“Alone?”
“Yes. She insists. I bring her to Thorncastle on my way to work and put her on the Bareham bus. Then, she sits and waits for me to pick her up in the afternoon when she returns and she goes home with me.”
“And she stands the trip after being indoors all the rest of the year?”
“Yes. Funny, isn’t it?”
“It is. Returning to your father. Did Mr. Salter ever mention him?”
“Casually. Why?”
“How casually?”
“Just casually, that’s all.”
“I mean, he never suggested tracing him or trying to get him to help with your getting married.”
“Why should he? He may, of course, have spoken to mother about him when I wasn’t there. I don’t think he ever met father, although he was once a bailiff or something on their estate.”
“Did your mother ever try to trace him?”
“No. She always said she believed in leaving well alone.”
“A strange remark.”
“She mustn’t have been happy with him. They had to get married, you know, because of me. You may as well know it.”
Littlejohn didn’t answer. He was watching the film scene. Just as the villain entered the church for the retake, someone came out. A familiar clerical figure. It materialized into Smythe, the curate from Cobbold.
“There’s Smythe from Cobbold coming from the cathedral.”
Phyllis followed Littlejohn’s direction without much enthusiasm.
“He’s often around. Sometimes calls at the shop, to ask me out for lunch. I used to go now and then, but it got too frequent.”
“He’s keen on you?”
“Yes. But I’m not that way. Besides, he’s a bit of a lady-fancier, I hear. Moves in a rather swift social set in Thorncastle.”
Littlejohn remembered the dancing incident of the first night at “The Mitre.”
Smythe drifted from view, vacantly looking in the direction of the shop in the close where Phyllis worked.
“Will you do something for me, Miss Alveston?”
“I’ll try. What is it?”
“Borrow a photograph of your father, if you have one about.”
“How strange. What’s that for?”
“Just in case we wish to trace him.”
“Surely, he doesn’t come into this. You don’t think he …?”
“No. But we must explore every angle.”
“Very well. He had a photograph taken in khaki. Mother had two copies. I’ll get one. It’s a group. Four pals of them, I guess—an awful-looking lot. But mother won’t part with it. I’ll get one of them.”
“Thank you. Do you know what regiment he was in?”
“No. I’m not interested. As far as I’m concerned he never existed.”
“I see. Your hour’s up, I’m afraid. I mustn’t keep you any longer. By the way, did Mr. Salter go much to the Hall after it was sold?”
“Yes. He loved it. So did I. We were very happy there in the good days. Granville used to say that one day he hoped to make enough money to buy it back and then we’d be married and start the family there all over again. Now …”
“I’m very sorry to keep raking up this unhappiness, Miss Alveston. But you understand.”
“Of course. If I don’t remember he’s dead, I like talking about these things. Granville was always around the Hall whenever he returned to Cobbold. You see, it’s been empty for a while. It was a sort of home run by a doctor for a time and wasn’t a success. The military took it over for a bit. Made an awful mess of it, too. It’s been empty since, though I believe the County Council are thinking of buying it for an asylum or something. Poor Granville.… He used to talk of finding the Salter treasure and starting all afresh. But that was just our fun.”
“The Salter treasure …?”
“Yes. There’s an old part of the Hall dating to Stuart times. They say the Salters fought for the King and when the Parliamentary troops were reported nearing Cobbold, Sir Thomas Salter, the then lord of the manor, put all his wealth, said to be very great, in a chest and hid it in a secret place. He was killed, shortly after, at Naseby. His wife, who shared his secret, went mad at the news. The only other who knew where the gold was, was a Jesuit, the family chaplain. Somebody told Cromwell’s troopers about the treasure and they came and tortured the priest to tell them where it was. He wouldn’t, so they beheaded him in rage and flung his body in the river. The place has been haunted ever since by a headless Jesuit.…”
“You seem interested in all these things, Miss Alveston.”
“I’ve a natural interest in them somehow. You see, Granville talked so much of the family and its history. After all, if his dreams had come true, I’d have been lady of the manor myself one day.…”
She laughed, a short, overwrought laugh, and looked out of the window without seeing anything. Littlejohn noticed, for the first time, that tears were flowing.
“All right, Miss Alveston, have a good cry. It’ll do you a lot of good.”
“I can’t. It’s all pent up inside me like a heavy stone in my heart.”
She dried her eyes and tried to change the subject.
“I’m not telling you tall tales. The headless Jesuit has been seen often. Ask anybody in the village. They won’t go near after dark. Granville wasn’t scared, however. He said the priest was a faithful family friend.”
“I wonder how the Jesuit went on when the army were in occupation.”
“I wouldn’t know. But I’ve heard of his being seen lately. They always say he’s around when one of the family’s going to die. He must have known about Granville.…”
“I must have a look around the Hall. I’m interested in such places. Especially when they’re haunted.…”
“Yes. You should go, Inspector. There’s a man lives in one of the lodges, looking after the place in his way. Fred Brown, he’s called. He’ll let you look round. Maybe you’ll find the treasure. Or, at least, one of the priest-holes.”
“So, they have priest-holes, too?”
“They say so. I never saw any. But the family was Catholic until Victorian times and always had a chaplain or other hidden about the place in days when Mass was forbidden.”
“How interesting. Do you know the time? It’s nearly twelve. I don’t want you to get the sack, you know.”
“No. I must be off at once.”
“Thanks for all you’ve told me. Most interesting about the family and the Hall.”
“And you will find out who did this, won’t you, Inspector? They are saying already that Granville was mixed up in some racket and fell out with his associates. I want his name clearing, if nothing else.”
“I’ll do my best. Good-bye, for the present, then.”
“Good-bye for the present. And thank you for the coffee.”
“Coffee, did you say?”
She laughed for the first time.
Littlejohn watched her out of sight through the window. As she neared the shop, Smythe emerged from somewhere and joined her. He looked delighted.
Littlejohn ordered a bottle of beer and sat thinking over the information he’d just gathered. But he didn’t have long to himself. He was disturbed by the arrival of Cromwell, who had, it appeared, been giving the film director a tip or two on how they shadowed a suspect.
“He seemed grateful, too. Put me in the film, he did, by way of reward, so to speak. I walked round the cathedral as a sightseer. He wanted a few, he said. Gave me a pound for doing it.…”
“Well, well. We are coming on. Film-star now. You’ll be leaving the Force, I guess, soon.”
“Not ruddy likely. But I must take the wife and family to see the film when it comes our way. I won’t tell ’em I’m in it. That’ll surprise ’em.… Any luck with Miss Alveston?”
“Yes. Quite a bit about the Salter family and her own. I want you to try and find out where the father is. He ran away soon after she was born. She’ll get us a picture of him and we’ll try to tr
ace him through his regiment and pals, if we can find out the regiment.”
“Tall order.”
“Chicken-feed for a detective like you. Adviser to film companies.…”
Cromwell blushed.
“I think I’ll just walk round the close for a breath of air before lunch. See you soon, Cromwell.”
And with that, Littlejohn left his colleague buying himself a beer from the proceeds of his technical advice.
SIX
INQUEST
MR. LANCELOT QUALTROUGH, County Coroner, sat in his private room in the Thorncastle courthouse, waiting for something to turn up. He always came half an hour before the scheduled time for a quiet attack on the crossword puzzle in the Daily Trumpet. If between nine-thirty and ten o’clock when the business of the day began, Mr. Qualtrough had not polished off the mystery, he was in bad form for the rest of the morning.
The Coroner was a distinguished antiquary and a member of many learned societies. He had an obsession for puzzles of any kind, be they coins dug up, ruins laid bare, relics found in strange places, or rebuses, enigmas, anagrams, unsolved crimes, or bones discovered in spots where you wouldn’t expect to come across them. Every Sunday morning at eight, the Observer and the Sunday Times were placed on Mr. Qualtrough’s bedside table. If, by breakfast time at ten o’clock, he hadn’t solved both crosswords, Lancelot fasted for the rest of the day.
When Percival knocked on the Coroner’s door, Mr. Qualtrough was just dealing with the last clue.
“Black queen’s ablutions lead to royal seduction.”
“Bathsheba …” shouted the Coroner in contempt. “Too easy!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the surprised Percival.
“Good morning, Percival. I hope I find you well.”
“Good morning, Mr. Qualtrough.…”
Mr. Qualtrough raised a protesting hand.
“It is pronounced Qualtrock, not Qualtrow, and, in the dying Celtic language of its origin, means Foreigner or Stranger. Most appropriate seeing that I’ve lived here all my life.…”
And the Coroner burst into a wild cackle at his own wit. He was a small, bald, bird-like man with a large head, which, one would have thought, he had vigorously polished with furniture cream after shaving and cleaning his teeth. Percival didn’t, as a rule, have much to do with Mr. Qualtrough. He usually left it to his subordinates. But this was a case of murder. So …
“I just came for a word on procedure before we begin, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll only require identification, medical evidence, and then adjournment for further investigation, if you please.”
“Of course, of course. Why not?”
It was difficult to tell Mr. Qualtrough outright. But the truth was that at the inquest on poor P.C. Plucock, the Coroner, excited when confronted by a new and novel mystery, began in his court to try and unravel it. It had taken the police all their time to stop him.
“Shall we go in, then. Where’s Whatmough?”
A lugubrious figure, as tall and thin as his master was short and plump, materialized from somewhere like the genie of the ring.
“Here, sir,” fluted Whatmough, the Coroner’s factotum, in a high voice which seemed to come through a reed as it left his throat.
Littlejohn was sitting in the well of the court with Pennyquick, who was one of the star witnesses.
“A very clever man in his way is Mr. Qualtrough—insists on being called Qualtrock, don’t know why. As I was sayin’, sir, he’s very clever. Knows all the ancient ’istory of the city and of the county for miles round here. Come Saturday afternoons, you’ll find him leadin” a crowd of professors and the like, off to dig up some ruin or look over some ancient monument. He’s written books, too. Very clever ones for those as likes old coins, buildin’s, and such like. There’s an old boat in the city museum that he dug up. Made from a tree trunk, hollered out. Found it near Cobbold where the Marsh used to be before they drained it. Said to be ’undreds of years old.…”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir. I’m not very interested. But I must say his book on Salter Hall’s worth readin’. Tells the whole history of the place.”
“Now that’s worth knowing, Pennyquick. Maybe Mr. Qualtrough will be able to help us there.”
Pennyquick didn’t quite know how the Coroner could help, but the arrival of that gentleman in his pulpitlike perch prevented further conversation.
Mr. Fernihough—pronounced Fernihuff this time—the Salter family lawyer and Phyllis Alveston identified the body of the deceased in the absence of any relatives. Mr. Fernihough called the Coroner Mr. Qualtruff and was corrected, and Mr. Qualtrough then gave the lawyer “Fernihock” and was himself put right. Whereat they both laughed like a pair of schoolboys, for it was their little joke. The Mephistophelian Coroner’s clerk looked on with bilious disapproval.
P.C. Pennyquick then gave evidence of how the tragedy occurred. As many as could safely postpone their work in Cobbold had left the village and now were sitting packed together in the courtroom. The bulk of them had been at the fatal watchnight service and punctuated the constable’s recital by grunts of approval or concurrence, or groans of sympathy and dismay. On the seat nearest the door sat Mr. Ephraim Davy, his loaves for the day already baked and sold. Now and then the baker left the room for a smoke. He was an inveterate pipe-smoker and couldn’t go for long without a puff or two. He would parade up and down the pavement outside smoking like a chimney, then, his appetite appeased and his pipe rendered harmless by the insertion of a cork in the bowl, he would return for another dose of horror.
“… At first, I thought he was drunk, sir. Then, Mr. Flunder and me, we picked ’im up and found that …”
Mr. Flunder, who had fallen asleep, jerked awake at the sound of his name and the groan which arose from the audience. He had been dreaming he was at school again.
“Adsum!” he shouted as he opened his eyes, thinking it was roll-call.
A woman fainted and was carried out.
“Let me see the weapon,” said Mr. Qualtrough.
Percival handed it up to the pulpit with a sigh.
The Coroner handled the gruesome knife with relish. He tested the blade for sharpness and the whole for balance. Then, he took out a lens and read out the name.
“Willh.… that will be short for Wilhelm … Wilh. Gruber … I see. A German knife.… Brown or Blackshirt presumably. Quite a modern affair.…”
He sounded disappointed; maybe at the fact that it wasn’t an antique or a flint axe.
“Are there any Germans about, prisoners or such like?”
“No, sir,” chimed in Percival, and gave Mr. Qualtrough a very reproachful look.
“Aye … ahem …” said Mr. Coroner, realizing what the look implied. “Thank you. Very nasty. What have you to tell us, Dr. Kilpheric?”
The police surgeon, an Irishman, who might have been the twin brother of Mr. Qualtrough, except that his eyes were green instead of blue, said the wound could have been inflicted by the knife.… He’d say it had been. It had been delivered with an upward thrust and pierced the heart.
“And would the victim live long enough after that to walk in church and die there, doctor?”
Another woman went off into hysterics this time. Her cries were stifled by someone ramming a handkerchief half down her throat and she was hustled outside in the wake of Mr. Ephraim Davy, who uncorked his pipe again and had another smoke.
“Oh yes, yes, yes, sir,” answered Kilpheric. “It has been known … soldiers and the like … when the great vessels have not been pierced.”
“Ah!” said the Coroner, who didn’t know a thing about it, but tried to look as though he did. He turned to his diabolical assistant and told him to make a note of it. With that, Mr. Qualtrough looked sadly at the assembly, the police, the knife, and the record of crime before him. He longed to start questioning everyone and, armed with a lot of clues, try to solve the mystery then and
there by ratiocination, as he called it. He whispered to Mephistopheles, who looked as though he hated his master, but really was utterly devoted to him, even to the extent of digging deep among ruins for him when requested.
“No,” said the clerk in firm, restraining tones.
“Inquest adjourned, sine die, then,” said Mr. Qualtrough rather plaintively. “Further investigations by the police.… Thank you all for your help and attendance.”
The crowd filtered out, feeling they had rendered the law a great service. There was a stampede for places on the Cobbold bus.
Meanwhile, Percival was introducing Littlejohn to Mr. Qualtrough. The Coroner’s eyes lit up.
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector. I’m a mystery addict myself and maybe could be of use to you.”
“Thank you, sir. There is one little matter you might help to clear up.…”
Mr. Qualtrough rubbed his neat little hands together.
“Already! Good. Good. Pray tell me what it is. I’ll be delighted.”
“I am told that you are an antiquary, sir, and the historian of Salter Hall, at Cobbold.…”
“Yes, I am, Inspector.… Pray sit down.”
“You won’t need me, sir?” asked Percival, anxious to be about his business.
Mr. Qualtrough looked dismayed. He hoped Percival wasn’t annoyed with him about the knife.
“No, no. Don’t go.…”
“It’s all right if you’re busy,” interposed Littlejohn. “I won’t be long. Join you at the police station.”
The Superintendent hurried off.
“I do hope I haven’t worried Percival at the inquest. He seems …”
“He’s worried about the murder and very busy, sir. We were talking about Salter Hall. Have you ever heard the tale of the headless Jesuit?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t in these parts? It’s a legend, you know. As far as I can tell you, there has been no manifestation of the haunting in my time, and such as is recorded, is from unreliable sources, mainly hysterical servants. They once had a poltergeist there, I believe. Threw things about in the kitchen. But that was, I’m sure, one of those strange phenomena which sometimes accompany hysterical kitchen-maids. Remember the affair at Epworth Parsonage?”
The Case of the Headless Jesuit Page 6