THE NURSERY RHYME MURDERS
Gerald Verner
© Gerald Verner 1960
© Chris Verner 2011
Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1960 by Wright & Brown Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
When Mr. Sam Sprigot, known to the police as “Stackpipe Sam”, because of his partiality for entering other peoples houses by this method, came out of prison after serving a three-year sentence, his first act was to make a telephone call. After that his movements became obscure. He turned up in London three months later, found a quiet room in a dingy back street near the Waterloo Road, where for several weeks he lay upon his bed, smoking and reading the newspapers and only venturing out into the streets after darkness had fallen, when he would go for long nocturnal rambles, never taking the same route twice, and always returning to his lodgings before the first streaks of dawn appeared over the house-tops.
His landlady, after the manner of her kind, at first displayed some curiosity regarding these midnight excursions, but after he had explained that he worked as a night watchman at a large factory nearby, she quickly lost interest in him and returned to the more fruitful occupation of watching the behaviour of her nearest neighbours which had been for many years an absorbing passion.
Quiet and inoffensive, a rather pathetic-looking little man with watery eyes and a long thin nose, Sam was hardly the type to attract attention, and within a few weeks he became so much a part of his drab background as to be almost unnoticable. He had no visitors, received no letters, and apart from an occasional “Good-morning” or a few words with his landlady when he settled his bill, he was never seen to hold any communication with anyone. It was, therefore, with no little surprise that his landlady found an envelope in the letter-box one morning addressed to her unassuming lodger.
She held it up to the light, hoping to be able to decipher some of the contents, for Mrs. Bagley’s bump of curiosity was very highly developed, but the paper was too thick and defied all her effort. She was just considering taking it to the kitchen and steaming the envelope open when the sound of her lodger’s door, opening above, startled her. Looking up she saw Mr. Sprigot staring down at her.
“Is that for me?” he inquired.
For a moment she felt an impulse to retain the letter until she had had a chance to find out what was in it, and say it had come by a later post. But he had already seen the envelope and would, as likely as not, recognise it again.
She held it out to him a little reluctantly.
She saw his face change as he saw the writing on the envelope. Never a very good colour it turned to a sickly greenish hue. His small, moist eyes widened and he put out a shaking hand to steady himself by the banisters. Suddenly pulling himself together, he mumbled an incoherent word of thanks, stumbled up the stairs to his room, and slammed the door.
Mrs. Bagley stared after him, her curiosity at fever heat. Why had the letter had such an extraordinary effect on her lodger? She went into her kitchen and poured herself out a cup of strong tea. He had obviously been expecting it and yet the sight of it had reduced him to a state bordering on collapse.
Mrs. Bagley licked her lips. Here was something that was really interesting. She pondered deeply as she drank her oversweetened tea. The behaviour of her neighbours had been very monotonous lately. Life was very dull for Mrs. Bagley. A really good piece of scandal, now. . . . She sighed and shrugged her shoulders as she poured herself out a second cup of tea. Why hadn’t she kept the letter back and found out its contents? Ah well, it was too late now. Perhaps there was really nothing in it after all. . . .
There she was wrong.
During the brief moment the letter had been in her possession, she had held in her hand the clue to a mystery that was to puzzle some of the best brains in the country. Deep down below the surface, something evil was stirring from a long slumber and with its waking bringing a trail of terror and sudden death.
*
All that day it had rained steadily, but towards nightfall it stopped, and when Sam Sprigot slipped quietly out of Mrs. Bagley’s front door and closed it gently behind him, a light breeze had sprung up.
It was very dark. The moon would not be up for another hour yet, and it was with a feeling of relief that Sam left the little back streets, with their dim gas lights, for the better lights and bustle of the main thoroughfares.
The cinemas had just broken and the streets were thronged with people returning to their homes after their evening’s amusement. Nobody took much notice of the seedy little man who slunk along the pavement with his collar turned up and his soft hat pulled down over his eyes, and turned every now and again to look back over his shoulder as though he might be fearful of what he should see behind him.
After walking for some time he turned into a public house and ordered a double Johnny Walker. He gulped half of it, took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply.
“Last orders, please,” called the barmaid. “Time ter go ’ome ter bye-byes.”
Sam finished his drink and ordered another. It was just on half-past ten by the big clock behind the bar. He drank his second whisky, buttoned up his coat, and went out into the street. They were emptier now—most of the people had already gone home.
Sam boarded a bus for Victoria. From there he travelled by Underground to Earls Court and worked his way from there, by a circuitous route, to Waterloo. He just had time to catch the last train to Marbury. It was not very full and he found himself an empty compartment. Sinking back into a corner seat, he took out the letter he had received that morning and read it through several times. When the train had pulled out from the platform and was well on its way, he took out a box of matches from his pocket, set fire to the letter, and carefully stamped out the ashes.
It was nearly two o’clock when he arrived at Marbury, a small way-side station that seemed to have little excuse for its existence and was really little more than a halt. He was the only passenger to alight, and after waiting a few minutes to make sure that he had not been followed, he gave up his ticket to the sleepy-eyed porter and set off down the long, deserted country road that led from the station to the village.
Presently he came to a fork in the road. He hesitated a moment before he turned into the right hand road and continued on until he came to the entrance to a narrow lane which sloped away steeply into the darkness. Somewhere behind the heavy clouds there was a moon, but it was very dark and the rain had started again—a thin, wetting drizzle. Sam shivered and pulled his coat closer round his lean body. He could hear in the distance a dog howling mournfully as he stumbled cautiously over the uneven surface of the lane. He swore softly to himself as dripping leaves brushed his face and his feet slithered in the deep ruts and cart-tracks. After a little while the ground began to rise again and he found the going easier. It was lighter now, the trees were thinning, and presently he found himself in the open. On either side the country stretched away to woods and hills but a littl
e way in front of him, backed by a patch of trees, loomed the massive bulk of a house.
Mr. Sprigot stopped, breathing a little heavily, and surveyed it without enthusiasm.
“So that’s the perishin’ place, is it?” he muttered under his breath.
The house was obviously a ruin. The gate leading up the short drive was broken and hanging drunkenly from its hinges. The weeds grew thickly. The overhanging roof of the porch had fallen and lay across the steps leading up to the front door.
Sam approached stealthily. His heart was thumping in his thin chest and he would have given a lot for the lights of the streets he had left behind him earlier. The ground floor windows were all broken and the tattered remnants of torn blinds flapped behind them in the wind. For a moment he felt a sudden strong desire to go back—to leave this decaying and derelict house and run as fast as he could until it was far behind him. But he fought down this urge and walked slowly up to the gaping cavity where the front door had once been. It was still there, he saw, as he drew nearer, but smashed and broken like everything else about the place.
Far away in the distance the dog howled again, and Sam Sprigot felt the hair on his neck stir unpleasantly. But he summoned up his rapidly waning courage and crept in through the broken door into the dark cavern of the hall. There was a squeaking and scampering of rats and a smell of mildew and decay. With hands outspread before him he edged his way into the darkness. His foot struck against a hard obstacle and at the same moment his groping fingers came in contact with something soft and silky. He stepped quickly backwards and fumbling with shaking hands found his matches and struck one.
He was standing in what remained of the hall. On one side, amid the rotting, broken panelling, jutted out a huge stone fireplace. On the other a short flight of stairs led down through an archway to the back portion of the house. In front of him rose the main staircase, dividing half-way to join a gallery which ran round the entire upper part of the huge hall.
And on the lower newel-post of this staircase was the thing his fingers had touched. It gleamed in the light of the match with rainbow colours.
A woman’s scarf!
The match burned his fingers and went out. As the darkness closed in on him he heard a sound behind him and swung round.
From somewhere in the darkness of that ruined hall somebody chuckled softly. . . .
Chapter Two
The Reverend Oswald Hornbeam yawned, stretched, and finally awoke with a feeling of deep contentment. The morning was bright and clear. The sun was filtering through the drawn blinds and outside a blackbird carolled happily.
Mr. Hornbeam consulted the small clock on his bedside table. Half-past six. There was another hour yet before he need get up. He turned over on his side and prepared to doze off again. Downstairs he could hear the sound of old Sarah unbolting the back door. Soon she would be lighting the kitchen fire, and then the clatter of plates and dishes would announce the preparation of breakfast.
Breakfast!
It was the Reverend Oswald Hornbeam’s favourite meal. However difficult the day before had been, or the day to come might be, Mr. Hornbeam always enjoyed his breakfast. He never allowed anything to interfere with that enjoyment. Battle, murder, and sudden death might come later but breakfast was a ritual that took precedence before everything.
And this morning there would be bacon—bacon and mushrooms!
Mr. Hornbeam wrinkled his large nose in joyous anticipation. And then he suddenly sat up in bed with a jerk. He had forgotten the mushrooms!
Last night he had tied a knot in his handkerchief to remind himself—and then he had gone to bed and forgotten all about it.
He glanced at the bedside clock again. There was still time if he hurried. He would go down to the meadow behind Jackson’s Folly where there were usually a good crop. If only Mrs. Suggins’s little boy hadn’t been there before him. . . . Perhaps, however, this morning he had overslept.
Muttering a fervent prayer that this might be so, Mr. Hornbeam hastily got out of bed and reached for his trousers. . . .
Three-quarters of an hour later with a basket filled with edible fungi, Mr. Hornbeam was returning happily to the rectory when he saw something which made him pause and frown. He had taken a short cut through the grounds of Jackson’s Folly, the derelict house which was such an eye-sore to the villagers, and the shattered front door was open and swinging in the wind.
An expression of annoyance crossed Mr. Hornbeam’s usually placid face. How many times had he impressed upon his parishoners, that although the house was empty it was not necessarily public property. He had mentioned it more than once from the pulpit and now. . . . Somebody had been here. The door when he had last seen it had been wedged shut with a wooden bar. It was too bad! He would have to tell old Penworthy to fasten it up properly with a padlock. This was the third time in three weeks. . . .
He put down his basket and went up to the door with the intention of doing what he could to shut it securely. As he came nearer, he saw that there was a sheet of paper pinned on the broken panel.
Curious, he thought, what could it be? Some nonsense of the local children probably. The younger generation were becoming very difficult these days. No respect for anything. Only last week, one of them had done a drawing of Miss Titmarsh—a really most libellous drawing—and pinned it on her gate. And she had insisted that it was the work of Major Panting. Ridiculous! As if the major would play silly tricks like that. Really, these women were most stupid—most stupid.
The Reverend Oswald sighed. Life was not always easy in a village. It was surprising how difficult people could be. Even quite nice people like Lady Conyers, had their awkward moments. Look how difficult she had been with the Gibson girl last week? Still she had a lot to put up with. That husband of hers gave her a lot of trouble—gambling all the money away on horses. Poor woman—it was a good thing she had money of her own. She had been a great help to the church.
Mr. Hornbeam had been fumbling for his spectacles—without them he was as blind as a bat—now he put them on and peered at the paper pinned to the door.
It was as he had thought. The work of one of the children. He was glad to say that it was nothing of an unpleasant kind. One never knew what to expect these days. No, nothing unpleasant. . . .
It was roughly printed in blue pencil on a page torn from an exercise book and appeared to be part of a nursery rhyme.
“THIS IS THE RAT THAT ATE THE MALT THAT LAY IN THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.”
*
Quite appropriate, of course. The place was known in the district as Jackson’s Folly. But what a strange thing to write. Still it might have been worse. Obviously it had been done by one of the nicer types of children. Probably he had learnt it at school. Vaguely, Mr. Hornbeam remembered hearing it recently when he had passed by the schoolhouse. Miss Titmarsh had been taking the infant class. She always insisted on teaching them the old nursery rhymes. Ah well, there was nothing like them.
Mr. Hornbeam looked absently into the dark hall before closing the front door and doing what he could to fasten it. There was a dim shaft of sunlight, falling from some hole or other, that threw a faint light on the foot of the big staircase. Just out of the light was what looked like a bundle of old clothes.
The Reverend Oswald went in and walked towards this bundle to see what it was. His large, placid face went white as he saw. . . .
It was the body of a little, thin man that lay huddled up by the foot of the staircase, and the manner of his death was beyond dispute for his head had been crushed by a heavy blow and the blood surrounding it was still wet. . . .
*
For more than three centuries the people of Marbury had looked up to the Conyers family, and the Conyers family, in more senses than one, had looked down upon the people of Marbury. Marbury Court, built by the first Sir William Conyers in 1672, a fine example of Restoration architecture and one of the show places of the neighbourhood, stood upon a slight hill, and from its wide ston
e terraces and finely proportioned windows the village could be seen spread out below it—a pleasantly peaceful picture of rural England at its best.
Clustered round the village green a score of timbered cottages dozed sleepily in the early morning sun, the smoke from their chimneys rising straight into the clear blue of the sky, whilst from behind a group of stately elms, the spire of St. Peter’s rose like a silver finger pointing to heaven.
As far as the eye could reach, the rolling downland stretched away to a hazy distance, broken only by an occasional farmhouse nestling in its folds, and the only sounds to break the stillness were the gentle lowing of cattle or the crow of a cock. Even the ruins of Jackson’s Folly, bathed in the yellow sunlight, looked less forbidding than usual.
To Roger Marsden, just back from the far East, the whole scene was redolent with the nostalgic charm peculiar to the English countryside and which can be found in no other part of the earth.
Leaning against the old stone balustrade, smoking a prebreakfast cigarette, he felt at peace with the world. He had good health, a moderate share of good looks, and his prospects were rosy. His sister, Lady Conyers, was devoted to him and it was at her persistent invitation that he had come down to Marbury Court for a protracted visit as soon as he had arrived in England. Only one thing worried him and that was the change in his sister since his return.
Instead of the happy, placid woman he had always known, she now appeared to be anxious and worried, given to fits of melancholy and long periods of brooding silence, when she would sit and stare at nothing, quite oblivious of her surroundings, as though she were waiting for something—something which she dreaded but knew to be inevitable.
In Robert’s private opinion, his brother-in-law’s behaviour had a great deal to do with this change in his sister. Sir Basil Conyers’s chief interest in life was racing, and having in that way managed to dispose of his own fortune, he was now busily engaged in trying to do the same with his wife’s. In addition to this, he had an eye for a pretty woman, and was at present behaving with heavy gallantry towards Angela Trevor, Lady Conyers’s companion. The girl, it was true, did her best to avoid these advances, but Sir Basil was one of those men who are too thick-skinned to know when his attentions are unwelcome, and too sure of themselves to give up the chase.
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