"That released Hunt from duty, sir?"
"Of course. . . ."
"Did he go away, do you know?"
"Not to my knowledge. I was absent in London for a fortnight. I returned on April 30th. Hunt was at home then, because I asked him to call here to see me and he came at once. I find him very useful in many things and as he rarely leaves home, he is easily available, even out of term."
"You can vouch, then, for his being in Bishop's Walton without a day's absence until April 15th from the start of Easter term and still here on April 30th. In other words, you can assure me there is only the period of your absence in London unaccounted for?"
"That is right. But, surely, you are not seeking an alibi for a man like Hunt. He's not a murderer, you know."
"I didn't say he was, sir. . . . "
This icy, calculating pedagogue was busy counting the cost already of Hunt's possible arrest and disappearance from the life of the school.
"Is Mr. Hunt a wealthy man, sir?"
Mr. Bompass blinked. He knew all about it and was sorting out words in his mind to express it diplomatically. It was a habit of his when interviewing parents.
Outside, a clock struck five. It was as if a wind were gently blowing across the tree-lined quadrangle which the windows of Bompass's study surveyed like a watch-tower. Classes were breaking up. The rustle spread and grew to a wild roar of closing desks, shuffling feet, banging doors, and then the boys began to file out on their way to the chapel. Another day of cramming almost ended.
"No, he's not wealthy. I have friends who knew his background. Family sickness has always hampered him. I would say he has little more than what he earns here. I have been told he does some free-lance writing, but he is too austere, too fastidious for the present taste of the average reader. A kind of modern Barbey d'Aurevilly, if you understand what I mean. . . . "
Littlejohn had never heard of Barbey, but he let it pass. He made a mental note of the name to ask his wife. She'd know.
". . . So he has made very little. One of his colleagues told me of novels he had written, very good ones, too, as monuments of style, but as breadwinners . . . well . . . They were never published."
Bompass rose and walked to the window, anxious to see what was going on in his little kingdom.
"There's Hunt, now. He's taking chapel. . . ."
Walking alone in the rear of the stragglers, was a medium-built man, inclined to fatness, his gown billowing round him, his cap in his hand. He had books under his arm and his fine head, long and large for the size and shape of his body, was sunk on his chest. He looked like a tracker with his eye on a trail. From where he stood, Littlejohn could make out the sardonic profile, the white hands, the cultivated long hair of the fastidious man, one to whom routine was torture. The dress beneath the gown, too . . . loose, heavy grey tweed, with an easy-fitting cream shirt and collar and a silk bow-tie. . . . Hunt slowly vanished in the chapel of new red brick. The whole place sprouted with appendages of brick and concrete, or even timber sheds here and there. The old house had grown far too small for the teeming mass of élan vitale which it accommodated for winning scholarships and passing examinations.
"Will that be all, Inspector?"
Mr. Bompass was now very amiable. He was anxious that Littlejohn should leave Hunt for the school.
"I think so, sir. I may be back if I find any point on which you may be able to enlighten me."
"Of course. Most pleased. And now, if you'll excuse me. I have my work . . . ahem. . . ."
He extended a bony hand for a valedictory shake and let it hang limp like a dead fish in Littlejohn's palm for a second. . . . Across the quadrangle and in at the open window floated the noise of Hunt's ministrations. . . . The pleasant sound of boys' voices singing in unison:
Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing
Thanks for mercies past receive. . . .
Mr. Bompass dismissed Littlejohn and turned his attention to the lurid collection of literature which he had gathered from pockets, desks and lockers. . . .
Number 5, Abbott's Walk was a fine old Georgian building with a pillared front, a semi-circular doorstep, and a similar canopy of stone to match it balanced on top of the columns. On each side of the doorway someone had buried an ancient piece of artillery, a small iron field-gun, muzzle downwards, to form a second diminutive pair of pillars. Littlejohn tugged the doorbell, and as he waited, he wondered who, in this small, tidy community, had erected such a gem of a dwelling. It had been the home of a wealthy merchant who had bought the wool from the neighbouring sheep-farmers, distributed it in cottages for miles around to be carded and spun, and then, after collecting it, made it into cloth in a small mill driven by water-power.
"Did you want to see the master?"
A girl of about fifteen opened the door. She wore cap and apron and her hair and clothing marked her, as yet, as a learner in the arts of attire and attractiveness. She was an orphan from a nearby home. Servants never stayed with the Hunts for long; older ones shunned their employ and they were reduced to taking and training girls from the orphanage who, when they had equipped themselves for better jobs, gave notice and left.
Littlejohn handed the maid his card, but before she could take it indoors a head was thrust into the hall and a voice called: "Who is it, Nancy?"
The newcomer couldn't wait for the Inspector to be properly announced and brought in. She snatched the card from Nancy's fingers, read it, and came straight to the door and greeted Littlejohn.
"Good evening. Do come in. I'm not a bit scared of policemen. I've dealt with hundreds of them in my life. When we lived in London, I used to get lost every day and they always brought me home. . . . "
She spoke in shrill, excited tones, as if every experience were a great adventure. She had a habit of underlining words and this marked them out, all unknown to her, as gross exaggerations.
"Come in. . . . What do you want, Inspector? Is it the dog licence? It's always summer before I remember to pay it. . . . "
Littlejohn followed her down the long hall, with its lovely soaring staircase, into a drawing-room of fine dimensions. Two spacious windows, with folded shutters, overlooked a tree-lined side-street. A large, marble Adam fireplace at one end of the room. The furniture was gracious and antique; Venetian mirrors on the walls and, here and there, a good picture. It gave you the impression of the home of a patrician instead of a poor schoolmaster and his cranky sister. Here was all the furniture and remaining finery of the old Hunt home in London, all that was left of their father's ruin. . . .
"My brother is in his bath. . . . He has several baths a day, you know. . . . "
Littlejohn turned to face Constance Hunt. She was small, daintily built, and well-preserved for her age, which must have been around sixty. Her long hair, gathered back from her low forehead, was fixed in a bun at the nape of the neck and was of an even whiteness so bright that it was difficult to make out whether it was white or blonde. That and her firm, pink complexion gave her an appearance of agelessness. She wore a gingham gown, twenty or more years too young for her. Her hazel eyes were wide-set and had an expression of perpetual, innocent surprise. Their lids were heavy and red-rimmed, the cheek-bones high, the chin tapering. . . . An obvious hysteric, one who sought refuge from the world in an endless childhood; a Peter Pan, refusing to grow up. Littlejohn had met them before; unable to discriminate between truth and fantasy; unreliable witnesses; constitutional liars. . . .
"I'll wait, if you don't mind, Miss Hunt."
"I don't mind at all. I often entertain my brother's friends whilst he's in his bath. What were you wanting of him? Not more trouble at the school, I hope. They are always having trouble at the school. And my brother always gets them out of it. . . ."
Littlejohn was interested in the pictures on the walls; particularly in one to the right of the fireplace. It was the finished article, the real masterpiece, the rough water-colour sketch of which hung over the fireplace in Lysander Oates's old room in Pimlico
. Mrs. Kewley had said it was of somewhere in the Isle of Man. Oates must have been an artist when he really tried. Here, in oil, was a sweep of lovely blue hills, decked in gorse, and descending to a wild valley through which ran a white ribbon of road. By the roadside a tiny chapel and, strange in such surroundings, a stumpy chimney of some old factory or mine. . . .
"You like pictures. . . . Before we came into the country, we had many distinguished artists as friends. They gave us endless masterpieces. Our home was like one of the old salons where the famous gathered. . . . You like this . . . ? My brother did it for my last birthday. . . . "
She pointed her index finger, which held a large ring with a heavy intaglio, at an illuminated manuscript in a black frame, hanging by the window. Exquisite work, in bright colours and gold.
But leave the Wise to wrangle and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be,
And in some quiet Corner of the Hubbub couch't,
Make Game of that which makes as much of thee.
"Very beautiful work, Miss Hunt. Very lovely indeed."
And so it was, and filled with the bitterness of Theodore Hunt.
"That is a verse from Omar Khayyám, Inspector. My brother can recite it from beginning to end. He needs only to read a poem to remember it by heart. . . . "
A door closed behind them and Littlejohn turned to find himself facing Theodore Hunt, who had entered silently, clad in a foulard dressing-gown, a scarf to match round his neck, and cream, heel-less suède shoes on his feet. He looked rather surprised to find Littlejohn there.
"Good evening. I didn't know we had visitors. . . ."
The lips were heavy and turned-down at the corners in ever-present sardonic disappointment; the nose high bridged, aquiline, and with finely chiselled nostrils; the brow broad; the eyes dark and deep-set in tired sockets. The face was colourless, like parchment; the cheeks wore a look of slight inflation as though he were gently blowing them out from the inside. . . .
Constance ran to greet him. He patted her arm with infinite tenderness as though she were all he had to love and to care for him, and he smiled indulgently as on a child. For a brief moment, as he looked questioningly at her, he was gentle and charming.
"Well, my dear, won't you introduce me to your visitor?"
She was pleased at his mistake.
"Oh, but he's not my visitor. As a rule, I get all the callers, but this one is for you. He is Inspector . . . what is it? . . . I can never remember strange names. . . . However, he has come all the way from London to see you, Theo. . . . "
Hunt's face was a sarcastic mask. He looked across at Littlejohn who nodded pleasantly, and, for a moment, his face jerked with fear. . . . Then he was himself again.
"Well . . . And to what do we owe this unexpected honour, Inspector, this arrival of Mahomet at the mountain, this coming of Town to the country . . . ? Nothing sensational, I hope. . . ."
He turned gently to his sister.
"Connie, dear, make us a cup of coffee, will you? I feel like one and I'm sure the Inspector would like to join us."
"But, we haven't dined yet, Theo. . . . We will have it served after dinner. Invite the Inspector to stay, please. . . . "
"I've already dined, thank you, Miss Hunt. . . ."
So had the Hunts, on corned beef and salad, but Constance was living in cloud-cuckoo land, with flunkeys waiting to serve the courses.
"There, you see. Go and get it, dear, just to please me. . . .
Littlejohn felt a surge of compassion for Hunt, so kindly and patient to this poor nitwit, covering up for her, smoothing over her fancies and lies, coaxing her, helping her along the knife-edge of rational conduct, protecting her from trouble. . . . She smiled archly at Littlejohn as though off to concoct a surprise, and left them. Hunt was himself again.
"Now. What is all this? My sister is not well and must not be excited. As you see, I've coaxed her to leave us for a while. Hurry through your business and then please go."
"Thank you, sir. It's about your friend Mr. Lysander Oates."
Hunt's hands had been hanging by his sides. He clenched their palms and his right forearm slowly rose from the perpendicular to a right angle, with the heavy ring on the little finger biting into the flesh from the pressure he exerted. That was the only sign that the name had gone deep. He relaxed quickly.
"Well? What of him, Inspector?"
"He has disappeared. . . . "
Hunt smiled a thin, tolerant smile and he gently flapped his white hands.
"Come, come, come, Inspector. Don't be melodramatic. Surely a man can go away and seek a little peace in these uncivilised and degraded times. That is why my sister and I are here in this forsaken place. We want a bit of peace. . . ."
"In some quiet corner of the hubbub couch'd, sir?"
"Ah, I see you've been looking at my illuminations. It pleases my sister and provides a little relaxation for me after pumping . . . er knowledge, shall we call it . . . ? into little boys day after day."
"Yes, I've been admiring it . . . and the pictures. Particularly the one by the fireplace there."
You could have heard a pin drop for a second. Hunt had been caught off his guard. Why? Then, he quickly recovered.
"Oh, the one of Wales. . . . "
Littlejohn felt for the first time that unfailing queer sense of elation which always took him when the first real scent, the faint signs of the trail, came to him, never to be left until the case was ended.
"Wales, is it, sir? Some of Mr. Oates's work?"
Hunt stared at him.
"How did you guess that?"
"It has L.O. in the bottom right corner."
"So it has. Well . . . It looks as if you've come on a wild-goose chase, Inspector. I'm sorry I can't help you. I haven't seen Oates for nearly two years. . . . Haven't even heard from him."
"I hoped you might give us some clue as to his whereabouts with being his best friend. . . . "
"You're mistaken, Inspector. I'm not his best friend. We used to be intimate, but that has declined, till now, well . . . mere acquaintances . . . mere acquaintances. . . ."
Hunt seemed eager to convince Littlejohn that Oates meant nothing to him. Too eager. . . .
"Did you know his brother, sir?"
"Finloe, you mean? Yes, long ago. I read in the paper that he died."
"Yes, rather mysteriously, sir. . . ."
"I did read about it, but I can't say the details interest me. I'm busy. I have my work, and the accounts of sordid crime leave me quite cold."
"Sordid crime, sir? He died naturally, I believe, but his body was hidden. . . ."
"I know, I know. I'm not interested, I tell you."
He was annoyed; almost in a rage. Another ostrich, maybe, not quite so bad as his sister, but angry when the unsavoury elements of life disturbed his peace of mind or body.
"Here we are at last. . . . Well, what are you waiting for, Nancy? Bring it in. . . . "
Constance was back again and Nancy followed on her heels, trundling in ungainly fashion a tea-waggon decked out for afternoon tea. Silver teapots and other equipment, little cakes, toasted scones. . . . Afternoon tea at eight in the evening and just after dinner!
"We couldn't find the coffee, so . . ."
They couldn't find anything, as a rule, unless Theodore personally attended to it. Constance had no memory for little details. They ran out of sugar, salt, tea, coffee and even the staples of diet several times every week. Theo smiled gently.
"Serve it, then, my dear. Thank you, Nancy. That will do."
Nancy made her exit as from a royal levee . . . backed to the door, her eyes glued on her master, and then fled.
Littlejohn sipped the tea out of Crown Derby china. He shuddered to think of such treasures handled by Nancy or forgotten by Constance. Yet, somehow, here it was, intact. Probably Theo . . .
There was no sugar in the tea and the brew was heavy. They'd even forgotten how many spoonfuls went into the pot.
&nbs
p; "Sugar . . . ? One or two . . . ?"
Hunt was patiently filling the gaps.
"What did the Inspector and you talk about, Theo? Not of me, behind my back, did you?"
"No, no, dear. He was admiring the pictures and your little illuminated Rubai from Omar. . . ."
"But surely he didn't come all the way . . . ?"
"Now, now, Connie. Not before our guest. I'll tell you when he's gone. . . . "
And shortly afterwards, Littlejohn left them. They saw him off from the doorstep under the stone canopy and Constance waved a tiny handkerchief at him over her head, until he turned the corner and vanished from sight.
9
THE CHAPEL AT SNUFF THE WIND
MRS. KEWLEY was on her knees cleaning the hall when Littlejohn called at Lysander Oates's old rooms. She was so busy she didn't see him at first.
"Well, Mrs. Kewley, and how's the new granddaughter?"
She turned her head and raised a happy face in the direction of the Inspector.
"I'm sorry, sir. Didn't know it was you. . . ."
She rose to her feet with difficulty, wiped her hands on her rough apron, and patted her hair to restore it to something like shape.
"She's fine, sir. Fine. Thanks to you, I got there good an' early. A lovely little girl. . . . Callin' her after me, sir, though I'll see to it she gets Margaret, and not Maggie, like I do. . . . Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Kewley. I've called to see if I can borrow the picture I liked in Mr. Oates's old room. Where did you say it was of?"
"The Isle of Man, sir. I remember well Mr. Oates tellin' me, because of Kewley comin' from there. Did you want to take it away?"
"Yes; I'd like to keep it a few days. I'll see you get it back. Will Mr. What's-his-name object?"
"That he won't. If Mr. Brodribb does complain, it's all the same to me. I gave it 'im, didn't I? All he did was get a cheap frame on it. I'll fetch it. . . ."
"Let me go up. If Mr. Brodribb says anything, tell him I'll make it right with him later. Here's my card if he asks who I am."
Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 9