But the police force was already on the march, followed by the smiling eyes of the constable’s four pretty daughters, peeping round the curtains.
FOUR
THE STRAY DOG
NEW YEAR’S DAY is an established holiday in Cobbold and, as it had this year fallen on Sunday, the natives sought recompense in taking a day off on the Monday.
Pennyquick and his two detectives therefore encountered many of the villagers parading the main street, clad in their finery, the girls without swains showing themselves, the youths eyeing them over, appraising them, calling and whistling to them, attracting their attention by showing off before them and halting their haughty progress to talk and dally with them. Families, too, were abroad in their fulness, enjoying the winter sunshine and going to a meal to one another’s houses, a ceremony very common on holidays in Cobbold. To-day progress was not so good. Everybody stopped in the course of promenading to discuss the murders. Agitated knots alarmed by the criminal in their midst and seeking consolation in making suggestions and comparing notes on matters of public safety, festooned the pavements.
Moving from group to group, the police encountered Mr. Ephraim Davy, the village baker, a pillar of the Methodist Church. Having warned his customers that there would be no fresh bread during the feast of New Year, Mr. Davy was free to perambulate the village until five o’clock when he was due to commence again his nocturnal kneading and baking for the morrow.
Mr. Davy was a small, fat, puffy man with the etiolated complexion of one who worked by night and slept by day. He had protruding greenish eyes, a snub nose and a fat chin which repeated itself in folds until it vanished below his collar. He was wearing his best blue, double-breasted suit, a billycock hat and a large brown overcoat, and he aired a pair of very light brown boots, which, curling at the toes, gave him the appearance of rocking his way about. With him were his two women; that is, his wife and his sister-in-law.
Mrs. Ephraim’s sister had lived with them at the shop since the very day they were married. It was even jocularly remarked in the village that she accompanied the pastrycook and his wife on their honeymoon! In contrast to their pale companion, the two women were almost alike in chubby, shapeless build, dark, Spanish features and eyes, red cheeks, quick tongues. They dressed alike, too, and paid to the man of the trio equal deference and tender care. The bold ones said the baker married them both and did not discriminate between them.
When Mr. Davy met the police he raised his billycock to them, revealing a bushy head of white hair, the colour of his own flour, with a bald, monastic tonsure on the crown. Then he removed the curved briar pipe from between his teeth.
“Good hafternoon, gentlemen,” said Mr. Davy, who was, greatly to the admiration of his two women, a bit of a scholar and liked to throw about a few aspirates to show his learning. He had a complete set of a somewhat out-of-date encyclopædia in his parlour and would recite to himself as he kneaded his dough in the night the cryptic inscriptions on the backs of the volumes: A-Cab; Cac-Dub; Duc-Eek; Eel-Faff.… This Om mani padme hum gave him great comfort and inspiration in the small hours.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Davy and ladies,” said Pennyquick, saluting the party deferentially. “This is Detective-Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, and Detective-Sergeant Cromwell, of the same. They’re here on The Case.…”
Every eye of the outdoor villagers was cast in the direction of their distinguished visitors, whispering ceased, and there was a hush of great expectation as though Littlejohn were about to pronounce judgment and single out the culprit right away. Mr. Davy seemed to grow in stature, so great was the honour of being selected for questioning.
The detectives spoke words of greeting and satisfaction at meeting the party.
“The Inspector would like a word with you, Ephraim, about the man you saw at midnight when the crime occurred.”
The two Davy women almost fainted at the sudden revelation that their man was to become a part of the investigation, but he cut short their satisfaction.
“Emma, luv,” he said. “You and Fanny go ’ome. This isn’t for your ears and best said in private.…”
Nonplussed, the two women looked ready to burst into tears, controlled their emotions, said good-bye, and sadly turned about and made off.
The onlookers, anticipating an arrest, drew a pace or two nearer.
“It’s just a matter of identifying the man you saw talking with Mr. Salter on the night of his death, sir,” Littlejohn began.
“Oh, in that case, I’m hafraid I shan’t be much ’elp,” said the baker, rolling his head from side to side with regret. “It was dark, you see, sir. I just saw the dark figures together and then, it bein’ my turn to let the New Year in the chapel, I turned my thoughts to my dooties.…”
“But you told the constable, I understand, that one of the figures looked like Mr. Salter.…”
“Yes, yes. That’s right. Just like him.”
“And the other?”
“Well … a bit taller than me, I’d say. Stocky, not so fat.… All I could make out in the bit of light there was.”
“Did you see Mr. Smythe, the curate, going in the church, Mr. Davy?”
“So that’s who it was! Somebody went in at the wicket gate just as I got outside. Five minutes to midnight or thereabouts. Yes.…”
Pennyquick intervened.
“But, sir, it couldn’t have been. I’ve checked the times carefully, being at the church service myself. The clergy came in at about ten to twelve. Mr. Smythe was with them. It couldn’t have been ’im.”
Mr. Davy looked annoyed. He wasn’t used to having his statements challenged either by his women at home or at the chapel. “I didn’t say it was the curate. ’Ow was I to know? It was dark. Maybe, it was some latecomer to service. Any’ow, he went in by the side gate.”
“You’re sure of the build of the man you saw with Salter, sir?”
“Sure as I’m ’ere.”
“Thank you, sir. I think that’s all for the time being. I wonder if Mr. Salter was on his way to service when he met whoever killed him.”
Mr. Davy looked pleased and wise.
“I’d say not,” he said mysteriously.
“Wasn’t he that sort?” asked Littlejohn.
“Oh, he was connected with the church. His family have the living—sort o’ patrons, you know. There’s a family pew there. But, for another reason, I’d say he wasn’t on his way to church.”
Pennyquick looked nettled.
“Look ’ere, Ephraim,” he said portentously. “If you’ve got information for us, give it at wunce. No time for beatin’ about the bush.”
Mr. Davy made consoling, flapping gestures with a soft, podgy hand, in the nails of which still adhered the flour of his last baking.
“All in good time, Andrew. You see, he set out from ’ome with his dog. Now, he wouldn’t be likely to take a dog to watch-night service, would he, now?”
Poor Pennyquick looked nonplussed and reddened painfully.
“Dear me!” he muttered apologetically. “I’d quite forgotten the dawg. Well, well.…”
He turned to Littlejohn.
“Mr. Salter had his dog with him. A prize Old English bobtail sheep-dog, which he was very proud of and never left behind. Let’s see, what was she called?”
“Meg,” said Mr. Davy, closing his eyes and opening them again with great profundity.
“Meg; that’s it. I’m sorry, Inspector. I quite forgot. Where’s the dog now, Ephraim?”
“Roving about. Won’t let anybody near ’er. The Alvestons tell me she went out with Mr. Granville on New Year’s Eve and didn’t come ’ome. Must know wot’s ’appened. Hinstinct.”
“Funny she didn’t come with ’im in the church, Ephraim.…”
“Either she was druv off by whoever did it, or else scared away by what had ’appened. Anyhow, people ’ve seen ’er hanging round the edge o’ the village but she wouldn’t come near.”
“Well, shall we be gett
ing along to the Alvestons’ then, Pennyquick?” interposed Littlejohn. He filled his pipe, lit it and puffed out a cloud of smoke. The party broke up and Mr. Ephraim Davy went off to tell his brother, Silas, who was a farmer, all about it.
The police went on their way, their breath rising in vapour. There was a drop on the end of Cromwell’s beaky nose. He wiped it away and stamped his feet as he walked.
The Alvestons lived in a small double-fronted house at the end of the village. At one time it had belonged to the Salter family and had been the home of estate workmen. Now Mrs. Alveston owned it. Pennyquick knocked on the door. There was a little delay and the radio, which they could hear playing faintly, was suddenly cut off. Pennyquick knocked again and Phyllis Alveston opened the door. Fear came into her eyes when she saw Pennyquick and his companions.
“Good afternoon, Miss Phyllis.…”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pennyquick. I’m afraid mother can’t see anyone, yet. She’s still very upset.”
Phyllis was tall, dark and well-built. There was an air of good breeding about her which might have confirmed the local view that she was a Salter, born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her eyes were fine, her arched nose and well-cut lips refined, and she held her head with a trace of arrogance.
“Can we come in for a minute? These two gentlemen are from Scotland Yard and would like a word with you about Mr. Granville, if you don’t mind.”
Pennyquick was deferential in his manner, as though he were, in very fact, speaking to one of the ladies of the manor. It was evident that the Alvestons, or at least, Phyllis, was regarded as above the average.
“Very well, Mr. Pennyquick. But I don’t want mother bothering. She’s taken all this business very badly.…”
They followed the girl indoors. There was a faint, pleasant smell of baking about the place. The retained aroma of hundreds of cakes and good things cooked there in the past. They followed Phyllis down the dark, narrow passage to the first door on the right. She ushered them into the parlour which seemed little used. Then, from above, came the bumping of a stick on the floor, the signal that whoever was upstairs was wanting attention and, maybe, wanting information.
“Excuse me.…”
Phyllis left briskly and they could hear her running up the stairs which led from the passage. She was a bright girl, well-dressed and sophisticated. She was quite capable of handling the situation.
The parlour was coldly furnished in an out-of-date leather-upholstered suite and chairs. There was a heavy sideboard, too, holding hideous old-fashioned ornaments. Marble clock on the mantel-piece. There was one finger missing and the clock was stopped. On each side of it, more hideous ornaments. A bamboo plant-stand under the window with an anæmic plant in an ugly pot on it. Over the fireplace a framed portrait of a handsome bullet-headed man, with a dark moustache, impudent eyes and an unintelligent face. His hair was thin, with a calf-lick across his forehead.
“That’s Alveston,” said Pennyquick in a whisper as though imparting a vital secret.
The room smelled stale and damp. There was no fire in the grate, which held, instead, a large green fan, fully spread to cover the blackness of the back of the fireplace.
It looked as if Mrs. Alveston was mistress in her own home, at least; otherwise a modern type of girl like Phyllis would soon have swept away the ugly contents of the sitting-room and modernized it.
“My mother is in bed, but will see you.…” Phyllis returned and said it in a surprised tone.
“Very well, Miss Alveston,” said Littlejohn. “We could call again when she’s more in the mind to talk, if she wishes.…”
“She insists.…”
They climbed the narrow stairs. Two bedrooms gave on to the landing and there seemed to be a bathroom at the back.
They entered the larger of the two bedrooms. Mrs. Alveston was sitting-up in bed. She wore a knitted pink bed-jacket, and her eyes looked red as though she had recently done some weeping.
The room smelled smoky. There was a fire in the grate, burning fitfully and every now and then puffs of smoke belched out and, recoiling, went back up the chimney, leaving behind flecks of soot which settled about the place.
“I’m sorry to bring you up here, but I must talk with you seeing you have called. You must excuse the smoky room. The fire always does this when the wind’s in this direction. I’ll have to have the chimney seen to.…”
Mrs. Alveston had a thin, puffy face and the large appealing eyes of the persecuted. If life does not unduly persecute them, they persecute themselves.
The furniture of the room was heavy and outmoded. Large wardrobe, chest of drawers and marble-topped washstand in mahogany. Patterned wallpaper repeating a rose-in-basket design linked by ribbons ad nauseam. There was a patchwork quilt on the bed under a pink eiderdown, and by the bedside a table filled with medicine bottles, beside a large Bible, devotional tracts and a pair of spectacles. Mrs. Alveston spent a lot of time in bed. Her happy days at the Salters’ home before misfortune overtook her, were ever in her mind and, comparing them with the unhappiness which had befallen her in later life, filled her with ever-present sorrow and a sense of having been wronged. Genuine grief for her husband’s desertion had stricken her mentally, and, physically, her sufferings had brought upon her an obscure feminine complaint which walking aggravated. This kept her indoors and, with the exception of the visits of customers for her cakes and pies, she was a voluntary recluse. Quite impossible, too, for her daughter to run the household or even assert herself now and then. Any show of will on Phyllis’s part brought upon Mrs. Alveston one of her “attacks”, immobilized her in bed, turned her to her devotions with renewed fervour and multiplied her lamentations and weeping for her miserable state.
Pennyquick introduced Littlejohn and Cromwell.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mrs. Alveston,” said the Inspector. “I wanted a word with you about Mr. Granville, who, I understand, was staying with you.… It can wait, though, if you don’t …”
Mrs. Alveston wept softly and her nervous state caused a tremor of her head and neck, like the palsy.
“I might as well get it over, sir,” she said. “No use putting off the evil day. There’ll be more troubles tomorrow and it’s no use saving to-day’s till then, is it?”
“No.… Well, shall we get this over quickly?”
Phyllis stood in the doorway first, then, when her mother began to weep, hastened to give her a clean handkerchief and smooth her forehead.
“Don’t start crying again, mother, please. It’ll only upset you more. Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear?”
“No, not now. It wouldn’t do me any good till I’m quiet again. Give the gentlemen some chairs. Don’t keep them standing about. It’s bad manners, Phyllis, and you haven’t been brought up that way.”
The girl drew two cane-bottomed bedroom chairs from corners and, hurrying out, brought in another of the same kind from her own room.
“You needn’t have seen the men, you know, mother. I could have told them all they want to know.…”
“Well! … I like that! I’m quite capable of looking after my own affairs, madam.”
Mrs. Alveston alternated between petulance with her daughter and self-pity. She drew her new bed-jacket around her and indicated that she was ready by drying her eyes and blowing her nose.
Littlejohn drew his chair up to the bedside.
“First, did Mr. Salter always come here for Christmas, madam?”
“No, not always. He came several times a year, though, to see his old nurse. I brought him up, sir, and he never forgot his old nurse.”
“What brought him here this Christmas, then? Have you any idea?”
“He’d not been well and nobody could look after him like me, although I say it myself. Could they, Phyllis?”
“No, mother.”
“Did he seem worried about anything—besides being run-down by his recent illness?”
“No, not that I’d say.…”
�
�Why, mother …”
Phyllis interrupted in surprise.
“Be quiet, madam,” cried her mother. “This is my business and I’ll thank you not to interfere. You know Mr. Granville had no worries here. He was perfectly happy.”
Littlejohn let it go.
“Do you think he had any enemies who might have wished him ill, Mrs. Alveston?”
“No. Why should he? Mr. Granville couldn’t have had an enemy in the world. He was a fine young gentleman.…”
“I gather the family sold the Hall some time ago and Mr. Granville went to live in London. What did he do for a living there, do you know?”
“Yes, the Hall was sold as a convalescent home. A shame, I call it, after being theirs all these hundreds of years. Mr. Granville earned his living in London, he said, by buying and selling antiques.…”
“He got in contact with several dealers when the things at the Hall were sold, and as he was always interested in stuff like that, they persuaded him to enter the trade, I think,” added Phyllis, who was sitting now on the foot of the bed.
“I was coming to that,” said Mrs. Alveston, petulantly. She wanted to hold all the interest and could scarcely bear her daughter to speak.
“I understand that Mr. Granville was the last of the family.”
“He has a cousin somewhere, but seems to have lost track of him. Then there’s his aunt, Miss Margaret. Mr. Granville’s father had a scrapegrace brother.…”
“Scapegrace, mother.…”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? This brother ran away when young and went abroad with some actress or other … married, she was. And he died away. They had a son, I believe. Mr. Granville said he met him once or twice in London, but he never came near here.”
“You didn’t know the cousin, then?”
“No. I said he never came near here.”
“I see. And now about New Year’s Eve. Was Mr. Granville going to meet anybody when he left here for the last time?”
“No, not that I knew of. He went out about half-past nine, saying he’d like to walk round and see the village and then bring in the New Year for us.… A fine New Year it’s been so far.…”
The Case of the Headless Jesuit Page 4