Brassey turned over a pile of printed papers.
“You see, here they issue a proper balance sheet, duly audited by a firm of warranted accountants, showing income and expenditure. The show seems to be run properly. All these letters are signed by the paid secretary, Alcimas Mortimore, but the president seems to be the Rev. Peter Scarisdale, D.D., whoever he may be.”
The lawyer pointed to two further letters which he had been scrutinizing.
“Miss Tither’s evidently tried to arrange a personal interview with the D.D. See, here’s his reply.”
There followed an unctuous screed, explaining how busy the reverend gentleman was, and how his labours in the vineyard kept him fully employed. He would, however, be delighted to meet the generous benefactress at the first opportunity and would write her at an early date. Then came another letter of apology from Dr. Scarisdale. This time he was in Scotland and unable to meet Miss Tither in London, as suggested. Furthermore, he would not recommend visits by the lady to the various East-end vineyards of the Society. They were hardly the place for her. He was arranging for Mr. Mortimore to call on her at Hilary, however, and tell her in person of the work carried on, its fruits, and how her generous support was furthering it.
Mortimore evidently had paid a visit to Briar Cottage, for his letter of thanks for hospitality was filed; also a further note from him dated a few days later, expressing gratitude to Miss Tither for the promise of a legacy.
“There’s something fishy about this business,” said Brassey. “The way the poor lady seems to have been led up the garden path, but never allowed to see a thing, apparently kept from London and the field of activities, looks very funny to me. We’d better investigate it.”
“You can leave that end to me, Mr. Brassey. Scotland Yard are already enquiring about the Home Gospel Alliance and this will include Mortimore, Scarisdale and Co. This looks to me like as pretty a piece of confidence trickery as I’ve seen for many a day.”
They left the lawyer tidying the contents of the desk, but the detectives themselves took the accounts concerning the charity. “Let me know if I can help further,” said Brassey. “I hold no brief for Wynyard. Tell you the truth, can’t stand the fellow. But I hope you’ll be able to put the cat among the pigeons in Ropewalker Street and make that legacy null and void by clapping the would-be beneficiaries under lock and key. Then the status quo having been restored, Wynyard will be able to retire from the South Seas. See you later, gentlemen.”
Sarah Russell opened the door to the two detectives. Littlejohn paused on the step as she stood there, still red-eyed and nervous.
“Tell me, Sarah, why did Miss Tither call the new Will an emergency one? Now don’t start weeping again. I’m not blaming you for what you’ve done; it’s no business of mine. But it seems strange to me that Miss Tither should be in such a hurry to make a new Will before meeting Mr. Wynyard.”
The maid sniffed loudly and her face grew resentful.
“I was a-goin’ to tell Mr. Brassey about it, but ’e fell in sich a temper and wouldn’t let me speak. Now, perhaps I can finish my story. Miss Tither said to me, confidential like—she not often telling me her private affairs, but this time seemin’ so upset as to want somebody to confide in. Well, she tells me, ‘Sarah,’ she says, ‘Sarah, I bin hearin’ things about a relative of mine from Mr. Lorrimer, a man I greatly trust and respec’ and who’s prepared to prove them. I’m alterin’ my Will at once, not in respec’ of your share o’ course, Sarah,’ she sez, ‘but in respec’ of my relative’s. Please bring in Mr. Thornbush, as I wants you to witness for me.’ Well I brings in Walter and we signs and then Miss Tither sez to us both, ‘I’m puttin’ this in the drawer ’ere. If anything ’appens to me before I can see Mr. Brassey, you’re to tell ’im it’s ’ere. I’m meetin’ my relative this week to ask what he’s got to say for ’imself and if he can’t satisfy me, then I’ll ’ave the emergency Will drawn up proper by Mr. Brassey.’”
“But what’s all this about emergency Wills? Surely, she didn’t expect to die before Wednesday?”
“I don’t know, sir. She seemed scared o’ somethin’.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“Well, somethin’ ’appened when she was at Upper Hilary, gettin’ the crabs from Mrs. Weekes. She came back without the crabs and very upset. ‘Sarah,’ says she, ‘Mrs. Weekes is a funny woman and not nice at all. She’s just told me I oughter be killed fer wot I’ve sed to ’er to-day, as if it wasn’t the truth, and she oughter know it.’ She seemed terribly put-out and perhaps that’s why she made the emergency Will.”
“Thank you, Sarah, that’s very helpful. But why’ve you held all this back? Why didn’t you tell me the other night?”
“Well, sir. It was Walter’s advice to keep a still tongue and say as little as possible. Least said, soonest mended, says he, and that all this talk was like the cracklin’ o’ thorns beneath a pot. But after the way Mr. Brassey took on, I don’t think Walter’s advice is as good as I thought it was. In fact, sir, between you and me, I’m not decided whether to break it off with ’im. My confidence in ’im is shook. I’ve taken it to the Throne of Grace a time or two and now I’m waitin’ for my answer.”
“You think carefully about it, Sarah. Don’t throw yourself and your money after the first man that comes.”
“Oh, ’e ain’t the first, by any means, sir!” said the maid and blushed.
“Well, good luck, Sarah, whatever you choose, only don’t withhold information from the police on anybody’s advice in future.”
At “The Bell” the detectives slaked their thirst after a dusty job and parted. Littlejohn telephoned to Detective-Sergeant Cromwell at Scotland Yard but found him absent on enquiries in the Tither case, but he had left a message confirming Wynyard’s alibi. Then, he ordered his dinner for eight o’clock and set out for Upper Hilary Farm.
Chapter XI
The Horror at Upper Hilary
The rain had ceased and, as Littlejohn made his way through the village to the Evingdon cross-roads en route for Upper Hilary Farm, the wet highway glittered like a sheet of glass and the air was full of the smell of autumn leaves and damp grass. The sun was setting amid yellow-streaked clouds, boding no good for the morrow’s weather. Parties of girls and women, with here and there a country lad or two, made their ways to the church, their arms loaded with evergreens, sheaves of wheat, cabbages, turnips and beetroots, or else carrying bags and baskets of apples, pears, or potatoes, for the following day was Harvest Home. Other villagers, clad in their better clothes, were standing about the village centre in knots, or ambling off to “The Bell” in search of convivial company. A small red ’bus pulled up at the Evingdon Cross and a stream of women and children, with a sprinkling of men in horsey attire, disembogued, laden with parcels of all shapes and sizes purchased at the weekly market at Evingdon. Saturday evening service was in full swing at the Methodist Chapel and, as Littlejohn turned right in search of the turning to Upper Hilary Farm, a loud burst of evangelical hymn-singing met him.
Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin;
Each victory will help you some other to win…
Shrill women’s piping, the tuneless rumble of a few basses. Above all, the wild soaring of a howling tenor, with a harmonium furiously bearing the whole along. The strength of the instrument waxed and waned in asthmatic pantings as the organist trod the pedals. Lights appeared one by one and curtains were drawn. Sarah Russell sat in the firelight of the kitchen at Briar Cottage, swaying to and fro happily in a rocking-chair. It was pleasant, she thought, to spend a little leisure away from the domination of Walter. She had made up her mind to put an end to it, then and there. There was a farmer at Fletney, beyond Evingdon, who winked invitingly as he passed Briar Cottage in his dog-cart. He was a widower, who had no call to make the long journey through Hilary on his way to Stretton Harcourt…From the open window of Holly Ban
k, a sparkling cascade of notes emerged, as Mr. Lorrimer played the last movement of Grieg’s Piano Concerto, with an orchestral accompaniment on the radiogram.
In the kitchen at Upper Hilary Farm, the lamp had been lit and threw a circle of light on the plain, scrubbed, white deal table. Seated facing each other were Weekes and his wife, their hands showing, their faces lost in the gloom outside the periphery of lamplight. Both were reading; or at least pretending to do so. No sound save the steady tick of the wall-clock, the breathing of the silent pair, the occasional rustle of a turning page, the chirp and scuffle of mice behind the skirting-board. Mrs. Weekes was reading the Bible. Her lips moved noiselessly.
Hide not thy face from me in the time of my trouble: incline thine ear unto me when I call; O hear me, and that right soon.
For my days are consumed away like smoke: and my bones are burnt up as it were a fire-brand.
My heart is smitten down and withered like grass: so that I forget to eat my bread…
Mine enemies revile me all the day long: and they that are mad upon me are sworn together against me.
The woman raised her burning eyes and looked across at the man. He had a grey bullet head, a clean-shaven face with grey side-whiskers, a pale, unhealthy face, unusual in a farmer but, together with the watery blue eyes and their heavily pouched sockets, plainly indicative of liver disease. He wore spectacles, purchased from a sixpenny store and which, unsuited to his eyes, caused him to strain to read through them. He peered over them, feeling his wife’s gaze upon him. His eyes fell. He dared not look fully at her. He was counting the minutes. It was seven-thirty. As the clock struck ten, she would rise and prepare to retire, at the same time unlocking the corner cupboard which contained his whisky bottle. She would take out the bottle and glass and hand them to him so that he could take his nightcap. He would take the bottle to bed and she would say nothing. By morning, it would be empty. Then, he would have to wait until the next night at ten again. If he wanted a drink between times, he would have to walk to Evingdon. She had forbidden the landlord of “The Bell” and the local storekeeper to serve him. They always did as she told them. He counted for nothing. The clock ticked on. Weekes glanced down at his book. He had bought it for threepence on a barrow at Evingdon fair. It was a rebound copy in black, like a hymn-book. He thought she didn’t know what it was. He glanced at the open page furtively.
Thereupon the Duke’s accomplice whipped out a halter, which he had brought with him for the purpose, threw it round Ciuriaci’s neck, drew it so tight that he could not utter a sound, and then, with the Duke’s aid, strangled him. All this was accomplished as the Duke knew full well, without awakening any in the palace, not even the lady, whom he now approached with a light, and holding it over the bed gently uncovered her person, as she lay fast asleep, and surveyed her from head to foot with no small satisfaction; for fair as she seemed to him dressed, he found her unadorned charms incomparably greater…
The woman opposite, her face like a mask, was laughing wildly, silently, inside her. She knew full well what that volume from the devil’s library held. Had it been any other man, she would have taken and torn it to shreds and consigned it to the fire as a destroyer of souls. As it was…
Weekes could not rest. He watched the minute-finger of the clock moving at slower than snail’s pace; he turned his dim eyes to the book…unadorned charms…the smiling face, gleaming teeth, bright eyes of Polly Druce rose before him, faded, and were replaced by a glass and bottle. He was consumed by his appetites. He played with his fingers, cracked the joints, prayed hopelessly in his heart for mercy, before he should be finally lost…damned. There was a double knock on the door. The man started and made as if to rise. The woman gestured to him to remain seated with a commanding wave of the hand. Quietly she laid aside her glasses, marked her page with an embroidered ribbon, carefully closed the book and rose, stiff and straight, to answer the knocking. Her feet pattered down the tiled passage, chains and a bolt raided. Voices at the door. One word reached the listening man. Police. He drew in his breath with a gasp and emitted it again in a distressed whine. He looked wildly around, seeking a refuge and finding none. Littlejohn entered the semi-darkness from the complete blackness outside. Weekes sighed, it seemed with relief. The spell was broken, at last. Anything to break the horror of that boding atmosphere.
Weekes eyed the detective shiftily, but his wife showed no sign of emotion. She bade their visitor take a seat and herself sat down after Littlejohn had introduced himself and brief greetings had passed. The three of them were ranged round the kitchen table like the members of a directors’-meeting, but the way they had settled themselves, the woman with her toilworn but clean hands perfectly controlled and resting on her closed book; Weekes his fingers fumbling with his spectacles, their case and his disguised volume of The Decameron; Littlejohn his large, useful looking fists folded over his pipe on the clean boards; they looked like the sitters at a seance, expecting at any moment a message of rappings from the table. Mrs. Weekes broke the silence.
“A visit from the police is most unusual at this time, Inspector. We’re almost ready for bed. We’ve to get up early in the mornings,” she said stiffly.
“I’m sorry to be so late, but I’ve had a busy day and have only just found the time. It’s about the murder of Miss Tither. By the way, I saw you at the graveside this afternoon, Mrs. Weekes.”
Weekes started and looked questioningly at his wife, who ignored both him and the detective’s remark.
“I don’t see how we are concerned. We’d little to do with her and certainly had no cause to wish her dead,” she snapped in an acid voice.
“Still, is it not true that there was a quarrel between you, Mrs. Weekes, the last time Miss Tither was here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Tither recently called for her usual basket of crab-apples, I understand, but returned without them. She also informed a certain person in the village that you had told her that she deserved to die for what she had said that day. Is that true?”
“I admit that we had a difference of opinion during her visit. I didn’t mention killing her. I merely told her that ‘the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped!’”
“What was the difference of opinion about?”
“I prefer not to discuss it with you.”
Weekes was growing uncomfortable. He glanced anxiously at the clock and then at his wife. “Perhaps you’d like a drink, Inspector,” he muttered in wheedling fashion.
“No thanks, Mr. Weekes. Now, Mrs. Weekes please. I’m waiting. I hope you’re not going to impede the search for the criminal by withholding what might be vital information.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I must warn you, Mrs. Weekes, your attitude is a strange one and likely to be misinterpreted to your disadvantage.”
“The affair was private and concerns nobody but me.”
Weekes gazed wild-eyed at his wife. His nerves were stretched to breaking-point. Littlejohn caught his glance and realized that if he pursued his course a little longer, Weekes would break down and betray the secret his wife was trying to keep.
“Mrs. Weekes, perhaps you’ll tell me where you were then at the time Miss Tither was murdered. Say, between ten and twelve on Wednesday last.”
“I have no alibi, if that’s what you’re after. I was here, busy in the kitchen with cooking. We have no maid and my husband was in the fields. I was alone all that time. But I tell you, I was nowhere near Miss Tither, let alone doing her violence. I am not one to take vengeance in my hands. Vengeance is of the Lord.”
“Uhuh. Now, Mr. Weekes, and what of you? Where were you at the same time?”
The farmer tugged at his collar and his eyes roved wildly about, as though seeking again for a place of retreat.
“I was out and about my fields. Nobody see me either.”
“Can you t
ell me what occurred during Miss Tither’s visit here?”
“I don’t know, I tell ’ee. I don’t know. Why be you bothering us? We be quiet folk and don’t like disturbances. Leave us alone, for God’s sake.”
Littlejohn played his card.
“Was Miss Tither here to speak about Polly Druce, Mr. Weekes?”
The woman drew her breath sharply, like one drinking noisily. Weekes looked ready to collapse.
“I know all this is distressing, but it’s bound to come out. Better tell me in private rather than have it dragged out in public later. Well, I’m waiting.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Mrs. Weekes. She rose, gathered up her Bible and glasses, and looked keenly at her husband. “Miss Tither’s slanderous remarks concerned Weekes. If he cares to tell you—and I see he’s getting ready to do so—he can. I’m going to the buttery. I’ve things to attend to.”
She left the room stiffly, with long, purposeful strides and closed the door without another word.
Littlejohn turned to the man. “Well, Mr. Weekes?” he said.
The farmer, panic-stricken, was seeking to avoid what he knew was inevitable. “I’m not well to-night, Inspector. I’ll call at the police station and tell ’ee all to-morrow. As God’s my judge, I will.”
“Come, come, Mr. Weekes. You’re not going to be convicted of a crime, you know. All I want to know is, what caused the quarrel during Miss Tither’s visit here? It was Polly Druce, I know, but I want some details. Now, you can speak freely. The girl’s being married to-morrow, so you can put the past behind you.”
A startling change had come over Weekes. He rose to his feet, leaned over the table towards Littlejohn and thrust out his loose jaw.
“Say that agen. Married, did ’ee say? It’s a lie! A goddam lie! She’s mine…” He stopped suddenly, realizing wherein he had betrayed himself. For the first time, a light glowed in his dead eyes. He looked around the room as though not realizing where he was. “Married, you say. Who told you? Out with it, because it’s not true. She’d have told me herself. Yes, yes, yes. I bin carryin’ on with her. That’s what Tither had the row about. Tried to bring me to repentance and when I tell’d her to mind her own business, she up and told the wife, bold as brass. As if the wife didn’t know. Punished me for it, too, she ’ave…Look at me. Once I was a fine upstandin’ feller. Now a drink-soaked sinner. Can you blame me, seekin’ a woman to love? For years and years, we’ve been sittin’ here, night after night, never a word, readin’, glarin’, getting on one another’s nerves. Her lookin’ down on me, because I come from peasant stock and hadn’t no schoolin’. Then I found Polly…She’m the only one who cared about old Weekes…”
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