, from the intricate chemistry of ’em isn’t worth knowing—says that it’s good stuff and a cut above that supplied by the average pub or wine-merchant,” added Ross.

  “Yes,” said Littlejohn. “And another point is, there was no label on the original bottle. What does that mean?”

  “Either cunning removal, or else, contents of somebody’s wine-cellar decanted into plain bottles from a keg,” answered Haworth.

  “Exactly.”

  “Whose?”

  “That we can’t say until my report comes from Scotland Yard. Then we’ll have something to work on. It should be here by to-morrow morning at the latest.”

  Haworth struggled to his feet, solicitously hovered over by his subordinate.

  “Well, we’d better be getting off to some lunch, if we’re being at the inquest by two o’clock. You and your wife are eating with us to-day, and Mrs. Haworth’s making a gradely meat-and-potato pie for Mrs. Littlejohn’s benefit. So let’s be off.”

  Ross’s eyes sparkled at the mention of this culinary treat and Haworth grinned at him.

  “You’d better come, too, Ross. I never knew such a trencherman as you, in my life!”

  The Horse and Jockey was the scene of great animation when the police-officers arrived later in the day. Ordinary business had been transferred from the large parlour to the taproom and bar, and the place appropriately arranged for Mr. Simeon Mills and his jury. Seth Wigley, in great danger of bursting from excitement, was surreptitiously given a sleeping-draught in more attenuated form, of course, than that which had caused the present invasion of his premises, and snoozed blissfully through the proceedings in consequence. When he awoke later, after the tumult and shouting had died, his daughter decided that his annoyance was likely to do him more harm than if he had been present at the inquest. He was ultimately pacified by being given, against the doctor’s orders, a mess of cheese and onions, made to his own specifications from the meagre stock of cheese in the pantry, after which he fell asleep, to rise the following morning full of beans and declaring that he felt better than he’d done for months past.

  When Mr. Simeon Mills arrived at his strange court, he found a motley crowd of spectators drinking in the taproom and at the bar and overflowing into the yard and outbuildings. There had been a steady procession from both the Waterfold and the Hatterworth sides of the hill, and the occasion reminded one of the festivities of Good Friday or Whitsuntide. Before the official enquiry began, the crowds, lubricated by Mr. Bracegirdle’s ale, had held their own inquest and arrived at a verdict. Person or persons unknown. They were disappointed; the inquest was adjourned.

  Mr. Mills was not annoyed at the vast concourse. In fact, he revelled in it, and wished he had been able to relay his own speeches in the proceedings, by means of loudspeakers, to the multitude which was crowded-out of the courtroom. His jury consisted of moorland farmers, two shopkeepers, and two woollen-weavers from the village of Thorn. The natives of the latter are conservative, suspicious folk, who intermarry to keep the money in their families and who are, therefore, all related to one another. They bear signs of inbreeding, and the two men impanelled on this occasion were not exceptions in this respect. They were small, with large heads, hatchet-like faces, red-rimmed eyes, and a great economy in speech. They spoke freely to each other, but answered “foreigners” in monosyllables, as though suspecting that any friendly gestures would result in the strangers taking the liberty of marrying into their families and removing their closely-guarded building-society deposits into alien communities. They were both chewing sandwich-lunches with their gums, having removed their false-teeth the better to eat with, and probably to preserve them as well, and asked the buxom barmaid for a drink of water each afterwards. “Just like folk fro’ Thorn, that is,” said Bracegirdle as he charitably filled a couple of glasses from the tap. “They’re all too greedy to be owt but T.T.”

  Mr. Simeon Mills’s bell summoned his jury to their places, and the two men from Thorn solemnly inserted their dentures and entered, looking determined to bring a verdict of wilful murder against anybody but a member of their own closely-knit clan.

  The jury had already inspected the body during its stay in the annexe to the chapel, which had been used for a similar purpose in 1847. They heard Dr. Griffiths give expert evidence and looked solemnly shocked at the idea of rum being used as a vehicle of death. For months afterwards, not a drop of that liquor was consumed within miles of the spot by anyone present at the Horse and Jockey that day. Evidence of identification was given by several witnesses. In fact, there had been quite a waiting-list of volunteers for the latter role, willing to be of service in exchange for a peep at the corpse. Mr. and Mrs. Bracegirdle and Littlejohn gave their accounts of the incidents leading to the death of Three-Fingers, and one of the lorry-drivers present at the time also corroborated the facts and retired disgruntled at being brought from Leeds to play little more than a walking-on part.

  Superintendent Haworth had held a long conference with Mr. Mills before the proceedings opened, and they had decided on an adjournment, without any detailed questioning of the police. As little of the rum-bottle incidents as possible was, therefore, mentioned, and only the evidence concerning the two flasks was taken from Ross. Meanwhile, Haworth, whose hobbling had been observed, was the object of sympathetic glances from the audience. Littlejohn, too, was regarded with curiosity and a certain pride by the locals, for it seemed to put Hatterworth on the map when a man from Scotland Yard was involved in the machinery of its justice. The two men from Thorn eyed him as one might a confidence trickster, with suspicion and hostility.

  Mr. Mills expressed his intention of adjourning the enquiry. The two men from Thorn thawed to the extent of entering into an animated conversation with the foreman of the jury, who thereupon rose and asked the coroner if the same jury would be required, as certain members of it had been compelled to absent themselves from woollen-weaving, with consequent loss of wages. Also, would there be any compensation for such losses? At this, there were murmurs in the audience concerning the characters of the people of a certain village.

  Mr. Mills whipped-off his glasses, fixed the two little men with a baleful eye, and informed the world in general that he could make no promises concerning the constitution of his future jury, and that its present members would in no way be exempt from service again. As to expenses, he was surprised that citizens of this country should descend to considering public duty in terms of £. s. d. He adjourned the inquest until a future date.

  The two men from Thorn, after a heated discussion with the coroner’s officer, departed whence they came in dudgeon. There was great local indignation in their village when they returned with their tale, and there were comings and goings from one house to another during half the night, when the day’s injustices were fully aired in even the most attenuated branches of the family. After that, the legal business of the clan passed from the firm of Butterworth, Coughey, Mills, Butterworth and Mills, of Hatterworth, to Lemuel Harrison, Son, Swallow and Beech, of Waterfold.

>   After the departure of Mr. Mills at four o’clock, informal proceedings continued on the premises of the Horse and Jockey until opening time at 5.30. The beer ran out at 6 o’clock, and it was not until fresh supplies from Hatterworth arrived and were broached at 6.40, that good feeling was restored.

  Chapter XII

  The Iron Woman

  But O the heavy change!—bereft

  Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!

  —Wordsworth

  When Littlejohn called at Mrs. Myles’s, he was ushered into a large front room of the gaunt, old-fashioned house she occupied “up top of the town”, which was Hatterworth’s suburbia. Here the old lady had immured herself after the collapse and liquidation of the family business, and she had gone less and less out of doors until now she was a recluse, attended by a housekeeper and a kitchen-maid. The latter admitted the detective.

  The place was gloomy and forlorn. The room in which Littlejohn was asked to wait was fireless in spite of the time of year. It smelled of dust and neglect and sheets covered the larger pieces of furniture. The latter was of heavily-carved oak and had at one time been expensive. Apparently the salvage of a bigger house. An exquisite, long refectory table in the middle of the floor spoke of times when Mrs. Myles had entertained the best people of the locality. A dozen faded chairs, upholstered in tapestry, were pushed beneath it. Family portraits in frames on the walls; a standard-lamp with a faded pink shade; moth-eaten skin rugs; a dusty Indian carpet. A strange, sad picture of change and decay.

  The maid returned and beckoned Littlejohn to follow. He was surprised to be led upstairs. At the top of the stairs, she tapped on a door and ushered him in. The first thing he saw was a large window, with a single huge pane of glass in the bottom sash. This framed a full view of the distant moorland, with a background of snow-capped hills, and brown bracken and heather in the foreground. The road ran along the moor-edge like a shelf. In the distance, the Horse and Jockey Inn was visible at the top of the pass.