Simpole laughed outright.
“Sherlock Holmes! That’s a good one! You mean to say you model yourself on...”
“Time, gentlemen, please,” said Shelldrake heavily.” The ladies are due back from their trip to town and if there’s nothing done when they get back, there’ll be hell to pay. So, come on, Littlejohn...”
Littlejohn wondered what in the world Shelldrake had to do before the ladies returned, but admired his old chief’s curt dismissal of Simpole. The Superintendent rose and straightened his uniform.
“Thanks for the beer, Mr. Shelldrake, and for the pleasant talk. I must be getting along. See you at the inquest tomorrow, if not before, Inspector. Inquest’s at two-thirty...Good night...”
“I don’t like that small-town cop,” said Shelldrake, when Simpole’s car had gone.” “He’s burned up with ambition and frustration. I don’t envy you your job. Let’s have another beer till the women get back...”
Five - Inquest
MR. GLADSTONE was Coroner of Tilsey and when people heard his name, they expected something good. When, however, they learned the rest of it, they laughed. It was Harold. Harold Gladstone; the two didn’t seem to mix, somehow. His father had wanted William Ewart, of course; but his mother’s father was Harold, and Harold it had to be. Not that Mr. Gladstone minded. All he cared about was music of the sinister variety, like the villains’ arias in Tosca, Faust, Rigoletto and Othello. He had them all on records, croaked them to himself in a horrible monotone when alone, and hummed them softly when his court was in session. On the day of Dulcie Crake’s inquest, he couldn’t get Mephistopheles’ Serenade out of his head. He chirped it to himself and softly clucked the accompaniment.
“Pom, pom, pompom...pink, pank, ponk...”
Mr. Gladstone sat in a kind of pulpit above the well of the court. He was true Victorian in his cut of clothes, which, by the way, were rather shabby. The Coroner had quarrelled with his tailor about increasing prices, stamped out of the shop, and tried to persuade a multiple stores to cater for him. When the manager had seen the narrow trousers and high lapels which Mr. Gladstone sported, he’d bowed him out. So now the Coroner was awaiting an up-rush of courage to go back to his old purveyor, who was ready for him with a long-rehearsed rebuke...
The courtroom was crowded. The whole affair shook the town to its roots. Pressmen everywhere, people rushing hither and thither twittering and talking, queues for the inquest, and even charabancs bringing people in from the nearby country places. It was bad enough Dulcie Crake giving her husband his death of cold, as the rumour said; now, somebody had murdered her. It was as good as going to the pictures! There were bets laid as to who it might be. Bernard, Nita, Alec, Beatrice and Arthur Kent, and even old Elspeth were on the list. Some people nodded wise heads and mentioned other names associated with Dulcie Crake, men and women her promiscuity had involved. The inquest was timed for two-thirty in the Town Hall. At one they had to close the doors of the courtroom which wouldn’t hold another soul. The crowd expected a good show and they got one!
Mr. Gladstone hummed to himself and eyed the audience quite unperturbed. He looked like a respectable murderer himself. Crippen, in the chamber of horrors at Mme. Tussaud’s! Round, clean, bald, intelligent head; grey moustache; gold-rimmed spectacles; and air of complete innocence. He beamed down from his perch, took out his fountain-pen, unscrewed the cap, and laid it precisely down beside his sheets of foolscap. He gave the little pile a gentle pat in time with his humming. Ponk, pom, pom...
“Call Alexander Crake...”
There was a small jury and Mr. Gladstone nodded genially to them. They, all seven, rose and bowed like a lot of dolls on wires. They were delighted to be chosen for the event and to share the dignity and best seats.
Alec Crake rose from beside Mr. Trotman, the family solicitor. Trotman was a fat, pompous ass, with a profile like that of a decadent Roman emperor and a roving eye for the ladies. He was utterly dependent on his clerk, a little weasel of a fellow, who was ever at his elbow. Alec was wearing his red tie and sports attire, which included a dark red jacket and suede shoes. At the sight of him a mild roar of disapproval wafted round the court like a rising gale. He was merely required to give evidence of identity. This he did with perfect grace and lack of feeling, and then stood down. Mr. Trotman tried to look professional, but not in the least friendly towards his client. He himself was dressed like a floor-walker in a large shop.
Next, the doctor. This happened to be Dr. Bastable, who was police surgeon as well. He rose and lumbered to the box, an enormously tall and heavy man, very kind-hearted and tender-handed for one so huge.
“...The cause of death was a knife wound through the heart. The knife, a weapon of the stiletto type...”
Mr. Gladstone made a little gesture like that of a conductor bringing in the flute in an orchestra, and his clerk at the desk below produced the dagger in question and passed it to the doctor.
“Yes...That could easily have been the weapon, sir.
“Pray proceed...”
“The weapon entered the chest below the left breast and slightly to the right, between the ribs, and penetrated the right ventricle. Death would be instantaneous...”
There was a murmur of admiration for this expert statement and the members of the doctor’s panel present preened themselves at such an honour.
“Could the deceased have spoken after it...?”
“I cannot see how that was possible. Of course, sir, one cannot be dogmatic. But in my experience and scientifically speaking, any noise from the chest would be purely reflex...”
“I see.”
Everybody held their breath. You could have heard a pin drop. In the middle of the hush a drunken hiccup was heard and the man responsible tried to look as if he hadn’t done it. Mr. Gladstone paused and looked perplexed.
Murmurs of sympathy rose and Mr. Gladstone nodded to the assembly. It was all very friendly and informal. They were like that in Tilsey. All pals together!
Bastable had done his duty and was thanked. It was as much as the crowd could do not to give him a round of applause when he stepped down.
“Miss Juanita Crake...”
Nita, all in black, took the stand. They could only see her lips move as she recited the oath from the card sympathetically handed to her by the coroner’s officer.
Mr. Gladstone played a few bars of Faust on his desk with his fingers.
“Speak up, my dear. Don’t be afraid...”
The audience muttered a mass approval of this. They all agreed that nobody was going to hurt poor Miss Crake. “Now...Tell us in your own words, please, what happened on the afternoon your mother was...ahem...died...”
Nita had been sitting on the other side of Mr. Trotman from her brother. It was obvious that the lawyer was acting in loco parentis as well as her legal guardian. He patted the girl’s hand before she left him and told her not to be afraid, he was there. She now gave him a wan look and smiled. Another sympathetic murmur rose in the air. Good old Trotman; the friend indeed!
Nita was as pale as death. It was obvious that she would only pull through with difficulty. Since the shock of her mother’s murder, she had been staying with friends and had hardly slept.
“I returned from Bishop’s Idley, where I’d been with my brother. We’d parted at Idley and I came to Tilsey by bus. Mr. Spencer, our neighbour, gave me a lift home in his van. It was five when I got there...The clock was striking...”
She paused, as though listening again for the chimes. Another expectant hush filled the room. Nita looked around as if seeking help, or to gather her thoughts. Mr. Trotman rose, padded softly to her side, like a huge up-ended carp, and whispered to her, “Go on, my dear. Don’t be afraid...”
“That’s right, Miss Crake. Take your time. It’s all right...”
Mr. Gladstone beamed at her and whistled gently through his teeth the perpetual satanic air from Faust.
’Neath your window...pom, pom, pom, pink...
“There was nobody there. I looked in all the down-stairs rooms and then went upstairs. Right on the landing...”
Her voice grew shrill and accelerated. People felt their spines crawl and talked about it afterwards.
“...Right on the landing, I saw my uncle. At his feet was my mother and he was holding a dagger dripping with blood in his hand...”
Ohhhhhh! The audience looked at one another and then at the Coroner, as if expecting him to do something about it at once.
“Steady...”
Mr. Trotman administered comfort and security.
“What then, my dear?”
“It was right in the doorway of my mother’s room. He had killed her...”
Uncle Bernard, although not under arrest, was accidentally sitting between two policemen. He was wild and dishevelled when he arrived, but now he looked wilder than ever. He staggered to his feet as though baring his breast for a mortal blow. Nita turned to him and pointed a trembling black-gloved finger at him.
“HE KILLED MY MOTHER...”
“I didn’t...I told you, I found her...”
Someone shouted from the back, “Sit down...” Uncle Bernard was spoiling the show! Chipping in before his cue!
“Silence!!” said Mr. Gladstone and whipped off his spectacles just to show he meant it.” Let us confine ourselves to facts, Miss Crake; not your opinions, which will be struck from the records.” The two policemen ministered to Uncle Bernard in no uncertain fashion. One looked to be reading him a lecture on good manners. The old man cringed and was mute.
Mr. Trotman was helping Nita to her seat. Someone at the back could be heard asking for air. A woman had fainted.
“Make way...Get her in the open air...Air! Water!”
Nita finished her evidence sitting by Mr. Trotman. She ran out for help at once and fainted in the drive. That was all.
Uncle Bernard’s turn came.
“Your name is Bernard Doane; your age is sixty-seven; you are a qualified medical practitioner, retired; and you live at Beyle House...?”
“Yes, sir.”
Uncle Bernard had assumed a strange dignity. He stood at attention to take the oath and kissed the book with reverence. His thin hair was on end and he passed a long hand through it and restored it to a semblance of neatness. His bearing towards Mr. Gladstone was one of great respect.
“Might I make just one correction...? I qualified in Spain and never practised in this country, sir...”
Pooh! You could hear the assembly say it. They wanted none of his acting. They wanted him sentenced for murder and, in their ignorance of his powers, hoped Mr. Gladstone would get on with it.
But Mr. Gladstone was equally kind and courteous. He recognized a kindred spirit and deep called to deep. He asked the questions himself. Bernard Doane told of leaving his room to feed his rats (noises of disgust from the crowd) and finding his sister lying stabbed in the doorway of her room.
“I removed the dagger. It was her paper-knife, and very sharp. I tried to do what I could...She died in my arms...”
Someone said Booh! and this made Mr. Gladstone angry. He slapped his desk with the palm of his hand. “Any more of that and I’ll clear the room...” Several people turned on the booer and rebuked him.
“Did she say anything?”
In spite of Dr. Bastable’s statement, the Coroner persisted.
“Yes, sir. She said simply ‘Police...’ Her meaning was obvious...She had been murdered and was trying to tell me to inform the police...”
“You are a doctor, sir?”
“Yes...”
“You have heard Dr. Bastable’s comments on this point?”
“I have, sir, and I respect them. But, quite apart from what we as doctors know is possible, I was there when she spoke. I KNOW. Doctors can only surmise...”
“That is so...What happened next?”
“I tried to dress the wound and applied stimulants. I know now that it was hopeless, but in my then distressed state, I tried to perform miracles. She was dead...”
His voice broke. The more compassionate members of the gathering felt deeply sorry for him. Among them was Littlejohn, seated with the Chief Constable and Superintendent Simpole in the well of the court.
“I lifted my sister and carried her down...There I met an Inspector...Mr. Littlejohn, I think, who was very kind...The police arrived and took over...I think that is all, sir.”
He looked very old and broken as he took his seat between the two bobbies again. It seemed the two constables were the only friends he’d got. They made room for him on the bench and the heavy one of the two smiled politely at him.
“Superintendent Simpole...”
Simpole rose, crossed the court with swift steps like a cat, and took the oath. Littlejohn watched Simpole closely. He couldn’t quite make head or tail of him. In a private interview before the inquest, the Chief Constable had told Littlejohn quite plainly why he’d been so quick in calling in Scotland Yard.
“Simpole, our Superintendent here, is a dark horse where Mrs. Crake is concerned. It’s said he was one of her great admirers, if not more than that. We’ve no proof; only rumour. During a case, where her brother was involved in cruelty to animals with his vivisection experiments, Simpole spent quite a lot of time at Beyle. He and Mrs. Crake were very friendly; I know that. And the prosecution was eventually dropped. It caused a lot of local talk and scandal. You quite understand my position, therefore. I can’t accuse Simpole; but I can’t let him carry on this murder investigation on his own. Why! The feller may have done it himself...!”
Awkward!
On his way to the stand, Simpole staggered slightly, quickly recovered himself, took the card for the oath, and recited the words. Littlejohn, watching his eyes, noticed that, whilst pretending to read, the Superintendent was doing nothing of the kind. His eyes wore a glazed look, as though he were far enough away from the court, and his jaw was set in grim determination to keep control of himself.
“I arrived at Beyle just after five. I wished to see Mrs. Crake. There had been rumours in town about the circumstances of her late husband’s death, and I wanted to question her informally with a view, if possible, to dispelling them...”
Another murmur, like a rising wind through trees, passed round the room. Mr. Gladstone’s mouth opened loosely and then closed again. Simpole turned on the audience a look of steely disdain, hating them and knowing all the fickle, ignorant, gullible tricks of crowds.
“I found...”
And he went on, in a dull monotone, to describe the scene at Beyle when he arrived there. He then stood down and, turning his head in the direction of his seat beside Littlejohn, marched back to it with the precision of a sentry. He sat down without a word and Littlejohn observed great beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Inspector Thomas Littlejohn...”
You could hear the crowd settle voluptuously in their seats, like a cinema audience when the feature is announced.
Now for the star turn! The Tilsey Daily Bugle had told them all about it that morning.
BEYLE MURDER.
CHIEF CONSTABLE PROMPTLY CALLS IN SCOTLAND YARD.
FAMOUS INSPECTOR ALREADY ON THE TRAIL.
Their eyes shot out like organ-stops as the Inspector rose and took his place in the witness-box. The jury eyed him over and whispered together. Everybody expected an immediate solution and arrest. Uncle Bernard...that foreigner!...had met his match at last.
Littlejohn told the Coroner how he had arrived on the scene and what he had found. That was all. A murmur of regret and dissatisfaction rose in the body of the hall. They hadn’t had their money’s-worth. What did they pay taxes for?
All the time, Mr. Gladstone knew he was going to adjourn. The preliminaries were merely to establish cause of death, identity, and to enable him to issue a certificate of burial. He turned to the jury.
“I shall now adjourn this inquiry pending further police investigations...”
From the point of view of the
sensation-mongers, it was a sorry flop! They waited, expecting the hand of the law to be laid on Uncle Bernard’s arm. Instead, they saw Littlejohn, after a hasty word with Simpole, speak kindly to Bernard Doane, and those standing near heard him offer the old man a lift in his car. The pair of them left the room and entered the police vehicle, at the wheel of which sat a lugubrious officer in a bowler hat and mourning clothes, ready to drive them off.
“This is Dr. Bernard Doane, Cromwell. I’ve promised him a lift home to Beyle. Drive on, and I’ll show you the way...”
The crowd melted and formed smaller knots; some went to the local pubs for fuller discussion; others made for Trumper’s Stores (Established 1858), to learn more of what the oracular proprietor thought of it. Mr. Trumper was at his best. Still wearing his hat, and in his shirt-sleeves, he expounded police strategy.
“They’re lyin’ low, till ’ooever done it’s off his guard. Then...then...”
He drew narrowing concentric circles round a sugar lump on the counter, as though that object were animated and quite off its guard as well.
“Then...THEY’LL POUNCE!!”
He brought his heavy palm down on the sugar lump and converted it to granulated. Everybody jumped and looked suspicious of his neighbour...
At Beyle, Uncle Bernard took them to his own room.
“It’s the only place where there’s a proper fire. Nobody seems to bother about keeping the house warm any more...”
He looked distracted. Elspeth had been living at her sister’s since the second tragedy. According to her second-sight, other catastrophes were in the offing and she wouldn’t sleep another night under the roof of Beyle. She came, made the beds, laid out the food for the day in the dining-room, and then stole away. Nita had gone off with Mr. and Mrs. Trotman, who had taken her under their wing, and Alec had presumably left on another of his drinking tours.
“I’m sorry the place is rather a shambles...But I can offer you a glass of excellent Tio Pepe...No?...”
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 6
