“Thanks very much, Mr. Peover. That’s very helpful. You’ll keep this visit strictly confidential, won’t you? Trentbridge, you said Mr. Jenkinson started at, eh?”
Mr. Peover agreed, shook hands with his visitor and bade him call again if he needed further help. At the same time he gave Cromwell an admiring glance, which, passing through the powerful lenses, was transformed into a ferocious glare, which left Cromwell somewhat at a loss to understand what was really in Mr. Peover’s mind.
This part of his work finished, Detective-Sergeant Cromwell adjourned to a café, ordered two poached eggs on two rounds of toast, a doughnut, a pot of tea and a large mixed ice, and whilst his order was being made up by a disdainful young lady, he put through a call to “The Bell” at Hilary from the public call-box. Just as he had been informed by the landlord there that Littlejohn was out and his destination unknown, the disappointed Cromwell’s first course arrived. The waitress glared at him for daring to vacate his table. Cromwell gingerly raised the thin covering of white-of-egg from his toast and his features grew grim. The underpart of each slice was coal-black and pretence had not even been made of scraping it. “Hey!” he called to the scornful one and beneath the goggling eyes of several elderly business men, whose blandishments were responsible for her haughty demeanour, declined, without thanks, to eat his eggs on charcoal, rose, left the place in dudgeon and transferred his custom to a neighbouring competitor, who served him with as much as he could eat for one-and-eight.
Over a buck rabbit (with two rounds, twopence extra), Cromwell pondered his next step. Valuable time might be wasted if he hung about for further orders from Littlejohn. Whenever faced by a poser, Cromwell always asked himself one question. “What would Oliver Cromwell have done?” Bold improvisation, that was it! He called for a timetable and was informed that there wasn’t such a thing in the place. Try Cook’s in Cheapside. At 1.30, he was at Euston and 5.0 o’clock found him in Trentbridge enquiring at the police station if they knew anyone of the name of Titmuss.
The sergeant on duty smiled forlornly. He was a huge, red-faced man with a heavy, sandy moustache and he had never served elsewhere than in Trentbridge. He had seen time, like an ever-rolling stream, bearing all its sons in Trentbridge away in one fashion or another, and being of a melancholy disposition, he wondered when his own turn would come. His drawer in the charge-room desk was filled with patent medicines of all kinds. Sadly he gazed on Cromwell.
“Titmuss, did you say? Out of business these dozen years or more. A fine connection. Largest accountants in the place. Three brothers. Two dead. Cut off in their prime. The other, Mr. Edwin, still lives up top o’ the town, but he’s wheeled out in a bath-chair. Parilized, from the waist down, on account of a stroke. Business fizzled out arter that…”
Apprehensively, the huge policeman opened a drawer, extracted a blood-pressure pill and swallowed it with a laborious gulp.
“Can you give me Mr. Edwin Titmuss’s address?”
The sergeant-in-charge hastily consulted a telephone directory.
“Lives at a viller in Oxford Road, that’s up top o’ the town. Foller the tram-lines up the hill and where they turns left, you turns right. Name of viller is…is…wot’s this? Cham…Chamy…wot the…?”
“Spell it out.”
“‘C-h-a-m-o-n-i-x,’” rumbled the sergeant hesitantly.
“Oh, Chamonicks…South o’ France…” said Cromwell wisely. “Thanks. I’ll be off then. Appreciate your help. Good-bye.”
“Be seein’ yer…” said the doleful sergeant. He could never persuade himself to say good-bye to anybody. It sounded too final. Meditatively, he slipped a soda-mint in his mouth.
Mr. Edwin Titmuss, a pink-faced, white-haired, well-groomed man, was sitting in the garden of “Chamonix”, his legs and feet swathed in rugs, a copy of The Countryman and a pair of binoculars on his lap. He greeted his visitor genially.
“I’ve just been watching the sparrows at the bottom of the lawn settling a family difference,” he said, chuckling, and then, realizing that Cromwell had not come to study bird life, asked him his business.
“But first, let us have a drink,” said the jovial invalid and taking up a small silver whistle, tied round his neck by a silk cord, he blew a short blast on it. A neat maid appeared through the french window and served iced lager at his bidding. “Now,” said Mr. Titmuss, after they had sampled and approved their beer.
“I’m seeking information about a certain Theodore Jenkinson, who, I gather, was at one time articled to you. Do you remember him, sir?”
“Dear me…delving back into the dim past, aren’t you? Yes, I think I can help, Mr. Cromwell. You see, I’ve been almost helpless for many years and one who can’t get about much in the present, must enjoy many things in retrospect. To kill time, I’ve made a study of the birds of my garden and also written up my diaries for almost a lifetime. The bird life has been the subject of a small monograph which I’ve published. You must remind me to give you a copy before you leave. The past life of Edwin Titmuss, however, has not been published, but I’ll give you some extracts relevant to what you’re seeking…”
Mr. Titmuss blew another shrill blast on his little whistle. In response to very precise instructions concerning volumes and dates, the pretty maid left them and returned with two black books, resembling morocco Bibles, which she handed to her master. Mr. Titmuss turned over the pages, reading extracts and Cromwell jotted down details in his notebook. Finally, the subject exhausted, the two men settled down to afternoon tea, which Mr. Titmuss insisted on having served. During that meal, Cromwell succumbed to the charm of a delightful old man, who talked of past events and of the present affairs of his friends, the birds. They got on so well together, that the detective left not only with a small book on The Birds in my Garden, by Edwin Titmuss, but also a pair of field-glasses and two standard works on ornithology. Thus, Cromwell of Scotland Yard turned bird-watcher, ceased to model his life on that of his more famous namesake, and became himself. Henceforth, his holidays were spent between certain spots haunted by birds and the back garden of “Chamonix”, Trentbridge. The work, Birds of the Backyard and Beyond, by Titmuss and Cromwell, is highly thought of among amateur ornithologists…
Back in his rooms in Knightsbridge, Cromwell on the night of his first encounter with Mr. Titmuss, collated and arranged the notes he had gathered on Theodore Jenkinson. Just after midnight, he had before him the following précis, which he enclosed with a brief note in an envelope and posted to Littlejohn at the Bell Inn, Hilary Magna.
Theodore Jenkinson, born about 1882 at ( ? ). Educated local Grammar School. Entered Bank of Trentbridge, 1898. “There he tried to teach the manager how to conduct his business and his services were dispensed with.” Entered firm of Titmuss, 1900. Passed final accountancy exams., 1908. Remained with Titmuss until 1914, when he joined the army. Mr. Titmuss heard from him several times. He was demobilized in 1919, after reaching rank of Major. Served: France, Italy, Rhineland. Nothing further heard of him until he set up on his own by buying almost defunct business of Chitty, Mulliner and Passey of London, 1932. Nothing more known of career.
Character, etc. Clever. Scholarship boy at school. Active brain, ambitious, with ideas above his station. Hence his quarrel with his first employers. Seemed to settle down with Mr. Titmuss, who promised him a partnership if he behaved and was diligent. Just before outbreak of war in 1914, showed decided signs of restlessness and talked of launching-out in London. His quick brain gained him rapid promotion in the army and he was attached to Headquarters. This gave impetus to his ambition and high-flown notions. Mr. Titmuss’s expectations that he would never return to Trentbridge were fulfilled.
Family. Son of an under-park-keeper employed by Trentbridge Corporation, Lemuel Jenkinson. Very respectable and religious people. Jenkinson, senior, arrived at Trentbridge from the country, where he had been an estate gardener, with two children, a boy
and a girl. Theodore aged about eleven, girl (name forgotten), aged thirteen. Lemuel returned to his native place—Hilary Magna—when Theodore started in the bank, leaving the lad in lodgings. The mother died during their stay in Trentbridge and the sister kept house afterwards. She and her brother seemed very attached. Mr. Titmuss met her when he took on her brother, as she was visiting Trentbridge in search of new lodgings for him. Described as a “plain, masterful, little thing”, and was in service at some country house near her home.
Attached is a photograph of Mr. Titmuss and staff taken during their annual trip, 1913, to Hunstanton. Jenkinson is the third man from the left, front row. This is almost thirty years old, but may prove useful.
***
Satisfied with his day’s work and his literary effort, Cromwell ate his supper and, taking a copiously illustrated book on birds to bed with him, lighted his pipe and settled down for a quiet browse and smoke. The following morning, he got into trouble with his landlady for burning a hole in what she exaggeratedly described as one of her best linen sheets. Glad that nothing worse had arisen from his falling asleep with a red-hot pipe between his teeth, Cromwell paid up with a smile.
Chapter XIII
A Surprise over Afternoon Tea
Sunday brought a halt to Littlejohn’s investigations, for Hilary takes its day of rest seriously. Not that, on the Sunday in question, everyone relaxed. The death of Weekes of Upper Hilary Farm was news early in the morning and Harriwinckle, Oldfield, the doctor, a group of pressmen and a swarm of hangers-on toiled like slaves and put in a full day’s work before lunch. At the same time, Polly Druce was running a rival show by getting married at nine in the morning. In addition, it was Harvest Thanksgiving Day. Small wonder that the bewildered Mr. Claplady, at the morning service, announced a hymn praying for rain, instead of setting his flock to plough the fields and scatter. The Methodist Harvest Home was in full swing as Polly and her new husband were borne off to a wedding-feast in Evingdon—“The Bell” not having sufficient rations at so short a notice—and “Come, ye thankful people, come”, emitted from the tin tabernacle at the cross-roads, could be heard far beyond the village boundaries.
As far as carrying on with the Tither case, Littlejohn found it advisable to call a short halt, for having been on the premises at Upper Hilary Farm at the time of the tragedy there, he was the principal witness and much of his time was taken up in consultations with his colleagues of the local force and the doctor. The coroner was away for the week-end, but his officer provisionally fixed the inquest for the following Tuesday. Meanwhile, Mrs. Weekes had recovered, with little more than a few bruises, from her fall downstairs, and answered questions and attended to the work of her small farm, her sour face set like a block of granite, her features betraying no emotion whatever. There was nothing to suggest that Weekes’s death was anything other than suicide, and the inquest was expected to confirm that opinion. The state of health of the man, his drinking habits, his highly nervous, melancholy condition, with the final thunderclaps of his assault on Miss Tither and Polly Druce’s wedding, were regarded as ample motives for the act.
It was afternoon before Littlejohn found himself freed from the formalities arising out of the death of Weekes and, after Oldfield and his collaborators had gone back to Evingdon, the Scotland Yard man decided to explore the village and neighbourhood, hoping that a brisk walk in the pleasant country around would take his mind from the case and bring him back fresh to it afterwards. He therefore lit his pipe, borrowed a stout ash-plant from the landlord of “The Bell”, and strode off along the Hilary Parva road in search of the humbler satellite of the village in which he was staying. Briar Cottage, as he passed it, showed no signs of life except smoke rising from one chimney, although Mr. Wynyard was still in residence there. Presumably, he was keeping house in mournful seclusion; Littlejohn could not imagine him thanksgiving with the rest of the village under the circumstances. The detective paused to admire the trimness of Holly Bank and turning, was surprised to find that he had imperceptibly climbed a gentle hill and that, from the rising land where he stood, he had a view of the meadow in which Miss Tither had met her death. From the gateway of Holly Bank, he could see between “The Bell” and a row of cottages, the upper half of the fatal field ranging from the footpaths to the Evingdon road. From the upper windows of Lorrimer’s house, one would probably overlook the exact scene of the crime. As he pondered his discovery, Littlejohn heard footsteps and turning, found Lorrimer himself approaching from the village.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. Admiring the view?” said the dapper man, smiling inquisitively. “It certainly is a pretty scene from this slope. An even better sight from the windows of my place, which, standing as it does on a bank, has a full panorama.”
“I was just thinking, Mr. Lorrimer, that anyone looking from the windows of your house would have in sight the full scene of Miss Tither’s murder.”
“I agree. The thought struck me at once. A pity someone wasn’t watching when the blow was struck. It would have saved you a lot of trouble. As you know, however, my small staff was occupied at the time preparing a meal and I was at the piano…Care to come in for a cup of tea? By the way, this Weekes business is a shocking affair, isn’t it, although it’s perhaps as well that it’s happened this way? Had Weekes waited for nature, I’m afraid the road would have been long and painful. He was pickled in alcohol, you know, and the end of hob-nailed-liver sufferers is, as a rule, most distressing. I feel damned sorry for his wife. A decent little woman, who’s suffered no end from her husband’s shiftless ways. And the fellow was carrying on, too, with that Druce girl who’s been married this morning—the strumpet!”
Lorrimer was becoming quite animated and Littlejohn, having his mind set on his walk and determined not to be led into an hour or two of gossip, excused himself and went his way. He was surprised at Lorrimer’s interest in other people’s affairs, especially those of Mrs. Weekes, who seemed to have few friends in the village.
Past the gates of Hilary Hall, with its parkland and fine old trees, between thick spinneys which flanked the highway and through which it had apparently been cut, to the hamlet,—it could hardly be called a village,—of Hilary Parva. It was a pleasant spot, with a small row of four whitewashed, wattle-and-daub cottages, built deeply in gardens, a beer-house and the rather imposing brick church, erected to rival that of the larger village by a one-time crazy lord of the manor, whose former residence, standing in grounds at the end of the hamlet, had been bought and converted into a convalescent home by a trade union. The church was closed. Mr. Claplady only attended there on odd occasions, the church at Hilary Magna serving both places, as a rule. A few cottagers hung about their houses and patients could be seen taking the air in the large, well-kept park of the converted manor. Taking a by-road, Littlejohn found himself on the Evingdon-Stretton Harcourt road and in a quarter of an hour more, was passing the lane which led to Upper Hilary Farm. A stream of motor traffic spoiled much of the pleasure of walking on this highway and Littlejohn was beginning to wish that he had continued straight ahead from Hilary Parva, when an idea struck him. He was feeling ready for a cup of tea. What better place to take it in than Miss Satchell’s tea-rooms farther along the Stretton road, past the Methodist Chapel, which was enjoying a tea interval, preparatory to resuming activities in the evening? A group of whole-day worshippers, apparently from more remote places, were refreshing themselves in the small graveyard and beneath a tree were spread carrier-bags, sandwich papers and cups of tea. The partakers of the feast were indulging in various kinds of conversation, ranging from earnest hobnobbing by serious-minded young men and ladies, to frivolous banter between an excited, ancient deacon and a large mutton dressed as a lamb. As Littlejohn passed, the bearded elder was unwillingly resisting the temptation to deliver a hearty slap on the spreading behind of his skittish companion. The detective, puffing his pipe, strolled on, across the bridge spanning the clear little Fenn
y Brook, to the tea-rooms at the junction of the Stretton Lattimer and Stretton Harcourt roads.
Satchell’s tea-rooms consist of a bungalow, which houses the proprietress, a large annexe, where food and drink are served, a car-park, and a small garden, where in summer, brightly-coloured umbrellas protect the complexions of those who wish to eat out-of-doors. Miss Satchell was a middle-aged school-teacher, who tired of her job and bought a moribund road-house for a mere song against the advice of all her friends. The place was on the main road, that was true, but remote from any centre which might harbour enough people willing to pay extravagant prices for bits of things like multicoloured iced buns, tiny scones, muffins, crumpets, cups of coffee and pots of tea. But Miss Satchell made up her mind about the job. In twelve months, she had baked her way to local fame and was on the road to small fortune. At first, she made, prepared and served her own wares. Then, her place was “discovered” by two local county leaders, Miss Phillimore-Cadby and Lady Winstanley. After that, Miss Satchell’s future was assured. It became the thing to run out to Satchell’s for morning coffee, afternoon tea, light lunch, or even high tea. Cars filled the park; customers filled the tables; Miss Satchell filled the till. She continued to bake her own cakes, but paid other girls to serve them, whilst she, by this time semi-county herself, clad in tweeds, heavy brogues and booming loudly, palavered with her regular customers and called many of them by their first names.
Littlejohn entered the tea-room and managed to find a solitary table in a quiet corner. The place was over-whelmingly “olde Englyshe”. Large, open, brick fireplace, carefully laid with logs, and a spinning-wheel by the hearth. Brass of all kinds. Bed-warmers, hot-water cans, trays, candlesticks of all shapes and sizes, splattered on the walls and standing on every available ledge and shelf. Copper cans and jugs; gongs, bells, three grandfather clocks, framed samplers, toby jugs, pot dogs, witch balls, and a hundred-and-one odd antiques, bogus or real, scattered liberally all over the shop. They were all for sale, but Littlejohn did not know or heed that. He asked the pleasant-faced waitress if he could see Miss Satchell and was told that she would be back in ten minutes. The girl indicated through the window that the tweed-covered hindquarters projecting from a sports-car which was just about to depart with Miss Phillimore-Cadby, were those of her mistress. Littlejohn could see the occupant of the car and Miss Satchell bobbing and teething at each other vociferously, as though sharing some choice titbit of local scandal. The detective’s scones were sorted out from a towering mass on a counter groaning beneath piles of candies, home-made fudge, peppermint crêmes (exclusive agency), lollipops, muffins, crumpets and doughnuts, and he found them to his tooth as he waited and looked around him.
Death of a Busybody Page 14