The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  “It seems, like, that Daft Dick kept his money and other valuables in a water-tight box which he hid down a well at the bottom of his allotment. Well, this afternoon he must a’ been pokin’ down that well, fishin’ his box up with a ’ook on the end of a pole, which he uses for such like. Instead of the box, he gets ’is ’ook entangled-like in somethin’ else and what does ’e pull up but a body. Yelled the place down, he did. Like as not, it’s driven him properly potty now. Always been a bit light in the top storey, but this’ll ’ave finished him off proper…”

  They had reached the group by this time. The men gave ground to let the constable and Littlejohn to the fore. A special constable and Dr. Keating were standing importantly beside a wet human bundle which Daft Dick had brought to light instead of his treasure. A smallish, thin man, pale, horrible and slimy in death. Littlejohn felt queasy at the sight of him, but bent down to examine the corpse more closely. He whistled and grunted and then rose to his feet again.

  “Anybody know this chap?” he asked of the group.

  There were murmurs in the negative from everyone.

  The nose gave the victim away, however. The job had not been so well done as Littlejohn had gathered from Mr. Wall’s case-book. The detective had no doubt as to the identity of the sodden mass at his feet.

  It was all that was left of “J.B.”, alias Bates, the bank-

  robber!

  Chapter XVIII

  Corpse

  Nay, but you must name his name,

  and half his face must be seen.

  —Act III. Sc. I.

  A tornado of work broke over Littlejohn on the day following the discovery of the body in the well.

  From records, especially fingerprints, it was established beyond doubt that the corpse was that of Bates, the missing bank-robber. This establishment of identity came as rather a relief to Littlejohn. For want of a better theory, he had tried the assumption that Rider and Bates might be one and the same person and had never felt easy about it in his mind. The discovery of Bates’s body disposed of an incubus and, although bringing the Inspector no nearer a solution of the first crime, seemed to clear the decks of a case which was getting cluttered-up with a mass of disorderly detail.

  One thing was clear, however, Bates had probably had something to do with the murder of Wall. That part of Littlejohn’s theory had been confirmed. Then, someone had killed Bates! He had been stunned by a blow from a heavy stone inserted in an old sock for better handling and fished from the well along with Daft Dick’s box. Littlejohn had the sock dried and retained it. The ultimate cause of death, however, had been drowning according to the surgeon’s report. Thus, the two murders had a feature in common. Each victim had been rendered insensible—one by choking and the other by a blow on the head—and then finished-off in another fashion. Was this by design or a mere coincidence?

  The police doctor who followed Keating in inspecting the corpse, was unable definitely to state when the death of Bates had occurred, for his body had for several days been immersed in the well, which contained enough water to cover it entirely. In one of the pockets, however, was a sodden daily paper, bearing the date of Wall’s death, so it was assumed that the unlucky pair had died somewhere about the same time. Bates’s wrist-watch, a cheap nickel affair, had stopped at 10.43. He had not been long in following Wall.

  Gillibrand took over the formalities in connection with the new corpse and freed Littlejohn for further researches. There was little in the way of clues on or about the body of Bates. No letters in the pockets; nothing of importance in the soaked wallet found in his jacket; not even an identity-card. The purpose of his return to Stalden was a mystery.

  On the other hand, Scotland Yard had been copious in their information concerning the Seven Sisters gang. Apparently someone had been given the job of finding out all there was to know from the past files and had done it pretty thoroughly. A number of arrests had been made before the gang finally disappeared. The results had merely been the bringing of a few small fish into the net. It had been obvious from the timid behaviour of such petty crooks when questioned that they were serving some boss of whom they were greatly afraid, but who kept himself well in the background. One and another of these underlings had been sent down for stretches in gaol, but none had been able to disclose the identity of the chief of the gang. He had, it appeared, established his contacts through a deputy, a kind of “runner”, who alone knew him and who kept his name and whereabouts strictly to himself.

  Then came a piece of news. Hitherto, the minor members of the gang in police hands had been unable to describe even the lieutenant, who had also transacted business by parcels through the Stockwell accommodation address. The police, however, had finally succeeded in tracing the newsagent who had owned the shop in Seven Sisters Road. He was a nasty little bit of work, but perfectly on the right side of the law, for the exchange of parcels was, he insisted, a perfectly legitimate part of his business. He never knew what was in them or inquired into the credentials of those who came and went for them, provided they paid his fee, and therefore the cops had nothing on him. Which was perfectly true.

  But the police found Mr. Heggs, the ex-newsagent, more friendly in their recent visit to him. He and his missus had been buried under tons of debris in a cellar during the bombing of London, and the London bobbies had dug them out and saved them from slow death. He owed them a good turn and he paid his dues. He told how one night, when a house opposite his shop in Seven Sisters Road had caught fire and it looked as though the whole street was going to go up in smoke, a little man, apparently anxious to obtain his parcels before the flames spread across to them, had arrived and demanded them. He had produced the grubby piece of cardboard bearing a number which Mr. Heggs had been in the habit of issuing as a sort of passport to his postal system, and had therefore been allowed to take away the packets waiting to be re-addressed to him or to someone connected with him. This stranger had made every effort to hide his face by pulling-up his collar and turning-down the brim of his hat and remaining outside in the dark whilst Heggs got his stuff. But the flames from the opposite side of the street, suddenly flaring up with the collapse of the interior of the house, had caught the customer unawares and just before he shrank like a snail into his shell, Heggs had got a glimpse of his face. The description tallied with that of Bates, nose, and all!

  Now, thought Littlejohn, after perusing this somewhat wordy dossier, was Bates the ringleader, or merely the lieutenant? Probably the latter. True, he had himself been a skilled engraver and might easily have started again to run a show of his own. He had not been without brains, either. All the same, Littlejohn could not reconcile the idea of the wretched little bank snatch-and-grabber, wanted by the police for a number of years, suddenly launching out in command of an almost international racket. More likely Bates had been sheltered from the law by someone bigger than himself, whom he had served and whom perhaps he had double-crossed and thus been pitched down Daft Dick’s well as a piece of encumbrance.

  Surrounded by his papers in the secluded summer-house at the bottom of the garden at The Mortal Man, Littlejohn lit his pipe and began mentally to review the case and try to formulate some solution to fit in with the facts. Bees, wasps, two cats, and a colony of ants went about their business around him, but he did not notice them.

  At length, he had gathered many of the pieces of the complicated jigsaw into something like order. There were bits missing here and there and the picture itself was very much awry, but it provided a working basis for further investigation.

  Briefly, Littlejohn’s provisional pattern worked-out somewhat as follows.

  For some reason or other, Bates had returned to Stalden and probably visited his former benefactor Wall. Perhaps it would never be truly known why Wall had sheltered him when he was fleeing from the police after his bank-robbery with violence. Besides giving him a hide-out in his house, the bonesetter had per
formed operations which partially hid the identity of Bates. The bank-robber must have had some hold over Wall. This may have been possession of information concerning young Dr. Wall, which owing to the absence from England of the youngster and his father, could not be confirmed. The quack-doctor had very likely made an impulsive promise to keep Bates quiet and then, becoming involved in sheltering a criminal, had been forced to carry it through.

  It had been established that Bates was connected with the Seven Sisters gang. The break-up of this group had probably deprived Bates of his source of income and, finding himself on his beam-ends, he had returned to Stalden, presumably to blackmail old Wall. It might be that the bonesetter had turned the tables and threatened to expose Bates, thereby getting himself murdered.

  But there was someone else in the background, who had, in turn, murdered Bates. This unknown one had apparently followed the ex-bank-robber to The Corner House and stunned and thrown him down Daft Dick’s well. Was this second murderer a native of Stalden or had he followed Bates from elsewhere, seeking a suitable place in which to finish him and finding it in the lonely garden behind the bonesetter’s home?

  Littlejohn’s thoughts again turned to Rider. Not only had the postmistress connected him with the Seven Sisters address and told of parcels received which sounded to contain what might be metal counterfeiter’s engraved plates, but further suspicious evidence had come to light as a result of the intrusion by Littlejohn and Mellalieu in the workshop behind Rider’s cottage.

  Littlejohn turned to the report he had just received from the county analyst at Olstead. He had submitted the broken cigarettes found in Rider’s refuse-bin for examination. They had been found to contain a drug—a morphine salt—in sufficient quantity to produce a light sleep when smoked. Apparently, Rider had experimented until he made a presentable cigarette and thrown away his failures. The tobacco was Egyptian, the better to conceal the taste of the drug, which had been introduced into the cigarettes by means of a hypodermic syringe. This Littlejohn had borrowed during his inspection of the little laboratory and it also contained the same salt of morphine.

  To his report the analyst had added “this drug need not be bought from a pharmacy. A chemist could prepare it from poppies. (Papaver Somniferum.)”

  There was sufficient evidence in the laboratory itself and its equipment of retorts, test-tubes, re-agents, and the like to show that Rider was at least an amateur chemist. He had evidently used his skill in preparing a doped cigarette to ensure that his fiancée slept whilst he slipped out and made a rendezvous with Bates. Littlejohn had by this made up his mind that Rider was involved in the death of the crooked-nosed bank-robber, if not in that of Wall himself.

  Thus Rider’s alibi covering the time of Wall’s death was a fabrication.

  It next behoved Littlejohn to have another conversation with the man. There were one or two i’s to dot and t’s to cross, however.

  In all probability, Rider was the missing leader of the Seven Sisters counterfeiters. Had he put Bates out of the way to stop his mouth?

  Another point which would give satisfaction would be the discovery of poppies in Rider’s garden. Littlejohn hadn’t noticed any during his visit, but would soon find out. He rose, gathered together his papers and knocked out his pipe. He had made up his mind. He was going to see Rider again, but first there was the matter of the sock which had contained the stone used against Bates. The village woman who “did” for Rider might help there. Mellalieu would probably know who she was. The bobby could also do a routine job for him by hunting for poppies in Rider’s garden.

  P.C. Mellalieu was again in a state of deshabille when Littlejohn called at the police-station. It was his off-hour and he was in his shirt and trousers and with his heavy leather braces displayed, digging his early potatoes. His wife was the first to spot the Inspector’s approach and was unable to open the window and give the alarm before Littlejohn was down on her spouse. She stood behind the casement, fumbling with the catch, rapping on the pane and mouthing at the bobby, whose face was a study as he tried lip-reading without any success. The catch finally yielding to force and persuasion, the window flew open, and the tail-end of Mrs. Mellalieu’s harangue shot out.

  “…yew gret fool, you…”

  The policeman turned and saw Littlejohn, sniggered and became the colour of his scarlet-runners. Littlejohn burst into laughter and the window closed with a bang which shook the whole neighbourhood.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Mellalieu. Another trip to Mr. Rider’s house. This time in search of papaver somniferum.”

  “Ah! Poppies…” said Mellalieu, his face glowing with pride and satisfaction at his thus being able to register extreme erudition.

  “You recognize the name, then?” replied Littlejohn somewhat taken aback at this sudden brilliance on the part of the rustic officer.

  “Oh yes, sir. Know the names and properties o’ most o’ they common flowers and herbs. Moi father was a gardener you see and a field naturalist, too. Not much ’e didn’t know about they plants. And never went to school, either. Taught ’imself from books and observation o’ nature did my dad…”

  Mellalieu was evidently on a topic with which he felt at home and Littlejohn out of the kindness of his heart would have been glad to let him expand on the qualities and idiosyncrasies of his ancestor, but he hadn’t the time.

  “I’d like you to go right away, if you will.”

  “Certainly, sir. Leave the papavers to me, sir.”

  Mellalieu apologetically made his way to a potting-shed, where his clean service-boots were reposing, and changed out of his muddy gardening shoes. He washed his dirty hands in a bucket of water there, too, and as if in answer to a prayer, another and easier-fitting casement flew open and someone unseen flung out a towel at which the bobby made a clumsy leap and caught in mid-air, instead of with his head as was apparently intended by the invisible watcher.

  After arranging to meet him later, Littlejohn made as if to leave the constable.

  “I’m comin’ part o’ your way, sir,” said Mellalieu, with a pleading look in his eye. He was thanking his stars that he’d hung his helmet, tunic and belt in the potting-shed, for he knew what was waiting for him indoors, if he ventured there!

  “Right-o. Come on then,” replied Littlejohn mercifully.

  Mellalieu sighed with relief, gave the bedroom curtain, which was moving suspiciously, a glance which combined apprehension with defiance, and accompanied his superior officer in search of his poppies.

  “Who’s Mr. Rider’s daily help, Mellalieu?” asked Littlejohn as they closed the garden gate of the police-house.

  “Mrs. Congreve, sir. Lives the first o’ the little cottages just afore The Mortal Man.”

  “Right. I’ll call to see her. I want a word or two with her. See you later, Mellalieu.”

  With that the pair of them parted and went about their respective tasks in opposite directions.

  Chapter XIX

  Snooper

  Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again

  ere the leviathan can swim a league.

  —Act II. Sc. II.

  Police Constable Mellalieu, however uninspiring his other endowments, was a first-rate snooper. His ability to follow his prey unseen, to conceal himself from its view in fields, hedges and ditches, and to draw within striking distance of it with stealthy, soundless tread arose out of domestic necessity. He was fond of taking out his gun in his spare time and, for the most part, he potted sitting targets, which required a cunning approach and closeness of range. He was not an unsporting fellow, but he could never manage to bowl-over a moving quarry without filling it from head to foot with lead. His wife’s searing comments as they sorted-out the cooked flesh from the shots gave him dyspepsia for weeks after his contribution to her larder and made him prefer careful stalking and a few pellets in the head of a stationary rabbit.


  He employed his technique with the fullest skill in his mission to Rider’s garden. On the way there, he talked to himself as was his custom.

  “Am I bein’ made a mug of, or am I not?” he asked himself.

  He liked Littlejohn, but was fed-up with his presence in Stalden. Not that Mellalieu minded playing second fiddle to a greater than he; but his wife had given him a hell of a time since the arrival of the great man from London. Extra shine on his buttons; extra polish on his boots. Brush his clothes ten times a day. Don’t be seen in the garden “in his shirt”, as if a chap could help getting dirty among his celery and potato rows. Don’t shuffle yer feet, Arthur. Don’t talk so vulgar; be hoity-toity like. Regular round of parades and inspections by the missus. As if the Londoner had come down to try him out for a job in Scotland Yard itself! He knew his wife was ambitious for herself and him. But after all, there are limits…

  “Am I bein’ made a mug of?” he asked himself, “becos nobody makes a mug of William Arthur Mellalieu…not if he knows it…not if he knows it.”

  And so on, along the field-path which led to the back of Rider’s cottage. Then, applying the closure to his soliloquy, P.C. Mellalieu took to the hedge as he did when nearing a colony of rabbits. In due course, he reached the bottom of the writer’s back garden. The bobby had removed his helmet and looked a different man, almost another person, like a judge without his wig and robes or a beefeater in mufti. All that could eventually be seen of him among the hazel bushes was a pair of large, slightly protuberant, blue eyes, taking-in all that was going on. For Mr. Rider was digging earnestly in his flower plots.

  No need to seek far for papaver. There he was, Rhoeas, Argemone, Dubium in profusion of scarlet, growing wildly round the compost heap, generated from the refuse of the more orderly beds nearby. There were white poppies, too, with purple eyes. Papaver Somniferum, but Mellalieu did not recognize them at the time. He identified them from his gardening encyclopædia, when he got home. Meanwhile, he was realizing that there were several different kinds of poppy and memorizing their colours and shapes. He was also intently watching the occupant of the garden.