She turned pale under her cosmetics and Littlejohn thought she was going to faint. In her anxiety, she looked ten years older. Then, she pulled herself together.
"Of all the impertinence ! As if I . . ."
Littlejohn was going to have no more beating about the bush.
"Mrs. Fairclough, I called here to keep this matter as quiet as possible and avoid a scandal. Your name has been mentioned in this case and I wish to ask you some questions. If you refuse to help us, the case will be aired in court, that's all. Take your choice."
She crossed to a cupboard, poured out a liberal glass of gin, drank it and looked a bit better.
Her voice changed. She was going to try the helpless woman tactics.
" . . . I admit we were friends. Nothing wrong in that. I thought a trip to Liverpool to see the shops and the sea would do me good. I'd had a hard winter and the boys were away. My husband was going to an exhibition in London, so I decided to take the opportunity. Why I should be mixed up in this terrible business, I can't say. . . ."
She tried to weep a little, but the tears wouldn't come.
"May I ask you a question or two, Mrs. Fairclough? It might be easier that way."
She sat down, still clinging to her gin glass, tensed herself, opened her eyes wide and tried to look a model of truth.
"Yes, I've nothing to hide."
"You were away at the end of April, the 28th of April onwards?"
"Yes. I was in Liverpool."
"And the Isle of Man?"
"It was a nice day; I thought the sail would do me good."
"You went with Theodore Hunt . . . ?"
She bit the nail of her index finger, but did not answer.
"Come, Mrs. Fairclough. I want the truth. If you won't give me proper answers, I may as well go and find them elsewhere. But I assure you, if I do, your name will have to be mentioned and the results will be your own responsibility."
"I did go with Hunt . . ." she burst out. It was as though she spoke it in a hurry before she decided not to tell it. "As I said, there was nothing wrong in that. He was going. We travelled together. He looked after me and made things much pleasanter by his kindness."
"You were together all the three days?"
"What do you mean by that?"
She was afraid again, but trying to bluff it away.
"You stayed in the same hotel?"
"Yes. We had separate rooms. There was no sordid little intrigue. As though I'd do such a thing with a man like Theodore Hunt ! I mean . . ."
"I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. Fairclough. You aren't in love with him. He thinks you are. But that doesn't concern me. Please give me some particulars of where you went and what you did."
"That's simple. It was late when we got to Liverpool. We had dinner and retired. The next day was fine and sunny. Mr. Hunt said he had an errand in the Isle of Man. We crossed on the morning boat, crossed back on the midnight, stayed the next day in Liverpool, resting, and returned on the morning after. Is that all?"
"Not exactly. It's the island part I'm interested in. What did you do there?"
"Theodore wanted to see a friend who had a cottage in the wilds. Why, I don't know. But once there, I began to get bored and a trip to one place was as good as another. We went almost to Peel, took a taxi, and drove into the interior to the cottage."
"Do you remember where it was?"
"I can't for the life of me remember. It was a sort of chapel very nicely converted, I reckoned, into a cottage. There was a deserted mine not far away."
"That is right."
They seemed isolated in a strange world. The servant girl had suddenly grown silent, there were no sounds from outside, the room was fantastic, and even the cat was unlike the usual homely kind. It glared at Littlejohn who had taken its favourite chair, took a bound and landed on the mantelpiece, where it settled down sedately.
"Tell me, please, exactly what you and Mr. Hunt did then."
"The taxi stopped at the cottage and Theo went inside. I followed. It was quite deserted. Theo shouted, but there was no answer."
"Did you look around?"
"Just casually. The owner, a man called Oates, I think, was nowhere about. Theo said he'd rung him up a night or two before and asked him to come urgently. He was in trouble. I'm sure nobody would get me on such a wild-goose chase. Even if they were dying. It was just silly."
"And then?"
"Theo left a note on the table. 'Call again when you're out,' or something such, it said, in Theo's sarcastic way. He thinks it funny; I don't. We left the note and went to Peel for tea. I wanted to get the afternoon boat back, but Theo was determined to try again. There was a midnight boat, so I finally said yes, we'd get it. God ! It was rough later and I wished I'd never agreed. It was the same again. Nobody there; Theo's note where we'd left it. Not a sign or a soul. So we came back. Theo said he'd have been furious if it hadn't given him such a lovely time with me. I didn't find it very thrilling. It was evident he'd something on his mind and wouldn't tell me. He was a bit distraught. . . ."
"So, you can assure me that all the time you were at the cottage, Hunt was not out of your sight?"
"Certainly. We were together all the time we were on the island. We left the cottage, had dinner, went to the pictures, walked along the promenade and then joined the boat about eleven o'clock. I swear it."
"Very well, Mrs. Fairclough. You will be prepared to sign a statement to that effect?"
"Yes. . . ."
She started to wring her hands until the fingers turned blue.
". . . Er . . . Will my husband need to know?"
"That depends, Mrs. Fairclough. It is necessary to clear Hunt of the suspicion of a murder in the Isle of Man on the date you were with him. It all rests on developments how much becomes public."
"I beg of you, Inspector. There will be such a row. I didn't tell him Theo was with me. . . ."
She scuffled with a cigarette packet, took one out, lit it unconsciously and drew nervously at it.
"But if, as you say, the trip was quite harmless and the fact that you and Hunt were together was purely fortuitous . . ."
"My husband is terribly jealous. He hates Theo, too. They are such different types. He might even . . . even . . . try to divorce me."
"But there are no grounds. What are the relations between you and Hunt?"
This was necessary, although the question seemed a bit impertinent. If they were in love, they might have concocted a story.
"We were merely friends. Theo produces the plays at the school and, as there are no girls there, the masters' wives sometimes take the ladies' parts. We met often there and, as we had tastes in common, we got friendly. Nothing more. . . ."
So that was it! A little affair, maybe an innocuous one of hand-squeezing or kissing in corners, under the stimulus of grease-paint and footlights. And Mrs. Fairclough was an amateur actress. Littlejohn might have guessed it! Her behaviour all the time reminded him of a Pinero melodrama. His House in Order!
"You do believe me?"
"It's no business of mine, if the account you've given me of what happened in the island is true. It will clear Hunt and that is what I want. Did you notice anything unusual at the cottage?"
"No. It was cold and deserted and a bit untidy. I wanted to get away. . . . "
"I must be going now. I will call again with a colleague and take a statement, which you will kindly sign."
"I beg you again, please don't let my husband know. It would ruin everything. He is a violent and jealous man. He would kill Theo. . . . "
As if to confirm it, the door suddenly burst open and a large, flabby man stood panting on the threshold. He was livid with rage and his eyes protruded, showing the whites. He was fair, pink and clean-shaven and his hair was clipped close to his head. He wore a tweed suit and a foulard bow-tie, in keeping with his artistic pretensions. He thrust himself towards Littlejohn and faced him angrily. He looked huge, with his arms raised above his head and his legs at f
ull stretch. Littlejohn felt no fear. The intruder was made of little muscle and a lot of fat.
"What are you doing here? Answer me. I demand an answer. Tell me what you're doing here. . . ."
He cast up his words rapidly, as if trying to work himself into a fit of genuine violence.
"Modley told me he saw the police entering the house as he was passing. . . ."
"Who's Modley?"
Littlejohn asked it by way of putting in his motto somehow. Mrs. Fairclough wasn't saying anything. She sat there, nursing the cat as though it gave her strength and security, and glaring at her husband. Littlejohn wanted to be off; he had no stomach for a nasty domestic scene.
"Never you mind who Modley is. . . . "
"Don't be silly, Charles. He's the school porter. Control yourself."
She was sneering. It was evident there was little love lost between this queer pair; the art connoisseur and his play-acting wife.
"You keep out of this. I've had enough from you. . . . You . . . you . . . Jezebel !"
It seemed to relieve Fairclough. He said it again.
"Jezebel!"
"Go on. Say it again if it pleases you. And then tell me what all this nonsense is about."
Her voice was like ice and had coarsened. If Littlejohn hadn't been there, the two of them would probably have settled down to a vulgar brawl.
"I know what it's all about. I know Hunt's in gaol and you're involved, too, somehow. Otherwise, why talk to the police behind my back. After all, I'm only your husband, am I? The complacent cuckold . . . the laughing-stock of the school. Well, I've finished. I'm through. . . ."
It was like a poorly rehearsed play; Fairclough overdoing it and Mrs. Fairclough, in her efforts to control herself before a stranger, making little stilted gestures like a bad actress.
"I'm through!"
He repeated it, but it was evident he was enjoying the situation too much to leave the stage, yet.
"I've been watching you and Hunt for a long time. Don't think I'm a fool. I saw you at the play, throwing yourself at him and him beside himself that any woman should even notice him. Well, you can have him. I'll give you your freedom and you can take him and his loony sister on for a change and see how you like that. I'm through!"
"Don't be vulgar, Charles. You know you can't make ends meet without my income. Where would the money come from to buy your nice pictures, and your fancy food and wine, and your little trips to London? Tell me that? From your salary as part-time art master at Dalbay? I don't think so. . . ."
"I'll never touch a penny of yours again. I'll make my own living. I'm not too old for that. . . ."
Littlejohn made for the door. He'd had enough!
"I must be going. I'll call again for a statement. . . ."
"Wait! I want you to hear this. You've heard part of the tale. How much, I don't know. I expect she's been excusing herself for her sordid intrigue with Hunt. . . ."
"How dare you, Charles!"
"Don't speak to me, you . . . you Jezebel! . . ."
"Can't you think of another name . . .? Call me a loose woman, a betrayer, a vampire. . . ."
"Oh, shut up! Don't think I haven't had my eye on you for a long time. I know all about your little trip to Liverpool with Hunt and your staying together in an hotel. . . . I had you followed."
"You what?"
"I had you followed. All the way. Liverpool, the Isle of Man and back, Liverpool again, and home. Why did you come back? Why didn't you bolt with your lover and leave me alone? I wouldn't have cared. I think you'd a damn' cheek coming back."
"You had me followed? I might have expected it! Very well; I won't stay here another day. I'm going...."
"And take your precious Hunt with you . . . that is, when he's finished his term in gaol."
"Will you please let me speak, and then I'll go and leave you to settle your own affairs."
Littlejohn had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the domestic pandemonium.
"You say you had your wife followed, Mr. Fairclough. By whom?"
"What's it got to do with you?"
"Quite a lot. Whoever did the following can confirm your wife's statement."
"Well, of all the nerve. . . ."
The fact that it displeased his wife made Fairclough all the more obliging.
"A fellow called Stroud. A private agent I had recommended for discreet inquiries."
"I know him. Discreet's the word."
Littlejohn had a picture in his mind's eye of Mr. Stroud. He'd once been a policeman who'd been gaoled and sacked for turning a blind eye to certain matters happening on his beat. Beef in a bowler hat, Cromwell had once called him.
"And you've had Mr. Stroud's report?"
"Yes. It arrived at school to-day. I had it addressed there. My wife always opens my letters at home. . . . "
At this Mrs. Fairclough's tight reserve left her. She rose and began to pour a torrent of invective, oaths, blasphemy and epithets from the gutter upon the head of her husband, and, in the midst of it, Littlejohn made a speedy exit.
He didn't return for Mrs. Fairclough's statement, for he heard she had left town that day. Instead, Mr. Hubert Stroud, discreet inquiries, was persuaded by Cromwell to sign a copy of the report he'd already sent to the outraged husband, and also add a few more details of his own. This gave Theodore Hunt a good alibi, but that was a doubtful blessing to him.
13
BLUE SPECTACLES
HUBERT STROUD had an office in the Strand. By cricking your neck and looking at the very top of the building almost facing The Savoy, you could just see "STROUD'S INQUIRY AGENCY" in gilt letters on a dirty window-pane. Inside, there was a cheap table, two chairs, a cane hat-stand and a resplendent filing-cabinet. That was all Mr. Stroud needed, for the bulk of his work was done elsewhere. Cromwell had to telephone five times before he caught Hubert; whereat he ordered him to stay where he was until he could cover the distance between Scotland Yard and the discreet inquirer's office.
"What's all the fuss about?" said Stroud. "Not often we 'ave the pleasure of a call from the Yard."
He looked to be sitting in mid-air, for his huge body completely hid the small chair which supported him. His face was a choleric red, his head bald, with two white tufts like cotton-wool over the ears, his small moustache was waxed in points and he wore a shabby navy-blue suit with dandruff liberally sprinkled on the collar. His tie was looped through a gilt ring with a large sham diamond glittering in the middle.
"Hullo, Hubert. I'm just after a bit of information from you, that's all. All contributions gratefully received."
"You are, are you? Well, let me tell you mine's a confidential job. My reputation depends on my discretion. So, it all rests on what you're after."
"A little matter of a divorce case in Bishop's Walton; or if it isn't quite that, it's precious near it."
Cromwell sat on the other chair and the noise it made caused him to leap to his feet again in case it collapsed under him. Mr. Stroud looked angry. He didn't like the police since his involuntary departure from the force. His cirrhotic nose with its network of livid veins grew redder out of temper.
"Look here, this is my bread and butter. It's not fair to ask me to blab about what I find out. Live and let live. . . ."
"I quite agree. Fair's fair; all the same we know all you found out about a fellow called Hunt and Mrs. Fairclough in connection with what looks like being the case of Fairclough v. Fairclough in the courts. The angry husband told my chief all about it."
"Then why bother me? I should be on a case at this minute. I might be missing an important lead, wasting my time here."
And to show the urgency of his labours, Mr. Stroud rose, put on a bowler hat and took a large rolled umbrella from the hat stand.
"Quite simple. Just a word and I won't detain you. Your report gives an alibi to Hunt. At the time, you were watching him in the Isle of Man. . . . That right . . . ?"
"Yes. . . ."
"At the time you wer
e watching him, he was supposed to be murdering one of his friends."
"Well, I can assure you he didn't kill anybody while I 'ad 'im under my eye. I never left him from the day 'e left Walton to the day he returned. Liverpool, as well. I stayed in the same hotel as that pair. Open and shut case. Collected all the evidence from the hotel staff and gave 'er husband the 'ole lot served up on a plate. Between you and me, never was on an easier mark. Just like a couple o' babes, they were. Chap was delighted. Fairclough, I mean. Been after a divorce for a while. On the Q.T., he's got a little bit o' fluff of 'is own on the Chelsea Embankment . . . a girl who paints modern pictures . . . and 'e thinks 'e'd better be gettin' married to her to cut down expenses. He didn't tell me that, o' course. But I've ways of me own, see?"
Mr. Stroud tapped the side of his nose, which resembled a piece of ornamental purple pumice. Then he opened the filing cabinet, took out a bottle and invited Cromwell to a drink. When the sergeant refused, he helped himself liberally. It was evident that he'd expected something more damning in the nature of police inquiries. This one relieved him and made him feel in better shape.
Cromwell smiled to himself. Littlejohn would laugh when he heard about Fairclough and his painter-girl. The Inspector had told him about the pictures at their house in Bishop's Walton. Most ingenious! Fairclough investing his wife's cash for a rise in price in paintings probably made by his light o' love in Chelsea.
"So, you'll give us a signed copy of the report you made to Fairclough about his wife and Hunt. That ought to clear Hunt."
"Yes, it ought. But you'll have to give me a fee for what you get. The labourer's worthy of 'is 'ire, you know."
"You're telling me! What sort of a place was the cottage you followed the pair to? A bit isolated, I hear."
"Yes. They took a taxi there. Right into the wilds, it went. I nearly slipped-up on it. There wasn't another taxi to be had for love or money. Lucky for me a farmer drove up in an old tumbledown car. I stopped 'im and persuaded 'im to take me on as a fare."
"Did you see anybody else about?"
"Plenty on the main road, but only an odd car or two after we left it . . . oh, and a chap picnicking not far from the cottage."
Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 14