Vincent Pochin was in the room, looking completely flabbergasted. By his side, a man who might have been his double, except that he looked older and more self-possessed. They were being addressed by a stocky, domineering kind of man. From the pantomime of gestures and postures, Cromwell judged something very serious and very emphatic was being said, and Vincent Pochin wasn’t taking it at all well. He milled around, emptied something from a bottle into a glass, gulped it down, dithered and looked like a marionette asking for advice. In reply to which, the man who was a bully laid down the law with vigour, pointed here, there and everywhere, asked him a lot of questions, which Pochin answered half-heartedly, and then pushed him through the door, followed him, and left the lighted room quite empty. Then the stocky man returned, helped himself to a drink, hesitated, and to Cromwell’s surprise, brazenly took a handful of cigars from a box and put them in his pocket.
Cromwell watched the front door so eagerly that his eyes began to ache. At first, nothing happened. Then the door opened and the man who might have been Vincent Pochin’s double appeared, looked out, eyed the square up and down like somebody expecting rain, seemed satisfied, and went indoors again.
Then everything began to happen at once.
The stocky man appeared suddenly, driving a Bentley from the car park behind the church. He stopped at the front of Bank House.
Next, like a comedian entering a harlequinade, Plumtree peeped round the corner of the houses, nodded to himself, and emerged in the square.
The front door opened again. Stocky entered, and this time, out came Vincent Pochin, watched by his ‘double’. Vincent was wearing a large coat and a soft black hat, and behaved furtively, like the villain in a melodrama.
Plumtree materialised, greatly to the astonishment of the three principal actors, who began to upbraid him and argue with him. Plumtree’s gestures were first apologetic, then mollifying, then stubborn. He stood his ground as though he’d been set in glue. The men made as if to go back indoors. Plumtree then indicated the car and obviously brought to their notice the No Parking rule. They brushed it aside and the stocky man grew authoritative again, but without much luck. Plumtree kept glancing expectantly across at the police station, but remained like a police dog with its victims pinned down and helpless.
At length, the trio from Bank House lost patience. Stocky made a disrespectful gesture of dismissal at Plumtree, and they all turned to go indoors. Plumtree followed them and the door closed.
Cromwell thought it high time to cross the square and find out what they were doing to the good Plumtree inside Bank House.
Littlejohn was just emerging from the police station, which now remained in sole charge of the imperturbable Haddock. Together he and Cromwell went and used the large knocker of Bank House again. Mrs. Trott answered it looking scared to death. They didn’t bother to have themselves announced, but entered the drawing-room without ceremony.
“But the Superintendent said …”
“I don’t care a damn what the Superintendent said. This is an outrage and you’ll pay for it … Oh, it’s you, Littlejohn. Will you kindly explain what all this nonsense is about?”
The Pochin brothers were silent and subdued and Brodribb was holding the floor in his best High Court style. You could see him gather his imaginary gown about him ready for the slaughter. Plumtree’s helmet was on the back of his head and he was sweating profusely. But he looked to have taken root on the hearthrug, now.
“Mr. Vincent Pochin was trying to make off, sir.”
Brodribb swooped on him.
“Make off? He was leaving the house to go home. What right have you or anybody else to detain him against his wishes?”
Littlejohn spoke calmly.
“He did it on my orders, sir. I gave instructions that nobody was to leave.”
“On what authority?”
“My own.”
“Oh.”
It was said with so much satisfaction that Cromwell couldn’t contain himself.
“I saw all that went on. This gentleman …”
“The name’s Brodribb, my man …”
“And he’s a Q.C. …”
Everybody jumped to hear Sam Pochin speak. It was as if an attendant dog had suddenly started to articulate. And it was pathetic. Sam, trying to intimidate Cromwell by exalting Brodribb.
“Mr. Brodribb seemed to be telling Mr. Vincent Pochin something alarming and advising him what to do. He pushed him through that door. The next thing was, Mr. Brodribb appeared with Mr. Vincent’s car. The three of them acted like a lot of conspirators and Mr. Vincent furtively got in the car. If he wasn’t running away, he was acting very queerly. Then Plumtree intervened …”
Brodribb thrashed the air with an accusing finger.
“You had better be prepared to say all that later in front of the proper authorities, because I’m going to make it hot for all three of you. I shall …”
“Be quiet!”
“I beg your pardon, Superintendent.”
“I said, be quiet. You have forced my hand and I must now ask you all to accompany me to the police station. No, don’t interrupt. I propose to face Mr. Vincent Pochin with a witness who saw all that went on in the room above this one on the night of Dr. Beharrell’s death. Mr. Vincent Pochin was seen to …”
But Littlejohn didn’t get any farther.
With a noise like a little squeal, Vincent Pochin fumbled with his collar and tie, clutched his chest, and fell headlong unconscious on the hearthrug right at the feet of the astonished Plumtree.
12
POCHIN CONFESSES
“Now take it easy. Tell the whole truth in an orderly fashion.”
Brodribb persisted in his court-room attitude and now spoke to Vincent Pochin in the smooth, caressing tone he had once used for addressing favourable women witnesses when he wanted to wring the heart-strings of the jury.
“Take it easy.”
They had given Vincent Pochin another drink of brandy for his heart attack and he had slowly recovered. His brother, Sam, showed little concern about it all. He was used to it, it seemed.
“Even as a boy, he used to faint when father found him out doing wrong and threatened to beat him,” he told Brodribb, who had begun to act in the capacity of counsel briefed to get Pochin off, even before he’d been charged with anything.
Littlejohn insisted on their going over to the police station. It was now his turn to take the initiative and do the ordering around, instead of Brodribb. Vincent Pochin started to declare his innocence before anyone had said he was guilty.
“I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t murder Beharrell. I’ll take my solemn oath I didn’t kill him. My brother Samuel is a Commissioner for Oaths, and I’m prepared to swear ...”
“Take it easy …”
Brodribb clicked his tongue against his teeth in disgust at his client. He was like a murderer who kept letting his advocate down and shouting his guilt in the midst of an impassioned speech on his behalf before a judge and jury!
It was obvious why Vincent Pochin wasn’t a prominent figure in his family law firm. He was unstable, almost hysterical in a crisis. No wonder his brother, Sam, always kept quiet. It was the apprehensive silence of a man on guard, wondering what his brother was going to say or do next, and wondering, too, how to get him out of the results of his folly.
“He was always a highly strung man. Even as a child ...”
Sam kept intervening to show the evolution of Vincent from a spoiled and nervous child into an unstable and almost pitiable elderly man.
“He always got violent when he didn’t get his own way. Once when he was only eleven …”
Brodribb could stand no more of it.
“Be quiet, Sam. I’m conducting this case.”
Cromwell smiled as he wondered what kind of a horrid little boy Brodribb had been when he was eleven. He began to feel glad that all his children were little girls. Then, he guiltily remembered that he hadn’t sent his eldest, aged six, th
e usual picture postcard, and hastily tied a knot in his handkerchief.
“I’d advise you, Littlejohn, not to charge Mr. Vincent Pochin with murder. You will regret it, if you do.”
“May I take it, sir, that he has already given you full details of his behaviour on Friday last at Dr. Beharrell’s?”
“He asked my advice … professionally, of course.”
“You ought to have told the police, sir.”
“I wanted to think it over carefully first. He only told me after the funeral. I will give you a brief résumé, without prejudice.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I will question Mr. Vincent myself. I must remind you that you are only here on sufferance.”
“I am here in my legal …”
“Mr. Vincent and Mr. Samuel are both lawyers, sir. They have no need, as yet, to brief counsel.”
“Really, Littlejohn, I protest.”
“Unless you allow me to conduct this matter in my own way, without interference, I shall have to ask you to leave, Mr. Brodribb.”
Brodribb carefully took a cigar from his pocket and pierced it. He lit it in a series of short puffs, fixed it in his mouth, and then caught Cromwell’s eye. Cromwell nodded sagely and Mr. Brodribb was suddenly aware that Cromwell knew, somehow, whence the cigar had come. It completely discomfited him and he sat in Plumtree’s old chair, crossed his legs, and resigned himself to a mortified silence.
“Mr. Vincent … I must warn you that you need not say anything about your share in the Beharrell affair, but that if you do, your statement will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.”
The word ‘evidence’ stimulated Mr. Brodribb.
“Eh … You’re not charging him, are you? Because, if …”
His voice trailed away. He was struggling to keep his dignity and finding it hard.
“I want to tell you everything, Superintendent. Believe me, I do. I know the law about these things and I’m grateful for the caution you’ve given me. But I want to tell you everything and get it off my conscience.”
Vincent Pochin was a pathetic figure. He looked ten years older. Quite unlike the dapper, self-controlled man Littlejohn had once met for the first time on the late train. He didn’t look guilty, though. Only very confused and very afraid.
“Let me tell you what I have assumed so far, from enquiries we have made, sir. During the war, Dr. Beharrell’s wife vanished with an R.A.F. officer. Beharrell said she’d fallen in love with him, left a note behind for her husband, and fled. Nobody ever saw the note which Beharrell stated he found when he got home and discovered her flight.”
“That is so.”
“Nothing was heard of Mrs. Beharrell or her lover again.”
“You are speaking of my sister, sir, and I have a right to remind you that I am interested in all you say.”
“If I speak disrespectfully of the dead, Mr. Brodribb, you are quite entitled to call my attention to it. Otherwise, I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“Look here …”
Cromwell eyed Brodribb’s cigar with a slight frown. When the Q.C. tried to give it a nonchalant puff, he found it had expired, and he began to make a pantomime of relighting it.
“To resume, Mr. Vincent … I have no doubt all kinds of things were said about Mrs. Beharrell’s total disappearance. Some satisfied themselves with the theory that she and Cranage must have got to London and there been killed by a bomb and not identified. Dr. Beharrell seems to have encouraged that idea.”
“He did.”
“But you didn’t believe it, did you? You had loved Grace Beharrell for a long time, resented her marriage with someone you regarded as her social inferior, and tried, along with others in your set, to come between her and her husband … Forgive this plain speaking. If you wish us to carry on this interview alone, please say so, and I’ll have the room cleared.”
“You’ll what?”
“I said I’ll have the room cleared, Mr. Brodribb.”
“You needn’t. I’ll clear myself, at least. Good day to you.”
Brodribb rose and made for the door.
“Don’t leave, sir. I haven’t finished with you, yet.”
The barrister turned with a face black with fury.
Sam Pochin, who had been standing by, fascinated by the story which was unfolding, grew exasperated.
“For God’s sake, Brodribb, be your age and keep your dignity. My brother and I are badly in need of your support and counsel, but don’t keep interrupting the proceedings at the wrong time. As a friend, I beg you to restrain yourself. Sit down and listen, please, there’s a good fellow.”
“Oh, very well. But I warn you …”
“Yes, yes. You warn us and we accept the warning. But please let the Superintendent get all this over. Vincent is suffering torture. Please continue, Littlejohn.”
Outside in the passage, they could hear the heavy measured feet of Hubbard enter the premises and walk through to the constables’ quarters. Someone must have been sitting quietly there eavesdropping, for Hubbard cheerfully addressed him.
“Hello, Edgar. Any tea brewing? I could do with a cup.”
Plumtree slammed the door of the private room with a crash heard all over the square. Outside, a rag and bone man with a donkey and cart passed the entrance. The donkey began to bray …
“My God!” shouted Brodribb to nobody in particular.
“You, Mr. Vincent, had your own theory. Instinctively, you felt something was wrong and you were anxious to get to the bottom of what happened to Mrs. Beharrell. You are a highly-strung, sensitive man, with keen intuition.”
Vincent Pochin gave Littlejohn a grateful look, but said nothing.
“Your theory was that Beharrell had come upon his wife and her lover together, perhaps in a compromising situation. He was a jealous, impetuous man. You surmised that he had killed them both in a rage.”
“How did you know?”
Pochin said it as though relieved to find someone who understood his years of torture.
“By the same way you found out. Deduction. There could be no other explanation. Nobody saw Mrs. Beharrell’s letter to her husband. Nobody saw her and Cranage the night they were said to have fled. Nobody ever saw them again. The chances of their both being completely annihilated by a bomb are very remote. They couldn’t have left the country because of the war.”
“Yes … yes … yes.”
Pochin punctuated Littlejohn’s points by little grunts and murmurs of assent.
“You determined to put your theory to the test and make Beharrell pay for his crime if you were right. The question was, what did Beharrell do with the bodies?”
“That was it. What did he do with them? Do you know?”
“Yes. He threw Cranage down the well, and at the first chance, he had it filled up and sealed in by an ornamental well-head. You suspected the well, but you couldn’t test your theory. You began to buy the property in the square. It became a mania with you. You pretended you were investing your money in rents and in the houses you loved because of their antiquity. Actually, you were slowly surrounding Beharrell with a net of property you owned. Finally, you got the houses on either side of Beharrell’s. You hoped to gain access to Beharrell’s house and well some day. You had keys of the houses on either side and as they were lock-ups, Gralam’s and Gibbet’s, you could enter and watch all Beharrell did. You could also overlook him from your own premises and you made a flat there and lived right on his doorstep. Why didn’t you move nearer and kick out either Gralam or Gibbet?”
“They both have long leases and wouldn’t move. I couldn’t find any excuse for getting them out.”
Vincent Pochin answered petulantly. He wasn’t afraid now of the whole of his crazy schemes finding the light of day. In fact, he was pleased and relieved about it all.
“Your patience was vast. You made the investigation your sole hobby—your life’s work. Then, at last, you got a break. The water board wanted Beharrell’s well. Rig
ht into your hands. But Beharrell proved stubborn.”
Pochin jumped at the word.
“But I was as stubborn as he was. I insisted that the board forced him. After all, the community wanted water, didn’t they?”
Samuel Pochin looked flabbergasted.
“I always wondered why you kept on and on at Shillinglaw to press the board to force the issue. You were very convincing, Vincent.”
“So that was why the board were so emphatic. Persuaded by you, your partner grew as stubborn as Beharrell.”
“Yes. I did it … I persuaded Shillinglaw. Quietly, of course. Nobody had to know why I did it.”
“The well was finally re-opened. You watched every move of the excavators. Did you know what went on?”
“Yes. I watched from my own rooms and from behind the gardens. I saw the workmen dig up the first bone of the body. I saw Baldry assemble the bones and sneak them into Beharrell’s. I sought out Baldry. He wouldn’t tell you that, even if you asked him, because I told him what I’d seen him do and that I’d get him sacked if he didn’t tell me the whole tale and keep his mouth absolutely shut for good after he’d told me. He then gave an account of the skeleton of a man he’d found. An anatomical specimen used by Beharrell in his student days and cast down the well because the doctor didn’t know how otherwise to get rid of it.”
Cromwell looked closely at Pochin, whose brother and Brodribb were also watching him with astonished eyes. The long strain of bringing retribution to Beharrell had driven Vincent Pochin off his head, and Littlejohn’s revelations had finally broken through his cunning reserve.
“You knew at once that the bones were those of Cranage.”
“I did.”
“But where were those of Grace Beharrell? The well had been bottomed again and they weren’t there. There was only one other place.”
“Yes, yes … That was it. The old disused strong-room, Superintendent. That was very clever of you after so short a time.”
“Your game of cat-and-mouse with Beharrell started all over again. Out in the open, under public and his own view, the well was, or so Beharrell thought, inviolable. Inside, in the house, the strong-room, funnily enough, wasn’t as safe as one would think. So Beharrell never left the house long enough for anyone to get at it. Oh, I admit you tried, Mr. Vincent. You tried hard. Years didn’t count. Your patience was inexhaustible. You became quite an expert housebreaker. But Beharrell was a better burglar alarm. He caught you at it over and over again. He must have dearly loved his wife, for he never seemed even to contemplate getting rid of her bones.”
Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 14