The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

Murderer

  I see their knavery; this is to make an ass of me;

  to fright me if they could. But I will not stir from this place,

  do what they can…

  —Act III. Sc. I.

  Littlejohn was flabbergasted at Congreve’s show of finery! If, as appeared to be the case, this type of hose with the fatal identification marks, was common all over the place, then the bottom fell out of the theory incriminating Rider. In the present case, however, Congreve was wearing a pair which matched each other and Littlejohn hastened to him to investigate the new phenomenon.

  “Where d’you get those socks, Congreve?” he said not too politely, for the idler seemed delighted with the situation. “I thought the one you gave me was the only one you’d got.”

  “Sell ’em to yer fer half a dollar apiece,” leered Congreve impudently.

  “Now, none of that. Answer the question and be quick about it.”

  “All right, sir, all right. No offence intended or taken. I ’ad ’em among me other clothes an’ changed into ’em after I give you the other.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “Missus got ’em from one of the places she works at.”

  “Which?”

  “Dunno…better ask ’er. She’ll tell yer.”

  Followed by Gillibrand, Littlejohn hurried to the washerwoman’s cottage. Mrs. Congreve was still ironing. This time it was somebody else’s smalls. She seemed surprised to see the Inspector again. He told her the purpose of his visit.

  “Oh, them!” she said. “An’ ’as ’e put on ’is best socks? The artful one that ’e is. Came ’ome and said he’d sold a sock and was puttin’ on another. Them’s his best. Miss Cockayne give them to me last Christmas, she did. Bought a pair for ’er young man, Mr. Rider—them as you know of—and another fer Mr. Wall, God rest ’im. Pore Mr. Wall’s feet was too big for those socks, so she gave ’em to me. Got them from London she did.”

  Considerably relieved, Littlejohn thanked the good woman and he and his colleague now made straight for Rider’s house. The man was at home, regarded them with an ill-grace as they arrived and, with a show of reluctance, asked them in. A half-filled glass of whisky and soda stood on his desk, but he did not invite his visitors to join him in a drink. The room was low and old-fashioned, with a french window giving on to the lawn and another overlooking the road across the garden gate.

  “Well, what is it now?” asked Rider. “I thought I’d told you policemen all I know about your infernal case…”

  “Not quite,” said Littlejohn. “There are still one or two questions we’d like to ask you about your connection with it, Mr. Rider.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes. To begin with, your alibi for the time of Mr. Wall’s murder has lost its confirmation…”

  “Miss Cockayne was with me and has said as much. What more do you want?”

  “Unfortunately, Miss Cockayne was asleep at the time.”

  “What nonsense is this? Has she told you so?”

  “Yes. And I think you know more about that than you have told us. I suggest, Mr. Rider, that she smoked a drugged cigarette which you gave her…”

  “Look here, I’m busy. I haven’t time to sit here listening to your preposterous nonsense. Drugged cigarette, indeed! What next? This isn’t a scene from the latest spy-thriller.”

  Littlejohn took the two drugged cigarettes which had been returned to him by the official chemist after examination, from his pocket and put them on the table.

  “Those were found in your workshop, Mr. Rider. They’ve been drugged. Just before Miss Cockayne fell asleep on the night in question, she smoked a cigarette from your case…”

  “By gad, I’ll make you pay for this,” shouted Rider now flushed with anger. “Not content with making insinuations, you have to break and enter my premises collecting evidence and then concoct a grotesque tale. The police’ll hear from my lawyer about it.”

  “Let that pass for the time being, Mr. Rider. We’re quite prepared to face any accusations in due course. For the present, we’re concerned with the night of the crime. When last I interviewed you, you kindly gave me the programme of a broadcast concert covering the fatal hour. In particular, we’re interested in whether or not you heard Elgar’s Enigma Variations. Did you?”

  “Of course. I did. Dammit, I’ve already told you.”

  “All through…? You’re a musical man, Mr. Rider?”

  “Yes. I like good music and know quite a bit about it. I heard the piece all through. Where the hell is this getting us, because I’m fed up with it all and I’ll be glad to see the last of you?”

  “Forgive my pressing the point, but did you hear the Nimrod variation, too?”

  “For the last time, Yes. I heard the whole damn lot and now let the matter drop. I’ve work to be getting on with.”

  “How comes it that you heard Nimrod, Mr. Rider, when there was a technical break in the broadcast that night, which cut the whole of that variation and a part of the following one off the air? I suggest that you weren’t indoors at all and that you left Miss Cockayne asleep whilst you left her place.”

  “Suggest what you damn well like. It’s all the same to me. Are you trying to say that I slipped out and murdered Wall? What should I want to kill the old chap for?”

  “Did you ever know a man named Bates?”

  Hitherto, Rider had managed to keep-up his bluff. The mention of Bates shook him for a moment, but he was soon back on form again.

  “No. Who the hell’s Bates?”

  “A member of a defunct gang of counterfeiters who once haunted Seven Sisters Road, Stockwell. Know the address?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “You used to send parcels to that address. Publishers, they were described as. Actually an accommodation address. Bates used to call for those parcels, Mr. Rider.”

  “Look here. What are you getting at? Murderer, counterfeiter, cigarette-doper. What next are you going to try on me? Get out. I’ve had enough.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Rider. Is this yours?”

  Littlejohn took the sock he had obtained from Congreve from his pocket and threw it on the table.

  Rider’s control was wonderful. He looked at the sock and then at Littlejohn without turning a hair.

  “How the blazes should I know. Why? You pinched that from here, too? I’ve scores of pairs of socks. And, I suppose there are scores like that about…”

  “This one was yours all right, Mr. Rider. I got it from Mrs. Congreve, your daily-help, who took it, as past wearing by you, from your mending and gave it to her husband.”

  “Well, what about it?”

  Littlejohn took the other sock from his pocket and threw it beside the one already on the table.

  “That one was used with a stone inside it, to knock out Bates prior to his being thrown into the well behind Mr. Wall’s house and drowned.”

  “Are you trying to say that Mrs. Congreve did the murder, or that she provided the weapon?”

  “No. Mrs. Congreve never had the second sock. She only took away one of the pair. The other was taken from her rag-bag here before she could take it home and as you’re the only one who has access to the place besides her, I think you know something about it.”

  “Good God! Another crime to my credit! How many more?”

  Rider laughed shrilly. Too shrilly. Then he picked up his glass of whisky and soda and balanced it between his fingers. He looked boldly at Littlejohn.

  “Well?” he said. “What next?”

  Littlejohn decided to answer boldness with boldness. If it didn’t come-off, he must take the consequences. But he was sure in his mind that the murderer was sitting before him and that nothing short of drastic measures would shake his complacency.

  “I don’t know how you came to live in Stalden, in t
he first place, Mr. Rider, but I suspect that your old confederate Bates…don’t interrupt, I’ll let you have your say later…I suspect that Bates told you it might prove a quiet hide-out when things were getting too hot in London. As head of the Seven Sisters gang, you found it convenient to prepare your plates for printing forged banknotes here and sent them to London, to an accommodation address, for Bates to pick up. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “Like hell I will. The whole thing’s just a crazy fairytale. I’ve no time for such nonsense…”

  “Well, for a time all goes well. Then the war arrives, the gang breaks-up, restrictions stop you from shipping off your dud notes to the continent and your income ceases from that source. You seek another. There’s an heiress in the village. Miss Cockayne. She’ll do.”

  Rider was on his feet in an instant and made for Little-

  john.

  “Why you…you swine. I’ll make you sit up for this. Nobody’s bringing her into this…”

  He made a lunge at the Inspector, who deftly avoided the blow and with an easy gesture swept Rider back into his chair.

  “Now, Mr. Rider, that’ll do. Be quiet, and listen to the rest.”

  Gillibrand began to look anxious. He sensed the beginning of a third-degree and he didn’t relish it. He had never worked with Littlejohn before or he wouldn’t have shown apprehension on that score.

  “Mr. Wall resisted your engagement, but you both carried the day and defied him. Unfortunately, the old man’s dislike was instinctive, and he’d none of your past history to guide him. However, your old colleague, Bates arrived here stealthily, in the nick of time. He, too, was feeling the effects of the slump in your trade and came to try to wring something from you by fair means or foul. Probably foul. That sealed his fate, for you cleared him out of the way before he began to talk.”

  Rider licked his lips and glared.

  “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. But go on, you haven’t got anything on me and I’ve got a devil of a lot on you. Gillibrand’s a witness, even if he is on your side now. The law’ll soon alter that, however, when I take you up for slander and assault.”

  “Bates and Wall had met before, Mr. Rider, in the capacity as doctor and patient, and Mr. Wall had usefully altered Bates’s features somewhat at a time when he didn’t want to be recognized and restored a disabled right arm to almost normal use. Bates called on Wall, as you knew he would, just at dusk so that he wouldn’t be seen. You gave yourself an alibi by gently putting your companion to sleep, racing out to follow Bates and killing him before she awoke. Then you pretended you’d been listening to a piece which hadn’t been broadcast at all. Bates had quarrelled with Wall and half-killed him in a struggle when you appeared. You had a very innocent-looking and handy portable weapon in your pocket. An old sock into which you slipped a large stone. When Bates emerged from the back of Wall’s house, you let him have it with your cosh and dropped him unconscious down the well on the other side of the fence. Then you returned to the still unconscious Wall and afraid of what he might have learned from Bates about you and how he’d use it to separate you from Miss Cockayne, you finished him off by hanging him on a rope in the surgery.”

  “All a lot of poppycock, and you can’t prove a word of it,” cried Rider, having recovered some of his poise.

  “No? The weapon is enough. I think your sock will hang you, Mr. Rider, and I’m prepared to back my judgment there.”

  Littlejohn nodded to Gillibrand, who rose and approached Rider.

  “Charles Rider,” said the local Inspector, “I arrest you in connection with the murder of Percival Bates and I have here a warrant for this purpose. I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

  Rider sighed heavily, stretched his legs and arms and yawned.

  “Really,” he said, pondered for a moment, and then drank off his glass of whisky and soda. As he gulped it down he made a wry face and then again regarded Littlejohn with a mixture of admiration and triumph.

  “Has the recital finished, Inspector, because it’s my turn now?” he almost shouted.

  “Yes. But remember, anything you say will be taken down…”

  “Oh, don’t say it again, man. Why make it like a twopenny shocker. Oh, Lord. Here come the real police.”

  Treading portentously up the front path was P.C. William Arthur Mellalieu, looking, in his anxiety to communicate with his superiors, like a hen wishing to lay an egg. He knocked boldly on the front door and Littlejohn rose to open it for him.

  “I got somethin’ I think I ought to tell you, sir,” said the bobby when the Inspector appeared. And in a low, hoarse voice, Mellalieu unburdened himself of a strange tale.

  Chapter XXII

  Hangman

  Approach, ye Furies fell!

  O Fates, come, come,

  Cut thread and thrum;

  Quail, crush, conclude and quell!

  —Act V. Sc. I.

  Rider showed signs of impatience when Littlejohn returned from his palaver with Mellalieu. Otherwise, he was sitting undisturbed by the accusations just levelled at him.

  “Come, Inspector,” he said as though inviting Littlejohn to an interview for a job, “I can only give you a few minutes and I’ve a lot to say.”

  Gillibrand’s eyebrows shot upwards in surprise at the cool effrontery of the fellow, but his colleague seated himself, unmoved.

  “As a detective story your account of what you’ve discovered by investigation backed up by surmise, would make very poor reading if it were published,” continued Rider. “For example, Bates’s forcing Wall to alter his features and restore the use of his arm on the strength of some cock-and-bull story about an illegal operation performed by his nephew. Come, come Inspector! I’m surprised at you. A man of old Wall’s strength of mind wouldn’t for a moment submit to such blackmail. No. Bates heard of Wall’s skill from his prison-mate, the murderer, and made up his mind when he got free to become a patient. But he’d more sense than to try blackmail there, even if he’d had the grounds for it. The truth was, according to Bates, old Wall simply didn’t know who Bates was. That’s all. The bonesetter didn’t bother himself with reading crime reports in newspapers. He was too busy and immersed in his job. He took-on Bates as a very interesting patient and Bates, in his desperation, was willing to submit to drastic treatment. A guinea-pig for an experiment. Wall found out who he was later, however. Somebody spotted Bates leaving at the end and gave Wall some old newspaper cuttings. The old chap showed them to Miss Cockayne and was upset about it, but Bates having gone God knows where by that time, the matter seemed to drop and whoever told Wall doesn’t seem to have pursued it further. Probably didn’t want to get the old man in trouble with the police.

  “You were right about Bates recommending Stalden to me as a quiet hide-out. A good guess on your part, for you can’t possibly have found it out by investigation.”

  Here Rider paused and winced, as though in pain. He gripped the arms of this chair convulsively and beads of sweat sprang from his forehead. Gillibrand rose anxiously from his seat, but Littlejohn laid a big restraining hand on his arm, and answered his look of questioning astonishment by a shake of the head. Rider seemed to recover from the passing spasm and resumed his narrative a little wearily.

  “I daresay you wonder why I’m being so damned communicative. In the first place, I was training as a barrister before I discovered that my true talents lay in the direction of chemistry with a spot of engraving thrown in. So I turned them to good account instead of waiting for problematical briefs. Now, my view as one trained in the law is that the sock in your pocket is enough to hang me, Littlejohn, wriggle as I may. Just the thing to carry a jury. Your bulldog of an average man doesn’t want a lot of airy pros and cons by lawyers. He wants something to get his teeth into, and there he has it. You’ll discover later in the tale that I’ve also other
motives for my confessions.”

  He winced again and put his hands to his midriff. Littlejohn again restrained Gillibrand.

  “Are you all right?” said the latter anxiously to Rider.

  “Yes. Just a touch of indigestion. I’m a martyr to it.”

  He sat-up again, white and shaken.

  “I must get this off my chest. You made a mistake, Littlejohn, about Miss Cockayne. I love her. It’s not her money I’m after. I intended to marry her and settle down to a peaceable country life. To-day, she sent me packing. She, too, found out about the drugged cigarettes, after you’d raised the point, of course. And I gather Mrs. Congreve told her about the sock, too, when she delivered her washing earlier to-day. Miss Cockayne bought those socks for me. So, when I called an hour ago, she told me plainly, she thought I’d killed Wall and never wanted to see my face again. I could have killed her, of course. But what’s the use…? I can’t go on killing people. I’d an account to settle with that wretched little doctor across the way. He saw Bates arriving here after dark on the night before the murder. Picked him up in his headlamps as he passed my cottage, saw him enter, and then identified him again when he was called to see his corpse after they’d hauled it out of the well. He didn’t go to the police, but came here. He’s hard-up through drinking all his earnings away and was prepared to sell his silence. I couldn’t have that over my head. So, I’d a rod in pickle for him. I was going to give him a glass of doctored whisky when he called and then take him for a ride in the woods and leave him there. Candidly, I’m in a mess. I used to be an expert at extricating myself. But this breach with Miss Cockayne has dulled my faculties, robbed me of my desire to get out of trouble…”

  He paused again, a curious look on his face as though anticipating a further spasm of pain, but nothing seemed to happen. He went on with his tale, but appeared to be gradually losing his nerve and powers of concentration. He passed his handkerchief across his lips and forehead with a trembling hand.

  “I must hurry. Can’t go on all day. Time’s limited…I was getting along very comfortably here and settling down. I’d even planned to get married and retire. I’d made enough money out of my trade…you know what it was, it seems, Littlejohn…and I looked forward to a peaceful existence pottering in my garden and playing at chemistry, which is my hobby. Old Wall objected to my marrying Miss Cockayne. He never liked me from the start. Thought me an idler and a dilettante, I guess. An instinctive antipathy.