Death of a Busybody

by George Bellairs

  “Get away—get away! Can’t you leave me alone? What have I done to be pestered?” moaned the woman, struggling to close the door again. Then, realizing that her efforts were vain, she suddenly relaxed. Harriwinckle, taken off his guard, plunged through the doorway and almost measured his length in the passage. Before he could recover himself, he was looking into the twin barrels of a sporting gun.

  “Now get out, Sam Harriwinckle, and get going…”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Weekes, don’t you be a-goin’ on so. I jest called to ask if there wuz anythin’ you’d need helpin’ on in the matter o’ the inquest or other formalities, like. Put that there gun down, now. I knows you be overwrought a bit, but that’s no excuse fer treatin’ a h’officer that way. Put it down, and no more’ll be said about the incidenk.”

  The woman looked wildly about. The policeman didn’t like the look of her at all, nor of the gun she was holding. Her eyes were burning and her dishevelled hair, usually trim and neat, gave her a half-crazy appearance. Maybe she had gone crazy. Beads of sweat broke out under the policeman’s helmet, seeped through and began to run down to his eyes. He removed his headgear and mopped his brow with a red handkerchief. Then, suddenly taking the helmet by the strap, he swung it hard against the barrels of the gun, momentarily deflecting them from his solar plexus. With his free hand, still clutching the handkerchief, he seized Mrs. Weekes’s arm. She tussled to regain control of the gun and her fingers strained to raise the hammers, which, to Harriwinckle’s comfort, he had noticed were not cocked. The woman seemed to have the strength of a maniac. Finally, she lost all restraint, clawed, beat, kicked and writhed against her assailant, breathing stertorously. For a minute, the pair struggled grimly.

  “Mrs. Weekes, Mrs. Weekes, fer the love o’ heaven ’ave some sense! Wotever are you a-thinkin’ of…?” snorted the policeman with his remaining breath.

  “Let me go…let me go…or by the living God, I’ll fill you full of shots like I did Weekes…”

  In his horrified surprise, Sam Harriwinckle almost relaxed his hold and the full implication of what had been said dawning on him, he made a supreme effort and tugged desperately to disarm the demented woman. His foot slipped on the tiled passage, he involuntarily released his hold, and before he could recover, Mrs. Weekes had torn herself and the gun free. She stepped back a pace; the hammers clicked as she cocked them. Harriwinckle, in a flash, thought of his wife and his large family, of the police station, of the peaceful village which seemed so remote from him now. The explosion he was expecting to cut him short did not occur. Instead, the huge bulk of Inspector Littlejohn leapt from the gloom, two great arms encircled Mrs. Weekes, there was a blinding flash, a double report, and the rattle of shots in the ceiling. Harriwinckle was on his feet again, trembling…

  Littlejohn was having his work cut out in mastering the woman. She was now quite out of control and fought like a demon. The village constable fished in his pockets, slung out a pair of handcuffs and, with surprising dexterity, snapped them on the wrists which encircled Littlejohn’s neck. The Inspector slid his head from between the clinging arms and forced the woman back. Between them, they managed to get Mrs. Weekes to a chair and there they tied her with a rope, which Littlejohn cut down from the roof. She gnashed her teeth, blasphemed, uttered the most frightful oaths. Harriwinckle blushed at the sound of some of them. More footsteps. Inspector Oldfield entered and with him, held by a firm grip, was Lorrimer!

  Harriwinckle’s jaw fell. “So he wuz ’ere arter all?”

  “Yes, Harriwinckle,” answered Oldfield. “We had business here, too, and as we entered by the gate from the road, we saw you opening the kitchen door. Lucky for you we came, and lucky for us, too, because the noise you were making at the back, scared the fox out at the front and I managed to catch him by chasing him across the field. You’ve done a good morning’s work, Harriwinckle.”

  Lorrimer, who had recovered his breath, was a sorry spectacle. He was unshaven, his linen was dirty, he looked as though he had not slept. His eyes were bloodshot and wild; his lips were dry and moved nervously, his hands opened and closed spasmodically.

  “I can explain everything…I can explain everything…I protest against this treatment. I might be a criminal…Let go my arm…By God, I’ll make you all sit up for this…”

  “That will do, Mr. Lorrimer. You’ll have an opportunity of explaining in due course. Meanwhile, I must caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence later. Now let’s be moving.”

  The woman in the chair screamed wildly and gnashed her teeth. Then she burst into demoniacal laughter.

  “Untie her, untie her…what are you doing to her…?” Lorrimer seemed suddenly to forget his own plight and discovered the condition of his companion in distress.

  “Oh Annie, Annie, what have they done to you…? Untie her I tell you…What are you doing to her?” He was sobbing.

  Oldfield turned to Harriwinckle. “You’d better harness up the dog-cart, I think, and I’ll be getting back to the station with Mr. Lorrimer. We’ve some urgent questions to ask him. Perhaps you’ll come with me, Littlejohn, and keep an eye on him while I drive. Harriwinckle can stay here until we can get a doctor and the asylum ambulance for Mrs. Weekes.”

  The constable cast a scared look at the woman, now quiet and mumbling, her lips flecked with foam.

  “Perhaps Harriwinckle’s had enough for one morning. He can drive you and I’ll stay and wait for the ambulance,” said Littlejohn.

  The look he got from the harassed constable was ample reward for his thoughtfulness.

  So, with drooping shoulders, a broken man, Lorrimer went to Evingdon between two police officers in a dog-cart, whilst Littlejohn, his pipe going, stayed to guard a mad woman, who did not speak a word or make another move until the ambulance arrived to take her to the Trentshire County Asylum.

  Chapter XVI

  Third from Left, Front Row

  On the way to Evingdon police station, Lorrimer sat between the two policemen without uttering a word. He was haggard and drawn, his lips were an unhealthy red, his complexion chalky white, and his features strongly reminded Oldfield of a seasick traveller. The Inspector was so alarmed at his appearance that when they arrived at their destination, he gave him a seat in his office and offered him a drink of brandy, which Lorrimer eagerly accepted.

  “And now, Mr. Lorrimer, perhaps you’d like to gather your thoughts together for a little while, preparatory to giving a statement of your recent movements and how you come to be involved in matters at Upper Hilary Farm. Just compose yourself until the Chief Constable and Inspector Littlejohn arrive,” said Oldfield and he left his captive to cudgel his brains under the calm eye of Constable Harriwinckle.

  A quarter of an hour later, Sir Francis Winstanley put in an appearance and was closeted with his Inspector for some time, until Littlejohn finally arrived. Then the three men joined Lorrimer and his custodian.

  “How do you do, Lorrimer,” said the Chief Constable blandly. “Been having an excitin’ time, I hear. Now, we’re willing to hear your account of things and I take it you’ve already been cautioned that whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.” Whereat, he summoned a young constable with a flair for shorthand writing, and settled himself comfortably to listen. Littlejohn looked at his watch. Harriwinckle fixed his eyes on the waiting shorthand expert and kept them wonderingly on him and his flying fingers for the rest of the session. The Hilary bobby made up his mind then and there, that all his offspring should learn this marvellous art as soon as he could arrange for them to do so.

  “I protest against all this officious show,” squeaked Lorrimer, who had somewhat recovered his composure and dignity. “Because I happen to be visiting Mrs. Weekes on an errand of condolence, it doesn’t mean that I’m to be hauled here and accused of crimes you can’t pin on anyone else. I demand to see my lawyer at once.”


  “Now, now, Mr. Lorrimer,” interposed Oldfield, the self-appointed chairman of the gathering. “You’re only making things more difficult for yourself. A reasonable statement from you may clear-up all your troubles. Why were you sneaking away from the Weekes’s place? Why did you break into a run when you saw me approaching? And where were you last night?”

  The last question brought a smile to Littlejohn’s face. It reminded him of an old music-hall song. Lorrimer seized on it as a means of evading the two previous and more embarrassing queries.

  “I stayed in Evingdon last night.”

  “Where?”

  “The Saracen’s Head.”

  “Did you garage your car there?”

  “Yes…I mean, no. I put it in a garage for oiling.”

  “Wilkes at the garage didn’t tell my man that when he discovered your coupé there this morning. He said you left it, until called for, at ordinary garage terms.”

  “He may have misunderstood me.”

  “Why didn’t you use your car for your trip to the farm?”

  “I tell you it was under repair. Damn you, what are you driving at?”

  “I’m suggesting that you stayed at Upper Hilary Farm last night in an effort to avoid our enquiries, Mr. Lorrimer.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Very well. Will you kindly explain your movements on the morning of Miss Tither’s death? In your original statement, you informed us that you were playing the piano the whole morning. Now we have evidence that you met Miss Tither on the Evingdon road shortly before her death. I suggest that you created an alibi for yourself by using a player-piano to deceive your servants into putting us off the track. Why did you do this?”

  Lorrimer looked here and there as though seeking a means of relief or escape. He slumped despairingly in his chair.

  “Very well. I’d better tell you what happened.” He passed the tip of his tongue across his dry lips. His intent audience waited.

  “I’ve been friendly with the Weekes for years. It’s no news to you that Weekes himself has, for a long time, been a hopeless dipsomaniac. He’s gone from bad to worse. Naturally, I did what I could, but he was too far gone when I found out what was happening. I, therefore, turned to lighten, as far as I could, the burden that brave little woman, his wife, was bearing. She was a deeply religious, kindly woman, totally unsuited for him. The strain has been too much for her…you saw what happened today…She’s gone down under it.”

  Lorrimer paused, uttered a noise like a sob, and tears began to run down his cheeks.

  Harriwinckle gaped. Surely, the man wasn’t in love with that shrivelled, ill-tempered woman from Upper Hilary!

  A pause, during which Lorrimer gathered up his wits and composed himself.

  “The night before Miss Tither’s death, Mrs. Weekes called on me after dark. Miss Tither had been to the farm, she said, and accused her husband of having an affair with Polly Druce, a well-known bad lot, and Weekes had threatened to kill her for what she’d told his wife. I pacified her and told her his threats, made under liquor, would never materialize. The following day, however, I thought it best to warn Miss Tither to be careful what she said and what she did when Weekes was about. I was playing over a roll on my player-piano attachment, when I saw her in the distance on the Evingdon road. What better time to tell her? Leaving the instrument playing in my haste to catch her, I went through the french window, crossed the field, and hailed her. When I’d warned her, I returned. Judge of my horror and surprise, when I saw Weekes, who didn’t see me, by the way, crossing the field-path in the direction of the gap in the vicarage hedge. I’d met Miss Tither on the road, however, so, thinking their paths wouldn’t cross, I returned home. The next thing I heard was that Miss Tither had been found dead in the vicar’s cesspool…What was I to do? Volunteer information to the police and bring further distress on the Weekes—or rather on Mrs. Weekes? Or keep it dark? I decided on the latter course. Weekes couldn’t live long at any rate. I wanted to keep the stigma of being a murderer’s wife from Mrs. Weekes, if I could. She’s suffered enough already. Provided some other was not falsely accused, I could see no harm in silence…I faked a tale to the police to put them off the track of Weekes. That’s all I have to say.”

  Harriwinckle tore his eyes from their wondering stare in the direction of the shorthand writer, and looked at his superiors. The Chief Constable was yawning; Littlejohn, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, was regarding the tips of his brightly polished shoes meditatively; Oldfield looked red, angry and ready to explode at any moment. Lorrimer gazed from one to the other with a mixture of cunning and effrontery. Was there, in his manner, something of that of a schoolboy, awaiting the results of an examination before his teacher, or of the effects of his school report on his father? P.C. Harriwinckle thought of his own son, Harry…

  Just then, a car drew up outside the police station and footsteps sounded in the corridor. The head of Detective-Sergeant Cromwell, of Scotland Yard, was thrust in, his eyes sought the big form of his chief and lit up. Littlejohn smiled and nodded a greeting. “Ah, Cromwell! At last,” he said and introduced his colleague to the rest of his companions. Cromwell held a whispered conversation with his chief and retired. The sound of footsteps again and then there entered Miss Livermore, of Chitty, Mulliner and Passey, London. Her eyes fell on Lorrimer at once.

  “Well, Mr. Jenkinson!” she almost screamed. “Who’d have thought of meeting you here?”

  The effect on Lorrimer was electric. He leapt to his feet like one stung.

  “Blast you, what are you doing here…?” he yelled.

  “Really, Mr. Jenkinson…I never did…really. All I was asked to do by the police was to call here to identify a client…Why, Mr. Jenkinson, you must have been called here for the same purpose. What a waste of time…”

  “Get out…get out. You’ve done damage enough, damn you.”

  Miss Livermore, bewildered, was assisted into the next room by Cromwell, who seemed to leave her in safe hands and then returned to the main gathering.

  Oldfield rose.

  “Crispin Lorrimer, alias Theodore Jenkinson, I arrest you for the murder of Ethel Tither, and I warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.”

  “What, again!” bleated Lorrimer. “I never heard such tomfoolery in my life. Jenkinson! Murderer of Tither! What’s the meaning of all this nonsense?”

  Littlejohn rose patiently to his feet and placed an old, faded photograph before Lorrimer.

  “Do you recognize the third figure from the left, front row, on that? You’ve changed a bit, Mr. Lorrimer, since the days when you had that taken at Hunstanton on Titmuss’s annual outing. My colleague here secured that print from Mr. Titmuss himself. He also learned that you were then known as Jenkinson, your true name, I believe. You are proprietor of the firm of Chitty, Mulliner and Passey, of London, the accountants of the charity to which Miss Tither was leaving quite a considerable legacy. Not only are you accountant to the Home Alliance, you are founder, faker and general manager of it. In fact, you are the Home Alliance. Your general factotum, Mortimore, was arrested this morning on suspicion of being a confidence trickster, and made a full confession…”

  Livid with fury, Lorrimer flung himself on Littlejohn in an attempt to escape to the door. The Inspector pushed him back in his chair with little effort.

  “Now, Mr. Lorrimer, or Jenkinson, do you wish to modify your statement, bearing in mind that we also know that, according to the church register here, Weekes married one Annie Jenkinson, your sister?”

  Lorrimer gazed stupidly up at Littlejohn. His eyes grew glassy. He fought for breath.

  “She was dead when I found her. I tell you she was dead. I threw her in the cesspool to hide her. I wanted to save my sister from disgrace…my sister Annie…”

  Then he fell on the floor in a dead
faint.

  Chapter XVII

  Thornbush Comes Clean

  The arrest of Mr. Lorrimer for the murder of Miss Tither created a sensation which shook the Hilarys to the roots. Knots of natives discussed it for days and occupied a lot of time in comparing notes concerning their business and encounters with that viper which the community had so long nursed in its bosom, the occupant of Holly Bank. It was during this long spate of tittle-tattle, that P.C. Harriwinckle forged the last link in the chain of evidence against Lorrimer, alias Jenkinson.

  The village constable knew that Littlejohn was anxious concerning the fact that nobody had seen Lorrimer anywhere near the scene of the crime after Weekes had committed the first part of it. True, the accused had betrayed himself at the police station in front of witnesses, and then fainted. But the case would be all the more invulnerable if defending counsel were unable to cast doubt on the man’s whereabouts. It would be more watertight and ship-shape if someone had seen Lorrimer going to or from the cesspool or its locality. Harriwinckle spent tireless days and sleepless nights endeavouring to find the last piece of the puzzle, which, he was sure, would bring with it the precious three stripes.

  One day, as he was eating his suet dumplings for lunch, the constable confessed to his wife that he “was beat”.

  “I’ve searched ’igh and low, mother, in the ’opes of bringing me quoter of evidenks and findin’ somebody as was near the scene of the crime and see the h’accused in proximincty, but I gives it up. Nobody seen ’im. It’s wormwood and gall to me, mother. An’ this my biggest case and real chanct to make a job of it.”

  Mrs. Harriwinckle swallowed hard, the better to make sympathetic clucking with her mouth.

  “Don’t go on so, Sam. You’ll give yourself indig-gestion and all to no good purpose. Wot ’as to be, ’as to be, and nothin’ we can do can make it otherwise, I allus says. Here’s you, itchin’ to be comin’ forward with evidenks that’ll ’ang a man; and there’s old Walter Thornbush, a-offering up prayers ’cos his hasn’t been needed.”