“So Mrs. Myles is having her triumph, after all.”
“Yes, and that’s not all. Caleb’s beastly temper has made him generally disliked. He’s a local J.P., and quarrels with his fellow magistrates on the bench and even tries to tell the Clerk and the lawyers in court how to do their jobs. But the bitterest pill of all was when he put up as M.P. for the division. He’d given quite a lot to the party funds and got a knighthood that way and then some sycophant proposed him as parliamentary candidate. Caleb thought it was a walk-over. Local man, large employer of industry, hundreds of men dependent on him. They showed him, by jove! They pitched him out, neck and crop, with a ten thousand majority for his opponent, Tom Hoole, a Labour man. Sir Caleb never got over it. It was the culmination of a series of nasty blows. His trade’s iron, his heart’s iron, his hand’s iron and I believe his soul’s iron.”
“It’s some job I’m taking on, if I go to interview him.”
“You’re right there. But there’s one thing to remember: He’s a conceited chap. Flatter him, defer to him, and he’ll talk. Whether he’ll talk about what you want, is another matter, though.”
Littlejohn made a wry face.
“Not much in my line, those tactics. Still, the end perhaps justifies the means. Provided I keep my self-respect, I’ll try anything once. There are one or two things about Sir Caleb that intrigue me. First, the money that Sykes came-by just before his death. He did well for himself from some source or other. Well enough to leave his mother quite comfortably situated. Now, was that hush-money for something from Sir Caleb? Blackmail, or for services rendered? I don’t suppose I’ll get the old man to open his heart in that direction, though, but I’ll have a try, and I think I’ll make a frontal attack, too.”
“I admire your nerve, Littlejohn!”
“Then again: Sir Caleb used to do a fair amount of shooting. He owned the shoot on which the men met their death. Where was he when the shots were heard? That’s twenty years since, but I’m going to have the cheek to ask him where he was at the time. He can only throw me out on my neck.”
Haworth burst into loud laughter, stubbed his game leg on the stool on which it was resting, and pulled up with a jerk.
“Oh, blast this leg! Double blast it! I’m missing all the fun. I can just see Sir Caleb being asked for his alibi.”
“When will be the best time to call at The Hall, do you think?”
“You’ll not get much satisfaction in the daytime. If you call at the foundry, you’ll find your style is cramped by a hell of a row going on everywhere and Sir Caleb dealing with a continuous stream of underlings coming and going in his office. I’ve had some. I was there last month, after young John had knocked down the bollard in the main street here. Driving, dead-drunk, I imagine, one night and smashed the Turn Left sign to smithereens, and made scrap-iron of his car, without so much as scratching himself. Heaven seems to look after the boozers. Ross was on duty and left him to cool-off in the cells overnight. There was a devil of a row about it…but enough of that. Evening’s the best time. You’ll find the old man at home any night.”
“It’s not nine yet. What about my going now?”
“Better ring-up The Hall and see if he’ll see you. You can take my car, you know.”
“Right. I’ll not be away long. I’ll call back if I’m all in one piece when we’ve finished with each other…”
Spenclough Hall was built on a small scale. A square house, with a short tree-bordered drive, a large gravel sweep and a few acres of parkland surrounding it. The present owner had bought it lock, stock, and barrel from a bankrupt millowner. The main gates were open and Littlejohn drove to the house without halting at the lodge. It was a dark night, and he had passed the little cottage before he realized that it was there.
An elderly maid answered the door. She was portly and bad on her feet and wore a white cap and a long white apron. She reminded Littlejohn of a retainer at some provincial hotel. She ushered him into a small, cheerless room and switched-on an electric heater, which battled valiantly and vainly against the cold, damp air. The maid took Littlejohn’s card and left him to examine the room. A conglomeration of furniture, suggesting that, unable through sentiment or taste to part with the humbler odds-and-ends of their less prosperous days, the occupants had mixed them higgledy-piggledy with those ready and waiting for them when they bought the Hall.
The maid returned almost at once and bade Littlejohn follow her. They passed along a cold, well-carpeted corridor to Sir Caleb’s study, just as Big Ben boomed nine from a wireless-set somewhere in the region of the kitchen.
Sir Caleb Haythornthwaite was a small, portly man of sixty or thereabouts, but he looked much older. Worry had ruined his temper and digestion. His head was broad and shining-bald and was fringed with thin, grey hair. His face was round with a chalk-white complexion, but the long, pointed nose was a dyspeptic pink. Tight, thin lips, sparse grey eyebrows, firm chin, clean-shaven. “What does that face remind me of?” pondered Littlejohn momentarily to himself, and the answer came into his brain almost at once. Grock! The chalk-white ground, the red nose, the bright dabs of unhealthy colour on the cheek bones, the fringe of thin hair framing the bald pate, brought to mind the clown in make-up. But only for a flash. The pale-blue eyes met those of the detective. They were hard and steely. The chin was rocky and square and the look stubborn and aggressive. Sir Caleb assumed a pair of black-rimmed spectacles with broad sidepieces. They hid the heavy half-moon pouches beneath his eyes somewhat and accentuated the palor of his complexion. He rose and extended his hand to his visitor, but there was no smile or friendliness in his greeting.
“Well, Inspector, and what can I do for you?”
He spoke with a north-country accent, but without trace of the dialect.
“Good-evening, Sir Caleb. I’ve called about the Sykes case, recently re-opened by the discovery of his remains on the moor…”
“They’ve surely not called-in Scotland Yard on that. Sit yourself down.”
“No. I’ve been spending Christmas with Superintendent Haworth and, as you know, he’s laid-up through an accident to his leg…”
“Yes. I’ve heard about that…”
“I’ve undertaken to help him, unofficially, and I’m doing a bit of the running about for him.”
“What about Ross. Can’t he take charge?”
“He’s fully occupied as it is. This arrangement works very well, if I can only get those concerned to co-operate.”
“Meanin’ me, I suppose, Inspector. But what have I to do with all this, and why bother me at this time o’ night? There’s nothing I can tell you, that I know of.”
“Both the dead men, Trickett and Sykes, were well known to you, sir. Perhaps some incident or light you can throw on their characters might give us a lead. I grant you, it’s a long time ago, but we’ve got to make the most of what we have left, and, if I might say so, Sir Caleb, you’re part of what remains in the shape of their last employer.
“Well. What do you want of me? I’m busy as you can see, and it’s no use our keeping on quizzing and fencing. Let’s get to th’ hosses.”
There was no goodwill in his attitude. He had offered neither smokes nor drink to Littlejohn, but taking up a large pipe from his desk, struck a match and lit it. Then he pushed a box of cigarettes across the table with such a graceless gesture that Littlejohn declined. A hostile witness and to be treated as such!
“Can you throw any light on the relations between Sykes and Trickett and their fellow-workers during the time you employed them and whilst they were at Myles’s along with you, Sir Caleb?” said Littlejohn, gently feeling his way.
“You must think I’ve a good memory, Inspector. Well it happens you’re right. I have; but I don’t know much about what went on in the workshops. Trickett was an ordinary mechanic, of course. Sykes was under-manager at my place and directly responsible to me.”
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“Who was manager, Sir Caleb?”
“I was. I was junior partner as well. So you can take it from me that the manager didn’t murder Sykes out of jealousy, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Was Sykes popular with the men?”
“He was my man, if you know what I mean. I brought him from Myles’s because I liked him and he was a chap with brains. Now, whoever’s on the boss’s side isn’t, as a rule, popular with the men, especially in a foundry. But that doesn’t mean they’d shoot him.”
Sir Caleb’s tone was domineering and offensive and he seemed to be making an exhibition of showing that he was quite aware of what was going-on in Littlejohn’s mind without being told.
“Sykes wasn’t a trade-union man, then?” continued the Inspector unperturbed.
“No. If he had been I wouldn’t have made him my assistant. I don’t like folks that run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.”
“Did it ever strike you, Sir Caleb, that Sykes or Trickett had enemies—outstanding ones, I mean…?”
“No. Sykes was a bit unpopular after he got his promotion, as I’ve already said, if you’ll listen to what I’m telling you. But I can’t bring to mind anybody who’d risk his neck by killing either of them.”
“They left Myles’s with you, I gather. Did they resign, or were they dismissed?”
“No. They both left of their own free will. Sykes came first and brought his pal with him.”
Sir Caleb rose impatiently. “Look here, this is gettin’ us nowhere. Why disturb me at this hour about things other people—his mother and such—can answer?”
“I wanted the views of someone of independent opinion and trustworthy judgment.”
“Now, Inspector, I don’t want any soft-soap…”
But Sir Caleb was pleased and mollified nevertheless. Littlejohn ventured a step further.
“I understand from the records, that the pair of them were killed on your preserve on the moor, just after your shooting-party had left the butts. Were you anywhere about at the time, sir?”
“I thought that would be comin’, Inspector. So you want an alibi for me, do you?” The haggard-looking knight thrust his pale face venomously across the desk. “Well, you can go to hell,” he said.
“That’s not very helpful…”
“It’s not intended to be. Over twenty years have passed since that day. A lot of those who were there are dead and done with. The rest are old and getting past being bothered. Why root-up all that’s past? Best stop wasting your time. You’ll not solve it, any more than Pickersgill did. As for my alibi: Well, I’ll tell you something, just to show you. I left the butts with a keeper that’s been dead for years. I parted from him and got a lift in the car of a young chap that was on leave from France. He took me home and, after that, was killed in the line. When I got home, I’d dinner with my wife and was attended to by a butler. The butler’s dead and my wife’s evidence won’t be accepted…Now do you see? Not a ha’porth of good askin’ anybody for alibis. It’s just damned nonsense going-on with it.”
His chalky face was flushed and his pouched eyes sparkled maliciously as he sat back in triumph.
“Hm,” said Littlejohn. “That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?”
“You! Who are you? A stranger here. You know nowt about life and happenings in these parts. Ask Pickersgill and that old doddering father-in-law of his. They’ll talk sense to you about this case.”
“Just one more question then, Sir Caleb, and I’ll finish.”
“Well, let’s be hearing it and end it.”
“When Sykes died, he left his mother quite a comfortable little sum. Over a thousand pounds, I’d say. Where did so young a man gather such a nest-egg? Not in wages, surely.”
“Why ask me? You can take it from me, the wages I paid him didn’t allow such saving. Although towards the end, he was doing pretty well…ten pounds a week.”
“Did you pay him anything else…a lump sum, as bonus or retaining fee…?”
“Or blackmail! Why don’t you out with it? Who’s been putting ideas in your head? Because there’s nowt o’ that soart in it, whatever tha might be thinkin’.”
Rage broadened Sir Caleb’s vowels and he lapsed temporarily into his native dialect, as he did when squabbling with the hands at his works.
“I’m suggesting nothing, Sir Caleb. You’re putting your own construction on this. The money must have come from somewhere, and naturally, wages, commission and the like are the first to be thought of here.”
“Well, I can’t help you and I’ll bid you good night.”
The foundrymaster rose. Littlejohn continued, as though musing to himself, as he stretched his limbs ready to depart.
“Perhaps we can get at it through the old bank accounts of Sykes, if they’re in existence…”
A cunning shot, which shook Sir Caleb visibly.
He plucked his thin under-lip, hesitated, and then changed his tune.
“It’s a long time since and perhaps I’ve forgotten. I’ll just look at my records and see. Sit you down again for a minute.”
He left the room. Littlejohn was sure it was to gather his thoughts. The random-shot had found a bull’s-eye. Littlejohn smiled to himself. He knew what Sir Caleb apparently didn’t, that bank figures were as hard to get at as their cash-reserves, without a court order. He glanced round the room as he waited.
Heavy mahogany furniture. Chairs upholstered in horsehair. Ponderous, gilt-framed pictures on the walls. Still life, stags and cattle on Scottish moors, cows knee-deep in grass and pools. Poor stuff, for the most part, and probably acquired with the Hall. Cases of books, uniform in dark, stiff, leather bindings and little used. On the top of a massive secretaire lay a gun-case, weathered and well-polished. Littlejohn eyed it and listened. Not a sound. He crossed the deep carpet noiselessly, lifted down the case and placed it on the floor. Kneeling, he slipped the catches and raised the lid.
A couple of beautiful sporting guns lay snugly in the interior. A few hundred poundsworth, turned-out by a first-class maker! The detective did not touch them, although he was tempted by his love of such things. A cartridge-box was in its place there, too. Littlejohn did not handle it, but swiftly noted the name of the maker on an old envelope. Ashworth and Hall, Huddersfield. He closed the case, and was back in his chair when Sir Caleb returned.
Just before the ironmaster re-entered, Littlejohn heard the front-door open and slam. Footsteps approached, and the entrant seemed to meet Sir Caleb on the threshold of the study. Voices were raised in anger. Sir Caleb reviling; the newcomer answering in a lower, jaunty tone. Evidently the clogs-to-clogs son had come home from his carousing. The wretched knight rejoined the detective, his face blotched with livid patches. He sat down, paused, and then thrust his face across at Littlejohn again.
“When Sykes came with me, I find I paid him seven hundred pounds for some patents he’d been working on and which he agreed to sell me. I’d forgotten about it…”
“Patents? Were they used at Myles’s, too?”
“That’s nothing to do with you…and we’ve had quite enough for one sitting. You’re just asking questions for asking’s sake, now. I’ve had enough. There’s nothing else that I can tell you that’ll be of any use.”
The man’s nerves were on edge. Whether from the questioning or from his son’s arrival, the Inspector couldn’t quite decide, but he had his own ideas.
“Again that’s for me to decide, Sir Caleb,” he replied, feeling nettled by the tactics of the man. “Thanks for your information. I may call again as the case goes on.”
“I’m a busy man, Inspector, and it’ll have to be something more important than all this, or I’ll not see you. I won’t have my time wasted.”
“If I think it necessary, I shall call again and, if you’re in, you’ll see me, Sir Caleb. I’m not in the habi
t of wasting people’s time with my enquiries, any more than I’m prepared to tolerate sleeveless errands for myself. Good night.”
Haythornthwaite took the rebuke lying-down, rang for the maid and grunted a good night.
As Littlejohn started-up Haworth’s car, a sports model, apparently parked round the side of the house, barked into action, swooped dangerously past, and out into the darkness at the end of the drive, heedless of the black-out. The second generation of Haythornthwaites rapidly returning to its clogs!
Chapter X
The Betrayal of Three-Fingers
I’ve got no wife to worry my life,
Let fools get wed and rue the day.
Out on the road a woman’s a load,
Growling and nagging all the way.
—Ammon Wrigley
Few main characters remained of those who were on the stage at the time of the double murder. Of these, one in particular appealed to Littlejohn on the keen, sunny morning which followed his visit to Sir Caleb Haythornthwaite. He decided to walk up to the Horse and Jockey to meet old Seth Wigley, superannuated landlord of the place.
The Horse and Jockey stands four-square to the Pennine winds, an inn of character and history. It has been known to be isolated for as much as six weeks at a time during bad winters and in Seth Wigley’s hey-day, was famous locally for its home-brew and its liberal table. Ham and eggs were its speciality in days when they were plentiful and cheap, and Seth knew how to serve them. Toasted cheese, too, and succulent Wensleydale, served in a piece for you to take your cut. Eheu fugaces…!
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 8