About twenty people sitting in rows on cane chairs as though waiting for a concert to begin. In front of them, on the wall, a bell with an indicator like those used in servants’ hall, only instead of the names of the rooms, those of the two doctors. The bell rang and a small red flag fluttered in a circle beneath “Dr. Vavasour.” This advertised the fact that the next patient could now enter the doctor’s surgery by the door near the indicator. By some sort of mutual intuition the waiting people knew whose turn was next. There was no argument … The ingoing subject, as a rule, passed the outgoing one. The latter emerged with fixed expressions on their faces and made silent exits, as if either condemned to death or, having been treated somewhat flippantly by the doctor, intent on showing that they knew better than he and dismissed his verdict with contempt.
On the walls were two huge steel engravings. The Charge of the Light Brigade. Wild horses, frenzied, shouting men on their backs, and a shambles of fallen and wounded. The Thin Red Line. A grim remnant with the rest of their comrades dead or dying. As though, somehow, an orgy of blood and death were connected with medicine and surgery and likely to put patients in the right frame of mind.
One or two of the waiting throng had hacking coughs and when they indulged them the rest of the patients joined in, begrudging them the exclusive right to advertise their ills. There was a boy with mumps with his neck in flannel and two or three women with babies. One was suckling a youngster at the breast.
“I hope that’s not chicken-pox …” said a woman, indicating the face of a spotty little boy. His mother couldn’t keep him under control.
Conversation was conducted in whispers.
“Dr. Vavasour’s good with children … ” They pronounced it Vavasher.
“Dr. Cooper’s more fatherly, but I think he’s a bit old fashioned …”
“If I have any more perferations, my number’s up, he sez.”
“Saved my life, he did. You wouldn’t think to look at me I’d only one kidney, would you?”
There was a smell of iodine and drugs …
The bell rang and the Vavasour flag fluttered.
“Next, please …”
The dispenser entered and beckoned Littlejohn. The remaining patients whispered indignantly among themselves, for he had gone out of his turn. They had been surreptitiously scrutinising him with expert eyes, trying to diagnose his complaint.
“Kidney trouble,” said the man with one kidney. “You always look as if you ailed nothin’ when you’ve that. Look at me … You wouldn’t think I’d only one kidney …”
Dr. Cooper was smoking a pipe after his meal. He looked surprised to see Littlejohn.
“Well, Inspector, and what brings you here?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you at an awkward moment, doctor. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“No. As a rule, I let Vavasour take afternoon surgery. I’m gradually placing the reins in his hands. I’m not as young as I was and I’m slowing down …”
In the distance the little bell could be heard tinkling to warn waiting patients that it was their turn next. Footsteps and closing doors and the people with coughs making a great effort to impress the doctor as they entered.
A golden-haired spaniel emerged from under the table, sniffed the bottoms of Littlejohn’s trousers and curled itself at the doctor’s feet.
The house was large and one got the impression of vast emptiness beyond the door of the room in which the two men were sitting. Not that it wasn’t cosy, but somehow this solitary man living alone there without wife and family … The dining-room itself lacked the touch of an intimate woman companion. Books on three walls, a few photographs, mainly groups, of what appeared to be schools and conferences, solid furniture, a large open hearth, pipes and periodicals scattered about. None of the delicate little finishing touches of a female hand.
“Well, Inspector. What’s it all about? Something in the medical report?”
Cooper waved his visitor to an armchair opposite his own and pushed forward a box of cigarettes. Littlejohn said he preferred his pipe and filled it from a jar which the doctor indicated.
Littlejohn took the book of poetry from his pocket and handed it to Cooper.
“I thought you’d like to have that, sir, before the police start turning over Bellis’s belongings thoroughly.”
The doctor took the volume with a rather astonished look, opened the fly leaf and turned a dull red.
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Bellis’s book-case.”
“How did you connect me with it?”
The doctor’s voice grew sharp as though he resented an intrusion in his private affairs.
“The writing’s the same as on your medical report.”
“Well, well. Has it changed so little in all these years? I don’t suppose you’ve just called to hand me this and then leave, Inspector. What more do you want?”
“Some background about the life of Helen Bellis, doctor, if you don’t mind.”
“What sort of background?”
“The anonymous letters centred round the treatment of his wife by Bellis. At a guess, I’d say they came from someone who thought a lot about her …”
“You’re not suggesting that I …”
“Not for a minute, doctor. But you have been in this town all your life. You’ve been in a position to know much of what’s been going on below the surface, behind closed doors. Tell me, if you will, the brief story of the life of Helen Bellis and how she came to be mixed up with Timothy and, if possible, who might have been most deeply affected by any misfortune or unhappiness which might have happened to her.”
Cooper looked awkward. He was not accustomed to wearing his heart on his sleeve or discussing its secrets with anyone. Furthermore, there was a professional dignity about him, a case hardening which needed a lot of penetrating.
A tap on the door relieved the tension. It was Dr. Vavasour, a tall, fair-haired, athletic-looking young man. He was dangling a stethoscope and looked worried.
“Oh, sorry, doctor. I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“That’s all right, Vavasour. This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, who’s on the Bellis case …”
“How do you do, Inspector?”
“Good afternoon, doctor.”
“Excuse us a minute, Inspector …”
The two men held a muttered conversation.
“Better tell him, then, it’ll mean operating. Put his mind at ease; tell him he’ll have her home again in about three weeks. Suggest that Macgreggor does it … Right … Oh, and say it had better be done this week. No use putting the pair of them on tenterhooks. They’re very attached and it’ll knock him out, too, if they have to wait …”
Cooper returned to Littlejohn as his colleague closed the door.
“Well … I don’t know where to begin …”
“Just a sort of running commentary, if you don’t mind, Dr. Cooper.”
“She was called More before she married Blandford, her first husband. Her father was a draper in Salton. Not much of a shop and probably just managed to make ends meet. Helen served in the shop in those days. She was by far the prettiest and sweetest girl in town …”
Cooper lit his pipe, keeping his eyes on the flame of the match. He was embarrassed about the whole business, but plainly trying to do his duty.
“I’m sixty now; she was about the same age and I was just leaving the local grammar school when she started in her father’s shop. I met her at a dance and lost my heart at once, like a lot of other fellows. We were round her like bees round a honey-pot. She wasn’t a flighty girl, but I can’t say she wasn’t a flirt. Sometimes one chap would be the lucky man; sometimes another. She was always rather serious with me. I must have been rather a solemn young man... We always talked about books and the like when we sat together between dances or on the rare occasions when I took her to the theatre or escorted her to parties …”
Outside the bell tinkled and a baby wailed. The boy with mumps and his mother passed the window.
“To cut a long story short, I went to London for my medical studies. Then I was a time away from Salton after I’d qualified. I saw Helen during vacations. We were still great friends. Then Blandford stepped in and married her. He was well and away the best choice. A thorough gentleman. Son of a local paper-mill owner. He’d served honorably in the Boer War. I seemed to lose touch with Helen after that. Plenty to do in a job like mine and when I settled here father’s patients rallied round and kept me too busy for much else besides my work …”
Cooper smiled wryly.
That was it, then, thought Littlejohn. He cared so much for Helen More that nobody else could take her place.
“You didn’t see much of Mrs. Blandford after that?”
“Now and then at local functions, you know. The pair of them were very happy. I wasn’t their doctor. They called me in just after their marriage, but I was unwell at the time and recommended Fitzherbert, a good man, and they stuck to him …”
So he couldn’t bear close contact with the girl he’d loved and the rival who won her, thought the inspector. And as a doctor and man of honour, he stuck to the professional etiquette of not treating one’s nearest and dearest in serious illness. Emotion blurs one’s judgment … Littlejohn felt his heart warm to Dr. Cooper. But he wondered to what extent the doctor’s old love had made him Helen’s guardian angel, always on the watch for her welfare, and, perhaps, her avenger.
“Some of the men who were keen on Helen More took her marriage very much to heart at the time …”
“Who, for example?”
“Harold Claypott … Very keen on Helen … Mad about her. He took to drink when she turned him down and he’s never looked up since. He was in the Town Hall here and well on the way to becoming Town Clerk one day. But the drink did for him. A big pity. A promising lad in those days.”
“And he never got over it?”
“No. One couldn’t blame Helen, though. Blandford was a fine fellow. He was gassed in the war and came back in 1918 a semi-invalid. Died about 1925 after a long illness. Then, for some unearthly reason, Helen married Bellis.”
“Had the Blandfords no children?”
“No. They had one little boy, but he died of mastoid trouble. They took it badly …”
“And what about Bellis? I’m surprised at such a match.”
“So was everybody else. But you mustn’t think Bellis was always the man you saw on Mereton platform. That was Bellis in decline. He was quite an educated man, had travelled widely, made plenty of money until his downfall and was a convincing talker. There’s no accounting for women’s tastes. And then, Helen didn’t know his reputation with women …”
“He was a bit of a rip even before she married him?”
“Yes. Always went out of town for his good times, but the news got around.”
“Were Bellis and his second wife happy together?”
“They seemed so for some time. She was a J.P., and he was on the local town council. They spent a lot of time at local social functions and charities. She did him good … And then he got tired and the old devil broke out in him. Bessie Emmott was the last of his flames. I believe that had been going on for a number of years.”
“Did Mrs. Bellis find out?”
“She must have done, for she gradually changed. From being out and about, she started keeping herself to herself. Her health gave way, too. And Bellis began to ill-treat her.”
“He did? In what way?”
“I think she must have protested about things and they had words frequently. I was called in to see her … the only time I ever was … about a lump that came in her side. Fitzherbert wanted a second opinion. In the course of examination, I found bruises, obviously from blows. Bellis must have struck her … I’m a mild man, but it was as much as I could do not to wring the blighter’s neck … Claypott tried to on one occasion!”
“Indeed! When?”
“Shortly after Bellis started with Miss Emmott. Claypott met them in Mereton … I think it was at the club. Bessie used to be barmaid there. They must have been flirting or something and Harold, half drunk and still thinking the world of Helen, made for Bellis and blacked his eye and split his lip before they could drag ’em apart. Bellis left the club after that and so did Bessie. She set-up in a shop of her own.”
“Was there anyone else as faithful as poor Claypott who might have caused trouble for Bellis?”
“I don’t think so. All Helen’s admirers got over it, settled down and married other girls. There’s just me and Claypott still bachelors. I’m too busy to bother about marrying. Poor Claypott’s the only wreck left of it all. Except poor Helen Bellis. She died of a broken heart, I think, although I’d guess on the death certificate it was sarcoma …”
A middle-aged maid entered and said Dr. Cooper was wanted on the telephone. It turned out to be an urgent case and thus the interview ended.
As the two men left the room Cooper turned to one of the framed photographs on the wall. A group of about ten men standing in somebody’s garden.
“That’s Bellis as he used to be … That was taken in 1930 or thereabouts … The committee of the local medical charities fund. That’s me … and there’s Bellis.”
“Good Lord! He looks like Crippen!”
“Yes, doesn’t he? Only Crippen poisoned his wife because he couldn’t face her with a mistress. Bellis didn’t mind …”
As they parted on the doorstep, Littlejohn asked his last question.
“As a matter of form, doctor, would you tell me where you were about 11 o’clock on the night Bellis died?”
“That’s a bit thick, Inspector. You surely don’t think I’d have stopped a train and used a revolver if I’d wanted to kill Bellis.”
“No, sir. But I like to get a straight edge to everything.”
“Very well. I’ve no alibi, Inspector. I’d just got home when I was called out by the police to see Bellis’s dead body. I’d been for a walk with the dog before bed. It was a bad night, there was nobody about and we both got wet through. That’s all. Good-bye.”
And slightly huffed, the doctor climbed in his waiting car and drove off.
Chapter VII
The Man who Took to Drink
The Claypotts’ home was in the older part of Salton. The tide of prosperity had ebbed there, leaving once handsome houses to decay as tenements or small factories and offices. The residents hung on either from sentiment or because they couldn’t afford the better quarters.
A gloomy house, set back in a sour-looking garden deep in rotten leaves. Dark evergreen bushes with sooty foliage dripping in the rain, and dirty water in the holes of the broken asphalt path. It must have been pleasant at one time before the trees grew unkempt. A row of old leafless poplars with warty trunks closed like huge knotted fingers over the approach and frontage, shutting out the light and forming a gloomy tunnel.
Littlejohn tugged gingerly at the bell-pull. He was half afraid it would come away in his hand. The door was blistered and dirty and the paint was washed entirely away.
A tall, heavy, flop-bosomed woman stood before him. Her mild blue eyes were vacant and her hair untidy. Her face was too small for her body and her pendulous cheeks were of such weight that they dragged down her lower eyelids, like those of a hound. She bore with her an overpowering smell of cough-drops, seeming impregnated to the very marrow with aniseed.
“Well?”
A large mouth, with swollen sarcastic lips, sharp protruding teeth and mandibles as fierce as those of a pike in a pond. Her jaws were incessantly in motion as though she were eating.
The enquiry was scarcely out of the woman’s mouth when her sister appeared, thrust her aside and took the stage.
“All right, Leah. I’ll deal with the man.”
Constance Claypott was entirely different. She was small, thin and faded, with a look of infinite patience, the calm of
one battered into resignation by circumstance.
Leah Claypott vanished petulantly into the dark interior without a protest. Her sister seemed to have her fully under control.
“Yes?”
“I’m Inspector Littlejohn investigating the death of the the late Mr. Bellis. Is your brother in, please …? He was on the train …”
“He’s not at home.”
“Will he be long?”
“I expect him any time. If you would care to wait …”
The dim lobby was like a cave. It was covered in dark, old-fashioned red paper and articles of furniture thrust themselves out here and there in the gloom. A green-painted drainpipe for umbrellas; a ponderous mahogany hatstand with projecting knobs; a chest of some sort; and a grandfather clock with a broken glass. Littlejohn negotiated these obstacles and found himself in an airless over-furnished room used as living quarters.
The place was depressing. A piano with yellow keys, tarnished brass candlesticks and a back of red satin. A revolving stool and music stand with tattered copies leaking from it. A large dining-table covered with a velvet cloth and surrounded by plush seated chairs; a heavy mahogany sideboard with a carved eagle with glass eyes perched on its topmost point. A whatnot cluttered up with finicky little ornaments; two shabby easy chairs in red worn velvet. Two or three paperbacked novels lying around.
Under the window stood a heavy desk with an old typewriter in the middle of it. Piles of envelopes beside the machine. Miss Constance supplemented a meagre annuity by addressing circulars at a paltry price per score. Her hand was too unsteady for script.
Littlejohn felt he would never forget the faces of the two sisters. They were alike and yet so different. As though the gods had started with similar models and by a twist here and a squeeze there, altered one to an addled half-wit and the other a resigned, innocent guardian of the lives of a moron and a boozer.
The two sisters, recognisable, but with the marks of time absent from their features, evolved in a number of progressive family groups ornamenting the dark green walls. They were accompanied by a weak-looking younger boy, presumably Harold, a subdued dumpling of a mother and, standing erect and dominating each group, a stern heavy-whiskered father, who had kept them under his thumb, twisted them all, sapped their initiative and then died a dipsomaniac of two years standing after a life of hitherto total abstinence.
Death on the Last Train Page 7