There was a long queue in front of the fishmonger’s when Costain turned up. The door of the shop was locked and inside the owner could be seen cutting up a halibut and making parcels of the portions, which he then secreted under the counter. Others he put in a basket for delivery later. Two or three women beat angrily on the doors and windows but the man inside was so preoccupied with dissection that he didn’t appear to notice. At any rate, there was enough dog-fish, cat-fish or whatever else you cared to call the livid objects lying on the slab, to supply the common herd outside, if they wanted them!
The women were, in consequence, in no mood to deal patiently with Costain’s enquiries. Rather, they sought to enlist his help against the wicked tradesman.
The tail of the queue seemed to be composed of the least violent faction, and Costain, after reciting chapter and verse of the penal code in support of non-interference, disentangled himself from his tormentors, pretended not to see one of them who was picking up stones and threatening to throw them through the window, and solemnly ran the gauntlet, feeling like a small boy on the way to a good caning.
The last person in the file was a small, wiry, parchment-faced woman who had so many children she didn’t know what to do. Her name was Moppett, her husband was a roadman, two of her eldest sons were in the forces, and the rest of her mixed brood at school. Childbearing, queueing, worrying about her soldier sons and writing to them regularly, listening to the outpourings of her husband, who was a communist and freethinker and dead-set against God and the state, and sorting out the clothing coupons of ten of them, had given her the resignation of despair. She therefore received the bobby courteously.
“Vis, I was in the queue yesterday,” she meekly replied to Costain’s question.
“Who else was in the crowd, Mrs. Moppett?”
Mrs. Moppett’s patient, homely face assumed a thoughtful expression.
“Let me see … Mrs. Bottomley, Mrs. Fryte, Mrs. Tattersall, and her daughter-in-law Mrs. Lambert …”
“And Mrs. Connolly, Mrs. Slamm, Mrs. Jelliby …”
“Mrs. Golightly, Mrs. Crompton, Mrs. Leighe …”
A number of other women, overhearing the enquiry, eagerly joined in and added their quota, finding in this new game a means of passing the time away.
“Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,” shouted a woman with a sense of humour.
To the hot and bothered Costain it was like taking a census of the heavenly host. He struggled to get out his notebook and pencil, lubricated the tip of the latter copiously on his tongue, and held up a large palm.
“Ladies, ladies … Please … One at a time …”
In his heart he realised that the game was hopeless. What was the use of scribbling down lists of women who, although in their present mood might gladly make mincemeat of the fishmonger, would never in this world murder a young chap, who’d done them no harm, in cold blood?
Costain required all his will-power not to flee and show the mob of eager helpers a clean pair of heels.
Suddenly aid from heaven arrived from an unexpected quarter.
Hitherto unseen by Costain in the queue and standing in a form of respectful vacuum created by women who would not take the liberty of presuming familiarly to rub shoulders with her, was a heavy-bosomed, flat-footed lady dressed in a loosely-cut tweed costume with a patch of totally different material adorning each elbow and on her head a hideous, shapeless felt hat, perhaps a sporting cast-off from her husband’s wardrobe. The lady of the manor, the Hon. Mrs. Liscomber.
Mrs. Liscomber had the consolation of knowing that under the fishman’s counter reposed a packet or two for delivery at the tradesmen’s door of the Hall, but had joined the queue for coarse fish to show she was a democrat and not afraid to mix with the common crowd and share its trials and tribulations. Her fellow sufferers in the queue admired this spirit and promised themselves to vote for Mr. Mortimer Liscomber at the forthcoming by-election, which was exactly what the Honourable wanted. Surely if her spouse could, in the interest of the Conservative party, kiss all the babies in the village …
“What’s all this about, Costain? I hope you’re not annoying these good women. As if they hadn’t enough troubles without your adding to them.”
Mrs. Moppett and her collaborators clucked comfortably and completely absolved Costain from officious or indecent behaviour.
“What is it, then?”
“Might I ’ave a word with you in private, madam?” replied Costain. The Honourable was a county magistrate and deference was therefore due to her.
Whereat, accompanying the constable to the doorway of the baby-linen, embroidery and holiday souvenirs shop, Mrs. Liscomber listened to his tale. She heartily sympathised with Costain, whose attitude towards her was highly gratifying, although had she known what he had done to her husband’s few remaining birds a couple of nights ago she would probably have changed her tune.
“Leave it to me,” said the Honourable briefly, and forthwith mingled with the string of women, passing from one to another like a bus conductress collecting fares from a squad of strap-hangers. This she did with such patience and good will that one and all inwardly confirmed the cross they proposed to put against the name “LISCOMBER, Mortimer,” at the poll. Even little Mrs. Moppett, whose husband had sworn to wring her neck if she voted for anyone but the Communist (who later received 12 votes and forfeited his deposit), decided in favour of martyrdom.
In the midst of Mrs. Liscomber’s canvass the fish merchant opened his doors and was forthwith ordered by the Honourable to close them again until she gave the word. This he did with great pleasure and could then be seen making himself a nice cup o’ tea in the rear of the shop, eyeing the queue with proprietory relish, and cutting up the small remainder of the halibut and stowing it in parcels under the counter again.
Finally, the Honourable said When. The queue moved forward with great velocity and carried Costain and Mrs. Liscomber with it into the shop, whence they later emerged each with a flat fish trimmed with a kind of livid tail and gills and wrapped in a small piece of dirty newspaper. The Honourable talked hoarsely with the bobby on their way to and from this triumph.
“You don’t want the names of all the rank and file of ordinary people in the village street when Butt started to boast, do you? They couldn’t possibly have done it. You don’t want those … Oh, no.”
“No, madam,” replied Costain, hypnotised by Mrs. Liscomber’s prominent and commanding eyeballs and excited red face. She closely resembled the fish which had just been deferentially passed over the counter by the shopman, who would have liked to wink at her to show that the necessary was being taken care of, had he dared.
“I know all the scandal of the village, constable, and in my opinion, in my opinion, the following names should interest you. Young Blaize was standing at the door of the inn and could well have heard all that was going on. Laura and Mrs. Cruft were in the fancy-goods shop next-door-but-one buying black stockings, and the door was open. Mrs. Paget was in the queue … Professor D’Arcy Lever was sitting right opposite in his car, waiting for his wife who was showing a friend the epitaphs in the churchyard. And Johnny Hunter and that Shortt fellow who poses as a woman and writes sloppy romances were smoking their pipes and sitting on the wall of the churchyard talking.”
Costain scribbled it all down illegibly in his book.
Then he turned a startled face to Mrs. Liscomber.
“You seem to know all about the case, madam,” he said admiringly.
“It’s my business to know all that goes on in my parish, Costain,” she replied, and with that she climbed into her disreputable two-seater, acknowledged the bobby’s salute by a flick of the hand, and drove off. On the way she flung the reward of her afternoon’s queueing into a cattle-pond, without slackening speed, thereby causing the farmer who owned the water resolutely to propound to his cronies a new scientific theory concerning how catfish creep from the sea over dry land in search of fresh water at certain seasons, like
eels.
Costain was baffled by the Honourable’s apparent gift of second sight, and, when he reported to Littlejohn later, the Inspector made up his mind to visit her at the Hall.
It was all quite simple, however. Combining the functions of sympathising with the bereaved and catching their votes, Mrs. Liscomber had that morning visited Mr. Jonas Buffet and pumped that garrulous old man dry.
Although there was plenty of activity at the police-house at Ditchling Episcopi, Mrs. Butt was lonely. Two workmen were drinking tea in the garden; two more were sitting unsteadily on the wreckage of old Butt’s ruined coal-shed discussing sport; and another was apparently playing a gigantic game of draughts on the roof by moving piles of slates from one to another of the squares formed by the crossed spars, and then back again. Old Nehemiah had certainly made a wreck of the place and it needed several brewings of tea and a lot of post-mortems about the previous Saturday’s football to bring the workmen to a frame of mind to set about it.
All the same, Mrs. Butt was very forlorn. Assured that Will was quite out of danger, she nevertheless missed him about the place and had lost the quiet sense of security which his presence inspired. She did the house through twice to take her mind off his narrow escape and made several cups of tea, but these failed to restore her spirits. At length she turned on the wireless.
… How the thought of you clings,
These foolish things,
Remind me of you.
She burst into tears. And she was still weeping when Littlejohn called.
“Whatever’s the matter, Mrs. Butt?” asked the Inspector.
“I miss ’im,” she sobbed, wiping her eyes on her apron, and sniffing.
“That’s all right. I’ve just seen him and he was full of beans. Although he’ll have to stay in hospital for a few more days. He’s had a shock, you know.”
“Yes. I reely ought to be glad I’ve still got ’im. But what I want to know is, who could have bore anythin’ against my Will? Why, he wouldn’t ’urt a fly, wouldn’t Will. Why should anybody want to do ’im voilance?”
“He must have been finding out more than was good for someone and they tried to keep him quiet.”
“It might have been the document they were after.”
“Document?”
“Yes. But that was about Joe Costain and somethin’ about some partridges as Will brought in the night before … I don’t know …”
“How did you know about any document, Mrs. Butt?”
“I overheard Will and his dad talkin’ something about Costain and then Will went and wrote it all out on paper and went off to see somethin’ about it.”
“Did he mention it to you, Mrs. Butt?”
“No. Never discussed official business with me. But I know it was about Mr. Costain because I overheard Will recitin’ it to himself in the front room. He always read aloud his reports to himself, to see if they chimed properly.”
“I see. And when he went out he had the report with him?”
“Yes. I saw him put it in the top pocket of his tunic and button it up.”
“Have you been to see him today?”
“No. I’m just goin’ to phone Sister now and ask if I can go.”
“Right. Whilst you’re on, ask her to enquire of your husband if the report is still in his pocket.”
Mrs. Butt went off to the instrument in the lobby at once and was soon back.
“I can go right away. And Will says the paper wasn’t in his pocket when he came round last night. Somebody’s took it.”
There was a knock on the back door.
It was the man from the roof asking if Mrs. Butt could make him a brew of tea, so Littlejohn, having nothing further to ask Mrs. Butt, thanked her, bade her good-day and set out to visit the next on his list.
8.
AT “THE BIRD IN HAND”
Bury me on a sunny morning,
So that none following my ragged cortège
Shall suffer wind, or squall, or rain …
And get a beastly cold.
ALBERT GLATIGNY
THE funeral of Ronald Free took place at noon. Rather a queer time, but there was to be a meal afterwards at the village café and the proprietor had refused to lay the spread at any other time than one o’clock. Had it rested with him, he said, he would have done it with pleasure, but the staff wouldn’t stand for it in the middle of the afternoon. You know what they are these days.
There were no women present and there was no hearse or carriages. The Frees lived near the church, so six men from the University, friends of the murdered man, carried his coffin on their shoulders to the graveside.
Nobody looked comfortable. Sam Stopford, more deaf than ever, had been quarrelling with the gravediggers, who only just finished in time. In his ill-humour, the undertaker seemed to have shrunk in size; or else his clothes had expanded, for they hung on him like washing on a clothes-horse.
Old Mr. Free, the victim’s father, followed the coffin like one hypnotised, looking neither to left nor right. Mr. Buffet was supporting him and Mr. Habakkuk was supporting Mr. Buffet.
The tail end of the procession consisted of young men from Melchester University. Some wore black ties, others didn’t; all of them were in sports coats and flannels and their attire contrasted sharply with that of the principal mourners who were in black from head to foot. Then there was a motley crowd of youths from the University, evidently making a day-out of the event.
Mr. Turncote met the coffin at the lych gate. He was flustered, too. That morning he had been summoned to the episcopal palace to tell the bishop all about the murder and the attempted murder. Immersed in domestic cares the vicar had found himself lacking in any news at all, except the names of the victims, and the bishop had been very displeased. He had accused Mr. Turncote of parochial slackness and kept him so long that the vicar had needed to hire a taxi to get him to Ravelstone in time for the funeral.
Before calling at the palace Mr. Turncote had been foraging for fish in Melchester and this must be cooked by 12.30, when his grandchildren came in from the nursery school.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this Congregation …” intoned Mr. Turncote.
A divinity student from the University thereupon hastened to the vicar’s side, pointed out he was beginning to solemnise matrimony instead of burying the dead, and set the good man right.
Littlejohn, standing in the taproom of The Bird in Hand, watched it all going on through the low, leaded window. Until the funeral was over he was at a loose end.
“I see Johnny Hunter’s buried the hatchet and is helping to put his dear old pal under the sod …”
Littlejohn turned.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, flabby man with a tankard in his hand. He might have been anything between twenty-five and thirty. He looked to be running to seed from beer drinking. Untidy, black hair worn long and shaggy at the neck, a small black moustache and a blotchy red complexion. His eyes were keen and bright under tired lids. His heavy lips wore a sarcastic smile.
“Which is Hunter?”
The newcomer advanced to Littlejohn’s side. He wore a shabby suit of brown tweed and dirty brown shoes.
“First on the left …”
So that was Hunter, with whom Free had parted company through Laura Cruft. Tall, lean, dressed like the rest of the students in tweed coat and flannels, but with a black tie floating loose over his jacket. His long, fair hair fluttered as the breeze caught it. His profile was like that of a Greek statue and, at present, as immobile. Probably a favourite with the girls if he cared to exert himself.
“Quarrelled with Free about Laura. Now he’s left in the field again … eh … what?”
“I don’t seem to know you,” said Littlejohn, trying to change the subject.
“Who? Me? You oughto, you know. I live here. Blaize. Tim Blaize. Father owns this place … Help him to run it …”
“Oh, yes. So you’re Tim Blaize
.”
“Heard of me, then, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Nothin’ good, I’ll bet.”
Blaize was half-seas-over at that early hour. Littlejohn would have liked to send him packing, but he seemed talkative and it wasn’t long to lunch.
The funeral was over and some spectators were beginning to straggle in the bar. Blaize didn’t let them worry him and left it all to the barmaid, who could be heard working the pumps and attending to orders.
“Two whiskies, Edna …”
The noise of squirting soda-water …
“Drink up, ole man …”
“What’ll yours be? Bit cold in the churchyard …”
“Cheers!” “Bottoms up!”
It might have been an event calling for celebrations!
Blaize breathed beer over Littlejohn.
“If I were in your shoes, Inspector, I’d chuck this investigation. No use stirring up the mud of the village for the sake of a swob like Free. You can poke around till doomsday and you’ll never find who did for him …”
“A swob, did you say. I thought Free was a young fellow with a good reputation.”
Blaize laughed. Thick bubbling noises in his throat.
“Good reputation! Don’t make me laugh. Ask young Hunter about your little saint-with-halo. While Johnny Hunter was away doin’ something in a government lab.—he’s a good physics chap, they say, and exempt from the forces on account of it—while he was away, Free pinched his girl. Same with me.… When I left to join the R.A.F., Laura was supposed to be as good as hitched to me; when I came home invalided out with my heart not playin’ the game, I found her knockin’ around with Free. And Hunter had had his turn between the two of us.… To say nothin’ of the hearts Free broke before he finally pitched on Laura …”
More bubbling noises came from Blaize’s throat and he buried his face in his pewter pot again.
Outrage on Gallows Hill Page 7