Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘Was she on the stage?’

  Outside the loading was going on furiously and they had to shout above the noise of the coal sliding down the hoppers. Haddock was still talking to the weighing-machine keeper, sitting on a stool in his office resting his aching feet.

  ‘Mrs. Bewmont came with a musical comedy show to the local theatre and Bewmont, who was a bachelor at the time, fell for her. When the show left, Mrs. Bewmont…I forget her maiden name…stayed behind and she and Bewmont painted the town red for a bit. Quite a local scandal. Then they married and settled down. You wouldn’t think to see her now that she’d been a good-looker of the Gibson Girl type in her day, now would you? I’ve heard she broke a few hearts before she married old Bewmont.’

  ‘She lives alone?’

  ‘Yes. Up town…’

  Haddock, who had now returned and was standing in the doorway, intervened in a deep bassoon.

  ‘I’ll take you there, sir, when we leave here.’

  Coalmen kept running in with notes from the weigh house and Lovelace stopped to make entries in his books and initial their check-slips.

  ‘I believe Dawson didn’t draw a ticket in the ballot, but bought one from one of your men. Is the man here?’

  ‘No. He’s taken his family to Blackpool. Pity Dawson ever bought the tickets. But he seemed very keen to go. He’d served there with the French Underground in the war. Never stopped talkin’ about it locally. Used to give lectures on what he did in France. You’d have thought he won the whole blasted war to ‘ear him talk. I guess he wanted to go there again to swank to the rest of the party. Well…see what he got himself.’

  Littlejohn eyed Lovelace dubiously.

  ‘You don’t sound very fond of your late boss, Mr. Lovelace.’

  The little hairy man met Littlejohn’s glance with his own bilious one.

  ‘I’d nothing against him, except…’

  Except…There it was again.

  ‘…except that he liked chuckin’ his weight about and took too much out of the firm and put little in it. That’s all. I suppose I’se be carryin’-on for Miss Blair now.’

  There didn’t seem much more to do at the coal-yard and the pair went back to the high street. People greeted Haddock and stared at Littlejohn as they made their way to the car park. They passed a spick-and-span shop facing the town hall gardens. Maison Lola. Modes. The blinds were drawn and the door closed.

  ‘Is that Mrs. Mole’s place, Haddock?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’ll know her, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ve not met her, but I hear that she and her husband are waiting for the Turnpike party at Lucerne, if they ever get there.’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Mole’s office is on the other side of the town hall. He’s the main accountant in Bolchester. There was a bit of talk about him and his wife winning in the Turnpike ballot. Some said the whole thing was cooked, but I can’t see that.’

  ‘Is he accountant for Dawson’s firm, do you know?’

  ‘Yes, because when they went bankrupt years ago, he was put in to manage it by the Official Receiver and stayed on as auditor after. He’s a very decent chap.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  Haddock shrugged his shoulders. He was a bachelor living with an unmarried sister and he’d never had a love affair in his life.

  ‘She’s good-lookin’, sir, and a good business woman, too. They’ve no children and I suppose she took the shop to keep her out of mischief, as you might say.’

  ‘Mischief?’

  ‘I believe Mr. Mole’s had a bit of a job keeping her in order, sir. At one time there was talk of a separation or divorce, but they must have patched it up. She’s always been a bit flighty.’

  Haddock said it all diffidently and as though he’d heard it all casually and in the way of rumour. Actually, his brain was like a card-index of facts he’d collected in a lifetime and all he said was authentic.

  ‘Where do the Moles live?’

  ‘Warwick Road, sir. That’s the best part of the town. Their house is just opposite Mrs. Beaumont’s. We’ll see it on our way.’

  Haddock sighed with relief as he sat down in the driving seat of the police car and wriggled his sore feet round in his boots. They threaded their way through traffic, passed the Minster, and were in the suburbs.

  Warwick Road. A long avenue planted with trees and with houses built far back behind shrubs and grass verges.

  Dunnottar. Mrs. Beaumont’s place.

  It was a new house surrounded by a large garden with flowers in full bloom and lawns well cut. Everything about it was trim and opulent. An old gardener was mowing the front lawn with a motor-mower. Haddock called to him.

  ‘Now, Jeff!’

  The old man, a little knotted creature with a grave face, stopped in his course and slowly shuffled to the front gate. ‘Mornin’, Mr. ‘Addock. Wantin’ to see me?’

  He eyed Littlejohn with a mixture of curiosity and cupidity. ‘House shut up, Jeff?’

  The ancient pointed to the place with a dirty paw.

  ‘Shuttered and sheeted, as you might say, Mr. ‘Addock. But I got a key to see that all’s right an’ feed the fish.’

  The curtains were all drawn at the house and it looked dead in its trimness.

  ‘I’ve often heard of Mrs. Beaumont’s fish. Interested in them myself. But I’ve never seen them…’

  The old man paused, torn between duty to keep the place shut up and the pleasure of showing off his employer’s aquarium.

  ‘Come in for a minute, then, but don’t you say I let you in, now. Else the old ‘un’ll give me what-for when she learns of it.’

  He opened the gate after making sure there was nobody about in the road to see and betray him.

  ‘You can come along as well. Might as well be ‘anged for a sheep as a lamb.’

  Littlejohn followed.

  They went in at the back entrance which faced a rose bed with a kitchen garden beyond.

  ‘A lot o’ ground for one like me to be lookin’ after.’

  He put the key in the lock and opened the door.

  ‘She’s near with her money, is the old ‘un. Won’t pay for nobody else.’

  The place smelled cold and a bit damp. An odour of slightly musty carpets and soot.

  ‘Wipe yer feet, both of you, or else the old ‘un…’

  He led them through the kitchen and a corridor and into the lounge. It was a sombre room, darkened by the drawn curtains, but comfortable and elegant in a heavy way. Large armchairs, a huge sideboard, small tables, and a bookcase half the contents of which were on dental surgery.

  The old man didn’t draw the curtains but went to the kitchen, fumbled with the main switches, and then returned to put on the lights. In the alcove near the window, a large illuminated aquarium in which a number of portly goldfish were slowly swimming.

  ‘She’s fond of fish. Can’t see much in ‘em myself. Jest swimming round and round. Can’t even bark or anythin’ to guard the ‘ouse. Jest useless lumber.’

  He took some ants’ eggs from a packet and sprinkled them in the water.

  Haddock, having used his wits to gain entrance, had to make a show of being interested in the fish.

  ‘A very nice lot, Jeff. They’re company, you know, and they make no noise. Restful…very restful.’

  One of the fish fixed Haddock with unwinking eyes and opened its mouth like a round O.

  ‘They’re quite tame, aren’t they?’

  They stood looking around. Photographs in frames on the large mantelpiece. One similar to that Mrs. Beaumont had shown Littlejohn; the dental surgeon swathed in mackintosh ready to ride his ancient motorcar.

  ‘She ‘as a dog and a cat, too, but they’ve gone boardin’ to the vet’s. Can’t be bothered lookin’ after a whole menagerie on me own.’

  The gardener led the way to the door. As they passed through the hall, Littlejohn paused to glance at the large framed photographs taken years ago in family

  album fashion. A young
, good-looking woman with the smile that wouldn’t come off. Hair piled on her head and an opulent bosom decked in the standards of decency of the time. A real Gibson Girl.

  ‘That’s the old ‘un, though you wouldn’t think it, would you? Teaches you a lesson, don’t it? Lovely when they’re young, is women; ‘orrible when they gets old…’

  All my love. Penelope.

  It was scribbled in faded ink across the bottom of the photograph.

  ‘Who’d think to see ‘er now, that there was a proper queue at the stage door of the theatre for ‘er. Remember it meself, time she was at the Royalty in a musical show. Look at ‘er now. Well, come on an’ let’s get locked up. Didn’t oughter let you in at all.’

  ‘Pity about Alderman Dawson,’ said Littlejohn to the old man as they parted at the gate.

  ‘Aye. Big loss to the council, for what good they do.’

  ‘Was he a friend of Mrs. Beaumont’s ?’

  ‘Once ‘e was, when the old man was alive. Old Beaumont and Dawson ran the coal-yard till it went bust. After it broke, the old man ‘ad to go back to pullin’ teeth agen till he popped-off not long after. Killed ‘im, his investments goin’ wrong like that. It wasn’t for a long time that Mrs. Beaumont would speak to Dawson after her old man snuffed it. But they got friends agen and he’d offen call on ‘er when in these parts. After all, they needn’t be enemies, I heard Dawson once say to ‘er, seein’ he ‘imself had lost all he ‘ad as well as old Beaumont…’

  ‘Has he been here lately?’

  ‘Matter of fact, he called the day before they went on the trip ‘e got murdered on.’

  ‘What sort of a man was the late Mr. Beaumont?’

  ‘A proper gent, sir. One of the old families of Bolchester, ‘e came from. He’d money and the airs and graces, as you might say. Came as a bit of a shock to the eligible young ladies of the town when he married a girl off the stage. Still, Mrs. Beaumont was a good-looker, and half the young bucks were after ‘er. Trouble with Mr. Beaumont was, ‘e was too trustin’.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘‘E oughter ‘ave known better than put all he’d got in a tumbledown old coal business like Dawson’s, and that just because Dawson was ‘is friend and said it ‘ad prospects. Good job Mr. Beaumont ‘ad a profession to fall back on, else he’d ‘ave been in queer street…on ‘is uppers properly.’

  Opposite stood a large red house with a conservatory at one side. The curtains were drawn and there was nobody about.

  ‘That’s the Moles’ place, sir.’

  Haddock started the engine of the car.

  ‘Where now, sir?’

  ‘Where did Dawson live?’

  ‘Not far from his coal-yard. It’s the old family place and though it’s right in town, the Alderman kept it up. There’s a housekeeper…Mrs. White. Nice woman, too. One of the best.’

  ‘Let’s go, then…or perhaps we’d better see his lawyer about looking over it?’

  ‘I don’t think you need bother, sir. In any case, Mr. Marshall, the late Alderman’s solicitor, will be at court just now. Think we might risk it without?’

  ‘Very well, Haddock. You’re the boss. Drive on.’

  The great clock of the Minster was striking eleven as they passed, and on a platform beneath the dial, a string of figures in armour emerged and started to tilt mechanically at one another.

  8 - The House across the Canal

  Littlejohn felt himself still on the fringe of the Dawson case. Somewhere there was a key which would unlock the whole mystery, but, so far, he’d come nowhere near it. Just a lot of small-town talk, and a crowd of holiday trippers who had already been together just too long and were beginning to be peevish with one another. Or else, starting silly little flirtations or love affairs which would probably fizzle out when the holiday ended.

  The car had threaded its way through the main streets again, turned into a string of smaller side-streets, and crossed the canal by a humpbacked bridge. Littlejohn looked out and was surprised to find they were on the fringe of the town, with green fields and trees on one side and on the other, the canal, the railway, and then Dawson’s dingy coal-yard.

  Dawson’s house was on the edge of a meadow in which a lot of goats were tethered and a horse was running around. When he saw the car halt, the horse halted, too, and neighed.

  The house itself was an old-fashioned three storey affair in blackened brick, with a whitethorn hedge all round, a large wooden gate, and a neglected garden. From the upper windows there would be a full view of the coal-yard. Standing at the garden gate, you could see the cranes working and the wagons moving up and down the ramp to the goods yard beyond the viaduct. The road past the house was paved and ran straight in the direction of the town, passing over another canal bridge and past Dawson’s yard. Probably he’d walked along it to work every morning.

  Haddock led the way down the gravel drive to the front door, a large grained-and-varnished affair in brown with a bright brass knob. He had to ring twice before they heard footsteps approaching inside. Haddock just had time to say a word or two before the housekeeper appeared.

  ‘Mrs. White, the housekeeper, is the widow of the late pastor at the Baptist church where the Alderman attended. Her husband died whilst he was minister here. She’s a very respectable woman…’

  Haddock said it as though Littlejohn had doubts about her virtue or her honesty, and before the Chief Inspector could answer, there she was. She blushed and looked confused when she saw Haddock who, in turn, reddened and cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. White. I’m sorry we’re disturbing you, but…’

  ‘I quite understand, Mr. Haddock. Come inside.’

  It looked as if she had been forewarned of the visit. Littlejohn had wondered what Haddock had been doing in the gatehouse of the coal-yard earlier in the morning and he now got the idea that some surreptitious telephoning had been going on. As they passed down the lobby, he saw two telephones; one the usual affair to the exchange, the other a more antique arrangement which obviously connected the house to the business premises across the canal. There were two switches: Office, Gatehouse. So that was it! And Haddock was conducting a rather melancholy wooing in spite of the forthcoming funeral.

  ‘This way.’

  A stuffy, overcrowded house, with a dark hall carpeted in turkey-red which ran up the stairs as well. The room they entered was full of old commonplace furniture and was probably not used except on special occasions when callers arrived. Over the mantelpiece, a large oil portrait of Dawson in his mayoral robes and chain. The last time Littlejohn had seen him he was stretched out in death on the hospital bed, pale and in repose. The picture gave another aspect of Dawson. Ruddy, sure of himself, pompous in his robes and cocky with a sense of his high office. On the shelf below, a smaller photograph of a kindly-looking, buxom grey-haired woman, also wearing a chain of office and presumably Mrs. Dawson in the year of her husband’s glory.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  There were two leather armchairs facing an electric heater which the housekeeper had switched on. The two men sat in them.

  ‘You’ve come about Mr. Dawson?’

  Mrs. White must have been suffering from mixed emotions. Her lower lip quivered, but she was so obviously pleased to see Haddock that she was smiling as well.

  A well-bred, good-looking, middle-aged woman with greying hair, regular features and a good figure. Haddock briefly introduced her to Littlejohn and explained what the visit was about. Once, he called her Alice, corrected himself, and they both blushed like youngsters again.

  ‘Mrs. White is an old friend of mine, sir. We both attend the same church.’

  ‘You must excuse the state of the house, Inspector. I have been away in the Alderman’s absence. The whole thing is unbelievable. Alderman Dawson, of all people. He was a man respected by everybody.’

  ‘But was everybody fond of him? Would you say he was loved by everybody, Mrs. White?’

  There was
a pause.

  ‘Better tell the Chief Inspector everything, Alice…er…Mrs. White. It will help him solve the case.’

  She reddened slightly again.

  ‘He wasn’t what you would call a lovable man, sir. He wanted his own way too much and never liked to appear weak. I mean, even a show of emotion seemed to disgust him.’

  It was a difficult job trying to get candid information about Dawson in the circumstances. A parson’s widow, obviously cultured and kindly, and far from a woman of the world. She would soon be shocked by any straight questions about the Alderman’s life and behaviour where women were concerned. And the presence of Haddock didn’t improve matters.

  ‘How long have you been Mr. Dawson’s housekeeper, Mrs. White?’

  ‘Three years, sir. I came almost immediately after his wife’s death. Miss Blair didn’t want to be responsible for him and he had to have somebody to look after the place and his needs. My husband had just passed on and the job came to me providentially.’

  ‘You found him a good master? Kind, considerate, decent?’

  ‘Yes. I lived my own life and had my own friends. I looked after the house and the Alderman’s food and…well…the usual housekeeper’s tasks.’

  ‘Did he ever think of marrying again?’

  There was a pause. She was standing, leaning one hand on the back of a chair. Haddock rose and bowed her into it.

  ‘I don’t honestly know, Chief Inspector. If he did, he never took me into his confidence. There were times when…well…I thought he got moody through lack of a wife. Knowing him, I was always prepared for a change. I mean, I knew I’d have to find a new job one day. He was the kind…the…the…the marrying sort, who…’

  She paused and twisted her fingers.

  ‘The sort who was fond of women, would you say?’

  Haddock gave Littlejohn a look of sad reproach, but Mrs. White didn’t need any protection. She seemed to have made a resolution and had grown calm.

  ‘You said I must tell the truth, Mr. Haddock. During my years as a minister’s wife, I learned something of the world. It is not all rosy. There are…er…unpleasant things. As you say, Chief Inspector, Mr. Dawson was fond of the ladies. It was well-known among my own sex locally. It disgusted some and fascinated others. It was one of the reasons why Miss Blair left this house. He had grown too familiar. There were others, too. I need not name them. You will not know any of them.’