‘I can’t help you.’
‘Where were you on the night your father died, sir?’
‘Eh?’
So that was it! He was suspect.
‘Let me tell you…!’
Winfield’s bald head grew pink with temper. He frothed at the mouth and cast up spray as he spoke.
‘I won’t stand for it.’
‘A mere formality, sir. I’ve just asked your uncle the same question and he answered quite civilly.’
‘I don’t care what Uncle William did. I dislike him, I despise him. As to your insinuation that I murdered my… my… my…’
He couldn’t get it out. To call Harry Dodd ‘father’ might have choked him.
‘… My… Harry Dodd… to say that I murdered Harry Dodd, it’s preposterous. Why, I was in Lille, France, when it happened. I was at a meeting of steel masters there. Ask anybody. My wife, my secretary…anybody.’
His wife, his secretary. Yes, they’d tell him! They knew it well. Whilst the cat was away in Lille, the mice had played in his London flat…
‘Is there anything more?’
‘Did you agree that your grandfather was insane?’
‘Of course. If I’d had my way, both of them would have been put in an asylum. Public nuisances! They’ve made our lives one long misery for years. I’m glad they’re dead.’
His face jerked and he started to pull his fingers and make the joints crack.
‘Did you wish them dead before they were murdered?’
The full horror of it smote Winfield.
‘Look here! I’ll make you sit up if you dare to suggest that I…that I…Well…I’ll make it hot for you. I have friends. Very influential friends…They could break you.’
Littlejohn stared Winfield out of countenance. He suddenly had a vision of Winfield as a small, fat, unwholesome boy, pulling the wings from flies and torturing his sister.
‘That’s all…’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s all for the present, thanks. May I see your sister, please, and that will be the end?’
Somehow Winfield couldn’t gather his dignity together and make a proper exit. He went out like a boy who had had six of the cane, walking sideways, eyeing Littlejohn, as though the Inspector might kick him in the pants to speed him on his way.
Sir Bernard Hosea brought in his wife.
‘Look here, my man. People don’t as a rule send for me or my wife. I send for ‘em, or else they come to me…’
‘Thank you for coming, then. I only wanted to ask Lady Hosea if she had seen her father or her grandfather recently, before they were murdered.’
Lady Hosea’s complexion was pale like ivory. She used no cosmetics and her skin was clear and flawless. Littlejohn realised that he was going to have a job getting anything from this queer pair, for they hadn’t a whole intellect between them. She looked at her husband.
‘Does he mean…?’
Sir Bernard stroked his long moustache and looked baffled. ‘Think he means the Dodd fellahs. Walter and Harry…or was his name Henry? Can’t think.’
He turned to Littlejohn.
‘My wife and I don’t recognise the Dodd men as relations by blood or by marriage. In case you don’t know it, my man, there was a divorce many years ago, since when neither of em’s been part of the family. Hope you understand.’
‘Yes, sir. I understand. And your wife and you haven’t seen them lately?’
‘Why should we? You haven’t come across ‘em, have you, my dear?’
‘No, my love.’
She shook her head from side to side, and the little bells which made her earrings chimed faintly.
‘H’m.’
They looked blankly at each other. They were a most affectionate pair, always together, self-contained, resenting intrusion, two perfect simpletons. It was said that until she married, Miss Dodd had been a statuesque beauty, much sought-after for her charm and wit. Now, after fifteen years of married life with Hosea, she still had a kind of charm, but her wits had atrophied.
‘Were you at home when the murders occurred, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Yes, at home in our villa in Nice. We flew over for this gathering. Mrs. Dodd needed us, she said. We came. We return at weekend. Is there anything else, my man? You can write to my London address, if there is. My secretary’ll answer. My wife’s not very strong…Don’t want her botherin’…’
Lady Hosea had never had an illness in her life, but it was her husband’s way of excusing his tender solicitude. He took her arm.
‘Come along, my love…’
They were like a couple playing a part on the stage. They made a graceful exit and you might have expected applause as they reached the wings.
‘Finished? Like a drink?’
Peter Dodd was back. He carried a bottle and glasses. Littlejohn felt like a refresher. Getting information out of this queer lot had been like crawling about on a fly-paper. ‘Thank you. Just a small one.’
Peter found a syphon and filled up the whisky.
‘Anything else you need?’
‘Your father’s second name…’
‘Villiers. He hated it and kept it dark. Why?’
‘He’d have to use it in legal documents, of course…’
‘Yes. But only then. He hated it with an obsessive hatred. Mother once told me, he was ragged about it when he was a boy and it sort of made a phobia, if you understand.’
‘Was he likely to have told it to his pals, say, the members of a friendly society of which he was a member?’
‘Good Lord, no! They’d be the last people. Can’t you see, they’d sort of be the grown-up counterparts of the boys who ragged him.’
Peter was the brightest of the bunch of Dodds Littlejohn had just interviewed!
‘Did you see the wreath from the Free Fishers, sir?’
‘Did I see it! Did I see them all! They kept arriving this morning. I thought Winfield was going to put his hat on and clear off. He seemed to think all dad’s disreputable pals were going to foregather at the cemetery and disgrace us. Charley, Dot, Sid, Joc, Emily and Fred, whoever they might have been! And my sister kept repeating, “I can’t understand it. I can’t understand what father was thinking of.” And every time she called him father, Hosea corrected her and reminded her that he hadn’t been her father for years. As if, suddenly, it had come out that she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket!’
Littlejohn eyed Peter Dodd. It was evident he’d had one or two drinks before. His eyes were sparkling, but his talk was mirthless and bitter.
‘You don’t like your family, do you?’
‘With the exception of mother, no. I hate them. Think of it; thanks to them dad died in the gutter and grandfather, a decent old bird really, hid himself, terrified, in the old home and was smothered by whoever was after him. It’s a bloody shame! There ought to be some way of avenging the pair of them…’
He raised his glass and tottered a little.
‘To the memory of Harry Dodd and Walter Dodd. May the earth rest lightly on my poor old dad…’
And tears mingled with his whisky as he drank it.
13—All Pals Together
‘There’s one last question before I go, sir. How much did your mother give or lend your father, in all, after they were reconciled?’
Peter Dodd soon composed himself after his sentimental outburst about his father, and he faced Littlejohn calmly again.
‘I’ll have to go up and ask her…’
‘Don’t disturb her. I’ll telephone later.’
Peter shook his head.
‘She’ll be most annoyed if I don’t tell her now. Her main thought is to see the murderer of my father brought to justice. I won’t be long.’
He hurried out. In the hall, Littlejohn could hear the mourners departing.
‘Where’s Helena? I’d better say good-bye…’
Willie Dodd, jocular, forceful, was bustling Winfield and the maid around.
‘He
re I am…’
Mrs. Dodd was down seeing them off. Voices muttered and, above all, you could hear Willie boisterously telling his sister-in-law to find plenty to do to take her mind off her troubles. Cars drew up, there were more good-byes, and the house fell silent.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector…’
Mrs. Dodd was pale and looked more frail than ever after her ordeal of the day. She was glad to be rid of the mourners who didn’t care a hang about Harry Dodd. Now she knew the end of him and could resign herself.
‘Peter tells me you want to know the total amount which I gave my husband since we met again. Five hundred pounds.’
Littlejohn’s eyes opened wide.
‘Five hundred! But from our knowledge he must have handled ten thousand at least, Mrs. Dodd.’
She sat down, groping for the arms of the chair, and looked utterly at a loss.
‘You’re surely mistaken. After the divorce, the trust provided him with enough to buy the house at Brande and about five hundred a year. There was no capital. Wherever did he get the rest?’
‘Did he never mention being in possession of any big sums? In the course of your recent talks, I mean.’
‘No. He did talk about being independent of the family and not needing my money if we married again. I thought that meant that his formula would…’
‘He had no formula, Mrs. Dodd. He was trying to find one, but when he died, he’d been unsuccessful.’
‘Poor Harry! He was trying so hard not to appear worthless, that he concocted a story…’
‘I don’t think so. He had some money from somewhere. The thing now is to find out where he got it.’
‘I do hope it’s nothing illicit…that he hadn’t been defrauding anybody. I don’t think he could. He was patently honest…’
Littlejohn sighed to think of Peg Boone and little Nancy, and how Dodd hadn’t mentioned them to this woman who, in spite of all he’d done, still trusted him.
‘He didn’t bring any papers or books here in preparation for coming back to you, Mrs. Dodd?’
‘No. Did he leave a Will?’
‘I think so. He seems to have tried to do the right thing by Miss Nicholls. He left her the house and an annuity.’
‘That will be all right. Where is the Will?’
‘With his solicitor, who, by the way, was murdered last night.’
Peter and his mother gasped.
‘Another!’
‘Yes. Did you know Mr. Pharaoh?’
‘Of course. He represented Harry in the divorce case. That was the only time I ever met him. Did you know him, Peter?’
‘Yes. I met him several times with dad. A very decent old buffer. But is this crime connected with my father’s death?’
‘I think so. And with your grandfather’s. He’s being cremated tomorrow, I gather.’
‘Yes. Mother and I will be the only ones there, I suppose. The rest of the family have cast him off completely.’ Mrs. Dodd wrung her hands.
‘I suppose the same person killed all three.’
‘That’s the inference. I think Mr. Harry told his father something which incriminated a third party. Or, at least, which pointed the finger at the third party after Mr. Harry Dodd’s death. Mr. Pharaoh must also have known it. It led, too, to the burning down of Mon Abri, the bungalow, this morning.’
‘You didn’t tell us that! How did it happen?’
‘Arson, I think. Arson to get rid of some evidence which the criminal thought might be hidden in the house.’
‘He must be mad.’
‘Very frightened, Mrs. Dodd. Very afraid something will lead us to him.’
Littlejohn left them to return to Helstonbury, calling on the way at the county police office at Helton. The same sergeant was on duty and he greeted the Inspector with a great show of deference.
He was a large, smooth man, with faithful, dog-like eyes. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, sir. ‘Ow can we ‘elp?’
‘You’ve been all over Gale Cottage, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir. What ‘ad you in mind?’
‘You found no papers, no hiding-place with papers in it, no traces of information which the dead man might have possessed?’
‘No, sir. The h’experts have been all over the place. Combed it over, as you might say. We’re dealin’ with a deep ‘un, if I may be so bold as to say so. He did it well and cunnin’.’
‘I agree. Well, let me know if anything turns up, Sergeant.’
‘You can rely on that, sir…’
The Aching Man was closed when Littlejohn passed, but he knocked on the door and Sid Boone admitted him. Sid was a bit off-hand.
‘I hope you don’t think we had anythin’ to do with all these crimes. We’ve just heard over the wireless that old Pharaoh’s been done in, too. That can’t have been us, either. We’ve good alibis.’
‘You seem so keen on protesting your innocence, Sid, that I’ll soon be thinking you committed all the murders.’
‘‘Ere…’
‘Is that the Inspector?’
It was Peg. She was dressed in a red corduroy costume and looked pale and drawn.
‘Yes, it is. I called to see if you’d thought of anything that might help.’
‘No…’
‘The settlement Harry Dodd made; did he pay over by cheque?’
‘No. Five-pound notes. It was a bit of a nuisance. There were such a lot of them.’
Sid sniggered.
‘I, for one, don’t mind countin’em. The more the merrier, when it’s banknotes…’
‘Was Mr. Pharaoh there at the time?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t trust me. It was that he asked Mr. Pharaoh to look after me and Nancy if anything happened to him. Now I believe the lawyer’s dead, too.’
‘Yes. Shortly before he died, did Harry Dodd bring a box of papers here or did he bring some in his overcoat pocket?’
‘Why, yes, he did. I remember. He said he’d been clearing up his things at his bungalow. He’d burned a pile of stuff but just brought away a lot of…what did he call them…? You know, the things you get when you buy or sell stocks and shares…’
‘Contract Notes?’
‘That would be it. I know he told us what they were. Didn’t he, Sid?’
‘S’right. The ones he got pinched in the raincoat, you mean?’
‘That’s it. He came with them in his pocket one day, Inspector, and hung his raincoat and hat on the peg there in the hall. When he went to get the papers, the coat had gone. Well, we couldn’t think who’d taken it. You see, it was opening time and Harry had always hung his things there. Anybody could have taken the coat and not been seen. They didn’t even need to go into one of the public rooms; the door was open and there was the coat. But we’ve never missed anything before. You get careless, don’t you? We always thought it was a carrier who called for a drink and then went on and we never saw him again.’
‘It looks to me as if you had a visit from the murderer. He must have been with or recognised Harry Dodd, found the Contract Notes in his pocket, and perhaps set about some fraud. But I thought Dodd wasn’t wealthy?’
‘He must have had money to give us the trust funds he did. And he always talked as if he’d never see me and Nancy want. I’m sure he was comfortably off.’
The child was calling her mother from upstairs, so the Inspector left them and went on his way.
At Helstonbury there was more news. Mr. Pharaoh had been murdered. That was definite, and the Lowestoft police were baffled by lack of clues and even motive.
‘It’s at this end, Judkin,’ said Littlejohn. ‘And by the way, is there some sort of society called the Free Fishers?’
Judkin’s jaw dropped.
‘What do you know of the Fishers?’
‘Just that they sent Harry Dodd a wreath.’
‘Yes. It’s a local friendly society. Nearly a hundred years old.’
‘What’s their object? Insurance, or just nice cosy beer-parties?’
‘Both, I’d say. There’s a lot of common land outside the town with a mere in the middle of it, and the burghers of the town used to have free grazing and fishing on it. I guess when this friendly society started, the idea of the free fishers on the common appealed to them.’
‘Was Harry Dodd likely to have been a member? He got a wreath from them and they called him “Brother”.’
Judkin cleared his throat rather self-consciously.
‘Well… To tell you the truth, I’m a member myself. I don’t often go. Haven’t time. It’s a bit like Rotary, except that instead of being international, it’s a gathering that belongs purely to our town. You have to be proposed and seconded, and it’s composed mainly of shopkeepers and business men. They’d help you if you were in real trouble.’
‘The puzzle to me was that on the funeral card at the cemetery they call him Brother Harry V. Dodd. Do you have to give all your names when you join, like a legal document?’
‘Of course you don’t. I didn’t give mine. My second name’s Percy, if you’ll keep it quiet. I don’t look like a Percy, so I always omit it. In the Free Fishers, I’m inscribed as George Judkin, pure and simple.’
‘That’s what puzzles me. Have you a list of members?’
‘Yes. It’s somewhere in the desk. They publish a booklet every year with the list of those who’ve paid their subs. Rather cunning, that. If you’re not in the book it means you’ve not paid up and you’re sort of in semi-disgrace.’
Judkin rummaged in the drawers of his desk.
‘Drane! Drane!’
‘Yes, sir. Excuse me…’
‘Where’s my syllabus of the Free Fishers for this year?’
The polite constable asked again to be excused and took possession of his boss’s desk. He found the paper-backed pamphlet at once.
Judkin ran his thumb down the list at the front.
‘Yes. Here it is. Harry Dodd, Mon Abri, Brande. Paid.’
‘Then why did somebody call him Harry V. Dodd?’
Judkin shrugged his shoulders. Dear me! The piffling and fiddling these Scotland Yard chaps take over little inessential details!
‘Who would be likely to send the wreath?’
‘One of the stewards. Here they are among the officers.
Charles Kingsley Cresswell, Home Counties Bank, Brande.
A Knife For Harry Dodd Page 16