Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Come an’ have something to buck you up, Effie. You look tired, Effie … I’m glad you’ve come back, Effie …”

  It made it all the more difficult for Mrs. Hinksman.

  “Will you want me to stay here long, sir?”

  “Not long. Sergeant Cromwell’s just gone to get Mrs. Wilkins.”

  Both women were on their feet together.

  “What’s she comin’ for? I really can’t meet her here. I ought to be at home and that’s where she expects me to be when she’s out. It’s not fair of you to …”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hinksman. This is very necessary and it’s better here than at the police-station.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do when she gets here? She’ll give me the sack for this.”

  “I thought you were giving notice in any case.”

  “Yes, but I wanted to give it, not be given it.”

  She sat down sulkily, fished in her bag, took out a mint imperial, and started to suck it as though somehow it gave her inner strength.

  Violet Mander waited until she’d finished and then she began to question Littlejohn, as well.

  “Why do I have to meet Mrs. Wilkins? Where do I come in? I’m sure if Mrs. Ladbroke sees me, I’ll lose my job, too. Do you really need me?”

  She looked so pathetic that if Littlejohn hadn’t known her thoroughly by this, his heart might have been softened.

  “Calm yourselves, both of you. You are needed in this interview, though I must tell you I can’t make you stay if you don’t wish to. But it’s better to go through it here in private than elsewhere … the police-station or even the Assize Court.”

  That silenced them both for a bit whilst they tried to straighten their thoughts and think out what Littlejohn had said. Mrs. Hinksman crunched her peppermint between her teeth.

  The Inspector stared out into the market place, puffing his pipe. He offered his cigarette-case to Violet, who took one, and he lit it for her. Mrs. Hinksman started to cough in protest and her peppermint seemed to do her no good. Littlejohn was at a bit of a loss with her. He didn’t know what to offer her, how to entertain her, or what to say to her in the way of light conversation. He need not have worried. She had her own thoughts and they were very superior ones as she compared herself with the world around, especially with her husband, her employer, and the abandoned Jezebel in whose company she was being forced to spend the time. Mrs. Hinksman was very self-contained. She had been saved, and well she knew it.

  “Here they are.”

  The car drew up with Cromwell looking unhappy in front and Aunt Sarah indignantly occupying the whole of the back and making the springs bounce and squeak. There was a scrimmage as Cromwell helped her out. He had to slide the front seat as far as it would go in the direction of the windscreen, and even then there was hardly space enough for Aunt Sarah’s exit. It was like a scene in a pantomime. A small knot of loafers started to give ribald advice and pass sarcastic comments.

  Then the noise approaching the snug indicated that Cromwell had had a bit of trouble carrying out his orders. Aunt Sarah was kicking up a row, snorting, stamping, wheezing heavily, as though intent on dying on her companion’s hands. In her anger, her voice grew loud and vulgar.

  “If he wants me, why can’t he come where I am? Sr’ Agnes’s place is better than this low pub and ten times more comfortable. And what am I supposed to do now I am here?”

  Her huge bulk filled the doorway, and then she saw Mrs. Hinksman and Miss Mander.

  “So!”

  It was a roar.

  “And what, might I ask, is the meaning of this? Why aren’t you in Melton Mowbray looking after the house instead of gallivantin’ all over the shop? What are you doing here? Have you been telling the police things about me?”

  Littlejohn cut her short.

  “I’ve brought her here and Miss Mander as well. The responsibility is entirely mine and you’ll see the reason for it all before we’ve finished. Won’t you sit down?”

  “I will not.”

  Aunt Sarah looked round for a large enough chair, however, and flopped in it.

  Cromwell remained in the doorway looking miserable. It was easy to see he’d had a rough passage getting Aunt Sarah where she was.

  “That young man threatened me. Said something about getting a warrant if I didn’t oblige.”

  She rounded on poor Cromwell. He was no longer her favourite policeman.

  “Well, young man. What about it? Where’s the warrant? Let’s be looking at it. Otherwise, I’ll ring up my lawyer right away and put the whole matter in his hands. You can’t make a fool of me, you know.”

  Cromwell looked plaintively at his boss.

  “Mr. Edgell will be here very shortly. You can take it up with him then, Mrs. Wilkins. Meanwhile, I’m sorry we’ve had to bring you here like this, but your help is absolutely necessary now. It may mean a miscarriage of justice unless you co-operate.”

  Aunt Sarah was by no means convinced. She shuffled in her chair, her lips were blue, and she still panted from her exertions.

  “Get me a glass of brandy, young man. I’m not feeling well.”

  Cromwell, eager to do something to placate her, however menial, flew eagerly out of the room, returned quickly, handed Mrs. Wilkins half a tumbler of neat spirit, and smiled knowingly. He’d helped himself to it in the absence of Mr. Blowitt, who was still making Effie comfortable and paying pathetic homage to her.

  Aunt Sarah’s temper immediately subsided as she smacked her lips over the drink. She might never have been in a rage at all. She paused until the liquor had got properly inside her, and then smiled back at Cromwell.

  “Now what do you want?” She hiccupped noisily.

  It wasn’t hard to guess that the shrewd old woman had known matters were reaching a climax when Cromwell called for her and she had tried to bluff her way out of it. Now, faced with Violet and Mrs. Hinksman, she had a good idea what was before her and was ready for a battle of wits.

  “To put it briefly, Mr. Edgell has told me that he was at your home in Melton Mowbray at the time Edwin Bunn met his death. He says he left at ten o’clock. Is that so, madam?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Hinksman reared in her chair. She wasn’t going to be made into a liar, Mrs. Wilkins or no Mrs. Wilkins. She hadn’t come all the way from Melton for that. She’d had enough of being used as a domestic doormat.

  “You’re wrong there, Mrs. Wilkins. He left at half-past nine, an’ well you know it.”

  She nodded her head for emphasis, looked hard at the brandy glass, which her mistress was still holding, and made a noise like “faugh” as well.

  It looked as if Aunt Sarah was going to have a stroke. She fought for air.

  “You keep your mouth shut, Belinda Hinksman, and don’t let me have any more of your impertinence. When I say a thing, I mean it. It was ten when Simon Edgell left Throstles Nest.”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t. I don’t tell lies, if other people do. It was half-past nine.”

  Aunt Sarah looked all round the room, making little pecking motions of the head as though she couldn’t believe her own ears and seeking from the very air inspiration as to how to deal with this rebellious menial.

  “Shut your mouth!”

  It looked like going on all day! A real slanging-match.

  “Please go and get Mr. Medlicott, Cromwell, and, at the same time, ask Inspector Myers to step across. Ask him, please, to bring with him a warrant for the arrest of Jubal Medlicott for the murder of Edwin Bunn.”

  Aunt Sarah slowly lumbered to her feet, waving her ebony stick about her, looking ready to intercept Cromwell violently.

  “What’s all this?”

  The sergeant slipped out with obvious relief.

  “Your statement, Mrs. Wilkins, completes the process of elimination I’ve been working on. That leaves Medlicott as the guilty party.”

  “Wait a minute, Inspector. What has that traitor been saying?”

  She point
ed at Mrs. Hinksman with her stick. Belinda rose with tight lips and fully on the warpath.

  “No need to try to frighten me. I told ’im the truth and my husband said the same. It’s two against one, even if you are Sarah Wilkins of Throstles Nest; and me and me ’usband gives you notice.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re sacked! Pack up your belongings, you wicked and unfaithful servant, and if you’re not out by week-end, I’ll have you thrown out, bag and baggage.”

  It was now Littlejohn’s turn to say wait a minute.

  “You persist in your statement about the time Mr. Edgell left you, Mrs. Wilkins?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Very well. You will be subpoenaed for the trial of Medlicott to say it in court and Mr. Harry Habakkuk will also be called to give evidence and to produce the sealed packet you recently left with him.”

  Aunt Sarah looked ready to have a fit.

  “What do you know about sealed packets? I never…”

  Littlejohn didn’t, but it was a reasonable assumption on the face of things. Why else, if Edgell were family lawyer, should Aunt Sarah be employing another solicitor and a young and obsequious one, eager to obey her to the letter?

  All her wrath had evaporated and she looked a bothered and lonely old woman at her wits’ end.

  “I’ve reason for believing that you left with Mr. Habakkuk a statement sealed in a packet, to be opened in certain circumstances, and that it contains vital evidence connected with the death of Edwin Bunn.”

  “Has Habakkuk been talking, then?”

  She said it craftily, trying to seek out the chinks in Littlejohn’s armour.

  “No.”

  “It’s Edgell!”

  “I decline to discuss the matter. It’s there and we shall take steps to avail ourselves of it.”

  “You can’t. It’s against the law.”

  “This is murder and nothing is going to stop us finding out all about it. Now, are you going to tell me the truth? I know you’re trying to protect an old friend and I admire you for it, but matters have gone too far, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  She obviously didn’t know what to do. Anne Bunn had, since she was a child, been her favourite relative. The arrest of Medlicott would be the last straw. It would kill Anne. Besides, Jubal was one of the clan, even if only by marriage, and even if he was a fool …

  “How can such a statement save Jubal Medlicott? It doesn’t sound reasonable.”

  Again the cunning look, the cornered animal seeking a way out.

  “That’s our business. Will you make a proper statement?”

  “Very well. But not because that hussy, Belinda Hinksman, has played the Judas on one who’s always treated her like her own flesh and blood. It’s because of Anne … Poor Anne … Such a sweet little thing, too, when she was young …”

  There was a sob in her voice. Littlejohn remembered that she, too, had once been something of an actress.

  Aunt Sarah looked across at Violet Mander.

  “Hullo, Violet. How do you come to be mixed up in this silly affair? Are they bullying you, too?”

  Violet gave her the innocent look which seemed to be part of her stock-in-trade.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Wilkins. They’ve been most kind and considerate. Although I don’t quite know where I come in.”

  “Poor Anne. What a state she’s got in. As pretty as a picture in her prime; and now, a withered old woman before her time.”

  The brandy was taking effect on Aunt Sarah and making her maudlin.

  “I keep looking at you, Violet …”

  She raised her stick, pointed at Violet Mander, and addressed the room in general.

  “Vi, there, is the image of Anne when my poor niece was her age. Same blue eyes, same cast of features, same look, as though she were surprised at what she saw in life. The image of her! Though I must say she daren’t show as much of herself as Vi does; her father would have put her across his knee and slapped her if she’d tried.”

  Aunt Sarah lowered the stick and shrugged.

  “Now look at her. Old and ill and with a silly husband and a couple of stupid daughters on her hands. All her money and her good looks gone. A sort of caricature of Violet …”

  Then she flew into a rage, gnashing her teeth, thumping her stick on the floor.

  “Let it be a warning to you, Violet. Looks don’t last. It nearly makes you stop believing there’s a God …”

  Belinda Hinksman was up in arms at once. She wasn’t going to stand for that. Her face was red, her hair seemed to grow wild and dishevelled of its own accord, and she clenched her fists till the knuckles grew white.

  “How dare you? But then you never believed in Saving Grace, did you? You’re a lost woman, Mrs. Wilkins, a lost woman. Me and my husband gives you notice.”

  “Don’t try to get out of getting the sack by preaching at me, Belinda Baggs, or Hinksman, or whatever name you call yourself now you’ve married your clod of a husband.”

  Littlejohn let it go on. Between them they had brought to light a startling fact. When Anne Bunn was young, she resembled Violet Mander! Not like a Bunn at all! The beauty of the family; and now here was her younger replica; or, at least, after all the years, the older generation thought so.

  The car was back again at the front door of the pub. Cromwell was bringing in Jubal Medlicott. It was like the comings and goings at a wedding!

  Jubal looked at his wits’ end. He’d been pushed around, questioned, suspected, insulted so much since the murders that he didn’t know whether he was on his head or his heels. His wife had done her best to turn him out as spick and span as usual, but there was a difference. The light seemed to have died out in him. There was no bounce or polish left; he was tarnished and moth-eaten. The absence of his spats emphasized his old shoes, cracked and worn across the insteps and down at heel. His suit had been pressed, but he’d no flower in his coat. His usually bright spectacles wanted polishing and instead of the once prancing little steps, he half shuffled in the room and looked around shamefacedly.

  “Hello, Jubal.”

  “Hello, Aunt Sarah.”

  That was all. He didn’t seem to notice the rest.

  “Sit down, please, Mr. Medlicott. I promised I’d call in Mr. Edgell if we sent for you to question you again.”

  Medlicott was in the act of sitting on a chair by the fireside. He hung suspended in mid-air, his legs bent, his rear protruding like a duck’s.

  “But I’ve told you all I know. You’ve got me bewildered till I don’t know what I’m saying. I can’t sleep at night and it’s affecting my wife’s health. It’s not right the way you’re treating me.”

  He bumped down in the chair and exchanged thin smiles with Violet Mander. Both of them looked as ready to weep as to smile.

  Littlejohn turned to Cromwell again.

  “Did you let Inspector Myers know?”

  “He’s out, sir, but they’re trying to get hold of him. They’ll send him across.”

  “Perhaps you’ll step over to Mr. Edgell’s office, then, and tell him to come along.”

  Cromwell looked happy to get away again.

  Aunt Sarah rose with difficulty and crossed the room to where Jubal sat slumped by the fire, stood in front of him, and tapped his shoulder with her swollen finger.

  “He’s got you here to arrest you, Jubal. You always were a fool, you know, just a harmless fool, and how you got yourself mixed-up in this sorry business I can’t for the life of me think. But you can depend on me. I know a thing or two, and nobody’s going to touch you.”

  Medlicott wasn’t interested, however. He gave Aunt Sarah a glazed look, threw up his hands, opened his mouth, and pitched full length on the floor, unconscious.

  20

  THE DEFEAT OF AUNT SARAH

  IT seemed to take them an age to bring Jubal Medlicott round. The commotion brought Mr. Blowitt from his retreat whence he was followed by Effie, who turned out to be a tower of strength in the confusion. She seemed to know everyone exc
ept Littlejohn, took them all for granted, put Jubal on a wooden couch, gave him brandy, and revived him with it. He was full of apologies and shame for his fit of weakness.

  In the mix-up Blowitt came and went, excited, wringing his hands, delighted by Effie’s efficiency, almost beside himself with conflicting emotions. He carried stimulants to Mrs. Wilkins as well and tried Belinda Hinksman, too, and was rebuffed. At length he returned, looking nervous and pale, gazed through the window and registered acute anxiety. Cromwell and Inspector Myers were crossing the market square together. They walked solemnly like two figures representing the relentlessness of fate, neither speaking, their faces set and grim. Mr. Blowitt seemed in a hurry.

  “If you’ll come to the bar, Miss Mander, I’ll find you a little pick-me-up, too. You look all-in. Come along.”

  Violet Mander followed like a lamb, meek and showing no surprise. Littlejohn was hoisting Medlicott back in his chair where he sat slumped and white.

  Aunt Sarah was fortified by more brandy but when Cromwell and Myers entered, fear and tragedy were written all over her face. She made a great effort to pull herself together, but her features twitched and her looks grew wild. She kept glancing apprehensively at the door even after the officers had entered.

  “Where’s Edgell?”

  Littlejohn stood bolt upright, his face anxious and set.

  “He said he’d come right away, so I went to see if the Inspector was about. He’d just got in … Edgell should be here by now …”

  There was a second’s silence. The sun was shining outside and the noises of vehicles and shouting in the market square contrasted sharply with the hush in the room. Belinda Hinksman sat straight as a ramrod in her chair, like one who resented the company and the place she was in, but was making the best of it. Aunt Sarah, in sharp contrast, looked broken, her lips quivered and she began to sob.