Outrage on Gallows Hill

by George Bellairs

  “I questioned Butt closely about that report. It seems obvious that somebody, after hearing Butt shouting about it in the village, thought it contained evidence about the murder, and attacked Butt to get it. Butt assured me that only himself, Costain and I know what the letter contained. His father, he’s sure, said nothing of it to anybody, because they more or less kept the old man doped. He was noisy and upset everybody about him.”

  “So somebody might have that report still?”

  “I hardly think so. Probably destroyed it in a hurry when they saw that it was harmless. All the same, it’s as well to remember the point.”

  “What about a drink, Inspector?”

  “Right.”

  “Two pints of mild, Edna.”

  Glaisher uncrossed his legs to receive his tankard and then corkscrewed them again on the mantelpiece.

  “Anything in the way of routine work we can be doing at Melchester?”

  “Could you find out something about Spry for me? Where he comes from? I hear he’s not a local man. And anything else concerning him. There’s a nigger in the woodpile there and we must get to the bottom of it. If necessary, I’ll send a man down to Spry’s home town to dig out all he can.”

  “I’ll see to that. Anything else?”

  “Have you got your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me a lift to Melchester, then, if you don’t mind. I want a word with Fothergill, solicitor to the late Cruft’s estate. I wonder if Spry’s been up to something there …”

  “D’you think he imagined you were on to something about the estate and hurried off to hang himself?”

  Glaisher grinned, a feat which raised his moustache like a trapdoor, revealing two large fanged canine teeth surrounded by batches of false ones.

  “I don’t know. It seems damned strange that he should leave such a silly suicide note. I wonder if he’s fond of Laura … In a fatherly way, I mean, and couldn’t stand her being slandered. I’ll have to find out. Well, if you’ll take me to Melchester, I’ll get my business done and then call to see Spry.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Glaisher unfolded himself and got to his feet with a groan. A very small car was parked in the car-park, and it took the two detectives all their time to get into it. Glaisher’s knees reached to his chin and he had to hold the wheel over the top of them.

  “Can’t you do anything better than this, Superintendent?” asked Littlejohn jocularly.

  “My car’s in dock. Be thankful for small mercies! This is my wife’s. Damned silly little thing, but it goes.”

  They rattled off.

  Fothergill, Turncote, Blades, Comfrey and Fothergill were the diocesan solicitors. Their chambers were adjacent to the cathedral close in a place which had once been a pilgrims’ hostel. Turncote, Blades, Comfrey and one Fothergill had died long ago, and the surviving relic on the eroded brass plate at the door had one foot in the grave. Mr. Bartlemy Fothergill had two middle-aged nephews in the firm. They were known as young Mr. Tom and young Mr. Christopher, and, although partners in the business, had not yet graduated to having a share in the name-plate. Mr. Bartlemy ruled them with a rod of iron, and insisted on seeing all important clients himself, although he was deaf.

  He received Littlejohn in a room overlooking the cathedral. Photographs of about a dozen dead bishops and deans on the walls, all in gaiters, and over the mantelpiece a huge portrait of Mr. Marmaduke Fothergill, founder of the firm, dressed in wig and gown. He ought to have worn gaiters, too!

  The solicitor’s desk was littered with frowsy documents, parchments, sheepskins, red tape and seals. The débris was about a foot high and there wasn’t an inch of space to be seen except just in front of the solicitor and covered by a dirty blotter loaded with very inkstained paper.

  Mr. Fothergill himself looked like a high ecclesiastical dignitary. Ascetic sacerdotal face of a beautiful pink complexion; white hair, blue eyes, noble brow. He didn’t know very much about law himself. He was the dignified mouthpiece of the machine which worked in the other rooms of the firm.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Littlejohn.

  Mr. Fothergill made no move. He was writing in cramped fashion deep in the litter of his desk. When he raised his head he seemed quite surprised to see his visitor.

  “Good morning,” he said in a fruity voice. He then unearthed a contraption like a small camera from somewhere among the rubbish, set it down on the top of a pile of ecclesiastical conveyances, with the hole in the end of it pointing in Littlejohn’s direction, and put on a small pair of earphones.

  “Speak in that … I’m deaf.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said very good, sir.”

  There was a religious atmosphere about the chambers, and it seemed almost like brawling in church to shout about the place, but Littlejohn did so until he was hoarse. They must have been able to hear him in the Lady Chapel at the far end of the cathedral.

  Either the appliance was in disrepair or the batteries were exhausted, because Mr. Bartlemy didn’t seem able to get the Inspector’s wavelength at all. It was like a hideous night mare to Littlejohn and at times he felt so impotent that he could have taken to his heels in despair. However, an aged clerk, whose low murmuring seemed exactly what the diabolical contraption wanted, was called to the rescue and he acted as interpreter.

  “You don’t speak loud enough, Inspector,” explained Mr. Fothergill.

  The interview, with repetitions, interruptions, interpretations and elucidations, including the calling-in of the dapper Mr. Tom and the decrepit Mr. Chris for consultation, took over an hour and at the end of it it was unanimously agreed that without Mr. Fothergill’s concurrence the funds of the Cruft estate could not be disturbed. Embezzlement was quite out of the question. The funds were locked-up in gilt-edged registered securities, jointly in the names of Fothergill and Mrs. Spry. It was absurd to think that anybody could get at them without Mr. Bartlemy’s consent. And that consent hadn’t been given. So the funds were quite intact. Q.E.D.

  And would remain so till kingdom come, thought Littlejohn, eagerly extricating himself from the family conference which had developed. Mr. Bartlemy had suddenly remembered that he hadn’t done the current income-tax claim for the Cruft estate, and was roundly upbraiding Mr. Tom and Mr. Christopher for their neglect. The two “young” men were busy shouting apologies into the black box and Mr. Bartlemy was shouting that he couldn’t hear a word and didn’t want to, either.

  “Good morning, and thank you, gentlemen,” said Littlejohn, making for the door.

  Nobody replied except Mr. Bartlemy, who was supposed to be deaf.

  “Good morning to you, Inspector. A great pleasure, I’m sure.”

  As Littlejohn closed the door, Mr. Fothergill senior looked to be giving his unruly nephews a hundred lines apiece.

  At the police station, Glaisher, his feet on the window sill, gave Littlejohn some information about Spry, which he had quickly obtained. It wasn’t of very much importance, except that it disclosed that the man came from Dintling in Worcestershire. He had been a farm bailiff at Ravelstone for about fifteen years and had married Mrs. Cruft about two years after her husband’s death. There was nothing against him at all. Normally, a quiet, civil fellow, he knew his business and ran the farm well.

  Later, Costain confirmed that Spry got on very comfortably with his step-daughter. In fact, they were on the best of terms.

  Spry was still in bed when Littlejohn called at Apple Tree Farm. Laura was out and Mrs. Spry let him in.

  “I can’t think what came over him to do a thing like that,” she said. “He’s been a bit edgy for a little time now. Farming’s a worrying job these days and it’s all bed and work. But I never thought he’d got so bad with his nerves. All this murder business has got him down. He’s very fond of Laura and the gossip and what-not have been disgusting.”

  She wept a little. She wanted somebody to confide in, and seemed comf
orted by telling Littlejohn about it.

  Spry was fit to be seen and very sheepish.

  “I don’t know what come over me,” he said. “Must have gone temporary insane. One minute I was crossin’ the yard; next I was swingin’ from the rope. Brain must ’ave give way.”

  The bedclothes were up to his chin and his large hands clutched the sheets firmly. He hadn’t had a shave for two days and looked wild and haggard.

  The room was large and airy. Plain furniture, good carpet on the floor, and old-fashioned pictures and framed biblical texts on the walls. Over the fireplace a large portrait of what must have been Mr. Cruft. His eyes had almost faded out, but he had a plentiful growth of whiskers which had survived so far. How Spry could stand the cold, eyeless gaze of his predecessor all through the night and when he got up in the morning, Littlejohn couldn’t imagine! It would certainly have got on his nerves. Still, some people have nerves for one thing and some for another.

  “You’d been worrying about Laura?”

  Spry’s shifty eyes roved anywhere but straight.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure that was all? Nothing else upsetting you? Because if there is, Mr. Spry, let me know.”

  “There’s nothing else. Why should there be?”

  “I’m not saying there is, but I just asked in case.”

  “Well, there isn’t. An’ I don’t feel well enough to answer a lot of questions. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “What do you mean … trouble?”

  “Well, I suppose there’ll be a court case about this attempted suicide. Laura says it’s a criminal offence. I don’t know. What am I goin’ to do? It’ll drive me off my head … I’ll make a proper job of it next time … See if I don’t.”

  Mrs. Spry started weeping. A proper emotional scene.

  “Don’t say that, David. Don’t, please. I can’t stand it, if you do. You promised me you wouldn’t.”

  “Well, they shouldn’t keep botherin’ me. What have I done to be bothered? One thing and another, I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.”

  He started weeping himself, a noisy, dry howling which shook the bed and convulsed his face frightfully.

  “There, there …”

  Mrs. Spry dried her own tears and started comforting her husband. That seemed to be what he wanted. He calmed down, but didn’t take any further heed of Littlejohn. The Inspector followed Mrs. Spry downstairs.

  “You see, he’s not himself at all. He’ll have to go away for a holiday after this.”

  “Yes. He seems very upset about something. Do you know what it is, Mrs. Spry?”

  “Didn’t he say? He’s very fond of Laura and all this business has been a big trouble to him. He’s brooded over it.”

  “Was he indoors at the time of the crime, Mrs. Spry?”

  The woman’s jaw fell and her eyes flashed.

  “You don’t think …?”

  “Of course not. I’m checking times everywhere. He might have been out and able to give me some useful information.”

  “He wasn’t indoors, that’s certain. He always goes out just before bedtime to see that all’s locked up and the stock safe and comfortable for the night. About nine o’clock he does his rounds. He’d be out then when the murder was committed. But he’d nothing to do with it. You don’t think that?”

  “No, no. Thank you for the information. I must have another word with your husband when he’s more able to talk. Sorry I’ve caused such a commotion, but it had to be done.”

  Littlejohn didn’t feel very contrite. He was sure that Spry had kicked up more fuss than was necessary in order to avoid close questions.

  Outside, Dr. Gell’s two-seater drew in the yard. He was calling to see his patient. Littlejohn thought he had better be going.

  “Put your husband’s mind at rest about court proceedings. The doctor will probably be able to help … Nerves worn out, you know, or something such. Hullo, doctor, I’m just telling Mrs. Spry that you’ll no doubt be able to smooth things over if any proceedings crop up in connection with her husband’s recent affair.”

  “Hullo, Inspector. You here? He oughtn’t to be bothered much yet. Yes, I’ll probably be able to smooth things over. He’s been off with his nerves before and he’s certainly been in very poor shape lately.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t know properly what he was doing,” said Mrs. Spry. “He wouldn’t have done it right where the farm hands were coming and going if he’d had his wits about him, would he?”

  “No. It seemed to be just an impulse … A sort of brain-storm, I should think … Overwrought, you know. Well, I must be going. Goodbye, Mrs. Spry, and thank you. Good day, doctor.”

  Littlejohn met Laura coming up the garden path. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “You all right, Miss Cruft? You look all-in.”

  “I’m all right, Inspector, thanks. It’s daddy … It’s upset me awfully.”

  Littlejohn said no more, but went on his way. All the same, he wondered if her tale were true.

  15.

  THE STRICKEN COUPLE

  “I saw the strong man bowed down and his knees to fail.”

  CHARLES LAMB

  WILLIAM FREE pushed away his plate with most of its contents untouched, walked to the window and, thrusting aside the lace curtains, stared at the road without seeing anything.

  It was as though he were expecting Ronald to come home.

  His wife, making a show of eating something, watched him out of the corner of her eye. Then she, too, left her food and sat with her hands in her lap, saying nothing.

  Thus Littlejohn found them. The bottom knocked out of their lives and everything in ruins.

  They did their best to make him welcome and invited him to a cup of tea from the pot on the hob.

  Littlejohn hardly knew how to begin. He looked at the unfinished meal, the haggard, hopeless faces of the stricken Frees and felt his gorge rise. If only he could lay his hands on the swine who …

  There was a good fire burning, casting a mellow light on the old-fashioned mahogany sideboard, dining-table and chairs. The brasses and pot dogs shone on the mantelpiece. On the hearthrug a little tabby cat industriously licked her paws and washed behind her ears. Littlejohn watched her. Her busy, detached air gave relief to the tension of the rest of the place. She rose, arched her back, purred and pranced round the Inspector’s trousers, rubbing herself against them with great satisfaction.

  Old Free’s eyes were bloodshot and dark-ringed from lack of sleep. He had nothing at all to say for himself. His only comfort was in work. He excused himself.

  “I’ve to finish a job for to-night,” he said. “I’ll be gettin’ on … Nothin’ I can tell you …”

  He stumbled out of the room and soon could be heard rummaging among his stock of timber and using a saw.

  Littlejohn felt embarrassed. It was like rubbing salt into a raw wound. But it had to be done.

  Relief arrived from an unexpected quarter. There was a tap on the door and a tall, straight-backed, scraggy woman entered without waiting to be admitted. Her eyelids were inflamed and she kept blinking and twitching her face as though they annoyed her.

  “I called to see if I could get you anythin’, Anne. I’m on my way to Melchester …”

  She looked Littlejohn up and down searchingly and boldly, as though challenging his right to be there at all. She wore a long, shabby brown coat and a hat like a pancake fixed on a skullcap. In her large, bony hands she gripped a shopping basket tightly, as though expecting it to be snatched.

  “My cousin Sarah … This is Mr. Littlejohn from the police.”

  Sarah drew up a chair and joined the conference without waiting for an invitation. She seemed used to doing as she liked about the place. There was a lull in the conversation. Everyone seemed to be waiting for somebody else to start the ball rolling.

  Littlejohn slowly filled his pipe, lit it, crossed his legs and stared gloomily into the fire. An atmosphere
of dejection filled the room. Mrs. Free sat motionless, her hands in her lap, waiting for the Inspector to talk about his business.

  There was an old-fashioned, small case-clock on the mantelpiece, with a painted dial and a steel pendulum showing beneath it through the glass door.

  Ti-tock, ti-tock, ti-tock … As though some part of the works were out of balance and ready to stop at any moment.

  “I seem to have interrupted the conversation … If I’m in the way I’ll be off …”

  Sarah was getting peevish. Unable to tear herself away out of sheer curiosity, yet getting jumpy because things were hanging fire.

  “No, don’t go. Sarah’s all right, Mr. Littlejohn. You can talk in front of her. She’s one of the family.”

  Sarah nodded her head vigorously and tightened her lips, defying anybody to prove it otherwise.

  “I just wondered, Mrs. Free, if you’d any idea as to why anyone should want to kill your son.”

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes again and she shook her head helplessly, unable to speak.

  “Why should anybody want to murder Ronnie?” said Sarah. “He was a good boy. Everybody liked him.”

  “But someone must have hated him or what he had done so much, that …”

  “I can’t see a single person hating Ronald.”

  “Was he all right, Mrs. Free, when he left home to meet Miss Cruft?”

  “Yes. He seemed very happy. Things were going well between him and Laura.”

  “Hadn’t they always gone well?”

  Mrs. Free hesitated.

  Ti-tock. Ti-tock. Ti-tock.

  Sarah bent closer across the table, intent on not missing a word.

  “His father and me didn’t like it. We thought she wasn’t the girl for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Well … She’d had a few before and thrown them over. Never seemed to be able to make up her mind proper. We didn’t want Ronnie always like a cat on hot bricks wondering … wondering if he was going to be the next to be thrown over. He’d his career and needed all his wits to make his way. Besides …”