Death of a Shadow (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  Cupples’s eyes popped from his head as he lived through it again and his feelings eventually called for a drink.

  ‘Drink, Bob? No? Mind if I do?’

  He took whisky, neat and liberally, from a bottle in a drawer and drew in a hard breath.

  ‘That’s better. Where was I? Oh, yes. In between Coop running in and out, I managed to ask about Cling. She almost went off the deep-end when I mentioned Flo, his runaway wife. She seemed fond of Cling. After she’d blown off steam about Flo, she confirmed that Cling had never divorced her or married again. Then, she talked a lot about Cling. He must have spun her a yarn or two when he visited her. She thought he was head of Scotland Yard. And of the secret service, as well. I didn’t correct her, because she had a habit of raving when anything was mentioned that she didn’t like. I was no wiser when I left than when I’d arrived, except that she’d confirmed that Cling hadn’t divorced Flo or married again …’

  He paused for effect. Then he added very cautiously and confidentially:

  ‘There’s one thing, I remember, however, which might interest you, Bob. There was a big fireplace in the room and a large mantelpiece above it. It was littered with old Christmas cards and things and standing in a row upright against the wall at the back, a long string of postcards. About a dozen of them. They were all views of the same place. Geneva. And all from Cling. The old woman left the room to shout for Coop at the bottom of the stairs and I just casually gave the line of cards the once-over. Some of them were postmarked this year, some last year, others the year before. They all had the same message on them. Weather fine and warm. Regards. Alec. The sun must always be shining in Geneva. Funny he should finally get himself murdered there. I wonder how the old woman’s taken it.’

  Cupples’s tale was at an end. He sat there, obviously now growing anxious to see the last of Cromwell and take another helping from the bottle. Cromwell scrambled from the ramshackle client’s chair and thanked Cupples.

  ‘Don’t mention it, old man. Always glad to help old pals.’

  ‘There’s one thing which might help you, too, Cupples. Cling’s lawyer was Jethro Havelock. You remember him? King William Street. If I were you, I’d have a word with J. Q. Havelock. He might be able to give you some more information about Cling and Flo.’

  ‘Thanks Bob. Appreciate that. And now, I must be stirring myself, too. Got an appointment.’

  Probably in the pub round the corner.

  Weston Parva was ten miles from Leicester on the southern side and had once been an isolated little gem of a village. Old church with three bells, houses of the vicar and the squire on each side of it, and the remaining few farms and cottages in the parish occupied by yeomen and workers on the land. Then the long tentacle of city development had reached it and filled it with houses, shops, commuters and a factory.

  Mrs. Virginia Seal occupied a smallholding a mile from the village. She waged constant war against local authorities, resisting roads, the compulsory purchase of land, the erection of telegraph poles and electricity pylons, the local assessors of rates and taxes, and the various nuisances committed by neighbours. She was standing at her front door when Cromwell opened the garden gate and she at once set the dogs on him.

  The creatures were both muzzled. One was an Alsatian and the other a shaggy fox terrier. Their attack was by weight alone, for they could neither bark nor bite, and they launched themselves growling and choking, at Cromwell’s legs and the seat of his trousers. He retreated behind the gate and closed it between himself and his adversaries.

  ‘I’m from Scotland Yard about the death of Mr. Alec Cling,’ he shouted.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were selling something.’

  The woman then turned towards the inside of the house and shouted.

  ‘Coop!’

  A tall, thin figure with a white shock of hair, in flannels and sweater materialised. The woman gestured that he could attend to the dogs and he manoeuvred them into a wooden shed, shut the door, and left them making muffled protests.

  The woman then indicated that the coast was clear and Cromwell approached again. Whereat a large tomcat emerged from the house, raised its back and its fur, and spat and swore at him.

  ‘Come in. He won’t do you any harm.’

  As Cromwell avoided the spitting cat, it made a pass at his trouser-bottoms and tore out a clawful of threads.

  There were more cats indoors, but feminine this time and less bellicose. The living-room was filled to suffocation with good antique furniture. On the walls, some good pictures, interspersed with family portraits. Cromwell recognised a framed enlargement of Cling himself, informally dressed in white shirt and shorts, sitting in a boat with oars shipped on what looked like a lake. It might have been Geneva.

  Before he could introduce himself, Mrs. Seal asked what he wanted. He gave her his card instead of reciting his credentials.

  ‘You were a friend of Alec’s?’

  He nodded. It was rather an exaggeration. Cling never made friends among his colleagues.

  ‘You’re a bit different from the man from Scotland Yard who called here before. He was a disgrace to the name and I soon showed him the door. I didn’t tell Alec about him when last I wrote to him. I thought it might upset him. Sit down.’

  She indicated an arm-chair and he took it. Almost right away a little white cat sprang on his knee, kneaded his lap with ecstatic claws, and settled down. He bore it all in the line of duty.

  ‘What’s your business? Is it about Alec’s death?’

  She had been putting on a bold defensive front. Now she broke down and wept. She did it all silently. Large tears down her lined cheeks and anguished pumping motions with her chest.

  She was dumpy and stout and seemed the type who might be fond of chocolates and iced cakes. She looked to be in the region of seventy, her features were chubby, and her grey hair was cut short, with a fringe in front. She wore round, pink-framed spectacles and the grey eyes behind them were expressionless.

  ‘I’m sorry. I called to ask if we could do anything and also to ask if you could help us to find who …’

  ‘Murdered him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She composed herself and to take her mind off her troubles, she began to abuse her previous visitor.

  ‘He said his name was Cupples. I’m sure they wouldn’t have a name like that at Scotland Yard. It must have been a false one.’

  As if the name of Cling was much better!

  ‘He was half drunk when he arrived and reeked of whisky. He said he was a friend of Alec’s who had asked him to be sure to call on me when he was in the Leicester neighbourhood. Was he on the staff of Scotland Yard?’

  ‘No. He used to be a constable in the Metropolitan police and left to become a private enquiry agent.’

  ‘I thought there was something strange about him. So did my brother, who is very shrewd. Cupples was a vulgar fellow. He asked too many questions and I’m sure had I left him alone, he would have searched the drawers. He got no answers from me and I soon sent him packing.’

  The little cat on Cromwell’s knees turned over on her back and stretched out a beseeching paw for caresses.

  ‘Alec was my only surviving relative, with the exception of my brother, whom you saw when you were at the gate. Cooper Cling. Called Coop for short.’

  Suddenly remembering his existence, Mrs. Seal summoned him.

  ‘Coop!’

  The shock of white hair and the childish, pink, deadpan face, with its weak chin and large nose, appeared round the door. Cromwell suspected that Coop was, mentally, not quite all there, in spite of the boasted shrewdness.

  ‘My brother, Mr. Cooper Cling. Inspector Cromwell, of Scotland Yard.’

  She introduced them formally. Coop was a shy man and the mention of an official title seemed to increase this. He said in a hesitant voice that he was pleased to meet Cromwell. Then he made an excuse.

  ‘The dogs,’ he whispered and left them.

&
nbsp; Mrs. Seal had accepted Cromwell and liked him. She asked if he would take a glass of something and he agreed.

  ‘Coop!’

  Coop must have been used to the routine. He arrived carrying a bottle and three small Venetian wine glasses which must have been worth a lot. He poured three helpings, drank his own right away and in one, and again made his exit, well satisfied.

  The drink was home-made sloe gin, very tasty and very potent. Cromwell felt it warm his innards and then go straight to his head. It must have been maturing for years.

  Mrs. Seal thought his caution was disapproval.

  ‘Drink up. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It is a very fine liqueur, Mrs. Seal.’

  ‘Well, get it down and have some more.’

  She smiled and he knew he had gone up in her estimation.

  She filled his glass again.

  ‘I gave the vicar a bottle once. He must have thought it innocuous and drank a considerable amount before evening service. They had to send hastily to Leicester for a replacement to take evensong. What do you wish to know?’

  She took another sip.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure I can’t help you much. With the exception of visits on my birthday in June and on Boxing Day, Alec never came here. He was a very busy man. A high-up at Scotland Yard and the Home Office. He must have had a lot to do and fearful responsibility.’

  Perhaps Cling, too, used to drink his aunt’s sloe gin and under its benign influence, embroider his job a bit. At any rate, Cromwell saw no reason for telling her the truth that Cling had been a Chief Inspector assigned to shadowing celebrities.

  ‘Yes. His duties kept him occupied most of his time. He was rarely at home. Rarely in England, for that matter.’

  ‘He spent a lot of his time abroad, I know. Conferences and such like. He told me and sent me postcards from abroad whenever he was there. Quite a lot in a year’s time, too.’

  The postcards Cupples had spoken of had been removed from the mantelpiece, perhaps because they reminded Mrs. Seal too much of Cling now.

  ‘He died in Geneva.’

  ‘So I was officially informed. He went there quite a lot. Conferences, as I said. I know he loved Geneva very much. In fact, he jestingly spoke of retiring there. He sent cards at least four separate times from there last year.’

  ‘All from the city itself?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll show them to you.’

  She opened a drawer in the dresser and took out a large stock of them secured in a thick rubber band. She handed the bundle to Cromwell. There were dozens of them. Probably all the cards Cling had ever sent her. Cromwell briefly thumbed his way through. Mexico, Tokyo, New York, Chicago … All over the place. But the most had come from Switzerland, mainly Geneva. All bearing the same greeting, the one Cupples had reported. At the bottom of the pack was a photograph; the only personal one there. It looked like a newspaper photographer’s effort and showed Cling mounting the steps to a large BEA plane at London Airport. It was a good likeness.

  ‘He travelled with a lot of very important people, didn’t he?’

  She sounded very proud of Cling. Perhaps he kept in touch with her and visited her because only with her could he really relax and be himself, cease from playing a part. The only woman he trusted, who wouldn’t let him down.

  The card had a pencil note on the back.

  Best wishes. Going to Geneva. July, 1962.

  Mrs. Seal was pointing to the figure standing two steps higher on the stairs than Cling.

  ‘That was a member of the Cabinet at the time. He still is and I believe it’s said that one day might become Prime Minister …’

  It was Sir Ensor Cobb, then plain Mister.

  ‘Might I borrow this, Mrs. Seal?’

  ‘Of course. But please let me have it back, won’t you?’

  ‘I will.’

  She poured out some more of the sloe gin.

  5

  More Family Matters

  CROMWELL and Mrs. Seal continued talking through the long, sunny afternoon. Now and then, Coop summoned by the usual clamour, put in his head and performed some service or other for his sister, and then disappeared. The white cat slept on Cromwell’s knees. He had drunk four glasses of the sloe gin and felt like sleeping himself.

  Most of the talk was about Cling. There seemed to have been a great bond of affection between him and his aunt. His parents had died when he was at school and she had brought him up. He had lived at Weston with her for many years.

  ‘He always wanted to be a doctor. I couldn’t afford to send him to the university. Seal, my husband, died early in our married life. He rented a farm at Braunstone and left me only just enough to live on. Coop had a small annuity and we managed together. In those days there were few facilities for free education at universities. Alec just had to get over his idea of taking medicine. But he wasn’t interested in any other career. He joined the police for lack of something better.’

  Cling, in spite of her inability to help him fully in his career, had obviously been the apple of his aunt’s eye. After her first bitter outburst of tears, however, she shed no more. Her emotion was manifest in a deep hatred for whoever had murdered Cling.

  ‘I don’t know who did it or what was the motive. But I want him—or her—caught and hanged.’

  She raised her voice wildly for the first time. The cries she raised for Coop didn’t count of course.

  ‘Alec was ambitious. In later life when he visited me, he talked of his colleagues and the people for whom he worked. He had grown to fancy the easy gracious ways with which his work brought him into contact and he could indulge his fancies because he was, at last, earning a lot of money.’

  Cromwell didn’t know exactly how much, but he had a good idea! It certainly wasn’t enough to permit any fancy living or over-indulgence. Cling must have had some other source of income if he lived, on the quiet, the life of those V.I.P.s whose safety was in his hands.

  ‘… He received rapid promotion in the police force, as you doubtless know, Inspector. During the war, he did distinguished work in the secret service. It stood him in good stead afterwards and gave him the contacts and influence to get on. He ended in a high place in the Home Office, you know.’

  ‘Did he talk much about his duties when he visited you, Mrs. Seal?’

  ‘He gave away no secrets, of course. He was a very discreet man. But he told me about his work in a general way. He told me about his promotion and how much trust the high officers reposed in him. He was very good to me and Coop when he grew able to afford it. He gave me considerable captital sums to avoid our having to sell or mortgage this place. Thanks to his liberality we can now end our days in moderate comfort.’

  Perhaps a good mark for the enigmatic and self-contained Cling. Or, on the other hand, he might have flashed his money about in front of his relatives to show how clever he was. Wherever and however the extra income was made, he’d shared it with his aunt and uncle. But where had it come from?

  ‘When did you last see your nephew, Mrs. Seal?’

  ‘Last Boxing Day. As I told you, he invariably spent an hour or two with us then, every year.’

  ‘Did he say anything about the work he was doing then or expecting to do?’

  ‘Not specifically. He said he would shortly be going abroad again. He mentioned Geneva. Of course, he often went there. It is the world centre for conferences, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Did you ever meet his wife?’

  Mrs. Seal’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair until her knuckles grew white and she showed signs of sulky anger.

  ‘The least said the better about that unhappy event.’

  ‘I agree with you. But I did think that maybe there might be some connection between that part of his life and his death. It is rather a stupid idea, but …’

  ‘It is not stupid at all. It was sordid and wicked and, although it seems remote, some connection of the kind you mention would be quite in keeping.’

&nbs
p; ‘Did you ever meet Mrs. Cling?’

  ‘No. Alec wrote to me after he’d married the woman. He told me nothing about her. I wrote back and reproached him with not letting us know before the event and invited him to bring her to meet us. He never did. He came himself not long afterwards, but made excuses for her. He said she’d been on the stage and that he’d met her in the course of his duties …’

  Ingenious of Cling! She’d been a dancer in a night club, a well-known prostitute, and Cling had been with the police when the club was raided.

  ‘… He seemed very fond of her, but somehow, he wasn’t like the old Alec. Irritable and preoccupied. I expect he knew what was coming; the war. Moving in the government circles as he did, he must have known. His marriage ended with the war. I believe she left him for another man. I always thought she wasn’t his sort. The stage unsettles one’s life. Even from the small amount of amateur theatricals I indulged in before my marriage I learned that. I am glad that he didn’t divorce her and free her for other misadventures. He was a man of principle, at least, in the matter of divorce.’

  ‘She’s still alive, I believe. She lives in America …’

  ‘I don’t care to hear anything more about her, Inspector. Unless, of course, she proves to be connected with Alec’s untimely death. In which case, I shall be extremely interested.’

  For the time being, Cromwell was sure he’d better not mention the contents of Cling’s will. From all appearances, the fat would probably be in the fire if Mrs. Seal learned that the nephew she thought so well-off had left all he had to the woman who’d run away with another man.