Oh, that will be...
Glory for me...
Tom Trumper from his stall bellowed with incredible fervour, his large eye all the time fixed disapprovingly on the widow, who remained seated and still, unaffected by this hurricane of song, an enigma behind a black veil. The racket had penetrated Uncle Bernard’s cotton-wool and his face was convulsed with rage and tics...
The hymn died away and Mr. Roebuck’s voice sounded thin and pale after it as he took up the service. Tom Trumper was whispering to his next-door neighbour, his eye still on Dulcie Crake. The vicar droned on like a talking machine. His voice rose and died away, then rose again...The dead who die in the Lord...Men’s works live after them...Our dear brother...Justice, mercy, love...Asleep in Jesus...For ever with the Lord...
Nobody seemed interested. All their faces wore a stony, monumental look, except that of the bass-drummer. He was weighing Mr. Roebuck in the balance and finding him wanting. Drummer’s wife was a spiritualist, spoke at meetings, held séances, brought home brothers and sisters in the cause for sittings with planchettes and tables. His missus had a much better gift of the gab than Roebuck. Drummer felt neglected and out of it as he sat at home, silent, listening to his wife and her friends in their orgies. Jealous, too, now and then, when the brethren held her hands and even gave her what they called”kisses of peace”, as they departed. Now he felt quite proud of his missus. In Chune with the Infynyte...Passed over...Called ’ome...the Unseen Watchers of our daily round...the Inh’effable...Snatches of his wife’s outpourings passed through his mind and he thought them streets ahead of Mr. Roebuck’s phrases, h’educated though the vicar might be...Drummer realized that he must have nodded off, for they were singing the Nunc Dimittis and they were standing to watch the coffin and the black figures go down the aisle into the open air. The sun was shining without warmth, a pale, watery light, and the east wind blew down the main street. The Mayor was hoping they wouldn’t be long in the icy crematorium, otherwise he was sure he’d be the next. He had to prod the Town Clerk awake...
The bearers placed the coffin in the hearse and the widow and her brother entered the first cab. Uncle Bernard had removed the plugs from his ears, was still having difficulty with his hat as he handed his sister into the vehicle, and then followed her, his thin hair blowing in the wind, his nose livid with cold, his eyes glassy and wild. He sat beside her, folding himself in the narrow space like a great jack-knife. Nita and Alec were next in the family sports car...
The crowds gathered on the long flight of stone steps which led from the church to the street. Those who were going to the crematorium waiting for their cars; others standing watching the strange last journey of the man who seemed without an enemy in the town. Beatrice Kent and her husband were first in the line waiting for transport. She had been reluctant to break the old tradition of her family, whereby the women stayed at home whilst their men carried their kin to the grave. But her sister-in-law’s fantastic conduct called for someone to correct the balance, and she had joined the rest. Colonel Bulshaw, in ancient mourning garb, bumbled beside Dr. Bastable, huge and puffing from the cold.
“Heard what’s bein’ whispered, Bastable?”
The doctor looked annoyed. He had given the death certificate with certainty. Pneumonia and heart failure; but the cause of his old friend’s sudden relapse had baffled him.
“Yes...A lot of poppycock...”
“Think so? I don’t. Won’t think any blasted funny thing that woman does is poppycock. I’ve met a lot of bad women in my life, Bastable, but Crake’s wife has ’em all beat for badness. You know what’s bein’ whispered...?”
“Yes, I said so, didn’t I? Somebody had better be careful. Slander, you know...”
“All the same, I’d like to bet...”
“Come on...It’s our turn. There’s your car. Let’s be gettin’ along. I’ve a surgeryful waiting for me...”
They climbed in the Colonel’s enormous barouche, driven by an ancient whiskered retainer, more skilled with horses than engines. With a jerk, they joined the procession. The band hadn’t been asked to play Crake to the crematorium, so made their way there by short cuts, arriving ahead of the cortège. They had heard that it was usual for loud-speaker music of a solemn kind to be played during the committal and were determined to rescue their late president from such an indignity. They were waiting on the steps for the coffin, the chimney of the furnace scattering all that was left of the previous ceremony in a long banner of smoke. They carried the body inside again; Mr. Roebuck intoned the committal and pressed a button. The coffin slowly rolled behind the purple curtains with the municipal monogram inscribed upon them in gold. The band played him off.
. . And here I pitch my roving tent,
A day’s march nearer Home. . .
There was something almost jolly about it. The tempo got out of hand. They seemed to be hustling him away...By the time they all got back to town, there was nothing left but a handful of grey ashes and wisps of dark smoke drifting over the garden of rest to join the low clouds over the town. But that didn’t stop the whispering. A snatch of sentence, a few words at a time. It all grew and formed a pattern. Rich and poor, respectable and despised, they all listened and asked for more. By the time the mourners had dispersed, it was everywhere. Dulcie Crake had speeded her husband’s death by laying him naked to the keen wind blowing in at the open window. Tom Trumper saw the judge at the window when they went there carolling...Naked to the waist...trying to close the wind out...Tom Trumper thought at first he had come to throw them some money...Then she dragged him back in the room. Not only Tom, either, saw it...Some of the others...
A constable told the Chief about it all when he returned to the station. The Chief was cross and ordered him to be quiet. But he didn’t like it. It meant trouble and he was all for a quiet life. The Superintendent of Police, however, who was there, smiled sardonically. He gave the Chief a disrespectful, feline look. He was like a large, ruthless hawk, the terror of wrongdoers, his underlings, and all the small boys of the town. Mothers of undisciplined children only needed to say,”I’ll fetch Superintendent Simpole to you,” and all was quiet. He was tall, dark, wiry, with a long cadaverous jaw, slightly askew, dark waxed moustache and a thin, cruel mouth.”The man’s a ghoul...no warm blood in him,” said Colonel Bulshaw, Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates.”But, damme, he does the job properly. I hand it to him there.” And he was right.
Simpole’s dark, beady eyes glowed with the idea of a new crime, however faintly mentioned.
“I must take a walk round and see what I can hear,” he said, and curtly leaving the room, slammed the door.
“Rude devil,” said the Chief to himself.”By gad! If it’s true, I’ll see that he doesn’t hound her down, at least. I detest stoats...”
They mentioned it to the Mayor when he returned to his parlour. Mr. Huxtable nearly cried with temper.
“Leave me alone,” he said.”As if I wasn’t ill enough, without all this silly talk. I’m going home to bed and I don’t want to hear about it...”
That wily lawyer, the Town Clerk, listened sleepily to somebody who whispered the poison in his ear on the way back from the funeral. He looked round furtively lest anybody should overhear.”Tell me more,” he said.
It had grown so bad that, as the car bearing the widow and her brother passed through the town on its way back to Beyle, accusing, savage, unsympathetic eyes followed it in its course. Some were even tempted to throw stones at it. Tom Trumper was back in his grocer’s shop, adding fuel to the flames. The place was crowded.
“Has somebody told the police...?”
“It ought to be investigated...”
“I jest see Simpole. He looked ’ot on the trail al-ready...”
“Once he gets ’is claws in ’er, it’s all UP for ’er...”
They bought soap and tinned goods they didn’t want, just for the pleasure of turning over the outrage with Tom Trumper in his shop. The interior was still fill
ed with the trappings of Christmas past. Boxes of crackers, candied peel, preserved and dried fruits, nuts, basins of Christmas pudding, tangerines and dates. Trumper was improving the shining hour and disposing of his surplus. No need to mark down the prices. One after another he packed the good things in customers’ bags and baskets and they accepted them in exchange for gossip and theories. Tom rubbed his hands under the counter. At this rate, he’d soon clear the lot and repay his seasonable overdraft at the bank!
The cafés were full, too, and although it was only around noon, the bandsmen had gathered in the pub over which they practised twice a week, to discuss the case and try to make up their minds about it.
“Glory for me!” said the drummer, who had been suppressed altogether at the crematorium and felt it keenly.”Glory for me! It’ll be glory for ’er, if wot they say’s true...”
Nita and Alec had gone for a run in the country. Alec was in search of a quiet inn where he could drink his fill and, maybe, find a buxom barmaid to fondle. The thought of going home to a household of crêpe and maternal misery made him feel sick. Nita, on the other hand, felt the need of the quiet and the comfort of sweeping bare fields, leafless hedges and deserted lanes. The majesty of winter which matched the bleakness she felt inside her. She could not bear to go back to Beyle. Alec, ever ready to turn an event to his advantage, agreed to the trip. A queer way of behaving on the day of the funeral; but the Crakes were a queer lot. He got his beer and sat with his arm round the landlord’s daughter, whilst his sister walked beside the stream and watched the flight of the wild duck as they fled from the fowler’s gun...
Nita did not know how far she walked. She lost count of time and place. All she knew was that it was quiet and she was alone. Finally she became so preoccupied with thoughts quite remote from the present that her grief for her father lost shape and definition and she was only aware of a dull spiritual ache, like a deep-seated diffused bodily pain. The lane ended in a stile giving access to a large field in which two horses were grazing. They lifted their heads and solemnly regarded her as she stood undecided...In the distance a car horn sounded impatiently. Alec had tired of beer and dalliance, and wanted to move on. He could not rest anywhere for long. Nita almost ran back the way she had come. There was no sign of the car. At the village inn the girl Alec had been fondling met Nita at the door. She looked defiantly sheepish and red-faced.
“He said he was going. He waited a bit and then said to tell you he wasn’t waiting all afternoon. I looked up a bus to Tilsey. It goes in twenty minutes. He said if you came back, to take it...He said he was going for a few drinks at the airport...”
He said...He said...He said...
Nita despised Alec and despised the girl, so obviously bemused by her brother’s charms and eager to pass on, word for word, all he had told her. As though he might return and reward her for her good offices by a lot more cuddling and shallow flattery!
“Very well,” she said,”where does the bus start?”
“It comes in from Bishop’s Cree and stops here. Won’t you come in and wait?”
Nita entered and sat in a corner of the bar. The place was tricked-out in cheap modern brass and bottles of coloured drinks. The girl was still all agog...
“Is he your brother?”
“Yes...”
“You come far? Do you live near here?”
She was arch and trying to find out if there were hopes of more amorous visits from Alec.
“Not far...Tilsey...”
“Oh. I come into Tilsey sometimes...”
Was the girl expecting to be asked over to tea next time she came? Nita strolled to the door and was thankful to see the bus approaching down the village street. She bade the girl goodbye and stopped and boarded it. She sat, numb with a sense of loss and dreading her return to Beyle without her father there. She descended at the Market Place in Tilsey, suddenly realizing that she must have automatically paid her fare. She was clutching a ticket but didn’t remember taking it from the conductor...As she stood recovering herself, a farmer passing in a shooting-brake hailed her and offered her a lift. He took her right to the gates of Beyle.
The sun was low as she entered the house. Mists were rising and hung over the grounds a foot high, like dirty cotton-wool. Nita entered by the side door which was loose. A kettle was singing on the hob of Elspeth’s kitchen; she made innumerable pots of tea for herself all day long and kept water for ever on the boil. But the old woman was nowhere to be seen. Nita stood in the hall and listened to the familiar sounds of the house; the grandfather clock ticking at the foot of the stairs. It gathered itself together with a whirring of wheels and choking noises, and struck five. Whereat, the bracket-clock in the dining-room repeated the hour, having previously chimed in broken tones because one of the bells was loose. Nick had been tinkering with it the week before. Tears burned at the back of Nita’s eyes to think that but a week ago, when she had hurried down to see him, he had been surrounded by wheels and cogs from the clock and had confessed in his quizzical way that he was unable to sort them out.
Nita wondered where everyone had got to. Surely, Dulcie and Uncle Bernard had returned. She mounted the stairs in search of them...
Down the hill to Beyle a man was walking. He wore tweeds and heavy brogues and was smoking a pipe with great enjoyment. Middle-aged and greying over the temples, he carried himself like a young man, strong, well-knit and tall. Ahead of him ran a bobtail sheepdog, chasing a ball, which she brought back to her master time and time again. Neither seemed tired of the monotonous game. He threw the ball, she chased and caught it, brought it back, deposited it carefully at her master’s feet; and then the process was repeated. As the dog ran after the ball, her master walked briskly.
Since Littlejohn had adopted Meg, the sole relict of a murdered man, he and his wife had said good-bye to holidays in which the dog could not join. So devoted had this waif become that she went off her food if Littlejohn was absent from home for long.
“She’s a bind, but she’s worth it!” he said, and here she was again, spending Christmas with the Littlejohns in Oddington, two miles from Beyle, where ex-Chief Inspector Shelldrake, once of Scotland Yard, was keeping an excellent pub in his retirement...
Man and dog separated again as the ball flew and bounced past the iron gates of Beyle, and as the dog leapt to catch it, the front door opened and a wild-eyed girl rushed down the steps and ran screaming along the drive. The dog dropped her ball, stared at the running figure and, with a quick leap, placed herself protectively between her master and the gesticulating figure.
“In there...In there...My mother...He has killed her...”
And with that, she fell unconscious at the Inspector’s feet. The dog stood by, bouncing the ball, waiting for Littlejohn to throw it again...
Four – Death at Beyle
AT first, Littlejohn thought he was becoming involved in another family quarrel, a domestic fracas, in which words like murder and killing are bandied about lightly, and hysterical people rush out of doors to raise the neighbourhood. He picked up the unconscious girl, hastily carried her indoors and laid her on the nearest couch, his astonished dog following closely on his heels, still bouncing her rubber ball in the jealous hope of providing a counter-attraction. The house was quiet and the blinds, still drawn for the funeral, gave it an eerie, uncanny air. The Inspector pulled back the curtains of the room he had entered and examined the features of the girl. She was breathing steadily and he felt he could safely leave her whilst he tried to get help. He went into the large hall.
“Hullo!” he called.”Anybody in?”
His voice echoed through the building but brought no response. One after another, he entered the dark rooms downstairs, but found them all empty. The fires were out and they smelled of soot and mould. He was just making for the telephone, which stood on a table in the hall, and searching his memory for Shelldrake’s number when, suddenly, everything began to happen at once. An old woman in faded black opened the door, en
tered, and stared at him.
“What do you want?” she said.
A sports car drew up at the still open door, and a young man, slightly drunk, emerged unsteadily, mounted the front steps, stood on the threshold and regarded Littlejohn and the old woman owlishly.
“Gatherin’ for the funereal bake-meats?” he asked, and without more ado turned to the old woman and ordered her to make his tea.
“Where’ve you been?”
“To my sister’s...Nobody suggested that I came to the funeral. I wouldn’t have come in any case. Proper Crake women don’t attend...”
Littlejohn mightn’t have been there!
“I found a young lady unconscious in the drive,” he said.”And I brought her in and put her in the room to the right there. She said someone had been killed...”
The old woman and the young man looked at each other and then at Littlejohn.
“She must have meant my father...I’ll go and see...”
Alec reeled off in the direction of his sister. The Inspector was just beginning to tell Elspeth more details when a third and more spectacular entrance was made.
A gaunt, wild figure appeared on the landing at the stair-head. He looked like Don Quixote taking the part of King Lear. In his arms he bore the prostrate body of a woman. Step by step, he descended, muttering to himself in a broken voice, for all his bony frailty carrying the well-made body easily and steadily.
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 4
