Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  They returned to the platform overlooked by the clock face. The seats in the memorial garden were empty, for their usual tenants had gone home for lunch; a policeman materialised from Sheep Street, crossed the square, and entered the police station. A light was switched on in the front bedroom of Bank House.

  The houses on the Guildhall side of the square were too near for anyone standing on the scaffolding to see what went on in their interiors, but those on the opposite side, Beharrell’s, Gralam’s, Pochin’s, the barber’s, were more distant and at a different angle. Parts of their first floor rooms, and more still of the second floor ones, were visible. On the other hand, had the rooms of the houses directly opposite been illuminated, practically all that went on there would have been seen. Madame Alcardi, for example, teaching bel canto, was standing at her window, nodding her head in time with some pupil or other performing in the gloomy interior at her back.

  About half of the former bedroom of Beharrell in Bank House was visible from where the two detectives were standing. They could see the foot of the bed, a dressing-table, a chair, and a servant manipulating a vacuum cleaner on the carpet. She had switched on the light the better to see the results of her labours at floor level. Littlejohn watched her fascinated. As she moved with her cleaning contrivance, she vanished into the invisible depths of the room, and then re-appeared still pushing the contraption around. Now and then, unaware that she was being watched, she paused at her work to attend to other matters. Drawing up her skirt almost to the thigh, she repaired the suspender which must have given way as she bent to adjust the cleaner. Then she paused to admire herself in the mirror of the dressing-table. Having done this to her satisfaction, she opened the top drawer of the piece of furniture, rummaged about among the contents, examined objects which came to light, found something eatable and put it in her mouth, then back at the mirror again she began to alter her hair-style, using a comb from the drawer. Finally, she decided to return to her work, finished it, took a final look at herself in the looking-glass, switched off the light, and disappeared in the encircling gloom.

  The Scotland Yard men looked at one another. Cromwell nodded sagely to let Littlejohn know they were both thinking the same thing.

  A murder was committed at Abbot’s Caldicott last Friday.

  A murder in the very room they had now been overlooking unseen by the occupant. A crime as plainly visible from the temporary look-out on the clock tower as the innocent caperings of the young servant at Bank House.

  In Sheep Street, they could make out the black form, like a cockroach, of Canon Horninglow, just entering the square on his way home.

  “Shall we go down and meet him?” said Littlejohn.

  The clock struck half past twelve.

  The vicar was just entering the church as they emerged from the tower staircase. He peered dimly at them and started when he recognised them.

  “Good morning, sir. We’ve just been looking at the view of the town from the scaffolding on the clock tower.”

  “You are the two officers from Scotland Yard?”

  A harsh, throaty voice, cultured, but growing old and roughened by efforts to make it sound in the vast building in which the ageing vicar preached.

  He himself was tall and heavy, a tired man, walking with a shuffle, and lost in his own thoughts. His ruddy face had a purple tint and his eyes were filmy grey. In his time, he had been a clever man and had shown great promise; now his whole expression was of weary disappointment. His only son had been killed in the war, his wife had not survived the news by many months, and he now lived with his daughter to care for him, a spinster of forty odd, whom a broken engagement had embittered, who vented her moods and spleen on the old man, and at times drove him to despair.

  Canon Horninglow was obviously upset to find Littlejohn and Cromwell in his church, especially when he heard what they had been doing. A nervous man, he developed a tic when overwrought and now one side of his face started to twitch distressingly.

  “My name’s Littlejohn, sir, and this is my colleague, Sergeant Cromwell.”

  The vicar extended a limp heavy hand and took in turn that of each of his visitors, pressed it feebly, and dropped it.

  “Could I have a word with you, sir?”

  Cromwell, whom the Superintendent had forewarned that he might want to speak with the vicar alone, took the hint, made an excuse, and left them together.

  “Will it not do another time, Superintendent? My lunch will be ready and my daughter waiting for me.”

  “I just wanted a minute with you, sir. I won’t keep you.”

  The canon was more distressed than ever. His heavy face grew petulant and he looked ready to insist, at first. Then, he sighed and made a gesture of resignation. They walked together down the nave, the tall building echoing to their footsteps.

  “We had better go in the vestry.”

  Littlejohn looked at the old man as he walked distractedly beside him, as though in a hurry to get it all over. In his prime, Dr. Horninglow must have been handsome, the kind who would have filled high office with dignity and skill. The high broad forehead, the large well-set ears, the firm chin, told of a man of intelligence and sound judgment. Somehow, he seemed to have gone all to pieces and missed the mark. Failure was written large on him.

  “This is the place. Come in and sit down there.”

  The old man pointed to a carved oak chair with a thin red cushion making a semblance of comfort, and threw himself wearily in an armchair which matched it. The room was plainly furnished. A heavy oak table covered by a red baize cloth, a threadbare carpet on the floor, photographs of clerical groups in shabby frames hanging from nails on the walls, some of them askew. Vestments on hooks. A large oak cupboard, presumably for communion plate, and a very old safe in one corner.

  Littlejohn sensed that the canon knew what the interview was going to be about. There was fear in the old man’s eyes, his cheek flicked with his distressing affliction, his large purple hands trembled. He had the look of one praying inwardly for relief. Lunch was at one o’clock, but the vicar had tried to avoid the interview by telling himself, to ease his conscience, that he wanted his lunch right away. Now, he felt a growing sense of relief that his ordeal would soon be over.

  “I would value your help on one or two problems connected with Dr. Beharrell’s death, sir.”

  Littlejohn’s voice seemed to come from very far away. At least, the canon thought, it is a compassionate voice, the voice of a man of the world who understands human problems. Perhaps he will not press the question, or, if he does, he will excuse what must surely appear to be natural weakness, an understandable diffidence.

  “Yes …?”

  The answer came in a whisper.

  “Do you go much to the clock tower, sir? Have you taken advantage of the temporary structure there to climb and take a new view of the square and the town? Or, maybe, you were interested in the actual work of restoring the clock face?”

  “That is so. In fact, Superintendent, I am interested in clocks myself. It is a hobby of mine. I have a collection of bracket clocks in the vicarage. Two Tompions. Would you care to come and see them …”

  He paused expectantly. No. It was no use. No use trying to prevaricate any longer. His arms fell in resignation over the arms of his chair.

  “You would then, get a number of unusual views from your high viewpoint. The town itself … and what went on in some of the houses of the square?”

  The vicar put his hand over his eyes, rubbed them wearily, and then nodded.

  “Why, sir, didn’t you tell the police what you saw going on in the bedroom of Dr. Beharrell on Friday last?”

  The old man stretched out his hand as though to stop Littlejohn.

  “No, no, Superintendent. It is … it was not so easy as that. It involved a terrible decision. One which I was not strong enough to make. I turned coward and tried to avoid responsibility. I am in your hands.”

  “You see, sir, I knew that the notes sent t
o the police were written by a cultured man, although you tried to make them appear illiterate. For one thing, as far as I know, the Times was the only daily paper which mentioned my promotion to Superintendent on Friday last. That was only quite casually, too, but outside my own intimate circle, only a reader of the Times could have known it so soon. That fact marks down the type of reader … Then, again, only the scholarly ones call this town Abbot’s Caldicott. To the rest, it is just plain Caldicott.”

  “You are right. I thought I had better let Scotland Yard know. I knew nobody there. So I searched the newspaper. I take the Times regularly. It was there.”

  “You wrote on blank scraps of church magazine, I presume. The paper was magazine paper. And you tried to disguise your hand, but made the mistake of putting a Greek ‘e’, which you altered, but not well enough. I notice from your church service orders on the board there, that you write your ‘e’ in that way.”

  “I underestimated you, Superintendent. I didn’t mean to cause you all this trouble. But I knew the local police would never solve this crime. I felt that with Scotland Yard involved, there might be a chance.”

  Littlejohn leaned across the table and looked the old man in the eyes.

  “But why, sir? Why all this trouble? Why this anonymity and secrecy? Why not go to the police, tell them what you’d seen, and leave the rest to them?”

  The vicar rubbed his eyes again and gently touched his offending cheek as though trying to control the nervous shaking there.

  “It seemed at the time to be grossly disloyal for me to do so. I was distressed and confused and I had nobody, nobody to go to for advice. The conflict I saw going on was between Dr. Beharrell and a parishioner of mine. I would much rather have approached him and told him to go to the police himself and confess. But knowing him, I was sure he wouldn’t take my advice. Nay, he might even have … he might have harmed me.”

  “You mean, he might have done you violence, sir?”

  “Not exactly. He is a man who has been in my confidence. I have told him many things … many private and personal things which I could not bear to be made public. He might …”

  “I understand, sir. But you see that all this cannot prevent my pursuing the case to its conclusion. You feared this man because, if he were arrested, let us say, through your lodging information with the police, he would do harm to your reputation, maybe to your career?”

  “That is so.”

  “Who is the man, sir? You realise you must tell me. It is your duty to do so. Not only that, it is against the law for you to withhold information in a case like this.”

  Littlejohn felt heartily sorry for the old man. He looked to have trouble enough without all this. By a pure stroke of ill luck, he had been examining the repairs to the clock when he’d seen a murder being committed in a lighted room opposite.

  “If you care to tell me, sir, what the man in question is holding over your head, I promise it will remain confidential, and I will do my best to see that you aren’t troubled by his divulging it when we arrest him. That is, sir, if the matter isn’t criminal, of course.”

  The canon wavered and again pressed his hand to his eyes, as though trying to hide from the truth.

  “No … It’s not criminal. Just disgraceful, that’s all. It concerns my daughter. I am a widower, Superintendent, and she is all I have. My son was shot down over Germany during the war.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. My daughter during the war was in the W.R.A.F. She became engaged to a scoundrel. He seduced her, and a child was born. He was a married man. The matter was hushed up. The child was adopted by foster-parents, decent people. The matter was arranged by … by…”

  “By the man you saw with Beharrell?”

  “Yes. You may think I am afraid of nothing … afraid of shadows, Superintendent. But my daughter is highly-strung and the people of this town would make her life a misery if the matter came out … became public. She has not many friends in Abbot’s Caldicott. She has always been regarded as a snob, whereas really she is terribly shy … They have mistaken her reticence for snobbery. They would mock her and make a hell on earth for her if they knew of her misfortune. I could have taken her away, you may say. But I have no money but my stipend, Superintendent. My late wife had a long and dreadful illness following the loss of our son. We spent all we had on educating the two of them … And, I am too old to move. My next move will be to the home for aged clergymen.”

  He smiled bitterly at the thought of it.

  It all seemed trivial on the face of it, but Littlejohn understood. The snobbish parson’s daughter with her nose in the air, falls from her pedestal like any other human being, and the old man is saddled with the burden of it.

  “You had better tell me now, sir, the name of the man you saw with Dr. Beharrell. What were they doing?”

  “Fighting, Superintendent. They were struggling together and the other struck the doctor two fearful blows on the head, and I saw the doctor fall. Then he … the other one, left the room. I hurried downstairs, too. I had seen enough. I waited in the church porch to see him come out by the front door, but he did not. He must have crept out behind. The light remained on in the room all night. I got up twice and looked out from my bedroom window. Once at two, and again at four. It was still burning. In the morning, I called at the surgery to ask for the doctor. They said he had been out of town since the day before. I felt that his body must have been disposed of, otherwise someone surely would have found it. I was terrified, torn between my duty, my fears, and my opinion that the doctor had come to an evil end. I dare not go and tell the police face to face … So, I wrote anonymously. God forgive me and pity me. I am a wretched old man and unworthy of my cloth.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s not true. In a few weeks time, it will be all over. You’ll see, sir. Things will be as before. Now, tell me the name of the man you saw struggling with Beharrell.”

  “He is the people’s warden of this church.”

  “And he arranged matters in your daughter’s misfortune? Is he a solicitor, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Vincent Pochin?”

  The old man hung his head and spoke in a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so, sir. And now you will say nothing of this whatever. I think we might solve the case satisfactorily without your being upset at all. Thank you for being so candid and helpful.”

  Canon Horninglow looked up and cast a faint relieved smile across at Littlejohn.

  “I always thought the police were dreadful people to deal with! I will not say God bless you, Superintendent. It sounds too melodramatic, but I cannot tell you how much this interview has relieved me. I actually thought of hurling myself from the tower and ending it all in what people would think was an accident. Now, I am a new man …”

  Littlejohn began to fill his pipe and, as he put his hand in his pocket for matches, he suddenly realised where he was and smiled awkwardly.

  “I believe I was just going to light my pipe, sir. I’d forgotten where I was. Well … My colleague will be waiting for lunch, so I’ll say goodbye for the present. Everything will be all right, Canon Horninglow.”

  They rose.

  “I’ll see you to the door, Superintendent.”

  They made their way back through the great empty church, but this time they were interrupted. From a gloomy side chapel stepped a woman, who had apparently been praying there. The canon halted and greeted her.

  “Hello, Lydia … This is Superintendent Littlejohn, the detective from London who’s investigating the Beharrell case.”

  He turned to Littlejohn.

  “My daughter Lydia, Superintendent.”

  The vicar had described her as nervous and hysterical, but the woman now shaking hands seemed anything but that. She must have been between thirty-five and forty, taller than the average, large-boned and solidly built. She looked quite distinguished, with her clear complexion, dark hair, worn short, well
-cut features, and a complete air of self-possession. And for all that, she wasn’t very attractive. There was something intense and overbearing about her; the kind who knows her own mind and will make all the arrangements. The idea of her being shy and needing her father’s protection seemed ridiculous and if she’d been seduced by a scoundrel at some time in her career, she looked the type who would go half way in the transaction.

  “The Superintendent and I have been having a long talk, my dear.”

  “Have you, father?”

  She turned to Littlejohn, who noticed the dark intensity of her eyes now.

  “He has been very worried about the doctor’s death, Superintendent. I hope you have been able to re-assure him that he’s in no danger himself. Welcome to Abbot’s Caldicott. I hope you’ll be successful in clearing up the case.”

  “Thank you. I don’t think there’s ever been any risk of violence to your father, Miss Horninglow. He can tell you all about it over lunch.”

  “Which reminds me that our own lunch is ready. Come along, father … Goodbye for the present, Superintendent. We shall be meeting again, I’m sure.”

  The vicar hesitated and then, forgetting his task of seeing Littlejohn off the premises, he absent-mindedly fell in behind his daughter and followed her to the side door which gave on the vicarage. Half way, he turned, remembering he hadn’t said goodbye.

  “Goodbye, Superintendent.”

  The life seemed to have gone out of the old man and Littlejohn noticed his strained features as he turned, and the way he’d started to shuffle his feet again as he walked.

  9

  THE SINGING MISTRESS

  ANOTHER good lunch at the Red Lion. Mrs. Hope was a fine cook and today she had excelled herself. As though she might have tried to forget Dr. Beharrell and his funeral over the pots and pans of the kitchen. She attended to Littlejohn and Cromwell personally.

  “Is everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?”

  Littlejohn thanked her and almost added ‘madame’, for the food, the atmosphere, and the bearing of the landlady were much more French than English.