The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  Before he left Cape Mervin, he gave Cromwell full details of the crime to date and told him to keep his eyes and ears open both in the hotel and out of it. In particular, more information was required about the card players and Father O’Shaughnessy and his billiard playing friend.

  Cromwell nodded gravely. It was like putting a good dog on the scent.

  The train stopped at Perryton Junction and Littlejohn had to get a taxi for the remaining four miles. He was surprised when his decrepit conveyance stopped at Cranage Farm. It was hardly what he had expected.

  Instead of a gracious black-and-white place, in keeping with most of the other farms in the neighbourhood, Cranage was a gaunt red-brick building with tall queer-shaped chimneys and misshapen wings jutting from the main block. A number of outbuildings joined by a high wall encircled the house, almost converting it into a small fortress. The place was spotlessly clean, but no amount of care could make the farm less sombre.

  A dumpy maid with a limp answered the door. She had been weeping. News of the bishop’s death had arrived there, for all the blinds were drawn, giving an even more ominous aspect to the existing gloom.

  A tall, loose-limbed man followed almost on the heels of the maid. And a fair, stout woman came from another inner room at the same time.

  It was as though a visitor to the front door was so rare that it brought out all the occupants of the house. Somewhere upstairs somebody was knocking impatiently with a stick on the floor.

  The tall, dark man lost patience.

  “It’s all right, Emily,” he said to the fair woman and at the same time dismissed the maid with an abrupt gesture. “It’s the man from Scotland Yard Frank telephoned about. I’ll see him. And tell mother to stop knocking. We can’t do everything at once.”

  Littlejohn on the doorstep took it all in. Presumably Frank was Sir Francis and he had warned the family already of the police visit.

  “Come in, Inspector. I’m the bishop’s brother….”

  “Sir Francis Tennant has already told you I was coming, sir? I assume Frank is Sir Francis….”

  “Yes. He didn’t want mother bothering. She’s very old now and we don’t like her disturbing. But come in….”

  When the front door was closed, you could hardly see a foot ahead of you. The dark corridor was heavy with pleasant smells. Ripe pears probably stored in the garrets, hay, and now and then, the scent of the dairy.

  A shaft of bright daylight crossed the hall as Macintosh opened the door of one of the rooms. There was a hat-stand, a hall chair, a lot of coats hanging on pegs. Nothing more. A staircase with a graceful mahogany handrail went up from one side.

  The fair woman had gone upstairs and could be heard arguing with someone else. The other voice was sharp and quavering. Probably the old lady.

  “You are not to go down, grannie. It’ll only upset you. Now be good and stay in your chair….”

  “Come in here, Inspector.”

  The room was small and dark. A narrow sash window provided all the light, which seemed to fade out within a yard of it, leaving corners lost in gloom. A log fire burned in an old-fashioned grate. Even then, the place had a cold, damp smell. The furniture was out of date, too. A horsehair suite, two saddleback horsehair armchairs, a round mahogany table poised on a central claw-leg. There were little tables, too, crowded with souvenirs and knick-knacks. A family bible and photograph album on the heavy sideboard and a lot of old ornaments scattered about. The whole place was depressing.

  Robert Macintosh had been writing. Pens, ink, paper and envelopes scattered on the table and a number of open letters as though he might have been answering them or seeking addresses from them. Probably dealing with correspondence arising out of his brother’s death.

  “You are not a farmer, sir?”

  It was written all over him. He belonged to the professional type. Well-kept hands, good clothes, clean linen. And a sort of austerity about his movements. His face was like that of his dead brother; long, heavy, solemn. His features hardly moved, but you could see he was nervous. Perhaps the shock of the murder had put him off his balance.

  “No. I’m a solicitor in practice in Medhope. My younger brother farms this place. He’s about the buildings somewhere…. I am Robert; my brother is Rufus; and the bishop was James. Now you know us.”

  “I’m very sorry to bother you at a time like this, but immediate information is most important, sir, as you’ll appreciate.”

  “Of course I do. Sit down. Now anything you wish to ask me….”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The window faced a well-kept lawn bordered with fruit trees and with a large elm in the centre of it. Two horses were eating the leaves of the hawthorn hedge. Beyond stretched an endless succession of arable fields and pastures right to the skyline. Now and then you could hear faint explosions from distant quarries.

  “This must have been a great shock to you all, sir….”

  “Yes. The murder of my brother has stunned us. It is quite unthinkable.”

  “You have no idea of what might have been the motive, I take it. I must confess it baffles us….”

  Robert Macintosh passed his large white hand over his bald forehead.

  “What motive could there be? A bishop, a prominent and well-liked man, suddenly done to death with great violence. Incredible!”

  “Do you know anything of your late brother’s researches in psychology?”

  The lawyer gave Littlejohn a sharp look. His hands were active all the time. He interlaced the fingers, tugged at them, fumbled with the seals on his watch-chain, dragged at his collar which seemed to choke him, pulled at his lower lip. Never still.

  “So you know that already? No, I can’t help you. My brother’s medical researches were quite outside my orbit….”

  “You sound as if you didn’t approve of them, all the same.”

  “I didn’t. We rather got at cross-purposes about them. I think the clergy would do well to leave such things alone. They are the business of medical men ….”

  “Your brother’s zeal in that direction caused him to neglect his pastoral duties … ?”

  “That too! You seem to know a lot, Inspector. But it was quite true. I feel it retarded his progress in the church.”

  “Do you think the work in any way unhinged your brother’s mind? He was in a poor state of physical health when he died. His body was emaciated by experiments….”

  Robert Macintosh rose hastily to his feet and towered over Littlejohn.

  “That state of my brother’s mental health was perfect,” he shouted in sudden anger.

  He was livid. Then he recovered just as quickly.

  “Pardon me, Inspector,” he said quietly. “But that is a sore point with me. I saw him regularly and urged him to stop those devastating experiments, but he refused. The whole affair got on my nerves. To see his career jeopardised….”

  Macintosh shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

  “Were you here at the time of your brother’s death, sir?” asked Littlejohn.

  He gave the time and date.

  Macintosh jerked himself upright.

  “What is the purport of that question?” he asked in his best legal manner.

  “Purely formal, as you are aware, sir.”

  “I was at a meeting of the Friends of Greyle Cathedral, a county body which raises funds for keeping good the structure of the building…. You can easily confirm that.”

  “Thank you, sir. And your brother Rufus?”

  “At the farm, here, of course. You can hardly expect him to be elsewhere. These are busy days for farmers. He was hardly likely to be murdering his own brother sixty miles away at nearly midnight!”

  Macintosh was growing heated again.

  “I’m not suggesting any such thing, sir. We have these routine questions to ask….”

  “There are limits, Inspector.”

  Littlejohn was about to ask if he could see Rufus for a minute, when suddenly a great commotion broke out on
the stairs.

  “Now, mother, you know you mustn’t…. Your heart…. Please be sensible….”

  “I will see him … ! I will see him …!”

  Shuffling footsteps, the tapping of a stick, other footsteps hurrying upstairs and then, as the parties met, a further altercation.

  “Stand aside, Esther! I order you …! How dare you? Let me go. . . .”

  Robert Macintosh rose and hurried across the room impatiently. Just in time to meet his mother in the doorway.

  A furious, little old lady, red in the cheeks, her bluish lips puckered in petulant rage, her ebony stick gripped half-way, her body trembling. She had a round, wrinkled face and blue eyes flashing with anger.

  “So you’re the policeman! You don’t look like one, I must say. Why waste time here when my son’s blood calls for vengeance from far away? What has he done to deserve this? My dear son who grew up to be a bishop….”

  And then the rage which had sustained her suddenly ebbed. She sank on the settle by the door and began to weep noisily like a child.

  “I told you, mother …”

  The fair-haired woman fluttered helplessly about.

  In the distance a violent explosion from the quarries….

  The old woman rocked herself to and fro and pettishly pushed away the hands of her daughter-in-law, who sought to get her to her feet.

  “I said what it would be years ago when he married Evelyn. Ill-fated, it was, to have anything to do with Evelyn….”

  Robert Macintosh flapped his hands angrily.

  “Be quiet, mother. Evelyn has nothing to do with this….”

  He filled a small glass with brandy and gave it to his mother.

  “Drink it,” he said fiercely. Then he turned almost craftily towards Littlejohn just to see how he was reacting to the disturbance.

  “Now mother, go back to your room. You can do no good here and we’ll tell you all about it later. You don’t want to be ill again, do you?”

  All the old lady’s resistance was gone. She just sat and moaned to herself.

  “I can’t get back up the stairs, Robert. I can’t. Let me stay, Robert. I’ll be quiet. You, sir, you’ll let me stay, won’t you?”

  She turned in childish, almost half-witted appeal to Littlejohn.

  “I think you’d better be getting back to your room, madam. I’m going, you see. I’m so sorry you’ve been disturbed.”

  “I don’t blame you, Mr…. Mr. who ever they call you. But I want to hear what they’re saying about my son … my dead son. I’m his mother … I’ve a right to hear….”

  Hob-nailed boots sounded in the passage and the doorway was filled by the huge frame of Rufus Macintosh. His name suited him. He had red hair, red face and a red moustache. Quite unlike the other members of the family. Huge, simple, homely type, with probably a hot temper. He had a shaggy old sheepdog at his heels.

  “Why mother! What are you doing down here?”

  The old lady stretched out her arms to Rufus like a frightened child.

  “I came down and I can’t get back. Robert says I’m to go back, but nobody cares how I get back, Rufus.”

  “What’s the meaning of this, Robert? Can’t you see she’s all in?”

  Rufus’s temper was rising.

  “Come, mother….”

  He picked her up like a bundle of feathers and, with her arms round his neck, gently carried her off and upstairs.

  “And now, Robert …”

  Rufus was down again and was mad with his brother. The veins of his forehead stood out swollen and livid. His mother must have been telling him her troubles….

  A hot-tempered, cross-grained lot, thought Littlejohn.

  Robert had opened his mouth to tell his tale, when suddenly there was a further commotion. This time it sounded to come from high up in the garrets.

  The voice of Emily, the lame maid, was heard in a high-pitched shout.

  “Mr. Robert! Mr. Robert! Mr. Rufus …! Miss Barbara’s out of her room and I can’t get her back. She’s coming down … Mr. Rufus!”

  Both brothers made for the door and rushed up the stairs, jostling and impeding each other in their hurry. Their heavy, eager feet made the whole staircase rock.

  Then, from above came a series of piercing shrieks followed by peal upon peal of demoniacal laughter.

  The sheep-dog leapt from the hearth, turned his muzzle to the ceiling and howled dismally.

  Littlejohn was left alone and unheeded.

  CHAPTER VIII

  OFFICIAL HELP

  THE day was fine and warm and Littlejohn had paid-off his taxi intending to walk the three miles back to the station.

  The commotion at Cranage Farm made him keener than ever to stroll on his own and think out the whole confused business.

  His visit to Cranage had been a complete fiasco, yielding no fruit except a picture of a very strange family and a mixed lot of alibis.

  A rare old, fair old rickety-rackety crew!

  First, the bishop himself. Emaciated, neglecting his work and probably his wife in the pursuit of what might be esoteric knowledge. An eccentric in fact, with a mistaken sense of proportion concerning his pastoral duties. A promising career, as likely as not cut short by an outbreak of a family taint….

  Then his brother, Robert, a large man with the face of a pious burglar. Nervy, irritable, and apparently the dominating force of the Macintosh family.

  Rufus, the other, red, slow-moving, slow-thinking.

  Mrs. Macintosh, the mother, senile, childish, half-demented.

  And, finally, Barbara, the sister, evidently quite off her head. Altogether confined to her room among the attics.

  There must be some strain of inherited mental weakness in the family and this had even extended to the dead bishop himself.

  Robert Macintosh, after quietly and firmly getting his sister to her room, with many cries and lamentations on her part, had returned to Littlejohn, and begged him to go and come back at a more suitable time.

  “My sister is suffering from nervous breakdown and has just been gravely disturbed by hearing from Emily, a most stupid woman, that my brother is dead. I shall be needed upstairs again in a minute or so. So, if you don’t mind….”

  What could one do?

  Littlejohn had departed after arranging to call again in the near future.

  He smoked his pipe as he strode along. There was something very comforting in tobacco. After the ominous strain of Cranage it reminded one of the saner things in life.

  All the same, he must get to know something about the strange Macintosh family as soon as possible. There must be somebody who could tell the inside story.

  The somebody quickly materialised like the genie of the lamp.

  Littlejohn was approaching cross-roads and suddenly, sailing along the hedge of the by-road at right angles to the one along which the Inspector was walking, appeared a large red face under a regulation helmet. The mouth was opening and closing slowly and mournfully.

  Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve,

  The days may come, the days may go….

  At the cross-roads, the head suddenly took to itself a large corpulent body, mounted on a bicycle, with long rotating legs and enormous boots propelling it.

  A policeman like a huge blowfly soared into view, still singing in a loud untrained bass, with now and then a flat instead of a natural breaking into his song.

  The singing ceased in the middle of a bar as the bobby spotted Littlejohn. He cleared his throat, turned red, looked sheepish, and said good morning.

  “Good morning, constable. The very man!”

  The policeman seemed instinctively to scent a superior officer. He braked, wobbled and then nimbly leapt from his bike.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He eyed Littlejohn wondering whether it was murder, arson or lost watches and fountain-pens. It was always watches and fountain-pens. Or else dogs! Never anything exciting.

  “I’m Detective-Inspector Littlejohn of Scotland Yar
d….”

  The bobby almost let fall his bike. He was holding it with his right hand and executed a grotesque movement to release himself for a smart salute which he delivered with some difficulty.

  “Constable Prickwillow, sir, at your service.”

  At your service. That was good. Prickwillow determined to remember that bit when he reported to his wife later in the day.

  “Say it again, constable….”

  The large, red-moustached face broke into a cheerful grin. The constable was a merry man at heart. He prided himself on a sense of humour and here he recognised a kindred spirit.

  “Prickwillow, sir. Quite a common name in the parts I come from….”

  “I see. It’s a new one to me.”

  Littlejohn produced his warrant-card and the policeman gravely perused it, his lips moving as he read, and then he handed it back.

  “Let’s sit on this gate and have a talk, Prickwillow. I’m needing some help and you’ve arrived at just the right time.”

  The bobby carefully parked his shining bicycle, hoisted himself on the top bar of the gate and Littlejohn followed suit. The Inspector passed his cigarette-case, but Prick-willow hesitated. He was on duty and therefore cautious. He had a nice little house and a comfortable job. He wasn’t going to…

  Eventually, he was persuaded. The cigarette looked queer under the large brown moustache. Like a little lighthouse in a wild sea.

  “Where are you stationed, constable?”

  “Medhope village, sir. Mile and a half back along the road I come along.”

  “Do you know the Macintoshes of Cranage?”

  The bobby removed his cigarette carefully between a huge thumb and index and flicked off the ash with his little finger.

  “Yes, sir. Know ’em well. Known ’em since I was a boy….”

  “You know Bishop Macintosh of Greyle, then. He’s just been murdered.”

  “Yes, sir. Very sad affair. Family had a lot of trouble lately. A queer lot….”

  A drove of hedge flies began to buzz and circle round Prickwillow’s honest, sweating face and he flailed them off and started to puff furiously at his cigarette to gas them.

  “What sort of trouble?”