Only evidence of identification, and the medical evidence as to the cause of death, were taken and then, once again, Inspector Crutchley got up and said his piece and the inquiry was, again reluctantly on the part of the coroner, adjourned.
The crowd that had swarmed into the church hall swarmed out again feeling, if the odd murmurs and scraps of conversation were anything to go by, cheated of their expected enjoyment.
An elderly, grey-haired man, who had come in with the people from Marbury Court, came over to Mr. Budd and introduced himself as the family solicitor. His name was Titer, of Holdfast, Titer and Titer, a firm of solicitors in Greystock who had looked after the legal side of the estate for over a century.
“This is a very terrible business,” he said in a dry, rather crackling voice, as though his staple diet might have consisted of withered parchment. “A terrible and inexplicable business. I trust that it will soon be cleared up and the—er—person or persons responsible brought to justice.”
Mr. Budd concurred with this heartily.
“I can only conclude,” went on Mr. Titer, clearing his throat without making any appreciable difference in the dry, rasping quality of his voice, “that we have to deal with a lunatic. There can, so far as I can see, be nothing to connect this man, Sprigot, with my—er—clients.”
Mr. Budd, being in precisely the same state of mind himself, admitted that “there didn’t appear to be any connection at present”. He concluded by asking a question.
“Who inherits the estate?”
Mr. Titer, with that curious reluctance on the part of all lawyers to give a straightforward answer to a straightforward question, coughed and looked down his rather long thin nose.
“That is a matter which will have to be gone into, of course,” he answered slowly. “Yes, it will have to be gone into. Sir Basil and Lady Conyers died without issue. The house and the lands are entailed. The—er—money they were entitled to leave to whom they pleased, but it was always accepted that it should go with the—er—rest. . . .”
“Does it in this case?” asked Mr. Budd.
“Sir Basil left a will leaving everything to his wife,” said Mr. Titer, “but, of course, since she predeceased him, that becomes invalid. H’m. Yes, invalid. So far as I know, Lady Conyers died intestate.”
Mr. Budd curbed his not unnatural impatience.
“Which means that everything goes to the next of kin, doesn’t it?” he said.
Mr. Titer pursed his thin lips and, after a pause, admitted that that was so.
“Who is the next of kin?” inquired the stout man, feeling that getting information out of Mr. Titer was a lengthy and difficult procedure.
“We shall have to go into that,” replied the lawyer. “Sir Basil has, or had, a younger brother, who would, if he is still alive, be the natural heir. . . .”
“Don’t you know whether he’s alive or not?” demanded Mr. Budd.
“Nothing has been seen or heard of him for over twenty years,” said Mr. Titer. “Dear me, yes, it must be slightly longer than that. He was—er—the black sheep of the family, I’m afraid. Always in trouble of one sort or another—mostly money. Eventually, he forged a cheque for a very considerable sum and disappeared. He hasn’t been heard of from that day to this. But, if he is still alive, as I say, he would be the heir.”
“An’ if he’s dead?” said Mr. Budd.
“In that case,” said Mr. Titer, “provided he had no children, Mrs. Mortlock would seem to be the next of kin.”
Mr. Budd frowned. This was something new. It might not have any connection with the present case but it was something to remember and take into consideration.
“What is the name of this younger brother?” he asked.
“Francis Conyers,” said Mr. Titer. “That is, or perhaps was, his name.”
“What is the value of the estate?” said Mr. Budd. “I understand that Sir Basil was rather fond of racin’ an’ that he’d lost a great deal of money at it.”
Mr. Titer’s lips compressed. This, from his expression, was a subject that was distasteful to him.
“Sir Basil,” he remarked at length, “was very foolish in many respects. He lost a—er—considerable sum in gambling on the turf. In fact most of his own fortune. But Lady Conyers was a very wealthy woman. I cannot, of course, give you the exact amount of the estate but it is very considerable—in the region of four to five hundred thousand pounds.”
Mr. Budd screwed up his lips in a silent whistle. He had had no idea that such an enormous sum was involved. Here was motive and to spare for murder. If Francis Conyers was still alive, and there was nothing to show that he wasn’t, he would have every reason for wishing the deaths of his brother and his wife. But none whatever for Sam Sprigot. There was the snag. How did he come into it? Perhaps he had known Francis Conyers? But even if he had what reason was there for his death? And then there was Mrs. Mortlock. If Francis Conyers wasn’t alive and hadn’t left any children, then Mrs. Mortlock was the heiress to a fortune. . . .
Mr. Budd sighed. He had learned quite a lot more about the case, but what he had learned only served to make it more complicated. He took his leave of Mr. Titer and, accompanied by the melancholy Leek, went in search of Miss Titmarsh.
An inquiry the previous night had elicited the fact that she was the village schoolmistress from Mrs. Kenwiddy, who had recognized her from Mr. Budd’s description.
The children were just coming out for lunch when he reached the school-house, and he caught Miss Titmarsh as she was following with the same object.
Her thin face went paler as she saw Mr. Budd and again he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Well, really,” she said a little breathlessly, “I don’t know how I can help you. . . .”
“I was wonderin’ if you saw anyone in the neighbourhood of Jackson’s Folly yesterday evenin’?” said Mr. Budd. “You was comin’ from that direction when you passed us in the lane.”
Miss Titmarsh leaned against her desk. Her lips seemed to have suddenly gone dry for she moistened them quickly with the tip of her tongue.
“No—no, I’m afraid I saw no one,” she answered. “I—I only passed the gate, you know—on my way back from my little walk.”
“You didn’t see Sir Basil?” asked the stout man and she shook her head.
“I saw no one, no one at all,” she declared. “What a very shocking affair. Dear me, I really don’t know what is happening round here. It used to be so peaceful. . . .”
Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with her worn bag.
“It’s a nasty business,” said Mr. Budd, “but I hope it won’t be long before we get to the bottom of it.”
“Have—have the police got a clue to—to the murderer?” she asked quickly.
“We’ve several lines we’re followin’ up,” said Mr. Budd evasively. “I suppose you’ve never heard of a feller called Sprigot—Sam Sprigot?”
“No, indeed,” answered Miss Titmarsh. “How should I be likely to know anything about a man like that?”
“Like what, miss?” murmured the stout man gently.
“A burglar,” said Miss Titmarsh. “I should be hardly likely to come in contact with that sort of person.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” agreed Mr. Budd and yawned.
He asked one or two more questions and then, as Miss Titmarsh showed signs of restiveness, he took his departure.
“How did she know?” he remarked, as he and the lean sergeant made their way down the High Street in the direction of Kenwiddy’s farm.
“How did she know what?” demanded Leek.
“That Sprigot was a burglar?” said his superior thoughtfully. “Nobody knew round here, not even his name, until this mornin’ at the inquest, an’ she wasn’t there. . . .”
“P’raps somebody told ’er,” suggested Leek.
Mr. Budd shook his head.
“I should doubt it,” he said. “There wouldn’t have been time. An’ yet she knew. . . .
H’m—interestin’ an’ peculiar!”
Chapter Ten
The inquest on Sir Basil Conyers, which took place two days after the inquest on his wife and Sam Sprigot, was as speedy and unproductive of excitement as the previous ones. Once more the police asked for, and obtained, an adjournment although the coroner couldn’t resist adding a comment to the effect that he hoped they would soon be able to produce evidence that would lead to an arrest.
The general opinion in the village was that there was a lunatic at large and in consequence few people ventured out after nightfall.
All the children were warned, to their great annoyance and irritation, that Jackson’s Folly must be avoided even in the daytime, and Miss Titmarsh put up a notice to this effect in the schoolroom.
Mr. Budd, during the days that followed, was a greatly worried man. He could find nothing at all to give him even the faintest lead. The result was that he grew more and more irritable and the unfortunate Sergeant Leek had to bear the brunt of his superior’s feeling of frustration.
Everything that it was possible to follow-up, the stout superintendent had followed-up. Sam Sprigot’s dossier had been sent down from Scotland Yard, and Mr. Budd had gone carefully through it, but he could find nothing to help him.
The little man’s record was mostly one of petty crime and the biggest haul he had ever made was jewellery valued at under two thousand pounds from a flat off Maida Vale. The robbery for which he had served his last stretch had, apparently, netted him nothing at all, for he had made a mistake in the flat he had entered, by climbing the stackpipe to the balcony, and broken into the one next to it, instead. Obviously the flat he had intended was Miss Ursula Westland’s, the actress, but his mistake had landed him in the empty flat of a gentleman called Danesford, a bachelor, who was away. There was nothing of value here, although Sam had obviously made a pretty thorough search, and his luck was completely out, for, climbing back down the pipe, he had fallen into the arms of a waiting policeman, who had recognized him instantly and carted him off to the police station.
The search for the whereabouts of Francis Conyers had begun, but so far there was no news of him. It was rather like looking for a needle in a haystack. The man, if he were still alive, might be anywhere.
An advertisement in the newspapers stating that if he applied to Messrs: Holdfast, Titer and Titer, he would “hear of something to his advantage” had brought no result. The whole case had come to a complete standstill. Someone had killed Sam Sprigot; someone had killed Lady Conyers and Sir Basil, but who they were was a mystery. Mrs. Mortlock, if she was aware that Francis Conyers was no longer alive, might be looked upon as a suspect with an excellent motive so far as Lady Conyers and her husband’s death was concerned, but there was no motive, or anything else, to link her with the death of Sam Sprigot. Nor could Mr. Budd, although he racked his brains until his head ached, discover any reason for the recurring nursery rhyme that ran as a liet motif through the whole affair.
“Why should anyone write that bit out o’ the House that Jack Built an’ leave it on the door?” he asked Leek, not for the first time, but the lean sergeant could only shake his head. “It’s gettin’ me down, that’s what it’s doin’,” declared Mr. Budd. “I’ve never come across a case where there was so little to go on.”
“Maybe somethin’ ’ull pop up,” said Leek hopefully.
“Maybe,” snarled Mr. Budd sarcastically. “P’raps Sam’s ghost ’ull come an’ tell us who killed him, or p’raps you’ll think of something sensible—they’re both equally unlikely.”
“You don’t suppose that this feller what was dropped by parachute durin’ the war’s got anythin’ ter do with it, do yer?” asked Leek.
“I’ve thought o’ that,” answered his superior, “but I can’t see how he can.”
“I read in a book once,” said Leek, “about one of these fellers the Germans dropped over ’ere to spy. He was given lots an’ lots of money ter bring with ’im. Maybe this feller ’ad a lot o’ money on him an’ hid it in that old ’ouse.”
“An’ after all this time these people suddenly have an inspiration that it’s there, eh?” grunted Mr. Budd.
“They could’ve found out,” said Leek.
“Can you imagine Sir Basil an’ Lady Conyers goin’ after a bunch of money that a German spy had hidden in the place?” demanded Mr. Budd crossly. “Because if you can, I can’t.”
“You never can tell what people ’ull do,” said the lean sergeant truthfully. “They don’t always do what you’d expect.”
“The only person who does what you’d expect is you—an’ that’s nothin’,” snapped the stout man. “If this spy feller had hidden any money in Jackson’s Folly, how did Sam Sprigot get to hear of it? I suppose you’re goin’ to tell me that somebody told him an’ then killed him when he went after it, an’ that he an’ the Conyers’ was all in it together?”
Leek sighed.
“I was only makin’ a suggestion,” he said. “Tryin’ to be a bit helpful. . . .”
Mr. Budd’s annoyance evaporated. Perhaps he had been a bit irritable. They were sitting in the garden at the farm, and he hoisted himself out of his chair.
“I don’t think there’s much use followin’ that line,” he said in a more conciliatory manner. “The thing that worries me is linkin’ all these people together. Whoever killed ’em, killed ’em all for the same reason. If you can think of somethin’ that ’ud be common to all three of ’em we might be gettin’ somewhere.”
But the melancholy sergeant’s ideas were exhausted and he could only shake his head mournfully.
“The thing I’d like to know,” continued Mr. Budd, “is what happened to Sprigot durin’ the time ’e left prison an’ the time he turned up at Mrs. Bagley’s lodgings. Where was he an’ what was he doin’? If we knew that, we’d be a good bit nearer to findin’ out the truth.”
He thrust a fat finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket and drew out one of his black cigars. After frowning at it gloomily for a moment, he stuck it between his teeth and lit it.
“I’m goin’ to my room to have a good think,” he said. “If you get any bright ideas—and I mean bright an’ not a lot o’ tomfoolery like you generally get into your head—you can let me know.”
He lumbered off and disappeared into the house.
Leek, with another sigh, watched him go and then opened the exercise book on his knee and began laboriously to write. But his mind was not on his autobiography, and, after a little while, he closed the book again and stuck the pencil he had been using into his pocket.
Although Mr. Budd had scoffed at his idea that there was something hidden in the old house, Leek was still convinced that he was right. Deep down in his subconscious mind was an enormous belief in his own capabilities. One of his favourite occupations was indulging in fantastic daydreams wherein he performed the most remarkable and amazing feats with effortless ease. He was quite convinced that, given the opportunity, all these achievements could be as readily transformed into the realm of fact.
Actually, and unsuspected by most people, Leek was a supreme egotist and it was this trait in his character that enabled him to put up with Mr. Budd’s irritability and sometimes caustic humour, and to treat it with a kind of resigned tolerance. It was just a way that his superior had of expressing himself and was not to be taken seriously. It was a little trying at times, but the best way was to ignore it.
Leek was supremely satisfied with himself and couldn’t see why anyone else should be dissatisfied. Therefore, the fact that Mr. Budd had refused to take his suggestion seriously did not effect Leek’s opinion of it in the least. It was a good one. As he sat staring at the sunlit garden, he went over it again in his mind, and the more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that he was right. But, of course, Mr. Budd wouldn’t do anything about it. If it had been his own idea, it would have been a different matter. . . .
And then a brilliant thought suddenly occurred to him.
He got up, went into the house and put away his exercise book and pencil, and, arming himself with a large electric torch from his bag, came quietly out again and set off down the lane.
If he could bring the case which was baffling Budd to a successful conclusion, solve the mystery entirely on his own, what a triumph that would be. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the complete stupefaction of the stout superintendent when he announced that he had discovered the truth. And not only that, but it would probably lead to his promotion. Detective Inspector Leek!
With his mind full of rosy imaginings, he hurried along through the scented countryside, his long, thin legs moving faster than they had moved for a considerable time.
The sun was sinking in the west and there were long shadows stretching across field and meadow to herald the approach of night. The lane leading down to Jackson’s Folly looked gloomy and uninviting in the twilight—a narrow tunnel edged with straggling hedges and roofed by the interlacing of the branches overhead.
It was very silent and still. Only the faint rustle as some small animal moved in the undergrowth, and the twittering of the birds in the trees, broke the silence.
Leek came at last to the broken gate leading to Jackson’s Folly. He paused for a moment looking about him, but there was no sign of human life. The lane behind him stretched away in a deserted funnel of leafy green, and the weed-grown drive in front of him was dark and forbidding. He could smell the dankness of rotting vegetation and gnats brushed his face.
A little more slowly now, he walked up the drive and came to the porch with its broken door. It had been barricaded up since the murder of Sir Basil and there was now no way in that way, but undeterred, Leek made his way round the house until he came to a broken window at the back. Through this he climbed carefully and found himself in what had once been the kitchen. It was now a wreckage of fallen brick and plaster. The ceiling had broken away in two places, leaving great blackened gaps of protruding laths. A rusty range filled the big fireplace, and a huge sink, full of rubbish, stood under a narrow window from which all the glass had long since vanished.
The Nursery Rhyme Murders Page 7