Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  Alice was plump and shy, a country girl in contrast to her senior, Grace, who bore evidence of town training. She blushed and stammered. Yes, she’d heard the piano playing. It only stopped once for a minute or two and then went on. As far as she could say, it started just after she’d made the master’s coffee and sent it in. Early it was. Yes, about a half before eleven. The playing stopped about twelve. She knew because Grace showed her the clock and told her to get a move on with the potatoes. Then, Mr. Lorrimer rang for her just after he stopped playing to tell her something about some ink he’d upset on the carpet. She mopped it up; you could see the mark faintly still just by the piano. Littlejohn thanked and dismissed her and she almost ran from the room, full of relief and anxiety to compare notes with Grace.

  “Did you see Miss Tither again after your morning meeting, Mr. Lorrimer?”

  “Yes, strangely enough, I did. I happened to have nothing much to do in the evening, so I went to church again. A rather unusual thing for me. I was on my way home when Miss Tither overtook me and told me she’d written to her cousin, asking him to meet her on Wednesday and that she then proposed to give him a chance of denying the story. I was rather dumfounded, I’ll tell you. I never thought for a moment that what I’d meant to be a casual comment, would develop into something so serious. I told her so, too.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She thanked me rather profusely. Said that if what I said was true, I’d prevented her making a great mistake. Otherwise, she would be very annoyed with whoever had started the scandal. That is, if Wynyard vindicated himself, I presume. Anyway, it hadn’t anything to do with me, so I didn’t bother about it again. We parted at the village centre and I went on home. I do feel pleased, however, that I put her wise to the way in which that bag of bluff, her cousin, had taken her in.”

  “Bag of bluff? I seem to have heard that expression before to-day.”

  “Probably from Old Haxley. It’s his epithet. I met him this morning and it seems he’s heard a similar tale from another source. Funny, the pair of us in the same village should have struck the same tale of distant goings-on from separate sources.”

  Mr. Lorrimer had a habit of crisply finishing off his sentences, as though biting into a stream of verbiage to terminate its flow. As he enlarged on the piece of scandal he shared with Haxley, he smacked his lips as he chewed the phrases, as though thoroughly enjoying its savour.

  Littlejohn thanked him and bade him good day. Remembering the funeral of Miss Tither, which was to take place at two o’clock, the detective hastened his steps in the direction of his lunch. He would join the outer circle of sympathizers, he decided. He might capture some impression from the gathering and have the chance of sizing-up the mourners. Besides, the lawyer from Evingdon was arriving and, later, would, as arranged with Oldfield, read the Will and then go through Miss Tither’s private papers with the police in attendance.

  As he crossed the road, Littlejohn heard pattering feet behind him. It was Mr. Claplady, hurrying home to his own lunch and kicking his cassock about with each step. He waved to Littlejohn and hurried towards him.

  “Hullo, Inspector. I hope you’ll be at the graveside this afternoon. It will be symbolic, I think, don’t you? A sign, shall we say, that justice is working for the poor lady. See you later, then. Good-bye, good-bye.” The cassock began to flap again, but suddenly the vicar turned in his tracks and confidentially addressed Littlejohn once more. “Things never happen singly, do they, Inspector? Do you know, I’ve just had a visit from Polly Druce. She and young Elliman, one of the grooms at the Hall, and now serving with the Forces, are being married to-morrow by special license and want me to perform the ceremony. Most unexpected! Surprising, I’m sure! He’s got twenty-four hours’ leave and they’ve suddenly made up their minds. I’d no idea there was anything between them…Well, till we meet again…” The feet tittupped away and the vicar turned the corner, still muttering to himself with surprise.

  “Well, well,” said Littlejohn to himself with a chuckle and he followed his nose in the direction of what he was sure was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

  Chapter X

  The Will

  It began to rain at lunch-time and at the appointed hour of Miss Tither’s funeral, a steady downpour had set in. Littlejohn stood in the doorway of “The Bell” in company with the landlord, his wife and a knot of regulars and watched the hearse, drawn by two steaming horses, pass the place at a speed which combined maximum haste with maximum respect. Three cars followed, their occupants invisible through the steamed windows. Littlejohn put on his raincoat and made his way to the churchyard at a discreet distance. The weather had not kept indoors those who regarded a funeral as a special treat and a motley crowd of sightseers and sympathizers formed a ragged procession behind the cortège. Umbrellas bobbed and the footfalls of the walkers rang on the road. There was no sound of voices; only the patter of feet, the drone of cars in low funereal gear, the clip, clop of the horses, the hiss and patter of the rain. At the church, another contingent of uninvited mourners and spectators waited, sheltering under the lych-gate and in the porch. A few hardy ones hung about under the dripping trees. They greeted each other with solemn nods, unspeaking, or just whispering, and settled down grimly to wait for the graveside ceremony. Littlejohn entered the graveyard by a side gate and took his stand under a chestnut tree which dropped capsules of rain down his neck and caused him to button up his mackintosh and drag his hat down over his ears.

  Mr. Claplady emerged from the church at length, a choirboy holding a large umbrella over his head. He was followed by Mr. Brassey, the lawyer, Wynyard and two decayed-looking ladies in faded black, presumably relatives many times removed claiming their graveside rights. Sarah Russell was there, accompanied by Thornbush. Both were in new black clothes and carried umbrellas, which were ineffective against the downpour which seemed slowly to be converting the cloth of their garments into satin. Thornbush wore a superior religious expression, as though full to the brim with knowledge of death and the grave and how to deprive them of their sting and victory. He looked ready at any moment to brush aside the vicar and himself commit the victim in a burst of psalms. Mr. Claplady droned like a hive of his own bees. There was a smell of earth, mould, dead leaves and woodsmoke. Shuffling and sliding on the mound of upthrown earth, the sexton and his mate carried the coffin and poised it over the grave. Mr. Claplady mumbled on and the burden was lowered. Clay and stones rattled on the lid of the coffin, one by one the mourners gave a last peep into the depths, and then the official procession disintegrated and there was a rush back to the waiting cars. The sexton arranged the wreaths of sodden flowers by the side of the path and stood waiting with his underling. It was the sign that the public were admitted. Women surged over the grass, read the tickets on the wreaths, chattered to each other, peered down at the coffin, flung handfuls of mud and stones on it with a show of respect, and melted away, complaining to their neighbours that they were getting their death of cold. When all the bedraggled crew had melted away, a small, straight-backed woman dressed in an ancient raincoat with leg-of-mutton sleeves, hurried to the graveside, her umbrella aloft like a banner, her stride purposeful, her lips a thin line. She did not hesitate, but walked straight to the hole, took up a handful of the muddy earth and stones and flung them on the coffin with a gesture of spiteful determination and vindictiveness. Then she marched away.

  The two labourers were hastily shovelling-in the earth. Littlejohn approached them.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Ar?” said the sexton, a drop on the end of his nose and rain on his whiskers like small icicles.

  “Who was the woman who just left?”

  “Ar…that be Mrs. Weekes o’ Upper Hilary Farm, that be. Praper caution she be…Naw then, Ishmael, carn’t ye shovel farster. Oi be chilled to the marrer.”

  Oldfield appeared, clad in oilskins and sou’wester. L
ittlejohn was glad to see his cheery, red face after what had just passed. He was puffing a large calabash. They greeted each other cordially.

  “How’s it going, Littlejohn?”

  “Oh, so-so. Not taking shape yet. I’ll tell you about it in a drier spot than this and with something warm inside us.”

  “I’ve seen Brassey. They’ll probably be clear of mourners in an hour or so. We’re to meet at five at Briar Cottage. He won’t touch letters or papers until we arrive.”

  “Good. Then I suggest that we see what they have to cheer and warm us at ‘The Bell’ and I can tell you how things are going.”

  Without more ado they set their course for the pub and left the principal character of their strange case to rest in peace under the dripping trees.

  ***

  At Briar Cottage, Sarah Russell answered the door in response to their knock. She had been weeping and her face was swollen and her eyes red-rimmed. Mr. Brassey was in a state of great excitement when the Inspectors entered the drawing-room. Wynyard was seated in an armchair by the hearth in an attitude of broken despair. The lawyer turned a furious face on his visitors.

  “The arrival of the police is all that’s required to complete the prettiest bit of damned tomfoolery I’ve seen for many a day. I wish, gentlemen, you were calling to take off into custody that silly Sarah Russell and her psalm-prating Thornbush.”

  The two detectives, surprised at their reception, gazed questioningly at Mr. Brassey. His pale face was suffused with rage, his thin hands flew hither and thither furiously gesticulating, his toupet-like hair was deranged. He looked more than ever like a bellicose sparrow emerging from a ding-dong battle with rivals for bread-crumbs.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” moaned Wynyard, raising a flushed face. His lips were dry and he was perspiring to his very eyes.

  “As if we hadn’t enough on our hands without this further complication,” chattered Brassey, his false teeth clicking. “We’ve just discovered that the Will I outlined to you the other day in my office is not the last Will and Testament of my late client, but has been set aside by a later document, drawn up in Miss Tither’s own hand on Monday last, witnessed by Sarah Russell and that confounded Thornbush and not disclosed until an hour ago!”

  Oldfield passed his hand across his hair in puzzlement and Littlejohn whistled softly.

  “You may well whistle. I never heard such damned nonsense in my life. In a revulsion of feeling against Mr. Wynyard here…”

  At this there was a groan from the offended party.

  “…Miss Tither decided to alter her Will. Instead of consulting me, as she ought to have done, she carefully copied her duplicate of the document I held, but changed the bequests. The new Will is as before, with the exception that Wynyard here is cut out altogether and” (more groans from the corner) “…and…the residue is left to the Home Gospel Alliance, if you please.”

  “But what have I done, thus to be treated, slighted, humiliated?” moaned Wynyard, addressing the room in general.

  “But surely, Mr. Brassey,” interjected Littlejohn, “you ought to have been made aware of this change, if not before, then immediately after the death of Miss Tither. If Russell knew of it, she ought to have told you.”

  “That’s what makes me so furious. If I’d the power to do it, that girl and her pious humbug of a follower wouldn’t get a penny. It seems that Miss Tither drew up this new—and by the way, perfectly legal—document, signed it and had it witnessed. Then, she locked it in the drawer of that bureau. She told Russell in the presence of Thornbush, that the new Will was an emergency one. She’d found out something concerning Wynyard and wished to protect herself in case it were true. If the story were untrue, she would destroy the homemade document; otherwise, it would stand, and if meanwhile ‘swift death o’ertook her’ (the words of that canting humbug!), Russell was to hand the new Will to me.”

  “And why wasn’t it done at once?” questioned Oldfield.

  “Thornbush! He had the impertinence to tell the girl to refrain until after the funeral. That was the time for Wills, he said, damn him! So the pair of them sat on it until I produced my document and then sprang their mine.”

  “But aren’t the circumstances under which the Will was executed sufficient to invalidate it?” asked Littlejohn.

  “I shall fight! I shall fight!” screeched Wynyard, suddenly exhibiting spirit.

  “It won’t do you a ha’porth of good. This is a perfectly legal document and there are at least half-a-dozen people who will swear that she was in her right mind at the time of executing it. I’m sorry for you, Wynyard, very sorry. But what I’m furious about, is the manner of its being done and the behaviour of that pair of fools. I’ve given Sarah a piece of my mind and I’ve packed off Thornbush with a flea in his ear. He’s not to come near this place until after probate, or I’ll have him pitched out on his neck. And now, gentlemen, I propose we cool down and go through Miss Tither’s private papers. I’m sorry, Wynyard, very sorry, but you’ve no standing here now. I suggest you retire to your room and rest a bit to recover from the shock. You’ll get over it.”

  The lawyer exhibited his human side, put his arm through that of the distressed missionary and led him to the door.

  “Now, gentlemen, to business. Let’s see what we have in this desk.”

  The receptacle for Miss Tither’s private papers was a large bureau of ancient design, standing in one corner of the room. Brassey took a key from his pocket and opened the top drawer. “I hope we don’t find any more damned Wills here,” he said. “There’s been enough bother as it is. I’ve had to send the Misses Golightly, distant cousins of the deceased, whom she seemed to have forgotten, I’ve had to send ’em home in a cab! Not even their fares for attending the funeral left to ’em!”

  The top drawer of the desk contained a jumbled assembly of lumber. Last season’s Christmas cards, tied in a neat bundle with the addresses of the senders pencilled on them in Miss Tither’s hand. Evidently the cues for the greetings she intended to send next time. Stationery, envelopes, sealing-wax, labels, pens, nibs and account-books. A pile of old passbooks and cheque-book stubs. The three men turned over the miscellaneous articles and the policemen laid aside the account-books and cheque counterfoils for later consideration. The next drawer held a current cheque-book and passbook which were placed with the old ones for closer scrutiny. Piles of old bills, circulars, letters. The latter mainly from relatives, including Mr. Wynyard. Then, came a stack of business correspondence, clipped by a large paper-fastener in one corner. Begging letters from individuals or charities, each neatly marked, “No”, or “Leave”, or again “Sent £5” or whatever the amount, with the date. Lastly, another batch of letters, similarly clipped. These were the most interesting find of all. They were all written from 11 Ropewalker Street, E.C.4, on paper headed “The Home Gospel Alliance for Bringing Sinners to Repentance”. They were in date order and presented a brief history of Miss Tither’s connection with that charity. She had apparently been a patron for about three years and remitted substantial sums from time to time. This file was placed with the accounts for comparison.

  The bottom drawer was opened and found to contain tracts of all kinds, but the “improving” literature had strange bedfellows. About two dozen novels, in paper backs or cheap board, and usually bought by post or furtively from small shops. French, German, American, British works, all in English, of course. Some of them well known; others less common, but equally salacious. The three men looked at each other and smiled wryly. Mr. Brassey closed and locked the drawer. “De mortuis…” he muttered. “We’d better arrange for those to be quietly burned. Perhaps she bought them the better to understand the souls for which she thought she was working. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  They turned their attention to the items they had set aside. There was no doubt about it that Miss Tither’s favourite charity was the Home A
lliance. The correspondence, together with the passbooks, told the story plainly. The dead woman had been cunningly flattered and skilfully persuaded to support the efforts of the association, whatever these might have been. First came a leaflet, explaining the work of the body among the fallen of the slums and even the West End. Miss Tither, apparently interested, had sent five pounds, which brought an immediate and profuse reply, plus more literature. There was a pause, then another begging letter. This elicited ten pounds. The latter sum was evidently employed, or said to be employed, in setting an erring sister, specifically mentioned by name, on the right track. A week later, followed a letter from the erring one to the association expressing lifelong thanks and gratitude to the unknown benefactor, who had shown her the error of her ways. From then on, Miss Tither had become easy prey. Letter after letter followed. Cheques for £50 a time; flowery acknowledgments; copies of letters from those who had benefited. Then, about twelve months before her death, came the final honour. Miss Tither was made honorary vice-president of the society and her name appeared on the letter paper!

  Brassey turned over the letters one by one and passed them to his companions. Littlejohn and Oldfield took out amounts on a piece of paper, and finally made an approximate total of sums paid to the Home Alliance by Miss Tither during her connection with it. In three years she had sent two thousand five hundred pounds! Now, she had left them the bulk of her estate! The three men were aghast.

  “This isn’t the first case I’ve come across,” commented Brassey. “Flattery and the like often drive lonely folk such as Miss Tither crazy, or give ’em a blind spot. She fancied she was adopting all the sinning women in London and whoever’s running this racket knew how to tackle her.”

  “By the way, have you ever heard of this charity before?” asked Littlejohn. “It’s funny Miss Tither never seems to have properly investigated it.”