BED, BATH AND BREAKFAST
IT was broad daylight when Littlejohn awoke the following morning. This he knew for, although the blackout curtains were drawn over the windows, there was a bright halo round the edges as though the light of day were refusing to be altogether shut out.
He turned luxuriously over in his bed, which responded noiselessly and voluptuously to his every movement as though distended by air instead of springs. The Inspector was wide awake, but he felt no inclination to get away from the enfolding embrace of the deceased financier’s couch. He lay stretched on his back with his hands under his head and listened to the birds twittering outside.
He wondered what Letty, his wife, would say when he told her that he had spent the night and proposed to spend many others in the bed of the victim whose murder he was investigating!
There was not a sound inside the house, which might be accounted for by the rich carpeting of the corridors. What were the occupants doing? Which of them knew far more than he or she admitted? Which one was lying?
Littlejohn was not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, but he didn’t like that of Harwood Hall at all. It was as if evil hung about its rooms and passages. Whether or not that was due to imagination and arising out of recent events and their effects on his mind, Littlejohn could not tell. He began to search more deeply in his consciousness for reasons.…
Beyond the door of the adjacent room occurred a series of strange bumping noises, rhythmic and thorough-going, as though some very sedate and orderly poltergeist were again at work to the beat of a metronome.
Bump, bump, one, two, three. Bump, bump, one, two, three.
“Cromwell!!” called Littlejohn.
There were scuffling sounds behind the door, a pause, and then the sergeant appeared in the doorway in a frame of light. He had covered his semi-nakedness in his raincoat, beneath which were exposed his sturdy bare legs relieved by suspenders and socks.
All that was required to complete the picture was his bowler hat!
“Yes,” said Cromwell in somewhat insubordinate tones, his silhouette expressing goodwill wrestling with annoyance at the disturbance of his daily performance.
“Whatever are you doing? Sounds like a faint echo of last night’s visitor.”
“Only physical jerks, sir. Got to keep fit, haven’t we? Change from the beat to the office runs you up to fat if you don’t watch out.”
“Have you finished with the bathroom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, run me a bath, there’s a good chap. And then sit down and be quiet. I want to talk to you whilst I soak. Bath’s a good place for inspiration. Relaxes the nerves and sharpens the brain.”
“I never find it so, sir. I don’t believe in hot baths. They sap the vitality and wash away the natural insulation of the skin, letting out the energy. And I always keep my mind on what I’m doing when I take a cold one. That’s the way to get the best out of it, I always think. Body and mind working together.…”
“Well, well,” chuckled his chief. “Have you quite finished? Because when you have, it’ll still be a hot one.”
“Very good, sir.”
Littlejohn jumped suddenly from the bed before it sapped more of his resistance, and slipped on his dressing-gown whilst Cromwell took his raincoat into the bathroom and fiddled with the plugs and taps. It was as well that the sergeant was well fortified against rain, for he accidentally turned on the shower-bath.…
“Just ring over the house-’phone and order our breakfast, will you?” said Littlejohn after his assistant had put himself in ship-shape again. The Inspector immersed himself in his bathwater.
Cromwell could be heard clicking the buttons and talking.
“All right then. That’ll do. It’ll have to do if there’s nothing else, Mrs. Stone.”
“‘No bacon, no h’eggs,’ she says,” he added, addressing the open door of the bathroom. “So it’s sausage and warmed-up brussels-sprouts!”
“Good God! She’s having her revenge for last night. Well, listen then, that’s a good lad.”
Littlejohn lay prone and relaxed in the water of Mr. Burt’s blue-tiled bath.
“We’ve a lot to do to-day. First inspect the whole of the premises. There are such things as poltergeists, you know, although, as far as I can gather, their qualities are unknown. That is, according to the books, many of ’em written by men of repute, and scientists at that. I’ve never come across one before this, but there’s plenty of well-founded evidence. John Wesley’s old home, for example.…”
“Sounds like spiritualism to me, sir. I knew a chap once who attended a spiritualist chapel. He never …”
“Let’s keep to the point, Cromwell. Tell me about your friend over breakfast.…”
“Only trying to be helpful,” came an aggrieved answer from the bedroom.
“I know, old chap. I’m not ungrateful, but let me get on.”
“Now, as a rule, when there’s a poltergeist about, there’s nothing else in the way of spooks. Peculiarity number one. Here, there’s a whole bag of tricks going on at the same time, according to what Heathcote says in his notes. Poltergeists are the easiest to fake. Anybody can chuck stuff around without elaborate apparatus. Other sorts of tricks call for more risks and mechanical aids.”
“You think the business here is phony, sir?”
“As phony as they make ’em. The ducking of old Burt was a practical joke of a particularly vindictive kind. And lots of people in the village, including the Stones, know more than they’ll tell about it. We’ve got to make somebody talk and get to the bottom of that, to begin with. I’ve prepared the way for it by telling Mrs. Stone that somebody’s going to find himself in queer street on a murder charge unless he speaks the truth. If I know Mrs. Stone, she’ll have broadcast her terror all over the place already and have scared a few of the oysters into something more talkative.
“Then again. This poltergeist is a rough fellow when it comes to smashing crockery and throwing bodies over balusters. But he’s most thoughtful about the electrical system. In fact, he seems scared of live wires. Instead of tearing-out the lot in a frenzy, he turns off the lights at the main-switch and carefully removes the plugs of the appliances from their sockets before hurling them into the sink or wherever else they go.”
“You’re on to something, sir?”
“In the Potts’ flat last night, had the spook just got hold of the frig and the electric hot-plate and slung them across the scullery to where I found them when I arrived, he’d have been sure to rip out the flex from the plug or else tear the plug and socket from their moorings. Couldn’t have avoided it. As it was, each plug was carefully taken out first.”
“Well, I’m damned! So it was a put-up, indoor job. The Miss Pottses, think you?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. I’m going the rounds of the tenants and property after breakfast. Meanwhile, I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you to go back to London.…”
A groan from behind the door.
“You’ll be here again to-night. I want you to call at the British Museum.”
“Ah.…”
Cromwell liked the British Museum. He turned up every record he could find about his hero, his great namesake, Oliver, and rooted out his history, travels and peculiarities in meticulous detail.
“But don’t get stuck in the B.M. all the day. There’s plenty to do. Hunt up all the Who’s Whos, current biographies and such, and get to know all you can about past and present Harwoods and about this Hall. Try to discover if there’s any record of ghosts here. Then, find out as much as you can about Braun and the other tenants. Get Records on it at the Yard and tell ’em to contact the Home Office about Braun’s permit. Ask for details of the Hartwrights, as well. Get the Yard on with the American Embassy people and tell them to cable out to the F.B.I. on the other side for as much stuff as they’ve got on Hartwright and his wife in the U.S.A. Got that?”
“Yes,” gasped Cromwell.
“I’ll give you the list of tenants and their references supplied by Burt’s letting-office. Have those checked-up by headquarters, too. Say they might go as far as trying the local police for histories, if needs be.”
“That all?”
“Want some more?”
“No. That’ll do for one day, sir.”
“Righto. Let the Yard have those on your way to the Museum and call for any news on your way back. And now for the sausage and sprouts!”
“I think I can hear them coming, sir.”
“And by the way, Cromwell. Whilst you’re at the Yard, bring my revolver with you, and yours, too.”
“What! You expecting some shooting?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Better be on the safe side. Here’s Mrs. Stone.”
The caretaker’s wife could be heard laying the table in the dining-room and both men hurried to their meal.
Cromwell later made a dogged and purposeful departure and Littlejohn began his day’s work.
After carefully searching Heathcote’s records the night before, he had whittled-down the mass of facts to a skeleton, showing the following framework:
(a) Coroner found open verdict. Medical evidence showed that Burt died of a broken neck due to fall over stairs. Evidently fell face downwards over balusters. How did he manage to do this; rail was four feet high? Also bruise at base of brain probably due to rubber tubing or sandbag. Influential friends of Burt say most unlikely he would commit suicide and insist on fuller investigation.
(b) Other tenants could throw little light on precise manner of Burt’s end.
CARBERRY-PEACOCKES heard a commotion begin before Burt appeared through their pantry window. Noises on stairs and banging of front door. They had hoped to arrange a broadcast of the poltergeist’s activities and had rigged-up a microphone which they produced to Heathcote. They were busy getting this contraption into operation, with the assistance of the HARTWEIGHTS, who had also been roused and joined them, when Burt appeared. He was scantily clad in sacking and, seeing the ladies, bolted through the door into the hall. The lights went out almost immediately after that. There was a violent banging and rushing on the stairs. The next thing was Burt’s body hurling into the hall.
All four of them testify that nothing passed them coming downstairs after Burt fell. They were in a group at the foot of the stairs when it happened, as Hartwright went into the hall as soon as the lights went out and the rest followed. H. shone his small pocket torch on the fuse-box. Just then, Burt fell. They discovered that the main switch had been thrown. Turned on lights again and sent for doctor and police at once.
MISSES POTT. Miss Agnes (stone deaf) slept through it all. Miss Edith heard noises and turned out to investigate, meeting WILLIATT, who was doing the same. Both saw Burt rush from C.-P.’s quarters. Then lights went out and they heard him fall. They then joined the group below.
BRAUN heard nothing. Stated he was asleep. His assistants were down at the Harwood Arms at the village.
STONE and MRS. STONE. Stone saw the incidents in the park and Burt thrown in pond. Dressed and hurried out after some delay. Arrived at hall just as lights were put on again and found Burt dead. Mrs. Stone slept through it all.
(c) Alibis:
Carberry-Peacockes and Hartwrights together.
Edith Pott and Williatt together.
Agnes Pott, Braun and Mrs. Stone asleep.
Stone crossing park. No alibi.
(d) If Hartwrights and Peacockes at bottom of stairs and Edith Pott and Williatt in first-floor corridor, the interim section of stairs was sealed whilst Burt was climbing, except that Pott and Williatt were beyond doors of Burt’s flat. All swear that nobody passed them. So, whoever assaulted Burt must have come either from his flat or been waiting on the stairs. The windows of Burt’s flat were fastened.
(e) Heathcote does not like the atmosphere of Harwood Hall. “Something funny,” “uncanny” about it. He’s almost fallen for the haunting idea himself.
(f) Previous “manifestations” said to have been reported to Burt and the company:
Flat 1.
Destructive poltergeist.
2.
Noises. Rattling as of dice.
3.
Changes in temperature. This flat is now empty; vacated by Miss Elaine Freyle, who refused to put up with it for another night.
4.
Noises. Pumping sounds.
5.
Burt’s flat. Nothing.
6.
Figures in deshabille.
7.
Nothing whatever. Dr. Braun, the tenant, describes whole business as nonsense.
8.
Empty, but furnished. Brownrigg, tenant, said to be abroad. Presumably, now that war has broken out, we may not see him for some time.
Tenants of each flat described experiences to Heathcote.
(g) Why did they all stay, instead of, like Miss Freyle, bolting?
All, except the Misses Pott, were not unduly disturbed; certainly not scared out of their wits. Determined to stick it out for a time.
Misses Pott talked of calling in exorcist. Ladies of very limited means who could not afford another removal at present. Decided to put up with it and, as there were no more immediate manifestations after the first, remained where they were.
Note: Mr. Burt seems to have picked an unusually strong-minded lot of tenants!
After reading through his notes again, Littlejohn stretched his long limbs and rose to begin his day’s work. Standing by the window overlooking the front park, he could see Professor Braun also setting about his business. A small motor-van, laden with three packing-cases, presumably for containing his anthropological “finds,” were bearing him and his two assistants away, with one of the latter driving. The two Misses Pott were also off for the day and Miss Edith was cranking-up an ancient bull-nosed Morris with a shiny brass radiator. Miss Agnes was patiently waiting for the thing to start. The day was bright and sunny, the hood of their two-seater was down and they looked ready for a shopping expedition, perhaps to Brighton. Littlejohn had no authority to enter the premises of any of the tenants during their absence, although presumably Stone would have a key for the flats.
The lodge-keeper was sweeping the first leaves of autumn from the flower-beds of the front lawn. Littlejohn decided to take him with him as guide to the premises and hurried downstairs to collar him before he, too, made himself scarce as the rest had done.
THE MOUSTACHE IN THE POTTING-SHED
LITTLEJOHN couldn’t get to the bottom of the shifty manner of the man Stone.
When the detective interviewed or approached him indoors, the lodge-keeper behaved like a schoolboy marking time and ready to march off at the word. Encountered out-of-doors, the fellow seemed to be trying to conceal himself behind bushes and trees in the hope of being overlooked. If spoken to, he glanced furtively around him seeking-out a line of retreat, like a dog which is anxious to visit the nearest lamp-post, yet obeys his master’s command to remain where he is and perform his parlour-tricks.
“Whatever’s the matter with you, Stone?” asked Littlejohn impatiently, for, on being discovered in the garden, the man had leapt up like someone shot.
“Nothin’, sir,” replied Stone, but his looks belied his words.
“Well, whatever it is, you’d better settle down and prepare for a morning’s session, because you’re going to show me over the place. Furthermore if you’re hiding anything from me—and I judge that you are from your behaviour—you’d better tell me before I find out.”
“I’m not hidin’ nothin’,” protested the handyman, “I swear it.…”
“Don’t perjure yourself.… Let’s be getting along.”
They made for the house by the front way.
“How many of a staff are there here, Stone?”
“The wife and myself what you might call resident, sir. Then three women comes from the village to clean up the flats. Arrangements is that tenants pays for cleanin’ their own
rooms. That’s wot the women from the village is for. Mrs. Stone looks after the main ’all, passage-ways and staircases. Tenants also attends to their own cookin’ arrangements, but Mrs. Stone’ll make meals to order from the main kitchen, which was left free for use for that purpose. My job’s looking after central-’eatin’ and supervisin’ the gardens, which need a couple o’ men all day except in the late autumn and winter. They come from the village, too. I got an evacuee cockney chap from London doin’ a bit now, sir, but ’e’s going back soon. Can’t settle ’ere.”
They entered the house by the main door and passed into the hall.
“Where did you find Mr. Burt lying, Stone?”
The man pointed to a spot directly below the first turn of the stairs.
Littlejohn looked about him. The place was solidly panelled.
“Any cupboards or places behind the panels under the stairs?”
“No, sir. All the walls is solid enough except the space under the stairs which leads to the cellars.”
Littlejohn saw the door and tried it. It was locked and there was no key in it.
“Who has the key to this?”
“There was one, sir, but Mr. Burt took it. You see, there’s a lot of liquor down there as Mr. Burt ’ad brought in and he said it was too easy got at from the ’all. We never opened this door. There’s another in the kitchen and when Mr. Burt wanted a bottle brought up, he gave me the key of the other door and sent me down.”
“Who were the contractors who altered this place for Mr. Burt?”
“London firm, sir, did the last work on it. Two others ’ad to give up on account of the wilful damage done.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. Do you remember the name of the last firm?”
“Dumkin and Watts, the name was.”
Littlejohn made a note of it. Then they made a further tour of the kitchen and servants’ offices.
The former was a great, rambling place with a large stone sink, plate-racks, cupboards and a huge iron cooking-range. The floor was flagged and damp-looking. The quarters seemed no different from those of many another house of equivalent size.
Calamity at Harwood Page 6