The senior Miss Speakman was portly, old-fashioned and good-humoured, and watching her as she sat before the fire, holding up her skirts to warm her calves and stroking the large black cat which had jumped in her lap, Cromwell thought how mellow she looked. Their conversation was disturbed by a telephone call concerning tomorrow’s business, and meanwhile, her place was nervously taken by her younger sister who would never see sixty again. Very thin and very jumpy, and apparently totally dependent on Sophia, was Miss Selina. Most of her conversation consisted of verbatim renderings of her sister’s opinions. “My sister says …” or by way of a change, “Whatever would my sister say?” occurred in almost every sentence, and Cromwell was relieved when the phone-call ended and the human gramophone was replaced and scuttered off into the rear noisily to remove from one place to another what appeared to the miserable Cromwell to be about a thousand empty jam-jars.
“Yes, they came to our church,” continued Miss Sophia. “The woman worked herself to death, eventually, for the boy. Gave him a good schooling and then, Mr. Hardcastle, a dentist, who also attended the chapel, took him under his wing and trained him from errand-boy to partner in the business and, when he died, left him the practice. Not a very good one, I’m afraid, but a windfall for a boy like Alan. He was a sickly sort of lad, who kept very much to himself. In fact, he ought to have gone about with other boys, instead of always hanging on his mother’s apron-strings. Filial love is admirable, but a boy can suffer from too much and become warped and introspective through it.”
Miss Speakman had read articles on Psychology in religious journals and knew all about it!
“What was the scandal you spoke of, Miss Speakman?” asked Cromwell, full of Spam and prunes and feeling a bit better.
“Oh, a girl set her cap at Alan and led him a dance. She was called Cherry, Dulcie Cherry—stage name!—and her mother looked after Fenwick’s rooms and ‘did’ for Hardcastle before him, too. Dulcie evidently thought Alan a good catch and her mother encouraged her. It ended by Alan assaulting Mrs. Cherry for something she’d said. There was nearly a court affair about it. Mrs. Cherry, a common sort of woman, told all sorts of tales. Insinuated that Fenwick had seduced her daughter. But, as the girl was apparently no better than she should be, nobody bothered much about it. As regards the assault, however, that was more serious and, but for the police being uncommonly kind and considerate to Fenwick and sort of acting as peacemakers between the parties, goodness knows how it would have ended. I think the matter was settled out of court in some way, for Fenwick seems to have paid Mrs. Cherry’s doctor’s bill and more for wounded pride. But it drove away his patients. Nobody’s going to submit themselves for treatment to a dentist who half strangles people, even in temper.”
“Quite right. Could you tell me, who of the police was in charge of the case, Miss Speakman? I might be able to get his angle too, if you remember who it was.”
“Yes. I recollect him quite well. Sergeant Boumphrey, his name was. He left the town long ago and, I believe, has got on very well. I don’t know where he is, actually, and I don’t care, for he wasn’t a fellow I greatly liked. Instinctively, I mean. I’d nothing really against him.”
“Do you know where Fenwick eventually ended up, Miss Speakman?”
“Yes. Westcombe-on-Sea, I think the place is. One of our church members was there some time after his unfortunate affair here, and met him on the promenade. He wasn’t very glad to see her from what I can gather. Always a queer, introspective boy.”
“Well, I’ve had an excellent meal, Miss Speakman, and a very illuminating talk with you. I’m really sorry to go. However, all good things come to an end. So, if you’ll give me my bill, I’ll be on my way.”
“Two and eightpence, please, Mr. …”
“Cromwell, madam. And thank you very much.”
“Always be glad to see you again whenever you’re in these parts,” said Miss Speakman as they parted at the door of the shop.
“Good-bye. Always be glad to see you …” echoed Miss Selina. “My sister always says there’s no friend like an old friend.”
Cromwell found the doors of the railway station closed, and seeking someone to ask about trains, found only the soaked yokel smiling in the rain which continued unabated.
“Any trains to Pikeley Junction from here?” asked Cromwell.
“Yes,” smiled the youth, seemingly delighted at the fact.
“What time’s the next, do you know?”
“It’s gone. Last ’un that be, and all.”
“Any buses?”
“Yes.”
“ How do they run, and where’s the bus station?”
“Last one’s gone.”
“Good Heavens! I suppose I’ll have to stay the night.”
Cromwell’s heart sank. The rain came down in sheets, and unlike his companion to whom it seemed a tonic, the sergeant felt like nothing on earth.
“Where’s the best hotel here?”
“Stag. Over there.”
“Can I get a room, do you think?”
“Aye, most times. But I heard say they was full-up.”
Sure in his mind that the bumpkin was intent on depressing him to the stage of committing murder, or suicide, or both, Cromwell left him and there he remained smiling, the unsolved problem of this narrative.
They managed to fit-in Cromwell at The Stag and gave him a good dinner. He afterwards telephoned his news to Littlejohn, a process which involved clearing a number of regulars from a small room which contained the only instrument, and which the landlord was persuaded temporarily to make private by a sight of Cromwell’s impressive warrant-card.
At the end of his long tale, Cromwell was heartily congratulated by Littlejohn. The cheery sound of his chief’s voice at the other end of the line put heart into the sergeant.
“You’ve done jolly well, Cromwell. It might have taken days to collect what you’ve got in a few hours,” said the Inspector.
“Oh, I was lucky,” humbly replied Cromwell. “I struck the right people first bang off. Atishoo!!”
“Don’t be modest, man. You’ve done good work. Did I hear a sneeze? Been getting your little feet wet?”
“Never stopped raidid all day. Bid wet-through all the tibe. Just bissed the last trade to Ludud, too,” choked Cromwell, now properly in the throes.
“Well, I won’t keep you. Thanks a lot, and let me have a written report when you’re fit. Meanwhile, get a hot-water bottle in the bed and a good strong glass of rum and milk inside you. Good-bye, old chap.”
Cromwell thought his chief’s suggestion a good one. He ordered a double whisky to begin with, for he thought the landlord might take umbrage at the mention of milk. He felt no better for it, however. In fact, it cast him down considerably, so he braced himself to find the landlady and ask her for his hot-water bottle. She, good woman, took him in hand, mixed him a strong rum and milk and bade him drink it, as it would do him good.
“I feel heaps better already,” said the detective to his gratified hostess after the mixture had disappeared. “I think I’ll have another, just to make sure.”
“You’d better be careful, hadn’t you? You’ll feel the effects of it when you get on your feet.”
Cromwell felt fine. He insisted on repeating his order, after which he seemed to float upstairs to his room. There, as he took off his clothes he began to sing The Last Rose of Summer. The guest in the room to the right was a commercial traveller, who had deliberately reached the state of bliss achieved accidentally by Cromwell. This man began to sing in harmony and for some time they trolled away merrily.
The occupant of the room to the left, however, was a colonial bishop making a tour of East Anglia and Essex on foot and, rudely awakened by ribald singing, he smote hard on the wall in protest … — An indignant Victory V.
“You go to hell,” replied the intoxicated detective.
Whereat the high clerical dignitary, who was a meek man, if impulsive, drew the bedclothes’ over his
head in horror, and later suffered a nightmare in which he figured as Dante in mild obedience to Cromwell’s orders.
Kindly sleep drew a veil over the rest of that shocking affair. The bishop, leaning heavily on his ash crosier, left early the following morning, whilst Cromwell slept. It is as well they did not meet, for the exalted reverend gentleman was the uncle of an Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - LITTLEJOHN SUMS UP
Cromwell’s excellent work in the Eastern Counties delighted Littlejohn and considerably clarified the problem which faced him. There were one or two gaps still to be filled-in in the jigsaw which was gradually beginning to take shape, and these the Inspector began to investigate the first thing on the morning following his subordinate’s report.
First he telephoned to Scotland Yard for a brief history of the career of the Chief Constable of Westcombe. Boumphrey’s name, suddenly appearing in the Follington information, started a train of thought and deductions which Littlejohn was eager to confirm.
Then, there was the news that Mrs. Fenwick, or Wilson, had her origins in Hull, the city which, according to the meagre and uninformative file supplied by Boumphrey, had once harboured Sir Gideon Ware. The Inspector put through a call to the Hull police as well, and enlisted their help in exploring past Wilson history.
Next remained Lady Ware. She had been too prostrate to see anyone since the death of her husband, but now Christopher Swift had sent a message to say that she felt able to face the ordeal of police questioning.
The Ware home was some distance out of Westcombe, a graceful old house, surrounded by a park and fine trees. Swift conducted Littlejohn to Lady Ware, who received him in a cosy, morning-room. As much of the interior as Littlejohn saw, greatly impressed him. It was furnished in good taste. The pictures were excellent, the decorations in keeping, and the comforts chosen with care and sound sense. There was not a jarring or discordant note anywhere about the place.
The Inspector understood who had been behind Ware when he chose his home and fitted it out. Lady Ware was of a totally different type from her husband, and evidently came from a class far above the one whence he had sprung. She was well-bred and possessed of a resolute but gentle manner. Now, there was nothing of the distraught widow about her. She had mourned in secret awhile and then faced the world again. She had the future to meet and her responsibilities to fulfil. She had put self-pity away from her, and she received her visitor with calm fortitude.
“You will appreciate, Lady Ware, how distasteful it is to me to have to recall to you the tragic events of the past few days, but duty is duty,” said Littlejohn after the preliminaries of getting to know each other had been overcome. “The next thing is to bring your late husband’s murderer to justice and I’m responsible for it. I’ll be as brief as I can.”
“Don’t hesitate to ask me anything, Inspector, regardless of how you might think it will affect me. The sooner the matter is closed, the better it will be. The formalities must be attended to, I agree, and I ask you to spare no effort in bringing the wretched criminal to book.”
“Thank you, Lady Ware. First of all, do you connect anything during the days preceding the death of your husband with the cause of it? I mean, had he mentioned any threat, any incident, which might have led up to the crime?”
“Nothing whatever, Inspector. Let me say right away, that had there been anything, I would have learned of it. Sir Gideon was known as a hard man, a man of business, who insisted on his pound of flesh. There’s no denying that, so why should I try? He was also said to be ruthless with his subordinates in exacting the utmost service from them. He was quarrelsome, too, I understand. All that I know, and have gathered it from one source and another over a long life spent with him. Yet, never has he shown those qualities in his own home. I can truthfully say that during the thirty years I have been married to him, he has been an ideal husband and father. In that, I have been blessed.”
She paused a moment, fixing her eyes ahead, as though gratefully remembering the past.
“That is why I say I would have known of anything which might have upset or threatened him. He told me everything, for he was incapable of bearing his troubles alone. I speak quite frankly about his personality. That, I take it, is the best way to help. And to try to withhold anything about him would be mere useless sentimentality. He was good to me. That I know. Outsiders didn’t find him so pleasant. That you know, and you would doubt my sincerity if I tried to tell you otherwise.”
“I can’t say how grateful I am, Lady Ware, for your confidence …”
“But you’re not here to listen to my views of Gideon’s ways. There must be something more important than that. Ask your questions, however painful they may be.”
“Then, with your permission, my lady, I will ask the most embarrassing one first. Does the name Mary Wilson convey anything to you?”
A spasm of pain crossed the face of Lady Ware and was gone.
“Yes, Inspector. She was a sweetheart of Sir Gideon’s in his early days. That was in Hull. I have told you that he was in the habit of opening his heart to me. He was so built that he couldn’t bear the burdens of conscience alone. He cast them on me if he could. In this case, he confessed to me after the birth of our son, that he had deserted a girl of the name you mention, and that he had left her carrying his child. He tried later to make amends, but failed. He was unable to trace her, for she fled without leaving a clue behind her. Have you brought something to light, because if you have, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me? I regard myself under an obligation to his memory to do the right thing by her.”
“She is dead, Lady Ware.”
“And the child? “
“I have reason to believe that a son was born, but he vanished after her death.”
“And you suspect …?”
“I can’t say, Lady Ware. The idea has occurred to me. I am pursuing it. That’s all I can truthfully tell you for the present.”
“I see.”
“Another matter, your Ladyship, and I must ask you to treat this with the utmost discretion. It’s important, but very embarrassing to me. What were the relations between Sir Gideon and Mr. Boumphrey the Chief Constable here?”
“Ah! I see you are very wide awake, Inspector.” Lady Ware smiled knowingly at Littlejohn, and then recovering, nodded gravely.
“Yes. They were associated in several matters. Boumphrey was Inspector of Police at Battleford, a small east-coast town in which we had a summer cottage years ago. In fact, he was instrumental in tracing some jewels of mine which were stolen at the time. When the post of Chief Constable became vacant here, Sir Gideon put forward Boumphrey’s name, at Boumphrey’s request, of course, and pressed it for all he was worth. And that, as you’ll have guessed meant that the job was already in Boumphrey’s lap.”
“And Sir Gideon cited the jewel robbery as his main example of Boumphrey’s ability?”
“That and what he said he had learned and experienced of him in other directions during the times we were at Battleford.”
“But that wasn’t all there was to the story, Lady Ware?”
“No. The jewellery affair was only a sideline. Boumphrey knew about Mary Wilson. He came to Gideon one day at Battleford and told him that, in the course of his duties in some place or other, he had learned from a woman that Sir Gideon had, at one time, been her lover, and that an illegitimate son had been born as a result. My husband told me and asked me what he must do about it. We thought that nobody else knew, for Mary Wilson’s father was long dead. He turned her out, I gather, when he learned of her disgrace, although she would never say who was the father of the child which was to come. Boumphrey was very close in the affair and said he’d been informed in confidence after a kindness shown to the woman. The thing amounted to blackmail, for we couldn’t afford the scandal to get abroad. Gideon was a very prominent figure in many circles and, although such things happen in the best regulated families at times, he was very sensitive about it.
He did his best for Boumphrey and I must say Boumphrey never seemed to take advantage of his information.”
“Did Sir Gideon ever enlist Boumphrey’s help in trying to trace this Mary Wilson, Lady Ware?”
“Oh, yes. The matter never really dropped. Previous to that, Sir Gideon had tried discreetly through solicitors to find her. In fact, they did find her and offered provisionally to arrange for the child’s adoption. But the woman just fled again after refusing to consider it. Boumphrey tried, too, but didn’t succeed.”
“Was he established at Battleford when you took up residence there?”
“No. He came new to the place about six months after we bought the cottage.”
“Well, I don’t think I need trouble you further, Lady Ware. You have helped me greatly and have brought me considerably nearer my goal.”
“I can’t see how, Inspector. In turn, I’d like to thank you for your tact and consideration in the whole matter. I’m infinitely grateful.”
With such expressions of mutual appreciation, the pair of them parted.
The enquiries concerning Boumphrey and the origins of Mary Wilson, in Hull, had been made from an outside telephone, lest Boumphrey should object to any raking into his own past history. The results which were awaiting Littlejohn when he asked for them would have been revealing had Lady Ware not already supplied the bulk of the information. The reports merely confirmed what she had said in each case.
Hazard was waiting for Littlejohn at the Grand Hotel when the Inspector arrived there.
“And where are we now, Littlejohn?” asked Hazard eagerly. “I’m quite in the dark. Are we nearing the winning-post or just running round in circles?”
“We’re very warm, Hazard. And now, with a vote of thanks to you for your help and your patience, I’m going to outline what I’ve found out so far and, finally, tell you who I think killed Sir Gideon Ware. You know as well as I do, that there are only two likely suspects. The men who gave Ware injections on the day he died. Fenwick and Preedy. Which one is it?”
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