‘I’m properly trained. I’ll see you in a day or two.’
He bade Mrs. Southery good-bye, too, put on his cap and raincoat, and made for the road where his car was parked.
Clifton, the policeman, was waiting for him. He saluted dutifully.
‘So, there you are, sir. I’ve been waitin’ for you.’
He handed Cromwell a grubby piece of paper.
‘We dried out the car that Lane came in and we found that in one corner of the pocket. It was a bit soggy, but you can just read it. It’s nothing much, but might be of interest.’
‘Thank you, Clifton. What is it?’
He switched on the headlamps and examined the bobby’s find in the light of them.
Thrutchley’s Garage. Basilden.
Always Open.
A settled bill for eight gallons of petrol and a quart of oil, dated the night James Teasdale died.
9
Barbara, Irene, and Chris
Cromwell had telephoned from Ely early in the morning to say that he was on his way to Basilden. Littlejohn could hardly wait for him to arrive. It was almost like being in a foreign country, and with his old colleague there to support him and discuss the case with him, things would be much better.
He had spent the night at the Swan with Two Necks. They had a comfortable room or two and he reserved one for Cromwell, who was due to arrive that night. The landlord hung about as Littlejohn ate his breakfast. To prevent his intrusion, Littlejohn propped the morning paper against the jampot on the table and read it. He found himself in the headlines. Heck was obviously eager to talk about it.
‘See you’re in the heavy type this morning, Super,’ he’d said as soon as Littlejohn entered the dining-room. Then, fortunately, the beer had arrived from the brewery and he’d been called away.
It was fine, but Basilden was under heavy clouds, which gave everything a drab, dreary look. The shops in the square were opening and people were passing on their ways to work. Boxes of fish were appearing at a shop almost opposite and the greengrocer two doors away had just arrived with his lorry full of new vegetables and fruit.
The case was now centring entirely on Basilden. Teasdale had been killed not long after eating his evening meal. Then, his murderer had very likely loaded the body in Teasdale’s own car and taken it to where it should have been next morning, near Ely. Why?
The answer seemed simple. The murderer had wished to divert attention from Basilden and transfer it to the place where Teasdale would appear next day. The suspects would then be Martha Gomm or some of Little Jim’s fairground associates. In the diary found in the dead man’s pocket, he’d written details of his fairground visits and the murderer could have found out almost the exact location of Teasdale’s next port of call.
But the murderer had forgotten one thing. The condition of the victim’s stomach. Quite understandable; quite easily overlooked by an amateur.
The whole affair boiled down to the family, including old Scott-Harris, or some unknown enemy of Teasdale’s who’d not yet turned up. There was also Harry Wood, the singer, to be investigated. He’d been at Norwich at the time Teasdale and Martha Gomm had been at the fair in Lowestoft. Perhaps he’d taken a trip to the sea and met them. It might be a mare’s nest. On the other hand, Wood might have encountered Teasdale there.
Littlejohn glanced at the newspaper again.
Flood Murder. Scotland Yard on the Case
Superintendent Littlejohn Visits Basilden.
He was sharing the headlines with a couple who’d eloped.
Salome Grierson Made Ward of the Court
Father Weeps as He Pursues Fleeing Couple to Scotland.
He put on his hat and coat and went into the town square. The policeman on point duty saluted smartly as he passed and the loafers outside the labour exchange paused in their grousing about current conditions to point him out to one another.
Teasdale’s shop was closed and the large dark-blue blind of the window was drawn. On the door, a card stuck down with gelatine lozenges. Closed owing to Bereavement. Littlejohn rang the bell on the doorjamb and could hear it whirring somewhere in the interior.
Barbara opened the door, just as the town clock chimed a quarter to ten. She seemed surprised to see the Superintendent at that hour. She wasn’t properly dressed and wore a flowered wrapper over her underclothes, showing an expanse of white bosom when she moved and it gaped open. Her hair was bound in a large headcloth.
‘Good morning, Superintendent. You’re an early bird. Come in…’
She stood aside to admit him to the dark shop.
‘You’ll have to excuse us. We’re all at sixes and sevens. We stayed up late and didn’t get up till nine. Mother’s still in bed. She’s feeling the strain. After you left last night, she collapsed.’
She led the way to the living quarters. It was brighter there. The curtains had been drawn and the daylight made the room seem more depressing than ever. Littlejohn realised that he hadn’t seen it in full daylight before. The place was situated pleasantly enough. Beyond the window there was a spacious courtyard, mainly cobblestoned and a bit shabby-looking. In one corner, the remains of a neglected garden, with a tumbledown summerhouse. Then some dilapidated outbuildings which might once have been a stable. The yard was entered through a large gate beside which stood a wooden shed, presumably Teasdale’s garage.
The room was more untidy than ever. The remains of a breakfast still on the table. Measured by the relics of the meal, bereavement hadn’t impaired the appetites of the three people who’d recently eaten. The menu, judging from the leavings, had probably been cereals, bacon and eggs, marmalade, and tea from a huge pot standing in the middle of the wreckage.
‘We’ve only just finished breakfast.’
Barbara lolled about in her usual lazy way. She had no make-up on, but her clear complexion didn’t seem to need much. There were dark patches of fatigue under her eyes.
‘Irene and Christine are both off work today. They’re upstairs dressing.’
Littlejohn could imagine it, judging from the voices and tramping feet on the floor above. Then Irene descended upon them. She seemed surprised, too, at the early visit.
‘You’re an early bird, Superintendent.’
Again! Littlejohn wondered at what time the Teasdale ménage got going under normal conditions.
‘I won’t keep you long. I just called to get a little more information about the movements of everyone on the night your father died.’
Footsteps overhead moved in the direction of the stairs, reached by a door in the corner of the room, and then paused, as though someone were listening. Christine shouted down.
‘Who’s there?’
Irene called back up the stairs.
‘Superintendent Littlejohn, Chris.’
‘Early bird!’
Nothing much original about the Teasdales’ metaphors! Chris hurried down. She and Irene were both fully dressed and Irene was showing some uneasiness about Barbara’s deshabille. She hurried to her, and hastily arranged the wrapper to show a little less of her throat and chest.
The three girls all stood around, waiting for Littlejohn to speak.
‘Who’s there?’
Now it was Mrs. Teasdale calling in a feeble voice! Irene shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s the Superintendent, Mother. No need to worry. He doesn’t need you…’
‘You don’t, do you, Superintendent?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘He says he doesn’t need you, Mother.’
‘What?’
‘He says you needn’t disturb yourself.’
‘He’s an early caller, isn’t he?’
Irene didn’t reply and Mrs. Teasdale subsided.
‘I called to ask where you all were when your father left home on the night he die
d.’
The doorbell rang again. Irene, the active one, dressed in a becoming navy-blue costume, answered. It was the milkman and she returned carrying three bottles which she put on the table among the rest of the litter.
‘You’ll excuse the mess the house is in, Superintendent. We’re all at sixes and sevens.’
‘That’s understandable, Miss Teasdale. I’ll just make a note of where you all were and leave you. I’m sorry to intrude, but it’s rather important. Mere routine, though. Don’t upset your mother about it.’
Christine, who hadn’t said a word except good morning to Littlejohn, disappeared into the unknown parts behind the living-room.
Barbara was sitting rocking in her mother’s armchair. At fifty she’d be a replica of her mother; lazy, slovenly, easy-going.
Irene was anxious to get the business done and get Littlejohn out of the place. She was obviously ashamed of his finding it so untidy.
‘I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘Your father and mother were here at seven o’clock, I believe, and then your father left.’
‘Yes. That’s what Mother said. They were in alone. We’d all said good-bye to Father and gone out.’
‘First then, Miss Barbara.’
Barbara stopped rocking and answered after Irene had again hitched up her wrapper to restore decency.
‘I was in Halstone. Alex had the day free and we went to the Blue Boar for a meal. We left here about four. I said good-bye to Dad then.’
Irene had, she said, gone to church, which started at six-thirty. She’d said good-bye and left at six-fifteen.
As Littlejohn wrote it down in his book, he felt a bit puzzled about Irene’s choice of boyfriend. A bookie, they’d told him. He must have been a man of good taste, for Irene seemed by far the best of the bunch.
Christine was back to answer her questions.
‘A party of us went out by road to Exelby, a few miles from here. We stayed at the Unicorn there for tea and didn’t start off back till just after seven. We had a few drinks… Father had gone when I returned. It was around nine. I just called to leave a note for Mother that I’d be in late and not to wait up, and then went out again.’
Alex would, of course, confirm Barbara’s statement; the parson himself, if needs be, could support Irene’s; and Harry, the dentist, had driven Christine to the Unicorn.
‘Your father and mother were alone, then, when it came time for him to go?’
‘Yes.’
All the aunts and uncles were churchgoers and weren’t, therefore, likely to call until after service. Irene was emphatic about it.
‘Uncle Sam’s a deacon of Bethesda and it was the anniversary service. Nothing would keep him away. And Auntie Chloe and Uncle Walter were going, too. As for Uncle Bertram, he’s organist at St. Chad’s, where I attend. He was there, as usual.’
Littlejohn could imagine the glowing-nosed Bertram at the keyboard!
‘What time did you get home, Miss Irene?’
‘Eight o’clock. After service. I’d arranged to meet Joe, that’s my friend, at eight-thirty. I called to tidy up.’
‘Was your mother here?’
‘No. She’d gone to see Grandfather. She always calls there to see him and stays to supper with him on Sunday evenings.’
‘What time did she get home?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I got in after eleven and found she’d gone to bed. She was asleep and I didn’t disturb her.’
‘Was she back when you called in around nine, Miss Christine?’
‘No. The place was in darkness. I left almost right away.’
‘So you all were out late. You found her in bed and asleep when you got in?’
The three of them agreed.
Littlejohn thanked them and excused himself. By the time he’d reached the shop door he could hear them chattering excitedly together.
The landlord of the hotel next door was leaning against the doorpost, smoking, enjoying the air, and watching the passers-by.
‘Morning,’ he said.
Littlejohn returned his greeting and asked him where Thrutchley’s Garage could be found. Cromwell had mentioned the invoice for petrol over the telephone.
‘Round the corner. First to the right. Bit of a corker, this murder of Teasdale, isn’t it? I’d never have believed it. Such a nice chap. Sure he didn’t commit suicide? I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘Why?’
‘Family led him a dog’s life. My brother-in-law at the Swan, where you’re stayin’, told me you’d been inquiring about ’em. They thought themselves a cut above poor old Jim and didn’t hesitate to let ’im know it.’
Mr. Tinker lit another cigarette from the stub of the last one, and flung the fag-end far into the road. A small man, with a curl plastered over his forehead. He looked a bit like a caricature of Disraeli, except that he had a moustache.
‘It used to disgust me.’
He spat accurately into the road this time.
‘What time did he leave home last Sunday night, do you know, Mr. Tinker?’
‘As near seven as dammit. I know it was about seven, because I’d been listening to a favourite programme on the wireless and when it was over, at seven, I went in the courtyard at the back for a breath of air. We share the same courtyard, but have separate gates and outbuildings. Well, Jim was just gettin’ out his car and it took a bit of startin’. It was a real old crock and he always had trouble that way when it had been standin’ a bit. He got it to go as I was there and drove off. His missus was with him. He used to take her to her father’s before he went on his trip on Sunday nights.’
‘Did you see Mrs. Teasdale return afterwards?’
‘No. But I heard her. She got back about a quarter to eleven. I heard her bumpin’ about next door. The walls aren’t so thick and we can hear most of what goes on.’
‘Is that the time she usually gets back?’
‘No. It’s generally about ten. She was later than usual.’
‘You’re sure about the time?’
‘Pretty well. We close at half-past ten and I’d just tidied up. It takes round a quarter hour. She went to bed right away, too. I went on the front for a breath of fresh air and the light was on in her bedroom. She sleeps on the front.’
Mr. Tinker, the fresh-air fiend, thereupon lit another cigarette.
That was about all; so Littlejohn left him.
Thrutchley’s Garage was little better than a shanty erected on a piece of waste ground at the end of a row of houses. There were two pumps in front and a yard full of tumbledown old cars at the side. Mr. Thrutchley—for he answered to his name eagerly—was lying under an old crock parked in the interior, his feet alone showing. On hearing he was needed, Mr. Thrutchley, judging from the movement of the feet, turned over on his stomach under the vehicle and arrived in front of Littlejohn crawling like a large slug.
He was a fat, flabby man dressed in oily overalls, wore a greasy cloth cap to hide his almost total baldness, had a button nose, and talked in a shrill, feminine voice completely out of keeping with his huge body.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he fluted.
‘Did Mr. Teasdale call here for petrol last Sunday night, Mr. Thrutchley?’
‘I don’t know. I weren’t on duty. I’m a bellringer at parish church and I’ve never missed a ring on Sundays, except wakes, when I go on my holidays to Scarborough, for past twenty years. But our Granville was in charge of the garage. He’ll know. Granville!!!’
Littlejohn wasn’t aware that there was anyone in the place except Mr. Thrutchley and a boy apprentice, who had been standing by with open mouth ever since he arrived. Granville Thrutchley had, like his parent, been silently meditating on his back under an old car, and on hearing his name, shouted from his hiding place in a voice as shrill as his father’s.
; ‘Wot, Dad?’
‘Come ’ere.’
Nothing was visible of Granville but the soles of his shoes, which needed repairing, and these reversed as Granville turned on his belly to creep into the light of day. He emerged, a long youth, undulating like a snake, as thin as his dad was fat, big-nosed, with a calf-lick over one eye and prominent large teeth. He must have taken after his mother.
‘Wot?’
‘Gentleman wants to know if Jimmie Teasdale called ’ere for petrol night he were murdered.’
‘What for?’
Littlejohn explained and introduced himself.
‘Oh. You’re the man from Scotland Yard. I read about you in the papers this mornin’. Nice job you’ve got. What were you askin’? Did Jimmie call here on Sunday night? Yes, he did. He called for eight gallons o’ petrol and some oil.’
‘What time?’
‘What time? Seven o’clock. Church clock’d just struck.’
‘Was anybody with him?’
‘Was anybody with him? Yes; his missus. She was givin’ him what-for, too, I can tell you. I say, she was givin’ him what-for.’
This constant repetition of Granville’s got on one’s nerves in time, especially as his shrill voice echoed round the neighbourhood. It was as if Littlejohn were not questioning him loudly enough for all to hear, and he was forced to echo it all like an amplifier.
‘What do you mean by “what-for”?’
‘What do I mean? I mean she was naggin’ him something awful.’
‘What about?’
‘Wot about? How should I know what about? The row ’ad started before they got ’ere.’
Mr. Thrutchley, senior, here thought it right to intervene and rebuke Granville, whose truculence displeased him.
‘Now, Granville, just keep a civil tongue in your ’ead with the Superintendent. Speak civil. You never know when you might need the police yourself.’
And he turned to Littlejohn to apologise and explain for the lack of good manners of his offspring.
‘He’s been a bit difficult since he were a lad, when he fell off a ladder on his head,’ he said sotto voce, which could be heard by all the crowd attracted to the garage by the noise.
The Body in the Dumb River Page 10