The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Gerald Verner

  “Well, it would never have occurred to me to tackle the gardener,” declared Inspector Crutchley frankly. “That was clever, that was.”

  “You’re not a gardener yourself, you see,” said the stout man. “If you had been, you’d ’ve remembered how they take wasps nests.” He sighed. “Well, we know where it came from, but we don’t know who took it. That’s not goin’ to be so easy.”

  “The whole thing’s a puzzler,” said the inspector frowning. “I don’t know what to think. If it was one of the people back there,” he jerked his head in the direction of the Court, “who poisoned ’er ladyship, it beats me which one it could’ve been.”

  “Or the reason for it, eh?” added Mr. Budd. “We’ve learned something fresh, anyhow. The cyanide an’ that scarf.”

  “We’ve got to confirm that with Sir Basil,” said Crutchley. “I can’t think why ’e didn’t mention the fact that he’d picked it up when I was telling him about it the other morning.”

  “That’s certainly interestin’ an’ peculiar,” said Mr. Budd thoughtfully. “Pity we didn’t see him. I wonder where he got to?”

  “Gone for a walk somewhere,” answered the inspector. “’E’s a wonderful man for exercise.”

  “Like my Sergeant,” said Mr. Budd, looking at the silent Leek. “Only he takes all his lyin’ down.”

  “I don’t believe in exercise fer exercise sake,” said Leek shaking his thin head. “It’s ’ere—” he tapped his forehead “—that the work gets done.”

  “You must’ve been on strike for a long time!” grunted Mr. Budd. “If you’re not in a hurry to get back, Inspector,” he added. “I’d like to have a look at this place, Jackson’s Folly.”

  The inspector was not in a hurry, and they turned off in the direction of the ruined house. Mr. Budd, himself, was not a great lover of physical exercise. He boasted that he never walked if he could ride, and never rode if he could remain where he was. It wasn’t very far to Jackson’s Folly, but it was quite far enough for the stout man. Luckily, it was all down hill.

  In the lane that led down to the hollow in which the house was sited, they met a middle-aged woman coming towards them. She was thin and rather angular, and her rather large nose was very slightly blue at the tip. She was walking fast and breathing a little heavily. Neither Mr. Budd, nor either of the others with him, had ever met Miss Titmarsh or they would have recognised her.

  She passed them quickly with only the merest sidelong glance, but Mr. Budd, whose sleepy eyes missed nothing, thought he detected an expression of dismay mingled with fear in that glance, and wondered what had induced it.

  It was a quiet, still evening. The sun was low down in the west, casting long shadows over the rank grass from tree and hedge. They turned in at the broken gate and came into the dusky twilight of the weed-covered drive.

  “Gloomy sort o’ spot,” remarked the big man. “Ideal for a meetin’ place, if you wanted to keep your meetin’ private.”

  It was Leek who first caught sight of the paper on the partly open door and drew their attention to it. But Mr. Budd had seen it at almost the same moment and so had Inspector Crutchley.

  It was a page torn from an exercise book and on it, in blue pencil, had been printed: “THIS IS THE DOG THAT WORRIED THE CAT”.

  Mr. Budd uttered an exclamation.

  “I don’t like the look o’ this,” he said. “I don’t like the look of it at all. . . .”

  He squeezed his large body through the narrow gap of the partly open door and found himself in the almost dark hall. There was a squeaking scurry as he moved cautiously forward, peering into the semi-darkness. Presently, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he was able to dimly distinguish the bulk of the big staircase, and the jutting whitish-blur of the fireplace.

  And he saw something else—something that lay in front of that fireplace forming a darker, more substantial, shadow among the other shadows. . . .

  By this time he had been joined by Leek and Inspector Crutchley.

  “Good God Almighty,” muttered the inspector, “not—another. . . .”

  “I’m afraid so,” answered Mr. Budd.

  He picked his way through the dust and debris to that vague shape that sprawled as still and silent as the stillness and silence that surrounded it.

  He bent down, pulled out a box of matches, and struck one.

  As the match flared into flame, Inspector Crutchley gave a sharp exclamation.

  “It’s Sir Basil Conyers!” he said. “Is he dead?”

  “Nobody could live after that,” answered Mr. Budd and pointed to the crushed-in head.

  “Just like Sprigot,” said Crutchley, under his breath.

  Mr. Budd nodded and dropped the match which was burning his fingers.

  “I don’t think there’s much doubt that the same person killed ’em both,” he said. “There’s a very busy killer at work in this neighbourhood—a very busy killer, indeed.”

  *

  Mr. Budd lay on the bed in his lavender-scented room in Kenwiddy’s farm and stared at the ceiling. Between his teeth was the remains of one of his black cigars but it had long since gone out.

  Outside it was quite dark for the hour was late, and the rest of the household, including the lugubrious Sergeant Leek, had gone to bed. Mr. Budd, however, although he lay on his bed, was still fully dressed.

  Following the discovery of the dead body of Sir Basil Conyers in Jackson’s Folly there had been a great deal of feverish activity as the usual routine procedure in the case of murder was put into operation.

  The police station at Greystock had been notified at once and photographers and fingerprint men had arrived in a police car, accompanied by a surprised Superintendent Sones and the police surgeon. The people at Marbury Court had been told of the tragedy and, eventually the body of Sir Basil had been removed for the post mortem examination.

  It was not until all this had been done, and he had had a long talk with Sones, that Mr. Budd, weary after a fairly busy day, was able to get back to the farm for a rest. He foresaw a long and strenuous day before him on the morrow and after a pot of tea—the Kenwiddys had wanted to lay a cold supper, but the gargantuan tea which he had eaten on his arrival had proved sufficient to last him until breakfast and he had declined—he had gone straight up to his room.

  Physically weary, he had lain down for what he intended should be a moment, and had become so enrapt in his thoughts that he had forgotten the passing of time. His brain was as alert as it usually was, and he was putting into practice one of his invariable methods when tackling a new case. He was going through the whole thing, as far as he knew it, point by point, sorting out the pieces as he might have sorted the various pieces of a jig-saw puzzle before trying to put the picture together.

  The starting point was Sam Sprigot. The little larcenist had come out of prison after serving a sentence for his last robbery and taken a room with Mrs. Bagley. But he hadn’t done that at once. There was an interval of three months from the time he left the prison to the time he turned up at Mrs. Bagley’s lodging house. What had happened to him during that period? Where had he been and, equally important, what had he been doing? Had something happened to him during this three months that had culminated in his murder at Jackson’s Folly? This seemed likely. But what had happened?

  It was impossible to conjecture. It might have been anything. Even after he had come to Mrs. Bagley’s his behaviour had been peculiar. He had remained in his room during the day and only gone out at night. What had he done during these nocturnal excursions? Again it was impossible to conjecture. Only Sam Sprigot could say that and he was dead.

  It was fairly safe to conclude that it was the letter he had received in the morning that had brought him down to Marbury. Who had written that letter? And for what reason had the meeting, if meeting it was, been arranged at Jackson’s Folly?

  Concerning this, Mr. Budd thought that it might be worth trying to follow up the vague idea which had occurred to him
when he had been thinking over the nursery rhyme. He repeated the beginning of it to himself.

  “This is the house that Jack built.

  This is the malt which lay in the house that Jack built.”

  That was it. The malt! Was there something valuable in Jackson’s Folly, or had there been something valuable there, that Sam Sprigot knew about? Was that the reason why the murderer had killed him and scrawled that bit of the rhyme on a sheet of paper and pinned it to the door: “This is the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built”?

  If there had been something hidden there which Sam knew about and, perhaps, during that unaccounted three months, removed, there was reason for that bit of rhyme. But if something like this was the explanation, how did Lady Conyers come into it? And not only she but her husband as well. That was something that Mr. Budd, try as he would, couldn’t fathom out.

  As he lay staring up at the ceiling of his room, he racked his brains to form some reasonable theory that would link these people with Sam Sprigot, and he racked them in vain.

  He gave up that angle at length and concentrated on what, if anything, there could have been hidden in the ruined house that was so valuable. The proceeds of some robbery? That might be it and that would tie up with Sam Sprigot. Maybe, Sam had heard about it while he was in prison—such things had happened—and decided to pinch it at the first opportunity. But the first opportunity would have been, surely, immediately after he came out of prison? He wouldn’t have waited for more than three months. Unless, this was a possibility, he was waiting for someone else to come out of prison too? That would account for the letter. But in that case, why should the letter have given him such a scare?

  Sam had never pulled off anything very big during his nefarious career, so it was hardly likely that if there was anything of value in Jackson’s Folly it was the result of his own depredations.

  However, it was worth following up. Mr. Budd made a mental note to get on to the Yard and ask for a dossier of the little crook’s activities. It might lead to something or it might not. At the present juncture, he couldn’t afford to neglect anything.

  Three murders and practically no clues. It wasn’t a very bright outlook.

  There was the woman they had met on their way to the ruined house. Was she mixed up in it? It seemed hardly likely, but the stout man remembered that momentary look he had seen in her eyes as she had passed them, and wondered. He had discovered who she was, the village school mistress. . . . And the bit out of the nursery rhyme pinned on the door had been written on a page torn out of an exercise book. It had been written, too, in blue pencil. . . .

  Mr. Budd’s recollections of his own schooldays associated a blue pencil with marked lessons. But lots of other people beside schoolteachers used blue pencils, and exercise books were common.

  It would be worth having a word with the woman, though. What was her name? Titmarsh, that was it. He’d do that in the morning. After the inquest.

  He got heavily off the bed and slowly undressed. He was tired and depressed. For he couldn’t see his way clearly. He had no plan to follow. He would just have to wait, hopefully, that something would turn up to give him a lead. . . .

  He got into bed, but it was some time before he fell asleep, and then it was fitful and broken.

  Deep down in his subconscious mind something was struggling to force its way up, but it wasn’t until several days later that it succeeded. . . .

  *

  Miss Titmarsh did not sleep at all that night. She lay staring into the darkness, conscious of every faint sound that broke the silence of her little cottage.

  What should she do? What could she do? Over and over again the question circled her brain, never stopping and never answered.

  At last she could stand it no longer and getting up, put on her dressing-gown and went into her neat kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  It was nearly four o’clock as she sat at the small table and sipped the tea. She would have to get some sleep, or she would never get through the coming day. The thought of the school-room and all the children was a nightmare. How could she concentrate on her work when at any moment disaster might overtake her?

  She poured herself out another cup of tea and took three aspirin tablets. Perhaps they would sooth her jangled nerves. . . .

  After a little while, she went back to bed and tried to settle down to sleep. But it was no use. When the sun began to filter round the drawn curtains, she was still lying, wide awake, her mind fearful and beset with the problem to which she could find no solution.

  Chapter Nine

  The inquest on Sam Sprigot had been scheduled for ten o’clock in the church hall, and by half-past nine most of the inhabitants of Marbury had congregated outside the small building in the hope of getting a free and sensational entertainment.

  With the advent of television, sensation in every conceivable form was not unknown to the people of Marbury, but this was different, this was not confined to a small screen, this was real and their very own.

  Major Panting was talking to the Reverend Oswald Hornbeam when Mr. Budd arrived in company with Inspector Crutchley and the melancholy Sergeant Leek.

  “You seem to have been right, Rector,” remarked the major, as the big man came within hearing. “It certainly looks as though something evil had been loosed in the village, by jove! Three violent deaths within less than a week.”

  The rector shook his head sadly, and his troubled face was grave.

  “This latest murder,” he said, “Poor Sir Basil Conyers—is quite incredible—quite incredible.”

  “Meanin’ that you find the other two deaths credible, sir?” asked Mr. Budd sleepily, as he joined them.

  “No, no,” the rector looked a little shocked. “Of course, that was not my meaning. But it seems incredible . . . first that unfortunate man, then Lady Conyers, and now Sir Basil. . . .”

  “It is incredible,” agreed Mr. Budd. “An’ that means that it’s incredible to us because we don’t know the beginnin’ of it. I’ll bet it’s quite simple when you know the ‘how’ an’ the ‘why’. Like most things.”

  “Biggest sensation we’ve ever had here,” said Major Panting. “Made more of a rumpus in the village than that spy business during the war. Jackson’s Folly was mixed up with that, too.”

  Mr. Budd pricked up his ears.

  “What was that, sir?” he asked.

  Major Panting was only too willing to recount the incident. It was one of the highlights of his life. Although he was known in the village of Marbury as “Major” the only legitimate claim he had for the title was because he had been the Officer Commanding Marbury’s Home Guard. To give him his due, the Home Guard had come into existence entirely through his own efforts. He had been indefatigable in enlisting recruits, had drilled them, insisted on regular rifle practice and exercises, and had certainly, with the material he had, turned out a fairly smart body of men. They turned out regularly for duty, patrolling the countryside from darkness until dawn, vigilantly watchful for any untoward happening that be construed as “enemy action”.

  It was during one of these nightly reconnaissances that one of the men found a small torn portion of silk that had, quite obviously, formed part of a parachute. The man had taken it to Major Panting, and the major at once jumped to the conclusion, rightly as it turned out, that the Germans had dropped a spy by parachute and that he had landed in or near Marbury. His reasons for this conclusion were not without a certain amount of foundation.

  There were no troops stationed in the neighbourhood and there had been no air raid on Marbury, or within a radius of twenty miles, for a considerable period. The portion of silk which had been found had not been exposed to the weather for very long, so it could hardly have had anything to do with a raid.

  With great energy and excitement, Major Panting ordered a thorough search of the district, and to the surprise of the majority, if not his own, a man was discovered hiding in Jackson’s Folly. There
was no doubt that he was a spy or that he had landed by a parachute from an enemy plane. He was provided with false papers, English money, and all the necessary equipment to sustain life until he could reach his “contact”. Unfortunately for him, he had injured his leg in landing and had been forced to hide-up in the ruined house until it was well enough for him to walk.

  The man was handed over to the authorities and questioned, but steadfastly refused to talk, so that it was never discovered who the “contact” was to whom he would have reported. Major Panting received a letter of congratulations and thanks from the powers that be, and that was the end of the incident.

  Mr. Budd listened to this story with interest. There seemed to be no possible connection between it and the present case, but he filed it away in the capacious storehouse of his memory with all the other odds and ends that reposed there, ready to be brought out and examined should the occasion arise.

  By this time the coroner, a small, finicky man with quite the largest horn-rimmed spectacles that Mr. Budd had ever seen, and which gave him rather the appearance of a baby owl, had arrived, and the waiting crowd were pouring into the church hall.

  If they had come with the expectation of excitement they were soon disappointed.

  As soon as the jury had been sworn, the coroner opened the proceedings by a brief speech explaining what they were there for, which everybody knew without his telling them, gave a short lecture on the legal limitations of an inquest, and called for evidence of identification of the deceased. This was supplied by Inspector Crutchley and came as a surprise to the majority of the people present. The Reverend Oswald Hornbeam was the next witness and he described how he had come to find the body. He was followed by the police surgeon who gave evidence concerning the cause of death. At the conclusion of his evidence, Inspector Crutchley asked for an adjournment.

  This was granted, obviously rather grudgingly, by the coroner, and the inquest on Lady Conyers was opened. This was even shorter and less sensational than the inquest on Sam Sprigot.