Myers was stiff and disapproving. He thought all this should have gone on at the police-station.
“You sent for me, Inspector?”
Littlejohn didn’t heed him. Instead, he rushed from the room, followed by Cromwell, leaving the rest surprised and aghast.
When the officers arrived at Edgell’s chambers the girl in the outer office met them leisurely, her jaws rotating round her chewing-gum.
“He left just after the gentleman called …”
She indicated Cromwell.
“Where does he park his car?”
“In the street behind The Freemasons’.”
They tore out, ran up an alley, and found themselves right behind the hotel in a narrow cobbled thoroughfare with cars parked in a string down one side. There was only room for other traffic to pass in single file. One end was blocked by a dust-cart into which dustmen were casually tipping the contents of bins which festooned the back doors of the property fronting on the market place. Half-way down the street stood a brewery lorry which had been discharging barrels at The Freemasons’. The driver of the lorry was slowly backing out, trying to make way for a car wedged between his vehicle and the dust-cart. The occupants were Edgell and Violet Mander. Edgell’s head was thrust out of his car and he was angrily shouting orders to the brewery drayman.
Then he saw Littlejohn …
The gathering in the snug was suddenly roused by noises and shouting. Banging doors, running feet, furniture being overturned, and a crash of glasses falling on the floor.
Myers appeared in the lobby with Mr. Blowitt, with the faces of the women in a huddle trying to look out and see what was going on.
“What’s all this …?”
Steps mounting the stairs, others in pursuit, shouts, and then the heavy slamming of a door. Myers followed and then Blowitt.
Inspector Myers was angry, almost violent. He felt he was being edged out of the case and now he was going to show them who was who.
“What’s the meaning of …?”
Littlejohn and Cromwell were applying their shoulders to the door of the room they had occupied since they’d arrived in Enderby. It resisted their efforts. The Freemasons’ wasn’t a very old place, but the brewers had, in reconstructing it, tried to make it look like one, and put in heavy oak doors on the ground and first floors to give it an antique finish.
“Edgell’s got Miss Mander in here and the door’s locked. Give us a hand. Have you another key, Blowitt?”
“Won’t be much good, sir. There’s bars on as well.”
“Get an axe, then.”
“But …”
Blowitt’s eyes nearly left their sockets at the thought of such an outrage.
“Get one …”
The oak door was set in a deep frame and the policemen couldn’t get at it to give it their joint weight.
Inside, there were voices. Edgell’s cracking like a whip, then pleading; Violet Mander’s raised to a pitch of hysteria.
“No … I tell you. No. I don’t want … Please … I’ll do anything but not …”
Then a revolver shot.
The officers threw their weight against the door again. Below, Blowitt was ascending with the axe, a stupid little thing he used for chopping firewood.
“I can’t find the big one. It must have been pinched. Will …?”
Another shot. Then silence.
The lock and the bolt gave way together and the door crashed open.
The large, rather shabby room which Littlejohn and Cromwell had grown to know so well, and where not a single article of furniture stood steadily on all its legs at once. The two large beds with brass knobs and on one of the knobs, the cloth cap Cromwell sometimes wore after dark.
Edgell and Violet Mander were stretched across the bed which had belonged to Ned Bunn. The lawyer’s arm was round Violet’s waist. He was dead. They thought Violet Mander was dead, too, but as Littlejohn bent over her, her china-blue eyes opened, she tried to speak, smiled faintly, and then died.
People were trying to get upstairs to see what was going on and Mr. Blowitt was barring the way waving his silly little axe.
“Get down. There’s nothing you can do. Get down or I’ll …”
Littlejohn appeared at the bedroom door and beckoned the landlord.
“Did you tell Miss Mander that Edgell was waiting for her at the back door?”
Blowitt licked his lips and looked sorry for himself.
“Yes, sir. He said he only wanted a word with her and to tell her on the Q.T… Is she …? Are they …?”
“Both dead …”
“This is a nice mess, and no mistake. I’ll be glad to hear what it’s all about.”
Myers was as pale as death and nasty about it all. He thought he could have made a better job of the investigation himself and he didn’t hesitate to say so afterwards all over the place. “If you ask me, Scotland Yard have messed the whole thing up. Made a complete failure of it.”
In the snug, the women were sitting in a terrified group. Effie was the only one who looked herself. Aunt Sarah sagged in her chair like a bundle of old clothes and Mrs. Hinksman was praying and sobbing noisily at the same time.
Blowitt entered, his forehead bathed in sweat, his face like putty. He had been bracing himself at the bar and when he breathed a gust of alcohol swept the room.
“The police surgeon’s here. I’ve taken him up. It’s opening-time; do you think it’ll be all right …?”
Myers looked ready to murder Blowitt.
“No, it won’t. Let ’em go thirsty for once.”
“But some of them want lunches.”
“They can do without!”
Through the window came the noises of a large crowd of spectators, peering, craning their necks, trying to get in to see the sights. Four policemen elbowed their way in, sternly pushed away the mob, and waved them off. There were complaints at their officiousness and people started to line-up on the kerb opposite to get a good view of what was going on.
Aunt Sarah had recovered a bit and Effie gave her another drink of brandy and water.
“I knew he was mad about her. But what did he want to do that for? He’d had his life. Hers was only just beginning. To go and …”
Effie hovered round, trying to calm her.
“You knew Edgell killed Edwin Bunn, didn’t you, Mrs. Wilkins?”
Littlejohn was the first to speak about the murder.
“She can make a statement at the police-station. We ought to be getting along.”
Myers was showing his teeth again.
“I’m conducting this case, Inspector. You’ll have your turn later. Now, Mrs. Wilkins …”
Aunt Sarah looked pitifully at him.
“Yes. I didn’t know at first. But after I arrived here, I started to make enquiries around and when I found Ned had been up to his tricks with Violet Mander, I knew Edgell wouldn’t stand for that. You see, it was really on account of Ned that Edgell lost Anne years ago. They never got on. Ned always said it was through Edgell that he wasn’t treated like the rest of the family. Edgell, he said, never forgot he was a bastard. So whenever he could do him a dirty trick, he did. Anne used to work in the shop and Ned encouraged Jubal Medlicott to keep calling, till Anne got carried away with his fancy ways and married him. Edgell was mad about her, but she never cared much for him … So …”
Until his name was mentioned, they’d all forgotten about Jubal. Where he had been and what doing during the hullabaloo nobody seemed to know. Now, he materialized in the chimney-corner, his head between his hands, rolling from side to side. He had been helping himself to the brandy bottle and was drunk.
The ambulance arrived amid a clanging of bells. The heavy tramp of men with stretchers sounded on the stairs.
“I’m going up to see to things. I shall expect a full statement at the station later.”
Myers went huffily. He hadn’t forgiven Littlejohn and was, as far as he was concerned, running the last lap of the case on hi
s own. The air seemed to clear as Myers left the room. The party became more intimate. Aunt Sarah, broken and in tears, Jubal drunk in his corner, Belinda Hinksman petrified by a situation she thought could only exist in highly indecent fiction which she never read; and Effie, cool, experienced, disillusioned and kindly, as women of her type usually are. Cromwell was still upstairs with the surgeon and the local men.
Littlejohn sat on a chair beside Aunt Sarah.
“Did you challenge Edgell about the murders?”
“Yes, I did. You see, he made the mistake of mentioning that he left Melton at half-past nine on the night of Ned’s murder. He introduced it in conversation, casually, and I corrected him. Then he got so insistent that I was suspicious. Besides, he called for nothing at my place that night. He must just have been giving himself an alibi.”
“Was that the day you found me in Edgell’s office and asked me to leave you together?”
“Yes. I had my suspicions, because I knew Ned and Edgell weren’t too friendly. But I’d also heard from various members of the family that Jubal was suspected. He couldn’t or wouldn’t give an alibi for himself on the night of the crime. I was sure Medlicott wouldn’t kill anybody. A harmless man, even if he is a fool …”
“Wassat? Me?”
Jubal had wakened from his stupor and called out from his corner.
Aunt Sarah’s old temper flashed out and then died away.
“Go to sleep, you. This doesn’t concern you at all.”
“Sorry, I’m sure …”
And Medlicott obeyed orders and went off again.
“I wasn’t going to have Jubal in trouble; for Anne’s sake, I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to let you hang him. So, I told Edgell I’d keep quiet just as long as nobody else suffered. Also …”
Her voice came in a crafty whisper.
“Also, I made it a condition that he wrote me a letter saying he accidentally killed Ned… a kind of confession. I wasn’t going to have him kill me as well. I lodged it at the bank through Habakkuk, the lawyer. It’s there still and I’ll give it to you. Habukkuk doesn’t know what’s in it. I made a new will with him and said that, if I died violently, my executors, the bank, were to open the letter and deal with it as they saw fit. If I died in my bed, the letter was to go to Edgell. You see, if Edgell died first, it wouldn’t have mattered. The letter was then put in my strong-box at the bank and I alone have the key.”
“I’m surprised you agreed to that, Mrs. Wilkins. It’s quite a penal offence, you know. Why did you do it?”
The old woman sighed.
“I was wrong, I admit. But our family did Edgell a terrible injury. He ought to have had Anne, you know. Ned was responsible for his losing her and for his lonely life after, because he was really a one-woman man who never loved anybody else. I was sorry for him. Besides, there was Violet.”
Littlejohn lit his pipe.
“You mean, he met her and she looked so much like the woman he’d loved so long ago, that he fell in love with her?”
“Madly. All the lost love since Anne jilted him seemed to be for Violet. He met her at my place. I was once connected with the stage a bit and used to entertain the actors who came to the local theatre. Violet was there with a stock company for a month or two before they went bankrupt. She came a lot. I got very fond of her; almost as if she was my own …”
Tears flowed again. The whole of Aunt Sarah’s massive frame shook and she bawled loudly because it was too much strain to weep quietly. Mrs. Hinksman crossed to her, put her arms round her, and tried to comfort her.
“There, there, don’t go on so, Mrs. Wilkins. I won’t give notice. I’ll stay with you. It’s only Hinksman wants to leave and ’e don’t matter. You’ve got your old Belinder …”
Aunt Sarah forgot her grief.
“Don’t you make out, Belinda Hinksman, that you’re withdrawing your notice. It’s me that’s withdrawing the sack. You can stay on if you want. I’ll be glad to have you back.”
“But I gave me notice …”
Littlejohn intervened.
“Now, now, you two. No more squabbling. This isn’t the time or place …”
The venomous looks they both gave him silenced him. He suddenly realized that this was their way of life and they got a lot of entertainment, even happiness from it. They were always sacking and giving notice, but they never parted.
“Well, now that’s settled, Mrs. Wilkins, suppose you tell me the rest. What about your conscience and poor Browning? You couldn’t square that, could you? You couldn’t forgive Edgell coming behind a helpless man and just choking him with his muffler, could you?”
Aunt Sarah gave him an amazed look.
“Browning. I know nothing about Browning. I read he was dead in the paper, but who killed him, I didn’t know. How could I be expected to know who murdered him? I wasn’t there, was I?”
Littlejohn shook his head at her.
“You crafty old woman! You were very fond of Edgell, weren’t you? You were prepared to let him off his crimes provided nobody else suffered. But let me tell you, Browning was part of a plot to get Medlicott down to town on the night Ned Bunn was killed, part of a scheme to destroy any alibi he might have had. Browning did jobs of work for Edgell. Most likely he owed Edgell money and was in his clutches. Then, he turned awkward and tried blackmail. I’m sure that even before that, Edgell was determined to kill him if necessary. He tried to put the blame for that on Medlicott, too, by leaving prominent footmarks, with spats, the size Jubal wore. He must have carried his hatred through life, but till Bunn started his tricks on Violet, it wasn’t powerful enough to make him kill anybody. When Bunn looked like tormenting Violet and perhaps ruining Edgell’s happiness, as he’d done before—and, by the way, he’d done the same to Blowitt—Edgell saw red, killed Bunn and tried to incriminate Medlicott.”
“I tell you, I’m not interested in Browning. Why should I be? He wasn’t one of the Bunns …”
She wouldn’t budge, but Littlejohn knew her well enough by this and was sure she had held that secret as well.
“I was fond of Simon Edgell. He was like one of the family. A discreet man, who’d always been around helping us all …”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilkins, and full of family secrets, some of them not too savoury. The death of Jerry Bunn, for example. Was it natural or was it …?”
“Stop! No use washin’ old clothes, Inspector. Let the dead rest in peace.”
“Edgell wouldn’t have done if you’d dared not support him in trying to cover his crimes. It was blackmail kept your mouth shut, Mrs. Wilkins. He knew enough to make the name of Bunn a disgraceful byword if he’d cared to talk. So you gave him an alibi … You also had to chase away Miss Bathsheba Bunn, whose offers of large rewards might have brought a lot of unsavoury information to light.”
“I’ve said I was wrong. What more do you want?”
Suddenly a hush fell over them all. Stumbling, lumbering footsteps on the stairs, slowly, one at a time, bump, bump, bump. They were bringing down the bodies. The outer door opened. Another pause and the ambulance, gong-gonging furiously, whined away. Mr. Blowitt entered. He’d had another bracer or two and was half-seas over.
“They’ve gone, Effie.”
He seemed only concerned with her.
She gave Mrs. Wilkins a pat on the arm.
“You’ll be all right now?”
“Yes, thank you, Effie.”
Mr. Blowitt breathed a fog of alcohol over Littlejohn.
“Can we open now? We’ve put a rope across the stairs so’s nobody can go up and mess about.”
“Very well, if the local police agree. Ask Mr. Myers.”
Aunt Sarah had pulled herself together now that it was all over. She blew her nose on a large handkerchief.
“Simon Edgell was crazy about Anne. I know it was like crucifying him to watch her going downhill because Medlicott was so rotten at business. Edgell offered to help her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said it would be wrong after
the way she’d treated him.”
She pointed her stick at Jubal, asleep in his corner, snoring, with his mouth open and blowing out his whiskers with every gust of breath.
“You wouldn’t think to look at him that he was the start of it all, would you? Life’s funny. Fate uses the most ridiculous people to play leading parts in the terrible dramas of life. Violet was remarkably like Anne when she was young and what she lacked in similarity, Edgell must have painted in in imagination. He gave her the mad, pathetic love of an ageing man. You can’t blame him, Inspector. She had such good looks and style and she played up to him so. He created the job for her with Mimi, just to get her near him, and then Ned started his tricks. Do you blame Edgell getting mad and making up his mind to settle with Ned once for all?”
“It was planned with mature cunning, a real lawyer’s crime. Alibi, the right time and place, and, if he didn’t succeed that time, he could wait. As it was, he had a dark night and rain confusing the issue. I suppose he crept out the back way.”
“He didn’t say. He never gave me any details.”
“You’ve been very wrong, you know, Mrs. Wilkins. You knew of the crimes and who did them, and yet you kept quiet. It was your duty to tell me or the local police.”
She sighed again and rose unsteadily, for the brandy had got in her legs.
“I’ll take my medicine. Who’d have thought I’d die in prison. How long will they give me?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to make a statement at the local police-station. Myers will see to that.”
He looked at the slumbering Medlicott and at Belinda Hinksman, who didn’t understand a word of what was going on. She only knew that in her wildest nightmares she’d never experienced anything so unbelievable as her present situation, and once back at Throstles Nest, she wasn’t stirring out into the wide, wicked world again.
“I shall have to put in my report, of course. Edgell’s lack of alibi; his motives; his hatred of Ned Bunn; and, finally, the confession, a letter left behind …Was it addressed to you?”
Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 21
