Outrage on Gallows Hill

by George Bellairs

  “I see. When do you expect him back?”

  “On the afternoon train. He should be in any time.”

  The maid had hurried indoors and could be heard talking to someone in the kitchen.

  “That’s my husband back now. He’s come in the back way by a short cut from the station through the fields.”

  As Littlejohn turned to go the door of the room was flung open and Hilary Paget entered.

  Littlejohn was amazed. Paget didn’t look like a crime writer at all. He would have been more at home quarrelling through the columns of newspapers about vegetarianism, vivisection, conscientious objection or total abstinence, rather than creating master criminals and more masterful amateur crime investigators.

  He was small, thin and fair. There was hardly a scrap of colour in his thin, stubborn-looking face. His eyes were pale blue; he wore round, rimless spectacles, and a small moustache graced his upper lip with a sandy streak. He was washed-out looking and had baggy eyelids, as though he had missed several nights’ sleep or else starved for many days.

  “Elsie tells me you’re a Scotland Yard detective. What are you doing here?”

  Paget got down to brass tacks right away. He quivered like an angry little bantam cock. His pouched eyes protruded angrily.

  Littlejohn was disappointed. He had read several of Paget’s thrillers and liked them. In fact, Paget’s private investigator, Billington Fane, struck the Inspector as being very human and well-drawn, because he wasn’t always triumphing over Scotland Yard like so many of his contemporaries. It was a comfort to read about him. But to think he was the product of the brain behind those pop-eyes and that splash of a moustache.…

  “Do you hear?”

  Paget was nearly prancing with temper. Billington Fane was always as cool as a cucumber, even when they hung him head down over some quicksands and greased the other end of the rope with ham fat to make the rats chew through it and drop the sleuth to his doom …

  “I’m simply making a routine investigation, sir. I’m visiting everyone who was out in the village on the night of the recent crime.”

  Mrs. Paget, sobered by the arrival of her husband and grown suddenly quiet, turned a brief and grateful glance on Littlejohn. So, the creator of sleuths perhaps didn’t know quite as much about his wife’s affair with Free as she said he did!

  “Well? What the hell’s my wife got to do with it?”

  “She was out-of-doors at the time.”

  “How do you know?”

  Paget had suddenly cooled off. He must have remembered Billington Fane. At least he seemed to be trying to behave like him and he was failing miserably. There was a smut of soot across Paget’s nose which he must have picked up from the engine of his train, or something. It took away all his dignity. Littlejohn couldn’t keep his eyes from returning to it again and again. Billington Fane would never have had a smut on his nose … Let me see, Baby-face Fane the crooks called him … And their knees knocked together.

  “The constable on patrol met several people … including your wife.”

  Littlejohn lied gallantly and Mrs. Paget threw him another grateful glance.

  “On a night as black as pitch?”

  Littlejohn was getting a bit fed up.

  “He had a lantern, of course,” he replied. “And would you kindly mind not putting me through a lot of questions, Mr. Paget? Neither you nor your wife is bound to answer any of my queries. I’m only asking for help.”

  “And anything we may say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence against us …”

  Paget smiled sardonically and tried to look calm.

  “I think you’ve got it wrong, sir. I’m surprised at you …”

  Littlejohn couldn’t help it; it was more than flesh and blood could resist!

  Paget was in a rage.

  “I’m going to London again …”

  Mrs. Paget made a questioning gesture.

  “Yes. I’m going back in the morning. I’ve some business on and I’d have stayed overnight only I didn’t take any things.”

  Paget wagged a forefinger right in Littlejohn’s face. His hands were lean and strong-looking.

  “And don’t let me hear of you being here in my absence bullying my wife. I won’t have it!”

  “He wasn’t bullying me at all, Hilary. He was very nice and polite …”

  “When I want you to interfere, Muriel, I’ll ask you. Please keep out of this …”

  “I must be going, Mr. Paget, if that’s all you have to say.”

  “It is.”

  “Good afternoon, then. Good afternoon, Mrs. Paget, and thank you.”

  The maid must have been listening behind the door, for, as Littlejohn opened it, she performed a sort of figure-of-eight and pretended to be coming from another room to let him out.

  “He’s a brute,” she muttered as she opened the front door. “And she’s so nice. Me heart bleeds for ’er. He’s that jealous. I don’t know what he’d do if he knew the things I know …”

  She breathed it hoarsely out of the corner of her mouth and suddenly shut up and pretended to straighten her cap when she saw her master’s pale eyes glaring at her through the window. She was a member of a below-stairs circulating library which specialised in salty romances and her sympathies were therefore on the side of handsome heroes against tyranical old cuckolds whose young wives had become tied to them out of gratitude, not luv. What the postman with the stiff leg would have thought about it all …

  “That’ll do,” said Littlejohn, rightly picturing the pretty maid lapping-up sixpenny paper-backs in her room late at night.

  And, with that, he went to the village ’phone-box, rang-up Cromwell, and, describing Paget, told him to watch the trains coming into Paddington from Melchester and find out what the crime specialist did when he visited London.

  10

  LISCOMBER HALL

  God’s mercy is infinite; it even extends to the rich.

  ANATOLE FRANCE

  P.C. COSTAIN reported his morning’s work to Littlejohn and laid particular emphasis on the part taken in it by the Hon. Mrs. Liscomber.

  The Inspector, therefore, decided to make the Hall his next port of call. Taking directions from the bobby, Littlejohn set out on foot and greatly enjoyed the walk.

  A man was strolling in front of Littlejohn with a gun under his arm. The Inspector recognised Blaize, the landlord of The Bird in Hand. He saw Littlejohn as he turned to scramble over a stile. Littlejohn hoped the gun wasn’t loaded; the way the fellow handled it was a menace.

  “Afternoon, Inspector. Just going to take a pot at a few rabbits. Something for your lunch to-morrow.”

  Littlejohn smiled wryly and returned the greeting.

  He didn’t like rabbit.

  The Liscombers lived at the Dower House. Not that they hadn’t enough money to keep up the Hall. It was the servant problem that drove them to smaller quarters. As part of her war work Mrs. Liscomber had insisted on descending below stairs and giving a hand. No self-respecting servant could stand that for long!

  The family had been an impoverished lot until Mortimer married the Hon. Matilda Popple, daughter of the head of a very flourishing bucket-shop and a peer of the realm thanks to his tireless efforts in company promoting in the national interest.

  The only offer received for the tenancy of the Hall had been from the Union of Malleable and Ductile Metal Workers, who turned it into a rest home for their exhausted members.

  Littlejohn passed a lodge with shuttered windows, tiles off the roof and the doors hanging off. The park lay beyond, sheep keeping down the grass and convalescent malleable and ductile workers parading about it or lounging in deck chairs in the sun.

  An elderly maid opened the door of the Dower House, looked hard and long at Littlejohn’s card as though unable to read, and bade him enter whilst she made her leisurely way to tell somebody he was there.

  The house was large of its type. It must once have been very pleasant and airy.
Now it was a bit neglected and moth-eaten.

  “Come this way, please …”

  Another shabby room, but intimate and cosy from being lived in. Heavy oak chairs, a large dining-table, a huge oak sideboard carved with climbing plants with swollen leaves and flowers. Silver ornaments, trays and tea services. The plate hadn’t been properly cleaned and a film of white powder remained in the engraved and crested parts and in the corners of the complicated floral patterns carved on it.

  On the walls, old framed photographs of hunting and family groups and a large oil painting of a domineering-looking man in hunting pink.

  Mrs. Liscomber rose from an easy chair near the fire. A big, florid woman with a large, flat face, bulging eyes and a big, straight nose with narrow nostrils. A perfect nosey-parker by the look of it. Her lips were heavy and the lower protruded. She wore an old tweed skirt and a baggy grey jumper. She put a fountain pen and writing-block down on the table as she greeted Littlejohn.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector. I thought you’d be coming …”

  Littlejohn smiled.

  “Good afternoon, madam. I’ve just called in to …”

  But Mrs. Liscomber was going to do the talking. She bit right into the middle of Littlejohn’s sentence.

  “You’ve called for my views on the murder.”

  Littlejohn was sure he’d get full measure. She looked brimming over with the subject and ready for anything.

  “Yes … Take a seat. It’s high time we had a talk together.”

  She was polite, but firm. You got an impression of great quantities of energy bottled-up in her huge frame. She was evidently convinced that the Family ought to be in at the settling of all village affairs. It would have been sheer lèse-majesté to ignore them.

  “Matters can’t go on as they are, Inspector. It’s time you and I had a serious talk together. A murder and a brutal attack on a policeman. Something must be done quickly before anything further happens.”

  “We’re doing our best, madam.”

  Littlejohn was nettled. He didn’t care for being taught his duty by a meddling busybody. Mrs. Liscomber must have sensed his annoyance. She rang the bell.

  “Well you have some whisky, Inspector …? Or maybe a cup of tea? I think there’s a little whisky left.”

  All the same she ordered tea when the maid came in. She also offered Littlejohn a cigar from a box on the table. They looked a bit mildewed. Littlejohn said he preferred his pipe and was given permission to light up. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Honourable light a cigar herself. She looked masterful enough for it. She started to smoke a cigarette, however.

  “I’ve expected trouble all along from that Cruft girl. The sort who revels in turning men’s heads and setting them one against another. Running loose in the neighbourhood! A perfect menace. I ought to have made it my business to speak to her, but they own their own farm and not being tenants of ours …”

  She shrugged her shoulders and turned down the corners of her mouth.

  “Free’s parents are very decent people. Been in the village for longer than I can remember. It was a mistake, however, to spend so much on Ronald. They spoiled him. And he was very good-looking, too. The result was, he thought he could have anything he wanted. He took Laura Cruft from his friend.”

  “I suppose she made the choice.”

  “Of course, of course … But young Hunter was away at the time. Laura had to have some man running about after her. I suppose young Free was the most eligible. The Free family didn’t like her. They accused Laura of leading their son astray and spoiling his career. Ridiculous!”

  “Why?”

  “He was quite an expert in the arts of love without any assistance from Laura. Tried to break the hearts of a few of the local girls at one time and another. Mrs. Paget, too. There was a lot of local gossip in that direction. Paget didn’t like it.”

  “He knew then?”

  “Of course he did. He and his wife had quarrels about it.”

  “May I ask how you know that, madam?”

  Mrs. Liscomber looked very annoyed. Here was somebody questioning her word!

  “Servants talk … The maid at the Pagets has overheard many things.”

  So that was it! The flighty girl who dallied with the stiff-legged postman had been talking all over the place.

  The Honourable was thoroughly enjoying herself in this washing of erotic dirty linen. She smacked her lips and her teeth clicked as she talked.

  Although you wouldn’t have thought it to look at her now, Mrs. Liscomber, née Popple, had been a beauty in her time and had run through several affairs before that fine old English gentleman, Mortimer Liscomber, Esquire, married her. Her charms must have inspired her lovers to higher things. An absconding solicitor; a professional footballer who was suspended for good; a boxer out for the count after two minutes of trying to hit his opponent; and a French Cabinet Minister who had a hand in cooking the books of a lottery and shot himself … She had had her money’s worth before finally settling down.

  “Now, what I think we ought to do, Inspector, is to make a list of those likely to have suffered either by Free’s engagement to the Cruft girl or from some other source.… Let’s see …”

  She slapped the writing pad on the table and began to scribble furiously, her lips moving as she silently pronounced the chosen names to herself.

  “There you are … I’ll explain the significance of each name. Now …”

  There they were. The same old lot!

  Blaize.

  Hunter.

  Paget.

  Spry.

  Professor Lever.

  Then two quite unknown ones:

  Rickerby.

  Miller.

  And to finish off the lot:

  Tramp.

  Homicidal Maniac.

  Brilliant!

  “There you are, Inspector. What do you make of those? I think you’ll get your man from among them.”

  A door in the room suddenly flew open and Mr. Liscomber himself emerged from his lair, a kind of morning-room, which emitted a blast of pipe tobacco, and paraffin from an oil stove.

  “How d’ye spell ratiocination, my dear?”

  Liscomber was tall, heavy and clean. His broad, red, clean-shaven face looked devoid of all intelligence, but was attractive in its very innocence. He wore a baggy brown tweed plus-four suit and good brogues on his large, flat feet. His childish blue eyes opened wide at the sight of Littlejohn.

  “The Inspector in charge of the Free case, Mortimer.”

  “Howdedo … Good man! Don’t look like a detective, if I may say so, sir. Thought they wore bowler hats and raincoats. Expect you’re disguised as a country gentleman, eh?”

  Littlejohn didn’t know whether it was a joke or not, but he laughed.

  “Hope you soon catch the blighter … Probably one of the damned Reds!”

  Mr. Liscomber’s grandfather had been a great friend of Sir Robert Peel, until the latter let the side down by repealing the Corn Laws. This betrayal probably caused the traditional family hatred of reformers of all kinds. Grandfather Liscomber, the man in hunting pink over the fireplace, had regarded “filthy radical” as the foulest epithet he could fling at anyone. Mortimer was chiefly occupied in rooting out and destroying Reds.

  It was damned bad taste and ingratitude, to say the least of it, for a section of the local electorate to nominate Agricultural Reform (Red), Labour (Damned Red), and Communist (Bloody Red) candidates against him at the forthcoming by-election caused by the death of his cousin Bartley. At that very moment, practically on the very doorstep, the local Labour Party were enjoying the hospitality of the Hall from the Metal Workers and were fraternally quarrelling about who was to be their choice.

  “What’s this about ratiocination? Did you pick that up out of the vicar’s sermon last Sunday?”

  “Yes, m’dear, sounded good. Damn good. Word has a learned sound about it. Ought to go down well. Puttin’ it in my opening speech. �
��Women don’t bother about ratiocination; they want houses to live in and food without queuein’…’ Good, eh?”

  “Fiddlesticks! Do you know what the word means?”

  “No. Audience won’t either. But it’ll impress ’em.”

  “And make you a laughing stock with the other parties. No, it won’t do. Cut it out and put ‘talk’ instead. Now go and get on with your speech again. I’m busy.”

  “Sorry … Didn’t know you were in conference. Can’t settle down, though. Seein’ those damned Reds comin’ and goin’ at the Hall makes my blood boil. Wish I hadn’t let the place to ’em …”

  He withdrew muttering to himself.

  “Where were we …? Ah, yes …”

  Littlejohn recovered himself with a start. The situations in which he found himself in this case were fantastic!

  “Who are Rickerby and Miller, madam? They’re new names to me.”

  “Rickerby is a local business man who retired to a bungalow between here and the village. Made a fortune dealing in cars in Melchester. Since then he’s bought a number of old houses in the locality, re-conditioned them and sold them at big profits.”

  “How did he come to quarrel with Free, though?”

  “Free headed a sort of University club which tried to stop what they called vandalism. Out-Tudoring the Tudors, they called it, whatever that may mean. Rickerby tried to block some footpaths, too. They tore down his fences and wire. Even pulled down a wall and fired some barriers he put up. Rickerby’s hot-tempered and took a gun to them. Free took the gun from him and knocked him down. Quite a local scandal. Rickerby always said he’d get even with Free.”

  “All the same, not to the extent of strangling him in the dark, surely!”

  “I don’t know. I think Rickerby’s mad, you know. He actually said my husband was wood from the neck upwards. His very remarks. No sense at all in them. Only a madman could talk like that.”

  Littlejohn repressed a grin.

  “Miller?”

  “The gamekeeper on our estate. A strange, wild sort of a man. Lives at the far lodge. We wouldn’t have kept him on, only we can’t replace him these times, you know. Half gipsy and has a club foot. Excellent outdoor man.”