“I think I do, sir. The Wesleys, wasn’t it? But that’s not what I’m after. I’ve been told by a perfectly sensible person that people have seen the headless Jesuit there of late. For myself, I think it’s probably some intruder, a tramp maybe, taking a free night’s lodging. They do say that the villagers won’t go near at night.”
“You’re probably right, Inspector. Of course, the legend had a true foundation, but it doesn’t go back to Cromwellian times. It concerns one Simister Salter, a Regency buck, and lord of the manor for a while. Shall I go on …?”
“Please do, sir.”
Mr. Qualtrough rubbed his hands and settled down cosily in his chair. The cadaverous clerk popped his head round the door to see if his master was there and in order.
“Sorry,” he fluted and withdrew.
“That’s Whatmough, my clerk. Strange.… He calls himself Whatmow. I’m Qualtrock and the Salters’ lawyer is Fernihuff. All with O-U-G-H. Isn’t our language funny?”
Mr. Qualtrough was settling down on his pet hobbyhorse, surnames.
“About the Jesuit, sir. You were saying …”
“Ah, yes. The Jesuit. Well, it seems there was some sort of a tale from Stuart times about a Jesuit getting himself maltreated and losing his head for not disclosing the hiding-place of the Salter treasure. There may have been a Jesuit. They were Catholics, of course. But there never was a treasure.”
The Coroner delivered judgment with a snap and an air of scholarly finality.
“No, Inspector. No treasure. They were a poor family until the Marsh was drained and they made farms for themselves. Their rent-roll in Stuart times was paltry. Something and nothing. I’ve seen the manorial records. The tenants were all copyholders, and many couldn’t pay their dues. Furthermore, the family at the time made no rich marriages. What girl would want to marry an impoverished squire of a lot of fenland? I mean what girl of any wealth? They just allied themselves to the local gentry like themselves. You always get tales of that kind about old families. It adds a touch of romance and, I might say, power to a house when there’s a haunting or ghost about it.”
“But you said, sir, there was some foundation to the story.”
“All in good time. I’m coming to it. I was mentioning Simister Salter, or Saltaire, as they were once called. He was a wild one. He treated his wife shamefully. He gambled, drank and wenched all over the countryside and left illegitimate offspring all over the place. The bad blood of the family came out fully in him. There have been splashes of it here and there on occasions, but Simister had the whole bucketful. In the end, his wife ran away in the night with the estate steward, a young, and from all accounts, good-looking man. The pair were never seen again. The following morning Hosegood, the body-servant of Simister—he still has descendants in the village—was found in the park. He’d been shot through the heart. It’s thought he tried to intercept the runaways and met his match.…”
The tale looked like continuing indefinitely. Suddenly, Whatmough’s emaciated face appeared again.
“You won’t forget, sir, you’ve an appointment at the barber’s at noon and, after that, a lunch date?”
A french polisher rather than a barber seemed indicated by the Coroner’s shiny pate, but there it was.
“All right. All right, Whatmough. What time is it?”
Mephistopheles consulted a huge timepiece which he drew with difficulty from his fob-pocket.
“Quarter to twelve,” he said testily and replaced the watch, which slid with a thud to the bottom of the pocket again.
“I must hurry. Well, Simister was hardly ever sober again after that. He was not a religious man and with him the Catholic side of the line died out, because—and this caused many quarrels with his wife—he insisted on sending his only son to Oxford as a member of the Establishment. But on his deathbed, the devil turned saint. He sent for the parish priest, a fellow named Tranter, who kept a diary and left us a record. Simister was dying when he arrived. He’d had a stroke and was bereft of speech. He took little heed of the religious ministrations but made it obvious that he wanted to tell Tranter something. He couldn’t articulate. Then, just as the throes were upon him, he made a terrible effort and with his last breath cried, ‘The Headless Jesuit,’ and died.”
Littlejohn looked bewildered at the rigmarole.
“I see you are puzzled, Inspector. Well you might be. All I was trying to show is that the Headless Jesuit cropped up again. Tranter must have told about it, for, from then onwards, the legend revived. It got about that the death of Simister was due in some way to the Jesuit. Punishment for his sins and for renouncing the Catholic religion. Now they say that when a Salter is due for death, the Jesuit is seen. That, of course, is nonsense. Folklore …”
“I see. And what is the theory about Simister’s dying cry, sir?”
“You know as much as I do. Maybe it was delirium. Whatever it was, it gave renewed fillip to the old wife’s tale.… Oh, dear, I must get my hair cut. Excuse my rushing off.…”
And, with that, Mr. Qualtrough bowed himself out and hurried to the barber’s. Littlejohn remained sitting as he filled his pipe and turned over the Coroner’s tale, trying to make some sense out of it.
Mr. Whatmough appeared again, presumably to tidy up and lock the place.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, and sniffed. “I couldn’t help overhearing. The Headless Jesuit, sir, I think it was about. I am myself, thanks to Mr. Qualtrough’s interest, something of an antiquary. I am a member of the Thorncastle Antiquaries Society, etcetera, and have written a small monograph on Urn Burial in the Cobbold Marsh.…”
He paused for breath and sniffed again. Littlejohn wondered what it was all about. Was the pale shadow of the Coroner about to refute or increase the strange information already given by his master?
“Whilst I confirm everything Mr. Qualtrough has told you, Inspector, I have something to add. Mr. Simister Salter had also a reputation as a punster, practical joker and hoaxer. It’s strange that Mr. Qualtrough should have omitted to tell you this, because, whilst he has none of Simister’s cruelty and vindictiveness, he likes his little puzzle and his little joke himself.… He, he, he.…”
Whatmough tittered shrilly at the thought of it. His breath smelled of peppermints and he looked like a walking corpse.
“Maybe, he forgot in his haste to get to the hairdresser’s.…”
“Where is this leading to, Mr. Whatmough? I must be going. It’s lunch time.…”
“I was only going to say, it is on record that Mr. Simister, like many of the bucks of his time, was addicted to joking. What if the story of the Headless Jesuit and his last words mentioning it, were a cryptic reference to some secret in his life, a clue to the solution of some puzzle …?”
“Well? Where would that get us?”
“It is a theory of mine. I do not believe that the Salter Treasure was a myth. I know Mr. Qualtrough dismisses it on quite logical grounds. I have not dared to argue with him, but I have my own views. I grant that at the time when the Treasure was supposed to be hidden, the Salters were not a wealthy family. That has been established. But they were of high repute for loyalty and honour. We know that the King’s men accumulated treasure for his cause. They contributed their gold and jewels to a common purse. Cobbold, in its marshes, as they were then, was one of the last Royalist strongholds to survive. What if the King’s Treasure were hidden in that vast old house and what if a poor priest held the secret?”
Mr. Whatmough’s eyes glowed. He prodded Littlejohn on the chest with a long, bony forefinger.
“… What if Simister Salter found the secret of the Treasure and on his deathbed tried to impart it to a village priest? Why did he send for a priest? Because he was the man he could trust.…”
“Interesting theory,” said Littlejohn.
“A theory which I shall always pursue till it’s refuted, sir. I hope to find the Treasure one day. Then, as Mr. Qualtrough holds his Crowner’s Quest on it, I shall be the pr
incipal witness, instead of a humble scribe.…”
The man’s mad! thought Littlejohn.
Whatmough was almost dancing with excitement.
“And I tell you this, too. There are places in that Hall not yet laid bare. And the Headless Jesuit does exist.… I’ve seen him!”
“What is all this? When?”
“Last night! I called at the lodge to inquire if Mr. Granville had been around there before his death. As Coroner’s officer, I feel interested in these things. It’s my duty to get to know everything. There was nobody in the lodge. I thought the gatekeeper might be at the Hall and went to see. It was locked up, but there was a dim light showing through the leaded window, the long one on the staircase. I knocked on the window and tried to peer in. There was a terrible cry, and next I saw a figure in a monk’s Habit running across the lawn and vanishing into the woods. It was dark and, though I followed, I lost him.…”
“It must have been a tramp or intruder you scared.”
“No. It was a monk and there was nothing where his head should be!”
Another great blast of peppermint!
“You must be mistaken. Such things don’t happen, Mr. Whatmough. You must have been deceived in the bad light.”
Whatmough peered cunningly into Littlejohn’s face and wagged his head to and fro.
“Before this case is ended you’ll know some strange things. The strangest you’ve ever encountered. Good morning.…”
Mr. Whatmough put a high-crowned bowler on his head and thus looked more elongated and sepulchral than ever. He made for the door and then, turning in his steps, delivered a parting shot.
“There is some dispute about the pronunciation of the Coroner’s name, too. And mine. But he insists on his own way. He is Qualtrow and I am Whatmuff. Good-day to you, sir.…”
Littlejohn stayed for a moment at the door of the courthouse where Mephistopheles had left him. And there Cromwell found him, laughing to himself.
“It’s good to see somebody sane at last, old chap,” said Littlejohn.
Cromwell smiled, too. Old chap! Things were looking up.
“Why, sir?”
“Qualtrow and Qualtrock, Whatmoow and Whatmuff, Headless Jesuits and King’s Treasures.… They’re all going mad!”
Still laughing, he told it all to Cromwell, who did not laugh. He took it very seriously.
“They’re ruddy-well trying to spoof us! What the hell do they think we’re here for? Well, we’ll see who laughs last. Meanwhile, I’ve something to tell you, sir.”
“Fire away, then.”
“I made my way to the court, but found you’d finished. But Miss Alveston was waiting at the door. She said she wanted to see you; she had something for you. I asked if I would do, as you seemed busy. She said yes, and gave me this.”
Cromwell produced a photograph of a group of men in khaki, with the tight puttees of long ago and, of all things, proudly wearing their stiff-looking, old-time privates’ hats. It had been taken by a professional man and the features of each were quite clear.
“That’s her father.…”
A stocky, stiff-looking man, obviously posing for his picture, and, judging from the looks of the rest, the life and soul of the party. He had a broad, crafty face and a cynical, cocky smile under a heavy, dark moustache. All set against a back-cloth got up to look like the Rialto at Venice, with palms in pots at each side.
“She told me to tell you something else, too. She took the picture without asking her mother for fear of upsetting her. But last time she looked at the back of the album where it’s kept, there were two copies in the same envelope. Well, one of them’s gone.”
SEVEN
THE TRAIL OF JERRY ALVESTON
“WE’D better find out what happened to Alveston,” Littlejohn said to Cromwell. “Nobody seems to know properly.”
There seemed to be something queer underlying Jerry Alveston’s behaviour after 1917. From Pennyquick and then from Mrs. Alveston herself it appeared that the ex-bailiff of Salters’ estate had volunteered for the army a year or two after war had broken out. His conduct since then had, to say the least of it, been very eccentric. He had not joined the Mereshires with the rest of his pals, but gone off to a distant place, enlisted in a regiment there, turned up twice on leave in khaki, during one of which visits his wife had helped herself to two photographs of her husband and comrades, and then, instead of returning home when he was demobbed, he had disappeared.
What was the cause of it all? Had he tired of his wife and previous existence and determined to start afresh, or had he, during his absence, come across some strange information or opportunity to make money and taken himself off to improve the shining hour; or, to think the worst, to hide from or shake off some threat. From past history, too, mainly recorded in mouth-to-mouth gossip, it turned out that his wife knew little about his movements whilst he was in the army. He hardly ever wrote and then only when he wanted something.
Cromwell, therefore, started from scratch to find out what had happened to the runaway.
Mrs. Alveston had even forgotten the regiment which Jerry joined. A magnifying glass and the photograph revealed, after inspection of hat badges and consultation with experts, that he had served with the Glebeshire Yeomanry.
Cromwell, always ready for a jaunt, arrived in Glebechester early in the day. The place was decked in bunting and flags flew from every building. As his train drew into the station, Cromwell found the platforms banked with flowers and a red carpet laid from the ticket-barriers all the way up the approach to the street. Outside there were huge crowds, including a band, a guard of honour, a children’s choir and His Worship the Mayor in gold chain and red gown, with a mace-bearer and bewigged town clerk at his side.
“Gangway! Clear the way. The train’s signalled,” shouted a portly official, and Cromwell was forcibly wedged among the throng around the station entrance.
“What’s going on?” asked Cromwell of a large woman by his side. But the band was beginning to play and he got no answer. It must be Royalty, he thought. The Mayor gathered his retinue and his scarlet robes around him, a small procession formed, and with stately steps vanished down the approach and into the station. A shrill whistle, and a train drew in.
A biting east wind blew down the street, but nobody heeded it. They were all warmed-up by fervour and anticipation. Down below on the platform, something was happening. Thin cheers rose on the wind from the nether regions of the station, then a swelling to a full-throated roar. The band played again, the children waved flags, the spectators flailed their arms above their heads and bellowed, and the juvenile choir began to sing. The loyal Cromwell removed his hat, clicked his heels and drew himself up like the good soldier he once had been. Then the Mayor and Corporation emerged, smiling and proud of themselves, followed by the Glebeshire Rovers. They’d won the cup!
The guard of honour presented arms, the Mayor doffed his cocked hat, flags fluttered in the wind, the Glebeshires’ colours were flaunted and eleven sturdy men and a reserve, after seeing-off the mayoral Rolls Royce, piled themselves in an open-topped charabanc and, with the trophy held aloft, drove through the frenzied crowds to the Town Hall for the victory feast. Cromwell, carried away by the emotions of the mob, yelled his head off with the rest.
Then, as if by magic, the concourse melted away and Cromwell was left standing alone amid the remnants of the fury. Broken banners, torn flags and bunting, toffee papers and cigarette packets, empty bandstand, and dead microphone from which the Mayor had made his speech of welcome which nobody heard for cheers. The sergeant pulled himself together and recovered his poise.
“Nothing doing to-day by the looks of it,” he grumbled.
A porter emerged from the station and slowly and irritably began to roll up the sacred carpet.
“Local high-jinks and holiday?” asked Cromwell cheerfully.
“Lot o’ ruddy nonsense, if you asks me,” said the official. “All this fuss about a soccer cup. Give me rugger
any day. Now, that’s the game.…”
“Are the Glebeshire Yeomanry barracks round here?”
The man removed a cigarette from a battered paper packet, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, lit it, and ejected a cloud of smoke. He drew so hard at the tobacco, that Cromwell imagined the whole of his inside enveloped in smoke clouds.
“Aye. What do you want with ’em?”
Just as if the sergeant were a saboteur, ready to blow up or carry off the blessed place!
“I want to see the officer in charge.”
“Fat lot o’ good you’ll do to-day. He’s out with the ridgiment, guard of honour for the victors and at the banquet after, too. Banquets! With things as they are. You’d think the food ’ud choke ’em.…”
The man spat in the road and kicked the carpet, which emitted a cloud of choking dust.
“Old Colonel Muspratt’ll be as mad as an ’atter about it all. Always ready for a banquet is the Colonel … and now he goes and gets himself gout and carn’t turn out just on this of all days. Serve ’im right. The old devil.…”
“Who’s Colonel Muspratt when he’s at home?”
“Led the Regiment in the ’fourteen-eighteen war. Proper devil he was, too. I know—I was there.…”
“In the Glebeshires?”
“Aye. Much good it done me. Look at me now. Rollin’ up ruddy carpets as others ’as wiped their feet on.…”
“Remember a fellow of the name of Alveston in the Glebeshires?”
“Ask me another. There were ’undreds of us and it’s thirty years or more since.… I must be gettin’ on. If the boss gets back and finds this carpet still out ’e’ll play merry ’ell.”
“Wait a minute. Recognize any of these?”
Cromwell took out the photograph and passed it to the porter who thumbed it roughly and held it close to his eyes.
“Where you get this? Seem to recollect them faces.…”
And with that the porter broke into malevolent chuckles. He pointed a grubby finger at one of Alveston’s companions.
The Case of the Headless Jesuit Page 7