“A suspicious chap, aren’t you, Albert? Well, one of the letters was unsealed...by accident, I prezhume...when posted, so I stuck it up. But not before seein’ five pounds in notes in it. Ought to ’ave been registered, by rights. The address was there plain as a pikestaff...Hamsters’ Detective Agency in the Strand, London. I knew the captain’s writin’, of course.”
Hamsters’, eh? Littlejohn smiled. Hamster had once been a constable at Scotland Yard and had ‘retired’. Now he was running a little private agency of his own. He made a note to have a word with Hamster, if necessary.
“What was the captain doing with the detective agency, Fothergill? Do you know?”
The postman thought hard. He wanted to show his superior knowledge, but it needed a bit of careful handling.
“I think he was tryin’ to trace somebody.”
“Who?”
“Well, if what I say might be regarded as under the umbrella of, shall we call it, official secrets, I’ll tell you. It was Lucy at the Barlow Arms he was seekin’. But the name’s not Lucy. It’s Lily, Lily Fowler.”
Dixon was on him like a shot.
“How did you come by that information, Percy?”
“Perfec’ly legitimately. Always a suspicious one, Albert, aren’t you? Everybody guilty till they’re proved innercent. It’s not British, Albert; it’s not British.”
Dixon turned a dusky red as Fothergill told his tale to Littlejohn.
“The detective agency sent a receipt on one occasion. It was in an open envelope, as such things usually are, and the flap wasn’t tucked in. As I tucked it back, I ’appened to see words to this effect on the bill. ‘To inquiries re Lily Fowler (Lucy Biggs)...’ And then the amount of five pounds. I’ve a good memory, you see. My job depends on it.”
Dixon’s mouth was slowly opening to question the procedure, but Littlejohn glared at him to keep quiet. The postman certainly hadn’t come by this flaunted information in the way he said he had. In the first place, Hamsters’ would never write about anything in an unsealed envelope; no private detective worth his salt would do such a thing. The kettle had been at work again, but it was as well not to suggest it. Much might depend on Fothergill’s good will. So they bade him good afternoon and he left them grumbling that he had to deliver a solitary ruddy circular for a free sample of detergent at Peshall Hall two miles away.
“They ought to get me a van for me rounds, and if you’re ever questioned on the point either ’ere or at Whitehall, Chief Inspector, I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll put in a good an’ appropriate word for me.”
The beat took them through the village and as the houses began to peter out, Dixon indicated Peshall Hall in the distance, standing in a small forest.
“Used to belong to the aristocracy, sir.”
He sighed loudly, lamenting the passing of the class who, at Christmas, used to give the local constable a turkey and five pounds for ensuring their safety over the past year.
“Captain Grebe was regular in his habits, Dixon?”
“Yes, sir. A real sailor. Like clockwork.”
“What did he do with his time, then?”
Dixon gave Littlejohn a startled look as though the Chief Inspector might be putting one of the burdens of Hercules on his back.
“Well, sir...”
“About his work on the ferry-boat...Was he at it all day?”
“Not exac’ly. There are three captains, sir. Two on duty and one off. That’s in summer. In winter, when the schedules are changed and there aren’t as many boats, one captain is sort of laid off on furlough and only one boat’s used. The other two do eight hours at a time.”
“How is it worked, this timetable? I don’t want a full schedule. I can get one from the ferry office. What I’m after is the leisure of Captain Grebe and how he spent it.”
“The first ferry from here is at six, summer and winter. That’s for the market men and early workers. The last in winter is at ten-thirty and in summer, till mid-September, it runs till eleven. So, in winter, one captain works six till two; the other then takes over till half past ten. They swop shifts every week. In summer, it’s a bit different. Three captains run two boats between ’em for seventeen hours all told.”
“And when Grebe wasn’t on duty, how did he spend his time?”
“When he was on duty in the mornin’, he’d take a walk every afternoon, more or less over this very round we’re doin’ now. Do his shoppin’ in Peshall, walk along this road to see Captain Bacon at Peshall ’All, and stay there a bit. Then you’d see ’im walkin’ back home to tea. At night, he’d have his tea and then turn out at about seven. If it was dark, he’d go to the Arms for a drink; if it wasn’t dark, he’d have a gossip on the jetty with the fishermen there.”
“And when he was free in the mornings?”
“Then, he’d still have his walk. Kept him from gettin’ set in his body, he’d say. A chap tends to stiffen up, like, always on the bridge of a little boat.”
“He saw his cronies every day.”
“Yes. Dr. Horrocks and Captain Bacon. They’d go off fishin’ two or three days a week in good weather, the three of them. Brett, the parish clerk, would go sometimes. The four of them would meet for a drink at the Barlow Arms every night, too. Brett wasn’t quite in with them, if you see what I mean, sir. The two captains and the doctor were really pals; Brett just an ’anger-on. Captain Grebe never got on real friendly terms with anybody else. Not even his brother.”
“He didn’t like his brother?”
“No. Mr. Tom’s a religious man. A Methodist...and the Captain was a bit too much for ’im. Language, and the like.”
“How did Tom Grebe turn up here? Did the captain bring him?”
“Yes. Don’t know why he did. He wasn’t fond of him, so why have ’im on the doorstep, so to speak? Perhaps he wanted to keep an eye on Mr. Tom, so’s he’d not get in mischief. Mr. Tom’s a poor businessman. I did hear from somebody ’ere on ’oliday, who knew him and once lived in the same town, that he’d been bankrupt once and it was known there that his brother, the captain, paid his debts and took him away with him, quick like. Perhaps the disgrace was too much for a straight man like Captain Grebe and he took Mr. Tom under his wing to stop him goin’ bankrupt again.”
And from the bobby’s simple suggestion Littlejohn got an idea.
“Dixon, did it ever strike you that Captain Grebe was hiding here out of the way of someone?”
Dixon stopped in his stride to think it out.
“What makes you think that, sir? It never struck me.”
“Perhaps you haven’t seen the file on the case. Captain Grebe, a master mariner, for some reason and when quite a young man, decided to tuck himself away in this obscure spot, became first a river pilot and then a ferry-master. Rather a waste of talent for a man who, during the first war, was a troopship captain.”
“Yes, sir. But perhaps he liked the place after all, and if his needs were few, he might have preferred a bit of peace here to a lot of money and responsibility elsewhere.”
“Yes, that’s quite reasonable. But then there are the postcards. Whoever wrote them—Leo, or somebody else—suggested that Grebe had been hiding and that now the writer had found him out.”
“Yes. There’s that.”
“And then there’s an idea you’ve just put in my head. Grebe brings a brother he doesn’t like, to live on his doorstep, perhaps because the brother’s been bankrupt and likely to repeat his failure. So Grebe puts him where he can keep an eye on him.”
“Well...What of that, sir?”
“When a man goes bust, his bankruptcy’s advertised in the newspapers, he’s publicly examined and reported on, and his disgrace is made as public as possible, so that he can’t take-in the public again. Suppose whoever’s looking for Captain Grebe, finds the news of a Grebe who’s bankrupt. By contacting Tom Grebe, he can soon find John. In other words, John took Tom off the bankruptcy market to keep him from leading somebody to his brother.”
“But who could Captain Grebe have been runnin’ away from all this time?”
“I don’t know. If we find that out, we’ll probably solve the case.”
“Evenin’, Dixon. Deuced hot, isn’t it?”
In his concentration on the conversation, Dixon was ignoring passers-by. The one now greeting him was an elderly, clean-shaven, tall man, dressed in tweeds and a soft hat. He carried a large ash stick and had a spaniel trotting at his heels.
“Evening, Captain, evening. It’s ’ot, I agree.”
Dixon replied in an eager, shrill shout which made a passing milk horse prick up its ears in surprise.
The man walked on without stopping, but gave Littlejohn a keen searching glance as he passed.
“That’s Captain Bacon from Peshall ’All, sir.”
“Looks more Army than Navy, Dixon.”
Which was right. Bacon was slim and had the tottering gait and bandy legs of a cavalryman.
“When he came home from the sea to retire here, sir, he was a fine, stout, well set-up man. He’s aged of late years. The death of Captain Grebe’s been a bad shock to him, you can see. They were good pals.”
The road was thinly lined with new bungalows and behind them, allotments and market gardens. Two fields away to the west, Littlejohn could see the land slope down and eventually merge with the tideline.
Now and then, the workmen and occupants in the gardens and smallholdings raised themselves to shout greetings to Dixon, who was on good-neighbourly terms with them all. After all, what’s the local bobby for, but to be a friend in need? That’s what Dixon used to tell himself in his hours of meditation. Sort of shepherd of the flock, to keep ’em all in order and protect them from other people.
The last house before Peshall Hall. This too was built in a small grove of trees and was approached by a long drive closed from the road by large wrought-iron gates. On the stone gatepost the name: Solitude.
“That’s Mrs. Iremonger’s ’ouse, sir. Now there’s a character for you, if you like.”
Dixon paused. Opposite Solitude there was another large house behind brick walls, which had been turned into a girls’ school. The girls were in the habit of baiting Dixon as they walked in a crocodile for nature study or church service, hailing him one after another. “Good afternoon, constable Dixon.” Twenty or more of them, and blushing, he had to keep returning their greetings. Now, rather than run this gauntlet of energetic young femininity, Dixon had developed the habit of dodging round corners and hedges. He looked to right and left, saw nobody, and sighed with relief.
“Why is she a character?”
“Drunk as a lord most of the day. Drink with anybody and drink most of ’em under the table. Facts is often stranger than fiction, sir.”
They were still walking briskly and Littlejohn made no reply. He knew that Dixon wouldn’t be able to refrain from his tale. It soon came.
“She’s a friend of Captain Bacon, and of Captain Grebe, sir, when he was alive. Her husband was one of the party and he owned a big yacht, the Euryanthe, on which they’d sometimes go for a trip when Captain Grebe had time off. Mr. Iremonger was a millionaire, I believe. Made ’is money abroad. Well...They say that one day in London a girl offered to sell him a posy. Whether she was in a shop, or a street seller, I never quite got to know. But he bought the buttonhole, took a fancy to ’er, and married her.”
“Quite a romance.”
“You’re tellin’ me, if you’ll pardon me puttin’ it that way. They hadn’t been married long before they started drinkin’ like a pair of fish. They’d give parties on the yacht and once, when they were moored in the river ’ere and gave a swell dinner, the pair of ’em got so drunk they walked off the ship and into the River Hore. He died about fifteen or more years since. The gossips say, she started him drinkin’ so he’d booze himself to death and leave her his fortune. Which he did. And now, she can’t stop drinkin’ herself, so there’s a sort of ’eavenly justice in the case. She’s known as Little Chickabiddy. That’s what ’er husband always called her and if I was to introduce you to ’er now and you was to say ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Iremonger,’ she’d jest say, ‘Call me Chickabiddy. They all do.’”
“And she was a friend of Grebe and Bacon and Dr. Horrocks?”
“Yes. They’re in a sort of syndicate for buildin’ houses on the road we passed along. Bacon owns some of the land and Mrs. Iremonger a part of it, and they made a pool to try and make more money than they’ve already got.”
They paused at the gates to look down the drive. Gardeners were busy on the borders, and in the distance, the house, built on colonial lines with a low roof and a spreading white facade, looked deserted.
“She’s in there...probably tight and with the shutters all drawn.”
They could just make out one of the chimneys faintly smoking.
“I saw Dr. Horrocks comin’ out this way this mornin’. Perhaps she’s got the D.T’s. She has ’em now and then. When she’s sober, she’s as nice as pie, but when she’s proper drunk, she’s a devil. They say there’s gipsy blood in ’er. She can only keep staff by payin’ ’em twice as much as anybody else. Well...She can afford it.”
“Did Grebe call here much?”
“Now and then, but mostly with the other two. They’d all be together here sometimes. I’d see Dr. Horrocks’s car and often meet the other two comin’ away a bit the worse for drink. Directors’ meetin’s of the building trust, likely as not.”
“Was Grebe in the trust?”
“It’s said he was. Perhaps all bein’ friends, they let him in and have his cut.”
“How long had they been friends?”
“Dr. Horrocks has been here for donkey’s years, sir. He was a pal of Captain Bacon, who belongs to these parts. He was born here, was the captain. Then, Captain Grebe arrived. All before my time, of course, but I hear things from the old people, you know. Grebe seemed to know Horrocks and Bacon, because I’ve been told they were on visitin’ terms right away, as soon as he came. Then, just before the war, the Iremongers arrived and the other three were soon pals with them, all drinkin’ together.”
They had reached the gloomy gates of Peshall Hall, great wrought-iron spikes, with spear-tops of tarnished gilt, and rampant lions on the gateposts. A dark avenue of elms swept from the gatehouse to the hall, which was only dimly visible from where the two men stood.
The gatekeeper was smoking at the door of his lodge. He eyed Dixon and Littlejohn craftily.
The policeman and the gatekeeper stared at each other, each trying to discover what the other was wanting and thinking. For a second, the looks exchanged were ones of hatred. Then they both relaxed.
“Afternoon, Charlie.”
“Afternoon. On the snoop again, eh?”
Dixon recoiled. He knew Charlie was being offensive simply to show him, in front of a spectator, that he didn’t care a damn. A rough countryman in leggings and with a face like a goat. He spat in the drive in a gesture of defiance.
“Not come to see the captain, ’ave yer? Becos you’ve had a wasted journey. He’s out.”
“We met him going to the village.”
“Well, is it me you want?”
“No. I’m on my beat and well you know it, and this is Chief Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, and I’ll thank you to be polite when you speak to us.”
“Ha! Landidah! If you and the Inspector are round ’ere tryin’ to find out about Captain Grebe, you’re wastin’ your time.”
“Who said we were?”
“That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
In the house behind, a slovenly woman was peeling potatoes. Now and then, she turned her head and watched them through the window. A good wash and her hair properly combed and she’d have been very good looking, with her dark eyes and her fine nose. She looked years younger than Charlie Withers, locally known as Charlie the Cheat, because he’d once been half killed by a drunken sailor for cheating at cards.
The wrangling
between Dixon and Charlie might have gone on longer, but in the lodge a bell rang, presumably on the private line from the hall.
“You’re wanted up at the house, dad.”
The woman with the potato bucket shouted without even answering the phone and Withers, muttering obscenities under his breath, went indoors.
Littlejohn and Dixon turned about. This was the end of the beat for the patrolling bobby. The next stretch was along the shore.
They made their way down the road they had come until they passed Solitude, and then a track through two fields led to the shore and the by-road between Elmer’s Creek and Pullar’s Sands. As Dixon was showing Littlejohn the stile, a car travelling towards Solitude pulled-up. There was a chauffeur in front and a woman behind. She lowered the window.
“Dixon!”
“Mrs. Iremonger,” said the bobby to Littlejohn out of the corner of his mouth as he turned.
“Yes, Mrs. Iremonger.”
“Dixon, tell the post office, or whoever it is keeps damn’ well sending them, that I don’t want any more forms asking me if I’ve paid my wireless licence. My set broke down in the summer and I threw the damn’ thing out of the window. I won’t be pestered. Don’t forget.”
Littlejohn stood smoking by the stile, watching Chickabiddy bullying the bobby.
A good-looking woman still, in spite of incessant drink and the ravages of time. She looked between forty and fifty. She was black-haired, and nature was assisted in this matter by art; for there wasn’t a sign of greyness. No wonder some said she had gipsy blood. Her features were strong and regular. A bit coarse, but aquiline still and handsome. She wore a tweed costume with a white blouse fastened at the neck by what appeared to be a single-stone diamond brooch. A stone which, if genuine, was worth a fortune. She was smoking a cigarette.
Dixon was answering some muttered questions from Mrs. Iremonger. He returned to Littlejohn.
“She’s heard you’re here and asked to meet you.” And lowering his voice: “She’s stone sober.”
Dixon deferentially introduced the pair of them.
She was cordial but didn’t suggest the familiarity of Chickabiddy.
Death Drops the Pilot Page 6