Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  The vicar, now glowing under his narrative, refilled the glasses, and resumed.

  “That is the façade as shown to the world. What has gone on behind is grim. As vicar, I hear a lot that others don’t. The doctor relaxes with me and, of course, I often smoke a pipe and have a yarn with Sir Francis about things in general. This is what I gather from here and there. The Weekes don’t worship in the village. They attend a very strict meeting at Zion Chapel, in Evingdon. They’re Calvinists to the bone and she’s more rigid than he. Their natures and physiques probably account for the differences in temperament. He’s a big, heavy, John-Bullish type, ready for a joke and a chat in moderation and open-handed and generous when she’s not about. Or rather, he was. Mrs. Weekes is a little, thin, stringy woman, with a sour face, a confirmed assurance that she’s one of the Elect, and a very parsimonious nature. Between ourselves, I’d be inclined to call her a married virgin. She fancies she’s married beneath her, too, and likes to remind Weekes, from time to time, that whereas his father was a farm labourer and died the same, her’s was head gardener on the estate and retired on his savings.”

  Mr. Claplady took a sip of his sherry, rolled it round his mouth with added appreciation on account of Littlejohn’s praise of it, paused as though creating dramatic suspense, and continued.

  “Now here’s the horror of it all. Weekes’s father and several other members of the family drank themselves to death. There’s alcoholic taint in the blood and Weekes seeing so much of it and fortified by the Calvinism he’s embraced, remains strictly total-abstainer until, suffering from nervous trouble, which gives him insomnia, he’s advised by an old-fashioned doctor, Drawbell of Evingdon, to take a toddy of whisky just before bed. You can well imagine why he develops nerve trouble. He lives with a woman who’s never been a wife in the real sense. He’s a full-blooded, open-air man and suffers the lusts of the flesh like his fellows, but these he exorcises with the help of St. Paul, shall we say, and doses of Calvin. Whilst he’s actively farming The Warren, with farm lads living in with them and interesting work from morn to set of sun, he’s right enough. But, when he comes to retire, in the late fifties, to a lonely little farm, with no hands or servants about, ah, then the flesh begins to torment him. Imagine, night after night, sitting there, as I’ve seen the pair of them when I’ve had occasion to make an evening call. The lamp in the middle of the table, a ring of brightness, and dark outside it and, on each side, Weekes and Annie, she reading the Bible, he pretending to do the same perhaps, but wrestling with the flesh and images that won’t be gainsaid. And the stillness of the place. Yes, and the boredom and perhaps even hate. The situation would drive me mad in a week.”

  The good man shuddered and pointed a dramatic finger at Littlejohn.

  “But here’s the climax. When Drawbell prescribed whisky, Mrs. Weekes must have known what would happen. There’s only one end to breaking the pledge with a history like that of Edward’s family. Yet—and Codrington, the local G.P., who’s a crony of mine, tells me this—yet, she allowed it, religious scruples or no religious scruples. Nay, she encouraged it. Now, Allnutt, my warden, who supplies the stuff, confides to me that there’s a case of bottles goes to Upper Hilary every week. And Codrington insists that unless it stops, and at once, Weekes’ll not see another summer, from cirrhosis. Put two and two together, Inspector. Weekes has broken his bonds and yielded to the flesh. Polly Druce isn’t the first. Mrs. Weekes has found out. So…the way of transgressors is hard. Very hard. So is she. She’s killing him by allowing, nay, perhaps plying, the whisky.”

  Both men sat still, the vicar sadly pondering, the detective astounded. A stray bee buzzed in the window. Outside, a scene of great animation was visible. The vicar’s housekeeper was chasing chickens in a wire-netting enclosure down the garden, laden harvest-carts were sailing past, only the loads visible over the thorn hedge. The steam of a train could be seen in the far distance. The only sounds were the angry, persistent drone of the bees, the cackle of hens, the ring of someone’s hone against his scythe and the tick of the large clock.

  Littlejohn broke the mood.

  “Miss Tither was there recently, gathering crab-apples for jelly and, incidentally, remarked in passing to Sarah, that there were more bitter things at Upper Hilary Farm than crabs. I wonder if she’d been meddling there, too?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, Inspector. She was in at everything unsavoury in the locality.”

  “I must call and see the Weekes pair sometime. And now, there’s another couple of characters in the case. Mr. Lorrimer, of Holly Bank, and the Rev. Athelstan Wynyard, of the South Seas.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you much in either case, but fire away, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Who’s Mr. Lorrimer, to begin with?”

  “I really can’t tell you very much about him. He came to live here about three or four years ago. A fellow of about fifty-five or sixty years of age. He’s apparently very nicely off; they say he made his money in Australia or somewhere and came back to settle down in the old country. He attends service at the church on Sunday mornings and seems to lead a quiet life, not mixing very much.”

  “Was he friendly with Miss Tither? I ask that because, according to her maid, something he said to Miss Tither last Sunday after church disturbed her considerably and caused her to write to Mr. Wynyard.”

  “Ah,” said the vicar and looked very uncomfortable. “May I ask you to discuss that with Mr. Wynyard himself? I’m committing no breach of confidence when I say that he called here last night in a very excited state of mind and made to me what I regard as a confession. It was a statement in private which I would prefer not to disclose without his consent. I advised him to open his heart to you, Inspector. So perhaps you’ll make it in your way to see him about it.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Another glass of sherry before you go?”

  “No, thanks.” The vicar absent-mindedly refilled his own glass and sipped it meditatively.

  Littlejohn thought it time to terminate the interview. The vicar was a perfect mine of information. Littlejohn wondered if he would ever find the needle in the huge haystack which the good man had dumped on him. He decided to call on several of the characters of their discussion. Meanwhile, he had more than enough matter to begin working on. All that remained was to enquire concerning the mechanism of the cesspool. When asked to describe it, Mr. Claplady evinced signs of great distress.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’m not in the least mechanical minded. I allowed myself to be persuaded, without expert guidance, when the thing was installed, by a salesman and Gormley has acted as engineer ever since, although somewhat of a crude mechanic, shall we say. He, he! Perhaps you’d care to ask him about it…or let me see…yes, I think I have them still. Yes, I think I can lay my hands on them.” He proceeded to rummage intently in disorderly cupboards and drawers until, finally, he emerged, dusty yet triumphant, with a sheaf of papers which he handed to the detective. Specifications, persuasive letters, testimonials from satisfied users and, finally, a diagram of the sanitary system of the vicarage, including detailed blue-prints of the cess-tanks. Littlejohn glanced carefully at the drawings and nodded.

  “May I keep these for the time being, sir? They’ll probably be instructive to the Coroner at the inquest this afternoon. Which reminds me, I must be off, or I’ll not be there in time, especially as I must see Inspector Oldfield about these particulars you’ve given me.”

  “By all means, keep them, Inspector. I’ll see you at the inquest at which, to my distress, I’m a witness. Good morning. You’ll find your way out, won’t you?”

  Littlejohn assured the parson that he could, and made his exit. After his departure, the vicar rose unsteadily. He had never taken three glasses of his own potent sherry before and felt strange in the legs and somewhat lightheaded. He ruminated on the interview which had just terminated. His drinks seemed t
o have sharpened his mind and made him feel bold. “Polly Druce is a tart,” he solemnly told himself, as though making an astounding discovery and then, suddenly, the epithet, which in more sober moments would have brought shame to his cheeks, seemed to give him food for thought. “Ah, tart,” he said with relish and peeped through the window. Mrs. Jackson was still busy in the hen-run. One of her brood had suddenly taken to eating its own eggs and she was catching the hens one by one and examining their beaks with a view to detecting the criminal. Finding her fully occupied, the vicar rose somewhat gingerly and softly entered the larder. There, in all its glory, stood a marvellous apple flan, the housekeeper’s speciality and her master’s weakness. “Ah, tart,” said the good man again and raided the store of a large portion, which he stealthily carried back to his den. After taking a large bite, he placed the rest carefully on his blotting-pad for further attention later and, opening a drawer, took out a huge bundle of papers marked “The Life of the Bee (Apis Mellifica)”, by Ethelred Claplady, M.A. (Cantab.). Having fumbled with the pile until he found the place where he had last ceased his writing, page 1,103, he dipped his pen in the ink, shook a blot on the carpet, took a further bite of his tart, and forgot all about the troubles of Hilary in the problems of his bee hives.

  Chapter VII

  Inquest

  One night soon after Ethel Tither’s murder, P.C. Harriwinckle dreamed a dream. He and his wife made two great inert mounds in their capacious connubial bed and they snored lustily in concert, the trumpetings of healthy folk after a day’s work well done. But if Constable Harriwinckle’s huge frame was couchant, his mind was rampant. In a vision, he saw himself roving his native countryside, unravelling the threads of a crime in which the victim was alternately Miss Tither and Inspector Oldfield, and, having finally brought the criminal to justice, he received his sergeant’s stripes at the hands of the Coroner, Mr. Absalom Carradine, M.B.E. As Harriwinckle’s snores broke, subsided, turned to gasping whistles, and finally ceased in the process of awaking, the three silver chevrons on his sleeve miraculously changed to a higher honour in the form of a black armlet on which were inscribed in flaming scarlet, the letters M.B.E. The limb of the law opened his eyes and for a moment lay still and disgusted by the side of his partner. His disgust was due to the fact that in his dream the criminal had been formless and void, like an unfixed photograph which has faded away. A thin pencil of light filtered round the edge of the black blind of the bedroom. Outside the roosters were already challenging each other with their frantic crowing, the hens in the back garden were making the plaintive noises which precede eggs. The ducks, having already done their duty by Mrs. Harriwinckle under cover of night, sported on the pond behind the police station, quacking merrily. P.C. Harriwinckle made up his mind.

  “Mother,” he said, to the torpid heap of flesh and bedclothes at his side. “Mother, I’m gettin’ up. There’s work to do.”

  Mrs. Harriwinckle continued to snore, so, having done his part by holding no secrets from her, her husband slid nimbly from beneath the blankets, gathered his clothes from the bedside chair and padded downstairs in his nightshirt and bare feet. He was fully dressed and ready for business at six o’clock, indicated by the opening and closing of the double doors of a cuckoo-clock, which Mrs. Harriwinckle’s brother, Gus, a youth-hostel enthusiast, had brought home as a proof of his efforts in the Black Forest. The constable’s youngest, Harry, had so thoroughly dealt with the bird during a one-time absence of his parents, that ever after, the cuckoo remained at home and marked the passing hours with unseen cries. When Harriwinckle met Littlejohn at noon, as the Inspector was leaving the vicarage, he had a good morning’s work to report.

  “Mornin’, sir,” he said, saluting genially. “I bin lookin’ fer yew. Maybe, I thought, you might have some orders. So, not bein’ able to foind yew, I set about gatherin’ one or two alibis of folk I’d learned was about when Miss Tither was murdered.”

  “That’s very enterprising of you, Harriwinckle. You’ve shown great initiative. There’s a lot to do in this business and it’s nice to collaborate with a willing and energetic helper.”

  The village constable’s healthy complexion turned a deeper shade of brick-red, his chest threatened to burst his tunic-buttons and it was only with difficulty that he was able to extract from his breast pocket a dog-eared, black notebook, which, after he had disentangled it from the chain of his whistle, he opened and made as if to read at length.

  Littlejohn interposed. He had no desire to stand in the middle of the road in the heat of the day, listening to a long recital.

  “I know that drinking on duty’s not allowed, Harriwinckle, but I suggest we go in conference in my room at ‘The Bell’ and sort your notes out there in private.”

  “With pleasure, sir, if it’s all the same to yew.”

  “Come along then, and as we walk, tell me whom you’ve visited, and why.”

  “Well, sir. First, it’s known that Mr. Haxley was one o’ the last to see Miss Tither. I got a statement from ’im. Then, as Sarah Russell is reputed to be comin’ into money when Miss T. dies, I thinks it as well to see where she was at the toime of the croime. I got her alibi. And checked it. You probably heard, too, that Mr. Thornbush reckons on marryin’ Sarah now she’s free. Thinkin’ that it bein’ to his adwantage to have Miss T. out of the way, I thinks it best to see ’im also. I got his statement in my book, too. Perhaps it was as well I saw ’im. A proper slippery eel he is, that one. Full o’ texts and psalms, he is, whenever in difficulty. No doubt, when you came across him last night, as he said you had, you got nothin’ but psalms from ’im. That’s his crafty way. He can talk proper when he wants, and I see to it that he did. ‘Look you ’ere, Walter Thornbush,’ says I, havin’ known him since we was boys, ‘look you ’ere, come down to earth a bit and ferget the heavenly language fer a while and speak in the tongue of Hilary.’ Jest loike thaat, I says it, and sure enough he give me his particulars without so much as a text. Always looks as if he’d been havin’ a bath in his sawdust, does Walter, when you visits him in his wheelwright’s shop. Sawdust on his whiskers, chippings in his hair, shavings all over ’is clothes and fine wood-powder everywhere else. But I’m wastin’ your time, sir. Then, I saw Sam Wood’s daughter, Mary, who’s been tellin’ in the village that she saw Miss Tither after she left Mr. Haxley. I got some details from ’er, too. I think that’s about the lot, sir.”

  “I congratulate you, Harriwinckle. You’ve had a busy morning and, from my angle, a very helpful one, too. Here’s ‘The Bell’. We’ll continue over a little refreshment.”

  Over pints of beer, the two officers began to disentangle the mass of information contained in Harriwinckle’s black book. It had been inscribed at speed and the constable’s writing had assumed hieroglyphic form which he alone could translate. So, taking a sheet of paper, Littlejohn neatly jotted down the details as the policeman read them out.

  Haxley. Left Miss Tither just after ten o’clock. She was apparently on her way to the main road by the field path and seemed to have time to spare. Haxley went to Home Farm after leaving Miss T. to discuss partridge shooting with Southwell, the owner. Southwell confirms that he was there from 10.30 until about noon and fixes times by kitchen clock when they went indoors for a drink.

  Mary Wood, who was crossing the field and saw Miss Tither leave Haxley, who caused a commotion by shooting a rabbit almost under Miss T.’s nose. Miss T. made off along the hedge following the path at a moderate pace and Mary went on her way with drinks to the men. Uncertain about time, but thinks it was about a quarter of an hour after her mistress told her to take the drinks, remarking “Mary, get off with them drinks, quick. It’s turned ten and the men will be parched”.

  Sarah Russell. Indoors doing housework all morning. At time of murder, say between ten and eleven, was preparing dinner. Ben Groby, jobbing gardener, who was doing his day-a-week at Miss Tither’s, testifies that he saw her about
the place most of the time. The scene of the crime is a good half-mile from Briar Cottage and Groby states she couldn’t possibly have gone out and come back for so long without his noticing. He was burning rubbish near the kitchen and she was working there and he kept his eye on the place to see that the smoke wasn’t blowing in the house.

  Walter Thornbush. Greatly indignant at being questioned, as he regards himself as above suspicion. Finally, stated that he never left his shop. His apprentice, Enoch Tyson (18), a lad with plenty of commonsense, confirms this. They were finishing a hay-cart for Gasson of Poger’s Dam, and, as it was a rush job, kept hard at it all morning.

  “Well, Harriwinckle,” said Littlejohn, laying down his pencil, emptying his tankard and stretching his long legs beneath the table, “that’s a good morning’s work and seems to put those you’ve questioned out of the running, for the time being, at least. And now, I must bestir myself and get some lunch. It’s turned quarter to one and Inspector Oldfield’s due here at one. We’ve a lot to do before the inquest, which is at two-thirty, isn’t it? I guess you’ll be busy too, meanwhile.”