Death Drops the Pilot

by George Bellairs

  “Nice morning.”

  The two looked up and made a place for Littlejohn on the seat. He sat down, took off his hat, and passed the men his cigarette-case.

  “Thankee, thankee.”

  “Don’t mind if I do, though I’m a pipe smoker myself.” “Have a fill of mine, then.”

  They all started to smoke.

  “I’ve just walked in along the foreshore. Is there a way back inland?”

  “Oh, ah. Down the lane there and you’ll strike the main road to Elmer’s Creek. Been ’ere long?”

  “A few days. Nice place. I’m at the Barlow Arms for a day or two.”

  “Oh, ah. Mrs. Braid’s place. She’s sister-in-law to Ben here, ain’t she, Ben? Remember ’er husband. ’Im and me was at school together. Sixty years since, that was.”

  “Nice life for a policeman and a postman. Open air and the sea...”

  “’Cept when the winter comes and the winds is a-blowin’. Don’t envy ’em their jobs then.”

  “I suppose they don’t stay long. They’ll think it too dead-alive here if they want promotion.”

  The two men eyed him and wondered what he was getting at. But Littlejohn’s eyes were innocent enough and he seemed just to be gossiping out of politeness.

  “They were telling me the other night at the Barlow Arms about the constable who got moved because he was too smitten on the landlady of the local pub.”

  He said it as if to himself. The elder of the two men, who was almost toothless and held his pipe with his gums, cackled round the stem of it.

  “Har. Luke Boddy, that were. A married man, too, but Mrs. Liddell got proper in his blood. All roads of his beat ended at the Saracen. She could jest twist ’im round ’er little finger. I did ’ear he war moved on account of closing his eyes to drinkin’ after hours. Then Jack Liddell met his accident and war killed. Fell out of the loft over the barn right on ’is ’ead. Dead when they picked ’im up. Boddy was busy on that, too, I can tell ye. Never away. We all thought he’d ’ave left his own wife at Reddishaw village and come to live with Mrs. Liddell, who didn’ discourage ’im, like. Then they moved ‘im to the other end of the county. Seemed to pull ’im up, like. Nobody ever saw ’im again. A proper tellin’-off he must ’ave got.”

  “Well, you can’t say Mrs. Liddell’s not attractive.”

  The gummy old man cackled again and pointed his pipe at Littlejohn and dug his pal in the ribs.

  “Another of ’em! Another! They all fall for Mrs. Liddell. She’s ’ad a few in ’er time. After the constable, it war the doctor as looked after the death of Jack. ’E got callin’ reg’lar, too.”

  “The police doctor?”

  “Ar...Doctor Horrocks o’ Elmer’s Creek. A gentleman, ’e was. But ’e’s like me an’ Ben ’ere...”

  The old man dug Ben, his stooge, in the ribs again.

  “Past it. That’s wot Ben and me and Dr. ’Orrocks is. Past it. But we’ve still an eye for a good-looker, ’aven’t we, Ben? That’s about all, ain’t it, Ben?”

  Ben said ‘AT’, and wrestled to get the last puff from his cigarette.

  “Ar...She’s a good-looker an’ she wears well. You gotta give it to Esther. She wears well.”

  Littlejohn left them and made his way home by the inland road.

  Tall hedges sheltered the fields and the cattle from the winds of the coast. Flat land, still, stretching for miles out of sight, with stocky little farmhouses and shanties dotting it. Here and there a few new bungalows and smallholdings.

  People were returning from church and men were still cycling with fishing rods and tackle in the direction of the sea. Near Peshall, Littlejohn met Fothergill walking home after his weekly Sunday parade to the Barlow Arms and back. He was hardly recognizable in his light-grey, ready-made tweed suit and cloth cap.

  “Mornin’, h’Inspector.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Fothergill.”

  “Jest takin’ the h’air? Nice day for a walk.”

  He eyed Littlejohn inquisitively, almost asking him what he’d be doing all the morning.

  “Yes. Been to Pullar’s Sands, gossiping with two old natives, a fellow called Ben and another without teeth.”

  “Oh...Biles and Ben Braid. Ben’s the uncle of Braid at the Barlow, but young Braid is ashamed of ’is uncle. The old man used to be a hawker in these parts and the family thought themselves a bit above ’im. Decent old chap, for all that.”

  “By the way, you never told me you’d been to sea in your young days.”

  Fothergill’s cunning little eyes glinted under their shaggy ambush of eyebrows. Funny, how, with his overgrowth of hair, you couldn’t tell quite what was going on in the postman’s mind. It hid his eyes and their emotions like the bushy topknot of a shaggy dog.

  “Oh, yes; served before the mast, in a manner o’ speakin’, in my early days.”

  “The Euryanthe. . . .”

  “’Ere, ’ere. You ’ave been gossipin’, Mr. Littlejohn. You ’ave been gossipin’...Yes, yore right there.”

  “Smuggling. Refugees and dope...”

  “Now, now, h’Inspector. ’Ave a ’eart. Rescuin’ refugees, but dope…dope, sir. We was all taken for a ride there. We knew nothin’ of that till the owner, Mr. Iremonger, found out and played ’ell. Broke ’is heart, that did, because, being a good Jew, he lent the boat to ’elp his own people in their distress, in a manner o’ speakin’. Grebe and Mrs. Iremonger and the rest just took advantage...”

  “The rest...Who?”

  “Well...It’s all over and past harmin’ now. I did hear that Dr. Horrocks and Captain Bacon found the money for the fittin’ and takin’ of extra hands, includin’ yores truly. Whether or not those two gents knew of the dope, I wouldn’t be prepared to say. I might be slanderin’ their good name. It was Grebe arranged it all. I suppose they all drew their dividends. We was paid well for the risk. Then, the Germans got wise and it was all off.”

  “And poor Leo Fowler—or Mills, as he called himself—took the rap.”

  “The mate gave orders to put to sea and leave ’im. We was under orders and with the captain in gaol, in a manner o’ speakin’, and us likely to follow if we didn’t beat it ’ell for leather, you can’t blame him. Now can you, Mr. Littlejohn?”

  Again the hooded eyes and the whine in the voice which held a hidden threat in it.

  “Did Horrocks and Bacon never make a trip...or Grebe?”

  “The doctor did. Twice. He was a rare sailor in his young days. Been a ship’s surgeon and ought to ’ave been a mariner proper. Loves his boat and the sea, still...”

  “The two old boys at Pullar’s Sands said he was sweet on Mrs. Liddell at the time.”

  Fothergill coughed and leered from behind his camouflage of eyebrows.

  “And ’oo can blame ’im? She was, and is, a rare beauty. The number of men in these parts ’as has gone off their heads about ’er! Crazy for her! The doctor was among the rest, I guess. I wouldn’t take away any man’s good name wilfully, sir. But the doctor and Mrs. Liddell was both sweet on one another for a long time. Even before Jack died. But then, the doctor ’ad a wife of his own.”

  The purring, malevolent tone seemed to bode no good for the doctor, however much Fothergill admired his seamanship.

  “But we get older, don’t we, Inspector, sir? We get past luve’s young dream and even a beauty like Mrs. Liddell, in time, doesn’t stir our passions any more. Don’t you find it so, Mr. Littlejohn?”

  Littlejohn grinned at Fothergill and the postman recoiled an inch or two. The Inspector’s smile had more in it than mirth. It somehow accused Fothergill of dark feelings which the hooded, hidden eyes concealed from the light of day.

  “I heard Jack Liddell was rather a one for the ladies, too.”

  A pause. Littlejohn had only guessed it, and, as if by an extra sense, Fothergill seemed on his guard for a minute. Then it passed off.

  “You’re tellin’ me, Mr. Littlejohn! ’Ow a man could be such a fool with a woman like
Esther to share ’is bed, if you’ll excuse the way I put it, sir...A long while before he died, no good-lookin’ girl on the marsh was safe from his blandishments. A wonder many an angry father or sweetheart didn’t pepper his backside with a shotgun. Caused bad blood between him and Esther, I can tell you. I did ’ear, she grew to ’ate the sight of ’im, because, it was only nacherall that some of the many fellows of the neighbourhood who fancied Esther for themselves, should tell her of her husband’s goings-on, just to strengthen their own case, isn’t it, sir?”

  Fothergill removed his cap and mopped his sweating brow. It was a habit of his when his emotions got the better of him. Just one of those things which betrayed him, in spite of his ambushed eyes.

  “I’ll bet she hated the sight of Jack before he died.”

  “Was this going on at the time you were on the Euryanthe?”

  “Everybody knew Jack had women in Hamburg. He used to say when we was all together in the fo’c’s’le, that he liked the luscious German blondes...Ah, he was a one for the ladies.”

  Fothergill never missed a soul passing-by on the road and greeted them stiffly or genially according to their sex and station.

  “Well, it’s dinner time, sir, and the joint won’t wait. So, I’ll bid you good mornin’, or rather aw revwar, till we meet again. I’ll be down at the Arms tonight and I hope to get me own back from yore colleague, sir. He’s a good darts player. Gets more practice than me. I’m a busy man with little time to practice.”

  And with that shaft, Fothergill turned down the path to his farm, now and then looking back, as was his custom, to see how Littlejohn was getting along and who he might meet next.

  Littlejohn was thinking hard.

  Fothergill. A sailor of the Euryanthe. Fothergill, the man reputed still to be sweet on Esther Liddell and in the habit of hanging round the Saracen’s Head every hour he could decently spare. Fothergill, the liar, the letter-opener, the purveyor of gossip and tall tales just to swank and improve his prestige. Fothergill the...

  Littlejohn turned and saw Fothergill waving to him and then the postman removed his cap again and mopped his brow, although the weather was full of the chill of autumn.

  16 OLD NEWS

  CROMWELL strolled from the Saracen’s Head after his excuses to Mrs. Liddell and tried to make his encounter with the man fishing in the stream as casual as possible. The county detective was called Powdermaker, Detective-Constable Powdermaker, and he came in for a fair share of ragging from his colleagues on account of the explosive sound of his name and the length of it. At first he had objected, as far as discipline allowed, to disporting himself as a cyclist in the appropriate get-up, for he was a muscular man and looked more like a weightlifter. However, assured that he was enjoying the unusual honour of collaborating with Scotland Yard, he agreed with a good grace, and when he arrived at the Saracen’s Head he hid his bicycle and borrowed some fishing tackle.

  “Morning,” said Cromwell.

  “Morning,” said Powdermaker, trying to look as standoffish as possible. He had been given to understand that river fishermen were a peculiar lot who resented intrusion when hot on the job, and, being a member of the County Police Dramatic Society, he tried to put his heart in the part he was performing.

  “Fish biting well, this morning...? Anything to report?”

  Cromwell picked up a fish, didn’t know what to do with it, and put it on the grass again.

  “Not bad. Just caught enough for my lunch...Not much. There’s nothing doing here and the landlady’s the rummest woman I’ve met for many a long day. She never says a word; seems lost in her own thoughts all the time.”

  Cromwell picked up the fish again and tried to look as though they were discussing it.

  “You’re not fly-fishing, then? That’s regarded as a bit infra dig for trout, isn’t it? Anybody particular called or been hanging about?”

  “Give us a chance. I’ve never fished with fly in my life. I borrowed this line and some bait in the village. I bet the chap who lent it me’s a poacher. The regulars call here and a few of ‘em are a bit sweet on the landlady. She’s a smasher, you must admit. The only thing of note is that Fothergill, the postman from Peshall, comes regularly every day.”

  The angler hereupon landed another fish, a large one this time, and he and Cromwell detached it from the hook and admired it together.

  “You’re quite a fisherman, Powdermaker. What’s Fothergill want?”

  “I’ll just bait my hook again.”

  Cromwell took a piece of bait, sniffed it, and rolled it in his fingers.

  “I thought you used worms for trout when the water’s dirty like it is now and you’re not fishing according to rule. This stuff smells of alcohol. Is the idea to get the fish tight first? What does Fothergill want? Come on, I’ve not got all day.”

  The fisherman flung his line and watched it drift.

  “That’s right. I don’t know. You’d think he owned the place. Chucks his weight about, calls the landlady Esther, and has a drink or two of short stuff or even a meal whenever he comes.”

  “Well, I must be on my way. Good hunting...Is Fothergill sweet on the landlady, too?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. No. He seems more like somebody who holds a mortgage on the house, the way he carries on.”

  Cromwell picked up the big fish again and weighed it in his hand. Then he put it down and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief.

  “Well, keep up the good work, Powdermaker. You the only one staying here?”

  “Since I came, there’s always been a casual walker or a cyclist stayed the night.”

  “Good job. Bit dangerous in the house alone with a woman like Mrs. Liddell.”

  “Here. Look here. There’s nothing like that about me. I’m a married man.”

  “They all say that. So long.”

  Cromwell left him roaring with laughter. He thought it looked very natural and free and easy. Later, when it didn’t matter any more, Littlejohn told him the pair of them had looked like a couple of conspirators.

  There was no taxi available in the village and the next bus didn’t leave for an hour. So Cromwell put his hand up to a passing motorist, a young man with a handlebar moustache, a sleek blonde companion, and a fast little car.

  “Can you give me a lift to Elmer’s Creek? I’m in a hurry for the ferry.”

  “You police?”

  Cromwell felt a bit chagrined, but admitted it.

  “Your photograph was in the Falbright Trumpet yesterday. I must say you look a bit different in that cap. Jump in.”

  Cromwell wished he’d chosen another car. Squeezed up against the flashing blonde young lady, he was too terrified to experience any other emotions, and when they poured him out at the head of the jetty, he felt a bit sick. The presence of the police didn’t seem to deter the young man at all from a steady seventy miles an hour.

  “Glad to give you a lift any time, Inspector. Cheerio!”

  “Thanks. I’m a mere sergeant, but I’m grateful.”

  The ferry was almost empty, as it was noon, and most of the traffic consisting of people out for the day, was going in the other direction. There was a queue for the Falbright Jenny, now in commission again, at the Falbright landing-stage.

  Cromwell asked his way to the offices of the Falbright Trumpet. The place was an old shop with the windows obscured by moth-eaten green curtains and there was a printing works behind. The door was locked. The sergeant was standing wondering what to do next, when a young man in a sports coat and soiled flannel trousers crossed the road to him.

  “Can I help, sergeant?”

  “You seem to know me.”

  “I do. Name’s Cobbett and I’m on the staff of the Trumpet. I’m also local correspondent for the London Daily Cry and I’ve been at the Barlow on and off, ever since old Grebe pushed off. Funny you’ve never seen me.”

  “Sorry. How do I get in here?”

  “Why? Got a scoop? Be a sport, sergeant.”

  “I
want to look at some old files. Nine years back.”

  “That’ll be a pleasure. Some fresh development? If so, give me a quid pro quo if I help you.”

  “Agreed. But you’re not to assume anything or print anything on the strength of what I’m after now. I want the files about the death of Jack Liddell, late landlord of the Saracen’s Head at Pullar’s Sands.”

  “Ah. I wondered when...”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come in.”

  The reporter, a young chap in his early thirties with a fresh round face and curly fair hair, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  “Take a pew.”

  Cromwell sat on an old wooden chair behind the counter of what looked like the advertisement office. Little boxes on the wall for answers to advertisements, and copies of the last two weeks’ Trumpet in wooden frames. The young man disappeared down a trapdoor and pattered on the wooden stairs to the cellar. In a minute or two he reappeared carrying a large, dusty bound cover containing Trumpets of nine years ago. These he banged on the counter, filled the room with their dust, and then opened them at the appropriate pages after rummaging about a bit between the binding.

  “There you are. But before you start, I might be able to tell you a thing or two. I was an apprentice then and covered the case in the coroner’s court, until it grew a bit interesting, then a senior man went. But I still followed it. What do you want, sir?”

  Cromwell was a bit reticent. He’d been caught that way before and, since a suspect had once disappeared and taken a fortnight to find through a little remark to a reporter, he’d been cautious.

  “Come on. I won’t spill until you say so.”

  “All right, then. Was there anything funny about the death of Jack Liddell?”

  The young man, Cobbett, took out a cigarette from a battered packet, offered Cromwell one, lit them both with an old brass lighter made from a cartridge case, and sprayed the smoke in the air.

  “Funny you should ask that after all this time. Yes, there was. Or, at least, I thought so. The Coroner found a verdict of death from misadventure. Liddell fell from the loft above his barn, right on his head, and died instantly. It was in the morning, early, about ten, and the pub was closed for drink at the time. Let me briefly put the case.”