The Case of the Headless Jesuit

by George Bellairs

  “Why, this thing gives Phyllis Alveston as the child of one Edward Salter, Pennyquick!”

  “Rubbish, sir. Why, Mr. Edward was a cripple. All the same, that wouldn’t … Still, where’s the proof and where did Fred Plucock get that? It’s no proof. He might ’ave made it up himself.”

  “We’d better see the vicar. This is too deep for us. Which of these people is still alive?”

  “Margaret only. As I said, married and in London. Edward killed ’imself. Millicent went to America and was torpedoed comin’ home in this last war.”

  On the blue inside cover of the exercise book the dead policeman had drawn a plan, a rough one, of some house or other.

  “Recognize this, Pennyquick?” asked Littlejohn.

  The constable took a mere glance.

  “It’s Salter ’All, sir. No doubt about that. See, that’s the main door—staircase—gallery—first floor—servants’ floor.… Yes, it’s the ’All all right.”

  “So, poor Plucock was yet another victim of the Headless Jesuit tale …?”

  The woman uttered an alarmed cry, half scream, half moan.

  “Oh, no, no, no. So that’s what poor Fred was after. The Salter Treasure. That’s it. He said no more slavin’ for me, and good times for the children. What could ’e hope for there? Why, it wouldn’t have been ’is, if he’d found it. Curse the Salters.… Curse them all.… They took my Fred.…”

  “There, there, Liz. Don’t take on so. Fred didn’t do anythin’ wrong. Knowin’ Fred, I’m sure he met his death in the course o’ duty. He was tryin’ to find the treasure so’s he could hand it over and get promotion for smart work. That’s what it was. I see it all now.”

  Poor Pennyquick was perspiring heavily in his frantic efforts to comfort his dead comrade’s wife and vindicate him.

  “Do you think that’s what it is, Mr. Pennyquick?”

  “Of course I do, Liz. And I shall report on same to the heads in Thorncastle.”

  In a pathetic gesture to be convincing, Pennyquick took out his black official note-book and started to scribble things in it.

  “P.C. Plucock, invetigiating Salter tressure. Probably murdered in coarse of duty.”

  In his emotion he forgot how to spell, although normally he was unusually literate, having, to the best of his ability, kept track of his daughters’ homework for the High School.

  “And do you two gentlemen think the same, sirs?”

  “Your husband had the reputation for being a very good officer and of good character. No doubt what Mr. Pennyquick says is quite true, Mrs. Plucock.”

  Cromwell sagely nodded assent.

  The woman fastened on to the theory like someone drowning catching at a lifebuoy. She smiled and tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I’m glad it’s all cleared up.…”

  The three policemen looked sadly at each other, wishing it were as easy as that.

  “Now I can tell the children their father died bravely, doing his duty. Wore himself out in it, he did, and was killed by those he was on the track of.…”

  The scene was interrupted by the entrance of a little stout old lady, dressed all in black, gloves, stockings and hat as well. She would have resembled a large cockroach but for her face, a fine, stern old face, with shrivelled apple cheeks and a strong Roman nose. Shyly bringing up the rear were four small children; three, five, seven and nine. They had evidently been enjoying themselves somewhere, for, in spite of their sudden silence, their eyes shone with the pleasure of bringing their grandmother home.

  Grandma halted on the mat, carefully placed her umbrella in the corner, and turned an angry face on the three men.

  “And what, might I ask, Andrew Pennyquick, is the meanin’ o’ this? Comin’ here upsettin’ my Liz, as if she hadn’t enough …”

  “It’s all right, mother. They’ve just come to talk about Fred. It seems he was killed doin’ his duty. Thieves was after the Salter Treasure, and Fred …”

  “Tell me later. Not in front of the children. I’m surprised at you, Lizzie. You was brought up better than that. Is this true, Andrew Pennyquick?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hearty.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll overlook it, though you shouldn’t have upset ’er. All the same, I’m glad you made her cry. Hasn’t had a cry since … Nothin’ like a good cry for easin’ the ’eart o’ grief.… Well, what are you standin’ there for?”

  P.C. Pennyquick eyed the old dame with great respect.

  “I jest wanted to say, as well, that these two gentlemen ’ave come from Scotland Yard to ’elp us find out about who … well … you know what.…”

  He eyed the silent children, now timidly clinging to the old lady’s skirts.

  “From where?”

  “Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hearty.”

  “Never ’eard of it! And what’s gone wrong with you, Andrew Pennyquick, as you need to bring in foreigners from Scotland to do your work for you? Enough to make my poor ’usband turn in his grave.…”

  Pennyquick hastily led away his nonplussed collaborators, stopping at the door of the car to explain that the late Sergeant Hearty had, long ago, before his own time, been the Law in the two parishes of Cobbold and Carstonwood and that his widow carried on his good work.

  TEN

  TWELVE-NOTE SCALE

  MISS MADELINE FOTHERGILL, sister of the one-time village doctor, lived in a modernized country cottage midway between Cobbold and Carstonwood, and Littlejohn left his colleagues there. The bobby had some routine work to do and Cromwell had in mind getting their belongings settled in at the “Royal Oak” and maybe, over a drink or two, gathering a bit more local gossip about the characters in whom he and Littlejohn were interested.

  “See you later.…”

  The helmet and the bowler hat vanished in the distance.

  The old lady’s cottage was a pretty one, surrounded by a six-foot hedge of hawthorn and fuchsia. You entered by a gate in a gap carved out of a solid mass of leaves and branches. There was no doubt about who lived there. Instead of calling it after some scene of sentimental recollection or a vulgar suburban joke of a name, the owner had come straight to the point and labelled it Fothergills. Littlejohn opened the gate and entered. He made his way through little neat lawns and empty flower-beds, turned over and ready for their spring decorations, following a narrow track to the front door.

  Inside, somebody sounded to be tuning the piano. Thin, stringy, confused notes, with no air, yet bearing a strange coherence which fascinated you. A maid opened the door in answer to his ring. The piano-tuning sounded to be going on more furiously than ever.

  The girl took his card and bade him sit down. This he had to do on a chair in the hall, for the cottage seemed only to have one large living-room, where the thin twanging was going on, and a kitchen.

  “Got the piano-tuner in?” asked Littlejohn, trying to be friendly.

  The maid gave him a scorching, pitying look and vanished into the living-room, leaving him sitting there, like Dr. Johnson ingloriously waiting on his patron. The music stopped and the girl returned.

  “Miss Fothergill will see you now,” she said haughtily. Apparently something he’d said or done had filled her with contempt for him, in spite of his card and the name of Scotland Yard, about which, like the terrible Mrs. Hearty, she’d probably never heard. The girl soon put him right. Before opening the door to admit him to the holy of holies, she whispered to him in tones of reproof.

  “That was not the tuner. It was Miss Fothergill playing. She’s one of the most famous players of the twelve-note scale in the country. So there!” And she flounced off into the hidden regions behind a curtained door at the other side of the hall.

  There was nothing of the lavender lady about Miss Fothergill. She was like the name on the gate. Straight and to the point. Tall, well set-up and heavy, she had a strikingly handsome face, bonneted by a close-cut cap of silky grey hair. She didn’t look her age by any means.

  She was sitting at the open piano, a fi
ne grand which fitted handsomely in the large, well-lighted room. The place was in comfortable disorder; polished floor with large Indian mats, antique black-oak furniture, good pictures on the walls mixed with one or two charcoal drawings, one of herself, and other odds and ends. Over the large brick fireplace a portrait of what must have been her late brother. His features were remarkably like her own, kindly and benevolent, with a small, grey moustache and humorous blue eyes.

  Miss Fothergill was smoking a cigarette. It hung from the corner of her mouth, man-like, and she coughed now and then as the smoke caught her. She rose, Littlejohn’s card in her fingers, and shook him by the hand.

  “Not often we have Scotland Yard down here. What do you want, Inspector?”

  “I’m here about the village murders; young Salter and P.C. Plucock.”

  “Sit down. Have a cigarette, will you? Yes, of course, light your pipe. Nice to have pipe smoke about again. My brother always smoked a pipe. Well … and where do I come in?”

  “Strangely enough, Miss Fothergill, both the murdered men seemed somehow bent on a quest. Something to do with the Salter Treasure, we believe.…”

  “What! That poppycock! I’m surprised at intelligent men wasting time on that old legend. It’s been defunct for a century or more. I can assure you, if there’d been any treasure at the Hall, the greedy money-hunters would have found it. Short of pulling it down stone by stone, all the Salters, all the antiquaries, and all the dotty folk of this district have been after it at one time or another. I thought they’d tired of the nonsense. My brother knew all about the story and, I think, all about those who went after the treasure. Believe me, it’s just tomfoolery.…”

  “Yes, madam. That’s as may be.…”

  “By the way, Inspector, please don’t madam me. In the first place, I’m a spinster and in the second this isn’t a modiste’s shop. I hate the term.… Just plain Miss Fothergill or nothing at all, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry, Miss Fothergill. It’s this way. Both Mr. Granville and Plucock left papers behind which apparently had some bearing on this treasure hunt. Your name appeared in a list of persons who they either thought knew something of what they were after or whom they proposed to interview.…”

  “They did call to see me, both of ’em.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes. I think the reason I was included in the list would be that my brother was, for nearly forty years, medical attendant at the Hall and also a member, a prominent member, of the local antiquarian society. In roundabout ways, both Plucock and young Salter asked me if they might look at my brother’s papers. I said no, and that was that.”

  “Do you mind telling me exactly what happened, Miss Fothergill?”

  “Not at all. By the way, it’s noon and my coffee time. Care to join me? I don’t take lunch.”

  The haughty maid served the coffee and, finding Littlejohn getting on very well with her mistress, thawed and smiled upon him graciously. Outside, an elderly gardener, with white mutton-chop whiskers, a crafty face and a battered old felt hat, began hammering nails in an empty beehive. Miss Fothergill opened the window.

  “Go away and work at the back, please, Sly. We can’t hear ourselves speak. Take it to the shed and do it there.…”

  “Very good, Miss Madeline.…”

  He shouldered the hive with an ease which belied his age and shambled off.

  “Is that Tom Sly?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He’s on the list, too.”

  “Significant. He’s the local gravedigger. Where were we?”

  “Your brother’s papers.…”

  “Oh, yes. My brother spent such spare time as he had in his later years compiling a history of the Salter family and the Hall. He was intimate with them when they lived there and, as an antiquary, was in a good position to make a scientific job of it. He’d collected a mass of facts and was half-way through the book when he died. One night, just after dinner, he was starting to do some of it, when he just dropped down dead. I’ve never got over it.”

  That was apparent. She spoke of her brother in every other sentence. The bond between them must have been fond and firm.

  “First came Mr. Granville. He’d heard of my brother’s researches and would like, if I’d let him, to have a look at the papers. And, did my brother, by any chance, keep a diary? As a matter of fact, he did. He was a great diarist, but I wasn’t going to lend anyone the record of his most intimate thoughts, even though they were mixed up with Salter history. I haven’t even read them myself.”

  “Did Mr. Granville deliberately ask for the diary?”

  “As a matter of fact, he gave me the impression of being keener on the diary than on the family records. I wasn’t letting him have either. I intend to finish my brother’s book one day. Then, whoever wants may read it. Unfortunately, Mr. Granville won’t be one of them.”

  “No. The diary business is most interesting, though. Have you any idea why he wanted it? Did he say?”

  “No. I’m afraid I was a bit abrupt and didn’t even ask. Granville was a nice boy. Big pity. But there are limits to what one can do for people, and this was one.”

  “What excuse did Granville make for calling, Miss Fothergill?”

  “He said he was putting together a family tree and records. That seemed very thin to me, because they’ve already been very well put together by the local antiquarian society, chiefly by Mr. Qualtrough and Mr. Polydore. They did separate books, too, because they’re so jealous of each other. They can’t agree and, instead of collaborating and making one fine work, the silly little men worked separately. Mr. Polydore’s is by far the better of the two.”

  “And Granville was having a go as well?”

  “No, of course not. He’d some other motive which he didn’t disclose. But I knew.…”

  “You didn’t know the motive, though?”

  “No.”

  “I think maybe I can tell you, though in strictest confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  Upstairs, the maid was busy turning out the bedrooms. It was certainly a delightful house. Wattle-and-daub, like the rest of the local places, with a thatched roof, as well, only the thatch was new and golden, apparently renewed in the autumn after harvest, when the thatchers had time. The old stone floors had been replaced by wooden ones and broad new windows had been let in the walls in place of the old narrow sashes. Littlejohn wished Letty, his wife, had been there to see it all and meet the owner.

  “Well … I think Granville was in love with Phyllis Alveston.”

  “Everybody knows that. Why bring that in, Inspector?”

  “But, rumour has it that Phyllis was a Salter, born on the wrong side of the blanket. If that is so, she’s related to Granville, or rather, was. How nearly related, seems to have been his problem. Mrs. Alveston wouldn’t say a word about it. We’ve discovered that Granville tried hard to make her say and then asked if he could marry Phyllis. The old lady was horrified at the thought. So, young Salter set out to find out for himself. He didn’t get very far, I gather, but … and this is where your brother’s records come in … he was proposing to question all who might have been about at the time Phyllis was born. Your brother must certainly have been at the confinement.…”

  “Why? He did attend to the accouchements at the Hall, but if this was an illicit affair … well … All the same, if the family were concerned, I’m sure he’d be called in. They trusted him as one of themselves. That’s why … another reason why … if he mentioned the affair in his day-book or diary, it should not be allowed to come to light. I couldn’t agree to any searching of his private and professional documents. He wouldn’t have wished that.”

  “Mr. Granville, then, drew a blank with you?”

  “He did. And so did Plucock.”

  “You had Plucock around as well, then?”

  “Yes. He called about another thing. He said the vicar had told him to see me about my brother’s researches. This time it was anoth
er bit of local nonsense. The Headless Jesuit. Maybe, you know all about it. It’s common property.”

  “Yes. But please tell me your own version.”

  “I’ve heard my brother talk a lot about it. He used to say there was no foundation in fact for the legend of the priest who was beheaded by Cromwell’s men and is said to haunt the place. But, quite definitely, Simister Salter, the worst of the family, a terrible man who was lord of the manor in, I think, the Regency times, used it in a sort of rhyming puzzle to give a clue to something he’d done or hidden at the Hall. That started the hunt for the Treasure again.”

  “Do you know the rhyming puzzle, Miss Fothergill?”

  “I did; but I’ve forgotten it. A silly thing, not worth recollecting.”

  “How’s this:

  Salter Treasure,

  Coward, let be …”

  “That’s it. Where did you get it?”

  “Among Plucock’s papers. What did he want of you?”

  “He said something about hiding-places in the Hall. They’d reason to believe somebody wanted by the police was hiding there. Had I, among my brother’s records, any details of the priests’ holes and other retreats? It seemed he’d asked the vicar, another old Salter family friend and antiquary, about it and he’d told him my brother had been the expert on such things and maybe I’d be able to help. I sent Plucock packing. Those papers are sacred things to me and not for anyone’s idle curiosity.”

  “But surely … the police …”

  “Police, my foot. Plucock’s tale didn’t ring true. It was all made up. I knew it from the poor way he told it and improvised when I questioned him. No; Plucock was another of the victims of the Treasure Hunt bug.”

  “So that was the end of that?”

  “Except that one night someone broke in and rifled the bureau and my brother’s old writing-desk. They didn’t get anything, though. I woke and came down and they bolted. They scattered papers about and left untouched a cash-box with a few pounds in it which I kept about. I’d put my brother’s papers in a deed box at the bank when I went to London in the autumn and hadn’t brought them back. So the intruders got nothing much.”