Crime In Leper's Hollow

by George Bellairs

  Elspeth rushed to meet him.

  “Mr. Bernard...Mr. Bernard. Whatever have you been doin’? What’s ’appened?”

  The man she called Bernard ignored her. Where he thought he was taking the body, nobody could guess. He came on, inexorably. Littlejohn quickly crossed the hall and intervened.

  “What are you doing with that...?”

  Uncle Bernard regarded him with glassy eyes. The Inspector steered him to an oak settle in the hall, took the body from him, and laid it down. No need to ask what had happened. The woman was dead. He turned to Uncle Bernard and shook him. It seemed to set the old man in motion. He ran and knelt down by the body again, rubbing the hands, stroking the brow...

  “Dulcie...Dulcie...”

  “She’s dead...” said Littlejohn.

  Elspeth uttered a wild scream and covered her face with her hands. Her shabby hat slid to the back of her head, revealing a large bruise on her brow.

  “I know she’s dead. I’m a doctor...”

  Uncle Bernard drew himself up as he said this and then bent down, opened the front of the loosened dress of the dead woman, and revealed a large pad of lint, strapped to the skin with plaster. Savagely he tore away the dressing and laid bare a wound which might have been made by a stiletto, right through the heart.

  “I did what I could...It was no use...”

  Uncle Bernard sadly shook his head. Littlejohn wondered what he was talking about, for the woman must, with a clean blow such as that, have died instantly.

  “What...?”

  His words were cut short by the entrance of Alec. He had a brandy bottle in his hand and had obviously been drinking again. His sister followed. They both tried to speak together. For one who had just recovered consciousness and one who was half drunk, they were a very quickly collected pair.

  “What the hell...?”

  “Why have you brought her down...?”

  Nita staggered back a little and then joined the group round the body.

  “He killed her...He did it...He was standing over her with a knife...”

  She pointed at her uncle, who recoiled and flailed the air with his long arms, as though avoiding the plague.

  “You are mistaken, my dear...She was the dearest thing in the world to me...All I have to live for...She was lying there when I found her...I did what I could...”

  “You killed her...”

  “What the hell...?”

  Elspeth started to wail, a long, shrill cry and, moaning, said she knew it would happen. The spirits had warned her...

  “Be quiet, all of you...! Go to the other room and stay there. I’ll ring the police...”

  “The police!”

  Uncle Bernard looked surprised. As though, somehow, it would be possible to settle everything quietly without interference from outside.

  “Yes...Right away...”

  Littlejohn crossed to the telephone and picked up the receiver. Then he paused, for the door opened and there were the police. A tall, dark, diabolical-looking man with a waxed moustache and a crooked jaw loomed between the daylight and the dark hall. He was dressed in the uniform of a superintendent of police and carried a heavy stick and gloves. He remained without speaking for a minute and then joined the group with long catlike strides.

  “What is going on here?”

  He spat out the words and looked straight at Littlejohn as if suspecting him of causing all the trouble. The dog, standing silently by, bared her teeth at him. Littlejohn raised a hand to quiet her.

  “I’m Inspector Littlejohn...”

  “Indeed!”

  It was obvious the newcomer resented the intrusion.

  “Well...?”

  “I’m staying at Oddington on holiday. I was passing and this young lady ran out and brought me here. She mentioned someone had been killed. I came in and found this...”

  Nita pointed at Bernard.

  “He did it. I saw him...”

  “She lies, Superintendent...I found her...”

  The police officer raised a long hand.

  “That will do. All in good time. Where are you from, if I might be so bold...”

  The voice was ironical; Littlejohn might have been masquerading as a policeman! He handed over his card. The Superintendent glanced at it; then he looked again more carefully this time. He seemed a bit taken aback for a second or two, then he recovered.

  “My name’s Simpole. I’m Superintendent of the Tilsey police. I’ll ring for help.”

  He said it in a tone of dismissal; he evidently felt quite capable of handling the situation without outside assistance. He crossed to the telephone, with the same padding steps, dialled a number and, without any explanation, ordered a sergeant and two men to come to Beyle at once and bring the surgeon.

  “Now...” he said, returning.”Now. Tell me what all this is about...”

  Nita could not contain herself.

  “I came home about five o’clock and found him...” She levelled an accusing finger at her uncle again...“I found him bending over my mother with a knife in his hand.”

  “Yes...What then?”

  “I ran out for help and then I fainted.”

  The Superintendent turned to Littlejohn.

  “Is that true? You didn’t say she fainted.”

  The Inspector could feel the deep antipathy of the other officer.

  “I haven’t said anything yet. I’m quite at your disposal, though.”

  “It can wait...”

  He strode over to where Alec was sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands, trying in a befuddled way to understand what had happened.

  “Where were you?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yes...You...Where were you?”

  “At the airport, having a drink.”

  “Who with?”

  “All alone. Didn’t want company. Can get drunk without any help.”

  “Faugh!”

  Simpole turned rapidly on his heel and stood before Uncle Bernard. “What have you to say?”

  He seemed quite without respect for the family or the age of the strange old man.

  “I was in my room...I came out for something...”

  “What did you come out for?”

  “I wanted bread from the kitchen to feed my rats...”

  “Your...? Never mind. Go on.”

  “I found my sister lying in the doorway of her room. She had a terrible wound...I dressed it and tried to revive her, but I failed...”

  “No wonder you failed, with a wound like that! Where is the knife?”

  “In my room. It is a stiletto she used as a paper-knife. One of my father’s...”

  “Very foolish of you to remove, or even handle it.”

  “What did you expect me to do, Superintendent? She is my sister. I couldn’t...”

  “I don’t want to argue with you. You had no right to touch the knife if you found her dead...”

  Suddenly the old man drew himself up to his full height.

  “I will do as I like in my own house...Or rather, my own home. I am twice your age, Superintendent, and I am a fully qualified doctor. I demand that you treat me with the dignity and respect due to me...”

  “I beg your pardon, doctor...”

  He said it sarcastically and Littlejohn felt his blood begin to boil. Much more of this, and he’d have to put this ill-mannered fellow in his place.

  “And you? Here, don’t go.”

  Elspeth was making for her own quarters. She was scared of the formidable officer now fixing her with his ruthless brown eyes.

  “I was just going to...”

  “Never mind what you were going to do. I want to ask you some questions. Where have you been all afternoon? I didn’t see you at the funeral and you’re clad in outdoor things...”

  The old woman’s lips tightened.

  “I’ve been to my sister’s in Oddington.”

  “All the time?”

  “From eleven till just now, when I got in. I found him here
.”

  She indicated Littlejohn as though he were responsible for all the turmoil.

  “So the house was empty during the funeral?”

  “Yes. I locked up.”

  “What time did you get back, doctor?”

  “Who? Me...? I got back with my sister about two...”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We ate the cold meal Elspeth had left and drank a bottle of champagne...”

  “Funny stuff for a funeral...”

  “We neither of us wished to make tea. We opened the first bottle I could find in the cellar. We felt the need...”

  “Yes. What then?”

  “You will find the remains in the dining-room...”

  “I’m not interested in the remains. What did you do, doctor?”

  “I went to my room as soon as the meal was over. I played the piano a bit and then carried on with my experiments. I then thought I’d better feed my rats. I am experimenting in...”

  “What was Mrs. Crake doing meanwhile...?”

  “She went to her room to lie down. She had drunk rather a lot of the wine.”

  “And that was the last you saw of her?”

  “Yes. Until I found her...”

  “Quite dead...”

  “Not at all. She was dying, but not dead.”

  “Oh. Did she say anything?”

  “One word only. She asked for the police...”

  “She did, did she? Quite a natural thing in the circumstances. What was the one word?”

  “‘Police,’ of course.”

  “Nothing more...?”

  “No...I think she died then...”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I was very upset...”

  Littlejohn felt sorry for the old fellow. He seemed utterly bewildered.

  “Don’t you think...?”

  His words were cut short by the arrival of the sergeant and his retinue. Littlejohn felt he could do no more good there. The Superintendent obviously resented his presence and Simpole’s methods filled him with distaste.

  “I’ll be getting along, if you don’t want me further...”

  Simpole nodded. He expressed no thanks nor asked any advice.

  “You’ll be hearing from me later, Inspector. We’ll want you at the inquest, of course.”

  “Very well. I’m staying in Oddington at the Bull’s Head, Shelldrake’s place. You’ll find me there.”

  “Good-bye, then.”

  Simpole turned to his men and started ordering them about without another word for Littlejohn, and the Inspector, calling his dog, left them.

  At Shelldrake’s place in Oddington, another surprise awaited Littlejohn. A police car stood at the door of the Bull’s Head and in the bar he found Simpole sitting with a glass of beer, hobnobbing with the ex-Chief Inspector. Simpole rose and stretched out his hand to Littlejohn.

  “I came right away to make my peace with you. Sorry I was so gruff at Beyle. I had to be, though...”

  Shelldrake, fat, peaceful and worldly-wise after thirty years of Scotland Yard, gave Littlejohn a broad wink behind the Superintendent’s back.

  “You two’ve met before, I hear...What’ll it be, Littlejohn?”

  “Beer for me, Shelldrake, please...”

  Littlejohn was puzzled. Simpole was a different man now. Must be the type who becomes obnoxious the minute there’s any official business to be done, thought Littlejohn, and he shook the offered hand. Simpole was almost jovial; as jovial as his satanic appearance and crooked jaw would allow.

  “You see, Inspector, everybody at Beyle is quite mad. If you don’t bully them about, you get nowhere. Cloud-Cuckoo castle, I call Beyle; and now there’s been a murder there. What we’re going to do, I don’t know. It was bad enough when we prosecuted that old maniac, Bernard, for cruelty to animals. They behaved like a race apart. We let it drop for the Recorder’s sake. We all liked him. But this is something we can’t gloss over or the Crakes wriggle out of. So, you see, I treated ’em rough. Sorry if I included you in the rough-house. I didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere I’d created...”

  “That’s all right...Think no more about it. I’m on holiday, so can’t claim any special privileges...”

  Shelldrake winked again and smiled to himself.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. “Things have been moving fast. Whilst you were covering three miles from Beyle to here, Scotland Yard’s been consulted. You’re in it now — officially.”

  Simpole smiled a frozen smile.

  “The Chief Constable, to whom I reported as soon as you left, insisted on calling in Scotland Yard. You see, sir, the Crake family are an unusual lot. The late Nicholas Crake was Recorder of Tilsey and there’s been a bit of trouble about his death already. I don’t know why the Chief’s in such a hurry, but he telephoned Scotland Yard right away. They said you weren’t far away and could undertake the work and they’re sending down a Sergeant Cromwell to help...”

  It was obvious Simpole was making the best of a bad job. He didn’t like it at all, especially after the way he’d first met Littlejohn, but he was trying to make amends as graciously as he knew how.

  Littlejohn was due back on the morrow. This probably meant another week or so with the Shelldrakes. It suited him and it would certainly suit his wife.

  “I don’t think there’s anything else to tell you, Inspector. You were there from the start and know as much about it as I do...”

  “The doctor confirmed the cause of death?”

  “Yes. He says it would be impossible for her to say a word to her brother, as Doane asserts she did. Death was instantaneous. The old boy’s just beside himself, that’s all. Doesn’t know what he’s doing...”

  “You said there’d been trouble there already...”

  “Yes. There’s a rumour round that the dead woman killed her husband. He died from pneumonia, but the doctor was baffled as to why he did die. It’s said his wife hurried him off by opening the window and letting the east wind blow on him. They say she stripped the bed and him.”

  Littlejohn felt a bit nettled. This wasn’t police procedure at all; just plain gossip.

  “They...? Who are they...?”

  Simpole finished his beer.

  “It’s all over the town. It seems that Tom Trumper, the grocer, saw Crake at the window, trying to shut it and saw his wife drag him away. Trumper takes a crowd of carol-singers round every Christmas and they called at Crake’s sister’s place, not knowing he was there and ill. They started carolling full blast, and then Crake appeared, stripped to the waist, Trumper says...”

  “Is Trumper reliable?”

  “None better. A solid, religious British citizen.”

  “And you’ve investigated all this?”

  “No. I only heard about noon and before I could question Mrs. Crake, she’d been killed. It’s going to be a hard nut to crack. There are quite a lot of people won’t mourn for her. In fact, I could count the likely suspects on the fingers of both hands.”

  “For example...?”

  “Crake’s sister for a start. She doted on him and hated his wife. Not without reason. Dulcie Crake treated her husband badly. Affairs all over the place. Left him to fend for himself, and worried him to death with her antics. Beatrice, that’s his sister, must have had a pretty long account to settle there. To say nothing of the fact that Beatrice’s husband was sweet on Dulcie for quite a while.”

  Shelldrake stretched himself and helped himself and his guests to more bottled beers.

  “Nothing much ever reaches Oddington,” he said comfortably. “For which I’m truly thankful. Had enough of scandal and crime when I was earning my daily bread...”

  “The town’s full of Dulcie Crake and her ways. This will be a nine days’ wonder and no mistake.”

  “Any other suspects?”

  Littlejohn wished they hadn’t handed over this case to him. It was time he had a change from small-town crimes and tittle-tattle. He envied Shelldrake his comfort and peac
e of mind.

  “There are the children, too. She’s their own mother, but you wouldn’t think so. Nita, that’s the girl you found in the drive, left home because of her mother’s spite. Dulcie was all for the boy, Alec. Nita was Nick’s girl and now that he’s dead, and with such a rumour flying about as to the cause of his death, she might have done anything. She’s hysterical and quite capable of violence. It was she who reported her uncle for the animal offence. If it was true that Dulcie caused Nick’s death, I wouldn’t put it past Nita. She’s a nurse, with plenty of nerve.”

  “And Alec...?”

  “His mother doted on him, but he’s a waster. All he wanted his mother for was what he could get out of her. His father’s dead and, I suppose, has left all to Dulcie. Perhaps Alec saw a chance of getting hold of the money quickly. I really don’t envy you your job with that crazy lot. They can’t give a straight answer to the simplest question. They’re all mixed up and all of them born liars. How Nicholas Crake stood it all these years is a mystery to me...”

  Shelldrake emptied his glass again.

  “What is a man to do who’s caught like Crake must have been, with a mad, uncontrolled woman. Does he leave home? Chuck up his job? Run off with another woman, perhaps one he doesn’t want, simply for spite? Hundreds of men in the same position put up with it out of decency, or conservatism, or else pity for their wives. Their lives are set; they don’t want to change simply because one human being chooses to make them unhappy. Or they don’t, on principle, want to cause a scandal. Or again, it’s quite possible to be sorry for a sinner, or one who can’t resist her impulses, or even who’s merely selfish. Some men, and Crake was the type, regard such things as mental illness, a sort of inherited curse, and feel sorry for the victim, just as if they were ill from a malignant disease...”

  Simpole sneered and laughed.

  “Quite a philosopher, Mr. Shelldrake, since you left the force. But were you one when you were on the active list? I’ll bet you weren’t. We’re surgeons, in a way, in the police. We cut the cancers out of the public body. It doesn’t do to have pity when you’re dealing with criminals, does it, Inspector?”

  Littlejohn’s dog was looking at him with melting, adoring eyes. He felt a warm gush of gratitude and almost unworthiness flow through him.

  “I see you have your own philosophy on these things, too. Personally, I agree with a much greater detective than I can ever hope to be, albeit he was fictitious. Pointing out a vile criminal to his friend, he said, in Baxter’s words, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes’...”