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

by George Bellairs

  “What time is it, Prickwillow?”

  “Five o’clock….”

  So, it was three or four hours since it happened. The sharp-shooter must have got clean away long ago. Littlejohn remembered he hadn’t had any lunch either. Funny that should strike him as important….

  “Always somebody shootin’ too near the road, sir. A near go, if I may say so….”

  “This was deliberate, Prickwillow. Somebody tried to pot me off.”

  “What!”

  Prickwillow jerked himself up hastily and ran from the foot of the bed to Littlejohn’s side as though trying to shield him with his own body against anyone who might try another shot.

  “You don’t mean to say …”

  “I do. Lucky for me somebody couldn’t shoot straight. I got it in the leg instead of the head. And having winged me and finding me moving, he shot at me again … Twice, I think. Oh yes, it was deliberate.”

  “But who could it have been, sir?”

  Littlejohn felt tired and irritable.

  “Don’t ask me, man. I don’t know. But I want you to have the woods searched to see what can be found. Not that there’s much to find. The shot was fired from the right-hand side of the road coming from where you and I parted company. I suppose the doctor’s extracted the bullet. What was it?”

  “A point four-four, sir. Rifle bullet….”

  Prickwillow was completely flabbergasted. He remained rooted to the spot, playing with the helmet in his hand and staring at Littlejohn’s face like somebody in a trance.

  “Has anybody been advised of this … accident?”

  “No, sir. You see I didn’t …”

  Littlejohn groaned. There seemed such a lot to do. He wanted just to shut his eyes and fade out into the swimming air around him. He was quite light headed and felt he didn’t care a damn what happened so long as they’d leave him alone.

  “Telephone Cape Mervin police station. Tell them I’ve had an accident and to let my wife know, but not to alarm her. And to tell Sergeant Cromwell, who’s there, to come at once. Even if he has to travel by taxi…. Get here with all speed. And bring Letty … my wife … with him….”

  “What about me, sir? Can I do anythin’ in the way of …”

  “I can’t think what …”

  Prickwillow receded into mists and the last he heard was the nurse’s voice.

  “That’s enough. He’s exhausted. No wonder, the blood he lost…. The road was swimming they said…. Tomorrow…”

  Next morning he felt better. Cromwell and Mrs. Littlejohn had arrived the previous night and found him asleep, so had gone to stay at the village inn.

  Littlejohn was propped up in bed, had eaten a light breakfast and felt in shape for more talk. The sun was shining through the windows and outside you could hear children passing to school and farm carts and cars trundling along the highway. There must have been a blacksmith’s shop handy, too, for Littlejohn found himself imagining what was going on from the sounds. The gentle triplets as the smith tapped the anvil with his hammer and then the muffled ringing strokes on hot iron….

  Cromwell arrived. He had a vivid red weal across his forehead where his bowler hat had bitten, and he looked very annoyed. Letty was with him, but Cromwell didn’t leave the pair together for exchange of any personal endearments or whatever they might want to say. Somebody had tried to shoot Littlejohn and that was priority number one!

  Letty had been talking to the doctor. She wanted to take Littlejohn back with her either home or to Cape Mervin. Littlejohn insisted on the latter. The doctor said he could be moved by ambulance the following day, so Mrs. Littlejohn had fixed it all up at their hotel.

  “But who …? Why … ?” said Cromwell.

  “Somebody thinks I know more than I do. It’s evident I was followed. Maybe it was all the way from Cape Mervin. Or it might be one of the Cranage lot….”

  And he told Cromwell the result of his visits to Cranage and his talk with Prickwillow.

  “Where is Prickwillow, by the way?”

  “He’s been in and out of here like a jack-in-the-box since we arrived. He’s rustled up two more policemen from the county force and they’ve been combing the woods. Not a thing found. Whoever did it must even have carted away his empty rifle cartridges.”

  “I didn’t expect they’d find anything. At any rate, we’d better fix a definite plan of campaign. I’m hors de combat for a while, but I’d still like to direct operations from my bed…. Unless The Yard insist on sending somebody else, can you manage and keep me posted?”

  “Yes. Of course. I suppose I’d better stay at this end. Better clear up the shooting, hadn’t we? It might lead us in the right direction….”

  “I’m sure it will. I’ll fix up with Bowater for somebody to be legs and eyes for me in the town and try to work the thing out from bed. It all depends on whether Bowater cottons-on to the idea.”

  “Well, what had I better do first here?”

  “Check up on the Cranage lot to start with. Find out where they all were at the time I was shot…. About one o’clock yesterday. And also get to know as much about the Macintosh family as you can. There’s a local family called Creer, too. They’re at cross-purposes with the Macintoshes, although the bishop’s wife is one of the Creers. Go into their history, will you, and trace, if you can, what happened to Rupert Creer who seems to have gone abroad? Prickwillow will be a great help there, I should think.”

  “Weren’t you on your way to Greyle, though? Ought we to pursue some enquiries there, as well?”

  “Yes. I wanted to know exactly what was the nature of the work the bishop was doing with Dr. Mulroy and what Mulroy thought of him. We’ve not a ghost of an idea what the motive of the crime might have been and mustn’t leave a stone unturned.”

  “Right. I’ll take on where you left off, though. I’d like a few minutes alone with the chap that fired that shot….”

  “So would I….”

  The vicar had called. The nurse didn’t know whether or not Littlejohn wanted to see him. The Inspector remembered that was exactly what he had been going to do when the sniper put paid to him.

  “Oh, yes. Show him in, please. Good of him to call….”

  “You’re on fire!”

  The vicar had put his lighted pipe in his pocket as he entered the hospital and had set fire to his handkerchief. There was quite a commotion and a smell of burning before they got him settled.

  “Forgive me…. I’m always doing it. I’m so sorry this has happened, Inspector Johnson….”

  “Littlejohn….”

  “I beg your pardon. They told me Johnson. Now I wonder why they did that? I must apologise for the accident in my parish. Those boys will shoot rooks too near the road. I shall speak to Prickwillow about it. I hope you are much improved.”

  He was small and portly with a ruddy countryman’s complexion. His features were very mobile as though made from indiarubber and he kept screwing them up in a nervous spasm which so altered them that he momentarily looked like quite another man. His name was The Reverend the Honorable Thomas Gomm. The parishioners said the three bells in the steeple said “Hang Tom Gomm….” That showed their affection for him. He had been Christening, marrying and burying them for forty-three years.

  Littlejohn said hang him, too, after the vicar had called him Inspector Johnson about a dozen times. It so got on Cromwell’s nerves that he had to take a turn in the garden whilst the two men talked. The thought that anyone shouldn’t know Littlejohn in the first place was quite enough; to give him another name, was the limit!

  It would be extremely tedious to give verbatim all that passed between Littlejohn and the Rev. the Hon. Tom Gomm. The old gentleman’s memory was failing and events quite irrelevant to the point in hand kept leaking into his tale.

  He knew all about the Creers. William Creer, Peter Creer, Joseph Creer. Old Uncle Tom Creer and all. He kept rhyming off their eccentricities. A queer wild family….

  Littlejohn al
most fainted from weakness; it got so much on his nerves.

  Finally, Rupert Creer.

  “I remember Rupert well, Inspector Johnson. A weak good-looking boy. Or … was that Arthur? I can’t be sure. But I do know Rupert got a village girl into trouble just before I put up the banns for him and Barbara Macintosh. Poor girl. It drove her quite off her head. And the Macintosh family were so vindictive that Rupert had to go off to South Africa … or was it Kenya? No. South Africa. Because I remember we were at war with them when I was curate at St. Ninian’s Roseley. Just my little system of mnemonics, Inspector Johnson. Very useful….”

  “Could you tell me when all this occurred, sir?”

  “Let me see. It was the year of the great blight. Blight … light … Lead Kindly Light … Hymn 193 … Nineteen thirty something. A little system I have, Inspector….”

  “Can you be a bit more precise?”

  “I’m afraid …”

  The vicar stroked his chin gently. It was very flexible and looked ready to come away in his hand.

  “The illegitimate child would be Christened, no doubt, sir….”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes. Without a doubt.”

  “What was the mother’s name?”

  “Forty.”

  “I beg pardon….”

  “Mary Forty. The postman’s daughter, she was. She married the blacksmith later and he took the child as his own.”

  “We could check the dates of all these happenings from the church registers then, sir?”

  “Yes … I’ll do it with pleasure.”

  Littlejohn could imagine The Hon. Tom Gomm hunting through his registers at the rate he was at present dispensing information!

  “I’ll ask my assistant, Cromwell, to give you a hand, vicar.”

  “Cromwell, did you say, Inspector Johnson? How very interesting. I shall remember that easily. Marston Moor.”

  “My name’s Littlejohn, by the way, not Johnson….”

  “To be sure. How stupid of me. I shall remember it in future. The diminutive…. Yes, yes….”

  “Was Mister Rupert heard of much after he left, sir? Had he any friends or his family with whom he kept in touch … ?”

  “I really couldn’t say. But I think he was what is know as a remittance man and perhaps the local bank would know if they sent him money.”

  “A very good idea, vicar. There is a local bank, then?”

  “Yes. The London and South Counties have a sub-office here which opens Wednesdays and Fridays. Most people round about bank there. All the Easter offering cheques are on them….”

  “In that case, I’ll send out some enquiries.”

  “Yes. A very helpful man is Tiplady, the clerk-in-charge. Most helpful. I remember once losing a cheque….”

  The Rev. the Hon. Tom Gomm prattled on. To Littlejohn his tubby outline slowly became like jelly and mist, the room darkened, and the Inspector slid into unconsciousness from sheer exhaustion.

  “… You will do well to see Tiplady, Inspector Littlejohnson. I … Well, I never!”

  Tom Gomm looked hard at Littlejohn and listened to his steady breathing. The Inspector was fast asleep. The vicar cocked an ear. Not a sound, except a bee buzzing in the window and some farm carts passing. The room was so cool and peaceful. Different from the hot village street at this stifling hour. Mr. Gomm eyed the easy chair with its foot rests and well-sprung seat. Why not? After all, it was a form of pastoral duty. Watching by the sick. He sank in the chair with a sigh, folded his neat little hands across his neat little paunch and closed his eyes….

  When Cromwell returned The Rev. and Hon. and his friend Inspector Littlejohnson were snoring harmoniously….

  CHAPTER XI

  THE REMITTANCE MAN

  THEY took Littlejohn back to Port Mervin in an ambulance. He got a bit impatient at all the commotion. After two days at the cottage hospital, waited on hand and foot and fed like a fighting-cock, he felt ready to walk miles. But the doctor was strict about it.

  “You’d feel different if you tried to get out of bed. Another two or three days rest then you can try a little walk….”

  The Inspector was fed up.

  They put him back in his own room at the hotel, but moved the bed to the window so that he could see what was going on outside. He could look down on the drive of the hotel and watch the guests going out after meals and returning hungrily after their excursions. Shipping, too, came and went in the harbour and up the river. Anything from pleasure boats and fishing vessels to fairly large coasters. Each new arrival heralded by blasts on the siren and tiny figures on the rostrum outside the harbourmaster’s office, gesticulating and showing the officers where to go and where to moor. Beyond, a vast stretch of sea with a cloud-flecked sky meeting it.

  Littlejohn spent a lot of time gazing vacantly at the line where sea and sky met and turning over in his mind the facts of the queer case on which he was engaged.

  It seemed to divide itself into two parts.

  One thing was certain. The crime was deliberate and carefully planned. But who had done it? Someone from Greyle or the bishop’s native place? Or had Macintosh stumbled into a hornets’ nest in Mervin and paid dearly for his interference? And had whoever took pot-shots at Littlejohn followed him from Port Mervin or been stimulated to attempted murder by his appearance at Cranage?

  He pondered idly. Mrs. Littlejohn was sitting in the room with him knitting him a pair of socks from coupon-free wool. Visitors were winding their ways home to the hotel and below, through the open windows of the dining-room, you could hear the waitresses laying the tables for lunch and rattling pots and cutlery.

  “What’s Cromwell doing? He ought to be here by now….”

  “Give him a chance. His train’s not due in Mervin till one o’clock and it’s not a quarter-to yet….”

  “Sorry. I’m getting a bit fed-up with this inactivity. Time’s precious….”

  Mrs. Littlejohn was counting stitches and didn’t reply.

  Then Superintendent Bowater arrived. He seemed to fill the room with his huge bulk. He was full of solicitude for Littlejohn, indignation at the attempt on the Inspector’s life, and anxiety concerning the case at his end.

  “I wish you’d never dragged him into this,” said Mrs. Littlejohn. “He wasn’t too good when we came here for a rest. Now, he’s worse and worrying himself to death because he can’t get up and run about after clues….”

  Bowater had no sense of humour and didn’t know what to say in reply.

  “I … I …”

  “Never mind, Superintendent,” said Littlejohn. “Tell me, can it be possible that the bishop stumbled across something shady in the neighbourhood and paid for his curiosity with his life?”

  Bowater looked abashed. The thought of shady goings-on in his district filled him with dismay.

  “What do you mean by shady?”

  “Well … Let’s say some racket or other. Extensive black-market….”

  “Black-market? I know it does go on. Some of the local farmers….”

  “No, no, no. Bigger than that. Robberies to feed the market.”

  “None that I know of. And if there’d been any, we’d have known, wouldn’t we?”

  “What about smuggling? This is a port and very convenient for Eire … and the Continent at a pinch.”

  “Yes. We’ve been warned to be on the look-out. Same with the Customs Officers. Tobacco, silk, drinks and the like. But, so far, we’ve come across very little. The customs have tapped the men on some of the coasters. But, you see, there’s little passenger traffic here.”

  “I don’t mean that, Bowater. I mean a regular system of contraband running. Some of the local vessels working for a syndicate.”

  Bowater laughed heavily.

  “O, come, Inspector. There’s nothing of the kind here. And if there were, how would the reverend gentleman come to be mixed up in it?”

  He looked pityingly at Littlejohn as though suspecting that his wound had affected his mind.r />
  “Well, Superintendent, you might question your men and ask them to keep their eyes open. This is a bit of a remote place and I’d think there are a few quiet spots for a bit of smuggling….”

  Bowater shrugged his shoulders and spread out his huge fingers like ten sausages.

  “Of course, if you think it’ll do any good. Anything to help. Have as many men as you like, sir. Anything more I can do … ?”

  There the conversation ended for Dr. Tordopp entered. He was attending Littlejohn.

  “Hullo, doctor,” said Bowater.

  Tordopp gave him a curt greeting. Hostilities looked ready to break out again between the two men.

  To prevent himself smiling Littlejohn began to count the roses on the wallpaper. They were arranged in parallel rows from floor to ceiling. One, two, three, four…. The paper was silvery white and when the sun shone on it, it had an hypnotic effect if you counted the flowers.

  “I won’t have the Inspector bothered with business as yet, Superintendent. He’s far from well. Nerves….”

  The sight of Tordopp got on his nerves far more than Bowater’s innocuous prattle. The doctor couldn’t believe they hadn’t got all the bits of cloth out of the wound at the cottage hospital and kept poking about with it trying to get foreign bodies out of it. He seemed, somehow, to resent Littlejohn’s quick recovery and to want to prolong the agony.

  “I’m not getting on his nerves, am I, Littlejohn?”

  Bowater was quite plaintive.

  “Of course not….”

  “I’m trying to help. Relieve him of anxiety.”

  Tordopp’s nose flushed with temper. He looked like Donald Duck!

  “I’ve said I won’t have him upset and I mean it. Now, Superintendent, I’ll be much obliged … I want to dress the wound….”

  Poor Bowater made an undignified exit. Mrs. Littlejohn saw him off the premises and mollified him on the way to the hotel door, whilst Tordopp peevishly examined the wound and seemed annoyed to find it healing well.

  “You can try getting up for half an hour to-morrow, after I’ve been, Inspector. And see that you’re not disturbed by callers pestering you about this murder case. Let the bishop rest for a bit. There’s plenty of time for him when we’ve got you right. Now remember….”