Timid courting couples, out for the first time, whispering, thrilled, and all-in-all to each other. Blasé young men and girls, manifesting symptoms of arrested development or St. Vitus’s Dance, bawling and baying about the place, or treating each other with studied contempt, whilst ignoring the presence and feelings of everybody else. Respectable married couples, out for a little treat and almost apologetic to the noisier element for their presence there. On every hand, eating and drinking. Littlejohn watched his fellow mortals at afternoon tea and joined in the rite. Miss Satchell, tall, middle-aged, heavy limbed, pink-faced, with a mop of untidy, grey hair and twinkling, grey eyes, joined him. She was carrying his card in her hand.
“Inspector Littlejohn? How-do-you-do. You want to see me, I believe.”
“Yes. Miss Satchell, I take it? How-do-you-do, madam. It’s about Miss Tither’s visit here on the morning of her death. You’ve already told Constable Harriwinckle something about it, but I thought I’d call myself, just in case you’d remembered any other points which you might think of interest. It was certainly helpful of you to ring up and inform us where Miss Tither was last Wednesday morning, and the purpose of her call here.”
“Poor dear. She was a bit of a bore, I’ll admit, but she didn’t deserve what she got, Inspector. I’m only too willing to help where I can.”
Miss Satchell was beginning to enjoy herself, drew up a chair to Littlejohn’s table, and became immersed in the matter in hand. She ordered more tea and scones for both of them, a step which the detective welcomed, for his walk had given him an appetite which the trifles he had eaten only stimulated.
“Tell me, Miss Satchell, did you see Miss Tither leaving this place? Which way did she take and was there anyone else about in the road as she went?”
“No, I didn’t go to the door with her. You see, we make light lunches, and I’d my hands full at the time clearing-off the coffee and seeing to the twelve o’clock preparations. She paid at the counter, called back to me good-morning, and was gone.”
“Was there anyone else about the café who might have seen her cross the road and go through the stile? Perhaps she met someone on the road, too. Can you think who was about the room at the time?”
“There were quite a lot of people here, of course; it was coffee-time when she called. I’m just thinking if anyone in particular was about in the car-park when she left.” Miss Satchell paused, with a rock-bun poised halfway between her plate and her mouth.
“Come to think of it, Johnny Hilsborough opened the door for her. Yes, that’s it! He was buying some candies at the counter as Miss Tither came to pay her check, they left together, and he held open the door for her. Johnny’s your man. Perhaps he passed her in his car. He left right away afterwards, for Evingdon. He’s over there. The round, red-faced boy, with the big moustache. I’ll get him.”
Miss Satchell bounded across the tea-room, followed by a score or more pairs of eyes, and brought back a fair, muscular, good-natured-looking youth to Littlejohn’s table.
“This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, who’s investigating the Tither crime, you know. Mr. Johnny Hilsborough, Inspector.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hilsborough. Good of you to take the trouble to come over.”
“Ahjidoo, Inspector. Not a bit o’ trouble. Always glad to help the jolly old law, eh, what? Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
“I understand from Miss Satchell, that you saw Miss Tither leaving here on the morning of her death, Mr. Hilsborough.”
“Come to think of it, I did see the poor old girl. Opened the door to let her out, in fact, and passed her in my ’bus on my way home. Talkin’ at the stile with Lorrimer, the bald-headed bloke who bought the mater’s player-piano.”
He proudly brushed his large moustache, his childish, blue eyes beaming goodwill and anxiety to help. Littlejohn, who was disposing of the last of his scones, almost choked at the spate of alarming information so blandly volunteered by Hilsborough.
“You mean to say, Mr. Hilsborough, that Miss Tither walked straight from here and met Lorrimer?”
“Yes. The old boy was walking down the road in the direction of the village, probably goin’ home. Miss T. overtook him and spoke to him for a minute or two. He seemed in a hurry to be off, though. She went through the stile in the field and old Lorrimer went on by road. I saw old Weekes pottering about the field as Miss Tither crossed it. I was just revving up the old ’bus and after that I didn’t see anything else there…By Jove! Miss Tither must have been killed just after…Old Weekes must have been near the spot at the time.”
“He was, Mr. Hilsborough. But he died last night, so we’d better leave that point out for the present, please. Now, what is that about a player-piano from your mother? I was at Mr. Lorrimer’s house a day or two ago and he’d a grand piano then, not a player.”
“Oh yes. The gadget he bought from the mater is a thing you can attach and take off a piano as you wish. It’s a thing like a small organ that takes the roll of record thingummyjig, you know, and then you switch on the current and the thing plays by striking the keys of your piano. What I mean to say is that it’ll fit on any piano…you get what I’m driving at, don’t you?”
“Yes, I quite understand, Mr. Hilsborough…”
“Although what use to you a ruddy player-piano gadget is, in connection with Miss Tither’s being bumped-off, I can’t quite see. Anyhow, there it is…excuse me, won’t you? Don’t want me for anything else, eh? Always ready to oblige, but…young lady waitin’ at the table there for me…cheerio! Chin, chin, Satchy, old girl…”
“Cheerio! Mr. Hilsborough, and many thanks for your help.”
Littlejohn thanked Miss Satchell and rose to pay his bill, which was immediately waved aside. “You’re my guest, Inspector, and I’m glad to have met you,” said Miss Satchell, bade him good-bye and departed to greet a newcomer.
Here was a staggering discovery! Lorrimer had lied! He had met Miss Tither just before her death, in spite of the fact that he had asserted that he was indoors, playing the piano all morning. Playing the piano! This was confirmed by Mr. Lorrimer’s servants. But, the man had a player-piano attachment, which, electrically operated, could be left working and making music, whilst its owner was far from the spot. Then and there, Littlejohn decided that Holly Bank called for another visit and the sooner, the better.
On his way out of Miss Satchell’s, Littlejohn ordered two pounds of fudge to be sent to his wife, and paid six shillings for it. Mrs. Littlejohn was delighted with her husband’s kindly thought of her at a crucial moment in his case, but, on hearing the price, said he had paid at least four times more than the stuff was worth.
Chapter XIV
The Fox Goes to Ground
From Satchell’s tea-rooms, Littlejohn made his way to Holly Bank again. He had urgent questions to ask Mr. Lorrimer and he felt he wanted the answers at once. He was disappointed, however, for he found the place locked-up. The owner was apparently out and, judging from the smoking chimneys, the servants had banked the fires and taken a Sunday evening off. The detective, therefore, after telephoning to the police station at Evingdon to make an appointment, arranged to meet Oldfield later in the evening. He took a ’bus to the little market town and soon was in conference with his colleague.
“I’m sorry I’ve spent so little time with you, Littlejohn,” said Oldfield, by way of preamble, “but there’s so much to do these days, with local A.R.P., two country-house burglaries, and a number of sidelines running at Hilary, such as this new suicide of Old Weekes’s. It takes us all our time to keep abreast of things. What are the latest developments?”
Littlejohn gave his friend a brief account of his day’s labours, laying particular emphasis on the facts which had come to light at his interview with Hilsborough.
“Oh, yes, young Hilsborough,” interjected Oldfield. “A bit of a harum-scarum and fond of the girls,
but quite a good witness, I’d think. His news puts a different complexion on the case, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll say it does, Oldfield. I’ve just been thinking over matters on my way here in the ’bus. Do you know, it could very well have been Lorrimer who carried the unconscious Miss Tither to the cesspool and threw her in. Whether there was water there or not, he hoped to dispose of her, shall we say, by drowning or suffocation. Just for the sake of argument, shall we assume he spotted her being assaulted by Weekes and then, hurrying to the spot, found the farmer gone and the lady unconscious? He lifts her and carries her the short distance, pushes her in, closes the lid, and sneaks back home.”
“Yes. That sounds reasonable enough. But why on earth should he run the risk of killing her, and with what motive?”
“There’s something fishy about that Will, if you ask me, Oldfield. On the face of it, Lorrimer isn’t concerned at all, but why should he take special care to try to turn Miss Tither against Wynyard? It wasn’t as if he was going to benefit by the parson’s being cut out. The whole went to charity. Which reminds me, I should be hearing something from the Yard in a day or so about the Home Alliance. But to get back to Lorrimer. He told me a deliberate lie when he said he was indoors, playing the piano most of the morning and particularly at the time we’re interested in. Hilsborough saw him with Miss Tither. Now, suppose he sees from one of his upstairs windows—which, by the way, command a view of almost the whole village from the church to the manor house—suppose he sees Miss Tither crossing the fields in the direction of the Evingdon road. He knows from what she’s already told him, that she’s off to meet Wynyard, so he keeps his eyes open and when he sees her returning, hares across the path which starts right opposite his gate, and runs through the manor park to the Evingdon road, just behind Haxley’s house. He wants to know the result of the interview between Miss T. and Wynyard for some reason, and he wants to know it quickly. With a push, he must have encountered Miss Tither at the spot where Hilsborough saw them, near the stile. He gets to know what he wants and then returns the way he came.”
Oldfield lit a cigarette and closely contemplated the glowing point.
“All the same, Littlejohn, that doesn’t make him the murderer, does it? He’s to get back unseen, look through the window again, and see Weekes assaulting the victim. Meanwhile, the maids have given him an alibi. He was playing the piano all the time. How do you get over that? Hilsborough sees him at one place; the maids hear him at another.”
“That’s just it, Oldfield. Remember, Hilsborough mentioned a player-piano? The instrument I saw at Lorrimer’s house was a grand, and not a player. But the gadget Lorrimer bought was a separate fixture, removable at will, which converted an ordinary piano into a player. We must inspect that device to-morrow. Meanwhile, suppose it’s electrical and can be left playing. That’s another point, how long do the rolls of those things keep going?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll take you to someone to-morrow who’ll soon tell us. Carry on.”
“Well then, Lorrimer has made up his mind to get rid of Miss Tither if certain things have resulted from her interview with Wynyard, so he’s on the look-out for her, on her return. He’s got the piano playing to keep the servants thinking he’s still at it in the drawing-room, and they know that while he’s playing, he’s not to be disturbed. When he spots Miss T., he dodges out by a quiet way, taking care not to be seen, and meets her on the highway. It’s on the highway that his risk of being seen is greatest and if anyone spots him, he’ll have to defer his plans to murder. There’s nobody about, except a passing car—Hilsborough’s—which is going so fast that it doesn’t seem to matter. Miss T. tells Lorrimer something which signs her death-warrant. How or what Lorrimer planned to do is a puzzle, but whatever it was, he was prevented from doing it, because Weekes suddenly appeared in the field alongside. So Lorrimer sheered off home.”
Oldfield puffed his cigarette thoughtfully.
“Seems sound enough, so far, although you’ll admit it’s mere conjecture. You might almost call it mere imaginary theorizin’, mightn’t you?”
Littlejohn grinned and agreed, filled and lit his pipe, and resumed.
“Yes, let’s call it making the few facts we’ve got, square with a theory. Let’s say, then, that Lorrimer sneaks back home. The piano’s still at it; he puts on another record and goes to spy out what’s happening in the direction of Tither. He sees Weekes in the act of striking the blow or else hurrying away, and what looks like a body on the ground in the vicar’s field. He creeps off again, this time by a footpath behind the smithy and parallel with the road, which he crosses and enters the vicar’s field. He finishes the job, crawls home once more. The piano’s still playing. If no-one’s seen him, he’s got what he thinks is a good alibi with his servants. How’s that?”
“Well, Littlejohn, in the parts of Yorkshire where I come from, they’d say it was very far-fetched. In other words, a great effort of imagination. All the same, it’s a theory. Now it’s up to us to test it. We’ll set about it to-morrow morning. Don’t forget Old Weekes’s inquest is going to take some more of our time this week. Carradine, the Coroner, is in a rare temper about another inquest in Hilary Magna. He detests the place for some reason and seems to think the natives are doing it on purpose to spite him.”
“There’s another thing which interests me, Oldfield,” continued Littlejohn. “Do you know anyone called Mossley, agent for some bank in the South Seas?”
“No. Why?”
“It seems he’s the man who told Lorrimer about Wynyard’s doings in the mission-field. He’s manager at the town where Wynyard’s stationed and is home on leave. Lorrimer met him in Evingdon the other week when Wynyard was lecturing there.”
“I know nearly everybody, past and present, in this town and I’ve never heard of a Mossley. Besides, I told you I was at the lecture, didn’t I? I didn’t see any strange faces present, although Mossley might have been in the gathering. The room’s small and the audience wasn’t very large, though, and I can’t see how I could miss seeing him.”
“It looks to me as though Mossley is another imaginary figure in my scheme of things, then. Let’s assume that Lorrimer got his story from Haxley, who has a pal in Pandalu, where Wynyard’s stationed, and who writes and tells him all the horrid truth about this so-called labourer in the vineyard. Haxley told me the tale and said he’d mentioned it to Lorrimer. Perhaps Lorrimer invented a sort of Mrs. ’Arris for the purpose of making Miss Tither wise to Wynyard’s bluff.”
“He seems very anxious to do a dirty trick on Wynyard, doesn’t he? Is it revenge, or gain?”
“That’s to be found out, too.”
“Quite a big programme for to-morrow.”
“Yes. I think we’d better get Harriwinckle, or another of your men, on the job with me, if you can spare one.”
“Yes. Suppose we let Harriwinckle enquire round the village concerning whether Lorrimer was seen stalking round about the time of the crime. I’ll also send a man to Holly Bank when Lorrimer’s out, to look into the player-piano business—make sure it’s there. You and I will meet, get to know something about player-pianos from an expert, call to see Wynyard again and find out if he’s had anything to do with Lorrimer in the past. We can try, too, those paths you suggested Lorrimer used while his piano was playing; to and from Miss Tither, conscious, and to and from Miss Tither, unconscious. That do?”
“Fine. And now I must be getting along. My dinner, or rather cold supper’s waiting for me at ‘The Bell’. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Littlejohn. See you to-morrow, early. Sorry, I can’t ask you home for a bite of something. We always have Sunday-evening meal with my mother-in-law at her house, and my wife’s there waiting for me.”
The following morning, the police carried on furtive activities in Hilary Magna. Harriwinckle, hot and important, slogged patiently round the place enquiring whom everyone had se
en at or about the time of Miss Tither’s death. Everybody seemed to have seen everybody else, including several people who saw Weekes passing through the village on his way to the vicar’s field, but no one had seen his return. Jokes, rebuffs, impertinence, advice, free drinks, willing co-operation, P.C. Harriwinckle took them all with equanimity, but nowhere did he hear the name of Lorrimer mentioned. He reported disconsolately to his superiors, whom he had been trying to impress with his diligence. To his surprise, he received cordial thanks from Littlejohn and went home to his dinner in an elated frame of mind. “Well in with The Yard, oi be, mother,” he said to his wife, as he sat down to a huge plateful of brisket of beef, potatoes, carrots, turnips and dumplings.
Death of a Busybody Page 15