Spry didn’t marry the wronged one. He didn’t want her. He still loved his fiancée, who turned him down, quite naturally, and told him to make an honest woman of the other. Instead, Spry left the village.
When the child was born, Spry’s aunt interested herself in him and his mother, who died shortly after the event. Miss Spry adopted the boy, who eventually left Dintling to go to school and college.
“Where did he go to, do you know?” asked Cromwell.
The man with the cleft palate couldn’t get his tongue round the name of the place, but the one with the bad cough managed to get it out between paroxysms.
“Melchester, I think it was.”
Cromwell’s lips grew pursed in a noiseless whistle.
“What was his name?”
“His mother was Clara Hunter. They called him John.”
“John Hunter, eh?”
“Yes.”
“David Spry’s son?”
“Yes, we said so, didn’t we? Wrong side o’ the blanket, of course.”
“Does he ever visit his aunt?”
“Has been known to.”
“Does he know his father?”
“Not that we’d know. Jim Pearson, Miss Spry’s gardener, told me only the other week the old girl’s as close as a clam about the affair. She thinks a lot about David, still. And from what we hear, he’s married and done well for himself. Not likely she’d spoil it all for him by lettin’ it be known there was a scandal.”
It was the landlord who had taken up the tale. A huge fellow with an enormous paunch which hung between his knees when he sat down. He liked a good gossip and once started occupied the floor until he was exhausted.
It was a lovely evening outside. Warm and mellow and thirst provoking. Habituals began to drift in and the company broke up, one and another joining fresh groups of friends to discuss the day’s events. They hadn’t got over the spring frosts which had destroyed so much blossom and nearly ruined the local fruit growers. Sooner or later, the topic entered every conversation. One man, half drunk, was trying to put the blame on the government, and another, also half seas over, blamed the rockets and other high explosives.
Cromwell thought it time to telephone Littlejohn and tell him his news. There was a red kiosk opposite the inn door and he was just making for it when there was a mild commotion.
The man with the impediment in his voice had been watching an old car pass the window and by noises and gestures indicated that something unusual was going on. The victim of the cough seemed to understand his pal’s every word and gesture.
“That car’s stopped at Miss Spry’s house along the green there, and that looks like young John Hunter gettin’ out in a hurry,” he managed to get out before his “chubes” revolted and set him quaking again.
Cromwell thought it high time to get in touch with his chief.
He looked grim when he emerged from the red telephone box.
The old car was still standing in front of Miss Spry’s villa when Cromwell arrived there.
It looked like being awkward, for Cromwell had no warrant for Hunter’s arrest and, as yet, the case wasn’t cut and dried at Ravelstone. Littlejohn merely wanted Hunter for further questioning.
Cromwell’s problem was quickly solved, however. As he approached the front door, it was thrown open and young Hunter and his aunt appeared. The old lady was as straight as a ramrod, stern, dark and with a keen eye which fixed itself on Cromwell.
“Are you from the police?” she said without more ado.
“Yes, madam.”
“Then your arrival is timely. John has been telling me you want him in connection with a murder at Ravelstone.”
“That is so.”
“Don’t interrupt. He assures me he did not commit the crime, and I believe him. I have advised him to return and face the police and clear himself. You can accompany him there.”
There seemed no gainsaying the imperious old lady. It was like a royal command. So Hunter turned the car round and he and Cromwell set off back to Ravelstone.
19.
WHAT HAPPENED TO SPRY?
“Fiendish faces, with the extinguished taper, will come and look at me.”
CHARLES LAMB
“IT’S no use, Mrs. Spry. You’ve got to tell me where your husband is.”
Littlejohn had returned from his telephoning with Cromwell and was sitting in the kitchen of Apple Tree Farm. He had been there almost an hour, saying little, smoking heavily and waiting imperturbably for the arrival of his assistant with Johnny Hunter.
Outside all was still. The last light of evening was fading and silhouetted against the red remnant of sunset, the tall, thin form of Costain, guarding the outbuildings and rick-yard. He had been there four hours, patience made alive.
Laura Cruft and her mother were sitting one on each side of the fireplace. They had little to say. There wasn’t much to talk about.
Mrs. Spry had lost all her energy. Eyes lifeless, cheeks as pale as death, she was waiting for the return of the runaway Hunter in fear and trembling. Laura looked strangely excited and now and then went to the window to watch the road, as though eager for the sight of her one-time lover.
“I tell you I don’t know where my husband is, Inspector. Why keep asking me? I thought he’d gone with Hunter.”
“Why should he go with Hunter?”
“I don’t know, except that they may have made it up together when they were talking just before they both disappeared.”
A car drew up outside and there was a knock at the door. Eagerly Laura ran to answer it, but returned with a long face. It was only Superintendent Glaisher, calling, as requested, to assist. He took off his hat, greeted the party and, sitting in a chair before the fire, looked for some ledge or projection on which to rest his large feet. Eventually he brought them down on the hob to the right of the fire, almost dislodging a small caserole standing there keeping warm its contents.
Littlejohn’s eye fell on the brown dish.
“Don’t let me keep you from your meal,” he said.
“We had it before you came.”
“Well, don’t let me prevent you giving Mr. Spry his.”
It fell like a bombshell!
Mrs. Spry started and her pale face turned ashen.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say. You’ve hidden your husband about the place somewhere. The sooner you bring him out the better. He can’t get away. Superintendent Glaisher has just posted half a dozen men round the farm. Nobody can come or go without permission.”
Mrs. Spry’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.
They stayed there and continued twiddling their thumbs until at length Hunter and Cromwell arrived.
The newcomers blinked as they entered the well-lit room.
Laura rose and her feet seemed hardly to touch the floor as she sped to the door and straight into Hunter’s arms.
“Oh, Johnny!”
“Laura, my dear, my dear.”
They made no effort to conceal their feelings and then turned defiantly on Littlejohn as though challenging him to do his damndest. “Well, Hunter?” said Littlejohn.
The Inspector was very grim and his eyes had lost the laughter which was usually lurking somewhere there.
“Well? What do you want with me? I didn’t kill Free and you can’t prove I did.”
Glaisher seized the poker, moved a log of wood which seemed to be causing him some inconvenience and then readjusted his legs and feet on the hob with a sigh of content.
“Where were you when the crime was committed, Hunter?”
“How many more times have I to tell you …? I was with Jessie Fairfield in Lovers’ Lane.”
“Not a very constant sort of lover, are you? Can’t you make up your mind which of the girls you want?”
“No business of yours.”
“Very much my business. You left Miss Fairfield some time before Free was murdered. She came home alone and met another escort just as
she got to the village centre. Now, come along. I want the truth. I haven’t all night to waste.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“Then I’ll tell you. You’ve always been in love with Miss Cruft here, but you had a tiff or something and took up with another of the village girls for spite. And you treated her damned badly.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes, you do. And Free had been hanging around Miss Cruft very much of late, and she, in pique or despair, promised to marry him.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, Miss Cruft, perhaps you didn’t intend to go through with it if Johnny was shaken sufficiently to come back to you. But meanwhile something tragic happened.”
“Johnny didn’t do it!”
“Nobody’s saying he did, Miss Cruft. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if when he left Miss Fairfield on that fatal night, he hadn’t made up his mind to come straight here and ask you to forgive and forget … Am I right, Hunter?”
“Yes … Laura knows that’s true. I told her before I cleared out to Tewkesbury. We still loved each other and couldn’t go on as we were. But when I got down here, I found her and Free sweethearting in the garden. At first I felt like interfering and beating up the little swine.… Then I decided to take a walk round, let him get out of the way, and then see Laura. When I got back, they were carrying Free’s body down the road. He’d been killed. I cleared off. I suddenly realised that if it were known that I was anywhere about at the time, I’d be for it. Everybody knew Free and I were daggers drawn about Laura.”
“So you went off and asked Miss Fairfield to give you an alibi.”
“Yes. God help me, I did. It was a lousy trick, but the best I could think of at the time.”
“I see. How long have you known Mr. Spry was your father?”
It ought to have dropped like a bombshell, but it didn’t. Only Mrs. Spry looked terrified, as though sensing the trend of the conversation.
“What are you talking about?”
“Come, come, Sergeant Cromwell has learned all about you and passed on the news by telephone.”
Cromwell, who had been quietly sitting by the door, smoking and listening to the conversation, grunted and resumed his puffing at a pipe exactly like Littlejohn’s own. He had become an enthusiastic pipe addict and even went to the extent of copying Littlejohn in choice of tobacco.
“Since the night after Free was buried, if you must know. My father seemed overwrought, told me who I was and that he wanted me to marry Laura now Free was out of the way. He must have seen how things were between the two of us and tried to do the best he could.”
“No, I’m afraid there was more than that to it.”
Mrs. Spry uttered a shrill wail, buried her face in her hands and sobbed convulsively.
“It’s no use, Mrs. Spry,” said Littlejohn. “Superintendent Glaisher here has been all afternoon at the bank and has discovered that between you, you and Mr. Spry have disposed of the bulk of Laura’s fortune.”
Glaisher nodded and continued meditating on the ends of his large boots.
Mrs. Spry sobbed more than ever.
“We didn’t … I … I …”
“Yes, you did. Old Fothergill and his partners aren’t so bright as they should be. You’ve been forging Fothergill’s signature on cheques on the trust account over the past four years. They were put before him this afternoon and he repudiates the signatures. What have you done with the money?”
“We sunk it in the farm … It wasn’t paying. We intended to put it all right. But somehow …”
Laura was at her mother’s side, trying to comfort her.
“It’s all right. Johnny and I won’t mind. Will we Johnny?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s what Mr. and Mrs. Spry hoped, Hunter. They knew that if Laura married Free, it wouldn’t come so easy. In fact, he might have been in a mood for landing them both in gaol.”
“But I wouldn’t have allowed that!”
“That’s as maybe, Miss Cruft, but they couldn’t risk it. Johnny was Spry’s son. It would have been easier with him when the whole sorry business came out, but with an outsider, things might have turned very nasty.”
Laura was still patting her mother’s shoulder gently.
“We won’t go on with it … It’ll be all right, mother.”
Littlejohn turned to her.
“That’s nothing to do with me, Miss Cruft. I’m after Free’s murderer. Where is Mr. Spry?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
The Inspector walked to the door.
“You there, Costain?”
“Yessir.”
“Anything doing?”
“Not a thing.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“Spry was out in the yard when he overheard Free propose to Laura and realised when she accepted him that the game was up. In desperation, he strangled Free.”
“It’s not true,” moaned Mrs. Spry. “He wouldn’t have done such a thing. He’s not a bad man.”
“All the same, he’s going to have a job keeping the noose from his neck this time.”
“You’ve not got him yet.”
It was Hunter who spoke. He snarled it and leered in triumph at Littlejohn.
“We soon will, though. He’s hidden somewhere hereabouts and can’t get away.”
Suddenly there were confused shouts outside. From the rickyard could be heard the tramping of heavy boots and voices crying to each other. Then a dull red glow, which expanded like a huge firework into a mass of flames.
“The rickyard’s on fire!”
Mrs. Spry was on her feet and out of doors before anyone realised what she was doing. The police officers were quickly on her heels and Hunter panted along with them.
The whole place was lit up by the flames. In the village confused shouts told that the blaze had been spotted and you could hear the firemen clanking around with their equipment in the N.F.S. sub-station. It took them a long time to get under way. They had been holding a hot-pot supper at The Bird in Hand and weren’t in the best of form. The fire chief could be heard swearing at them and urging them on.
Before Littlejohn and Glaisher reached the spot the fox had broken cover. There was a commotion in a partly cut haystack and Spry emerged, unshaven, haggard and almost mad with panic.
“Fire!” he panted. “Fire!”
Glaisher turned on the headlamps of his car and illuminated the scene. Costain threw a few buckets of water over the heap of hay he had ignited and the fire was over.
“I thought we’d smoke you out when I gave Costain the signal,” said Littlejohn.
“You might have set the whole place alight, you silly devils,” growled Hunter.
“I gave you a chance to tell us where he was. The bonfire department was in the able hands of Costain. There was no risk.”
They hustled Spry indoors and the kitchen again became the centre of the stage.
“I didn’t do it,” whined Spry, quite at the end of his tether.
“Who did, then?”
“I don’t know, but I didn’t.”
“Oh yes, you do know. It was your precious son, Hunter, and you thought if you hid and pretended you’d bolted you’d draw us off the scent until he could get far enough away. But you forgot one thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll tell you, then. You wanted your son to marry Laura, sure enough. You’d been robbing her of trust moneys and hoped if she didn’t marry a stranger you’d be able to put things right. But you hadn’t the guts to kill anybody. You couldn’t even hang yourself properly when things got too much for you. It needed a more resolute man for the job, and Hunter was the man. He was mad about Laura … I think his tale was true about leaving Jessie Fairfield and coming to make it up with Miss Cruft, but he chanced upon her just as she was in Free’s arms and talking marriage arrangements. That did it.… He
killed Free.”
“All damned nonsense and you can’t prove a word of it,” yelled Hunter, full of confidence in himself.
“You prefer to let your own father stand trial, eh?”
“You’ve got nothing on him.”
“Quite right. We know it was you who did it.”
“You don’t know a thing about anything as far as I can see. You’re just trying to pin it on somebody or other to save your face.”
“You admit you left Miss Fairfield some time before the crime?”
“I said so, didn’t I? I said Free was alive and talking to Laura when I passed this place. I stick to what I said.”
“You didn’t happen to pass Costain, did you?”
Hunter’s eyes opened wide. There was a look of alarm in them.
“You may well look upset, Hunter. If you were here before Costain, and you were if your tale’s correct, how did you know about the poaching episode? I’ll tell you. You attacked Butt and got the information from the report he was carrying. You thought that document contained something incriminating you and you just had to have it … Instead, you found a tale about some stolen game. You hadn’t the sense to keep your mouth shut, however, but told me of the episode. Now … John Hunter, I arrest you …”
“Stop! All of you. I’ll drill a hole in the first to move.”
“Put that thing down … You haven’t a chance, Hunter.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Costain, his fire-quenching finished, was standing quietly in the doorway and before anyone else could make a move, launched himself at Hunter. There was a report and the constable crumpled and sank to the floor.
Glaisher and Littlejohn were on Hunter in a trice and a free-for-all scuffle occurred. There was another report. This time it was Hunter. He had shot himself in the stomach in almost the same place as Costain.
Suddenly, in the doorway appeared a huge form in a serge suit and bowler hat.
“Wot’s goin’ on ’ere?”
It was P.C. Butt, all hot and bothered, back from the seaside. In one hand he held an enormous fibre suit-case and in the other a bunch of flowers and a hare. Over his shoulder peeped his astonished, kindly, horse-faced missus. They had missed their train home and had had to walk all the way from Melchester with their bag and baggage.
Outrage on Gallows Hill Page 17