Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  “I have an appointment at 4.30, to see Brassey, her lawyer. His place is here on the High Street and you may as well come with me. Then, we’ll drive over to Hilary from there and you can get to work on the spot, if you like. I’ll be down to see you every day and do what I can, too, but if you take my advice, you’ll stay at the inn at Hilary Magna. It’s a country pub, but it’s in good hands and has modern conveniences, as the adverts say. You’ll enjoy it. The ‘Unicorn’, the only decent place in Evingdon, is a busy place, quite good, but on the main road and it’s noisy at night when the transport lorries come rattling through on the way to London. Please yourself, you know, but that’s what I’d do.”

  Littlejohn decided in favour of the Bell Inn at Hilary and Oldfield telephoned there and secured him a room. They went off for their meeting with the lawyer.

  Mr. Brassey, of Brassey, Noakes, Hood and Brassey, received them in a large, musty office on the ground floor of an old converted house in the main street. Littlejohn had never met such a funny lawyer. Small, dapper and thin. Brown hair parted in the middle and plastered meticulously to left and to right, giving the whole the impression of being a toupet, instead of natural growth. Face like a house sparrow, perky, alert and on the hunt. Scrupulously correct morning dress, patent leather boots and spats. A large gold watch-chain, supporting a number of seals. Thin, restless hands, with a large ring on the third left finger, as if weightily and securely wedding him to some overpowering woman. Actually, she was small and cowed, but that by the way. Mr. Brassey consulted a ponderous gold hunter, checked it carefully by a long scrutiny of the clock, which, as though to confirm his views, burst into Westminster chimes on the spot. He shook hands with his visitors and waved them to two shiny, mahogany chairs, the seats of which were upholstered in horsehair which Littlejohn felt penetrate his trousers and irritate his skin as he tried to make himself comfortable.

  “Now, gentlemen, and what can I do for you?” said Mr. Brassey in a deep bass voice, which astonished Littlejohn for so small a man. Mr. Brassey was very impressive in court.

  Oldfield explained the purpose of their visit. The lawyer’s face assumed a stern, sour expression.

  “Most irregular until after the funeral. I haven’t opened the Will yet. It’s at the Bank, but I have a copy, as I drew it up for the deceased. I’m anxious to help run down the scoundrel who’s done this dirty business, so I’ll commit a little breach of routine to show I’m in earnest. But this is in strictest confidence, mark you.”

  The Inspectors expressed appreciation of his attitude and swore to treat the matter as utterly private.

  Mr. Brassey leapt to his feet like a sparrow taking to wing and tugged at a bell-cord by the empty fireplace. Somewhere in the interior of the dark house a bell could be heard jangling. The patter of feet. Enter an elderly lady, proudly and self-consciously supporting the rôle of private secretary to the lawyer.

  “Get me Miss Tither’s papers, Miss Buckley, if you please.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brassey.” The swift retreat of nervous footsteps along a passage and the speedy return of the spinster and the papers.

  Mr. Brassey assumed a pair of heavy, black-rimmed spectacles which almost totally eclipsed his sparrow face, untied the packet, meticulously rolled up the red tape and consulted the documents with a lot of hemming and hawing as he refreshed his memory, which was good and needed no assistance. He carefully tied up the records again, removed his overbearing glasses, cleared his throat and spoke like a judge passing sentence through a megaphone.

  “The Will of Miss Tither is a simple one. Let me say, by way of introduction, that the late Joshua Tither, auctioneer of this town, left about £20,000, divided equally between his daughters, whose mother died years before him. His only children, then, were Miss Ethel and Miss Martha. Miss Martha left all she had to her sister, with one exception. There was an annuity of one hundred pounds, payable to Sarah Russell, the maid, on the death of Miss Ethel Tither and if the said Sarah Russell be still in her employ on such event. In other words, gentlemen, Miss Martha was making sure that Russell stayed on with her sister during her lifetime. Miss Martha died two years ago.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat, closed his eyes as though burrowing deep into his thoughts, opened them suddenly, and resumed.

  “Miss Ethel’s Will left another annuity of one hundred pounds to Sarah Russell. So, the maid now inherits two hundred a year for life. Then come small legacies of a hundred apiece to the local Cats’ Shelter, the Dogs’ Refuge, the Irish Donkey Association, the Y.W.C.A. There is a hundred pounds to the manager and staff of the local branch of the Trentshire Bank, too, for their unfailing courtesy—a very pleasant gesture, if I may say so. Next, Five Thousand Pounds to the Home Gospel Alliance for Bringing Sinners to Repentance—her favourite charity and, during her lifetime, a cause for which she worked untiringly. The residue to her sole surviving relative, the Rev. Athelstan Wynyard, her cousin germane, who is, I understand, a missionary in the South Seas somewhere. The executors are myself and the Trentshire Bank. I should think Mr. Wynyard will inherit about twenty thousand pounds, as Miss Ethel saved much of her income. That’s all, gentlemen.”

  “Wynyard, eh?” said Oldfield. “He’s in England on leave now. Doing a lecture tour, gathering funds for the Mission. He was in Hilary, staying with Miss Tither last week, according to Russell. He’s been advised of the death and will probably have arrived to-day. Well, I’m much obliged for your help, Mr. Brassey. We’ll keep our own counsel until the Will’s made public.”

  They bade the lawyer good-day. Leaving the dark office was like emerging from a tunnel into the sunshine.

  “And now for Hilary,” said Oldfield, as they climbed into the car. “This is going to be interesting. Mr. Wynyard, eh? Well, well. And Sarah Russell might prove a mine of information. She might even have committed the crime herself, although from what I can see of her, she’s not that type. Too afraid of vengeance from heaven. She’s an Emmanuel’s Witness, and for ten years has been courted by the local shepherd of the Flock. Miss Tither didn’t approve, however, and said she’d sack her if she talked of getting married. So, to keep her claims to the legacies, poor Sarah had to remain in single blessedness. Now the shepherd can have his one ewe lamb and her two hundred a year in the bargain.”

  He slipped in the clutch and the car threaded its way through the High Street and into open country on the way to Hilary. As they passed the distant station, a train was just leaving and a thin stream of passengers flowed from the booking-hall. Oldfield caught his breath.

  “Talk of the devil. There’s Wynyard! Must have come by that train.”

  A tall, portly, pompous-looking man, clad in black and wearing a broad-brimmed, black felt hat, was emerging and bearing a bulky gladstone-bag.

  “Looks as if he’s come to stay for some time,” muttered Oldfield.

  “You don’t seem to like Wynyard, Oldfield.”

  “You’ve said it, Littlejohn. He lectured in Evingdon while he was stopping with Miss Tither. Talked about the South Seas at the parish church men’s club. The rector persuaded me to go. I’m a Baptist, but I’m not bigoted and I like the rector, so I turned up. I never heard such a lot of sentimental tosh. The man talks like the god and king of the Islands of the Sea, as he calls ’em. Bombastic, conceited bloke if you ask me.”

  “Going to give him a lift to Hilary?” chuckled Littlejohn.

  “No fear! Let him have a ride in Ezra Fewkes’s cab. I don’t wish him any harm, but I hope the cab’s booked-up and he has to walk. Take some of the fat from him. There’s a ’bus in another hour’s time. He can wait for that.”

  Oldfield accelerated gleefully, leaving the missionary behind vainly peering for a conveyance.

  Chapter IV

  The Vessel of Wrath

  The detectives’ first port of call was the vicarage at Hilary Magna, where the Rev. Ethelred Claplady received them cord
ially. He was more than pleased to hear that Littlejohn proposed to take up his quarters in the village. The big, comfortable Scotland Yard man inspired confidence and calmed the vicar’s spirit, for the thought of harbouring a murderer in his little community appalled him. He even offered Littlejohn a room in his home.

  “No thanks, sir,” replied the Inspector. “If the Bell Inn is like other country pubs I know, it is the centre of gossip and a good place for overhearing the exchange of news and views. I can spend some profitable nights in the parlour there, I think.”

  “Oh, you’re sure to do that, Inspector. The people in these parts are hospitable and talkative enough and soon grow accustomed to strangers. If I may say so, you’re the type which will mix well with them and, after a night there, all reserve will be broken. They’ll talk before you and even to you as if you were a native.”

  Oldfield interposed. “We’d better be getting to the scene of the crime before the dusk falls. Perhaps you’d care to join us, vicar? We can talk on the way.”

  The vicar hastened to find his hat and gloves. The detectives heard him calling to them from upstairs.

  “If you like to come upstairs to my room, I’ll show you the last place at which I saw poor Miss Tither alive.”

  They mounted the dark, old stairs and joined the vicar. He pointed to a gap in the hedge beyond the orchard. The manœuvre did not do much good, but it seemed to please the good man. He radiated helpfulness. Littlejohn felt a bit sorry for him. His clothes were neat but threadbare, he looked thin and lonely, and the presence of visitors seemed to overjoy him. Evidently having a struggle with a poor living, apathetic parishioners and lack of sympathy.

  “Was Miss Tither still talking to Haxley when you left the window?” queried Oldfield.

  “Yes. He must have been the last to see her alive, I should think,…except the murderer. Oh dear.”

  They descended and crossed the back lawn to the ditch below the churchyard. The cesspit, with its closed iron lid, was shown to Littlejohn. The vicar pointed out the gipsy’s grave which he had been contemplating when Gormley found the body.

  Littlejohn turned to Oldfield.

  “Were there any strange footprints or other signs of whoever carried the body here?”

  “No. First, Old Gormley stumped up and down the place, then a crowd gathered from far and wide. By the time Harriwinckle, the policeman, arrived, it was trampled about as if there’d been a cattle fair here. You’ll observe, however, that the trees overhanging this ditch make an excellent screen. She could have been struck down several fields away and dragged or carried under cover without anyone seeing, from a distance, what was going on. I tackled Haxley about her early morning assault on him. He said he met her crossing the field towards the main road as though bent on some earnest errand, and she took the opportunity of handing him a tract and calling upon him to repent his doubting ways and see the Light. She left him, apparently, a few minutes after the vicar saw them, and Haxley went on with his shooting.”

  “Yes, I heard his gun go off a time or two as I went on my way,” interposed the clergyman.

  “That is so. Southwell the farmer met Haxley about eleven in his fields more than a mile from the vicarage. They stayed talking for about an hour, arranging for some new shooting for Haxley. I’ve had a word with Southwell; Haxley mentioned their meeting, so I thought I’d confirm it and give him a rough alibi.”

  “Did anyone else see Miss Tither after Haxley left her, Oldfield?”

  “So far, I haven’t been able to find out. Perhaps you’ll have more luck.”

  Littlejohn turned to the vicar, who seemed to feel himself somewhat of an intruder in the investigation and was nervously prodding the turf with the toe of his shoe.

  “The main point to begin with, Mr. Claplady, is to find out who wanted to stop Miss Tither’s mouth, to put it vulgarly. I gather she was invariably hot on the trail of the black sheep of the village.”

  The vicar showed great eagerness to be of service.

  “Oh yes. She unearthed some pretty scandals in her time, you know. She frequently buttonholed me in the vestry and unburdened her mind to me. She pretended to ask my advice, too, but I think that was merely an excuse to tell me what she was going to do. Her mind was usually made up beforehand. A strong-minded, determined woman where sin was concerned.”

  “What kind of sin?”

  “Well—ahem—I’m afraid it was mainly sexual, although there were other things of course.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Mr. Haxley, for example. He’s a confirmed agnostic. Perhaps you’ll think that doesn’t reflect much credit on me. But I’ve tried, oh dear, I’ve tried to persuade him that his attitude is foolish. No Creator in the Universe, and such beliefs! Mr. Haxley is a clever man, however, and able to give a Roland for any Oliver in argument. We agreed to differ and be friends, long ago. Miss Tither, though, wouldn’t give up. She pursued him relentlessly. I think he derived a lot of good-natured amusement from her sallies, but certainly not a desire to kill her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Most of the villagers are nominally orthodox and belong to my church. There’s a sprinkling of Methodists. They worship in the corrugated iron structure between the two villages. Also, about ten or a dozen Emmanuel’s Witnesses, converted from the other faiths by the local leader, Mr. Walter Thornbush, who is also village wheelwright, worship at his cottage. Miss Tither didn’t seem to mind what faith people embraced, provided it was Christian and they behaved themselves.”

  “Let me see, is this Thornbush the man who’s courting Miss Tither’s servant?”

  “That’s the man.” The vicar smirked and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “A very worthy man, very worthy and well meaning, but with little religious stock-in-trade other than a profound knowledge of the Psalms. In fact, his conversation when not in the form of sermons, is…is one long Psalmody. You’ll be meeting him, I think. He has almost taken up his residence at the Tither home. Comforting and directing the maid, whom he will now be able to marry, after years of waiting. You see, Miss Tither opposed the marriage for some reason and Sarah, the maid, ran the risk of losing quite a considerable annuity under Miss Martha Tither’s will if she left Miss Ethel’s service.”

  “Forgive me pressing the sins, sir, but what else did the deceased specialize in in that line?”

  “Drink. Domestic turmoil. Cruelty to animals and children. Her interference between husbands and wives and with their offspring made her generally detested among offenders of that type. You know as well as I do, that the way to close the breach in family relations is to intervene on behalf of one side. The wife, screaming under her husband’s beating, is prepared to turn and rend anyone who dares lay a finger on the offender. Miss Tither just wouldn’t learn. Again, two or three times she has brought the N.S.P.C.C. Inspector from Evingdon to investigate cases of child neglect. There have been one or two convictions on that score. I can’t enumerate them all from memory, but you might look into them. Inspector Oldfield will be able to help, I’m sure. And the R.S.P.C.A. prosecutions, as well. There have been certain ones in that line, too. Ill-treating cattle, horses and such. She made a point of stopping and remonstrating with drunkards also, and got nothing but obscenities for her pains. But really, Inspector, do you think that any such occurrence would make one wish to murder her? The villagers have more respect for their necks, if you ask me. They have been known to fling cow-dung on her windows and one fellow fired her outhouses in revenge, but something much more serious must surely have impelled murder.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, sir? Now, if it’s not embarrassing, what about the sins you term sexual?”

  “Well, ahem…well, there is the seventh commandment, which unfortunately is broken by some in the village. Not openly, of course. But a whisper here, a rumour there, then some suspicious circumstance, or even a family eruption, brings
it to the light of day. Perhaps association with animals, a propinquity and familiarity with nature, shall we say, a certain laxity of speech and behaviour on the part of the froward ones, tend to lead to a light treatment of this commandment. Certainly, it does occur. Miss Tither seems to have had, to use a vulgarism, a nose for such occurrences and has interfered, to the extent, sometimes, of mentioning it to the partner sinned against. Most indiscreet and unbecoming, but it was her nature. She even tried, on occasion, to persuade me to approach and denounce the offenders, but one requires more proof than hearsay in such matters, gentlemen, or one runs a grave risk. It must almost be a case of flagrante delicto, and even then concerns the wronged partner and no one else. In this respect, I am firm. I am a psychologist and there my head must lead me, not my emotions.”

  The vicar was becoming heated and Littlejohn thought he displayed a fund of sound common sense.

  “As for the rest…she, she tried to persuade certain young people that marriage was desirable in view of their relations. I was appealed to…but there again, the parties know best themselves and families have a way of settling these matters satisfactorily.”

  “However did she find time and develop the technique of investigation? She was a perfect vessel of wrath, wasn’t she?”

  “She was. She did little else than improve, or attempt to improve, the social life of the village. There, again as a psychologist, I’m afraid I must diagnose psychopathic trouble, repression causing a twisting of behaviour and purpose. Poor woman, it led her to a sad end.”

  Dusk was falling and the red sunset foretold a fine morrow. In distant fields, the last loads of the day’s harvesting were being carried home to the farms. Noises of drivers calling to horses, children playing in the village, cattle crying, owls screeching and the notes of a few song birds broke the evening silence. The air was heavy with the smell of wood and stubble fires. Littlejohn felt hungry.

  “I think I’d better be finding ‘The Bell’, Oldfield,” he said to his colleague. “What time’s dinner?”