Outrage on Gallows Hill

by George Bellairs

  “And is likely to have some more if she doesn’t tell us the truth. Now, Miss Fairfield, why did you tell us you were with Hunter all the time, when you know Mr. Shortt met you and saw you home about half past nine? I know you asked him not to say he’d seen you.”

  The pretty girl’s mouth fell open and her cheeks turned white.

  “He promised …”

  “I know. I had to force it out of him and even then only because he thought you’d suffer if he didn’t tell me.”

  No use spoiling Shortt’s chances with the girl. He was having enough heavy weather as it was!

  “I know Hunter asked you to say you’d been with him all the time. When did he ask you to say that? The morning after the murder?”

  Jessie Fairfield tried to speak and then fell in a dead faint.

  “Now look what you’ve done … You great bullies, you police. Why can’t you …?”

  “Get some water and smelling salts and don’t talk so much, Mrs. Fairfield.”

  The girl was not long in recovering.

  “Don’t tell Johnny I told you.”

  She was hardly conscious before she was pleading for the man who didn’t care a rap for her and had only used her to cover his own purposes.

  There was no time to waste and Littlejohn left Mrs. Fairfield looking after her daughter. He found Costain putting a ragged queue of women in order in front of the grocer’s shop. They didn’t know what they were queueing for, but somebody had started it and the epidemic had spread.

  “Hunter’s been in and about the village for about twelve years or so. A bit of a queer lad. Doesn’t seem to ’ave any kith or kin,” replied Costain in answer to the Inspector’s enquiry.

  “How did he land here? Someone adopt him? Must have been quite a youngster when he first arrived.”

  “Yes. About twelve I’d say when he came. Funny business. Somebody wanted him to get edicated at Melchester School. Quite a good school. Public school, you know, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “He was a day boy, boarding in the village. Queer arrangement. Lodged with Mrs. Naysmith, a widow woman, till she died and then went in rooms with Mrs. Shore, where he still is.”

  “Anything known of his parents?”

  “Not a thing, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t a sort o’ nacheral son of one of the local gentry. There’s a lot o’ people hereabouts thinks the same. But the secret’s bin well kept. Such things always are where the nobs are concerned, aren’t they, sir?”

  “I daresay they are. Where can we find Hunter now, Costain?”

  “Better let’s try Mrs. Shore’s first. She’ll probably know, if he’s not in.”

  Mrs. Shore was an elderly, busy woman with a chronic passion for tidiness. She was wiry and harassed and notorious for her avarice. She thought the world of Hunter and local gossips said she would leave him a nice little pile when she died.

  The police officers found her polishing and cleaning the living room of her cottage, with her petticoats tucked up and a cloth around her hair. She was famous for quarrelling and wrangling with neighbours or anyone else she could lay her tongue to, so Costain pushed Littlejohn into the room first.

  “What do you two want? And don’t come tramping all over my clean rooms in your great boots.”

  Littlejohn asked if Hunter was in.

  “No. Anybody can see I’m alone.”

  “Can you tell us where he’s gone? Melchester?”

  “How should I know? I’m not his wet-nurse. Old enough to look after himself. And don’t you take up my time. I’ve some jam on and somebody’s for it if I spoil it.”

  Littlejohn pursued his course with patience.

  “Have you any idea where he is, Mrs. Shore?”

  The woman was on her knees. She squatted back on her heels, put her hands on her hips and looked Littlejohn in the face.

  “Some people is persistent … I think he’s gone to see how David Spry’s gettin’ on. Will that satisfy you? I’ve only told you to get rid of you, so you’d better be off. Can’t keep me mind on the jam, me housework and the questions of interferin’ policemen. As if I hadn’t enough to do.”

  Littlejohn and Costain were already down the garden path.

  On the way to Apple Tree farm they saw Jessie Fairfield coming towards them.

  “She’s soon out and about,” said Costain, puffing from his hurrying.

  The girl, seeing them, cut into a lane behind the houses in the main street and vanished.

  “What’s she up to?”

  “Looks as if she’s been hunting for Hunter to warn him that we have broken his alibi. Let’s hurry.”

  Mrs. Spry answered the door. She was as white as a sheet. Laura was in the dark passage leading indoors.

  “Is Johnny Hunter here, Mrs. Spry?”

  The woman hesitated.

  “No …”

  Laura remained in the background quiet and still, waiting for developments.

  “Has he been here?”

  “Er …”

  “He has. Please stand aside.”

  Followed by Costain, who looked sheepish about the whole business, Littlejohn entered the place. Laura faced them in the hall.

  “He’s not here. Don’t you believe my mother?”

  Littlejohn thought he detected a faint smile of triumph. She had no colour in her cheeks and there were small beads of sweat on her upper lip. Something or someone had been imposing a strain on the two women.

  There was nobody in the downstairs rooms. Upstairs, all was quiet. Littlejohn entered Spry’s bedroom. The grim, bewhiskered face of the late Cruft glared from its frame at him with faded eyes.

  The bed was empty.

  Mrs. Spry had followed close on Littlejohn’s heels.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “I don’t know.”

  This time the surprise was genuine. She looked frankly bewildered.

  The casement was open and Spry had knotted two sheets from his bed and let himself out that way.

  “Have you a car, Mrs. Spry?”

  “Yes. In a garage by the cowshed there.”

  “Has Miss Fairfield been here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She was after Johnny Hunter.”

  “And found him here?”

  “Yes. He’d come enquiring after Mr. Spry.”

  “What did she say to him?”

  “I don’t know. They were alone in the hall for a minute or two.”

  “I see. What did Hunter say to your husband whilst he was here.”

  “That I don’t know either. I left them alone together in the bedroom.”

  “Were they friends?”

  “Oh yes. Got on very well. Johnny used to come here after Laura at one time. Father liked him and did all he could to keep them together. Nothing would have made him happier than to see them married.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, except they took a fancy to one another.”

  “The car’s gone, sir,” gasped Costain, returning from inspecting the garage.

  “Then they’ve bolted for some reason.”

  “Had I better …?”

  “No, Costain. You stay here and keep a close eye on things. Watch the buildings and house. I’m off to telephone Melchester and get the roads watched. I’ll be back.”

  Littlejohn hurried away and gave the necessary instructions, passing on a description of the two missing men and the car. Then followed two barren hours until the Inspector was called to the police-station telephone again.

  This time it was Cromwell speaking from Tewkesbury police station.

  As usual, that excellent officer had a long tale to tell and it was full of surprises.

  18.

  THE PESTLE AND MORTAR

  “The country very fine … I did drink four pints.”

  SAMUEL PEPYS

  EVER since the railway reached Tewkesbury there had been one or another Lovitt plying a vehicle between
there and Dintling. Seth Lovitt had started it with a farm lorry with ordinary kitchen chairs screwed on it to accommodate venturesome passengers. And now his great, great grandson, Simon, ran a sumptuous limousine, bought on the hire purchase and nearly paid for.

  Simon had a fearful squint which made you wonder how he managed to keep to the left with his eye continually roving to the right, and no top teeth in front, which gave him the look of a fanged beast of prey prepared to stop his vehicle in a quiet part, cut your throat and make off with all your possessions.

  Cromwell was directed to the Lovitt tumbril, which was standing proudly in the station-yard, with Simon, duster in hand, breathing on the shining bonnet and polishing off all the blemishes which weren’t there.

  Simon fancied himself a bit, in spite of his lack of natural graces. He rushed to the door of the car, opened it with a flourish and bowed Cromwell in. The sergeant eyed Simon apprehensively. Simon eyed Cromwell, too, but Cromwell couldn’t be expected to know that, for the squint eyes were looking in all directions as though furiously seeking fares.

  Two more passengers arrived. An old man in his Sunday best who had been to a funeral and told Simon all about the burying and the meal that followed it before he got in. The other was a fat woman with a shopping basket who had missed the only market ’bus home and wrangled about the price with Simon for a long time before deciding to patronise him. She tried to beat him down to the ’bus fare level, claiming to have nursed Simon’s sister through the measles once, by way of argument, which Simon rebutted by explaining that the relative in question had been dead for twelve years come Valentine’s Day and didn’t enter into it.

  When the woman sat down beside Cromwell in the back seat, the whole contrivance developed a list, so that Cromwell was pleased to offer his place to the gaffer in exchange for the bucket seat which had been let down to accommodate the old ’un. The latter thereupon leaned heavily on the fat woman whose pillowy folds seemed to add great comfort to his journey.

  “Just been to a funeral,” began the old fellow, addressing Cromwell, perhaps by way of a quid pro quo for the seat. “Old friend o’ mine. Eighty five he was … Now how old ’ud you think I was?”

  “Eighty five,” said Cromwell.

  “Now ’ow did you know that?”

  The gaffer was peeved. It was the custom in Dintling to tell him he didn’t look a day older than sixty. And yet, here was a total stranger … It bothered the old man.

  “I seen ’em all off. Twelve of us went to village school together and all started work before ten years old. This one we buried to-day was the last of ’em. Now there’s only me left … Seen ’em all off …”

  So it went on and on all the way to Dintling. Cromwell tried yawning very obviously to show he wasn’t interested, but this only stimulated the old man to greater garrulity, just like a comedian who finds he isn’t going down with the audience and begins to strain every nerve to give them all he’s got for the sake of applause at the curtain.

  The gaffer retailed all the history of Dintling and his contemporaries fifty or more years ago. Cromwell thought that somewhere in the narrative the name Spry might crop up and give him an opening for getting the information he was after, but it was no good.

  At length they cruised triumphantly into Dintling.

  They had passed a mansion on the outskirts. Almost like a French chateau and Dintling seemed like a feudal appendage. A few rows of whitewashed cottages clustered around a long, narrow village green; a general stores; a pub; a smithy; a butcher’s shop. Little more besides. As the taxi passed wayfarers within a radius of two miles of Dintling hands were waved and when they sailed into the centre, groups of people in front of the inn and the two shops almost raised a cheer. Especially when they saw the old man. A regular royal procession.

  “Enjoyed the ride, Mr. Spry?” said Simon Lovitt, baring his gums cheerfully.

  Spry!

  Cromwell jumped out of his seat.

  The old man was turning round and round like a dog going to bed finding the easiest way to manœuvre his ancient bones out of the taxi.

  “Let me give you a hand, sir,” briskly offered Cromwell.

  But a dozen willing hands were already stretched out for that purpose. A fat woman in a beret and knitted jumper suit detached herself from the group, buried her face in the old ’un’s frothy beard and then patted his shoulder affectionately.

  “Had a good trip, dad?”

  The huge remaining passenger eased herself laboriously from the cab, almost smothering Cromwell in the effort, and disappeared nearly unnoticed in the mob.

  “Yes, I done fine. We buried ’un proper. Meat tea there was, too.”

  Old man Spry was well launched into his tale, greatly to the relish of the listeners. One of them took his little oblong rush basket of belongings and another the large bunch of garden blooms with which they had evidently sent him off at the other end. Cromwell couldn’t get near him.

  “Seven-and-sixpence, sir, please, and I hope you’re satisfied.”

  Simon smiled toothlessly and extended a large, grubby palm for his fare. Cromwell gave him ten shillings.

  “Have a drink with the change.”

  “Much obliged I’m sure, mister.”

  “The old gentleman seems very welcome.”

  “Oh, ah. All the village be proper relieved to see him back. Too old to travel, he is, but go he would. All the way to Worcester! We all bin very anxious about ’im goin’ so far afield at ’is age. Proper rambler, he is. One day he’ll overdo it and they’ll bring ’im ’ome feet first. Yew mark my words.”

  “Did I hear you call him Mr. Spry?”

  “Aye, you did. Gabriel Spry.”

  “I knew a Spry once. I think he came from these parts.”

  “Oh, ah. What might his first name ’a been?”

  “David. Any relation of the old man’s?”

  “David, did you say! Better ask Ole Gabriel if he’s a relation. He’ll have a stroke!”

  “Why?”

  “He ain’t no relation. Lots o’ that name in these parts. But Gabriel’s proper proud o’ the family name and if the David you mean’s the one I’m thinkin’ on, he ain’t done the family much credit, relation or no relation.”

  “He always seemed a decent fellow to me.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? Well, here he wasn’t thought much a pound. Dark horse and full o’ craftiness. So unpopular, he found it best to leave for other parts. Got a girl in trouble and wouldn’t do the right thing by her. That’s your Mr. David Spry.”

  Simon glared at Cromwell as much as his squint eyes would allow. It was a fearful contortion and made the sergeant feel like taking to his heels. But he stuck to his guns.

  “Is the girl still alive?”

  “Nope. Died when the babby was born.”

  “What happened to the child, then?”

  “Inquisitive, ain’t you, mister? Well, if you must know, Spry’s maiden aunt adopted him. Later sent ’im away to school and we ain’t heard of ’im since.”

  “Is the aunt still here?”

  Lovitt sighed heavily, and gave Cromwell a weary look.

  “Yes. Lives in the first cottage across the green there. Fine woman, Miss Amelia Spry is, although a secret sort and keeps a bit to herself. None the worse for that, though. Well, I must be off. Takin’ a party to the theeayter in Tewkesbury to-night and got a lot to do before that.”

  The deputation of welcome having safely established the aged traveller in his own cottage, broke up and some of them retired to the inn. The latter had at one time been an apothecary’s house and bore the queer title of The Pestle and Mortar.

  At first the company thought Cromwell a traveller for religious literature and gave him a wide berth, but when he ordered a pint of best Tewkesbury mild they changed their minds and became a bit more sociable. He had to stand drinks round, however, to thaw the ice properly. This Cromwell did, lovingly fingering the bit of paper in his jacket pocket which contained
his out-of-pockets for the trip and whose figures would, in course of time, be transferred to an official expenses sheet.

  Cromwell adopted with the company at The Pestle and Mortar the same tactics he had used with Simon Lovitt. He led the conversation with bland innocence from Old Gabriel Spry to David of the same surname. The regulars did not show the reticence of Simon, probably because of the lubricant administered by the stranger.

  One fellow with a hacking cough was particularly talkative. He was small, sandy moustached, and had a face set in bileous folds. He coughed as he talked. Sometimes speech won; sometimes the cough. In the latter event, he stopped and gasped for air like a fish on dry land. His name was Wigglesworth and he was the village baker. He asked Cromwell to excuse his affliction, due to flour getting in his “chubes.”

  “Years since I saw Davie Spry,” said the baker. “One ’ud think he’d come to see his aunt now and agen, her havin’ all that money and precious few to leave it to.”

  The “chubes” began to bother him and he had to pause.

  “But he seems scared of showin’ his face here. Though local folk have forgiven and forgotten his dark past. Compared with some of the goings-on in the camps hereabouts, David Spry was an angel.”

  The assembly solemnly concurred and having drunk-up to a man, looked sadly at their empty pots. Cromwell thought it best to order more drinks round.

  That warmed them up. They went into David Spry and his affairs like billy-o.

  The public enquiry took nearly an hour, during which time they stood one another drinks until they lost count of whose turn it was next and Cromwell forgot how much his expenses sheet owed him for his share.

  By dividing Mr. Wigglesworth’s articulation from his cough and translating the strange speech of a very loquatious man with a cleft palate, Cromwell sifted enough information to be going on with.

  David Spry had been, in his young days, engaged to a girl in the village with whom he was very much in love. Another girl of the place had also been mad for him and chased him everywhere. Eventually it came out that the latter one was going to have a child and Spry was the father. This piece of information caused a long discussion about women and their ways, and Cromwell had his work cut out to steer the conversation back into channels which would be useful to him.