Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  The voice was drowned in a pot of ale, and loud roars followed the joke.

  Littlejohn, now at the cheese stage, smiled to himself. He was enjoying the entertainment and gathering information, too. He kept an old envelope at his elbow and scrawled on it from time to time.

  A thick voice chimed in over the laughter.

  “Many’s the one as owes the Tither woman repayment. Look at the Reverend Oker. Disgraced in the eyes o’ the whole congregation. Not that oi ’olds with Wesleyans at any time…”

  “Whatever else you ’olds, ’old yer tongue about Wesleyans,” snarled someone, evidently of the denomination.

  “Now, now, no religious wars,” said the landlord and guffaws rang round.

  More calls for refills, knocking on the counter, the clink of coins, the flop-flop of darts, the hum of small-talk and the confusion of general conversation.

  “Inquest ter-morrer,…Scotland Yard man ’ere,…Sam Harriwinckle loike a dog with two tails, he be,…jest been in ’ere swankin’ about workin’ hand-in-glove with a chap from London…”

  The tenor was at it again.

  “Pest or no pest, Miss Tither represented the peaceable citizens and, as such, we’m on ’er side agenst whomever’s done ’er in, aren’t we? Maybe, any one of us might be done-in next. It’s up to us help catch the killer.”

  A chorus of approvals. Pots were knocked on the table.

  The door opened and closed and heavily nailed hooves seemed to clatter into the room. There were shouts of greeting to the newcomer.

  “Evenin’, Isaiah, where you bin? Thowt you’d bin and got yerself murdered loike…”

  Ah, thought Littlejohn, enter the man of the moment. Gormley, the first on the scene of the crime.

  Isaiah was cantankerous.

  “Pint o’ mild and put it on the slate,” he grunted.

  “Where you bin?” persisted the tenor.

  “I bin argewing with mi blarsted family, that’s wot oi bin doin’. It’s round the village as Owld Tither wuz drownded in the cesspit. An’ come to think about it, too, wen oi found ’er, there wuz watter in the pit. But wen I lef’ the cesspool, it wuz dry. I drained off the watter and dried ’im by shovelling out the muck from the bottom…”

  “More water run in while you wuz away…” said someone jovially.

  Gormley’s voice grew angry.

  “That’s wot our George bin sayin’ and we bin argufyin’, till oi towld ’im to shut-up and not speak to his father loike that. Oi tell ’ee, oi turned off the inlet to the tank till oi’d cleaned ’im up and when the vicar gets moi dander up by interferin’ and oi goes on stroike like, oi ups and off in temper and fergets to turn on the inflow. No. Sombody wot throwed Tither in the pit, turned on the watter, too.”

  There was a chorus of contention again, with Gormley’s voice rising shrilly, only to be superseded by the more powerful tenor of Luke Pearson.

  “Oh, put a sock in your murder talk! Oi be fed up with it. ’Ere we be, gatherin’ fer a social hour, and nothing but talk o’ murder to entertain us. Oi be off ’ome unless you lays off it.”

  This was greeted with general approval and darts became the topic of discussion. It appeared that a team from “The Bell” was shortly due to meet one from “The Bull’s Head” at nearby Graby in a match to death.

  Littlejohn rose and strolled into the bar parlour to size-up the gathering and establish friendly relations. He drank a pint of ale standing at the counter and was civilly greeted and treated by the assembly, now hotly enumerating the pros and cons of various aspirants for glory at darts. A reserve fell over the customers and Littlejohn decided he had better leave well alone until he was better known. He bade them good-night and wandered outside for a breath of air before retiring.

  The roads were deserted. The shapes of clustered cottages could just be discerned in the pitch darkness. The wind hissed in the leaves of the trees round the inn. A fox barked somewhere in the distance and was answered by the challenges of yard-dogs. The detective lit his pipe and strolled slowly along the road. There was a scuffling of wild things in the ditches as he passed. The church clock struck ten and the regulars of “The Bell” began to turn out. Good-nights were bandied and foot-steps rang out. Crisp feet. Unsteady, staggering, shambling feet. The clink of hobnails, the pad-pad of rubbers. Here and there a torch twinkled. The Inspector retraced his steps past the few cottages clustered round the pub. Slits of dim light showed round the blinds of some; others were in darkness. A woman’s shrill laughter sounded. A child wailed in one of the houses. A drunkard’s angry shouts echoed; no doubt a protest at the reception he was receiving at home. Littlejohn in imagination saw Miss Tither on such a night as this. Creeping, peering, listening. An ideal night for a murder under cover of the blackness, yet someone chose to do her to death in the full light of day.

  Noakes, landlord of “The Bell”, was washing glasses when his guest returned. Littlejohn stopped to speak to him. They exchanged generalities. Then, “Who was the Rev. Oker?” asked Littlejohn. Noakes wiped beer-slops from the long deal table of the bar parlour and gave the detective a keen glance. The landlord was a middle-aged man, red-faced, thick-set and with pale, watery, good-natured eyes.

  “Mr. Oker? Oh, he was the minister on circuit in Evingdon, but he served four churches round here. He lived between here and Evingdon and he used to come ’ere one Sunday in four takin’ the services.”

  “What made him leave?”

  “There wuz a proper shemozzle at the chapel here. Rumours got around that he was sweet on Mrs. Tandelette. The congregation fell off, hardly anybody went to service. They did say Miss Tither started the tale.”

  “Who was Mrs. Tandelette?”

  “Wife of a Major Tandelette, a retired man who lived here, who was called-up when war broke out. He went off somewheres, leavin’ his wife in the cottage—with the maid, of course. They lived at Woodbine Cottage, just past the vicarage.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, it seems somebody let Major Tandelette know what was goin’ on. He wuz a friend of the vicar, so Mr. Claplady can tell you more about it. I don’t know the details. But the Rev. Oker left the district.”

  “What were the rumours?”

  “Mr. Oker wuz a special constable and it wuz rumoured as he was callin’ too often at the cottage on his beat. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Noakes was evidently uncomfortable and Littlejohn decided to defer matters until he could see the vicar himself. He bade the landlord good-night and retired to his room. Before he turned-in, he wrote in his notebook a summary of points for the next day.

  Mr. Claplady. Query Miss T.’s activities. Any more enemies? Ask about affair of Reuben Beallot. What are true facts of the Oker-Tandelette scandal? Pursue I. Gormley’s statement re water in cesspool. How does the contraption work?

  Haxley. Movements on day of crime. Alibi? What did he discuss with Miss T. before her death? Where did she go when she left him? Who is “our Mary” who saw Miss T. after she left Haxley?

  Wynyard. What did Miss T. write to him about and why was she so upset on his account? Alibi?

  Lorrimer, of Holly Bank. What did he tell Miss T. after service last Sunday and why was she so perturbed?

  Sarah Russell and W. Thornbush. Alibis?

  Polly Druce. What was Miss T. concerned with here?

  Weekes, of Upper Hilary Farm. What was the bitterness of which Miss T. spoke and how did it concern her?

  Littlejohn was just adding Home Gospel Alliance for Bringing Sinners to Repentance to his list, when he decided that the sooner he had that institution looked-up the better. He accordingly went downstairs to the telephone and left a message with Scotland Yard, that Sergeant Cromwell, his colleague, must make enquiries as soon as possible.

  Littlejohn returned quietly to his room and before long put out the light and drew back
the curtains. Heavy footsteps sounded along the road and, as they passed, the detective made out the broad hat and heavy silhouette of Athelstan Wynyard heading for his lodging at Miss Tither’s old home. He seemed to be returning from the vicarage. How did this man from the South Seas fit in the strange pattern which now lay, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, awaiting arrangement and solution?

  With a yawn the detective took to his bed and slept soundly until morning.

  Chapter VI

  Mr. Claplady Collaborates

  The Rev. Ethelred Claplady is a distinguished apiarist and had, for five years previous to the death of Miss Tither, been engaged in writing an encyclopaedic work on his speciality. As Littlejohn neared the vicarage on the morning after his arrival in Hilary Magna, the loud metallic droning of angry bees assailed him and he gazed about him to see whence it came. His ears led him to the old, lichen-covered wall of the parson’s garden and, peeping over it, he saw a strange sight. The vicar, a grotesque figure in a long, black veil suspended from an old shovel hat, and wearing gloves, was alternately puffing smoke from a pair of apiarist’s bellows and stroking with the help of a feather, furious bees from the sections of honeycomb which he was carefully taking from the hives. The place was thick with the outraged insects, which, in their anger at the ravaging of their stores, had apparently accelerated the speed of their flight and swooped around the busy clergyman like fighter aircraft attacking a quarry.

  The vicar spotted his audience and called out to him.

  “Ah, good morning, Inspector,” came thickly through the funereal gauze which muffled the gentle face. “You find me occupied for the moment, but I won’t be long. No, I won’t be long. I’m on the last hive.”

  Whereat, the better to make himself heard and with a gesture of welcome, the good man approached Littlejohn, followed by a retinue of revenging bees of which, swathed in his protective gear, the vicar seemed blissfully unaware. The detective withdrew a pace or two.

  “Oh, I forgot the bees following. They’re a bit angrier than usual this morning. We generally get on well together, but it’s the weather that has put them out of temper. I’d suggest that you go inside and await me in my study. I’ll only be about five minutes. Or, if you’d care to join me here, Mrs. Jackson, my housekeeper, will find you a spare veil and gloves.”

  “I’ll wait in the study, sir,” came the hurried reply and, noting that the disturbed insects were increasing the radius of their offensive sweeps, Littlejohn beat a hasty retreat indoors. There he was conducted to the study by a buxom, middle-aged countrywoman, Mr. Claplady’s housekeeper. Even in the book-lined room, two or three stray insects were ominously buzzing round and beating themselves against the window-panes in their efforts to get out and resume hostilities. The Inspector speedily opened the casement and, with the help of a copy of The Times, assisted the intruders into the open air.

  When at length the vicar arrived, he treated his visitor to a brief lecture on bees and a glass of sherry. The latter was of excellent, dry flavour and, when complimented on it, the parson flushed with pleasure and said he got it from the village stores, Mr. Allnutt, the owner of which had a pretty taste in wines himself.

  “Well, sir, now to business,” said Littlejohn, and the vicar grew solemn and businesslike.

  “I seem, from one source or another, to have got a pretty good picture of Miss Tither’s activities and unhealthy curiosity. I’ve accumulated, too, a list of many people who might have been affected by her poking and prying. I’ll just run through the names I’ve heard about and, if it’s not a breach of trust, which, of course I wouldn’t expect you to make, perhaps you’ll tell me something about them, if you can.”

  Littlejohn opened his notebook and scanned the list which he had scribbled there the night before.

  “Reuben Beallot. Now, at the Bell Inn last night, I overheard someone say that Beallot, whoever he is, threatened to ‘do for’ Miss Tither over some scandal she put out about his relations with a certain Nancy. I ought to add, that it was Nancy’s father who, perhaps loosed-up, shall we say, with ale, made a joke of it. All the same, it seems relevant…”

  “Oh, tut, tut, tut, Inspector. Young Beallot was a farm labourer at Pochin’s Farm until he was called up for the army. He’s somewhere in Scotland now, I believe. A nice boy, but red-headed and hot-tempered. He was engaged to Nancy Pearce four years before they wed. Saving-up all the time for a home, you know. Miss Tither must have caught them love-making somewhere, for she came to me and tried to enlist my help in marrying them forthwith. When I told her it was not in my province and pointed out that it wasn’t her business either, but that of the parties concerned, she had the impudence to go to Nancy’s father. Old Pearce is a blunt countryman and gave her short shrift, but Reuben took it badly. It all blew over and they were married at the church here, in course of time. I’m certain he’s not been on leave for the last four months and had he been in the village at the time of the crime, I’d be sure to know. No, Inspector, put young Beallot out of your mind. The lad’s all right and has an alibi, in that he couldn’t desert from his regiment without making a fuss.”

  “Then,” went on the Inspector, again consulting his notebook, “there’s the case of Mrs. Tandelette and Mr. Oker. I overheard something about that, too. What exactly happened?”

  Mr. Claplady shuffled uneasily in his chair. He was more at home on the subjects of bees and theoretical psychology. The raking over of village quarrels and affairs didn’t appeal to his taste at all. However, he saw his duty plainly and did his best to collaborate with the law.

  “Mr. Oker was the dissenting minister here and served about four small churches in his district. He lived within the boundary of Hilary and, poor chap, doing his best when war broke out, volunteered as a Special Constable. He patrolled the roads, assisting Harriwinckle on certain nights. During the winter, Mrs. Tandelette must have seen him prowling round and looking half-starved and invited him in her cottage for a cup of coffee now and then. There was nothing wrong in that, considering there was a maid in the house, although her husband was away with his regiment. She was a very attractive woman, though, and, as usual, beauty seems to excite suspicion in women of a certain type—I might, with due respect, call it the Titherian type—ahem. Mrs. Tandelette was rather too modern for this village both in dress and a certain almost offensive forthrightness of speech. Tongues started to wag, there was scandalous talk and next time Tandelette came over on leave, Miss Tither had the audacity to mention it to him.”

  “How did it affect Mr. Oker?”

  “Well, you see, his small congregation here has most rigid, almost prudish views, and forthwith ceased to attend. Not only that, his conduct was called to book at the general meeting of the principal church in the circuit. He showed fight and gave an admirable account of himself, I gather. He resigned then and there, too, saying such a stiff-necked congregation was no place for him. He moved to a better place somewhere near Ripon, I think. Colonel Tandelette was furious, however. He set about tracing the source of the rumour and it soon led him to Miss Tither. Before leaving for Northern Ireland, where his regiment had lately been moved, and taking his wife with him, he told Miss Tither that he wouldn’t forget her share in this affair and that for two pins he’d stop her mouth for good.”

  The vicar regarded the detective closely.

  “Now don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Littlejohn. Tandelette hadn’t murder in mind. He was a close friend of mine when he was here. A good chess player who regularly called and took a good beating like a gentleman. He referred to going to law, not killing the culprit.”

  “So, you think we can dismiss him, too?”

  “By all means, by all means. The thing’s unthinkable.”

  “Now, sir, can you tell me anything about Polly Druce?” The vicar grew pink and looked embarrassed.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, will it never end? Where does Polly come in?”

>   “Apparently Miss Tither, as reported by her maid, left for Hilary Hall a day or two ago to deal with Polly. What would that be about?”

  “I’m afraid she’s a most immoral girl. She comes of a pagan family, with some gipsy blood in her. Her father is a farm labourer and a good one, too, but a more blasphemous, incorrigible reprobate I never knew. He never keeps a job for long at once, through quarrelling with his masters. Polly is a very attractive girl and clever too. She aims rather higher than the other village girls and has a certain charm lacking in the rest of her family. She’s in the kitchen at the Hall. She’s been there about six months and, since she was taken on, seems to have quietened down. Lady Winstanley gave her the job and a good talking-to in an effort to reform her. Last week, Miss Tither told me she’d broken out again. Apparently she’d seen her out in the dusk with some middle-aged, married man of the village.”

  “Who?” interposed Littlejohn.

  “Oh dear, this is so like scandalmongering! I feel tainted by discussing it. Well, I suppose you must know one way or another. It was Mr. Weekes, of Upper Hilary Farm. A more unlikely man I couldn’t imagine. Mind you, I’ve no proof. Only Miss Tither’s talk. She wanted me to intervene and I refused, so she said she would go right away to the Hall, tell Polly that unless it ceased at once, she’d denounce her to Lady Winstanley, and, furthermore, she intended telling Mr. Weekes he ought to know better.”

  “Who is this Weekes?”

  “Ah, there is a human story, far stranger than fiction, indeed, Inspector. You know, Mr. Littlejohn, when we read certain stories in books, they are such strong meat, shall we say, that we remind ourselves that they are fiction and written for our entertainment, just as in dreams of a horrible type, we find ourselves saying strangely, ‘I’m dreaming this’. But some human documents are stronger stuff than any fiction. Here is one for you. Edward Weekes and his wife, Annie, were born in this village. Until they reached forty, one was a confirmed bachelor and the other a potential old maid. Weekes was a farm foreman; she was housekeeper to an elderly retired gentleman. One month, I gather—and this from Sir Francis Winstanley—they were just nodding acquaintances; the next, they were married. You see, Warren Farm, the richest in the district, had come vacant and the pair of them had pooled their resources, made a business partnership of it, borrowed the rest of the money and taken over the farm. They made a good job of it, too, and in twenty years retired with a considerable fortune to Upper Hilary Farm, a small, comfortable place with about fifty acres or so. Have another glass of sherry, Inspector?”