Mr. Bisby passed on that item of news to Faddiman, too. The coroner had long ears, but probably they wouldn’t have been where they were that morning if he hadn’t been stunned by losing weight. He’d been wandering about in a dream thinking all kinds of things instead of going right to his quarters.
Which was most unfortunate for whoever was busy killing prominent citizens of Brockfield.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE MAN WHO WENT TO PIECES
MR. BARNARD DOBB occupied two small rooms over a bank in the centre of Brockfield, You had to pant up forty stairs to get at him in his lair on the top floor.
The man who looked like a weazel greeted Littlejohn when he arrived, short of breath, in Dobb’s gloomy retreat. The staircase was dark and painted a dismal brown, the treads of the stairs were bare and there was a smell of dust and decay.
Mr. Dobb had done his best. After all, he was a beginner and had to make his way. Judging from the growth of his practice, he wouldn’t be long, either. Some of the older solicitors in the town raised their hands at his behaviour, but found it cost them business.
“Good morning, sir. Inspector Littlejohn, is it?”
The weazel bared his predatory teeth. He was sitting in a little office, with a callow urchin for company. Two cheap new chairs, a plain table and an enormous press for copying letters filled the room. You had to walk sideways to get about at all.
“Yes. Is Mr. Dobb in, please?”
“Yes, sir. Engaged with a client, but won’t be long. Can I do anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait.…”
The weazel smiled and nodded.
“Get up and let the gentleman ’ave your chair, Samuel. How many times ’ave I to tell you, the first lesson to learn in the law is courtesy?… Get up.…”
The lad, looking like a scared rabbit, rose and brought the chair for Littlejohn. His hitherto unshaven face glistened with down. He looked hard at Littlejohn and then smiled a thin smile. He was a follower of Sexton Blake and had the weazel not been so aggressive, would have asked Littlejohn for his autograph. As it was, he grew tongue-tied, made gurgling noises and sniffed heavily.
“How many times have I told you not to sniff? Use your handkerchief, Samuel, and go see the doctor for a bottle for that catarrh. You’ll never make a lawyer with manners like that.…”
“Sorry, Bister Dathadiel.…”
Mr. Nathaniel looked ready to hit the boy. Littlejohn took an instant dislike to the weazel.
“How long will Mr. Dobb be?”
As if in answer, Mr. Barnard Dobb’s small room suddenly became animated. The whispering voices inside grew louder and finally audible.
“Well, pay up by Friday, or it’ll be a court case. That’s my last word.…”
“But, Mr. Dobb.…”
“I’m busy.…”
The lawyer emerged, thrusting before him one of those poor little shopmen who never seem able to make ends meet, but would rather struggle along from hand to mouth than throw up the sponge and work for somebody else.
“Good morning, Inspector. Thought you’d be calling.”
The departing client looked hard at Littlejohn and took to his heels. You could hear him stumbling down the wretched stairs.
“Why did you think I’d call?”
“Old Bisby happened to be there when I passed a few indiscreet remarks to my clerk in court yesterday. I knew he’d tell the police.”
“Then I needn’t say what I’ve called for. Will you tell me, please, what all this Barrow divorce was about?”
“No objection.…”
Mr. Dobb picked his teeth with a quill, offered Littlejohn a chair and sat himself down at a new desk already crowded with conveyances, writs, abstracts of title and ledgers. He looked to be doing all the work himself.
“What do you want to know?”
“I suppose Barrow was suing?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the co-respondent…?”
“You’ve already made up your mind on the grounds?”
“Yes. Am I right?”
“Yes. The co-respondent was Dr. Martindale.”
“Phew! How many more men in Mrs. Barrow’s life?”
“What do you mean, Inspector?”
“You know very well what I mean.”
Mr. Dobb bared his teeth in an awful grin. It was the expression he used when things were going well for his client in court and an alien witness was caving-in.
“Who did you think he’d cite?”
“What about Mr. Andrew Fenning?”
“Oh, come, come, come, Inspector. Surely not that.”
“Will you stop fencing, Mr. Dobb, and come into the open. You know all that goes on in this town, I’ve no doubt. You’ve heard of the relations between Mrs. Barrow and Fenning.”
“Yes. But surely.… Mr. Fenning was Barrow’s employer. At Barrow’s age jobs aren’t easy to change. Whatever Mr. Andrew did, he found Barrow complacent. When it came to a tumbledown doctor, the boot was on the other foot. He hit back then. Just to teach Flossie a lesson.…”
“How long has this Martindale affair been going on?”
“Six months according to our reports. Now it’s all solved by the death of Barrow. They can do as they like now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Get married, if they want.”
“Will they?”
“No. The affair’s gone off the boil. Flossie’s now the sorrowing widow.”
“Another point. The codicil Mr. Fenning was going to add to his Will before he died. What was it about?”
“So, you’re on that, too. Well… I guess as an officer of the courts I ought to tell you. Though it’s not up to me to do so. I do this without prejudice and in confidence.…”
“Of course.”
“Well, it provided a legacy of five hundred for Mrs. Ambrose Barrow.…”
“Yes. I thought that ’ud take the wind from your sails. A bit of a corker, eh?”
“Perhaps not as much as you’d expect. All the same, it’s a bit of a surprise.”
“Looks as if the old man was trying to make amends for something, doesn’t it? Perhaps he’d got some information which cost him his life before he could make recompense for what had happened.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Dobb?”
“Now those are my private thoughts and not for publication. It’s up to you to do your own thinking, sir.”
“Where does Dr. Martindale live?”
“Across the square there. The big house with the stone curb round it. They took the iron railings away for the salvage drive and they’ve since laid in the town’s refuse dump.…”
Littlejohn rang the bell at the doctor’s and the maid took him straight in, although there was a thin crowd of patients waiting for morning surgery. Surprising that a doctor so besotted by drink and his own misery should retain so many, but he often forgot to send the bill and, in his sober moments, was kind and sympathetic. He had suffered enough misery himself and understood that of others.
Shortly after arriving in Brockfield, Martindale had lost the wife to whom he was devoted. All his skill and that of the best of his colleagues had been unavailing and watching her suffering and knowing, from the curse of an over vivid imagination, the slow progress of the disease eating her life away, had, when the end came, almost demented him. He had turned to drink.
Then, years later, had arrived what seemed a cure for his despair. A young girl assistant had joined him. She had pulled him together, he had fallen in love with her and looked like starting a new life. But the effort of redeeming him, working for him as well as herself during the long period of salvation, had undermined the girl’s health. She had died in an influenza epidemic. After that, Martindale never stopped drinking.…
He looked awful when Littlejohn met him. He’d been at the whisky bottle at that early hour. Tall, thin, swarthy and just past forty, Martindale had the lined face and grey hair of a man of sixty.
“What
do you want,” he said.
“I understand that you are a friend of Mrs. Barrow, doctor,” said Littlejohn. He thought he’d better come to the point.
“What the hell’s that to do with you? Think I killed her husband?”
“No, sir. I’m after all the information I can get about the dead man’s family, friends and background.…”
“You’d hardly call me a friend, would you? As for information, you’ll get nothing from me. I know nothing.”
“Yet, had he not died, Barrow would have instituted proceedings for divorce against his wife and named you as co-respondent.…”
The doctor reeled to his feet. He had been sitting at a desk in the surgery. The desk light was on, although it was clear daylight and the sun was streaming in through the windows. He pointed a long, well-cared-for hand at Littlejohn, spreading out the fingers as he did so.
“Clear off. I’ve nothing to say. And that’s final. I’m a doctor and trained to keep my own counsel. Specially where women are concerned.…”
“Very well. Where were you between five-thirty and six-thirty on the Saturday night of the crime?”
“Don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You can do your damndest. Hang me, if you want. I don’t care.”
He looked as if he didn’t care, too.
“Very well, doctor. I’ll have to find out. Good day.”
The doctor didn’t answer, but stood staring after him, his hand gripping the desk for support.
He rang for the maid.
“Send in the first patient.…”
Littlejohn, as he walked away, couldn’t help admiring the doctor. He might be a drunken sot, but he certainly wasn’t afraid of the police. And when anyone turns stupid and won’t talk, it’s like banging your head against a stone wall. How could he trace the doctor’s movements on the evening of the murder?
Just then, a cheerful voice greeted him.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
It was the Rev. D. Theodore Brewer, the little parson who had seen the strange man entering the mill on the fatal night. He looked very happy. In fact, it was quite a treat to meet him in present difficult circumstances. He seemed to radiate hope and good cheer.
“How are you, Inspector? Getting near the end of the case, I hope.”
He beamed and rubbed his hands jocularly. That morning’s post had brought the call from distant parts and his wife was packing already, although Mr. Brewer had yet to wrestle in prayer concerning whether or not to accept it. Judging from his bouncing joy, there wouldn’t be much wrestling.
“We’re not making much headway so far, sir. Complications keep cropping up. Thanks for the enquiry, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Inspector. Truly sorry.”
He didn’t look it. How could he with a heart so light?
“Is there anything I could do to help?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Oh, wait a minute.… Do you know Dr. Martindale, sir?”
“Yes, poor fellow. In spite of his wild habits, a thoroughly good sort. All the poor of the town swear by him and if gratitude and prayers were of any use.… Oh.…”
He realised that perhaps he had made a heretical statement and coughed and blushed furiously.
“… if gratitude and human desires were effective, he would be a happier and better man. Nobody in want ever gets a bill from him, and I’ve known him, where a poor old man had no help and was bedridden, to tidy up the house, cook him a meal and then get him an attendant at his own expense. Though, I know he can’t afford it. Between you and me, Inspector, the poor chap owes money all over the town.…”
The little clergyman gave the last bit of information in a hushed whisper and beamed as though the news were good. Then, in a lower voice still, he added,
“Drink and betting.…”
“And women?”
Mr. Brewer threw up his hands in horror, as though the Inspector were suggesting some new and diabolical way of sinning.
“Dear me, no. I never heard of that. Never.…”
The smile vanished as if Mr. D. Theodore Brewer realised things were serious and he must gird up his loins for the fray.
“Never!” he said firmly and stamped his foot to show he meant it.
“I heard so.”
“Oh, no, no, no. Dear me, no.”
At that rate they were going to be at it all morning!
“Was he friendly with Mrs. Barrow?”
“Not that I know and I would know if it were so.…”
Then, the penny dropping, Mr. Brewer realised the implication of the question, and blushed. He looked around, too, as though somebody might be watching and go straight away and tell Mrs. Brewer he was talking scandal.
“No,” he said in anguish. “He wasn’t even their doctor. He doesn’t go much to that part of the town.…”
“Could you tell me, sir, where anyone who wished to celebrate or spend an evening out, would be likely to go from here? After all, there’s not much here, is there, in the way of entertainment, or even dining-out?”
Mr. Brewer beamed. He’d every cause to want a jollification after the news he’d heard that morning. A good steak and some chips, followed by ice cream. He was very fond of ice cream. And a nice little bit of cheese, with perhaps a bottle of Graves to wash it down.…
“Where would you suggest, sir?”
Mr. Brewer awoke from his joyful daydream and wiped his lips with his handkerchief.
“Burstead,” he said. “A market town, and the local centre for shopping and the like. A very pleasant town with many conveniences.”
“I see.…”
“Why?”
The little minister looked hopefully into Littlejohn’s face.
“I just wondered. Another thing, sir. Between you and me, I’m trying to find out where Dr. Martindale happened to be at the time of the crime.…”
Mr. Brewer didn’t even ask why. He hadn’t got so far yet in his slow-moving reaction time.
“I know. Funnily enough, I know. I saw him.”
“Where, sir?”
“You recollect my call at the police station the time Mr. Faddiman was in such a bad humour? I said I was at Mr. Heading’s when the crime—or just before the crime occurred.…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I left Dr. Martindale there. He was their doctor and the poor man was dying then. He stayed to do what he could. Heading died that night.”
“And you left Martindale there, sir?”
“Yes.…”
“Right opposite Fennings’ Mill.”
“Yes.”
“I’m much obliged, sir. Very much so.…”
“Always ready to help.… By the way, Inspector. I feel you are a very dear friend already. May I tell you a secret?”
“Certainly.…”
Littlejohn wondered what was coming.
“I’ve received a call from Burton-on-the-Ash church. A fine ministry. I should leave… or I ought to say we should leave Brockfield in three weeks’ time.”
“Congratulations, sir. I’m very glad for you.…”
“So am I.”
They had parted before Mr. Brewer remembered he’d neither told the deacons—who already knew without his telling them—or prayed about it. His face fell momentarily.
All the same, it was all right. A lovely morning, too. He felt as light as a cloud.
Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation, sink heart and mind.…
He wondered for a moment who was singing and suddenly realised it was himself.
Already people were beginning to turn round in the street and wonder if he’d gone mad.
Let them.…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THINGS IN THE NIGHT
FADDIMAN thought it rather a tall order asking the police at Burstead to enquire round the town whether or not Flo. Barrow had been in the habit of dining or going to amusements there with some man or other, but he did as Littlejohn asked and teleph
oned the neighbouring Superintendent. The latter promised to do what he could.
Meanwhile, Littlejohn visited 26, John Street, which ran down the wall-side of Fennings’ Mill. The houses were poor cottages, probably a hundred years or more old, in a long row of blackened brick. They were mostly occupied by operatives of the factory.
“Come in,” said a voice as the Inspector knocked on the door.
He found himself in a neat room full of old-fashioned furniture. A large sideboard almost covered one side. In the middle of the sideboard, an old musical box, with ornaments, from which dangled glass lustres, under glass globes, on each side. A square kitchen table in the middle, with four plain chairs. Under the window, a sewing machine with an aspidistra in a pot on top of it. Then a horsehair couch and two horsehair armchairs on each side of the kitchen fireplace. In one of the chairs, which was a rocker, sat the only occupant of the room, an old lady with white hair and a drawn tired face.
She looked up from gazing in the fire.
“Yes?”
A small aquiline face, netted with wrinkles and two sharp dark eyes from which the light seemed to have faded.
“Are you Mrs. Heading, please?”
“Yes.”
The voice was severe with enquiry. Since her husband had died there had been a lot of callers. First, relatives and friends with sympathy, then people squaring up her husband’s affairs. Later had followed an obnoxious crowd asking if she were leaving the house and when would it be vacant. Some had even wanted to buy the furniture. She desired only to be left alone to think about past days, which had been happy, and, in her solitude, live them over again.
“I wonder if you could spare me five minutes of your time. I’m a police officer on the Barrow murder case.…”
The old lady perked up at once. The one exciting event in the town for years was good enough to take her mind from her own troubles and get her busy on someone else’s.
“Come in and sit you down.…”
The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 10