Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  They returned to the hall.

  To left and to right were the entrance doors to the Carberry-Peacockes’ and the Hartwrights’ flats, respectively. Behind the main door, the central switchboard for the whole of the lighting and power of the building. The local police had already tested it for fingerprints after the previous night’s escapade, but whoever had put the place in darkness must have worn gloves. P.C. Lister had departed with the fingerprint men and his relief could be seen coming up the drive.

  The tenants of Flats 1 and 2 were at home and gladly allowed the inspector to examine their premises. Both flats were built on similar lines. Dining-room, lounge, main bedroom, smaller bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. The Hartwrights had a loggia outside their living-room and their opposite numbers over the way were compensated for the absence of such a blessing by a spacious larder. Through the window of the latter Mr. Burt had made his spectacular entrance clad in sackcloth.

  During Littlejohn’s visit, Mrs. Hartwright busied herself with knitting whilst her husband showed the Inspector over the place. There was nothing to attract the attention.

  “I hear that you were disturbed by noises, described as hauntings, I think, shortly before Mr. Burt’s death, Mr. Hartwright.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll say we were. Just sounded like somebody shooting craps—dice, you call ’em. I understand that certain disreputable gentlemen who once lived in this joint played quite a lot of dice. Played themselves into the debtors’ court, eh?”

  “How often did you hear this?”

  “A night or two, that’s all. We just didn’t heed it. It’ll take more than a gang of crazy, spooky crap-shooters to scare Mrs. Hartwright and me off, after all the money we spent on this little place.”

  “In the bedroom was it, that you heard the noises?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Littlejohn opened the french window of the bedroom and strode out on the small verandah. He examined the woodwork of the window-frames carefully and then smiled.

  “Ever heard of a tick-tock, Mr. Hartwright? We used to play it when I was a boy.”

  “No. What’s that to do with it?”

  “We used to tie a large button on the end of a string. Then, we’d pass the string over a pin or tack which we’d fastened to the window-frame, with the button touching the pane. We’d take the other end of the string a distance away, jerk it, and tick-tock the button would go on the pane, scaring those inside out of their skins. That’s what seems to have caused your ‘crap-shooting.’”

  “You meana say that we’ve had a practical joke played on us …?”

  “Looks very much like it. Who told you the tale about the dice-playing ghosts?”

  “Carberry-Peacocke. He knows all the dope about this place. Studied the history before he came in.”

  “Well. I think I’ll have a word with him, Mr. Hartwright. Thanks for letting me look around. I don’t think the crap-shooters will bother you any more.”

  Across the passage Carberry-Peacocke gave Littlejohn a fussy greeting. He hopped about like one with St. Vitus’ dance in his anxiety to show the Inspector the scene of the poltergeist’s activities.

  “Are you quite sure nobody climbed in through the larder window like Mr. Burt and played a trick on you? Your neighbour, Mr. Hartwright, was the subject of a practical joke in the matter of the so-called dice-playing. I found the spot where someone anchored a button on a pin over his bedroom window, and did the old schoolboy trick of tapping the pane.”

  Carberry-Peacocke’s eyes opened so wide that his glasses fell off.

  “NO!” he said. His wife turned pale and clutched her ample bosom.

  “Surely, ours wasn’t a trick, Archie?” she whispered, nonplussed, as though afraid that their famous visitor was going to be explained away by natural causes.

  “Certainly not, my dear! I know a poltergeist’s work when I see one. So does Professor Heggy. The traces are undeniable.”

  “In what way?” asked Littlejohn.

  Carberry-Peacocke blinked myopically. Then he began vigorously to polish his rescued pince-nez.

  “The violence, the energy!” he said in an awful voice. “No human agency could do such frightful and forceful damage in so short a time. Why, the place was a shambles in less than ten seconds!”

  “H’m. I understand that electric fittings like refrigerators were hurled about bodily.”

  “Certainly they were. Handled like mere nothings.”

  “Did the wiring suffer?’”

  “No, I can’t say that it did. Why?”

  “Well, isn’t it strange that the spook” … Mr. Carberry-Peacocke winced at the scientific irreverence … “the spook should be so careful as not to tear out the wires with the appliances, but carefully disconnect them before chucking them around?”

  “Perhaps it is … I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Carberry-Peacocke licked his lips and began to contort his face like a man with a tic.

  “Another thing, sir,” went on Littlejohn. “I hear from your neighbour, Mr. Hartwright, that you told him the legend about the dice-players.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “You know quite a lot about the history of this place?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Where did this history come from? Books, records, hearsay?”

  “I picked it up in the village. I haven’t read it. Some of the old gaffers in the local inn will tell you all about it for a pint.”

  Stone was hanging about the door like an anxious dog again.

  “You ever heard tales of that kind, Stone?” called Littlejohn to him.

  “What was those, sir?”

  “You heard what Mr. Carberry-Peacocke said, didn’t you?”

  Stone looked worried.

  “Bits of it, like.”

  “Well?”

  “No. I never heard nothing o’ that sort.”

  Again the man was scared and furtive. He knew something he wasn’t going to tell.

  Carberry-Peacocke looked uncomfortable, too, and seemed anxious to terminate the interview. Littlejohn left him after thanking him.

  “You sure you’ve never heard any of these old-wives’ tales, Stone?” said Littlejohn when they were in the hall again.

  “No, I never, sir.”

  “Well, you look damned miserable about it. That’s all I can say and I’ll repeat, it’s better for you to tell me anything you know outright before I find it out myself.”

  “I don’t know nothin’.”

  “Very well.”

  “The Professor and the Misses Pott are out, so I’ll have to defer my visit to them.…”

  “Mr. Williatt left for Brighton for the day, too, sir,” added Stone, now tumbling over himself to mollify Littlejohn.

  “That leaves the empty flat … Number 8. Mr. Brownrigg, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Nobody ever see him. Abroad, I hears.”

  “Have you got a key?”

  “Pass-key, sir? Yes.”

  They climbed to the second floor, passed Braun’s quarters and came to the door of the mysterious unknown’s rooms.

  “Tell me, Stone, who are Dr. Braun’s assistants?”

  “Mr. Leghe and Mr. Bradley, sir. Pupils of his, they are. Nice gents. Lodging at the Harwood Arms in the village, they are.”

  Stone opened the door of the Brownrigg flat.

  It was furnished scantily with new stuff. A dining-table, chairs, sideboard, and, in the bedroom, bed and wardrobe.

  “Won’t be very comfortable with this little lot,” said the Inspector.

  “P’raps intends to buy more when ’e arrives, sir.”

  The drawers were empty. The bed was bare and the cupboards contained neither clothing nor the means of making the place habitable. There were no letters. Not a thing to brand the flat as belonging to Brownrigg.

  “Desolate …” murmured Littlejohn.

  “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “Nothing.”<
br />
  They returned to the ground floor and Stone guided the detective round the outside of the building.

  Bathing-pool, flower-beds, kitchen-garden, they visited them all. Useless to look for clues. The place had been thoroughly combed by the local police and rain had washed away anything else of value.

  There were two large greenhouses, renovated, after many years of tumbledown existence, by Burt. Tomatoes were growing in one; in the other, an ancient vine and some cucumbers. The Inspector went in and out of the places and then to the adjacent potting-sheds. The latter were neat and tidy and contained empty bedding-boxes, plant-pots, bags of fertiliser, bulbs on shelves, dahlia tubers in ashes. One hut had evidently not been used for some time, for there was dust on the tools and benches.

  “This place not used much, Stone?”

  “No, sir. Just a store-place. I uses one end of the little greenhouse for preference. More comfortable and warm. The casual gardeners come here, of course. But they were paid-off after the fruit was got in.…”

  “Hullo! What have we here?”

  From the floor beneath the potting-bench Littlejohn picked up a dusty object and took it to the door to examine it in the better light. It was a made-up moustache such as can be bought from theatrical costumers. A fierce, melodramatic thing of twisted black crepê hair.

  “Ever seen this before, Stone?”

  “No, sir.”

  The man was scared again!

  “Any idea what it was used for or who might have used it? Anyone fond of amateur theatricals about here? Or practical jokes, Stone?”

  Littlejohn looked the man straight in the eyes and Stone wilted visibly.

  Then he pulled himself together and his face grew surly but resolute.

  “No, sir. I don’t know nobody.”

  Littlejohn knew he was lying.

  “Very well, Stone. That’ll do for the present.”

  The man sheered off to the house, knowing well that he had made a poor show of deceit.

  Littlejohn hunted about in other parts of the shed, but found nothing further. At length, he gave it up and returned to the Hall.

  As he entered by the front door, he saw the back of Stone disappearing through the entrance of the servants’ quarters. Even the lodge-keeper’s rear view looked uneasy and guilty. What had he been at again?

  There was a telephone in a small cubicle off the hall. Littlejohn entered the box and picked up the instrument. The mouthpiece was damp from someone’s breath. He dialled O.

  “Number, please?”

  “Has this telephone just been used?”

  “I’ll put you through to the supervisor. We aren’t allowed to answer enquiries of that kind. Sorrrry.”

  “Wait a minute. This is the police.”

  There was a click.

  “Supervisor.…” The performance was repeated.

  “Sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know you.…”

  A helmeted head appeared at that moment peering round the kitchen door. A large, beefy, honest-to-goodness-looking constable materialised.

  “Just come here a minute, constable. What’s your name?”

  “Bowells, sir.”

  Bowells! What a name! Like a synthetic one from a book!

  “Do you know the people at the exchange … what is it? … Gatley?”

  “Yes, sir.” The pantomime went on for a third time. Then the answer came after more delay.

  “They say there was a call just before you was speakin’, sir.”

  “Where to?”

  “Padgley 3746 … Fighter Command aerodrome that is, sir.”

  “Good God!”

  Deep waters!

  “Do you know anyone stationed there who might be connected with this place?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Who, Bowells, who, man?”

  “Mr. Roger Harwood, sir. Only relative of Mr. Theodore, as usedter be the squire here.…”

  THE OLD SQUIRE TAKES A NEW LEASE

  THEODORE HARWOOD was, as we already know, driven from home by the machinations of Mr. Solomon Burt. But that should not lead us to think that he was turned, destitute, into the streets to beg his bread. Enough was rescued from the wreckage to buy an annuity sufficient to keep the old man and his housekeeper in modest comfort.

  So, we find them lodged in Miss Eastwoode’s Private Hotel for Retired Gentlepeople, in Kensington. Their fellow guests consisted of twelve ageing or aged ladies and two old men, one a retired colonel and the other a Victorian novelist whose fount of inspiration had long since run dry. Squire Harwood, although older than his male rivals, ousted them from their joint honour as star-boarder and, refusing to keep to his room, held daily court in the public drawing-room. Miss Eastwoode attended personally to his diet and other comforts, and under such favourable treatment the dispossessed landowner took a new lease of life. He found the company of his equals and the constant attention of everyone to his foibles far more exhilarating than a solitary and harassed existence in a tumbledown ruin and grew more vociferous and dictatorial every day.

  “Not another of those damned bums, I hope,” said Mr. Harwood as the awestruck servant-girl announced that Mr. Littlejohn would like a word with him.

  The assembled ladies looked aghast at the thought, clicked their tongues against their teeth in genteel fashion and looked ready to form a bodyguard round their friend.

  The colonel and the ex-author, still smarting under their forced abdication, hoped that a boozy-looking man would now be shown in and disgrace the conqueror by taking possession. They almost shook hands with mutual satisfaction when the maid whispered she thought he was from the police.

  Miss Eastwoode entered and prevented a panic by inviting Mr. Harwood to meet his visitor in her small private parlour, in which already Littlejohn was cooling his heels amid the smells of cauliflower, which was being served for lunch, and pickled herrings, which were being boiled for goodness knew what.

  Littlejohn had decided after the unsatisfactory affair with Stone that it was high time he got to know more about the Harwood family, and who better than the head of it for satisfying his curiosity? So, there he was, for he had obtained the new address of the squire from Mrs. Stone, who reluctantly divulged it and, feeling that until Cromwell’s researches into the tenants of the flats were complete, he had little more to be doing in the village.

  “What the hell are you hounding me for?” grumbled the old reprobate as he entered the little room. “Haven’t I been pestered enough by rogues and swindlers without having the damned police after me, too?”

  “I hope you won’t take this visit amiss, sir,” answered the Inspector tactfully. “You know there’s been a murder at your old place and we’re at a point in the investigation where we think you can help us.”

  “If I’d had my way, there’d have been a few more murders. As it is, I’m not interested in running Burt’s murderer to earth. He did me a favour.… I’d have done the same meself if I’d been younger and had the stamina. So, I’ll bid you good-day.”

  “Wait a moment, sir. Don’t be hasty. I’m only here to help you, or at least one of your family, who’s now become involved in the affair.…”

  “What the devil do you mean? Don’t stand there gibbering, man. Out with it.… Not young Roger?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The old man’s attitude changed immediately. It was easy to see that Roger was the apple of his eye. Harwood seemed to shrivel and grow very old again. He sat in the chair which Littlejohn pushed forward.

  “Well?”

  “Who is Mr. Roger, in the first place, sir?”

  “Never mind; tell me what hot-water he’s been getting himself in.”

  “As far as I can see at present, he’s concerned in some plot whereby Burt’s property was damaged, the old Hall made the scene of a multitude of silly practical jokes, and, finally, the death of Mr. Burt.”

  “You’ve no proof of that. Roger’s a decent lad and wouldn’t soil himself by killing a rat like Bur
t.”

  “I don’t know whether you are fully aware of what’s gone on at Harwood Hall since you left.…”

  “Since I was pitched out neck-and-crop, you mean.…”

  “That’s as may be. But I’ve found the villagers and especially your old lodge-keepers, Stone and his wife, singularly unhelpful in the murder investigation. I’ve reason to believe that this is due to loyalty to your family, sir.…” “You’ve guessed right, there. Most of ’em bred and born on Harwood land with their roots in it. Why should they rat on us to help avenge a damned rogue who’d turn ’em all off and build a lot of blasted semi-detached villas all over their holdings …?”

  “I think they’ve rallied round Mr. Roger, sir.…” “God bless ’em. But who’s turned informer?” “I’m not going to say. But this is my reason for calling on you. Mr. Roger is, I understand, a pilot-officer in the R.A.F. Now, we’ve no desire to disturb him at present by a lot of police enquiries. He’s more important work to do than holding himself at our beck and call.…”

  “He has. I’m proud of him. I’d gladly die myself rather than anything happen to put him off the job he’s set himself.”

  “Well then, you help us where you can, sir.”

  “What do you want to know? Make it brief. I’m tired.”

  The poor old chap looked it, too.

  “Mr. Roger is your blood nephew?”

  “Yes. Son of my younger brother, killed in the last war. My heir.… Now he’s nothing to inherit.”

  “Would it have done him any good to get rid of Burt?”

  “What good could it have done? The place belongs to a company. No use killing a mere shareholder, even if he has controlling interest.”

  “What did Mr. Roger do before he joined-up?”

  “He was at Cambridge. Taking engineering. I’d scraped enough to send him there. Had nothing but mortgages to leave him, so made up my mind to give him an education so that he could earn his own living. A good boy. Justified my hopes.”

  “Now, don’t misunderstand the question, sir. Was he a bit wild?”

  Old Harwood cackled.

  “Most lads are at his age. Now and then … boat-race night, eh?”