He had looked over all the upper floors and found nothing to throw any light on Ryder’s disappearance. There were, of course, the cotton-wool and the lint, both rifled from large packets. They suggested to his mind the packing of a wound to stop it from bleeding and leaving traces wherever the body was hastily carried, and perhaps in the car which was bearing it away for disposal. He slowly descended the stairs.
There was still no sign of Cromwell or Naizbitt. He opened the front door and looked out. It was now quite dark. In the sky ahead, a bright glow and the reflection of flames flickering on the clouds banked in the east.
In the rooms above, he had needed to switch on the lights as he went along, revealing dusty globes, fittings festooned with cobwebs. Now, he turned on the hall light and all those on his way to the other rooms and rear quarters. Scott-Harris was lying in the dark, with only the glow of the fire for illumination.
It was the same downstairs. The neglected morning-room where Elvira Teasdale had been sent to wait whilst Scott-Harris and Ryder dealt with her husband. Then, the main dining-room, unused, too, with a long double-pedestal table, at which six chairs were still spread, as though guests might at any time arrive for a dusty dinner. The place was cold and smelled of earth.
The kitchens. Nobody had done much there since Ryder’s disappearance. Dishes were piled up in the large sinks, the pots and pans untouched, apparently, since the manservant had last gathered them in an untidy mass on the large table ready for washing-up. In the larder, a half pork-pie was growing mould and a camembert cheese had liquified into a sticky mess which stank to high heaven.
There was nothing more to investigate, nothing worth obtaining a search warrant to cover, indoors, at least. What the dank garden and rotting outhouses would reveal was another matter and would have to wait.
Then he came to the last door to be opened. It was locked. It stood beneath the wide staircase and was obviously the way to the cellars. Littlejohn returned to the sitting-room and switched on the light.
‘Excuse me, sir. Hope I’m not disturbing you.’
Scott-Harris was lying quietly under his rugs. He grunted to clear his throat.
‘Seen all you want to see? Not much use for a search warrant, had you? Well, I suppose you’ll be goin’ on your way, now. Time one of my grand-daughters called to find me some food and tidy up a bit. That is, if they can spare the time from chasing young fellahs all over the town…’
‘I’ve not been in the cellars, sir. The door’s locked…the one under the stairs.’
Silence for a moment.
‘Just tryin’ to think what we’ve got in ’em, now. They’re so damned dark and we haven’t electric light down there. They’re damp and empty. Not much use to you, Superintendent.’
‘All the same, sir, I think I’d better finish the job properly.’
‘Can’t you take my word for anythin’? I tell you they’re…’
‘May I have the key, sir?’
‘I don’t know where it is. Haven’t been down there for years.’
‘When my colleagues arrive with the warrant, then, we’ll have to break it in.’
‘Smash the lock, then, and be damned to you!’
‘Very well, sir.’
Littlejohn made for the door.
Scott-Harris still didn’t move, but spoke from the mass of rugs.
‘Might find it behind the larder door. That’s where it used to be kept.’
Then another silence.
The key was in its place. Large and old, but obviously recently used. Perhaps by Ryder.
He unlocked the door and looked down the steep wooden stairs. It was as black as the pit below. Nothing to see, except the stairs disappearing in the void.
Littlejohn was without his torch and took out his petrol-lighter. A couple of flicks and the wick was alight. He stood on the top step looking down, seeing nothing by the small flickering flame. A draught blew up the stairs and extinguished it. He turned towards the light shining in from the hall. He was just in time.
Standing on the top step, his arms outstretched like some huge animal, was Scott-Harris, and, as Littlejohn turned, the major tottered and then launched himself upon him. Illuminated by the light behind, the old man looked huge, monstrous, a shaking mountain of flesh, which, as Littlejohn braced himself to resist it, engulfed him. The heaving body seemed to flow over him, quivering like a nightmare slug or a mass of jelly. He clung to it desperately, but the hands moved about his arms, seeking out his fingers, clamping themselves upon them, gripping them like vices and struggling to tear them away and cast him down into the darkness.
Littlejohn sought with his feet for something against which to brace himself in the uneven struggle and his heel contacted the upright beam from which the staircase was hung. He flexed his leg and then with all his strength straightened it. At the same time, he thrust against the mass of flesh with one free hand. He felt the body of the fat man suddenly relax and reel. With a wild cry, like that of a wounded animal, Scott-Harris collapsed backwards, flattened out on the floor, and lay still.
Littlejohn could not take the single step upwards to reach the lighted hall. He was completely exhausted, breathless, and his knees trembled with fear. Sweat seemed to pour from every part of his body and streamed down his face until he could taste the salt of it in his mouth.
Slowly he pulled himself together and dragged himself to the landing and into the light.
Scott-Harris was lying flat on his back in the doorway. He was still alive and his breath came in long snores, as though he were gulping in more and more air to prevent his body from dying.
The old man was wearing a shabby suit and Littlejohn loosed his collar and thrust his hand down the top of the camel-hair waistcoat to feel for the heart. He quickly withdrew it.
His hand was covered in blood.
16
The New Master
Cromwell, Naizbitt, and the doctor arrived together, by which time Littlejohn had, by dragging and hoisting, laid the huge form of Major Scott-Harris on the couch. He had stripped and examined the wound, a deep stab beneath the left collar-bone. Scott-Harris had apparently tried to treat his injury himself without much success, for it was now badly infected and needed prompt and skilled attention.
This explained his rummaging in the first-aid drawer upstairs and his weak condition over the past few days. How the wound had been inflicted, Scott-Harris alone could explain.
When he saw Cromwell, Littlejohn forgot momentarily Scott-Harris and the case, for his sergeant had bandaged hands and bedraggled clothes, in spite of which he had insisted on reporting as soon as the doctor had treated him. His bowler hat was set grimly above his sooty face and he gave Littlejohn an apologetic look for his late arrival.
Naizbitt explained. John Casson had just signed the search warrant in his smoke-filled office, when the boardroom next door had suddenly burst into flames as the sparks blown from the adjacent mill had fired the heavy curtains. In no time, the place had become a mass of fire. Casson’s setter-dog had been in the room and Casson himself had dashed through the flames to release the trapped animal, only to fall, overcome by smoke and fumes. Then Cromwell had rescued the pair of them. He later received official commendation for his courage.
The doctor attended to Scott-Harris right away.
‘I wonder how this happened. It’s a stab wound from a knife. Another inch or so and it would have penetrated the lung and heart. And it’s a day or two old, too.’
Littlejohn shook his head.
‘Don’t ask me, doctor. I can only guess.’
‘It looks as if he’s been trying to dress it himself. It’s infected and suppurating badly. We’d better get him to hospital right away. I’ll ring for an ambulance. I’ve put a temporary dressing on it.’
‘He must have been afraid to send for medical help in case the whole story ca
me out.’
‘What story?’
Littlejohn left the room, after restraining Cromwell, who rose to follow him. He gently pushed him back in his chair.
‘Just rest, old chap. You’re all in. I’ll be back in a minute. Lend me your torch if you’ve got it.’
Cromwell passed over his small pocket lamp. He was rarely caught unprepared.
The light bobbed its way down the cellar steps as Littlejohn descended.
The foot of the stairs was a shambles.
A heap of clothing, with coat-hangers protruding, clean and dirty linen, two suitcases, and all Ryder’s personal belongings down to his toothbrush, apparently flung headlong into the depths. The old man must have gathered the lot in his arms and thrown them down from the top.
Under the motley pile, the body of Ryder, cold and stiff. He lay on his back, his arms and legs spreadeagled, his neck broken. But for a stroke of luck, Littlejohn might have ended in the same way when Scott-Harris attacked him. He could imagine the manservant struggling in vain against the huge mass of relentless flesh, pushed by the human steam-roller to the top of the steps and then, after a frantic effort to save himself, hurling backwards into space and down on the stone floor below.
Littlejohn flashed the torch round the squalid interior of the cellar. Old parcels, packing cases, trunks, timber, broken furniture, two tumbledown women’s bicycles. Some bottles of wine in dusty bins. The whole place smelled of drains and rotten wood. A shining object on the floor almost a yard from Ryder’s body, reflected the light from the torch. It was a small, sharp-pointed game-carver, perhaps the first weapon to his hand, with which Ryder had tried to defend himself and which must have catapulted from his grip as he fell to his death.
Littlejohn slowly made his way back up the stairs. He turned as he reached the top and surveyed for a moment the wreckage at the bottom. The old man had temporarily hidden the body and all Ryder’s belongings in the darkness, but, weakened by his wound and perhaps the violence of his victim, he had been quite incapable of doing anything more to conceal permanently the damning evidence of his crime.
Scott-Harris was still on the couch, groaning now.
‘I want Littlejohn. I want to speak to him. I’ve things to say to him before the ambulance comes. The rest of you may as well hear it, too.’
He paused, wheezing and short of breath. He could hardly speak or collect his thoughts.
‘You’re in no condition to talk, Major. You can tell the Superintendent anything you like when you’re stronger.’
Opposition stimulated Scott-Harris. He roared feebly.
‘Dammit, man, I’m goin’ to talk to him before I leave this place and nobody’s going to stop me.’
He stretched out a puffy hand at Littlejohn.
‘Come here…’
‘Give me a drink first…’
The doctor helped him to a small brandy. It seemed to do him good, but he said it wasn’t enough. The doctor didn’t seem to hear his complaint.
‘I didn’t intend to kill him. I suppose you’ve found him. It was self-defence. Remember. Make a note of that. Self-defence. The swine came at me with a knife. So, I pushed him down the cellar steps.’
‘Just as you tried to do to me, sir?’
‘I’m sorry about that, Littlejohn. You’ve been damned decent to me. But I got in a panic. Knew what you’d find at the bottom, you see.’
‘Who killed Teasdale?’
‘Ryder. I might as well tell you, there was no question of him blackmailing Teasdale. I made it up. I gave Ryder two hundred pounds in cash to get rid of the body. When Elvira went out, I started to tell Jimmie off, but he grew violent, the little devil. Actually punched me on the jaw because I called that woman of his by a good old English name. Ryder tried to restrain him. Teasdale seemed to see red. He told Ryder he’d caused all this by blowing the gaff on him about Wood seeing him at Lowestoft Fair. Got hold of Ryder by the throat. He was like a madman. Shook Ryder like a terrier with a rat. I thought he’d kill him. Ryder clawed down a small dirk that used to hang over there…’
He pointed between his feet to a spot on the wall. There was only a mere nail protruding there now.
‘Ryder stabbed him in the back before I could stop him. He later took the knife with the scabbard and hid it somewhere. I don’t know where. Teasdale didn’t even cry out. Just dropped dead. We were in a fix, I can tell you.’
Scott-Harris stopped and gasped for breath. The doctor protested.
‘Leave me alone. Where was I? Jimmie dropped dead. And then, damn it, if Elvira didn’t walk in. Ryder had disentangled himself from the body and was standin’ with me, both dumbfounded by it, and when she saw Teasdale with the knife in his back, she turned on me. “So you kept your promise and killed him?” And that swine Ryder told her it was me. I’d no proof otherwise, and she believed Ryder because of what I’d said I’d do when I was in a temper.’
He paused, exhausted again, hardly able to make himself heard.
‘Give me some more brandy.’
The doctor gave him another spoonful and then waited no longer, but dialled and called an ambulance.
‘I’m not goin’ till I’ve finished. As I was saying, Ryder saw his chance and played up to Elvira. She honestly thought I’d done it. I couldn’t convince her. “I won’t tell, Daddy,” she said, but I knew she would. Like when she was a little girl. Drove me mad with her lying. She kept away when you were here, afraid of what I’d do and say. There was no time to argue. What were we goin’ to do with the body? Elvira was as cool as a blasted cucumber. She said we ought to send it to that woman of Jimmie’s. That gave Ryder an idea. He found out where Jimmie was due to go from Basilden. A place called Tylecote, not far from Ely. Ryder took the body there through the night and dumped it in the river. We all thought they’d think either the woman or some enemy of Teasdale’s on the fairground had done it. Never think of suspectin’ he’d been killed here. Well, it seems we were wrong. One day you must tell me why and how we slipped up.’
Scott-Harris seemed to recover a bit through indignation. He tugged at the front of Littlejohn’s coat.
‘Ryder had a hell of a journey through floods and darkness. He ditched Jimmie’s old car and came back by train. And what do you think he said when he got back here next mornin’, eh? “My bill will be a couple of hundred quid for that job. On account.” Mind you, when I paid it, I told him plainly that it wasn’t blackmail. Just appreciation of what he’d done and been through. Know what he said then? “You’ve got a new lodger, Major. I’m moving to better accommodation to-morrow and I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t want the best bedroom one day.” When he heard you’d arrived he also threatened to tell you what happened if I didn’t treat him right. “Your daughter will confirm that, too. She’s up to the neck in it and she knows her own father killed Teasdale in a fit of temper.”’
Littlejohn nodded.
‘By the way, Major, you found the two hundred pounds in Teasdale’s pocket, didn’t you? He’d brought it with him, perhaps with the idea of buying off Ryder, but he changed his mind.’
‘I only borrowed the money. I swear I’d have paid it back to Elvira.’
The doctor, impatient to get Scott-Harris to the hospital, kept looking reproachfully first at Littlejohn and then at the other two policemen. The old man on the couch seemed almost in a state of collapse. He closed his eyes and moaned to himself.
‘He’s been drinking heavily and that on top of the shock he’s had and the wound…’
‘He’ll pull through all right, doctor?’
‘I can’t say until I’ve examined him properly.’
‘Could you give him a brief once-over? You see, I don’t want to question him too much now, if it will upset him more. That can come later if he’ll recover.’
‘I suppose I could. Just until the ambulance arrives…’
/> He hurried out to his car and returned with his bag from which he took out a sphygmomanometer for taking blood pressure. Then he gently withdrew the old man’s arm from under the shawls and started to fix the apparatus.
Scott-Harris opened his eyes.
‘What the hell are you doing now?’
‘A little examination. It won’t inconvenience you. Just relax.’
The doctor carefully set about his task. He couldn’t believe the first result and took the reading twice again. Then he listened to the heart through his stethoscope.
‘H’m.’
The ambulance arrived at the gate. Passers-by stopped and formed a little inquisitive knot at the front. The two uniformed men emerged and dragged out a stretcher.
During the commotion of their entry, the doctor whispered to Littlejohn.
‘The blood pressure’s absolutely terrifying. As for the heart, it’s enlarged and nearly worn out. He might pop off any time.’
‘Is there a chance?’
‘He wants a long rest and skilled attention. Might live for years in the right circumstances. One thing’s imperative. No more alcohol.’
‘You’d better tell him that at an appropriate time.’
The ambulance men were standing waiting to carry the old man off, but he wasn’t ready.
‘I’ve not done yet. Want to get everything off my chest and then I can either have a good rest in the hospital or else just die. I’m not going till I’ve finished.’
Littlejohn raised his eyebrows at the doctor.
‘Very well. Better let him finish it. If we don’t, he’ll probably try to resist or else natter himself into a stroke or a heart attack. I’ll give him an injection.’
Scott-Harris must have been listening.
‘A tot of brandy’ll do more good.’
‘No. Now just keep quiet a minute and then you can go on talking. But take it easy and make it short. You ought to be in bed, you know.’
The old man swore as the needle penetrated. He must have felt it a bit undignified to be manhandled.
‘Come here, Littlejohn. Don’t keep messin’ about the room when I want to talk to you.’
The Body in the Dumb River Page 18