The guardian bobby had his mouth empty this time and his helmet on. He sprang to attention and saluted smartly, hand and arm trembling with tension. Littlejohn gave him a cheery nod and handed back the key.
“That was better,” muttered the constable to himself. “Impressed him that time.” And he set about his meat and drink again with relish, consuming both at once, copiously.
Littlejohn was just in time to see Cromwell step from the train and have his hat blown off by the gale. He caught sight of his assistant’s bowler and what he called his showerproof—a cross between an overcoat and a fawn raincoat—with a large expanse of white collar above it. Then the wind seized the hat and blew it right out to sea. It was later found in a dock basin many miles up the coast and, suspecting a suicide, the powers-that-be there dragged the water unsuccessfully …
Cromwell was disconsolate and needed dinner and a drink before he regained his good spirits, which were not allegro at the best of times. Littlejohn told him all about the crime over stewed mutton, carrots, soapy potatoes and spongy rice pudding. Fortunately the beer was good.
“So now, Cromwell, I propose to pay a visit to Miss Emmott at her home and discreetly find out something about the private life of Mr. Bellis. I don’t know what sort of a house she lives in. 21, Warrender Street, Mereton, is the address Forrester gave me. A place where a virtuous policeman must take a chaperon. That’ll be you, Cromwell.”
“Yes, sir. When do we start?” said the sergeant, who seemed to be washing the beer round his mouth to take away the flavour of the pudding.
“As soon as we can. The police car’s calling at seven-thirty.”
“I’ve not got a hat … and the shops ’ll all be closed. I’ll have to put my cap on …”
They started out with Cromwell wearing a check tweed cap, which suited him very well but which embarrassed him as being unsuitable gear in which to investigate murder.
They were in for a surprise at Mereton. 21, Warrender Street was a shop. Littlejohn shone his torch on the sign above the door.
BESSIE EMMOTT,
Licensed to sell Ale, Porter and Tobacco.
To be consumed OFF the Premises.
There was no window display. Only an orderly row of empty beer bottles and advertisements for ale, stout and tobacco.
A spring bell over the door rang as the two detectives entered. A woman was standing on the customers’ side of the counter with two empty jugs before her. Three beer pumps fixed at the end of the counter. Bottled beers and stout, packets of cigarettes and tobacco on the shelves behind. Little else for sale.
Nobody answered the bell. The woman, a little shrivelled shrimp with a shawl thrown over her head, had apparently been making no effort to attract attention, for there was the sound of voices raised in the room behind.
It was difficult to make out what was being said, but now and then a word or two escaped through the glass panelled door covered by a red curtain which divided the front from the back.
“Ought to be ashamed of yourself …”
“I’m not being your servant …”
“Better pack up and get goin’ then … want no idlers here …”
Littlejohn caught the eye of the eavesdropping woman, who looked sheepish and beat the counter with the bottom of her jug.
“Shop!!” she bleated.
There was silence in the room next door and then a rush of feet hurrying upstairs.
Bessie Emmott entered, her face red with rage, her hair a disordered golden mass as though somebody had just run angry hands through it.
Without a word she drew two pints of beer for the woman in the shawl, took her money and dismissed her with a look. The woman backed to the door, like someone mesmerised, probably hoping for a confession or expression of opinion concerning the party with whom hostilities had just been broken off. But none came and she reached the door and the darkness beyond into which she vanished with her supper drinks.
“What do you want? Thought we’d settled all our business.”
Bessie was in no mood for courtesies.
“You remember me, then, Miss Emmott?”
“Not likely to forget last night for a long time. Better come in the living room. Doesn’t do respectable people any good bein’ mixed up with the police … ’specially when you keep a shop.”
“Thank you, Miss Emmott. This is my colleague, Sergeant Cromwell.”
Cromwell, forgetful, tried to raise his cap like a bowler and failed miserably. He followed Littlejohn and Miss Emmott into the back room.
A cosy sort of den with a couple of easy chairs by the fire. A modern grate, cheap oak dining table and new yellow oak suite and sideboard. Brewers’ almanacs on the walls and two sentimental pictures, reproductions, in dark oak frames. The Tryst, showing lovers draped over a stile in costumes like a fancy-dress ball, and The Reconciliation, an aged and angry father, with a sword in one hand and the hand of his eloping son-in-law in the other, embracing his daughter in a sort of gymnastic feat. Ugly modern jugs and cups and plates described as Presents from Eastbourne, Southport or Penzance on the mantelpiece and on brackets fixed here and there on the walls.
So Timothy Bellis, would-be connoisseur of pictures and china, had come down to this!
There was a circulating library romance, some magazines, the evening paper and an empty beer bottle and glass on the table. Bessie cleared them away almost with a sweep of the hand, and dumped them on the top of the wireless set in one corner.
“Can’t say I’ve not been expecting you. I suppose you’ll not be off the doorstep till the affair’s cleared up …”
“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Emmott. We wanted a bit of information about Mr. Bellis’s past life …”
“Dirty past, I suppose you’re thinkin’. Well, there’s none of that about it. The best o’ friends was Tim and me and I’m not the one to be washin’ dirty linen with him not cold in his grave …”
Tears flowed again and Bessie wept into her handkerchief, her large bosom shaken with sobbing. She leaned against the tiled mantelpiece for support. Then, as suddenly, the tears ceased and she sniffed and blinked her eyes.
“Sit down then, both of you. What do you want to know?”
Overhead they could hear footsteps going to and fro in the bedroom. Opening of drawers and bumping and banging as though someone were loading a suitcase. The bell in the shop rang.
Bessie Emmott walked to the foot of the stairs, which rose from the living-room behind a partition with a door shutting them off at the bottom.
“Alice! Come and mind the shop. I’ve somebody here on business.”
Footsteps descended the stairs slowly and then a girl appeared, carrying a canvas kit-bag with leather handles. She was tall and slim with a heart-shaped face, healthy red cheeks, a small clean-cut nose and large liquid brown eyes. She wore a skirt and a jumper through which her small breasts showed plainly. She stood at the door to the staircase and looked boldly at all of them.
To Littlejohn the newcomer looked astonished. He wondered why at first. Then he realised it was the slant of her eyebrows. Their acute, artificial angle gave an otherwise pretty face a perpetually surprised appearance. Some would, no doubt, find it attractive. To Littlejohn it seemed a pity.
“I’m going,” the girl said to Bessie.
The big woman started sobbing again.
“Don’t go, Alice. These men are from the police. I’m in trouble. You wouldn’t leave me like this? I’ve nobody left now but you … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said …”
“Shop!!” yelled a shrill voice from beyond the red-curtained door.
“Oh, all right then,” said the girl, dropping the bag with a thud of disgust. She went in the shop. Evidently this sort of squabbling and packing-up to go was a regular thing, easily settled by tears and pleading.
“That’s my niece. Alice Bryan. My sister’s girl. She’s just been invalided out of the W.A.A.F. Been in two years. Her mother died when she was in the forces. Father di
ed years ago. She’s only got me now. Had a delicate stomach, so got her ticket. She’s, been livin’ with me about three weeks. A good help in the shop …”
Littlejohn sat down in one of the big chairs. The springs were unsteady as though frequently used by somebody heavy. Perhaps Bellis had used it … The place was very cosy in spite of the uncomfortable modern dining suite. There was a lazy, easy-going atmosphere. The hot fire lulled one. The air smelled of cigarettes, beer and scent. Bessie used scented powder pretty thickly. Young Alice didn’t need much, if any. Her complexion was the gift of nature; Bessie’s of art.
Bessie sat at the table, leaned her elbows and supported her ample bosom on it.
“Would you like some beer?”
“No, thanks. We’ve had some for dinner. It’ll make us sleepy.”
Littlejohn could see it all in his mind’s eye. Bellis arriving, hanging up his hat and coat, and sitting in his chair. Would you like some beer? And she would bring in bottles from the shop and there they would sit in the warm, heavy room, with its cheap ornaments and pictures.
Alice stood in the doorway again. Drilling and discipline in the forces had given her poise and a good carriage as well as a glow of health. She looked defiant and her eyes were red-rimmed as though she’d recently been weeping. She gave Bessie a straight look which plainly intimated that details of the peace would be settled when the police had left.
“If you don’t want me, I’d better go up and unpack again. I’ll come down and answer the shop bell if customers come …”
“These two gentlemen are clearing up Tim’s death … I don’t think they’ll want you … eh?”
“No. That’ll be all right, Miss Bryan. I’ll get your aunt to call you if we do need you …”
The girl picked up the grip and went upstairs again.
“What do you want to know? There’s not much I haven’t told you about last night.”
“How long have you known Mr. Bellis, Miss Emmott?”
“About six years. I used to be barmaid at the Union Club here. Tim was a regular member then. I got to know him there.”
“You became friendly whilst you were there?”
“Yes. I might as well tell you. Somebody else will, if I don’t. And add something to it as well. Four years ago I bought this little shop and moved here. Mr. Bellis lent me the money. We’d been good friends and he was the only one I knew who could give me advice about making an investment. He used to come to see how I was doing. And it gradually got that he came a few times every week. He used to say he could relax here in comfort away from his swell friends. Take his jacket off and sit cosy by the fire and talk to me, or even have a quiet snooze if he liked. We was good friends …”
Littlejohn made allowances for the understatements. Probably she had been Bellis’s mistress and he had set her up in her little shop to get her away from the public admiration and vulgarity of the club bar. She must have been a fine looking woman in her earlier days.
“You do well here?”
“Yes. It’s early yet. The rush begins after the nine o’clock news. We get busy then with people buying their supper drinks. Of course, there’s the dinner time rush, too, and a steady trade in opening hours. I don’t stock much else. The drink we sell keeps me going nicely. Before Alice came, a girl from next door-but-one used to come in at nights. She sat in the shop and served … Made me a bit freer on the nights Mr. Bellis called … Now, I hoped that Alice would be a help. But she’s got a few funny ideas since she left the W.A.A.F. Doesn’t want to be tied, she says. Wants to live her own life. As if I’d try to stop her. She could ’ave a very good time with me, if only she’d settle down. We’d been havin’ words about it when you came … She was packing up to leave me … She’d done that a time or two before. I don’t take it serious.”
“Shop!!”
The bell rang again and Alice hurried down to attend to the customer. Thereafter the business seemed to warm up, for she stayed in the shop for quite a while. The bell kept up its tolling. Voices could be heard, too, in conversation, men’s as well as women’s, on the other side of the curtain.
“About last night, Miss Emmott. Mr. Bellis seemed as usual?”
“Yes. He got here at the same time as always. Generally got the 6.57 from Salton and I met it at Mereton station around quarter-past seven. He used to come on his own till all those threatenin’ letters arrived. Then his nerves seemed to go. He got scared of walking even from the station to here. There’s a ’bus part way. But that wouldn’t do. He said he’d stay at home …”
“You mean stop visiting you?”
“Get me right about that. He wasn’t tired of me … But he was so scared … So, I got the girl from higher up the street to mind the shop and went to meet him myself. And I saw him back to the 10.55 after we’d spent the evenin’ here.”
“How long is it since Mr. Bellis got afraid to be out at night?”
“Shortly after the first threatenin’ letter. He showed them all to me. I wished I could ’ave found who wrote ’em. I’d have given them something to be going on with, I’ll tell you. An’ now, the writer’s killed him proper …”
She didn’t weep this time. She sank her head on her breast until she seemed to have no neck at all.
“And last night was the same as all the others?”
“Yes …”
“He hadn’t had another letter yesterday?”
Bessie Emmott sat upright.
“Another letter! What do you mean?”
“More threats …”
“No.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two. Cromwell had been busily writing in his black book. He yawned. Littlejohn prevented himself from doing the same only with difficulty. The sleepy atmosphere got a hold of you. He could imagine it all. Bellis and his coming and going and having an easy time in this his little retreat … his little love-nest. He glanced at Bessie. She was lost in thought and looked ready for another good cry.
Alice was back in the doorway.
“Just draw three glasses of best mild, dearie. One for yourself, too, if you feel like it …”
“Don’t trouble about us,” said Littlejohn.
“I want you to have a drink before you go. You’ve been very decent and considerate.”
Alice returned with the beer. She hadn’t filled a glass for herself. She sat on a stool by the fire, crossed her legs and took a cigarette from a packet on the mantelpiece. She smoked boldly like a man, leaving the cigarette between her lips, coughing and screwing up her eyes as the smoke rose.
The shop bell rang again. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade.
The girl rose and went to attend to it, her cigarette dangling in her mouth. Her glances at Bessie were still hostile. There had evidently been a lot said before the detectives arrived and there was some settling up between the women due when they left.
“Your good health, gentlemen.”
Littlejohn started out of his reverie.
“And yours, thanks. …”
“Good health,” said Cromwell.
“I don’t think we’ll trouble you any further, Miss Emmott. How did you get home when you’d seen Mr. Bellis off. Walk?”
“No. Generally got the last ’bus from the station to the end of Warrender Road.”
“And Mr. Bellis wouldn’t even venture on the ’bus without you?”
“He might have done if I’d pressed him, but I didn’t mind the walk and it pleased him.”
“You’ve no idea at all who might have written those letters?”
“No. If I had, I’d have stopped their hanky-panky... Even the Salton police couldn’t find out.”
Littlejohn rose and stretched himself and Cromwell reached for his cap.
It was still blowing hard outside and the rain lashed the windows.
They found the shop half-full when they opened the red-curtained door. A man in a rain-soaked jacket and cap, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, was leering at Alice who was drawing hi
m a pint. She turned from meeting his eyes boldly and looked fully at Littlejohn. The same astonished eyebrows … She seemed definitely hostile and in spite of her domestic differences with her aunt, resented the intrusion of the police in their home. She nodded without a smile.
“She could have a very good time with me,” Bessie had said.
Sizing-up with a glance the leering man and the shabby group with jugs and bottles crowding round the girl, the women a bit spitefully, the men hungrily taking in her beauty, Littlejohn wondered …
Chapter V
The Day of the Inquest
When his wife was not there, The Rev. Bernard Beaglehole was a cocky little man. The miserable stipend he received from the decayed living of St. Stephen’s would certainly not have kept him, his wife and four daughters in the way in which he lived. Money, however, in the shape of Mrs. Beaglehole, had married him, brought him a houseful of handsome Victorian furniture and the reputation for being the most horribly henpecked man in the shire.
Mrs. Beaglehole was like one of those predatory female spiders who, having consummated their love, fall upon and consume their fascinated mates. It was even said she censored the vicar’s sermons. Fortunately, Mrs. Beaglehole was a J.P. on the Salton bench and her frequent absences to deal with malefactors gave the rector freedom in which to expand. He was standing on the hearthrug of his study, legs apart, hands in pockets, stomach thrust out, a cherrywood pipe full of herbal smoking mixture between his teeth, toasting his clerical pants when Littlejohn entered.
“Good-morning,” said Littlejohn.
“Good-morning, Inspector,” answered the parson, and he waved his visitor into an opulent club chair inherited by his wife from her late father who had made a fortune by dressing tripe. Mr. Beaglehole seated himself at his desk on which reposed the funeral sermon of the late Timothy Bellis. His wife, who had also inherited her parent’s interest in tripe, would shortly pass judgment on it.
“This is purely a formal call, sir,” began the Inspector. “You were probably one of the last persons to see the late Mr. Bellis alive and I would value your impressions of anything out of the ordinary which happened on the station that night.”
Death on the Last Train Page 5